Editor’s Letter And all this time, I’ve been staring at the minute hand. Oh what a crime that I can’t seem to understand that life is in the waiting. Kina Grannis, In the Waiting For the last year, loss and hope have grappled with each other, vying for our collective attention and seeking to define this era of human history. Loved ones taken, fundamental rights threatened, wars waged. Discoveries made, art created, legacies celebrated. Which one is it? Both? Neither? Searching for answers, meaning, community, stillness, motivation, and peace, we are suspended in time. But waiting is not time lost; life is in the waiting. We all know waiting by now: waiting for the end of a pandemic, or at least a way to live with it; waiting on a polyester loveseat for medical test results or a loved one’s status; waiting to feel competent as a healthcare provider; waiting to heal. Though it is tempting to turn away from clocks or dates circled in planners while we wait for a trying age to pass, we have found comfort in embracing the inevitability of time. This journal contains calendar pages as a reminder that you can count on the sun rising and the week being 7 days, even when nothing else is certain. We hope this edition of Murmurs brings you comfort too.
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An Odd Affect Anna Preston An “Odd Affect” She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t meet your eye. She is, as they say, a “poor historian.” The answers we do get come low and slowly, Stiff and halting as soldiers. No, no contractions. No, no bleeding. Yes, she’s had prenatal care. Yes. A pause. She feels safe at home. There is not much more to ask. A round form under a hospital sheet The trace of a tear on a cheek A tangent point on a circle that began years and years ago, and has been turning like a millstone ever since. She is vast and expansive as an ocean, Fathoms stretching below her opaque exterior, But we see only our reflections on the surface and shrug. Perhaps we know better than to look deeper. A swab of the ultrasound, A few more seconds of burdened silence. We tell ourselves we did what we could.
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The questions we could never ask dissipate from our minds, Unformed and unspoken, before they even take shape. We close the door on the sea.
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Frontline Andrea Sparr They are here fighting a war A war on our own land They show up every day to play this game called life Frontline workers take that stand They are the pieces, and work quickly to save lives But, With only one ventilator left Choices must be made Whether they move a space forward or two spaces back One way feels surely a mistake, and another life must pay Still, Those on the frontline still choose to show up And continue the game It is the only way
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Human Anatomy Anna Vignola This must be what God felt the day he made Eve, cracking his knuckles before grabbing the bone saw. I’m sure he already knew what they told us—careful not to cut too deep and remember the edges will be sharp. It takes a long time to dismantle a ribcage. But honestly, I can’t remember anything except her fingers resting in the bag, long and loosely hung, nails cherry red. Her hand— elegant and terrifyingly still beckoning me to come closer to tell me what it really feels like to be God, to name the unnamed things that hold us together, to remind me—cut too deep and you’ll ruin the heart.
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Little Node Erika Chang-Sing Little Node I cut up all my plants the other day. My hoya had just started to trail out of its pot. Miss Syngonium had a new leaf, still curled up like a cocoon. Mr. Nepenthes had the beginnings of a new pitcher. They were so beautiful. I could have left them alone to grow but I wanted to bring them home from school with me So I snip, snip, snipped and I wrapped their oozing nubs in moss and packed them away in my suitcase. Now they are here with me in California. They sit in water, trying to grow roots. I imagine they are asking themselves Didn’t I already do this? Meanwhile, I study for my board exam and ask myself Didn’t I already learn this? Shouldn’t I already know this? Part of me wants to believe I didn’t Because I don’t. It scares me how profoundly I forget As easily and completely as a scissor’s snip. I remember embryology the same way my plants 12
remember their old roots. These things that were once ours They are no help to us now. We will all just have to start over. Sometimes, people spend hundreds of dollars on little pieces of plant stem. These are called nodes. They are the shape and size of tootsie rolls. They have no leaves, just the little stem cells hidden away. People trust their ability to grow roots and leaves But they are paying only for potential. This scares and disturbs me. But it also comforts me For I am like a node. No roots yet No leaves yet I probably cannot detect your murmur. A fortune is riding on that to change. Maybe it’s a good investment. I hope so. We will all just have to wait.
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Cookie Wrapper Judy Li Wrapper crinkles in your palm. Sweetness bites with a crunch. Crumbs of a once whole, crumbly cookie. No longer round, but not shapeless, shape shifting. Sweetness lies in that bitter shift, the crumbling of a whole, of breakage, of loss impending. Gone, in an empty wrapper. But would you have preferred no cookie at all?
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The Gift Michael Flores I can’t remember what brought me here, or where my journey led, But I found myself along a dark road, and in my heart was dread. The road proved to be a treacherous one, With rocks and hills and paths undone. And as I peered long down the way, I could not see the light of day. With trepidation I watched my step and prayed that God my path might prep, But days turned months, and months years, and along the road many mists appeared. And what at the start was a pathway strait, Did turn to many roads, with many fates. And there from which came many paths, I stood and in my heart harbored a desire to do good. So, in my heart I cried, “my Father, Can in this darkness I dwell any longer? Is there no balm in Gilead?” And then came the voice,” fear not, My lad.” “Behold a gift I have given thee, for it was I who sent thee on this journey, and though at times it might seem dark, take heed not to look beyond the mark.
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Many paths there are, and decisions to make, but I, from you, the burden take. A glorious future have I prepared for you if My will you promise always to do.” Then with outstretched hand He beckoned me and pointed down a path I could not see, but as I took a hesitant step, into my vision another step leapt. A glorious gift! I said in surprise, and hope in my heart began to rise. But no sooner did the step appear, that again the path no longer was clear. So again, I stood on the path, blind, but this time the voice said, “look behind.” “Behold a gift I have given thee that lies as far as thou canst see.” And as I peered behind the way, a hand stretched out as clear as day, and taking it as a sign, I reached out and took his hand in mine. And from the darkness I could see a man who struggled as much as me, and from my heart gushed true delight to help a man with hands in plight.
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And as we turned to face the path which once was dark and full of wrath, the secret began to dawn on me of the gift that God had given me. So, with confidence I reached into the night, knowing that never would I have full sight, but knowing as I reached in front of me, there a hand for me would be. And thus, it has been along the road, to reach to one, then reach out for my own. For a great gift the Lord has given me, two hands to reach perpetually.
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Tweed Christina de Fontnouvelle When the rain came, Rushing down along the high grey concrete arches When the Uber pulled in and the vast doors slid apart Clacking wheeling clattering calm voices music He passed and sat in the third seat from the window Sleek brown hair cut longer to one side Black glasses rimmed with green A little dimple in his left ear And a limp in his knee (they took out the earring and patted him down when the detector rang, I waited for ten minutes as I heard him explain muffled from the room again, Again that he had had a knee replacement They doubted him at first) Dark pink shorts and a grey striped shirt A baby girl in his arms A ribbed grey mask but under it I imagined thin pale lips pursed tight He spoke fast on the phone in a mixture of English and some European tongue Tired is an understatement he said, I’m exhausted I’ve always wondered why I hardly ever hear That you are so awake So energized that you feel up to anything 24
I feel that way Sometimes He got up and bounced the baby onto his shoulder Walked pat-pat down the vast stretch of grey rug As the sky cleared and light filled that vaulted corridor I could not see the end As she slept he read a chemistry textbook then Japanese comics One bitten thumbnail stroking her pink bundle slowly back and forth until Calm loud ring echoed and voices music sounded through One of the first, he limped From rug to rug And faded around the corner As the ribbed snake-tube dipped down almost out of sight then He paused and turned right foot still in midstep (finally feeling my stare, sometimes I forget that people are not art and they can feel when you examine them) He nodded-frowned at me and I saw the wakened baby Had his same bright blue-ice eyes.
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Watershed Martha Kebeh You don’t know what anything is the experts of the human body coo at us, rank and file puffs of white lined up like smoke trails Everything in the lecture hall is new and shiny but sticker than I, eyes blazing, thought it’d be – conversations, transitions, articulation of anything beyond scientific fact published in some journal, prestigious in name and exclusivity The film on my tongue thickens, greasier with each self-introduction I pretend it’s no different from sticky summer evening air, the weather I once couldn’t stand. I can do sticky, I think, resisting picking at all the parts of medicine that don’t appeal though they itch like the scab-topped mounds of July’s mosquito bites I never liked July, middle of the summertime, stuck at home minding everything it fell to me to mind. While everyone seemed to be off on jet skis and rollercoasters I would count the rivulets of sweat dripping from behind my knees until the air was breathable again 28
I never liked those days made of paste, indistinguishable and impossible to escape until the night I jumped into a river full of muck, my own sweat washed away by the runoff of years gone by the mess of days I hadn’t lived In the lecture hall, I look for the faces of the ones who’ve jumped beside me, trading their labyrinths for submergence in new uncertainties splashing same as I That night, dodging the reeds grabbing at our calves and the debris hidden by the silt, we didn’t swim as much as tread water skimming over obstacles unfamiliar the earth called for us in time missing the warmth of the sun and our soles we walked then, flip flops slapping pavement – you. don’t. know. what. anything. is. Our eyes burning, we parted to our beds dreaming of filthy rivers
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the other side of the front line Aaron Phillips I wish that I could step across then maybe you could lean in, too but in my bed I turn and toss with chains that tie me to my sheets on days that I have off e-v-e-r-y day I leave my bed my toes reach out /to touch/ the ground it knew before the ground that once was home but now it is a place unknown how can I even trust? the walls that aim to keep me safe as the world turns into dust people won’t come near me understandably, I’m a danger I’m the only one who has to work directly with sick strangers they won’t ever dare to see the lines that pleat my dried out face so I’m covering my mirrors and hiding my disgrace my weathered feet are weaker now I’ve spent crying in the covers 32
I wonder if the wood will hurt I wonder, would it splinter? would my thinner body even stand up right in my own room can I make it ‘til the Winter? or would I fall like in the Spring when everything went numb the days of Summer may seem better some are proving worse I curse the ones that don’t believe I mourn the ones who never got the chance /to touch/ loved ones before they went and if I try, to forget /their words/ /their cries/ the way I felt /their fear/ /their lips/ trembling under makeshift masks they will haunt me in my sleep I’d force myself to become numb numbering the days I thought that all
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this hurting would be gone pretending I could feel one day hoping I could be wrong I wish that I could step across then maybe you could lean in, too to hear the fear under my words assuring you you’ll be okay then maybe then I will be, too
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Out of My Control Aaron Phillips a bomb goes off why don’t I shake? but deeper sink in the bath I lay I dip my ears below the tide the water rising to my eyes so I shut them from the world as well the swell wades over silent lips I listen just to hear it skip and as I put my whole head under I wonder how long that I can hold my breath I try and let my body numb it’s in the way you’re forced to calm I wouldn’t even think to shiver but shake, I did when a bomb went off vibrating with the tub I began to cry I’ve worked so hard and waited so long to not let the world affect me anymore but now I know letting it go will always be -out of my control
Loving with Long Covid Aaron Phillips I pull the covers over my bare shoulder a light glow enters the room telling me another battle begins you roll over and hug me tight embracing me for what’s to come I feel a tug at the foot of the bed if it were death, it isn’t dead but ferocious in its sadistic mindset of keeping its victims alive enough to wish it were the devil instead it starts at the base of your left foot and travels to your thigh grabs on to the muscles you ache to use to climb mountains like you once did even if they work today you’ve been conditioned to refuse I feel the shakes begin to start a stiffness touches on the back of my leg I pretend it’s just your morning excitement ready to spread me open and fill me up maybe your arm will move across my mouth to keep me from waking the birds still sleeping in the tree outside my window but the fantasy fades as the twitches begin I remember that our morning visitor doesn’t want a ménage à trois 40
it wants to cripple your neuromuscular system to prevent you from even thinking about touching me let alone making me submit to your morning rush of testosterone I feel it travel to your spine where it begins the process of deciding the path of destruction it will take today like an east-sider deciding the best way to travel to the westside of Los Angeles should it take the 101 South to irritate the sciatica you’ve developed as of late or numb the nerve endings of your back leg paresthesias causing you to dissociate stop by the 110 to cause spasms in your lower back then take the 10 through your chest while turning up the bass to its favorite song causing chest pain and palpitations all day long or maybe it will take the 101 North through the belly of the valley beeping at billboards for nausea and fatigue prompting you to roll over to prolong your rest then jump on the 405 so that it can spread through your lymph paining your armpits and trick you into thinking you are sick when it reaches your head and makes home in your skull it lives like rich Brentwood moms hippies on bad trips in Venice and morning marine layers over Malibu 42
headaches that ibuprofen won’t cure hallucinations of the daunting future brain fog covering coastal mountains of working memory reminding us there’s a reason we don’t live there I wait until you wake we wait until this passes but two years with no answers depresses our chances we keep our hopes high that it will end on its own but until then we wait for doctors and insurances to open their eyes to see that millions are still struggling without proper testing without a diagnosis without any real effort for a cure so we will curl up in bed and wait for long Covid to cripple the world.
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Hansel and Gretel Aaron Phillips before we rush skip the line or try to be the leader or even run away to places that we can feel freer I never thought I’d leave but I guess I’ll never stay to look at you or grab your arm when you turn the other way too good for you too bad for me or maybe that’s reversed for I what I know but never how this all became to be are we still left in the wreckage or is salvation yet to come will it only worsen as these traumas come and go in waves when kids rush gates and die at shows because we couldn’t wait before we rush to skip the line or aim to be the leader I beg that you go carefully and trace your steps behind because we will be back again and I’ll remember mine.
My Name: In Lights Mariko Rooks Every poem starts with a text from my mother: ‘you still write in passive voice. I’m glad to see college hasn’t beaten the Japanese out of you.’ Mom, I remember my Japanese Or at least my non-english every time someone says my name. You made it so I could never forget three-fourths of where I came from as if my slanted eyes and brown skin weren’t evidence enough, there is no hiding behind resumés or nametags not with teachers’ tongues tripping over every school attendance list. My mangled syllables uttered in the waiting room of a doctor’s office always draw eyes to me like a crime scene because no one can stop looking at colonizer tongues splayed across the void of the white waiting room, coating the sanitized polychrome seats with the split wreckage of short vowels and rolled r’s, even though I am the one being assaulted, somehow I become the criminal instead of the victim. 48
A few blocks away, my name is hung like a hunting trophy from an IMAX-size screen. Smeared across neon billboards in bold katakana letters that even I can read with my fourth generation eyes, my character(s) make uncredited appearances in the the backdrop of a Tokyo future, carcasses drifting, drifting, drifting. The kill was fast, and I am furious because every time I gather memories covered in barbed wire and desert skies I remember that in my father’s history textbook there was one line about the camps. Today we’ve been upgraded to a page and a picture, but Those small hands grasping barbed wire barely scratch the surface of babies drowning in oily water, their blood dripping on Indigenous land. Mothers are so frightened of birthing their children in this post-apocalyptic wasteland that they hold their offspring deep inside their bellies until their insides are sliced open. There are no pictures of these children in my textbooks, just the multimillion movies of my dystopia, making reparations a drop in this golden sea of silence. All I can think is: 50
How can we exist in your future if we don’t exist in your past? You know, we can start taking hostages again like tule lake in ‘44 since you like that kind of action. I already take a hostage every time I force someone to say my name and I am already taken hostage every time my name is said. Every time, there are no survivors. I heard that in the future, we won’t have to be our own heroes anymore. That we will have had five lifetimes to rest, to knit together our voices raw and scratched from bleeding our own stories. That someday this pain will become the poetry you sing to your child as they sleep. Another lullaby: In English, my name means true home. Every time I hear it, that is exactly where it brings me.
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Neon Tetra Fish Negro Mariko Rooks I sink until I hit concrete. In this world of floating hair and weightless limbs I can feel every drop of water that flows over my scalp and through my almost Black curls. The only sounds that survive my descent are the bubbles of each exhale. Black people drown at a rate 1.4x higher than white people which means that the number of Emmett Tills dragged from a river is unequivocally proportional to the number of city planners who kept municipal pools out of Black neighborhoods, is unconditionally derived from the number of slaves who tried to sprint like Ahmaud over the sides of wooden ships when we didn’t even have the right to drown. (According to some white liberals, this recent change in drowning rights means that racism doesn’t exist anymore). When it comes to most pools and police forces, the water looks blue but the walls are painted white. When it comes to most pools and protests, chlorine and tears evaporate into the sky. If you multiply (1) illegal arrest warrant for Breonna 54
Taylor by (1) Black woman ever on the US Olympic water polo team you get 7,666 dead Black bodies since I first picked up a ball in the pool and I still can’t count how many times I’ve had a white girl’s hand on my neck playing this sport. They say that water has memory, that the very structure of each molecule will recognize what once called it home even after we have long evaporated into dew. As I hit the bottom of another pool, I remember: (1) The water that is 70% fear: the warm, thick sludge drowning your gut into ashes whenever you see a flash of red (white) and blue sirens (the gut also remembers) the pale fluid drowning tiny unborn Black lungs as another Black mother is denied a C-section, (even before birth, we are prevented from breathing) the sour spit drowning my throat when a blonde-haired girl lands the hard “r” at the end of n-i-g-g-e ...as a joke, of course. (2) The water that is 25% inheritance: the soft African coastlines where my ancestors 56
dove for pearls shipwrecked beneath the waves the sweat as we jump in a crowded basement proof that our hearts, for now, are still beating the tears in my father’s eyes when he holds us for the first time tufts of soft hair curved into his cheeks with love. (3) 100% of myself. Every time I claim this water, this birthright denied to my ancestors chained at the bottom of bathtubs and oceans alike, Every time my split pieces are hit with the warmth of yellow California sun, melanin returns home to my skin I return home to my skin Rise like Aphrodite, no longer Venus in Two Acts from the sandy waves, when the water cycles me back when I am reborn from these waves when the Blackness I carry is made flesh. And suddenly, all these revelations have replaced all of the air in my lungs, so I shoot to the surface salt on my lips like a prayer inhale like George Breona Tony Ahmaud 58
Emmett Grandaddy never will again float on my back to look into the sun’s starlight The sky is so beautiful today I think I wonder how many of my tears have been reborn into these clouds.
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Letters to Myself Mariko Rooks Dear M, 03/14/2020 It is 6:45 am, and I am walking past the water. The mist off the shore pools in my fingers and echoes between my eyes. You left me another message last night. I’m sorry you’re unable to return back to school, and I hope you get your stuff back from the dorms. What can I give the roughness of your voice, the anger in your throat? In 1348, Venitian ships were first barred from reaching shore. Waves continued to crash against the docks, falling and rising against the tide. Maybe right now you can pretend to be a ship. After all, the Venice canals are as clean as they’ve been since 1348 anyways. Dear M, 05/03/2020 It is 6:45 am, and my tennis shoes are slapping across the asphalt, a seminar buzzing in my headphones and the taste of morning in my lungs. What can I give your wired open eyes, untouched by sleep for days? Speaking of ships: in 1525, Black bodies with grey lips and red eyes were chained to ship decks so lead and mercury could be forced down their lungs. Metal masks were welded over their faces as if that would stop the rotting caused by the stink of bodies in the bowels. All our ancestors did was fight to rip themselves free, even if it meant launching their bodies overboard. If rich people in Huntington Beach rip off their masks in protest of a “fake disease,” is this just 21st century minstrelsy? Let me know.
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Dear M, 06/13/2020 It is 6:45 am, and I’m stopping at the crest of a hill. My fingers are weighed down by tiny screens holding new bodies. You mentioned that your arms have been made light by unanswered touches. All I can give you is that in 1900, they called our braids rat tails. Subways weren’t the first time disease was beaten into Asian bodies; after all, everything Asian is always going viral. At this point, I’m wondering how safe we’re ever going to be. It used to be that being Asian protected us from our Blackness, but now it seems like we’re in a no-win situation here. (P.S. Speaking of which, you’re totally right about the Blackface). Dear M, 08/19/2020 Our bodies have always been dying of causes written into the scars in our backs and the slants of our eyes. Now, they are just dying faster because white people are dying too. I might need to take a break from writing these, the speed of all this is nauseating. Dear M, 03/14/2021 It is 6:45 am. We keep walking the same path every morning, and every morning, the path is not the same. I cannot promise you we will be okay. All I can give you is that if we know this is not the beginning, we know this is not the end. Sincerely, Me
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11/02/2015 After Visit Summary 19-y.o. female cc depression Patient is a 19-year-old female with a lot going on. She has been unhappy since age 11. I didn’t smile for almost a year, at least not without forcing it. Middle school is hard. I was a mostly happy child, why did that have to change? Too scared to cut myself with a knife, well except that once, so I dug my fingernails in until I bled. Reminds me that I am alive. Her hair is falling out. She is not sleeping. Her nails are thinning. She stopped going to the gym. She is forcing herself to eat and drink. She feels dependent on people. Her best friend is worried about her. She feels that she is draining to be around. She is losing her sense of self. Spiraling down. Spiraling inward. The world gets a bit wobbly, unfocused, far away. It eventually comes crashing in, everything condensing on the focal point of myself. So self-absorbed, self-involved. I’m even tired of being around me. She notes very brief spells where she is more excitable and happy. This makes her feel uncomfortable, and then she gets anxious. She otherwise denies manic or hypomanic symptoms. Spiraling up. Still an inward spiral, but this time laden with euphoria, agitation even. Heart racing, uncontrollably laughing. Seems to happen on Monday evenings for God knows what reason. But the center cannot hold. It’s such a transient state. It has to implode, the spiral must 66
come down. Not enough energy to sustain. To complicate matters, she has been using alcohol about once per week. I drink always. How else to stand being around people, especially myself ? I’ve had a strong desire to escape sobriety since middle school, when we would sniff hand sanitizer in youthful hopes of getting high. She notes in the past she has been in situations where she felt uncomfortable with another person when they became physically intimate. She questions whether this was abusive. Just lay there. Stare at the wall. Don’t let them see you cry. Bite the sheets if you have to, don’t let them hear your screams. You know you aren’t hiding it well. Don’t say no. You tried that once. Shouldn’t they be able to tell you don’t want to be here? But then why do you keep coming back? She notes growing up she didn’t especially feel close to her parents, she said she often closed them out. She had a difficult relationship with her father. She notes he can be very opinionated. Stop bitching so much. You think you can just come to my house and tell me how to think? You go off to college and get all these ideas, you don’t know anything, you haven’t seen the real world. I see the real world. You fuck-up child, just going to be a drunken liberal slut. Judgment normal. Her speech is delayed. She is slowed and withdrawn. She exhibits a depressed mood. She expresses no homicidal and no suicidal ideation.
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I never look when crossing the street. Hope I get lucky and find a way out of this. What buildings around here are tall enough? No, I don’t want people to see me like this, to know I’m like this. Needs to be an accident. I try to ask to be admitted—I know I’m not safe—but I don’t know the words. They tell me I’ll be okay. I don’t believe them. The patient reports starting to feel better. Her moods are improving. Interest and motivation are coming back. I make it through. Smile sometimes. Don’t look back, at least not too closely. Keep moving forward.
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Weight Limit Matthew Chiang DEC 2019 I’m thinking about the towel rack, you message me. I’m afraid it’ll break. I smile, despite my shock. I remember you once grabbed your thigh with your right hand and then added your left and exclaimed you would still need another hand and a half to fully wrap around these tree stumps! Again, you fear your weight might be too much–not for your Mother or some dude, but for the towel rack. In your absence, I replay this moment again and again. And again, I think about the morning after I arrived in Beijing. You praised the air for being clean and I nodded along quietly, unable to understand the air as anything apart from the beautiful blue rushing through the taxi window. We arrived at Ikea and I put sky blue bed sheets and a succulent into my cart before rushing through the final showrooms to match your excitement for Swedish meatballs. The dining area was people mountain, people sea, or being new to China, what I thought completely packed looked like. I spilled some coffee first on the tray and then the floor as I sidestepped through the overflowing tangle of bodies you cut across in an instant. It is not until I finally cram into a seat between two strangers that I realize my mind’s mistake–I realize you were never there. I’m sorry about last week, you messaged me. I’m so sorry you had to see that. My doctor said it was probably the meds, you say. I don’t really want to die. 72
Not like that. Don’t worry, I say. I had called you when the teacher did not know what to say. After I abruptly stood up in the middle of class–breath frozen–feet glued to the floor. I did not know what to say either, but called you because all I wanted was to speak English; I called you, because in a country of 1.3 billion people, you were the only one I knew. We went to the mall. We went to Uniqlo. You don’t quite remember, but it is all I know for sure. I’m sorry sometimes you would tell me something and I would not know what to say. I’m sorry about your email to the Harvard professor. I’m sorry his post-doc was overly ambitious. I’m sorry his post-doc was a creep. I’m sorry the professor wished you had just told him when it happened; that not enough had happened! I’m sorry I thought the professor did the best he could. I’m sorry Harvard did too. Don’t worry, I think. You’re okay. I think about the first time we met. I think about the burning of marshmallows on Thanksgiving. About how the sweet potatoes beneath them still tasted delightfully cold. I think about the faded glow of cake and the candles that casted our goodbyes onto the 7th-story window the night our program ended. I’m sorry we did not speak for eight months after I left. I’m sorry it was because my partner hated you. I’m sorry it was because we went to that Rhye concert and now his songs make me speak of you. I’m sorry that when we did reconnect, it was because she had left. I’m sorry you called her a bitch. I should have reached out before. 74
DEC 2020 There’s a small hill near McGill that I have never seen. That you used to run up to catch the sunrise. That you used to run up to escape the college bullshit. That you one day brought a boy to and then never went back. I think about the sun a lot when I run. About how when it rises above me, it sets where I think you are. I think about the stories you told me and about how–eventually–you did go back. I think about how running sucks. I remember when Jinlong, jogging beside you, explained the tattoo on his right ankle. It bore the Chinese character for loyalty. He said it represented a tradition among Chinese soldiers before their first deployment. He then showed you a second character for loyalty. This one on his left ankle. It signaled a completion: an honor reserved for soldiers killed in action, or, in Jinlong’s case, for men wielding an absolute willingness to die. I try to remember some of the dudes that would come over to our apartment and how Sam was an asshole and Anthony was a loser and how all of them were surprised that us saying we were housemates was not some sort of euphemism. I tell myself that they were not all bad. That there exists more to love than a warm body. I remember when you caught me pinching my stomach in front of the hallway mirror. You told me I was beautiful and for a second I believed it. In the months and now two-plus years since leaving Beijing, I started to puke up some of my food again. My therapist tries to correct me, but then I remember the bread you would bring home for me and that I would rarely eat more than a couple 76
bites and that eventually you would finish whatever I had left and that now there are at least three Paris Baguettes–the same chain–just in Manhattan, but that the bread I buy always tastes a day too stale. DEC 2021 I said I would do it, but I could not. I sat with the small paragraph I had copied and pasted into Facebook and told myself over and over to hit send. I could not and now your brother will never receive my exploratory message trying to break the 23-month-long silence since you told me you did not want to die. I think about Nina’s birthday party. You were so happy after coming home. I had not cared to ask why, but imagine it must have been a relief to finally be amongst a group of womxn that did not care if your eyeliner was uneven or that you ran out of blush or that you once dressed up as Hermione for Halloween, but that because your dark hair only dyed orange and your boyish frame, everyone called you Ron. You were so happy to belong to a group that did not care whose feelings they hurt with whom they did not invite. That asked you to come because they liked the jokes you told and the way your dimples deepened when you shared them. Ariana said that God is a woman and we love Ariana. You do not believe in God because your mother does. Sometimes, I would see you praying. I didn’t quite get it, but you taught me that real and fake were imaginary concepts when we visited the Temple of Heaven. That the value of the objects around us came from the stories they reflected and 78
that the fragmented ones you unearthed on your archeological digs were rehidden while replicas– always more beautiful–were displayed instead. You taught me the key to real nonfiction was to condense, to simplify, to believe until a narrative could be reached and then expanded and multiplied into something purer than fiction, so when you told me you would apply to Stanford, I applied too. I so badly wanted to call you when they offered me an interview. I thought back to Ikea and how you were always a step ahead and how you always stopped to wait and how you always helped to translate the menu and how you always ordered the tastiest food and how I could never accept this interview. I look back at your last message, sent almost two years ago. Don’t worry, you told me, but I keep worrying–keep worrying about myself. I keep worrying about everyone that failed you. I pray one day you will ask me about when you thought about the towel rack. I pray I won’t quite remember.
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Excerpt from Ladies’ Perfume and Airbag Dust Greg Shields We both knew this was going to be a bad one. The chaotic strobe of red and white emergency lights flashing out-of-sync with each other along the shoulder of the road could have been a scene from Clark Griswold’s Christmas Nightmare if such a film existed. As I brought the ambulance to a stop between two fire engines, I could see the path of wreckage the SUV had created when it left the road and rolled multiple times down an embankment toward the river. The first emotion I felt was anger—at this ridiculously bad stroke of luck. Derek and I rarely ever responded this far north on Piper Avenue because it was out of our normal district. We had been on post to cover for Medic 63 while they were cleaning up their unit after a stabbing. Another ten minutes and this would have been their problem. Dispatch had alerted us during response that there would be two patients. One had been ejected, the other still in the vehicle. Derek and I stepped out of our ambulance and took a moment to size up the scene. Looking from the roadside down the embankment, there were two huddles of firemen clad in turnout gear. One huddle about half way down, the other all the way down by the vehicle. These huddles either indicated where our patients were located, or that the Fire Department had chosen a horribly inappropriate time for pick-up game of football. My off-beat sense of humor allowed a chuckle to escape me while considering the hilarity of scenario B. “Something about this funny to you?” Derek 82
quipped. “Nope, let’s get this over with,” I replied. Derek pointed towards the first huddle, “I got the ejection, you take the one in the car” and gave me a quick double pat on the shoulder. “Oh, great plan, pal, thanks a lot” I said with a hefty dose of sarcasm knowing full well Derek had picked the easier-to-access patient for himself. “Quit whining,” Derek said already on his way down. “Don’t fall on that hill and bust a hip, old timer!” I fired back. I wasn’t always so jaded; it’s a quality that took me years to acquire. I was in the tenth year of my career as a paramedic, and many of the calls I once saw as thrill rides had become simply work. Derek had been in much longer than me. He was one of the few medics still beating the streets after twenty years. By that point, most have either made their way into a management role, or moved on to something else entirely. Somewhere in the middle, there was me. There were days when I still loved it. However, another part of me pondered if this career was a means or the end. I stumbled into this profession on a whim as a young twenty-one-year-old just trying to figure out who I was and where I was going. All these years later, I suppose you could say I’m still searching, but after this incident, I had more answers than I started with. With no one left to gripe to, I shouldered my jump bag and started the descent to the vehicle, mostly following the path of folded brush and weeds it had made on its way down. The earth was soft and 84
soupy from recent rainfall. “So much for new boots,” I said to nobody. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Derek’s patient as I passed their huddle on the hillside; young female, probably early twenties, pretty. She was lying on her back, awake and talking, one thigh swollen up about twice the size of the other. Femur Fracture, I thought. Of course, you would get the patient with a textbook leg fracture while mine down here is probably torn all to pieces. With great caution I negotiated the final treacherous steps of the descent until my mud-caked boots touched down on the smooth, rocky sand of the river bank. It was there that I got my first good look at the twisted, smoking heap of metal and fiberglass that had once been an SUV. It was wheel-side up, and the damage pattern was consistent with the trail of destruction I’d followed down from the road. The only reason it hadn’t already plunged to watery grave was a thin cedar tree about eight feet from edge of the river. Firefighters had wedged sections of wooden four by fours, also known as cribbing, in the gaps between the vehicle and the ground in attempt to prevent it from rolling forward any further. However, this muddy, uneven swathe of terrain had created challenges with finding sufficient angles to anchor the vehicle to anything solid. I was met by Captain Tim Eubanks from City Fire, who had broken from the huddle to come out and brief me while I threw on my turnout coat and helmet. Tim and I went way back; he worked a stint as a medic before switching careers into firefighting about five years earlier. “Evan, it’s bad. There’s a female patient still in the vehicle. She’s just hanging there by the seatbelt 86
and she’s not moving. I can’t tell if she’s breathing. It doesn’t look good. We need you to make the call.” I just nodded understandingly and switched on the lamp on my helmet. “Oh, and Evan, be quick. We’ve cribbed it as best we can, but that tree is still supporting more weight than it needs to be. We’re working on getting some more stabilization down here.” I just nodded again and dropped to my stomach. In order to reach her, I had to crawl in through the upside-down driver’s window on my elbows. As I inched myself through the frame, an easterly breeze whipped through the SUV’s shattered windows stirring up the ever-haunting scent of ladies’ perfume and airbag dust. The sweet, acrid mix made my stomach churn. Once my body was half in and half out of the vehicle, I aimed the beam of my headlamp towards the passenger seat. My heart instantly plummeted. Hanging upside down in front of me was the face of a young woman, probably no older than twenty-two. Her make-up was fresh, and despite the dark swells of blood beginning to accumulate in both eye sockets, I could tell she was a very pretty girl. A waterfall of dark brown hair cascaded from the top of her head, gently swaying as her suspended body slowly teetered back and forth from the lap belt. A blood-stained heart pendant had been around her neck. Helpless against gravity, it now dangled over the side of her chin. Her arms hung limply as if she were a sleeping child being carried to her bed by her father. Continue reading on yalemurmurs.squarespace.com
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scaries Madee Ehrenberg Do you feel like yourself ? I don’t think I do. Tonight during a suggested-donation yoga class I lost an entire toenail, which turned gray last month, and said Oh. Then I stood up—or did I fold over?— too quickly and blacked out for a second. Relief, disorientation when I assured myself that I had come through skull-intact. I wonder if that’s what it feels like being born. I don’t know it’s cold until I round the corner. My lip split. Everything I eat is cold and tastes like lentils. I’m not sure what day it is or when I ran errands or how to write an email. The only memories at full resolution are the bad ones, and also this dream I had about people in a frozen yogurt shop singing I’m On Fire. Freshman year when I couldn’t feel my body so I wanted to dye my hair to see if it was still there, attached to my head, but I was too scared to go outside or spend money in my neighborhood so I went to the beauty supply store at 72nd to buy bleach and toner. Junior year when I was nervous, shrunken, overextended and I was heaving at 2 am alone in a big t-shirt listening to the couple next door have sex so I ordered French fries with an expensive water to hit the delivery minimum and heard Madee? behind me when I went to pick them up and my friend Jake, leaving a booty call, was like What are you doing? so I laughed because words wouldn’t come out and when I got back to my room a lightbulb shattered so I left the broken glass on the floor and cowered in bed, cold and nowhere near this earth. December 90
when I yelled at my puppy to Go away so I could mop up his liquefied shit at 5 am and he looked at me as if to say I’m trying my best, am I still in trouble? One, two, skip a few. How bad my jeans looked when they fit too loose. How bad my jeans felt when they fit too tight. Dates off the tree with the shades closed in Nazareth. Ninety-nine, one hundred. I wish I knew what it felt like being born. Did you know my old lady dog gets vertigo? Did you know I had pneumonia? Did you know moose can run a few days after being born? Well. People feel hard to reach until you see this: you’re just finding it hard to do the reaching. Or, rather. People don’t change but entropy makes up the difference. See here. Today the call dropped and I pocketed my limp fist and panted and sat down on cold concrete, wondering how I’d gotten to my old crying spot. Listen. I forget who my friends are, but not in a loyalty way, I just don’t think I could name them if you asked. Reach. I can’t see at night and I can’t remember how I organized my books last month. Press and hold. I’m petrified of death, doing nothing, sitting still. Being un-self. Getting unfamiliar-looking and slow. Never being born. Leaving the house without my watch and ring. Thinking of words and forgetting them. God forbid this table should fall over. Three candles, two Novelty shot glasses, eighteen roses on the ground. $17.04 which I counted tonight. One tiny poodle tooth (truthfully disappeared months ago). A toenail, disembodied, like me.
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The Children’s Unit Olivia Dixon Herrington The 7-year-old shouts, “I’m not a child!” She wants to do away with our notions of innocence. She has managed to fold herself almost into a ball on the Community Room couch, all four limbs pressed against her torso. But she is hoping to be home for Christmas. And she’s proud of the sparkly pink decals on her shirt, the neon pink ponytail holder holding back her dark curls. More pink for the nose of the walrus she’s coloring. She presses her colored pencils down hard onto her paper, their tips kept fastidiously within the lines of the animal’s outline. She adds black for the “leathery skin” we’ve just learned all walruses possess. “I take my time,” she tells me.
Four years old and feather-light, he is doing gymnastics on the arm of the couch. “Where’d you learn to do that?” He shrugs. He’s a humble one: in class a few minutes later, his feet in the desk chair a full foot above the ground, he wants to know what will happen if he can’t read. Assuring him it’s not a problem, I tell him, “We’ll read for you.” He claims not to recognize even letters, but I suspect he’s underestimating himself. And so I ask how he spells his name. The shift away from the teacher’s repeated syntax of “Do you know this? Do you know that?” (to which he can respond so easily, 94
“No. No.”) is enough to convince him to reveal his knowledge. Turns out he can spell his name confidently, can identify its letters on a page, can raise his hands and participate with the bigger kids. He overhears one of the counselors mentioning elephants to one of the older children and turns to me: “You’re an elephant.” Oh. These 22 years, I thought I was human. He quietly trades highlighters, pencils, and tips on completing a maze worksheet with an older boy, a child of 10. This boy has become attached to his pencil, even protective of it. “I think I need to sharpen it,” he tells me, every few minutes. “I think it’s all right,” I respond. He agrees, then adds, “But will you let me know when it starts to get shorter?” “I’ll let you know,” I promise. He wishes he could take this favorite pencil back to his room. But he leaves it behind without fuss when class is over.
If I could, I’d heal her. Wouldn’t we all. Her laughter, her jealousy of my warm hands (hers are frigid), her commitment to her beautiful poetry. Her scars, her self-described “brokenness,” the way her arm still bleeds and itches as it heals.
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The Doorstep Shiliu Wang Nursing School, 2nd semester. What I am thinking while waiting on a doorstep in sub-zero weather: I’m thinking about the lub dub of my miraculous heart, pumping between four and six liters of blood per minute, perfusing the farthest corners of my body with oxygen and nutrients, keeping me alive, sustained, warm. I’m thinking about my brain. The countless decisions it makes in a split second, triggering the intrinsic ancient responses to breathe, sense, smell, act. How it sends lighting-like signals down axons to my spine, innervating the next set of neurons that instruct my body to shiver and generate heat. I’m thinking about how cold I am right now. How stress, both physical and emotional, trigger the sympathetic nervous system to release not only catecholamines, but a surge of sugar. How this sugar, if sustained for long periods of time at such high levels, corrodes the inner lining of blood vessels, increasing viscosity, driving up blood pressure and slowing wound healing. I flip through the papers attached to my clipboard – rental assistance forms, information about the latest eviction moratorium, flyers for an upcoming “tenant talk” – to find the name of the person whose door I just knocked on. Jamie. I’m thinking about how racism constantly triggers the sympathetic nervous system. That to live as a person of color in this world, especially as a Black or brown person, means existing in a never-ending 98
state of stress-induced high blood sugar coursing through the blood vessels, wearing away at the body. I’m thinking about my friend Cindy, whose husband has been shuttled between three ICE detention centers over the last year. I hear the fear rising in her voice when she calls me, trying to figure out where they moved him yet again. Asking me to translate a court document from English into Mandarin. Asking me how soon they’ll release him, if they’ll ever release him. I’m thinking about the constancy of the stress and anguish that pulls on her. The pounding levels of cortisol, adrenaline, glucose in her bloodstream. The way her body is slowly metabolizing the entrenched racism and xenophobia of this country into toxic substances. I’m thinking about asthma as I inhale fumes of exhaust from cars speeding down the street, making a sharp turn onto the highway next door. I cough, thinking about the chronic constriction and inflammation of the airways, making it hard to breathe. I’m thinking about how the data shows that dense, urban areas with large BIPOC communities, like New Haven, still contending with the legacies of racial segregation, police violence and active disinvestment endure the highest rates of asthma in the country – and unsurprisingly, are the most brutalized by COVID-19. Poor Black and brown communities, because of racist zoning policies and gentrification, are 75 percent more likely to live near and breathe in the putrid air of industrial plants, service facilities, landfills, highways.
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I’m thinking about how intersecting systems of oppression force poor people, in the richest country in the world, to make unconscionably constrained choices: Do I pay rent or do I pay for my insulin? Do I eat, or do I put gas in my car? Do I go to my doctor’s appointment, or do I go to work? I’m thinking about how growing up in a low-income immigrant household riddled with interpersonal conflict, service industry jobs and mental health issues meant my own family faced many of these constrained choices. I knock again, the late afternoon sunlight casting my silhouette against the door. I silently rehearse what I will say if Jamie answers. “Hi, I’m with a local community group supporting residents who are facing evictions right now. Do you have a minute to talk about your eviction case?” Someone turns on a light in the front hall. I’m thinking about why I am standing outside a complete stranger’s apartment, waiting to ask them if they would like to be connected to legal aid and rental assistance programs. I’m thinking about the teachers, friends, community members and texts that helped shape my critical consciousness and taught me that it is my responsibility to speak out in the face of injustices; that all of our liberation is bound together. I’m thinking about how sick our society has to be to evict people in the middle of winter, in the middle of a pandemic. I’m thinking about why we live in such a sick society. I’m thinking about how we have been taught in nursing school that in order to understand how to provide effective care, we need to understand what the pathophysiology is. In order to understand what 102
is abnormal, we first need to understand what is normal. I’m thinking about the institutions and forces that get to decide what is normal and abnormal. Who is normal and who is abnormal. I’m thinking about how this idea of normalcy creates false binaries that lead some bodies to be more valued and some bodies to be expendable. I’m thinking about how all bodies that are not white, cis, thin and able-bodied are considered deviant in our white supremacist world. I’m thinking about the countless times my queer, Asian American non-binary body has been misgendered, questioned, stared at. I’m feeling both how devastating it is, but also how awesome that the deviant bodies and identities—who fight to be recognized as human—have also always found ways to celebrate, express, exalt in being so exquisitely alive, despite it all. I’m thinking about how imperative it is that healthcare providers see themselves as organizers, activists, agitators. About what it would feel like to have instructors who modeled this for students and made it a priority to teach how organizing and activism are necessary medicines to supporting patients and providing competent care. How if, alongside learning about how to treat patients’ disease processes, we were also taught how to diagnose and treat societal diseases like racism, fatphobia and poverty. I’m thinking about why our nursing education does not center health justice and teach us how to critically engage with the deeply paternalistic and profit-driven foundations of our sick-care system. Why does it not teach us how to fight tooth and 104
nail for a world where everyone has a roof over their heads, can earn a living wage, can live safe from police violence, can breathe clean air and drink clean water, can express ourselves freely no matter size, shape, color, desire. I hear steps approaching the door, and a face peers through the curtain. I can’t feel my fingers gripping the pen and clipboard. But I can feel the wisdom, brilliance and resilience of communities of color, of my queer and trans ancestors who have been surviving and thriving at the margins of society, leading us towards a more liberated and just future. I can feel into my future role as a nurse practitioner and that my commitment to care for others means refuting and refusing our current reality and all the forces that shape it: capitalism, white supremacist heteropatriarchy, anti-blackness, militarization, nation statehood, neoliberalism and more. I can feel how caring for others means fighting to abolish prisons, police and borders. It means de-colonizing our desires and minds and seeing the inherent value in each and every one of us. It means imagining and manifesting communities and societies predicated on deep interdependence, self-determination, care for ourselves, one other and our environment. I know deep in my being that to truly fight for better health for all means making seismic paradigm shifts in understanding what it means to be human. The door opens and we begin.
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The Stalker Stephen Ghazikhanian Thrashing underneath her blankets, Anastasia could not escape. Her pelvis was locked, but her legs were carrying her faster than they had ever carried her before. Jumping over branches and logs, all she could manage to see was her breath turning into mist. Darkness and trees surrounded her and she did not know where she was running. It didn’t matter. She just needed to get away. She shuffled onto her left side and nuzzled her face into the pillow. Her right foot missed a large rock. She tumbled across the leaves, her curled locks picking up debris. Before she could even brush her hair out of her face, he was on top of her. Dressed all in black, from his gloves to his ski mask to the wool socks rising above his black Avia sneakers, he pressed his full weight onto her abdomen. She was scared, her chest rapidly and irregularly flailing with each panicked breath, but she stared straight at him. She was desperately scanning for something in his eyes, hoping to find a drop, a glimmer of humanity as he so calmly and confidently kept saying, “Relax. Breathe. It’s gonna be okay.” A shiver ran down her spine. She couldn’t find what she was looking for. His eyes were hollow, entirely void, empty. They remained empty even when she slowed her breath. They remained empty as he slowly, but carefully zip-tied her wrists. “What do you want?”, Anastasia quietly asked. 108
“You…I want to control you, control your life, control the way you think, and I want to be at the center of it all…I want you.”, he steadily and coolly said as part of a longer monologue that Anastasia could not focus on. Anastasia was in shock. She was a fighter. How did she get her? Why wasn’t she resisting more, pushing back? What was going to happen to her? And as she started spiraling, she felt herself leaving her body, her throat drying, her lips tingling, her heart beating faster than before. She stopped herself, centered herself, and began an unvoiced invocation that was supposed to help her through it all: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change” The stalker had finally stopped talking. “The courage to change the things I can” He suddenly had a baseball bat in his hand, waving it over his right shoulder. “And the wisdom to know the difference.” The bat swung directly at her face. When she opened her eyes, she was relieved, albeit only for the shortest of seconds, that it was all a dream. Her nose had crusted over and her parched throat made it nearly impossible for her to breathe. She turned towards her desk, and the humidifier hadn’t even been turned on. Her water bottle was half-empty, sitting aside a can of Pringles, a bag of Hot Cheetos, and some peanut M&Ms. She shifted her head towards the window, defeated and still in ‘fight-or-flight’. The rays of the midafternoon sun wiggled to Anastasia, along her nose, eyebrows, and chin, providing a gentle 110
awakening caress. She took a nice deep breath, calming her buzzing anxiousness. As she exhaled, the room filled with the pungent smell of cheap tequila and abruptly ended her moment of gratitude. Filled with guilt, her head spun with racing thoughts mirroring the twirling walls that her vestibular system was rushing to halt. She closed her eyes trying to make it all stop, wishing for a second that her mattress would simply envelop her, smothering her with warmth and comfort, slowly draining her pain. Alas, there came a point at which the mattress fought back. Anastasia huffed, extending her triceps to lift herself against the bedframe. She turned to her mirror, looking at her tangled frizzy dark blonde mane. She wished her yiayia’s slender fingers could braid them into order. Only her fingers, though. If yiayia saw how her little ‘Tasoula’ had turned into this improper, good-for-nothing disgrace of a woman, Anastasia thought, she would surely bury her face in shame. “Fuuuuuuck”, she said as she stretched out underneath her bed, reaching for a box of Pedialyte. She pulled out a random bottle, which happened to be cherry-pomegranate flavored, her favorite. Immediately after chugging the liquid, she was filled with regret as nausea pranged onto her. She didn’t even know how she found herself hunched in the fetal position, back under layer upon layer of sheets, blankets, clothes, and towels. She stared straight ahead, looking onto the white wall in disbelief and despair.
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“Come with me to a meeting, Tasi. They’ve helped me so much. They’ve changed my life.” Nick was so full of shit. She took his advice. She went to those goddamn meetings. She collected those goddamn chips. And the only thing that could change her life right now was some tequila, she thought. And it was waiting for her, downstairs. Lurking in the crevices created by the boxes of ice cream and months-old meat that she would never eat, sitting on the shelves of her kitchen freezer. She’ll be so unassuming, opening the door for an ice pack for her headache and it’ll be ready to make its move. She’s only 5’ 3’’ & 120 lbs., it can easily take her. And let’s be real. If she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t keep stashes of it around the house. She’s basically asking for it… Anastasia so eagerly wanted to escape. To break free. To leave all of this behind her. To return to how life used to be. Yet, in spite of her desire, her strength, and her will, she felt impending doom, like a tiny mouse sensing skulking felines all around her. The white wall stared back at Anastasia, offering no advice. Paralyzed, she closed her eyes, hoping to escape this reality and drift back to the woods, where maybe she could fight off the stalker.
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Excerpt from The Tracer Alex Kimmel Several days later I’m sitting in my room trying to work through a set of practice questions when my phone rings. It’s a call to the Google Voice number I set up for contact tracing. The number of cases on Pleasant Drive has only been increasing in the last few days. It has taken over my entire call load each day. By my last count, there are now twenty confirmed cases on Pleasant Drive. Three deaths. One was Xui Tong. I never even met her, so a part of me felt wrong for wanting to mourn her like I had. “Hello.” “Hi,” a young female voice sniffles on the other end of the line. “Is this Eva?” “Yes,” I say brightly. “May I ask who is calling?” “This is Maria Rodriguez.” It takes me a moment before I remember that she’s the young girl I called on my second day, just over a week ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. I spoke to people who lived and died in that amount of time. “Oh yes, thank you for returning my call!” I log into our contact tracing database on my laptop and pull up her record. But before I can begin reading off the scripted questions she begins to cry. “I didn’t know,” she wails on the other end of the line. Her voice sounds like my friend Sonia’s from high school. I picture her: a friendly, young girl with wavy dark hair tumbling down her back and a lively sparkle in her brown eyes. “Maria, it’s okay,” I say, caught off guard. “What didn’t you know?” 116
“I knew better,” she continues, mumbling through her tears. “They told me not to see Ali, but I snuck out and did it anyway. Sure, he was at school before this and his friend was sick. But he wasn’t coughing and I made him take his temperature. He wasn’t sick! Neither of us were sick.” “Maria, can you tell me what happened?” “I had to come home from college because they moved everything to online. My parents have been so freaked out about this virus. It’s annoying. My dad basically sprays everything with a bottle of bleach. And they get worried when I even leave the house. The only thing they’ll let me do is walk in the park sometimes, but that’s boring. I went from college in New York City back to boring life in the suburbs stuck in my parents’ house,” Maria’s crying has now subsided, but she still sounds sad. “All I wanted was to see Ali. That’s my boyfriend. He had to come back from college too. I just wanted things to feel okay for a little bit and to get out of the house, so I snuck out two weeks ago to see him. He wasn’t sick. I made sure of it! I made him take his temperature and made sure he wasn’t coughing. I just saw him for one night and then I checked my temperature every day after that and I was fine.” She pauses for a few seconds and I realize I should probably say something. “This virus is a particularly difficult one because even people who have no symptoms can still have it. Are you saying Ali has the virus too? Has he tested positive?” “Yes,” Maria begins crying again. “He has it. He got it from his friend at college and then he gave it to me. And I had no idea because I wasn’t sick. But 118
I was watching some of the kids down the street one day while they were playing so their parents could take a break. And now I just found out that they’re sick too. And my abuelo has been sick for days too. He’s been coughing and he has to lean forward all of the time just to breathe. He just got tested today but I already know he has it. I already know I gave it to him. This is all my fault.” “It’s okay, Maria,” I try to say soothingly. But there’s a part of me that wants to ask how she could be so selfish. Maria is the source of the outbreak that is ravaging Pleasant Drive. She took risks that ruined other people’s lives—that ended other people’s lives. As frustrated as I am though, I remember that she also just ruined her own. She’ll have to live with the guilt of this for the rest of her life. Right now, she’s like a patient, coming to me for help. I can’t turn back time and change her choices. All I can do is help her heal. “It’s not okay, it’s my fault,” Maria continues to wail. “What if he dies? My parents will never forgive me! I’ll never forgive me.” “I’m sorry this is all happening,” I say. Tears prick my eyes. “But we’re all still learning just how bad this virus is. This is all hard and it’s scary. We’re all scared right now. But you have to remember that even though you made a mistake, you’re doing the best you can. You didn’t know this would happen. We’re all just doing the best we can.” I’ll never meet Maria. I’ll never be able to put a face to the girl who called me in her hour of need. I’ll spend hours analyzing what I said but I’ll never know if it was enough.
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I’ve read all of the news stories about how unprepared we all were for this pandemic and all of the things we should have done differently. But no matter how many ventilators we produce, how many healthcare workers we graduate, how much we rebuild our broken systems, we will never be fully prepared for death and tragedy. All we can do is our best to block the wound, mourn the loss, and try to find beauty in the next heartbeat. Continue reading on yalemurmurs.squarespace.com
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Anastasia Eberhardt
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Aaron Phillips
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Aaron Phillips
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Hang Nguyen
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Hang Nguyen
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Natty Doilicho
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Chang Su
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Grace Wang
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Grace Wang
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Grace Wang
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Grace Wang
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Simone Hasselmo seshcomix.bigcartel.com
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Words p. 4 Anna Preston YSM/YSPH ‘23 p. 8 Andrea Sparr Yale PA Online ‘23 p. 10 Anna Vignola Yale PA Online ‘22 p. 12 Erika Chang-Sing YSM ‘23 p. 16 Judy Li YSM ‘25 p. 18 Michael Flores YSM ‘25 p. 24 Christina de Fontnouvelle YSM ‘22 p. 28 Martha Kebeh YSM ‘25
p. 32, 38, 40, 46 Aaron Phillips Yale PA Online ‘23 p. 48, 54, 62 Mariko Rooks YSPH ‘22 p. 66 Anonymous p. 72 Matthew Chiang Yale PA Online ‘23 p. 82 Greg Shields Yale PA ‘23 p. 90 Madee Ehrenberg YSM ‘25 p. 94 Olivia Dixon Herrington YSM ‘23 p. 98 Shiliu Wang YSM ‘23 p. 108 Stephen Ghazikhanian YSM ‘22
p. 116 Alex Kimmel YSM ‘22 Images p. 124
Cerberus
Anastasia Eberhardt YSN/YSPH ‘23 Linoleum relief print. p. 126
From Our Bedroom Door
p. 128
Still Silenced
Aaron Phillips Yale PA Online ‘23 p. 130
p. 136
Yin Yang Bian Qu
Chang Su YSM ‘21
Colored pencil on paper, damp tea bag, lighter. p. 138
Camano Island
p. 142
Paradise, Mount Rainier
p. 146
Whidbey Island
p. 148
Tolt River
Grace Wang YSM ‘25 Watercolor and ink. p. 150
Books
First Spring
Underwater
seshcomix.bigcartel.com
p. 132
Hang Nguyen YSM ‘25
Simone Hasselmo YSM ‘23
Oil on canvas.
p. 134
Temporality and Healing
Natty Doilicho YSM ‘22
Rush Lerner pieces are underlined
Murmurs is the student run creative journal of health professions students at Yale University. Started in 2012, the journal publishes voices in poetry, prose and art. Murmurs accepts submissions regularly over the academic year from the Yale Schools of Medicine, Nursing, and Public Health.
This book was printed by GHP Media in New Haven, CT. Edition of 70 copies. Edited by Muzz Muhammad Erika Chang-Sing Madee Ehrenberg
Cover by Please send submissions, Hang Nguyen comments and corrections to murmurs.ysm@gmail.com Designed by The Aliens To read Murmurs online, thealiens.online visit: yalemurmurs. squarespace.com
Murmurs Volume 7, Spring 2022 In the Waiting