The Mill Literary Magazine Spring 2018

The Mill Literary Magazine Issue 10: Spring 2018

Co-Editors: Joe Heidenescher, Marisa Mercurio, Ben Steingass and Thomas Rushin Cover Art and Back Matter by: Marisa Mercurio Graphic Design and Layout: Joe Heidenescher Made possible by the English Department Shapiro Endowment Fund

Inside Never Again

Editor’s

LETTER

Postcoloniality on Screen

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year ago when we resurrected The Mill from its brief hibernation, we asserted our belief that the arts can elevate, protect, and protest without affiliating ourselves to any ideology. As we graduate from the University of Toledo to pursue higher education in the humanities, we wanted to return to the questions that we grappled with—are still grappling with.

In that Spring 2017 issue we asked if activism is a distraction from scholarly work. I think we’ve moved beyond that. Academia has moved beyond that. How can you speak about British literature without attending to the brutality of the Empire? American culture without acknowledging the systematic oppression that has defined it? Cinema without the #MeToo movement? To ignore the role political activism has played in the humanities—and vice versa—is to overlook key overtures in every aspect of the cultures we claim to study and participate in. We no longer can quietly contemplate syntax. If the humanities are to be true to its name, it must encompass the whole of humanity.

This issue of The Mill, therefore, is largely an exploration of the scholar in society. Among the excellent poetry, fiction, and visual art, you will also find interviews, essays, and a letter written by students for students who are grappling with the very same struggle. We want to reach out and we want our work to matter. It is up to us to make it matter.

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Interview with Roland Greene

20 Tyehimba Jess at UT

Photography by Evan Sennett

“The Long Ride” by Teresa Northcraft

Sincerely, The Editors at the Mill Literary Magazine

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7 Years Old

By Emily Grubbs I watch as she runs, racing to catch him “I’m gonna get you!”

Mija

Her laugh, like beads falling into a glass cup.

She twirls.

By Madison Vasko I am my mother’s fool confused calavera the white of the moon illuminated sugar trails, my steps too quiet

They whip around the jungle gym.

A blur of flesh and primary colored steel, red, yellow, blue, her.

“Tag you’re it!”

Raised from the dead when I was 17 plucked marigold from my flower crown ripped open my ribcage an invitation inside

Now I watch, as he chases her I look down at my socks, pure white and lined with lace.

I hear her labored breath, glances behind.

She can’t be fast enough.

I am my grandmother’s legacy she had six different voices all of them cried that they loved me but I got her taste for fire and her tendency to leave

I watch as his hand extends straining for his target.

I reach out, When can I be “it?”

Find me in an orbit yawning depths beneath a blanket of star stuff, swallowing anything that crosses my constellation

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Miles Left, Lacking in Fuel

By Teresa Ann Northcraft

I’ve wobbled here with two loose thumbs & the peach under-scab skin of a chick with razors, dolled up fancy free. I’m not going anywhere.

But the truck’s saddled with side-eyes & a floor pile of Baby Hairs’ copper halo.

I’ll fuck up the next chapbook that looks my way

Perennial Sign of Winter’s End

via three #2 pencils. I wanted to talk about the sky.

I always want to talk about the sky,

By Julia Edinger

That winter was the closest thing I’ve felt to purgatory.

All was still and frozen– we were still and frozen.

I remember the first snowdrop that spring, pushing its way through the piles of charcoal slush.

but usually it’s sick of me and not up for arguing.

I shed tears over the delicate first flower, not only because it reminded me we could breathe again, but because it reminded me you couldn’t.

My body began to thaw as yours began to decompose.

The world regained color; lavender shades in phlox and crocuses, and Scilla that matched the sky’s reborn cerulean grasped for air, straining to reach through the frozen soil.

Life returned, as vibrant and surreal as an illustration.

Each spring the snowdrops stretch their heads above the ground, somehow unharmed by the piercing ice that stifled them.

Sometimes I wish you were a snowdrop.

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Tyehimba

On January 20th 2018, the University of Toledo’s Dr. Kimberly Mack introduced renowned poet Tyehimba Jess at the McMaster Center at the Main Library. Mr. Jess read from his Pulitzer Prize winning book Olio, which explores the creative lives of the first generation of freed slaves, to a captive audience.

Lauded as “the absolute engine” behind the “I Got a Lust For Life” panel discussions and poetry readings on the African-American Great Migration on literary and musical expression in northwest Ohio and southeast Michigan, Dr. Mack also presented a panel including Tyehimba Jess, poet and editor M.L. Liebler, classical vocalist Frances Brockington, and jazz vocalist Dr. Lee Ellen Martin at the Glass Pavilion.

One of our editors spoke with Mr. Jess about his life and work.

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Jess

Q: Olio navigates authenticity and historical narratives. How did you first become interested in these topics and how do you understand yourself participating in these historical narratives?

A: One thing I find interesting is that when you’re looking at these folks’ lives you see all the things that impinge upon our lives and decisions—from economic decisions to issues of the heart to ancestry and politics. When you’re examining these people’s biographies, you see a microcosm of the nation’s biography and by listening and examining the circumstances of their lives, you see how it feeds creative work and how we communicate to one another. It gives you insight into a side of history we don’t really think about.

Q: Your statement about deconstructing the history that we receive and then reconstructing it, and the role of art and poetry within that, really struck me.

A: I believe art fills in the gaps between the history books. When you step into that artistic space you’re able to lend shades of interpretations to these historical and sociological

phenomena, and allow us to comprehend them in a different way and grasp how they’re happening today. When I’m writing, I ask myself: How is this relevant today? How do these century-old experiences echo in 2018?

Q: To readers of The Mill, what advice might you give to up and coming writers and artists?

A: One, read a lot. Read the people that you like, then read the people that influence them, and then read the people that influence them.

Follow the echoes. If you dig some music today, find out where that music came from and follow the same process.

What is it doing in the national conversation? Write industriously. You need to write what you want to see in the world that hasn’t been written yet. Nobody knows what that is but you. Don’t chase trends. Write something that speaks to you and take your time with it; be dogged. That’s the start.

Someone told me a long time ago—and this is the only cliché I’ll attach myself to—do what you love and the money will follow. Because there will come a time if you want to be an artist that you will have to decide whether or not you’re gonna call yourself an artist and whether or not you’re going to make money doing it. And that’s when the rubber hits the road.

PHOTO: Evan Sennett, Photography Winner

The Long Ride

By Teresa Ann Northcraft, Poetry Winner the glass, golden in her laughter as we drive together — steady — she’s all burning eyes and sharp angles, an olive-tone painting of wild brown hair — me, my words catch, watching her snagged in thought-shaped cracks of pavement where I let silences linger. I am translucent, a virgin begging for some pervasive revelation but she, she is boiling crimson-red the heartbeat in a town of half-thoughts scattered like parade candy she’d kick away, our eyes latched together in mutual adoration — but I, bleak as asphalt, illiterate in the space between hope and fear, quickly, I turn away and pray the seat belt will tether Her — to me

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Dear Gun Advocate,

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They say stop complaining: “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.” Who shot kids in their backs 305 times since 2013 without a gun? Left them lying in their cold blood to die?

17 kids are dead in Parkland, Florida.

Alyssa Aldhadeff, 14. Scott Beigel, 35.

Martin Anguiano, 14. Nicholas Dworet, 17. Aaros Feis, 37. Jamie Guttenberg, 14.

Chris Hixon, 49. Luke Hoyer, 15. Cara Loughran, 14. Gina Montalto, 14. Joaquin Oliver, 17. Alaina Petty, 14. Meadow Pollack, 18. Helena Ramsay, 17. Alex Schachter, 14. Carmen Schentrup, 16. Peter Wang, 15. These are their names. These are the kids that died going into school to get an education, a safe environment for children to make a future for themselves, to be something someday.

I’m 16. I go to a public school. Every single day, someone could walk into my school and shoot anyone. My friends, my teachers, everyone and anyone. So don’t sit there and tell me that guns aren’t the issue.

It’s you. It’s you that tells me that I shouldn’t worry because maybe if I was a little nicer, the school shooter won’t hurt me. Maybe if I AM A LITTLE NICER. If I get up and make friends with him, with the kid that sits alone at lunch. Well, maybe she shouldn’t have worn that small of a skirt either; she wouldn’t have been raped. This is victim blaming. Well guess what? It’s not our fault. It’s not our 12-18 year old selves not associating with someone that leaves us lying in our blood. And when they catch the shooter, they always say: they were mentally unstable, they had a tough childhood, and their family life wasn’t great. That’s a real weird way of saying they shouldn’t have killed someone. That’s only if they’re white, though. If they’re a minority, that’s an entire different story. It’s not us, it’s you. It’s your fault, Congress and voters, for allowing someone with this intention to get a military rifle. If you’re just trying

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to protect yourself, why do you need that big of a gun? And if you say knives cause just as much harm, why do you need a gun? But a knife couldn’t kill 58 people in seconds, 49 people in seconds, or 17 kids in seconds. It’s not us, it’s you. Stop acting like guns are your protection and your holy grail; they’re killing machines. How can you sit there and say there should be no regulation on guns? Do I have to say it again, CHILDREN are DYING. Kids are living their lives in fear of being shot and killed at school. Your gun rights do not overthrow my right to live. My right to make it in this world.

I’m 16. I could be shot tomorrow. With my entire life ahead of me. But you don’t care about that, right? You don’t care that I could die tomorrow. You think you need your protection! “Guns don’t kill, people do!” Then how’d they pull the trigger without a gun? They said the suburbs were safe. They said big cities are where crime happens.

And then Parkland happened.

And Sandy Hook.

And Lexington Park, Maryland. And Seaside, California. And Mobile, Alabama. And Birmingham, Alabama. And Jackson, Mississippi. And Mount Pleasant, Michigan. And Norfolk, Virginia. And Itta Bena, Mississippi. And Savannah, Georgia. And Nashville, Tennessee. And Oxon Hill, Maryland. And Los Angeles, California. And Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. And Benton, Kentucky. And Italy, Texas. And Winston Salem, North Carolina.

Now tell me again how your conceal carry weapon will keep me safe. Tell me how protected I should feel if my teacher has a gun in the classroom. If you cared about kids at all, you would stand up and end this.

Because when we say Never Again, we’re fighting for our lives.

—Ruthie Steel

The house looked like a tions. unicorn had thrown-up on Something small and orit. Each visible side of the ange scurried out in front three-story Victorian reviv- of her path. Estella took her al was painted in a different eyes off the blinding sight of shade of pastel. Estella Gon- the house and focused them zalez had to shade her eyes on the creature. It was a cat. as she made her way up the An ordinary tabby cat. She winding driveway to her Aunt stopped, sinking slightly into Fae’s home. Already annoyed the mud, and blinked at it. In by the ten-minute walk up the all her time spent out at her muddy driveway and stagger- aunt’s home, she’d never once ing jet-lag, the garish sight of seen a cat. Her aunt’s lover, a her once treasured childhood soft-spoken woman named refuge was almost enough to Tabitha, hated the creatures send her on another breakdown. One massive, public one had been enough to completely derail her life already.

Exactly two days before, years of her life revolving entirely around her pursuit of a P.H.D. in bio-engineering, devoid of any pastimes or stress relief, had caused her to destroy By Samantha Arbogast nearly $20,000 worth of velab equipment, in front of her hementpeers and colleagues no less. If ly. Cats were the only topic her parents, prolific research- she’d ever seen them argue ers in their own right, hadn’t over. Any time aunt Fae would stepped in to cover the cost of bring up her desire to adopt a her breakdown, Estella’s pro- cat, Tabitha would become fessional life would have been practically enraged, ranting officially destroyed. about how cats were evil and Family influence and fi- filthy creatures. The last thing nances being what they were, she’d expected to see on her Estella’s debts were paid while aunt’s property was a cat. she was heavily encouraged It stared at her as though it to take some time off. Her was thinking the same thing. parents had all but forced her That Estella’s presence here, to lay low with her aunt, deep shin deep in mud and muck, in the forgotten wilderness of was the last thing it’d expectthe middle of nowhere, until ed to encounter. One muddy things died down back in the paw was still raised in midcity. If she was lucky, ten years step. A strange feeling setfrom now she’d have a witty tled in her stomach, the eyes anecdote to tell at conven- on her weren’t the only ones

Cat’s Eye

watching her. She struggled, slowly turning her head away from the cat’s tractor beam gaze. Once detached, she realized where that strange feeling had come from.

There were cats everywhere, and they were all staring at her. How hadn’t she noticed them? They were in the trees which grew along the driveway, the shrubs along the path to the house, even lounging on the roof and wrap around porch. Every single cat, she could see twenty clearly, had its eyes firmly locked on her. All were standing as deathly still as the first one, with that same look of shock.

Instead of feeling like she was returning to a safe haven from her childhood, Estella felt like an intruder. Like she had wandered into the middle of something she wasn’t supposed to see.

Her muscles were so tensed, they hurt, but she had an irrational fear that if she moved first something bad would happen. A vision of dozens of cats springing from the forest, latching onto her with claws and teeth sprang to her mind.

They wouldn’t be able to seriously injure her, would they?

She couldn’t remember ever reading of death by housecat.

“Stella! Stella, darling! Stella!” The sound of her aunt’s voice broke whatever spell that was keeping her and the cats’ prisoner. The eyes slid off her, the orange cat resumed its scurrying across the driveway, and Estella shakily resumed walking towards the house.

Her aunt was standing on the porch, waving like some-

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one trying to stand out in an as though they’d been carved Her own parents weren’t nearovercrowded airport. Estella in. She had to question her ly as loving, devoted, or open smiled, calming in the famil- aunt’s estimation of her beau- with each other. iarity of her aunt’s zealous per- ty as well, given how thick her Aunt Fae led her into the sonality. cataracts were. It had been kitchen, which was half paint“Auntie Fae!” Once she’d years since she’d last seen her, ed in a garish yellow, and sat reached the gravel path to but still, she couldn’t believe her down in the breakfast the house, Estella bounded how completely her aunt had nook. She quietly poured up to her aunt, who met her changed. Her own mother two cups of tea, all the while halfway. They embraced and didn’t look this aged and she humming an old Haitian song Estella breathed in the com- was four years older than her Tabitha used to sing. When forting scent of gardenias and sister. She looked even older she brought the cups back to potting soil. For the first time when she frowned at Estella the table and placed one in since she’d started high school, and shook her head slowly. front of Estella, she noticed she felt completely at ease, no “Oh, no, Stel- la. Tabbie her aunt’s once-prized tea set worries, no planning for the isn’t was now chipped and yelfuture, just peace. It was as if lowed. Her aunt sat down a knot had been inside her and stirred her tea sistomach for years, get- Aunt Fae was never this quiet. lently. Estella couldn’t ting tangled worse and help but feel conShe must not have been taking worse, and in one hug cerned, Aunt Fae the break-up well. It was her aunt had untanwas never this quiet. understandable, Aunt Fae and gled it all.

She must not have Tabitha had practically been “Stella, my dear, been taking the you’re all grown break-up well. It was raised together, and the story up. Such a beautiunderstandable, Aunt of their realizing that they were ful woman you’ve Fae and Tabitha had in love was Estella’s favorite practically been raised become. I told you bedtime story as a child. together, and the story of you’d be beautiful didn’t I, Stella darling?” their realizing that they were Estella pulled back as Aunt in love was Estella’s favorite Fae reached out to study her h e r e bedtime story as a child. To face. anymore. Almost a year now, have a falling out with some“Yes, you did tell me that, I think. Yes.” Aunt Fae nod- one who’d been your companAuntie. All the time.” She ded almost to herself. She put ion almost your entire life was laughed and took a good look her withered hand on Estella’s unimaginable to her, not that at her aunt for the first time. shoulder and led her into the she’d had the time for friends “You look tired. Ah…good, house. Estella tried to ignore or companions of any sort in but tired. Aunt Tabbie still the state of things inside. The the past years. keeping you up all night star- bright, clashing, new wallpa“So…what happened begazing?” per, the boxes upon boxes of tween you and Tabbie? It’s so Tired was an understate- junk and newspapers, and the strange to think of the two of ment. Estella had to force cats crawling over almost ev- you not being together anyherself not to react. Her aunt, ery square inch of unoccupied more.” Estella laughed, deswho should have just turned space. Never in her entire life perate to relieve the tension fifty-two years old last spring, had she ever seen such a mess. which had built up with each looked as though she was on If her aunt had done this to the passing moment of silence. the verge of turning eighty. house, she could understand A cat jumped up onto the Her once dark, luxurious why Tabitha would want to table. A calico with a stubhair was now primarily white leave. Although, Aunt Fae and by tail. It rubbed against her with erratic streaks of grey. Tabitha’s relationship had al- aunt’s hand, purring softly.

The lines of her face looked ways been her ideal as a child. continued on page 37

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Sodomy

By Julia Edinger, Poetry Finalist “Someone in some future time will think of us.”- Sappho We once held the power.

We were kings and Pharaohs, emperors and poets.

Before time, we stood tall.

You can find us carved into rocks in Sicily, making our love a permanency that no erosion could erase. You may find us in ancient tombs, brave men dressed as queens, before the third sex was censored by men who didn’t understand — didn’t ask.

Quick Visits, in Hues of Green

By Teresa Ann Northcraft I’m fast-crossing grass, loose & thinking about

the

When you follow Plato or Socrates, you follow us. But the fear of those unlike us grew, and they wrote that fear into law. The kings became sodomites, the queens became sinners.

But still, we ruled. Alexander the Great revived us, shedding light on us for millions of people, a renaissance of its own kind, a revival of love.

frost. green ripple stream

that slices world-space in half.

bright splotch tie dye

They feared us because they knew we were strong. They called us queer, and we took that and embraced it.

They tried to silence us with murders and exile. Did they not know we’d rise again?

on the cupped breasts of that barista, that afternoon coffee,

It was writers and poets who held the cure for the plague of fear that took over.

Ulrichs, Wilde, Goldman, Whitman, these are the kings and queens who sought to shed light on our strife.

They were pioneers and warriors who led the army needed to save us.

that tumble hair.

her fingers, quickjabbing the air—

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Still, we are fighting those who fear us.

The fight is far from over, but we are marching from the shrouds of oppression they tried to conceal us with. We march for equality, for acceptance, for freedom.

We are harassed and attacked, but we cannot ever forget what was carved in stone before the plague, before time.

We are kings and pharaohs.

If it Ain’t Baroque...

A chat with Dr. Roland Greene

Dr. Roland Greene, professor of English and Comparative Literature at Stanford University, delivered 2018’s Summers Lecture at the University of Toledo on February 20th.

Primarily a scholar of the Renaissance and transhistoric poetry and poetics from the Renaissance to the present, Dr. Greene is also studies works in the Latin languages.

In his Summers Lecture, “In Search of an English Baroque,” Dr. Greene discussed his fascination with the Baroque period and its often unincorporated and overlooked literary component. For Dr. Greene, he sees the literary Baroque as being side-by-side with the Renaissance, yet distinct in terms of critical semantics and inception. While he is not yet finished in his research on the Baroque, for now, Dr. Greene suggested viewing John Donne and John Milton as authors who took part in this literary English Baroque.

Dr. Greene also writes at a blog called Arcade, which he invites readers of The Mill to participate in at https://arcade.stanford.edu/.

One of our editors spoke to Dr. Greene about his work and the field: Q: Your scholarship is very eclectic. Why did you choose to not only pursue the Renaissance, but pair it with contemporary poetry?

A: I’m a little idiosyncratic—I’m usually working on things that are generated out of my own obsessions rather than what a lot of other people are doing in the field.

I’ve worked hard to broaden the Renaissance period and connect it to the beginnings of American literature and the present. I’m always mindful of how the Renaissance prepares us for the world we’re in now; through understanding it we can better understand our current conditions. I’m future oriented.

Q: You’ve written on the role of literature in society. How do we as academics get outside of that bubble and reach the public?

A: Literature plays almost no role in the broader public; but it has its own public that is now bigger than it’s ever been. More people are reading poetry and fiction than ever before and there’s 20 an incredible

amount of sophistication among those people. I think the question is how do you connect that to the broader public that is mostly unaware of what literature is and does. It’s a real challenge. Arcade is my attempt to bring serious intellectual thinking and work in the humanities available to a broader audience. It’s more and more urgent we all find ways to do this or support it in some way. It’s imperative now. We see how hard it is to orient the national conversation around the humanities and how the survival of our institutions depends upon it.

Q: Once we have the attention of the public what do we do with it? Is it just an attempt to cultivate appreciation for the humanities or do you see a larger, more specific goal?

A: Both. For me what stands out is that the culture at large has a very weak understanding of interpretation.

They don’t realize how central it is to the making of culture.

Even if they are devoted readers of novels or consumers of movies they think that it’s unmediated, but it’s already passed through processes of interpretation before it’s reached them. A movie’s trailer, its

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poster, a review are all acts of interpretation.

Our responsibility is to educate the public.

Interpretation helps us to understand the complexity of any communicative situation; it’s the most important thing we can offer.

Q: Oftentimes when those in the humanities—especially English majors—tell others about our work, the response is less than enthusiastic. Even those of us who do study English can struggle to see more than one career path, but is such a diverse field. Do you have any advice for those pursuing careers in the humanities?

A: The first thing is to disaggregate the word “read.”

When you read what are you doing? You’re observing language in its most sophisticated uses. The ability to translate that into something legible and oriented to a particular purpose, argument, or understanding is a very important cognitive act that prepares you for every part of life. The joy of what we do, however, and how that translates into what we produce and bringing that to a wider audience—however that may be—is a precious thing that the culture needs.

Zygotic cells & wedding bells. These you saved me from, switched my eyes with six X’s. Six sixes.

Now I wander through the world with only Will o’ the Wisps to guide me, my name stripped from Libra .

Vodka fills my cups, but voodoo’s what fucks me up, though it’s not enough to forget your tarot card teeth, the sun sign eyes that I read wrong. A gemini lie on the cusp of coming true, maybe meant for a different quadrant of the sky. Restless, I spend my days quarreling with oracles & pestering spirits. Would you answer the damn Ouija? The little planchette wiggles, I throw it across the room, tearing out the tongues

of the dead while my new witch-doctor friends laugh. They raises my spirits & the dead, then we go out looking for magic & bitches. We snort pentacle lines of crushed crystal balls. When you haunt me, it’s more sweet then bitter knowing you’d be disappointed in how I jump angels in the back alleys of LA. I sell their feathers at black magic markets, buy hellfire to drink when the well whiskey doesn’t burn enough. I carry a grimoire with me filled with a spells and numbers from witches, none of which can exorcise your blue-silver specter.

My body is an empty house. I leave open the doors, invite ghosts over for tours, offering up canapes & cheap wine. The nobodies show no interest in buying, so I’ll remodel, become a motel for stray spirits. Cuz I’d rather be possessed

than haunted & alone.

By Jake Cessna, Poetry Finalist

Reverse Abecedarian Incantation

SUPERSTITION OF SWAMP GIRL

By Ryleigh Wann

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I. I wasn’t always this wretched.

Men paint me up when they talk about me outside of the shaken down juke joint, Drunk off warm whiskey, drool pooling out of the side of their mouths.

The siren that hides in the murky swamp in the Delta Covered by moss and mud and grass, Eyes black as the Southern sky Making love to the gators, wearing their teeth around her neck.

II. You were the broken juke box I couldn’t get to start, Your southern slang and banjo twang told me I was the only one listening.

It was never warm enough here.

Michigan, the Midwest, that small flat wasn’t Big enough for my addiction to your infatuation, Wasn’t messy enough for the destruction we wanted to build.

III. You were the cause of my voice to shake And quiver until I could not hear it after you vanished.

I look for you now, deep out here Where my seraphim song and broken wings Can’t reach you.

This siren will not shut her mouth Until my vocal chords sever, Or I’ve tasted the tongue of any man Or woman who calls me Doll, Or you return to your resting place Under this cypress tree, Hearing the sweet song of your Delta Queen.

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By Jake Cessna, Fiction Winner

Another hero was hunting her again. Medusa could hear his shallow breathing as the would-be monster slayer crept through her lair. She set out into the shadow and mist of the cave. Excitement welled up in her chest, she had to remind her snakes to

keep quiet.

Even now they slithered against her cheeks, writhing to the point where she thought they’d curl around her neck and choke the life from her.

But she knew they wouldn’t.

They were good snakes, closer to her than anyone had ever been.

She found the home-invading hero in the antechamber. She watched as he walked past her other victims and tried his hardest not to marvel at the faces frozen in stone. He kept his torch high and his sword ready. His darting eyes missed a chunk of petrified face that his foot sent skittering across the floor.

The hero spun at the sound,

the torch dimming from the rush of wind.

Medusa choose this moment to let one of her snakes let out a silky hiss.

Wide eyed and gasping, the monster slayer struck out with his sword. Medusa had to stop herself from giggling as the stone arm of a previous hero shattered to pieces and filled the chamber with more sound. When it was all quiet, except for the hero’s breathing, she let her snakes hiss slowly build. She threw a stone foot behind him and had her meanest snake let out his angriest snarl.

“Foul monster! I have come for you,” he yelled, before charging into the darkest, and draftiest part of the chamber.

She knew his type. All muscle, claims to be the son of a bronzed god, sent on a mission to slay a monster, and lucky beyond measure. But their luck always ran out here, because they weren’t hunting a monster.

Just a very pissed off woman.

She found him trying to relight his torch. Normally, she waited until he managed to bring back the fire,

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tap him gently on the shoulder, and, after the whole snakes, hissing, petrification ordeal was finished, collect his sword. But she decided to mix it up this time.

“Zeus-damned torch. I can’t believe this right now,” the hero went on. “I crossed the river Styx to deal with this minitaur-shit. Dammit.

There we go.” And as the light went up, Medusa let out a soft sobbing noise.

“Is there anyone there?” the hero called out. Medusa sobbed harder, but tried not to ham it up. As a Greek woman, she hadn’t been allowed to act in theatre and her pious life as a priestess didn’t leave much room for lying. But one of the few benefits to her new snakefilled life was having plenty of time to rehearse scenes from plays. She felt that she had improved greatly, always leaving her audience stricken after each performance.

“Miss, are you alright?”

The hero stepped forward, seeing a frightened woman on the ground, back against the wall, arms covering her head, and chest shaking from sobs. Just what Medusa wanted him to see.

“Jackpot,” he whispered, “Miss, I’m going to get you out of here. I’ve been sent on a righteous task my my father Poseidon to slay the snake monster lurking here.” He laid his sword at his feet and extended a hand to help her up.

“The only monster here is

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you,” she said, lifting her terrible gaze.

The snakes shot out in all directions and the green flash lit the chamber. He only had time for his face to change from a falsely warm smile to terror, cold and true.

Medusa helped herself up with the man’s still-outstretched hand. She studied the marble visage of the man, the proud jaw and strong nose were instantly recognizable to her. He had been telling the truth at least, she thought as her snakes hissed loudly. Another of the rapist’s bastards.

She grabbed the sword from the ground and lopped his head off. He couldn’t have felt it, but it made her feel a damn sight better. She untied the cloth around her wrist and tied up her snakes into a messy bun. Medusa walked deeper into her lair, carrying her new trophy.

She swam in her thoughts for a little while. The name Poseidon always made her do that. Medusa thought of her old life, a live devoted to the service of the Gods. One god specifically, Athena, goddess of wisdom. Medusa remembered all the nights she would make sacrifices to her goddess, and how when the night was done, Medusa would go to the shore by night and comb her beautiful golden hair.

The snakes twisted in the bun at the thought of her old hair, almost coming undone. But they were right to be uneasy, thought Medusa.

Her golden hair had gained the attention of Poseidon, who lusted after her. The night he came for her, she couldn’t say no. Literally, the words were taken from her, with so many other things. And when she was finally released from his impossibly strong embrace, she found herself naked on the marble floor of Athena’s temple.

She prayed to her Goddess, looking for vengeance, for atonement. For anything.

But all she got was another curse. Her face grew malformed and covered in warts, her gaze turned men to stone, and her beautiful hair twisted into snakes before her eyes.

By the time she got back to her sleeping chamber, Medusa had worked herself into a fury. An immortal life of exile, filled with attempts on her life and the memories of her rape. Is that all the Fates had planned for her? Was this what she got for trying to please the gods? She whipped her new sword into the dense pile of other trophies and weapons. It clambered and sent a shield to the ground. The shield reflected Medusa’s continued on page 36

A Far Less Impressive Chichen Itza

Black Dog Strut

By Jake Cessna

By Samantha Arbogast

Tourists pose for pictures at the base of a great stone ziggurat.

If not for thin ropes and shoddy wooden posts, they’d climb to the top, Flipflopped, teeth bared, hunting out of electronic envy with selfie-sticks. Maybe one, over zealous, over mimosa’d mother Might trip and skin her sun tanned shins on steps. Might give the bone dry stone its first taste of blood in However many years.

It waits until I am alone, ‘Til darkness has fallen and fog has dropped, Only then does it follow me.

It pads along behind me, Howling at the occasional moon, So close its breath burns my skin.

Once, blood flowed.

Once, men were opened up to nourish feathered gods. Red handed priests held out hearts like a bloody Valentine, I just think you’re so cool, Kukulkan. Would you be mine.

Imagine that devotion, to hold a heart to the sky and meet only Silence. Maybe the next year. Maybe the next eclipse.

Once, I made a temple.

The stones were my bones. I fed you from my veins.

I brought blood sacrifice and flowers and you brought the rain. The maize grew heavy on the stalk.

But there were days of silence.

Days of drought, of disease, of floods and famine.

The silence was the worse curse, it crept into the inner sanctum.

Into dinner dates and car rides, into the sky where I held my heart high. My mind went defiant in silence, I still ask myself How much blood would have been enough?

I glimpse it through the corner of my vision, Mossy black fur, feverish yellow eyes, catcher’s mitt paws, It smells of cooper and mud.

It snaps at any car which slows beside me, And growls at the slightest sound in the darkness, I always make it home safely with it near.

It vanishes before I can thank it, Which I do not begrudge, Because the black dog has no master.

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ur ink yo he h t u do yo ese?”

“Howstors got ththey paid a ance ou think r did they O “Y asks. rice for it? e they took full p e them lik g else?” tak erythin ev

y t i l a i n o Postcol en! on scre

By Sean T. Burlingame & Marisa Mercurio

While Marvel has been decidedly political since its first installment of the Iron Man series, it has been so with various success, and too often from the perspective of white men coming to terms with their role in a corrupt government. Which is why the shifting focus on diverse representation—both in front of the cameras and behind—has heightened expectations of the franchise in the past year with films like Black Panther and Thor: Ragnarok. Cultural celebration of colonized peoples seeps into nearly every aspect of these films. In an interview with an Australian radio station, Thor’s director Taika Waititi explained that the Aboriginal flag is mapped onto ships’ color and shape.

And although Thor certainly focuses on its mainstay white characters, Waititi ensured crowds and minor roles, as well as backstage jobs, were significantly less monochromatic than is typical. Ryan

C o o g l e r, Black Panther’s director, likewise told Vanity Fair the colors of the main trio’s costumes in the casino scene reflect the colors of the Pan-African flag: red, black, and green.

In addition to Black Panther and Thor: Ragnarok’s commercial and critical success, each film offers a nuanced exploration of colonization and its socio-political ramifications. Notably the sole MCU films directed by people of color, their shared theme of colonization is not insignificant; in fact, the villains’ roles as the colonizer (Thor) and the colonized (Black Panther)—and their nations’ respective reaction to them—is the point on which the plots transpire and the heroes mature. Each film offers a sophisticated perspective on such narratives through the villains’ struggles.

The villain of Black Panther

i s Erik Killmonge r— a young man of royal Wakandan heritage who grew up in Oakland, Calif. experiencing the colonized world as a person of color in America. Killmonger is introduced at the British Museum where he examines African artifacts (obtained, of course, by the British conquest of the continent), which are, notably, grouped together as though all African societies are the same—a common misconception and stereotype. He questions a (white) curator about the origin of the objects before asking about a war hammer, which he identifies as Wakandan. She begins to correct him when Killmonger interrupts: “How do you think your ancestors got these?” he asks. “You think they paid a full price for it? Or did they take them like they took everything else?” On Black Panther’s opening night audiences cheered in support of this line—a line delivered by the man that our hero, T’Challa

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(the Black Panther), is meant to defeat in true superhero fashion.

Hela, Thor: Ragnarok’s villain, voices the most explicit critique of Asgardian colonialism. Garnished with paintings of the royal family— whose heads are haloed in gold, surrounded by a pre-Raphaelite floral landscape—the throne room is Asgard’s center of political power. As the veneer crumbles under Hela’s spears, she exposes older Medieval-style murals and, thus, the Asgardian monarchy’s colonial history. Reminiscent of the Crusades, these murals portray the bloody conquest of other realms commanded by herself and her father the king, Odin. Correspondingly, the political enterprise of British colonialism and the earlier Crusades were considered divinely sanctioned, notions compounded in Thor by the literal God-status of Asgard’s monarchy. Hela

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complains the Asgardian people are not “taught our history,” which she explains: “I was the weapon in the conquest that built Asgard’s empire. One by one, the realms became ours.” While Hela is indeed a colonizer, her further condemnation of Odin’s rule as “lies” complicates her status as villain. She declares Odin is “Proud to have it, ashamed of how he got it”; her direct and unapologetic attitude, we learn, is the reason for her imprisonment, not her role as colonizer. Her frustration with Odin’s hypocrisy thus presents her ideology not only as logical, but disruptive of a corrupt system of power with a history of violence.

Villainy is recontexutalized: If we agree with her denunciation of Odin (though not her role as colonizer), how do we root for Thor’s endeavor to reclaim the throne? Black Panther presents a similar conundrum. Like Hela, Killmonger’s postcolonial quest returns him to his ancestral

homeland. Shortly after arriving in Wakanda, Killmonger makes his way to the throne room and confronts his cousin, T’Challa. Killmonger challenges him for the throne of Wakanda, though with an explicitly anti-colonial purpose: to, essentially, use Wakanda’s advanced technology and weapons to arm people of color the world over and stage an uprising against their (post-)colonial oppressors.

Killmonger proposes world domination under his own Wakandan Kingship. Rising up against colonial oppressors illustrates the spectrum of morality that Black Panther deals in; defeat of oppression is certainly admirable by most audiences on some level, but the idea of a unified global empire signals a dangerous echo of the European empires of the past several centuries.

Killmonger additionally confronts the Wakandan elites’ privilege in the throne room, creating a similarly blurry hero/villain dichotomy to that continued on page 37

Irony

By Shaquira Jay Beautiful chaos, immaculate horror.

Nothing better, nothing worse.

Beautiful chaos in the love we have.

It’s the best thing I’ve never had.

Dissonance

By Teresa Ann Northcraft I am a carcass wrapped in clouds, soft indigo dreams not my own, not my voice, not even my own thick blood to lick as maggots wriggle like pearls in my ribcage— I want to pluck them out, the beads, ribs and rose petals, lift one mangled arm and throw myself from the sky, down, away from everything white-soft and festering.

I want to stink in the dissonant earth, mud-splat, visceral, grotesquely unadorned

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KISS KISS MY MY AGENDA AGENDA

By Emily Grubbs

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As I approach graduation, I am filled with anxiety about getting a job with a Bachelor’s degree in the humanities.

I am sure every person who studies in the humanities field has been warned about depleting job prospects and lack of funding for the arts.

Determined to get hired, I have been working on perfecting my Linked-In profile: my offering to the professional world.

Upon review from a professional consultant, I was told that my profile is controversial. The controversy of my profile is, apparently, centered in my description as a “Human Rights Advocate.” I was told that many professional agencies, specifically the federal government, would be deterred by my “leftist political agenda”. In response to this feedback, I quickly offered the retort that being a human rights advocate should not represent any political affiliation, but rather basic human dignity. While I think my mentor appreciated my sentiments, they stood by their position and the idea that promoting equality and human rights is leftist propaganda.

Once I received this feedback I became deeply conflicted. How can

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I be both a scholar and as a tool to express ableist an activist? I am plagued experience. with the burden to sepThe question then bearate my most basic val- comes: How do we as ues from my image as a scholars balance our adprofessional. In an effort vocacy with our profesto join the elite world of sion? How do we create scholarship and publica- space for the margintion, I worry I will be- alized we research and come separated from my write about? community.

Some suggestions: As scholars, we sit in We must deconstruct our offices and write about the injustice plaguing our As scholars, we sit in our society, while so offices and write about many of our fellow the injustice plaguing our humans are too society, while so many of busy experiencing our fellow humans are too injustice to read our analysis. Even busy experiencing injustice to read our analysis. in the humanities, becoming a professional still requires a distance from those who are not “tra- elitist barriers to our ditionally educated” and, scholarship. We must to ultimately, one’s own hu- reconfigure American manity. As a queer wom- Standard English, aka an, I have always felt like white speech. We must what I write is in conflict promote artwork that is with society. The educa- inclusive and uncomtion we promote and the fortable. We must deliterature we teach deter- stroy the school to prison mines whose has a voice pipeline and create more in our society and a place access to education with in our history. People of equal resources and accolor grow up in a coun- curate history. We must try that imperializes, re- develop an academic enwrites, and completely vironment that is open to excludes their history. ignorance and generates Queer experience con- empathy for all. tinues to be demonized My Linked-in descripand forced into binaries. tion still reads: “Human We read literature that Rights Activist/Writer”. uses and manipulates the So, fellow scholars, what lives of disabled people is your agenda?

No Paradise

By Abby Filka

Road Kill On Parade

By Samantha Arbogast, Poetry Finalist

As I turn to leave I notice her there, The girl in the purple tulle dress With the plastic rhinestones that Catch the yellow glare Of the bathroom lights.

She hides in the corner, Beside the crooked mirror And the wastepaper basket, Fingers wiping tears from Her red-rimmed eyes.

Did her date abandon her For a better dance partner?

Or did she simply rip one of her Seven layers of tulle?

All around, girls whisper

One errant pig, With splintered ribs, And leaking entrails.

Two arrogant bucks, With broken toothpick legs, And crooked antlers.

Four dogs, Some strays, some not.

With bloody fur, And crushed torsos.

Six cats, Caught under a wheel, Flattened like paper, Seeping red ink.

Ten raccoons, With lovesick eyes, The sky clutched in their rigid paws, Squinting in the sun.

One mother opossum, Eight babies, Ground into the concrete, Like rotten tomatoes.

And giggle and gossip, And lean towards mirrors To apply layers Of lipstick and rouge, But none of them look her way.

The unintelligible growl of the DJ And the incessant pound of the bass Fade in and out as the swinging door Allows girls in shimmering gowns To rush to and from the dance That continues on without her.

Despite the plastic lei around her neck And the yard flamingo near the sink, This prom is no island paradise, Just a land of giggles and gossip And sparkling cruelty.

They crunch, Crack, squish, Thud, slam, skid, And all end up the same.

Under your car, Over your shoulder, Beside your bed, They are there, Transparent and forever gory.

Always around you, Your personal road kill parade.

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Cat’s Eye by Samantha Arbogast continued from page 17 Her aunt stroked it absentmindedly, staring off at the half-painted wall. Estella was about to speak again when something brushed against her leg. She jumped, immediately understanding it had to have been a cat. She couldn’t see it under the table, but she reached down to pet it. Secretly, she’d always had a love for cats. But her father’s allergies had forbidden them as a child. When she started school, she’d barely been able to take adequate care of herself, god forbid an animal. At least now she had a chance to indulge in her secret love. She moved her hand back and forth under the table, trying to reach the cat who’d rubbed against her, but found nothing. She started to wiggle her fingers to entice it when something sharp caught her hand and bit down.

“Shit!” Estella yelped, trying to pull her hand away.

The grip on her hand only tightened, pulling down harder. Sharp teeth slid down her skin as she struggled. How could a cat be so strong? It was pulling her down the chair.

“Hmm? Stella, darling, did you say something?”

Her struggle had pulled Aunt Fae out of her reverie.

Immediately the grip on her hand released and she pulled her hand back against her chest. A dozen red lines trailed down her hand, deeper than she’d expected them to be. Estella ducked under the table to get a look at the creature who’d at-

tacked her, but all she could see where her and her aunt’s legs. There wasn’t even a cat suspiciously running away from the scene of the crime.

“Oh dear! Your hand is bleeding. Poor girl.” Aunt Fae reached into the pocket of her wool jacket, pulled out a large package of bandages and a small bottle of antiseptic spray. Estella held out her hand, noticing her aunt’s own hands were covered in similar bandages and wraps.

“Something attacked me.”

“No, no, it was just one of my cats. They can be overly affectionate sometimes you know. Or maybe one of the little dears got jealous of you, heh. Maybe they don’t want to share me with you, love.”

Aunt Fae chuckled to herself as she worked over Estella’s hand.

“It tore up my hand, Auntie! You’ve got cuts and bandages all over your hands too. That isn’t affection. It’s goddamn vicious!”

“Cats are very strange creatures, they show love in diverse ways. That’s what makes them so fascinating you know.”

“I can kind of understand why she hates them. Guess she didn’t appreciate their special brand of love. You two didn’t separate over them, did you?”

“Separate? What do you mean?”

“You know, break-up?”

“Ah, I see. Tabitha and I aren’t separated, darling. She died.” Aunt Fae shook her head, still bent over Estella’s hand, and chuckled.

Medusa

by Jake Cessna continued from page 25 face back to her.

She saw her eyes, the only thing that hadn’t been changed about her face. She watched as tears filled them.

They flowed freely, so many that the irrational part of her brain feared she’d drown in them. They kept coming until the smooth scales of a snake brushed across her face.

Slowly, each snake flicked away a tear from her skin their their forked tongues.

This had happened times before, but she always forgot about them until these moments. They were good snakes. And as Medusa thought about her snakes, she realized that they hadn’t been a curse.

From the first day they had taken care of her, defending her from the poison of men.

Athena had never appeared before her physically, like how Poseidon did. Maybe even the goddesses are made to fear the gods. Only protection disguised as a curse could be bestowed upon her. A vindictive, petty goddess was easier to pass off, than someone actively defying her father, uncles and brothers. Medusa slept, to rest her heavy mind. After she awoke, she walked through her forest of stone men, giving thanks to Athena for good snakes and her sculptor eyes.

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Postcoloniality on Screen continued from page 29 of Thor: Ragnarok. “I want the throne,” he says.

“You are all sitting up here comfortable. Must feel good. There's about two billion people around the world who look like us and their lives are a lot harder. Wakanda has the tools to liberate them all.” This scene crucially challenges T’Challa, and all Wakandan kings before him, in their isolationism, which—aided by the near-magic powers of Vibranium—has allowed Wakanda to evade slavery, colonization, and the overwhelming majority of the world’s systematic prejudices against people of color.

The role of these villains, ultimately, forces our heroes’ hands to act in the face of their political centrism. In Thor: Ragnarok, the hero

fectively aiding those “who look like us [whose] lives are a lot harder.”

Yet, despite Marvel’s watershed year of representation and politically nuanced films like Black Panther and Thor: Ragnarok, the cinematic universe’s running leap has not quite landed. A brief moment of flirtation between two of Wakanda’s women warriors, the Dora Milaje—Okoye (Danai Gurira) and Ayo (Florence Kasumba)—was cut from the film, despite Ayo’s open relationship with a woman in the Black Panther comic series by Ta-Nehisi Coates and Roxane Gay. Likewise, Marvel elected to sideline actress Tessa Thompson’s request to confirm Valkyrie’s bisexuality on screen; Lo-

is presented with the reality of his monarchy.

“Where do you think all this gold came from?”

Hela taunts Thor as he sits on the throne. In order to destroy her, Thor and his crew must by extension destroy Asgard and reconsider the role of the monarchy. The planet collapses as its citizens escape on a ship, effectively democratizing power and reframing the film as a refugee narrative. Asgard is not, as the film contends, a place, “It’s a people.” Inversely, Black Panther concludes by opening its secretive borders. In perhaps the most powerful scene of any Marvel film, an injured Killmonger decides to die rather than be imprisoned, “Bury me in the ocean with my ancestors who jumped from ships, ‘cause they knew death was better than bondage.’” T’Challa does not undertake the whole of Killmonger’s ideology, but he does decide to share his privilege with the world, ef-

ki’s paperback canonization as a genderfluid and pansexual character too has yet to evolve beyond subtext in the MCU. While we may rightfully praise these films, we cannot turn off our critical eye. For a cinematic universe that consistently questions systems of power, why does Marvel shy away from intersectionality?

As students of the humanities, we must consider our role in larger society; our knowledge should not be confined to the classroom. The humanities help us navigate the struggle of cultural advancement. Understanding political narratives through superhero films allows us to contemplate crucial aspects of our society in an accessible manner. The overwhelming international success of Black Panther proves diversity in mainstream media is long overdue. It is our duty as scholars to laud such media where it succeeds and urge it to do better where it fails.

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About the Winners Teresa Northcraft Poetry Winner

Teresa A. Northcraft is a third-year English student. She enjoys tutoring at the Writing Center and drafting overly-ambitious essays. As an aspiring poet, she admires the work of Larry Levis, Carl Philips, and David St. John. During the summers, she works for the military abroad. After completing her studies in Toledo, she will continue refining her work in graduate school.

Julia Edinger Poetry Finalist

Julia Edinger is an emerging writer who has published work in “Mind Murals”, “The Buzz Book”, and “Bridge”. She will be receiving an English degree from The University of Toledo in May, 2018. She is a member of Sigma Tau Delta, an international English honors society.

She is currently seeking a job in publishing. For more information, visit juliaedinger.wixsite.com/write.

Jake Cessna

Poetry Finalist, Fiction Winner

Jake Cessna is a junior, majoring in Creative Writing. He spend most of his his time putting off his writing, being too busy talking about his writing. Unsure about his future, he is both terrified and totally down for it.

Samantha Arbogast

Poetry Finalist, Fiction Finalist

Samantha Arbogast is a science fiction/fantasy writer finishing her fourth year at the University of Toledo. She is proud to be published for a second time in The Mill. Recently, she became a member of Sigma Tau Delta and won a category in the Shapiro Writing Contest for a paper on Emily Dickinson. Her hobbies include writing and procrastinating from writing through video games. She is currently in the process of getting her first novel published.

Evan Sennett

Photography Winner

Evan Sennett is an undergraduate at the University of Toledo double majoring in Film and English Literature. His interests include filmmaking, essay and column writing, and cartooning.

Evan’s short films have been accepted into over 70 film festivals all around the world including the U.S., Canada, France, England, Italy, Israel, and the Dominican Republic.