Fall 2021: LOve for Others
Fiction
Every Good Deed
by Lou-Ellen Barkan
by Lou-Ellen Barkan
Walking to work on a steaming July morning, I caught a whiff of Myrna sitting in her beach chair on the corner of Madison and 75th.
“Lookin’ good, baby,” she called out. She was wearing a blue ski jacket and matching hat with a yellow pompom. “Lost a few pounds?”
“Good eye,” I said. Myrna put her hand out, and I handed her a five.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” She blew me a kiss. “Have a good one.”
Mission accomplished; I called my grandmother and announced my good deed for the day. When I was six, she planted the idea that good deeds make good things happen. Once I knew there was something in it for me, I was all in.
This explains why I missed Hamilton’s opening curtain after helping a homeless guy cross Broadway against the light. And why I waited for an ambulance with a kid who slipped on black ice. I once wrote a check to a woman whose holiday presents were stolen from the local toy store. I wasn’t exactly rolling in cash at that time, so I gave myself extra points.
My husband, Michael, thought I would be better off minding my own business, but I thought my adventures made life interesting. Something my son, Tony, learned in 1984.
That summer, Tony was nineteen and working on a construction crew to get into shape for college football. Each evening after work, we met for a run in the park. One warm evening, I stopped mid-run to catch my breath and noticed a crowd gathered around two police officers examining a man lying still on a park bench. A short, slim woman in dark blue shorts and a white tee was kneeling next to the bench holding the man’s hand. Beside her, a small boy, about seven or eight, was standing quietly. His shorts and shirt were just slightly too big for him. One sneaker was unlaced.
A growing crowd was quiet as emergency techs arrived and set a wheeled stretcher in front of the bench. They spoke briefly to one of the officers before bending down to examine the man. One of the officers turned to the crowd.
“Folks,” he called out. “Anyone speak French?”
No one responded.
“French,” he repeated. “If you speak French, please raise your hand.”
I raised my hand. Actually, I don’t speak French or any foreign language, which I consider to be a major gap in my education. To make up for this deficit, I resolved that my children would speak a second language and enrolled them in a French school. Michael was amused, but not resistant. Twenty years later, he was impressed. The children were fluent, and Michael had improved his French, although mine remained hopeless.
As the officer walked over to join me, the techs loaded the patient onto the stretcher.
“My son speaks French,” I said.
“Is he here, Ma’am?”
“I see him coming,” I said, just as Tony walked over.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Son,” the officer said, “Your mom says you speak French.”
“I do.”
The officer pointed to the man on the stretcher. “We’re taking that guy to the hospital. His wife needs to come with us. She’s the boy’s stepmother.”
“How can we help?” I asked.
“Social Services is on the way to pick up the boy,” the officer continued. "Once they take over, we'll take the wife to the hospital. Problem is, the boy doesn’t speak English, and the stepmom doesn’t speak French. We need someone to explain all this to the kid.”
“Really?” I asked. “Social Services?”
“Until she can pick him up.”
“He'll be terrified.”
“Can’t be helped, Ma’am.” He turned to Tony. “You can translate?”
Tony nodded.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Can I talk to the stepmother?”
“Make it quick.” The officer waved her over as the techs wheeled the loaded stretcher down the stairs. The woman and boy walked toward us holding hands.
“So sorry about your husband,” I said.
“I’m Robert’s stepmother, Sophie Dubois.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped the boy’s eyes. “He arrived last night from Brussels. First trip to the states.”
“We live just a few blocks away," I said. "And my son speaks French. We could take him to our place until you can pick him up.” While I’m talking, I'm thinking that no one is letting us take this perfectly strange kid home, so I’m surprised when Sophie nods.
“That would be so helpful.” I saw relief on her face. “Robert’s only eight.”
A few minutes later, we had exchanged business cards, phone numbers, and addresses and looked to the officer for approval to leave.
“Stay in touch," he said, handing us his card. “Call me if there are problems. I'll let social services know where the boy is staying.” He walked to the top of the steps and waited for Sophie to join him.
Sophie knelt and took Robert’s hands in hers. “I need to get to the hospital.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped Robert’s face and kissed his cheek. “Tony and his mom will take good care of you. I’ll pick you up as soon as I can.”
She looked up at Tony. “Can you translate?”
Tony nodded, got down on his knees and placed one hand on Robert’s shoulder. He spoke slowly and Robert nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks. Sophie hugged him and followed the officer down the stairs. The crowd began to disperse.
Tony put his Yankee cap on Robert and we each took one of his hands. We walked out of the park to find an ice cream truck and bought extra-large soft cones, a guarantee that at least half our treat would end up on our shirts. The upside was the smile we got from Robert when Tony drew chocolate moustaches on our faces. By the time we got home, Robert’s tears had dried.
As we approached our front door, I remembered I had forgotten my keys. I rang the bell and waited a couple of minutes before I heard Michael’s footsteps. Robert was holding the Yankee cap in his hand.
Michael opened the door, looked down and his eyes widened. “Have we met?” he asked and reached out to shake Robert’s hand.
Robert extended his hand. “Robert,” he said, rolling his r’s. “Je m'appelle Robert Dubois.”
“Bonsoir, Robert. Ravi de vous rencontrer,” Michael said, testing the limits of his French. “Lovely to meet you.”
Michael held the door open and followed us into the front hall.
“Why don’t you take Robert to the den?” I said. “I’ll order a pizza and call you when it shows up.”
We heard the TV go on and the familiar voices of Yankee announcers.
“So.” Michael raised his eyebrows. “Even for you, this is a new one. You left with one son and returned with two. I’m assuming there’s a story here.”
By the time I finished explaining, Michael was wearing his prosecutor hat.
“Can I see the stepmother’s card?”
I took Sophie's card out of my pocket and handed it to him. He examined it, front and back, and passed it back.
“Hope this is for real.”
“She’ll be back.” I sat down on the hall chair and took off my running shoes. “I need a shower. Would you call for pizza? And listen for the phone?”
“You understand if she doesn’t come back, we turn him over to social services.”
“I know.”
“Go shower,” Michael said. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”
An hour later, we were eating pizza and watching Tony teach Robert how to play baseball. Robert, still wearing the Yankee cap, had eaten two pieces of pizza, his napkin tucked neatly into one of Tony’s Yankee shirts.
After dinner, the boys went back to the game. I joined Michael in the living room where he went to work on his brief. I tried to focus on notes for my morning meeting, checking my watch every few minutes. One hour passed. Then two. By eleven o'clock, I was starting to worry. Maybe Sophie wouldn't return. After all, she wasn’t Robert’s mother. What if something happened to his father? What if he had, God forbid, died? Why hadn’t I bothered to get his name? Was it Dubois? Would Robert know how to contact his mother? In Brussels? What was her name? What was I thinking? I poured myself a glass of wine.
At eleven fifteen, Michael stood up to stretch, checked his watch and frowned. “I’ll go shower. Let me know if she calls.”
The phone rang at midnight.
“It's Sophie," she said. "So sorry I didn’t call earlier, but there was paperwork and I had to make sure Andre was settled.”
“How is he?”
“They think it was some form of epilepsy. He'll be home tomorrow. More tests next week.”
“Great news.” I said as Michael walked into the room. I gave him a thumbs up. “No rush to get here. Robert's a great kid. He had pizza and watched a Yankee game.”
Twenty minutes later, Sophie and I walked into the den. Robert and Tony were sitting on the floor playing poker. Robert was wearing the Yankee cap and shirt and holding a baseball in a small leather catcher’s mitt. Colored poker chips were spread out on the floor along with an empty package of M&Ms and two coke cans.
“Robert,” Sophie said. “Papa is okay. He’ll be home tomorrow.” She looked at Tony.
“Papa va bien,” Tony gave Robert a high five. “Il rentre demain.”
Holding the glove tightly, Robert stood up.
“Time to go,” Sophie motioned to Robert to join her. He took off the Yankee cap and baseball glove, walked back and handed them to Tony.
When he reached out to shake Tony’s hand, Tony smiled and put the cap back on Robert’s head and the glove on his hand. He handed him the baseball, book, deck of cards, and a handful of poker chips.
“Maintenant, tu es un vrai Yankee,” Tony smiled. "Now, you are a real Yankee.”
As he started to stand, Robert put both arms around Tony. “Merci,” he said. “Merci beaucoup.”
We walked to the front door and Robert waved goodbye. I turned to see Michael holding the door for us.
“Well done," he said and closed the door. “All those years of French paid off.”
Tony laughed. “Are you kidding? That was hard."
“Why? Your French was great. You were chatting all night.”
“Sure,” Tony said. “About baseball.”
We followed Tony into the kitchen. He poured a glass of water and took a long sip. “You want to talk about Sartre, or the French revolution. In French, I can discuss Dumas. Camus. You name it. I can talk about it.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Michael asked.
“You hear any baseball players' names on that list? Any idea how to describe a shortstop, a steal, rules of the game? In French.”
We started to laugh. “Oh, my God,” I said. “I never thought of that.”
“Three outs. Baseball statistics. Player’s positions.”
“Grandma would be proud,” I kissed Tony on the cheek.
“Thank you.” Tony smiled. “I’m wiped. I’m going to bed.’
“Bonne nuit,” Michael said.
The following afternoon, a bouquet of flowers arrived with a note.
"Dear Friends, Thank you for your kindness to Robert. He announced that he is a real New Yorker and plans to play baseball for the Yankees. He is teaching Andre the players’ positions and rules of the game. He will never forget his first visit to the United States. We are forever grateful. With much affection, Robert, Sophie, and Andre."
The rest of the summer passed quickly. We never heard from the Dubois family again and, within a week, we had stopped talking about it. Michael’s case had become all consuming. I got a promotion, which meant longer hours at the office. And Tony. He had his best season.
“Lookin’ good, baby,” she called out. She was wearing a blue ski jacket and matching hat with a yellow pompom. “Lost a few pounds?”
“Good eye,” I said. Myrna put her hand out, and I handed her a five.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” She blew me a kiss. “Have a good one.”
Mission accomplished; I called my grandmother and announced my good deed for the day. When I was six, she planted the idea that good deeds make good things happen. Once I knew there was something in it for me, I was all in.
This explains why I missed Hamilton’s opening curtain after helping a homeless guy cross Broadway against the light. And why I waited for an ambulance with a kid who slipped on black ice. I once wrote a check to a woman whose holiday presents were stolen from the local toy store. I wasn’t exactly rolling in cash at that time, so I gave myself extra points.
My husband, Michael, thought I would be better off minding my own business, but I thought my adventures made life interesting. Something my son, Tony, learned in 1984.
That summer, Tony was nineteen and working on a construction crew to get into shape for college football. Each evening after work, we met for a run in the park. One warm evening, I stopped mid-run to catch my breath and noticed a crowd gathered around two police officers examining a man lying still on a park bench. A short, slim woman in dark blue shorts and a white tee was kneeling next to the bench holding the man’s hand. Beside her, a small boy, about seven or eight, was standing quietly. His shorts and shirt were just slightly too big for him. One sneaker was unlaced.
A growing crowd was quiet as emergency techs arrived and set a wheeled stretcher in front of the bench. They spoke briefly to one of the officers before bending down to examine the man. One of the officers turned to the crowd.
“Folks,” he called out. “Anyone speak French?”
No one responded.
“French,” he repeated. “If you speak French, please raise your hand.”
I raised my hand. Actually, I don’t speak French or any foreign language, which I consider to be a major gap in my education. To make up for this deficit, I resolved that my children would speak a second language and enrolled them in a French school. Michael was amused, but not resistant. Twenty years later, he was impressed. The children were fluent, and Michael had improved his French, although mine remained hopeless.
As the officer walked over to join me, the techs loaded the patient onto the stretcher.
“My son speaks French,” I said.
“Is he here, Ma’am?”
“I see him coming,” I said, just as Tony walked over.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Son,” the officer said, “Your mom says you speak French.”
“I do.”
The officer pointed to the man on the stretcher. “We’re taking that guy to the hospital. His wife needs to come with us. She’s the boy’s stepmother.”
“How can we help?” I asked.
“Social Services is on the way to pick up the boy,” the officer continued. "Once they take over, we'll take the wife to the hospital. Problem is, the boy doesn’t speak English, and the stepmom doesn’t speak French. We need someone to explain all this to the kid.”
“Really?” I asked. “Social Services?”
“Until she can pick him up.”
“He'll be terrified.”
“Can’t be helped, Ma’am.” He turned to Tony. “You can translate?”
Tony nodded.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Can I talk to the stepmother?”
“Make it quick.” The officer waved her over as the techs wheeled the loaded stretcher down the stairs. The woman and boy walked toward us holding hands.
“So sorry about your husband,” I said.
“I’m Robert’s stepmother, Sophie Dubois.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped the boy’s eyes. “He arrived last night from Brussels. First trip to the states.”
“We live just a few blocks away," I said. "And my son speaks French. We could take him to our place until you can pick him up.” While I’m talking, I'm thinking that no one is letting us take this perfectly strange kid home, so I’m surprised when Sophie nods.
“That would be so helpful.” I saw relief on her face. “Robert’s only eight.”
A few minutes later, we had exchanged business cards, phone numbers, and addresses and looked to the officer for approval to leave.
“Stay in touch," he said, handing us his card. “Call me if there are problems. I'll let social services know where the boy is staying.” He walked to the top of the steps and waited for Sophie to join him.
Sophie knelt and took Robert’s hands in hers. “I need to get to the hospital.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped Robert’s face and kissed his cheek. “Tony and his mom will take good care of you. I’ll pick you up as soon as I can.”
She looked up at Tony. “Can you translate?”
Tony nodded, got down on his knees and placed one hand on Robert’s shoulder. He spoke slowly and Robert nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks. Sophie hugged him and followed the officer down the stairs. The crowd began to disperse.
Tony put his Yankee cap on Robert and we each took one of his hands. We walked out of the park to find an ice cream truck and bought extra-large soft cones, a guarantee that at least half our treat would end up on our shirts. The upside was the smile we got from Robert when Tony drew chocolate moustaches on our faces. By the time we got home, Robert’s tears had dried.
As we approached our front door, I remembered I had forgotten my keys. I rang the bell and waited a couple of minutes before I heard Michael’s footsteps. Robert was holding the Yankee cap in his hand.
Michael opened the door, looked down and his eyes widened. “Have we met?” he asked and reached out to shake Robert’s hand.
Robert extended his hand. “Robert,” he said, rolling his r’s. “Je m'appelle Robert Dubois.”
“Bonsoir, Robert. Ravi de vous rencontrer,” Michael said, testing the limits of his French. “Lovely to meet you.”
Michael held the door open and followed us into the front hall.
“Why don’t you take Robert to the den?” I said. “I’ll order a pizza and call you when it shows up.”
We heard the TV go on and the familiar voices of Yankee announcers.
“So.” Michael raised his eyebrows. “Even for you, this is a new one. You left with one son and returned with two. I’m assuming there’s a story here.”
By the time I finished explaining, Michael was wearing his prosecutor hat.
“Can I see the stepmother’s card?”
I took Sophie's card out of my pocket and handed it to him. He examined it, front and back, and passed it back.
“Hope this is for real.”
“She’ll be back.” I sat down on the hall chair and took off my running shoes. “I need a shower. Would you call for pizza? And listen for the phone?”
“You understand if she doesn’t come back, we turn him over to social services.”
“I know.”
“Go shower,” Michael said. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”
An hour later, we were eating pizza and watching Tony teach Robert how to play baseball. Robert, still wearing the Yankee cap, had eaten two pieces of pizza, his napkin tucked neatly into one of Tony’s Yankee shirts.
After dinner, the boys went back to the game. I joined Michael in the living room where he went to work on his brief. I tried to focus on notes for my morning meeting, checking my watch every few minutes. One hour passed. Then two. By eleven o'clock, I was starting to worry. Maybe Sophie wouldn't return. After all, she wasn’t Robert’s mother. What if something happened to his father? What if he had, God forbid, died? Why hadn’t I bothered to get his name? Was it Dubois? Would Robert know how to contact his mother? In Brussels? What was her name? What was I thinking? I poured myself a glass of wine.
At eleven fifteen, Michael stood up to stretch, checked his watch and frowned. “I’ll go shower. Let me know if she calls.”
The phone rang at midnight.
“It's Sophie," she said. "So sorry I didn’t call earlier, but there was paperwork and I had to make sure Andre was settled.”
“How is he?”
“They think it was some form of epilepsy. He'll be home tomorrow. More tests next week.”
“Great news.” I said as Michael walked into the room. I gave him a thumbs up. “No rush to get here. Robert's a great kid. He had pizza and watched a Yankee game.”
Twenty minutes later, Sophie and I walked into the den. Robert and Tony were sitting on the floor playing poker. Robert was wearing the Yankee cap and shirt and holding a baseball in a small leather catcher’s mitt. Colored poker chips were spread out on the floor along with an empty package of M&Ms and two coke cans.
“Robert,” Sophie said. “Papa is okay. He’ll be home tomorrow.” She looked at Tony.
“Papa va bien,” Tony gave Robert a high five. “Il rentre demain.”
Holding the glove tightly, Robert stood up.
“Time to go,” Sophie motioned to Robert to join her. He took off the Yankee cap and baseball glove, walked back and handed them to Tony.
When he reached out to shake Tony’s hand, Tony smiled and put the cap back on Robert’s head and the glove on his hand. He handed him the baseball, book, deck of cards, and a handful of poker chips.
“Maintenant, tu es un vrai Yankee,” Tony smiled. "Now, you are a real Yankee.”
As he started to stand, Robert put both arms around Tony. “Merci,” he said. “Merci beaucoup.”
We walked to the front door and Robert waved goodbye. I turned to see Michael holding the door for us.
“Well done," he said and closed the door. “All those years of French paid off.”
Tony laughed. “Are you kidding? That was hard."
“Why? Your French was great. You were chatting all night.”
“Sure,” Tony said. “About baseball.”
We followed Tony into the kitchen. He poured a glass of water and took a long sip. “You want to talk about Sartre, or the French revolution. In French, I can discuss Dumas. Camus. You name it. I can talk about it.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Michael asked.
“You hear any baseball players' names on that list? Any idea how to describe a shortstop, a steal, rules of the game? In French.”
We started to laugh. “Oh, my God,” I said. “I never thought of that.”
“Three outs. Baseball statistics. Player’s positions.”
“Grandma would be proud,” I kissed Tony on the cheek.
“Thank you.” Tony smiled. “I’m wiped. I’m going to bed.’
“Bonne nuit,” Michael said.
The following afternoon, a bouquet of flowers arrived with a note.
"Dear Friends, Thank you for your kindness to Robert. He announced that he is a real New Yorker and plans to play baseball for the Yankees. He is teaching Andre the players’ positions and rules of the game. He will never forget his first visit to the United States. We are forever grateful. With much affection, Robert, Sophie, and Andre."
The rest of the summer passed quickly. We never heard from the Dubois family again and, within a week, we had stopped talking about it. Michael’s case had become all consuming. I got a promotion, which meant longer hours at the office. And Tony. He had his best season.
I Love My Son Wildly
by Barbara Rady Kazdan
by Barbara Rady Kazdan
Jake’s about to exchange wedding vows with Anna. He’s happy. I’m thrilled. And wondering . . . how will this affect our relationship, the bond we share?
An invitation’s exuberant “A Votre Santé, Anna and Jake!” prompted me to RSVP an enthusiastic “Yes” for an engagement party in Anna’s hometown. Then Jake emailed, “We’ll be sharing an Airbnb with Anna’s sister and her husband. There’s a third bedroom. Want to join?”
Yes again! More than welcome—I’m included. Flight plans made, while wondering how I’d get from the airport to the small town destination, Jake texted, “We’ll pick you up at the airport Friday and drop you off Sunday.” On my travel day he came to the airport alone so we’d have time together before the festivities.
What’s the definition of visceral? Because each time we walked together that weekend, he reached out and took my hand. And each time a jolt of love struck my heart.
Surprise! At midlife, the news that our family of four was about to become five evoked my whole-hearted delight but my husband Dan’s reservations. A CPA, Dan had carefully calculated our financial future, including college expenses for our nine and ten-year-old daughters. A third child? He hesitated. But a new life was growing inside me, rousing my instant love and fierce protection. Our daughters? Over the moon! Dan caught the wave of our excitement. He welcomed our new baby, fathered him enthusiastically, and expanded his parenting role when Jake entered school and I re-entered the workforce. But by Jake’s 10th birthday his father had retreated from the working world and from fulsome engagement in Jake’s life.
As we left the parents’ meeting about our eldest daughter’s approaching commencement proceedings, I said, “Can you believe we have a child graduating from high school?”
He said, “What I can’t believe is we’ll be attending these parents’ meetings for another 10 years.”
With our daughters away at college, this man, whose bright destiny had flamed out at 40, gave up on his career and on fathering his son. So it was mom, not dad, cheering from the stands at Jake’s softball games, buying his first jockstrap, taking him and a friend fishing, and more.
“Catch!” Jake would appear in the doorway to my room, tossing a football to me. Or he would ask, “Want to watch a movie?” In our house I was his go-to playmate—his sisters were in college, his dad unavailable. I never said no. And I loved it.
During school vacations, the two of us began taking our version of family trips, without his stuck-in-a-Barcalounger Dad. We traveled by car from Houston to the Rocky Mountains and to a dude ranch in Texas, by plane to our nation’s capital, then by train to visit his sister at UPenn and take in Philadelphia’s historic sites—banking memories for withdrawal throughout our lives. “I can see him casting a line into the sky-reflecting water in Dillon, Colorado, the mountains surrounding us, holding up his silvery catch while I snapped pictures. The best French Toast ever? “Raton, New Mexico!”
In his senior year of high school, over dinner I mentioned, “A colleague offered me his time-share in Kauai the last week in December.”
“We’re going!” Jake exclaimed. Weeks later he was plunging into the surf on a pristine Hawaiian beach and tasting sushi for the first time. Wherever we were Jake lightened each day with his humor and heightened my experiences with his exuberance. “C’mon,” he said, taking my hand as I warily negotiated each scary step on a narrow staircase of slimy, skinny logs with steep drops on each side, winding down to a secluded beach. Only Jake could get his risk-averse, 50-plus, city-bred, suburban-coddled mom to follow his lead. It was worth it. A private little paradise: white sand, gorgeous fruit-laden foliage, exotic birds swooping overhead, Jake yelling “Look!” as he jumped the waves in glistening aquamarine waters. These moments, and so many others, would fill a treasure chest of incalculable value that we carry in our shared memory.
Those trips continued from Jake’s early adolescence through his twenties, thirties, and beyond—driving the Old Natchez Trace from Mississippi to Nashville; traveling by train from Vancouver to Banff, and taking side trips to San Francisco, Big Sur while he worked in northern California. More recently we met in Manhattan and then in Maine, discovering these distinctly different, equally delightful destinations.
Why would a young, now middle-aged man want to travel with his mom? Were there equal shares of sustaining the bond between us, enjoying each other’s company, brightening my life, and filling in for her husband who wouldn’t, then couldn’t, share her wanderlust? Then, widowed, suddenly I was single, like Jake. With his sisters now busy moms, Jake stepped up to travel with me, always asking, “Where should we go next?”
While engaged and enthralled with his bride-to-be, we snatched times together in quick bursts: a mother-son getaway to the Santa Ynez mountains after an L.A. visit; breakfast through lunch during a “meet-her-family” visit; and that long ride from the airport before the engagement party. On every visit I know Jake and I will carve out some “us time,” and the three of us will travel together as well. After meeting Anna’s relatives in France, he said, “Her mom showed us places that were important to her—her school, the house she grew up in . . . We’d like to do a trip like that with you in Chicago.”
A lifetime ago I held his hand when he was gaining his footing in the world. Since coming into his own he’s held mine, gently steadying me, signaling, “I’m here for you,” always coaxing me, “C’mon, try it, it’ll be fun!” We laugh together, challenge each other at Scrabble, find pleasure in whatever we’re doing and wherever we go.
I stand at the precipice of old age. At 37, he’s crossing the threshold to married life. Taking my hand now? A promise of enduring connection and devotion.
An invitation’s exuberant “A Votre Santé, Anna and Jake!” prompted me to RSVP an enthusiastic “Yes” for an engagement party in Anna’s hometown. Then Jake emailed, “We’ll be sharing an Airbnb with Anna’s sister and her husband. There’s a third bedroom. Want to join?”
Yes again! More than welcome—I’m included. Flight plans made, while wondering how I’d get from the airport to the small town destination, Jake texted, “We’ll pick you up at the airport Friday and drop you off Sunday.” On my travel day he came to the airport alone so we’d have time together before the festivities.
What’s the definition of visceral? Because each time we walked together that weekend, he reached out and took my hand. And each time a jolt of love struck my heart.
Surprise! At midlife, the news that our family of four was about to become five evoked my whole-hearted delight but my husband Dan’s reservations. A CPA, Dan had carefully calculated our financial future, including college expenses for our nine and ten-year-old daughters. A third child? He hesitated. But a new life was growing inside me, rousing my instant love and fierce protection. Our daughters? Over the moon! Dan caught the wave of our excitement. He welcomed our new baby, fathered him enthusiastically, and expanded his parenting role when Jake entered school and I re-entered the workforce. But by Jake’s 10th birthday his father had retreated from the working world and from fulsome engagement in Jake’s life.
As we left the parents’ meeting about our eldest daughter’s approaching commencement proceedings, I said, “Can you believe we have a child graduating from high school?”
He said, “What I can’t believe is we’ll be attending these parents’ meetings for another 10 years.”
With our daughters away at college, this man, whose bright destiny had flamed out at 40, gave up on his career and on fathering his son. So it was mom, not dad, cheering from the stands at Jake’s softball games, buying his first jockstrap, taking him and a friend fishing, and more.
“Catch!” Jake would appear in the doorway to my room, tossing a football to me. Or he would ask, “Want to watch a movie?” In our house I was his go-to playmate—his sisters were in college, his dad unavailable. I never said no. And I loved it.
During school vacations, the two of us began taking our version of family trips, without his stuck-in-a-Barcalounger Dad. We traveled by car from Houston to the Rocky Mountains and to a dude ranch in Texas, by plane to our nation’s capital, then by train to visit his sister at UPenn and take in Philadelphia’s historic sites—banking memories for withdrawal throughout our lives. “I can see him casting a line into the sky-reflecting water in Dillon, Colorado, the mountains surrounding us, holding up his silvery catch while I snapped pictures. The best French Toast ever? “Raton, New Mexico!”
In his senior year of high school, over dinner I mentioned, “A colleague offered me his time-share in Kauai the last week in December.”
“We’re going!” Jake exclaimed. Weeks later he was plunging into the surf on a pristine Hawaiian beach and tasting sushi for the first time. Wherever we were Jake lightened each day with his humor and heightened my experiences with his exuberance. “C’mon,” he said, taking my hand as I warily negotiated each scary step on a narrow staircase of slimy, skinny logs with steep drops on each side, winding down to a secluded beach. Only Jake could get his risk-averse, 50-plus, city-bred, suburban-coddled mom to follow his lead. It was worth it. A private little paradise: white sand, gorgeous fruit-laden foliage, exotic birds swooping overhead, Jake yelling “Look!” as he jumped the waves in glistening aquamarine waters. These moments, and so many others, would fill a treasure chest of incalculable value that we carry in our shared memory.
Those trips continued from Jake’s early adolescence through his twenties, thirties, and beyond—driving the Old Natchez Trace from Mississippi to Nashville; traveling by train from Vancouver to Banff, and taking side trips to San Francisco, Big Sur while he worked in northern California. More recently we met in Manhattan and then in Maine, discovering these distinctly different, equally delightful destinations.
Why would a young, now middle-aged man want to travel with his mom? Were there equal shares of sustaining the bond between us, enjoying each other’s company, brightening my life, and filling in for her husband who wouldn’t, then couldn’t, share her wanderlust? Then, widowed, suddenly I was single, like Jake. With his sisters now busy moms, Jake stepped up to travel with me, always asking, “Where should we go next?”
While engaged and enthralled with his bride-to-be, we snatched times together in quick bursts: a mother-son getaway to the Santa Ynez mountains after an L.A. visit; breakfast through lunch during a “meet-her-family” visit; and that long ride from the airport before the engagement party. On every visit I know Jake and I will carve out some “us time,” and the three of us will travel together as well. After meeting Anna’s relatives in France, he said, “Her mom showed us places that were important to her—her school, the house she grew up in . . . We’d like to do a trip like that with you in Chicago.”
A lifetime ago I held his hand when he was gaining his footing in the world. Since coming into his own he’s held mine, gently steadying me, signaling, “I’m here for you,” always coaxing me, “C’mon, try it, it’ll be fun!” We laugh together, challenge each other at Scrabble, find pleasure in whatever we’re doing and wherever we go.
I stand at the precipice of old age. At 37, he’s crossing the threshold to married life. Taking my hand now? A promise of enduring connection and devotion.
Ingrid's Valentine
by Maggie Iribarne
by Maggie Iribarne
“It’s not what it looks like,” Ingrid said to Jeremy as the two eighth-graders stood outside Ingrid’s small brick house after their usual walk from school. They made their customary trade of her completed social studies homework for his completed math. All the while, Jeremy kept looking back at her house and yard.
Slightly taller than the teens, an army of blow-up hearts formed a defensive line across the front edge of the lawn, waving in the breeze. Inside the fortress, dead center of the lawn, eye-level inflatable Mickey and Minnie Mouses linked their puffy hands. To the right of the mice, another blow up, an electrified light-up snow globe bursting with pink hearts. To the left, Betty Boop held an oversized heart-shaped box of chocolates. The house itself was strewn with cut-out heart bunting, every window covered with different Valentine images—Cupids and bouquets of roses and silhouettes of couples kissing and Snoopy's hugging hearts.
Speechless, Jeremy wandered away without as much as a goodbye.
*
Ingrid waited next to Jeremy’s locker. As he approached, her eye caught his and she smiled, to which he forced a similar expression. He knew people liked it when you smiled at them, or so his mother said. Jeremy noted that Ingrid wore a red turtleneck and her nubby fingernails gripping her English binder were painted a rather garish pink.
“Oh!” Ingrid said, noticing Jeremy noticing the nails. “I borrowed the nail polish.” Her face turned about as red as her nails.
“It’s really pink,” he said—all he could think of.
“Yes.” Ingrid looked down at her dirty white sneakers and then thrust her hand into her homework folder, pulling out a small red envelope which she pushed on top of Jeremy’s book pile. “Here,” she said, turning and walking away.
*
“Seems Ingrid Patterson gave you a Valentine,” his mother said, placing the rumpled envelope beside Jeremy’s cereal bowl. He removed the card which read Please Bee Mine! Ingrid. A bee flew around a heart-shaped flower.
Jeremy smiled a small smile. Then, feeling his mother’s eyes on him, an unexpected heat rose to his cheeks.
“Are you good friends with Ingrid?” his mother asked. Jeremy never told his mother about any friends, because he didn’t have any, and she never asked.
Was Ingrid his friend?
“I help her with her homework,” he said.
“Ah, I see. That’s nice,” his mother said, moving away from the table, calling back, “Those Pattersons are pretty strange.” With that sentence, Jeremy snapped into focus, conjuring Ingrid’s tangled hair, dirty sneakers, and the heaps of Valentine decorations on her house and in her yard.
“Strange how?” Jeremy asked his mother.
“Strange like not someone to be friends with strange,” his mother said, smiling her stiff, controlling smile, an expression Jeremy knew well.
*
His mother gave him her looser, ecstatic, my-son-might-go-to-MIT smile the next morning when Jeremy lied, telling her he joined the robotics club that met before school.
“Well, that’s wonderful, honey,” she said. “ I’ll get your breakfast.”
As he walked to the market, Jeremy thought about the place Ingrid held in his life. Without her, there would be no one at his locker when he left homeroom. Without her, he would eat alone. Without her, he’d have to spend countless hours filling in questions for social studies. Without her, he’d leave school alone. And now, without her, he would not have received one, single Valentine.
*
They usually didn’t see each other until after homeroom. She would not be expecting him. Jeremy grasped the knocker, pulling it up and down to bang bang bang on the door. Finally, he heard footsteps and someone yell Shut up! He jumped when the door opened and a haggard looking woman with pink lipstick and a stained robe opened up.
“Who’re you?” She burped.
Jeremy noted the wall of stacked newspapers and boxes piled up behind the woman, taking up all the space in what would normally be a front hall. “I’m, uh, is Ingrid—”
“Huh? Ah!” the woman held a cigarette up to her lips and took a long drag. Before the smoke was entirely exhaled, Ingrid appeared, pushing past with all her might, not acknowledging the woman Jeremy assumed was her mother.
“There’s my Miss Priss,” the woman said, laughing.
Ingrid’s face turned red. The door slammed behind her.
Jeremy, a little out of breath, held the plant with both hands, feeling the weight of his backpack. Ingrid’s eyes were watery, her eyebrows furrowed.
“That’s what I meant,” she said.
“By what?”
“The decorations, all the hearts and flowers. Love. La La.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s,” she nodded at her house, “not what it looks like.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said. “This is for you.” He handed her the plant, a violet.
“Wow. I love it. I absolutely love it,” Ingrid said, sniffling.
Jeremy turned toward school, prompting her to follow.
*
Later, after he went home to his neat as a pin house, after he let himself in through the side door, after finding his usual tomato sandwich on whole wheat his mother left in a Tupperware box in the fridge, after he watched his allotted episode of The Mandalorian, and after he went upstairs to his room to do his homework and read his PCs For Dummies book, he thought about the cold exterior, the emptiness of his own house, and how it really was how it looked.
Jeremy sighed. He thought of Ingrid’s messy house, how she sprouted from that mess a beautiful flower. He hoped she could find a nice place to keep the violet he gave her, some small place where the sun shone through.
Slightly taller than the teens, an army of blow-up hearts formed a defensive line across the front edge of the lawn, waving in the breeze. Inside the fortress, dead center of the lawn, eye-level inflatable Mickey and Minnie Mouses linked their puffy hands. To the right of the mice, another blow up, an electrified light-up snow globe bursting with pink hearts. To the left, Betty Boop held an oversized heart-shaped box of chocolates. The house itself was strewn with cut-out heart bunting, every window covered with different Valentine images—Cupids and bouquets of roses and silhouettes of couples kissing and Snoopy's hugging hearts.
Speechless, Jeremy wandered away without as much as a goodbye.
*
Ingrid waited next to Jeremy’s locker. As he approached, her eye caught his and she smiled, to which he forced a similar expression. He knew people liked it when you smiled at them, or so his mother said. Jeremy noted that Ingrid wore a red turtleneck and her nubby fingernails gripping her English binder were painted a rather garish pink.
“Oh!” Ingrid said, noticing Jeremy noticing the nails. “I borrowed the nail polish.” Her face turned about as red as her nails.
“It’s really pink,” he said—all he could think of.
“Yes.” Ingrid looked down at her dirty white sneakers and then thrust her hand into her homework folder, pulling out a small red envelope which she pushed on top of Jeremy’s book pile. “Here,” she said, turning and walking away.
*
“Seems Ingrid Patterson gave you a Valentine,” his mother said, placing the rumpled envelope beside Jeremy’s cereal bowl. He removed the card which read Please Bee Mine! Ingrid. A bee flew around a heart-shaped flower.
Jeremy smiled a small smile. Then, feeling his mother’s eyes on him, an unexpected heat rose to his cheeks.
“Are you good friends with Ingrid?” his mother asked. Jeremy never told his mother about any friends, because he didn’t have any, and she never asked.
Was Ingrid his friend?
“I help her with her homework,” he said.
“Ah, I see. That’s nice,” his mother said, moving away from the table, calling back, “Those Pattersons are pretty strange.” With that sentence, Jeremy snapped into focus, conjuring Ingrid’s tangled hair, dirty sneakers, and the heaps of Valentine decorations on her house and in her yard.
“Strange how?” Jeremy asked his mother.
“Strange like not someone to be friends with strange,” his mother said, smiling her stiff, controlling smile, an expression Jeremy knew well.
*
His mother gave him her looser, ecstatic, my-son-might-go-to-MIT smile the next morning when Jeremy lied, telling her he joined the robotics club that met before school.
“Well, that’s wonderful, honey,” she said. “ I’ll get your breakfast.”
As he walked to the market, Jeremy thought about the place Ingrid held in his life. Without her, there would be no one at his locker when he left homeroom. Without her, he would eat alone. Without her, he’d have to spend countless hours filling in questions for social studies. Without her, he’d leave school alone. And now, without her, he would not have received one, single Valentine.
*
They usually didn’t see each other until after homeroom. She would not be expecting him. Jeremy grasped the knocker, pulling it up and down to bang bang bang on the door. Finally, he heard footsteps and someone yell Shut up! He jumped when the door opened and a haggard looking woman with pink lipstick and a stained robe opened up.
“Who’re you?” She burped.
Jeremy noted the wall of stacked newspapers and boxes piled up behind the woman, taking up all the space in what would normally be a front hall. “I’m, uh, is Ingrid—”
“Huh? Ah!” the woman held a cigarette up to her lips and took a long drag. Before the smoke was entirely exhaled, Ingrid appeared, pushing past with all her might, not acknowledging the woman Jeremy assumed was her mother.
“There’s my Miss Priss,” the woman said, laughing.
Ingrid’s face turned red. The door slammed behind her.
Jeremy, a little out of breath, held the plant with both hands, feeling the weight of his backpack. Ingrid’s eyes were watery, her eyebrows furrowed.
“That’s what I meant,” she said.
“By what?”
“The decorations, all the hearts and flowers. Love. La La.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s,” she nodded at her house, “not what it looks like.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said. “This is for you.” He handed her the plant, a violet.
“Wow. I love it. I absolutely love it,” Ingrid said, sniffling.
Jeremy turned toward school, prompting her to follow.
*
Later, after he went home to his neat as a pin house, after he let himself in through the side door, after finding his usual tomato sandwich on whole wheat his mother left in a Tupperware box in the fridge, after he watched his allotted episode of The Mandalorian, and after he went upstairs to his room to do his homework and read his PCs For Dummies book, he thought about the cold exterior, the emptiness of his own house, and how it really was how it looked.
Jeremy sighed. He thought of Ingrid’s messy house, how she sprouted from that mess a beautiful flower. He hoped she could find a nice place to keep the violet he gave her, some small place where the sun shone through.
Late Bloomer
by Lucy Zhang
by Lucy Zhang
When you hit puberty, you’re supposed to turn into a human. Because I am the older sibling, I have to take care of Bao’s litter box and change out his feed of gochujang-glazed salmon. Mom gave birth to Bao six years after me, and Bao seems to be a late bloomer because even though I turned human at twelve, he’s still his tabby cat at fourteen. Mom worries Bao will never turn, but she always thinks the worst when things deviate from her expectations. It was because I ate too much crab guts, she despairs. She’s referring to the yellow creamy part of the crab, the hepatopancreas which supposedly contains mercury and PCBs and other cancerous toxins. And because I nearly drowned in the ocean after your dad brought us to the beach. He doesn’t understand that we don't like being submerged in water. But there’s not much we can do about Bao being a cat, and Bao is already ashamed and we don’t want to make him feel worse. We try to treat him the same as we treat each other so he isn’t left out, but it’s hard because we have to keep him indoors so he isn’t struck by the crazy Toyota Camry we see streaking down the road every few weeks. The neighbor’s ragdoll kitty was mowed over last year, and we avoided that road for two months until we were sure the body had been removed and fur washed away. But Bao can still eat most of what we eat, although mom worries he doesn’t get the right macronutrient ratios and prefers cat food that has been through feeding trials and stamped with the approval of some official-sounding pet feed association. Mom works at a pharmaceutical company and knows the whole process of getting a drug FDA approved. She’s a stickler for clinical testing, strict evaluation of protocols, and evidence-based assessments. Which is why every day that Bao remains a cat, mom panics a bit more.
I’m not too worried, though. Bao and I get along, and I figure if Bao never becomes human, I’ll just take care of him. House cats only live for twelve to fifteen years, so I’m more than capable of providing for him for the rest of his life. Bao mostly stays in my room and likes to rub his face against my feet while I’m running simulations for cars handling pedestrians who think it’s ok to cross when the light flashes red. I work on ensuring statistical realism by creating realistic conditions for the self-driving cars, which is to say, I recreate raindrops and solar glares and wind and missing cats, and even though it’s a simulation, I indulge in the power trip of building a world where cats never get run over. Most of the time, Bao lies under my desk near my feet and the heating vent. He’s not too active. Most of us weren’t when we were cats. I like to secretly feed him cold chunks of cantaloupe when I can sneak fruit to my room. Bao loves them, although mom freaks out when Bao has fructose or anything high carb.
Dad is in denial. I can’t blame him. I’m impressed he didn’t run away after I popped out of mom’s vagina as a slimy kitten. Fortunately, he likes animals and pinned his trust on mom’s reassurances that I’d become human eventually. He ended up switching to a job in Taiwan claiming the money was too good to resist. Mom can see his payroll deposits in their shared bank account, so she knows he isn’t funneling money away in plans to disappear, and he comes home twice a year, but he can’t bear to look at Bao. Dad never says it, but he always wanted a son to play badminton with, build AM FM radios, teach to mow the lawn and add tire pressure. I rarely had time growing up—mom had signed me up for dance and singing and Chinese knotting classes, and even after I graduated, she decided it was her duty to ensure I learn to cook and clean properly. Dad avoids Bao, which is easy enough during the two weeks he’s back home from Taiwan, and Bao avoids dad too. Bao can tell when someone doesn’t want him around. Their encounters make the whole atmosphere awkward. I remember dad opening the door to my room to ask for the bag of dried jujube which I had hoarded in my desk, and he discovered Bao at my feet and froze. I tried to diffuse the situation by handing dad the jujubes, but his hand wouldn’t tighten around the bag as I attempted to place it in his arms. He’d become a statue. Bao had stood watching us, not knowing whether he should hide under the bed or stay with me to confront the situation. I had to lightly push dad until he stumbled out of my room.
It’s on a Wednesday that Bao goes missing. I am distracted by coworkers who don’t know how to compute dot products, so I don’t notice immediately. Mom says I get myopic when I’m angry, although I never admit I’m angry. After I send a code snippet which is really the entire algorithm I’ve implemented for them, I realize there’s no heavy mass of fluff warming my feet. I look under the bed first, because sometimes Bao prefers the dark during the day. Then I search in my closet which he rarely frequents, although occasionally if my heavy wool coat falls off the coathanger, he’ll form a bed to snuggle in. I search through the whole house. Mom asks me what I’m doing and I say I can’t find my credit card. I am beginning to think Bao escaped outside.
The last time Bao went outside was when I was fifteen and forgot to close the back door. Bao snuck out and into the yard where mom’s precious garden grew. She was growing bamboo, tomatoes, silk squash and garlic chives, and would tend to them every evening after dinner until late. I was often asleep before she returned to the house, but she didn’t spend the entire time caring for the vegetables. My room overlooked the backyard, and once when I stayed up late finishing calculus homework, I saw her sitting on the steel swivel chair facing the plants, eyes closed and head tilted to the sky. When Bao escaped to the backyard, mom discovered his disappearance first. She yelled at me for not noticing and told me I’ll never be a good wife and mother if I behaved like this. She ordered me to search the entire neighborhood for Bao, clutching a chunk of smoked salmon to lure him out. It was eight at night when I went outside to go searching. I returned at eleven, empty-handed and lightly scratched by tree branches and brambles from hidden corners that made good hiding spots, discovering Bao in mom’s lap as she sat facing the squashes and soaked up the orange glow of the moon.
Our neighborhood is fairly safe because mom and dad care more about the school district than the size of the house. And the places with good school districts tend to attract the richer families who set strict curfews for their children and only allowed their children to eat apple slices for a snack. We live in the smallest house on the street and can’t afford most of the embellishments on the other houses—fancier door trimmings, paneled walls, new shiny vinyl windows, grand entryways with neat porches decorated with cacti and flowers, paved driveways that I have never once seen cracked. Mom is under the delusion that Bao and I will become Nobel Prize winners or national leaders or CEOs of mega-corporations, which is why she tried to put me in the best schools and counted Bao’s macronutrients by the microgram. She thinks that hanging out with powerful people (and their children) will rub off on us and make up for our late start at being human. We rarely see our neighbors: they have the most high-tech security systems installed and plant ginormous trees at the border between lots for privacy. I’ve never seen their kids play outside. I’m also certain Bao could not have snuck into their yards or porches without an alarm going off, which means he must be roaming the streets.
I reach the edge of the neighborhood before I spot Bao playing with two kids, a boy and girl. The kids don’t look like they’re from around here. One of them wears overalls and the other an oversized t-shirt that reaches her knees. The girl dangles a piece of lemongrass and Bao pounces. Normally, Bao doesn’t participate in stupid games. He’s a smart cat who refuses to waste energy on tasks with no self benefits. I watch for several minutes as Bao jumps and pounces as the children laugh and take turns holding the strand of lemongrass. Then I near the kids and as they pause, I pick Bao up. Sorry, I say. This cat is mine. He’s a house cat. He’s not supposed to be outdoors. Bao is motionless in my arms and I feel his heart beating from all the running around. We’re not normally so active before puberty.
On the way back to the house, I hug Bao and nestle my face into his fur. I tell him I’ll sneak him a few pieces of cantaloupe tonight. I whisper sorry.
I’m not too worried, though. Bao and I get along, and I figure if Bao never becomes human, I’ll just take care of him. House cats only live for twelve to fifteen years, so I’m more than capable of providing for him for the rest of his life. Bao mostly stays in my room and likes to rub his face against my feet while I’m running simulations for cars handling pedestrians who think it’s ok to cross when the light flashes red. I work on ensuring statistical realism by creating realistic conditions for the self-driving cars, which is to say, I recreate raindrops and solar glares and wind and missing cats, and even though it’s a simulation, I indulge in the power trip of building a world where cats never get run over. Most of the time, Bao lies under my desk near my feet and the heating vent. He’s not too active. Most of us weren’t when we were cats. I like to secretly feed him cold chunks of cantaloupe when I can sneak fruit to my room. Bao loves them, although mom freaks out when Bao has fructose or anything high carb.
Dad is in denial. I can’t blame him. I’m impressed he didn’t run away after I popped out of mom’s vagina as a slimy kitten. Fortunately, he likes animals and pinned his trust on mom’s reassurances that I’d become human eventually. He ended up switching to a job in Taiwan claiming the money was too good to resist. Mom can see his payroll deposits in their shared bank account, so she knows he isn’t funneling money away in plans to disappear, and he comes home twice a year, but he can’t bear to look at Bao. Dad never says it, but he always wanted a son to play badminton with, build AM FM radios, teach to mow the lawn and add tire pressure. I rarely had time growing up—mom had signed me up for dance and singing and Chinese knotting classes, and even after I graduated, she decided it was her duty to ensure I learn to cook and clean properly. Dad avoids Bao, which is easy enough during the two weeks he’s back home from Taiwan, and Bao avoids dad too. Bao can tell when someone doesn’t want him around. Their encounters make the whole atmosphere awkward. I remember dad opening the door to my room to ask for the bag of dried jujube which I had hoarded in my desk, and he discovered Bao at my feet and froze. I tried to diffuse the situation by handing dad the jujubes, but his hand wouldn’t tighten around the bag as I attempted to place it in his arms. He’d become a statue. Bao had stood watching us, not knowing whether he should hide under the bed or stay with me to confront the situation. I had to lightly push dad until he stumbled out of my room.
It’s on a Wednesday that Bao goes missing. I am distracted by coworkers who don’t know how to compute dot products, so I don’t notice immediately. Mom says I get myopic when I’m angry, although I never admit I’m angry. After I send a code snippet which is really the entire algorithm I’ve implemented for them, I realize there’s no heavy mass of fluff warming my feet. I look under the bed first, because sometimes Bao prefers the dark during the day. Then I search in my closet which he rarely frequents, although occasionally if my heavy wool coat falls off the coathanger, he’ll form a bed to snuggle in. I search through the whole house. Mom asks me what I’m doing and I say I can’t find my credit card. I am beginning to think Bao escaped outside.
The last time Bao went outside was when I was fifteen and forgot to close the back door. Bao snuck out and into the yard where mom’s precious garden grew. She was growing bamboo, tomatoes, silk squash and garlic chives, and would tend to them every evening after dinner until late. I was often asleep before she returned to the house, but she didn’t spend the entire time caring for the vegetables. My room overlooked the backyard, and once when I stayed up late finishing calculus homework, I saw her sitting on the steel swivel chair facing the plants, eyes closed and head tilted to the sky. When Bao escaped to the backyard, mom discovered his disappearance first. She yelled at me for not noticing and told me I’ll never be a good wife and mother if I behaved like this. She ordered me to search the entire neighborhood for Bao, clutching a chunk of smoked salmon to lure him out. It was eight at night when I went outside to go searching. I returned at eleven, empty-handed and lightly scratched by tree branches and brambles from hidden corners that made good hiding spots, discovering Bao in mom’s lap as she sat facing the squashes and soaked up the orange glow of the moon.
Our neighborhood is fairly safe because mom and dad care more about the school district than the size of the house. And the places with good school districts tend to attract the richer families who set strict curfews for their children and only allowed their children to eat apple slices for a snack. We live in the smallest house on the street and can’t afford most of the embellishments on the other houses—fancier door trimmings, paneled walls, new shiny vinyl windows, grand entryways with neat porches decorated with cacti and flowers, paved driveways that I have never once seen cracked. Mom is under the delusion that Bao and I will become Nobel Prize winners or national leaders or CEOs of mega-corporations, which is why she tried to put me in the best schools and counted Bao’s macronutrients by the microgram. She thinks that hanging out with powerful people (and their children) will rub off on us and make up for our late start at being human. We rarely see our neighbors: they have the most high-tech security systems installed and plant ginormous trees at the border between lots for privacy. I’ve never seen their kids play outside. I’m also certain Bao could not have snuck into their yards or porches without an alarm going off, which means he must be roaming the streets.
I reach the edge of the neighborhood before I spot Bao playing with two kids, a boy and girl. The kids don’t look like they’re from around here. One of them wears overalls and the other an oversized t-shirt that reaches her knees. The girl dangles a piece of lemongrass and Bao pounces. Normally, Bao doesn’t participate in stupid games. He’s a smart cat who refuses to waste energy on tasks with no self benefits. I watch for several minutes as Bao jumps and pounces as the children laugh and take turns holding the strand of lemongrass. Then I near the kids and as they pause, I pick Bao up. Sorry, I say. This cat is mine. He’s a house cat. He’s not supposed to be outdoors. Bao is motionless in my arms and I feel his heart beating from all the running around. We’re not normally so active before puberty.
On the way back to the house, I hug Bao and nestle my face into his fur. I tell him I’ll sneak him a few pieces of cantaloupe tonight. I whisper sorry.
Hybrid Literature
Dancing to Directions Given to Me from My Heart
by Lindsay Stenico
by Lindsay Stenico
In Conclusion XIII
by Marc Janssen
by Marc Janssen
The boxes are half unpacked in that cavern created by two dorm beds bolted to the floor. One end, blinds, staring blankly toward the street, the other, a door, leading to the ambiguous hall. He finished his sandwich at the desk as I soothed his sheets and blankets. There was a lot to put away but it was for him to do now and for me to step away from the soap and the dirty clothes hamper and the euphonium and the Dr. Who blanket.
There was no place to sit so instead I just thought of the first poem I wrote after we had met almost nineteen years before.
When they handed me Tom, he was an incredulous eggplant,
Wrapped in a sterile sheet, he peered out disapprovingly
At hands and light and sound;
Eyes dark as time below a furrowed pink brow, new and wrinkled, looked up.
He yawned with the voice of a cantateuer and something inside me happily broke.
Later, outside the glass door that protects the music majors from the world, there was nothing left to do, no more daily banter, no more walks through dusk’s gathering arms, no more kitchen discoveries, no more lessons that never really were taught, and in any event there was no time for that anyway.
So I kissed you on the forehead and we both turned to go. But it was I who glanced back again and watched you open and walk through the glass door and up the stairs and disappear into the hallway.
There was no place to sit so instead I just thought of the first poem I wrote after we had met almost nineteen years before.
When they handed me Tom, he was an incredulous eggplant,
Wrapped in a sterile sheet, he peered out disapprovingly
At hands and light and sound;
Eyes dark as time below a furrowed pink brow, new and wrinkled, looked up.
He yawned with the voice of a cantateuer and something inside me happily broke.
Later, outside the glass door that protects the music majors from the world, there was nothing left to do, no more daily banter, no more walks through dusk’s gathering arms, no more kitchen discoveries, no more lessons that never really were taught, and in any event there was no time for that anyway.
So I kissed you on the forehead and we both turned to go. But it was I who glanced back again and watched you open and walk through the glass door and up the stairs and disappear into the hallway.
Mother's Daughter
by Andrea Wagner
by Andrea Wagner
I wish I could say it’s been months
But it’s been so long;
You point your camera and tell me to smile
And I give it my all, my best ones
Are always for you.
When did this happen?
When did I put away my heart,
Gross, quivering, so vulnerable,
Heavy and dark and wanting
But knowing I can’t?
It keeps happening, yesterday, today, tomorrow stalks behind me with a bomb but no batteries, a fist in my mouth and disgust pours out of me with every second I keep trying to help you, I really do, but I keep messing up, I keep hitting walls, I want to get away but I
can’t.
I don’t want to get in trouble
I don’t want to hurt you
Mother, Mater,
I love you but it’s hard.
But it’s been so long;
You point your camera and tell me to smile
And I give it my all, my best ones
Are always for you.
When did this happen?
When did I put away my heart,
Gross, quivering, so vulnerable,
Heavy and dark and wanting
But knowing I can’t?
It keeps happening, yesterday, today, tomorrow stalks behind me with a bomb but no batteries, a fist in my mouth and disgust pours out of me with every second I keep trying to help you, I really do, but I keep messing up, I keep hitting walls, I want to get away but I
can’t.
I don’t want to get in trouble
I don’t want to hurt you
Mother, Mater,
I love you but it’s hard.
Nonfiction
Open Letter to My Milky: A Farewell to Fridays
by Nathan Pettigrew
by Nathan Pettigrew
Took me three months to write you, and I almost didn’t finish.
When I whispered goodbye in your ear, I said farewell to Fridays forever. No longer am I excited by the end of the week or do I celebrate with the rest of the country.
You were my reason for getting out of bed for so many years. Can still feel your furry body brushing up against my shins. You’d spend the nights in your ex-pen eating hay, ready for your pellets when the sun rose. I’d praise Allah for your continued existence when feeding you breakfast, for your perseverance in the wake of losing your sister months before and the strength you gave me in return.
Though I find peace in knowing how good your life was, the house we lived in is now so hard to walk through without seeing a flash of white in the corners of my eyes. I cry when your mother can’t see, when using the bathroom, when working with the door closed or outside smoking.
Anger, sadness, and the absence of you refuse to move on the way you did.
I miss you so much, sweet boy. Miss waking up in the middle of the night and the sound of your teeth grinding when I caressed your cheeks and forehead. Miss those bunny flops—those moments when you’d roll over to show me how happy you were. Miss coming home to find you on the hearth of the fireplace or under the table where I kept your hay. You’d acknowledge me by licking your paws—another thing you did when comfortable. You never raised hell over me leaving you at home alone like barking dogs.
More than anything, I miss singing your nickname.
“Bugsy Boo. Little Bugsy boo. BUGSEE booo. Little BUGSEE booo.”
With those small red eyes, that cute stare, you’d watch me go into the fridge. You loved your parsley—more than your hay. You’d watch me from the fireplace when football was on, licking your paws while your mother and I went crazy over touchdowns.
My crimes against you weren’t malicious. I arranged for you to move on, but from a place of mercy, and I had paralyzed you before that by chance. The random guy wasn’t supposed to be on the crosswalk. I slammed the brakes and you hit the side of your kennel before looking at me like, “What the hell, Dad?”
Yeah, son. What the hell? I’m so sorry. We weren’t supposed to be dealing with another problem after I’d brought you in for tests. You’d stopped eating and drinking days before and I couldn’t figure out why. Aside from you abandoning your diet, you were acting normal, full of energy. But not eating or drinking? Time was of the essence.
I was scared, Milky. I sought help, the vet warned me: bloodwork and X-rays could cause stress, possibly sending you into cardiac arrest. I broke down, bawling and trying to pray, but ultimately deciding to gamble on your knack for perseverance.
Which almost paid off. You survived those tests. My Milky. You were the toughest little guy, always forcing me to focus on the task at hand. Thunder and lightning never scared you. Nothing shook you.
The vet confirmed nothing was wrong internally, giving me hope, and I’d paid a thousand to find that out. Would’ve spent millions if I had it. All I needed to do was inject the oral medicine.
Fair to say, you died by my hands. Nothing shook you until those brakes on the worst Thursday of my life.
That doctor on Friday asked if we wanted to “put you down” because you were paralyzed. You’d think someone in her profession could show compassion.
Or maybe it made perfect sense for someone who kills for a living to come off as cold as a corpse.
Know this, sweet boy: you weren’t my only victim. I’ve robbed myself of purpose, but more peace comes from the memories of your affection, your playfulness.
Your love never stopped. Alhamdullilah for almost ten years—the best I’ve known. Alhamdullilah for how well you handled losing your sister. Lola sure loved you, too, constantly licking your ears before cuddling with you.
Much as I miss you both, my broken heart still beats from the joy of your reunion.
I just—never wanted to say goodbye. Pulling the trigger on your trip to the rainbow bridge was rough. Your mother and I weren’t allowed in the room where you were “put down,” but we were given a final moment.
You ground your teeth when I caressed your cheeks. Looked into my eyes when my tears fell. I kissed your forehead, stroked your ears, and whispered thank you. There wasn’t a time limit on this moment, but the end had to come.
I stood and broke down before reaching the door and kissed your forehead for the last time.
“Tequila,” your mother said in the car, and Don Julio was no match for us, the bottle empty within an hour of toasting to your honor.
I woke up without a hangover, and without having to feed you breakfast.
Screaming your name, I found no mercy and no furry body to rub against my shins.
Like Stevie Wonder’s masterpiece, you were the sunshine of my life, and when the brass section in that song fades at the end, so does my composure.
I can’t go an hour without thinking about you.
You’re in a place I’ve yet to travel, but I know you’re waiting for me, Milky.
I woke up on the Wednesday morning of Eid al-Fitr, not having to work for two hours. First smoking a cigarette, I fell back asleep and saw you in your most glorious state. A much bigger, full-sized bun hopping near the back porch where you used to watch me.
Florida insects and reptiles were a threat to you, but we were now together in an alternate reality—one where you’d come home to die again in the disguise of a dream.
I opened the French door. Excited and free, you hopped in a circle as if doing a dance before going inside. I followed, watching you lose control of your body.
That’s when I knew: you were granting my wish for my presence during your peaceful passing—and Shukran, Habibi.
Regaining your footing, you forced me into the kitchen where you jumped on the counter and didn’t stay for long.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, and then you hopped down and ran into the dining room where your ghostly white fur changed colors.
Somehow, I understood. Yellow flashes meant sickness, the blinding pink showing your transformation. Purple and gray wings flapped wide open from your shoulders, and you did a bunny flop, your new wings wrapping your body like a blanket before I bent down to kiss your precious face.
I woke up kissing my pillow.
Making myself useful, I got up to water the lawn, to nurture life and watch it grow with “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” playing in my ears until the brass faded.
When I whispered goodbye in your ear, I said farewell to Fridays forever. No longer am I excited by the end of the week or do I celebrate with the rest of the country.
You were my reason for getting out of bed for so many years. Can still feel your furry body brushing up against my shins. You’d spend the nights in your ex-pen eating hay, ready for your pellets when the sun rose. I’d praise Allah for your continued existence when feeding you breakfast, for your perseverance in the wake of losing your sister months before and the strength you gave me in return.
Though I find peace in knowing how good your life was, the house we lived in is now so hard to walk through without seeing a flash of white in the corners of my eyes. I cry when your mother can’t see, when using the bathroom, when working with the door closed or outside smoking.
Anger, sadness, and the absence of you refuse to move on the way you did.
I miss you so much, sweet boy. Miss waking up in the middle of the night and the sound of your teeth grinding when I caressed your cheeks and forehead. Miss those bunny flops—those moments when you’d roll over to show me how happy you were. Miss coming home to find you on the hearth of the fireplace or under the table where I kept your hay. You’d acknowledge me by licking your paws—another thing you did when comfortable. You never raised hell over me leaving you at home alone like barking dogs.
More than anything, I miss singing your nickname.
“Bugsy Boo. Little Bugsy boo. BUGSEE booo. Little BUGSEE booo.”
With those small red eyes, that cute stare, you’d watch me go into the fridge. You loved your parsley—more than your hay. You’d watch me from the fireplace when football was on, licking your paws while your mother and I went crazy over touchdowns.
My crimes against you weren’t malicious. I arranged for you to move on, but from a place of mercy, and I had paralyzed you before that by chance. The random guy wasn’t supposed to be on the crosswalk. I slammed the brakes and you hit the side of your kennel before looking at me like, “What the hell, Dad?”
Yeah, son. What the hell? I’m so sorry. We weren’t supposed to be dealing with another problem after I’d brought you in for tests. You’d stopped eating and drinking days before and I couldn’t figure out why. Aside from you abandoning your diet, you were acting normal, full of energy. But not eating or drinking? Time was of the essence.
I was scared, Milky. I sought help, the vet warned me: bloodwork and X-rays could cause stress, possibly sending you into cardiac arrest. I broke down, bawling and trying to pray, but ultimately deciding to gamble on your knack for perseverance.
Which almost paid off. You survived those tests. My Milky. You were the toughest little guy, always forcing me to focus on the task at hand. Thunder and lightning never scared you. Nothing shook you.
The vet confirmed nothing was wrong internally, giving me hope, and I’d paid a thousand to find that out. Would’ve spent millions if I had it. All I needed to do was inject the oral medicine.
Fair to say, you died by my hands. Nothing shook you until those brakes on the worst Thursday of my life.
That doctor on Friday asked if we wanted to “put you down” because you were paralyzed. You’d think someone in her profession could show compassion.
Or maybe it made perfect sense for someone who kills for a living to come off as cold as a corpse.
Know this, sweet boy: you weren’t my only victim. I’ve robbed myself of purpose, but more peace comes from the memories of your affection, your playfulness.
Your love never stopped. Alhamdullilah for almost ten years—the best I’ve known. Alhamdullilah for how well you handled losing your sister. Lola sure loved you, too, constantly licking your ears before cuddling with you.
Much as I miss you both, my broken heart still beats from the joy of your reunion.
I just—never wanted to say goodbye. Pulling the trigger on your trip to the rainbow bridge was rough. Your mother and I weren’t allowed in the room where you were “put down,” but we were given a final moment.
You ground your teeth when I caressed your cheeks. Looked into my eyes when my tears fell. I kissed your forehead, stroked your ears, and whispered thank you. There wasn’t a time limit on this moment, but the end had to come.
I stood and broke down before reaching the door and kissed your forehead for the last time.
“Tequila,” your mother said in the car, and Don Julio was no match for us, the bottle empty within an hour of toasting to your honor.
I woke up without a hangover, and without having to feed you breakfast.
Screaming your name, I found no mercy and no furry body to rub against my shins.
Like Stevie Wonder’s masterpiece, you were the sunshine of my life, and when the brass section in that song fades at the end, so does my composure.
I can’t go an hour without thinking about you.
You’re in a place I’ve yet to travel, but I know you’re waiting for me, Milky.
I woke up on the Wednesday morning of Eid al-Fitr, not having to work for two hours. First smoking a cigarette, I fell back asleep and saw you in your most glorious state. A much bigger, full-sized bun hopping near the back porch where you used to watch me.
Florida insects and reptiles were a threat to you, but we were now together in an alternate reality—one where you’d come home to die again in the disguise of a dream.
I opened the French door. Excited and free, you hopped in a circle as if doing a dance before going inside. I followed, watching you lose control of your body.
That’s when I knew: you were granting my wish for my presence during your peaceful passing—and Shukran, Habibi.
Regaining your footing, you forced me into the kitchen where you jumped on the counter and didn’t stay for long.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, and then you hopped down and ran into the dining room where your ghostly white fur changed colors.
Somehow, I understood. Yellow flashes meant sickness, the blinding pink showing your transformation. Purple and gray wings flapped wide open from your shoulders, and you did a bunny flop, your new wings wrapping your body like a blanket before I bent down to kiss your precious face.
I woke up kissing my pillow.
Making myself useful, I got up to water the lawn, to nurture life and watch it grow with “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” playing in my ears until the brass faded.
The Great Pine
by Grace Schwenk
by Grace Schwenk
I ran to the trees today. I grabbed the bright pink afghan blanket crocheted for me by my Grandma and stuffed it into the backseat of my 2008 Subaru Legacy, Oatmeal. I drove her up Bass Creek because there is a solace that exists amongst the humble trees that dot the mountainside. I walked along the bank of the creek until I reached the biggest pine in the forest—I call her the Great Pine. Spreading my blanket beneath the Great Pine, I laid on my back and stared up at her in awe. She stands over 150 feet tall. That’s almost 70 feet taller than the other pines that stand amongst her. Her trunk, colossal yet amicable, wraps around to be wider than a bear hug. Her bark consists of a maze of intricate details that would lead one to the secret to wisdom if they ever made their way through. She is a standing vision of respectful intelligence and beauty. My eyes watched as green branches full of pine needles swayed in the rustling of the wind. The wind knocked a few loose pines free and they landed upon my hat. The pines that broke free didn’t just fall. They took a leap into the adventure of the unknown. The pines flew. I grabbed one of the pilot pines off my hat and twiddled it in my fingers while I continued to listen. The wind created a melody as it moved through the branches. Simply listening to that melody soothed my broken thoughts. I don’t know who I’ve become, but the song of the Great Pine calmed me like when my mom used to hum a lullaby for me when I couldn’t sleep. I stared up at the humming branches until the aching in my heart hurt just a little less. Feeling somewhat more free as I rose to my feet, I delicately touched the winding bark of the Great Pine to offer her my thanks. I shook the needles off the blanket and made my way along the creek back to Oatmeal.
Poetry
A Perfect Love
by Olivia Hajioff
by Olivia Hajioff
|
Long ago, I had a baby cousin in another land.
She spoke—not one word did we have in common, yet there was nothing we did not understand. She would sit upon my lap for hours. I can still feel her pudgy arms wrapped around my neck, rubbery, taut like a balloon. How safe I felt. Maybe you know too, how little words matter when the eyes, the tone, tell all. My mother, a teen, cared for her mother, a baby, many years before. Did something pass down to us, I wonder? And when I left, a gorge of grief came. The gorge now just a tiny drawstring sack open now, and spilling but mostly tied and tucked away. My baby cousin is thirty now. Here and not here. How can that be? |
Autumn Love
by Buck Weiss
by Buck Weiss
|
Your hair shifts the seasons
Copper to rose gold, ginger, a dark ruby red. My favorite taste—auburn fall That mischievous smile under velvet locks That promise of nights by the fire Days in leaf piles and wandering hands. Your scarf—a tether Pulling me from pumpkin patch to hayride Our autumn love poured out in mugs. Slogans on warm rims “You're my guy and I’m your ghoul!” “Give me a treat and I’ll show you a trick!” “Stalk your love in the corn maze!” Your laugh—an infectious calm Your flame tempting my caution’s warmth. “We are never too old for smores at a bonfire. Never too young to see kisses as hot.” Days reading in bed, arms brushing each turn. Nights under blankets, nesting for warmth. Our bond ticks in time as we snuggle through life Copper to rose gold, ginger, a dark ruby red. |
Coming Home
by Andrea Wagner
by Andrea Wagner
|
Her words are rough, but hands
That aren’t mine scrub away Flecks of muck I made And dried up blood that sticks Stubborn like wine stains “Why didn’t you tell me?” Hypocritical, I think, But then again, I know I’d say the same When she comes home tired, Unraveling her own grimy bandages It stings at first, But when I look at her I smile And think of all the photographs That catch us unaware When we’re both here, Alive. |
Flower Psalm
by Tim Moder
by Tim Moder
|
She was in the beginning of the world before
words were spoken. Runes and symbols decorate her body. You can read them by starlight if she wishes to be seen. She is a river, winding through jungles of songbirds, tangled in the ruins of seven civilizations, her temple is unapproachable. Pyramids built on her thin lips mark her alien ancestry. A race of universal priestesses sacrificed themselves, cobras coiled around their heads, digesting all intellect. |
Grand pas de deux
by Monica Hart
by Monica Hart
|
Without waking, he
makes room for me. I slide under his shoulder and hip as he relaxes onto me. I throw my leg over his leg wrestle with the blanket and drape my arm across his chest, right where it has landed for twenty-two years. Through all this wrestling and rearranging and settling in, he does not wake. He knows his partner. His hand rests on my thigh right where it has rested for twenty-two years. Without waking him, I breathe him in and out and I can sleep again. |
My son learned about voluntary and
involuntary muscles in science class. We talked about how lucky we are that some decisions are out of our hands: our hearts beat regardless of what we do. For twenty-two years, this man and I have rearranged and wrestled and settled in. We have always ended where we are now, intertwined, warm hand on cool thigh, cool hand on warm chest, heating and chilling our shared space, breathing each other’s air. The dance takes two. This particular dance takes twenty-two. |
Heritage
by Bethany Conover
by Bethany Conover
|
Grand Canyon, our background
azure in the sky, watching, as they danced to beats that must have been found in their souls. Waving feathers of eagle and hawk, telling a story, I was never given the code to, but my great-grandmother knew it. She saw the journey they proclaimed in their stomps, the romance in their clamoring voices, the tragedy in their fervent arms-- She never taught me. I would never understand the feathered rhythms, why canyons were formed, how trees touch the sky, how oceans were once people. But I would learn to understand what it means to be nomadic in an urban world and to see the divine in nature, while dancing to the beat I find in my soul instead of theirs. My body tells stories others will never understand, amalgamations infuse our differences our dances. |
Imitation
by Schuyler Becker
by Schuyler Becker
|
If I could paint your portrait
and breathe life into your image, I would. If I could place stars in your eyes and rosebuds upon your lips, I would. If I could amplify your voice and emblazon your name, I would. I would only ever paint you with the most vivid colors. I would only hear you in the most beautiful notes. I would only ever see you in the best part of every story. If I could I would make you more than just a portrait, a solitary thing. You would be a real person, my person. You would no longer be only an image with paint flakes peeling away like forgotten memories. |
Letters from Baka
by Teresa Klepac
by Teresa Klepac
|
He saved all her letters
Tied up with stiff, white string and stained with tears. His blue-veined hands smoothed the vellum, traveling across a distance no longer marked by a street address. He cradled them the way a man cradles a child’s head . . . so fragile those feelings those thoughts memories. There are stains on the creased pages. The ink-aged sepia. A lock of chestnut hair a polaroid trimmed in white scallops a woman, small and delicate. He says, my grandmother’s hands, I can only remember their softness as she washed my face. Tenderly speaking Croatian, small hands against my ivory skin. He touched his face, closed his eyes and sighed. Traveled the distance between now and then. |
Tiny Church
by Camila Cal
by Camila Cal
there's a tiny church somewhere in southern georgia;
roadside america says it's on the end of a dirt road,
kinda hidden
almost like an afterthought.
the creator calls it a storage shed,
transformed into a church.
i call those synonyms.
after all, what is a church
but a depository?
we speak our prayers into it,
sliding them into the lockers of hope,
wishing them safety after we've gone.
our bruised knees remind us
at our most earnest moments
we are fragile:
there's a cost to worship.
i peek inside.
two pews, a pulpit, a cross,
a little notebook for travelers to write
we were here, we believed.
what kind of genius does it take
to build a church out of so little?
this road trip is spontaneous.
we bump along the dusty road,
you and i, disciples.
just strangers months ago.
our fingers interlocked,
a steeple of accidental prayer.
the church is locked.
the handle won't budge,
the door sealed shut.
but it doesn't really matter.
i know the answer to my question.
i'm not a religious person but when
i turn to look at you,
brown eyes gleaming in the sunlight,
boots planted in the mud,
both of our gazes meeting at the altar,
i want nothing more than to worship.
it's not hard to build a church.
all we need is you
and me.
after all,
it doesn't take a genius to know that
i love you.
i turn back to the church:
i'm here, i believe,
amen.
roadside america says it's on the end of a dirt road,
kinda hidden
almost like an afterthought.
the creator calls it a storage shed,
transformed into a church.
i call those synonyms.
after all, what is a church
but a depository?
we speak our prayers into it,
sliding them into the lockers of hope,
wishing them safety after we've gone.
our bruised knees remind us
at our most earnest moments
we are fragile:
there's a cost to worship.
i peek inside.
two pews, a pulpit, a cross,
a little notebook for travelers to write
we were here, we believed.
what kind of genius does it take
to build a church out of so little?
this road trip is spontaneous.
we bump along the dusty road,
you and i, disciples.
just strangers months ago.
our fingers interlocked,
a steeple of accidental prayer.
the church is locked.
the handle won't budge,
the door sealed shut.
but it doesn't really matter.
i know the answer to my question.
i'm not a religious person but when
i turn to look at you,
brown eyes gleaming in the sunlight,
boots planted in the mud,
both of our gazes meeting at the altar,
i want nothing more than to worship.
it's not hard to build a church.
all we need is you
and me.
after all,
it doesn't take a genius to know that
i love you.
i turn back to the church:
i'm here, i believe,
amen.
Tiny Mercies
by John Muro
by John Muro
|
Like the way you caress
Your cup of coffee and Cradle it, like a cinder, Near your chest as if There’s a need to warm The heart, or your pathless Humming when tripping Through tasks; the Endearing way you Recoil from cold or Tuck loose strands Of hair inside your cap; Or the noble want to Always place the needs Of others before your own. How much different than The aging misanthrope Who watches you, heron- Still, with eyes half-closed, Weighing this morning’s Endearments that nibble Away at the dark spaces Where hunger hides Even as the heart expands. |
Twenty Something Years On
by Marc Janssen
After “Animation” by Jon Anderson
by Marc Janssen
After “Animation” by Jon Anderson
|
Somewhere there is a piano playing
Low and soft; It plays of green covered hills under a kind yellow sun. The sound comes and goes and it passes through you. It is a song about us, you and me; It is about life and loss and beginnings, And twenty years on I can hear it as easy now as on that day. It was something I didn’t know if I wanted to do, An institutional room of blood and pain and fear That housed hours as terrible as I had dreamed. Then you were there. Delicate kicking legs Heart beats and clocks to her first day Her first sound in delicate shells And red fingers opening and closing and opening and closing and opening . . . The moment I looked at her face That minute under the sun With us together in space, A moment of more than history More than mere discovery. I can still remember, Holding a bundled riddle Calmly looking up at me, “What now?” If I hold my arms in a certain way I can still feel. What will I do now? Now that I have to love. Wet skin and wispy hair-- It is the scariest thing in the smallest package; Breathing, and after a while With a powerful yawn Slowly surrendered herself to sleep And I held her in white blankets . . . How can I succumb so completely Be so capably captured? Tell me of something our forefathers tried I’ll tell you nothing compares to the birth of a child. Men are such amateurs We disappear when faced with that awesome power of creation. And I was there Beside my loved one, my wife. I didn’t know what to say then. I don’t know what to say now. |
Art
One Last Night
by Essence Saunders
by Essence Saunders
Pathway to the Heart
by Mark Hurtubise
by Mark Hurtubise
Ya know ... I think we do go well together
by Kenneth Ricci
by Kenneth Ricci
Reviews
Book Reviews
|
Personal Effects (2021)
By Robert A. Jensen Robert A. Jensen’s Personal Effects: What Recovering the Dead Teaches Me About Caring for the Living speaks candidly and graphically about his experience as commander of the 54th Quartermaster Company-Mortuary Affairs, and as the current Chair of Kenyon International Emergency Services; and, about what his job is during a tragedy’s aftermath. In his introduction, he speaks about the Swissair Flight 111 crash and the recovery efforts. What he is tasked to do is find items that are “reminders of lives lived” as well as “glimpses of the people we knew, how they lived and how they died”; but he is quick to say his real purpose is “to help the living.” He continues: “I can’t offer them closure, but I do offer them a way to manage their recovery and create the best chance for them to transition from what was normal to what will be, for them, the new normal.” Throughout, numerous anecdotes prove Jensen’s claim, including stories stemming from the world’s most devastating, newsworthy, and fatal natural and unnatural disasters: the Oklahoma City federal building bombing; Haiti’s 1994 earthquake; the Lockerbie, Scotland Pan Am crash; the Manchester, England suicide bombing, among countless others. One memorable story is presented in a chapter entitled “Picking Up the Pieces.” Jensen focuses on Alaska Airlines Flight 261, killing 88 people, but buried in the middle is a conversation about a Middle-Eastern plane crash and a victim’s stoic wife. He writes: “She was in a state of emotional paralysis, so some of the people tasked with guiding her through this terrible moment in her life thought she was cold and didn’t care. But that wasn’t the case at all. No remains of her husband had been recovered, and therefore she was struggling to believe he was actually dead. But he was dead.” Jensen states the “no body, no death” response is common, and he is often tasked to be the bearer of bad news; however, whenever he can, he will attempt to find the body. Regularly, these bodies are dismembered, so it takes months/years to identify them. In this case, however, Jensen, “got lucky: when everything was untangled, it was a single body, all parts joined together by skin or sinew, with specific identifying figures.” He picked up the wife and drove her to the airport to see her husband’s casket; she “started to cry. She was taking her husband home.” For someone to do this, to put together a body so family members can find some comfort, they must have love. Personal Effects is not just a series of horrific stories, but it is also a sobering look at what death can be. Jensen states that death is meant to undo meaning—it could be a logistical and expensive nightmare. Human life has value; it is hard to process, and when it happens unnaturally, a special series of hoops have to be jumped through to ensure that victims’ belongings and bodies get collected properly and sent back to family. And yet, death, whether it happens to one or one hundred, becomes a reason for human beings to show solidarity during a time of grief and pain. Jensen’s work displays this while also being true to his experience as a man who ultimately gives the living some peace and the dead some dignity: “Because beyond ensuring that a body has a name, dignity is one of the only things you can actually offer the dead. Everything else has already been taken away from them. What you are trying to do is work as quickly and safely as possible so you can get the body home to the family, so they can begin to make the transition from their old reality to a new one.” What Robert A. Jensen does for a living is search for the dead, but he also shows us that love for one another does not always have to be just joyous affection; sometimes true love takes the sacrifice of one’s own physical and mental well-being to be achieved. — Dr. Douglas C. MacLeod, Jr. State University of New York, Cobleskill |
|
You're Pretty Gay (2021)
By Drew Pisarra The collection You’re Pretty Gay by Drew Pisarra was published on June 25, 2021. Pissara’s second collection of short fiction makes for a captivating set of pieces as the work takes the reader through several aspects of adulthood through a particular queer lens. Consisting of about 15 pieces and 86 pages, the collection remains engaging the entire time and makes for a great piece to read in any order at any time. Each work consists of a darker tone of realistic experiences and fears with a side of dry humor encapsulated in a world of its own that easily draws readers in allowing them a look into the events described. With talks of a multitude of emotions and expectations of the environment and the settings presented, the book evokes just as much back from the reader who becomes immersed in it. It welcomes the reader with a creative style that pushes them into a new mindset to view things from. Along with that, each story provides a new set of events to potentially connect to. Whether it be the questioning of your sexuality, familial interactions, bullying, and more. The visualization of internal strife and trying to find a place in a world you feel an inherent disconnect from is done quite well throughout. The use of internal monologue and vivid language makes for some striking storytelling that makes each short story feel larger than the space it encapsulates. Through all of this, there are some interesting narrative choices that seem designed to confuse the reader as much as the narrator of the piece is, and if that is something you have difficulty reading through, those stories may not necessarily be your choice to read. He also works to create quite the strange world that often shakes apart the long-held conceptions and may mess with the mind as they get more stylistically odd. There is much to the narrative Pisarra has created with pieces like “What Bugs Me,” “The Child Criminal,” and “The Blow” invoking memories and mindsets of childhood and high school while “Fickle” and “Flashes of the Future” draw them into early adulthood. Whichever piece you read can offer an insight into sensations like fear, triumph, and internal struggles that many can relate to on some level. Pisarra has a way of creatively warping the expectations defined by the world and exposing the reader to perceptions and insights that are often pushed far outside of the social periphery. His descriptions of trying to understand sexuality and his breaking of heteronormativity are interesting, and his discussions of familial relationships easily invite a new perception of those who consume it. Overall, Pisarra creates a series of stories that, with the use of creative and colorful language and technique, immerse the reader into a multitude of worlds that tug at their minds and expectations. It leads to targeting the reader's memories, emotions, and life experiences, placing them into a series of other worlds that twist their views and make them see things from a new perspective. This is a great read that can honestly be picked up and read from any point. — Essence Saunders California State University, Stanislaus |
Film/Television Reviews
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Doom at Your Service (2021)
Directed by Kwon Young-Il Kwon Young-Il's 2021 Fantasy-Romance, Doom at Your Service immerses its audience in a seemingly impossible romance between a terminally-ill woman and the entity known as Myeol-Mang, or Doom. Despite checking the box for most romance tropes, Doom at Your Service delves deeper, showcasing both the brighter moments of being in love and the pain loving someone can sometimes cause, which creates a surprising level of reality in a world where the fantastic exists. The drama starts on a somewhat unromantic note as Dong-Kyung, faced with the knowledge that she can either live for about three months without treatment or live another year with treatment, experiences a nightmarish day. She drunkenly pleads, "Just bring Doom to this world!" which intrigues Myeol-Mang. He offers her a deal: she has one hundred days to live, during which time he can stave off any pain she might feel, but in return, she must ask him to destroy the world. Breaking the contract results in the person she loves most at that moment dying in her stead. To protect her aunt, brother, and best friend, Dong-Kyung vows to love Myeol-Mang so that he dies instead, failing to consider that once in love, she will regret this choice. Thus begins a star-crossed love in which the fate of the world hangs in the balance. The two leads, played by Park Bo-Young and Seo In-Guk, carry the drama with their on-screen chemistry. Seo In-Guk manages to portray Myeol-Mang as a roguish, yet jaded, individual seeking to destroy human life because he has become alienated from and bitter toward humanity. His character's many smiles are easily distinguishable as true happiness or self-deprecation. As he interacts with Dong-Kyung, his behavior becomes gentler and more considerate. Park Bo-Young's Dong-Kyung is similarly expressive, often using her eyes to convey her emotion and managing to convey various scenes of crying or screaming in pain in ways that appear realistic. Doom at Your Service also follows a secondary romance in the form of a love triangle between Na Ji-Na, Dong-Kyung's best friend, Cha Joo-Ik, Dong-Kyung's senior at work, and Lee Hyun-Kyu, Ji-Na's ex-boyfriend and Joo-Ik's best friend. While this romance appears less compelling and emotional when compared to Dong-Kyung and Myeol-Mang's star-crossed love, it serves as a complement to the main couple. Rooted in reality, viewers witness the struggle to let go of the past for Ji-Na who is suddenly faced with the ex-boyfriend she never got over, as well as his friend who stole her first kiss. At the same time, viewers witness the struggle between friends with conflicting interests as Joo-Ik and Hyun-Kyu attempt to maintain their friendship despite pursuing the same woman. The simple complexity of their story is less devastating than the leads, which allows the audience to take a short break from heavier emotions. One of this drama's strengths lies in its masterful use of music to heighten already emotionally-charged scenes. All of the main songs from the original soundtrack, performed by top artists, such as Ailee's "Breaking Down" and Tomorrow x Together's "Love Sight," occur during poignant moments between Dong-Kyung and Myeol-Mang. The scenes themselves generate a powerful emotional impact by either panning across the two leads or by providing a montage of flashbacks, highlighting significant moments. "Breaking Down" plays during scenes where Dong-Kyung and Myeol-Mang fight the connection between them, and "Love Sight" plays during scenes where the two acknowledge their feelings for each other. While one might expect the repetition of a handful of songs to grow boring, the songs frequently appear in different arrangements, sometimes with an echo effect, sometimes as an instrumental, and sometimes as the original, which keeps the soundtrack feeling fresh and impactful. Similar to the soundtrack, the drama also makes exceptional use of symbolism. Myeol-Mang is frequently described as a butterfly in the "garden" of humanity, always on the outside. The Deity, portrayed as a young woman with a heart condition, serves as the gardener tasked with caring for the flowers in the garden. She carries around a pot, trying to grow her own flower. As Myeol-Mang learns to love and becomes more desperate to save Dong-Kyung, the flower sprouts and grows. At the same time, there are scenes where viewers see a dying butterfly that seems weaker the stronger the budding flower becomes. Myeol-Mang is the butterfly, but his ultimate goal is the flower, representative of humanity. As masterfully created as Doom at Your Service is, it does have potential discrepancies. The Deity is a potentially problematic character, serving as a sort of deus ex machina to provide a happy ending. Her powers seem inconsistent as she separates the leads from each other's fates but forgets simple things like deleting phone contacts and images. Yet, by the end of the drama, she is capable of altering images and memories to plug Myeol-Mang into society as "Sa-Ram," his new name, which coincidentally means "human." However, it is possible the "oversights" she makes earlier in the drama are intentional on her part and, rather than an error, a clever move by the writers. Although not perfect, Doom at Your Service is a creative, complex fantasy-romance that shows both the selfless and selfish sides of love. The various types of love portrayed have something for everyone. Fantasy-Romance lovers will enjoy watching the journey of love between Dong-Kyung and Myeol-Mang as they experience a rollercoaster of emotions. — Jessica Charest California State University, Stanislaus |
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Lamb (2021)
Directed by Valdimar Jóhannsson A24 has been behind some of the best films of the decade--Moonlight, Lady Bird, Minari. But the company has also gained a reputation for psychologically rich horror like The Witch and Hereditary. The company’s recent release, Valdimar Jóhannsson’s directorial debut Lamb, is a folklore-tinged film that doesn’t neatly fit into either category. Winner of the Prize of Originality in Cannes’ Un Certain Regard competition, Lamb derives much of its appeal—along with its frustrations—from its gleeful disregard for conventional categories like genre and species. Lamb stars Noomi Rapace and Hilmir Snær Guðnason as a childless couple running a remote sheep farm in Iceland. Cinematographer Eli Arenson’s work is stunning, and the indigo-tinged shots of hoary sheep and icy landscapes contribute much to the film’s slowly creeping sense of dread. But these visions are ancillary to the narrative, which is built on scenes of isolated farm life punctuated by moments of sheer absurdity. When one of their ewes gives birth to a hybrid human-sheep baby, María (Rapace) and Ingvar (Guðnason) immediately adopt her and name her Ada, in memory of a child they lost. Jóhannsson hints at Ada’s unique form long before the reveal, but the film’s slow build cannot adequately prepare audiences for the visual impact of Ada, whose body comprises a lamb’s head and arms with human legs and buttocks. To a certain extent, Lamb is a tale grounded in motherhood. Overwhelmed by grief, María’s nearly wordless interactions with her husband Ingvar (Guðnason) mirror those with the sheep she tends. It is only when Ada arrives that she returns to life. In one intimate scene, María weaves a crown of flowers and lovingly places it on Ada’s head. Yet as tenderly as she feels towards Ada, her sentiments do not extend to Ada’s birth mother, who relentlessly follows her and calls to Ada from outside their home. Angered by the nameless ewe’s persistence, María shoots her point-blank. María’s actions lend insight into the nature of her and Ingvar’s relationship with Ada. Despite their attachment to Ada, she—like her fellow sheep—exists to serve their needs, to comfort them. María never stops to question if she is the better mother for Ada. She simply assumes that any half-human creature would choose to live among humans. And to be fair, who wouldn’t, if the only other option was to spend life captive and among companions who will ultimately be sent to slaughter? Despite its loose classification as a horror film, Lamb eschews the tropes common to the genre’s treatment of human-animal hybrids. Unlike the nightmarish science fiction of The Island of Dr. Moreau and The Fly, no mad scientists are involved; hybridity is a function of nature. Nor is Ada a monster in the tradition of werewolves and wendigos, as Lamb largely denies the primal fears about our animal natures that have made horror films so compelling. In doing so, it reflects beliefs about the wildlife that underlie popular trends like Tiger King and Burmese pythons: “Wild animals aren't really wild, they make great pets!” Lamb similarly resists psychological interpretation. Despite Jóhannsson’s slow reveal of Ada, there is little to suggest that Ada’s hybridity is a projection of María's grief, that Ada is a lamb María and Ingvar simply treat as a human. Jóhannsson has taken great pains to craft Ada from an amalgamation of child actors, sheep, puppetry, and CGI. Shots of Ada riding a tractor, walking upright—her hooves peeping out from her jacket sleeves—and otherwise interacting with her fully human counterparts occur with such frequency throughout the film that it is impossible to see her as anything but as who and what María sees. Despite the surreal and often comic nature of these moments, they remind us that the “logic” of Lamb is not far removed from the very real phenomena of emotional support pigs and turkeys. Lamb ultimately reflects our own illogically bifurcated feelings about animals writ large. It is easy to love another when engaging on our own terms—and even more so when that other is a cute and cuddly herbivore. Focus on the assistance animals, zoo ambassadors, and wildlife rescues, and not only will speciesism appear to be going the way of other isms, but loving others will seem to offer the key to making us better humans. If only it were so simple. There is a chilling scene where Ada stares at a photograph of a large flock of sheep. The camera lingers on her, lingering over the image. At that moment we fully apprehend her isolation and horror. While it is effortless to love the one, it is difficult even to care about the many. Lamb doesn't aspire to critique neoliberalism or animal agriculture, but it does include a twist, warning that our callous disregard for our animal others will not pass without a reckoning. — Jacqueline Sadashige Drexel University |
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Love and Monsters (2020)
Directed by Michael Matthews Who’d have thought the apocalypse could be so . . . green? Most fictional dystopias or disaster movies on celluloid are often expected to—or at least try to invoke—a color palette reverting to the bleak, muted shades of a doomed existence—one that is expected to follow a catastrophe. Love and Monsters by director Michael Matthews radically departs from such genre codes, and the result is strangely soothing. Many ingredients go into making this concoction—gloriously macabre monsters (obviously), nature in its absolute wildest ecologies, diverse colonies of survivors, talking robots, and the steady undercurrent of self-deprecating humor much needed to literally navigate the routes of a perilous journey—but the standalone aspect among all would be a classical quest for love. At its heart, Love and Monsters is a rather simple yet quite daunting tale on what it means to love, and what companionship means in disaster ecologies where the limits of both nature and human bonds turn unpredictable. The story follows one Joel Dawson of Fairfield, California—an adolescent boy seemingly in the early throes of love with high school sweetheart Aimee—both completely oblivious of the unforeseen military consequences of blowing an Earthbound asteroid to bits. Cut to seven years later, the world’s quite a different landscape, and quieter too. Cutting through the silence is mostly the ominous chitter of creepy-crawlies now fearlessly roaming about the planet, camouflaged in plain sight—and the radio correspondence shared between colonies through an open frequency through which Joel and Aimee are both miraculously able to reconnect. Things aren’t looking up for Joel who is evidently bottling up a lot of emotions within, like any teenage-turned-adult processing the near-end-of-the-world would. The only way he can maintain a semblance of normalcy in such ultra-solitary times is by reliving his last memories of Aimee and a faint hope that they still might stand a chance as lovers. It is not until Joel’s own colony suffers a breach and a casualty that he decides to leave the relative safety and comfort of his bunker/home and sets out on a minimum seven-day journey to break his lover’s hiatus. The question “How far would you go for love?” is an overcooked staple in the lovers’ discourse. Turns out, venturing too far with mutated giants as literal roadblocks on love’s warpath turn that question a lot more interesting. In a near Lovecraftian fantasy, the biological horrors of an apocalypse strangely turn into a paean of coexistence, not triggered by bloodlust but a basic, primal urge to adapt and survive amidst wreckage largely wrought by human incompetence. A greater part of the narrative is thus sustained by an awareness of this commitment: that maintaining bonds are much harder than forging them in moments of euphoria—heightening the nominal difference between ‘companions’ and ‘allies’—both, two distinct kinds of otherizing, warranting two distinct approaches towards love, one would presume. In a particularly poignant moment in the movie, we see an abandoned dog, who finds a companion in Joel, genuinely puzzled about whom to follow: the people he befriends along the way who now must depart, or Joel himself. And he makes a decision. But for those few moments’ worth of hesitation, we’re made to realize—ever so eloquently—that for all the choices we make in the name of love, the confusion inherent in those choices never truly leaves us. Intersecting with the narrative components of scenic wilderness and occasional (mis)adventures are central questions of trauma, grief, and loneliness—how the prospect of catharsis becomes insurmountable within a crowd, even if such crowds have your best interests at heart. Solitude becomes at once the anguish and the answer. Technology—the beating heart of loneliness for millennials and boomers alike—often uncannily prefigures discourses on emotional intimacy and Doomsday in neoliberal theocracies, and it’s almost political how Michael Matthews reminds us of its redeeming qualities; where technology, instead of leading astray, may actually guide us forward, help us reconnect with our grief in a manner that catharsis is possible. Although Dylan O’Brien, as the protagonist Joel, delivers a memorable performance of a dystopian lovelorn Braveheart, Jessica Henwick as Aimee—a relatively estranged character and sharing less screen time than O’Brien—equally sails through. Part of what makes Aimee intriguing is the lack of information about her persona or struggles that are revealed, which is why the climactic moment of two old lovers finally meeting suggests a script beneath, cautiously invisible. What is refreshing is how this apparent ‘mystery’ about Aimee tests the chemistry of an old friendship whereby two very different, hardcore characters negotiate the aftermath of not merely an apocalypse, but an inevitability all partners dread—separation. Does absence make the heart fonder or falter? Do grand romantic gestures always bring about that significant other’s elation which the heart so desperately seeks? Is agreeing to literally walk that extra mile the litmus test of fidelity? Probably yes. Maybe not. You see, the reason love and monsters work so well together is that, at the core, they’re fundamentally volatile concepts. You never quite know what to expect of the other, and by extension, yourself. But I guess that’s good news on the post-apocalyptic front because, in a dystopia, you don’t survive by being a stickler for rules. You improvise. — Anuja Dutta Jadavpur University |
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The Last Duel (2021)
Directed by Ridley Scott The Last Duel is a film by Ridley Scott that chronicles France’s last judiciary duel in 1386. The duel took place between Jean de Carrogues and Jacques Le Gris after the former’s wife accused the latter of rape. The film’s screenplay was adapted from the book The Last Duel: A True Story of Trial by Combat in Medieval France by Eric Jager. The Last Duel premiered in September of 2021 and stars Matt Damon as Carrogues, Adam Driver as Le Gris, and Jodie Comer as Marguerite Carrogues. The film examines the events leading up to the duel by telling the same story from three different vantage points of the characters Carrogues, Le Gris, and Marguerite. While the film is based on the duel between the two men it is also a compelling examination of a society that valued a man’s honor more than a woman’s life. The film begins with the story from Carrogues’s perspective as he chronicles his relationship with Le Gris leading up to the duel between them. His portion of the story paints him as a hero who is devoted to the crown and his military career. In Carrogues’s account, Le Gris is a social climber who is rewarded with all that belonged to Carrogues. His father’s captainship, part of his wife’s dowry, and eventually Marguerite, are all taken by Le Gris. Carrogues’s outlook on life is exemplified by the dark lighting and downcast settings. Le Gris’s take is starkly different with scenes of brighter lighting and upbeat music. Le Gris believed Carrogues to be his friend who in time became bitter over his success. Interestingly in both of these takes on the story, Marguerite is hardly a footnote. In Carrogues’s account, despite professing his love, he seems to treat her like property. Even his choice to duel Le Gris is entirely selfish with Carrogues even failing to inform his wife of the deadly consequences for her if he were to lose. In Le Gris’s account, Marguerite is a challenge similar to his professional ambitions. He vehemently pursues Marguerite despite her continual protestations. Both Carrogues and Le Gris claim to love Marguerite yet neither seems interested in knowing her. Damon is excellent in this part as he portrays a man with equal parts hero and victim complexes, neither of which seem to have much humanity. Driver matches Damon’s performance crafting a character that is so self-absorbed he cannot fathom rejection. While Damon and Driver both deliver in this film, they are ultimately overshadowed by Jodie Comer’s performance. Comer’s portrayal of Marguerite is indicative of her incredible range as an actress. In each version of events, Comer brings her character to life a little more. Comer starts the film with an aloof Marguerite who is merely a piece of furniture in her husband’s life. During Le Gris’s chapter, she has a bit more depth as a woman aware of her undesirable situation. When Marguerite’s chapter finally comes, Comer brings her character to life fully. Comer’s Marguerite is smart, sophisticated, and brave while struggling in a society that punishes her for those characteristics. Marguerite understands that, despite their declarations, neither man loves her. In fact, they may even be incapable of love when they only see her as something to dominate and own. As Marguerite comes to these realizations, Comer performs in a nuanced manner that shines brighter than the yelling and screaming of her counterparts. This is exemplified during the heartbreaking moment her trauma is sidelined by her own husband who cares more about his honor than her well-being. Marguerite’s chapter closes out the story as it comes full circle bringing all three versions of events clashing together at the duel. The film ending duel is a brutal mess that drags on for so long it becomes uncomfortable, but it seems fitting since the movie seems to relish in the uncomfortable. Director Ridley Scott makes it a point that the film was not made for audience enjoyment, rather this film intends to provoke. While on the surface the film seems to be an examination of the duel, the film is ultimately a social commentary on the realities of how traumatic pursuing justice can be for victims of sexual violence. While the movie was set in 1386, the lengths Marguerite must go to for vindication feels devastatingly relevant. Her pursuit of justice is quickly taken and used as a power grab between men. She is then questioned at every turn and even those that believe her seem incapable of empathizing with her. Due in part to the well-rounded performances of the cast and the unique storytelling technique, the film leaves a mark much more lasting than the titular duel. As The Last Duel concludes, the gruesome duel ends up being only a footnote in the story about a woman whose trauma was placed on display for the world in the pursuit of justice that feels entirely unjust. The Last Duel is a film worth watching, especially as a reminder of just how far society has come and how far we still have to go when it comes to justice against sexual violence. — Autumn Andersen California State University, Stanislaus |
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Wonder Egg Priority (2021)
Directed by Shin Wakabayashi In The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus described the encounter with absurdity—the intolerable “why” in our life—as a moment we must choose between “suicide” and “recovery.” Wonder Egg Priority is an animated television series about this question of “why” passed down from people who do not “recover” from this encounter. Its story centers on four middle-school girls in contemporary Japan who are contacted by two mannequin-like creatures, Acca and Ura-Acca, for a peculiar deal: buy the “Wonder Eggs” from them, descend into a dream world at night and break the eggs, destroy the Wonder Killers inside, and therefore revive a person who died from suicide. The protagonists’ motivation to enter the Egg World varies. For Ai, it is to understand why her only friend who protected her from bullies in school jumped from the rooftop. For Rika, it is to seek a new life after quitting her job as an idol due to a fan’s suicide. For Momoe, it is to move beyond the guilt over the death of a female classmate who confessed to her. For Neiru, it is to search for her identity after her sister stabbed her and jumped off a bridge. While the protagonists’ Egg Worlds mirror the place where the people they intend to save died—for example, Ai’s world is a replica of her school—each egg also contains a person they need to protect from the Wonder Killers, which embody someone or something linked to the person’s suicide. The inhabitants of the Egg World may actively assist the protagonists in their fight, or question these unexpected saviors’ motivations. They will then vanish after their Wonder Killers are vanquished. The aesthetics of Wonder Egg Priority resonates with the “magical girl” (mahō shōjo) genre. While the protagonists do not go through elaborate transformation when they enter the Egg World, they gain the supernatural ability to convert everyday items like pens and box cutters into magical weapons. The series also echoes the trend of magical girl anime to juxtapose fantastic combat with unsettling elements like graphic violence and psychological trauma. Both Ai and Neiru have been hospitalized for the wound they received in the Egg World, and after the precarious adventure at night, they still have to face their respective challenges at day. Fortunately, they do not fight alone. The protagonists form friendships as the story progresses, and together they rest, play, heal, and ponder the meaning of life and death. While the series mostly manages to balance its choreography of fantastic combat with real-world struggles, it also risks presenting a few “bad people” embodied by Wonder Killers as the sole culprit of people’s suicide, thus sidelining structural factors and individual agency. A plot twist in Episode 11 exacerbates this issue. According to Ura-Acca, he and Acca once created a cyborg AI named Frill and treated her like their daughter, but Frill became jealous after Acca married and subsequently murdered his wife. In revenge, Acca locked Frill in the cellar. Years later, when Acca’s daughter died of suicide, Ura-Acca blamed “the temptation of death” Frill spread and destroyed Fill’s body. Believing that Frill still exists and her power targets only adolescent girls, he and Acca create Wonder Eggs and recruit the protagonists as “warriors of Eros” to haunt down Frill and revive Acca’s daughter. By scapegoating a cyborg AI, the series, therefore, leaves the complex issues underlying suicide, along with Acca and Ura-Acca’s violence against Frill, entirely unquestioned. It nonetheless remains possible to read the series against its narrative, especially the opposition between love and suicide, by viewing Acca and Ura-Acca’s Frankensteinian tragedy as a result of their refusal to love Frill and recognize her humanity. In contrast, the protagonists continue to grow by learning to love others and themselves. For instance, Momoe, who often finds others misgendering her based on her appearance and wonders if she is not “girlish” enough, meets a transgender boy and is inspired by his confidence. She then learns to value herself for her ability to protect the inhabitants of the Egg World from their abusers. In another case, Ai meets herself from a parallel universe where she suffers bullying alone. Realizing that she can now protect herself and choose a different fate, Ai affirms her growth in the Egg World. Thus, not only does the existence of a transgender person in the Egg World challenge Acca and Ura-Acca’s narrow-minded focus on girls, but the depth of interaction between the protagonists and these inhabitants exceeds their scheme to simply emulate and manipulate others’ death. As critic Kumiko Saito argued, magical girl anime often faces two questions: the tension between magic as liberating empowerment and as a momentary escape from womanhood on the one hand, and men’s appropriation of magical girls’ affective labor on the other hand. In Wonder Egg Priority, the true magic is perhaps less the protagonists’ ability to slain a three-story-tall Wonder Killer than the power of love manifested by the inhabitants of the Egg World. As a girl, Ai meets in Episode 2 intimates, although Ai could not become her friend when she was alive, she wants Ai to “think of her from time to time.” The transient Egg World thus promises an alliance breaching the boundary between life and death, and turning the protagonists’ fight into an act of ethical mourning. This mourning might not shatter any structure, but it probably anticipates a love that makes sure no death remains unmourned. — Leo Chu University of Cambridge |
Music Reviews
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April (2020)
By Emmy the Great April/月音 is the fourth studio album by Emmy the Great, (Emma-Lee Moss’ artistic name), released October 9, 2020. She wrote and recorded it in 2018 in Hong Kong, before the anti-Extradition Law protests in June 2019, and before the pandemic struck in 2020. However, this album has become an unyielding beacon of light in dark times. Its empathetic lyrics and warm melodies carry a feeling of hope, building on themes of spring, renewal, identity, simplicity, and love—Moss presents an album about things falling into place. April/月音 is a precious call to take notice, to understand the implicit meaning in our transient surroundings, and most importantly, in the connections between people. The importance of the collective for the construction of identity is constantly being emphasized through the act of storytelling, especially in songs like “Chang-E.” “You once told me about the moon / And the first men to walk on her,” Moss sings, as she herself tells us the story of the Chinese Mid-Autumn festival. The climbing, hopeful chords of the song, underlined by a clicking sound as she walks, “A thousand steps onto the temple,” open at the chorus to leave way to a minimal arrangement of brass, drums, and strings, which feels tenuous and comforting, moon-bathed. “Okinawa/Ubud” reveals, in soft whispers and melodic tilts, the fact that, “Our parents dreamed of escape / Now all their dreams are ours,” underlining this sense of interconnectedness. Moss builds an atmosphere of reverence, confiding in us the stories that she has been given. The mixture of Cantopop instrumentals and patterns with warm folk rhythms, as well as the constant blending of English and Cantonese lyrics, brings up simultaneously themes of uprootedness and of communality, as announced by the duality of the songs and album’s titles. April/月音 delves into Moss’ identities, which are, as she sings in “Dandelions/Liminal,” “Scattered all over the place.” This song is a beautiful ode to resilience, and it embraces precisely the changing nature of modern life in general and of the last years of Hong Kong history in particular, as things head up to chaos. However, life continues to happen: “And in our silent times we wonder / The end is coming, is it soon? / But then we dance a little more / They’re playing music in the store / Can you believe it’s almost June?” The narrator is warm as a friend, recognizing the listener’s fear of uncertainty, and offering the advice of adaptability, of gratitude, of leniency: “Don’t give me anything except your time.” This last idea, the narrator as a friend, is one of the most distinctive messages that Moss’ lyrics deliver: love is found in every small action done and every thought had for the other person. The major chords of “Chang-E” and the lyrics, “While I’m gone look after yourself / I don't want to hear reports that you are lonely,” accompany the listener, who feels seen and cared for. Moss recognizes the potential of reconnecting in “Dandelions/Liminal:” “A little note / to say you live in town.” She also understands the importance of establishing boundaries with the past, as in “Heart Sutra,” a song about determination and self-love. “And I'm gonna walk out of here / All open and clear / I'm not gonna keep on coming back.” It is in “Writer” in which themes of connection, hope, identity, and love are best intertwined. “Writer” is a most accomplished song in terms of lyricism and melody, an act of storytelling in and of itself, in which the narrator evaluates her past, present, and potential future. It succeeds in truly encapsulating the mood of the record: layered, building upstream, honest in its acknowledgement of pain and optimistic about a shared future. The lyrics, “But I’m a writer now and everything is sunny,” sung at the height of the song, carried by supporting vocals and power chords, transmit an ecstatic joy that bleeds through the whole album. The love discussed in “Writer” and all of April/月音 is a heightened sense of love that overcomes hardships and never disappears, inhabiting memories, as well as one that lies in the future’s potential for new connections: “Well here’s something that you could say / Why don’t you start with your name?” April/月音 centers itself around the importance of community, of having someone and something to love, and through its narrative voice the album offers to be that source of connection for us, as begged in “Mary:” “Oh Mary, would you let me love you?” And we let her love us for a little while; we let the album reveal our own potential for love. This record embodies the simplicity and inherent importance of life happening. It’s a chant for community, permission for feeling bereft, and a reassurance: we have ourselves; we have each other; we have a home; life will go on. — Laura García Complutense University of Madrid, Spain |
