THE TRANS AND GENDER NONCONFORMING ARTS REVIEW (TaGAR) >> GIVEN
EDITION ONE: SPRING-FALL 2021
THE TRANS AND GENDER NONCONFORMING ARTS REVIEW (TaGAR) EDITION ONE: SPRING-FALL 2021 GIVEN
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF THEO Poling LEAD EDITORS LIV Evans KATE DesLauries JADE Ebels PAZ Regueiro EDITING TEAM OLIVIA Korensky QUEEN Emily LEAD DESIGNER CHRISTOPHER Shimizu
Contents 6
34
the house that she lived in | theo poling
peace in my senses | rose younglove
13
36
given | karla rodriguez-garcia
20210207 | lee hubbel
14
37
i am not unmade by your wishes | rose younglove
laramidia | paz regueiro
16
38
i look at my naked body with a censor bar | baz crow
tender declarations | rose younglove
17
40
glitchy | kate deslauries
utopia | theo poling
18
46
boxed in | theo poling
womanhood and i get into fights | isabella crow
20
48
secondhand shoes | rose younglove
20210108 | lee hubbel
30
49
the label crisis | emma laible
mama drives me home | paz regueiro
32
50
you are bleeding | kate deslauries
held apart | xochi sanchez
33 202110109 | lee hubbel
Letter from the Editor: Hi, all. Welcome to the first yearly edition of the Trans and GNC Arts Review, Spring-Fall 2021: Given. This name was chosen from one of our submissions, and encapsulates a general theme found in the content for this year: a feeling of transactions, transitions, gives and takes, gifts and sacrifices. Being trans is infinitely many things, and is represented uniquely in all individuals, but our society often frames our thoughts, our expressions, our relationships, ourselves. This magazine was started in a pandemic in a fully-virtual school year by a new student, adding to a feeling of change, transition, giving what you can, and having things taken from you. It’s been a difficult year, but an absolutely wonderful one, too; change often means growth. We hope to grow even more, together, with you, into the next year, and beyond. Thank you for reading. Theo
WE WANT YOUR SUBMISSIONS Have experience with gender? Let’s talk about that! TaGAR is an inclusive, safe, ally-welcome space to discuss gender and its intersections in society. The work we create, read, celebrate, and publish shares, expresses, criticizes, celebrates, and questions gender in many different ways. Any kind of art--visual, written, mixed media, auditory--is welcome, as long as it was created with gender in mind or by an author who has interacted with gender in their own ways. Every year, we publish a new volume, and host talks, open mic nights, events, and discussions. Join us to create new art or submit your existing art to the next edition of the magazine. Here are different ways to get in touch with us, attend meetings, and submit: email: transgncartsreview@umich.edu ig: transgncartsreview linktree: linktr.ee/transgncartsreview website: transgncartsreview.org issuu: transgncartsreview Thanks!
spring-fall 2021
The House that She Lived In THEO POLING
They don’t tell you that you have to change the doors. We bought this house knowing it was old. We wanted something with good bones, something that would last. I thought the term “forever home” was a too lighthearted and cheesy way to describe the place I’m eventually going to die in, but that was what we were looking for. A place to settle into. We weren’t travelers. We weren’t particularly social. But it was because we had each other, not because we were goblins or Boo Radleys. Every day waking up next to her was a new adventure. For her, the house has already served its purpose.
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***
and inside them, new doors. The shifting foundation had warped and put pressure on
There were a few things I knew had to be
them. It all had to be redone.
done. Her mother was very practical: we learned how to clean the gutters, dust the
That is what I had a problem with.
light fixtures, and replace the wallpaper ourselves. Her mother was a sturdy woman.
After our walk, after feeding the cat, after
She’d come over in messy jeans and a t-shirt
breakfast, she would disappear into her
and rip out our sink in time for lunch.
writing room, singing a morning song under her breath, a different one every day, of her
I knew the house would be a project, I knew
own creation. As she passed through the
it, but I didn’t know about the doors.
doorway, the open doors, she’d pass her hand over the moulding, over the threshold,
The thing about old houses is that they
and then she’d close the doors. Everything in
become part of the earth. They have a
this house creaked and talked back, but the
concrete foundation dug into the dirt to keep
house would go silent for her ritual. I never
it strong and sturdy. But the thing about
heard that door shut in my life, yet every day,
the earth is that she is ever-moving, ever-
it was closed until mid-afternoon.
changing. No one ever looks into the same creek twice. Someone important said that.
I would leave her to her writing. It was what sustained her, in more ways than one. I don’t
It’s not just water. The silt and the seeds and
remember what I would do during that time.
the roots change and grow and move and
It doesn’t matter anymore. All I remember
shift, and under that are tectonic plates, too,
is that when she was done, she’d swing the
constantly restless.
doors back open, and I’d know. I’d just know. I don’t know if it was the draftiness of the house
After a long enough time, the earth under
or some subtle movement or something
the house moves. It shrugs its shoulders. It
between me and her, but I’d know every time,
settles.
and I’d come to see her.
And the house goes along with it. If the earth
The evenings belonged to us. I could listen
shifts to the left, in what will be a hill in 500
to her talk about what she was fixated on that
million years, the house shifts, too, and the
day for hours. The funny thing is, she wasn’t
floors go topsy-turvy. The inspector placed a
much of a talker, except for some evenings
marble on the hardwood floors and it veered
when something gripped her soul and she
straight for the doorway into her writing room.
would have to talk and talk and talk until she
It was going to be expensive, he said. I didn’t
shook it loose. Nothing I said ever seemed to
care about that. We’ll have to rip things up, put
help so I’d just listen.
new supports in, new floors. New doorways,
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I didn’t want the doors gone. But it was a
***
safety issue, a code inspection thing. If I didn’t want the house to kill me, or if I wanted
When it was brand new in my mind and I was
to sell, I’d have to fix it.
freshly alone, I took it upon myself to remove all indicators of sickness from the house. It
I didn’t particularly care about either of those
was a big project. They were everywhere.
things, but I felt I had to do it. In the garbage cans in the kitchen and the They worked for about six weeks in the
bathroom, hundreds of disposable syringes,
summer to get it all done. Six weeks with
vials, pill packets, bandaids, and other
workboots on the carpet, unfamiliar men
detritus sat. The first thing I did was collect
in my kitchen handing me back the empty
everything. There were a few fallen plastic
glasses I’d filled with lemonade. Six weeks
containers under the bed and by the TV, and
watching the house turn into a construction
I grabbed those too. Then I swung everything
project and then back into a house again.
into the trash bin outside, letting the lid slam shut with a definitive whump.
I expected to feel relieved the first day they were gone and the work was done. But when
I didn’t quite know what to do with the IV pole
I came downstairs that morning, there was
by the bed, or the oxygen concentrator. They
a great, gaping pit in my stomach, sucking
were both big and awkward, and staring at
everything into it, even my breath.
them for too long was starting a fire under my feet and behind my eyes, so I just grabbed
The doorway was still there. But the paint
them. I pulled something in my back when
was blindingly white. The hinges were bright
I hauled them downstairs in one trip, but it
gold instead of a weary, browned brass. The
didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting
floorboards matched the rest of the house
them by the curb. Getting them out.
in staining and width, but they didn’t dip in the middle. They weren’t dull with years of
There was some stuff in the fridge, too, and
footsteps, scratched by the cat’s claws. They
out it went. Then I noticed the upcoming
shone, hard and strong and even, as if they’d
appointments on the calendar, so I threw
never been touched.
the whole thing out. That started a flurry of realizations, until the trash cans were full
I tried to force the image of her movements,
again, and those went out, too.
her billowing skirt, onto this image of the bright white door and the shiny floor, but it
There was a calm after that. I stood in the
didn’t fit. That’s not where she had been.
middle of the living room with my hands on
And that was only the start of it all.
my hips surveying the world around me. It looked a little normal again, but I could still smell the sickness, could feel it clinging to
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every surface. I
put
detergent I’d bought.
everything
pillowcases,
through
comforters,
the
sheets,
wash: rugs.
It didn’t smell like her. Nothing did. Not the
I
bed, not the couch, not the doorway to her
dusted and vacuumed and carpet cleaned,
writing room. I’d killed every last particle of
borrowing her mom’s machine to really get
her floating through the air.
to the deepest layer of everything, to soak it all in bleach.
And the harder I tried to remember her smell the more it slipped through my fingers like
The smell of sickness was replaced with a
I was a sieve. Brains are awful that way,
sterile smell, a hospital one, and I hated that
polluting and corrupting memories the more
even more.
you access them, but I couldn’t stop. I tried to remember how she smelled after a shower
I cleaned everything as if I were preparing
or being out in the rain. I tried to remember
the house for a party. I scrubbed the grout
how she smelled after going for a run. I tried
in the showers and ran a washcloth over the
to remember how she smelled when she fell
inside of cabinets and behind the washing
asleep on my shoulder. How she smelled
machine. When I was done, it was spotless.
when she woke up, one note at a time, in a
This was enough to keep me going until the
gentle song, along with the sun, which was
clean smell faded.
too early for me, but I always tried to catch that moment.
When another smell returned, it was wrong. It took me a long time to track it down, to
I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I
figure out the problem. For months, it just
couldn’t. Part of me knew it, instinctively, it
wormed in the back of my brain, digging
was deeply rooted in me. It was a part of me.
past the bark, rotting the wood. I shivered
If I could smell it, I’d know it immediately, no
as autumn fell around me. The first autumn
matter where I was: in Paris or in a sewer. I’d
since.
know her any day.
I had a bad night. I had a dream. Not a bad
But I couldn’t summon it, and I couldn’t find
one. A perfectly regular one. She made me
it anywhere. Even her favorite blanket, gone
eggs for breakfast but they were too runny.
unused all summer because it was thick with
I ate them anyway. I woke up with the flavor
wool, trapped at the bottom of the linen
in my mouth and her crow’s feet on my mind.
closet, just smelled like moths.
I leaned over, instinctively, curling over the other side of the bed, the space where she
After that, I noticed the absence everywhere.
should be. I breathed in deeply.
There’d been a stain by the right armrest of the couch for years, for years and years, from
Nothing. Nothing but the new laundry
when she spilled butter for the popcorn. We
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kept meaning to clean it up but we never did.
touched by her. Never kissed by her. Eyes that
It eventually got covered up by a cat bed and
never met her. And seven years after that, I
we forgot about it, but when she was gone
will be dead or demented. The memories will
and the cat was gone, the cat bed went. And
shatter like old clay pots found in the earth
when I cleaned, so did the stain.
by archeologists.
The room no longer carried the memory of
And one day, one day, she will be gone.
her laughing in embarrassment. She usually had a laugh I’d describe as cute, but she’d
I keep trying to catch her in my hands
been so mortified after ruining the carpet just
somehow. But every couple of months, every
a few weeks after moving in that her laugh
couple of years, I use up her shampoo. I
adopted a wheeze, an in, out, in, out wheeze
rip the kitchen rug and replace it. Even the
like a donkey in a cartoon. I couldn’t help
window casings had to be replaced. They
but laugh at her, which only made her laugh
look different now. Maybe the old windows
harder until the whole mess was forgotten.
were leaded, were original to the house.
If I grow old, a prospect I’m not keen on, I will
How long until she is gone? Until the house
develop Alzheimer’s like both my parents
has new skin cells, new bones, new organ
did. I will begin to lose it. And, without that
material? And when I am gone, the people
stain there, I will forget the popcorn incident
who live here next will never have known her,
ever happened.
and there will be nothing of her to uncover from the house. No story to be told.
Smell by smell, memory by memory, I will forget her.
I am stuck in a perpetual paradox. If I think about her too long I fear for the memories
It sounds impossible. We spent fourteen years
I’m changing, I fear for the hands that haven’t
together. From day one, we were inseparable,
held her in so long, and my chest goes tight.
hanging out every day, ostracizing our friends
My head goes tight. I’m scared to think about
by accident. They say your entire body is new
her.
every seven years: new skin cells, new bone, new organ material. I became a whole new
But I am so, so scared not to do it. To avoid
person molded entirely by her in that time.
the thought, the horrible sadness, the grief,
My brain filled up with knowledge about
the paranoid fear. To live on like a regular
her: her favorite sugary breakfast cereal, the
person, distracting myself with food and
limited number of things in life she actually
movies and work. No matter how debilitating
hated, including squirrels.
it is, to ignore it all would be worse. It would only speed up the forgetting, not delay it.
But my body is still changing. In another seven years, I will have a body that was never
It’s like touching a statue every day and
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expecting it not to go brassy and shiny. Our
doors shut to write. The wallpaper was red
skin has oils, oils that break down the patina
and gaudy, with collages of fat flowers. The
of the copper and brass and make it change
bookshelves were old and ornate, but the
color. There is nothing you can do to stop it.
wrong stain color, too dark. There was a
You are a human being.
round dehumidifier in the corner and two wicker trash cans.
Every day something else withers. Something else is worn down, just a little bit, but over
And, along the north wall, her desk. Her huge,
time, it will be unrecognizable.
dark, clunky, solid wood desk, original to the house. The previous owners hadn’t wanted
I haunt the house like a ghost, unable to
to drag the behemoth out, so they’d left it,
enjoy it, unable to leave it.
and she had adopted it and taken care of it, covered it in computers and typewriters and
There is one room I didn’t clean, one room
sticky notes and journals and pens.
that was only touched by workmen. And there it sat, still covered with those I was never allowed in there before. When
things, as if its occupant would return at any
she was writing, she was somewhere else,
moment to continue her work.
and the pages she left behind were sacred mementos of her time there. It was not a
I sat down in the chair as if possessed.
spoken rule, but I gave her her space. She
Before, this would have been a violation, an
always needed a space of her own, that was
illicit thing. Now, I thought nothing of it. I sat,
just hers, and the writing room was it.
my hands hovering over the surface of the desk. What to touch first? I was crippled by
I had to let the workmen in to replace the
indecision, afraid to move something and
door, and then later, to plunge deeper into
erase another tiny piece of her from the
the room to remove the window casings.
house.
I couldn’t help myself. After they left, I
This was the last piece left.
glanced inside. I let out a breath, and it stirred the dust. I It was a space separate to what the rest of the
sneezed, and a paper slid across the desk,
house had become. It was like an abandoned
careening toward the edge. Out of instinct I
museum, the artifacts preserved in dust and
snatched it out of the air.
stillness. Before I could stop myself, I was reading it. But it was still familiar. God, it was familiar.
It was in her handwriting in a smudgy, leaky
I’d glanced inside a million times before,
pen. She was left-handed, so the margins
innocently, right before she’d swung the
were covered in blurry fingerprints from the
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ink staining her hand.
was part of it. Even if I forget, if history never remembers in the first place, it still happened.
It was a journal entry. From June, so recent, so long ago.
And here, on her desk, are millions and millions of her thoughts.
It was a grocery list and a brainstorming list of what to get me for my birthday. At the
I spent the next few months reading through
bottom, she left a note to herself:
everything in the journals and on the computer and on the desk. I took pictures
Feeling kind of foggy today. I know the tests
and typed it up myself. There was one way
will come back bad, and I know it will break
she could be remembered forever. She could
her. Hoping to give her everything before it
be summoned in my muddled, aging brain.
runs out.
She could be here for others to read about.
A tear hit the page, then another, then another.
I wrote about her with a fervor that burned
I hadn’t cried once since it happened, but the
out quickly. I got the big stuff down first, the
water had been pushing at the dam, which
habits she had and the things I loved about
had just been blasted to bits.
her. I filled it in with details and quotes. I cleaned up her desk and put her work in
I sobbed, big and ugly, sucking in jagged
folders on the bookshelf.
breaths and moaning them back out, eyes scrunched up, lip wobbling like a child. I cried
And now, every morning, I walk under the
and cried and cried, sitting hunched over at
new door frame, sliding my hands along its
her desk and getting tears all over that note,
edges, and silently close the doors before
blurring the words until they mixed together,
sitting at the desk and working until mid-
but I still remembered them.
afternoon.
I would remember them for a long time. Not forever, but a long time, I knew. I missed her so much. It hurt every day, a new wound, but this was a good pain. There is more to missing her than cataloging things. Filing memories and objects away, holy, untouchable. There is more to missing her than forgetting her. She lived a wonderful life here, with me, I
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GIVEN, 2021, KARLA RODRIGUEZ-GARCIA
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I am not unmade by your wishes ROSE YOUNGLOVE
I am not unmade by your wishes Curves and soft lips and hazel eyes I always wanted to be green How many times must I reinvent myself Before I am satisfied I understand the appeal of continually moving Of shredding a shell to awaken new feathers But I am so tired And ready to be satisfied with who I am I am afraid I am not meant to be what I am The pitter patter adaptation is too slow Too unenthusiastic And for some too much at all Blue lights from laptops Telling me I can be everything and more I am so tired of being only to be changing Damn the thrill of change I want consistency Please rip the raw wrappers of your rage From my grasps I am not unmade by your wishes Just unloved
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I dreamt of God And he told me Do not become complacent But I am so tired And I want to give in completely With no shame No regrets Just silence and consistency I am afraid I am not meant to be what I am When I rip up the definition of me My courage is melodic, inspiring It cannot be empty Not shameful or so very tired What frame shall I cram myself into To hide from my growing boredom and discontent Am I grasping for thinly veiled escapes in my efforts to wrap myself under a new skin
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i look at my naked body with a censor bar BAZ CROW
once a month i meet the person i am becoming / in some kind of butch reading of the tea dregs / or rather the scraps of hair buzzed from my scalp / wilted on the creaky polish of the barbershop floor. / i am not a pretty girl / i do not remember the last time i was. / call me a winter stag loose of his horns, / the bull without the dagger, / a thousand packing peanuts in soggy cardboard. / my body is lucky to have me, though i am stored / entirely in the crawlspace beneath my left collarbone. / the rest of me is a flushed misshapen / pillsbury dough boy-girl / fucked up hybrid where god took the bad parts of both gingerbread cookie-cutter shapes / and baked me all in one giant lump. / i hope i am still edible / i am pink and inflamed. / my body is like some great picked-at scab / and i’m always happy to offer up its blood. / how can you look at me and feel anything that looks like love? / i chose to make myself / into this halfway house for people i’m not quite ready to be. / i recoil like i’ve been burned / if i am touched / though i’ve never been burned, / nor touched. / i dream only of an / imaginary dick / i don’t want and will never have, / oh what the hell, / sew it on, cover me up, / let me slide into someone who is blind / and sees not this pinked-up-fuckedup body-of-mine / but feels what i am making them feel, / which is goodness, / which is my redemption.
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GLITCHY, 2021, KATE DESLAURIES
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Boxed In THEO POLING
My life does not fit nicely into boxes. It doesn’t even fit into brand new boxes, or boxes of my own design. No, the pieces of my life spill out everywhere, like confetti, and it is beautiful. I am nonbinary. A lot of people think being nonbinary is a “third” box-that there’s boy, girl, and neither. That boys use “he” and girls use “she” and nonbinary people use “they.” Being nonbinary is not a third box. It is not just neutral descriptors like person or sibling. Nonbinary people do not have to be androgynous. They don’t need to be named Alex or Jordan. Nonbinary means outside of the binary, outside of construction--not making a “tri-nary” instead. Nonbinary people can use “she.” They can be comfortable being called a guy. Both of those things can be true at the same time in the same person. The dazzling, boxless magic of my identity is the woven layers of difference that other people might find at odds, unable to mesh. I’ve had my very existence challenge folks who love their boxes. Their stares mean nothing when someone else sees hope for themselves in me.
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I am not contradictory. I am not hypocritical. No, I am magical. I listen to my inner spirit and I try to make that confetti of light and foxes as happy as possible. I wear pink dresses and I write stories where I am a prince. Sometimes I grow my hair out. Sometimes I don’t. No matter how I’m perceived, I am always me. For some people, it can be excruciating to process that there are other boxes, there are things that aren’t boxes, and there are absences of things. It’s like we’re taught from birth to recognize Blue and Yellow. If some people have a really tough time with Light Blue or Neon Yellow, imagine how they’d react to Green! We’re not even bringing up Purple yet-that might overwhelm them. I love my multicolored identity because it fits me perfectly. My identity shows people that there are more ways to think and more ways to be. Some people like their boxes, but the people who want to step outside of them or change them should never feel scared. We should be celebrating any time someone explores something new, even if they eventually change their minds. All exploration is you giving attention and care to yourself. All of it is growing flowers and confetti in your mind. We can only see the truth of each other’s hearts if we can see beyond the walls of our boxes.
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Secondhand Shoes Parker leaves ROSE YOUNGLOVE
a squeaking, rubber red trail over the wet concrete. Parker is eight years old. It is sprinkling outside on a warm, Friday afternoon. Parker’s mother insists they wear shoes outside, even though Parker loves the wet dirt and grass against their feet and between their toes. Parker and their mother’s relationship requires compromise. “You’ll catch a cold out there without proper shoes on, young lady,” their mother, Mrs. Brown, had fussed. Parker’s baby sister, Aiysha, is curled up in Mrs. Brown’s arm, cradled by a bright pink blanket. The baby sleeps on, oblivious to the conflict around her. Aiysha is like a new pet to her mother, like the turtles whose necks are
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wrapped in stripes of black and green. But
smile is wide.
Aiysha is wrapped in soft colors and her dark curls are held back in a sewn headband. A
Parker wears their fluffy hair in curly brown
red rose is stitched into the right corner of the
pigtails, each one tied off with an elastic
adornment. Their mother smiles and tucks a
and a red plastic bear. Their mother loves
curl under the pink fabric.
to accessorize, and so does Parker. They are similar in many ways. Just the way their
“Aiysha is still so young…” Mrs. Brown had
mother likes.
paused, unsure how to address this sentence to her child in denial. “She’s so young,
Mrs. Brown loves the color red. Parker thinks
sweetheart. What if you give your baby sister
red is captivating and explosive, like the
a cold?” their mother had said, gazing at the
breath of a dragon. Red is hot, and loud, and
sleeping baby with awe. She then turned back
strong.
to Parker and frowned. Their mother is strong. Parker wears the rain boots. Mrs. Brown works on the PTA with Zahra’s Their rain boots splash in scattered puddles.
mother. Zahra’s mother is a tall, happy
Parker’s already unsteady balance wobbles
woman with a smile that takes up half of
in too big of shoes. The squeaking, sticky
her face. Like mother, like daughter: Zahra
material of the shoes smells strong—the
always finds something nice to say about
sticky, rubbery scent Parker doesn’t like. Their
others. Zahra says that Parker’s mom makes
mother doesn’t like when Parker complains
the best cookies. Parker agrees. The warm,
about sounds and smells, so Parker keeps
mouthwatering chocolate chip cookies melt
these thoughts to themself. Parker means
in Parker’s mouth and their wandering hands
to quiet their thoughts and think something
always found a way to snag another cookie
more acceptable, but their mind is now
from their mother’s glass bowl.
consumed with thoughts of their mother. “Stop that,” their mother scolded, ignoring They wish their mother had come outside
Parker’s wide eyes. Parker’s shoulders pooled
to play, to splash and laugh and be loud, to
around their neck like an oversized life jacket.
be like Parker and to be okay with that. But
They swallowed nervously and nodded with
Mrs. Brown detests the rain. Oh well. Parker’s
their mother’s next statement. “Too many
laughter bounces and bubbles out of them
sweets are bad for ladies of any age.”
like uncertain raindrops. Parker’s hands clench into tiny fists as water splashes against their
Parker loves their mother very much even
skin.
when her words made their stomach hurt and their throat dry. Those comments, her
The dimples in Parker’s cheeks glow and their
comments, hurt with a thick, uncomfortably
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wet weight like the tremble of Parker’s chin
She is strong, committed, certain in everything
when school becomes too much. They do not
that she does, and always, always in red. Mrs.
like school. Parker retreats from the weight of
Brown loves the color red. She wears it on her
school with glittery pencils and the dinosaur
lips and drinks a glass of it with each meal.
erasers they stuff into their pencil case. Mrs.
She whispers red secrets into Mr. Brown’s
Brown casts a shadow over Parker’s mind, but
mouth when she thinks Parker isn’t looking.
they are unsure if this shadow is a reflection or
Parker has seen the red stains over Mrs.
a rebuke. After all, how can their mother have
Brown’s fork or her father’s cheek before he
anything but good intentions? Those thoughts
left for work.
weigh too heavily on Parker’s shoulders, like freezing raindrops rolling down their
Parker is entranced by the subtle, scarlet
back. Parker closes their eyes and exhales,
clues. A stamp of Mrs. Brown’s existence
reminding themselves of every kindness Mrs.
bleeding into the lives of others. After all, their
Brown has shown them.
mother rarely kisses anyone on the cheek. Parker had not understood why their mother
Parker stomps into a large puddle, watching
pressed her lips to their father’s face or
the clear water turn red over their rainboots.
Aiysha’s rosy cheeks. But her mother had said
Parker attempts to shake off the bad, not-
it was important.
mothering glare she had gave them. Mrs. Brown loves them, and Parker loves her.
Their mother knows a great deal and perhaps,
Instead, Parker thinks of every reason she
Parker thinks, their mother knows everything.
and her mother are so similar. When Parker
She shows Parker how to eat at the dinner
isn’t staining their clothes or sneaking cookies
table and which clothes best match Parker’s
from a glass jar, that is. When Parker wears
eyes. She speaks her way through teacher’s
pink and molds themself into a taller, stronger
meetings where Parker is called “unique,”
person. Like Aiysha who is quiet and good. Or,
“curious,” “overzealous,” or any deplorable
at least, that’s how Parker imagines Aiysha will
synonym for Parker’s behavior in class. School
grow up to be.
is a topic of disdain between Parker and Mrs. Brown. Parker is loud, Parker is unsociable,
Aiysha is good because Aiysha is like their
Parker is anything except red, strong, and
mother.
beautiful.
Parker loves the way their mother seems to
“Another low grade,” her mother had
dance through the halls, a tune in her mouth.
whispered last night.
Mrs. Brown has many admirable qualities, but what Parker admires the most is their mother’s
Parker had come downstairs to ask their
sense of style. Mr. Brown likes Mrs. Brown too.
parents to come say goodnight. Their feet
He loves to hold her waist and laugh with her
stopped on the stairs as they listened to their
over dinner. Everyone loves Parker’s mother.
parents talk. Parker stood on their tip toes,
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their dark head curling over the railing of the
“You weren’t always so aware of your strength
steps. A crumpled sheet covered in Parker’s
and beauty,” he said softly. “And neither was
messy scrawl sat on the kitchen table. Mrs.
I. Remember how dim Mr. Brown was, Mrs.
Brown sighed audibly, staring up at Mr. Brown.
Brown?”
“She’ll never surpass them at this point, dear,”
Their mother looked up at him and sniffled, a
she had said.
wet sound Parker thought they had imagined. As quickly as it had occurred the sniffle
Parker frowned, their brow quirking as their
passed, struggling to turn into a wet laugh
mother spoke. Who was she talking about?
from their mother’s red lips.
What girl? Mr. Brown smiled, “How can we fault Parker for “Parker is special, unique. She’ll-” he cleared
not knowing where they need help?”
his throat, frowning. “Parker needs some help, but don’t we all?”
He ran a hand through his wife’s hair, smiling at her like she was something gentle and
“She’ll never get anywhere in life if she wastes
complicated. It reminded Parker of their desk
time arguing with her teachers over her name,”
at school, crowded and heavy and seconds
she frowned. She bit her lip, before her dark
from falling out of its container. Parker had
eyes met her husband’s. Something in her
inhaled sharply, startling further when Mr.
eyes was big, bigger than the feelings that she
Brown’s gaze returned to the stairs.
showed Parker. Parker tiptoed further down the stairs to get a better view of their mother.
Parker had used that moment to sneak back
The air felt heavy in the room, thick and
up the stairs into their too pretty, too pink
uncomfortable as if too many hot tears had
bedroom. Parker was too boisterous, too… too
fallen down Parker’s face.
much of something their mother clearly didn’t want. Parker’s eyes were dark brown. The only
Those same tears threatened to fall now.
red in Parker’s life was through their mother
Parker’s father spoke something soft and
and over their report card.
held Mrs. Brown’s hand. His gaze wandered to the stairs, and Parker bit their lip, hoping
Parker is not sure why school was difficult
they had not been seen. But whatever was
for them, only that it is. A small part of Parker
bothering their father was dismissed in favor
thinks their eyes are to blame. Their dark
of comforting their mother.
brown eyes are a continuous source of critique. Parker’s mother always uses their
“Parker,” Mr. Brown stressed, the hand on his
eyes as an excuse to buy them “more colorful
wife’s back supportive but strong. “Parker… will
clothes.”
be okay. She’s – Parker is a tough kid. They just need some help, my dear.”
Mrs. Brown takes great joy in dressing Parker
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up. The itchy, lace collars and the thick, frilly
“Yes, covered by mud- mud, Janice,” Mrs.
pink waves of satin skirts above Parker’s
Brown says, frowning as she balanced the
MaryJane’s. Parker tries their best to be as
phone against her ear.
colorful in school as they are in clothing. Parker wants to be confident, ambitious, and
“How am I supposed to recover in time for the
strong like their mother.
party? Yes, I know mom is coming, Jan, thank you.”
But as they grow older it becomes more apparent that Parker is not the right kind of
Mrs. Brown sighs and, had her hands been
strong.
free, Parker expects she would have run one over her face. Parker had been torn between offering to go shopping with their mother and staying home. Somewhere along the lines their line of communication had snapped, and Parker isn’t sure how to string it back together.
Parker is 11 years old, and the rain puddles are
It reminds Parker of the red and brown leaves
pooling into the front yard.
crumpling under their rainboots, slowly being pulled apart. Parker stares down at their
Mrs. Brown grumbles to herself as she carries
rainboots crushing the brown leaves. Their red
in bags from the car, probably something to
rainboots, of course.
do with the tulips drowning in the downpour. The pink petals clasp to one another like rats
Parker had wanted another pair of shoes, not
in the rain. Parker does not dislike flowers,
the dark red boots adorning their feet. But
they just… don’t understand their appeal.
it was either red boots or the pink rainboots
Flowers are nothing special, after all. They
their mother had cooed over. Don’t these
grow, they drink in the water, and they sit in
look nice, she had asked. Wouldn’t you like a
the sun just like Parker. Parker wears pink, but
nice pair of boots with flowers on the sides?
no one ever seems as endeared with Parker
And wouldn’t Parker like to try on the pink
as they are with their mother’s tulips.
shoes? Aiysha loved her pink and purple striped rainboots, and didn’t Parker want to try
Mrs. Brown, however, tends to the flowers as
something new?
if they were brought from her womb and not some pale, bony looking seeds hiding in the
Their father had suggested another pair of
dirt. They aren’t pretty, they’re plain, and yet
shoes, a dark green pair with polka dots, but
everyone loves them for exactly what they
Mrs. Brown had shushed him and returned
are. Parker frowns at the tulips. They have an
to her own suggestions. He’d sighed after his
unexpected source of pride that they didn’t
second suggestion was ignored. Parker and
fall under the rain like those fragile flowers.
Mr. Brown had stared at one another then, both wondering when the other would again
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have the courage to speak up.
store, tucked away behind an obnoxious pair of hot pink ruffled shoes- blegh. But then
“Jamar says the house looks clean but
Parker sees them, the perfect pair. Or at least,
how are we supposed to recover from this
Parker imagines that’s what it will be like when
downpour? No, I can’t ask her. She’s playing
they go shopping.
in the mud. Because that is what she does, Jan. Has that child ever shown the slightest
Parker is 14 years old and their parents want
interest in interacting with others?”
to stop at the mall to look at dresses, well, their mother does. Mr. Brown is just here for
Parker ignores their mother’s prattling of a
the pretzel special. He brags about the buy
name they refused to use, and a party they
one get one free bargain to Parker over the
do not want to prepare for. Parties mean
pretzels and smoothies. Parker doesn’t see
uncomfortable dresses and too many people
why it’s a big deal, but they try their best to
hugging them for too long in a big house
listen as he gestures around the blue tiled
turned too small with all of them breathing in
mall. He laughs at something Aiysha says and
the same space. It is this fear which pushed
bumps her nose with his index finger.
Parker outside, reminding them of the joys of an imperfect yard, of a place where you did
Mrs. Brown seems frustrated with the
not have to act like a lady.
boisterous crowd following her, the rest of the Browns. Parker finds it odd since their
“Aiysha catches colds so easily, especially this
mother is normally so eager to please. She
time of year.”
takes great pride in her presence anywhere. Perhaps the rest of her family takes away from
Ah, their little sister. Yes, the party is this
that, or perhaps its just Parker’s fault again.
weekend! Aiysha’s fifth birthday is only a few days away. Parker can picture it now, the front
Parker thinks they’ve been quite successful
yard wrapped in rose gold lighting and the
in keeping their thoughts to themself. But
trees filled with pink streamers.
something in Parker’s expression must give them away. Is it the curve of their hand against
Mrs. Brown wouldn’t dare touch her precious
their cheek as they stare off at another store?
flowers, but the fading brown leaves of
Whatever the reason, Mr. Brown waves a hand
Autumn are to be wrapped in pink silk. Mrs.
in front of Parker’s face, saying the wrong
Brown prefers everything to be wrapped in
name, the name that doesn’t belong to them.
pretty, obedient silence. “Hey kiddo, what’s going on in there today?” He laughs. “You seem more spaced out than usual.” The shoes are hidden in the corner of a thrift
Parker isn’t sure if its an accusation or a
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statement. But they are intrigued by it.
Aiysha is no longer laughing. The eight year
Their father smiles and begins waving his
old stares at Parker with perplexed, hazel
hands around in dramatic gestures. He says
eyes. Her bouncing legs are now still against
something else and Aiysha laughs again.
the plastic, green food court booth. She can
Aiysha, wearing the purple butterfly jacket
never sit still. Parker has never wanted their
and a pink jumper that their mom let her pick
sister to be loud more than right now. They
out.
had expected an instant answer. What did Aiysha expect? Her gaze drifts from Parker
“-ah? Hey kiddo, are you listening?” Their
to her father, her bottom lip shaking with
father asks, his eyebrows raised. “I thought
what Parker can only assume is an uncertain
maybe you, Aiysha, and I could have some
question about mothers and love.
time to ourselves around the store. How about it?”
“She never wants me to look like me,” Parker continues. “Or- or let me call myself me. Is that
Parker nods, half listening, half stuck in their
why she’s shopping alone?”
own thoughts of butterflies and red rainboots and drowned flowers. It seems like everything
“I… well,” their father blinks, his usually smooth
their mother loves is destined to be destroyed.
voice falling flat. “Sometimes your mother
Its like Aiysha’s smile, sweet but fragile. In
needs… alone time. And when adults need
an odd moment of clarity Parker voices this
alone time, they still love their children very
thought out loud or, they mean to, but instead
much.”
the real question on their mind is spoken into the air.
Parker frowns. “If she wants to be away from us how do you know that? How do you know
Their brown eyes stare up at their calm, easily
that she loves us?”
smiling dad. Mr. Brown blinks, opening his mouth and “Does mom like me?”
then closing it again. His lips flap with half spoken words and uneven breaths before
He blinks rapidly. The smile drops so quickly
he shakes his head, smiling at her. Suddenly
from his face that Parker wonders if it was ever
it becomes especially important for them to
there. This is their father, the one with all the
go shoe shopping. Their father prattles on
answers and stories. But his calm, knowing
about nothing of significance while holding
expression of ease and experience crumples.
their hand. Or perhaps it is exactly the answer
The uncertaincity pulls into a crease between
Parker is looking for and they just didn’t hear
his brow. His brown eyes stare down at Parker
it. They have never been very good at asking
as he tilts his head.
for what they really want and are even less equipped to take the directions to get there.
“Does your mother- does she… what?”
But the blue shoes in the windowsill spoke to
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Parker like nothing else has.
so. But Parker’s dad speaks before they can even open their mouth. Where did he come
In a dusty window sits an orange tabby cat.
from?
The window barricades a gray carpet with bright shoes. But the cat doesn’t pay the
“Hello,” he says, his calm mannerisms having
shoes any mind. The cat is rolling around, its
returned. “My children and I would like to see
head moving from side to side. Eventually
the blue, lace up shoes in the store window.”
the cat falls against a pair of worn shoes. Big, chunky blue shoes that call their name. It’s as
He gazes at Parker and Aiysha. Parker in
if the cat is talking to Parker, as if they want
the crumpled, red dinosaur t-shirt they had
Parker to have the shoes.
begged their parents for at the museum. Aiysha, in her butterfly jacket with her braids
Parker grabs Aiysha’s hand, startling the little
tied off in pink elastics. Parker’s hair is far too
girl, but Parker is too excited to care. Maybe
short to be handled by their mother now.
today will be the day. They run towards the
Parker had unsuccessfully tried shaving
store. It’s lined with blinking red and blue
their hair off last Wednesday at three in the
lights. The scarlet would normally have been
morning.
enough to deter them. But the shoes are waiting, and Parker doesn’t want anyone else
Their father buys the blue shoes.
to take them. And just like that its decided. Their father pulls Aiysha laughs and asks what Parker is looking
out his leather wallet and counts out dollars
for until they point to the tennis shoes. Then,
until the shop keeper nods. He has no hair
Aiysha’s eyes follow Parker’s fingers- the
and Parker realizes a little too late that they’re
periwinkle shoes with white laces, standing
staring at the man. Parker’s gaze drops to the
tall amongst pink heels and red sandals.
floor. But the man isn’t angry. He laughs and
The toes of the shoes are slightly scuffed,
smiles with all of his teeth when Parker waves.
wrapped in ashy grays and dotted with a few
Then he places the bag on the store’s counter.
scattered orange stains on the blue fabric. Parker insists on holding the shoe bag. Their Parker loves them.
arms cradle the white plastic like a baby. Their father smiles at Parker. He holds Aiysha’s hand
The shoes sit in the crook of Parker’s arm
and offers Parker the other. They smile but
when they run into the store. They did not
shake their head. If Parker were to hold the
mean to run, of course. Parker had meant to
bag with one hand the shoes could drop or
slowly walk up to the cashier, gesture to the
knock into something. These are their shoes,
shoes, and play around with the price. Parker
picked out just for them. Parker is so happy
has seen enough TV shows to know what
they forget to thank their father. Parker is lost
gambling is, and they had fully intended to do
in thought until they see their mother.
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Their mom is also cradling something. She’s
blinks at the small human. Aiysha smiles and
standing next to a woman in an orange kaftan.
points.
The orange woman’s hair is wrapped in a dark blue scarf. The dark blue outlines her dark
“Look, Parker!” she says. “It’s a baby!”
features like a crayon. Her shopping cart rests at her hip, waiting. But the woman is too busy
Adebowale smiles. She pats Aiysha’s curls and
talking to Parker’s mom and staring at the
nods at their mother. Normally, Parker is afraid
package in her arms.
of people’s hands and their touches. She would stand in front of Aiysha. But Adebowale
“Woah, woah,” their father laughs, shaking his
is so warm and sincere Parker can’t imagine
head.
her hurting someone. She’s nurturing. Parker is surprised to find themself liking Adebowale
The woman in blue raises her eyes at Parker’s
so easily. Adebowale directs her next smile to
dad. But their mother places an arm on her
Parker’s mom.
shoulder and she laughs then. The woman in blue has a name, and Parker would very much
“Very bright, this one,” she says of Aiysha.
like to know what it is. What is so special about this woman to interest their mother?
“Miss Adebowale,” Aiysha responds. “What’s a-
The blue woman notices Parker’s gaze and
what’s a Chicory?”
waves a hand, like they’re old friends meeting at a birthday party and not two strangers in a
The woman laughs. “No, no little one. His
mall.
name is Chikere. That means he was created by God, just like you and your family. He is a
“Forgive me,” the woman laughs. “My name is
blessing.”
Adebowale.” Mrs. Brown nods. She isn’t responding to The woman’s voice is written in cursive. Or
Adebowale. She’s just looking at the baby.
so Parker thinks. Her mouth curls around the
Parker doesn’t understand because their
letter s and holds o in her mouth for a long
mother always stresses the importance of
time. Adebowale is all hands and smiles, and it
answering when someone is talking to you.
turns out she isn’t a stranger to Parker’s mom.
But their mother doesn’t speak. She just
Neither is the blue cloth in their mother’s arms.
watches the cooing baby. And then her gaze skirts to Parker. She smiles.
Adebowale smiles fondly at Aiysha and Parker. “Would you like to see? This is Chikere.”
“Yes, they’re both very bright.” She says.
Oh. Their mother isn’t swaddling clothes or
Aiysha wants to hold the baby and there is a
shoes. In her arms is a bundle of fingers and
lot of jumping and talking before she settles
a crinkled nose on face of dark toffee. Parker
down on the floor. Their mother doesn’t say a
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word about the dirty floor. She doesn’t even say its rude to sit on the floor instead of a chair. She watches Aiysha and it reminds Parker of the years when Aiysha was just a swaddled bunch against their mom’s chest. Parker doesn’t feel safe holding a baby and shakes their head at the offer. They expect their mother to be upset with the refusal. But she isn’t. She’s just quiet. Eventually she waves her old friend goodbye, leaving a smiling Adebowale and a giggling Chikere to their shopping. Mr. Brown is close behind his family as they exist the store. Their mother holds Aiysha and Parker’s hands on the way out to the car. Parker doesn’t expect their mother to give their hair any attention. Not with how short they cut it. But their mother finds a way to run her hand through their hair, whatever the length. She isn’t mad. She’s soft. She nods at Parker’s bag with a smile when everyone gets in the car. “I like your shoes,” she says. Parker smiles at her.
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the label crisis EMMA LAIBLE
there’s a battle over my identity and i’m losing. societal expectations slap labels on my face and leave bruises. none of them fits but i keep trying. i try one on and think am i just lying to myself? what if who i think i am is only who i want to be? there is cold, hard evidence supporting my speculations, but still, what if? what if i’m making these feelings up? what if i just want to “fit in” to the idea of not fitting in? is this just an aftershock of all the ways in which i’ve been wronged? will i carry this trauma with me forever? i don’t like labels that much but if i’m rejecting labels am i rejecting who i am? am i just afraid to come out and say
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this is me? because that shit’s terrifying. are my feelings and fears betraying me or is this who i really am? and this is the everlasting identity crisis that i can’t quite escape the constant question that follows me every day no matter where i go but maybe this questioning makes me who i am. maybe this is me.
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you are bleeding KATE DESLAURIES
have you seen the way the ghosts stand on the ice, called by the cold and salt by the thick hot red blood thrumming through your steady veins, to gather in handfuls they stand with their legs wide, to keep steady but still they stumble on the ice and when they fall the skate cuts and blood spills all your past versions and mistakes come out steaming on the glass surface you are grey, blood long gone cold around your face you are blue, slowly feeling the frostbite set it you are pink, heart beats out a regular pace they reach out with quicksharp fingers and quicksharper tongues the reach because they need someone to talk to and you are the only one who can hear; the only one who understands all the past versions are begging you to listen and to play you are bleeding
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20210109, 2021, LEE HUBBEL
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Peace in My Senses ROSE YOUNGLOVE
I do not believe I would fear sight If it mirrored the dreams of greater men I could feel the opening of aches And Not Think Of him I shall find no rest in my sight I do not believe I would fear my mouth If I only saw your gains In gaining me Not the weight of another A Hungry Mouth To Feed I shall find no rest in my mouth I do not believe I would fear sound If it knew its place and when to stop Not my ears ringing from endless echoes Nights In Thumping Music please no I shall find no rest in my ears I block the senses out I would not know what to do If I let them in Or anyone with them Until I have Until I have found rest
-035
Red cannot possibly be this soft This kind This understanding But she is I take in her imperfections And find rest in what my eyes see I find peace in my senses Because through them I perceive her and I would not cut out the curve of her frown For the crown of her smile Rather all of it is a blessing As I can only hope I am to her
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20210207, 2021, LEE HUBBEL
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laramidia PAZ REGUEIRO
do you think it hurt when laramidia fell off
the side of appalachia
she split north america in half
but did it hurt to leave
like when the rib fell off his ribcage
became
another version of the same man
the pieces became
something else
do you think it hurt? do you think that when laramidia got cut off
did anyone tell her?
the floor didn’t go out under her
she is the floor
the sea rose so fast
the floor didn’t go out under her
when you imbue something with that much flood
you try keeping your balance appalachia unrelenting—
laramidia tried keeping her balance
do you think it hurt when she fell off?
the sea rose so fast the sea rose so fast the sea rose so fast
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Tender Declarations ROSE YOUNGLOVE I want to say I love you Like a needle through my skin I want to say I love you In the way Adam first tasted sin I adore you and it seems a waste To say something so beautiful In such a humble place If I could do what I wanted to I’d spend a lifetime with you I don’t know how to write an invitation As inviting as your blue eyes I don’t have to justify my existence to you I can exist and be happy In the space we made for each other While holding the other Like the key to open every door I finally feel happy I finally feel free Everything else is falling apart But I know you hold hands with me You make me feel real You make me feel sweet I could write about your smile And the way you spoil me But I’m just so happy That we’re trying to be free
-039
I know it isn’t perfect But all that means is we have More life to bottle together Your favorite color is soft and sweet I want to hear your voice in the morning Your fingers curl in mine Like a bow over red paper The gentle declaration of your adoration Is warm and soft Like bread we’ll bake in the kitchen Before flour dusts my cheek And you cleanse it with a kiss You make me want to be extra To be magnificent To share every part of me with you Until you can walk in my skin blindfolded And the only sense I have Is the warmth of your skin I yearn for your touch in reds and spice And even moreso In soft calls In lily lavished balconies And any song with your name I want to say I love you Like a needle through my skin I want to say I love you In the way Adam first tasted sin I adore you and it seems a waste To say something so beautiful in such a humble place
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Utopia THEO POLING
The news said it was for one year, but my grandmother knew better. Everyone had heard about it, she’d written, ever since it began construction seven years ago. It was a ship--a yacht, a party cruiser, the kind that costs more than the GDP of Ghana. Eleven stories tall, glass decks, private pools, buffets, gambling rooms, anything luxurious you could imagine, it was in those 50,000 square feet. Supposedly, it was a vacation getaway for the hyperelite. A year-long trip away from cities and smog and politics and bad weather. And people, regular people. But my grandmother was the help. She was
-041
a maid. She did room service in fancy hotels,
every major news outlet, and another one
had lived in every major city in the country,
was starting a reality TV show about the
and the company she worked for brought her
yacht that everyone was excited to watch, so
onto the boat as her next gig.
it didn’t surprise my grandmother.
She’d known what it was from the moment
The only thing that surprised her was that
she stepped onboard. She was part of a
she seemed to be the only one who knew.
small staff, but the gardeners, farmers, and
Or, if other people knew, no one was voicing
cooks numbered almost in the triple digits.
it. Out of what--fear, denial, grief--she didn’t
The “sun shade” was state-of-the-art, able to
know.
turn the entire ship into a sealed-off bubble. The day of the launch came with a lot of
She started working on launch day with
hub-bub. It was on the front page of every
her head down ignoring the cameras and
website and on the minds of everyone. It
journalists. She cleaned powder off the
was mostly because of the vacationers
toilets and stacked dozens upon dozens of
involved: the CEOs of the five biggest tech
suitcases into walk-in closets without a word.
companies, numerous oil and gas executives,
Once the ship was out at sea, the mirage
entertainment stars and producers, and
vanished. The reality TV show was mostly
countless politicians, including the president
interviews and short, staged party excursions
himself.
out to the olympic pool. They only filmed a few episodes before they stopped caring.
My grandmother’s writing was vitriolic. The letters on the page shook with how her hand
And why should they? They were gone.
must have trembled in rage. This president
There was no internet on the boat, no live TV,
was a hail mary, a euphoric promise after
only a catalog of the best entertainment in
several years under a brutally stupid and
the business, enough to last a lifetime. There
selfish administration. But some people didn’t
was no one to hold them accountable. In their
even know about that, or they didn’t care.
minds, they were beyond the world now. The people they’d left behind were nothing, the
He was supposed to be a savior, a herald of
politics trivial, the concerns laughable.
a new age. But here he was, spending an entire year of his four year term on a boat in
They headed straight for the equator, for the
the Pacific. A mega-yacht with cocaine and
warm, placid waters and great weather. The
tenured sex workers.
ship stayed miles out from any land, using fuel reserves kept on a basement deck that
The news didn’t cover it like some breach
went on for miles. The farmers and gardeners
of democracy, didn’t mention what would
harvested crops every year that the cooks
happen to the country while he was gone,
used in their five star meals.
but one of the CEOs on the boat owned
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One year turned into two, then five, then
on the boat or friends of people on the boat.
seven. Seven whole years my mother worked
All of those geniuses could be bought, of
on that ship, unable to leave, and without
course they could, they wouldn’t get money
pay. The payment they offered her was a bed
to do their research otherwise, and they had
to sleep on, a toilet to shit in, and food to eat.
families.
She could join the other workers that had jumped overboard if it didn’t suit her.
Think about it like a game, my grandmother wrote, a game where you were a god, and
She was cut off from everything, from
you were trying to accomplish something.
everyone. I can’t imagine how lonely it must
Trying to hide something, obscure it. From
have been. But she worked. She was ignored
everyone.
by the guests, invisible to most. She wrote that she was dumbfounded they managed to
It’s
easier
than
people
think.
Planting
last a whole seven years.
information. Buying news outlets, buying politicians. What about the ethics? What
The boat was built and stocked to last fifty
about the people who will die? What does
years, but none of that mattered. None of
it all matter if the whole planet burns within
the preparation and engineering they did
your lifetime? Before your children can grow
mattered. Hell, the yacht even had a state-of-
up?
the-art climate system to filter out pollutants and refresh the air, one that was easy to make
They know. They always knew. But things that
and not too expensive, but never revealed to
didn’t benefit them in the ways they wanted
the public. It had only been built for the ship.
didn’t get done, and everyone else was at
That was the truth of it all, the truth that my
their mercy.
grandmother wrote over forty pages ranting about. All of the problems were solvable,
I feel my grandmother’s rage each time I
and easily. The amount of money it would
read her words. Each time I read the truth, so
take was out there. The price of each fix-
logical, so simple, but also so evil and cruel
-each effort to help the ice caps, or the
that most people rejected it outright. I can’t
ozone, or the people--was not too bad.
imagine living in a world like that.
There were geniuses out there, people who could figure out how to recycle plastic and
For seven years she worked, imagining her
create renewable energy out of accessible
hometown burning down, people dying, sea
materials. People who could make systems
levels rising, wildfires spreading, consuming
that fed and sustained themselves in a way
entire states, entire countries, with no aid
that wasn’t just neutral to the environment,
ever coming, disorganization suffocating all
but actually helpful.
the good people left. Mass migrations.
But all of the people in power were people
The signs of the end were a long time
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coming. There were hints, she recalled, even
Anyone who tried to be a mediator, who tried
on that first day. Guests who would snap at
to resolve conflict, was dealt with quickly.
each other. Vacationers bored and restless after one game of strip poker.
Conspiracy theories and paranoia were king, and people were vying for the crown. But
They tried to elect a board, but everyone
the collateral damage was what killed them.
wanted a position, and everyone wanted
They stopped caring. They stopped caring
something different out of the position. They
about the help, about the things that really
were all vying for power in the ways they’d
mattered, like where their food came from
learned before the yacht, and no one was
and who fixed mechanical and electrical
willing to compromise. They’d never had to
problems.
before. None of the guests were cooks or electricians It was only after the cameras turned off and
or plumbers, so when the help worked
the batteries died that it became an actual
together as one mind, unlocking a rescue
reality TV show. The screaming matches
boat and piling onboard, the guests were left
were unscripted. The legions they formed,
to fend for themselves.
the betrayals they wrought, were all real. Alliances could be built and slashed in one
Seven years, my grandmother wrote. She
day over something as simple as a dessert
didn’t have to witness the end to know it
menu item.
happened.
They wanted more. More than the 50 years
She wrote down the coordinates of the
of supplies, entertainment, and drugs they’d
ship. She taught my mother everything she
brought on board. It was never enough. It
knew about life before the world ended. She
would never be enough. The ship could
taught my mother geometry and algebra and
sustain itself, but it couldn’t sustain a system
biology and political science. She taught my
of infinite growth and greed and capital. But
mother empathy and critical thinking. And
they wouldn’t let anyone leave, sick with fear
she gave my mother the skills she needed
of what would happen to the rest.
to survive in a world where there weren’t enough resources to go around, and an
They became so bored they began to drink
abundance of fear and violence.
their own poison. My mother raised me with my grandmother’s The first murder was in year five, but it was
words. I grew to love this woman I’d never
covered up somehow with some dubious
met, and resent the woman I had. My mother
claim and a paid off doctor. The next few in
never did anything with my grandmother’s
year six were public business, though, and
wisdom, never anything real. I always had
any last vestige of decorum went overboard.
a place to stay and something to eat, but
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that was it. We lived like any other survivor,
The main deck was overgrown with grasses,
migratory, staying on land, always hiding,
weeds, vegetables, and fruits. Palm trees had
alone.
reached maturity, sticking out of the decks and waving their leaves like sails.
I left her when I was twenty six. I took a boat from a warehouse in what used to be
We climbed onboard, breathless, senseless,
California and I went into the water. I was an
and shaken. I knew in a practical sense how
idiot and almost died several times.
massive the boat was. But standing on it and staring up into the atmosphere where
But I was not alone. Out on the water, there
the decks disappeared into the clouds was
were hundreds of rafts. Survivors like me
something else entirely.
looking for something better. Something with a little less plastic and radiation.
As we walked, our feet squished ripe apples and bananas. Freshwater pools rippled with
I shared my grandmother’s words instead of
fish. The first door I opened was some kind of
hoarding them. I made them a textbook, not
medical bay. Shelves and shelves of creams
a survival guide. With a group of friends and
and antibiotics and tools and wraps that I’d
allies, we used my grandmother’s coordinates
never seen before, only read about. Enough
to sail our way across the Pacific.
to last all of us a lifetime.
It took us two years to get there, and we were
The deeper into the ship we explored, the
down two people. I was sick and fading fast.
deeper the forest, the dense, lush greenery
When we got there, the boat was gone. Of
exploding across the very walls and floors. It
course it was. The ocean was more volatile
was nothing like the brown, burnt landscape
than ever, throwing up category 5 hurricanes
I’d crawled across, struggling to breathe, my
every two months in seemingly random
entire life.
places. Trees. Trees that hadn’t been logged. Water But, like my grandmother wrote, even when
that hadn’t been poisoned or stolen. Air that
the world was cruel, it was still logical. I
didn’t burn my breast.
studied the ocean currents, the patterns of storms. And I took my dwindling troupe of
And there was so, so much of it. So much
loved ones and sent us southeast.
space to run and run and run until my legs gave out.
After another year, we found it. And no humans. Just deer and birds and The outside was covered in barnacles and
frogs and tortoises and foxes and squirrels.
seaweed, and most of the windows were
Animals I’d only seen in picture books. The
cracked and broken. It was a dark behemoth.
ship was loud. I didn’t even realize it at first,
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but it was so loud. Bugs were making noise, chirping and buzzing in some unimaginable symphony. Birds tweeted and called and cooed. And the undergrowth was noisy with creatures moving and hunting and living. The only color I could see for miles was green. Every possible shade of green in the universe. It was beautiful. We built a life for ourselves, hunting the animals and eating the fruit. We healed each other. We started working on a way to get the boat engines working again. Several people went off in rescue boats to find others and bring them back. In a way, I am just like my grandmother. But in other ways, we couldn’t be more different. This boat means something different to me than it did for her. I like to think she dreamed about that, hoped for some outcome where that would be true. I would have loved to have met her. But for now, all I can do is meet other people. Meet as many people as I possibly can. And share with them the dream of my grandmother before my heart finally stops beating. The dream of life.
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womanhood and i get into fights ISABELLA CROW womanhood and i get into fights. the difference is she never learned what anger feels like and i carry it in my shoulders all the time. we’re childhood friends, raised together but grown apart she knows what i look like soaked and muddy from the sprinkler. when she comes over she stays for too long in my room, shuffles through my things, looks at old pictures of us in old pink frames and girl scout uniforms and talks as if we’re still those children. i hung up my sash a long time ago but i can still get undressed in front of her, she whispers the hushed old adage: “we’re both girls, so it’s okay.” well, i’m not anymore but i think i got grandfathered in. womanhood lets you reenter the gates as long as you keep your wristband on. womanhood is a roommate who always leaves dirty dishes in the sink. she uses up the paper towel roll and doesn’t replace it and opens a window when the AC is on. (i’m sorry, i know i’m not perfect either.) i’ll try to remember to take the trash out on tuesdays. i’m sorry that i always forget. womanhood lives in the hometown i outgrew and she still goes to the football games. when she gets too drunk in the student section i carry her home, give her water to swallow, a pretzel from concessions to soak up the booze. i hold her tenderly as she sways on her feet. she loves this town
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and never misses a parade. i come back for holidays and whenever i skin my knee. womanhood and i get into fights. the difference is she never learned what anger feels like and i carry it in my shoulders every day. where i rage, womanhood hollows. where i seethe, womanhood shakes. she never knows quite what to say to me. i speak her language but she doesn’t speak mine, refuses to learn. this is america, she says. womanhood compliments my fluency as i burn from the next room over and break plates against the wall. womanhood moves out and away from me one day and i miss her like i miss the snow. it doesn’t snow here so much where i am now. not that i liked the snow very much but it’s all i ever knew, even when it bit and stung and froze and greyed. i don’t know how to handle warm in winter. i get christmas cards from womanhood, we text each other on birthdays. there is a year where we forget but only one. we’re dedicated to this. we are archivists if nothing else. womanhood and i see each other at an old friend’s barbeque. we get very drunk at each other from across the yard and eventually i’m wobbly enough to spill my styrofoam plate of food. as she helps me pick macaroni salad out of the grass i whisper to her, thank you for growing up with me. there is nothing for us to say to each other anymore. her hands full of elbow noodles, she pretends not to hear, picks me up off of the dirt. this is just like girl scouts, she says.
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20210108, 2021, LEE HUBBEL
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mama drives me home PAZ REGUEIRO
you could say i’m grown now & it’s been a few years now since i saw the teeth you bore at me & you pick me up from work & your lips are pulled back & we never would have recognized you when we were both third world women but your grin pulls back the linen curtains on your eyes & your worn-out teeth just the same & the same water that nourished me when i was but a falling hammer/ dropping shoe/sword of damocles/ it rolls down your cheek now & you tell me finally how you wish you had done more for me when we were both third world women & maybe back when i was a girl i would have reached deep past my shuttered lungs & shown you how shriveled-up you left this plum-shaped heart & now i think peach-cheeked & with an apple in my throat that i’ve traded places with you & our hunger is a 4-foot creature with two dark braids & truly we’ve both held hands with her. please don’t forget that i want us both to eat.
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held apart
xochi sanchez
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