Comma spring 2016

CONNOR MANNION/THE OBSERVER

10

The Comma

April 21, 2016 THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

Close Encounters of a New York Kind

By NICOLE NERUP

“Please! No! I want to! I see! No! Stop!”

A child-like wail interrupts the pleasant buzzing of leisurely shopping. I turn to see an old woman putting up an impressive fight against three security guards, who attempt to sit the woman down in a wheelchair. Her words are broken and unintelligible, but her panic is clear. In the struggle, the collection of elbows zig and zag like a cinematic rendering of Picasso’s Cubist phase. The woman, despite the degrading circumstances, is dignified in dress. As she clings to the arms of the wheelchair to hold herself up, her pantyhose and conservative heels peak out from underneath her velvet skirt and shirt set.

It’s Sunday. She must be dressed up in her Church best, yet I doubt this was the kind of blessing she intended to receive today.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the mecca of consumerism that is the Time Warner Building blind me from capturing the details of her face. But I’m glad I can’t fully grasp her features or her hands or her pain.

Anywhere else, such an event, steeped as it is in a heavenly glow, would seem a mirage, but in New York City, a woman’s public reveal of the darkest corners of her mental landscape is no deterrent from, say, the allure of the windows of Hugo Boss. Other loiterers peek up from their phones to stare at the scene. Some even walk closer.

Tourists glance up, down, and all around wondering, “Why did my guide tell me to visit this place? A) There is nothing exciting here, and B) this place is getting scary.”

Others burst inside from the revolving doors and rush by.

Maybe they are meeting someone important, or maybe they just really want their $9.99 Super Greens Juice from the Whole Foods below, or maybe they don’t want to see the ugliness. I give them the benefit of the doubt.

I was raised in the Midwest, and despite living in NYC for almost four years, I am still unfailingly polite. Actually— I take that back. I have publicly conveyed my frustrations to a couple of rude strangers. One cut me in line, and the other was practically breathing down my neck, non-verbally telling me to hurry up, at a self-checkout in CVS. It was all completely justified, right? Anyway, in this particular situation, I try to find the balance between staring (i.e. invading privacy) and ignoring her distress. I deem the most respectful response is to acknowledge the woman and move on. I pause and exit through the side doors away from the scene.

As I leave the building with its false sense of brightness and warmth, I confront the biting winter air, which quickly paints my cheeks pink. Like massive competing conductors, the skyscrapers orchestrate the swirling wind. It wooshes and whirls and whips my long brown hair in front of my face. I now look like a shrunken wookie wearing a beanie, but I can’t move it aside because my hands are full of grocery bags (yes, I am a hypocrite and shop at the Whole Foods I make fun of.

It is a sanctuary for a broccoli sprouts and medjool dates enthusiast like me. Whole Foods is like my sibling; I can make fun of it and love it all the same). The near-blinding effect of my hair and the uncharacteristically clear streets remove any ground level distraction. I am forced to think about the woman again. I know she will inevitably fall into a special file folder in my mind entitled “Odd and Unfortunate Encounters in NYC”—many of which I have misplaced and subsequently (and thankfully) can no longer recall. But now this faceless woman persists, and I can’t help thinking, “Man, if I stay here for 40 more years, that might be me.”

Luckily, the wind dies down, my hair settles, and a man walking his prancing Chihuahua is crossing the street opposite me. Tickled, I return to a recurring thought: “If I had a dog, life in New York City would be so much better.” Even though I am the person who, upon an invitation to come over, hangs out with the dog instead of the human, I am aware that this thought runs parallel to the hopeless idea that “If we had children, our marriage would be so much better.” A child or a dog does not fix a broken relationship. My partner, in this case New York City, will not change if I have a dog; it will only smell infinitesimally more like urine. And the false bandage, the poor dog, will never see a piece of grass that isn’t manicured.

New York is a slice of the world condensed and sped up. The prancing Chihuahua, politely picking up its feet, avoids the cold concrete that will be someone’s bed tonight. As I walk further along, a kiss and a “get the fuck away from me” are exchanged on the same corner. As I cross the street, my lungs are choked with the cigarette smoke of the person in front of me while my ears are drunk on the jazzy flair of a street saxophonist.

In New York, the paradoxes intrinsic to life are spit up on your face, and frantically I and the rest of New York seek a shield of ignorance—an ignorance that is easy to maintain in another place where the suits and the denim don’t hold the same handrails and a person isn’t a star in the morning and irrelevant by the evening. Those who look away from the panicked woman seek ignorance of her pain. But those who stare seek ignorance as well. They want to see this person as “crazy” and far-removed from themselves. Maybe my relationship with New York is the kind that is harmful but not for lack of love. I’m not sure.

And I’m not sure I want to wait forty years to find out.

LISA SPITERI/OBSERVER ARCHIVES

www.fordhamobserver.com

THE OBSERVER April 21, 2016

The Comma

11

Untitled

By EMILY SITNER-MEDVEDOVSKY

As he stares at his reflection in the murky fountain, The sound of a penny hitting the water creates a ripple amongst his glasses.

A little girl runs back to her mother, exclaiming, “Mommy, I wished that I would have ice cream for dinner!”

A faint smile dances around his lips, for he knows that if you articulate a wish aloud, it will not come true.

Because that’s what they said.

Eat your vegetables, they said. It’s good for you.

Drink your milk, they said. It will help build strong bones.

Do your homework, they demanded. Don’t you want do well in school?

Sit up straight. Pay attention. No talking in class. Pick up a sport. Practice harder on the piano. Do whatever necessary to ensure a good future, they said.

But then, that innocence that the little girl so fiercely breeds, was robbed.

They said, don’t tell your mother about this.

It’s taken care of.

You don’t need to cry.

Just focus on school.

But the screams got louder, the doors slammed harder, and strange things started happening during the night.

Whispers, echoes of past of resentment began to come alive.

And come alive it did.

Whispers strengthened to words Words blended into objects that fused with skin.

Skin blended into color, color that runs deep in roses but should never have come out from underneath.

He’s weak, they said.

But what they don’t know is, He’s not giving up.

He’s just giving in.

PAULA MADERO/THE OBSERVER

a portrait of a dancer on a Friday morning

By ELIZABETH SHEW

Infant rays of sunlight pierce through the slats in the blinds. It’s mostly dark when the alarm goes off. She rolls over. All five of her lumbar vertebrae attempt to grind against each other, eliciting a rapid-fire series of pops which reverberate up her spine. Her hand extends from beneath the blanket, groping blindly for her phone. Her elbow cracks.

A fingertip silences the alarm. She uncurls her hamstrings reluctantly, toes searching for the cold floor. Her left ankle wobbles beneath her weight and resolves itself with a sudden, vehement snap.

Contact lenses first, one bleary eye after the other. Hair swept into a neat bun, eyeliner, mascara, chapstick, earrings. Yogurt and fruit, hot tea, honey. A few careful stretches after the heating pad. She pulls on a black leotard and pink tights, the spandex clinging uncomfortably to every surface of her body, a second skin. To cover it up, she layers her limbs in jogger pants and zip-up hoodies, and slips her feet into hundred-dollar walking shoes, the firm soles cradling bruised arches. She tilts her pelvis sideways until her femurs crack in their hip sockets. She needs a song. Young the Giant. My body tells me no, but I won’t quit, ‘cause I want more. She takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Outside there’s sunshine and an errant breeze, taxis fighting with pedestrians, men in suits dodging five-year-old girls, and a pack of enthusiastic dogs. She navigates the crosswalks absentmindedly. Her joints warm to the ideas of weight and movement, momentum shifting the body through space.

But her calves curl rebelliously into her knees. By the time she arrives, her Achilles tendons have been pulled taught.

Bodies lie sprawled throughout the hallway outside the studio. The dancers press their limbs against the floor and the walls, using the weight of gravity to create spectacular shapes. Everyone’s hair is immaculate, flattened against the scalp with water or fresh hairspray. She closes her eyes and suspends herself parallel to the floor, abdominal muscles activating suddenly, like a douse of cold water. She slips her foot past her shoulder and tries to find the carpet with the back of her knee. Her hamstrings protest. She ignores them and holds her breath.

Seconds tick by. The hamstrings release in microscopic amounts, like raindrops sliding down a sticky windowpane. Slip. Slip. Slip. At last they loosen,

and she sinks into a deep split, the tiny muscles around her hip elongating like rubber bands. It’s uncomfortable. The body is tired.

The door bursts open without warning and plunges the hallway into chaos. Sweat-slicked men and women exit the studio in a rush, their leotards clinging to their bodies, carrying backpacks and shoes and armfuls of clothing. They pile into the elevator, heading for their next class. There is little chatter, but she trades a few sympathetic smiles with her friends. Then she collects her shoes, backpack, and water bottle, slings her coat over her shoulder, and enters the space. It’s muggy and smells like sweat. She finds a spot at the barre and piles her things into the corner where they won’t get stepped on. Then the layers come off, one after the other, until she stands spandex-clad before a wall of mirrors, ready to begin.

At first, it’s awful. Nothing responds when she asks it to. She bends her knees, but it feels like trying to do a set of squats at the gym, where there’s too much weight on the bar and it’s suddenly impossible to stand up. The leotard makes her claustrophobic. She feels stuffed into the scrap of clothing, like a woman wearing a child’s shirt. Her ankles ache and the muscles in her back are so tightly wound that it’s hard to turn her head. She does not feel delicate.

She does not feel beautiful, and she can’t possibly look graceful.

But then the piano takes a deep breath. A handful of notes spiral into the air, fireflies released into a summer night. The notes sink into her veins and fill the spaces between her red blood cells, crawling into her heart like poetry, like friendship, like a kiss that lingers before a good-bye. Her uneasiness melts into the floor. There is no time for uneasiness, she thinks, as her spine pops and her sternum arches toward the ceiling, her hand suspended above her head. The body cannot dance forever. She is lucky to have the floor beneath her feet and music in the air, her limbs whole and uninjured and capable. She has been given the chance to create meaning with movement. It is like staring at a waiting microphone on an empty stage, or at a black pen against blank paper. Her stiff ankles flex into wordless language, humbled. Later, there will be time for whining, for homework and a brunch date and a laugh over drinks with friends. But for now she bends her mind to the task before her, and with a breath, begins to dance.

BRIANNA GODSHALK/THE OBSERVER

14

The Comma

April 21, 2016 THE OBSERVER

SCIENTIST Our lords and saviors.

“Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

GENERAL Amen.

But you do realize I am death?

SCIENTIST Not necessarily.

SCIENTIST Dead?

GENERAL For our intents and purposes it is. Cut the smallest, destroy the biggest.

It’s rather poetic.

GENERAL No. Death.

You know, death incarnate.

Personified.

The grim reaper.

SCIENTIST Who says we aren’t artists?

GENERAL The way I see it, Science is the paint and war is the canvas.

SCIENTIST Yes, I love it!

War and Science are soliloquies, By themselves, But together, they create verse dialogue.

GENERAL Iambic pentameter or dactylic hexameter?

SCIENTIST Whatever Shakespeare wrote in.

I like to think we’re Romeo and Juliet.

GENERAL

SCIENTIST That is not possible.

GENERAL It is so doctor, I am death.

SCIENTIST No, there were more than two.

Seven billion in fact.

GENERAL Now you’re being pedantic.

SCIENTIST Perhaps.

GENERAL How about this?

You can be life, And I’ll be death?

That’s rather poetic.

SCIENTIST It is.

I like it.

But it must be dull after a while.

Life and death.

Life and death.

Life and death.

I am certainly not life.

Selection from Legacy

GENERAL Nuclear fusion is where we smash two atoms together and form a new one. Nothing is smaller than a atom and nothing is more powerful.

How about Jesus and J. Robert Oppenheimer?

By BENJAMIN STRATE

SCIENTIST The surface temperature of the sun is 5,778 degrees Kelvin. In Fahrenheit that’s 10,000 degrees, which is chilly compared to the 27 million inside the sun’s core.

www.fordhamobserver.com

GENERAL Want to be Jesus instead?

I can be Muhammad.

SCIENTIST Well, that can’t be….

GENERAL Don’t be absurd doctor.

SCIENTIST That’s just blasphemy, We don’t want to get him mad.

We’ve had enough judgement for one day.

SCIENTIST I am not.

GENERAL Has it only been a day?

GENERAL After all, there cannot be two deaths.

SCIENTIST Who knows?

What do we do now?

ZANA NAJJAR/OBSERVER ARCHIVES

wrap your arms around and pull me in, hand in the curve of my back, holds me in place, pressing firmly against my skin; that day the earth stopped turning. I couldn’t stop writing letters, you would never let me go.

By FRANCESCA ATON

Safe Zone

Think small, shove your body through the gap, our wrists press, pushing and pulling against. Dot the spaces I held dear, plan to mark them, add a line. Hold your breath and count infinitely, the number of times my heart skipped a beat looking into yours. Destination reached:

Walk out the door and find your way back in, again and again, I nestled myself deep down in your light blue eyes, as you thanked me, as if I had done you a favor, as if I would never stop being enough. You made me

feel vital, the epicenter of your world.

There’s not a moment I would miss. We giggle through the pauses, facing downward at our feet, but this isn’t a scavenger hunt.

It looked different, and so did you, it must be the shift in location. Point to the cuts and tell me when this will stop being enough. I fell for the overlap, dots of our collision, an old man staring me blankly in the face, the candle sticks mismatched. You’re building, adding on, forcing changes from the opposite direction, another time zone—throw up the yellow tape and proceed again. You’ll pretend I don’t exist tomorrow. Examine old receipts and papers to remind myself, the curve of your smile and that hand in my back, paint your name on paper, the faintest trace will do. She details your lives with color, I stand there absorbing the shock, breathing, unable to react to, with other than a smile. I pull together.

She found her way meandering through valleys and mountains build and I’m here waiting for you to approach.

SHERRY YUAN/OBSERVER ARCHIVES

www.fordhamobserver.com

THE OBSERVER April 21, 2016

The Comma

15

To My Child

By ISABELLE GARREAUD

I see the way you smile at the world when you think no one is looking. I see the way your eyes light up over the littlest things in life. I see the happiness that spreads across your face throughout the day for no reason. That is why I don’t have the heart to tell you. I don’t want to see your face become empty. I don’t want the spark in your eyes to go out, leaving you in the dark. You have to understand that I want to protect you forever. I see in you who I used to be, the person I couldn’t save. But I can save you and shield you from the troubles of this world. Please, keep the happiness you have glowing on you. Keep the fear, the anger, the despair locked away, even if it means housing it myself. Promise me, though, that you will keep on smiling, on loving, living even if they come out. It’s that glimmer of happiness, of innocence, of hope in your eyes that this world needs, what I need. No matter what happens, stay the person you are now. Even if the world shows you its true colors, you have the strength to keep on smiling.

I will protect you as long as I can because it is your hope and faith, your positivity that is keeping me alive.

Just Want To

By CAROLYN GUERRERO

I just want to cry; you make me just want to cry.

How can a person feel so many things so Deeply, and another have no clue of it?

Shouldn’t you be able to tell?

Shouldn’t you know?

I’m just saying. Why can’t you tell that I feel all of these things so Deeply for you? Or, Do you know? And if so, are you choosing to Ignore the feelings that you know exist within me.

Because if that’s true, then you are cruel. You are hurtful— you are so Perfect. In all the ways that you’re not, you Are. And that is the cause of the Deep feelings. And that is the cause of the Hurt. And that is the cause of the Cry. For not only do I want to cry— I Do. I cry imagining those words in a thousand scenarios. I cry imagining those words in one scenario.

I cry just thinking about you.

Why can’t you tell? Can you? Do you—?

Ignore it? If you do, and if you don’t, I just want to cry.

You make me just want to cry because for the first time I Feel you.

ANGELA LUIS/OBSERVER ARCHIVES

CONNOR MANNION/THE OBSERVER