brio. Fall 2017 // The Resistance Issue

/BREE-oh/,​ ​noun Vivacity,​ ​spirit,​ ​an​ ​individual​ ​energy.

The​ ​discipline​ ​of​ ​Comparative​ ​Literature​ ​is​ ​based​ ​on​ ​the​ ​assumption​ ​that​ ​the​ ​study​ ​of​ ​single​ ​texts and​ ​cultures​ ​is​ ​enriched​ ​by​ ​a​ ​knowledge​ ​of​ ​the​ ​texts​ ​and​ ​cultures​ ​surrounding​ ​them.​ ​It​ ​views literature​ ​from​ ​a​ ​broad​ ​and​ ​inclusive​ ​perspective​ ​in​ ​which​ ​philosophy,​ ​anthropology,​ ​history, language,​ ​and​ ​literary​ ​theory​ ​come​ ​together,​ ​and​ ​where​ ​the​ ​visual​ ​arts,​ ​theatre,​ ​and​ ​modern media​ ​suggest​ ​crucial​ ​comparisons.​ ​This​ ​journal​ ​aspires​ ​to​ ​embody​ ​those​ ​ideas.

Brio​ ​is​ ​a​ ​student-founded​ ​publication​ ​that​ ​combines​ ​literary​ ​criticism​ ​with​ ​fictive​ ​works​ ​and visual​ ​art.​ ​In​ ​an​ ​effort​ ​to​ ​represent​ ​the​ ​wide​ ​spectrum​ ​of​ ​discourses​ ​that​ ​serve​ ​as​ ​the​ ​foundation of​ ​comparative​ ​study,​ ​the​ ​journal​ ​accepts​ ​submissions​ ​from​ ​any​ ​source​ ​and​ ​in​ ​any​ ​language.

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CONTENTS A​ ​Note​ ​From​ ​the​ ​Editor Faculty​ ​Spotlight:​ ​Professor​ ​Laura​ ​Torres-Rodríguez All​ ​The​ ​Things​ ​We’ve​ ​Lost​ ​in​ ​Translation​ ​by​ ​Christhalia​ ​Wiloto Two​ ​Poems​ ​by​ ​Beth​ ​Sattur Prelude,​ ​Body,​ ​Outro​ ​by​ ​Christina​ ​Manubag Imagine​ ​by​ ​Rachel​ ​Gilman Two​ ​Poems​ ​by​ ​Gabriella​ ​Mayer Καθρέφτης​ ​by​ ​Anastasia​ ​Damaskou Three​ ​Poems​ ​by​ ​Jackie​ ​Yang Scenes​ ​of​ ​Instruction​ ​and​ ​Contradiction​ ​in​ ​Henry​ ​James’​ ​“The​ ​Jolly​ ​Corner”​ ​by​ ​John​ ​Lincoln Poem​ ​Collection;​ ​Lucky​ ​Flow​ ​by​ ​Greg​ ​Drozdek Shiu​ ​by​ ​Cindy​ ​Sharra 卧虎藏龙​ ​and​ ​Q&A​ ​by​ ​Ai​ ​Xin​ ​Liew Amor​ ​by​ ​Adam​ ​Simon Three​ ​Poems​ ​by​ ​Jenny​ ​Choi

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Above​ ​image​ ​by​ ​Beth​ ​Sattur 4

A​ ​Note​ ​From​ ​the​ ​Editor-in-Chief Dear​ ​Brio​ ​readers, Literature​ ​has​ ​long​ ​been​ ​a​ ​way​ ​of​ ​coping​ ​with​ ​the​ ​world,​ ​an​ ​art​ ​form​ ​that​ ​gives​ ​power​ ​to those​ ​who​ ​might​ ​feel​ ​they​ ​have​ ​none.​ ​Literature​ ​can​ ​also​ ​be​ ​seen​ ​as​ ​a​ ​release​ ​from​ ​the​ ​more mundane​ ​aspects​ ​of​ ​daily​ ​life,​ ​which​ ​is​ ​perhaps​ ​the​ ​way​ ​that​ ​many​ ​of​ ​us​ ​are​ ​used​ ​to​ ​interacting with​ ​it.​ ​Given​ ​our​ ​current​ ​political​ ​and​ ​cultural​ ​climate,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​basic​ ​tenets​ ​of​ ​comparative literature​ ​as​ ​a​ ​discipline,​ ​however,​ ​the​ ​Brio​ ​editors​ ​were​ ​interested​ ​in​ ​exploring​ ​the​ ​abilities​ ​of literature​ ​to​ ​function​ ​as​ ​resistance;​ ​whether​ ​that​ ​be​ ​in​ ​a​ ​political,​ ​social,​ ​cultural,​ ​or​ ​otherwise undefined​ ​context.

We​ ​believe​ ​the​ ​pieces​ ​we​ ​selected​ ​for​ ​publication​ ​in​ ​this​ ​issue​ ​carry​ ​with​ ​them​ ​a​ ​spirit​ ​of defiance​ ​at​ ​some​ ​level,​ ​even​ ​if​ ​it’s​ ​not​ ​obvious​ ​at​ ​first.​ ​With​ ​certain​ ​institutions​ ​no​ ​longer appearing​ ​as​ ​the​ ​bastions​ ​of​ ​righteousness​ ​that​ ​they​ ​were​ ​before,​ ​vehicles​ ​for​ ​change​ ​and self-expression​ ​are​ ​becoming​ ​increasingly​ ​harder​ ​to​ ​come​ ​by.​ ​Despite​ ​this,​ ​we​ ​believe​ ​in​ ​the abilities​ ​of​ ​literature,​ ​especially​ ​comparative​ ​literature,​ ​to​ ​fill​ ​this​ ​gap,​ ​as​ ​it​ ​has​ ​in​ ​the​ ​past​ ​and will​ ​continue​ ​to​ ​do​ ​in​ ​the​ ​future.

We​ ​hope​ ​you​ ​enjoy​ ​our​ ​fall​ ​issue​ ​of​ ​the​ ​journal,​ ​and​ ​perhaps​ ​even​ ​feel​ ​inspired​ ​to discover​ ​your​ ​own​ ​creative​ ​voice,​ ​whatever​ ​that​ ​may​ ​be.

Warmly, Libby​ ​Torres Editor-in-Chief

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FACULTY​ ​SPOTLIGHT An​ ​interview​ ​with​ ​Professor​ ​Laura​ ​Torres-Rodríguez,​ ​Assistant​ ​Professor​ ​in​ ​the​ ​NYU Spanish​ ​and​ ​Portuguese​ ​Languages​ ​and​ ​Literatures​ ​department.

In​ ​addition​ ​to​ ​her​ ​duties​ ​as​ ​a​ ​professor,​ ​Torres-Rodríguez​ ​recently​ ​finished​ ​a​ ​book entitled​ ​“Orientaciones​ ​transpacíficas:​ ​la​ ​modernidad​ ​mexicana​ ​y​ ​el​ ​espectro​ ​de​ ​Asia”​ ​(in English:​ ​“Trans-Pacific​ ​Orientations:​ ​Mexican​ ​Modernity​ ​and​ ​the​ ​Specter​ ​of​ ​Asia”).

Torres-Rodríguez​ ​is​ ​originally​ ​from​ ​Puerto​ ​Rico​ ​and​ ​received​ ​her​ ​Ph.D​ ​and​ ​M.A.​ ​in​ ​Hispanic Studies​ ​from​ ​the​ ​University​ ​of​ ​Pennsylvania,​ ​after​ ​attending​ ​the​ ​University​ ​of​ ​Puerto​ ​Rico.​ ​Her areas​ ​of​ ​interest​ ​and​ ​research​ ​include​ ​Mexican​ ​literature​ ​and​ ​culture,​ ​Orientalism​ ​and postcolonial​ ​theory,​ ​and​ ​Marxism​ ​in​ ​Latin​ ​America​ ​and​ ​Asia.

The​ ​below​ ​interview​ ​was​ ​originally​ ​conducted​ ​in​ ​Spanish.​ ​An​ ​English​ ​translation​ ​follows​ ​the original. ¿Crees​ ​que​ ​literatura​ ​y​ ​teoría​ ​puede​ ​actuar​ ​como​ ​una​ ​manera​ ​de​ ​resistencia​ ​contra retórica​ ​odioso?​ ​¿Dónde​ ​se​ ​puede​ ​ubicar​ ​literatura​ ​(y​ ​en​ ​general,​ ​el​ ​arte)​ ​en​ ​la​ ​lucha política​ ​y​ ​cultural​ ​hoy​ ​en​ ​día,​ ​especialmente​ ​en​ ​los​ ​estados​ ​unidos?

Definitivamente,​ ​creo​ ​que​ ​la​ ​literatura​ ​y​ ​el​ ​arte​ ​pueden​ ​resistir​ ​las​ ​retóricas​ ​de​ ​odio​ ​en cuanto​ ​entendemos​ ​estas​ ​prácticas​ ​en​ ​su​ ​capacidad​ ​teórica.​ ​No​ ​se​ ​trata​ ​de​ ​pensar​ ​la​ ​literatura​ ​y​ ​el arte​ ​como​ ​espacios​ ​autónomos​ ​o​ ​separados​ ​del​ ​mundo​ ​de​ ​lo​ ​social,​ ​sino​ ​como​ ​dimensiones​ ​que le​ ​son​ ​contiguas,​ ​prácticas​ ​que​ ​reordenan​ ​activamente​ ​las​ ​formas​ ​de​ ​la​ ​imaginación​ ​social​ ​y colectiva.​ ​Esto​ ​no​ ​significa​ ​que​ ​el​ ​arte​ ​y​ ​la​ ​literatura​ ​estén​ ​exentos​ ​de​ ​por​ ​sí​ ​de​ ​retóricas​ ​de​ ​odio.

Creo​ ​que​ ​parte​ ​de​ ​la​ ​importancia​ ​de​ ​construir​ ​colectivos​ ​de​ ​lectura​ ​en​ ​torno​ ​a​ ​distintos​ ​artefactos artístico,​ ​sobre​ ​todo​ ​en​ ​el​ ​espacio​ ​universitario​ ​que​ ​nos​ ​concierne,​ ​es​ ​la​ ​de​ ​generar​ ​un entrenamiento​ ​que​ ​nos​ ​permita​ ​discernir​ ​con​ ​cierto​ ​rigor​ ​las​ ​estrategias​ ​estéticas​ ​y​ ​discursivas implícitas​ ​en​ ​diversas​ ​declaraciones​ ​culturales.​ ​El​ ​salón​ ​de​ ​clase​ ​permite​ ​construir​ ​en​ ​grupo nuevas​ ​capacidades​ ​de​ ​inteligibilidad​ ​y​ ​respuestas​ ​creativas.​ ​Estos​ ​espacios​ ​pueden​ ​prepararnos mejor​ ​para​ ​responder​ ​a​ ​la​ ​manipulación​ ​discursiva​ ​y​ ​afectiva,​ ​a​ ​las​ ​políticas​ ​del​ ​miedo​ ​y​ ​a​ ​la pobreza​ ​de​ ​imaginación​ ​implícita​ ​en​ ​los​ ​discursos​ ​que​ ​mencionas.

En​ ​cuanto​ ​al​ ​papel​ ​del​ ​arte​ ​y​ ​la​ ​literatura​ ​en​ ​el​ ​panorama​ ​cultural​ ​actual,​ ​creo​ ​que​ ​lo​ ​que hemos​ ​aprendido​ ​es​ ​que​ ​es​ ​necesario​ ​ampliar​ ​nuestra​ ​noción​ ​de​ ​lo​ ​literario​ ​y​ ​lo​ ​artístico​ ​y privilegiar​ ​la​ ​dimensión​ ​colectiva​ ​que​ ​subyace​ ​a​ ​todo​ ​acto​ ​creativo.​ ​El​ ​ejemplo​ ​más​ ​inmediato​ ​y tal​ ​vez​ ​más​ ​trillado,​ ​aunque​ ​no​ ​por​ ​esto​ ​menos​ ​efectivo,​ ​es​ ​el​ ​de​ ​las​ ​consignas​ ​que​ ​están circulando​ ​por​ ​las​ ​nuevas​ ​plataformas​ ​mediáticas.​ ​Por​ ​ejemplo,​ ​los​ ​hashtags​ ​son​ ​configuraciones del​ ​lenguaje​ ​que​ ​deben​ ​ser​ ​consideradas​ ​en​ ​su​ ​capacidad​ ​literaria​ ​y​ ​teórica.​ ​Desde​ ​Black​ ​Lives Matter​ ​en​ ​los​ ​Estados​ ​Unidos,​ ​pasando​ ​por​ ​Ni​ ​Una​ ​Menos​ ​en​ ​Argentina​ ​y​ ​México​ ​hasta​ ​Se 6

Acabaron​ ​las​ ​Promesas​ ​en​ ​Puerto​ ​Rico,​ ​éstas​ ​son​ ​declaraciones​ ​que​ ​ofrecen​ ​y​ ​forman​ ​nuevas escenas​ ​de​ ​lectura​ ​de​ ​la​ ​realidad​ ​social​ ​en​ ​su​ ​dimensión​ ​histórica,​ ​política​ ​y​ ​estética.​ ​Estas​ ​frases, a​ ​pesar​ ​de​ ​su​ ​extrema​ ​economía​ ​lingüística,​ ​contienen​ ​una​ ​densidad​ ​y​ ​una​ ​complejidad​ ​teórica significativa.

En​ ​tu​ ​opinión,​ ​¿cuán​ ​importante​ ​es​ ​un​ ​conocimiento​ ​de​ ​la​ ​teoría​ ​(Marxista,​ ​socialista, feminista,​ ​etc.)​ ​para​ ​los​ ​movimientos​ ​sociales​ ​y​ ​políticos​ ​hoy​ ​en​ ​los​ ​Estados​ ​Unidos?

Creo​ ​que​ ​uno​ ​de​ ​los​ ​problemas​ ​del​ ​panorama​ ​educativo​ ​neoliberal​ ​es​ ​una​ ​tendencia general​ ​a​ ​suprimir​ ​y​ ​borrar​ ​las​ ​tradiciones​ ​políticas​ ​y​ ​las​ ​alternativas​ ​económicas​ ​y​ ​de organización​ ​colectiva​ ​que​ ​precedieron​ ​su​ ​implementación.​ ​Con​ ​esto,​ ​se​ ​tiende​ ​a​ ​naturalizar​ ​la lógica​ ​neoliberal.​ ​En​ ​este​ ​sentido,​ ​movimientos​ ​como​ ​Occupy​ ​fueron​ ​y​ ​han​ ​sido​ ​fundamentales en​ ​los​ ​Estados​ ​Unidos​ ​al​ ​organizar​ ​espacios​ ​de​ ​educación​ ​política,​ ​teórica​ ​y​ ​estética​ ​colectivos fuera​ ​de​ ​las​ ​instituciones​ ​educativas​ ​formales.​ ​Creo​ ​que​ ​el​ ​derecho​ ​a​ ​recibir​ ​y​ ​a​ ​acceder​ ​a​ ​una educación​ ​política,​ ​teórica​ ​y​ ​estética​ ​plural​ ​es​ ​fundamental​ ​para​ ​la​ ​juventud;​ ​no​ ​para​ ​ser adoctrinados​ ​en​ ​una​ ​narrativa​ ​específica,​ ​sino​ ​precisamente​ ​para​ ​poder​ ​pensar​ ​alternativas​ ​que les​ ​hagan​ ​justicia​ ​a​ ​los​ ​contextos​ ​contemporáneos.​ ​Como​ ​dice​ ​la​ ​escritora​ ​Cristina​ ​Rivera​ ​Garza, habitar​ ​el​ ​presente​ ​es​ ​una​ ​tarea,​ ​un​ ​trabajo,​ ​que​ ​implica​ ​un​ ​compromiso​ ​con​ ​procesar​ ​los​ ​legados que​ ​nos​ ​preceden​ ​y​ ​con​ ​los​ ​que​ ​hemos​ ​contraído​ ​una​ ​deuda​ ​impagable. ¿Crees​ ​que​ ​ya​ ​ha​ ​habido​ ​ejemplos​ ​de​ ​la​ ​literatura​ ​y​ ​el​ ​arte​ ​que​ ​han​ ​funcionado​ ​como​ ​un forma​ ​de​ ​resistencia?​ ​Si​ ​ha​ ​habido,​ ​¿dónde​ ​y​ ​cuándo?​ ​¿Puede​ ​los​ ​estados​ ​unidos​ ​seguir estos​ ​ejemplos?

Voy​ ​a​ ​tratar​ ​de​ ​abordar​ ​tu​ ​gran​ ​pregunta​ ​de​ ​forma​ ​acotada.​ ​Una​ ​de​ ​mis​ ​metas​ ​de enseñanza​ ​es​ ​la​ ​problematización​ ​de​ ​las​ ​nociones​ ​de​ ​centro-periferia​ ​que​ ​continúan​ ​informando, a​ ​veces​ ​de​ ​forma​ ​indirecta,​ ​la​ ​enseñanza​ ​de​ ​la​ ​cultura​ ​y​ ​la​ ​literatura​ ​latinoamericana​ ​en​ ​los Estados​ ​Unidos.​ ​Como​ ​especialista​ ​en​ ​estudios​ ​mexicanos,​ ​creo​ ​que​ ​la​ ​retórica​ ​actual​ ​en​ ​los Estados​ ​Unidos​ ​en​ ​torno​ ​a​ ​México,​ ​por​ ​ejemplo,​ ​proviene,​ ​entre​ ​otros​ ​factores,​ ​de​ ​la​ ​profunda ignorancia​ ​que​ ​se​ ​tiene​ ​sobre​ ​la​ ​historia​ ​y​ ​la​ ​cultura​ ​del​ ​vecino​ ​latinoamericano​ ​más​ ​cercano.​ ​Me parece​ ​que​ ​las​ ​Américas​ ​comparten​ ​una​ ​historia​ ​común​ ​con​ ​múltiples​ ​continuidades​ ​que​ ​sigue estando​ ​muy​ ​oscurecida​ ​por​ ​las​ ​divisiones​ ​nacionales​ ​y​ ​lingüísticas,​ ​aunque​ ​existen​ ​múltiples movimientos​ ​e​ ​instancias​ ​de​ ​vinculación.

Actualmente​ ​en​ ​Estados​ ​Unidos​ ​se​ ​está​ ​haciendo​ ​más​ ​claro​ ​la​ ​importancia​ ​de​ ​construir​ ​un discurso​ ​crítico​ ​y​ ​estético​ ​en​ ​torno​ ​a​ ​la​ ​memoria​ ​histórica​ ​que​ ​enraícen​ ​los​ ​movimientos​ ​de resistencia​ ​actuales.​ ​América​ ​Latina​ ​tiene​ ​una​ ​larga​ ​tradición​ ​artística​ ​de​ ​suma​ ​sofisticación​ ​que concierne​ ​una​ ​teorización​ ​de​ ​la​ ​memoria​ ​y​ ​la​ ​fenomenología​ ​de​ ​la​ ​percepción​ ​temporal​ ​e histórica​ ​para​ ​interrumpir​ ​una​ ​práctica​ ​de​ ​recepción​ ​pasiva​ ​de​ ​los​ ​relatos​ ​históricos​ ​oficiales.

Pienso​ ​en​ ​novelas​ ​como​ ​Pedro​ ​Páramo​ ​de​ ​Juan​ ​Rulfo​ ​o​ ​Amuleto​ ​de​ ​Roberto​ ​Bolaño​ ​o​ ​los 7

experimentos​ ​en​ ​la​ ​ficción​ ​documental​ ​como​ ​Nostalgia​ ​de​ ​la​ ​luz​ ​de​ ​Patricio​ ​Guzmán.​ ​En​ ​estos​ ​se insiste​ ​en​ ​la​ ​dimensión​ ​material​ ​y​ ​efectiva​ ​de​ ​la​ ​memoria,​ ​al​ ​presentar​ ​una​ ​visión​ ​del​ ​presente que​ ​está​ ​sedimentada​ ​por​ ​las​ ​voces​ ​y​ ​los​ ​cuerpos​ ​de​ ​los​ ​que​ ​ya​ ​no​ ​están​ ​o​ ​han​ ​sido​ ​desposeídos​ ​o desplazados​ ​por​ ​procesos​ ​y​ ​modelos​ ​de​ ​desarrollo​ ​que​ ​continúan​ ​en​ ​marcha.

Finalmente,​ ​si​ ​estás​ ​trabajando​ ​en​ ​un​ ​libro​ ​o​ ​proyecto,​ ​¿podrías​ ​describirlo​ ​para​ ​nosotros?

Acabo​ ​de​ ​terminar​ ​un​ ​libro​ ​titulado​ ​Orientaciones​ ​transpacíficas:​ ​la​ ​modernidad mexicana​ ​y​ ​el​ ​espectro​ ​de​ ​Asia​.​ ​Como​ ​puertorriqueña​ ​al​ ​fin,​ ​siempre​ ​me​ ​ha​ ​interesado​ ​la​ ​historia contada​ ​desde​ ​geografías​ ​y​ ​ecosistemas​ ​que​ ​se​ ​perciben​ ​como​ ​marginales​ ​a​ ​los​ ​relatos​ ​centrales de​ ​construcción​ ​nacional​ ​o​ ​continental.​ ​Este​ ​para​ ​mí​ ​es​ ​el​ ​caso​ ​del​ ​océano​ ​pacífico​ ​en​ ​las historias​ ​culturales​ ​latinoamericanas.​ ​Debido​ ​a​ ​que​ ​América​ ​Latina​ ​ha​ ​estado,​ ​debido​ ​a​ ​su condición​ ​postcolonial,​ ​orientada​ ​mayoritariamente​ ​hacia​ ​el​ ​Atlántico​ ​y​ ​Europa,​ ​se​ ​ha​ ​tendido​ ​a descuidar​ ​en​ ​los​ ​estudios​ ​críticos​ ​sobre​ ​la​ ​región​ ​la​ ​importancia​ ​geográfica,​ ​estética​ ​y​ ​cultural​ ​del circuito​ ​marítimo​ ​transpacífico​ ​que​ ​vincula​ ​materialmente​ ​a​ ​nuestro​ ​continente​ ​con​ ​Asia.​ ​Por ejemplo,​ ​México,​ ​durante​ ​el​ ​periodo​ ​colonial,​ ​ocupa​ ​un​ ​lugar​ ​fundamental​ ​en​ ​la​ ​creación​ ​de​ ​una red​ ​comercial-imperial​ ​en​ ​el​ ​Pacífico​ ​a​ ​través​ ​de​ ​la​ ​ruta​ ​entre​ ​Acapulco​ ​y​ ​las​ ​Filipinas.​ ​Sin embargo,​ ​durante​ ​el​ ​siglo​ ​XX,​ ​este​ ​vínculo​ ​directo​ ​de​ ​siglos​ ​es​ ​parcialmente​ ​olvidado;​ ​el​ ​Pacífico a​ ​pesar​ ​de​ ​su​ ​materialidad​ ​parecería​ ​desaparecer​ ​como​ ​referente​ ​cultural​ ​e​ ​histórico.​ ​El​ ​libro mencionado​ ​explora​ ​las​ ​formas​ ​diversas​ ​en​ ​que​ ​Asia​ ​reaparece​ ​durante​ ​el​ ​siglo​ ​XX​ ​en​ ​obras canónicas​ ​de​ ​la​ ​tradición​ ​intelectual,​ ​artística​ ​y​ ​literaria​ ​mexicana​ ​para​ ​recuperar​ ​su​ ​innegable importancia​ ​en​ ​los​ ​discursos​ ​centrales​ ​del​ ​latinoamericanismo.

Do​ ​you​ ​believe​ ​that​ ​literature​ ​and​ ​theory​ ​can​ ​act​ ​as​ ​forms​ ​of​ ​resistance​ ​against​ ​hateful rhetoric?​ ​What​ ​is​ ​literature’s​ ​place​ ​(and​ ​art​ ​in​ ​general)​ ​in​ ​the​ ​political​ ​and​ ​cultural​ ​war​ ​that​ ​is taking​ ​place​ ​now,​ ​especially​ ​in​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States?

Definitely,​ ​I​ ​believe​ ​that​ ​literature​ ​and​ ​art​ ​can​ ​resist​ ​hateful​ ​rhetoric​ ​insofar​ ​as​ ​we understand​ ​these​ ​practices​ ​in​ ​their​ ​theoretical​ ​capacity.​ ​It​ ​is​ ​not​ ​a​ ​matter​ ​of​ ​thinking​ ​of​ ​literature and​ ​art​ ​as​ ​spaces​ ​that​ ​are​ ​autonomous​ ​or​ ​separated​ ​from​ ​society,​ ​but​ ​as​ ​dimensions​ ​that​ ​are contiguous​ ​with​ ​it,​ ​practices​ ​that​ ​actively​ ​reorder​ ​the​ ​forms​ ​of​ ​social​ ​and​ ​collective​ ​imagination.

This​ ​does​ ​not​ ​mean​ ​that​ ​art​ ​and​ ​literature​ ​as​ ​such​ ​are​ ​exempt​ ​from​ ​hateful​ ​rhetoric.​ ​I​ ​think​ ​part of​ ​the​ ​importance​ ​of​ ​constructing​ ​reading​ ​groups​ ​around​ ​different​ ​artistic​ ​artifacts,​ ​especially​ ​in the​ ​university,​ ​is​ ​to​ ​generate​ ​a​ ​type​ ​of​ ​training​ ​that​ ​allows​ ​us​ ​to​ ​discern​ ​with​ ​true​ ​rigor​ ​the aesthetic​ ​and​ ​discursive​ ​strategies​ ​implicit​ ​in​ ​various​ ​cultural​ ​declarations.​ ​The​ ​classroom​ ​can thus​ ​collectively​ ​build​ ​new​ ​capacities​ ​of​ ​intelligibility​ ​and​ ​creative​ ​responses.​ ​These​ ​spaces​ ​can better​ ​prepare​ ​us​ ​to​ ​respond​ ​to​ ​discursive​ ​and​ ​affective​ ​manipulation,​ ​to​ ​the​ ​politics​ ​of​ ​fear​ ​and poverty​ ​of​ ​imagination​ ​implicit​ ​in​ ​the​ ​kind​ ​of​ ​discourse​ ​you​ ​yourself​ ​mention.

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As​ ​for​ ​the​ ​role​ ​of​ ​art​ ​and​ ​literature​ ​in​ ​today’s​ ​cultural​ ​climate,​ ​I​ ​think​ ​that​ ​what​ ​we’ve learned​ ​is​ ​that​ ​it​ ​is​ ​necessary​ ​to​ ​broaden​ ​our​ ​notion​ ​of​ ​the​ ​literary​ ​and​ ​the​ ​artistic​ ​and​ ​privilege the​ ​collective​ ​element​ ​underlying​ ​all​ ​creative​ ​acts.​ ​The​ ​most​ ​immediate​ ​and​ ​perhaps​ ​trite example,​ ​although​ ​no​ ​less​ ​effective​ ​for​ ​that​ ​matter,​ ​is​ ​that​ ​of​ ​political​ ​hashtags,​ ​particularly​ ​ones that​ ​are​ ​currently​ ​circulating​ ​through​ ​new​ ​media​ ​platforms.​ ​For​ ​example,​ ​hashtags​ ​are configurations​ ​of​ ​language​ ​that​ ​should​ ​be​ ​considered​ ​in​ ​their​ ​literary​ ​and​ ​theoretical​ ​capacity.

From​ ​Black​ ​Lives​ ​Matter​ ​in​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States,​ ​through​ ​Ni​ ​Una​ ​Menos​ ​in​ ​Argentina​ ​and​ ​Mexico to​ ​Se​ ​Acabaron​ ​las​ ​Promesas​ ​in​ ​Puerto​ ​Rico,​ ​these​ ​are​ ​declarations​ ​that​ ​offer​ ​and​ ​form​ ​new scenes​ ​of​ ​reading​ ​our​ ​social​ ​reality​ ​in​ ​its​ ​historical,​ ​political,​ ​and​ ​aesthetic​ ​dimensions.​ ​These phrases,​ ​despite​ ​their​ ​extreme​ ​linguistic​ ​economy,​ ​contain​ ​a​ ​dense​ ​and​ ​complex​ ​theoretical significance.

In​ ​your​ ​opinion,​ ​how​ ​important​ ​is​ ​a​ ​familiarity​ ​with​ ​theory​ ​(Marxist,​ ​socialist,​ ​feminist,​ ​etc.) for​ ​current​ ​social​ ​and​ ​political​ ​movements​ ​in​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States?

I​ ​think​ ​one​ ​of​ ​the​ ​problems​ ​of​ ​the​ ​neoliberal​ ​educational​ ​program​ ​is​ ​the​ ​general​ ​tendency to​ ​suppress​ ​and​ ​erase​ ​the​ ​political​ ​traditions​ ​and​ ​alternative​ ​economic,​ ​as​ ​well​ ​as​ ​collective, organizations​ ​that​ ​preceded​ ​its​ ​implementation.​ ​With​ ​this,​ ​there​ ​is​ ​a​ ​tendency​ ​to​ ​naturalize neoliberal​ ​logic.​ ​In​ ​this​ ​sense,​ ​movements​ ​like​ ​Occupy​ ​were​ ​and​ ​have​ ​been​ ​fundamental​ ​in​ ​the United​ ​States​ ​in​ ​organizing​ ​collective​ ​spaces​ ​for​ ​political,​ ​theoretical,​ ​and​ ​aesthetic​ ​education outside​ ​of​ ​formal​ ​educational​ ​institutions.​ ​I​ ​believe​ ​that​ ​the​ ​right​ ​to​ ​receive​ ​and​ ​access​ ​a​ ​diverse political,​ ​theoretical,​ ​and​ ​aesthetic​ ​education​ ​is​ ​fundamental​ ​for​ ​today’s​ ​youth;​ ​not​ ​to​ ​be indoctrinated​ ​with​ ​a​ ​specific​ ​narrative,​ ​but​ ​precisely​ ​to​ ​be​ ​able​ ​to​ ​think​ ​of​ ​alternatives​ ​that​ ​do justice​ ​to​ ​contemporary​ ​situations.​ ​As​ ​the​ ​writer​ ​Cristina​ ​Rivera​ ​Garza​ ​says,​ ​to​ ​inhabit​ ​the present​ ​is​ ​a​ ​task,​ ​a​ ​job,​ ​which​ ​implies​ ​a​ ​commitment​ ​to​ ​process​ ​the​ ​legacies​ ​that​ ​precede​ ​us​ ​and those​ ​with​ ​which​ ​we​ ​have​ ​accumulated​ ​an​ ​unpayable​ ​debt.

Do​ ​you​ ​think​ ​there​ ​have​ ​already​ ​been​ ​examples​ ​of​ ​literature​ ​and​ ​art​ ​that​ ​have​ ​worked​ ​as​ ​a form​ ​of​ ​resistance?​ ​If​ ​so,​ ​where​ ​and​ ​when?​ ​Can​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States​ ​follow​ ​these​ ​examples?

I​ ​will​ ​try​ ​to​ ​address​ ​your​ ​big​ ​question​ ​in​ ​a​ ​concise​ ​way.​ ​One​ ​of​ ​my​ ​teaching​ ​goals​ ​is​ ​the problematization​ ​of​ ​center-periphery​ ​notions​ ​that​ ​continue​ ​to​ ​inform,​ ​sometimes​ ​indirectly,​ ​the teaching​ ​of​ ​Latin​ ​American​ ​culture​ ​and​ ​literature​ ​in​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States.​ ​As​ ​a​ ​specialist​ ​in​ ​Mexican studies,​ ​I​ ​believe​ ​that​ ​the​ ​current​ ​rhetoric​ ​in​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States​ ​around​ ​Mexico,​ ​for​ ​example, comes,​ ​among​ ​other​ ​factors,​ ​from​ ​a​ ​profound​ ​ignorance​ ​regarding​ ​the​ ​history​ ​and​ ​culture​ ​of​ ​our closest​ ​Latin​ ​American​ ​neighbor.​ ​It​ ​seems​ ​to​ ​me​ ​that​ ​the​ ​Americas​ ​share​ ​a​ ​common​ ​history,​ ​with multiple​ ​continuities,​ ​that​ ​is​ ​still​ ​very​ ​obscured​ ​by​ ​national​ ​and​ ​linguistic​ ​divisions,​ ​despite​ ​there being​ ​a​ ​multiplicity​ ​of​ ​movements​ ​and​ ​instances​ ​of​ ​connection.

9

Currently​ ​in​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States,​ ​the​ ​importance​ ​of​ ​constructing​ ​a​ ​critical​ ​and​ ​aesthetic discourse​ ​around​ ​historical​ ​memory,​ ​one​ ​that​ ​may​ ​bolster​ ​current​ ​resistance​ ​movements,​ ​is becoming​ ​clearer.​ ​Latin​ ​America​ ​has​ ​a​ ​long​ ​artistic​ ​tradition​ ​of​ ​great​ ​sophistication​ ​that concerns​ ​a​ ​theorization​ ​of​ ​memory​ ​and​ ​the​ ​phenomenology​ ​of​ ​temporal​ ​and​ ​historical​ ​perception and​ ​which​ ​allows​ ​for​ ​an​ ​interruption​ ​of​ ​the​ ​passive​ ​reception​ ​of​ ​official​ ​historical​ ​accounts.​ ​I think​ ​of​ ​novels​ ​like​ ​“Pedro​ ​Páramo”​ ​by​ ​Juan​ ​Rulfo​ ​or​ ​“Amuleto”​ ​by​ ​Roberto​ ​Bolaño​ ​or experiments​ ​in​ ​documentary​ ​fiction​ ​like​ ​“Nostalgia​ ​de​ ​la​ ​luz”​ ​by​ ​Patricio​ ​Guzmán.​ ​These​ ​insist on​ ​the​ ​material​ ​and​ ​effective​ ​dimension​ ​of​ ​memory,​ ​presenting​ ​a​ ​vision​ ​of​ ​the​ ​present​ ​that​ ​is sedimented​ ​by​ ​the​ ​voices​ ​and​ ​bodies​ ​of​ ​those​ ​who​ ​are​ ​no​ ​longer​ ​here​ ​or​ ​who​ ​have​ ​been dispossessed​ ​or​ ​displaced​ ​by​ ​ongoing​ ​processes​ ​and​ ​models​ ​of​ ​development.

Finally,​ ​if​ ​you​ ​are​ ​working​ ​on​ ​a​ ​book​ ​or​ ​another​ ​project,​ ​could​ ​you​ ​describe​ ​it​ ​to​ ​us?

I​ ​just​ ​finished​ ​a​ ​book​ ​titled​ ​“Orientaciones​ ​transpacíficas:​ ​la​ ​modernidad​ ​mexicana​ ​y​ ​el espectro​ ​de​ ​Asia”​ ​(in​ ​English:​ ​“Trans-Pacific​ ​Orientations:​ ​Mexican​ ​Modernity​ ​and​ ​the​ ​Specter of​ ​Asia”).​ ​As​ ​a​ ​Puerto​ ​Rican,​ ​I​ ​have​ ​always​ ​been​ ​interested​ ​in​ ​history​ ​told​ ​from​ ​geographies​ ​and ecosystems​ ​that​ ​are​ ​perceived​ ​as​ ​marginal​ ​to​ ​central​ ​narratives​ ​of​ ​national​ ​or​ ​continental construction.​ ​This​ ​for​ ​me​ ​is​ ​the​ ​case​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Pacific​ ​Ocean​ ​in​ ​the​ ​cultural​ ​history​ ​of​ ​Latin America.​ ​Because​ ​Latin​ ​America​ ​has​ ​been,​ ​due​ ​to​ ​its​ ​postcolonial​ ​condition,​ ​mainly​ ​oriented towards​ ​the​ ​Atlantic​ ​and​ ​Europe,​ ​it​ ​has​ ​tended​ ​to​ ​neglect,​ ​in​ ​critical​ ​studies​ ​about​ ​the​ ​region,​ ​the geographical,​ ​aesthetic,​ ​and​ ​cultural​ ​importance​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Trans-Pacific​ ​maritime​ ​circuit​ ​that materially​ ​links​ ​our​ ​continent​ ​with​ ​Asia.​ ​For​ ​example,​ ​Mexico,​ ​during​ ​the​ ​colonial​ ​period, occupies​ ​a​ ​fundamental​ ​place​ ​in​ ​the​ ​creation​ ​of​ ​a​ ​commercial-imperial​ ​network​ ​in​ ​the​ ​Pacific through​ ​the​ ​route​ ​between​ ​Acapulco​ ​and​ ​the​ ​Philippines.

However,​ ​during​ ​the​ ​twentieth​ ​century,​ ​this​ ​centuries-old​ ​direct​ ​link​ ​is​ ​partially forgotten;​ ​the​ ​Pacific​ ​despite​ ​its​ ​materiality​ ​appears​ ​to​ ​disappear​ ​as​ ​a​ ​cultural​ ​and​ ​historical reference.​ ​The​ ​aforementioned​ ​book​ ​explores​ ​the​ ​diverse​ ​forms​ ​in​ ​which​ ​Asia​ ​reappears​ ​during the​ ​twentieth​ ​century​ ​in​ ​canonical​ ​works​ ​in​ ​the​ ​Mexican​ ​intellectual,​ ​artistic,​ ​and​ ​literary tradition​ ​to​ ​recover​ ​its​ ​undeniable​ ​importance​ ​in​ ​the​ ​central​ ​discourses​ ​of​ ​Latin-Americanism.

10

All​ ​the​ ​Things​ ​We've​ ​Lost​ ​in​ ​Translation By​ ​Christhalia​ ​Wiloto One​ ​moment​ ​you’re​ ​sitting​ ​on​ ​a​ ​couch​ ​somewhere​ ​in​ ​Jakarta,​ ​listening​ ​to​ ​the​ ​soft​ ​hum​ ​of the​ ​air​ ​conditioner.​ ​The​ ​next,​ ​you’re​ ​in​ ​Saigon,​ ​making​ ​your​ ​way​ ​through​ ​a​ ​street​ ​in​ ​war-torn 1960s​ ​Vietnam.​ ​Or​ ​perhaps,​ ​watching​ ​the​ ​sun​ ​rise​ ​and​ ​fall​ ​through​ ​a​ ​small​ ​window​ ​from​ ​a​ ​prison somewhere​ ​in​ ​French-colonized​ ​Algeria.​ ​Stories​ ​have​ ​the​ ​ability​ ​to​ ​take​ ​us​ ​to​ ​places​ ​where​ ​we have​ ​never​ ​been,​ ​to​ ​see​ ​sights​ ​that​ ​we​ ​have​ ​never​ ​seen;​ ​they​ ​give​ ​us​ ​access​ ​to​ ​the​ ​foreign​ ​and strange​ ​and​ ​familiar,​ ​however​ ​brief​ ​and​ ​fleeting.

Ultimately,​ ​literature​ ​tells​ ​us​ ​about​ ​how​ ​people​ ​lived.​ ​It​ ​tells​ ​us​ ​about​ ​what​ ​people​ ​have cried​ ​about,​ ​what​ ​they​ ​have​ ​lost,​ ​how​ ​people​ ​wake​ ​up​ ​in​ ​the​ ​morning​ ​and​ ​make​ ​their​ ​coffee,​ ​and how​ ​the​ ​moon​ ​looks​ ​before​ ​they​ ​fall​ ​asleep.​ ​It​ ​tells​ ​us​ ​about​ ​how​ ​things​ ​fall​ ​apart,​ ​and​ ​how people​ ​fall​ ​in​ ​love.​ ​It​ ​may​ ​even​ ​remind​ ​us​ ​of​ ​emotions​ ​that​ ​we​ ​too​ ​have​ ​felt,​ ​whether​ ​it​ ​be something​ ​that​ ​we​ ​vaguely​ ​remember​ ​feeling​ ​at​ ​some​ ​time​ ​and​ ​some​ ​place,​ ​or​ ​something​ ​that comes​ ​to​ ​us​ ​with​ ​such​ ​an​ ​intensity​ ​that​ ​it​ ​washes​ ​over​ ​us​ ​and​ ​consumes​ ​us.

But​ ​language​ ​is​ ​a​ ​fickle​ ​thing​ ​and​ ​oftentimes​ ​words​ ​betray​ ​meaning.​ ​It’s​ ​even​ ​more difficult​ ​when​ ​you’re​ ​reading​ ​works​ ​in​ ​translation,​ ​where​ ​it’s​ ​easy​ ​for​ ​meaning​ ​to​ ​get​ ​lost​ ​in​ ​the chaos​ ​altogether.​ ​I​ ​recall​ ​a​ ​time​ ​when​ ​I​ ​was​ ​younger,​ ​assigned​ ​to​ ​read​ ​an​ ​Indonesian​ ​translation of​ ​Hemingway's​ ​“The​ ​Snows​ ​of​ ​Kilimanjaro.”​ ​Having​ ​been​ ​raised​ ​abroad,​ ​I​ ​struggled​ ​with​ ​the language,​ ​and​ ​these​ ​words​ ​felt​ ​foreign​ ​to​ ​me.

In​ ​my​ ​difficulties​ ​to​ ​comprehend​ ​the​ ​Indonesian,​ ​I​ ​picked​ ​up​ ​the​ ​story​ ​in​ ​its​ ​original English,​ ​desperate​ ​for​ ​some​ ​understanding.​ ​This​ ​was​ ​where​ ​I​ ​had​ ​my​ ​first​ ​encounter​ ​with literature​ ​being​ ​lost​ ​in​ ​translation.​ ​The​ ​short​ ​story​ ​in​ ​its​ ​original​ ​English​ ​spoke​ ​of​ ​a​ ​waterbuck,​ ​a creature​ ​that​ ​did​ ​not​ ​make​ ​an​ ​appearance​ ​in​ ​the​ ​Indonesian​ ​translation.​ ​Confused,​ ​I​ ​traced through​ ​each​ ​line,​ ​carefully​ ​paying​ ​attention​ ​to​ ​each​ ​word​ ​until​ ​finally​ ​I​ ​had​ ​found​ ​something: bebek​ ​air​,​ ​a​ ​water​ ​duck.

And​ ​yet,​ ​these​ ​kinds​ ​of​ ​mistakes​ ​are​ ​not​ ​truly​ ​what​ ​is​ ​lost​ ​in​ ​translation.​ ​While unfortunate,​ ​this​ ​was​ ​just​ ​a​ ​small,​ ​careless​ ​mistake.​ ​The​ ​heartbreaking​ ​realization​ ​of​ ​all​ ​the​ ​things we​ ​may​ ​have​ ​lost​ ​in​ ​translation​ ​came​ ​years​ ​later,​ ​through​ ​a​ ​reading​ ​of​ ​Albert​ ​Camus’​ ​L’Étranger in​ ​its​ ​English​ ​translation.​ ​In​ ​an​ ​article​ ​for​ ​The​ ​New​ ​Yorker​,​ ​Ryan​ ​Bloom​ ​dissects​ ​the​ ​infamous opening​ ​line​ ​by​ ​the​ ​eponymous​ ​narrator,​ ​“Aujourd’hui,​ ​maman​ ​est​ ​morte.”​ ​It’s​ ​a​ ​short​ ​sentence, apparently​ ​simple.​ ​For​ ​years,​ ​many​ ​translators​ ​in​ ​many​ ​versions​ ​of​ ​the​ ​novel​ ​have​ ​used​ ​the​ ​same opening​ ​line:​ ​“Mother​ ​died​ ​today.”​ ​Simple,​ ​but​ ​incorrect.​ ​Bloom​ ​explains​ ​that​ ​within​ ​the​ ​novel’s first​ ​sentence,​ ​these​ ​seemingly​ ​minor​ ​translation​ ​decisions​ ​have​ ​the​ ​power​ ​to​ ​change​ ​the​ ​way​ ​that readers​ ​read​ ​and​ ​perceive​ ​everything​ ​that​ ​follows.

Bloom​ ​writes​ ​in​ ​his​ ​article:​ ​“There​ ​is​ ​little​ ​warmth,​ ​little​ ​bond​ ​or​ ​closeness​ ​or​ ​love​ ​in ‘Mother,’​ ​which​ ​is​ ​a​ ​static,​ ​archetypal​ ​term,​ ​not​ ​the​ ​sort​ ​of​ ​thing​ ​we​ ​use​ ​for​ ​a​ ​living,​ ​breathing being​ ​with​ ​whom​ ​we​ ​have​ ​close​ ​relations.​ ​To​ ​do​ ​so​ ​would​ ​be​ ​like​ ​calling​ ​the​ ​family​ ​dog​ ​‘Dog’ 11

or​ ​a​ ​husband​ ​‘Husband.’​ ​The​ ​word​ ​forces​ ​us​ ​to​ ​see​ ​Meursault​ ​[the​ ​main​ ​character]​ ​as​ ​distant from​ ​the​ ​woman​ ​who​ ​bore​ ​him​ ​[…]​ ​We​ ​condemn​ ​or​ ​set​ ​him​ ​free​ ​based​ ​not​ ​on​ ​the​ ​crime​ ​he commits​ ​but​ ​on​ ​our​ ​assessment​ ​of​ ​him​ ​as​ ​a​ ​person.​ ​Does​ ​he​ ​love​ ​his​ ​mother?​ ​Or​ ​is​ ​he​ ​cold toward​ ​her,​ ​uncaring,​ ​even?”​ ​It​ ​wasn’t​ ​until​ ​1988​ ​that​ ​a​ ​translator​ ​changed​ ​a​ ​single​ ​word,​ ​altering the​ ​line​ ​to​ ​“Maman​ ​died​ ​today.”​ ​Keeping​ ​the​ ​French​ ​two-syllable​ ​word​ ​maman​ ​suggests​ ​a​ ​touch of​ ​softness​ ​and​ ​warmth​ ​that​ ​allows​ ​the​ ​translator​ ​to​ ​better​ ​avoid​ ​changing​ ​the​ ​intended characterization​ ​and​ ​influencing​ ​the​ ​reader,​ ​he​ ​explains.

Many​ ​consider​ ​translation​ ​to​ ​be​ ​an​ ​easy​ ​task,​ ​that​ ​any​ ​bilingual​ ​writer​ ​will​ ​have​ ​the ability​ ​to​ ​bring​ ​a​ ​literary​ ​piece​ ​to​ ​life​ ​in​ ​another​ ​language.​ ​However,​ ​literary​ ​translation​ ​shouldn’t be​ ​done​ ​word​ ​for​ ​word,​ ​and​ ​translators​ ​are​ ​not​ ​merely​ ​invisible​ ​and​ ​passive​ ​mediums​ ​through which​ ​poetry​ ​and​ ​prose​ ​may​ ​pass​ ​from​ ​one​ ​language​ ​to​ ​the​ ​other.​ ​There’s​ ​an​ ​art​ ​to​ ​translation, the​ ​awareness​ ​and​ ​caution​ ​of​ ​literary​ ​devices​ ​and​ ​context,​ ​an​ ​active​ ​exploration​ ​of​ ​the​ ​author’s mind​ ​and​ ​the​ ​world​ ​around​ ​them,​ ​as​ ​well​ ​as​ ​their​ ​intentions.​ ​These​ ​are​ ​things​ ​that​ ​many Indonesian​ ​publishers​ ​do​ ​not​ ​seem​ ​to​ ​understand,​ ​or​ ​if​ ​they​ ​do,​ ​do​ ​not​ ​seem​ ​to​ ​care​ ​for.

Despite​ ​these​ ​reservations,​ ​I​ ​continue​ ​to​ ​read​ ​and​ ​explore​ ​Indonesian​ ​literature.​ ​I​ ​fell​ ​in love​ ​with​ ​Eka​ ​Kurniawan’s​ ​dark​ ​humor,​ ​his​ ​refreshingly​ ​blunt​ ​take​ ​on​ ​Indonesia’s​ ​past;​ ​a​ ​past that​ ​I​ ​would​ ​have​ ​never​ ​known​ ​or​ ​come​ ​to​ ​understand​ ​had​ ​his​ ​work,​ ​Beauty​ ​is​ ​a​ ​Wound​,​ ​not​ ​been translated​ ​into​ ​English​ ​with​ ​such​ ​thought​ ​and​ ​concern.​ ​My​ ​heart​ ​ached​ ​with​ ​Sapardi​ ​Djoko Damono’s​ ​simplicity,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​way​ ​that​ ​his​ ​poem,​ ​“I​ ​Want”,​ ​had​ ​the​ ​ability​ ​to​ ​convey​ ​in​ ​written words​ ​these​ ​emotions​ ​that​ ​I​ ​had​ ​found​ ​so​ ​familiar.

Through​ ​these​ ​translated​ ​works,​ ​I​ ​found​ ​myself​ ​rediscovering​ ​a​ ​nation​ ​and​ ​a​ ​place​ ​that​ ​I have​ ​called​ ​home​ ​for​ ​so​ ​long,​ ​but​ ​have​ ​never​ ​quite​ ​understood.​ ​While​ ​there​ ​hasn’t​ ​been​ ​nearly enough,​ ​there​ ​are​ ​some​ ​beautifully​ ​translated​ ​Indonesian​ ​works​ ​that​ ​translators​ ​have​ ​crafted​ ​with thought​ ​and​ ​care.​ ​I’d​ ​like​ ​to​ ​think​ ​that​ ​they​ ​are​ ​now​ ​being​ ​slowly​ ​passed​ ​along​ ​from​ ​country​ ​to country,​ ​from​ ​hand​ ​to​ ​hand.

It​ ​pains​ ​me​ ​to​ ​know​ ​that​ ​I​ ​have​ ​fallen​ ​in​ ​love​ ​with​ ​words​ ​without​ ​ever​ ​knowing​ ​what​ ​the writer​ ​had​ ​meant​ ​to​ ​say​ ​in​ ​their​ ​original​ ​tongue.​ ​But​ ​maybe​ ​that’s​ ​okay.​ ​Maybe​ ​this​ ​gap​ ​in knowledge​ ​and​ ​understanding​ ​is​ ​a​ ​price​ ​that​ ​we​ ​have​ ​to​ ​pay​ ​to​ ​be​ ​able​ ​to​ ​get​ ​a​ ​small​ ​taste​ ​of​ ​what life​ ​is​ ​like​ ​beyond​ ​what​ ​we​ ​already​ ​know.​ ​And​ ​perhaps​ ​that​ ​is​ ​how​ ​things​ ​are​ ​meant​ ​to​ ​be,​ ​as long​ ​as​ ​in​ ​our​ ​translations​ ​we​ ​keep​ ​trying​ ​our​ ​best​ ​to​ ​preserve​ ​meaning​ ​so​ ​that​ ​these​ ​messages and​ ​wisdom​ ​can​ ​be​ ​passed​ ​down​ ​to​ ​the​ ​next​ ​generation​ ​of​ ​thinkers​ ​and​ ​poets​ ​and​ ​lovers,​ ​and​ ​the next.

One​ ​day,​ ​I’ll​ ​be​ ​able​ ​to​ ​pick​ ​up​ ​a​ ​book​ ​in​ ​a​ ​bookstore​ ​somewhere​ ​in​ ​New​ ​York,​ ​or Shanghai,​ ​or​ ​Buenos​ ​Aires​ ​and​ ​read​ ​about​ ​how​ ​Indonesians​ ​lived.​ ​I’ll​ ​read​ ​about​ ​what Indonesians​ ​have​ ​cried​ ​about,​ ​what​ ​they​ ​have​ ​lost.​ ​How​ ​Indonesians​ ​wake​ ​up​ ​in​ ​the​ ​morning​ ​and make​ ​their​ ​coffee,​ ​and​ ​how​ ​the​ ​moon​ ​looks​ ​to​ ​them​ ​before​ ​they​ ​fall​ ​asleep.​ ​I​ ​will​ ​read​ ​about​ ​how things​ ​fell​ ​apart​ ​there,​ ​and​ ​how​ ​the​ ​people​ ​there​ ​have​ ​fallen​ ​in​ ​love.​ ​It​ ​may​ ​even​ ​remind​ ​me​ ​of emotions​ ​that​ ​I​ ​have​ ​felt,​ ​whether​ ​it​ ​be​ ​something​ ​that​ ​I​ ​vaguely​ ​remember​ ​feeling​ ​at​ ​some​ ​time 12

and​ ​some​ ​place,​ ​or​ ​something​ ​that​ ​comes​ ​to​ ​me​ ​with​ ​such​ ​an​ ​intensity​ ​that​ ​it​ ​washes​ ​over​ ​me​ ​and consumes​ ​me.

And​ ​one​ ​day,​ ​someone​ ​from​ ​a​ ​foreign​ ​country​ ​somewhere​ ​will​ ​come​ ​to​ ​discover​ ​these things,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​hope​ ​that​ ​they​ ​too​ ​will​ ​fall​ ​in​ ​love​ ​with​ ​Indonesia. *** Women By​ ​Beth​ ​Sattur Women Characterized​ ​by​ ​fragility,​ ​frailty,​ ​always something​ ​about​ ​us​ ​to​ ​suggest​ ​weakness.

in​ ​your​ ​class​ ​in​ ​college​ ​and​ ​roll​ ​your​ ​eyes and​ ​tell​ ​you​ ​that​ ​sexism​ ​doesn't​ ​exist anymore.

What​ ​we​ ​like;​ ​makeup,​ ​clothes,​ ​romance, frivolous​ ​things,​ ​something​ ​a​ ​woman​ ​who​ ​is an​ ​intellectual​ ​will​ ​never​ ​touch,​ ​and​ ​if​ ​a​ ​man does​ ​he​ ​is​ ​gay,​ ​or​ ​a​ ​top​ ​earner​ ​in​ ​the​ ​field.

When​ ​one,​ ​two,​ ​three​ ​of​ ​your​ ​friends,​ ​men and​ ​women​ ​both,​ ​even​ ​your​ ​own​ ​mother​ ​was sexually​ ​assaulted,​ ​and​ ​none​ ​of​ ​them​ ​have received​ ​justice,​ ​and​ ​in​ ​most​ ​cases​ ​they​ ​have not​ ​even​ ​tried.

A​ ​woman,​ ​who​ ​dares​ ​to​ ​like​ ​what​ ​a​ ​man does--​ ​ ​a​ ​video​ ​game,​ ​for​ ​example--​ ​has​ ​to hear​ ​death​ ​and​ ​rape​ ​threats​ ​if​ ​she​ ​turns​ ​on Xbox​ ​live,​ ​while​ ​boys​ ​complain​ ​they​ ​can never​ ​find​ ​a​ ​girl​ ​who​ ​loves​ ​video​ ​games.

Women,​ ​we​ ​are​ ​not​ ​frail,​ ​we​ ​are​ ​born screaming​ ​in​ ​blood,​ ​and​ ​our​ ​growth​ ​into womanhood​ ​is​ ​characterized​ ​by​ ​the​ ​flow​ ​of blood,​ ​every​ ​month​ ​until​ ​we​ ​are​ ​too​ ​old​ ​to create​ ​life​ ​from​ ​our​ ​bellies,​ ​our​ ​wide​ ​hips giving​ ​way​ ​to​ ​aging.

Women,​ ​every​ ​day​ ​is​ ​a​ ​battle,​ ​every​ ​move we​ ​make​ ​to​ ​avoid​ ​men:​ ​wear​ ​a​ ​different​ ​top, walk​ ​a​ ​different​ ​route.​ ​Say​ ​nothing​ ​when you're​ ​called​ ​a​ ​bitch,​ ​a​ ​whore,​ ​a​ ​slut,​ ​when men​ ​make​ ​vulgar​ ​propositions,​ ​when​ ​they follow​ ​you​ ​and​ ​yell,​ ​“You​ ​think​ ​you​ ​can​ ​just walk​ ​away​ ​from​ ​me​ ​girlie?”,​ ​when​ ​they​ ​sit

A​ ​woman,​ ​told​ ​by​ ​a​ ​friend​ ​of​ ​the​ ​family he’ll​ ​spank​ ​you​ ​if​ ​you​ ​get​ ​married​ ​early; then,​ ​when​ ​he​ ​is​ ​told​ ​it’s​ ​creepy,​ ​he​ ​becomes angry​ ​and​ ​insists​ ​that​ ​you’re​ ​offended​ ​for​ ​no reason.​ ​This​ ​is​ ​“welcome​ ​to​ ​the​ ​real​ ​world.”

Being​ ​a​ ​woman​ ​is​ ​having​ ​your​ ​best​ ​friend incessantly​ ​harassed​ ​at​ ​work​ ​by​ ​a​ ​coworker, and​ ​when​ ​she​ ​told​ ​someone​ ​and​ ​he​ ​was fired,​ ​she​ ​was​ ​too​ ​afraid​ ​to​ ​go​ ​to​ ​the​ ​back room,​ ​knowing​ ​he'd​ ​be​ ​sitting​ ​there,​ ​waiting.

Women,​ ​birthing​ ​every​ ​human​ ​being​ ​that has​ ​ever​ ​existed,​ ​only​ ​for​ ​our​ ​sons​ ​to​ ​crawl out​ ​of​ ​our​ ​wombs​ ​and​ ​beat​ ​us​ ​into submission.

Women,​ ​our​ ​number​ ​one​ ​threat​ ​is​ ​men,​ ​yet men​ ​look​ ​away​ ​as​ ​the​ ​problem​ ​continues​ ​to 13

exist​ ​in​ ​front​ ​of​ ​them;​ ​in​ ​their​ ​streets,​ ​in​ ​their homes,​ ​in​ ​themselves.

Women,​ ​earning​ ​less​ ​than​ ​a​ ​man​ ​in​ ​almost every​ ​profession,​ ​working​ ​twice​ ​as​ ​hard​ ​to be​ ​thought​ ​half​ ​as​ ​good.

Women,​ ​characterized​ ​by​ ​sweat:​ ​of​ ​physical labor,​ ​of​ ​natal​ ​labor,​ ​of​ ​exercise​ ​to​ ​be​ ​thin, yet​ ​curvy​ ​enough​ ​to​ ​ensure​ ​we​ ​are pleasurable.

Women,​ ​who​ ​contributed​ ​so​ ​much​ ​to​ ​human knowledge​ ​while​ ​being​ ​banned​ ​from education,​ ​and​ ​our​ ​contributions​ ​still​ ​being erased​ ​from​ ​most​ ​textbooks​ ​to​ ​this​ ​day.

Women,​ ​whose​ ​genitals​ ​are​ ​mutilated​ ​to keep​ ​them​ ​from​ ​experiencing​ ​pleasure​ ​in sex,​ ​lest​ ​we​ ​cheat​ ​on​ ​our​ ​husbands;​ ​baby girls​ ​who​ ​are​ ​killed​ ​for​ ​the​ ​burden​ ​of​ ​being​ ​a girl,​ ​or​ ​punished​ ​by​ ​being​ ​burdened​ ​with​ ​the weight​ ​of​ ​men’s​ ​burdens.

Women,​ ​whose​ ​president​ ​had​ ​double-digit sexual​ ​assault​ ​accusers​ ​and​ ​admitted​ ​on​ ​tape to​ ​groping​ ​women,​ ​who​ ​actively​ ​promised​ ​to defund​ ​women’s​ ​healthcare.

Women​ ​who​ ​are​ ​murdered​ ​by​ ​lovers​ ​or rejected​ ​suitors,​ ​in​ ​a​ ​“passion​ ​crime”​ ​as​ ​the media​ ​says,​ ​as​ ​the​ ​man​ ​is​ ​handed​ ​down​ ​a sentence​ ​of​ ​five​ ​years​ ​in​ ​jail​ ​by​ ​another​ ​man.

Women,​ ​who​ ​are​ ​told​ ​when​ ​we​ ​beat​ ​a​ ​boy​ ​at sports​ ​that​ ​he​ ​“let​ ​her​ ​win”​ ​when​ ​we​ ​are merely​ ​eleven.

Women,​ ​who​ ​cannot​ ​drive​ ​or​ ​travel​ ​without a​ ​man’s​ ​permission.

Women,​ ​listening​ ​to​ ​rape​ ​“jokes,”​ ​to​ ​men discuss​ ​how​ ​PC​ ​culture​ ​is​ ​ruining​ ​America, and​ ​how​ ​no​ ​one​ ​has​ ​a​ ​sense​ ​of​ ​humor anymore.

Women,​ ​who​ ​now​ ​have​ ​a​ ​9-5​ ​job​ ​but​ ​are still​ ​expected​ ​to​ ​do​ ​all​ ​the​ ​housework​ ​and raise​ ​the​ ​children.

Women​ ​who​ ​love​ ​other​ ​women,​ ​who​ ​fuck other​ ​women,​ ​are​ ​viewed​ ​as​ ​being​ ​an​ ​insult to​ ​men.

Women​ ​who​ ​are​ ​black,​ ​brown,​ ​Latina, Asian,​ ​but​ ​who​ ​are​ ​only​ ​showed​ ​in​ ​TV​ ​as irrationally​ ​angry,​ ​conservative​ ​nerds,​ ​sex kittens,​ ​or​ ​submissive​ ​nerds.

Women,​ ​who​ ​are​ ​alternately​ ​forced​ ​to​ ​cover our​ ​heads​ ​or​ ​remove​ ​that​ ​covering.

Women,​ ​who​ ​are​ ​kidnapped​ ​and​ ​sold​ ​to​ ​men for​ ​sex​ ​and​ ​physical​ ​labor​ ​every​ ​day,​ ​every country.

Women,​ ​who​ ​are​ ​abused​ ​in​ ​every​ ​way​ ​by men,​ ​denied​ ​opportunities​ ​by​ ​men,​ ​put​ ​down by​ ​men,​ ​invalidated​ ​by​ ​men,​ ​hurt​ ​by​ ​men.

Women​ ​who​ ​don't​ ​want​ ​feminism,​ ​who insist​ ​that​ ​we​ ​aren't​ ​“victims,”​ ​that​ ​their individual​ ​lives​ ​are​ ​just​ ​fine,​ ​thank​ ​you​ ​very much.​ ​Women,​ ​who​ ​attack​ ​other​ ​women​ ​for being​ ​whores​ ​and​ ​stay​ ​with​ ​their​ ​cheating husband,​ ​who​ ​say​ ​the​ ​other​ ​woman​ ​is​ ​a​ ​slut because​ ​of​ ​how​ ​she​ ​dresses,​ ​that​ ​this 14

individual​ ​woman​ ​sporting​ ​a​ ​low-cut​ ​top​ ​has caused​ ​the​ ​downfall​ ​of​ ​all​ ​womankind.

Women​ ​are​ ​not​ ​victims,​ ​but​ ​there​ ​is​ ​no shame​ ​in​ ​being​ ​one.​ ​We​ ​are​ ​not​ ​lesser​ ​to admit​ ​we​ ​have​ ​been​ ​oppressed.​ ​We​ ​have endured.​ ​We​ ​will​ ​endure,​ ​stronger.

To​ ​Younger​ ​Beth When​ ​your​ ​middle​ ​school​ ​friends​ ​leave,​ ​let them​ ​go.

When​ ​you​ ​think​ ​you​ ​have​ ​a​ ​crush​ ​on​ ​that girl,​ ​you​ ​do.​ ​And​ ​that’s​ ​okay.

When​ ​the​ ​teacher​ ​mocks​ ​you,​ ​stand​ ​up​ ​to her.​ ​She​ ​only​ ​did​ ​it​ ​because​ ​she​ ​knew​ ​a thirteen-year-old​ ​couldn't​ ​fight​ ​back.

When​ ​you​ ​want​ ​to​ ​wear​ ​that​ ​shirt,​ ​do​ ​it.

When​ ​your​ ​gym​ ​teacher​ ​says​ ​you​ ​can’t​ ​wear a​ ​tank​ ​top​ ​because​ ​boys​ ​will​ ​get​ ​“hot,”​ ​do​ ​it anyway.

When​ ​your​ ​first​ ​boyfriend​ ​hurts​ ​you,​ ​tell him​ ​he​ ​did.

When​ ​you​ ​have​ ​to​ ​change​ ​in​ ​gym​ ​class,​ ​hold your​ ​head​ ​up​ ​high.

When​ ​you​ ​have​ ​to​ ​attend​ ​gym​ ​class,​ ​don't give​ ​a​ ​shit​ ​about​ ​what​ ​happens.

When​ ​you​ ​fail​ ​your​ ​first,​ ​your​ ​third,​ ​your twentieth​ ​fencing​ ​tournament,​ ​let​ ​it​ ​hurt.

Then​ ​sign​ ​up​ ​for​ ​the​ ​next​ ​one.

When​ ​it’s​ ​your​ ​eighth-grade​ ​graduation, don't​ ​let​ ​your​ ​“friend”​ ​hold​ ​your​ ​honor​ ​cord.

She’s​ ​going​ ​to​ ​“accidentally”​ ​break​ ​it.

When​ ​anyone​ ​insults​ ​you,​ ​use​ ​all​ ​the​ ​venom and​ ​power​ ​your​ ​tongue​ ​has.​ ​Be​ ​angry.​ ​Be​ ​a bitch.

When​ ​you​ ​lost​ ​your​ ​popular​ ​friend​ ​group​ ​in high​ ​school,​ ​let​ ​them​ ​go.​ ​Don’t​ ​continue​ ​to sit​ ​at​ ​their​ ​lunch​ ​table​ ​every​ ​day​ ​for​ ​the​ ​next few​ ​years.

When​ ​you​ ​have​ ​to​ ​attend​ ​that​ ​rally​ ​about how​ ​you​ ​should​ ​never​ ​have​ ​an​ ​abortion (even​ ​in​ ​cases​ ​of​ ​rape​ ​or​ ​incest)​ ​stand​ ​up​ ​on your​ ​chair​ ​and​ ​yell​ ​at​ ​that​ ​woman.​ ​Detention is​ ​worth​ ​it​ ​if​ ​you​ ​saved​ ​a​ ​girl’s​ ​life.

When​ ​the​ ​administrator​ ​makes​ ​fun​ ​of​ ​your ripped​ ​jeans,​ ​tell​ ​her​ ​you​ ​couldn't​ ​afford regular​ ​ones​ ​‘cause​ ​your​ ​Mom​ ​was​ ​too​ ​busy paying​ ​the​ ​school​ ​tuition.

When​ ​the​ ​same​ ​administrator​ ​tells​ ​your Mom​ ​she​ ​should’ve​ ​ironed​ ​your​ ​robe​ ​at inductions​ ​for​ ​National​ ​Honor​ ​Society,​ ​tell her​ ​your​ ​Mom​ ​isn't​ ​a​ ​wind-up​ ​maid​ ​with​ ​a real​ ​working​ ​vagina.

When​ ​you​ ​hook​ ​up​ ​with​ ​that​ ​girl,​ ​don't​ ​be afraid​ ​of​ ​what​ ​will​ ​happen.​ ​Be​ ​proud​ ​of​ ​it.

When​ ​you​ ​don't​ ​get​ ​into​ ​the​ ​Ivies,​ ​life​ ​will go​ ​on.

15

When​ ​you​ ​get​ ​accepted​ ​to​ ​NYU​ ​but​ ​can’t afford​ ​it,​ ​just​ ​go.

When​ ​Trump​ ​wins​ ​the​ ​election,​ ​it’s​ ​okay​ ​to cry​ ​about​ ​it.​ ​Then​ ​give​ ​him​ ​hell.

When​ ​your​ ​Calculus​ ​teacher​ ​fails​ ​you​ ​for​ ​the last​ ​marking​ ​period​ ​of​ ​your​ ​senior​ ​year​ ​in high​ ​school​ ​even​ ​though​ ​your​ ​grandfather died​ ​and​ ​you​ ​had​ ​been​ ​wishing​ ​to​ ​join​ ​him for​ ​the​ ​better​ ​part​ ​of​ ​a​ ​year,​ ​don’t​ ​give​ ​a fuck.​ ​Seriously,​ ​no​ ​repercussions​ ​will​ ​come from​ ​this.

When​ ​you​ ​steal​ ​the​ ​honor​ ​stole​ ​at graduation,​ ​never​ ​give​ ​it​ ​back.

When​ ​you​ ​see​ ​a​ ​homeless​ ​person,​ ​give​ ​them a​ ​dollar,​ ​without​ ​expecting​ ​thanks​ ​in​ ​return.

When​ ​you​ ​wanna​ ​fuck​ ​him,​ ​do​ ​it,​ ​and​ ​fuck the​ ​consequences​ ​too.

When​ ​you​ ​get​ ​the​ ​B+,​ ​forgive​ ​yourself.

When​ ​four​ ​guys​ ​yell​ ​at​ ​you​ ​at​ ​the​ ​park​ ​for twenty​ ​minutes,​ ​telling​ ​you​ ​to​ ​“suck​ ​my dick,​ ​bitch,”​ ​and​ ​“she​ ​definitely​ ​hears​ ​us, what​ ​should​ ​we​ ​do​ ​next,”​ ​and​ ​you’re​ ​scared out​ ​of​ ​your​ ​mind,​ ​don't​ ​be.​ ​You’re something​ ​that​ ​they​ ​could​ ​never​ ​understand, never​ ​touch.

When​ ​your​ ​brother​ ​stabs​ ​your​ ​Mom​ ​over Thanksgiving​ ​break,​ ​it’s​ ​okay​ ​to​ ​go​ ​to​ ​the mall​ ​with​ ​your​ ​friend.​ ​You​ ​deserve​ ​a​ ​normal life.

When​ ​your​ ​friends​ ​inevitably​ ​read​ ​this poem,​ ​they’ll​ ​still​ ​love​ ​you.​ ​(Probably.)

When​ ​you've​ ​asked​ ​me,​ ​many​ ​times,​ ​to​ ​give you​ ​a​ ​hug​ ​and​ ​tell​ ​you​ ​things​ ​will​ ​be​ ​okay, know​ ​this:​ ​I​ ​can’t​ ​hug​ ​you.​ ​But​ ​things​ ​will be​ ​okay.

When​ ​you​ ​need​ ​to​ ​be​ ​right​ ​about​ ​everything, that’s​ ​okay.

When​ ​you​ ​want​ ​to​ ​die,​ ​don’t.

When​ ​men​ ​try​ ​to​ ​tell​ ​you​ ​what​ ​you​ ​know, tell​ ​them​ ​to​ ​go​ ​fuck​ ​themselves.

When​ ​someone,​ ​or​ ​many​ ​someones,​ ​call​ ​you a​ ​whore,​ ​be​ ​proud​ ​of​ ​it.

When​ ​that​ ​stranger​ ​says​ ​he​ ​wants​ ​to​ ​taste you,​ ​tell​ ​him​ ​the​ ​next​ ​thing​ ​he’ll​ ​be​ ​tasting​ ​is blood​ ​in​ ​his​ ​throat.

16

Prelude​ ​(therapy) By​ ​Christina​ ​Manubag

i’d​ ​never​ ​seen​ ​that​ ​before but

(almost​ ​forgot-​ ​walmart: cold​ ​medicine,​ ​tissues)

the​ ​day​ ​i​ ​turned​ ​twenty,​ ​my baby​ ​sister​ ​took​ ​a​ ​gun, pushed​ ​It​ ​to​ ​her​ ​temple, felt​ ​the​ ​chill​ ​of​ ​the​ ​metal, pulled the​ ​trigger​ ​and

(walmart:​ ​toilet​ ​paper, detergent,​ ​those​ ​cookies that​ ​becky​ ​likes.)

last​ ​week

fell she​ ​used​ ​to​ ​tell​ ​me​ ​stories how​ ​fairies​ ​and​ ​elves​ ​lived in​ ​the​ ​walls​ ​and​ ​that’s​ ​why mama​ ​and​ ​papa​ ​always tried​ ​to tear​ ​them​ ​down (i​ ​ate​ ​the​ ​last​ ​of​ ​the leftover​ ​rice​ ​in​ ​the​ ​fridge.) when​ ​i​ ​was​ ​two​ ​uncle​ ​kituk took​ ​a​ ​match​ ​and​ ​said “give​ ​me​ ​your​ ​hand” i​ ​screamed​ ​i’ll​ ​never​ ​forget the​ ​smell​ ​and​ ​the​ ​taste of​ ​salty​ ​fish​ ​tears (i’ll​ ​make​ ​that​ ​for​ ​dinner.) and​ ​i​ ​still​ ​have​ ​the​ ​pink lima​ ​bean​ ​on my​ ​palm​ ​to​ ​prove​ ​it i​ ​made​ ​my​ ​first​ ​american friend​ ​in​ ​the​ ​first​ ​grade his​ ​name​ ​was​ ​teddy​ ​and he​ ​had​ ​tiny​ ​dots​ ​all​ ​over his​ ​face

i​ ​don’t​ ​believe​ ​in​ ​facebook so we​ ​don’t​ ​talk​ ​anymore​ ​i heard​ ​he’s​ ​working​ ​as​ ​a lawyer​ ​i always​ ​saw​ ​him​ ​as​ ​a​ ​writer (the​ ​basement’s​ ​too fucking​ ​cold​ ​to​ ​sleep​ ​in.) eight​ ​years​ ​ago​ ​my​ ​oldest daughter​ ​took a​ ​gun​ ​and​ ​put​ ​it​ ​to​ ​her sweet​ ​forehead said​ ​life​ ​was​ ​too​ ​much,​ ​or that​ ​it​ ​wasn’t​ ​enough i​ ​don’t​ ​remember​ ​but then she​ ​heard​ ​the​ ​footsteps​ ​of her​ ​baby​ ​sister

my​ ​second​ ​oldest​ ​daughter got​ ​a​ ​tattoo​ ​of​ ​a​ ​sweet​ ​pea for​ ​(me? is​ ​that​ ​for​ ​me?​ ​because i​ ​call​ ​you​ ​“sweet​ ​pea”? she’s​ ​a​ ​real​ ​idiot sometimes. you​ ​know,​ ​doc,​ ​this​ ​isn’t fucking​ ​working out. i​ ​mean,​ ​you haven’t​ ​said​ ​a​ ​thing. fucking​ ​thief. i’m​ ​sorry,​ ​but you​ ​need​ ​a​ ​new​ ​fucking profession.)

across​ ​the​ ​hall and​ ​she wiped​ ​the​ ​salty​ ​tears​ ​off her​ ​face​ ​and put​ ​the​ ​gun​ ​back​ ​into​ ​the case​ ​back under​ ​my​ ​wife’s​ ​bed​ ​and shut​ ​the​ ​door 17

Interlude Raise​ ​your​ ​head​ ​when​ ​you​ ​place​ ​the​ ​green​ ​and​ ​orange​ ​pill​ ​on​ ​your​ ​tongue​ ​and​ ​swallow.​ ​I​ ​know what​ ​you​ ​believe,​ ​that​ ​the​ ​faces​ ​surrounding​ ​you​ ​are​ ​staring,​ ​peering​ ​into​ ​your​ ​mind.​ ​Do​ ​not mind​ ​them;​ ​they​ ​will​ ​soon​ ​become​ ​faceless​ ​entities.​ ​I​ ​know​ ​you​ ​are​ ​afraid​ ​of​ ​it,​ ​of​ ​white​ ​powder dusting​ ​your​ ​blood.​ ​Injected​ ​serotonin​ ​paints​ ​your​ ​cells​ ​white;​ ​you​ ​feel​ ​a​ ​change​ ​of​ ​mind.

Thoughts​ ​become​ ​beige​ ​and​ ​tears​ ​skin-colored​ ​nothings.​ ​Elation​ ​floods​ ​your​ ​veins​ ​and​ ​it​ ​is​ ​thick, sweet,​ ​white​ ​chocolate​ ​butter.​ ​Do​ ​not​ ​mind​ ​it.

When​ ​you​ ​were​ ​two,​ ​your​ ​father​ ​swore​ ​that​ ​he​ ​had​ ​never​ ​heard​ ​a​ ​louder​ ​cry.​ ​You​ ​cried cacophonic​ ​tones​ ​enough​ ​to​ ​lose​ ​two​ ​octaves​ ​of​ ​your​ ​voice.​ ​Eyelids​ ​red​ ​and​ ​thin​ ​and​ ​swollen, you​ ​cried​ ​that​ ​the​ ​slide​ ​was​ ​too​ ​tall,​ ​the​ ​children​ ​too​ ​mean,​ ​the​ ​sun​ ​too​ ​bright.​ ​You​ ​cried​ ​enough to​ ​numb​ ​your​ ​father’s​ ​ears​ ​and​ ​your​ ​mother’s​ ​heart​ ​when​ ​she​ ​refused​ ​to​ ​hold​ ​your​ ​small​ ​body.

When​ ​you​ ​walk​ ​home​ ​to​ ​the​ ​same​ ​boy​ ​for​ ​the​ ​nineteenth​ ​month​ ​in​ ​a​ ​row,​ ​make​ ​sure​ ​to​ ​take​ ​your time.​ ​Feel​ ​the​ ​sweat​ ​on​ ​his​ ​hand​ ​as​ ​it​ ​grazes​ ​your​ ​neck,​ ​and​ ​let​ ​the​ ​tears​ ​seep​ ​into​ ​your​ ​cheeks when​ ​he​ ​boards​ ​the​ ​plane.​ ​You​ ​feel​ ​smaller​ ​now,​ ​but​ ​please,​ ​do​ ​not​ ​believe​ ​your​ ​voice​ ​when​ ​it says​ ​he​ ​completed​ ​you.​ ​When​ ​you​ ​touch​ ​the​ ​thick​ ​skin​ ​around​ ​your​ ​stomach,​ ​thighs,​ ​breasts, cheeks,​ ​know​ ​that​ ​his​ ​scent​ ​will​ ​wash​ ​away​ ​within​ ​a​ ​month.

At​ ​eight​ ​years​ ​old,​ ​you​ ​felt​ ​a​ ​profound,​ ​inexplicable​ ​tingling​ ​in​ ​your​ ​chest​ ​for​ ​the​ ​first​ ​time.​ ​It​ ​did not​ ​hurt,​ ​yet​ ​you​ ​tried​ ​to​ ​maneuver​ ​your​ ​small​ ​hand​ ​under​ ​your​ ​ribcage​ ​and​ ​sever​ ​your​ ​gushing aorta​ ​from​ ​its​ ​cavity.​ ​Every​ ​now​ ​and​ ​again,​ ​the​ ​sensation​ ​returns.​ ​Sometimes​ ​for​ ​weeks, sometimes​ ​months.​ ​I​ ​know​ ​how​ ​real​ ​it​ ​feels,​ ​the​ ​burning,​ ​the​ ​churning​ ​in​ ​your​ ​chest.​ ​Tears adorning​ ​your​ ​face​ ​and​ ​a​ ​rusty​ ​razor​ ​in​ ​your​ ​left​ ​hand,​ ​do​ ​not​ ​be​ ​afraid​ ​to​ ​lie,​ ​to​ ​overcompensate for​ ​what​ ​you​ ​are​ ​about​ ​to​ ​do.​ ​Say​ ​it.​ ​Materialize​ ​the​ ​words.

“You​ ​is​ ​kind,​ ​You​ ​is​ ​smart,​ ​You​ ​is​ ​important.”​ ​Just​ ​like​ ​Minny​ ​Jackson​ ​would​ ​say.​ ​She​ ​was​ ​a colored​ ​woman,​ ​but​ ​not​ ​in​ ​the​ ​same​ ​way​ ​that​ ​you​ ​are.​ ​She​ ​felt​ ​colored​ ​the​ ​way​ ​that​ ​slaves​ ​feel the​ ​nerveless,​ ​smooth​ ​scars​ ​etched​ ​across​ ​their​ ​backs.​ ​You​ ​feel​ ​colored​ ​the​ ​way​ ​that​ ​a​ ​drag​ ​queen feels​ ​the​ ​tacky,​ ​beige​ ​foundation​ ​plastered​ ​onto​ ​her​ ​skin.​ ​You​ ​still​ ​don’t​ ​know​ ​how​ ​to​ ​understand what​ ​it​ ​is​ ​that​ ​you​ ​understand​ ​about​ ​the​ ​differences​ ​between​ ​your​ ​lives.​ ​Do​ ​not​ ​feel​ ​too​ ​guilty.

Learn​ ​to​ ​love​ ​your​ ​name,​ ​[mʌnúbʌg].​ ​The​ ​guttural​ ​[g],​ ​stress​ ​on​ ​the​ ​[u],​ ​voiced​ ​bilabial​ ​nasal​ ​of [m],​ ​voiced​ ​alveolar​ ​nasal​ ​of​ ​[n].​ ​Love​ ​the​ ​acrobatic​ ​tongue​ ​that​ ​extends​ ​to​ ​form​ ​the​ ​syllables,​ ​to perfect​ ​them.​ ​It​ ​was​ ​never​ ​one​ ​for​ ​the​ ​easy​ ​way.

18

Learn​ ​to​ ​love​ ​your​ ​name,​ ​[kɹɪstinʌ].​ ​The​ ​crisp,​ ​voiceless​ ​stops​ ​of​ ​[k]​ ​and​ ​[t].​ ​A​ ​moniker​ ​given​ ​to followers​ ​of​ ​a​ ​Messiah​ ​you​ ​have​ ​not​ ​acknowledged​ ​since​ ​the​ ​day​ ​you​ ​told​ ​Mommy​ ​you​ ​wanted to​ ​die​ ​and​ ​she​ ​told​ ​you​ ​to​ ​pray​ ​to​ ​Him.​ ​Love​ ​the​ ​roll​ ​of​ ​the​ ​tongue.

Remember​ ​that​ ​as​ ​words​ ​are​ ​not​ ​the​ ​sums​ ​of​ ​their​ ​parts,​ ​people​ ​are​ ​not​ ​the​ ​sums​ ​of​ ​their​ ​names, or​ ​their​ ​orange​ ​and​ ​green​ ​pills,​ ​or​ ​the​ ​hands​ ​that​ ​graze​ ​their​ ​bodies.​ ​What​ ​is​ ​beige​ ​to​ ​you,​ ​thick, sweet,​ ​white​ ​chocolate,​ ​is​ ​deep​ ​violet​ ​or​ ​potent​ ​ash​ ​to​ ​another.

To​ ​love​ ​someone​ ​is​ ​to​ ​suspend​ ​disbelief​ ​for​ ​the​ ​sake​ ​of​ ​what,​ ​I​ ​still​ ​do​ ​not​ ​know.

Outro​ ​(plan​ ​b​ ​one​ ​step) I​ ​wouldn’t​ ​even​ ​know​ ​how​ ​to​ ​tell​ ​her.

Tell​ ​her​ ​how​ ​beautiful Her​ ​long,​ ​heavy​ ​eyelashes​ ​are​ ​when​ ​she Cries,​ ​how Her​ ​thick,​ ​dark​ ​hair​ ​looks​ ​just​ ​like Her​ ​great-aunt’s​ ​in​ ​those​ ​old​ ​pictures How Her​ ​name​ ​has​ ​no​ ​meaning,​ ​but That’s​ ​ok!

She Creates​ ​the​ ​meaning​ ​every Time​ ​she​ ​smiles​ ​at​ ​a​ ​barking​ ​dog, Unafraid​ ​of​ ​everything​ ​she​ ​is So​ ​much​ ​smarter​ ​than​ ​her​ ​mother Her​ ​mother,​ ​who​ ​is​ ​so​ ​afraid To​ ​touch​ ​her To​ ​move To​ ​breathe When​ ​she’s​ ​near​ ​her​ ​because What​ ​if​ ​she​ ​breathes​ ​and​ ​the​ ​wind Knocks​ ​her​ ​baby​ ​down,​ ​crashing,​ ​crushing her Tiny​ ​body​ ​and​ ​it’s Over Or​ ​what​ ​if​ ​she​ ​moves​ ​and​ ​the​ ​earth​ ​crumbles Underneath​ ​both​ ​of​ ​their​ ​feet​ ​and

They​ ​fall​ ​but​ ​she’s​ ​still​ ​too​ ​small​ ​she Doesn’t​ ​know​ ​how​ ​to​ ​climb​ ​back​ ​up​ ​like Her​ ​mother​ ​and​ ​then​ ​it’s Over Or​ ​what​ ​if​ ​she​ ​touches​ ​her​ ​and​ ​she’s​ ​made of​ ​sand​ ​and​ ​she​ ​blows​ ​away​ ​in​ ​grains​ ​in​ ​the wind​ ​and​ ​it’s Over today​ ​she​ ​asked​ ​me​ ​why grandpa​ ​has​ ​a​ ​lima​ ​bean​ ​on​ ​his​ ​hand and​ ​i​ ​told​ ​her i​ ​told​ ​her​ ​that​ ​sometimes people​ ​are​ ​bad​ ​but​ ​that doesn’t​ ​mean​ ​they​ ​are​ ​bad​ ​people and​ ​she​ ​shriveled​ ​her​ ​tiny​ ​brow​ ​and​ ​asked, “then​ ​why​ ​do​ ​they​ ​do​ ​those​ ​things?” and​ ​I​ ​said,​ ​“because​ ​they​ ​are​ ​sad” and​ ​she​ ​shriveled​ ​her​ ​tiny​ ​brow​ ​and​ ​asked, “is​ ​that​ ​why​ ​you​ ​have​ ​a​ ​flower​ ​drawn​ ​on your​ ​back?​ ​because​ ​grandpa​ ​was​ ​sad?” and​ ​i​ ​said,​ ​“no”​ ​and​ ​moved​ ​on later i​ ​ran​ ​the​ ​water​ ​in​ ​the​ ​bath​ ​and filled​ ​it​ ​with​ ​that​ ​pink​ ​soap​ ​that​ ​smells like​ ​bubblegum,​ ​and​ ​she​ ​walked 19

inside​ ​the​ ​tub​ ​all​ ​by​ ​herself​ ​this​ ​time and​ ​I​ ​scrubbed​ ​the​ ​dirt out of​ ​her​ ​dark,​ ​thick​ ​hair​ ​while​ ​she​ ​played with​ ​the​ ​little​ ​squeaky​ ​duck i​ ​rolled​ ​my​ ​sleeves​ ​up​ ​out​ ​of​ ​the​ ​water​ ​and then she​ ​asked​ ​me, “what​ ​are​ ​those​ ​lines​ ​on​ ​your​ ​arms, mommy? why​ ​did​ ​you​ ​hurt​ ​yourself,​ ​mommy?

why​ ​are​ ​you​ ​crying,​ ​mommy?” her​ ​long,​ ​dark​ ​eyelashes​ ​under​ ​the​ ​water and​ ​her​ ​thick,​ ​soapy​ ​hair and​ ​I​ ​stretched​ ​my​ ​arms​ ​out​ ​without​ ​a single​ ​thought​ ​more squeezed​ ​her​ ​small,​ ​chubby​ ​body​ ​until the​ ​veins​ ​in​ ​my​ ​arms​ ​became​ ​a​ ​bright Blue And​ ​I​ ​looked​ ​down At​ ​an​ ​empty​ ​embrace And​ ​it​ ​was​ ​over

20

Imagine By​ ​Rachel​ ​A.G.​ ​Gilman What do you do when there’s a boy you’d like to screw? What do you do when he is standing dangerously close to your bed? What do you do as he looks at the bulletin board on your wall, the one hanging above the poster from a pub bathroom in London that reads “WOMEN’S BODIES ARE NOT FOR SALE?” What do you do when he leans in and squints at the pictures pinned to it-- of bands, of your high school friends, of you and your mother? What do you do when you catch yourself noticing the way his pants hug his ass before he bends back up?

What do you do when he props himself against the wall with one foot balanced on it?

What do you with his “too cool for school” expression, his pouty lips, those big, sad eyes, and his color-confused hair that sprouts upward? What do you do when he says, “nice place?” What do you do as every word in your vocabulary disappears and you feel those two shots of vodka pull​ ​their​ ​way​ ​out​ ​from​ ​the​ ​orange​ ​juice,​ ​fogging​ ​up​ ​your​ ​brain?

What do you do when you start thinking about stripping him of his clothes, layer by layer-- his Chicago Cubs baseball cap; his heavy, denim coat; his gray, Champion sweatshirt with the drawstring pulled out; his dark blue button down; his t-shirt from high school summer band camp; his unevenly roll-hemmed khaki chinos; his black checkered socks that slouch at the ankles; and his Samba sneakers, how you want to pull off of him and leave them on your rag rug with​ ​everything,​ ​everything​ ​else?

What​ ​do​ ​you​ ​do​ ​now​ ​that​ ​you​ ​have​ ​him​ ​down​ ​to​ ​his​ ​blue,​ ​plaid​ ​Hanes​ ​boxer​ ​shorts?

What do you do when you want him to undress you? What do you do when you have him start by removing each of the silver rings from your fingers? What do you do when he is kissing the bones in your knuckles and dragging his tongue across the grooves in your skin? What do you do when his tongue is on your neck, tracing wet lines from mole to mole as he makes his way to your collarbone? What do you do when you don’t even care about the possibility of bruises​ ​he​ ​could​ ​leave​ ​in​ ​his​ ​traces?

What do you do when you are then down to your skivvies, the nice ones you have on tonight,​ ​just​ ​in​ ​case?

What do you do when you imagine the two of you embracing, your hands making their way from the back of his hair down to his shoulder blades where your just-grown-out fingernails make the lightest of impressions in his pale skin? What do you do when that action elicits from him a throaty groan? What do you do when that makes you giggle but also turns you on? What do you do when your mouth starts to play connect the dots with his own beauty marks, those on his chin, on his cheeks, and right behind his ears? What do you do when your lips start to swell and you can’t catch your breath? What do you do when maybe that’s okay, when breathlessness feels​ ​better​ ​than​ ​breathing​ ​ever​ ​has?

What​ ​do​ ​you​ ​do​ ​when​ ​you​ ​want​ ​more?

21

What do you do when you think about taking him into your bed, under the covers, then pulling the box of condoms from your nightstand drawer? What do you do when it’s happening, when everyone else has gone, and he’s finally inside of you-- not just your head, but your body?

What do you do as his name tickles its way onto your mouth, released in a moan as your back arches​ ​and​ ​you​ ​two​ ​pull​ ​closer​ ​together?

What do you do when your wide eyes meet his brooding ones across your coffee table for a moment too long? What do you do when you think about all of this, the possibility of it, as you watch him bitterly lose a round of drunken Jenga and realize you’re still daydreaming? What do you do when you realize all of this stuff can only live in your head? What do you do when you know it’s just lust and you hope it’ll pass, but your only experience is with love so you really aren’t​ ​sure?​ ​What​ ​do​ ​you​ ​do​ ​as​ ​he​ ​reminds​ ​you​ ​it’s​ ​your​ ​turn​ ​to​ ​make​ ​a​ ​move? *** I​ ​wanted​ ​things​ ​that​ ​weren’t​ ​mine​ ​(Jason​ ​David​ ​Cayne) By​ ​Gabriella​ ​Mayer Just​ ​as​ ​I​ ​say A​ ​memory​ ​of​ ​9/11​ ​doesn’t​ ​exist​ ​in​ ​my​ ​mind Somber​ ​wrinkled​ ​eyes​ ​come​ ​my​ ​way Only​ ​to​ ​squint:​ ​“were​ ​you Not​ ​in​ ​school​ ​that​ ​day?​ ​you​ ​were​ ​old​ ​enough to​ ​remember!”

Daughter​ ​of​ ​Jason​ ​by​ ​the​ ​TV Apple​ ​barrette​ ​pulling​ ​back​ ​hair​ ​as​ ​a Videotape​ ​plays​ ​where​ ​she​ ​and​ ​Jason​ ​soar In​ ​the​ ​air,​ ​tipping​ ​arms​ ​and​ ​legs

Down​ ​to​ ​the​ ​ground​ ​with​ ​the​ ​invisible​ ​ledge and​ ​the​ ​teacher Calls​ ​her​ ​name​ ​in​ ​class A​ ​student​ ​declares​ ​she’s​ ​out​ ​that​ ​day, a​ ​glance​ ​to​ ​the​ ​right​ ​is​ ​her​ ​empty​ ​desk Yellow​ ​walls​ ​showcase​ ​the​ ​white-starred crowd’s​ ​annual​ ​meeting, Needless​ ​to​ ​say,​ ​I​ ​stare​ ​through​ ​the​ ​black, blue​ ​and​ ​red to​ ​her​ ​terracotta​ ​face Even​ ​if​ ​I​ ​never​ ​knew​ ​him​ ​at​ ​all.

when​ ​the​ ​broken​ ​glass​ ​glitters​ ​in​ ​daylight On​ ​12/14/2009,​ ​the​ ​Westboro​ ​Baptist​ ​Church​ ​picketed​ ​outside​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Jewish​ ​Federation​ ​of​ ​South Palm​ ​Beach​ ​County​ ​on​ ​US​ ​441-South.​ ​Within​ ​its​ ​campus​ ​were​ ​two​ ​K-12​ ​schools. don’t​ ​expect​ ​someone​ ​to​ ​not​ ​stare. the​ ​road’s​ ​too​ ​wide,​ ​let​ ​the​ ​gates​ ​hide something​ ​else,​ ​stark​ ​sharpie​ ​shards

on​ ​white​ ​hearts​ ​held​ ​by​ ​white​ ​knights. honeychild,​ ​you​ ​better​ ​look​ ​away. your​ ​teachers​ ​warned​ ​they​ ​have​ ​too​ ​much 22

until​ ​they​ ​leave​ ​the​ ​premises stop​ ​threatening​ ​bombs​ ​on​ ​children.

to​ ​say​ ​on​ ​monday​ ​you​ ​learned on​ ​friday.​ ​don’t​ ​think​ ​that

if​ ​the​ ​church​ ​covered​ ​in​ ​ruined​ ​hindu​ ​marks calls​ ​me​ ​to​ ​prayer,​ ​let​ ​me​ ​hear

of​ ​rallies​ ​you​ ​could​ ​always​ ​predict the​ ​new​ ​gestapo​ ​waving​ ​torches

that​ ​holy​ ​screech​ ​&​ ​deny his​ ​forgiveness.​ ​honeychild,​ ​come

to​ ​watch​ ​the​ ​world​ ​cringe.​ ​honeychild, shout​ ​in​ ​the​ ​megaphone​ ​if​ ​it​ ​means​ ​you could​ ​have​ ​one​ ​night​ ​ignoring​ ​“---​ ​will​ ​not replace​ ​us.”​ ​this​ ​isn’t​ ​about​ ​doctrine

&​ ​sing.​ ​there’s​ ​nothing​ ​to​ ​be​ ​afraid​ ​of until​ ​you​ ​forget​ ​the​ ​crawling​ ​worms,​ ​until your​ ​song

but​ ​about​ ​misdirected​ ​faith,​ ​about​ ​obsession over​ ​myth.​ ​if​ ​the​ ​church​ ​cannot​ ​outcry

is​ ​my​ ​song​ ​&​ ​your​ ​education is​ ​my​ ​education​ ​&​ ​your​ ​hope

the​ ​wrong​ ​side,​ ​leave​ ​me​ ​to​ ​blink

is​ ​my​ ​hope​ ​&​ ​us​ ​&​ ​us ***

Καθρέφτης By​ ​Anastasia​ ​Damaskou Τον​ ​βλέπεις​ ​στο​ ​δρόμο​ ​τυλιγμένο με​ ​κουρελιασμένα​ ​ρούχα. Ένα​ ​παγωμένο​ ​σώμα​ ​παλεύει​ ​για​ ​ζεστασιά. Το​ ​βλέμμα​ ​του​ ​απόμακρο. Κοιτάς​ ​δίπλα​ ​του· ένας​ ​ανδρας​ ​κατεβάζει​ ​σα​ ​νερό κάτι​ ​που​ ​δεν​ ​είναι​ ​νερό. Υγρό​ ​που​ ​ ​–ίσωςτον​ ​βοηθά​ ​να ξεχάσει​ ​ή​ ​να​ ​θυμηθεί πόνο​ ​ή​ ​ευτυχία. Άνθρωποι -σαν​ ​εσένα​ ​και​ ​εμέναχαμένοι,​ ​δίχως​ ​προορισμό

-όλοι​ ​μαςΣώματα​ ​περιπλανώμενα στους​ ​δρόμους​ ​–αυτής,​ ​μίαςπόλης. Ελάχιστοι​ ​θα​ ​σταματήσουν να​ ​κοιτάξουν,​ ​να​ ​μιλήσουν. Αλλά​ ​ξέρουν​ ​τι​ ​χρειάζεται. Άσχημο​ ​χαστούκι​ ​η​ ​ζωή μοναξιά,​ ​κρύο κι​ ​όμως​ ​πάλη. Τους​ ​βαφτίζουμε​ ​αρρώστους, περισσεύουν. Δε​ ​θα​ ​σε​ ​πειράξω,​ ​μου​ ​λέει.

23

Δεν​ ​ξέρω​ ​γιατί​ ​σου​ ​μιλάω αυτή​ ​τη​ ​στιγμή. Ίσως​ ​το​ ​ήθελε​ ​ο​ ​θεός. Ο​ ​ίδιος​ ​σύμπτωμα Σύμβολο μιας​ ​ευρύτερης​ ​αρρώστιας, της​ ​δικής​ ​μας.

Mirror You​ ​see​ ​him​ ​on​ ​the​ ​street,​ ​wrapped​ ​up in​ ​ragged​ ​clothes.

A​ ​frozen​ ​body​ ​fighting​ ​for​ ​warmth.

His​ ​gaze​ ​distant.

loneliness,​ ​cold nevertheless​ ​struggle.

We​ ​baptize​ ​them​ ​sick, redundant.

I​ ​won’t​ ​hurt​ ​you,​ ​he​ ​says.

I​ ​don’t​ ​know​ ​why​ ​I’m​ ​talking​ ​to​ ​you at​ ​this​ ​moment.

Maybe​ ​god​ ​wanted​ ​it.

Himself​ ​a​ ​symptom Symbol of​ ​a​ ​broader​ ​disease, our​ ​own.

You​ ​look​ ​beside​ ​him; a​ ​man​ ​downs​ ​like​ ​water something​ ​that’s​ ​not​ ​water.

Liquid​ ​that​ ​ ​–maybe– helps​ ​him forget​ ​or​ ​remember pain​ ​or​ ​happiness.

Humans -like​ ​you​ ​and​ ​melost,​ ​without​ ​destination -all​ ​of​ ​usRoaming​ ​bodies on​ ​the​ ​streets​ ​of​ ​–this,​ ​acity.

Scant​ ​people​ ​will​ ​stop to​ ​look,​ ​to​ ​talk.

Yet​ ​they​ ​know​ ​what​ ​he​ ​needs.

Ugly​ ​slap​ ​of​ ​life 24

A​ ​Museum​ ​of​ ​Clouds By​ ​Jackie​ ​Yang Cumulus​ ​collecting on​ ​today’s​ ​drifting​ ​dawn, charcoal​ ​clumps hide​ ​a​ ​burning​ ​orange​ ​sun.

Sailing​ ​stratus on​ ​a​ ​Mediterranean​ ​sky, as​ ​breeze-blown​ ​brushstrokes sweep​ ​overhead.

Citrus​ ​cirrus, champagne-shaded​ ​strokes, melting​ ​to​ ​mauve in​ ​the​ ​warm​ ​summer​ ​night.

Now,​ ​now,​ ​don’t​ ​fret,​ ​young​ ​sleeper, don’t​ ​twist​ ​away​ ​in​ ​fright.

What​ ​harm​ ​is​ ​there​ ​in​ ​paying​ ​this to​ ​make​ ​your​ ​dull​ ​life​ ​bright?

I’ll​ ​pluck​ ​away​ ​a​ ​tiny​ ​fragment, snip​ ​away​ ​the​ ​smallest​ ​thread so​ ​you​ ​can​ ​have​ ​your​ ​merriment, no​ ​worries,​ ​it’s​ ​fine,​ ​go​ ​ahead.

His​ ​kind​ ​eyes​ ​sparkle​ ​winningly, his​ ​teeth​ ​gleam,​ ​his​ ​smile​ ​lingers.

He​ ​dangles​ ​a​ ​dream​ ​before​ ​your​ ​eyes, twists​ ​a​ ​promise​ ​between​ ​his​ ​fingers.

Satisfaction​ ​for​ ​the​ ​Soul

So​ ​you​ ​grasp​ ​the​ ​fragile​ ​neck​ ​of​ ​hope, you​ ​breathe​ ​in​ ​the​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​freedom.

You​ ​shake​ ​his​ ​hand​ ​and​ ​then​ ​succumb to​ ​euphoric,​ ​addictive​ ​Eden.

They​ ​call​ ​him​ ​the​ ​dream​ ​dealer, they​ ​say​ ​you​ ​find​ ​him​ ​in​ ​your​ ​sleep.

He​ ​wheels​ ​his​ ​wares​ ​through​ ​worried​ ​minds to​ ​relieve​ ​them​ ​when​ ​they​ ​weep.

They​ ​all​ ​seek​ ​out​ ​the​ ​dream​ ​dealer who​ ​in​ ​return,​ ​asks​ ​a​ ​simple​ ​toll: contentment​ ​for​ ​a​ ​slice​ ​of​ ​spirit, satisfaction​ ​for​ ​the​ ​soul.

A​ ​cure​ ​for​ ​the​ ​weary​ ​elder, a​ ​hand​ ​for​ ​the​ ​downcast​ ​youth, a​ ​glimpse​ ​of​ ​golden​ ​paradise, an​ ​escape​ ​from​ ​the​ ​blackened​ ​truth.

St.​ ​Simon’s​ ​Island,​ ​Georgia,​ ​April​ ​14th

Come​ ​see​ ​my​ ​stock,​ ​my​ ​bottled​ ​bliss, come​ ​taste​ ​a​ ​glass​ ​of​ ​glee.

He​ ​swirls​ ​a​ ​daydream​ ​in​ ​a​ ​jar, uncorks​ ​a​ ​flask​ ​of​ ​ecstasy.

Here​ ​have​ ​I​ ​these​ ​dreams​ ​for​ ​sale, happiness—at​ ​an​ ​easy​ ​price.

The​ ​cost​ ​is​ ​but​ ​a​ ​sliver​ ​of​ ​self, a​ ​bit​ ​of​ ​essence,​ ​cut​ ​clean​ ​and​ ​nice.

The​ ​osprey​ ​dove,​ ​a​ ​speared​ ​pendulum, curving​ ​in​ ​a​ ​wide​ ​arc​ ​from​ ​the​ ​sky,​ ​to​ ​the lake, and​ ​back​ ​out​ ​again,​ ​above​ ​the​ ​boathouse, holding​ ​a​ ​wriggling,​ ​silver​ ​fish​ ​in​ ​its​ ​talons.

And​ ​my​ ​girlfriend’s​ ​dad,​ ​a​ ​sun-baked, metal-wristwatched,​ ​khaki-shorted middle-aged​ ​man​ ​with​ ​Irish​ ​blood and​ ​a​ ​thin​ ​beard​ ​and​ ​an​ ​early​ ​retirement (who​ ​did​ ​not​ ​know​ ​about​ ​us​) gave​ ​a​ ​whoop​ ​as​ ​it​ ​took​ ​off 25

across​ ​the​ ​afternoon​ ​sun.

and​ ​that​ ​unlucky,​ ​squirming​ ​fish​ ​to​ ​serve​ ​its dinner.

There​ ​is​ ​so​ ​much​ ​life​ ​on​ ​this​ ​lake, he​ ​told​ ​us,​ ​birds​ ​from​ ​everywhere pour​ ​into​ ​this​ ​aviary​ ​for​ ​a​ ​better​ ​shot​ ​at​ ​life.

Later​ ​that​ ​evening,​ ​I​ ​encountered​ ​the​ ​first person​ ​of​ ​color​ ​that​ ​I​ ​had​ ​seen​ ​in​ ​Georgia since​ ​crossing​ ​the​ ​bridge​ ​into​ ​Glynn​ ​County.

He​ ​was​ ​a​ ​nameless​ ​man, part​ ​of​ ​an​ ​invisible​ ​team​ ​of​ ​six that​ ​hung​ ​along​ ​the​ ​side​ ​of​ ​a​ ​highway to​ ​paint​ ​the​ ​railings​ ​of​ ​a​ ​metal,​ ​olive​ ​bridge.

I​ ​had​ ​been​ ​keeping​ ​an​ ​eye​ ​out for​ ​company,​ ​for​ ​anybody​ ​with​ ​skin not​ ​sour​ ​cream​ ​or​ ​its​ ​tanned​ ​variants.

And​ ​it​ ​turns​ ​out​ ​it​ ​was​ ​there,​ ​in​ ​the landscapers, construction​ ​workers,​ ​gold​ ​caddies​ ​and waiters and​ ​bus​ ​boys​ ​and​ ​select​ ​members​ ​of​ ​the hotel​ ​staff and​ ​sweaty​ ​sushi-chefs​ ​in​ ​one​ ​tiny​ ​restaurant where​ ​they​ ​slathered​ ​mayonnaise​ ​over​ ​fake crab​ ​rolls.

A​ ​cynical​ ​piece​ ​of​ ​me​ ​said,​ ​here​ ​is​ ​the​ ​better shot, waiting​ ​on​ ​all​ ​the​ ​same​ ​polo-wearing, sunscreen-covered,​ ​Mercedes-driving​ ​rich folk that​ ​moved​ ​through​ ​the​ ​Spanish​ ​oaks​ ​like pale​ ​ghosts.

I​ ​had​ ​to​ ​think​ ​of​ ​that​ ​bird​ ​of​ ​prey, diving​ ​into​ ​a​ ​lake​ ​to​ ​search​ ​for​ ​its​ ​next​ ​meal, 26

Scenes​ ​of​ ​Instruction​ ​and​ ​Contradiction​ ​in​ ​Henry​ ​James’​ ​“The​ ​Jolly​ ​Corner” By​ ​John​ ​Lincoln Henry​ ​James’​ ​short​ ​story​ ​“The​ ​Jolly​ ​Corner,”​ ​tells​ ​the​ ​story​ ​of​ ​an​ ​American​ ​expatriate named​ ​Spencer​ ​Brydon,​ ​who​ ​has​ ​returned​ ​to​ ​his​ ​home​ ​city​ ​of​ ​New​ ​York​ ​after​ ​a​ ​thirty-three​ ​year absence​ ​spent​ ​in​ ​Europe.​ ​The​ ​story​ ​details​ ​Brydon’s​ ​reintroduction​ ​to​ ​the​ ​city,​ ​which​ ​in​ ​his absence​ ​has​ ​been​ ​much​ ​transformed​ ​by​ ​the​ ​processes​ ​of​ ​modernization.​ ​Brydon’s​ ​is​ ​essentially​ ​a reactive​ ​response,​ ​and​ ​he​ ​finds​ ​most​ ​of​ ​the​ ​changes​ ​disquieting.​ ​However,​ ​he​ ​also​ ​finds​ ​in himself​ ​a​ ​surprising​ ​aptitude​ ​for​ ​business,​ ​which​ ​comes​ ​to​ ​haunt​ ​him​ ​in​ ​the​ ​form​ ​of​ ​a​ ​specter​ ​of his​ ​“alter​ ​ego”:​ ​an​ ​American​ ​industrialist.​ ​In​ ​its​ ​exploration​ ​of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​readjustment​ ​to​ ​the American​ ​city,​ ​largely​ ​depicted​ ​through​ ​his​ ​relationship​ ​with​ ​his​ ​childhood​ ​friend​ ​Alice Staverton,​ ​the​ ​story​ ​brings​ ​to​ ​light​ ​physical​ ​and​ ​social​ ​changes​ ​brought​ ​about​ ​in​ ​the​ ​American city​ ​during​ ​the​ ​turn​ ​of​ ​the​ ​20th​ ​century.​ ​The​ ​story​ ​further​ ​explores​ ​transformations​ ​in​ ​American values,​ ​and​ ​specifically​ ​exposes​ ​certain​ ​contradictions​ ​and​ ​hypocrisies​ ​existent​ ​within​ ​the​ ​values of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​own​ ​social​ ​class.

Brydon​ ​has​ ​returned​ ​to​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States​ ​primarily​ ​to​ ​visit​ ​his​ ​properties,​ ​and​ ​importantly,​ ​to oversee​ ​the​ ​renovation​ ​of​ ​a​ ​building​ ​he​ ​owns.​ ​As​ ​Brydon​ ​becomes​ ​acquainted​ ​with​ ​the​ ​processes​ ​of renovation​ ​and​ ​construction,​ ​a​ ​personal​ ​conflict​ ​begins​ ​to​ ​emerge​ ​at​ ​this​ ​site​ ​of​ ​instruction​ ​(it​ ​is​ ​both a​ ​construction​ ​site​ ​and​ ​an​ ​instruction​ ​site, so​ ​to​ ​speak).​ ​The​ ​narrator​ ​describes​ ​the​ ​reconstruction​ ​of one​ ​of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​houses,​ ​and​ ​says​ ​of​ ​Brydon,​ ​“now​ ​that​ ​it​ ​was​ ​going​ ​forward,​ ​it​ ​had​ ​been​ ​not​ ​the least​ ​of​ ​his​ ​astonishments​ ​to​ ​find​ ​himself​ ​able,​ ​on​ ​the​ ​spot​ ​and​ ​though​ ​without​ ​a​ ​previous​ ​ounce​ ​of such​ ​experience​ ​to​ ​participate​ ​with​ ​a​ ​certain​ ​intelligence,​ ​almost​ ​with​ ​a​ ​certain​ ​authority”​ ​(75).​ ​This aptitude​ ​for​ ​business​ ​deeply​ ​surprises​ ​Brydon,​ ​as​ ​“he​ ​had​ ​lived​ ​his​ ​life​ ​with​ ​his​ ​back​ ​so​ ​turned​ ​to such​ ​concerns​ ​and​ ​his​ ​face​ ​addressed​ ​to​ ​those​ ​of​ ​so​ ​different​ ​an​ ​order​ ​that​ ​he​ ​scarce​ ​knew​ ​what​ ​to make​ ​of​ ​this​ ​lively​ ​stir”​ ​(75).​ ​Although​ ​Brydon​ ​finds​ ​that​ ​he​ ​has​ ​a​ ​“capacity​ ​for​ ​business,”​ ​this results​ ​in​ ​an​ ​internal​ ​conflict​ ​for​ ​him;​ ​such​ ​values​ ​run​ ​contrary​ ​to​ ​those​ ​of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​social​ ​order, they​ ​are​ ​seen​ ​as​ ​“vulgar​ ​and​ ​sordid”​ ​(75).​ ​The​ ​apparently​ ​‘disinterested'​ ​values​ ​of​ ​an​ ​older,​ ​rentier class​ ​from​ ​which​ ​Brydon​ ​comes​ ​(whose​ ​values​ ​are​ ​also​ ​related​ ​to​ ​those​ ​of​ ​an​ ​older​ ​"Europe"),​ ​are thrown​ ​into​ ​conflict​ ​with​ ​newer,​ ​‘interested'​ ​values​ ​of​ ​American​ ​industry​ ​in​ ​the​ ​20th​ ​century.

This​ ​conflict​ ​is​ ​explored​ ​in​ ​a​ ​scene​ ​in​ ​which​ ​Brydon​ ​angrily​ ​laments,​ ​and​ ​then​ ​rejects​ ​a supposed​ ​alternative​ ​life​ ​he​ ​could​ ​of​ ​lived​ ​should​ ​he​ ​have​ ​stayed​ ​in​ ​America.​ ​Brydon​ ​laughs​ ​at how​ ​different​ ​things​ ​could​ ​have​ ​been,​ ​and​ ​how​ ​different​ ​he​ ​himself​ ​would​ ​have​ ​been​ ​had​ ​he stayed,​ ​before​ ​scoffing​ ​at​ ​his​ ​own​ ​irrational​ ​refusal​ ​to​ ​“agree​ ​to​ ​a​ ​deal”​ ​with​ ​his​ ​other​ ​property​ ​on the​ ​jolly​ ​corner,​ ​a​ ​deal​ ​which​ ​would​ ​make​ ​him​ ​a​ ​significant​ ​sum​ ​of​ ​money.​ ​Brydon​ ​refers​ ​to​ ​his refusal​ ​as​ ​a​ ​“total​ ​absence​ ​of​ ​a​ ​reason”​ ​and​ ​explains​ ​“there​ ​are​ ​no​ ​reasons​ ​here​ ​but​ ​of​ ​dollars,” further​ ​exclaiming​ ​to​ ​Alice​ ​Staverton​ ​“let​ ​us​ ​therefore​ ​have​ ​none​ ​whatever​ ​-​ ​not​ ​the​ ​ghost​ ​of one”​ ​(79).​ ​This​ ​absolute​ ​rejection​ ​of​ ​such​ ​“reason"​ ​foreshadows​ ​later​ ​events​ ​in​ ​the​ ​story:​ ​Brydon comes​ ​to​ ​be​ ​haunted​ ​by​ ​just​ ​such​ ​a​ ​ghost.

This​ ​conflict​ ​is​ ​further​ ​brought​ ​to​ ​the​ ​fore​ ​in​ ​a​ ​scene​ ​in​ ​which​ ​Brydon​ ​shows​ ​‘Miss’ 27

Staverton​ ​around​ ​his​ ​old​ ​property,​ ​which​ ​sits​ ​on​ ​the​ ​“jolly”​ ​corner​ ​(“jolly”​ ​ironically​ ​evoking​ ​the language​ ​used​ ​in​ ​the​ ​social​ ​environ​ ​from​ ​which​ ​Brydon​ ​hails)​ ​(77).​ ​As​ ​Miss​ ​Staverton​ ​explores the​ ​old​ ​grandeur​ ​of​ ​the​ ​house,​ ​she​ ​exclaims​ ​“I​ ​hope​ ​you​ ​don’t​ ​mean​ ​they​ ​want​ ​you​ ​to​ ​pull​ ​this​ ​to pieces!”​ ​(78).​ ​Brydon​ ​angrily​ ​responds​ ​that​ ​this​ ​is​ ​what​ ​“they”​ ​were​ ​“at”​ ​him​ ​for​ ​daily,​ ​and​ ​that “there​ ​were​ ​values​ ​other​ ​than​ ​the​ ​beastly​ ​rent-values”​ ​(78).​ ​In​ ​response,​ ​however,​ ​Miss​ ​Staverton quips​ ​“In​ ​short​ ​you’re​ ​to​ ​make​ ​so​ ​good​ ​a​ ​thing​ ​of​ ​your​ ​sky-scraper​ ​that,​ ​living​ ​in​ ​luxury​ ​on​ ​those ill-gotten​ ​gains,​ ​you​ ​can​ ​afford​ ​for​ ​a​ ​while​ ​to​ ​be​ ​sentimental​ ​here!”​ ​(78).​ ​Miss​ ​Staverton​ ​thus brings​ ​to​ ​light​ ​the​ ​contradiction​ ​of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​station,​ ​and​ ​of​ ​his​ ​professed​ ​values.​ ​Although​ ​he makes​ ​claim​ ​to​ ​values​ ​other​ ​than​ ​“the​ ​beastly​ ​rent-values,”​ ​he​ ​is​ ​still​ ​clearly​ ​bound​ ​to​ ​such principles;​ ​the​ ​logic​ ​of​ ​the​ ​market​ ​necessitates​ ​it.​ ​Brydon​ ​can​ ​only​ ​“be​ ​sentimental”​ ​temporarily, and​ ​further,​ ​he​ ​can​ ​only​ ​hold​ ​off​ ​on​ ​renovating​ ​the​ ​“jolly”​ ​corner​ ​because​ ​he​ ​has​ ​sacrificed​ ​the integrity​ ​of​ ​his​ ​other​ ​property.

It​ ​is​ ​also​ ​the​ ​case​ ​that​ ​Brydon​ ​has​ ​only​ ​been​ ​able​ ​to​ ​comfortably​ ​live​ ​in​ ​Europe​ ​“on​ ​the product​ ​of​ ​(his)​ ​flourishing​ ​New​ ​York​ ​leases,”​ ​their​ ​“respective​ ​rents”​ ​producing​ ​an​ ​income large​ ​enough​ ​for​ ​him​ ​to​ ​live​ ​without​ ​working​ ​(74).​ ​Thus,​ ​the​ ​rejection​ ​of​ ​“rent-values”​ ​is ironically​ ​exposed​ ​as​ ​being​ ​vacuous:​ ​it​ ​is​ ​only​ ​through​ ​the​ ​very​ ​extraction​ ​of​ ​rent​ ​that​ ​Brydon can​ ​live​ ​the​ ​way​ ​that​ ​he​ ​does.​ ​The​ ​supposed​ ​disinterested​ ​values​ ​of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​social​ ​order​ ​are exposed​ ​as​ ​being​ ​essentially​ ​hypocritical;​ ​such​ ​‘rentiers’​ ​are​ ​reliant​ ​on​ ​the​ ​market,​ ​and inextricably​ ​bound​ ​to​ ​the​ ​very​ ​rent-values​ ​(value​ ​in​ ​a​ ​double​ ​sense)​ ​that​ ​they​ ​spurn.​ ​This​ ​is perhaps​ ​further​ ​exposed​ ​in​ ​Brydon’s​ ​surprising​ ​“capacity​ ​for​ ​business”​ ​and​ ​“sense​ ​of construction”​ ​(75).​ ​The​ ​text​ ​states​ ​that​ ​such​ ​“virtues”​ ​had​ ​merely​ ​been​ ​“dormant​ ​in​ ​(Brydon’s) own​ ​organism,”​ ​and​ ​when​ ​given​ ​the​ ​opportunity,​ ​they​ ​emerge​ ​unfettered​ ​(75).​ ​Therefore,​ ​the very​ ​values​ ​of​ ​business,​ ​seen​ ​as​ ​so​ ​vulgar​ ​and​ ​sordid,​ ​are​ ​actually​ ​latent,​ ​or​ ​dormant​ ​within​ ​the supposedly​ ​disinterested​ ​values​ ​of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​own​ ​class.

Through​ ​its​ ​depiction​ ​of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​re-introduction​ ​into​ ​New​ ​York,​ ​and​ ​his​ ​surprising aptitude​ ​for​ ​business,​ ​the​ ​text​ ​ironically​ ​brings​ ​to​ ​light​ ​the​ ​hypocrisy​ ​of​ ​Brydon’s​ ​social​ ​order.

Brydon’s​ ​discussions​ ​with​ ​Miss​ ​Staverton​ ​expose​ ​their​ ​unjustified​ ​and​ ​hollow​ ​reactionary stances​ ​towards​ ​modernization,​ ​their​ ​dislike​ ​of​ ​the​ ​modern​ ​mostly​ ​having​ ​to​ ​do​ ​with​ ​the superficies​ ​of​ ​taste.​ ​It​ ​further​ ​becomes​ ​clear​ ​in​ ​Brydon’s​ ​own​ ​surprising​ ​capacity​ ​for​ ​business, that​ ​this​ ​tendency​ ​was​ ​“dormant”​ ​within​ ​him​ ​all​ ​along.​ ​This​ ​conflict​ ​is​ ​further​ ​brought​ ​out​ ​in Brydon’s​ ​later​ ​being​ ​haunted​ ​by​ ​a​ ​ghost​ ​of​ ​his​ ​“alter-ego,”​ ​the​ ​alter​ ​ego​ ​of​ ​an​ ​American businessman.​ ​What​ ​is​ ​perhaps​ ​most​ ​disturbing​ ​about​ ​this​ ​ghost​ ​though,​ ​is​ ​not​ ​that​ ​it​ ​is​ ​something foreign​ ​to​ ​Brydon,​ ​but​ ​that​ ​perhaps​ ​it​ ​merely​ ​represents​ ​a​ ​“dormant,”​ ​and​ ​not​ ​so​ ​deeply​ ​buried aspect​ ​of​ ​himself:​ ​he​ ​is​ ​already​ ​in​ ​a​ ​sense​ ​this​ ​very​ ​specter​ ​that​ ​haunts​ ​him.

28

Sans​ ​Booze By​ ​Greg​ ​Drozdek Let's​ ​go​ ​back​ ​to​ ​school​ ​and​ ​take​ ​a​ ​course​ ​on boredom.

If​ ​nobody​ ​wants​ ​to​ ​go​ ​out​ ​for​ ​drinks​ ​after, We’ll​ ​all​ ​get​ ​A’s.

3​ ​AM She​ ​will​ ​serve​ ​me​ ​to​ ​too​ ​many.

I​ ​will​ ​not​ ​stop​ ​her.

Tuesday Today,​ ​you​ ​say​ ​to​ ​yourself "Stay​ ​dry!"

Too​ ​long​ ​since​ ​a​ ​dry​ ​day​ ​done, and​ ​another​ ​begun.

‘The​ ​Kiss’ My​ ​waitress​ ​takes​ ​away​ ​my​ ​Chekhov's​ ​'The Kiss'

after​ ​filling​ ​my​ ​cup.

My​ ​Anton​ ​now​ ​exiled​ ​to​ ​the​ ​counter, unopened.

‘The​ ​Kiss’​ ​-​ ​a​ ​prop​ ​before​ ​closing.

Beach​ ​Work At​ ​my​ ​dirty​ ​bit​ ​of​ ​beach​ ​by​ ​the​ ​pier, I​ ​crack​ ​a​ ​beer​ ​and​ ​feed​ ​sparrows​ ​bread​ ​bits, Then​ ​munch​ ​bodega​ ​cheese.

I​ ​kill​ ​two​ ​more​ ​before​ ​beach​ ​work: plastic​ ​and​ ​cans​ ​to​ ​the​ ​trash.

Driftwood​ ​home​ ​with​ ​me.

The​ ​Wolf​ ​Fading The​ ​lady​ ​-​ ​plain​ ​-​ ​on​ ​my​ ​beach With​ ​the​ ​wolf​ ​–​ ​smoky​ ​black​ ​-​ ​stalking​ ​duck –​ ​dark​ ​-​ ​fat​ ​-​ ​in​ ​the​ ​water Edging​ ​up​ ​silent​ ​–​ ​the​ ​wolf​ ​-​ ​all​ ​hunter​ ​nowUntil​ ​she​ ​holds​ ​out​ ​the​ ​rope, And​ ​he​ ​comes​ ​running​ ​-​ ​hand-licking​ ​– happy?

Lucky​ ​Flow In​ ​the​ ​novel,​ ​he’s​ ​writing​ ​about​ ​an​ ​older​ ​man​ ​and​ ​a​ ​younger​ ​woman.​ ​He’s​ ​bored​ ​to​ ​tears with​ ​his​ ​life​ ​and​ ​writing​ ​clichés.​ ​The​ ​older​ ​man,​ ​the​ ​younger​ ​woman,​ ​bored​ ​to​ ​tears.​ ​When​ ​did his​ ​spark​ ​for​ ​language​ ​leave?​ ​He​ ​likes​ ​the​ ​sound​ ​of​ ​this​ ​line​ ​as​ ​he​ ​types​ ​it,​ ​but​ ​also​ ​feels​ ​he​ ​got​ ​it in​ ​a​ ​bit​ ​of​ ​lucky​ ​flow.​ ​This​ ​is​ ​what​ ​he​ ​calls​ ​it​ ​when​ ​the​ ​pen​ ​on​ ​his​ ​paper​ ​races​ ​ahead​ ​of​ ​the​ ​sound in​ ​his​ ​head.​ ​It​ ​used​ ​to​ ​happen​ ​more​ ​when​ ​he​ ​drank​ ​more,​ ​but​ ​now​ ​he​ ​drinks​ ​less​ ​and​ ​writes​ ​less, and​ ​less​ ​freely.​ ​He​ ​had​ ​some​ ​poems​ ​published,​ ​a​ ​short​ ​memoir​ ​published.​ ​He​ ​got​ ​confident, wrote​ ​a​ ​few​ ​plays​ ​without​ ​shame,​ ​produced​ ​in​ ​small​ ​earnest​ ​productions,​ ​one​ ​even​ ​had​ ​a​ ​set.​ ​He smiled​ ​at​ ​a​ ​waitress​ ​and​ ​played​ ​the​ ​writer​ ​at​ ​the​ ​café.​ ​For​ ​once,​ ​he​ ​felt​ ​as​ ​though​ ​the​ ​pen​ ​was​ ​his friend.

And​ ​then.​ ​The​ ​pen​ ​got​ ​heavy.​ ​The​ ​pen​ ​got​ ​stiff.​ ​He​ ​worked​ ​out​ ​more​ ​and​ ​focused​ ​on​ ​his teaching.​ ​Everything​ ​about​ ​his​ ​life​ ​was​ ​more​ ​full,​ ​everything​ ​but​ ​the​ ​writing.​ ​He​ ​tried​ ​to​ ​be patient,​ ​he​ ​went​ ​to​ ​readings,​ ​listened​ ​as​ ​he​ ​sat​ ​on​ ​his​ ​hands.​ ​But​ ​as​ ​his​ ​own​ ​cohort​ ​cackled​ ​their “likes”​ ​and​ ​“totallys”​ ​and​ ​now​ ​“literallys”​ ​he​ ​felt​ ​ancient.

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So​ ​one​ ​day,​ ​in​ ​a​ ​lucky​ ​flow​ ​partially​ ​helped​ ​along​ ​with​ ​some​ ​pinot,​ ​the​ ​idea​ ​of​ ​a​ ​novel,​ ​a poem​ ​about​ ​a​ ​novel,​ ​came.​ ​He​ ​went​ ​to​ ​one​ ​of​ ​the​ ​last​ ​boho-spots​ ​he​ ​knew,​ ​and​ ​listened​ ​to​ ​the poets​ ​read​ ​about:​ ​a​ ​lost​ ​cat,​ ​the​ ​precariat,​ ​a​ ​first​ ​kiss,​ ​a​ ​river​ ​with​ ​no​ ​fish.​ ​No​ ​one​ ​cackled like-speak,​ ​not​ ​even​ ​one​ ​“totally!”​ ​He​ ​read​ ​last,​ ​his​ ​Lucky​ ​Flow-Novel​ ​Poem​ ​to​ ​an​ ​even​ ​quiet that​ ​was​ ​not​ ​hostile.

He held his pen in his hand all the way home. And he hoped there was more lucky flow to​ ​come. *** “En​ ​qué​ ​idioma​ ​cae​ ​la​ ​lluvia​ ​sobre​ ​ciudades dolorosas?”

Pablo​ ​Neruda,​ ​Libro​ ​de​ ​las preguntas SHIU By​ ​Cindy​ ​Sharra

i​ ​padëgjuar.

“In​ ​what​ ​language​ ​does​ ​rain​ ​fall​ ​over tormented​ ​cities?”

Pablo​ ​Neruda,​ ​“Book​ ​of​ ​Questions” RAIN

një​ ​threnody​ ​pa​ ​fjalë një​ ​reverie​ ​e​ ​poezisë dhe​ ​e​ ​vdekjes

a​ ​wordless​ ​threnody a​ ​reverie​ ​of​ ​poetry and​ ​of​ ​death.

ajo​ ​nxiton​ ​kur​ ​duhet, qan​ ​kur​ ​mundet

It​ ​whimpers​ ​when​ ​it​ ​can, weeps​ ​when​ ​it​ ​must,

lë​ ​pellgje​ ​te​ ​holla​ ​blu: jetë​ ​nga​ ​nje​ ​perëndi pagane

leaves​ ​puddles,​ ​lurid​ ​blue: oases​ ​from​ ​a​ ​perverted​ ​paradise.

vetëm​ ​përtej​ ​qytetit shiu​ ​mund​ ​te​ ​qaj​ ​me​ ​gëzim kam​ ​dëgjuar​ ​se​ ​vendi​ ​është​ ​i​ ​panjohur— një​ ​shpifje​ ​në​ ​një​ ​hartë

Only​ ​beyond​ ​the​ ​city does​ ​the​ ​rain​ ​cry​ ​out​ ​in​ ​joy.

I​ ​hear​ ​the​ ​place​ ​is​ ​unnameable— a​ ​smear​ ​on​ ​a​ ​map​ ​of​ ​uncharted​ ​land.

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卧虎藏龙 By​ ​Ai​ ​Xin​ ​Liew 1

卧虎藏龙 “The​ ​dragon​ ​out​ ​of​ ​water​ ​is​ ​humiliated​ ​by​ ​ants.

The​ ​fierce​ ​tiger​ ​that​ ​is​ ​caged​ ​is​ ​baited​ ​by​ ​a​ ​child.

As​ ​long​ ​as​ ​I​ ​am​ ​imprisoned,​ ​how​ ​can​ ​I​ ​dare​ ​strive​ ​for​ ​supremacy?

An​ ​advantageous​ ​position​ ​for​ ​revenge​ ​will​ ​surely​ ​come​ ​one​ ​day.” 蛟龙失水蝼蚁欺， 猛虎遭囚小儿戏。 被困安敢与争雄， 得势复仇定有期。 --Poem​ ​74 The Chinese call America “美国”, i.e. “Beautiful Country”. Although some argue that the name is a transliteration of “America”, with its second syllable sounding a lot like the word “美” (​mĕi​), it is of some significance that only the word “beautiful” was selected out of all the Chinese characters that are also pronounced “​mĕi​”. Not only does this name invoke idyllic images of aforesaid country like a rapturous sigh, it also reflects the romanticised notions that the Chinese had of America as the land of freedom and opportunity. Prompted by wars, famines and suffering, generations of Chinese immigrants left their homeland for this “beautiful country” –– “driven by ‘necessity’ [and] stirred by ‘extravagance’” (Takaki, 31). Their romanticised perceptions, however, were rudely shattered when they came face to face with the narrow and derogatory mind-sets of many Americans. Although their unfair treatment caused them much suffering and disillusionment, their experiences also further stirred their ambition and patriotism.

These​ ​emotions​ ​are​ ​clearly​ ​displayed​ ​across​ ​poems​ ​carved​ ​in​ ​Angel​ ​Island,​ ​particularly​ ​Poem​ ​74.

The first two lines of Poem 74 provide historical context for the reader. As the poet writes, “The dragon out of water is humiliated by ants / The fierce tiger that is caged is baited by a child” (“蛟龙失水蝼蚁欺，猛虎遭囚小儿戏”). The “蛟龙”, a certain sort of dragon, is a fierce creature from Chinese mythology that is particularly connected with the element of water.

As a symbol of power and prestige, dragons were used to represent the Emperors of China and, in extension, China itself. Meanwhile, the “猛虎”, or wild tiger, is often depicted in Chinese folklore as the king of the forest. The humiliation and torment suffered by these majestic animals can thus be seen a metaphor for the indignities suffered by China after the Opium Wars, when the victorious British and their allies forced China to “open its ports to foreign trade, pay indemnities of 20 million silver dollars, and, most damaging of all, grant … extraterritorial 1

​ ​卧虎藏龙​ ​(wò​ ​h​ǔ​ ​cáng​ ​lóng):​ ​fig.​ ​talented​ ​individuals​ ​in​ ​hiding;​ ​lit.​ ​crouching​ ​tiger,​ ​hidden​ ​dragon

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rights” (Lai, Lim and Yung, 4). To many of the Chinese, seeing their once-powerful and ancient nation brought low by foreign invaders was shameful and tragic. It also precipitated the start of tax increases, famines and general hardship. With this then-recent history encapsulated within the metaphor of the suffering dragon and tiger, the reader can therefore understand what prompted​ ​the​ ​poet​ ​to​ ​leave​ ​his​ ​homeland​ ​and​ ​journey​ ​to​ ​a​ ​foreign​ ​land.

Besides providing context, the first two lines also refer indirectly to the poet’s feelings of displacement and helplessness. Oftentimes, opening lines in classical Chinese poetry not only establish a setting, but also hint at the poet’s own emotions. For example, Li Bai’s poem “Quiet Night Thoughts” begins with “Bright moonlight before my bed; I thought it was frost on the ground” (“床前明月光／疑是地上霜”). Li’s opening couplet establishes both the time and location of his poem, as well as the icy loneliness of his surroundings. Similarly, the anonymous poet’s vulnerability can be seen through his descriptions of the dragon and tiger being clearly out of their elements. Like the “dragon out of water” and “tiger … caged”, he has been torn from all that​ ​he​ ​knows​ ​dear​ ​and​ ​placed​ ​in​ ​a​ ​foreign​ ​and​ ​hostile​ ​environment.

This displacement would have rankled less if the poet felt like he had been treated fairly.

Although fair treatment should be given to any immigrant, it was clear that this poet felt like he was, at the very least, equal in stature and knowledge with his captors and thus undeserving of the treatment he was receiving. For one, his writing shows a firm grasp of the structure and rhythm of classical Chinese poetry; there are two couplets with seven words, each last word of each couplet rhyming neatly. That, and the fact that it was written backwards –– a remarkable feat of calligraphy –– shows that the poet was clearly both literate and educated, not a “village bumpkin” (Lai, Lim and Yung, 38) of “a backward, heathen, and degenerate country” (5). This injustice was also compounded by an awareness that he hails from a country with a thousand years of history, traditions and culture. It is no wonder then that the poet casts the enemies in his poem as miniscule “ants” and an immature “child”, undoubtedly voicing his infuriation at being treated​ ​as​ ​such​ ​by​ ​those​ ​he​ ​deemed​ ​inferior.

All of these factors –– his turbulent history, unfair treatment and wounded ego –– combine to stoke the poet’s desire for success and revenge, as well as a growing sense of nationalism. This can be seen through his emotional identification with the tiger and the dragon.

He draws a link between the trapped animals and his own imprisonment by using the phrases “遭 囚” (to suffer imprisonment) and “被困” (to be trapped) to describe the tiger and himself respectively. Like the tiger and the dragon, there is massive potential in both animals and in himself, and both undoubtedly want to “strive for supremacy” again. Although the kind of “supremacy” he wants is vague –– it could be economic and political dominance for himself and for his homeland ––this question reflects the general ambition for success that drove the poet and countless other immigrants to America. With the power gained from “supremacy”, the poet then imagines​ ​a​ ​grim​ ​ending​ ​to​ ​those​ ​who​ ​wronged​ ​him​ ​and​ ​his​ ​country.

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The poet of Poem 74 and his compatriots left China during what would later be known as the “century of humiliation” (Wang, 7). This century deeply influences the way China chooses to shape its national identity, politics and memory –– and its seeds can be seen in poems carved on an island 10,000 kilometres away. The fact that Poem 74 in particular was written backwards shows that either the poet was exceedingly proud of his work and expected it to be copied, or that it had received much praise within the community of immigrants at Angel Island. Regardless of which is true, it is undeniable that nationalist pride, personal ego and anger were dominant emotions on Angel Island. In the face of xenophobia and humiliation, the Chinese on Angel Island clung to their pride and to their ambition, dreaming of a day when they could better their futures.

Q&A Dear​ ​reader, Please read this aloud, if you can. The questions ought to be spoken in an American accent (or what you think is an American accent), while the answers ought to be spoken in a Singlish accent (if​ ​you​ ​can).

Q:​ ​ ​So​ ​where​ ​do​ ​you​ ​come​ ​from?

- Eh.​ ​This​ ​is​ ​fine.​ ​I​ ​can​ ​answer​ ​this;​ ​this​ ​is​ ​good.

A:​ ​Singapore.

Q:​ ​Where​ ​is​ ​that?

- Sian2.​ ​Sekali3​ ​all​ ​these​ ​angmohs4​ ​think​ ​it’s​ ​in​ ​China.

A:​ ​It’s​ ​a​ ​peninsula​ ​at​ ​the​ ​edge​ ​of​ ​Malaysia.

Q:​ ​Oh,​ ​so​ ​it’s​ ​not​ ​in​ ​China?

- My​ ​god.

A:​ ​No.​ ​In​ ​fact,​ ​we’re​ ​a​ ​few​ ​hours​ ​hours​ ​away.​ ​By​ ​plane.

Q:​ ​Malaysia,​ ​then?

- I​ ​am​ ​not​ ​going​ ​into​ ​the​ ​merger​ ​and​ ​separation5.

A: We were part of Malaysia for a few years, but we separated due to politics and … other issues.

Hokkien​ ​slang;​ ​meaning​ ​a​ ​range​ ​of​ ​emotions​ ​such​ ​as​ ​tiredness,​ ​weariness,​ ​frustration,​ ​boredom,​ ​etc.​ ​Parallel​ ​with the​ ​word,​ ​“ugh”.

3 ​ ​Malay​ ​word;​ ​literally​ ​translated:​ ​“Once/At​ ​one​ ​time”.​ ​However,​ ​used​ ​in​ ​context​ ​as​ ​“What​ ​if/Suddenly”.

4 ​ ​Hokkien;​ ​literally​ ​translated:​ ​“red-haired​ ​person”,​ ​although​ ​it​ ​is​ ​a​ ​blanket​ ​term​ ​to​ ​describe​ ​all​ ​people​ ​of​ ​Caucasian resemblance​ ​(i.e.​ ​white​ ​people).

5 ​ ​From​ ​1963–1965,​ ​Singapore​ ​was​ ​part​ ​of​ ​Malaysia.

2

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​ ​Q:​ ​Huh,​ ​I​ ​didn’t​ ​know​ ​that.​ ​So,​ ​how​ ​is​ ​your​ ​English​ ​so​ ​good​ ​if​ ​you’re​ ​Chinese?

- Wow, there’s so much here to unpack. The fact that you thought I must have come from China. There wasn’t even room for Vietnam or Korea or Japan (all of which I could, arguably, come from). The stereotype that, just because I’m not from America or anywhere recognisably “Western”, I must have acquired English through some sort of magical​ ​procedure.

A: I learnt it. In school. I speak it. At home. We were a British colony for a couple of years too––actually,​ ​more​ ​like​ ​two​ ​decades.

Q:​ ​Oh,​ ​I​ ​see!​ ​Does​ ​everyone​ ​speak​ ​English​ ​in​ ​Singapore?

- Yes,​ ​bodoh6.

A:​ ​Yes. Q:​ ​What’s​ ​it​ ​like​ ​in​ ​Singapore?

- Shit, now all I can think about is the food. Which one should I start with? Chicken rice?

But that sounds so trite. Like, they know what’s chicken and rice. But how do they know about chicken rice7? Maybe ​satay8. After all, they have it on SQ. Or ​roti prata9 ​with curry.​ ​They​ ​have​ ​Indian​ ​curry​ ​in​ ​America,​ ​don’t​ ​they?

A:​ ​It’s​ ​hot.​ ​Like,​ ​all​ ​the​ ​time.​ ​The​ ​food’s​ ​awesome,​ ​too.

Q:​ ​I​ ​heard​ ​you​ ​can’t​ ​buy​ ​gum​ ​there.​ ​Or​ ​worse,​ ​you​ ​might​ ​even​ ​go​ ​to​ ​jail​ ​for​ ​it.

- Please, 老天爷10, give me a break. Is this, literally, all they read or care about?

Personally,​ ​I​ ​think​ ​gum​ ​is​ ​a​ ​scourge​ ​on​ ​earth.​ ​What​ ​you​ ​don’t​ ​have,​ ​you​ ​never​ ​miss.

A:​ ​I’ve​ ​chewed​ ​gum​ ​in​ ​Singapore​ ​and​ ​I’m​ ​still​ ​alive.​ ​Ha,​ ​ha,​ ​ha!

Q.​ ​Right,​ ​yeah.​ ​And​ ​you​ ​guys​ ​still​ ​do​ ​capital​ ​punishment,​ ​right?

- Mmhmm, and you guys also have the highest incarceration rate in the world. Not that it’s a​ ​competition​ ​or​ ​anything​ ​…

A:​ ​Yeah.

Q:​ ​But​ ​I​ ​heard​ ​it’s​ ​really​ ​clean,​ ​too!

​ ​Malay​ ​for​ ​“stupid”. ​ ​Although​ ​called​ ​“Hainanese”​ ​chicken​ ​rice,​ ​this​ ​dish​ ​was​ ​actually​ ​invented​ ​locally.​ ​Chicken​ ​is​ ​steamed​ ​using​ ​a combination​ ​of​ ​sauces,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​resulting​ ​broth​ ​is​ ​used​ ​to​ ​steam​ ​the​ ​rice​ ​that​ ​goes​ ​along​ ​with​ ​it.​ ​Entire​ ​family businesses​ ​can​ ​be​ ​sustained​ ​with​ ​this​ ​dish​ ​alone.

8 ​ ​Malay​ ​dish​ ​made​ ​of​ ​speared​ ​pieces​ ​of​ ​meat​ ​(usually​ ​chicken,​ ​beef​ ​or​ ​lamb​ ​instead​ ​of​ ​pork,​ ​due​ ​to​ ​most​ ​Malays being​ ​Muslims)​ ​grilled​ ​over​ ​charcoal.​ ​Usually​ ​consumed​ ​with​ ​peanut​ ​sauce,​ ​cucumber​ ​and​ ​small​ ​slices​ ​of​ ​onions 9 ​ ​Indian​ ​flatbread,​ ​served​ ​with​ ​toppings/sides​ ​ranging​ ​from​ ​sugar,​ ​butter,​ ​curry,​ ​or​ ​curried​ ​chicken.

10 ​ ​Chinese​ ​for​ ​“dear​ ​God​ ​above”.

6 7

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Super, duper clean. Like, awesomely clean. I don’t think I’ve ever seen tissue paper in the​ ​MRT11,​ ​much​ ​less​ ​a​ ​rat.

A:​ ​Mmhmm,​ ​you​ ​get​ ​fined​ ​for​ ​littering.

-

Q:​ ​Oh​ ​my​ ​god,​ ​really?​ ​That’s​ ​so​ ​strict!

- Or​ ​you​ ​could​ ​just​ ​not​ ​litter.

A:​ ​I​ ​guess​ ​so.​ ​I​ ​mean,​ ​that’s​ ​how​ ​we​ ​keep​ ​everything​ ​clean.

Q:​ ​Thanks​ ​man,​ ​this​ ​was​ ​such​ ​an​ ​interesting​ ​conversation.

- Let’s​ ​see​ ​if​ ​you’ll​ ​remember​ ​it.

A:​ ​You’re​ ​welcome!

(2​ ​weeks​ ​later) Q:​ ​Wait,​ ​you​ ​said​ ​you​ ​are​ ​from​ ​Singapore,​ ​right?

​ ​Mass​ ​Rapid​ ​Transit,​ ​i.e.​ ​the​ ​subway.

11

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Amor by​ ​Adam​ ​Simon No​ ​había​ ​espacio​ ​en​ ​2056.​ ​Una​ ​serie​ ​de​ ​catástrofes​ ​globales​ ​había​ ​surgido​ ​de​ ​la​ ​fuente que​ ​era​ ​el​ ​siglo​ ​XX​ ​y​ ​alcanzó​ ​su​ ​ápice​ ​en​ ​el​ ​XXI;​ ​la​ ​degradación​ ​económica​ ​y​ ​ecológica, combinada​ ​con​ ​la​ ​proliferación​ ​de​ ​sustancias​ ​psicotrópicas,​ ​resultó​ ​en​ ​una​ ​nueva​ ​revolución sexual​ ​que​ ​vino​ ​a​ ​ser​ ​conocida​ ​como​ ​el​ ​Florecimiento,​ ​obviamente​ ​una​ ​reacción​ ​a​ ​la​ ​desilusión​ ​y el​ ​desencanto​ ​que​ ​era​ ​tan​ ​penetrante​ ​en​ ​ese​ ​tiempo.​ ​Sin​ ​embargo,​ ​el​ ​Florecimiento​ ​no​ ​era​ ​un intento​ ​de​ ​remediar​ ​el​ ​mundo​ ​o​ ​celebrar​ ​el​ ​amor​ ​libre.​ ​No​ ​-​ ​era​ ​un​ ​esfuerzo​ ​concertado​ ​para acelerar​ ​el​ ​proceso​ ​de​ ​destrucción,​ ​de​ ​sobrepoblando.

Miles​ ​y​ ​miles​ ​comenzaron​ ​a​ ​reproducirse​ ​sin​ ​parar.​ ​Muy​ ​pronto,​ ​las​ ​casas​ ​no​ ​eran suficientemente​ ​grandes​ ​para​ ​acomodar​ ​a​ ​estas​ ​familias​ ​grandes.​ ​No​ ​pasó​ ​mucho​ ​tiempo​ ​antes​ ​de que​ ​muchos​ ​se​ ​convirtieron​ ​a​ ​la​ ​vida​ ​nómada.​ ​Esta​ ​tendencia​ ​continuó​ ​hasta​ ​que​ ​casi​ ​todos estaban​ ​vagando,​ ​sin​ ​trabajos,​ ​viviendo​ ​de​ ​conservas​ ​y​ ​qué​ ​animales​ ​pequeños​ ​podían​ ​atrapar.

Cuando​ ​llegó​ ​2050,​ ​el​ ​gobierno​ ​era​ ​poco​ ​más​ ​que​ ​una​ ​formalidad.​ ​Vivieron​ ​en​ ​la​ ​anarquía pacífica.

Pero​ ​con​ ​cada​ ​año​ ​que​ ​siguió,​ ​tu​ ​familia​ ​se​ ​encontraría​ ​con​ ​otras​ ​familias​ ​con​ ​más​ ​y​ ​más frecuencia,​ ​hasta​ ​que​ ​finalmente,​ ​en​ ​2056,​ ​había​ ​muy​ ​poco​ ​espacio​ ​para​ ​caminar​ ​en​ ​absoluto.

Hicieron​ ​lo​ ​racional.

Comenzaron​ ​a​ ​apilar​ ​a​ ​las​ ​personas​ ​más​ ​robustas​ ​y​ ​más​ ​anchas​ ​en​ ​el​ ​fondo,​ ​para​ ​que estas​ ​personas​ ​formaran​ ​una​ ​gruesa​ ​losa​ ​de​ ​tierra​ ​sobre​ ​la​ ​que​ ​pudieran​ ​caminar.​ ​Hacia​ ​2058, habían​ ​cubierto​ ​cada​ ​centímetro​ ​de​ ​la​ ​tierra​ ​continental.​ ​Había​ ​un​ ​nuevo​ ​terreno.​ ​Por​ ​un​ ​corto tiempo,​ ​gruñían​ ​mientras​ ​caminaban​ ​sobre​ ​ellos,​ ​pero​ ​dejaron​ ​de​ ​quejarse​ ​y​ ​pronto,​ ​dejaron​ ​de hacer​ ​ruidos.​ ​En​ ​2060,​ ​sin​ ​embargo,​ ​ ​se​ ​encontraron​ ​con​ ​el​ ​mismo​ ​problema​ ​de​ ​nuevo.​ ​Así​ ​que establecieron​ ​otro​ ​terreno​ ​de​ ​gente,​ ​que​ ​gruñía​ ​y​ ​caía​ ​en​ ​silencio​ ​como​ ​sus​ ​predecesores.

Recuerdo​ ​un​ ​momento​ ​en​ ​que​ ​mi​ ​padre​ ​me​ ​llevó​ ​a​ ​dar​ ​un​ ​paseo​ ​y​ ​me​ ​contó​ ​nuestra​ ​gran​ ​historia como​ ​lo​ ​hago​ ​ahora​ ​contigo.​ ​Recuerdo​ ​exactamente​ ​que​ ​era​ ​cuando​ ​por​ ​un​ ​instante​ ​nos quedamos​ ​charlando​ ​que​ ​un​ ​hombre​ ​debajo​ ​de​ ​nosotros​ ​me​ ​mordió​ ​en​ ​el​ ​tobillo.​ ​Grité​ ​y​ ​mi​ ​padre inmediatamente​ ​comenzó​ ​a​ ​patear​ ​a​ ​este​ ​hombre.​ ​Recuerdo​ ​a​ ​mi​ ​padre,​ ​moviendo​ ​con​ ​tanta rapidez,​ ​sostenido​ ​por​ ​una​ ​confianza​ ​conocida​ ​por​ ​pocos​ ​hombres,​ ​mientras​ ​señalaba​ ​con​ ​su dedo​ ​al​ ​hombre​ ​que​ ​me​ ​había​ ​mordido​ ​y​ ​gritaba​ ​-No!​ ​No!-​ ​Mi​ ​padre​ ​me​ ​miró​ ​y​ ​sonrió,​ ​y​ ​yo​ ​le devolví​ ​la​ ​sonrisa,​ ​sabiendo​ ​muy​ ​bien​ ​y​ ​quizás​ ​por​ ​primera​ ​vez​ ​que​ ​yo​ ​pertenecía​ ​a​ ​él​ ​como​ ​él pertenecía​ ​a​ ​mi,​ ​cautivados​ ​por​ ​el​ ​amor​ ​de​ ​padre​ ​y​ ​hijo.​ ​No​ ​sabíamos​ ​nada​ ​de​ ​las​ ​complejidades de​ ​este​ ​proceso,​ ​solo​ ​su​ ​origen.​ ​Mi​ ​padre​ ​arrodilló,​ ​como​ ​el​ ​gran​ ​pastor,​ ​y​ ​quitó​ ​uno​ ​de​ ​los zapatos​ ​del​ ​hombre.​ ​Poco​ ​después,​ ​mi​ ​padre​ ​me​ ​llevó​ ​y​ ​me​ ​aferré​ ​a​ ​ese​ ​zapato,​ ​pasando​ ​el​ ​dedo por​ ​sus​ ​cordones.

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Love There​ ​was​ ​no​ ​room​ ​in​ ​2056.​ ​A​ ​series​ ​of​ ​global​ ​catastrophes​ ​had​ ​surged​ ​out​ ​of​ ​the wellspring​ ​that​ ​was​ ​the​ ​late​ ​20th​ ​century​ ​and​ ​reached​ ​its​ ​apex​ ​in​ ​the​ ​21st;​ ​economic​ ​and ecological​ ​degradation,​ ​combined​ ​with​ ​the​ ​proliferation​ ​of​ ​psychotropic​ ​substances,​ ​resulted​ ​in a​ ​new​ ​sexual​ ​revolution​ ​that​ ​would​ ​come​ ​to​ ​be​ ​known​ ​as​ ​the​ ​Blossoming,​ ​obviously​ ​a​ ​reaction​ ​to the​ ​disillusionment​ ​and​ ​disenchantment​ ​that​ ​was​ ​so​ ​pervasive​ ​at​ ​the​ ​time.​ ​The​ ​Blossoming​ ​was not​ ​an​ ​attempt​ ​to​ ​remedy​ ​the​ ​world​ ​or​ ​celebrate​ ​free​ ​love.​ ​No,​ ​it​ ​was​ ​a​ ​concerted​ ​effort​ ​to accelerate​ ​a​ ​process​ ​of​ ​destruction,​ ​of​ ​overpopulation.

Thousands​ ​and​ ​thousands​ ​began​ ​to​ ​reproduce​ ​without​ ​stopping.​ ​Soon​ ​enough,​ ​houses were​ ​not​ ​big​ ​enough​ ​to​ ​accommodate​ ​such​ ​large​ ​families.​ ​It​ ​was​ ​not​ ​long​ ​before​ ​many​ ​turned​ ​to the​ ​nomadic​ ​life.​ ​This​ ​continued​ ​until​ ​almost​ ​everyone​ ​were​ ​vagabonds,​ ​jobless,​ ​living​ ​on preserves​ ​and​ ​whatever​ ​small​ ​animals​ ​they​ ​could​ ​trap.​ ​By​ ​2050,​ ​the​ ​government​ ​was​ ​little​ ​more than​ ​a​ ​formality.​ ​They​ ​lived​ ​in​ ​peaceful​ ​anarchy.

But​ ​with​ ​each​ ​year​ ​that​ ​followed,​ ​one’s​ ​family​ ​would​ ​encounter​ ​other​ ​families​ ​more​ ​and more​ ​frequently,​ ​until​ ​finally,​ ​in​ ​2056,​ ​there​ ​was​ ​very​ ​little​ ​room​ ​to​ ​walk​ ​at​ ​all.​ ​They​ ​did​ ​the rational​ ​thing.

They​ ​began​ ​to​ ​stack​ ​the​ ​sturdiest​ ​and​ ​widest​ ​people​ ​on​ ​the​ ​bottom,​ ​so​ ​that​ ​these​ ​people formed​ ​a​ ​thick​ ​slab​ ​of​ ​ground​ ​on​ ​which​ ​they​ ​could​ ​walk.​ ​By​ ​2058,​ ​they​ ​had​ ​converted​ ​every centimeter​ ​of​ ​earth.​ ​For​ ​a​ ​short​ ​time,​ ​many​ ​groaned​ ​as​ ​they​ ​walked​ ​over​ ​them,​ ​but​ ​they​ ​stopped complaining​ ​and​ ​soon,​ ​stopped​ ​making​ ​noises​ ​at​ ​all.​ ​In​ ​2040,​ ​however,​ ​they​ ​encountered​ ​the same​ ​problem​ ​once​ ​again.​ ​So​ ​we​ ​started​ ​work​ ​on​ ​creating​ ​a​ ​new​ ​ground​ ​made​ ​of​ ​people,​ ​who groaned​ ​and​ ​then​ ​fell​ ​into​ ​silence​ ​like​ ​their​ ​predecessors.

I​ ​remember​ ​a​ ​time​ ​where​ ​my​ ​father​ ​took​ ​me​ ​for​ ​a​ ​walk​ ​and​ ​recounted​ ​to​ ​me​ ​our​ ​great history​ ​as​ ​I​ ​do​ ​to​ ​you​ ​now.​ ​I​ ​remember​ ​exactly​ ​it​ ​was​ ​when​ ​we​ ​momentarily​ ​fell​ ​into​ ​idle​ ​talk​ ​that one​ ​man​ ​beneath​ ​us​ ​bit​ ​me​ ​in​ ​the​ ​ankle.​ ​I​ ​cried​ ​out​ ​and​ ​my​ ​father​ ​immediately​ ​began​ ​kicking​ ​this man.​ ​I​ ​remember​ ​my​ ​father,​ ​who​ ​moved​ ​with​ ​such​ ​swiftness,​ ​held​ ​up​ ​by​ ​a​ ​confidence​ ​few​ ​men knew,​ ​as​ ​he​ ​wagged​ ​his​ ​finger​ ​at​ ​the​ ​man​ ​who​ ​had​ ​bitten​ ​me​ ​and​ ​cried​ ​out​ ​“No!​ ​No!”​ ​My​ ​father peered​ ​back​ ​at​ ​me​ ​and​ ​smiled,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​smiled​ ​back,​ ​knowing​ ​full​ ​well,​ ​and​ ​for​ ​perhaps​ ​the​ ​first time,​ ​that​ ​I​ ​belonged​ ​to​ ​him​ ​as​ ​he​ ​belonged​ ​to​ ​me,​ ​captivated​ ​by​ ​a​ ​love​ ​between​ ​father​ ​and​ ​son.

We​ ​knew​ ​nothing​ ​of​ ​the​ ​intricacies​ ​behind​ ​this​ ​process,​ ​only​ ​its​ ​source.​ ​My​ ​father​ ​kneeled​ ​down, like​ ​the​ ​great​ ​shepherd,​ ​and​ ​removed​ ​one​ ​of​ ​the​ ​man’s​ ​shoes.​ ​Soon​ ​after,​ ​my​ ​father​ ​took​ ​me​ ​away and​ ​I​ ​held​ ​fast​ ​to​ ​that​ ​shoe,​ ​tracing​ ​my​ ​finger​ ​over​ ​the​ ​laces.

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of​ ​mine​ ​at​ ​all.

WON By​ ​Jenny​ ​Choi I​ ​am​ ​a​ ​broken​ ​grayish​ ​thing made​ ​of​ ​four-thirds; I​ ​am​ ​two​ ​halves​ ​that​ ​do​ ​not match​ ​&​ ​I​ ​am​ ​not​ ​sure​ ​if​ ​I​ ​will​ ​ever come​ ​to​ ​terms​ ​with​ ​a​ ​match​ ​never​ ​made or​ ​with​ ​a​ ​third​ ​that​ ​belongs not​ ​even​ ​elsewhere. the​ ​battle​ ​of​ ​my​ ​self​ ​is​ ​like​ ​the​ ​sun trying​ ​to​ ​shed​ ​its​ ​light​ ​on​ ​both​ ​halves​ ​of​ ​the Earth. how​ ​do​ ​I​ ​let​ ​one​ ​side​ ​bask in​ ​the​ ​rays​ ​of​ ​open​ ​skies while​ ​the​ ​other​ ​shivers in​ ​the​ ​claustrophobic​ ​winter​ ​blackness? this​ ​illusion​ ​is​ ​in​ ​my​ ​blood, that​ ​I​ ​am​ ​one​ ​thing​ ​and​ ​not​ ​the​ ​other, that​ ​I​ ​want​ ​to​ ​be​ ​more​ ​of​ ​one​ ​and​ ​less​ ​of​ ​the other.

I​ ​bleed​ ​this​ ​want​ ​of​ ​balance. there​ ​is​ ​a​ ​word​ ​in​ ​my​ ​second​ ​language in​ ​which​ ​this​ ​invasive​ ​sentiment​ ​crookedly laughs. 원​ ​(wish) In​ ​English,​ ​it​ ​sounds​ ​like​ ​the​ ​past​ ​tense​ ​of victory.

But​ ​really, it​ ​is​ ​no​ ​victory.

A​ ​victory​ ​of​ ​fantasy​ ​is​ ​no​ ​victory

ANOTHER ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​for​ ​엄마​ ​[Mom] I. My​ ​name​ ​is​ ​Jenny. 저는​ ​유진입니다.​ ​[I​ ​am​ ​Yoojin.]

I​ ​am​ ​American. 그런데​ ​더​ ​한국사람처럼​ ​하구싶어요.

[But​ ​I​ ​want​ ​to​ ​be​ ​more​ ​like​ ​a​ ​Korean.]

I​ ​am​ ​from​ ​New​ ​Jersey. 서울에​ ​있을때​ ​제일​ ​편해요.​ ​[I​ ​am​ ​most comfortable​ ​when​ ​I​ ​am​ ​in​ ​Seoul.]

And​ ​my​ ​home​ ​is​ ​where​ ​I​ ​can​ ​be​ ​safely tucked​ ​under​ ​my​ ​family’s​ ​wing. 그런데​ ​제가​ ​굉장히​ ​사랑하는​ ​사촌은 서울에​ ​살아요.​ ​[But​ ​my​ ​precious​ ​cousins live​ ​in​ ​Seoul.]

I​ ​am​ ​nothing, because​ ​I​ ​am​ ​neither.

II. My​ ​sister​ ​taught​ ​herself​ ​Korean. 저는​ ​왜​ ​더​ ​노력을​ ​안했을까요?​ ​[I​ ​wonder: why​ ​did​ ​I​ ​not​ ​work​ ​harder?]

I​ ​did​ ​not. 굉장히​ ​후회해요.​ ​[I​ ​regret​ ​this​ ​very​ ​much.]

When​ ​my​ ​parents​ ​address​ ​me​ ​in​ ​Korean, 그래서​ ​저는​ ​저의​ ​한국이름을​ ​더 좋아해요.​ ​[​So​ ​I​ ​like​ ​to​ ​be​ ​called​ ​by​ ​my Korean​ ​name.]

I​ ​answer​ ​in​ ​English.

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(At​ ​the​ ​very​ ​least,​ ​I​ ​can​ ​recognize​ ​my​ ​name, claim​ ​it​ ​as​ ​mine.)

저는​ ​미국​ ​사람이에요.​ ​[I​ ​am​ ​an American.]

I​ ​am​ ​neither, but​ ​another.

After​ ​all,​ ​I​ ​look​ ​like​ ​an​ ​other​. 하지만​ ​한국사람처럼​ ​행동할때의​ ​나 자신을​ ​더​ ​촣아해요.​​ ​[However,​ ​when​ ​I​ ​act as​ ​if​ ​I​ ​am​ ​Korean,​ ​I​ ​like​ ​my​ ​own​ ​self​ ​more.]

III. But​ ​to​ ​others, 솔직히​ ​말하면,​ ​[If​ ​I​ ​speak​ ​honestly,] I​ ​am​ ​not​ ​quite​ ​American.

I​ ​am​ ​another, so​ ​I​ ​am.

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The​ ​Brio​ ​editors​ ​are​ ​enormously​ ​grateful​ ​to​ ​many​ ​wonderful​ ​people​ ​for​ ​making​ ​this​ ​journal possible.​ ​Thank​ ​you​ ​to​ ​Alyson​ ​Wild​ ​and​ ​the​ ​entire​ ​New​ ​York​ ​University​ ​Comparative​ ​Literature Department,​ ​as​ ​well​ ​as​ ​Laura​ ​Torres-Rodríguez​ ​for​ ​her​ ​valuable​ ​insight​ ​and​ ​advice.​ ​Special thanks​ ​is​ ​also​ ​in​ ​order​ ​for​ ​erstwhile​ ​editor-in-chief​ ​Nicole​ ​D’Alessio,​ ​who​ ​patiently​ ​guided​ ​us every​ ​step​ ​of​ ​the​ ​way.​ ​Without​ ​the​ ​support​ ​of​ ​all​ ​these​ ​incredible​ ​people,​ ​our​ ​ambitious​ ​endeavor might​ ​not​ ​have​ ​come​ ​to​ ​fruition.​ ​We​ ​would​ ​also​ ​like​ ​to​ ​thank​ ​all​ ​those​ ​who​ ​contributed​ ​their work--​ ​you​ ​challenged​ ​our​ ​expectations​ ​and​ ​helped​ ​us​ ​define​ ​the​ ​journal​ ​and​ ​bring​ ​it​ ​to​ ​life.​ ​And thank​ ​you,​ ​of​ ​course,​ ​to​ ​our​ ​readers.​ ​In​ ​the​ ​spirit​ ​of​ ​comparative​ ​literature,​ ​we​ ​encourage​ ​you​ ​to criticize,​ ​analyze,​ ​and​ ​submit​ ​to​ ​Brio.​ ​Above​ ​all,​ ​we​ ​hope​ ​it​ ​helps​ ​you​ ​see​ ​the​ ​world​ ​in​ ​a​ ​new light,​ ​and​ ​opens​ ​up​ ​a​ ​dialogue​ ​where​ ​you​ ​go.

The​ ​fall​ ​2017​ ​issue​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Brio​ ​literary​ ​journal​ ​is​ ​edited​ ​by: Libby​ ​Torres​,​ ​Editor-in-Chief,​ ​studying​ ​Comparative​ ​Literature​ ​with​ ​a​ ​focus​ ​in​ ​Spanish​ ​and Creative​ ​Writing.​ ​She​ ​likes​ ​dumplings,​ ​Derrida,​ ​and​ ​dogs.

Mark​ ​Sologuren​,​ ​managing​ ​editor,​ ​studies​ ​Comparative​ ​Literature.​ ​He​ ​brings​ ​good​ ​tidings.

Anastasia​ ​Damaskou​,​ ​editor​ ​and​ ​staff​ ​writer,​ ​is​ ​a​ ​senior​ ​in​ ​CAS​ ​studying​ ​Comparative Literature.​ ​She​ ​speaks​ ​Greek​ ​and​ ​English​ ​fluently​ ​and​ ​some​ ​Spanish​ ​acquired​ ​while​ ​studying abroad​ ​in​ ​Buenos​ ​Aires.

Ai​ ​Xin​ ​Liew​,​ ​editor​ ​and​ ​staff​ ​writer,​ ​is​ ​a​ ​freshman​ ​at​ ​the​ ​College​ ​of​ ​Arts​ ​&​ ​Sciences​ ​whose​ ​first name​ ​consists​ ​of​ ​two​ ​words,​ ​not​ ​one.​ ​She​ ​hails​ ​from​ ​a​ ​city-state-nation,​ ​and​ ​misses​ ​all​ ​the​ ​food she​ ​wrote​ ​about.​ ​Though​ ​technically​ ​a​ ​music​ ​major,​ ​she​ ​is​ ​also​ ​interested​ ​in​ ​exploring writing-related​ ​fields.

Cindy​ ​Sharra​,​ ​editor​ ​and​ ​staff​ ​writer,​ ​is​ ​a​ ​sophomore​ ​studying​ ​Comparative​ ​Literature, Philosophy,​ ​and​ ​foreign​ ​languages.

Zachary​ ​Lewis​,​ ​editor,​ ​is​ ​a​ ​senior​ ​in​ ​the​ ​Department​ ​of​ ​Comparative​ ​Literature,​ ​with concentrations​ ​in​ ​sociology​ ​and​ ​Spanish​ ​language​ ​literature.​ ​His​ ​interests​ ​include​ ​20​th​​ ​century continental​ ​philosophy,​ ​political​ ​economy,​ ​post-boom​ ​Latin​ ​American​ ​literature,​ ​and​ ​Marxist theory.

Cover​ ​design​ ​is​ ​by​ ​Andrea​ ​Long​ ​Chu​,​ ​a​ ​Ph.D.​ ​candidate​ ​in​ ​Comparative​ ​Literature​ ​at​ ​NYU who​ ​works​ ​on​ ​gender,​ ​sex,​ ​bad​ ​politics,​ ​and​ ​all​ ​the​ ​feels.​ ​Her​ ​work​ ​has​ ​been​ ​published​ ​in Transgender​ ​Studies​ ​Quarterly​,​ ​Women​ ​&​ ​Performance​,​ ​and​ ​n+1​.

For​ ​more​ ​information​ ​on​ ​submissions​ ​and​ ​editorial​ ​positions,​ ​visit​ ​the​ ​NYU​ ​Comparative Literature​ ​website​ ​at​ ​http://complit.as.nyu.edu/object/complit.ug.brio​.​ ​Or​ ​email​ ​us​ ​at briojournal@gmail.com​.

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