Summer 2021: Self-Love
Fiction
Desire
by Liz Shine
by Liz Shine
I had made some mistakes, but none worse than the stubborn and persistent tamping down of desire. Here I lived, in the age of excess and indulgence, of MTV and designer jeans, and I couldn’t think of anything better to do on a day off from work than to spring clean the house, with Melissa away at summer camp for the week.
On a June Saturday, I was washing all the windows in the house with ammonia and old newspapers like my mother taught me. The page I used to clean the sliding glass doors off the kitchen had an ad for New Coke. The house lit up like a cathedral at noon, and the scent of the neighbor’s jasmine wafted in through the open door.
When I was nine or ten, someone bought me a journal with a lock and key. I think it was Aunt Bea. It must have been Aunt Bea, who is now off in Mexico drinking tequila sunsets with a lover who she says is teaching her how to unlock her poetry one language trick at a time. A journal with a lock and key, an apt symbol for how I had lived my life thus far in the service of. . . what? Of being “good”?
We lived in a small yellow house my ex-husband helped us find when he decided to marry one of the women he fucked during our marriage. I knew about the affair; it wasn’t the first. We just didn’t discuss it. I thought that our silence implied an agreement that there was a line that couldn’t be crossed, a marriage line. I hated the pale-yellow color, the tiny, un-private backyard, but at the time of divorce, I had no will to look for a place of my own. Now, we are settled and happy enough. Or so I thought.
It’s amazing how quickly five years can disappear, how a person can follow one habit to the next to get through a day, then a week, then a month, then a year. I’m exaggerating, of course, but that is how it feels sometimes. I felt less this way when Melissa was little and still invited me to share in her childish wonder. She was not even twelve yet when she turned moody and no longer invited me to hula hoop, or to collect rocks, or to build forts with all the extra sheets in the house.
She stayed in her room with her door closed. I battled with her about taking dishes in there to eat on her bed while she watched TV or listened to the radio. The TV was a gift from her Dad, and I should have put my foot down when she brought it home, but I didn’t. Now we each have our own TVs, an expanse of space, and a door between us.
I scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees, washed the windows, and washed all the grimy parts of the wall, the doorknobs and light switches too. I felt a bit light-headed from the effort and ammonia, which is why on my way downstairs from the bedrooms, carrying a basket of dirty sheets, I missed a step and fell, landing in a tangle at the bottom of the stairs. My ankle twisted for sure, and it hurt, but I could probably walk it off. I hobbled toward the living room, but each time I tried to step down on my right foot, pain shot through. I sunk into our old brown recliner and considered my predicament. Not just the predicament of being alone in a house with a twisted ankle already swollen to three times its size, but also the predicament that was my life as it had turned out thus far.
I clicked on the TV. A man and woman fought in overwrought voices. Then, they made up. The man pulled her into the bedroom, then the camera zoomed in on a closed door suggestively. Cut to a woman picking a lock on an office door to snoop through files. I watched in numb fascination through to the catchy theme song that closed the episode. I checked the TV guide. Five more soaps would follow. I settled in.
Hobbling on one foot, using one hand to steady myself on furniture, the wall, the counter, I made my way into the kitchen where I put together three bologna and cheese sandwiches, extra mayo. I carried the plate and a bag of Doritos back to the recliner. When the last soap ended, not a crumb of food remained, but I still felt so unsatisfied. I hobbled back to the kitchen and made more: a Hungry-Man and three individual cups of chocolate pudding. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten in this way, though I had often done so in high school, cramming my fingers down my throat to hurl it all up after.
I hobbled into the bathroom and tried to kneel on the floor by the toilet. I struggled to find a position that didn’t hurt my ankle. The force of the vomit brought tears to my eyes. Though I had a sense that what I did was sad and desperate, I felt relaxed and empty of all care.
The TV turned low caught my attention at the line, You too can manifest your deepest desires! I hobbled to the living room, found the remote, and cranked up the volume. The woman on the screen spoke in a honeyed voice and beckoned with one bangled hand. “Stop resisting,” she said. “There is no better time than now.” I furniture-walked to the cordless, snatched it up, and took it back to my seat. As soon as the woman said, “Call now! Your psychic is standing by,” I dialed.
Senior year, I dated a boy named Jimmy whose parents played poker with my parents on Friday nights. My mom did not approve of Jimmy, said his parents were a bit modern for her taste. Morality is just unpopular these days, Mom clucked. I wasn’t sure what she meant by all that, but I did know that my mother had a reputation for being smug and morally superior.
So, didn’t the two truths cancel each other out?
Jimmy seemed to like me and I thought by the way he put one arm around my shoulder while he drove that I could probably love him even though he smelled like onion soup and spat on sidewalks and out his car window.
The night he took me to the drive-in to see Easy Rider, I didn’t even consider saying no when he slid his hand up my thigh, slid his fingers into my underwear.
“Does that get you hot?” He breathed into my ear.
“Yes,” I lied. I did know that this is how things were expected to go, plus I wanted him to like me, to not think I was a prude. A bolder me would have told him to move his finger an inch to the left, or better yet, moved it for him.
The sex part hurt, but I bit my lip and closed my eyes. It felt good when he’d touched me at first, but then it hurt and he was on top of me and I could barely breathe the way I was pinned against the seat. When he pulled out, he shot semen all over my favorite blue summer dress.
I assumed this would mean we were going steady, and I’d get another chance to have sex and maybe this time like it. Jimmy canceled our next date because he said he had to study for a test. For days, he was never home when I called. Then Grace let it slip that he’d taken at least three other girls that she knew to the same spot, for the same reason, with the same result.
“What were you thinking?!” Grace asked me when I burst into tears. “That he was going to marry you or something?”
The psychic who clicked on the line didn’t sound anything like the one on TV. She smacked her gum and in a raspy voice said, “What is your deepest desire?”
“I don’t know,” I stuttered, unable to pinpoint an answer to this question. Was I supposed to know? Did other people know theirs?
“I am sensing you are lost. You don’t know because you packed your desires up and put them in storage a long time ago.”
I nodded, listened. Tears wet my cheeks.
“It’s time to open that box, take all the contents out, and examine them one by one. I sense you are on the precipice of great change. Just what kind of change that is will be up to you.”
A squawking voice cut through the line to announce that if I wanted to add two more minutes, I should dial seven to accept the charge. I pressed my finger into the seventh rung on the rotary and pushed it to the right. It clicked back into place.
I felt the press of time.
“But what if I can’t change?”
She laughed. Her voice cracked. “Change is inevitable. In your case, you will change or you will not. But if you do not, your spirit will stay dormant and one day die.”
The squawking voice again. Had it been two minutes already? I dialed nine to end the call. A recorded voice, the one from the TV, broke in. “Thank you for your call. Please call back if we can further assist you in manifesting all that your desire.”
I did need further assistance, but I didn’t call back. I do realize a TV psychic is no guru, but I have been unpacking my attic ever since. So, there is that. I’m no longer living in that damn yellow house, for one.
Hybrid LIterature
Initialise
by Jevonne (Jevi) Peters
by Jevonne (Jevi) Peters
Return to Sender
by Andrea Wagner
by Andrea Wagner
I think I see glimpses of you in the kids I babysit on weekends, when they chase bubbles or giggle between begs to go higher and higher on the swing. Their little hands are so open, and flashes from yesterdays come back from oblivion.
The little hands that thought they were too stupid to do monkey bars are still the ones I use now. Little hands that never quite grew to what I thought I wanted. Little hands that wanted so much, but kept stepping aside for someone else. You never did get those solos in the Christmas plays.
I hope I make you proud. I hope that, if you could look at me, you'd think I was one of the cool people who have their lives together, who don't need to slouch their shoulders in, but I do, I do it all the time.
You don't need to make everyone laugh. You don't need to say sorry again today.
Where have you gone? If I could see you, one more time, hold out these still-little hands of mine,
I hope you'd look at me and smile big like you used to.
The little hands that thought they were too stupid to do monkey bars are still the ones I use now. Little hands that never quite grew to what I thought I wanted. Little hands that wanted so much, but kept stepping aside for someone else. You never did get those solos in the Christmas plays.
I hope I make you proud. I hope that, if you could look at me, you'd think I was one of the cool people who have their lives together, who don't need to slouch their shoulders in, but I do, I do it all the time.
You don't need to make everyone laugh. You don't need to say sorry again today.
Where have you gone? If I could see you, one more time, hold out these still-little hands of mine,
I hope you'd look at me and smile big like you used to.
Nonfiction
A Weariness Grown Tender: A Time for Love
by N.Y. Haynes
by N.Y. Haynes
This afternoon I decided a nap was needed. As I lounged, feet on the ottoman, I listened. A neighbor just happened to be listening to Marcus Printup, a trumpeter. Closing my eyes, breathing more deeply, I felt through those tracks a depth of feeling, a skill on his instrument and a brilliance of tone. This private creative storm of effort and talent opened a door and invited me in like a friend’s loving arm to lean on and turn my day around.
Listening worked as a strange, powerful lens through which my ordinary daily life was configured and filtered with extraordinary intensity. The notes bleed from his sweet, deep throat—an artist absorbed in the musical task of letting each crescendo develop a full, still life of its own—unlocking the avoidance of the uncomfortable, destructive truths both of my interior life and of our present time, inundated with unexpressed fear, anger, and sadness.
A Time for Love reconfirmed the knowledge that we, as a nation, were coping exceptionally well with the difficult routine of life with masks and humanity’s devastation. As I embraced the sounds of the accompanying harp in my heart, I remained translucent and calm in the way the notes lingered then reverberated long after the crackle and drag of my weariness had passed.
By six o’clock I had once again come to terms with the extreme necessities of COVID life. Since childhood I have tapped into the wealth of both classical and jazz music. I have fallen in love with the ritualistic nature of the many steps it takes to make each note. I am attracted to the past and haunted by it as well. I often use music that reminds me of another time, or the subtle emotions that might go unnoticed on an “ordinary” day.
A smile danced across my mandible as all the day’s tension flowed out through my toes. A Time For Love was exactly like finding an antique instrument and listening to all the music yet to be played as it reminded me how disaster, when it finally arrives, is never as bad as it seems in expectation.
Listening worked as a strange, powerful lens through which my ordinary daily life was configured and filtered with extraordinary intensity. The notes bleed from his sweet, deep throat—an artist absorbed in the musical task of letting each crescendo develop a full, still life of its own—unlocking the avoidance of the uncomfortable, destructive truths both of my interior life and of our present time, inundated with unexpressed fear, anger, and sadness.
A Time for Love reconfirmed the knowledge that we, as a nation, were coping exceptionally well with the difficult routine of life with masks and humanity’s devastation. As I embraced the sounds of the accompanying harp in my heart, I remained translucent and calm in the way the notes lingered then reverberated long after the crackle and drag of my weariness had passed.
By six o’clock I had once again come to terms with the extreme necessities of COVID life. Since childhood I have tapped into the wealth of both classical and jazz music. I have fallen in love with the ritualistic nature of the many steps it takes to make each note. I am attracted to the past and haunted by it as well. I often use music that reminds me of another time, or the subtle emotions that might go unnoticed on an “ordinary” day.
A smile danced across my mandible as all the day’s tension flowed out through my toes. A Time For Love was exactly like finding an antique instrument and listening to all the music yet to be played as it reminded me how disaster, when it finally arrives, is never as bad as it seems in expectation.
Baby Weight
by Louise O'Donnell
by Louise O'Donnell
I’ve put on a few pounds recently. Not the puffy, water-weight pounds that come from eating too much junk food for a few days. These babies are solid and make getting dressed and out of the house unappealing. So in true chicken and egg fashion, I continue lying on the couch, binge-watching Netflix and stuffing my face. The more I lie in this emotional mud bath, the dirtier I get.
When I was pregnant with my daughters, and was told in that sometimes awkward way, “Look how big you’re getting,” I wore it like a badge of honor. I was supposed to get bigger. There was a life growing inside me. I followed doctor’s orders and didn’t put on too much weight, but I couldn’t wait for my belly to swell so I could justify wearing those cute little maternity outfits and, of course, I knew there was an end in sight. After all, it was only for nine months. And the reward for carrying around the extra pounds was this shiny new person, with her whole life ahead of her.
That’s how I am trying to look at the weight I’ve gained lately. There is a person inside me that needs nourishment in order to emerge healthy and ready to enter the world. It’s just that the gestation period has been much longer than nine months. In fact, it’s been thirty one and counting since I filed for divorce and began feeding this growing life. A whole new world had opened up and I was jumping in with no galoshes. Look out puddles, here I come! I don’t care if I get wet or dirty! Home Depot sells power washers and I’ll buy one if I need to! As I shed the metaphorical weight of my marriage, I felt lighter than air and, at first, craved sustenance from writing, travel, girl time and sex with strange men. After years of hiding it, I loved my body and all that it was capable of. Yet here I sit, these last few months, in my Lulu leggings and big sweaters. Something changed. I began to crave pizza and chips and chocolate.
*
The day the Blue Heron came was grey and the threat of rain hung heavy in the clouds above my little pond. In the preceding days, I was filled with a heaviness of my own. Hours passed as I lay wrapped in a cocoon of fear, paralyzed by indecision. Often during my life, when I have felt the weight of the world pressing up against me, I have thought of my father. A young man with a wife and six children who has a massive stroke and isn’t supposed to live, yet spends the next thirty years of his life, swinging his half-lifeless body over the edge of his bed each morning, saying, “Any day is a good day I can put my feet on the ground.”
The Heron came on a Monday. Traditionally a day of new beginnings. On Monday I will get up and exercise. On Monday I will eat better. On Monday I will unpack the bag from last week’s trip. This Monday was another beginning. Spurred by some divine intervention, I would get up off my couch, set my feet on the ground, and begin to look ahead. I dressed myself in real clothes and set out to find a job.
*
When I was young, Dad and I planted petunias in the front flower bed on Oliver Street. The red, white, and blue petals waved like an American Flag to greet summer and the relatives that visited each year on Memorial Day. As I recall our time together in the garden, I can’t actually see Dad there with me, nor can I hear his voice, but I remember the musty smell of the freshly turned dirt as I plunged the tip of the trowel into the ground. “How deep should I make the hole, Dad?”
After Dad’s stroke, I planted the flowers alone. I was twelve and unsure of everything, but determined to lay out the reds, whites, and blues in a way that would honor all that Dad had taught me. There were weeds to pull to make room for the new blooms and I learned early the strength it took to turn over the hardened soil, revealing the rich earth from which the flowers would grow. Once the rows of flowers were neatly and properly spaced, the trowel I used each year seemed to remember it’s job. When my work was done, Dad made his slow way to the front door. I asked, “How did I do, Dad?”
In the backyard on Oliver Street, we had small planting beds where purple-bearded irises and pink peonies grew. Transplants from Mom’s childhood home. Unlike the petunias, they were perennials, returning to the soil each fall and emerging and expanding each spring. After Mom died and I was grown and married, Dad and Step-Mom Genie tended the flower beds. When they sold the house and moved away, Genie dug up Mom’s irises and peonies and helped me plant them in my own yard. No longer a teen, but a young mother and still unsure about much, I was determined to grow a garden of my own.
I learned how to cut the plants back each Fall, ensuring new growth after the long, harsh Connecticut winters. Seeing the tiniest tip of green stretching its way up through the soil each spring was my assurance that I, too, was growing. During the heat of the summers in Florida, Dad and Genie would come home to visit and we’d sit on my patio among the flowers, sipping iced tea, watching my girls swim and admiring what I’d created.
*
According to Native American Tradition, the Great Blue Heron follows his own innate wisdom and with self-determination, creates his own circumstances. He represents those who know what is best for themselves, who follow their hearts, creating their own paths. This particular Monday, when the Blue Heron visited my pond, followed a weekend when I thought I would be broken. I was at a crossroads and needed to navigate a new course. From morning ‘til night, the Blue Heron stood on the edge of the water. From morning ‘til night, I sowed the seeds of my new path. For fifty years, I knew my purpose. I was a daughter, a wife, a mother. With both my parents gone, being recently divorced and my girls creating lives of their own, I found myself buried. Buried beneath years of self-doubt and putting others first. It was time now for rebirth. Time now for growth. I must dig deep beneath the surface to make room for a shiny new me to emerge.
Although long and thin, the legs of the Great Blue Heron act as pillars from which he draws strength to remain stable. He stands alone along the shore, panning the water’s edge, waiting for his next move. Like the Heron, I must learn to stand on my own as I navigate this new landscape of my life.
*
After completing a renovation project at our home, my husband wanted a pool area that matched the grand house we had just created. I loved our cozy outdoor space with the natural wood fence lined by my flowers, but he had other ideas. His ideas didn’t make room for my gardens. As we worked with the landscaper, I was determined to keep even just a few of my plants. Determined that years of growth would not be lost, I dug up bulbs and tucked them neatly into five gallon pails and delivered them to the nursery for safekeeping over the winter. Dad passed that Fall, and Genie was dealing with her own grief and health issues. I was on my own. When Spring came and I was ready to claim a much smaller patch in the big pool area, I learned that the bulbs didn’t survive.
Neither did my marriage.
*
The Heron stands patiently and waits until the promptings of his heart reveal themselves. He does not question. He creates the circumstances through which he magnificently soars. Yes, I must be patient, because my heart and head have been strangers too long now. I need time to heal and time to remember what it was like when one did not try to outsmart the other. When once they worked in tandem as when an infant knows it needs food or attention or love. As an infant, my heart knew what it wanted and cried out for it, trusting it would come. Self-doubt and fear were strangers then. As I feed my growing belly, I must patiently wait and listen. Listen for a voice to whisper as I dig deeper.
*
In my cozy home by my little pond, I now have gardens of my own. They are small, and for the first time, I am also growing vegetables and herbs. As I enter the Autumn of my life, and am still unsure of so much, I continue to learn and grow with every new plant. Dad isn’t here to help me anymore, but I feel him next to me when I plunge my trowel into the musty earth. “How deep should I dig the hole, Dad?” The wind seems to whisper, “Deep enough to find yourself there.”
When I was pregnant with my daughters, and was told in that sometimes awkward way, “Look how big you’re getting,” I wore it like a badge of honor. I was supposed to get bigger. There was a life growing inside me. I followed doctor’s orders and didn’t put on too much weight, but I couldn’t wait for my belly to swell so I could justify wearing those cute little maternity outfits and, of course, I knew there was an end in sight. After all, it was only for nine months. And the reward for carrying around the extra pounds was this shiny new person, with her whole life ahead of her.
That’s how I am trying to look at the weight I’ve gained lately. There is a person inside me that needs nourishment in order to emerge healthy and ready to enter the world. It’s just that the gestation period has been much longer than nine months. In fact, it’s been thirty one and counting since I filed for divorce and began feeding this growing life. A whole new world had opened up and I was jumping in with no galoshes. Look out puddles, here I come! I don’t care if I get wet or dirty! Home Depot sells power washers and I’ll buy one if I need to! As I shed the metaphorical weight of my marriage, I felt lighter than air and, at first, craved sustenance from writing, travel, girl time and sex with strange men. After years of hiding it, I loved my body and all that it was capable of. Yet here I sit, these last few months, in my Lulu leggings and big sweaters. Something changed. I began to crave pizza and chips and chocolate.
*
The day the Blue Heron came was grey and the threat of rain hung heavy in the clouds above my little pond. In the preceding days, I was filled with a heaviness of my own. Hours passed as I lay wrapped in a cocoon of fear, paralyzed by indecision. Often during my life, when I have felt the weight of the world pressing up against me, I have thought of my father. A young man with a wife and six children who has a massive stroke and isn’t supposed to live, yet spends the next thirty years of his life, swinging his half-lifeless body over the edge of his bed each morning, saying, “Any day is a good day I can put my feet on the ground.”
The Heron came on a Monday. Traditionally a day of new beginnings. On Monday I will get up and exercise. On Monday I will eat better. On Monday I will unpack the bag from last week’s trip. This Monday was another beginning. Spurred by some divine intervention, I would get up off my couch, set my feet on the ground, and begin to look ahead. I dressed myself in real clothes and set out to find a job.
*
When I was young, Dad and I planted petunias in the front flower bed on Oliver Street. The red, white, and blue petals waved like an American Flag to greet summer and the relatives that visited each year on Memorial Day. As I recall our time together in the garden, I can’t actually see Dad there with me, nor can I hear his voice, but I remember the musty smell of the freshly turned dirt as I plunged the tip of the trowel into the ground. “How deep should I make the hole, Dad?”
After Dad’s stroke, I planted the flowers alone. I was twelve and unsure of everything, but determined to lay out the reds, whites, and blues in a way that would honor all that Dad had taught me. There were weeds to pull to make room for the new blooms and I learned early the strength it took to turn over the hardened soil, revealing the rich earth from which the flowers would grow. Once the rows of flowers were neatly and properly spaced, the trowel I used each year seemed to remember it’s job. When my work was done, Dad made his slow way to the front door. I asked, “How did I do, Dad?”
In the backyard on Oliver Street, we had small planting beds where purple-bearded irises and pink peonies grew. Transplants from Mom’s childhood home. Unlike the petunias, they were perennials, returning to the soil each fall and emerging and expanding each spring. After Mom died and I was grown and married, Dad and Step-Mom Genie tended the flower beds. When they sold the house and moved away, Genie dug up Mom’s irises and peonies and helped me plant them in my own yard. No longer a teen, but a young mother and still unsure about much, I was determined to grow a garden of my own.
I learned how to cut the plants back each Fall, ensuring new growth after the long, harsh Connecticut winters. Seeing the tiniest tip of green stretching its way up through the soil each spring was my assurance that I, too, was growing. During the heat of the summers in Florida, Dad and Genie would come home to visit and we’d sit on my patio among the flowers, sipping iced tea, watching my girls swim and admiring what I’d created.
*
According to Native American Tradition, the Great Blue Heron follows his own innate wisdom and with self-determination, creates his own circumstances. He represents those who know what is best for themselves, who follow their hearts, creating their own paths. This particular Monday, when the Blue Heron visited my pond, followed a weekend when I thought I would be broken. I was at a crossroads and needed to navigate a new course. From morning ‘til night, the Blue Heron stood on the edge of the water. From morning ‘til night, I sowed the seeds of my new path. For fifty years, I knew my purpose. I was a daughter, a wife, a mother. With both my parents gone, being recently divorced and my girls creating lives of their own, I found myself buried. Buried beneath years of self-doubt and putting others first. It was time now for rebirth. Time now for growth. I must dig deep beneath the surface to make room for a shiny new me to emerge.
Although long and thin, the legs of the Great Blue Heron act as pillars from which he draws strength to remain stable. He stands alone along the shore, panning the water’s edge, waiting for his next move. Like the Heron, I must learn to stand on my own as I navigate this new landscape of my life.
*
After completing a renovation project at our home, my husband wanted a pool area that matched the grand house we had just created. I loved our cozy outdoor space with the natural wood fence lined by my flowers, but he had other ideas. His ideas didn’t make room for my gardens. As we worked with the landscaper, I was determined to keep even just a few of my plants. Determined that years of growth would not be lost, I dug up bulbs and tucked them neatly into five gallon pails and delivered them to the nursery for safekeeping over the winter. Dad passed that Fall, and Genie was dealing with her own grief and health issues. I was on my own. When Spring came and I was ready to claim a much smaller patch in the big pool area, I learned that the bulbs didn’t survive.
Neither did my marriage.
*
The Heron stands patiently and waits until the promptings of his heart reveal themselves. He does not question. He creates the circumstances through which he magnificently soars. Yes, I must be patient, because my heart and head have been strangers too long now. I need time to heal and time to remember what it was like when one did not try to outsmart the other. When once they worked in tandem as when an infant knows it needs food or attention or love. As an infant, my heart knew what it wanted and cried out for it, trusting it would come. Self-doubt and fear were strangers then. As I feed my growing belly, I must patiently wait and listen. Listen for a voice to whisper as I dig deeper.
*
In my cozy home by my little pond, I now have gardens of my own. They are small, and for the first time, I am also growing vegetables and herbs. As I enter the Autumn of my life, and am still unsure of so much, I continue to learn and grow with every new plant. Dad isn’t here to help me anymore, but I feel him next to me when I plunge my trowel into the musty earth. “How deep should I dig the hole, Dad?” The wind seems to whisper, “Deep enough to find yourself there.”
Midnight Dreams of Recognition
by Jacklyn Heslop
by Jacklyn Heslop
Imagine if creativity stained the skin of the person it controlled.
Dancers would have layers of vibrant colors dripping down from their collar bones, streaking their wrists and rolling over their calves. No one could tell the true pigment of the painter’s hands from the rainbows splattered across their knuckles. The photographer’s eye would be a collage of each shot. Of course, the most vivid color of the body would represent their first inspiration. A brilliance that scars the body with the intensity of its presence. Wood chips, clay, paint, ink would mix with natural talents, and no one would know where the medium ends and the intricate patterns of their artistry began.
Where would my colors be?
I am a writer, but only one hand works to turn thoughts into stories. Imagine the surprise if a teenage me woke up with strange spots burned into the skin where I held my pen. I would have assumed that I had a defective pen, not that I was capable of some sort of creative act. What could my colors even mimic? I’d have purples for the tone of my prose, maybe yellows for the imagery of my poems. Honestly, I think I already have my stains. I have blue lines buried in the length of my forearm. I know, after a particularly real story, they turn red and leak out in jagged patterns—or at least some part of me feels so raw that I imagine this.
Maybe I lose my right to any colors? The words fall out of pretty girl’s smiles and awful boy’s actions, the grays of childhood trauma and pinks of innocent stargazing belong to the memory—not me. I led readers to soft, grass-covered hills. To wildflowers and luscious trees that kiss a wisping cloud. Sunlight touches the plants and warms the skin of those lazily grazing or napping on the open horizon. The winds pick up, waltzing with the branches overhead. Above, the blues of Earth’s ceiling inspire peace to all who can see it.
Before you are my words, but can you hear me? This is my space you’ve been invited to, my narration taken from a place I need for my sanity. You inhabit my space, you inhabit me, but where am I? I am alone, surrounded by the reader’s perversions of myself, but these are clones I will never meet. I am invaded and pillaged for metaphorical significance before returning to a personhood you’ve constructed. I am a writer, one missing from her own story.
Can I be considered creative if my presence is never noticed?
I don’t think writers should be stained like other artists. We squeeze out words from imaginary places to create stories from arbitrary lines. Our art blooms inside the minds of the reader. Each reader should then reveal a chest exploded in the most vibrant pain mingled with the thin veins of commonality between words and mind. The writers themselves are never stained, an unfortunate trophy missing from their status as an artist, but their influence lingers in the hearts of readers. Words ingested by the unknowing audience grip onto rips, or lungs, or dig their way into the brain infesting their victim with an experience once locked away by an unshared world within another human being. Left long enough, these words infect the body leaving a lasting stain. Of course, as writers, we want nothing more than to be able to point to some visible representation of our ideas and words, but paper with ink is a boring centerpiece. So, instead, we dream of a world where creativity stains the skin.
Dancers would have layers of vibrant colors dripping down from their collar bones, streaking their wrists and rolling over their calves. No one could tell the true pigment of the painter’s hands from the rainbows splattered across their knuckles. The photographer’s eye would be a collage of each shot. Of course, the most vivid color of the body would represent their first inspiration. A brilliance that scars the body with the intensity of its presence. Wood chips, clay, paint, ink would mix with natural talents, and no one would know where the medium ends and the intricate patterns of their artistry began.
Where would my colors be?
I am a writer, but only one hand works to turn thoughts into stories. Imagine the surprise if a teenage me woke up with strange spots burned into the skin where I held my pen. I would have assumed that I had a defective pen, not that I was capable of some sort of creative act. What could my colors even mimic? I’d have purples for the tone of my prose, maybe yellows for the imagery of my poems. Honestly, I think I already have my stains. I have blue lines buried in the length of my forearm. I know, after a particularly real story, they turn red and leak out in jagged patterns—or at least some part of me feels so raw that I imagine this.
Maybe I lose my right to any colors? The words fall out of pretty girl’s smiles and awful boy’s actions, the grays of childhood trauma and pinks of innocent stargazing belong to the memory—not me. I led readers to soft, grass-covered hills. To wildflowers and luscious trees that kiss a wisping cloud. Sunlight touches the plants and warms the skin of those lazily grazing or napping on the open horizon. The winds pick up, waltzing with the branches overhead. Above, the blues of Earth’s ceiling inspire peace to all who can see it.
Before you are my words, but can you hear me? This is my space you’ve been invited to, my narration taken from a place I need for my sanity. You inhabit my space, you inhabit me, but where am I? I am alone, surrounded by the reader’s perversions of myself, but these are clones I will never meet. I am invaded and pillaged for metaphorical significance before returning to a personhood you’ve constructed. I am a writer, one missing from her own story.
Can I be considered creative if my presence is never noticed?
I don’t think writers should be stained like other artists. We squeeze out words from imaginary places to create stories from arbitrary lines. Our art blooms inside the minds of the reader. Each reader should then reveal a chest exploded in the most vibrant pain mingled with the thin veins of commonality between words and mind. The writers themselves are never stained, an unfortunate trophy missing from their status as an artist, but their influence lingers in the hearts of readers. Words ingested by the unknowing audience grip onto rips, or lungs, or dig their way into the brain infesting their victim with an experience once locked away by an unshared world within another human being. Left long enough, these words infect the body leaving a lasting stain. Of course, as writers, we want nothing more than to be able to point to some visible representation of our ideas and words, but paper with ink is a boring centerpiece. So, instead, we dream of a world where creativity stains the skin.
Poetry
BCE, CE, & Before I Knew
by Ashna Singh
by Ashna Singh
When my fleshy skin brushes over cold surfaces,
the unfamiliarity intertwines within the flow of my ocean blue veins.
Fear and unrest find a home in me
to linger through nostalgia, memory, and mourning
to glide over missing puzzle pieces of the Self.
My internal monologues stir up seduction and enchantment:
like lustful eerie-eyed sirens who want to be my first taste
of surrender—of masked destruction—of blind ecstasy.
The flavor of soft, red-berry blending through my brain waves,
Eros and Eris twirling around on my shoulders
Sensual and Excruciating paths of rhythm
carving their compulsions onto me, but I am no longer
a controlled subject.
I choose to connect
to dreams, consciousness,
the milk that nurtured me to survive elegant catastrophes,
and the source of compassion
swinging back and forth
through harmony, danger, and negotiations.
You reached for the messiest parts of me
& taught me about the paradise of security.
You chewed me up into pomegranate gush,
devoured me,
& rebirthed me into an
Angel in disguise.
The coldness melted away, & I found shelter in my own skin.
My Life, My Rules…
covering up the sleeves of my dainty arms.
I fixed up the stitches of my thoughts,
Let them dissolve in my sleep then
my heart began to beat for myself again.
The stars took me in as their own:
Pouring multitudes inside of me
as I cling onto new hopes and sensations.
The scent of my mother’s kheer soothing and igniting
every inch of the wick that is my aura.
Dior Addict lip glows warmer than my champagne highlight,
But never as warm as the scintillation of protecting my pneuma.
Restoration is becomed when we seek vulnerability in each other.
When the weight moves, you won’t be a prisoner of contemplation
& you’ll know the kiss of sanity
& the touch of eternity.
the unfamiliarity intertwines within the flow of my ocean blue veins.
Fear and unrest find a home in me
to linger through nostalgia, memory, and mourning
to glide over missing puzzle pieces of the Self.
My internal monologues stir up seduction and enchantment:
like lustful eerie-eyed sirens who want to be my first taste
of surrender—of masked destruction—of blind ecstasy.
The flavor of soft, red-berry blending through my brain waves,
Eros and Eris twirling around on my shoulders
Sensual and Excruciating paths of rhythm
carving their compulsions onto me, but I am no longer
a controlled subject.
I choose to connect
to dreams, consciousness,
the milk that nurtured me to survive elegant catastrophes,
and the source of compassion
swinging back and forth
through harmony, danger, and negotiations.
You reached for the messiest parts of me
& taught me about the paradise of security.
You chewed me up into pomegranate gush,
devoured me,
& rebirthed me into an
Angel in disguise.
The coldness melted away, & I found shelter in my own skin.
My Life, My Rules…
covering up the sleeves of my dainty arms.
I fixed up the stitches of my thoughts,
Let them dissolve in my sleep then
my heart began to beat for myself again.
The stars took me in as their own:
Pouring multitudes inside of me
as I cling onto new hopes and sensations.
The scent of my mother’s kheer soothing and igniting
every inch of the wick that is my aura.
Dior Addict lip glows warmer than my champagne highlight,
But never as warm as the scintillation of protecting my pneuma.
Restoration is becomed when we seek vulnerability in each other.
When the weight moves, you won’t be a prisoner of contemplation
& you’ll know the kiss of sanity
& the touch of eternity.
Can't jump the garden gate anymore
by Linda M. Crate
by Linda M. Crate
self-love can be an act of rebellion
in a world that tells you that something
always needs to be changed or altered,
in a world that tells you: "you'll love
yourself if you do x, y, or z and not before";
but i have found that there is beauty in
me now even in all of my flaws
and imperfections--
because i am always beautiful no matter what
even with my brown eyes, even on the days
i don't feel like wearing make-up;
even on the days where i don't feel like shaving
there's always something to love because
despite everything i have been through this body
and mind and soul are the ones that have gotten me
through the worst days of my life--
i love my creativity, my strength, and my ability
to be independent in a world that tells you that
you always need someone, i have opted out of
co-dependency because to know me is a gift
not something anyone is entitled to;
i have learned to value myself and i am not going
back to the days without boundaries where
i just let anyone jump the garden gate and have
a seat at my table.
in a world that tells you that something
always needs to be changed or altered,
in a world that tells you: "you'll love
yourself if you do x, y, or z and not before";
but i have found that there is beauty in
me now even in all of my flaws
and imperfections--
because i am always beautiful no matter what
even with my brown eyes, even on the days
i don't feel like wearing make-up;
even on the days where i don't feel like shaving
there's always something to love because
despite everything i have been through this body
and mind and soul are the ones that have gotten me
through the worst days of my life--
i love my creativity, my strength, and my ability
to be independent in a world that tells you that
you always need someone, i have opted out of
co-dependency because to know me is a gift
not something anyone is entitled to;
i have learned to value myself and i am not going
back to the days without boundaries where
i just let anyone jump the garden gate and have
a seat at my table.
Difficult to Love My Body
by Ace Boggess
by Ace Boggess
Difficult for me to love my body.
It bends at odd angles,
creaks like wet hinges of a coffin lid opening,
takes up too much space
even as I slim to a line
avoiding contact in doorways.
This is the house in which I live:
over-large, crooked awning above the porch,
windows dusted out of focus,
foundation cracked & shifting
under the heavy earth.
Difficult for me to love my body.
Difficult for others, too.
They want to make use of it,
sentence it to hard labor.
It defies them, leaning toward sloth,
while I say a dozen
Hail Bartlebys in penance.
This is the house in which I live &
others come to visit.
Some leave happy to have seen inside,
run hands over soft pillows &
glossy countertops; most knock &
leave their basket of candies at the door.
I hope they return sooner, realize
it’s as difficult for them to love my body
as for me to love my body,
this lived-in house with its rich history,
memories grand & horrid.
Ghosts, too. Not difficult for them.
Bright, white scars, they love
my body & me inside it
so much that they never plan to leave.
It bends at odd angles,
creaks like wet hinges of a coffin lid opening,
takes up too much space
even as I slim to a line
avoiding contact in doorways.
This is the house in which I live:
over-large, crooked awning above the porch,
windows dusted out of focus,
foundation cracked & shifting
under the heavy earth.
Difficult for me to love my body.
Difficult for others, too.
They want to make use of it,
sentence it to hard labor.
It defies them, leaning toward sloth,
while I say a dozen
Hail Bartlebys in penance.
This is the house in which I live &
others come to visit.
Some leave happy to have seen inside,
run hands over soft pillows &
glossy countertops; most knock &
leave their basket of candies at the door.
I hope they return sooner, realize
it’s as difficult for them to love my body
as for me to love my body,
this lived-in house with its rich history,
memories grand & horrid.
Ghosts, too. Not difficult for them.
Bright, white scars, they love
my body & me inside it
so much that they never plan to leave.
Don't be so hard on yourself
by Dennis "M.A. Dennis" Francis
by Dennis "M.A. Dennis" Francis
When it comes to parenting,
we
all
fall
short
of the glory
of God.
When I think of my shortcomings as a father,
I think of Abraham and what must’ve been
a strained relationship with his son: On their
way down from the mountain, how awkward
(and unsafe) did Isaac feel, after the almost-
human sacrifice? What if the governor, or
goat, hadn’t called at the very last second?
When I think of my shortcomings as a dad,
I think of Darth Vader,
and Thanos,
and O.J. Simpson,
and animal kingdom patriarchs
who eat their own young,
and I think: I’m not as bad as I think.
When it comes to childhood, I had almost
no father—and was thrust into the dad role
without orientation or supervised training,
and worked triplet-shifts because the job
wouldn’t gimme a break!—so I listen to my
inner-Nell Carter: Don’t be so hardened heart
on your(stiff-necked)self.
When I think of my failures as a parent,
I recall my son as a baby, having congestion
so bad he couldn’t breathe—and that damn
squeezy bulbous rubber nasal thingamajig
wasn’t doing jack shit… So to hell with it:
I put my mouth over his nose
and sucked out the mucus.
we
all
fall
short
of the glory
of God.
When I think of my shortcomings as a father,
I think of Abraham and what must’ve been
a strained relationship with his son: On their
way down from the mountain, how awkward
(and unsafe) did Isaac feel, after the almost-
human sacrifice? What if the governor, or
goat, hadn’t called at the very last second?
When I think of my shortcomings as a dad,
I think of Darth Vader,
and Thanos,
and O.J. Simpson,
and animal kingdom patriarchs
who eat their own young,
and I think: I’m not as bad as I think.
When it comes to childhood, I had almost
no father—and was thrust into the dad role
without orientation or supervised training,
and worked triplet-shifts because the job
wouldn’t gimme a break!—so I listen to my
inner-Nell Carter: Don’t be so hardened heart
on your(stiff-necked)self.
When I think of my failures as a parent,
I recall my son as a baby, having congestion
so bad he couldn’t breathe—and that damn
squeezy bulbous rubber nasal thingamajig
wasn’t doing jack shit… So to hell with it:
I put my mouth over his nose
and sucked out the mucus.
Growth Mindset
by Kolbe Riney
by Kolbe Riney
The fungus inside my brain is saying we should start a band, and we should call it growth
mindset. We’ll play songs about lichens and other maybe-painfully-symbiotic organisms and
occasionally some slimy things people think are gross, and when we come onstage we’ll scream
into the microphone, “this one goes out to all the Serratia out there who really like to spend their
time in wet shower corners!” and everyone will cheer. We’ll make lots of jokes about damp
living environments until it gets a little old, and all of our equipment will be brown. Our band
merch is little plushies of Pseudomonas with tiny cute faces and Petri dish drawings of the tour
dates. We’ll wear those little custom ear pieces that all the big rockstars wear, but instead ours
will be some species of mushroom, and when we reach the climax of the song, they’ll release
little spore clouds into the audience and make them all go wild. Your mom will come to our
shows and afterwards she’ll tell us there’s a speck of mold on the drum kit, and we’ll tell her
that’s how penicillin was discovered. We end the show by kissing every one of our fans full on
the mouth, with tongue. We’ll tell them it’s important to not be afraid. We’ll tell them we can
share everything.
mindset. We’ll play songs about lichens and other maybe-painfully-symbiotic organisms and
occasionally some slimy things people think are gross, and when we come onstage we’ll scream
into the microphone, “this one goes out to all the Serratia out there who really like to spend their
time in wet shower corners!” and everyone will cheer. We’ll make lots of jokes about damp
living environments until it gets a little old, and all of our equipment will be brown. Our band
merch is little plushies of Pseudomonas with tiny cute faces and Petri dish drawings of the tour
dates. We’ll wear those little custom ear pieces that all the big rockstars wear, but instead ours
will be some species of mushroom, and when we reach the climax of the song, they’ll release
little spore clouds into the audience and make them all go wild. Your mom will come to our
shows and afterwards she’ll tell us there’s a speck of mold on the drum kit, and we’ll tell her
that’s how penicillin was discovered. We end the show by kissing every one of our fans full on
the mouth, with tongue. We’ll tell them it’s important to not be afraid. We’ll tell them we can
share everything.
Mutuals
by Tim Moder
by Tim Moder
The rock that drops into the pool is me.
I am the ripple over sweet summer seas of glass
and fields of grass with salamander sweat glands.
The fish that darts furtively is me.
I am the protective ledge shelf
where bold sharks hover, free from fear.
The arrow flying over the grass is me.
I am the arched-back hunted buck
bounded over fallen swamp brush,
with thunder, evolution.
The mouse that rips moth cloth is me.
I am the hedge shelf protective thicket
where juvenile grouse hide, ripe with ease.
There is nothing that
keeps itself from me.
There is nothing
that will not become me
as I become it
in mutual selection.
I am the ripple over sweet summer seas of glass
and fields of grass with salamander sweat glands.
The fish that darts furtively is me.
I am the protective ledge shelf
where bold sharks hover, free from fear.
The arrow flying over the grass is me.
I am the arched-back hunted buck
bounded over fallen swamp brush,
with thunder, evolution.
The mouse that rips moth cloth is me.
I am the hedge shelf protective thicket
where juvenile grouse hide, ripe with ease.
There is nothing that
keeps itself from me.
There is nothing
that will not become me
as I become it
in mutual selection.
"Note to Self"
by Ellen June Wright
by Ellen June Wright
remember the once softness of your skin
remember the fullness of your cheeks
remember sun-warmed melanin and your blush
remember dream-filled kisses
remember the days long prayed for have come
hold the dark mind at bay…hunger for more grace
saturate your thoughts with the colors to come
magenta and pink impatiens
golden-yellow marigolds and goldenrods
lavender lilacs or wisteria dangling at the window
inundate your thoughts with the flutter of songbirds’ return
we’ll never forget those that we have lost
enjoy the sunlight on your skin, play, dance, keep on living
you're not cheating the dead when you smile
remember the fullness of your cheeks
remember sun-warmed melanin and your blush
remember dream-filled kisses
remember the days long prayed for have come
hold the dark mind at bay…hunger for more grace
saturate your thoughts with the colors to come
magenta and pink impatiens
golden-yellow marigolds and goldenrods
lavender lilacs or wisteria dangling at the window
inundate your thoughts with the flutter of songbirds’ return
we’ll never forget those that we have lost
enjoy the sunlight on your skin, play, dance, keep on living
you're not cheating the dead when you smile
Ontological Fracture
by Xóchitl Vargas
by Xóchitl Vargas
I am split, a slice of earth,
a fissured desert where
once a lake languished,
now cacti, the scorpion
with tail raised, buzzard
overhead orbiting around
what’s left of the movements
under my rib cage: little nothings,
ancestral drumming growing fainter
under the Tejano sun, under pressure,
like an eggshell ready to hatch. Maybe,
you say, we’ll make it. Maybe not. In the
meantime, I try to measure the distance
between whispers and screams, being
and becoming. Sand in my pocket,
destination unknown, I aim my arrows
at the pretty mirage ahead—tierra opens up
to receive them, like the wings of a rebozo
I forgot I was wearing. Teotl everywhere!
I can’t tell where the flapping butterfly wings end
and I begin. So much beauty it makes me cry.
Here I am. I see now, as the tumbleweed makes music.
a fissured desert where
once a lake languished,
now cacti, the scorpion
with tail raised, buzzard
overhead orbiting around
what’s left of the movements
under my rib cage: little nothings,
ancestral drumming growing fainter
under the Tejano sun, under pressure,
like an eggshell ready to hatch. Maybe,
you say, we’ll make it. Maybe not. In the
meantime, I try to measure the distance
between whispers and screams, being
and becoming. Sand in my pocket,
destination unknown, I aim my arrows
at the pretty mirage ahead—tierra opens up
to receive them, like the wings of a rebozo
I forgot I was wearing. Teotl everywhere!
I can’t tell where the flapping butterfly wings end
and I begin. So much beauty it makes me cry.
Here I am. I see now, as the tumbleweed makes music.
Out of the Pit
by Kate Meyer-Currey
by Kate Meyer-Currey
This time I didn’t dig my own grave
with my bare hands as they looked
on and willed me to jump right in.
I let them keep the shovel and do
the job themselves. It was a hard
lesson but well-learned. I’ve been
buried alive too many times before.
Unspoken truths choke like clods of
earth. Frustration scratches at life’s
coffin lid until your nails wear down
to nothing. You bite your tongue in
half and drown in your own blood.
Your screams are silent because
they are deaf, dumb and blind to
your reality. But not this time. For
this time, you were only dormant
in that shallow grave. You saw the
sky and the trees and the hands
that reached down to clasp yours
and pull you out, to wipe the tears
and mud from your face and walk
beside you in the light of shared
experience, beyond silence, and
out of shame’s void. It’s hard to
step out into the sun when you’ve
been burned. Shadows feel safer.
But in the slow adjustment, your
bones straighten and you walk
tall again, as warmth returns. It
gets easier, just as every word I
drag from the chasm of past pain
and struggle, frees me to speak
with greater clarity as my rage
ebbs into realisation that I used
them to dig myself out, not bury
myself deeper. So what if I’m
walking wounded? At least I’m
still walking. Not stumbling into
another ditch where liars wallow
like hippos, talking dirt, eyes
bulging and ears twitching, ogling
fresh prey for their stick in the
mud jaws to swallow whole. Let
them sink while I walk across
the water, skimming like a stone,
where no moss clings.
with my bare hands as they looked
on and willed me to jump right in.
I let them keep the shovel and do
the job themselves. It was a hard
lesson but well-learned. I’ve been
buried alive too many times before.
Unspoken truths choke like clods of
earth. Frustration scratches at life’s
coffin lid until your nails wear down
to nothing. You bite your tongue in
half and drown in your own blood.
Your screams are silent because
they are deaf, dumb and blind to
your reality. But not this time. For
this time, you were only dormant
in that shallow grave. You saw the
sky and the trees and the hands
that reached down to clasp yours
and pull you out, to wipe the tears
and mud from your face and walk
beside you in the light of shared
experience, beyond silence, and
out of shame’s void. It’s hard to
step out into the sun when you’ve
been burned. Shadows feel safer.
But in the slow adjustment, your
bones straighten and you walk
tall again, as warmth returns. It
gets easier, just as every word I
drag from the chasm of past pain
and struggle, frees me to speak
with greater clarity as my rage
ebbs into realisation that I used
them to dig myself out, not bury
myself deeper. So what if I’m
walking wounded? At least I’m
still walking. Not stumbling into
another ditch where liars wallow
like hippos, talking dirt, eyes
bulging and ears twitching, ogling
fresh prey for their stick in the
mud jaws to swallow whole. Let
them sink while I walk across
the water, skimming like a stone,
where no moss clings.
Reflection in the Mirror
by Nathalie Hernandez
by Nathalie Hernandez
After all the pieces of the mirror were broken
I picked up the pieces and wondered…
What am I to do with the damage?
The other side of the mirror told me to pick
the pieces up and fix them. And so I healed
the mirror and decided to repair the damage
focusing on the person in the reflection.
Damaged or healed—I had to accept
and love the reflection in the mirror.
I picked up the pieces and wondered…
What am I to do with the damage?
The other side of the mirror told me to pick
the pieces up and fix them. And so I healed
the mirror and decided to repair the damage
focusing on the person in the reflection.
Damaged or healed—I had to accept
and love the reflection in the mirror.
Sestina of My Life
by Gayle Bell
by Gayle Bell
I'll be ready for death
when grinning skins catch me
Till then I'm gonna live each ounce of life
like the Lord gave me a pound
Now in the life—I chase holy truth
until closures made clear
Past floods of regrets before me clear
times in fool’s haste I mated death
until Angels revealed truth
The love of women embrace me
saved me from addictions relentless pound
returning to me now precious life
When societies’ judgments of my life
Are a maze I hack with rapier pen and mind's focus clear
Zealots screech my guilt before Revelation's final hammer pound
I & mine march till the last breath's hiss of death
This is my life you don't rule me
my life, my immovable truth
What's done in the dark the light will shine the truth
was my Aunt Berta's grim proclaiming of life
in my youth-full impatience, this gift eluded me
She would smile a knowing deep within eyes no longer clear
at the hour of her death
My hand she grasped welcoming her heart's final pound
I walk urban quick, quick sidewalk pound
aware the rocky path was walked before me-loving in the truth
I will love women beyond the stillness of my flesh's death
Rainbow parades and Kente cloth interweave my life
no time for label's rigid directions I walk clear
insight forged from the fire of being me
Present days find me
full from her kiss in my soul she does pound
Welcome tears that wash past hurts clear
Once I ran, I now claim this cultural truth
bulldagger, in the life
now, until 100 past the hour of my death
I will live in truth
all my life
until death
when grinning skins catch me
Till then I'm gonna live each ounce of life
like the Lord gave me a pound
Now in the life—I chase holy truth
until closures made clear
Past floods of regrets before me clear
times in fool’s haste I mated death
until Angels revealed truth
The love of women embrace me
saved me from addictions relentless pound
returning to me now precious life
When societies’ judgments of my life
Are a maze I hack with rapier pen and mind's focus clear
Zealots screech my guilt before Revelation's final hammer pound
I & mine march till the last breath's hiss of death
This is my life you don't rule me
my life, my immovable truth
What's done in the dark the light will shine the truth
was my Aunt Berta's grim proclaiming of life
in my youth-full impatience, this gift eluded me
She would smile a knowing deep within eyes no longer clear
at the hour of her death
My hand she grasped welcoming her heart's final pound
I walk urban quick, quick sidewalk pound
aware the rocky path was walked before me-loving in the truth
I will love women beyond the stillness of my flesh's death
Rainbow parades and Kente cloth interweave my life
no time for label's rigid directions I walk clear
insight forged from the fire of being me
Present days find me
full from her kiss in my soul she does pound
Welcome tears that wash past hurts clear
Once I ran, I now claim this cultural truth
bulldagger, in the life
now, until 100 past the hour of my death
I will live in truth
all my life
until death
She Considers Herself
(He considers her)
by Mark J. Mitchell
(He considers her)
by Mark J. Mitchell
For JJ, the birthday girl
The mirror is hers.
Don’t say anything
about her beauty, or years
your love sees. You only wait
while time sings,
off-key, to her face,
her hair. Let her watch her fears
refuse to hide in mirrors.
No point in saying
you see all the girls
she’s been—playing and praying--
through all those long, lovely years,
or time pearls
in her face. Her fears
can’t be touched. She’s saving
herself while her hair’s graying.
Keep bowing before
those still treasured eyes--
let time carve its own course.
Grant her room to meet her face.
You can try--
It won’t work. Her place,
her time’s hers to tame. Love more,
this girl of now and before.
The mirror is hers.
Don’t say anything
about her beauty, or years
your love sees. You only wait
while time sings,
off-key, to her face,
her hair. Let her watch her fears
refuse to hide in mirrors.
No point in saying
you see all the girls
she’s been—playing and praying--
through all those long, lovely years,
or time pearls
in her face. Her fears
can’t be touched. She’s saving
herself while her hair’s graying.
Keep bowing before
those still treasured eyes--
let time carve its own course.
Grant her room to meet her face.
You can try--
It won’t work. Her place,
her time’s hers to tame. Love more,
this girl of now and before.
Sunlight or Moonlight
by Grace Schwenk
by Grace Schwenk
|
there are two
types of people in this life those who soak up the rays of the sun and those who dance beneath the moonlight children of the sun have an aura of positivity that surrounds them like a light they have an optimistic outlook on life that guides them with passion as they share their radiant vitality with the world those who love the sun have a charismatic smile powerful enough to halt the spinning earth they are driven to make the world a better place |
children of the moon
though reserved in demeanor, appear as a mystery to those around them they have little to say but when they speak their words are strung together with eloquence and grace those who love the moon have a bold look in their sparkling eyes and a resilience in their soul that allows them to glow even in the darkest of times they are thinkers meant to share their contemplation with the world there are two types of people in this life rays of sunshine, and beams of moonlight |
The Last Days of Vacation
by Lisa Rhodes-Ryabchich
by Lisa Rhodes-Ryabchich
My golden arched feet
lay in the strong red baked clay
simmering sun.
I am fearless of being burned, and taken
from my silk skin. Nothing
can remove me from my blue
terry towel. I don’t feel any hard
aching muscles as I lean my back
against a lion striped lawn chair.
I don’t worry about who I am
or what I could be
as gently my copper knees bend
and my hips become a slide
for the playful sun to tiptoe all over me.
lay in the strong red baked clay
simmering sun.
I am fearless of being burned, and taken
from my silk skin. Nothing
can remove me from my blue
terry towel. I don’t feel any hard
aching muscles as I lean my back
against a lion striped lawn chair.
I don’t worry about who I am
or what I could be
as gently my copper knees bend
and my hips become a slide
for the playful sun to tiptoe all over me.
Art
Emotions
by Jennifer Armstrong
by Jennifer Armstrong
In Loving Self We Flower
by Kathleen Gunton
by Kathleen Gunton
Stretch Marks
by Amanda Hernandez
by Amanda Hernandez
Reviews
Book Reviews
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DC Pride Comic #1
Written by Marc Andreyko, Danny Lore, Steve Orlando, and Mariko Tamaki Artwork by Stephen Byrne, Trung Le Nguyen, Amy Reeder, and Lisa Sterle DC Comics, 2021 80 pp. Paperback The June 8, 2021, 84-page introduction to the DC Pride series titled as such, is an anthology of multiple LGBTQ+ characters within the DC comic universe. Written by Steve Orlando, Mariko Tamaki, Marc Andreyko, and Danny Lore with art by Trung Le Nguyen, Stephen Byrne, Amy Reeder, and Lisa Sterle, the compilation of short stories and character artwork offers a dedicated space to witness 9 new stories centered around characters such as Batwoman, Aqualad, Midnighter, Extrano, Alan Scott, Renee Montoya, Future State Flash, Pied Piper, Obsidian, and more. Along with that comes the official comic introduction of Dreamer from CW’s Supergirl onto the DCU, an impressive pinup art gallery of re-imagined characters, and six profiles of DC TV characters and their actors.
Throughout the anthology, readers are given a compelling, character driven presentation of the various characters finding or solidifying connections to their sense of self and how they interact with others in their worlds. Batwoman and Aqualad offer us insight into characters trying to control and remold themselves while allowing themselves to find their strength despite not having that control. Similarly, people like Harley Quinn are shown putting to words the internalized sense of oppression that prior relationships have had on shaping the apparent eternally non-serious aspect of their personalities, continuing to provide depth to already complex characters. From Alan Scott, we are even confronted with a man who came to personally understand himself as a part of the queer community during prohibition, not feeling able to come out until recently because his existence was political and how that impacted him. From all of these stories, we can see different ways people can come to terms with who they are and how they proceed to respond to that. The comic also offers insight on how characters deal with their own principals and how they coincide with their place as hero or otherwise in their universe. Pied Piper is confronted by Drummer Boy who wants to stop a wealthy landlord from wiping out poor and gay neighborhoods for his own gain, while feeling that the wealthy Pied Piper, an apparent hero, does nothing. With that, he begins to re-evaluate how he can go back to fighting things like that which he originally stood for, despite his new position, while also convincing Drummer Boy there are other options. Even Dreamer in her introduction struggles with her knowledge of the future because of her powers and what she is meant to do with that information. These characters signify an internal comprehension of how they wish to stand by their motivations and principals and what it means for them to do so, a narrative I am frequently drawn to. While heavy handed at times, often using phrasing that seems to hammer in the fact that this was a Pride edition of this comic that was released during Pride month, the stories still stand to offer something for readers to connect to that is trying to make itself more prevalent within the mainstream. It is notable however that these are established characters whose stories are a part of their pre-existing universe, and while it is not impossible to read without it, it does appear to be written for those who have some background knowledge on the characters and the DCU in general. This collective demonstrates a sense of self-love in how these characters become who they are. How they understand their actions, where they choose to change themselves, and what they make hold firm within their beliefs indicates where they stand with themselves. Overall, the various stories offer a space for not only the characters to come to terms with parts of themselves, but for its readers to possibly see parts of themselves in parts of popular culture, something I appreciated as a member of the community myself. - Essence Saunders California State University, Stanislaus |
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Girl on the Line
by Faith Gardner HarperTeen Publishing, 2021 352 pp. Hardcover Girl on the Line by Faith Gardner is a non-linear story about a seventeen-year-old girl’s experiences before, during, and after her attempted suicide. Gardner, a musician as well as an author, has published numerous short stories and two books prior to the one reviewed. Girl on the Line is an emotionally charged exploration of young Journey’s mental struggles and inner turmoil as she is diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder. Characterized by the ecstasy of hypomania and despairing depression, the narrator’s reality shifts with her intense emotions. Journey’s “big emotions,” as she calls them, have always been written off as dramatic behavior, needing attention or having a big personality. Her moods worsen when her parents get divorced, her academics predict that she will not be attending college with her friends, and as she processes the trauma of a recent car accident.
Her mother takes her to a psychiatrist, a medication prescription doctor, where a series of “One through ten how like you is ____?” statements leave her with a Bipolar diagnosis and a lingering feeling of being dismissed and without agency over her mental health. While already struggling to maintain her grades in school, her new medication leaves her spacy and disinterested in her education. She feels directionless and fears that her best friend will quickly forget her once she goes to college, and Journey is left at home doing nothing of note. After breaking up with her boyfriend, when Journey does admit that she is suicidal, she attempts to take her life. Journey regrets her actions, feels immense shame, and notes that the people in her life read every emotional conflict as a sign of another attempt. Journey misses a decent amount of school but tells the administration that it was mono. The academic counselor, worried about her academically and emotionally, calls her in and suggests that she go to middle-college, a program that lets someone take college classes for both high school and college credits. He states that she is not challenged, which is one reason why she offers such little effort in her work. She does go, and she reconnects with an attractive woman she had run into briefly when training to be a crisis-hotline volunteer. Etta, an openly queer woman, is the first person Journey really connects to after her attempt. Journey is attracted to Etta and knows that she is bisexual, but her “big feelings” and the shame of her mental disorder convinces Journey that she would be more of a burden than a partner. The narrator’s experiences and inner dialogue are exemplary of a young person with Bipolar II disorder. In addition, Journey’s struggle to be heard and understood both as a teenager and a person with serious mental health struggles reflects common occurrences. Oftentimes people feel misdiagnosed as a psychiatrist appointment deals more clinically with a disorder rather than emotionally, like with a psychologist (therapist). Like many people who take medication to manage their disorder, but especially true for people who are Bipolar, it is easy to believe that one is “better” and no longer must take medication that often has side effects. It is beneficial for those conversations to happen, as medical professionals know that their patients are “better” because medications normalizes their moods; yet Gardner demonstrates that this information is not shared until after it becomes a problem, and her medical characters explain it in a dismissive “this should be obvious” manner. Journey’s story is messy; she is traumatized by several events that have left her feeling worthless and simultaneously “too much.” She struggles with intrusive thoughts, a voice that is her own that pushes her to hate herself but learns from therapy that she can speak back to that voice and develop realistic coping mechanisms. Journey refuses to “let” herself go down the same path that led to her attempt, but the internalized shame from past actions does strain many of her relationships with friends and family. In many ways, Journey is very self-absorbed. She has internalized so much shame, feels misunderstood by neurotypical characters, and is still in a state of recovery/adolescent development that limits her ability to read other people accurately. She pushes Etta away convinced that she is the problematic “crazy” girl. Etta stumbles upon Journey at a busy intersection, revealing that she suffers from severe anxiety. This revelation connects the two, and Journey lets herself show someone else her emotions. Gardner does not wrap up the story neatly, but this reflects how mental health works. Journey does find professionals who listen to her concerns and provide explanations for the treatments they suggest. She is not sure that she is Bipolar, but she does accept that her brain works differently, and she can consult other people to help her live a stable life. At times, this novel is hard to read. Journey does have a lot of feelings that are hard to process, both for herself as a character and the reader as the observer. Those who experience suicidal ideation and/or intrusive thoughts will empathize with the young narrator, but it could stir uncomfortable feelings and memories. Gardner does not include detailed intrusive thoughts or actions, allowing the reader to understand Journey’s mind without vicariously experiencing it. - Jacklyn Heslop Indiana University of Pennsylvania |
Film/Television Reviews
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Luca (2021)
Directed by Enrico Casarosa Creating a professional animated film during 2020’s quarantine is an unprecedented task. The idea of working on a project of this scale from home alongside 63 animators, individual voice actors, and communicating through emails and Zoom is a difficult one to grasp. Regardless, Pixar’s Luca is the product of said experience, given no release in theaters and only available through Disney’s streaming service, Disney+. Despite its bleak circumstances, Luca is a surprisingly revitalizing film that diverges from Pixar’s usual works and instead embraces its simple theme of seeking acceptance—both from one’s family, but also of one’s own identity and their relationship with the society they live in. In short, Luca is a coming-of-age story that follows a young sea creature named Luca as he branches out from his family. When on land, Luca can take on a human form, allowing him to pursue both his curiosity of the human world and the friendship of Alberto, a sea creature who is a self-proclaimed expert on humanity. The simple goal of obtaining a Vespa, a moped, drives the two boys to join forces with the human girl Giulia to beat Ercole, who serves as the main antagonist, in the Portorosso Cup Triathlon. All the while, Luca must avoid being taken back home by his parents and avoid being exposed by the townspeople as a sea monster. Pixar’s animators and artists capture a vividly bright summer scene of iridescent scales, corals, and kelp fields. The film is set in Italy, made obvious from not only the Italian words chipped in by the humans in Portorosso, but through the architecture and soundtrack. Rich strings and accordions accompany scenes in powerfully effortless fashion. The music not only sets the location in a gentle way but the period as well, which appears to be the late 50s to early 60s. The sheer amount of texture makes the film’s style akin to a storybook, which has been carefully balanced between realism and the expressive touch of an artist. And unlike many films in Disney’s and Pixar’s line-up, the introduction of the protagonist is not done through narration, but through his duties and way of life. Nothing else quite concisely explains the sea creatures’ view of the surface than the first exchange between Luca and Alberto. When Luca first experiences the surface, he is thrown into the pebbly shore in a panic. Amused, Alberto states, “First time?” To this, Luca responds, “Of course it is; I’m a good kid!” Through the implications of Luca’s words, in a mere ten minutes Luca establishes the views of the protagonist’s family, and in another five they offer the motivations and personalities of the main characters, Luca and Alberto. In this way, the audience is treated with respect and is given creative freedom on ideas about this world, encouraging imagination not only after the film’s runtime but even during its first scenes. This places the audience’s expectations in a fascinatingly unknown place and is the film’s greatest asset in making the story engaging. The most captivating part of the film is its emphasis on acceptance. Not only does Luca strive to be accepted by his family, but by Giulia and her father, Massimo, for different reasons. Luca wants to be accepted by his mother for his love of the surface, but also to be accepted by the surface as a sea monster so that he does not have to live in fear. It is no mistake that this compelling desire is often said to parallel the struggles LGBT+ youth face, but this story is clearly one that can be relatable to first-generation college students, refugees, and people with disabilities. By the end, it feels as if Luca and Alberto have gained a wealth of friendships and found new people to call family. Luca’s grandmother Paguro captures this idea perfectly in her last line, “Some people, they'll never accept him, but some will, and he seems to know how to find the good ones,” extending Luca’s experiences into one that mirrors the audience. A common complaint of Luca is its lack of drive and complexity compared to Pixar’s other films. In other works from their line-up, every scene has a clear purpose and every character detail is meant to serve the plot. In fact, Pixar has changed directors on films in the past for this reason, a prime example being Chris Sanders, director of Lilo and Stitch, being removed from the project Bolt. Extra details such as Luca’s interest in astronomy and school, the existence of Massimo and Giulia’s cat, Machiavelli, and Luca’s grandmother’s short stories about the surface, truly serve no purpose other than to make the world feel more immersive. In this way, the film indeed sticks out as a Pixar movie that feels more like a call to Studio Ghibli's Ponyo and Porco Rosso rather than a carefully formulated plot designed to make the audience cry. A much more valid complaint is Luca falling into the pitfall most Pixar’s films fall under—a contrived splitting of the main characters before the finale. The unrealistic and immature conflict before the finale in Luca is made more bearable by the youth of its characters, but frustrating nevertheless. Thankfully, the film’s end is strong, if a little rushed, due to all of the characters’ development getting just enough of a satisfying conclusion. Luca is not without its flaws and is not strictly what one comes to associate with Pixar. Despite this, it feels as if Pixar needed this break in their expectations. Not every Pixar film needs to be a nostalgic masterpiece that forces you to undergo a deeply emotional experience. It is refreshingly unambitious, entertaining without feeling unnatural. There are no scenes where you are taken out of the immersion and think, “Oh, this is the scene that’s meant to be the tear-jerker.” If an analogy could be humored, Luca feels like the flashback-inducing and nostalgic ratatouille served to the food critic, Ego, in Ratatouille. After so many complex—some incredible, some bad—dishes, the simplicity and care put into Luca is exactly what makes it such a genuine and sincere film. As a result, Luca is well worth the time and a testament to what can be created even during times of unbelievable difficulty. - Sarah Wagner University of California, Davis |
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Skater Girl (2021)
Directed by Manjari Makijany This summer saw the release of Skater Girl, a film directed by Manjari Makijany that follows a young girl in a rural village in India as she discovers the beauty of skateboarding and experiences the difficulties of trying to set off on her own path. Described as a coming of age story by its producers Manjari and Vinati Makijany and Emmanuel Pappas, the narrative weaves together themes of family, confidence, and the importance of stepping into your passions.
Set in a remote town, the movie introduces the audience to Prerna and her younger brother as she pulls him to school on a pull cart she created that bears a striking resemblance to a skateboard. In the following scenes, viewers soon understand the obligations she’s under; she must take care of her family and her home, helping alongside her mother. There’s tension though because she is also required to attend school by the local teachers, despite her father’s disapproval. While we see Prerna struggle with pleasing her father and fitting in with the other students, viewers meet Jessica. Working in London in marketing, she has taken time off to visit this small village where her late father was born and then adopted as a young boy. Jessica hopes to understand more about her father and heritage. Prerna and Jessica soon meet, and Prerna is amazed at how free and independent Jessica is. At the same time, Jessica understands the pressure Prerna is under to please her father and his traditional views for his daughter. Jessica is pleasantly surprised to see the pull cart Prerna created and decides to post a video of them playing with it on her social media. Her post draws an old friend Erick to the village who happens to be a skateboarder. Pretty soon, Jessica and him have bought and assembled skateboards for the children in the village. This act of kindness leads to a bigger one; Jessica organizes the creation and building of a skate park for Prerna and the people in her village. Jessica is moved by the joy that skating brings to the children, and she feels even more connected to this place that was once her father’s home. The movie does an excellent job revealing the tension between the children’s happiness that they feel while skating and the rigidity of the village’s traditions and parents’ uneasiness. There are shots showing children playing and ruining property or household items and students skipping school to skate. The village leaders and Jessica come to an agreement; as long as skating does not interfere with their education or with other people’s property, they will be allowed to skate at the skatepark. The story’s main focus is on Prerna and her struggle to grow into her own through skateboarding. The sport is an outlet for her, one that allows her to do something she loves and enjoys. It makes her feel free. This is significant because she has lived till now under the weight of her father’s expectations to help at home and to marry the boy he will eventually choose for her. Skating gives her something all her own, something she chooses to do because she loves it, not because of someone else’s expectations of her. By the end of the movie, Prerna has grown in her self-confidence and decides to compete in the skating competition against her father’s wishes. Her parents also realize her passion for the sport and feel proud of who she has become. A majority of the movie is spoken in Hindi, with a small portion in English. This makes the movie a more honest and authentic representation of Indian culture. The music also includes tracks by partners Salim-Sulaiman, an Indian composing duo. The heartfelt scenes with the children and exhilarating montages of skating are reflected well in the film’s music score. Rachel Sanchita Gupta also does a fantastic job portraying Prerna in her debut film performance. Viewers looking for a heartfelt story about a girl finding her place in her family and her world will enjoy this film immensely. It leaves the viewers with a sense of pride and encouragement seeing Prerna prioritize her own happiness and do what brings her joy despite the expectations of those around her. - Hannah Neeley California State University, Stanislaus |
Music Reviews
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BE (2020)
BTS BE (2020) is BTS’s first self-directed album. The self-proclaimed pandemic project focuses on the struggles the band felt throughout COVID-19. Without shying away from their personal struggles and our globe’s collective strife, the album asserts we can find togetherness and love within the distance. "Telepathy" and "Stay" are both timely and timeless songs about long distance relationships. Both songs are about loving others in times of distance, while at the same time emphasizing finding self-care in those relationships. In this way, the album as a whole situaties itself as a proclamation of self-love and an encouragement to its listeners to embrace self-love and self-care.
"Life Goes On," "Fly to My Room," "Blue & Grey," and "Dis-ease" all focus on finding love and acceptance without hiding from the darkness. These songs demonstrate that self-love comes from self-acceptance by showing the vulnerability of the members facing their doubts and insecurities and finding love and acceptance through this process. “Life Goes On” captures the dual nature of that phrase. Life going on after a disaster is a positive thing, but it also can be difficult. When pain comes, sometimes you want the world to stop just for a moment so you can catch your breath. The song captures the dual effect of this by acknowledging the difficulty of keeping up with life during times of difficulty while also reassuring their listeners that it’s okay to slow down, take a breath, and remember life does indeed go on whether you run through it or slow down and walk at times. To drive this point home, the second song on the track right after “Life Goes On,” “Fly to My Room,” features Jimin and V’s cool vocals accompanied by an uplifting synthesizer that reminds the listener of the importance of taking alone time in their self-care regimen. The next song on the album takes a more vulnerable approach. It begins with a light acoustic guitar followed by V’s strong vocals crying out, “Where’s my angel?” (BTS 0:15). This song deals with the isolation that often accompanies melancholy. This song demonstrates, however, that while these feelings are valid and you should nurture yourself when you feel isolated, you are never alone. The song is a reminder that there are others who feel similar and who care about you. “Dis-ease” is, unlike the previous songs, deceptively upbeat. The groovy, hip-hop song innately engenders dancing while discussing the complexities of “uncomfortable happiness” (BTS 0:16). Here they acknowledge that sometimes the very thing that makes you happy can be exhausting and taxing. The song also asserts that while we may seem like we are happy to other people, sometimes we are hiding behind our outward performance of happiness. It also examines the complexities of feeling down even when society deems that we should be content. Overall, the song proves that our emotions are always valid. Without invalidating any emotions, the song also, due to the intoxicating beat, proves that there are happier days ahead. While BTS’s “Dynamite” did attract much commercial and critical success for the band, initially it does not seem to fit into the album BE. In an album that promotes self-love and acceptance, their first song all in English feels oddly out of place. The album feels as if it should naturally come to a conclusion after the seventh song on the album, “Stay.” However, “Dynamite” ends the album with a complete shift in tone from the previous seven songs. It is also the only song on the album in which the members did not participate in the writing process. You don’t have to read the names listed after the lyrics to feel the change in tone and mood. In an album that praises self-love and acceptance, “Dynamite” feels like a performance. However, watching the music video that accompanies the song makes you realize that, while BTS did not actually write the music, it did not stop them from bringing their own personal and unique talents to the song’s final conception. “Dynamite,” becomes a fun reminder that there are many different forms of self-love. While acknowledging your hardships, vulnerabilities, and self-doubts are an important part of learning how to love you for who you are, dancing around to a catchy summer beat that makes you feel good and forget your worries is another valid form of self-love and self-care. BTS, therefore, demonstrates through “Dynamite” that it’s okay to relax and generate your own joy in whatever form that may take. The most poignant demonstration of self-love in this album, however, is in the skit. The skit acts as the emotional fulcrum for the album. It ties together the mood change from the first three songs to the last four songs. The skit ends with RM asking in Korean, “Is this not what happiness is?” (BTS 2:55). While the skit itself is a recording of all seven members discussing the news that they are the number one artist in the Billboard Top 100, the listener does not get the feeling that the “happiness” RM is referring to here is their award. Rather, the album and the skit assert the opposite. While it’s incredibly thrilling to be awarded for your hard work, the album recognizes that work, even the work you love enough to, as Suga says in the skit, devote the rest of your life to, often can produce negative emotions regarding your self-worth. The album rather asserts that true happiness comes not with commercial success, but doing what you love with the people you love. - Laura Creekmore Louisiana State University |
Podcast Reviews
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We Can Do Hard Things The Podcast (2021)
by Glennon Doyle We Can Do Hard Things the Podcast with Glennon Doyle debuted in May 2021 and is a masterclass on self-love. The podcast created by Doyle is a follow up on plans laid in her memoir Untamed (2020). Untamed inspired people to find their inner “cheetahs,” and its release created a moment of inspiration in a rather dark year. Doyle began a movement with Untamed, and her podcast feels like a natural follow up. If Untamed peeled back the curtains of Doyle’s life, her podcast completely rips the curtains from the wall. Doyle and her co host/sister Amanda Doyle do not hold anything back, and the result is powerful yet relatable. Each episode is centered around facing hard things, a mantra from Doyle’s Untamed. Topics covered range from anxiety, sex, addiction, and more. While the topics vary, each episode seems to be woven together with the common theme of self-love creating a season of episodes that feel cohesive. While Doyle’s talent as a writer goes without saying, the podcast highlights her innate ability to connect with people. Each week Doyle and her sister create a welcoming environment with their unwavering honesty. They share their struggles, battles, and fears with their listeners and the result is a podcast that feels much more like a conversation amongst friends.
While the disarming style of the podcast is refreshing to listeners, its structure is rather familiar. Each podcast opens with an introduction from Doyle, followed by a segment where Doyle and her sister (or any guest) speak, then the show ends with a Q&A portion from listeners. The format eases listeners and creates a familiar environment week after week. If the show has any pitfalls it would be the advertisements. Doyle does her best to weave them into the podcast with her excited take on each one, but they never seem to fit and just seem to take the listener away from the experience. While the format is predictable in a comforting way, the show’s topics are completely unpredictable. Nothing is off limits; Doyle tackles each topic with a raw humility. Doyle and her sister choose to share instead of preach resulting in a podcast that feels like a weekly talk with friends. Like any good friendship, some weeks the conversation is light like the episode “Fun: What the hell is it and why do we need it?” which dives into the complicated relationship many women have with fun. Other weeks the tone is heavy, yet necessary like “Queer Freedom: How can we be both held and free?” which features Doyle’s wife Abby Wambach who shares the lasting impact growing up queer in a religious family had on her. Of course, the best talks seem to do both like “Silent Sex Queen: Why aren’t we walking about sex more?” which has both hilarious and deep discussions about sex. These talks no matter how personal still feel inclusive. Doyle and her sister manage to include the audience each week through the Q&A section at the end of each podcast. As each episode ends, Doyle challenges her listeners to do a “hard thing.” The hard thing portion of the podcast shows the connection Doyle has with her audience. Each hard thing is carefully selected and each episode leaves the listener feeling rejuvenated enough to tackle said hard thing. Perhaps what feels most inclusive about the podcast is Doyle’s genuine care for her audience. Doyle is wholeheartedly invested in the wellbeing of her audience and their relationships with their own selves. She tailors each episode to fit audience needs and she replies to her questions passionately. One season in and Doyle has created not just a podcast but a community. Doyle’s podcast might have been inspired by Untamed but the podcast is for all listeners; Untamed is not a necessary precursor to listening. Doyle’s podcast is entertaining and engaging on its own, but its legacy might lie in the communal acceptance it creates for listeners. Each week Doyle reminds listeners the power of words, especially hearing one’s deepest insecurities verbalized by others. Doyle’s openness and her sister’s thoughtfulness together gives listeners a safe place to unpack struggles that are often made to feel too shameful to admit. The podcast gives listeners a sense of peace with the knowledge they are not alone in their struggles. Doyle does not have an answer for every hard thing she presents, but she gives listeners something much more important. We Can Do Hard Things the Podcast with Glennon Doyle is a true masterpiece in introspection giving listeners a chance to practice the truest form of self-love— self-acceptance. - Autumn Andersen California State University, Stanislaus |
