The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism, Volume 16

CARE CARE

In reflecting on care, I can’t help but to think about when we need it most—both in the beginning and end of our lives. When we arrive into this world, we are in our most vulnerable state. Materially speaking, we are fed, clothed, and cleaned. We are closely monitored when we venture out to the bus stop on frigid Tuesday mornings. After a long night out with family or friends, we fell asleep in the car and miraculously appeared in our bed—tucked in the perfect amount beneath our throw blankets and stuffed animal pile. Care in this season of our lives was defined by a safety blanket. For every slip, fall, and tear, someone was there to mend our wounds and affirm that our bruises were, by no means, a limiting factor to our joy.

As we approach the end of our lives, a similar level of attention is paid to our existence. The meals are still prepared for us; the clothes are neatly folded and stored away without moving an inch. Perhaps we are in a facility where we are under the supervision of nurses and CNAs, who keep track of our weight and bowel movements. Family may only come to visit every now and then. They supplement our diet with prune juice and multivitamins housed in the large cardboard boxes from Costco. While there are no more playdates with classmates, the very existence of people in our orbit magnifies the sliver of hope in our psyche. Their words of affirmation contour the creases of our lips into a gentle smile, and we are once again residing in the warmth we last felt in our youth. We are no longer an individual body, but rather a careful compilation of the truth, love, and light that people have poured into us over the course of a lifetime.

This spectrum of life, marked by our genesis and expiration, brims with potential—the chance for something new. But this prospect only comes to fruition through the act of care. Care is dynamic, vibrant, and everlasting. It is not an additive, and cannot be confined to a mere daily dose of good vibes that bring us to live another day. For marginalized populations throughout history, care was a bold act of survival. The Black Panther Party was notable for organizing illustrative strings of mutual aid. In responding to a system that expelled them, the Black Panthers asserted the necessity of community-oriented initiatives that shocked the system and introduced new modes of resistance and hope in the process.

Our current moment is defined by the attempted erasure of the very identities that have cultivated historical abolitionist movements. While there are imminent efforts to disregard the ways in which the carceral state thrusts harm upon its inhabitants, it’s high time that we attune ourselves to the levels of care that fashioned those that came before us. Beyond a staunch refusal of any intervention that calls for the eradication of our nation’s reckoning with systemic injustice, it’s a call to action to turn inward and ensure that those in our community are being fed, clothed, and loved. Care is not a novel concept, it’s something baked within each and every single one of us—just waiting to emerge.

As we careen through the hurdles and barriers that construct our carceral state, we must embody the level of collectivity we wish to establish long-term. Leaning on each other in times of both light and darkness is a necessity to ensure that our liberation is truly sustainable. Care does not have to reflect large, grand acts of kindness. In fact, I would argue that it’s the seemingly menial offerings of comfort that illuminate care in its three dimensions. It’s the silence on the phone, as you carve out space for your friend to unabashedly vent about their week. Showing up to that recital that was mentioned that one time a while back. Dropping off groceries or a freshly cooked meal unannounced. Care is a fervent reminder of the love that stitches the beautiful tapestry of our world, a warm embrace amidst the coldness of our moment.

Thank you for taking the time to read this edition. I hope that you go forth and care with the strength, velocity, and boldness that takes us into a future that enshrines this value.

Sincerely,

Varughese letters from

Co-Editor-in-Chief of the MJLC

Landis

the editors

To the dreamers, revolutionaries, and readers in between,

I welcome you to the Madison Journal of Literary Criticism’s Spring 2025 edition, Care. Whether you’re an avid consumer of our literary content, or a new reader gazing through the lens that abolition affords us, I trust that you will find within the contents of our magazine value and resonance to bring into your life.

Our journey to this semester’s theme, care, has been thoughtfully cultivated over several semesters, spanning over two years. Through our previous editions, we’ve understood how to be conscious of the structure of our carceral state, the imaginative capacities of our own minds, and processes of protest not only to resist, but revolutionize. As a lofty stone left yet unturned, we now focus on care.

The word “care” comes from the Old English caru or cearu, meaning “sorrow, anxiety, or concern.” This eventually traces back to the Proto-Indo-European root g̑ā̆r, or gal, meaning “to cry out” or “call,” often in connection to grieving or lamenting. Care, however, should not be thought of as a remedy to an ailment. The MJLC defines care as the means to be an abolitionist by practice, and, by the same token, what prompted our desire to effect change in the first place. Care itself is grounded in our work, in abolition. Regurgitating the maxim to “care about one another” is seemingly common convention, yet care, as a custom, is almost entirely absent from most of our daily lives. Our tangible aim is to bring the practices of the world we want to live in into the world of today, right now.

One can easily be swept up by the onslaught of terrible news, delivered daily, showcasing the utter horrors our species is not only capable of, but shameless in committing. Yet, I often find myself justifying the belief that humans are born innocent, and only turned toward greed, corruption, and other vices by external forces. I’m convinced that there must be some good in all of us, that no one is wholly evil. The very quality of humanity which we desperately desire seems to be squeezed out of all of us from our very birth. After all, we all want the biggest piece of pie for ourselves, fighting over it, not unlike hungry school children. What’s missing from the adult world is any reasonable guide for engaging with one another, of which even the kindergarteners have us beat—in using simple platitudes such as “the golden

rule,” a general proposition that we’re all created equal and deserve to be treated equally.

Compassion, working in practice, is primarily predicated upon the upbringing and education of the youngest generations. Thus, when moral obligations fail to hold against one another, we are responsible. Each failure brings us one step farther from our own liberation, something unattainable as long as our material and monetary attachments, and perceived differences persist. From our active and constant monetary valuation of everyone and everything, to the belief that nationality and citizenship determines moral worth and the very right to live, we implicitly and explicitly devalue fellow human lives. Imagining a world without currency or borders may sound disastrous, but a world lacking compassion appears to be emptier in all respects.

My final point will be brief: care is not a transaction. There is no expectation to return good deeds. That isn’t to say we don’t benefit from kindness secondarily, or that we shouldn’t want to move our societies at large towards more open methods of empathy. We may even do it for our own self-fulfillment, but that very fulfillment is necessary to societal living, one where we all must be empowered to “cry out” when a fellow human being faces suffering, abuse, and neglect. Care to be able to demand for change where change is due.

We don’t seem to exist for ourselves, but for others. Our bonds do not chain us. Rather, they fuse us, and, by the definition of the word, “join or blend to one single entity.” It’s thinking about each other, choosing altruism over apathy, that moves us towards a common purpose. So care for another, not because you’ve put yourself in their shoes, but because they are nothing less than a human being worthy of being cared for. Because what is kindness but the end of a spool of yarn, waiting to be unraveled, strands to be knit, weaving each of us together into the tapestry of humanity?

And with that, I hope you enjoy the MJLC’s Care

Jonathan Tostrud

Co-Editor-in-Chief of the MJLC

Spring ‘25 - Care

and uncertainty is something that I, along with other victims of chronic illness, are not strangers to. It is also a common theme in literature. Literature is something I find solace in on my bad days. It is something that makes me feel understood when others do not grasp what I am going through. Writers such as Franz Kafka and Samuel Beckett have explored confusion and uncertainty through characters trapped in situations that have no clear solution. In their works, discomfort with the unresolved becomes a tool to reflect on existence itself. And, similarly, chronic illness challenges the idea of a definitive end, revealing that life does not always have simple answers or moments of resolution. Instead of a narrative with a hopeful and conclusive ending, we are presented with a never-ending story, one in which the process of adaptation and acceptance becomes the real challenge. Confrontation with uncertainty is what shapes our understanding of the human experience. Uncertainty requires us to reexamine what it means to persist both in literature and in life itself.

Yet, despite the struggles, living with a chronic illness has shown me that care itself goes beyond medical treatment; It also lies in the small gestures that preserve human connection: the friend who adjusts plans without asking, the professor who grants a day of absence without requiring proof, the family who understands when words weigh too much. These acts reject the idea that those who cannot contribute fully and efficiently are burdens, an idea that has brutally plagued me for many years and I am sure that I am not the only one. These gestures of understanding and support have reminded me that true humanity is found in empathy, in recognizing the invisible struggles of others. Empathy is not just about offering help when it’s needed, but about being present without expectations, about supporting someone without

expecting a payment in return. This form of care has allowed me to redefine my own sense of worth. Finally, I am learning to see myself beyond what I can or can’t do. I am beginning to move through the feelings of betrayal by my own body. Instead of focusing on what I lack and on what was, I have begun to value what I already am and who I can be. I have come to understand that existence itself is worthy of respect and love, without the need to meet other people’s standards. My existence alone is worthy of respect because I am a human being, just like everyone else.

A meaningful life isn’t just about how much we produce or how busy we are. It’s also about maintaining our well-being, being present for the people who matter, and knowing when to step back and recharge. Living with a chronic illness has taught me this firsthand. There are days when pushing through isn’t an option—when symptoms make even simple tasks exhausting. I’ve had to learn that rest isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. Ignoring that reality only leads to burnout and setbacks. Taking the time to care for ourselves and others doesn’t mean rejecting hard work or ambition; it means recognizing that we can’t pour from an empty cup. True strength isn’t just about endurance—it’s about knowing when to slow down so we can keep moving forward.

Nada Dorado Puede Quedarse

Lorren Richards

The weather changed and my fridge stopped working. I told myself it was a good excuse to order out. Yes, include plasticware. I’ve cleared the freezer-back of soggy boxes.

Nothing new’ s built to last says Mamita, or something to that effect.

I don’t know as much Spanish as I should, just enough to dream about her telling me to keep my spoons in the fridge, my cups in the freezer.

In “Pleasures of the Imagination” (1712), Joseph Addison stretches the boundaries of experiencing nature by suggesting that the natural world is not merely a spectacle to behold, but rather a source of powerful inspiration that humans can actively engage with. By evoking images of “an open Champain Country, a vast uncultivated Desart, huge Heaps of Mountains, high Rocks and Precipices, [and] a wide Expanse of Waters” (Addison 540), Addison emphasizes nature’s ability to stimulate the imagination and provoke a sense of awe. Yet, in our contemporary world—in which forests are cleared, deserts industrialized, mountains flattened, and waters depleted—where can we find the same kind of inspiration? How can we connect with nature when so little of it remains relatively untouched? On the one hand, we might turn to earlier depictions of the environment and draw inspiration from accounts of the natural world in literature, artwork, and other media. However, this approach relegates us to engaging with nature through a secondary lens and suppresses the individual relationship to nature that Addison and later thinkers, such as Denis E. Cosgrove, emphasize in their essays.

Perhaps, then, a more satisfying alternative is to broaden our vision for what it means to engage with nature—a process that involves redefining the very essence of what we consider “natural.” In the Anthropocene, an era in which human influence has profoundly reshaped the planet, we must redefine nature in ways that allow us to still access it meaningfully. One way to do this is through poetry that highlights instances of urban nature—seemingly ordinary but often overlooked moments of the natural world in everyday, human-dominated spaces. Although this reimagination of nature does not make climate preservation measures any less necessary, it can work in conjunction with conservation efforts to rebuild our access to the environment.

Before analyzing how we can engage with nature in the current environmental crisis, we must define what exactly “nature” and “the Anthropocene” mean. While Addison does not provide a clear definition of nature in his essay, his allusions to geographical features and untouched landscapes suggest that he imagines nature as something removed from human development. This interpretation aligns with the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition from

Emily Aikens

the eighteenth century, which describes nature as “the phenomena of the physical world collectively; esp. plants, animals, and other features and products of the earth itself, as opposed to humans and human creations.” However, in the twenty-first century, it is nearly impossible to separate humans and their actions from the natural world. As a result of human impact’s pervasiveness, we have entered what scientists refer to as “The Anthropocene Epoch,” an unofficial geological period in which human activity has become a dominant force in shaping the Earth’s environment. The Anthropocene is not merely a result of humans cutting down a few trees or drying up a few rivers. According to Paul Crutzen, the geologist and meteorologist who coined the era’s name, human activities have become so widespread that they disrupt natural cycles and put the Earth at risk for destruction (Crutzen, Steffen, and McNeill 614).

Scientists debate when exactly the Anthropocene began. While Crutzen believes that the epoch began as a result of the Industrial Revolution, other scientists trace its origins back to 1610 with the collision of the Old and New Worlds (Lewis and Maslin). But regardless of the debate over the

starting date, most scientists agree that the world has existed firmly within the Anthropocene epoch since 1950. By this period, the climate was experiencing what scientists have named “The Great Acceleration,” a term that refers to the sharp increase of harmful carbon emissions fueled by human activity. Since then, the situation has only become more dire; the Environmental Protection Agency projects that, unless humans take swift and drastic action, the Earth’s temperature will likely rise almost 8.6°F by 2100, leading to an increase in floods, droughts, heatwaves, and other destructive natural forces.

With these definitions and contexts in mind, I will now turn to examining Addison’s “Pleasures of the Imagination.” In his essay, Addison argues that nature is pleasurable not only when we experience it directly but also when we think about it conceptually. To clarify this distinction, he divides these pleasures into two categories: Primary Pleasures of the Imagination and Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination. The former refers to the experience of observing nature directly—the awe one feels when standing atop a mountain or gazing at a vast landscape, for example. In contrast, the Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination arise from ideas of natural objects. According to Addison, these ideas either “are called up into our Memories, or formed into agreeable Visions of Things that are either Absent or Fictitious” (Addison 537). In other words, there are several ways that these pleasures can manifest. For instance, imagine someone

Spring ‘25 - Care

standing in front of a beautiful meadow. While the direct visual experience engages the Primary Pleasures of the Imagination, Addison would argue that the individual in the meadow might also recall other beautiful sights they have seen and reflect on the very concept of beauty itself. These abstract ideas, which emerge from a blend of memory and inspiration drawn from nature, constitute the Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination. But one need not even be in front of a natural scene to engage these pleasures. For example, if someone were to look at a beautiful painting of a mountain, the Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination might conjure images of other mountains that the viewer has seen within their lifetime and the feelings associated with those experiences.

Thus, while both Primary and Secondary Pleasures can be activated by observing nature, the Secondary Pleasures are far more versatile, as they allow individuals to engage with nature even when they cannot physically be in a natural environment. Although Addison’s philosophy provides a compelling account of humans’ relationship to nature, we must acknowledge that Earth’s environmental landscape has changed greatly since Addison’s time. If human impact on the climate continues along its current trajectory, untouched natural spaces will become increasingly rare. As a result, access to scenes that Addison would have identified as capable of exciting the Primary Pleasures of the Imagination may be significantly diminished. While we can still access the Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination by

engaging with poems or artwork depicting nature, we must ask whether such a relationship with the natural world can fulfill us in the same way as direct observation of nature. Indeed, Addison argues that artistic imaginations of nature can be more pleasing than nature itself when he writes, “The Mind of Man requires something more perfect in Matter, than what it finds there, and can never meet with any Sight in Nature” and that “the Imagination can fancy to it self Things more Great, Strange, or Beautiful than the Eye ever saw” (Addison 569). Consider the artwork of famous landscape artist John Constable, for instance. Currently housed at the Yale University Art Gallery, Constable’s Hadleigh Castle, The Mouth of the Thames—Morning after a Stormy Night (1829) depicts a vast landscape from the perspective of the artist standing at the top of a mountain. From thick clouds in the distant sky, beams of light stream down in diagonal lines that almost perfectly mirror the sloping mountains and lines of trees below. By organizing the painting around these diagonal lines, Constable exaggerates the formal qualities shared by various elements of the landscape. Additionally, he juxtaposes his rugged application of pigment on the land with linear brushstrokes on the water to augment the expansiveness of the scene (Taylor). Through these stylistic choices, Constable manipulates an already beautiful landscape so that it appears ever more visually pleasing than nature itself—a strategy that fulfills Addison’s requirement for something so perfect that it transcends the limitations of material existence.

Just as a painter or a poet chooses which aspects of a natural scene to highlight in their work, the observer of nature engages in their own artistic process by selecting a viewpoint and lingering on certain elements they see—a process that engages both the Primary and Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination.

What, then, does all this mean for the larger question of how we engage with nature in the Anthropocene? In order to formulate an answer, we must consider the connections between Cosgrove’s definition of landscape and Addison’s Primary and Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination. While one might assume that the Primary Pleasures of the Imagination have a universal effect—for example, that all viewers of Niagara Falls feel a shared sense of awe— Cosgrove’s argument complicates this. According to Cosgrove, even when individuals observe the same scene, each person creates a distinct visual landscape in their mind. This means that everyone experiences their own, unique version of the Primary Pleasures of the Imagination. On top of that, each person develops unique manifestations of the Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination, as the ideas these pleasures evoke differ depending on each person’s unique experiences and memories of nature. However, as mentioned earlier, Primary Pleasures nevertheless remain preferable to the Secondary Pleasures given that nature’s vastness and intensity can never fully be captured through interpretive media. By combining the theories of Addison and Cosgrove, we arrive at the

Spring ‘25 - Care

conclusion that direct engagement with nature is essential for deriving a unique worldview, for it allows the viewer to interpret the world through their own lens, first through the Primary Pleasures of the Imagination and then by transforming those experiences into unique ideas through the Secondary Pleasures. While it is true that we can generate original thoughts based on others’ depictions of nature, these thoughts are inevitably removed from the raw, direct experience of nature itself. As such, relying solely on others’ representations of nature to excite our Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination cannot fully sustain our relationship to the natural world.

That said, the situation is not without hope. As Cosgrove argues, areas completely untouched by human influence are increasingly rare, if not entirely extinct. However, this does not mean that human-altered environments are devoid of natural value. By reimagining these spaces, it becomes possible to see them as part of the natural world in their own right. In Reimagining Urban Nature: Literary Imaginaries for Posthuman Cities, ecocritic Chantelle Bayes suggests that literature can play a vital role in this reframing when she writes, “written narrative can allow for alternative ways of thinking to emerge, thus enabling us to question some of the more damaging conceptions of the nonhuman and to reimagine the urban as a more-than-human space” (Bayes 42). In practice, this reframing consists of adopting a flexible definition of nature

and then using writing as a tool that can illuminate, and even romanticize, things that we might not appreciate as part of the natural world. As Bayes puts it, “the narrative text becomes a way of linking the conceptualization of nature with the everyday lived experiences of a wider audience.” Especially in the busy, urban settings that Bayes focuses on in her book, it can be difficult to pause and notice instances of nature— phenomena as simple as pigeons resting on street signs or ivy growing on the sides of buildings. However, by engaging with literature that draws attention to these details, we can reimagine our world as teeming with nature.

Given its ability to “encourage reader empathy by facilitating roletaking and transportation,” fiction is prioritized by Bayes as the most effective genre for allowing people to reimagine urban environments as containing nature (Bayes 225). However, poetry may be an even more powerful medium for this purpose, as it engages both the visual and aural senses. A strong example of poetry’s ability to highlight nature in unexpected places is Amy Clampitt’s “Times Square Water Music” (1987). By meditating on a puddle of water in a New York City subway station, the poem reframes a mundane sight as a remarkable manifestation of the wild in an urban setting. Instead of merely stating that water drips from the ceiling, Clampitt imagines it as a “musical / miniscule / waterfall.” This ekphrasis not only allows the reader to visualize the scene but also stimulates the ear. Specifically, the repetition of the “all” sound mimics the flowing

individual, direct relationship to nature that the Primary Pleasures require. However, I then considered the possibility of expanding the definition of nature to include manifestations of the natural world in urban settings. Although it can be difficult to reframe phenomena like puddles in a subway station as natural, I built on Bayes’ argument about the power of narrative texts to demonstrate that poetry can help call our attention to the underlying beauty of such scenes. While increasingly few people have access to pristine landscapes, everyone has access to ordinary scenes of urban nature, such as street puddles or pigeons searching for food. Once we learn to recognize these scenes as natural through reading poetry like Clampitt’s “Times Square Water Music,” it will become easier to find our own examples of these scenes, create a direct relationship with them, and stimulate the Primary and Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination. This reframing of nature doesn’t replace the need to protect traditional, untouched landscapes, but it does provide a more inclusive path to reconnect with the environment in a time when ecological access is limited. Moreover, this heightened attention to urban nature has the potential to serve broader conservation efforts. By using poetry as a model for learning to appreciate and value the non-traditional nature around us—whether small, urban, or overlooked—we can generate care for the environment that can extend to larger, more fragile ecosystems. In this way, poetry becomes not only a tool for helping us notice instances of

Spring ‘25 - Care

nature but also a vehicle for fostering broader environmental awareness and advocacy.

Works Cited

Bayes, Chantelle. Reimagining Urban Nature: Literary Imaginaries for Posthuman Cities. Liverpool University Press, 2023. JSTOR, https:// doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv33b9qcd. Accessed 8 Dec. 2024.

Bond, Donald Frederic, and Joseph Addison. The Spectator. Oxford UP, 1965.

Clampitt, Amy. “Times Square Water Music.” 1987.

“Climate Change Indicators: Weather and Climate | US EPA.” US EPA, 27 June 2024, www.epa.gov/climateindicators/weather-climate.

Constable, John. Hadleigh Castle, The Mouth of the Thames— Morning after a Stormy Night. 1829, Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven.

Cosgrove, Denis E. Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape. Univ of Wisconsin Press, 1998.

Damian Taylor, ““As if every particle was alive”: The Charged Canvas of Constable’s Hadleigh Castle”, British Art Studies, Issue 8, https://doi.org/10.17658/ issn.2058-5462/issue-08/ dtaylor.

Graham, Jorie. “Are We Extinct Yet.” To 2040. Copper Canyon Press, 2023.

Lewis, S., Maslin, M. “Defining the Anthropocene.” Nature 519, 171–180 (2015). https:// doi.org/10.1038/nature14258.

“Nature, N.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford UP, September 2024, https://doi.org/10.1093/ OED/1850732511.

Steffen, Will, et al. “The Anthropocene: Are Humans Now Overwhelming the Great Forces of Nature?” Ambio, vol. 36, no. 8, 2007, pp. 614–21. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/ stable/25547826. Accessed 8 Dec. 2024.

Evie Erickson

RES for you

its representation in art. In tragedy, the audience finds meaning through reuniting with the world and humanity in the aesthetic.

When an individual discovers a disorderly passion in art, they get a glimpse into the Dionysian, which sets forth how beauty and pleasure can be experienced in the face of pain and sorrow. Within this glimpse, Nietzsche claims that an individual can see her modern existence, with all its perfection, rationality and moderation but beneath that a “hidden substratum of suffering and of knowledge.” Both the Dionysian and Apollonian were necessary for a fulfilling experience, as embodied in Greek tragedy. The Dionysian must be

balanced by Apollonian elements to maintain a sense of illusion, or a filter, which makes the tragedy consumable. The viewer can feel pain through an actor or song, and from this, experience an ecstatic and cathartic release because this art is representative. They cannot and should not experience all that the Dionysian world consists of, for in modernity they are too removed from that stagnant, instinctual state to relate to it completely. Additionally, we have seen how life that is predominantly Apollonian is equally, although differently, flawed. Tragic art is fulfilling to the viewer because its dialectic, as presented to them in the majesty of theater or song, or in moderation, evokes and reconnects one with lost

but essential instinctual feelings; they are understanding life in a romanticized fashion.

The depth and profound nature of this reconnection is expressed by Nietzsche, by way of Schopenhauer. Nietzsche compares the meaning one derives from aesthetic beauty with a newfound close relationship with the “primordial being.” I suggest that this association with a primordial being is symbolic of the intense unity one feels in experiencing the aesthetic. Within this symbolism, the universe is imagined as a figure embodied by a primordial god-like being. What initially may seem dramatic is reasonable, for when viewers are engaging with a tragedy, they are experiencing a breakthrough, a moment of awe or ecstasy, the sublime, and relief from the absurd . Nietzsche pictures himself as one of the Greeks experiencing tragedy, trying to imagine “how the ecstatic tone of the Dionysian festival sounded in ever more luring and bewitching strains into this artificially confined world built on appearance and moderation, how in these strains all the undueness of nature, in joy, sorrow, and knowledge, even to the transpiercing shriek, became audible.” He enthusiastically describes the release of previously suppressed instinctual feelings from their restraints. Through experiencing the aesthetic, the world now feels comfortable and familiar, like

home. The totality of life is realized as primal unity–whose lack thereof caused loneliness within the viewer–is now tangible and, as loneliness fades, the viewer is reunited with their place in the world.

Since tragic art reunites the audience with the world and their existence, it follows that the artist crafting the tragedy should experience this as well. If tragic art contains this sense of universality, must not the artist composing the tragedy contain this feeling? If the art connects one to the universal and the social, then it follows that the artist producing the art must also be involved with the universal. Similar to the experience of viewing art, Nietzsche argues, to create tragic art, one must surrender themselves to the Dionysian, so they can feel the contradiction between the instinctual and rational, and then reproduce it, so it is present in the art as a representation of itself. As they have surrendered their subjectivity in the Dionysian process and can identify their oneness with the world in the art they have made, similar to the audience, this creative experience provides a sense of peace for the artist . Nietzsche claims that artists giving into the Dionysian is not only beneficial, but necessary in the creation of profound art. Consequently, the very act of producing art is interconnected to the experience of unity. Due to its ability to reunify

one with the world and their existence, I argue that the creation and showing of tragic art is an act of service and care. The individualism inherent to modernity and the Apollonian is broken down in art as it forcibly connects one with the Dionysian and feelings of unity. Tragic art challenges the carefully calculated preconceptions one has of themselves and of their lives. The familiarity of loneliness is confronted with a Dionysian underbelly of emotion. It’s something of an act of bravery to truly commit oneself to that fundamentally life-altering experience. But, as we’ve seen, that experience of the aesthetic or of tragic art is crucial to finding meaning in our existence. For these reasons I propose that becoming acquainted with tragedy is an act of caring for oneself. As we’ve seen from the role of the artist, the creation of art requires sacrificing one’s subjectivity to the objectivity of primal unity, therefore its conception is a selfless one. The essential beginning of art is in sacrifice, and this sacrifice is given for a sense of oneness that remains with the art. The continued practice of making art then must be demonstrative of a continuous desire to look beyond oneself, to connect with the world and with others. Therefore the process of creating art is imbued with care.

Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy provides a profound explanation for the great beauty and power that tragic

The essential beginning of art is in sacrifice, and this sacrifice is given for a sense of oneness that remains with the art. The continued practice of making art then must be demonstrative of a continuous desire to look beyond oneself, to connect with the world and with others.

“

art has. I used his ideas as a foundation to argue that tragic art unifies people with the world through its distinctive connection to oneness through the labor of the audience and artist, and thus inherent to their ability to lead a fulfilling life are acts of care. Engaging with tragic art brings relief and purpose to an artist and audience not without labor from both of them. Tragic art is paramount to finding meaning and cultivating care for ourselves and those around us in the context of a lonely, painful modern existence.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche: The Birth of Tragedy. Edited by Oscar Levy, Translated by WM.A. Haussmann. The Edinburgh Press, 1923 bibliography

Plans for the Apocalypse

If Susie likes apples and Jerome only eats oranges and a train leaves Albuquerque at 12:46pm headed toward Chicago at 65 mph and the world explodes and you’re one of the remaining humans who remake the rules, what would you do with time?

The sand pours through our fingers at an irregular clip, immeasurable unlike the hourglasses some timemaster metered out precisely.

A sandbox in the desert is like a pool next to the beach. Sand, sand, more sand. Sand that whips up with the fierce wind into a vortex storming across the landscape. It catches us on our walk back to the house, pelting us, blinding us, filling our shoes. We shriek in its midst and laugh long into its wake.

Time stops when our laughter does. We go quiet, lie down, or stare at the bigness of the New Mexico sky, the clouds with their magical moving edges. Briefly. Then we’re back to cackling.

There is no backwards here. In other words, there is no place where we all began nor the various crossroads at which we picked different directions. There is no time to which you can return where we weren’t already together, which must be how we see in each other all that needs seeing.

How do you want to be seen? Ask me again. Ask every question that pulls at the boundaries of me until I’m lying in a pool of myself surrounded by old magazines. Then ask me to find a mouse and tiny bats, and I won’t sleep until I do.

I won’t get out of the hot tub with you until the full moon crests the roof. I won’t leave this chair until we’ve witnessed every color of this big sky sunset. I won’t let Susie have the apples or Jerome eat the oranges if it will stop my train from departing Albuquerque.

Build me an owl kingdom and I will manufacture time there into a matter that does not draw us away from each other.

Build me an owl kingdom and meet me there before the world explodes.

Marisa Lanker Paniello

Arrhythmia

Alain Co & Emiland Kray

Arrhythmia is a collaborative artist book by Alain Co and Emiland Kray. The content of this book explores the clinging nature of past trauma and how those cycles persist within the lived realities of each artist. Pulled directly from the journals of Co and Kray, the text within this book shows hopelessness, violence, loneliness, worry, and fear in their most vulnerable states. This book was created with the intention that sharing these inner monologues could be a moment of recognition and comradery for individuals who suffer the same thoughts, harmful patterns, and compulsions.

The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism

EEEEEE JACK DUDEK THE RIDE

They shouldn’t have been in the car at all. There was a plane ticket in Zasha’s name, purchased by his mother, that now had to be refunded for mileage points.

Van Halen had been on the speaker for at least an hour. It was one of the only artists Zasha and his mother could agree on, the perfect intersection between his metal abominations and her 80s pop. Any conversation between them existed only in their heads, but they did chime in with David Lee Roth’s interludes in ‘Hot for Teacher’: I don’t feel tardy. Gimme somethin’ to write on!

Sometime after the change onto the Queen Elizabeth Way, Zasha started to feel a guilty irritation at the silence but couldn’t figure out how to fix it. Eventually, his mother did it for him.

“You want me to pick up something on the way home?”

It annoyed him how pleasant she was being about the whole thing—as if he wasn’t ruining her weekend.

“Lloyd? Rin Thai? Could get you some of those chicken jammers,” she persisted.

“Don’t worry about it,” Zasha said. “I can make myself something when we get home.”

“Even with no border traffic we won’t be back till nine or ten,” she said. “Just let me know. We can stop wherever you want. If it’s open.”

Zasha looked out the window, even though there was nothing to look at. It was all Canadian wasteland; the endless grey ribbon of highway that took him where he needed to go. Whether it was time to go to school or to come home.

Today he was coming home.

The video call had started as their usual check-in. The two of them would talk on Facetime every couple of weeks and rarely ever between. He told himself this was so they would have more to talk about, but he knew it was something else. Every week he was away from home it got more difficult to speak and think about home, to try and make himself into a person who could talk to the woman who knew him before he knew himself.

She had begun with her worries. Usually they were about grades and schoolwork, but today she was only concerned about him. It was a bad sign. Zasha hated how she knew right away when things were wrong. He knew he shouldn’t have confided so much in her when he still lived at home.

She could tell what misery looked like on him but she couldn’t do anything about it now and that only made things worse for both of them.

“I know you don’t want me asking,” she started. “But are you doing okay?”

Zasha nodded. I’m fine never worked for her and he had nothing more convincing.

She focused on something behind the camera. “You know I don’t care about the grades or anything else as long as you’re healthy and happy.”

“I know that.”

“Do you talk to anyone out there, you know, professional?” She asked. “I know you had those counselors in high school and I wonder if MSU has some too. I heard they’re even free for students.”

“I’ve looked into it,” he lied. “The schedules just didn’t line up with classes.”

Spring ‘25 - Care

“Okie-dokie,” she said. Of course she knew, but she wasn’t going to push him on it and that was enough right now. “Why don’t you come home for a little while?”

“I can’t—” he started.

“I’ll pay for the flight. Don’t worry about anything.” He hated the unflinching niceness she extended when things were wrong. When he was in high school they would fight every Sunday evening and have to storm off to their separate rooms before one of them apologized hours later. Her politeness, offering hundreds of dollars for his well being, was an acknowledgment that she knew he couldn’t fight back.

The rest was easy. Professors were all too accommodating when presented with the words medical leave of absence, and nobody asked any questions except how long it was going to be. ‘At least for the semester’ was his answer, and that was enough. The scholarship office confirmed the money would still be there when he returned.

Zasha wished somebody was as annoyed as he was. The same people who had demanded papers be turned in on the due date, no extensions, were suddenly willing to make concessions indefinitely. Everything that had sent him into fits of despair days ago didn’t matter to anyone anymore.

Two weeks before he was scheduled to fly, he and his mom had another call. He couldn’t remember afterward what it was that set him off, but while she was speaking he started to uncontrollably, violently

cry in front of her for the first time since he was a child.

“Honey, what is it?” she asked.

He couldn’t look at her for several seconds. The wetness in his throat and on his face was overwhelming and his breath came out in short, shallow gasps.

“I don’t think I can travel alone,” was all he could say. “I don’t think I can do it, I don’t- I can’t do it.”

Concern flooded her face. “Do you want me or your dad to come get you?”

The weight of this childishness buried and paralyzed him. After all the distance, the escape from home, hooking up with strangers his parents would never hear about, he was back here. Crying to his mother while she offered to come pick him up.

He nodded and wiped his nose.

“Don’t worry about anything,” she said. “I’ll figure out when I can come get you, okay? It’s going to be okay.”

Zasha sipped water and tried to calm himself down.

“Do you hear me? It’s all going to be okay.”

It didn’t take long to pack, his suitcase filled with chinos and Carhartt sweatshirts cushioned in toiletries. 88_ 92_ 96_ 100_104_108_ 5_ 7_ 9_ 11_ 13_ 15_

SANCTUARY EMMETT KRONER

Interior

Jessie Burton

I can guess what you’re thinking Rose, and yes, I asked Ma about the flowers and tried everything in my power to stop her from buying them. Despite my constant remarks that “we got no money,” she did her usual thing and “made things work.” She made the rash decision to sell the carousel just so you can be buried covered in a blanket of roses.

We didn’t know the day of the funeral would feel so lifeless. In our nightmares, this day would be bright and colorful, a day made to remember you the way we did——beautiful, impulsive, and snide, but the only hints of color were the scarlet roses that seemed to suck out everything in the world that made it worth living. All was black and white except for you, your casket adorned with vibrant roses, acting as a shield from all the dread this world harbors.

I stood next to Ma during everything. I didn’t cry—my tear ducts were dry. Not because I don’t love you. Ma cried passionately, her dark wrist pressed against her chest, crumbling the same wet tissue she held for the past four hours. She blamed the meds; she blamed the health care system and all its racism, but she also blamed herself.

“She would have such a big head if she knew everything had gone her way,” I told Ma. “I mean, she already did, physically speaking…”

“You and your jokes. You betta hope Rose don’t hear that,” Ma grimaced as she wiped away her tears.

We stayed near the Smith’s funeral home for a half an hour more once you were in the ground. Everyone left except for the immediates. I held cousin Lila’s hand as we waited out front for our mothers to make their way back from the cemetery. The two of them together looked like war weary soldiers drenched head to toe, struggling to march through the mud as if coming from battle.

We used to trash on Auntie Jules all the time. I mean, I still do, but this day she was helping by taking extra care of Ma. She dressed like you’d expect. Flabs of skin pooled out of the fabricless pockets of her dress, and she struggled to walk in those Grimace-colored pumps you broke your ankle in during 2nd grade. But she was quiet today, watching over her sister without a single general out-ofpocket comment. Jules guided Ma through the day, as she could barely keep herself up.

It was odd to see how much they differed from their usual selves.

“Does heaven have carousels?” asked Lila, as we watched them walk towards us. “They do,” I said.

“Good. Rose said she loves them.”

I peered down at Lila. A cute bunny tail held her comb-slicked, frizzy hair back. Playing with the pocket of her polka-dotted dress, she continued to gaze at the cemetery where you were buried.

The weight of everyone’s sadness was confusing to the child. Before the service, I had to entertain her, and we drew pictures in the back room of the church while everything settled. Her drawing was basic—a stick figure of you and Pop, frolicking among the swirling clouds of heaven as Pumpkin chased after y’all wagging her fluffy tail.You probably know this already, being up there and all, but Pumpkin is still alive so now I am concerned she knew something I didn’t. But, anyway, underneath everything was a large square with too many windows to count. Next to it was a circle with little shapes and lines through them. It was our diner, the old carousel just to the side. Ma, Jules, Lila, and I all stood disproportionately, holding each other’s little hand nubs. My smile was my entire face and my eyes were emotionless dots at the top of my shaved head. Sure, the piece lacked detail, but it was still impressive. So impressive that I didn’t have to pretend to know what anything was. I vowed to support her art career then on.

“Girl, stop playing with your pockets!” Auntie Jules snapped, giving Lila a little nudge on the shoulder. The baby pouted, her thin eyebrows squirming around. She looked like you and Ma when y’all are hiding something.

Lila dragged out a small Polaroid and gestured to me.

The photograph shined, bringing a soft warmness to my cheeks. It was a picture of you, me, and her on the diner’s carousel when it was actually working. I was on the puffin holding

baby Lila while you sat on the panda like you always did because, god forbid, you allow your brother the opportunity. Grudges aside, you looked happy. Elated even. I knew the photo was five years old because of my haircut and the baby I held. It was during your edgy Fall Out Boys era when you attempted to do your own silk presses. The lead singer is half black, right? No way in hell your hair could make that work.

You looked a mess, girl. But, I loved it. Something inside me bubbled, and I laughed and gestured the picture to Ma and Auntie Jules.

“I warned her,” Ma said, holding the Polaroid with shaking hands. She breathed in and out.

I turned to Lila and asked, “Where did you get the pic?”

“Rose gave it to me. She gave it to me last Christmas. As a gift. She told me to give it to you after she is put in the box.”

As we rode back home, I eased into confronting Ma one last time.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Harris,” I said politely in a British accent (don’t you dare put this down). “May I ask thee a question???”

Ma rolled her eyes, giggling as she reached over to the passenger seat and did her usual “stop talkin’ nonsense face push.” Her hands were rough yet gentle as her palm pressed against my cheek.

“Talk normal.”

“Won’t you miss the carousel?” I said.

“We don’t have the money for all that maintenance,” Ma said, voice cracking like an old radio going out of signal. “All ‘em customers barely used it and then it broke, so that company down on Wilson Street is gonna buy it. They already gave us the cash, you know that.”

“But can’t we pay them back off or something? We’ve done stuff like that. Maybe keeping it around

might be good for us. I mean, those customers didn’t use it, but Rose and I did, especially Rose. There are so many memories attached to it so I don’t see how you can just throw it away like it’s nothing—” The car jerked.

Ma’s voice became gravelly. “Like I said, it doesn’t work, and we don’t have the money to keep fixin’ some nonsense like a carousel. So put that talk somewhere else.”

The rest of the drive home was silent.

“We goin’ to Vegas, baby,” Auntie Jules said, waving around an envelope. It was Saturday night, only an hour before we closed. Only the usual customer, Ron (gross), was there, so it gave me the opportunity to hide in the corner booth and fold the cloth napkins to look extra presentable, like Ma prefers.

Ma and I have been working hard at the restaurant. Vince, too! During the day, Ma holds down the fort until Vince and I come back from school to be her servers as she cooks. It’sbeen getting oddly busy in the afternoons. I don’t know if the whole town of Belcrest knows you died, but there is this odd sort of pity that covers the tips left on the tables.

Sometimes Ma puts on makeup and her nice house dresses, but since the funeral she mainly wears her pajamas. None of the customers seem to care—she’s in the back, after all. I don’t want to sound like a jerk and ask my mother to dress up, but it’s a noticeable change.

“Why?” I asked Auntie Jules. “How did you get money—”

“What?” Ma’s voice bellowed.

The diner’s ceiling, adorned with marionettes and colorful trinkets, served as Ma’s backdrop as I watched her make a grand entrance from the kitchen. She wore that red striped pajama set from Target, making her resemble a large toddler. With the nearing toy train circling above on the ceiling rail, someone would have thought she was ready to grab hold of it at any moment and go Choo choo.

“What is all this racket, girl? It’s too late for this.” Ma reclined back onto the red shiny booth. I scooted over to give her more space.

“We leaving Jennie! To Vegas!” Jules cheered. “I got plane tickets, a hotel, and some spending money.”

“Now, how the hell did you—”

“We gotta be at the airport at 7:32 am on March 31st, so the boys can handle the restaurant for the week.” Jules pointed a manicured finger at me.

“Who the other boy?” Ma asked. She did not continue to question where Jules got the money or the specificity of the time of departure. But I could see the glint in her eye. The same sparkle I saw in your eyes when we applied for colleges.

“Vincent,” I said dubiously, still very concerned about the money Jules had in her possession. Ma closed her eyes, filling the room with a soft grumble. “You know I don’t trust that boy.”

I groaned. “Why did you hire him?”

“Because your sister told me too! I thought she liked him or something. But now he’s been pulling all that nonsense. And I made a fool out of myself tryin’ to get his parents to let him work here.”

I grabbed the stack of nearby napkins and began suffocating myself with them. “He’s made one mistake. He is a good person, Ma! He enjoys working with us… he is just a bit, well, dumb?”

“Bit-dumb-my-ass! I know he stealin’ my money. He betta be happy that I ain’t gone up to his mother and tell her what he did. She’d crumble seein’ me in her yard.”

“He isn’t stealing your money,” I muttered. The accusations reddened my cheeks. “It was one time. One time he miscalculated, Ma! He’s just a bit dumb, like I said.”

“And handsome,” Jules chirped.

“Miscalculated!” I reiterated.

“Seems to me the only time he miscalculates is when he is around my money.” Ma smacked her lips. “He lives up there in that castle . He thinks he can come up here and mess around with the common folk for “experience.” One thing for sure, my-black-ass ain’t takin’ none of it.” She slapped her hand onto the table, bringing order to the court. “Anyway Jules, keep talking. First, where the hell did you get that money?”

I sighed in relief.

The day came. Turns out Jules, like Pop, did some gambling and this time, things actually turned out okay. After learning this, I was originally against Ma taking a trip to the city of sin to indulge in the same ventures that nearly destroyed the Harrison family before; however, I am quite mature since your passing and had granted her this ONE vacation until I graduated high school. I mean, Jules did promise this was the last time, and Ma deserved some relaxation time. So I woke up around 5 am and hopped directly out of bed to help with their suitcases. Ma and Jules were to only be gone for a week, but they had fivestacked in the back of the Honda—I’m pretty sure one was just full of shoes.

“Remember to disinfect the sink after washing that chicken,” Ma said. She shut the trunk about three times until it closed. “We don’t need a Gubb Diner incident in this family. Also, update the food calendar and clean off the carousel after closing. Them guys down on Wilson are gonna come and pick it up in two days. All ‘em animals lookin’ real dirty.” She went into the car and slammed the door. The window went down, and she hollered, “Watch that boy, Vincent too!”

“Got it, Ma!” I saluted.

The one thing that bothered me was Ma didn’t give me a hug, but as she pulled away, her soft eyes held a strength, a fear of never seeing her son again, that touched me.

Silently, I promised to be safe and sound.

Once they pulled out of the driveway, I started my tasks. My first action was waking Lila, who’d stayed overnight. Lila laid in your bed surrounded by your stuffed animals. Lila had Mr. Jenkins nestled against her right armpit and Bubs against her left. Two bunny ears stuck out under her head, and I knew that was under there suffocating. I could have hidden all the stuffies knowing how you didn’t even let me touch them despite them being gifted to both of us on our birthday, but Lila has been anxious. She’s catching on that you’re no longer with us, so everything that was yours, she latches on to.

I poked her cheek until her eyes fluttered open. “Gotta get to work, sis!” Lila sprung up and hugged my arm, squishing her face into my shoulder. I patted her head, shaping her matted curls into

a more uniform shape. “Let’s go get you ready.”

So I did my usual task plus one. Drove us to the diner. Made her breakfast. Lila sat with a fat stack of pancakes, something her mother didn’t let her eat.

“Are you gonna eat, too?” Lila asked between each chew. “Mama said breakfast is an important day.”

“Nah. First off, something is wrong with that quote. It is supposed to be the most important meal of the day, and I have too much to do,” I said. Ma had left a complete list of things I needed to do before the diner opened at 9 am. I went one by one, starting with taking out the trash, then wiping down the counter, then preparing coffee for our regulars. Fortunately, Vince came in half an hour early and assisted with some tasks because I had to assemble ingredients.

I know you might be angry that Vince didn’t attend the funeral, but you know what his parents are like. They don’t let him out of the house unless it’s for sports, school, or work. They’re the type of people who looked us in the eyes only after finding out we brought cold lunches to school rather than eat the free hot lunches—so this should be no surprise to you.

Anyway, Vince wanted to be there. I promise. Every time he looks at me, I know he sees you and regrets not being there. You’re his best friend.

“Vince. I am counting on you today, okay? No mistakes!” I said, glaring up at him. It was hard being stern with him because, well, he is him. It was hard to take him seriously when his hair was shaved clean. Apparently, it’s a swim team thing so instead of those beautiful red curls, he looked like an overly pasteurized egg. Since the moment he came in, I tried not to make any comment, but that smile and those cheekbones mixed with that shiny bulb of a head made it difficult. Whenever our eyes met, the urge to giggle became irresistible.

“What?” Vince huffed.

“Nothing.” I jumped and slapped the top of his head. “Get to work!”

We worked nonstop.

Remember four years ago when it was just you, me, Vince, Ma, and Pa on Saturdays? There were five of us! FIVE! Now there’s only two of us, plus a kid who keeps wanting to help but keeps getting in the way. Vince toppled over her, dropping a plate of chicken and waffles. The whole day was a mess. Our last customer, Ron (ugh), left at 9:45pm so we could finally close up shop. Lila laid in one booth covered in her Elmo blanket and watched videos on her tablet. I tried making her go to sleep, but she said she couldn’t until she was back in your room strangling Moop.

Vince was drenched in sweat. Being the only server the entire day, he was moving so much. We could have switched off, but he doesn’t know Ma’s recipes like we do. Fortunately, he’s an athlete. Endurance is his game.

“I’m so tired,” Vince grumbled, flapping his collar. His neck was beet red and speckled all over.

“Me too,” I said, scrubbing my hands. “The smell of onions won’t go away.”

Approaching me, Vince took my hand and brought it to his nose. “Smells fine to me,” he sniffed. My hand just dangled there, the limpest wrist in existence.

I pulled away, smelling my hand once more. “Nope,” and I kept scrubbing, and kept scrubbing.

Once we completed Ma’s list and finished cleaning, only two things remained: the carousel and the food calendar! Upon hearing “carousel,” Lila leaped from the booth. I gave her a bucket and a mop while Vince carried out a bunch of the old blue towels and Dawn soap.

Our usual inky blackness met us as we exited the diner through its side door, the one by the carousel. The rain unleashed the smell of manure and grass. A big silhouette stood firm against the dark background. A gentle moonlight perfectly highlighted the carousel, the small brass ball on top glittering and casting its reflection on the neighboring oak.

I went and plugged it in, lights coming on underneath. A milky way of stars splattered the underside of its canopy. It was cloudy outside, but clusters of glowing orbs made up for it, making the night seem clear and bright. A joyous melody played as the animals rotated, the polar bear’s yellowing fur catching my attention. Since you left us, I have only come out to see the carousel two times, and each time I somehow missed this discoloration. She seemed to have withered over the years, her white painted coat crusting away.

Bringing my hand up, I felt the bear as it passed. It was uneven and full of cracks, as if she’d been fighting for life out in the cold. I am unsure how tough real polar bears have it, but I felt her history—a difficult, turbulent life of freezing winters and nurturing cubs— protecting them from orcas or whatever is out there in the snow. Polar bears are awesome.

Vince lifted Lila up to the operation board. She dramatically pressed a red button, and the carousel halted, yet the lights and music continued. It was just as beautiful still.

We filled the bucket with water and began disinfecting everything we could touch. Lila enjoyed wiping down the animals. She was ecstatic giving each of them names. She named the Moose Vince, named the puffin Rose, and named the seal after me. I was not sure if I agreed with this settlement because I thought that if you were a puffin, I would also be one since we’re twins, but Lila was adamant about her decision and even threatened me with the mop and a lawsuit when I tried to say otherwise.

By 11:30pm everything looked brand new–that is an overstatement. It felt new, as if the year of neglect that covered each animal no longer remained, and now the animals, lights and music had a new beginning.

The three of us sat on the ride against the center structure just to catch our breath. We sat in silence as the slow music of the carousel continued to play as we looked out to the field into the unknown. I didn’t want to move from this spot.

Lila took out her Elmo blanket, and we all made ourselves comfortable. Lila sat on my lap and Vince and I were shoulder to shoulder. We looked up at the stars that moved above us.

“You okay?” Vince asked as he turned to me. His voice lacked its usual strength. “Not sure.” I said. “Not sure.”

Vince took my hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay to be unsure.”

I stroked and patted the rough wooden floor. “She’s ready to leave.” I leaned my head on Vince’s shoulder. “I’ll see her again. I’ve just got to wait.”

Vince caressed my head, wiping the tears that now flooded my cheeks.

Isolation in Grief

Electra Sullivan

In this digital photograph is Electra’s father, who represents the heaviness of loss and self-reflection. With these emotional ties, the image embodies care of the mind and spirit.

“Craftivism,” a term popularized by activist and writer Betsy Greer, is the intersection of “crafting” and “activism” (Greer 8). Essentially, it is the crafting of objects to create community and facilitate social and political change. Since its inception, craftivism has been a means to express joy, care and anger. Trans and queer activists have adopted the term to craft materials to express queer joy and resilient community in the face of abandonment and oppression by the state. Craftivism, while certainly involving anger, centers joy and love for the self and community.

One of the most famous queer craftivist projects is the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt created in 1987, which memorialized thousands of people who died from AIDS and offered a way for the queer community to mourn. In this work, I look at the Norfolk Trans Joy Community quilt, a more recent example of craftism that continues the political legacy of the AIDS Memorial Quilt. The Norfolk Trans Joy Community quilt was created in 2023 by trans people and allies in Norwich, England, to offer trans

people a sense of community and to highlight trans joy in a society that is continually working to criminalize the trans body.

NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt

One of the most notable works of craftivism is the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt. The government response to the AIDS crisis early in the epidemic was incredibly flawed and lacking, with Ronald Reagan’s administration staying almost completely silent on AIDS until 1987 (Oritz 89). Their only comments minimized the scope of the epidemic on the queer community, who were seen as immoral by the conservative Reagan administration (90) . Reagan’s administration abandoned queer people to fend for themselves during the AIDS epidemic, which left the care for themselves in their communities’ hands.

The NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt, created in 1987, was crafted in mourning and in protest to the government’s abandonment of queer people. The quilt initially consisted of 1,920 squares, each memorializing a person who died of AIDS, made by themselves or those who loved them (“The History of the Quilt”). Cleve

Jones, who conceived the initial concept, hoped that it would serve not only as a communal form of healing in dealing with the great loss the community was feeling, but also to publicly shame the government for their apathy and failure to recognize and provide support to the queer community (“AIDS Memorial Quilt”). People combined their anger towards the government with their love and sadness towards losing someone close to them and channeled it into a quilt devoted to honoring those lost in the epidemic. On this topic, scholar Daniel Fountain writes in their essay “‘Queer Quilts’: A Patchworked History,” “Although the blocks can be exhibited independently of one another, the idea is that each panel –each life– would never be isolated or alone, even in death” (“The Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt Zine” 7). The Reagan Administration had abandoned the queer community, and many people with AIDS found themselves ostracized from their families and society. The quilt offered comfort that many people were deprived of. The AIDS quilt simultaneously allowed queer people to come together as a community and mourn those they had lost, while also showing that the government did not acknowledge the scope of the epidemic.

of male and female.” This hierarchy separated art from craft. Art forms of knitting, embroidery, quilting, etc., come to mind over the more “masculine” and therefore legitimate mediums of writing, painting, etc.., Associations with craft and queerness are tied, that they’re both seen as lower and not as legitimate than their more recognized counterparts (Fountain). However, Artist Ben Cuevas owns this association, writing of their personal connection to the link of crafting and queerness stating, “by knitting with my male body, and referencing that in my work, I’m queering gendered constructs of craft,” (qtd in Chaich & Oldham 137). Recognizing and reclaiming the connotations of queerness and craft, queer communities use this connection to materially render queer and trans experiences, including expressing joy and love for their community.

Implications of ‘Crafting’

The conventional definition of crafting is gendered as one that is feminine and therefore lower (Fountain). Fountain writes “that the development of a hierarchy of the arts coincided historically with a similar one between the categories

Quilting as a community practice was adopted by queer communities because quilting—as well as the act of gifting quilts—is a layered expression of love and care. Quilting teacher and writer Thomas Knauer in his essay “The Gift of a Quilt is an Act of Love” discusses the symbolism present in giving quilts, “warmth — once a literal protection against the elements — is also a symbolic means of protection, and our desire to protect is a reflection of the love we feel for another.” In other words, the gift of a quilt tells someone that they love and care for them, that in a literal sense you never want them to be cold and alone. Additionally, people make quilts to express love—the gift of a quilt involves incredible amounts of patience and care. In

make this a reality for transgender people. Despite the onslaught of cruelty thrown at trans people, they use craftivism as a means to express joy and challenge the narratives against them. An interviewee for the Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt Zine, K, said, “As much as I want to express my anger, trans joy is defiant. It can’t be legislated out of existence, defanged or sold. It doesn’t have one look and it contradicts itself. Its complexity is powerful, trans joy is a protest in itself” (Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt Zine 21). Anger is not absent in craftivism, as it is a response to injustice and abandonment of marginalized groups. However, joy is present in craftivism as well, which is a poignant form of protest against oppression. In other words, joy and anger are not mutually exclusive categories rather they mediate both ager and joy in the act of quilt making as both a form of political resistance and as an expression of love.

Even when not being portrayed as dangerous, trans people in mainstream narratives are subject to the trauma associated with being trans, such as the violence inflicted on them: suicide, and survival sex work to name a few. While these are all real issues affecting the trans community, hyperfocusing on these issues in the media creates a false narrative that trans people are joyless, which the Trans Community Quilt rejects. Alex, another person interviewed for contributing to the quilt said, “It helps to combat the tragedy of trans lives in lots of mainstream media, even in sympathetic cases.” (The Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt Zine 18). Instead of fetishizing trans

people through the lens of tragedy, the quilt highlights the joy in being transgender. Contributors expressed joy in their quilt squares in a variety of ways—such as memorializing achievements, or taking a more humorous approach. One square, made by a person named K, uses humor to express joy. Their square says “Orange you glad trans people exist?” Another square features embroidered rendering of the contributor’s chest nine months post top surgery. The quilt rejects the narrative that trans people are dangerous and tragic, but rather spotlights the joy for self and community in being transgender.

The Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt is not an American project, but it speaks to the importance of joy and care in queer communities, which America currently needs. The Trump administration has forsaken trangender people, but they and their communities still exist. The creation of the Trans Community quilt held recurring workshops for queer community members to gather and create. Workshops included free materials and instruction for creating the squares in addition to providing a safe community space for community members. Even today, the quilt creates opportunities for community building, exhibiting at various queer and trans events across England. Brannick and BigsbyBye wanted their project to inspire people to understand and contribute to their shared history (5). The quilt is therefore owned by the queer and trans community in addition to being made by and for the community.

As seen in the Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt,, craftivism is

The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism

joy and resistance. It expresses joy for the self and community and resistance to the state. Craftivism as a protest tradition has been practiced through the decades, with a notable queer example being the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt, which has inspired others such as the Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt. More research into craftivism, especially within more niche intersections, such as quilting and the trangender community, is needed by scholars. Resisting popular narratives of trans suffering, the Trans Joy Quilt reframes the trans experience around trans joy and community rather than suffering—especially pertinent to the coming years, in which it will likely be more and more difficult to publicly be queer and trans. defanged or sold. It doesn’t have one look and it contradicts itself. Its complexity is powerful, trans joy is a protest in itself” (Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt Zine 21). Anger is not absent in craftivism, as it is a response to injustice and abandonment of marginalized groups. However, joy is present in craftivism as well, which is a poignant form of protest against oppression. In other words, joy and anger are not mutually exclusive categories rather they mediate both ager and joy in the act of quilt making as both a form of political resistance and as an expression of love.

Even when not being portrayed as dangerous, trans people in mainstream narratives are subject to the trauma associated with being trans, such as the violence inflicted on them: suicide, and survival sex work to name a few. While these are all real issues affecting the trans community, hyperfocusing on

these issues in the media creates a false narrative that trans people are joyless, which the Trans Community Quilt rejects. Alex, another person interviewed for contributing to the quilt said, “It helps to combat the tragedy of trans lives in lots of mainstream media, even in sympathetic cases.” (The Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt Zine 18). Instead of fetishizing trans people through the lens of tragedy, the quilt highlights the joy in being transgender. Contributors expressed joy in their quilt squares in a variety of ways—such as memorializing achievements, or taking a more humorous approach. One square, made by a person named K, uses humor to express joy. Their square says “Orange you glad trans people exist?” Another square features embroidered rendering of the contributor’s chest nine months post top surgery. The quilt rejects the narrative that trans people are dangerous and tragic, but rather spotlights the joy for self and community in being transgender.

The Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt is not an American project, but it speaks to the importance of joy and care in queer communities, which America currently needs. The Trump administration has forsaken trangender people, but they and their communities still exist. The creation of the Trans Community quilt held recurring workshops for queer community members to gather and create. Workshops included free materials and instruction for creating the squares in addition to providing a safe community space for community members. Even today, the quilt creates opportunities for community building, exhibiting at

Lorren Richards

Pulled Apart

Anneliese Burke

Sydney Ziemniak

Subverting Gender Roles in Contexts Medieval and Modern

Julian of Norwich was an anchoress in the Middle Ages who saw a series of divine visions, which she detailed in A Book of Showings after contemplating them for over fifteen years. In chapters 58, 59, and 60, “Jesus as Mother,” Julian employs maternal imagery to describe Christ’s compassion and warmth while opposing the patriarchal society of her lifetime, a critique that remains applicable today. With an emphasis on affective piety, Julian not only diminishes the gender hierarchies of the medieval period but also invites contemporary readers to consider a more inclusive interpretation of religious leadership. By reorienting traditional roles of the divine, Julian challenges modern dichotomous standards of masculinity and femininity, presenting Christ as a spiritual leader who values empathy over dominance.

Julian first draws on affective piety to highlight Christ’s humanity. An influential practice during the Middle Ages, affective piety emphasizes a highly sensitive devotion to Christ, inviting believers to deeply empathize with his suffering. Julian compares the relationship between humans and Christ to an equal marriage, writing that “in the knitting and in the oneing he is our very true spouse and we his loved wife and his fair maiden, with which wife he was never displeased” (227). By referring to humans as the “loved wife” of Christ, Julian places mortals on the same level as God, encouraging an emotional attachment to the divine rather than a fearful one. The term “knitting” suggests an interweaving of two separate threads, reinforcing that Christ and his believers are linked in a relationship of mutual love. Similarly, Julian’s word choice of “oneing” conveys unity, breaking down the traditional hierarchy in which Christ rules over humanity in favor of an intimate, reciprocal bond. In her metaphor of Christ as a “true spouse” who is “never displeased” with his followers, Julian further challenges the traditional model of marriage as an arranged relationship of male dominance and female subjugation. Rather than Christ

Spring ‘25 - Care

being a punitive ruler or a possessive spouse, Julian argues he views his followers with mutual love and equality.

Julian then depicts Christ as a mother, challenging traditional patriarchal views of leadership by equating his sacrifice with the physical and emotional labor of motherhood, arguing for a more compassionate and inclusive model of divinity. Julian highlights the passion of Christ when she states, “[O]ur very Mother Jesu, he alone beareth us to joy and to endless living, blessed moot he be. Thus he sustaineth us within him in love and travail, into the full time that he would suffer the sharpest thorns and grievous pains that ever were and ever shall be, and died at the last” (Julian 229). By emphasizing Jesus’s intense suffering, Julian employs affective piety with an appeal to Christians’ emotions. In referring to him as “Mother Jesu,” she prompts readers to compare the grievous pains that mothers endure, such as pregnancy and childbirth, to the suffering Jesus experienced to save his believers. Her parallel between the burdensome aspects of motherhood and the passion of Christ reminds believers that the crucifixion was a sacrificial act of love for humanity. Further, Julian redefines both acts—Jesus’s suffering and mothers’ pain—as voluntary, intentional love, rather than mere obligations. In a Medieval society that saw motherhood as an inevitable responsibility for women, Julian’s portrayal of Christ as a motherly figure who chooses to undergo suffering offers a radical reimagining of divine authority. Like Jesus’s conscious acceptance of the crucifixion to redeem humanity, maternal love involves a willing undertaking of emotional and physical labor. Her interpretation challenges the traditional assumption that suffering is an unavoidable burden of motherhood, instead depicting it as an expression of active, selfless love.

Furthermore, Julian shifts conventional gender roles, confronting the patriarchy of both her lifetime and today. Her depiction of Christ as a maternal figure challenges the aggressive, invulnerable traits associated with modern “alpha male” masculinity. The alpha male ideal places importance on male competitiveness and control, which promotes traditional and strictly binary gender categories. In contrast, Julian’s vision of Christ embodies masculine and feminine traits, writing that “for he will have all our love fastened to him; and in this I saw that all debt that we owe by God’s bidding to fatherhood and motherhood is fulfilled in true loving of God, which blessed love Christ worketh in us” (Julian 230). The phrase “all debt that we owe” suggests that traditional gender roles impose an obligation on humans, yet Julian redefines this duty as one that is “fulfilled” not through hierarchical structures, but through “true loving of God.” Additionally, Julian’s language contains a paradox: she acknowledges the conventional distinctions between fatherhood and motherhood, yet simultaneously dissolves them within God’s love. By arguing that both roles are “fulfilled” in Christ, she portrays divinity as encompassing seemingly opposing paternal and maternal qualities—as authoritative yet nurturing. Modern criticisms of toxic masculinity argue that the ideal is harmful in its reinforcement of gender roles that discourage men from vulnerability and deem women inferior to men. Julian’s portrayal of Christ as being at once mighty and kind-

The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism

hearted directly challenges modern hyper-masculine ideals that glorify dominance, emotional detachment, and power over others suggesting that true leadership is not about exerting force, but about embodying compassion. Her critique, therefore, remains relevant today, as rigid definitions of masculinity continue to uphold male dominance and devalue emotional expression, reinforcing gender hierarchies that limit women’s autonomy and opportunities. By rejecting a hierarchical understanding of strength, Julian’s depiction of Christ encourages a more holistic and inclusive vision of leadership where care, sacrifice, and tenderness are not signs of weakness, but of divine power itself.

One of the principle counterarguments to Julian’s blending of genders within Christ is that it was perhaps not intended to criticize gender roles but instead display his all-encompassing divinity that transcends gender and other human constructs. Presenting Christ as a mother, however, is inherently rebellious, particularly within the patriarchal church of the Middle Ages. Julian already risked heresy by teaching theology as a woman and thus thwarted conventional gender roles. While caregiving is valued within Christianity, it is a trait mainly associated with domestic, homemaking women. By attributing maternal qualities to Christ, Julian blurs the division between typical masculine and feminine characteristics, which remains radical when compared to the alpha male archetype of today. The alpha male concept closely aligns with misogynistic power dynamics throughout history that praise dominance in men and submission in women. Julian’s portrayal of Christ as nurturing and empathetic offers a subversive alternative to the aggressive model of masculinity often celebrated today.

Overall, Julian’s work is not merely a retelling of her divine visions, but a criticism of restrictive gender roles that continue to damage society today. Her use of metaphor and appeal to compassion by comparing God to both a caring spouse and a selfless mother inspires believers to cultivate an emotional relationship with God while breaking down gender binaries. In mixing traditionally masculine dominance with feminine tenderness, Julian’s writing directly challenges the alpha male model, instead supporting a holistic vision of gender expression.

Works Cited

Julian of Norwich. “A Book of Showings.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt, Rachel Ablow, Eric Eisner, Aarthi Vadde, Deidre Shauna Lynch, Catherine Robson, and Jahan Ramazani. New York: Norton, 2024.

At Ease Shea Murphy

“At Ease is a piece I made in the spring of 2023 when life was feeling especially overwhelming. All I wanted to do was not have a care in the world and to float away. That need for an escape evolved into creating a rare moment for a woman’s body and mind to just be. Outside of societal pressure, objectifications, or limiting what a woman’s mind, body or role should be. Where she can float blissfully at peace with all of herself; body hair, stretch marks, size, and weight, all without judgement from herself or from the outside world. Living to her own needs and standards. I realized in creating this moment how rare it is for women to find this peace in themselves and in the world, without constant pressure inwardly and outwardly. This desire for reprieve was in itself realizing it’s rarity to feel at ease. This piece is a wood-cut relief print using oil-based ink on paper.” - Shea Murphy

SWEET POTATO BLACK BEAN TAMALES

Lillian Kayla Miller

3-4 medium-large sweet potatoes

2 cups masa harina

1 ½ cups water

1 ½ tsp sea salt

1 ¾ tsp baking powder

2 ½ Tbsp avocado oil (or sub dairy-free butter or organic dairy butter as tolerated)

⅔ - ¾ cup vegetable broth or water (warm temperature is best)

3-4 Tbsp water (or sub oil and reduce amount by half)

¼ cup diced white or red onion

1 15-oz can black beans, slightly drained

1 chipotle pepper in adobo sauce, chopped

1 ½ tsp adobo sauce (omit or reduce for less heat)

½ tsp sea salt, plus more to taste

½ tsp ground cumin

1-2 tsp coconut sugar (optional)

1 package dried cornhusks, soaked in water 30 minutes

Plain dairy-free yogurt or sour cream (we like plain Culina yogurt)

Hot sauce

Cilantro

Lime juice

I first made these tamales when I was in high school. In my junior year, I was becoming vegan while navigating a tumultuous relationship with my father (we had our fair share of screaming matches). However, while he may have struggled to show his love in other ways, he never failed to do so with food. In this way, he was supportive of my diet change. He grew up in California and has a special place in his heart for Mexican cuisine, so while we’ve cooked together a handful of other times, the tamales seemed most appropriate. I make them often in winter because they’re a great nutritious bulk food to make and freeze, and because they remind me of good times with my dad.

Recipe by Minimalist Baker.

Heat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit (190 C) and place whole sweet potatoes on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Poke sweet potatoes a few times with a fork to allow steam to escape. Bake for 45 minutes to an hour or until tender. NOTE: For quicker bake time, halve sweet potatoes, rub with a

little oil, and bake cut-side down for 35-40 minutes or until tender.

In the meantime, add masa harina to a large mixing bowl and pour the water over. Stir to combine. It will likely appear a bit dry—that’s okay. Let rest 15 minutes to hydrate. In the meantime, add dried corn husks to a large mixing bowl and cover with room temperature water. Set something on top to submerge them (such as a small skillet). Set aside and let soak (at least 15 minutes and up to an hour). While the corn is submerged, heat a saucepan over medium heat. Once hot, add water (or oil) and onion. Sauté, stirring occasionally, for 4-5 minutes or until tender and slightly browned. Add slightly drained black beans, chopped chipotle pepper, adobo sauce (omit or reduce for less heat), salt, cumin, and coconut sugar (optional).

Bring to a simmer over medium heat, then reduce heat to a simmer and cover. Cook for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Taste and adjust flavor as needed, adding more salt to taste, cumin for smokiness, coconut sugar to balance the flavors, or adobo sauce for heat. Turn off heat and uncover. Set aside to cool slightly. Remove baked sweet potatoes from oven and let cool to the touch. Then peel away the skin, transfer to a mixing bowl or shallow plate, and mash with a potato masher or fork until mostly smooth. Set aside. To the soaked masa mixture add salt, baking powder, and avocado oil and stir. Then add broth (warm or room temperature for best results) a little at a time until a thick paste is achieved.

It shouldn’t be liquidy or crumbly. Be sure to stir well so it’s fully combined. Set aside. Remove corn husks from water and pat dry (when water remains on the husks, the masa can have a hard time adhering). Then take one husk in your nondominant hand (or place on a flat, clean surface) with the wider/broader edge facing toward you (narrow end away from you). Add 2 - 2 ½ Tbsp masa, then use the back of a spoon to spread the mixture from the bottom 1/3 center of the husk to the right edge. Spread into a thin layer—somewhere between 1/8th-inch and 1/4-inch thick (not too thin or the fillings spill through, not too thick or the tamale takes longer to cook).

Then add ~1 ½ Tbsp of the mashed sweet potatoes to the center of the masa and top with ~1 Tbsp of

SWEET POTATO BLACK BEAN TAMALES

beans . Tuck the right side of the corn husk over the bean filling, right where the masa’s left edge is. Then continue rolling until the seams meet. Then fold the narrow edge of corn husk over the seam and set in a loaf pan or dish that will keep your tamales upright. Continue until you have used all your masa mixture and filling (as original recipe is written, ~24 tamales). To a large pot or Dutch oven, add a steamer basket. Fill the pot with water until it almost touches the base of the steamer basket. Then add the tamales, keeping them upright if possible.

Turn heat to high so the water boils. Once the water boils, reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer to steam the tamales for about an hour. You’ll know they’re done when the masa appears cooked. If you aren’t sure, you can remove one tamale, let it cool for a few minutes (as they stiffen up the more they cool), unwrap, and test. If they’re cooked through, they’re ready to enjoy. If not, steam for 5-10 minutes more, or longer as needed.

Once cooked, remove the lid and let steam escape

Ronan Piontek

for a few minutes. Then they’re ready to enjoy! Top with desired garnishes. We loved hot sauce, cilantro, lime juice, and a little dairy free yogurt (Culina plain is our favorite, though vegan sour cream would be delicious, too). You can store the cooled tamales, covered, in the refrigerator for 4-5 days. Reheat in the microwave or in a cast iron skillet on the stovetop until hot. To freeze, let tamales cool, then add to a parchment-lined baking sheet and arrange in a single layer. Freeze until firm, then transfer to a well-sealed container where they should keep for at least 1 month, oftentimes longer. To cook from frozen, let thaw, then heat either in the microwave or in a cast iron skillet on the stovetop until hot. Or microwave for 1 minute, remove husk, and then continue heating in the microwave or in a cast iron skillet on the stovetop until hot.

“Sweet Potato Black Bean Tamales.” Recipe. Minimalist Baker, 10 Sept. 2024, https:// minimalistbaker.com/sweet-potato-black-beantamales-vegan/#wprm-recipe-container-57492

MONKEY BREAD

3 12 oz. packages refrigerated biscuit dough

1 cup white sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

2 tsp. cinnamon

½ cup margarine

For my family, making monkey bread together is a Christmas Eve tradition. We then enjoy it for breakfast on Christmas morning, and for several mornings thereafter. It’s a simple and delicious three pounds of dough, butter, and sugar, and that simplicity helped make it a yearly staple in our household. If you want to involve your fouryear-old in a recipe, what better step is there than “aggressively shake a bag of ingredients like it owes you money?”

It’s worth noting that the “tube pan” the recipe calls for is a Bundt pan. As we learned during our Yuletide ritual over a decade ago, DO NOT use an angel food cake pan. A Bundt pan is one piece,

whereas an angel food cake pan’s removable bottom allows the margarine and brown sugar glaze to leak onto the bottom of the oven. As my mother recounts the story, “I realized my mistake when I opened the oven, saw flames, and tossed the pan outside into the snow, bravely saving my young children.” Honestly, my view is that you know a recipe is a good one when you can invite your loved ones to bake with a “wanna help me burn down the house?”

Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease the tube pan. Mix white sugar and cinnamon in a zipper-top gallon bag. Cut biscuits into quarters. Shake 10–12 pieces at a time in the sugar-cinnamon mixture until coated. Arrange pieces in the bottom of the prepared pan. Repeat until all biscuits are coated and placed in pan. In a small saucepan, melt the margarine with the brown sugar over medium heat. Boil for 1 minute. Pour over the biscuits. Bake for 35 minutes. Let cool for 10 minutes. Turn out onto a plate.

Shu Lan Schaut

PORK DUMPLINGS

2-3 packages of dumpling wrappers

1 ½ lb ground pork

½ cup shredded cabbage or bok choy

½ cup shredded carrots

¼ cup corn starch

2 tablespoons soy sauce

3 tablespoons oyster sauce

3 tablespoon sesame oil

½ teaspoon white pepper

1 teaspoon MSG

1 bunch of green onions

4 in. peeled ginger

Quarter of medium yellow onion

8-10 cloves of garlic

¼ cup of Shaoxing wine or dry sherry

I made dumplings for the first time last year.

As a transracial Chinese-American adoptee, born in China and raised amongst white Americans, I’ve grown up existing in a liminal space. To some, I am anything but American; to others, I am far too Westernized to be Chinese. I am painfully aware of how much I stick out in the homogenous suburbia of Wisconsin, yet feel so out of place when among other Asian Americans, to whom making dumplings is a familial tradition long-lived.

I made dumplings for the first time last year, when I was invited to an event for transracial adoptees to celebrate Lunar New Year. Together, we connected, ruminating over shared experiences, our yearning for cultural kinship. We didn’t have to prove our Asianness to anyone—we just cooked.

To me, this recipe—this experience of making dumplings alongside other transracial adoptees— was a moment of community I needed, more than I was ready to admit. This was a room where I could be seen as both American and Chinese, without any sense of fraud, while learning a skill I’ve always

wanted to know, and getting a chance to connect with my ethnic roots.

I want to thank Kiki McCance, Abbi Stickels, and Kevin Wong for hosting that event and sharing your expertise; I will always be grateful.

Since then, I have made dozens of dumplings— adjusting seasonings, adding ingredients, modifying the basic recipe given to me that night to make it my own. Here is my take on pork dumplings.

Defrost dumpling wrappers. While defrosting wrappers, wash and blanch your leafy greens in boiling water. Cool the greens in ice water. Then, using a cloth, squeeze out all the water from the greens and chop into small pieces. In a large bowl, add ground pork and shredded vegetables. Mix and set aside.

Chop green onion, yellow onion, and ginger into small pieces. Puree till smooth with garlic and wine/sherry in a blender or food processor. Add cornstarch, soy sauce, oyster sauce, sesame oil, seasonings, and puree mix. Mix till everything is fully incorporated.

Cook a small amount of the mixture in a hot pan. Adjust seasoning to taste. Add ~1 tablespoon of filling to the center of 1 wrapper, seal, fold and set aside in an even layer under a damp towel on a sheet tray. Cornstarch may help with preventing dumpling wrappers from sticking to your skin and/ or surfaces. Using a small amount of water helps seal the edges.

Cook dumplings using your preferred method. Options include steaming, pan frying, or boiling. You may also freeze dumplings on a parchment lined sheet. After they are completely frozen, you may transfer them to a freezer bag.

TATER TOT CASSEROLE

Jonathan Tostrud

1 pound ground beef

1 small onion, diced

1 can (10.5 ounces) condensed cream of mushroom soup

1 can (10.5 ounces) condensed cream of chicken soup

1 cup frozen mixed vegetables (carrots, corn, peas, and green beans)

1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

1 package (32 ounces) frozen tater tots

Salt and pepper to taste

Once a year, gather the ten residents of your college house, and plan a communal dinner. Importantly, invite the multitude of alumni who have previously lived in the house. After all, the event is to introduce the old faces to the new ones. In classic pot-luck style, everyone brings a staple dish, or an experiment to be tested on those in attendance.

Everyone comes hungry, any food is welcome. Tater-tot casserole, the midwest classic, is available for the taking. Why not lay claim—it’s never been brought before! Once the day rolls around, traditionally the week of Thanksgiving, begin prepping the living room and kitchen. The turkey has been slow-roasting all day, permeating every corner of the house with a promising scent. Hope that it’s not burnt to a crisp or dried to the bone. Ensuring enough seats for 22 guests and residents is sure to be a fire hazard, if even a possibility. But somehow, enough seats are accumulated, and the tables are hazardously set, mismatched tableware methodologically placed for each seat. And now the guests arrive. The counters were barely cleared before being filled with everyone’s unique creations, coming in tupperware, pans, ceramic, or bags. The tater tot casserole, cooked the afternoon before, is being reheated in the oven. Once hot, remove from the oven and let cool for a few minutes before serving.

RECIPE

RECIPE CIPERE CIPERE CIPERE CIPERE RECIPE

COMMUNITY

NILVIO ALEXANDER PUNGUIL BRAVO

Growing Pains II

Rissa Nelson

Hello, Hummingbird Heart. What have you come to wish for?

“Don’t call me that,” Idony said. “I want a normal heart. One that beats only for myself. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Ah, the spirit sighed. Another one.

“What do you mean?”

Do you humans truly believe your wishes are unique?

Idony was rendered speechless. She hesitated, sorting through the myriad of thoughts that rushed through her head before responding. “It doesn’t matter. I came all this way. You must grant my wish.”

The spirit seemed to chuckle. Awfully demanding, aren’t you, Hummingbird Heart?

“Don’t call me that. Who told you about my… my affliction?”

No one told me, human. I heard it the moment you stepped off your boat. It’s quite loud.

She supposed that was a good enough reason. Idony had never heard anyone refer to her heart besides her grandmother. She’d even thought the old woman had made up the name entirely.

Idony remembered the first time her grandmother had called her that. She’d been inconsolable after finding out that her grandmother’s mind had begun to falter. The doctors said holes had sprouted throughout her mind, and that her memories would begin to slip through them and more frequently. Her grandmother had wrapped her arms around her, holding Idony close. There, there, darling. I shall never forget you, my Hummingbird Heart. That had been the only thing that had the ability to bring Idony back down to earth.

What’s that mean, grandmother?

Well, it’s the name given to someone whose heart beats too fast. It’s given to someone whose heart is strong enough to beat for others beyond themselves.

Idony blinked, remembering her mission. “Will you grant my wish?”

I may, the spirit said. Or I may not. First, tell me why you want a slower heart. You must convince me.

“Please, spirit,” Idony begged. “I am in pain. My chest hurts to beat this much. My body is not strong enough to hold it all in. ”

That will change, the spirit sighed. You have survived this long. Your bones will strengthen in time.

“It’s gotten worse,” Idony said. “Everyday I fear it begins to beat faster, while the hearts of everyone around me beat slower. They judge me. They ask me why I feel so much, why I care. I don’t know why I’ve been cursed to bear this, but I want it gone.”

She thought again of her grandmother. People had said it was a blessing that she went so peacefully. The holes in her mind grew bigger and bigger until she didn’t know that they were there anymore. When you’re better, we will go on an adventure, Idony had said to her grandmother. We will take the canoe and travel to the spirit. It will be able to close up the cavities in your head.

Only, they never reached the spirit’s island. The rifts in her mind only grew, and the chance of a journey to the spirit slipped away with her grandmother’s health. Idony wished in vain for her grandmother’s strength to return, and hoped that the spirit might hear her wish from across the sea. But the spirit, secluded as it was, could only grant the wishes of those who made it to the island.

There were condolences and sympathies for the first few weeks, but that quickly turned into sideways glances and whispers under breaths. After a year, Idony couldn’t take it any longer. She took the canoe for herself.

You would really trade your quick heart for dullness? You would trade a swift heart for one that stumbles? Do you care more of the opinions of a plodding heart?

Foolish girl. It’s lonely to have a slow heart. Their hearts can only beat for themselves. They have nothing else to give; nothing to spare for any creature besides their own flesh. They judge you because they wish they had other hearts to beat for. You have a gift. An overabundance. Your heart is as much yours as it is others. You have space to love beyond yourself.

“I just can’t believe that that’s true,” Idony said.

In time, you will. You can’t imagine it because your heart has always been full. But one day, you will meet someone who used to beat only for others, and you will understand. Someone who left their own heart empty and slow, and had to learn to fill their own heart first. Someone who learned that they cannot rely on the beats of Hummingbird Hearts to start their own.

Idony was silent. She had no idea what to say. “I don’t know what to do,” she said quietly. “I love my heart. It’s my grandmother’s heart. But I can’t go home like this. They will never

understand.”

I will not grant your wish, Hummingbird Heart. However, I will give you something else. When you leave this island, you will not find the canoe you arrived here on. I have transformed it into a strong and simple ship that will take you far away from here. You will not return home. You will explore much more, and find places where hearts pulse twice as fast as those you had previously known. Places where the people have no use for drums, for instead, they dance to the beating in their chests. You will find cities where the rain can’t be heard over the pitter-patter of their pulsating hearts, and where earthquakes rumble no louder than the murmuring beneath their skin.

You will find that your heart will no longer hurt. The pounding in your chest will be free. You will no longer have to hold it in. Your neighbors will beat for you on days your heart has slowed, and you will do the same in return. You will grow old and your heart will never falter, even as your body and mind do. Your heart will live on through the children you cared for and the people you shared time with. And even when the sun implodes and the world grows cold, your heartbeats will be the last noise the earth will ever create, and they will reverberate throughout the empty universe.

Move forward, Hummingbird Heart. Never turn back. Let the echo of your heartbeat inspire the languid hearts you left behind. Go on and find your people.

With that, the spirit faded in the same way candle smoke dissipates into the air around it. Idony bowed to where the spirit had just been before racing towards the port. The corners of her mouth began to turn up as she saw the vessel waiting for her, standing tall. The sails flapped rhythmically in the wind, welcoming her onboard. The sea spread for miles in every direction, but Idony wasn’t afraid. She hoisted up the anchor before sitting by the oars. She took one final glance in the direction she had come from, glad for the clouds that concealed the place she had once called home. Move forward, Hummingbird Heart, said a voice in her head.

And so, she did.

000

The Refugee as Abolition:

Commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Fall of Saigon

Asian American Studies 540 C ollection: Southeast Asian Memory and Trauma

Authors:

Anna Jyi, Lina Kang, Minji Kim, Chersa Lo, Heaven Moua, Tenzin Nyingpo, Cecelia

Shervheim, Anyka Swanson, Mai See Thao, Emily Udomtanapon, Landis Varughese, Bai Xiong, Elliana Xiong, Mai Xiong, Michelle Yang, Panria Yang

Introduction

April 30, 2025, marks the 50th anniversary of the Fall of Saigon and the withdrawal of United States troops from Southeast Asia. For most Americans, the 50th anniversary is a reminder of the two to three short paragraphs in U.S. history textbooks about America’s “failed war.” They learned that the U.S. lost the Vietnam War and “saved” Southeast Asian refugees under the guise of American benevolence. Absent in these lessons was the fact that this war was merely a proxy for the ongoing conflict between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. While decolonization efforts emerged in Southeast Asia against French colonial rule, civil war broke out across Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. The United States, seeking to contain the perceived threat of communism, militarily intervened in this region as well. Over 3 million Southeast Asians died from this conflict and the impact remains fervent in our current moment.

For Southeast Asian refugees, this anniversary does not carry any more weight than the everyday reminders of what they have inherited from the war. Celebrating their refugee birthdays every year, turning the same age their parents were when they first arrived in the U.S. The haunting absence of a sibling or relative, the wounds of war on their grandparents’ bodies and minds. Southeast Asian refugees living in the U.S. were not “saved,” as many Americans like to assume. 50 years in their place of “refuge” does not absolve the United

The

States of its carcerality for refugees. Instead, it serves as a stark reminder of the refugee’s resilience and strife amidst ongoing harm.

As this anniversary approaches, we, the students of Asian American 540: Southeast Asian Memory and Trauma, write this introduction to commemorate the power of the refugee—a person who is at the margins of nation-states.The refugee teaches us that our trauma and losses are what connects us to each other. Viet Than Nguyen’s (Nguyen, 2016) work reminds us that war is only possible through the dehumanization of those on the margins and the abandonment of our capacity to be humane. War does not begin on the battlefields, but in memory, the practices that we embody every single day. Of whose stories are lauded and whose are censored. It is homegrown in the rhetoric of who we consider is human or not—who belongs and who are outsiders. War is born in our ideologies regarding racialized and gendered subjects, and which of those subjects are worthy of protection and fostering.

The refugee reminds us that all life is sacred and invaluable. So, we write this introduction to put forth acollective mourning about the 50th anniversary, but also the ongoing violence that perpetuates the possibilities of war. We tie our lives and histories to one another. May you also see yourself in our writings in the same ways we have throughout this course. And in recognizing yourself, may you hold a refugee abolitionist view of war and heart.

Refugee as Abolition is about Healing

Healing is a messy and dynamic process that demands us to grapple with the pain and harm that we’ve experienced in order to cultivate a sense of resilience in the face of chaos. It is necessary to sit with discomfort such as Dorothy Allison’s theory of “razor squatting,” the concept of hovering over the discomfort, anger, and frustration that accompanies trauma, while you are actively trying to mend your wounds (Allison, 2016, p. 249).

Healing is a journey that requires us to commit to bettering ourselves by confronting the horrors that trauma presents, and still choosing to love ourselves in the midst of it (Allison, 2016). Upon committing to this lifelong adventure, we are able to create an honest narrative—one that is personal, real, and a product of the love we’ve forged for ourselves as well as our communities. Healing enables us to preserve the loved objects we’ve been told to shed or get over (Eng & Han, 2018). As we read through these narratives, we are constantly reminded that healing is an ongoing, dynamic process. Writing, for the authors we’ve read from, is an act of healing—a mode of resistance—to the systems, those in power, and institutions that perpetuate and exacerbate trauma onto marginalized communities.

LOVE a story of &

Anyka Swanson

I see the papers that say there is a new group of refugees.

I see the reports of men dying for unknown reasons, possibly from the trauma of war.

I see the news say that another Hmong woman was assaulted at the grocery store.

I see how they walk with their heads down, afraid of calling attention to themselves in fear of being ostracized.

I hear the cries and wailing when they tell their stories of their lost ones and the atrocities they had to endure.

I hear the way their communities are riddled with depression and other mental illnesses from the war that occurred in their country that the United States started.

I see how agent orange, yellow rain, and war propaganda still affect them to this day.

I see how people don’t recognize Hmong

veterans as “real” American veterans. I hear people ask “Why can’t you people just be grateful that we saved you and brought you home?”, but how can you expect someone to be grateful when your country and the country they resettled in started a war where they witnessed their loved ones die and they had to completely uproot their lives?

I see him and his family move next door. We wave at one another when we see each other.

I see the hurt on his face when our neighbor across the street who has Trump signs doesn’t wave back to him.

I see him arguing with his father in the backyard.

I see him push around his food as the kids taunt him for the lunch he brings.

I see him struggle for words when the kid sitting next to him tells him to go back to his own country.

HOPE amidst war and discrimination

I see him be bullied in the halls for not knowing what a certain word means.

But I also see him wearing traditional Hmong clothes.

I see him and his family in his backyard, celebrating the relatives that have passed on.

I see him and his mother cooking Khaub Poob in the kitchen.

I see him and his family laughing over stories of the past and sharing hope for the future.

I see him teaching the kids at school Hmong words and laughing at their pronunciation, but still helping them say the words correctly.

I see him sing and dance to Hmong songs at our school’s cultural celebration event.

I see the communities start to open mental health centers and give out pamphlets with resources for veterans and those who

experienced trauma. I see parents tell stories to their children of what happened as a way of expressing their trauma.

I see how they bring their traditional Hmong dishes to parties and the way that people enjoy them.

I read the poems and essays they write in retaliation to governments and communities erasing them.

I learned that my home is responsible for the wounds of war and the racism they continue to experience even today.

I see how they have to reconcile with the fact that the country that supposedly “saved” them is also the country that destroyed theirs and killed their loved ones.

And despite everything, I see them dancing and singing. And they welcome me with open arms, sharing their food and stories, because the war could never take away their humanity and love for others.

The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism

Newspaper cut

Torn

Taped

Scrapbook

Bloody|disjointed|rewritten

What are the stains covering? Whose stories do they hide?

You say, I repeat. I see, I do. You teach, I learn.

I memorize your scars Bruises

Aggrievances

Woes

From your lips

The tumbled whispers

Of the only story

I’m taught to scream

I want to scream

Another story Trampled Outrun

By bigger pockets

Deep enough

To empty all ears of opposing words

So don’t hear I won’t repeat learn whisper scream.

The page crimson

A drip reaching arms spreading to the deckled edge

I wish it would stop these paper cuts

Scratching my skin poking my thoughts until time allows for healing numbing forgetting.

But it’s pain self afflicted

Reading the same newspaper

Everyday

Learning nothing new

From words redacted by red

Yawm Txiv michelle Yang R R

The window seat, he sits

Where stillness meets wonder

The tenderness of his gaze follows

He traces the squirrels rabbits, the garden that grows

I search his honeyed eyes

A reservoir of sacrifice,

Crinkled skin, a life etched into every line

His hands bare and weak, a job that

Stole his sense of smell

He turns to me and smiles.

The window is his haven

A portal of simple joys

Every time I come back from school

I find him there, waiting

My Yawm Txiv

Thaum kuv pom cov daus poob los, kuv nco hais tias koj yuav rov los tsev.

When I see the snow falling, I remember you are coming back

Lwm tus txawm yusv txeeb tau koj ib puas tsam yam los tsis muaj

leej twg yuav txeeb tau koj txoj kev xawj ntse

They can take everything away, but your knowledge

S S

《和爸爸聊》// chatting with dad

Ellen Zhang

The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism

Bibliography

Allison, D. (2016). A Cure for Bitterness. In M. J. Casper & E. Wertheimer (Eds.), Critical Trauma Studies: Understanding Vio lence, Conflict, and Memory in Everyday Life (pp. 244–255). New York University Press.

Eng, D. L., & Han, S. (2018). Racial Melancholia, Racial Dissociation. Duke University Press.

Eng, D. L., & Kazanjian, D. (2003). Loss : The Politics of Mourning (p. 488). University of California Press.

Espiritu, Y. L. (2014). Body counts : the Vietnam War and militarized refuge(es). University of California Press.

Espiritu, Y. L., Duong, L., Vang, M., Bascara, V., Um, K., Sharif, L., & Hatton, N. (2022). Departures : an introduction to critical refugee studies. University of California Press.

Freud, S. (1917). Mourning and Melancholia. In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Volume XIV (1914-1916) (pp. 237–258).

Gordon, A. (2008). Ghostly Matters : Haunting and the Sociological Imagination (p. 252). University of Minnesota Press.

Nguyen, V. T. (2016). Nothing Ever Dies: Vietnam and the Memory of War. Harvard University Press.

Stevens, M. E. (2016). Trauma is as Trauma Does: The Politics of Affect in Catastrophic Times. In M. J. Casper & E. Wertheimer (Eds.), Critical Trauma Studies: Understanding Violence, Conflict, and Memory in Everyday Life (pp. 19–36). New York Univer sity Press.

The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism

“So to speak,” as an interruption, not only demonstrates that they are reconsidering how they phrase their writing, it also delays the delivery of “the object of abolition,” lengthening the time spent on these two questions and moving us toward the answer slowly and deliberately. These temporal techniques are solidified in the third sentence, which lists prisons, slavery, and the wage as objects of abolition from the present, past, and future, respectively. Harney and Moten implicitly place their reader in time, framing abolition not as a one-and-done process, but rather as an action that perpetually moves us forward through time.

By establishing a rhetorical and chronological rhythm, Harney and Moten prime the reader for a more poetic reading of the third sentence. The answer to their questions begins not with a straightforward declaration of what the “object of abolition” is but with a statement of what it is not and what it should achieve. Before understanding their final definition of abolition, we first encounter descriptions of what abolition can dismantle— prisons, slavery, even the wage—all through the assumption that these are only the effects of an existing, broken system. These institutions are framed as a consequence, but not as an absolute. We are reminded that repressive systems are a conscious choice; the conditions from which they manifest endure outside their actual existence, and both need to be abolished. With each of these moves, from what abolition is not to what it should achieve, we inch closer to a truer portrayal of abolition.

Only halfway through the final sentence do we receive a tangible definition. Abolition is not the “elimination” of one single institution or system; more accurately, it is the “founding” of an entirely new set of operational principles for our social and academic institutions. Returning to the rhythm of the sentences, this final phrase reads like a turn in the poem. The previous seventeen pages in the chapter serve as a declaration of the failings of the university as an institution; only here, in the final paragraph, do we get a sense of how to move past previous errors and towards a generative future. “Abolition as the founding of a new society” is more constructive than descriptions limited to the failings of a university or society—this phrase signals an imaginative capacity that Harney and Moten ascribe to the state of being embodied by the undercommons. Thus, Harney and Moten reclaim “abolition,” a word imbued with the historical connotations of slavery, for its radical, speculative intent. Institutions are not abolished solely as an attack on the past but as a desire for a future that defies the

exploitation and injustice of the neoliberal university.

‘25 - Care

The hopeful turn at the end of this excerpt draws our attention to the paradox of a “nonplace” that is capable of creating a “new society.” Implicitly, we understand that space cannot be created from nothing, and yet, Harney and Moten are suggesting that the undercommons, defined by its lack of physical presence, will do exactly this. In this line of reasoning, the undercommons’ capacity to foster collaboration, passion, and a just future is inherent to its ability to abolish the institutions that produced prisons, slavery, the wage, and other exploitative constructs. Through the practice of abolition, the undercommons will infiltrate the spaces that exist and reshape them in its image. But can this be reconciled with the understanding of the undercommons as a nonplace? It cannot. So we must locate the undercommons elsewhere, somewhere incorporeal yet not without material consequences. The key here is in the title of the section: “a Nonplace of Abolition.” If the undercommons is not a space in which abolition occurs, then maybe it is the act of abolition itself. Perhaps, when we write about the undercommons, the “under” does not refer to spatial relation but to subversion. It is the constant questioning of broken systems that direct harm toward the least powerful among us; it is the refusal of callous institutions that produce only narrow epistemologies. The undercommons’ lack of definitive space allows us to more readily recenter the lives of those at the margins of society, placing the needs and aspirations of those most at-risk of exploitation above the demands of capitalist systems. Like abolition, it is a moving target—constantly shifting and relocating to address new forms of oppression—and not a destination at which we can arrive.

Works Cited

Harney, Stefano, and Moten, Fred. The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning & Black Study. Minor Compositions, 2013.

He gave his stubborn tomatoes life by guiding them along the wooden stake. His days on the wooden utility pole would slowly take his life away. Liver cancer was his cause of death. But I never expected that I would learn of his death’s true catalyst, pentachlorophenol (PCP), in a lecture hall almost seven years after his passing. PCP is a wood preservative that poisons any critter within a few feet radius of the pole. As small, winged corpses fell to the grass, my grandfather was minutely poisoned in the clouds.

Now I know on an intimate scale that to displace nature is to displace man. The wooden stake, despite being a man-made invention, allowed an element of nature—the tomatoes—to grow and reclaim the grass it belongs to. Meanwhile, the wooden utility pole was a weapon because it prevented bugs from dancing as they pleased. The tomatoes were only angry in my imagination. Nature was more effective than angry. It knew what karma meant.

Marisa Lanker Paniello

Lessons in La-La Land:

MJLC Staff Takeaways from AWP 2025

Introduction

Jonathan Tostrud, Co-Editor-in-Chief

In a mad dash across the country, the MJLC’s regularity was uprooted—finding its members shoving clothes into carry-ons, taking flights at blasphemous hours, and finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants. For the second consecutive year, we had the opportunity to attend the AWP Conference and Bookfair, this time in Los Angeles, California. As the name suggests, the conference has two main activities to choose between: attending panel discussions or navigating the rumbustious bookfair. For any attendee, the event is beyond daunting, consisting of three days of back-to-back talks, panel discourses, friendly faces, overpriced books, and underpriced books alike—far and away worth the mental and physical fatigue. Our experiences at the AWP conference were strictly positive, and our most memorable ones—from genius revelations to reframed ordinaries—were scribbled down and recreated here. The conference is something experiential, and our best attempt at preservation is yet inadequate. No words could capture the energy and buzz of being surrounded by a community who is unafraid to voice pains over political turmoil and abuse language to its limits. The theme of care was ineludible throughout the panels, interactions, and moments of the conference. As such, attending AWP gave the six MJLC

attendees new insights and inertia for our work as both a literary magazine and an organization of activism.

Care & Craft: Community in the Writing World

Shu Lan Schaut, Production Director

In a way, AWP is its own society—a microcosm of the writing world. The organization connects writers and publishers, supports budding literary talents, and promotes existing writing centers and programs. Its annual conference is just another node in its network of connections.

As you explore, sitting in on panels and exploring the vast bookfair, you feel an inexplicable energy. There is an excitement, a mix of elation and novelty, similar to the children exploring a candy store. People are

Conscious Language & Finding

Our Words

Jonathan Tostrud, Co-Editor-in-Chief

The panel that stuck with me the most discussed questions that are seemingly at polarized extremes: how can literature overextend, and how can it underinclude? The panel, “Can I Write That? At the Crossroads of Social Change & Conscious Language,” was unabashed in interrogating all known conventions of social acceptability in language, both in speaking and writing. The panelists Kavita Das, Paisley Rekdal, and Karen Yin all found their own methods of uprooting. Das zeroed in on the topic of cultural appropriation, and asked three questions before writing, conveniently alliterized: does the writer have authority

over the content, is the representation authentic, and, finally, is anyone alienated by this telling? For Das, those questions don’t mark the end of the work for the writer, but the grueling bare minimum. The writer can, according to Das, write about almost anything or anyone else, at least in theory. To compensate for the impossibility of realizing theory in the real world, they must become immersed in research to fulfill Das’ 3 A’s. To get even closer, one must find the context of their work within their own perspective. That is, delve deep into your own lens, and relativize yourself to the subject matter. This is requisite for everyone, and, according to Das, “no identity is monolithic.”

Broadening the scope to general appropriation, Rekdal was quick to point out that our definitions of appropriation need significant examination before any conclusions can be drawn regarding language use. At its broadest meaning, appropriation is simply the act of taking an object and using it for one’s own means, for any purpose it may serve. In literature, this can be construed both positively and negatively, such as in the case of stereotyping. Rekdal proposed the question, “when does appropriation become harmful?” She found an answer in the consequences of appropriation. Harmful appropriation negates agency, whereas its inverse would embolden agency and a constant sense of change. This was presented as the difference between reductive literature and expansive literature—the inward versus the outward. When any appropriation “traffics in” stereotypical thinking, such as linking bodily and mental characteristics, the use of literary appropriation becomes implicitly racist. To avoid this, Rekdal suggested using race as a

relational metaphor, so as to be explicit about the use of descriptions. Rekdal’s perspective additionally focused on the pedagogy of recognizing appropriation, such as the examples given above, to encourage the exercise of craft and theory. She believed that appropriation is something students should be exposed to in literature and writing classes, improving their conscious awareness of appropriating language.

Yin, the third, and final, panelist proposed a framework for conscious language—one that is mindful, intentional, and aware. The point is not to present an indisputable list of do’s and don’ts, but to create something flexible, where everything is in context. She clarifies that conscious language will not always be the most inclusive language, but the two overlap. For Yin, conscious language is what promotes the most equity and overall justice. By this, almost anything can become conscious language, even the offensive, as long as it begets justice.

This framework is comprehensive in contextualizing, and finds four different “zoom-levels” to focus the search. (1) The word: its spelling and common meanings, (2) the sentence: parody, descriptions, and equity, (3) the story: world-building (what assumptions are being made about the real world?), and (4) the series: patterns in storytelling. At the first level, choosing the right word can be cumbersome. Yin reduces your choices during uncertainty to either supporting the word by changing the words around it, or avoiding the word altogether. The zoom levels can be used to fix context, and provide more conscious thought into language choice. This panel demonstrated to me methods that

incorporate more active scrutiny in the process of reading and revising works, and considerate perspectives of approaching the process. In social justice spheres, the purpose of writing revolves around equitable access, so I am excited to utilize the frameworks of the panel in my own writing and for the future of the MJLC.

Acknowledgements

Although a daunting task every semester, the production of our magazine is inevitably achieved through the collective efforts from not only our team, but from the very community in which the idea of the Madison Journal of Literary Criticism was born, out of abolition, intertwined with collective protest, and aimed towards mutual aid.

The usual list of those to thank seems to grow endlessly, but the labor done here is one well worth the result. This reflects our endless gratitude to those who put up with our meeting antics, who work far too late into the night for a voluntary student publication, and do much more for the MJLC. We always hope to provide an exhaustive list, and we want to express our thanks for and recognize the work and efforts of each individual; even if your name is not referenced, know that your contributions, in study group or beyond, have influenced and shaped the very essence of our publication.

First and foremost, we wish to extend thanks to those who make the MJLC possible from behind the scenes. The UW-Madison English Department has been an incredible foundation for us, providing support and feedback as we sculpt our organization’s identity semester in and semester out. Specifically, we want to thank our advisor, Erin Polnaszek Boyd, who has not once hesitated in guiding us through our evolving needs, whether it’s finding the right clause for our bylaws, or giving us key resources to support our various organizational expenses.

Additionally, Professor Ingrid Diran has been an originating cause of our success, giving us guidance in developing meaningful ways to connect with our theme, Care. This meant properly conveying its underlying feature—action being instrumental in the process of caring. In handing us the magazine in 2022, and enabling the second iteration of the MJLC, she has provided opportunity abound, to us, and wherever our message reaches. We owe much thanks for this.

The MJLC is a study group that produces a magazine. This phrase has been hammered into our brains since we created the study group to carry out the practices discussed in the magazine. The emphasis, however, is of particular interest to our goal of Care. As such, it is worth extending substantial thanks to our study group members, the live example of our work, a place to openly discuss theory, praxis, and their synthesis. Thank you to Quinn Henneger, our Education Director, who has guided our weekly lessons throughout the past two semesters, delivering invaluable knowledge and insight into our role as abolitionists in social justice. To the attendees of our Thursday study group, we want to extend our appreciation for keeping the spark alight in our intellectual and conversational extensions, and for supporting our mission.

Our magazine, of course, could not be produced without the continued support from the Associated Students of Madison (ASM) Grant Allocation Committee, including ASM financial specialists Makenna Kull and Sara Solovey. Throughout financial and logistical problems, our concerns were always in good hands when brought to them.

In regards to the magazine, a composition uniquely combining staff and student perspectives, our contributors are unconstrained within the isthmus of Madison. Rather, they range across countries and span continents. The magazine would be simply devoid of worth without the contributions made from these groups, so we wish to extend great thanks for feeling comfortable in sharing your stories with us. We promise to honor and uplift your creations.

To the bold and creative students of Professor Mai See Thao’s Asian American Studies 540: Southeast Asian Memory and Trauma, thank you for entrusting us with your stories and art. These students carefully crafted narratives in commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the Fall of Saigon, discussing intergenerational trauma, the

Spring ‘25 - Care

image of the refugee, and the prospect of healing amidst state-sanctioned violence. These pieces deeply inspired us, and we hope that our readers feel similarly emboldened as well.

The Madison Undergraduate Conference on the Humanities (MUCH) graciously welcomed the MJLC to present two panels at the 2025 conference. We sincerely thank Gabriel de Moura Fiandeiro and Evangeline Thurston Wilder for giving us this creative and collaborative opportunity to engage with the academic community. The panels were an outlet to introduce whole swaths of students and staff to our journal, and, importantly, us to them.

As much as we wish our work was complete there, much more must be done after receiving these marvelous submissions. That’s where our staff so crucially comes into play. Our team of 18 are the visionaries that craft this magazine, word by word and page by page. Alejandro, Evie, Celeste, Katrina, Will, Sreejita, Max, Sarah, Mihika, and Ella—thank you endlessly. We would specifically like to thank Rissa Nelson, and Kiki Marckel, our two-person dream team, the courageous souls who endeavor to do our magazine’s graphics and design. It is truly one of the most demanding positions, which calls for late hours, or early mornings, at some points even blending together. Special thanks to Shu Lan Schaut and Mary Murphy Stroth, Production Director and Managing Editor, respectively—collectively a power duo when it comes to keeping us all on track and moving forward. This semester’s graduates include Sophia Shashko, our Outreach Coordinator, and Katrina Koppa, our sole Art Editor. Sophia—you could not do any more work than you already do. We’ll miss your input and presence as one of our longest-standing members. Katrina, although we’ve only had the pleasure of having you on the team for one semester, we’re so glad to have spent a semester with you on the team. We cannot thank you two enough for your continued efforts and wish you nothing but the best post-graduation.

To all who have preceded us, whether being on the team or contributing ideas, we want to thank you. For one semester, or six—it’s the small contributions that make our big ones worthwhile. Thank you for making us who we are today. In the MJLC’s revival, our two founders, Ria Dhingra and Anna Nelson, are personally owed recognition from us. Any idea which endures beyond its visionaries showcases not just the strength of the idea, but the strength of the bonds which hold the work together. Each contribution reiterates the very nature of our magazine, planting the seeds to sprout even greater intellectual curiosity—beyond our team—and, hopefully, on to uncountably more iterations to come.

With the gratitudes accounted for, we are pleased to share with all of you this edition of the Madison Journal of Literary Criticism.

With love, Jonathan & Landis Co-Editors-in-Chief

Alain Co - Arrhythmia / Alain Co is a visual artist who specializes in material processes, producing mixed media sculptures that fuse elegance and ugliness. They received their MFA in sculpture from the University of Arizona in 2023. They grew up in the Deep South and use the visual undulations of landscape and swamp within their work.

Anneliese Burke - Pulled Apart / This work is made by Anneliese Burke, she is 20-yearsold and is currently a junior at UW-Whitewater majoring in art education. Her hometown is Milwaukee, WI. She was compelled to create this piece based on a personal experience she had with someone she cared about very much, but she believes it relates based on this statement, “Care is the thread that binds all abolition work together.” She thinks this piece visually shows this statement and encourages viewers to really think.

Anyka Swanson - A Story of Love and Hope Amidst War and Discrimination / Anyka Swanson is from Monticello, Wisconsin and is a graduating senior at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She is pursuing a degree in English literature and a certificate in Asian American studies. She is passionate about highlighting marginalized voices and hopes that this piece will convey that. She was inspired to create this short story for an Asian American studies class about Hmong trauma and memory, in order to shed light on Hmong voices and to create a sense of community.

Cecelia Shervheim - Redacted by Red: The Omission of Memory / Cecelia Shervheim is an artist and writer graduating this year from UW-Madison with a degree in art and Japanese. Her poem “Redacted by Red: The Omission of Memory” explores memory, identity, and cultural connection, reflecting on how stories shape personal and collective histories. Through poetry, visual art, and storytelling, she bridges perspectives and sparks conversation. Having previously lived in Japan, she plans to return after graduation to teach English while learning from and connecting with people across cultures. An avid traveler, rock climber, and nature lover, Cece is passionate about immersing herself in new experiences, exchanging ideas, and using creativity to foster understanding in a global community.

Electra Sullivan - Isolation in Grief / Grabbing major influence from emotion, Electra Sullivan explores heavily on the concepts of grief, anxiety, and what it means to be human. She currently attends UW-Green Bay as a studio art major after living in several different southern states throughout her life. Electra hopes to continue exploring the world and her emotional mind through an artistic lens.

Elise Edwardsen - Living in a World Not Made for People Like Me / Elise Edwardsen is an 18-year-old student from Boston, Massachusetts, studying in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. A former figure skater and coach, she balanced competition and teaching before shifting her focus to academics. As a firstgeneration college student living with a chronic illness, she has firsthand experience with the challenges of managing health, education, and financial pressures. She shares her perspective to highlight the realities of chronic illness, aiming to foster awareness and understanding within her community.

Ellen Zhang《和爸爸聊》// chatting with dad / Ellen Zhang is a second-generation Chinese-American student who grew up in Green Bay, Wisconsin. This work stems from her ritual of eating sunflower seeds, guazir, with her father. One has to slow down, take time to eat them. They are a snack made for community. For them, it’s a ritual of respect and love. Language, cultural, and generational barriers make it hard to have heart-to-hearts, but it seems easier with sunflower seeds.

Emiland Kray - Arrhythmia / Emiland Kray is an interdisciplinary artist who explores nostalgia and fear by using historical craft. Originally from Las Vegas, Nevada, Kray has lived and worked across the American Southwest. He received his MFA from the University of Arizona. He uses art making as social practice to support community skill-sharing.

Emily Aikens - The Pleasures of Imagination in a Threatened World: Engaging With Nature in the Anthropocene / Emily Aikens is a junior at Yale University majoring in English. Originally from Scranton, Pennsylvania, she hopes to pursue graduate study with a focus on 19th-century American literature and ecocriticism. Her essay “The Pleasures of Imagination in a Threatened World: Engaging With Nature in the Anthropocene” proposes that literature might serve as a device that allows humans to engage with the environment in a world where natural spaces are limited. Specifically, by drawing attention to nontraditional instances of nature, poetry can help us appreciate and generate care for natural settings in urban environments.

Emmett Kroner - Sanctuary / Born in Milwaukee Wisconsin, but growing up overseas in Chad and Kenya, 21-year-old Emmett Kroner has an identity rooted in diverse cultures and experiences. Returning to his childhood home in Chad between semesters, Emmett reconnected with the landscape that inspired his current pursuit of a degree in Forest and Wildlife Ecology at UW-Madison. In an attempt to preserve this connection, he utilized photography as a means of capturing its essence. This piece displays a quiet yet imposing act of protection as an African elephant stands over her calf, exemplifying care as both an instinct and an act of resistance.

Jack Dudek - The Ride / Jack Dudek is a 24-year-old from Buffalo, NY. He majored in Film Production at Michigan State University and recently left Epic to pursue writing literary fiction and sketch comedy. Jack wrote this piece as a reflection on how care can transform the lives of other people even when they don’t consciously accept it. This piece focuses on the importance of care when it’s ugly and inconvenient, and how caring matters the most when the recipient believes themselves beyond the salvation of care.

Jessie Burton - Interior / Jessie Burton is a 22-year-old BFA major from Kalamazoo, Michigan graduating this spring. She specializes in chalk pastel figurative work and has always been enamored with the human form. Body language and its display of intimate emotions in indefinite ways guides her creation, as well as her love for contour line and anatomy. “Interior” is unique in that it directly portrays her passion for Old Master techniques with its use of silverpoint and handmade gouache, rather than pastels. A self portrait focusing on contentment, “Interior” is care through its quiet message of pausing to love.

Natalie Baker - The Queer Politics of Craftivism: Crafting Trans Resilience Through Quilting / Natalie Baker is a recent English literature grad from America living in Japan. She loves knitting, which inspired her interest in craftivism.

Nilvio Alexander Punguil Bravo - Community / Nilvio Alexander Punguil Bravo, an artist and musician from Ecuador, is pursuing his Ph.D. at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. As a self-taught artist, he explores themes of community, healing, and human connection through various artistic mediums. Inspired by his journey and diverse influences, Nilvio creates visual narratives that evoke empathy, resilience, and a sense of belonging. Constantly experimenting with new forms of expression, he uses his art as a bridge to connect cultures, share stories, and foster collective understanding.

Rachael Hunter - Red and Blue Line / Rachael Hunter is a painter based in Madison, working to establish herself as a professional artist over the next few years by selling her work in the form of prints, stickers, and zines. Her work explores her relationships with the people in her life and reflects on the nature of relationships more broadly. Her piece “Red and Blue Line” examines the connections between strangers and how individuals behave in groups. The painting depicts people waiting for a train, brought together by this shared moment.

*Ronan Piontek - MJLC Recipe Book Entry / Ronan Piontek is a junior at UW–Madison from Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. He is majoring in political science and Spanish with a certificate in Chicane/Latine Studies. His research interests include conflict, extremism, and community self-organization and self-defense. Outside of the realm of academia, he enjoys exploring the Madison area by bicycle and keeping up with new releases in metal music.

Sabrina Longo - Tomato Plants and Powerlines / Sabrina Longo is a first-generation college student to southern Italian immigrant parents. She is studying world literature and gender & women’s studies at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, and works at the CU Community FabLab and the University of Illinois Press. Her piece is about her grandfather, a man with the greenest thumb, whose exposure to PCP in his work as an electric lineman in Italy could have potentially contributed to his passing from cancer later in life. Her piece explores unprocessed grief, climate anxiety, the biological clock, and, most of all, how his care for nature is prominent in her memory of him.

Shea Murphy - At Ease / Shea Murphy is a 2024 UW-Madison BFA graduate who creates work according to her humor, passions, and anything outside the box. She is currently living in Milwaukee, WI and figuring out what’s next. Shea loves printmaking, design, photography, and finding ways to repurpose materials and fuel her ideas. Connection drives her curiosity and community sustains her desire to create.

* indicates MJLC Study Group Member

Follow the MJLC on Instagram

Learn more at the MJLC website

Read the MJLC’s founding research

Funded in part by an Associated Students of Madison viewpoint neutral grant. Contact request@asm.wisc.edu for accomodation information.