TCU Creative Writing Awards 2019 by TCU Creative Writing Awards

"Creative Writing at TCU is committed to fostering the value of creative citizenship--the notion that fostering active engagement with each other and the community through the creative arts is a civic responsibility." CONTESTS & ORIGINAL WORK

TCU Department of English - descant - TCU Press - eleven40seven Bryson Literary Society - Center for Digital Expression

2019 CREATIVE WRITING AWARDS Contests & Original Work

Contest #1. The Neil Daniel Drama Award SPONSOR: AN ANONYMOUS DONOR Judge: Dr. Chantel Langlinais Carlson Winner: John Young for “Self” ................................................................................................................ 7 Contest #2. The Bob Frye AddRan English 10803 Award SPONSOR: MRS. ALICE FRYE Judge: Dr. Carrie Leverenz Winner: Ashley Parks for “Affirmative Action: Why It’s Essential” ............................................................. 17 Contest #3. The Australia Tarver Award for Critical Essay on Race, Post-colonialism, or Multi-Ethnic Studies SPONSORS: DR. KAREN STEELE AND DR. STACIE MCCORMICK Judge: Dr. Mona Narain Winner: Leah Smith for “"Latinas for Sale": Implications of Sexual Assault on Latinas” ......................... 25 Contest #4. The Non-Fiction Prose Award SPONSOR: THE THURSDAY GROUP, TCU WOMEN EXES Judge: Dr. Charlotte Hogg Winner, 1st Place: Lutie Rodriguez for “Night Vision” ................................................................................................... 41 Winner, 2nd Place: Aubrey Hutson for “Scrabbling1” .................................................................................................... 46 Honorable Mention: Sabrina Ochoa for “The Little Door” ......................................................................................... 54 Contest #5. The Woman's Wednesday Club Research Paper or Essay Award SPONSOR: THE WOMAN'S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judge: Dr. Joe Darda Winner: Andreley Bjelland for “The Independent Façade of the 1920s Flapper” ............................................. 59 Honorable Mention: Isabella Nucci for “Female Expressions of Grief”.................................................................... 68

Contest #6. The Woman's Wednesday Club Fiction Award SPONSOR: THE WOMAN'S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judges: Dr. Sidney Thompson and Prof. Cynthia Shearer Winner: Joshua Borders for “Triptych” ......................................................................................................... 81 Honorable Mention: Sandy Pham for “Troubleshooting” ....................................................................................... 85

Contest #7. The Bill Camfield Memorial Award for Humorous Fiction, Screenplays, and Essays SPONSOR: ENDOWMENT ESTABLISHED BY PAUL & STEPHANIE CAMFIELD IN MEMORY OF MR. CAMFIELD'S FATHER Judge: Mr. Tyler Price Winner, 1st Place: Joshua Borders for “Instructions for My Resurrection” .......................................................................95 Winner, 2nd Place: Polley Poer for “The Tidwell Dictionary of Unofficial Definitions” .............................................. 103 Contest #8. The Margaret-Rose Marek Memorial Multimedia Writing Award SPONSORS: DR. STEVE SHERWOOD, AND THE CENTER FOR DIGITAL EXPRESSION Judge: Dr. Jason Helms Winner: Gabrielle Saleh for “Women of the World Through Literature”........................................................ 112 Contest #9. The Graduate Multimedia Writing Award SPONSORS: DR. STEVE SHERWOOD, AND THE CENTER FOR DIGITAL EXPRESSION Judge: Dr. Jason Helms Winner: Nicholas Brown f or “The Trial of the Children of Loki”..................................................................... 113 Contest #10. The Subversive Thought Award SPONSOR: DR. RICH ENOS, DR. NATHANAEL O’REILLY, AND PROF. ALEX LEMON Judge: Dr. Nathanael O’Reilly Winner: Polley Poer for “Unfinished Essays You Wouldn't Finish Reading” ......................................... 148 Honorable Mention: Ann Tran for “Memorialization of the Displaced: The Vietnam War Memorial in Arlington, Texas and the Memory of South Vietnam” (not published at the author’s request) Contest #11. The Tony Burgess Environmental Writing Award SPONSORS: DR. STEVE SHERWOOD, AND THE CENTER FOR DIGITAL EXPRESSION Judges: Dr. Dan Williams, Prof. Cynthia Shearer, and Dr. Steve Sherwood Winner: Not Awarded This Year

Contest #12. The Siddie Joe Johnson Poetry Award SPONSORS: Dr. Donald W. Jackson, Professor Emeritus of Political Science, TCU, and Dr. Takeshi Takahasi Judge: ANONYMOUS Winner: Aubrey Hutson for “Wonder Land”................................................................................................. 166 Honorable Mention: Abigail Jennings for “Night Flying” ............................................................................................. 167 Contest #13. The Bob Frye Satire Award SPONSOR: AN ANONYMOUS DONOR Judge: Dr. Rima Abunasser Winner: Andreley Bjelland for “A Millennial Fairy Tale” ................................................................................... 169 Honorable Mention: Annie Brenkus for “Ascension” ................................................................................................ 170 Contest #14. The David Vanderwerken Short Story Award SPONSOR: THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH FACULTY Judge: ANONYMOUS Winner, 1st Place: Abigail Jennings for “My Looking Glass” .......................................................................................... 171 Winner, 2nd Place: Afamefuna Onyebadi for “Red with a Tinge of Yellow” ............................................................................ 181 Winner, 3rd Place: Joshua Borders for “The Church of the Irrevocably Damned” ......................................................... 187 Honorable Mention: Brenntyn Rhea for “The Last Good Day” ................................................................................. 200 Honorable Mention: Elissa Tatum for “Rescue” .................................................................................................... 206 Contest #15. The Woman's Wednesday Club Essay Award SPONSOR: THE WOMAN'S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judge: Dr. Rich Enos Winner: Katie Marler for “The Way a Woman Moves” ............................................................................ 214 Honorable Mention: Brooke Damico for “#Metoo: Not My Movement” ...................................................................... 225 Contest #16. The Betsy Colquitt Graduate Poetry Award SPONSOR: LINDA CLARK OF GEORGETOWN, TX Judge: Dr. Lachlan Brown Winner: Andreley Bjelland for “A Mon Dieu” ................................................................................................... 233

Contest #17. The Margie Boswell Poetry Award SPONSOR: THE BOSWELL FAMILY, HONORING MARGIE B. BOSWELL Judge: ANONYMOUS Winner, 1st Place: John Wood for “Something I Saw by the Lake at Night” ........................................................... 234 Winner, 2nd Place: Emily Capelli “To a Woman Who Ordered Extra Croutons on Her Salad” ............................. 236 Contest #18. The Sigma Tau Delta Essay Award SPONSOR: CHI ALPHA CHAPTER, SIGMA TAU DELTA, DR. KAREN STEELE & DR. ARIANE BALIZET Judge: Nathanael O’Reilly Winner: Ann Tran for “The Black-less Confederate Museum” ............................................................ 237 Honorable Mention: Tatum Lindahl for “Classical Music is Like Glasses” ............................................................... 241 Contest #19. The Graduate Student Fiction Award SPONSOR: ANONYMOUS Judge: Dr. Sheela Chari Winner: Alyssa Quinn Johnson for “First” ............................................................................................................... 243 Contest #20. The Woman’s Wednesday Club Merit Award SPONSOR: THE WOMAN'S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Winner: Sandy Pham

Self by John Young SCENE ONE JASON leans up against a bar talking to a GIRL. After a few seconds of pleasant conversation she gathers her things and walks away with one of her friends. JASON turns to the BARTENDER and signals for his attention. At the other end of the bar MEG, a friend of JASON watches him. JASON (to GIRL walking away) Maybe next time. (to BARTENDER) Hey can I get one more here? MEG walks over to Jason and lightly claps him on the back. Ouch. No dice huh?

MEG

JASON (Shrugging off her hand) What the heck are you doing here? MEG Admiring the décor. How about you, other than playing baseball? Baseball?

JASON

MEG Yeah, cuz you know you struck out. Boom. Burn. JASON Real funny, where’d you get that one, a Laffy Taffy wrapper? MEG Nah, fortune cookie. (to BARTENDER) Barkeep! One of whatever he’s having. JASON (muttering to himself) Fortune cookie my ass. MEG Anyway, whatcha doing here Jason? Drinking.

JASON

Admirable pastime.

MEG JASON

And you? Just seeing if you’re all right.

MEG

JASON What, you’re worried about me now? Someone’s gotta be.

MEG

JASON Or what, think I’ll end up in a ditch or something? MEG

You tell me.

JASON If I was gonna off myself I’d make sure to have a better guarantee. That’s not funny Jason.

MEG

JASON Yeah well everybody’s a critic. JASON finishes off his drink. The BARTENDER sets another bottle in front of him without Jason asking for another. Before JASON can take a sip MEG scoops it away from him.

Thanks.

MEG (to BARTENDER)

(takes a swig and turns to JASON) Maybe you’ve had enough huh?

Trust me, I haven’t.

JASON

MEG Drinking doesn’t solve problems. JASON

Neither does nagging. But seeing as I’ve never tested your theory, I think I’ll give it a whirl. JASON takes back the beer and drinks. MEG You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself Jason. JASON What can I say? I have a knack for self-deprecating humor. MEG People don’t want to hang around someone who can’t stop insulting himself. JASON I’m not insulting myself, I’m making jokes at my own expense. What gives people the right to-to get turned off by honest statements that I make about myself that just happen to ironically coincide with-with… You’re reaching. Shut up, my point still stands.

MEG JASON

MEG So does mine. You ever think that this part of your personality is why you’re lonely? Maybe it’s part of the reason people aren’t sticking around. You’re sticking around. Yeah well I’m different. Yeah how? Because I know you. Whatever. It annoys me. What does?

JASON MEG JASON MEG JASON MEG

JASON The dumb stuff that people get worked up over.

You talking about earlier?

MEG

JASON It was a joke where I happened to be the punch line. And yet she looked upset. What’s her deal? MEG Maybe Nat’s not a fan of backhanded humor. JASON It’s not like I was insulting anyone. Except yourself.

MEG

JASON There’s no reason for that to bother her. MEG Really, you can’t think of any? Can you?

JASON

MEG My God, it’s like seeing one of those dense anime protagonists in the flesh. JASON Very funny. Except I’d bet my left kidney it’s not that. MEG Got something against your left kidney? Itches more than the right. Well, how about that.

JASON MEG

JASON No way she has a thing for me. MEG Honestly you’re so negative about yourself you’ve become conceited. Is it really so hard for you to believe that there may be one person in the entire world that finds you attractive?

…Yes. Why do I even ask?

JASON MEG

JASON Okay fine, there may be someone out there who has that potential-. MEG Especially considering your relationship history. JASON We don’t talk about her, remember? Noted.

MEG

JASON As I was saying, there may be someone out there with that potential, but Nat is definitely not one of those people. MEG Well I’d take your word for it, but it’s not like you’ve got a good radar for these things. JASON Yeah well maybe it’s rusted from underuse. Why are you so sure anyways? Call it a strong feeling.

MEG

JASON You rank your strong feelings over my skepticism in this situation? MEG Yes well woman’s intuition…pessimistic self-sabotage… MEG weighs each option on her hand, raising the former up higher. MEG I think I know which one I’ll choose. JASON Self-sabotage. That’s a new one. You like it? You can use it.

MEG

Gee thanks. Anytime.

JASON MEG

There is a pause between them. JASON uses this time to finish off his second drink. JASON What were we even talking about? MEG The fact that you can’t tell when someone is in to you. JASON I think I’ll know it when I see it Meg. MEG Yeah? Did you see it in tall, blonde, and floozy over there? Is that what this is all about?

JASON

MEG Picking up girls in a bar is such a classy move Jason. JASON You expect better from me or something? Damn right.

MEG

JASON I don’t know what I ever did to give you the impression that I’m better than this (he gestures down at himself and his drinks) but clearly you’ve been misinformed. MEG (loudly) And look at that we’ve come full circle! JASON Just leave me alone would you? BARTENDER Hey buddy, try and keep it down huh? Noticing some of the other patrons are giving him sideways looks, JASON gives a small wave of acknowledgement to the BARTENDER. JASON then coughs awkwardly under

the gazes and motions for another drink. The BARTENDER sets it in front of him and MEG scoops it up again to drink from it. Really want me gone? I’m not sure. How come?

MEG JASON MEG

JASON If you left then I’d be completely alone. MEG There are people out there Jason. You act like there’s a wall between you and everyone else, a wall you can’t get past. But all you need to do is strike up a conversation, go to events, make an effort. JASON And what? The pieces will magically fill into place? Suddenly everything will be bright and sunny and full of laughter? MEG Would you rather it be gray, cloudy and full of nothing? JASON You know it’s funny, I always thought an overcast sky was more beautiful than any sunny sky. Jason…

MEG

JASON No I mean it. Blue skies, fluffy white clouds, boring. But a gray sky is different, you know? It’s…all encompassing. Like a heavy weight thrown over everything. The world under it feels still, cold. Like the sun itself is sleeping and everything else on Earth is treading on light feet to keep from disturbing it. Jason come on. What? Just talk to me would you?

MEG JASON MEG

I am talking.

JASON

MEG Not to anyone here you’re not. JASON Well what do you want to talk about- no what do you want me to say- no what do you even want from me Meg? What do you want? I came here to drink, and yes to maybe hit on some girls, what is so wrong with that? I’m lonely. I’ve got no one, nothing. Maybe if I hit it off with, as you said, some tall, blonde and floozy, I can actually have some intimacy for a while. MEG Cheap comfort doesn’t help in the end Jason. JASON Well then here’s hoping the end doesn’t come for a while. He takes a drink.

MEG All I want from you is for you to try Jason. Try and make some kind of real connection. Strive for the real deal, don’t settle for whatever this is.

Yeah well I don’t think I can.

JASON

MEG Why is it impossible for you to do anything but doubt yourself? Certainty is for schmucks. What does that even mean!?

JASON MEG

JASON It means I can’t Meg. Somewhere along the line I forgot how to make meaningful connections. MEG Oh please, it’s not rocket science. JASON It might as well be. Being social has never been easy for me, but I’ve just been on my own for so long now without hanging out with other people that it’s like I’ve forgotten how. I can’t motivate myself to go out. I can barely have a conversation with people, let alone flirt effectively. I trip up on small talk Meg, small talk.

MEG Just because you’re a bit awkward doesn’t mean it’s suddenly the end of the world for you social life Jason. And don’t act like you’re completely isolated from social interactions. You have friends at work, like Nat and the others. JASON I have work friends, there’s a difference. We see each other at work so much that there’s no point in or want to hang out outside of it. MEG The point still stands that you’re not completely friendless. And you’ve got me. Yeah. I’ve got you.

JASON

MEG Well geez, don’t sound too excited about it. JASON Doesn’t solve many problems does it? Ass.

MEG

JASON Top ten things you’d never expect to hear from a preacher’s daughter. MEG Oh I’m a preacher’s daughter now? Eh something like that.

JASON

MEG Well it seems you’ve perked up a bit. Not too hard was it? JASON Yeah, yeah. How much are you charging for this therapy session huh doc? Eh stick it on your tab. Right. Until next time.

MEG JASON MEG JASON

What you’re leaving-? JASON suddenly bends over coughing violently, choking on a final sip of beer. After a few seconds he straightens up and pushes away his beer, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve. MEG is gone. The BARTENDER pushes a glass of water JASON’s way. BARTENDER You sick or something buddy? JASON looks around the bar for a moment for MEG. No…no I’m fine.

JASON

Affirmative Action: Why it’s essential by Ashley Parks For those of you who watch the popular TV show Scandal, a political thriller and drama written by screenwriter, producer, and author Shonda Rhimes, Olivia’s father (Olivia is the main character in the show) reminds her of an all too common conversation in the households of many African American children. As shown in the visual attached the saying is as follows: You have to be twice as good as them to get half of what they have, “them” and “they” serving as the euphemistic reference to white people. Ever since I was a little girl, my dad has always drilled into my head a similar saying: you have to be twice as good to be considered equal. Whether this came to academic, athletic or even fine art performances, my dad would always admonish me with this saying. So, what does this mean? This means that this conversation among African-American children and their parents is not uncommon. This saying encapsulates the legacy of the African-American individual, and often many other minorities when it comes to achieving a lifestyle that is equal, or as close to equal as possible to their white counterparts. In an effort to ameliorate the struggles of minority individuals, the United States government launched an initiative known as Affirmative Action. Affirmative action encourages diversity, which in turn encourages more well-rounded critical thinking skills, especially on college campuses. It also allows minority individuals

the opportunities to receive a better education, land better jobs, and ultimately shape a brighter future for themselves that a society grounded in deep, historical systemic racism, classism, and sexism has made more difficult for them to achieve. I would say the most foundational importance of Affirmative Action is within education, as it is a strong educational background that lends to greater long-term benefits in the other aspects of one’s life. Overall, Affirmative Action and its policies are a pivotal step the government has taken to eliminate this conversation from the lives of many young minorities. According to an official definition from the National Conference of State Legislatures, “Affirmative Action policies are those in which an institution or organization actively engages in efforts to improve opportunities for historically excluded groups in American society”, these excluded groups being any type of minority to include women, people of color, and even people of different sexual orientations. All of these groups of people share one trait: disenfranchisement or disadvantage in some regard. It is here where affirmative action comes in as a tool to alleviate this disadvantage. Affirmative Action is not a brand-new concept. President John F. Kennedy is said to have coined the term “affirmative action” in an Executive Order during the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s, stating that “government contractors were to take affirmative action to ensure that applicants are employed, and that employees are treated during employment without regard to their race, creed, color, or national origin.” (NCSL). After a sluggish improvement in the representation of African Americans in institutions of higher learning immediately following the Supreme Court’s landmark Brown vs. Board of Education decision, which outlawed school segregation, President Lyndon B. Johnson “signed an

Executive Order in 1965 that required government contractors to use affirmative action policies in their hiring to increase the number of minority employees.” (NCSL). As shown here, well-respected presidential figures were key advocates for the birth and beginnings of Affirmative Action. As depicted in the examples above, many of the early pushes for Affirmative Action came chiefly in regard to employment and subsequent economic opportunity. However, a key stepping stone for many to reaching a level of employment that provides an adequate amount of financial stability is higher education. The degree that is coupled with that higher education demonstrates a level of competence in the degreeholder’s ability to perform basic tasks or to contribute basic knowledge in a professional workplace. Where Affirmative Action comes into play here is with regard to the disadvantage I mentioned earlier on the account for minority individuals in reaching this goal of a degree followed by the goal of economic success. These disadvantages come in a plethora of mediums and some of them compound others. Issues such as housing discrimination funnel minority individuals into less amiable living conditions. The practice of redlining, refusing a loan or insurance to someone because of the poor financial risk associated with where a client currently lives, has begun to re-emerge among blacks with “the share of home loans going to blacks dropping from 8.7 percent in 2006 to 5.2 percent in 2014.” (The Fight for Fair Housing). As a result, these individuals cannot secure homes in better off neighborhoods that may have higher quality school systems. The lack of ability to access these quality school systems then leads to those students that cannot attend being unprepared for the next level of higher education in comparison to their white counterparts who most likely have easier access to and can

afford better quality schooling such as private schools. As you may hopefully be able to see through this example, systemic disenfranchisement that begins with where these individuals are housed can affect the type of education they receive, and eventually affect their competitiveness when it comes to qualifying for acceptance into an institution of higher learning. This leads us to the height of the Affirmative Action debate: college admissions. Those who argue against Affirmative Action when it comes to college admissions claim that Affirmative Action policies “lower the standards of accountability needed to push students… to perform better” (Messerli). The flaw with this argument is that Affirmative Action is most often seen in the form of recruitment and scholarship, meaning that those who receive Affirmative Action benefits are usually those who have strong work ethic or demonstrate the possibility and desire for great success. In my personal experience, I received a scholarship titled The Diversity Award from the University of Missouri, which was given to me due to my “competitive academic record and membership in a racial or ethnic minority group that is underrepresented in relation to the university’s goal to achieve educational benefits of a diverse student body.” (Mizzou Student Financial Aid). As depicted in the requirements of the award, any student who was to receive that scholarship, including myself, had to demonstrate some sense of adequate academic competiveness in addition to having minority status. In this we see that “Affirmative Action is more of a process than an admissions policy” often requiring admissions counselors and universities to seek out the best and brightest that may not have the resources necessary to fully access a luxury like a college education

on their own, simply because of circumstances that are not fully within their control (NCSL). Most universities are also firm advocates for diversity on their campuses because of the academic benefits such diversity entails. In having input and representation of ideologies of all sorts, domestic, international, and more, colleges that focus on administering a liberal arts education do so effectively by encouraging a diverse make up in their student body. By housing people with different values, beliefs, and ideologies on an intimate college setting (whether this be in a classroom or in on campus living situations) everyone on the campus, whether that be student, faculty, or staff, benefit from an enriching educational experience in a generally safe and controlled environment. Having a diverse student body also benefits students beyond their time in their institution of choice as being around different types of individuals teaches students about how they “must be able to work effectively with the diverse society that surrounds them,” when it comes to attending a graduate school, or entering the workforce (NCSL). Affirmative Action policies are the key tool used by these universities to ensure this enriching facet of the college experience. Some say that Affirmative Action is outdated in its efforts. However, as Elise C. Boddie, nationally recognized expert in civil rights and professor of law at Rutgers University, points out in the Harvard Review, “problems of racial injustice are more visible then ever and the need to promote opportunities for people of different racial and ethnic backgrounds seems more urgent” than ever before. She goes on to note that “as people of color become a majority of the population, ... it becomes evident that their future is the country’s future.” (Boddie). With tensions on the rise within the current

political climate, especially in regard to immigration, and as the number of minority individuals continues to increase as a result of this immigration, the American society has to keep up with its own changes. Again, this is why Affirmative Action is in place to make sure that the age old American dream is realized by everyone who wishes to work to be a part of it. I encourage people to turn away from the simplistic thought that affirmative action is solely about race. It is thought processes like this that have oppressed minority individuals for as long as America has been in existence. Instead, look at affirmative action as an opportunity, created for those who once had none. Nothing in our world is simply black and white and this applies to many facets of our society. Affirmative Action has always been geared toward helping the little guy and making sure every qualified individual gets the opportunity to live their dreams, especially those who do not have the chance to access those dreams as easily others. Without Affirmative Action, the echo chambers that are so detrimental to societyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s growth in knowledge and acceptance would wreak havoc on our world. The polarizations that are so prevalent in our society today could possibly be 10 times worse without the smallest semblance of understanding that Affirmative Action, at the very least, has contributed to in some capacity. To close, I ask you to take the time to try and place yourself in the shoes of a minority individual, especially if you find yourself as a heavy part of the white majority. Again, not simply in a racial context, but in all categories: A woman, a person of color, a gender-fluid individual. Think of the hardships these people face compared to what you may face as the go-to option in our society. The standard of beauty and intelligence. Now try to understand Affirmative Action based off of what I have shared with you and

see just how important and valuable the opportunity of what Affirmative Action can offer has on your fellow human.

Works Cited “Affirmative Action| Overview.” Ncsl.org, www.ncsl.org/research/education/affirmativeactionoverview.aspx. Boddie, Ellie C. “The Future of Affirmative Action.” Harvard Law Review, vol. 103, no. 1, 1 Nov. 2016, pp. 38–50. Messerli, Joe. “BalancedPolitics.org.” Affirmative Action (Pros & Cons, Arguments For and Against, Advantages & Disadvantages), www.balancedpolitics.org/affirmative_action.htm. “Rutgers Law School.” RSS, law.rutgers.edu/directory/view/ecb95.

Squires, Gregory D. The Fight for Fair Housing: Causes, Consequences, and Future Implications of the 1968 Federal Fair Housing Act. “Student Financial Aid.” Diversity Award | Student Financial Aid | University of Missouri, financialaid.missouri.edu/types-of-aid/scholarships/scholarships/diversityaward/index.php. You Have to Be Twice as Good. Nov. 2014.

“Latinas for Sale”: Implications of Sexual Assault on Latinas by Leah Smith In our society, when sexual assault is seen as either a shameful act or one that requires strength to overcome, Latinas are at a crossroads. As they stand in a white man’s world, they’re influenced by their culture, societal pressures and inner voice. Is sexual assault a criminal act? What does it mean to be a Latina who’s been sexually assaulted? How is the body of a Latina portrayed? In this discussion, I will be analyzing Carmen Machado’s novel Her Body and Other Parties along with other materials to give insight about the portrayal of sexual assault and its effects on Latinas- specifically their bodies. It’s important to note that my own personal experiences, beliefs and discoveries as a Latina woman will be mentioned throughout. Before diving into our discussion, I’d like to describe my biases. Before reading any of the academic work mentioned, I came in with these experiences and beliefs. When you’re Latina, your parents may warn you about sex, but they will not educate you. Discussion of condoms, teen pregnancy, orgasms, healthy relationships and birth control do not exist. This made having a boyfriend or even male friends problematic and stressful for my mother. If I wanted to attend a male friend’s birthday party or event, I had to tell my mother, grandmother and aunts that I would be at a female friends’ home. If you’re born into a religious household like me, you’ll spend countless hours hearing about the implications of premarital sex at church from your own father. During Spanish church services, only married couples could sit next to each other. This is the foundation I received and cannot take back. I spent most of my

young life believing that sex is a sin and frowned upon friends who encouraged it. This all quickly changed with one boy. At the age of fifteen, I was sexually assaulted by a Latino male on a frigid October evening. He was one of my “best friends” at the time and spent the next three years of high school alongside me. He made sex meaningless for me. He made me feel dirty even after four hot showers. He made me feel like I was asking for it. When a man crosses the street or makes eye contact with me for too long, I’m there again. I’m under his grip and hearing his breathing pattern. I remember coming home that October evening and telling my mother I was perfectly fine. When she asked me why my top lip was cut, I told her it was my car door- not the bite of a boy trying to put me in the mood. This is the experience I carry with me everywhere and in every relationship I have. My view on life was forever changed and as I hear the stories of other Latinas with similar experiences, I want to comfort them. I’ve always known that telling my mother about my experience would shatter her heart, so I actively choose to stay silent. I don’t want her to feel shame or guilt on my 1

behalf. She would say, “Cha. This is why you should’ve stayed home with me. You’re going to have to tell your future husband about this.” It’s better to be a virgin in her eyes than a Latina who’s been afraid of men her entire young life. Throughout my lifetime, I have found boys and a “man” who have worshipped my body for what it is. Yet, when I tell them about that October evening, they either laugh, feel guilt or completely self-destruct. It’s important that this part of my story is showcased in this discussion because it’s essential to the analysis of Machado’s work. If I were also a Latina lesbian, I would have a different point of view. If I were a white woman, I would Short for “cha-cha”. This is a term of endearment my mother uses. Most madres will use the term hija- Spanish for daughter. 1

also look at her work differently. Carmen Maria Machado eloquently tells the story of the bodies of women through the viewpoint of a Latina lesbian. The format of her novel is a sequence of short, fictionalized stories that rely heavily on metaphorical language and willingness of the reader to explore new territory. She tells us about how the bodies have either been put to the test or worshipped. Often, the bodies of women are put to the test in situations without consent. Machado’s commentary on sexual assault seemed to be both raw and frightening. She was not afraid to add details such as the sounds made or how the character saw themselves afterwards. Also, Machado never mentions the race of any characters except occasional commentary on supporting characters. She rarely mentions of the character’s striking features- which allows women who are reading to resonate with the many women at any level they choose. Each vignette is essential to the commentary in its own manner. For the purpose of this discussion and ease, I’ll be mentioning each story by its chapter title. In “The Husband Stitch”, Machado tells the story of a young girl who falls in love and gets married to the first boy she has sex with. Together, they have a son who grows up to be “good”. It starts with them meeting at a neighbor’s party and ends seventeen years into their son’s life. At first, their sex was characterized as an adrenaline pumping, sneaky young love type. It escalates and ends around her feeling utterly alone as a woman. The most interesting part of this story is how the character refers to a ribbon. Literally, a green ribbon is supposedly tied around her neck. Machado may be equating this ribbon held secret and close to the female

character as a symbol of her womanhood. The husband is described as an eager, loving boy to a greedy husband. The woman does not allow her husband/first love to take off the ribbon until well into their marriage. Once this happens, the woman’s head literally rolls of her body and bed- leaving her separated at the neck. Interestingly, when this female character finds herself in a situation with homosexual desire, her ribbon remains on and untouched. The only instance of sex that’s wanted by the female character is when she first desires it then with her female love affair. This speaks volumes to the relationship dynamic with males- sex becomes a transaction and expected after it loses its initial youthfulness. The character’s connection with her womanhood is seen as incredibly precious and worth noting. In “Inventory”, Machado seems to draw from real life people and their stories of how they lost their virginity or engage in sex outside of normal settings. 2 For most of the individuals, it occurred with strangers on a whim. More importantly, it was not the experience they were expecting. Regardless of gender or social class, the characters found the act to be either messy, useless or uneventful. In one instance she writes, “He wanted to go down on me, but I didn’t want him to. He got angry and left, slamming the screen door so hard my spice rack jumped from its nail and crashed to the floor” (Machado, 36). Ironically, each of these stories weave into each other in a post-apocalyptic world. At some points, it seems as though multiple people have the same sexual partners. It appears Machado is commenting on how sex leads to the demise of a population that thrives off sexual encounters.

I use the words “normal settings” as a phrase for places where/when sex commonly occurs according to society. i.e. after a first date or in a marriage.

In “Eight Bites”, Machado provides commentary on the body image of women. She tells the story of one woman who struggles with her weight and decides to undergo bariatric surgery. The chapter title refers to the amount of food deemed ladylike and acceptable- as prescribed by character’s mother. Machado writes, “I could not make eight bites work for my body and so I would make my body work for eight bites” (Machado, 153). Each of her sisters have done this surgery and attempt to support her in the process. Her daughter is completely against the surgery. The woman insists that this surgery will bring her happiness and confidence. Yet, her story is cut short by the agony brought by her “old self” following her around. In the end, the woman isn’t completely restored nor her best self- as she thought she would be with the weight loss surgery. This story highlights the matrilineal thread that runs through several generations of women- as seen in the Hispanic culture. The notion of “thin as beautiful” is not one that I’ve seen in Hispanic culture but there is a prevalence of appearing put together. Machado may have drawn influence from interacting with white women. In “Difficult at Parties”, the author tells an incredibly vivid story of a woman who’s survived sexual assault. It describes how the incident changed her relationship with her male counterpart and how it impacts her daily life. She realizes she’s lost her sexual drive and feels hopeless at times. It becomes hard for her to make social connections and attend social gathers- hence they phrase “difficult at parties”. In order to regain herself, her significant other and her suggest watching pornography as well as making their own sex tapes. In order to acclimate her back towards sex, they watch the pornography together and try to have sexual encounters based off

the porn they watch. Even during their last real attempt at making love (which they recorded)- the character does not recognize herself. Throughout the entire story, she does not recognize her body or wants. There is a moment where she is mentally present during the sexual encounter, but it is fleeting. While watching the recorded version she comments, “Her body- mine- is still striped with the yellowish stains of fading bruises” (Machado, 241). Out of each of Machado’s short stories mentioned, this one seemed to be the most impactful. Even with an incredibly supportive counterpart, the woman struggles to get back to the sexual creature she knows she can be. Besides my own experience with this internal struggle, it’s disheartening to have a third person point of view on this. Machado could be adding her own take on how the victims of sexual assault become disengaged from society- even with support systems and techniques. Carmen Machado never explicitly states whether these stories are true or if she’s experienced similar instances in her lifetime. However, these eight stories depicted in her novel are very real realities to women in the world today. Although Machado’s Latina voice is not explicitly stated, as a Latina it’s interesting to see the overarching theme of her work. There isn’t much blame put on males or whites- it’s almost as if the women in every story and character are on their own. To me, this is very true of the nature of Latina women. We are sharp, fierce, loving and overindulgent at times. 3The women in the stories have moments of self-realization where they understand how sexual violence/sex played a role in their development as women. This is an incredibly important message for all races but especially for 3

If you do not believe this, please share your life with a Latina.

Latinas. On the other hand, one could argue that Machado’s novel shouldn’t be taken too literally. In fact, one could say that Latina’s bodies are praised, acclaimed and should are seen in a positive light. In a work dedicated to bringing Latina perspectives and dialogue to light, Negron- Muntaner makes this distinction clear: It was precisely the body, however, particularly the curves, that proved to be the most compelling way that Lopez and others found to speak about how “Latinas” are constituted as racialized bodies, what kind of cultural capital is associated with these bodies, and how the body surfaces as a site of pleasure, produced by intersections of power, but not entirely under its own control. (Negron-Muntaner, 185) Negron-Muntaner is referring to the scandal regarding Jennifer Lopez portraying Quintanilla- Pérez in the original documentary film Selena. Rather than hide behind baggy clothes or feel shamed, Lopez outwardly flaunts her butt to press and othersher reasoning being that her and Selena had similar assets. Lopez felt as though this even linked the two closely as Latinas in a white man’s world. Lopez and Selena did not ask the white public audiences’ permission to wear tight dresses or form fitting outfits. In fact, one could argue that white audiences looked forward to seeing these show stopping outfits and had white men fantasizing over Latina bodies. NegronMuntaner argues that their butts serve as a “more ample trope for cultural belonging” (Negron- Muntaner, 192). This frame of reference sees the much happier and lighter

side of portrayal of Latina’s bodies. Moreover, one could also argue that the bodies of Latinas are much stronger and important to procreation in first-world countries. “For instance, in the Latino context, as Margarita Saona points out in her article, the Latino female body symbolizes ideal motherhood, in contrast to the North American female body signified by materiality and consumption” (del Rio Gabiola, 8). Even growing up as a child, I heard tales of how Latinas have wide hips- which is better suited for 4

childbirth. These claims seem to confirm that the bodies of Latinas are strong, looked at positively and noticeable. Yet, it leaves out one main aspect of this discussionwhat happens to these same Latina bodies when they are sexually assaulted? This positive outlook on Latina bodies is a stark difference to the real treatment of Latina bodies during and after sexual assault. Each Latina experiences puberty differently and often base their knowledge of coming of age from their madres. However, it’s important to take research into account with this claim. Specifically, the research surrounding Latinas and sexual assault. In a study administered by Linda Kalof at George Mason University, 383 undergraduate women were sampled in order to see the link between ethnicity, early sexual victimization experiences and college sexual assault. Out of all the women surveyed, “Hispanic women had the highest incidence of attempted rape” (Kalof, 75). The survey took a large number of factors into account such as early experiences with extrafamilial sexual abuse and alcohol (both of which may/did occur before entering undergraduate studies). Interestingly, Hispanic women had high numbers across each factor they surveyed. Twenty six percent of Hispanic women had experienced 4

I mention this claim based on my own experiences.

incest and twenty two percent of Hispanic women had experiences that aligned with legal definition of “rape” (Kalof, 84). However, eighty four percent of Hispanic women answered “no” to the “Ever raped?” question. This large difference suggests that Hispanic women may not be properly educated on what constitutes as rape or are pressured into feeling their experience(s) did not count as rape. Even when looking at results from other minority groups such as Black and Asian women- Hispanics have high (if not, the highest) numbers relating to incest, no alcohol use while on a date or social occasion and attempted rape (Kalof, 85). The Latino culture places a heavy weight on family values but also doesn’t talk about sexual education outwardly. According to Kalof’s study, this showed. “Specifically, for Hispanic women early extrafamilial sexual abuse increased later victimization by sexual coercion more than it did for women of other ethnic groups” (91). When faced with an event such as sexual assault, if a Latina is not educated on what this means or how her culture shaped her look on it- this poses as a high risk for other Latinas as well. 5 On the other hand, there are statistics and research done on female sexual desires. Rather than just target in on Hispanic undergraduate students- we can look at the development of women. This plays a huge role in how women, especially Latina women, grow up in a time where their sexual desires may often be repressed. In 1987, Judith Jordan researched/suggested “women’s lack of clarity about their own desire may be rooted in a developmental difference between girls and boys that

The other study conducted by Schneider, Mori, Lambert and Wong in 2008 at UNT based on a California public university with a similar survey method. In order to not regurgitate similar facts and figures (and save space), I explicitly stated the George Mason University study. However, if you’re looking for another survey with similar results to strengthen the numbers game- refer to my other study cited.

occurs in adolescence” in her paper “Clarity in Connection: Empathic Knowing, Desire and Sexuality” (Tolman, 1). Jordan concludes that girls do have the potential to be powerfully aroused but attach their sexual experiences on that of their male counterparts. Throughout Tolman’s take on Jordan’s early study, she also brings in the perspective of a feminist- Michelle Fine. Fine suggests that, “If girls could conceive of themselves as sexual subjects, they could then potentially make decisions about their sexual behavior and experience that would be healthy for them” (Tolman, 3). Even before college or an incident of sexual assault, girls have an issue seeing themselves as a sexual being! A woman who grows from this may always see their bodies and sex as a negative thing- a thing that is not to be taken as enjoyable or permissible. There will be a huge divide in how a girl sees her sexual desire, body and experience. Especially in Latino culture, as mentioned earlier, sex is not a common topic. Tolman and Jordan both point out that, “Coming of age in a culture in which their embodied sexual desire is silenced, obscured and denigrated poses a problem for girls” (3). As seen in two studies done at different universities, the girls grow into women who experience sexual encounters but don’t understand its implications. Even for myself, I understood that I couldn’t tell my mother about my sexual assault because it was not talked about and I was taught to suppress any sexual desires I had. Although Tolman and Jordan don’t explicitly mention Latinasthey do see how culture is a huge influence in sexual development. Tolman articulates this at the end of her discussion: Girls’ sexual desire upsets people, because it challenges and might upset the cultural mandate which requires that girls (and women) not be connected to their

bodies in general, and to their sexual hunger in particular. If girls know their desire, what else might they begin to know about themselves and their situation in the culture? (Tolman, 7) Girls, especially Latinas, who have their sexual identities silenced at an early age become women who can’t identify when sexual assault has occurred to their bodies. So how can we perceive sexual assault if Latina don’t understand what it is or what they sexually desire? I once heard that sexual assault is to be considered as a criminal act- mainly because it involves a victim and a perpetrator. (Side note: I often felt uncomfortable using the term “victim” until I understood how my own rape was against my free will. Most survivors I’ve met also feel the same.) Yet, the word criminal itself has many connotations. Aren’t all criminals’ human beings- if so, aren’t they driven by emotion? 6

For this conversation, I’ll be drawing on the cultural criminological model of crime introduced by Jack Katz. As Ferrell mentions, “we, on the other hand, understand human beings to be creative and culturally innovative, caught in circumstances not of their own making but making sense of these circumstances, making meaningful choices and meaningful mistakes, nonetheless” (Ferrell, 64). Katz’s model is selfnamed after his novel Seductions of Crime. Katz’s model, Seduction of Crime, quite literally drawn from the moral and sensual seductions of crime itself. For example, the feelings of excitement or arousal a criminal feel in those moments of committing the crime. It’s the opposite of premeditated, methodological, number-crunching crime. Cultural Criminology: “As regards this human agency, cultural criminology builds from a foundational understanding as to the creativity of human action” (Ferrell, 4). In short, cultural criminology is built on the “negotiation of cultural meaning intertwines with the immediacy of criminal experience” (Ferrell, 3).

“These intensities of ‘irrationality’ and emotion extend throughout the whole process of crime and its consequences, from the offender’s momentary rage or later shame, to the gutted despair of the victim…” (Ferrell, 66). The act of sexual assault itself and the psychological effects of it led me to believe that it involves vulnerability, guilt and rage. Thus, it involves human emotion. Katz’s model argues that the emotional, situational seductions of the crime itself are what drive criminals to commit crime- almost as if saying a criminal could always use an insanity plea. If Katz is true, then in instances of sexual assault- who is to blame? Yet, when someone makes the choice for you without consent, it’s more about imposing power and control. Or is it strictly a fleeting emotional response to a situation as Katz suggests? This is important in this discussion of the implications sexual assault has on Latinas. I’d argue that based on Katz’s stance, both the victim and perpetrator of sexual assault can be overcome by the seduction of emotions in the situation. Often, the victims of sexual assault are completely paralyzed and lock themselves up in a mental cage afterwards. The perpetrator is attracted to irrationality and aggression. This may seem implausible, but it helps victims of sexual assault understand that their emotions they’re feeling afterwards are normal and aid in placing the blame onto the actual perpetrator. I do not condone acts of sexual assault because humans are emotional creatures. Rather, I’m stating that once we peel back a layer of labeling someone as a predator or criminal it can reduce the psychological fear a survivor of sexual assault may feel. I’d argue that it could help victims (especially Latinas) restore themselves. Attuning to your emotions and giving yourself grace is important- especially when in a culture that prides itself on self-reliance. Choosing to

only feel hurt, anger and shame only causes the experience to be relived more than it needs to. But, when we recognize sexual assault as past event built on human impulse- we can place the blame on the perpetrator rather than ourselves (the victims). A dangerous, violent act did occur but if we treat it as fleeting, we can leave it behind. Altogether, Machado does get the conversation about sexual assault started. This is a topic not commonly mentioned in Latino households- especially talked about directly to Latinas. So her insight and commentary on sexual assault and body image through the eyes of a Latina can allow other Latinas to take notice and read her work. Latinas can self-evaluate and reflect on what makes them human. They can impose agency on the choices they make when it comes to their sexual desire- but not until they’ve understood how their culture played a role in this. Most importantly, this does not suppress the fact that the bodies of Latinas are put through trial when sexual assault occurs. When a Latina is sexually assaulted, a person’s first response isn’t “Well good thing she had ample attributes!” No. The rhetoric is much different. 7Sexual assault does have a negative impact on the bodies of Latinaspsychologically, physically and emotionally. Latinas are quick to blame themselves and shut down but are not always knowledgeable. They’re told to stay quiet about wanting sex, are sexually assaulted and then do not always see their bodies in a positive light. Although each of the materials mentioned are taken from specific facts, surveys, stories and even viewpoints I wanted to shed light on how the bodies of Latinas are often seen as a Unless you’re a sadistic and unemotional individual. I don’t doubt that they exist, but I’m speaking about the general population as a whole.

commodity and even separated from the woman herself. Sexual assault is not a subject that should be taken lightly or seen as the norm. Sexual assault, due to many factors such as emotion and circumstances, does occur and does happen to Latinas. Once we take a step back and realize the developmental and cultural differences Latinas grow up in, we can begin to understand how sexual assault impacts them. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m fortunate enough to research this subject and be a survivor of sexual assault. Once I took notice of how my mother raised me and how the norms of my culture played a role, I became aware of why I never spoke up, felt a great split from my body and continued to carry this experience into my relationships afterwards. Thank you for listening.

Works Cited Ferrell, Jeff, et al. Cultural Criminology: An Invitation. 2nd ed., London: SAGE Publications Inc., 2015. Print This book is relevant to my discussion because it speaks on one specific theory of crime. If sexual assault is to be categorized as a crime, then what is crime? How do we perceive crime and how does it occur? Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll specifically draw from Jack Katzâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Seduction of Crime model in my discussion. This will serve as explanation and proof for my main argument as well as provide a new look on crime itself. The entire novel derives from cultural criminology rather than orthodox criminology or statistical lenses. Irune del, Rio G. "Families Under Construction: Migratory Female Identities in the Remaking of Hispanic Cultures." Letras Femeninas, vol. 34, no. 1, 2008, pp. 712. ProQuest, http://library.tcu.edu.ezproxy.tcu.edu/PURL/EZproxy_link.asp?http://search.proq uest.co m.ezproxy.tcu.edu/docview/748440083?accountid=7090. The portrayal of the bodies of Hispanic women is vital to my discussion of how Hispanics look at their own bodies before and after sexual assault. This academic journal specifically looks at studying the migratory movements and how this impacts womanhood in First-World countries. Hispanic women are among the most prevalent women in migratory patterns- thus are among the forerunners of creating the familial unit, womanhood and culture of love in new lands. Overall, this serves as support to one of the vignettes mentioned in my discussion. Kalof, Linda. "Ethnic Differences in Female Sexual Victimization." Sexuality & Culture, vol. 4, no. 4, 2000, pp. 75-98. ProQuest, http://library.tcu.edu.ezproxy.tcu.edu/PURL/EZproxy_link.asp?http://search.pr oquest.co m.ezproxy.tcu.edu/docview/821837687?accountid=7090, doi:http://dx.doi.org.ezproxy.tcu.edu/10.1007/s12119-000-1005-9. This study draws on the sexual victimization experiences and college sexual assault in a sample of undergraduate students but notices the differences among Hispanic women. Again, this statistical analysis focuses on how Hispanic women perceive sexual assault on themselves. Central to my discussion, it also supports my main argument on the negative outlook and impact sexual assault has on Hispanic women. To be specific, this study draws on the upbringing of ethnic women and how this plays a role in their sexual abuse. Machado, Carmen Maria. Her Body and Other Parties: Stories. Graywolf, 2017. This book is the center point of my discussion and central to the theme at hand- how the bodies of Latina women are portrayed, assaulted and brought 39

back to life after assault. This collection of stories draws on themes such as marriage, sexual desire, femininity, violence queerness, crime and body image. Most importantly, the focus of my discussion is on sexual assault- based on my personal experience as a Latina woman who’s suffered from this. Machado’s vignettes involving this will be the focus of my discussion. Negron-Muntaner, Frances, and Matthew C Gutmann. “Ch. 16 Jennifer's Butt.” Perspectives on Las Américas: A Reader in Culture, History, and Representation. Maden,MA: Blackwell Pub, 2003. Print This specific chapter involves an opposing viewpoint of how Latina women’s bodies should be praised and seen as a more positive than negative. This will serve as a counter to my main argument and discussion: the negative viewpoint that Latina women have about their bodies- especially in the case of sexual assault. It’s relevant to my discussion because it only looks at Latina women bodies and feminine ideas. Schneider, Lawrence J., et al. "The Role of Gender and Ethnicity in Perceptions of Rape and its Aftereffects." Sex Roles, vol. 60, no. 5-6, 2009, pp. 410-421. ProQuest, http://library.tcu.edu.ezproxy.tcu.edu/PURL/EZproxy_link.asp?http://search.pr oquest.co m.ezproxy.tcu.edu/docview/225361531?accountid=7090, doi:http://dx.doi.org.ezproxy.tcu.edu/10.1007/s11199-008-9545-9. This academic journal article takes a much more statistical view on how Hispanic students attending a public university report their perceptions of sexual assault. Ethnicity was the influencing factor for perception of recovery of rape victims. This is relevant to my discussion because I’ll only be focusing on Hispanic women and how their bodies are affected. Using statistics on perceptions of rape from Hispanic students offers a new way of looking at what impact means/does not mean. Tolman, Deborah L. "Adolescent Girls, Women and Sexuality: Discerning Dilemmas of Desire." Women & Therapy, vol. 11, no. 3, 1991, pp. 55. ProQuest, http://library.tcu.edu.ezproxy.tcu.edu/PURL/EZproxy_link.asp?http://search.pr oquest.co m.ezproxy.tcu.edu/docview/215936610?accountid=7090, doi:http://dx.doi.org.ezproxy.tcu.edu/10.1300/J015V11N03_04. Female sexual desire is an idea mentioned in my discussion. This journal article written based on the study done by Judith Jordan looks at women’s lack of clarity about their own sexual desire because of developmental difference between girls and boys during adolescence. One of the vignettes in the central book discusses this and how it impacts marriage/sexual assault. One of the most interesting points of this study and how it’s related to my discussion is how adolescent sexuality is heavily drawn from the male experience.

Night Vision by Lutie Rodriguez 1. Darkness is both presence and absence. It’s the absence of light, what remains after the sun goes down or once you’ve wiggled far enough into a cave that light no longer seeps through the cracks; the absence of happiness, the depression that steals the vitality from things that used to make you smile randomly while walking down the sidewalk or throw the covers off faster in the morning. But darkness is also the presence of something less definable: the weight of depression, the captivating mystery that encroaches when night unfolds, the depth of outer space. 2. When I was in my elementary school art class, its walls lined with our Crayola interpretations of Vincent Van Gogh’s sunflowers, my teacher explained to us that black is not a color—that it is, in fact, the absence of color. At age seven, I had trouble comprehending that, and I still do. How can the shade of the night sky not have the same validity as blue or yellow or any of the other crayons in the box? 3. The shadowy, ghoulish cypress in the foreground of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” is the darkest part of the painting. Often overlooked for the radiant stars and spiraling blue, the twisted strokes that form the tree stretch almost to the top of the canvas. Analysts link the black object to death and the internal darkness Van Gogh experienced inside the mental asylum where he painted his best-known work. 4. Pantone has 100 swatches that it classifies as variations of black, tinged with different levels of blue and green and brown. The mixtures are named for the tangible and intangible: Blackberry Syrup, Anthracite, Cavernous, Nebulosity. 5. Scientists aren’t completely sure why the expanse of outer space appears dark when it is, in fact, occupied by billions of stars exuding light, most of them brighter than our sun. They call the phenomenon Olbers’ Paradox. The best theory that scientists have to explain it is that the universe is not infinitely large or infinitely old: we’re only seeing the light that has had time to travel to us in the short 15 billion years since our universe burst into existence. 6. Around the same time that I learned that black was not a color, when comments on and comparisons of physical differences were common for learning about each other, my classmates often described my hair as black. When I said this in front of my parents, they corrected me. “It’s dark-dark-dark brown,” my dad amended. Disappointed, I still imagined that my hair was nebulously black, hiding galaxies and absorbing all light. 7. In the center of our galaxy’s spiral of glittering, swirling stars is a light-and-matter sucking black hole. We are revolving around incomprehensible darkness. 8. Why do you try to read everything I write to find your way into my darkness? Why do you still linger in my car when saying goodnight? Why do you stay close to me on nights out with our friends, wearing my denim jacket and letting your words drip into recalling

private moments? Why do you lean in closer as it gets later? 9. As a child, I sometimes tried closing my eyes for long stretches of time to see if I could determine the color of the back of my eyelids. I imagined that this was the closest I could get to viewing nothingness. I assumed I would see complete blackness. Instead, there were vivid projections of morphing geometric patterns. Pink, yellow, blue, and green specks and bursts spanning my eyelid, sucking me in. Humans create this nearlypsychedelic phenomenon for ourselves: a phosphene—from the Greek “phos,” meaning light, and “phainein,” meaning show—produced by biophotons, the same particles that allow fireflies and barbeled dragonfish to emit light when there’s none in their environment. We, too, have light within our darkest spaces. 10. “Starry Night” was one of 21 paintings Vincent Van Gogh completed of the view from his east-facing window in the Saint-Paul asylum where he was recovering from his mental illness and the resulting ear amputation. Although his view of Saint-Rémy was obstructed by the bars on his window, none of the paintings show them—like how the cypress doesn’t overtake the bright, swirling night sky, and the vivid colors aren’t suppressed by darkness. 11. Before electricity, street lamps, or nightlights, evidence suggests that humans slept biphasically, in two phases separated by a couple of hours of wakefulness. They fell asleep approximately two hours after dusk, when natural light was extinguished, then slept for four hours and awoke to the quiet night that had descended on their bedrooms. After the first sleep, they indulged in the leisure activities that seemed useless in the productive, sunlit hours of the day. By the moonlight streaming through the window, they got out of bed to smoke a pipe, letting the tobacco pull them deeper into languor. Or, some remained in bed, making love to their partner after being rejuvenated by a few hours of sleep, then drowsily discussing their dreams before delving farther in. 12. When I wake up in the middle of the night, it’s either to instant anxiety, heart thumping from coffee consumed too late in the day, or to the relaxation of a quiet bedroom uninterrupted by a puttering roommate or traffic outside. In the calmness, the sheets feel softer, the blankets heavier. The caffeine-induced insomnia is less pleasurable, occupied by racing thoughts that spiral until my eyes eventually collapse. 13. The fear of the dark—nyctophobia—isn’t about fearing the darkness itself, what’s actually there, but what someone can imagine is there. It’s really a byproduct of human creativity, our brains using our biological weaknesses, such as eyesight inhibited by darkness, to definitively turn the tree branch knocking against the window into a spindly arm or the shadowy coat rack into a human figure. Our paranoid ancestors made us like this: the homo sapiens who remained cowered in their huts after hearing a noise outside survived to reproduce when a predator did, in fact, lurk in the dark. 14. I think I had a natural fear of the dark as a child. It never preoccupied me, but I knew that

I didn’t want to be in the backyard too long after sunset (who knows what could hide there?) or go to the cave exhibit at the zoo. Stalagmites and stalactites poked out in the dim light, bats were kept outside of cages, and visitors had to navigate dark and narrow pathways. Unfortunately, the cave exhibit was in a string of connected buildings that were meant to be experienced one after the other, meaning there was no way to bypass it besides returning though the previous buildings. My mom eventually made me bring a flashlight every time we went to the zoo. 15. Nocturnal animals have eyes that turn almost completely black in the dark, the gleaming black-orb pupils overtaking all color and creating more surface area to collect light. Their retinas also hold more rods than cones, meaning that their vision reacts mostly to dim, scattered light and movement. What they see is most likely in black and white, but it’s enough to hunt for food or avoid a predator. 16. You thought I was nocturnal, the way I stood in the dim kitchen making coffee past 8 p.m. 17. Because of all the street lights, neon signs, and constantly-lit sky scrapers that occupy our habitat, there are surprisingly few places on earth that experience complete darkness. Across the United States and Europe, 99% of residents can’t experience a natural night. The rhythm that used to exist between the sun, moon, and earth has been disrupted by LED, fluorescent, and incandescent. Humans have been knocked out of circadian rhythm, lamps and screens replacing melatonin, and inhibited sleep has increased depression. In an effort to eliminate darkness, we put it inside ourselves. 18. Our culture often depicts depression as darkness: in Ambilify commercials as an amorphous blob, and in the Harry Potter series as Dementors that swoop in to feed on happiness. They’re shadowy beings that follow their victim, weighing them down with their gloom. 19. Night drives are my go-to form of self-help. They’ve helped ameliorate the pain from breakups, death, and uncertainty. Down empty roads, the cooler air rushes through the window. The movement makes me feel less stuck. The day after my dad died, my best friend and I drove to our friend’s cabin in the Osage hills, hurtling over the dips, winding with the road past fields and barbed wire fences. We didn’t say anything, I don’t think we played music. All I remember is that the stars looked so bright. 20. Are the stars out tonight? / I don’t know it it’s cloudy of bright / ‘Cause I only have eyes for you, dear (Frank Sinatra, “I Only Have Eyes For You”) 21. When we were in music history together, you wrote one of your papers on nocturnes. As was typical at the end of that semester, we had put off doing the assignment until the last minute and had to write it all in one night. You joined me at the library around 8 p.m.,

carrying a mug of black coffee from home, and we wrote furiously late into the night, the sounds of Chopin and Dave Brubeck easing our stress. The next evening, we drove into the neighboring city to go to their museum’s after-hours exhibit, and we wandered around the wings until midnight. After we left and were walking downtown to your car— not paying attention to the wrong turns we kept taking, preoccupied by the still night— you said, “I feel like my whole week has been leading up to this: writing about nocturnes, then staying up late two nights with you.” 22. Enough composers were affected by nighttime to form a new genre of piano music. Nocturne, “of the night.” In 1812, the composer John Field strayed from the existing forms of single-movement piano solos—fugues, variations on themes, and fantasies—to create the nocturne: “a slow, lyrical melody in the right hand played over a tranquil harmonic pattern in the left hand.” Using his Romantic inclinations, Chopin took this new form and made it his own, composing 21 in total. Twenty-one scenes of night. 23. The night before we went to the museum, as we stood on the road between our neighboring houses, you asked if I would be your platonic friend, saying you needed a good one. I should have listened then instead of attaching meaning to each subsequent bottle of cold brew you brought me, the Frank Sinatra album you always played, and the full moon night that we sat stoned in the grass after a concert, talking about how we wanted to sleep under the stars. 24. I wonder when the first Neanderthal man took the first Neanderthal woman to lay on a rock and look up at the stars, the expanse making them feel infinitesimal but unconcerned because their love seemed large enough to combat the vast, dark unknown. Sometime long before we named the Big Dipper, let alone satellites that could be confused for shooting stars. 25. When I was a teenager, I was convinced that intimate things could only be said or done at night. Faces were more disguised, the streets were quieter, I was willing to be more vulnerable. 26. While you were visiting me in Oklahoma over the summer, after we laid in insect-infested grass and watched Fourth of July fireworks burst and dazzle down the black, we sat on my porch until even the cicadas went to sleep. You later told me that it was your first time experiencing night in its entirety, how it fell as we searched for the perfect spot along the river then withdrew as the sun came up and we went inside. It only felt dark in the dimly-lit kitchen where I told you how nights with you felt magical, the wine sweeter, the melodies more tender. You reiterated both words—platonic friend. You explained how you couldn’t wake up to the same person every morning. 27. There’s nothing inherently magical about night. The perception comes from our culture, the widespread stories we tell ourselves through books and movies and music about the kiss in the moonlight, the perfectly-timed shooting star, the power of a full moon.

Scientifically, night is just the period between sunset and sunrise. But then Chopin wrote nocturnes, Van Gogh painted, and I made constellations out of your words.

Scrabbling1 by Aubrey Hudson “The Temple of Art is built in words.” – Josiah Gilbert Holland My favorite seven-letter word is pizzazz. According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, pizzazz is a noun meaning the quality of being exciting or attractive, such as glamour. 1 I like it because it is something shiny, something exotic. It’s a word that slips off your tongue coolly— like something hidden underneath a practiced smirk—but it isn’t stiff or preposterous 2 or haughty. 3 It is something breathable. Something you can swallow. I like that it is a shot at something exciting. Something exhilarating. Like a word caught on the tips of your tongue. A stand-alone. According to Jeff Miller’s Collection of Word Oddities and Trivia, pizzazz is one of the only two, seven-letter words that contain a total of four z’s. The second word is pazzazz, which is no more than “an informal variant of pizzazz” and a tangle of only three stock letters. Pizzazz gives my stomach something to churn over. I remember growing up, rolling it over the insides of my mouth and learning how it breathes, how it tastes. I spent the seventh grade trying to slip pizzazz into each of my sentences—cramming it in between loose words and sticking it behind fragments. I found out that pizzazz earns a minimum of forty-five points in Scrabble, depending on how the tiles fell, and I looked for it inside every game. It became some sort of treasure. Some sort of won thing. In our game of Scrabble, there is only one “z” tile, and it is worth ten points. There are also two blank tiles, and while they can pretend that they are any sort of letter, they won’t ever become something valuable. I don’t remember the day that I found out that the forty-five-point pizzazz was an impossible thing, but I remember leaning into your shoulders, sagging.

Glamour: (n.) the quality of fascinating, alluring, or attracting (10 points) Preposterous: (adj.) completely contrary to nature, reason, or common sense; absurd; senseless; utterly foolish (16 points) 3 Haughty: (adj.) disdainfully proud; snobbish; scornfully arrogant; supercilious (17 points) 1 2

I remember—mostly—on Tuesday nights, folded over the Scrabble board atop our dining room table. You are usually ahead by thirty or so points because you have thirty years larger a vocabulary—you joke about this often—and I crisscross my legs underneath the table and think wouldn’t it be nice? The glow in your eyes is a convincing thing. You laugh and place crimson—an elevenpoint smudge of the more generic red—underneath my crock4, and I tally the score. We have roles—you and I—and it’s almost amusing how organically we fold ourselves into them. Like second nature. It’s nothing like a plan and instead just a thing that has happened. Old habits. Safety nets. The things that we have forgotten to change. I like it this way. Scrabble was invented by Alfred Mosher Butts sometime around 1933. It was during the Great Depression, and he was twisting, fidgeting—looking for something to do with his hands. He wanted to combine the parts of anagrams with the parts of the classic crossword puzzle and create a game that scores. He originally named it Lexiko. 5 He studied the front page of The New York Times and calculated the game’s letter distribution. He held the stories inside of his fingers and counted how many times the letters appeared. The most common letters—the ones who kept showing up, over and over like a sort of broken thing—were only awarded one point. The more exotic letters—the z’s and the q’s and the j’s and the k’s—were something valuable. They had pizzazz.

You used to tell me stories of growing into yourself. How to become something authentic. I remember growing up, wanting to be something reciprocated. I walked inside the

4 5

Crock: (n.) INFORMAL—NORTH AMERICAN: something considered to be complete nonsense (13 points) Lexiko: from the Greek stem meaning “words” (invalid Scrabble word)

footsteps of those who were bigger than me. I played words like double 6 and banal 7. You told me to stretch myself. Start thinking beyond my own ribcage. Start breathing new air. “You can’t win a game of Scrabble on soul and trains and rugs alone,” you say over coffee on Sunday morning. The scrabble board is stretched out between us, splattered between crumbs of your mother’s pumpkin bread and fruit seeds. “You need to think of something bigger. Look inside yourself; play what you see.” I swallow your words as a type of metaphor—something stronger, heavier, weightier than simple instruction. I place words like velvety 8, atony 9, floret. 10 I practice growing into myself.

In Scrabble, players who use all seven of their tiles to make a word on a single turn get awarded a fifty-point bonus. This is called a “Bingo.” We only play this way sometimes, when you feel like it. My first “Bingo” was on the word bandeau. 11 I was in middle school and stuck inside of this idea that I would become somebody in lacy underwear. I asked you to buy me a thong and you rolled your eyes, laughed. Later, I had a friend of someone drive me to Victoria’s Secret. We walked around and pretended that we belonged. I would’ve only won eleven points from bandeau, but the weight of it carried somewhere deeper. In Scrabble there are no complete sentences, no fully-formed thoughts. There are just smudges of words that conjure up some sort of meaning. This was my howling into the night.

Double: (adj.) composed of two like parts or members; twofold in form; paired (9 points) Banal: (adj.) devoid of freshness or originality; hackneyed; trite (7 points) 8 Velvety: (adj.) suggestive of or resembling velvet; smooth; soft (16 points) 9 Atony: (n.) lack of normal muscle tone (8 points) 10 Floret: (n.) a small or reduced-sized flower, like a daisy (9 points) 11 Bandeau: (n.) a woman’s strapless top formed from a band of fabric fitting around the bust; brassiere (10 points) 6 7

The highest-possible scoring word is oxyphenbutazone—an anti-inflammatory drug that is used to treat arthritis, bursitis. It must be played over the span of three triple word tiles and stemmed across eight already perfectly-placed letters, but it has the potential to win 1,778 points. The second highest-scoring word is quizzify. 12 You would need to draw both the “z” and the “q” tile, as well as a blank tile for the second “z.” It needs to be placed across two triple word tiles with the “z” crumpling perfectly onto a double letter score tile. It has the potential to win 419 points. The highest word that you’ve ever scored is zootaxy. 13 You splayed it over a double word score tile, and I tallied you 52 points. You laughed and created the sorts of what it means, how it sounds. I pinched my lips and inhaled, shuddering. Zootaxy is in the bottom ten percent of used words and something unfamiliar. There are whole collections of words that the English language has forgotten about. Words like zootaxy that get stuck in between tight lips and chapped teeth. Words that scrape slipping from yellow mouths: To chork is to make the noise that feet do when one’s shoes are full of water; To duffifie is to lay a bottle on its side for some period time so that it may be completely drained of the last, few drops remaining—like ketchup or shampoo; To egrote is to feign sickness in order to avoid work; To feague is to put a live eel up a horse’s bottom—it is used figuratively in an attempt encourage someone—something like getting one’s spirits up; A jehu is a fast or furious driver; A pedeconference is a meeting held while walking; To scuddle is to run with an affected haste;

12 13

Quizzify: (v.) to quiz or question (41 points) Zootaxy (n.) the science of the classification of animals (26 points)

A throttlebottom is a dishonest man who holds public office; The state of uhtceare consists of lying awake before dawn and worrying; A zarf is the cup-shaped holder for warm cups of coffee that keeps you from burning fingertips. All of the valid Scrabble words are listed in The Official Scrabble Player’s Dictionary, and sometime early autumn they added 300 or so new ones. Among these new things are the words ok 14, sheeple, 15 hivemind, 16 puggle, 17 nubber, 18 aquafaba, 19 bokeh, 20 emoji21, twerk 22. They are things adapted to fit a changing generation. Growing vocabularies. Transcribed speech.

Growing up, you were a verbose 23 thing—sweaty fingers dripping with chatty disposition 24 —collecting words like memories. Stamps. You told me that you used to stretch—words like ken, 25 hypnosis, 26 jejune 27—across the backs of your fingers as reminders. Future things. You filled your private libraries and then squeezed yourself inside. Tangling syllables like some sort of secret. I remember my soggy eyes—bare shoulders—sitting mesmerized. 28 I have always wanted this part of you. It became something familiar—almost logic—to curl and twist myself

OK: (exclamation—informal) used to express assent, agreement, or acceptance (6 points) Sheeple: (n.) people likened to sheep (12 points) 16 Hivemind: (n.) the shared ideas of a group (17 points) 17 Puggle: (n.) a kind of dog (10 points) 18 Nubber: (n.) a weakly hit ball (10 points) 19 Aquafaba: (n.) the liquid that results when beans are cooked in water (22 points) 20 Bokeh: (adj.) the blurred quality of a photograph (14 points) 21 Emoji: (n.) a small, digital image or icon used to express an idea, emotion, etc. in electronic communication (14 points) 22 Twerk: (v.) to dance to popular music in a sexually provocative manner involving thrusting hip movements and a low, squatting stance (12 points) 23 Verbose: (adj.) characterized by the use of many or too many words; wordy (12 points) 24 Disposition: (n.) your usual mood (14 points) 25 Ken: (n.) the range of what one can know or understand (7 points) 26 Hypnosis: (n.) a state that resembles sleep induced by suggestion (16 points) 27 Jejune: (adj.) lacking interest or significance or impact (20 points) 28 Mesmerized: (v.) spellbind; to bind or hold by or as if by a spell (24 points) 14 15

alongside the Scrabble board at night, desperate to swallow the pieces that you decided to lay down. I remember it was high school when I learned things like gallivant—how to wander aimlessly in search of pleasure. I was young and receptive, and you were something that I learned to listen to. We sat on the porch swing—hair tied and fingers wringing—and I knotted fragile things with shaking hands. You smiled and coaxed 29 me into myself. Became something soothing. Gentle.

You have always been so good at that: using words to tell your stories. When my brother slumped home from school—a mess of pitchy voices and mashed fists—you weren’t loud or sharp or hostile. Your voice stretched—piqued 30—but you were a composed thing. A fervent 31 mess of soft tones and gentle hands helping us to lay down. I try to learn by example. Listen. Whisper. My professors speak in tongues. They tangle parts of words with other things, and I find myself scribbling notes into margins—bending my knuckles trying to bring you words home—yearn, 32 yawner, 33 vermillion, 34 quixotic, 35 Qi. 36

I remember a fight we had once over the realness of Qi. I read about it online—heard something from a friend—plopped it onto the board between your luteous 37 and my imbrue. 38 My fingers shaking with a sort of teenage gusto. 39 Coaxed: (v.) to attempt to influence by gentle persuasion, flattery, etc. (16 points) Piqued: (v.) to excite or arouse especially by a provocation, challenge, or rebuff (18 points) 31 Fervent: (adj.) characterized by intense emotion (13 points) 32 Yearn: (v.) to desire strongly or persistently (8 points) 33 Yawner: (n.) a person who yawns (12 points) 34 Vermillion: (adj.) of a vivid red to reddish-orange color (15 points) 35 Quixotic: (adj.) not sensible about practical matters (26 points) 36 Qi: (n.) the vital force that in Chinese thought is inherent in all things (11 points) 37 Luteous: (adj.) moderate greenish yellow (7 points) 38 Imbrue: (v.) to saturate or stain (10 points) 39 Gusto: (n.) enjoyment or vigor in doing something; zest (6 points) 29 30

You laughed and pretended like it wasn’t a real thing. You said if anything it was a proper noun—something excluded—and I looked it up in the Online Scrabble Dictionary, smiled through my teeth.

About a third of all American homes contain a copy of the Scrabble game. In the United Kingdom, this number is somewhere around half. I remember this as a good thing. When language is a barrier, words are something that we all can handle. In the Afrikaans edition of the game, there are no “z” or “x” tiles because, while the letters do exist inside the language, they appear so infrequently that including them would become something pointless. In the Spanish version, there are tiles included for “ll” and “rr,” and they are not allowed to substitute two “r” tiles in replacement. The game is made also in Czech, Dutch, Icelandic, French, Turkish, Danish, Finnish. Portuguese. Romanian. Russian. Slovak. Each set breathes a bit different, something new. But we are all the same mess. Organized chaos. Broken things scraping against the edges of something almost whole.

On Tuesday evenings—about sundown—I ride my bike over to the Pizzazz Pizza Parlor down the street from our sea house. I pick up a Veggie pizza and balance it home. You set up the Scrabble board and light my favorite candles. We listen to the static of our neighbor’s radio. We have stumbled into some kind of normal that plays Scrabble into the smallest hours of the morning. You and I—hands tangled, hearts stiff—folded over words that we have yet to define. The thing about Scrabble is that every board sits differently and that nothing holds. It is an evolving thing. Changing. You get to pick your parts up and start over. Rewind. Optimism.

You spill yourself into it for a moment, roll it around the insides of your mouth, and then the nextâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone. You fold yourself up and move on. Begin again.

The Little Door by Sabrina Ochoa Let’s start with third grade. It was a “harajuku girls” mini composition book, a pastel green colored thing with the length and width of an iPhone. I recall writing in secret codes, calling people not by their names but the names of different animals, in fear of my diary being read by someone and having my secret thoughts exposed. Yet there was an issue within that issue. By writing in “wolf” and “hamster” I was already keeping back information that didn’t make the writing pristine. The tiny composition book was a friend I didn’t trust. I wrote, yes, but I had a filter with names. I told the book many stories but all of their characters wore masks in every single one of them. Another barrier was the tendency to write in a way, at third grade, that would seem “elevated” or “smart”. When I wrote in those china-paper-thin pages, it took me a while to even figure out the way in which to write whatever the hell “alpaca” told me that day. So not only was I keeping secrets from my own journal, but I was trying to impress it by being someone else. Someone who wasn’t eight year old me. It was frustrating to keep up with the names and to feel like I couldn’t even write coherently. The little thing was evil. “I can’t keep a diary.” I apprehended myself one day. “This isn’t for me.” And so the milky green book with Asian symbols that I didn’t care to understand, went into the drawer next to my bed. It was to be neglected like every other item in drawers next to beds. As time passed, I found myself in sixth grade with another pocket book, again. It was slightly larger than the first one, I happened to take it from my father’s office. It was black and had the word “moleskine” engraved on it. At twelve years old, when your legs are a little prettier and the boys are nicer than they used to be, I found the black cover horrendously dull. That day I took it home and encased it in some electric yellow construction paper with the precision of a middle school girl. All of the edges were glued towards a perfection of neatness. It was so clean that I didn’t want to touch it, and although the cover of my pocket book was no longer grim, it now just seemed incredibly empty. I took the risk of adding bright pink squares, cut neatly and aligned symmetrically. It was even more beautiful than before, since it now resembled the life of a door in a million dollar townhouse. One last thing was missing—a little knob. A tiny orange circle did the job. “It’s a little door!” My best friend told me at school. “Yes it is.” I was proud of the little phosphorescent door that became the cover of a book that hadn’t met writing just yet. And so I took it everywhere. People at school looked at the tiny door and complimented it. I don’t know if it’s the fact that it was adorable, or maybe it was the color scheme, or just the

clean edge it had, but that pocket journal had a particular charm that—even though it was empty—the world somehow praised. The time finally came to embroider ink and lead into the thin minces of wood. It took place at every crack of spare time when life wasn’t interesting enough. Sometimes I drew in it. Sometimes certain music made me feel a particular way, and I wrote it in the book. When I got bored in class I wrote a fictional stories about my teachers. This was the dynamic between my little door and I. A strange relationship that I couldn’t quite name. Yet one day, the game changed. A boy in my class took interest in the door, but he took far more interest in what was in it. His name was Eugene. I didn’t like him because when were both reading “The Hunger Games” at the same time, he somehow managed to finish it before me. Reluctantly, I handed a perfectly preserved piece of myself to the boy. He analyzed the little door, and flipped through what was in it. Then he did something insane. He began to write. I had never spoken to him prior to that moment, yet after he gave me my book back, after he flipped through my personalities and added on to them, an inexplicable alliance was formed. It was almost invisible, because I went home that day and I recall not being able to think about anything else. “It doesn’t matter,” I thought to myself, “he’ll forget about it and we’ll never speak of it again.” Yet it was concrete. Because every morning after that sole interaction, he called my name. The first time, I panicked and pretended not to hear. As usual, he went against every source of predictability I had ever come to know. He called my name again. I didn’t know what he would say to me, all I knew is that he added on little things to my book that were at first random and episodic, yet somehow—after his notes—I felt that the entirety of the book increased in its value. He added conflict to my stories. He killed my characters. He saved a princess with a “chopper”. He added and subtracted as he pleased and although I hated him and called it chaotic… It was beautiful. After acknowledging each other’s existence every day, each time I wrote something (depending on his mood that day), I passed it to him. I would write:

Once upon a time there was a lockdown. Lucy and Ale were in the bathroom and they were stuck. The lockdown lasted for days so they had to go to the cafeteria and steal canned beans or else they would starve and die. He would add: And then Karen would run into them in the hallway, but since Karen had rabies, she bit Ale, and now Ale has THE INFECTION. Lucy then punched Ale so hard that— ... I don’t know what I hated more. The lack of civility, the weapons I didn’t even know existed, or his terrible handwriting that looked like accumulated dog scratches at the bottom of a door. All of the fictional fun was recorded in that special door. As the months passed, I spent more time with Eugene besides sitting together in our classes. We “texted” and it got me into a lot of trouble. We played Minecraft on the weekends. And inevitably, we started reading the same books, but I made sure he never finished before me ever again. Gradually, the fondness I had for him turned into something else. Our friendship consumed everything in our lives. We were an elite team behind a paper door with stories no one could understand and jokes that were funny only to us. Deep down I felt something inexplicable for that beautiful boy, I couldn’t even give it a name. “Whatever it is,” I thought, “no one has to know.” I went to sleep with a sense of relief since my own secrets were foreign to me. How foolish I was. The night sky and all of its scattered stars knew. The silence of the mornings, and the dew on the grass knew. Even the sprinklers in the golf course knew. That I was in love with Eugene. It’s okay though. What “didn’t have name” then, today, I am able to put it into words. There’s nothing special about it. I lived in the same town, went to the same school. Yet for the first time, every day was the best day of my life. I looked forward to seeing someone and to being their sole center of attention. I was loved and I loved in the purest way there is to love someone; simply by who they are. We drank each other like black coffee. No sugar, no milk, no syrups, nothing. We didn’t need it. We were ourselves and that was everything. People had their opinions but we never

payed attention because they didn’t understand. And so we did. We drank each other like black coffee. ...until it ran out. One morning, in May, he came to me frantically. He told me his family was moving back to his original hometown. I felt the biggest halt to my newly discovered euphoria, and was now in a serious opioid crisis. As Harry Styles once said; Give me some morphine. The news hurt. I told him that we shouldn’t think about the future and only about the present. To make the most fun before he left. So we did what we knew how to do best. We ignored everyone and everything by continuing to do everything together as we did before, pretending not to care that he would leave. Yet when I found myself alone with my thoughts the same highs I had all year turned into lows. I was dominated by an ungovernable sadness. Before Eugene left, I went to a book store and found the exact same black leathered notebook that the little door was made of. I took the same yellow construction paper yet these windows, instead of pink, I made green. The door handle was still round and orange. I made sure to write a few things throughout the book so he had something to add on to. The day before he moved back, I gave him his very own tiny door. What followed after his disappearance from my life was a strange disruption. I didn’t know who I was without him. Everything was boring. I didn’t even have the energy to play Minecraft anymore. Eventually, the little door, like the little mint book, went into the drawer of neglected things next to the bedside. I sulked around my house like a zombie going through puberty. I slept all day and was on my computer all night. I rejected real food and lived off of ice cream sandwiches. I started listening to Lana del Rey. One night my mother confronted my odd behavior. She called me out on my rare sleeping habits and slight weight gain. She told me she didn’t like the music I listened to or the games I played on my computer at night. I just stared back with the most natural of indifferences. Her words had no effect on me. Nothing did. Until my little sister, who was the Dobby to my mother’s Harry Potter then said, “Mom will you leave her alone? She misses her boyfriend and hates all of her friends.”

I gasped and looked at her in disbelief. “You read my book?” She exposed me in front of myself. Everything I didn’t tell anyone was guarded behind that door with no lock. I trusted the universe that no one would take interest in actually seeing what was inside. Everyone at school respected my privacy. I couldn’t believe that in my own household, someone had gone out of their way to read my diary and call me out on what was in it. The infuriation lasted for days. Up until now, my family members still recall that incident because right after my sister confronted me about the problems I kept invisible, I opened the drawer of neglect and took the little door. I then climbed to the roof of my two story home. I wrapped the thing in plastic and dropped it into a tiny hole the size of a nest with an unknown depth. This heartbreak was far worse than the first one. Someone knew the secrets I confided in paper. My biggest fear from third grade became my reality. This is what its like to be exposed. I don’t know if it was the anger or the sadness, but I went back into my room and grabbed a beaten-up spiral notebook from my desk and sat down. Since then, everything changed. I wrote ruthlessly and without filters. I told the pages everything they’d like to know. I described the people in my life by comparing them to the alcohol I learned to consume and the secrets hidden in the lines of their fingerprints. I confessed my lies, my faults, and my guilts in detail—as if the pages were a priest and I was asking for forgiveness. It felt like breathing for the first time. And when I put the spiral down, I left it on my desk. Whoever wants to read what I write, can do so as they please. Like dark chocolate, freedom had a bitter taste, but I liked it; and the words I guarded so deeply then, are now on the loose. Beware.

The Independent Façade of the 1920’s Flapper by Andreley Bjelland “Let them sing of the girls of the long, long ago Who were shocked if their elbow or stockings did show But I’ll chant of the maidens whose ankles are free To show their half-socks, and the shape of their knees. Let them praise those back numbers who turned in their toes And panted and fainted when MEN would propose; Compared to the short-skirted, bob-headed fry Who meet all proposals with right to the eye. Let them shed all their tears in a crocodile pour For the simple simp sister who flourished of yore But I’ll cast my vote in the way that I feelFor the girl self-reliant, bright, snappy and REAL.”

The poem above, entitled “New Fashioned Girl,” provides a perfect depiction of the typical flapper of the 1920’s as seen in the magazine The Flapper – a girl who was not quite yet a woman, who bobbed her hair, cut her skirts and did not need a man. While the flapper took popular culture by storm as World War I came to an end, she also prevailed in literature of the 1920’s. Many great writers of the decade became intoxicated with the tantalizing image of the carefree flapper. Among those was Ernest Hemingway, whose novel The Sun Also Rises explores the ideas and realities of an expat flapper in the 1920’s. Through his narrator, Jake, readers watch as a beautiful flapper named Brett breaks the hearts of every man she encounters within the story. Brett is daring, promiscuous, and seemingly independent – everything a flapper should be according to a poem such as “New Fashioned Girl.” “New Fashioned Girl” was published in The Flapper, a magazine created in May of 1922. The Flapper, in alliance with their motto “Not for Old Fogies,” gave the up-and-coming flappers a

publication to call their own. It addressed issues of fashion, work, media, and romance in a way which appealed to the carefree lifestyle of girls attempting to rid themselves of the expectations of male dependence and femininity which stifled women in prior decades. While the magazine only ran until 1923, it left a lasting impression of the way flappers of the ‘20’s wished to be seen by the rest of the world. However, while The Flapper, and literary characters such as Brett, may have shone with a glossy veneer of independence, it was nothing more than a pretty façade – a façade which required worldly beauty and the validation of men to be successful. When viewing Brett through the lens of The Flapper, it becomes evident she only appeared independent, and in reality remained wholly reliant on men in order to maintain satisfaction in her flapper lifestyle. Brett’s promiscuity, casual drinking, and careless attitude towards men paint her as someone who does who and what she wants, when she wants. When Brett is introduced in the third chapter, she is drinking heavily and flirting with both the narrator and his friend, Robert. It becomes clear Robert is enamored with Brett, and Jake remarks to Brett: “‘I suppose you like to add them up’” (Hemingway 30), to which Brett responds “‘Well, what if I do?’” (Hemingway 30). She is unapologetic for her unwillingness to settle for one man. A few pages later, the reader sees her leave the bar and begin kissing Jake, upon which it is revealed she is engaged to be married to a man named Mike. However, at no point throughout the novel does Brett make any move to marry Mike, nor does she seem to want to. Instead, she takes up with Robert, then a bullfighter named Pedro Romero, all the while keeping Jake on the backburner although she refuses to make him her first priority, claiming “it’s just the way [she’s] made” (Hemingway 42). At the end of the novel, Brett leaves Mike, Jake, and Robert all behind and heartbroken when she runs off with Romero, who she claims to be “mad about” (Hemingway 187). Romero, fifteen years her junior, is not the responsible or societally appropriate choice. However, Brett epitomizes the flapper with this decision as she embraces the ability to do as she pleases, leaving a trail of men in her wake.

The decisions Brett makes align perfectly with the “New Fashioned Girl,” who is selfsufficient and will not accept a proposal – or if she does, she refuses to be dramatic about it. The Flapper also contains an interview with Colleen Moore, who, like Brett, defined the look and lifestyle of a true flapper. Moore was iconic in the 1920’s due to her role in a multitude of silent films. However, Colleen never played a demure woman or damsel in distress. Instead, as evidenced by Sara Ross in her article “‘Good Little Bad Girls’: Controversy and the Flapper Comedienne,” Moore played roles which evoked promiscuity and sexuality to a degree heretofore unseen, such as in the film Irene, where all her clothes came off in an amusing but undeniably provocative scene involving a dressmaker’s shop (413). Her performance in Flaming Youth caused protests in multiple municipalities and local governments were petitioned to shut down further showings. Stars such as Colleen Moore were also often depicted in situations involving alcohol and parties; not a scene in which women before the 1920’s would have reveled (410). Like Colleen in her movies, Brett is intoxicated and partying throughout much of The Sun Also Rises, leading her to act in ways which would have shocked the traditional woman, and further exemplifying her apparent independence. However independent they may first appear, the liberated veneer of the flapper fades quickly when beauty is brought into question. While flappers wore shorter skirts than any generation before them, their goal was not simply to be more practical and comfortable, but to impress those around them. This is evidenced in an advertisement placed in The Flapper for a “Flapper Beauty Contest.” The advertisement promises a “chance for most typical flapper to win . . . and get a real opportunity in the movies.” The beauty contest sounds like an innocent talent scouting event, similar perhaps to an audition. However, it becomes obvious the judges of the contest have no interest in talent. A girl who considered herself a flapper simply had to send in a picture to be given a “once-over” by the judges. The announcement promises any picture that “looks good will be published regardless of [her] standing in the contest.” As men dominated the

film industry in the 1920’s, flappers still required male validation in order to be successful in entertainment. The fact the contest asked for nothing more than a photo belies the idea that, according to men of the 1920’s, flappers were taken as anything more than a group of pretty girls. When The Flapper ran this ad, they made a decision to promote to their readers the concept that beauty in the eyes of men was, above all else, what made for the “most typical flapper.” This is a far cry from the “self-reliant” declarations of the “New Fashioned Girl” and provides an alarming window into the elevated status of male opinions in a publication created to endorse female independence. Similarly, there are many occasions in The Sun Also Rises where readers see Brett get away with her wanton behavior because of her beauty. Brett is described as “damn goodlooking . . . with curves like the hull of a racing yacht” (Hemingway 29-30), and shortly thereafter, Robert falls in love with her and takes her to San Sebastian. Similarly, at the end of the novel, Brett runs away with Pedro Romero. They do not speak the same language, but he is immediately enamored with her anyways. Brett has plenty of character and wit, as can be evidenced by her quick use of sarcasm, such as an exchange in which she mocks the Count after he tells her she has a lot of class, asking him “‘Mummy would be pleased. Couldn’t you write it out, and I’ll send it in a letter to her?’” (Hemingway 65). However, the men in the story fight over Brett not for her intelligence, but for her beauty. The seemingly “independent” gestures with Robert and Pedro which allow her to avoid the confines of marriage would be impossible without the validation of the men around her. Brett’s carefree living will only carry on until her allure fades away and she is forced to choose one man because the rest no longer find her appealing. The need for male validation as seen in The Flapper continues with an article about Colleen Moore, the aforementioned silent movie star. In an interview with Gladys Hall, Moore

admits that, in her opinion, “‘a flapper . . . is just a little girl’” (2). This image is a far cry from the worldly depictions of Brett or Colleen’s promiscuous movie characters, but is understandable when viewed through the male gaze which perpetuated flapper society. Moore continues, stating that “‘Little Lady Flapper is really old-fashioned; but in her efforts not to let anyone discover that her true ideal is love-in-a-cottage, she ‘flaps’ in the most desperately modern manner’” (2). This one sentence serves to dispel the entire idea of the flapper as an independent woman. Not only is this flapper “old-fashioned,” she is merely waiting around to snag a man and live the same lifestyle as her ancestors. Moore speaks of a desperate, helpless little girl who uses a weak attempt at bravado to hide the fact that she has no idea what she is doing. Moore was an iconic figure of the 1920’s, due to her appearance in so many films, and therefore a statement as strong as this was sure to be taken to heart by many people. If such a visible woman considered flappers to be nothing more than somewhat pathetic jokes of wivesto-be, how was anyone else to view them as independent young women who could survive just fine on their own? While Brett’s desire for “love-in-a-cottage” may not reign prevalent in The Sun Also Rises, there are more instances where her dependence on various men is demonstrated than those in which we see her claim independence and responsibility. The dependence may be monetary, sexual, or nurturing, but it is there, and always glaringly obvious. The first example of this dependence is when Brett appears at Jake’s door in the company of a wealthy Count. He is much older than Brett, having been in “seven wars and four revolutions” (Hemingway 66), but he brings her bottles of expensive champagne and takes everyone out for a night on the town at his expense. This would not necessarily speak to Brett’s dependence, except she plainly states earlier in the novel that she hasn’t “any money” (Hemingway 50). The reader knows at this point Brett is in love with Jake, or at least claims to be (Hemingway 34), so the only reason she is

entertaining the Count’s attentions is because she needs his money in order to keep up her exciting and expensive lifestyle. The reader also witnesses many situations in which Brett is rescued by Jake, who plays her knight-in-shining armor and asks nothing in return. When she tires of entertaining Robert Cohn, who fancies himself madly in love with her, she uses Jake as a buffer, entreating him to take walks with her and feigning important private conversations so Robert will leave her alone (Hemingway 184-185). Jake is an enthusiastic participant in these events, but Brett seems aware that she needs him there in order to deter the potentially violent love of Robert. In another scene, one of the most poignant of the story, Brett has run off with Romero, but quickly realizes she has made a mistake. Instead of living up to the independence she has tried to exude throughout the story and continuing on alone, Brett sits in a hotel room Romero paid for, waiting for Jake to come rescue her, just as he always has. When Jake finally appears, Brett makes no pretense at independence, but revels in being taken care of, crying and complaining about the sacrifice she made in sending Romero away (Hemingway 246-247). Brett’s fiancé did not know where she went when she disappeared with Romero, and she could have easily left him and Jake behind and started a new life where she did not need any man. But she does not choose that route, she chooses to wait for Jake and let him take care of her. The end of the book depicts the two riding off into the sunset. Although Hemingway’s final lines hint all is not well between Brett and Jake, Brett has succumbed to the flapper ideals of Colleen Moore and fully embraced the persona of the little girl who cannot be left to her own devices. More than one scholar has searched for the reasoning behind Brett’s dependence on men. Lorie Watkins Fulton, in her article “Reading Around Jake’s Narration: Brett Ashley in The Sun Also Rises,” makes the claim that Brett “attempts to nurture others . . . [because] she had a son with her second husband . . . [but later left] her child in order to save herself” (2). If this is

the case, not only does Brett’s dependence on men have a clear reason behind it – the idea she is making up for the child she failed to help – but it also emphasizes the image of Brett not as the carefree flapper, but as the stereotypical woman whose world revolved around her children. If these men have, in some twisted way, become her surrogate children, then it is understandable she depends on having them around in order to maintain a semblance of normalcy. William Adair’s article, “The Sun Also Rises: Mother Brett,” further emphasizes this idea, providing different examples of when the men in the novel made Brett feel as though she was needed in order to encourage them to behave well, such as the multiple occasions when Mike and Robert begin to fight for her attention (4). Not only does this validate Brett’s desire to mother something, but it also serves to validate her as a valuable commodity due to her beauty, which re-emphasizes the aforementioned idea that she depended on the validation of men in order to maintain self-satisfaction. The reader can also see this dependence on male support in Brett’s inability to remain in a relationship in which her male counterpart does not approve of every aspect of her life and appearance. In the previously mentioned section of the novel in which Brett tells Romero to leave, she does so supposedly because he could not accept her for who she was, bobbed hair and all. If Brett was truly independent, she would not have had a problem standing up to Romero and keeping her hair as she liked it. However, she runs away, back to Jake who she knows will be waiting for her and in love with her as always. On the other hand, an argument made against this idea of Brett as a figure who is fully dependent on men is explored in the article “Imperial Brett in The Sun Also Rises,” by Peter Hays. Hays goes through each of the prominent relationships Brett experiences in the novel, and details how she “conquered” each man, leaving them behind and moving on to a new conquest as soon as they threatened her power. Specifically, he discusses Romero’s refusal to let Brett dominate him, as Spanish culture dictates Romero will always be in charge. Hays claims this is a show of Brett’s independence, as she supposedly chooses to send Romero

away rather than allow her so-called independence to be taken from her (240). Hays’ argument is flawed for more than one reason. First, Brett did not really conquer these men; instead, she ran away from them as soon as they demanded something that made her uncomfortable, such as when Romero requested she grow out her bob. Brett does not seem to be able to handle saying no to any of her various affairs, and so she keeps both her fiancé and Jake at her beck and call just in case a man threatens to change anything about her. Brett is not independent because she cannot be without a man. She can leave one, but only when she is certain that there is another waiting close behind. Additionally, Donald Daiker, in his article “‘Brett Couldn’t Hold Him’: Lady Ashley, Pedro Romero, and the Madrid Sequence of The Sun Also Rises,” argues that perhaps Brett did not really leave Romero after all, but instead he left her. If this is indeed the case, not only is her tearful reaction to Jake’s appearance a bit more understandable, but Hays’ argument of her ability to conquer is even more unlikely. Although the girls depicted in The Flapper and Brett in The Sun Also Rises provide a brilliant veneer of 1920’s glamour and independence, with a closer look it becomes apparent neither Brett nor the young women of The Flapper were truly liberated. Instead, their need for validation as well as their romantic and monetary dependence on men depict girls who could not live without a man to support them. The struggles of Brett and the flappers to appear independent, along with the evidence of their failure to do so, brings about a question not only of the legitimacy of the flapper movement, but also the legitimacy of the progressiveness of the whole of 1920’s culture. If flappers did not gain their independence, was society really moving forward? Was the “New Fashioned Girl” of the poem a girl that could really be found, abroad or in the states? It seems more likely that Brett, like Colleen Moore, was just a confused little girl, who played a promiscuous part on the silver screen but secretly ached for a man to come and rescue her from her troubles.

Works Cited Adair, W. "The Sun Also Rises: Mother Brett." Journal of Narrative Theory, vol. 40 no. 2, 2010, pp. 189-208. Project MUSE, doi:10.1353/jnt.2010.0011 "Announcing Flapper Beauty Contest." Old Magazine Articles. Old Magazine Articles, 2008. Web. 12 Apr. 2017. Daiker, Donald A. "“BRETT COULDN'T HOLD HIM”: LADY ASHLEY, PEDRO ROMERO, and the MADRID SEQUENCE of the SUN ALSO RISES. (Undetermined)." ["Commentary"]. Hemingway Review, vol. 29, no. 1, Fall2009, pp. 73-5. Darwination. "The Flapper, June 1922." Darwination Scans. N.p., 01 Jan. 1970. Web. 24 Apr. 2017. Fulton, L. W. "Reading Around Jake's Narration: Brett Ashley and The Sun Also Rises." The Hemingway Review, vol. 24 no. 1, 2004, pp. 61-80. Project MUSE, doi:10.1353/hem.2004.0034 Hall, Gladys. "Flappers Here to Stay, Says Colleen Moore." Old Magazine Articles. Old Magazine Articles, 2008. Web. 12 Apr. 2017. Hays, Peter L. "Imperial Brett in The Sun Also Rises." ANQ: A Quarterly Journal of Short Articles, Notes and Reviews. Routledge, 5 Nov. 2010. Web. 17 Apr. 2017. Hemingway, Ernest. The Sun Also Rises. New York, NY: Scribner, 2016. Print.r Ross, Sara. “'Good Little Bad Girls': Controversy and the Flapper Comedienne.” Film History, vol. 13, no. 4, 2001, pp. 409–423., www.jstor.org/stable/3815458. Rudat, Wolfgang E. H. “Brett's Problem: Ovidian and Other Allusions in ‘The Sun Also Rises.’” Style, vol. 19, no. 3, 1985, pp. 317–325., www.jstor.org/stable/42945560. "The New Fashioned Girl." Old Magazine Articles. Old Magazine Articles, 2008. Web. 24 Apr. 2017.

Female Expressions of Grief and Humoral Theory in Shakespeare by Isabelle Nucci Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Macbeth offer two female characters that exhibit the effects of humoral imbalance through their female expressions of grief. These female characters demonstrate emotions of anger, wrath, vexation, depression, and hysteria throughout the play. Their emotions are a reaction to their grievous circumstances, yet both women were seen as becoming mad or having a mind diseased at one point in the play. Hamlet’s Ophelia represents the expressions of grief through a melancholic imbalance that resulted in her outbursts and eventual suicide. Lady Macbeth’s actions, unlike Ophelia’s that developed later in the play, were attributed to grief from the conception of the play and are represented as a choleric imbalance. I will be analyzing these female characters primarily apart from their male counterparts except when necessary for a more complete and cumulative analysis. While their actions and expressions are a reaction to their circumstances, I want to analyze the women independently from the other characters in their plays as they are often seen as extensions of their male counterparts. I will be asserting claims focused on the female expressions of grief in Shakespeare’s plays Macbeth and Hamlet through the characters Lady Macbeth and Ophelia and that their actions and performance in their plays are a result of their grief and humoral imbalance. Many interpretations give more female agency to these characters than was often intended during Renaissance times, while these interpretations are valid and insightful, I will be focusing on the historical significance of these females’ behaviors and how they would have been interpreted within the Renaissance era. Humoral theory was an explanation in early modern medicine for most illnesses and diseases. It explained that the body was made up of four humors or vital fluids in the human body: sanguine, phlegmatic, choleric, and melancholy. Sanguine indicated cheerfulness, optimistic, and warm emotions. Phlegmatic correlated with sluggish, apathetic, and calm emotions. Choleric was associated with hot-temperament, wrathfulness, and enraged.

Melancholy indicated depression or dejection. A humoral balance would indicate that these fluids were in harmony and an imbalance would indicate an excess of one or more of the humors that would affect illness, physical health, mental health, personality, or emotions. The book, The Gales of Grace; or, the Spirituall Vvinde Wherein the Mysterie of Santification is Opened and Handled, written by Thomas Barnes in 1622, gives a clear cultural attitude towards choler and its emotional effect, “a spirituall deafenesse, that many times doth oppresse a Christian; A deafenes eyther occasioned of spirituall choler, and distempered wrathfull passions, or else of flegmatike clammy humors, & sensuall and worldly thoughts and desires; the minde being many times taken vp… with thoughts of wrongs offered, or of some worldly profits, and fleshly pleasures.” This example of the effects and influence of a choleric imbalance is an insightful cultural perspective towards the emotions and feelings associated with choler: wrathful passions, sensual and worldly thoughts and desires, fleshly pleasures. Such negative associations were made with an excess of choleric and most of the emotions seem to be associated with actions. It appears that there was a stigma around choler’s influence of immorality and uninhibited actions. Jacques Abbadie’s book, The Art of Knowing One-Self, or, An Enquiry into the Sources of Morality, gives a similar perspective on the cultural viewpoint of melancholy, explaining, “Now as we are perswaded of what we desire, and of what we vehemently dread... or fall into an excessive distrust of ourselves… Melancholly causes a Man to believe whatsoever he fears.” The association of the humor melancholy with feelings of self-doubt, dread, and fear expand the original association of depression and dejection with melancholy. This expands the understanding to include a cultural view of melancholy and the dangers it posed to one’s mental

health. Carole Rawcliffe explains the effects of melancholy in a more clinical jargon in, Ideas About the Body, “Melancholia arose from the spleen’s failure to absorb black bile, which was ane odious humour to nature and to al membris of the body for his yvel qualitez, and thus, not surprisingly, the most potentially dangerous of them all. In extreme cases, the retention of ‘melancoliouse filthes’ could corrupt the whole body” This reiterates the same sentiments about melancholy and further explains how Renaissance medicine characterized the dangers of one humor overpowering the rest, melancholy specifically, because it was characterized by its “evil qualities.” Given the rhetoric for emotions and grief in the Renaissance, humoral theory was used as an explanation and an excuse for female actions and expressions of emotion. Descriptions of self-doubt and wrathful passions are actions that, without explanation, could be alarming and confusing. Expressions of grief would include many of the emotions associated with an influx of melancholy or choler and humoral theory gave a clear explanation and reason for these actions. Grief is attributed to the physical and humoral so that people could make sense of emotions and actions that would otherwise be seen as unexplained hysterics. Deeming grief as madness, in particular, allowed physicians to police the grieving process so as to understand and control the emotions that came from grieving. While disability could be seen as fluid during the Renaissance era, humoral theory could also be seen as fluid–depending upon the fluctuation of the humors. This applies to Ophelia and Lady Macbeth as their grief is contingent on outside influences, therefore, their humoral imbalance is a result of external circumstances. Polonius’ murder and Lady Macbeth’s child loss are the outside circumstances that affect these women’s humoral balance which informs their actions and expressions of grief. Ophelia’s expressions of grief through a humoral imbalance of melancholy only occur after she learns of her father’s death. This analysis focuses on her

character after her father’s death because her character noticeably changed from the grief, Laertes remarks, “A sister driven into desp’rate terms,/ whose worth, if praises may go back again,/ stood challenger on mount of all the age/ for her perfections.” (Ham. 4.7.28-31). In Macbeth, there is textual evidence to indicate that Lady Macbeth lost a child at the time where the play begins. My analysis assumes this fact as true and as the principal cause of Lady Macbeth’s grief and the driving force and imbalance that informs her actions and emotions. The text that indicates her child loss is in her statement, “Come to my woman’s breasts and take my milk for gall” as it indicates that she is lactating, which only occurs during the proximity to childbirth and childrearing (Mac. 1.5.47-8). Though vague, this gives the readers the understanding that Lady Macbeth lost an infant of nursing age. She reaffirms this in a conversation with Macbeth, “I have given suck and know/ how tender ‘tis to love the babe that milks me” (1.7.55-6). These examples validate the principal circumstances that caused the grief for which so deeply affected Ophelia and Lady Macbeth and give context to their actions and emotions. The implication that Lady Macbeth’s actions were driven by grief alter her motivations throughout the entirety of the play, as well as her reason, mental wellness, and the reader’s empathy for her as a character. Ophelia’s grief is more easily recognizable but the implications that her actions were sprung from her emotion rather than her harbored angst change the understanding as to whether her grievous madness as the end of her life was deviant agency or truthful hysteria. Lady Macbeth’s expressions of grief represent themselves as aggression, anger, and passion. She attaches herself to the mission of making Macbeth King to distance herself from her grief. If her purpose, as a female, is to provide an heir and be a mother–and she has failed to do so–then she wants to prove herself useful and validate her purpose. This reaction to be angry and controlling is easy to project a contemporary view of mental health and disability onto, losing a child would cause immense grief, pain, fear, all of which were out of her control. As a

reaction to this, she hides her emotions in her anger, and in her control and manipulation over her husband so that she can fill the void of what she has lost. In contrast to this contemporary analysis of Lady Macbeth’s mental health, a Renaissance interpretation of Lady Macbeth’s actions and emotions would be to attribute her actions to a humoral imbalance. While many interpret Lady Macbeth’s actions apart from her grief, focusing on her female ambition and masculine-like dominance over Macbeth, in this essay I am claiming that her ambition and manipulation are attributes of her expressions or reactions of her grief. Lady Macbeth’s state of grief and loss resulted in her humoral imbalance, an excess of cholera in her body would lead to her emotions being influenced by anger, wrathful passions, a compromised reason, sensual worldly thoughts and desires, and a mind taken up by throughs of worldly profits (Barnes). The first time we see Lady Macbeth in the play these emotions, motivations, and mental influences filled her body and informed her immediate reaction to want to kill the king. As Lady Macbeth read the letter from Macbeth, she immediately resigned to committing the act to become Queen, she only feared that Macbeth would lack the strength and ambition to act upon the chance to commit regicide and become the King. She says to herself, “I may pour my spirits in thine ear” because she knows that she is filled with the choleric humors to drive her actions and influence Macbeth’s as well (Mac. 1.5.26). Lady Macbeth continues calling upon her emotions and outside forces, “Come you spirits… unsex me here… make thick my blood,” asking that her humors may be strongly expressed in her actions, that her choler may be made thick in her veins (Mac. 1.5.40-3). She asks that her milk be replaced for gall, interpreted as her asking that the sadness from her lost child be replaced with the humors to make her hard and angry towards her sad experiences. These vexed demands and cries from Lady Macbeth are congruent with the cultural attitudes towards choleric displays of emotions as her sole passion in this scene is to obtain worldly profits as she uses passionate, sensual, and wrathful diction. This

expression of emotion is a reaction to her grief and a direct result of her humoral imbalance and has informed her actions. Ophelia’s expressions of grief are acted through a melancholic disposition. Her attitudes and character shift reveal a loss of touch with reality that stems from her dejection from a lost love, Hamlet, and her depression from the death of her father as the King notes, “O, this is the poison of deep grief. It springs/ All from her father’s death” (Ham. 4.5.80-1). Ophelia reveals this further in her song to the Queen, “I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i’th’cold ground.” alluding to the burial of her father (4.5.74-5). She also alludes in song to Hamlet’s loss of love, “Before you tumbled me,/ you promised me to wed… So would I ‘a done, by yonder sun,/ An thou hadst not come to my bed.” (4.5.67-71). Ophelia reveals in this scene the many attributes of melancholy, particularly self-doubt, and she exhibits the danger that was held towards melancholy when it is said to corrupt the whole body and be a danger to mental health. Her melancholic imbalance leads to her poor mental health and her inability to fully articulate herself, only in broken speech, though this broken speech says more truth than she would normally be allowed as a young woman. Laertes acknowledges both her loss of her mind and the truth in her words saying, “Is’t possible a young maid’s wits/ should be as mortal as an old man’s life?” (4.5.183-4) and “This nothing’s more than matter.” (4.5.198). Laertes’ acknowledgment of her loss of wit confirms that her candor is not contrived but a reaction to her grief through a loss of clear sanity. Though her candor reveals truth, as he acknowledges that her “nothing” babble is more than just words but has meaning which is seen in her distribution of flowers that carry metaphorical significance. She keeps the rue flower for herself, a symbol of sorrow (4.5.205). Ophelia’s agency is a result of her grief, seen and described as madness because of the rhetoric of the epoch, her hysterics and actions were only expressions of grief and humoral imbalance. The analysis from Gabrielle Dane, Reading Ophelia's Madness, attributes Ophelia’s

madness not as an expression of grief but rather as the opportunity for agency and for her to communicate her repressed emotions that were out of decorum for a female to express, “Madness becomes Ophelia's last resort, her unconscious revolt… How might she find the words to communicate her frustration and longing, how to lodge her protest? To do so, she must explode outside of the categories designed to circumscribe her, must journey beyond the boundaries of sanity, to a place where she can first locate and then express her rage… Offering her an escape, madness provides her with the ability finally to speak her anger and desire.” Ophelia’s crossing over the boundaries of sanity is not for the sake of agency, her grief and humoral imbalance lead to her loss of sanity or rather, her grief was deemed madness due to the lack of rhetoric. Her agency may be a result of her grief but not the source nor the reason for her loss of sanity. Hugh Grady similarly mentions that Ophelia’s madness is an opportunity for her to break the maidenly structures but agrees that her madness has resulted from her grief that amounted from her circumstances, “Ophelia's madness is presented as a kind of dissolution of maidenly decorum, the spilling over of repressed psychic materials brought on by the two shocks she suffered in losing first her lover, second her father--a coupling that is also a textbook instantiation of the play's uncanny psychoanalytic acumen. And like virtually everything in this play, her madness is a manifestation of mourning--and an aestheticizing of it.” These analyses of Ophelia want her madness to be cunning; but her truthfulness, agency, and honesty are only a product of her melancholy and an expression of her grief. As Grady states, the manifestation of her mourning leads to her insurmountable grief which creates her humoral imbalance. Given the effect of her humoral imbalance, her madness was not an act of revolt but the result of her unguarded, uncensored, expressions and thoughts. Because Ophelia hardly enters the text, assumptions of her intention cannot be grounded deeply in

textual evidence but are solely scholarly interpretations within the play. Grady resolves that Ophelia, “becomes the play's most unambiguous subject of madness in the famous fourth-act scenes of her disordered mourning.” Yet, her grief, while clear and explicit as mourning, is still expressed in a very untoward manner and her uncensored speech carries a duality that while her agency and honesty are not contrived it is still ambiguously targeted at the characters around her. Ophelia exhibits the reaction to coping with sorrow in a grief that is cloaked as madness and hysteria. It is possible that both Ophelia and Lady Macbeth experience other humors outside those that are most obviously dominant and explained here in their expressions of grief. Suparna Roychoudhury explains a revelation that Lady Macbeth shares, “When Lady Macbeth decides to drug the chamberlains such that "memory, the warder of the brain, / Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason / A limbeck only" (1.7.65–67), she likens the ventricles of the brain to vessels of liquid distillation: reason can be clouded by vapors of memory.” Lady Macbeth’s awareness of the fluidity of reason and the effect of memory upon it reveals that she has an understanding to what humors are affecting her. Her awareness of the effects of her emotions on her mental capabilities also reveals that she experiences some forms of melancholy in addition to her acceptance of a choleric imbalance. Melancholy is connected to evil qualities, that corrupt the whole body, lead to depression, and confirm the belief of what you truly fear. This is applicable to Lady Macbeth’s source of grief and her memory of her child loss is a fear and source of pain for her that she happily gives way to her humors to influence and persuade her actions. Macbeth confirms this pain and melancholic influence in his wife when he discusses with the physician about her saying, “Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,/ pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,/ rase out the written troubles of the brain,/ and with some sweet oblivious

antidote/ cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff/ which weighs upon the heart?” (5.3.42-47) Macbeth returns to that idea of memory that Lady Macbeth previously mentioned, before the murder of the King, to inquire whether the troubles and pain that weighs in her body can be cured. This passage has multiple meanings when read in context of being about Macbeth but for Lady Macbeth it reveals a rather sad sentiment, setting aside the guilt of her part in the regicide, Macbeth talks about a memory of sorrow that weighs on the heart: child loss. This comes from humors less like choler and more like melancholy, confirming that Lady Macbeth harbors both humors throughout the play though they make their appearance to incite vastly different actions.

Ophelia, like Lady Macbeth, can be seen to potentially be influenced by

multiple humors. While melancholy is clear the influences of choler may not be so. However, Ophelia’s expression of grief is most intense in her act of suicide. This action is more than the woes of melancholic depression, dejection, and self-doubt. It is an action of worldly thought and desire and reveals a lack of reason and wrongful thoughts that go past songs of candor and a distribution of flowers. Her act of suicide described her as, “incapable of her own distress/ or like a creature native and endued/ unto that element” (4.7.203-5). This reaction in her death is not one of woeful depression but the manifestation of choler in her melancholic humor. Both women express their grief with equal sorrow however their expressions vary quite differently. The women’s expressions of grief are clearly compared here, “In Hamlet, we see mad Ophelia in the onstage attitude of the female mind unraveled… we understand that Ophelia is crazed with grief; she recognizes the other characters on stage, acknowledging their presence with gifts of imaginary flowers. Lady Macbeth's madness is represented in a more clinical context than Ophelia's poetic dissolution.” (Roychoudhury).

This contrast reveals the difference between the two women’s expressions of grief and their difference in humors. Ophelia’s grief is clear and obvious while her humors led her to a more dangerous fate, Lady Macbeth’s grief is less clear, but her actions were just as dangerously driven by her humors. Ophelia and Lady Macbeth express their grief through their humoral imbalance, and imply that their actions were driven less so by conscious thought but the emotional influence of their humoral bodies. With the lens of the Renaissance era, their actions were driven by the influx of strong humors that had fatal and dangerous results. The women’s actions and performances were in response to the grief of their circumstances and a result of their melancholic and choleric driven bodies. Ophelia’s character is altered by this perspective because it takes away the intentionality of her female agency, which her lack of is appropriate for the time period but alters her character’s voice and characterizes her more by her sorrow and grief rather than her cunning and rebellion. The historical significance of her character reveals the danger that was associated with melancholy and affirms the cultural attitudes that were held towards an excess of this humor in the body. Lady Macbeth’s character becomes more dynamic with the focus of her grief as the driving force behind her actions and expressions. Her ambitious and manipulative summons become a result of her desire to distance herself from her sorrow and her wrathful passion, a product of her choleric imbalance. Her performance becomes less embittered and her motivations are revealed to be driven by her grief and loss of reason. The significance of this affirms the understanding and disdain for the actions resulting from a choleric imbalance and her expressions of grief would alter her character’s relationship with the reader and audience. These expressions of grief as a result of humor driven bodies alter the perspective of these two female characters and creates a different

perspective from which to view their actions, one that reflects the attitudes of the Renaissance era.

Works Cited: Abbadie, Jacques, and T. W. The Art of Knowing One-Self, or, An Enquiry into the Sources of Morality. Printed by Leonard Lichfield, for Henry Clements, and John Howell, Booksellers, 1695, 1695. EEBO, gateway.proquest.com/openurl?ctx_ver=Z39.882003&res_id=xri:eebo&rft_id=xri:eebo:citation:11538768. Barnes, Thomas. The Gales of Grace; or, the Spirituall Vvinde Wherein the Mysterie of Sanctification Is Opened and Handled. Printed by H. Lownes for Nathanael Newbery, 1622. EEBO, gateway.proquest.com/openurl?ctx_ver=Z39.882003&res_id=xri:eebo&rft_id=xri:eebo:citation:99837043. Dane, Gabrielle. “Reading Ophelia’s Madness.” Exemplaria: A Journal of Theory in Medieval and Renaissance Studies, vol. 10, no. 2, 1998, pp. 405–23. EBSCOhost, http://lib.tcu.edu/PURL/EZproxypass:[_]link.asp?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.a spx?direct=true&AuthType=cookie,ip,uid&db=mzh&AN=2000058284&site=ehost-live. Grady, Hugh. “Hamlet as Mourning-Play: A Benjaminesque Interpretation.” Shakespeare Studies, vol. 36, 2008, pp. 135–165. EBSCOhost, http://lib.tcu.edu/PURL/EZproxypass:[_]link.asp?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.a spx?direct=true&AuthType=cookie,ip,uid&db=mzh&AN=2012393890&site=ehost-live . Rawcliffe, Carole. “Ideas About the Body.” Medicine and Society in Later Medieval England, Sutton Publishing, 1995, pp. 29–57. Roychoudhury, Suparna. “Melancholy, Ecstasy, Phantasma: The Pathologies of Macbeth.” Modern Philology: Critical and Historical Studies in Literature, Medieval Through Contemporary, vol. 111, no. 2, Nov. 2013, pp. 205–230. EBSCOhost, http://lib.tcu.edu/PURL/EZproxypass:[_]link.asp?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.a spx?direct=true&AuthType=cookie,ip,uid&db=mzh&AN=2014391024&site=ehost-live. Shakespeare, William, et al. Four Tragedies: Hamlet, Prince of Denmark Othello, the Moor of

Venice, King Lear, Macbeth. Bantam Books, 2005. Shakespeare, William, et al. Hamlet. Simon & Schuster, 2003.

Triptych by Joshua Borders Alas! It is the fault of our time. There is little mercy to those that are in misery. – Richard Sibbes, 1613 1. Here You are with your little sister at a punk concert, and a man dressed in dark gray approaches. His face is young, but his hair is silver, made slick and shiny with gel. A small nose ring – bright green – pierces his septum, confirming your suspicion that the world screams for color. You inch closer to your little sister. The man in gray sticks out the palm of his hand, presenting a pair of pills. His hands are grimy, and the nails look like they haven’t been clipped in months. You want to ask him what his deal is, but before you can, your little sister takes one of the pills and pops it. Delicious, she says, baring her tongue. The man in gray smiles, then moves his palm to you. I have an open hand, he says. The air smells like a damp swimsuit, and it seems like the band has been playing the same chord and wailing in the same pitch for well over fifteen minutes. How long can you do the same thing, you wonder. Your sister nudges you, and you instinctively reach to take the pill. You hold it between your thumb and forefinger, using sparse stage lighting to inspect it. Purple and deep pinks flash across your face, and the pill looks pretty normal, all things considered. You place it underneath your tongue and feel it dissolve into acridity. It is like licking scrap metal. You notice that the band changed its tune, and your sister begins to sway more vibrantly. The man in gray smiles. His teeth are yellow and black, rot setting in. He takes your

sister by the arm, and they push closer to the stage. You feel that this is the first step, though to what, you cannot say. 2. There It is the Great Depression. There are shantytowns everywhere, and the sky is perpetually gray. You can only see in black and white. Your neighbor laid on the Union Pacific railroad last week, and the train dismembered his body. He was arrayed horizontally across the track, you were told. The weight and speed of the train segmented his person into three discrete units: head and neck, torso to lower thigh, and knees down. After the train ran over him, you were asked to help identify the body. When you walked to the tracks, you could not stop thinking of the occasions he helped you around your property – clearing trees, raising fences, and the like. He was a nice enough man, nondescript, a good worker. It was all you could ask for in a neighbor. You saw a pair of legs first, one foot pointed outward, the other heel-down – both shoes still on. You then stepped up on the tracks and saw a torso; it was covered by a light shirt, pockmarks of blood. It looked like it was probably his body, but you weren’t exactly sure. You don’t just go around staring at torsos, after all. You asked a police officer – a great, hulking man with a trapezoidal face – where your neighbor’s head was, and he pointed to a ditch on the other side of the tracks. After you mustered the courage, you saw his head and neck resting, chin up, on a bed of wiry grass. His eyes were still open, wrinkles on his temple strained with terror. This face had seen Death barreling towards him, its whistle blaring, and refused to close his eyes. You decided this was a perverted form of courage, then turned around to vomit. Now the widow is standing on your front porch with her eyes turned down, asking you to loan her money. She says that the Bank is closing in, and they will lose their property without

some help. Her face is radiant, cheeks milky white, and you wonder if Grief is kind to those it kisses. You affect the posture of empathy – mouth twisting in, eyes wide – and say, Ma’am, we’d love to help, but things are just so tight around here. She looks up and says, Please, I beg of you. You remember last night, how it was the first time since her husband’s death you slept, uninterrupted, from dark to dawn, and how his face no longer lingers in your dreams. It is easier to sever all connections to the neighbors, you figure. A good night’s rest is worth it. She looks at you, eyes brimming with something like hope. She has nowhere else to turn, she adds, and they’ll be on the streets without your help. Now you are the one who looks down, and you say that you are sorry, but you are certain of your lack. The widow leaves emptyhanded. You walk back inside and see your youngest daughter, just a little girl. She runs up and says, I love you, Papa, then hugs your thigh. You tussle her hair – a little golden cobweb – and know that you would have helped, you really would have. You whisper, I love you too, dear, and also, You are my redemption. 3. Stare You are seated on a gray and lavender rug in the distant future. There are rugs in the distant future, and this is a surprise. How can we afford to be so still, you wonder. You travel through time so effortlessly because you are everything, all at once. Matter moves around you and through you and because of you. This is too much power, you decide, so it is best to ground yourself in one place, at least for a few months at a time. The rug has no magic powers, but it is located within the last habitable city on Earth. You think it is somewhere in the American Midwest, or maybe the Ukraine, or even northeast China.

The city is suspended in air, and you hear the screams of pilgrims from below. The ones who make it long enough to gaze upward at the city are horribly deformed and emaciated, and their cries are more like whimpers, wails of those trying to ward off the end. When they die, their bodies are taken up and burned for fuel. The stench of fiery flesh sears your nose, but you would rather smell the fiery flesh than be it. At a rug beside you is a black man, his hair white and frizzy, like coarse snow. He begins to tell you stories of his time as a child soldier in Kenya, listing off atrocities heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d compulsorily committed. There was the time he beat his mother senseless, the time he drowned his older brother in a river, the time he massacred a village â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and that was just the first year. These three stories enamor you, especially when he says his brother, while completely submerged in water, did not fight back, not even an involuntary flail of the arms. After two minutes below the surface, his brother was dead. The ex-child soldier said it was like killing Peace, if one could do such a thing. When he moves on to horrors committed against him, you grow tired of this man and his tales. His pain had to be ages ago, you reason, and he shouldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve gotten over it by now. But you do not stop him. You instead choose to sit on the rug and close your eyes, dreaming of the next place, a place where this man and his stories do not exist, a place where troubles are no more.

Troubleshooting by Sandy Pham She wasn’t like the other whores. She had a husband and kid at home. She could hear the sound of rushed chatter a few stories below, the unpredictable rise and fall of their voices scraping against her ears like a wailing police car nearing, arriving, and finally driving off again into the distance. The cheap hotel room reeked of sex and booze. Dark eyes drifted to the man lying beside her, his hairy, greasy chest exposed to the dull moonlight that peeked through the drapes. His penis, well spent, hung lifelessly between his thighs. It was discolored and lacking decorum; a spotted cow that had forgotten how to moo. Every breath sounded like his last. Labored, as if the mere act of existing was simply too much for him to bear. Atlas, with the weight of the world balanced precariously atop his ball sack. She frowned to herself as she considered the thought, contorting her naked body to fit into his own. The skin above her ribs stretched to full length, each hard, bony hill giving way to the valleys that settled between them. Her black hair, though once long, was now jagged and asymmetrical. Her eyes had retreated back into her body, the hollowed spaces remaining filled with the same, viscous tar that ran through her veins. She pressed her face into the man’s neck, inhaling deep. He smelled of sweat and disappointment. Her bruised lips trailed kisses onto his jaw. His stubble burned her. “I need you, my love.” She cooed, running a chipped, black fingernail along his lips. “I can feel it again. I-I’m starting to feel it again.” The man stirred. Even in his sleep, he reveled in the way her cold, pale flesh ached for his warmth—the kind of warmth only he could supply her. He opened his eyes, turning to face the whore. She was pretty when he found her. Still could be, maybe, if the lights were off. A ghost haunted her features, circled over her like a vulture. He wrapped a hand around her wrist, a slick serpent’s tongue darting from his mouth to the pads of her fingertips. “You need my help, baby?”

The woman nodded, her scarred hand allowing itself to be savored. “So bad.” She answered, her voice rasping with desire. The man slid his tongue between her index and middle, drawing her closer and closer still until finally, he consumed her. Her fingers wriggled inside his mouth, digging and frantically prodding until it came upon a smooth, rubbery surface. Then two. She pinched the masses tightly and pulled, the man releasing her wrist with a satisfied smirk. She held two, tiny red balloons pinched between her nails. They were spit-soaked and hot, tied tightly into knots as they hid dormant in the beast’s den. Her heart raced at the sight of them. The darkness was retreating now, a swirling, heady euphoria emerging in its place. The man watched her with a steady gaze. She was trembling. “Now how ‘bout you be a good little slut and let me watch, hm?” He mewled, angling his face to gaze at the exposed woman. Fully, honestly, like an artist staring into his canvas. She nodded erratically, as if her head was a piggy bank being inspected for loose change. She made no effort to cover herself, pushing up against the unfamiliar bedsheets to walk to the opposite end of the room where her bag sat. Her bare feet stepped on the wadded clothing that laid strewn about the carpet, stopping only to retrieve a belt to coil tightly around her arm. As she gathered her items, a spoon, a lighter, and a syringe, she felt a pair of hungry eyes burrow into the small of her back. She turned to acknowledge her company, carrying the contents to the edge of the bed. There she sat, cross-legged and naked, as she injected the venom directly into her blood. Those tiny, red balloons were her medicine. The sickness edged away. Her eyes fluttered shut, her veins throbbing sensuously as the needle returned home to the crook of her arm. The man watched, his cock hardening as the woman’s frail body curled into itself in ecstasy. Suddenly, there was no more chatter. No more sirens. No more pain. “Tell me more about your husband, baby. About the boy.”

** * She was cooking for Joseph. Dinner, not heroin. He was an IT guy that worked for a car transport company in uptown Manhattan. They had a cozy little townhouse tucked away in Greenwich Village, hidden behind the local coffee shops and exotic pet stores. At night, their son’s baby monitor transmitted the vibrant city sounds to their room. Car horns, laughter, the occasional scuffle of foot traffic. She would lie awake for hours, fingers flexing and unflexing at her sides as her husband’s snores came and went. Sometimes, they would stop altogether. Ten, fifteen seconds, followed by a gasp for air. Sleep apnea. That was one thing he couldn’t fix on his own. With all else, he’d try his damndest. That was the thing with Joseph: he thought he could fix everything. He figured life was just one big computer, his wife a faulty line of code. She entertained the idea by rattling off error messages at him when he was especially unbearable. She had a list memorized. She wanted to speak in a language he could understand. “Leigh, sweetheart, I think we should go to couple’s counseling again.” 601 HTTP 400: Invalid request. “I just feel like you resent me. You won’t talk to me. You don’t get out of bed for days at a time. I don’t know how to help you,” He ran a hand through his perfectly tousled blond hair. It got caught in a clump of gel near his crown. He liked the Gorilla Snot brand. Real sturdy stuff, suited the stiff look he liked to go for. He soldiered on, true martyr that he was. He played with his cufflinks. “And it’s like—some days, babe, you’re like a whole different person. And the way you look at Georgey, I—” He sucked in a breath. “Are you going to let me cook?” Leigh asked, her attention cast solely onto the wealth of mac and cheese on the stove, her right hand stirring with a wooden spoon, her left digging

into the sides of her hips as she steadied herself. She was shaking again. Hadn’t stopped shaking, she realized, as of the last nine days. It came and went, this affliction. This ringing, writhing, living thing that clawed inside her. Sometimes it deafened her. Other times, it suckled at her tit like an infant. Refusing to let go. Parasitic. Leech-like. It whispered to her at dusk, a low, persistent utterance that started at the back of her throat and crept slowly to her eardrums where it beat, beat, beat all night. When it spoke, she listened. When it asked, she answered. She couldn’t ignore it. It was bigger than her. “Have you taken your meds today?” Leigh’s body jerked, the grip on the wooden spoon loosening as her hand brushed against the heat of the stove. She cried out in pain, the spoon clattering to the ground as she gripped onto her hand. “Fuck!” She exclaimed, shooting a glare at the source of the words. Joseph ran to her. “Jesus Christ, babe! Are you alright?” He stepped forward, his arms extending to her as he tried to take hold of his wife. “Get the fuck off me,” Leigh spat. “Don’t fucking touch me. You and that fucking, that fucking—” She stuttered through a clenched jaw, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the offender sitting across the way: a steel blue parrot, perched happily in its gold cage as its head bobbled up and down. It looked pleased with itself, dancing like that. A peacock in heat. “That fucking bird!” “You’re the one who bought it for him!” Joseph called back. She had taken George to the pet store behind their house at her husband’s insistence. The building was painted blue, accented by specks of yellow and orange. The small boy had immediately taken a liking to the creature. Leigh, on the other hand, didn’t trust its eyes. It knew too much—But the law of the land was simple. No cats or dogs allowed in the house, Joseph’s orders. Always Joseph’s

orders. “Have you taken your meds today?” It repeated, ruffling its feathers. It pecked curiously at its own coat. “You’re getting better.” A ruffle. “Bett-er.” “It gets that from you,” She shifted the finger onto her husband, stabbing him in the chest with her coffin shaped nails. “You, with your constant orders. You, with your insistence on fucking mood stabilizers and antidepressants and goddamn antipsychotics because you can’t handle the truth.” “The truth?” Joseph asked, pushing his shoulders back. His tie hung loosely around his neck, undone, unnoticed. He stepped forward, the red coffin disappearing further into his chest. “Oh yeah, Leigh, and what’s ‘the truth’?” He held up his hands in air quotes. She always hated those air quotes. Redundant, like the way he wore suits to tailgates. “According to you, huh?” “The truth is that you knew I didn’t want it.” “Want what?” A slow, simmering screech. “You know what.” “I want you to say it.” She could feel his heart beat beneath her talon. She curled it into his flesh. He winced. “I want you to say it, Leigh. Out loud.” “I didn’t want the fucking baby.” The presence growled between her ribcage. Its whiskers stroked her lungs. Bubbling, a low sizzle. Her skin throbbed to the beat of a grandfather clock’s minute hand, ticking, ticking, until its limbs finally snapped. “You knew I didn’t want to have the baby. I told you I was going to get the abortion, but you told them. You told your whole family about him—about me.” Leigh stepped forward now, her vision fading into white-hot nothingness. “You did this to me, Joe. This is your fault.” “You still didn’t say it.” His feet edged him backwards. His eyes couldn’t meet hers, instead drifting from the nose of his Oxfords to the small, infinitesimal lines in his gray

slacks. “What?” “His name. I need you to say his name.” “I didn’t want Georgey.” The pot boiled over. The oozing, thick macaroni spilled onto the red-hot coils of the stove. “Are you happy now? I didn’t want him.” “I didn’t want Georgey,” The dancing parrot chirped. “Don’t,” Leigh’s eyes widened. “I didn’t want him.” “Don’t! Stop!” She cupped her hands around her ears, slamming her eyes shut. The smell of burning macaroni permeated her nostrils. Kraft cheese that was more plastic than food. A son that was more his than hers. The voice between her ribs grew louder, expanded itself until she felt her bones shatter beneath its crushing weight. She felt snot on her cheeks, diarrhea running down her front. Vomit on her shoulder. Sneezes and coughs aimed directly inside her open mouth. Burps blown into her face. The constant whining: mommy, mommy, Leigh, honey, sweet heart, light of my life, what’s for dinner, where’s daddy, why is— “Are you happy now?” “Make it stop,” She sobbed, her back sliding against the kitchen cabinets. She sank slowly to the floor, hugging herself. “Please, God, make it stop. He’s going to kill me. Your son’s going to fucking kill me.” Joseph inched toward the stove, his front facing Leigh. He scaled about her like a man caught by a pack of wolves. No direct eye contact, no sudden movements. He could hear their breaths in the sudden, defeaning silence of the room, the flicker of the electric stove falling like a dumbbell on tile. Leigh was rocking herself, and from the corner of his eye, he saw a wild, scraggly tuft of brown hair sitting beside the parrot’s cage. George had been watching.

Joseph kneeled beside his wife, now muttering to herself between stifled sobs. “You need to take your medicine, Leigh.” *** She was cooking for Robert. Heroin, not dinner. It was the morning after their first night together. He wasn’t bad, as far as pimps went. He had standards. His golden rule, he’d explained to her, was that he wouldn’t fuck his girls until they proved their worth. In Leigh’s case, she hit the magic number: twenty grand. It had only taken her six months. It would’ve been sooner, she realized, if she started with dope first. He found her in China Town, drenched as a cum rag, sifting through the trash for something to eat. She injured herself somewhere along the way, her left ankle swollen to the size of a fist. He gave her food and dry clothes. Then he gave her a place to sleep, oxy for the pain. Oxy made her feel like a goddess, but dope? Dope made her feel safe. It was a warm thing, like George’s mermaid tail blanket or a pillow pet. It scratched an itch she didn’t know she had, offered a return to a destination that was never on the map. It kept the voices at bay. Robert gave that to her. Robert had given her everything. “Guessin’ you didn’t take your meds, eh? You’re a bad girl.” “Mm, no,” Leigh answered, warming the needle with the lighter. “I didn’t like taking them. They made the voice quiet.” “The one inside your head, baby?” He asked, his flaccid penis twitching at the sight of her. He got off on broken girls. He came the hardest when he broke them himself. “Yeah, but it’s not all bad,” She answered, pushing a wayward strand of uneven hair behind her ear. “It was never bad until after I had Georgey. Then it started yelling, screaming at me to do things. When it went away, all I could hear was them,” She tightened the belt around her arm, searching for the track marks she’d left the night before.

“Joe and the toddler.” “What would it tell you to do?” Robert sat up now, his mouth salivating. His breaths fell heavier between them, his misshapen body leaking with desire. Leigh shot the warmth into her veins. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She was hit with nausea first, the rolling thunder festering beneath her skin. She could feel it squirming, squirming inside her, like the Johns she fucked for Rob. When the clouds parted, she was met with sunlight. Gooey, syrupy sunlight that oozed bliss. Her lips parted, blood splitting in the corners of her mouth. “It told me to snap the bird’s neck that night,” She whispered. “And I did.” Rob grinned. “And then you ran away,” She faded in and out of consciousness, her head nodding forward as she fell onto Rob’s naked chest. The hair was coarse where her cheek rested. She grinned up at him, carding her chipped coffins through the tangles. “And then I met you.” Rob, the man that let her listen to the voice that lived inside her head. Rob, the man who knew how to silence the beast without angering it. The beast. She wondered what the beast looked like. If it had long, steely feathers and a black beak. If when its neck snapped, it sounded like Rice Krispy treats crumpled up inside a fist. If it fit snugly into a half-opened box of Fruity Pebbles. If it liked bubble gum flavored toothpaste and The Lion King. Sometimes, when she was quiet enough, she could hear the distant warble of a mocking, dancing voice. Are you happy now?

She saw George’s face when she closed her eyes. Could see it still now as she was lying on the man’s chest, wetting him with tears. Robert didn’t ask questions, but the voice did. The voice told her to snap the bird’s neck. The voice told her it hadn’t really died. It

couldn’t have, if she still heard its phantom echoes reverberating through the hotel walls. If she still saw George everywhere, with his snot and piss and shit— “I’m going to kill it again,” She slurred. Rob ran his grimy hands over her body, stopping only to acknowledge her blathering with an absent hum. “It’s not really dead. The bird. I hear it. I hear it s-sometimes.” Goosebumps raised on her arms. The rolling sun told her it was summer. He looked at her as if she was a sad, pitiful bitch. Maybe she was. He kissed her, rough and loveless like the other Johns. Robert fucked the paranoia out of the woman, if not only for the morning. He dressed himself, tossed a bus pass onto her naked stomach, and stole one side long glance at the whore that laid debauched on the hotel bed. Yes, he decided. She was much prettier in the dark. “Kill that bird and be back here by ten.” *** She left that late that afternoon, taking the train station to the blue-painted pet store. The yellows weren’t as bright as she remembered, the oranges fading into a burnt brown. She wore a long sleeved, gray hoodie with blue jeans. She stole a pair of sunglasses from a woman at the local coffee shop, its shades concealing her pinprick eyes and determination. Unsteady hands pushed open the glass door, a small chime announcing her entrance. A young clerk greeted her with little regard, the university student browsing on his phone at the register. It didn’t take long for Leigh to find the birds, all lined up in their pretty little cages at the back of the store. She sidled by, wrapping her long, tired fingers over thin bars. She found a parrot, a red one with an orange beak, and pressed her face into its cage. “Hi, birdy,” She cooed, angling her hollow jaw into its cracks. “Do you like Fruity Pebbles, baby?” The creature craned its neck towards the woman, her breath wafting through the spaces between iron bars. She ran her hands along the cold, offering her fingers

to the animal like she had offered Robert the night before. Leigh yearned to poke, to prod, and to find pretty, red balloons waiting for her inside that tiny little beak. She wanted to split that mouth open. She wanted to devour its contents whole. She took the cage in her hands, holding it up toward the fluorescent store light. She was Rafiki and the red bird was Simba. She would take that child’s skull and smash it, again and again, onto the very peak of Pride Rock. The beast liked that idea. The beast liked it very much. It purred and pressed onto Leigh’s stomach, twisting and tumbling like a great serpent dancing to the tune of wailing sirens. Sirens. Sirens. There were those sirens again. The beast numbed her until all she could feel was the frantic flapping of Simba’s wings brush against her cheek, the distant sound of rushed chatter and radio static. She grinned up at her prey, her teeth slick with saliva. “Tell me I’m doing better, baby.” She ordered it. “Ask me if I’m happy. I’m so damn happy.” She heard the voices that weren’t her own. Leigh turned, facing the officer that addressed her. His gun was pointed at her chest. She grinned wider. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear them anymore. The beast told her it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Leigh slammed the cage to the ground and dove head first down the barrel of the gun. She saw tiny red balloons inside, with their promise of sunshine and warmth. The officer’s nametag read R.S. George.

Instructions for My Resurrectionby Joshua Borders after Terrance Hayes WHY YOU SHOULD BE INTERESTED •

Yes, there are too many people on this Earth. Seagulls skim the surface for fish but choke on oil. Old men wheeze on sidewalks. Death surrounds us. Our guts full of black, full of gold.

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You who are alive will understand the great tragedy – you can never be surrounded by all those you love all the time. If you restore my life, will this tragedy be resolved? Will tears turn to laughter? Probably not, but you can at least get one more lover back.

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If a dead man rises, who is worthy of praise?

BUT WHAT ABOUT _________ INSTEAD? •

Success is not guaranteed.

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Success is not replicable.

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It is best to focus on one thing at a time.

POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS FOR MY UNFORTUNATE STATE •

I drank myself to death.

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I gorged myself to death.

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I died myself to death.

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Death to myself, I died.

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Myself – to death, I died.

THINGS I MAY BE DOING IN THE AFTERLIFE RANKED IN THE ORDER OF THEIR RESPECTIVE PROBABILITIES 1. Inhabiting the body of a brown thrasher and warbling to old lovers: 0.28

2. Inhabiting the body of a bowerbird and building nests to impress old lovers: 0.20 3. Whispering in the wind: 0.19 a. To old lovers: 0.10 b. To myself: 0.07 c. To another bird, who may also be a spirit seeking to impress old lovers: 0.01 d. To another bird, who may be an old lover itself: 0.01 4. Becoming the wind: 0.16 5. Consulting the poets: 0.14 6. Drinking beer with Martin Luther: 0.09 a. For leisure: 0.07 b. To forget there are Catholics among us: 0.02 7. Ruminating: 0.03 a. Devouring ornithology materials: 0.02 b. Reading the old poets’ new work: 0.01 8. Tangible good, broadly defined: 0.01

IF YOU FIND THIS BY HAPPENSTANCE •

Fortune has smiled upon you. To the uninitiated, a smile can look like a grimace. Being able to tell the difference is unimportant.

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There is no other way to find this.

IF YOU FEEL DESTINY WAS INVOLVED •

Please remember there is no such thing. Fortune ≠ destiny.

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Justifications are always assigned after the fact. Logic can only see backwards.

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If my death had a reason, it was unclear to me.

HOW TO CONVENE A LIFE-GIVING POSSE •

Go to the nearest donut shop. If the shop is called a parlor, success is almost guaranteed. If the shop is a Krispy Kreme, the odds decrease, but only slightly.

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Walk into the donut shop and say hello to the homeless man sitting in the corner, his eyes consumed by the ceiling. If he waves but does not say hello in return, invite him to join the group. He will not ask what the group is for. He understands the power of words, how they must be clutched tightly.

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There should be a coffee bar near the donut shop. Find a barista who is also an actress. Tell her you are casting talent for a show so experimental that it requires USDA approval. If she laughs at you, ask her to join the group. If she instead tries to give you coffee on the house to win you over, take the coffee and give it to the homeless man. He could use a boost.

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Near the coffee bar, there is a church. Find an assistant pastor who is in trouble with the congregation. If he is in trouble for drinking, ask if he would like to find a new fountain. If he says yes, invite him to join the group. If he is sober, ask him if he is in trouble for having extramarital sex. If he says yes, try to give him a high five or a hug, depending on how solemnly he admits to his transgression. If he accepts either display of affection, invite him to join the group. If he tries to pray for you, permit him. If you can feel a spirit moving, it may be me. This is a sign to invite the assistant pastor to the resurrection. You may also just be imagining things. It is difficult to tell.

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The fourth and final member of the life-giving posse is a wild card. Exercise your best judgment.

YOU MUST ACQUIRE •

Three maracas.

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Two lemongrass-scented candles.

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Gloves.

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A bottle of Listerine mouthwash.

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A tape measure.

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An appropriate license and/or permit.

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A chestnut-colored coffee table.

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My remains.

DEALING WITH THE INEVITABLE ICKINESS •

If I have been buried, take my decomposing body and put it in a black, industrial-sized trash bag. If all my flesh has been devoured by maggots, take my bones and put them in the trash bag. You now have your own bag of bones. This is what I called my body when I was alive.

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If I was burned, find my ashes. They are likely in a Tupperware container inside a storage unit. The container may be in front of – but is likely beside – a broken, goldtrimmed mirror. When you retrieve my ashes, do not look into the mirror. It may be your Dorian Gray moment.

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If my remains were unsalvageable, hire a medium and go to the location of my wake or memorial, which was held outdoors. If the medium is talented, she (and talented mediums are always female) will concoct a spell to transfer my essence to a songbird. Capture the songbird. Place me in a cage. The medium, unfortunately, must now join the party and remain until the resurrection is complete.

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Remember: The body and spirit are inseparable.

THE SETTING •

It must be morning, and the sun must be out. Contrary to popular belief, the dead prefer the light of day. Who are all these glorious strangers walking about?

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A hotel ballroom is ideal. If you cannot find a vacant ballroom within a reasonable distance, use the business center of the closest Motel 6. If any patrons are currently using the business center, ask them if they have a moment to talk about Jesus Christ. If they say yes, invite them to join the group. If they say no, start talking about Jesus Christ anyway. They may leave, but His glory was still revealed.

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The positioning of the chestnut-colored coffee table is essential. It must be exactly in the center of the room. The tape measure will come in handy.

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Place my remains on the coffee table. o

For a decomposed body or bones, lay me in an anatomically-correct, supine position in the center of the table. Do not worry if you cannot distinguish the tibia from the fibula; the barista took anatomy in college.

For the ashes, spread me across the table like jam on toast. Leave approximately six inches on each side of the table; this is the crust.

For the songbird, place the cage on the center of the table. The homeless man may whistle to the songbird; if it is truly me, I will whistle back.

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The lemongrass candles will lie at either end of the coffee table. The maracas must be placed on the respective edges of the table – north-east-west – with their handles pointing out; this will form a triangular shape. Leave the bottle of Listerine on the floor until you are ready to begin.

PREPARATION IS THE KEY TO SUCCESS •

Never conduct a resurrection on an empty stomach.

WHERE TO BEGIN •

Stand around the table, spaced evenly apart. Symmetry can be life-giving. Balance, peace.

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Light both candles, north then south. This will help mask any odors, obscure the fermentation sprouting from absence.

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Each member of the party should swallow one capful of Listerine. Clean mouths are a prerequisite for success. If you prefer, you may take pulls directly from the bottle.

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If there is a banjo-player present (it will most likely be the assistant pastor, and, in rare cases, the medium), strum a few ominous chords. This is to let the spirits know you mean business.

SELECTING A LEADER •

Rank yourselves in order of deaths experienced, i.e., number of lives you’ve already lived. The group member with the lowest number will become the leader. o

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Speculation is encouraged. This is not an exact science, after all.

In event of a tie, delegate leadership responsibilities to the older member. If both members were born at exactly the same time, co-leaders are permitted. o

If there is a three-way tie, dissolve the group. You are broaching dangerous territory. Return to page 3.

IN CASE OF INTRUSION •

If anyone enters the ballroom or business center while the resurrection is occurring, ask them if they want to see a miracle. Children are often more receptive to this type of thing. Those wearing flip flops and gnawing on a freshly-made hotel waffle will ask if the

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miracle isn’t already around us. Philosophy-lite is typically undesirable, but in children it can be adorable. Allow them to join the group. •

If an authority figure enters, brandish the appropriate license(s) and/or permit(s). They will read the papers slowly, mutter I didn’t know we had such a license/permit, and then ask to see the action commence. Do not allow them to stay. Matters of life and death are matters of anarchy, of entropy.

HOW TO ERASE ALL DOUBT •

Discover the humming voice within that wishes for the improbable to occur. Harnessing this voice requires practice and patience. You have time for neither, but you have assembled a roster of veterans. Their expertise at listening to their irrational selves will funnel you to a state of willful disbelief.

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If you are already an expert at listening to the small voice of hope, you may not be the correct recipient for these instructions.

THE EXERCISE OF YOUR NEWFOUND BELIEF •

Turn on all the lights.

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Beginning with the group leader, list one way in which death has affected you. If you cannot think of a way, make something up. The barista actress and assistant pastor may speak at length, even if they are not strongly opposed to death, or see it as some form of escape. Let them speak.

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The assistant pastor should drizzle my remains with any leftover Listerine. Scripture reading may be appropriate. He will make the right decision vis a vis the reading.

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Moving counterclockwise, each group member should shake the maraca one time, then move to the next maraca. A rhythm will naturally emerge.

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THIS IS WHERE IT GETS TRICKY, OR, INITUITION COULD SAVE THE DAY •

Death is a phenomenon both internal and external. Transcending the two requires creativity.

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If I begin to stir or swirl or – in the case of songbird incarnation – sing louder, quicken the pace of maraca-shaking. Success is imminent.

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Turn off the lights.

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Continue shaking the maracas.

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Close your eyes.

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Inhale through the nose. Feel lemongrass prickle sweet.

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Open your eyes.

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Leave your fear behind.

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Say hello.

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THE TIDWELL DICTIONARY OF (UN)OFFICIAL DEFINITIONS by Polley Poer britches \briht-chez\ noun 1. pants of any size 2. anything to cover your arse Examples • •

Polley wanted to play without a shirt on, so long as she wore her britches, like the boys did. “Those britches don’t fit you,” Polley’s grandmother told her, pointing to her jeans.

Origin: A cowboy in the South. First use: The olden days. Synonyms: pantaloons

buggy \buh-gee\ noun 1. a grocery store shopping cart 2. a basket with wheels Examples • •

Polley and Sam grabbed a buggy as they bought Christmas presents for their dad. Careful not to lose balance, Polley clung to the end of the buggy as Sam pushed it down the giftwrap aisle.

Origin: One of Samuel and Polley’s grandparents. Definitely in Texas. First use: The olden days. Synonyms: shopping cart, trolley bunges \buhn-jehs\ noun, plural

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1. the brown crusts of a slice of bread Examples • • •

When staying at her grandparent’s house, Polley ate toast without bunges. Polley’s grandmother found out that she doesn’t like bunges on her turkey sandwiches. Can you cut the bunges off my bread?

Origin: Polley Poer at her grandparent’s house as a child. Roanoke, TX. First use: 2001 Synonyms: crusts, edges

butt-crack-of-dawn \but-crack-uhv-dah-wn\ noun 1. the earliest part of the day 2. the time of day before the sun rises 3. whatever time of day seems too early to get up Examples • • •

We’ve got to wake up at 4am- the butt-crack-of-dawn! Polley stared at Karen’s gravestone at the cemetery at the butt-crack-of-dawn. Evan woke up at the butt-crack-of-dawn with his new fiancé to see his son’s college graduation.

Origin: Karen Tidwell Poer, mother of Samuel and Polley Poer. Somewhere in Texas. First use: Sometime after 1960 Synonyms: early-as-hell, mega-early, morning dipwad \dip-wahd\ noun 1. a silly, goofy, ridiculous person 2. somewhat of a term of endearment Examples

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• •

Sam fell off the bed onto the floor and Mom called him a dipwad. “What was it Mom used to call us? Dipwads?” Samuel said, years later.

Origin: Karen Tidwell Poer First use: 2011 Synonyms: ignoramous, dummy, dingus

dogsnot \dohg-snaht\ noun 1. The substance on the end of a dog’s nose 2. A substance Texas gets colder than Examples •

“It’s colder ‘n dogsnot out here!” Karen said, at the first official freeze of the season.

Origin: Karen Tidwell Poer. First use: A cold day in Texas. Synonyms: ice, balls

hack-em-to-death-er \hack-uhm-too-dehth-urh\ noun 1. a wooden pole with a sawblade drilled into the end 2. a weapon used for intruders of the home 3. an invention of the 47 Cimarron era Examples • •

If someone comes in, hit them with your hack-em-to-death-er! There’s only three of us in this house now, so I made you a hack-em-to-death-er.

Origin: Evan Poer, father of Samuel and Polley Poer, widower of Karen Tidwell Poer

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First use: 2014 Synonyms: hatchet, axe

hook-a-right \hook-uh-rat\ verb 1. To make an immediate right turn 2. a basket with wheels Examples •

Nancy hooked-a-right and drove straight over the median in the middle of the highway.

Origin: Roger Tidwell. First use: A parking lot, teaching Polley how to drive. Synonyms: turn right, go that way

hoodad \hooh-dad\ noun 1. thing 2. item 3. literally any inanimate object Examples • •

“What’s that hoodad over there?” Roger said, pointing off into the distance. Polley reached for the hoodad, but couldn’t find it, not knowing what she was looking for.

Origin: A person with terrible memory. First use: The olden days. Synonyms: thing, dealio, thingy-ma-jigger, whatcha-ma-call-it

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jammer \jam-urh\ noun 1. a nickname given to Samuel Poer 2. brother of Polley Poer 3. unsure of relation to later entry, see wind-jammer Examples • •

There’s my Jammer. When are you and Jammer coming to visit your mom?

Origin: Karen Tidwell Poer, mother of Samuel and Polley Poer. Fort Worth, Texas. First use: May 10th, 1995 Synonyms: Sam, Jam, Jambo, Sammy, Buckethead

mocho \moh-choh\ noun 1. another name for the Mormon Church 2. place that generated common, private commentary from Polley Poer and Claire Dixon Examples • • •

Hey, we’re bored, let’s go drive by the mocho. Polley, we haven’t driven by the mocho since Kevin dumped you. Remember after your mom died and we used to kill time by going to see how many people were at the mocho?

Origin: Claire Dixon, high school best friend of Polley Poer. Trophy Club, TX, First use: 2015 Synonyms: Mormon Church, LDS Church, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Visitor’s Welcome)

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motorscoot \moh-tore-scoot\ verb 1. to run rapidly in effort to steal second base 2. to scoot one’s motor 3. to get up and begin a task with jubilance, often after an authoritative hand clap Examples • •

“C’mone, Mitch, let’s motorscoot!” Karen shouted at the Texas Ranger first baseman through the television. We’ve gotta be at Thanksgiving in thirty minutes. Let’s motorscoot!

Origin: Karen Tidwell Poer, mother of Samuel and Polley Poer. Trophy Club, Texas. First use: Springtime, 2013 Synonyms: run, go-go-go, run-like-hell

ova-yonder \oh-vuh-yawn-der\ noun 1. a reference to a recently mentioned place 2. a mythical place known only by the speaker Examples •

“We was goin’ to, oh, ova-yonder,” Roger said, talking about his and Judy’s recent afternoon trip to Denton.

Origin: Someone long ago. First use: The olden days. Synonyms: over there, somewhere, that-a-way

pisser \pih-serh\ noun

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1. 2. 3. 4.

an event or situation that utterly sucks a person who pees a word that made Karen Tidwell Poer laugh a word Samuel and Polley Poer were not allowed to use

Examples • •

‘Breast cancer then leukemia, that’s a pisser isn’t it?’ Dr. Fay, the oncologist, said to Karen. If you’re peeing in the yard, you’re a yard-pisser.

Origin: Dr. Joseph Fay. Dallas, TX. First use: 2012 Near Synonyms: piece-o-crap, helluva-day

poodie \pooh-dee\ noun 1. a nickname given to Jillian Hicks 2. cousin of Polley and Sam 3. the bride of March 18th, 2017 Examples • • •

We’re do excited to see Poodie get married this weekend! Karen would’ve loved to be at Poodie’s wedding. Polley is going to be Poodie’s maid of honor!

Origin: Roger Tidwell, grandfather of Jillian Hicks (soon to be Jillian Vestal). Texas. First use: August, 1984 Synonyms: Jill, Jilly

route-forty-four-dightcherrycoke \rowt-for-tee-for-diet-char-ee-coh-k\ noun 1. a Diet Coke with cherry in an extra-large Sonic cup 2. popular drink choice for Karen Poer

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3. a mandatory perquisite to any and all shopping endeavors Examples • •

“I need a route-forty-four-dightcherrycoke!” Karen said into the Sonic speaker. “Nana, I brought you a route-forty-four-dightcherrycoke,” Karen’s nephew said as she lay unconscious in the hospital bed.

Origin: Karen Tidwell Poer, mother of Samuel and Polley Poer. Fort Worth, Texas. First use: Sometime in the 1990’s Synonyms: extra-large drink, Diet Coke with cherry

tiny-rat’s-ass \tie-knee-rats-ass\ noun 1. a care in the world 2. something no one in the Tidwell clan seems to give Examples •

“But they’ll laugh at me if I tell them no,” Polley said of her middle school friends. “I don’t give a tiny-rat’s-ass,” Karen responded.

Origin: Probably Karen Tidwell Poer. First use: After cancer #1. Synonyms: a shit, a fuck, a damn.

wherebouts \wear-bowts\ noun 1. a question of something’s location 2. Where? Examples •

“I’m going to graduate school, Papa,” Polley said. “Wherebouts?” he replied.

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•

When Judy told Roger she put a cake in the kitchen, he wandered in, unable to find it. “Wherebouts?” He asked. She rolled her eyes.

Origin: One of Roger’s ancestors. First use: The olden days. Synonyms: where, in what general direction

windjammer \wind-jam-urh\ noun 1. two ice cream cones smushed together to create one giant ice cream experience 2. unrelated to the popular boat brand Examples • •

Let’s get out of this hospital and get us a windjammer. No, Roger, Karen’s too sick to eat a windjammer.

Origin: Roger Tidwell. A hot day somewhere in Texas First use: 20th century Synonyms: Absolutely none.

wobber \wah-burh\ noun 1. a nickname given to Polley Poer 2. the mispronunciation of commonly-hated chocolate candy, Whoppers! Examples • • •

There’s ol’ Wobber! We taught the kids to call you Wobber. How’s your mom, Wobber?

Origin: Roger Tidwell, grandfather of Polley Poer. Fort Worth, Texas. First use: April 8th, 1997 Synonyms: Polley, Sue, Lucy, Polley-Sue-Smerelda, Wobby, Wob

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Women of the World Through Literature by Gabrielle Saleh

https://youtu.be/hFUS1UcrOXc

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The Trial of the Children of Loki by Nicholas Brown

One is the Horrific hel who sat upon a throne in the realm that bears her name where she hordes the dead who are not worthy to enter the golden Hall.

We speak here not of the tragic or the heroic children, but of the monstrous. We speak of the sons and daughter of the Grief-Bringer.

Amongst the gods of Asgard crept Loki whose attachments to flame and mischief made of him both a boon and a bane. the son of Farbauti and Laufey, loki was a blood brother to odin and his children are many.

One is the venomous Jormungandr who grew so massive that his sinuous body encircled midgard. So potent was his spittle that it could bring a god to his knees.

One is the ravenous Fenrisulfr whose long fought freedom from the dwarf-spun chain signals the twilight of the gods and the ends of the worlds.

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Pardon, All-Father? Your Children.

How do they fare?

Lokiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s penchant for mischief was well-known amongst the Aesir, but his wily mind and crafty hands encouraged them to allow him to remain in asgard. Narfi and vali are fine sons, your highness I could not ask for any better.

Loki, my bloodbrother, how fare your children?

And so, two of the odinsons left golden asgard for frigid jotunheim to retrieve the three Children of Loki.

no, the other three.

Brother, do you find it odd that we find no resistance?

Not at all, for jotnar shiver when they hear the name of but one son of odin.

And we are two!

Yet, even with the eyes of Asgard upon him, Loki found ways to leave and return to the realm eternal without notice.

Such tricks could not blind the All-Father forever, and he noticed that the trickster journeyed to and from Jotunheim thrice.

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it would soon become clear why the realm brooked the brothersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; incursion.

Pardon, All-Father? Your Children.

How do they fare?

Loki, my bloodbrother, how fare your children?

no, the other three.

And so, two of the odinsons left golden asgard for frigid jotunheim to retrieve the three Children of Loki.

Brother, do you find it odd that we find no resistance?

Not at all, for jotnar shiver when they hear the name of but one son of odin.

And we are two!

Yet, even with the eyes of Asgard upon him, Loki found ways to leave and return to the realm eternal without notice.

Such tricks could not blind the All-Father forever, and he noticed that the trickster journeyed to and from Jotunheim thrice.

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it would soon become clear why the realm brooked the brothersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; incursion.

The matter of the children of loki would be brought before an assembly of the Aesir. That tricky loki fathered the monsters was already decided.

at the grief-bringerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hearth the brothers found the children of loki.

Grown already wild, the serpent was strapped to a great tree, his mouth bound tight so that his vile venom would remain unspent.

The wolf cub was friendly and playul, and tyr allowed the creature to chew his hands gently when encamped each night.

The decisions to be made debated what was to become of these abominations.

Bear witness, my brethren, to the trial of the children of loki.

Though I am wise, I seek input in these Matters. Noble Heimdall, bring to order the proceedings!

The final child, a young girl both alive and dead, was led from jotunheim hand-in-hand with the gentle war god.

Together, the brothers led the Children back to Asgardâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Golden Halls where they would stand before the gods and learn of their fates.

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within this conclave shall we determine the fate of the serpent, the girl, and the wolf