"Education for All" by Guilherme Bergamini
Summer 2020 Archive
Fiction
Amends
By Ryan Priest
Convict 330834 was released into the world as Jamal White, convicted sex offender. This was no rebirth. The man who had been Jamal had died five years before, upon his incarceration.
Inside of the razor-wire topped concrete walls, the shell, the hollowed-out, breathing, walking, eating shell, had begun to fill again with pain, hatred, fear, and routine. Finally, after a year or so of pressure cooking, a convict began to form. Only this new Jamal didn’t die on release. The defining characteristic of a con is a sort of indestructibility. Once created, there is no getting rid of him.
Most people think when the judge imposes a certain sentence on you, you serve it to the day and then are released. Nothing the government does is that cut and dry. There is a certain bureaucracy involved and you’re no longer even human. You’re stock, chattel that the different protocols each get their time with.
Jamal’s release after five years required his staying for four months in a halfway house with other ex-inmates. During the day, they were supposed to look for jobs, and some had to attend substance abuse meetings or classes. The conditions of Jamal’s parole required no such classes.
Within no time, he’d found a job in a warehouse, basically the only job an ex-con can get. More than half of the parolees never made it out of the halfway house. They’d disappear or break curfew, and it was back to the prison for them. Most were spending all of their free time looking for or doing drugs. They call it recidivism. Not Jamal White though.
He made his four months. With the money he had earned at the warehouse, he had managed to find a run down but dirt-cheap apartment complex. This newly acquired separation from the state did not come free.
“My name is Jamal White, I am a convicted sex offender. I am required to inform you that I am moving into the neighborhood.” Over and over again. He couldn’t stand to look his new neighbors in the eyes while giving them his spiel. Some spit at him, others threatened him, but nobody was too eager to engage physically with an admitted ex-convict.
He had done it all, everything required of him, and that first night in his own bed, in his own apartment, almost made it all worth it. That first free sleep without the threat of rape or some other form of brutality. A sleep with no predetermined time of waking. A sleep he didn’t even have to take if he didn’t want to. He could leave all of his lights on and play his music straight on until morning, and no eight-dollar-an-hour correction’s officer armed with only a club and a GED would come in to beat the routine back into him. He chose to sleep anyway though. He had a big day planned. After five years there was someone he needed to see again.
Jamal had been convicted of the aggravated rape of a then seventeen-year-old Heather Flannigan. Now, the very first morning of his new freedom, he spent watching the twenty-two-year-old version leaving her house on foot, headed to her job at the mall. Not that she really had to work. By the look of her two story, five-bedroom house, her family had enough money to support her for another forty years.
She didn’t look like she’d aged a day. Her hair was still long and filled with golden waves. She was still as delicately slim as he’d remembered her. The clothes were more grown up, but there could be no mistaking that it was the same girl underneath.
“Hello Heather.” Jamal said moving up behind her. She had already walked far enough away from the house to risk it.
The look on her face changed from one expecting to see a friend to that of someone who’s seen the devil incarnate. “It’s you.”
“I’m finally out.”
She stood locked in place, eyes as big as saucers.
“What do you want?” She asked in a voice that shook with every word. The last thing she had expected was to see his dark face staring at her at nine thirty in the morning.
“I want to know why you did it,” Jamal asked slowly. “Why did you say I raped you?”
“Look, I was a dumb kid. Sorry, but we all do stupid things.” She said with a cavalier shrug that mocked every moment he had spent in that hell.
“Why didn’t you come forward and admit it was a lie? You had five years.” Jamal asked through clenched teeth.
“My dad would have killed me,” she said, growing defensive toward this accusatory confrontation.
The two had only met one time before. Jamal’s friend had known Heather’s friend, and the four of them had met up and hung out one evening. Heather had been flirting with Jamal all night, so when it came time to leave, he gave her a ride home. She asked him to park the car, and they did it -- nervous and clumsy, as teenagers do, but consensual nonetheless.
After they were finished, she’d even kissed him good night and gave assurances that she’d like to see him again. So, it came as a surprise when the police had shown up at his job with handcuffs and words like “rapist.”
He only ever saw her once more, and that was as she took the stand pointing a finger at him. He’d waited five years, replaying the incident in his head every night, questioning his own memory. He had been over the seduction, the sex, the kiss afterwards, carefully pausing on every detail for fear he may have behaved in some inappropriate way that he’d been unaware of. But no, five years and the same answer, an emphatic no, he’d never raped anyone.
“Why did you do it? I’d never done a thing to you.” It felt good to say it out loud for once, the truth.
“Look, my little brother saw us pull up at the house and he told my dad that I had been driven home by a n-, a black man. When I got in, my hair and makeup were all messed up and my bra was in my purse, so he knew something had gone on. What was I supposed to do?” Heather was getting noticeably annoyed. Who was he, some black ex-con, to be stopping her on the way to her work, bitching about stuff that had happened years ago?
“Well you’re not supposed to tell him that I raped you.”
“You don’t know my dad. He’d have killed me. My parents are old fashioned. They think whites should stick with whites and blacks with blacks. If I told him that I had had sex with some black guy, he’d have thrown me out on the street. I told him not to call the police, but he wouldn’t listen,” she explained indignantly.
“Rape is the most horrible crime you can ever be accused of.” Jamal was seething. “They raped me. They raped me and beat me every day in that prison. Even rapists hate rapists.”
“What do you want me to say? Sorry?” She began to continue her walk, and he unconsciously joined her, still swirling over all the things he should say. He’d imagined it a thousand times, and he had auditioned several phrases just for this one moment.
“You are a worthless, self-interested, lying, evil, entitled, dumb...” The words seemed cheap, immature. They were simply words, and words felt so cheap and immaterial. His words to the cops had meant nothing, the words at his trial had all been lies. The words in his pleas and screams had never once stopped an attacker or summoned help. Words simply didn’t matter. Jamal couldn’t believe they’d taken five years of his life on nothing but the word of such a fork-tongued suburban cretin. Skin tone mattered more than words.
His friends had all left him, believing her. His only living family, his mother, had been forced to leave the state to find work, so he hadn’t even seen her in three years. He was alone in the world now, with the low ceiling placed over the head of any ex-felon, and there was absolutely no justifiable reason as to why.
“You are just a nigger ex-convict, and if you bother me again, I’ll tell them you were trying to rape me and they’ll send you right back,” she said, empowering herself smugly. She was done hearing about how horrible a person she was from a near stranger. The way she saw it, that was just one thing she had done, and it was ages ago. She felt bad about it, sure, but so what? She had to get over it sometime. She wasn’t about to go live in a cave, forever chastising herself for it.
She stormed off to her retail job, but Jamal gave no chase. She hadn’t even gone to college. He’d often wondered how she had been spending her time. Apparently, after robbing him of his years, she’d squandered her own.
There was no surprise in him that she had been so callous and unaffected. He’d seen grown men who had stabbed their best friends in their sleep, and when asked why, they always had some proud, obnoxious, and absurd rationalization for it that always left the stabber as the real victim. He’d learned many things about the way people will treat one another, especially if they can get away with it. In his first year inside, he had learned what physical punishment the human body can endure. He’d learned about his own strengths and weaknesses while attempting to fend off murderers and rapists who had rationalized their attacks into some twisted form of heroism. “Get the rape-O!”
He’d learned even more in his remaining four years. Especially after his repeated assaults made the warden take pity on him and grant his request for permanent solitary confinement. Safe from the others, the guilty, he was free to read and study. He’d earned his bachelor’s degree with a major in philosophy and a minor in Russian literature.
Opportunities are everywhere for inmates to better educate themselves if the element of perpetual violence can be removed. Several degree programs exist ranging in grade levels from kindergarten through full correspondence collegiate courses, all to help the recidivism. Sadly though, most convicts with a degree just end up as smart warehouse workers.
No company on Earth wants an executive who’s done time. Banks don’t loan to felons either, so starting your own business is out too. He’d taken the government up on their free college, though. He had fallen in love with books in that cell with only sub-human guards and the sounds of other prisoners to keep him company.
He was expected at work in a few hours, and he’d go. He didn’t know how long he’d have to keep the job for. If he missed a day, they could and would send him back to prison.
Jamal White looked at his old and worn denim jacket. He had been arrested in it. He needed a new one. With his first day as a free man, he had bought himself new boots, the white shirt he was wearing, and the small cassette player that was currently taped underneath.
He felt for the buttons and turned it off. He wondered how much money five years of wrongful imprisonment amounted to in civil court. Jamal smiled. Yes, he would get to buy himself that new jacket, he’d clear his name, and finally, he’d knock on every one of those doors again and show them the proof that he was no rapist and never really had been. Then, and only then, would he really be free.
The End
By Ryan Priest
Convict 330834 was released into the world as Jamal White, convicted sex offender. This was no rebirth. The man who had been Jamal had died five years before, upon his incarceration.
Inside of the razor-wire topped concrete walls, the shell, the hollowed-out, breathing, walking, eating shell, had begun to fill again with pain, hatred, fear, and routine. Finally, after a year or so of pressure cooking, a convict began to form. Only this new Jamal didn’t die on release. The defining characteristic of a con is a sort of indestructibility. Once created, there is no getting rid of him.
Most people think when the judge imposes a certain sentence on you, you serve it to the day and then are released. Nothing the government does is that cut and dry. There is a certain bureaucracy involved and you’re no longer even human. You’re stock, chattel that the different protocols each get their time with.
Jamal’s release after five years required his staying for four months in a halfway house with other ex-inmates. During the day, they were supposed to look for jobs, and some had to attend substance abuse meetings or classes. The conditions of Jamal’s parole required no such classes.
Within no time, he’d found a job in a warehouse, basically the only job an ex-con can get. More than half of the parolees never made it out of the halfway house. They’d disappear or break curfew, and it was back to the prison for them. Most were spending all of their free time looking for or doing drugs. They call it recidivism. Not Jamal White though.
He made his four months. With the money he had earned at the warehouse, he had managed to find a run down but dirt-cheap apartment complex. This newly acquired separation from the state did not come free.
“My name is Jamal White, I am a convicted sex offender. I am required to inform you that I am moving into the neighborhood.” Over and over again. He couldn’t stand to look his new neighbors in the eyes while giving them his spiel. Some spit at him, others threatened him, but nobody was too eager to engage physically with an admitted ex-convict.
He had done it all, everything required of him, and that first night in his own bed, in his own apartment, almost made it all worth it. That first free sleep without the threat of rape or some other form of brutality. A sleep with no predetermined time of waking. A sleep he didn’t even have to take if he didn’t want to. He could leave all of his lights on and play his music straight on until morning, and no eight-dollar-an-hour correction’s officer armed with only a club and a GED would come in to beat the routine back into him. He chose to sleep anyway though. He had a big day planned. After five years there was someone he needed to see again.
Jamal had been convicted of the aggravated rape of a then seventeen-year-old Heather Flannigan. Now, the very first morning of his new freedom, he spent watching the twenty-two-year-old version leaving her house on foot, headed to her job at the mall. Not that she really had to work. By the look of her two story, five-bedroom house, her family had enough money to support her for another forty years.
She didn’t look like she’d aged a day. Her hair was still long and filled with golden waves. She was still as delicately slim as he’d remembered her. The clothes were more grown up, but there could be no mistaking that it was the same girl underneath.
“Hello Heather.” Jamal said moving up behind her. She had already walked far enough away from the house to risk it.
The look on her face changed from one expecting to see a friend to that of someone who’s seen the devil incarnate. “It’s you.”
“I’m finally out.”
She stood locked in place, eyes as big as saucers.
“What do you want?” She asked in a voice that shook with every word. The last thing she had expected was to see his dark face staring at her at nine thirty in the morning.
“I want to know why you did it,” Jamal asked slowly. “Why did you say I raped you?”
“Look, I was a dumb kid. Sorry, but we all do stupid things.” She said with a cavalier shrug that mocked every moment he had spent in that hell.
“Why didn’t you come forward and admit it was a lie? You had five years.” Jamal asked through clenched teeth.
“My dad would have killed me,” she said, growing defensive toward this accusatory confrontation.
The two had only met one time before. Jamal’s friend had known Heather’s friend, and the four of them had met up and hung out one evening. Heather had been flirting with Jamal all night, so when it came time to leave, he gave her a ride home. She asked him to park the car, and they did it -- nervous and clumsy, as teenagers do, but consensual nonetheless.
After they were finished, she’d even kissed him good night and gave assurances that she’d like to see him again. So, it came as a surprise when the police had shown up at his job with handcuffs and words like “rapist.”
He only ever saw her once more, and that was as she took the stand pointing a finger at him. He’d waited five years, replaying the incident in his head every night, questioning his own memory. He had been over the seduction, the sex, the kiss afterwards, carefully pausing on every detail for fear he may have behaved in some inappropriate way that he’d been unaware of. But no, five years and the same answer, an emphatic no, he’d never raped anyone.
“Why did you do it? I’d never done a thing to you.” It felt good to say it out loud for once, the truth.
“Look, my little brother saw us pull up at the house and he told my dad that I had been driven home by a n-, a black man. When I got in, my hair and makeup were all messed up and my bra was in my purse, so he knew something had gone on. What was I supposed to do?” Heather was getting noticeably annoyed. Who was he, some black ex-con, to be stopping her on the way to her work, bitching about stuff that had happened years ago?
“Well you’re not supposed to tell him that I raped you.”
“You don’t know my dad. He’d have killed me. My parents are old fashioned. They think whites should stick with whites and blacks with blacks. If I told him that I had had sex with some black guy, he’d have thrown me out on the street. I told him not to call the police, but he wouldn’t listen,” she explained indignantly.
“Rape is the most horrible crime you can ever be accused of.” Jamal was seething. “They raped me. They raped me and beat me every day in that prison. Even rapists hate rapists.”
“What do you want me to say? Sorry?” She began to continue her walk, and he unconsciously joined her, still swirling over all the things he should say. He’d imagined it a thousand times, and he had auditioned several phrases just for this one moment.
“You are a worthless, self-interested, lying, evil, entitled, dumb...” The words seemed cheap, immature. They were simply words, and words felt so cheap and immaterial. His words to the cops had meant nothing, the words at his trial had all been lies. The words in his pleas and screams had never once stopped an attacker or summoned help. Words simply didn’t matter. Jamal couldn’t believe they’d taken five years of his life on nothing but the word of such a fork-tongued suburban cretin. Skin tone mattered more than words.
His friends had all left him, believing her. His only living family, his mother, had been forced to leave the state to find work, so he hadn’t even seen her in three years. He was alone in the world now, with the low ceiling placed over the head of any ex-felon, and there was absolutely no justifiable reason as to why.
“You are just a nigger ex-convict, and if you bother me again, I’ll tell them you were trying to rape me and they’ll send you right back,” she said, empowering herself smugly. She was done hearing about how horrible a person she was from a near stranger. The way she saw it, that was just one thing she had done, and it was ages ago. She felt bad about it, sure, but so what? She had to get over it sometime. She wasn’t about to go live in a cave, forever chastising herself for it.
She stormed off to her retail job, but Jamal gave no chase. She hadn’t even gone to college. He’d often wondered how she had been spending her time. Apparently, after robbing him of his years, she’d squandered her own.
There was no surprise in him that she had been so callous and unaffected. He’d seen grown men who had stabbed their best friends in their sleep, and when asked why, they always had some proud, obnoxious, and absurd rationalization for it that always left the stabber as the real victim. He’d learned many things about the way people will treat one another, especially if they can get away with it. In his first year inside, he had learned what physical punishment the human body can endure. He’d learned about his own strengths and weaknesses while attempting to fend off murderers and rapists who had rationalized their attacks into some twisted form of heroism. “Get the rape-O!”
He’d learned even more in his remaining four years. Especially after his repeated assaults made the warden take pity on him and grant his request for permanent solitary confinement. Safe from the others, the guilty, he was free to read and study. He’d earned his bachelor’s degree with a major in philosophy and a minor in Russian literature.
Opportunities are everywhere for inmates to better educate themselves if the element of perpetual violence can be removed. Several degree programs exist ranging in grade levels from kindergarten through full correspondence collegiate courses, all to help the recidivism. Sadly though, most convicts with a degree just end up as smart warehouse workers.
No company on Earth wants an executive who’s done time. Banks don’t loan to felons either, so starting your own business is out too. He’d taken the government up on their free college, though. He had fallen in love with books in that cell with only sub-human guards and the sounds of other prisoners to keep him company.
He was expected at work in a few hours, and he’d go. He didn’t know how long he’d have to keep the job for. If he missed a day, they could and would send him back to prison.
Jamal White looked at his old and worn denim jacket. He had been arrested in it. He needed a new one. With his first day as a free man, he had bought himself new boots, the white shirt he was wearing, and the small cassette player that was currently taped underneath.
He felt for the buttons and turned it off. He wondered how much money five years of wrongful imprisonment amounted to in civil court. Jamal smiled. Yes, he would get to buy himself that new jacket, he’d clear his name, and finally, he’d knock on every one of those doors again and show them the proof that he was no rapist and never really had been. Then, and only then, would he really be free.
The End
Removal at Seminole Mound
By Linda Trice
A young woman walked quietly through the forest that was unknown to her. In appearance, she seemed like any other female of her age. She wore a long sleeved tee-shirt depicting the logo of the college where she was a student of anthropology and folklore. Her face was summer tanned. What marked her as one on a quest to satisfy the Ancestor was her hair — long, thick braids held tight by leather strings and strips of blood red cloth.
She had always lived with and been raised by the grandmother who sent her on this spiritual journey. It was the custom among their African ancestors to give the first born child to the grandmother. That child would live with her grandmother and devote her life to caring for her. And thus it had been.
Grandmother told the young woman that an African ancestor, a high priest, escaped from enslavement in the Carolinas and came to Florida, where he was given sanctuary by the Seminole. He married into the fold and had children by his wife, who some called a shaman because of her knowledge of herbs and roots. Their children had children by others in the group, some African, some Seminole.
But Andrew Jackson, Wiley Thompson, Thomas Jessup and others demanded the Africans return to perpetual slavery. Their beloved children would be taken from them and sold. The Seminole were told to walk to reservations in Oklahoma and leave their lands for the whites. The United States government called it “Removal.”
The Seminole fought. Many died. The army kept the survivors away from the dead, so the bodies of some, such as the Ancestor and most of his children, were left on the ground to rot.
Thus, the quest of the young woman was to find Seminole Mound, the site of the massacre, and, once there, to set things right.
Her grandmother sent her on this spiritual journey with sacred herbs and knowledge of their chants. Grandmother made the journey when she was a young woman and planted Jimson weed on the sacred site. By the plant and its white trumpet-like flowers, the young woman would know she had arrived at the Seminole Mound.
The young woman was not bothered by the buzzing insects. Her knowledge of the swamps protected her from poisonous snakes, alligators, and other living forms which plague the Northerners who moved to Florida.
At last she came to the area, but as her grandmother had predicted, it was no longer uninhabited. A run down cabin sat on top of the small mound.
She waited until she was sure no one was around, performed her ceremony, then slipped back into the forest and went home. The deed was done.
~~~
Cassandra approached Wiley Jessup’s dilapidated house with trepidation. She tried to shake the feeling off. Locals said the mound was cursed and wouldn’t go near the place. They saw ghosts and strange lights at night. Scientists from the University said it was just swamp gas. She thought of the legend and just as quickly discounted it. That's why the artist had been able to buy the property so cheaply from her agency. After all, the area abounded with wild tales of the supernatural. The Swamp Ape was the regional version of Big Foot. Sensational media placed South Florida within the Bermuda Triangle and claimed the lost continent of Atlantis was off the coast.
Cassandra leaned against a nearly dead tree and appraised the property. Bleak. Dirt. Jimson weed was the only plant, and it was struggling to survive. Locals called it the Devil’s Trumpet because of the triangle shaped flowers. Wiley’s property was just a worthless piece of land. The only use it was good for was just what Wiley was putting it to— a retreat from the world; he had surely done that.
Minutes later, she was sitting next to the painter in his living room. The burly man was dressed in his usual attire— torn denim shorts and a tee-shirt with the arms ripped off. His clothes were faded and splattered with paint.
"Really Wiley, I worry about you,” Cassandra said. “You have such artistic talent, but you're alone too much. You should get out more, be with people."
He ignored her. He was too busy admiring his newest work, a self‑portrait. Although he hadn't hung it yet, it was large enough for him to enjoy as it lay against the wall. "What do you think?"
"It captures your essence,” she said. “It's the real you, the bushy eyebrows, your rugged looks."
He nodded, agreeing with her.
"It's different from your other works, 'County Courthouse,’ ‘Baseball Training Camp.' Those are gritty, yet they capture the essence and culture of Beneva County, of much of South Florida in fact. They're realistic, earthy and so ... so you."
He smiled, looking at the painting, not at the woman.
She put her now empty beer can on the floor and stood. Obviously he just wanted someone to admire his latest work. "Got to go now," she said.
When she reached the door, she looked back at him. Cassandra was about to say something but realized that Wiley was still intently savoring his latest work.
She let herself out, got into her car and drove off. She had her own life to lead.
~~~
There was an opening that night. Wiley's agent strenuously urged him to attend. A Miami collector was interested in some of Wiley's more expensive works but refused to buy them until he had gotten to know the artist. Wine poured freely, as usual.
Afterwards the collector insisted that Wiley and the agent accompany him to The Quay for bourbon and jazz. The collector insisted upon buying “just one more round,” then another, and another.
As Wiley pulled into his isolated house a few minutes before midnight, he realized he'd forgotten to eat dinner. The wine and bourbon made him clutch his stomach.
Instead of going into the kitchen to get something to eat, he went to the self‑portrait. He studied it intently, his hands on his hips, his legs spread. Cassandra was right. It did capture his essence.
He looked past it to a portrait he'd painted of a former girlfriend, a dancer with a ballet troupe. It was unlike most of his work. He had done it in pale pinks and ivory, colors that reminded him of her soft gentleness.
The figure was intent on tying her pink slipper, but, gently and slowly, her head came up. She turned around, stared at Wiley, and stepped out of the painting. Standing quite still, now five feet tall, she moved into a corner and twirled round and around.
To the left of the ballerina, the "Riverview High School Band" began to play. A uniformed tuba player marched off the painting, followed by drummers, bagpipe players, and then the entire band. All two hundred and fifty of them marched with precise steps into the bedroom.
The surf in Wiley's "Siesta Key Beach" began to splash. Some of the bathers spread their blankets in front of Wiley's wall. High school girls started a volleyball game.
Wiley stared, speechless, horrified, but the wine, bourbon and the late hour overtook him. He slumped down onto the blanket of the Siesta Key bathers and passed out.
In the corner, the ballerina still twirled.
~~~
Wiley woke in his bed. He didn't know how he got there. He didn't remember removing his clothes, but there they were, his shirt and best jeans, tangled in a heap on the floor near his good sandals.
He shook his head again, remembering last night. He stared at the painting in front of him. "The Bridge Players" silently inspected their cards. Next to it, another of his works showed diners at a seaside restaurant. The patrons were seated, their cigarettes and coffee cups poised in mid‑air. All the other paintings in the bedroom were as they should be, still.
It must have been the wine, he thought as he showered and dressed.
Not totally convinced that it had only been a bad dream, he inspected the paintings in the living room. The ballerina was still bending over her pink slipper. The band was in their state of blessed stillness.
Wiley shook his head again. It had to have been the wine. From now on he was sticking strictly to beer.
~~~
Soon the house was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sounds of Wiley whistling as he began hanging his self‑portrait. An hour later, he made a sandwich with the last roll and whatever cold cuts he had left.
He groaned. He'd have to go into town later. He hated the nosy townspeople, the friendly kids at the checkout. Too friendly. He came out here to paint, not to make friends.
~~~
There was another opening that night. It was so crowded that Wiley didn't get a chance to have more than two glasses of wine. They had no beer. His agent had insisted he come. His agent often had lousy ideas. This was one.
~~~
That night, Wiley approached his house with trepidation. As he stood in front of the door, he thought he heard music.
He smiled to himself. Of course. Probably some kids parked way back doing something they shouldn't in the back seat of a banged up old car. Music carried out here.
As soon as he entered the house, he got a can of cold beer. Savoring a swallow, he sat down on his sofa, put his feet up, and enjoyed his paintings.
When he went to get another beer, he patted his "Pickers in an Orange Grove" hanging outside the kitchen and caressed his "Circus Winter Headquarters" hanging on the opposite wall.
Then he heard a caressing female voice gently call his name.
His head jerked towards the window, then the television.
There was no one outside.
The television was blank.
He shook his head and took another sip of beer.
It was then that he heard the sound. Like a music box. Soft and tinkling.
He looked up. The ballerina was standing before him, smiling. She pirouetted towards a corner and twirled round and around.
The two hundred and fifty member Riverview High School Band played their instruments and marched through the room. The animals from "County Fair" began bleating and weaving through the musicians’ feet. The noise was deafening.
A man with an orange for a face came in from the bedroom. "Come," the man spoke. Mesmerized by the horror, and with an insatiable curiosity, Wiley followed the faceless man, the band, and the parade.
He watched, fascinated as the creatures and the people miniaturized and flowed into their respective frames.
Wiley wheeled around as the person who had led him at the end of the parade into the bedroom shrank and floated into a frame above the bed.
Then Wiley noticed another painting — his self‑portrait which he had just hung. As he stared, he felt an odd sensation. He was becoming smaller. He was soaring through the air, towards the self-portrait, the image of an artist with a white Devil’s Trumpet flower dangling from his hand.
People still claim to see ghostly lights and hear plaintive cries. Researchers at the University just as adamantly discount it all as local superstition.
The End
*** HISTORICAL NOTE: Andrew Jackson’s invasion of Florida led to the First Seminole War. The Removal Act was passed in 1830. Seminoles were forced to leave Florida and walk to Oklahoma. Wiley Thompson was in charge of the Removal. Thomas Jessup, the commander of all U.S. troops in Florida during the Second Seminole War said about the Seminole, "The country can be rid of them only by exterminating them." ***
By Linda Trice
A young woman walked quietly through the forest that was unknown to her. In appearance, she seemed like any other female of her age. She wore a long sleeved tee-shirt depicting the logo of the college where she was a student of anthropology and folklore. Her face was summer tanned. What marked her as one on a quest to satisfy the Ancestor was her hair — long, thick braids held tight by leather strings and strips of blood red cloth.
She had always lived with and been raised by the grandmother who sent her on this spiritual journey. It was the custom among their African ancestors to give the first born child to the grandmother. That child would live with her grandmother and devote her life to caring for her. And thus it had been.
Grandmother told the young woman that an African ancestor, a high priest, escaped from enslavement in the Carolinas and came to Florida, where he was given sanctuary by the Seminole. He married into the fold and had children by his wife, who some called a shaman because of her knowledge of herbs and roots. Their children had children by others in the group, some African, some Seminole.
But Andrew Jackson, Wiley Thompson, Thomas Jessup and others demanded the Africans return to perpetual slavery. Their beloved children would be taken from them and sold. The Seminole were told to walk to reservations in Oklahoma and leave their lands for the whites. The United States government called it “Removal.”
The Seminole fought. Many died. The army kept the survivors away from the dead, so the bodies of some, such as the Ancestor and most of his children, were left on the ground to rot.
Thus, the quest of the young woman was to find Seminole Mound, the site of the massacre, and, once there, to set things right.
Her grandmother sent her on this spiritual journey with sacred herbs and knowledge of their chants. Grandmother made the journey when she was a young woman and planted Jimson weed on the sacred site. By the plant and its white trumpet-like flowers, the young woman would know she had arrived at the Seminole Mound.
The young woman was not bothered by the buzzing insects. Her knowledge of the swamps protected her from poisonous snakes, alligators, and other living forms which plague the Northerners who moved to Florida.
At last she came to the area, but as her grandmother had predicted, it was no longer uninhabited. A run down cabin sat on top of the small mound.
She waited until she was sure no one was around, performed her ceremony, then slipped back into the forest and went home. The deed was done.
~~~
Cassandra approached Wiley Jessup’s dilapidated house with trepidation. She tried to shake the feeling off. Locals said the mound was cursed and wouldn’t go near the place. They saw ghosts and strange lights at night. Scientists from the University said it was just swamp gas. She thought of the legend and just as quickly discounted it. That's why the artist had been able to buy the property so cheaply from her agency. After all, the area abounded with wild tales of the supernatural. The Swamp Ape was the regional version of Big Foot. Sensational media placed South Florida within the Bermuda Triangle and claimed the lost continent of Atlantis was off the coast.
Cassandra leaned against a nearly dead tree and appraised the property. Bleak. Dirt. Jimson weed was the only plant, and it was struggling to survive. Locals called it the Devil’s Trumpet because of the triangle shaped flowers. Wiley’s property was just a worthless piece of land. The only use it was good for was just what Wiley was putting it to— a retreat from the world; he had surely done that.
Minutes later, she was sitting next to the painter in his living room. The burly man was dressed in his usual attire— torn denim shorts and a tee-shirt with the arms ripped off. His clothes were faded and splattered with paint.
"Really Wiley, I worry about you,” Cassandra said. “You have such artistic talent, but you're alone too much. You should get out more, be with people."
He ignored her. He was too busy admiring his newest work, a self‑portrait. Although he hadn't hung it yet, it was large enough for him to enjoy as it lay against the wall. "What do you think?"
"It captures your essence,” she said. “It's the real you, the bushy eyebrows, your rugged looks."
He nodded, agreeing with her.
"It's different from your other works, 'County Courthouse,’ ‘Baseball Training Camp.' Those are gritty, yet they capture the essence and culture of Beneva County, of much of South Florida in fact. They're realistic, earthy and so ... so you."
He smiled, looking at the painting, not at the woman.
She put her now empty beer can on the floor and stood. Obviously he just wanted someone to admire his latest work. "Got to go now," she said.
When she reached the door, she looked back at him. Cassandra was about to say something but realized that Wiley was still intently savoring his latest work.
She let herself out, got into her car and drove off. She had her own life to lead.
~~~
There was an opening that night. Wiley's agent strenuously urged him to attend. A Miami collector was interested in some of Wiley's more expensive works but refused to buy them until he had gotten to know the artist. Wine poured freely, as usual.
Afterwards the collector insisted that Wiley and the agent accompany him to The Quay for bourbon and jazz. The collector insisted upon buying “just one more round,” then another, and another.
As Wiley pulled into his isolated house a few minutes before midnight, he realized he'd forgotten to eat dinner. The wine and bourbon made him clutch his stomach.
Instead of going into the kitchen to get something to eat, he went to the self‑portrait. He studied it intently, his hands on his hips, his legs spread. Cassandra was right. It did capture his essence.
He looked past it to a portrait he'd painted of a former girlfriend, a dancer with a ballet troupe. It was unlike most of his work. He had done it in pale pinks and ivory, colors that reminded him of her soft gentleness.
The figure was intent on tying her pink slipper, but, gently and slowly, her head came up. She turned around, stared at Wiley, and stepped out of the painting. Standing quite still, now five feet tall, she moved into a corner and twirled round and around.
To the left of the ballerina, the "Riverview High School Band" began to play. A uniformed tuba player marched off the painting, followed by drummers, bagpipe players, and then the entire band. All two hundred and fifty of them marched with precise steps into the bedroom.
The surf in Wiley's "Siesta Key Beach" began to splash. Some of the bathers spread their blankets in front of Wiley's wall. High school girls started a volleyball game.
Wiley stared, speechless, horrified, but the wine, bourbon and the late hour overtook him. He slumped down onto the blanket of the Siesta Key bathers and passed out.
In the corner, the ballerina still twirled.
~~~
Wiley woke in his bed. He didn't know how he got there. He didn't remember removing his clothes, but there they were, his shirt and best jeans, tangled in a heap on the floor near his good sandals.
He shook his head again, remembering last night. He stared at the painting in front of him. "The Bridge Players" silently inspected their cards. Next to it, another of his works showed diners at a seaside restaurant. The patrons were seated, their cigarettes and coffee cups poised in mid‑air. All the other paintings in the bedroom were as they should be, still.
It must have been the wine, he thought as he showered and dressed.
Not totally convinced that it had only been a bad dream, he inspected the paintings in the living room. The ballerina was still bending over her pink slipper. The band was in their state of blessed stillness.
Wiley shook his head again. It had to have been the wine. From now on he was sticking strictly to beer.
~~~
Soon the house was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sounds of Wiley whistling as he began hanging his self‑portrait. An hour later, he made a sandwich with the last roll and whatever cold cuts he had left.
He groaned. He'd have to go into town later. He hated the nosy townspeople, the friendly kids at the checkout. Too friendly. He came out here to paint, not to make friends.
~~~
There was another opening that night. It was so crowded that Wiley didn't get a chance to have more than two glasses of wine. They had no beer. His agent had insisted he come. His agent often had lousy ideas. This was one.
~~~
That night, Wiley approached his house with trepidation. As he stood in front of the door, he thought he heard music.
He smiled to himself. Of course. Probably some kids parked way back doing something they shouldn't in the back seat of a banged up old car. Music carried out here.
As soon as he entered the house, he got a can of cold beer. Savoring a swallow, he sat down on his sofa, put his feet up, and enjoyed his paintings.
When he went to get another beer, he patted his "Pickers in an Orange Grove" hanging outside the kitchen and caressed his "Circus Winter Headquarters" hanging on the opposite wall.
Then he heard a caressing female voice gently call his name.
His head jerked towards the window, then the television.
There was no one outside.
The television was blank.
He shook his head and took another sip of beer.
It was then that he heard the sound. Like a music box. Soft and tinkling.
He looked up. The ballerina was standing before him, smiling. She pirouetted towards a corner and twirled round and around.
The two hundred and fifty member Riverview High School Band played their instruments and marched through the room. The animals from "County Fair" began bleating and weaving through the musicians’ feet. The noise was deafening.
A man with an orange for a face came in from the bedroom. "Come," the man spoke. Mesmerized by the horror, and with an insatiable curiosity, Wiley followed the faceless man, the band, and the parade.
He watched, fascinated as the creatures and the people miniaturized and flowed into their respective frames.
Wiley wheeled around as the person who had led him at the end of the parade into the bedroom shrank and floated into a frame above the bed.
Then Wiley noticed another painting — his self‑portrait which he had just hung. As he stared, he felt an odd sensation. He was becoming smaller. He was soaring through the air, towards the self-portrait, the image of an artist with a white Devil’s Trumpet flower dangling from his hand.
People still claim to see ghostly lights and hear plaintive cries. Researchers at the University just as adamantly discount it all as local superstition.
The End
*** HISTORICAL NOTE: Andrew Jackson’s invasion of Florida led to the First Seminole War. The Removal Act was passed in 1830. Seminoles were forced to leave Florida and walk to Oklahoma. Wiley Thompson was in charge of the Removal. Thomas Jessup, the commander of all U.S. troops in Florida during the Second Seminole War said about the Seminole, "The country can be rid of them only by exterminating them." ***
Ride the Peter Pan
By Allison Whittenberg
There were times when it seemed like all the beauty was sucked out of my life. This was one of them. It was cold and damp, early spring, and I was Greyhounding from my old life to my new, from North to South. I was 24, master degreed, unwed, and pregnant.
All around me, I saw failure. As each passenger climbed aboard, emptiness filled the bus. I saw the unshaved and the unshowered. The angry and confused. Widows, retirees, practically invalids dragging their duffle bags. Beside me, a degenerate unwrapped his plastic-wrapped sandwiches. I stared out of the windows like a peeping Tom. Riding the bus meant never passing City Hall, never going by the nice restaurants or boutiques melting into friendly pedestrians strolling past. No businessman with wedding bands checking briefcases. No, I saw a squeegee man dirtying clean windshields.
I wish I’d taken the Peter Pan, a special line that showed escapist movies. I’d taken that before when I was only going as far as NYC. I saw a flick about moving an elephant cross-country. It wasn’t a box office smash, but for a bus ride it was perfect. Here, there wasn’t even a blank screen. I could go for another feature length; too bad that line doesn’t go down South.
A man with eyes like the sky was driving. He loudly talked to the passengers in the front couple of rows about how fake pro wrestling was. He asked the question, “How come every time they hit each other, they stomp their feet?”
Back in high school, I was Valedictorian. A decade later, long after pomp and circumstance was played, I found myself a loser. Just another confused minority waif riding public transportation, bouncing the back of her neck against a greasy headrest.
My wish was for a miscarriage. I know that was a horrible thing to wish for.
I had used up all my distractions. I put on my headphones and heard only a staticky cassette tape. The magazines I brought, I had read too quickly. I had put away the novel I brought miles ago. I just couldn’t get into it. It was just words on a page. Now what?
There was a woman with chicken wings in her shirt pocket. Her fingers smudged the window.
I’m going to kill my baby. Strangle it with my large intestine, or with my hands like the Prom Mom. It was a fleeting thought. I blamed it on the bus. Some people get motion sickness; I get homicidal thoughts.
If only the Peter Pan would go way down to Georgia. Maybe I should have flown or rented a car. Truth is, I didn’t have the presence of mind to do either. I needed to let someone else do the driving. Let someone else make the stops and turns. I was so angry. Angry at rape, domestic violence, the porn industry, sexism, fascism, racism, ismisms. My life wasn’t supposed to go like this. I was the smart girl.
I should have watched my drink.
I should have reported it.
I should have taken the morning after pill.
I shouldn’t have been in denial.
RU486 could have stopped this from being compounded. How am I going to look at this product for the next 18 years? How? What am I going to do? Where am I going? I know where I’m going. Macon. But where am I going?
I’m going home. I don’t even have a job waiting for me. I had two grand saved; that’s all.
My legs are cramping from a rocky night when I try to turn this seat into a sofa. I snuggle in the best I can.
I have no other plans than to live with my mother. My mother is loving and nurturing, but not understanding. She couldn’t understand this; I couldn’t understand this.
A few rows behind me, that Lolita pop music was playing; someone else turned on a hip hop station and overpowered it. This all could have been understandable if I dressed like a naval-centric nymphet, but I didn’t. I never did. Even on that night, I had on my work clothes at the party, Navy skirt, light blue turtleneck. (When groping for cause and effect, fall on stereotypes.)
I thought I knew Warren. We had talked before about peace, public education, and reparations. My life was going so well. I was saving to buy a condo, something tasteful with modern furniture. It would look like the furniture storeroom at Ikea. Now look at me, boomeranging back to my same humble beginnings, to the grey borough I grew up in. I have lost control. My power is taken. My destiny. Couldn’t he at least have opened up a condom package and put it on?
The woman in front of me was babbling about how thick her son’s neck is. He was in the Navy, and the Navy wanted to kick him out because he’d gotten fat. They have been taping his waist and throat to find the density.
My rapist wasn’t big, but he did overpower me.
My rapist didn’t look like a rapist. He was tall, slender, a runner’s build, dark, bookish eyeglasses – kind of like me, only male... and a pervert.
I only had one glass of wine.
Date rapists aren’t any different from rapist-rapists. In a lot of ways, they are worse. They gain your confidence, then betray you. They Milli Vanilli their way into your life. They don’t carry a knife or a gun. Just a drug. And surprise.
I remember my stockings pulled down around my ankles so I couldn’t move my feet and run. The wheel of my mind takes in the way he braced my arms so that I couldn’t move my arms and clock him. The way he got inside my mind so even my voice didn’t work. Why didn’t I scream? I lived in an efficiency apartment on the third floor where the walls and ceilings were as thin as loose-leaf paper.
I worked in the politics of shame as a counselor at a women’s shelter where the politics of silence was busted every day. I should have come forward. Instead, I did what I urged others not to do, I swallowed it down… yet the projector kept whirring and clacking.
There was a woman on the bus with her hair so uncombed, she had dreads from the neglect. Her carry-on was a shopping bag full of pain. I was just like her. Up until the rape, my life had been so fine-tooth-combed. Pregnancy dictated to me that all my dreams were gone. Even my distant ones of going to Africa, eating raw cashews in Nairobi, tracing my roots…
The bus driver stopped just past Columbia. He told us to get a smoke or a coke. The previous day, I had thrown up twice. Today, I was hungry. I went to the restroom to wash up. The smell of joints hit me, as did the sight of women brushing their teeth and washing up. Not just bird baths. Not just splashing under the armpits, spritz to open the dry eyes. These women had their tops off and their pants down. They were buck-naked crowded by the drain.
I left the restroom and cleansed my hands with a moistened towelette I had stored in my carryall bag. I ducked into the terminal coffee shop and sat at the counter.
A waitress made her way over to me and grunted at me.
“Do you have any turkey?” I asked.
“No.”
“What do you have?” I asked.
“Burgers. What did you want? A club?”
“No. I wanted a Rachel.”
She looked at me blankly.
I explained. “It’s like a Ruben, but you use turkey.”
“We don’t have no turkey.”
“Do you have bacon?”
“Do you want a BLT?” she asked.
“No. Bacon cheeseburger.”
“We don’t have no cheese.”
I squinted. “No cheese? No bacon?”
“Nope. So what do you want?”
“An abortion.”
She gave me a blank stare.
“I’ll have a burger,” I swallowed hard and said hoarsely.
“You want fries with that?”
Soon, the moon-faced waitress slid the plate my way. The bun was cold, and the burger looked like an SOS scouring pad.
I just don’t get it; I had done everything I was supposed to do right down to only using my first initial on the mail and the phone book. How did I get raped?
Some fellow with a head full of shiny Liberace hair — every strand in place — sat next to me. I eyed him. He was a brown-skinned man, chubby; I don’t know why I thought Liberace. I should have thought Al Sharpton.
“How’s your burger?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“My name’s Brian.” He smiled. I noticed that he was missing a side tooth. “You know, you are exactly what I’m looking for.”
I thought for a moment; exactly what was I looking for? A life of fox furs, red sequin evening dresses? White candles in silver candlestick holders? The man kept smiling at me, showcasing his missing molar. I told myself to give up. Life is not going to be gallant.
He chewed his burger favoring one side. “What’s your name?”
“Ann.” I lied. It was really Arna. This is what I always did. I never give strangers too much information. Even in singles clubs, when asked for my phone number, I would give only the last digit. I’m always cautious, watchful.
“Ann. I like that. I like women like you. I like a woman whose breasts are where they’re supposed to be and have a nice, small waist like you have.”
I turned away from him and placed my napkin over my burger.
“I have a truck,” he said.
I put a five-dollar bill on the counter.
“You want to go for a ride in my truck?” he asked. He smelled oily and too close.
I stood up. “How old are you?”
“I’m 42, but I don’t want no has-beens. My daddy had kids up until he was 60…. I don’t date women over 21, 22.”
“You don’t.”
“Naw, I don’t want a has-been.”
“Do you have any kids?” I asked.
“I have grandkids,” he answered.
“You have grandkids.” I absorbed and repeated.
“Yeah, but that’s my daughter’s business.”
“What happened to your wife?” I asked.
“What wife? I’ve never been married – “ He leered. “ –Yet.”
I made a fist. “You’re a 42-year-old grandfather. Why don’t you date grandmothers?”
“I done told you, I don’t deal with no has-beens,” he told me. “Have you started your family yet?”
“By family, you mean a mother and a father and a child, right. If you mean that, the answer is no.” I made my voice icy as Massachusetts in December. I kept my cadence proper and dry.
“You know what I mean. You got any shorties?” he asked, still wearing a snaggle-toothed grin.
“The answer is no.”
I turned to leave. He reached for me.
“Get your goddamn hands off of me.”
The entire clientele craned their necks at me. An older woman next to the door looked over her glasses at me. The waitress cupped her hands over her face.
“I went to Smith!” I told them, then I gave Grandpa the finger.
I gathered my coat around me, clutched my bag, and walked toward the pay phone. I had promised I’d call my mother when I got close to home. I pulled out my card and pressed the digits. Ma answered on the first ring.
“How’s your trip going?” she asked.
“All right,” I answered. This was my biggest lie yet.
“It’s a cast of characters ain’t it?” she laughed. I loved her laugh. It was full, colorful, and Southern.
“How far are you along?” she asked.
“Right outside of Columbia.”
“How far are you along?” she asked again.
“I’m right in Sumter. Outside Columbia, I’ll be there in another two hours.”
“No, Arna, how far are you along?”
“You know? How could you know?”
“I just do. Something about the way you told me out of the blue you were moving back home. You love Boston.”
She didn’t sound angry or disappointed. She sounded psychic.
“Everything is going to be all right. You’re not around any smoke are you? They say that now. That ain’t good for the baby.”
“I’m only two months in, Ma,” I told her.
“It’s too bad you have to travel pregnant. You have morning sickness and jet lag.”
I smiled. It felt strange to smile. ”Ma, you can’t get that from a bus because you feel every mile.”
“Buses ain’t so bad anymore. Don’t they show movies?”
“Certain ones do. Greyhound has a spin off. Peter Pan. I’m just on the regular one.”
“Well, you’ll be home soon. We’ll all be there to pick you up.”
“I don’t have a job lined up.”
“You’re a mother now. That’s your job.”
“But I had a career.”
“You’ll find something down here. You’ve always been smart.”
“Ma, I let a dumb thing happen.”
“You’re the first one in the family to ever go to college, Arna. You’ll find something down here. We’ve got everything Boston’s got. Just a little less of it.”
I saw a mass of people heading toward the bus. “Ma, I have to go.”
“See you soon.”
The bus was just about to pull off as I climbed back aboard. The driver asked me if I knew The Rock.
I crossed my fingers and said, “We’re like this.”
There was a reshuffling of the seats, and I found my middle of the bus seat gone. I went to the back.
It’s always those honor student, 16-year-olds who don’t want to disappoint their parents who hemorrhage from grimy abortions. Ma took the news better than I thought.
My mother had emphatic ears. She didn’t wear makeup or nail polish. She had basic hobbies; she liked to sew and cook. She was lucky; she didn’t go out to the world to discover herself. She was married at 15. I was the exact middle child of seven. Maybe Macon wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not like I had a job on Wall Street. There are shelters in my hometown, or at least people in need of shelter.
A voluptuous, big-hipped woman sat next to me. She had swollen ankles. She was one of the nude women I saw in the restroom.
I guess I wasn’t put into this world to be pampered; I was put in this world to be squeezed between a window and foul-smelling misery.
Back home, kids ride their bikes and chase each other up and down the sidewalk. Just thinking of that made me feel warm enough to ignore the draft that was coming from the metal vent alongside the window.
I will not end this life.
If it’s a girl, I will cover her pigtails with red and purple plastic. If it’s a boy, I will teach him to be kind.
The bus started up, and I got a mild case of whiplash caused from my neck bouncing against the headrest.
There are times when it seems like all the beauty is sucked out.
This isn’t one of them.
By Allison Whittenberg
There were times when it seemed like all the beauty was sucked out of my life. This was one of them. It was cold and damp, early spring, and I was Greyhounding from my old life to my new, from North to South. I was 24, master degreed, unwed, and pregnant.
All around me, I saw failure. As each passenger climbed aboard, emptiness filled the bus. I saw the unshaved and the unshowered. The angry and confused. Widows, retirees, practically invalids dragging their duffle bags. Beside me, a degenerate unwrapped his plastic-wrapped sandwiches. I stared out of the windows like a peeping Tom. Riding the bus meant never passing City Hall, never going by the nice restaurants or boutiques melting into friendly pedestrians strolling past. No businessman with wedding bands checking briefcases. No, I saw a squeegee man dirtying clean windshields.
I wish I’d taken the Peter Pan, a special line that showed escapist movies. I’d taken that before when I was only going as far as NYC. I saw a flick about moving an elephant cross-country. It wasn’t a box office smash, but for a bus ride it was perfect. Here, there wasn’t even a blank screen. I could go for another feature length; too bad that line doesn’t go down South.
A man with eyes like the sky was driving. He loudly talked to the passengers in the front couple of rows about how fake pro wrestling was. He asked the question, “How come every time they hit each other, they stomp their feet?”
Back in high school, I was Valedictorian. A decade later, long after pomp and circumstance was played, I found myself a loser. Just another confused minority waif riding public transportation, bouncing the back of her neck against a greasy headrest.
My wish was for a miscarriage. I know that was a horrible thing to wish for.
I had used up all my distractions. I put on my headphones and heard only a staticky cassette tape. The magazines I brought, I had read too quickly. I had put away the novel I brought miles ago. I just couldn’t get into it. It was just words on a page. Now what?
There was a woman with chicken wings in her shirt pocket. Her fingers smudged the window.
I’m going to kill my baby. Strangle it with my large intestine, or with my hands like the Prom Mom. It was a fleeting thought. I blamed it on the bus. Some people get motion sickness; I get homicidal thoughts.
If only the Peter Pan would go way down to Georgia. Maybe I should have flown or rented a car. Truth is, I didn’t have the presence of mind to do either. I needed to let someone else do the driving. Let someone else make the stops and turns. I was so angry. Angry at rape, domestic violence, the porn industry, sexism, fascism, racism, ismisms. My life wasn’t supposed to go like this. I was the smart girl.
I should have watched my drink.
I should have reported it.
I should have taken the morning after pill.
I shouldn’t have been in denial.
RU486 could have stopped this from being compounded. How am I going to look at this product for the next 18 years? How? What am I going to do? Where am I going? I know where I’m going. Macon. But where am I going?
I’m going home. I don’t even have a job waiting for me. I had two grand saved; that’s all.
My legs are cramping from a rocky night when I try to turn this seat into a sofa. I snuggle in the best I can.
I have no other plans than to live with my mother. My mother is loving and nurturing, but not understanding. She couldn’t understand this; I couldn’t understand this.
A few rows behind me, that Lolita pop music was playing; someone else turned on a hip hop station and overpowered it. This all could have been understandable if I dressed like a naval-centric nymphet, but I didn’t. I never did. Even on that night, I had on my work clothes at the party, Navy skirt, light blue turtleneck. (When groping for cause and effect, fall on stereotypes.)
I thought I knew Warren. We had talked before about peace, public education, and reparations. My life was going so well. I was saving to buy a condo, something tasteful with modern furniture. It would look like the furniture storeroom at Ikea. Now look at me, boomeranging back to my same humble beginnings, to the grey borough I grew up in. I have lost control. My power is taken. My destiny. Couldn’t he at least have opened up a condom package and put it on?
The woman in front of me was babbling about how thick her son’s neck is. He was in the Navy, and the Navy wanted to kick him out because he’d gotten fat. They have been taping his waist and throat to find the density.
My rapist wasn’t big, but he did overpower me.
My rapist didn’t look like a rapist. He was tall, slender, a runner’s build, dark, bookish eyeglasses – kind of like me, only male... and a pervert.
I only had one glass of wine.
Date rapists aren’t any different from rapist-rapists. In a lot of ways, they are worse. They gain your confidence, then betray you. They Milli Vanilli their way into your life. They don’t carry a knife or a gun. Just a drug. And surprise.
I remember my stockings pulled down around my ankles so I couldn’t move my feet and run. The wheel of my mind takes in the way he braced my arms so that I couldn’t move my arms and clock him. The way he got inside my mind so even my voice didn’t work. Why didn’t I scream? I lived in an efficiency apartment on the third floor where the walls and ceilings were as thin as loose-leaf paper.
I worked in the politics of shame as a counselor at a women’s shelter where the politics of silence was busted every day. I should have come forward. Instead, I did what I urged others not to do, I swallowed it down… yet the projector kept whirring and clacking.
There was a woman on the bus with her hair so uncombed, she had dreads from the neglect. Her carry-on was a shopping bag full of pain. I was just like her. Up until the rape, my life had been so fine-tooth-combed. Pregnancy dictated to me that all my dreams were gone. Even my distant ones of going to Africa, eating raw cashews in Nairobi, tracing my roots…
The bus driver stopped just past Columbia. He told us to get a smoke or a coke. The previous day, I had thrown up twice. Today, I was hungry. I went to the restroom to wash up. The smell of joints hit me, as did the sight of women brushing their teeth and washing up. Not just bird baths. Not just splashing under the armpits, spritz to open the dry eyes. These women had their tops off and their pants down. They were buck-naked crowded by the drain.
I left the restroom and cleansed my hands with a moistened towelette I had stored in my carryall bag. I ducked into the terminal coffee shop and sat at the counter.
A waitress made her way over to me and grunted at me.
“Do you have any turkey?” I asked.
“No.”
“What do you have?” I asked.
“Burgers. What did you want? A club?”
“No. I wanted a Rachel.”
She looked at me blankly.
I explained. “It’s like a Ruben, but you use turkey.”
“We don’t have no turkey.”
“Do you have bacon?”
“Do you want a BLT?” she asked.
“No. Bacon cheeseburger.”
“We don’t have no cheese.”
I squinted. “No cheese? No bacon?”
“Nope. So what do you want?”
“An abortion.”
She gave me a blank stare.
“I’ll have a burger,” I swallowed hard and said hoarsely.
“You want fries with that?”
Soon, the moon-faced waitress slid the plate my way. The bun was cold, and the burger looked like an SOS scouring pad.
I just don’t get it; I had done everything I was supposed to do right down to only using my first initial on the mail and the phone book. How did I get raped?
Some fellow with a head full of shiny Liberace hair — every strand in place — sat next to me. I eyed him. He was a brown-skinned man, chubby; I don’t know why I thought Liberace. I should have thought Al Sharpton.
“How’s your burger?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“My name’s Brian.” He smiled. I noticed that he was missing a side tooth. “You know, you are exactly what I’m looking for.”
I thought for a moment; exactly what was I looking for? A life of fox furs, red sequin evening dresses? White candles in silver candlestick holders? The man kept smiling at me, showcasing his missing molar. I told myself to give up. Life is not going to be gallant.
He chewed his burger favoring one side. “What’s your name?”
“Ann.” I lied. It was really Arna. This is what I always did. I never give strangers too much information. Even in singles clubs, when asked for my phone number, I would give only the last digit. I’m always cautious, watchful.
“Ann. I like that. I like women like you. I like a woman whose breasts are where they’re supposed to be and have a nice, small waist like you have.”
I turned away from him and placed my napkin over my burger.
“I have a truck,” he said.
I put a five-dollar bill on the counter.
“You want to go for a ride in my truck?” he asked. He smelled oily and too close.
I stood up. “How old are you?”
“I’m 42, but I don’t want no has-beens. My daddy had kids up until he was 60…. I don’t date women over 21, 22.”
“You don’t.”
“Naw, I don’t want a has-been.”
“Do you have any kids?” I asked.
“I have grandkids,” he answered.
“You have grandkids.” I absorbed and repeated.
“Yeah, but that’s my daughter’s business.”
“What happened to your wife?” I asked.
“What wife? I’ve never been married – “ He leered. “ –Yet.”
I made a fist. “You’re a 42-year-old grandfather. Why don’t you date grandmothers?”
“I done told you, I don’t deal with no has-beens,” he told me. “Have you started your family yet?”
“By family, you mean a mother and a father and a child, right. If you mean that, the answer is no.” I made my voice icy as Massachusetts in December. I kept my cadence proper and dry.
“You know what I mean. You got any shorties?” he asked, still wearing a snaggle-toothed grin.
“The answer is no.”
I turned to leave. He reached for me.
“Get your goddamn hands off of me.”
The entire clientele craned their necks at me. An older woman next to the door looked over her glasses at me. The waitress cupped her hands over her face.
“I went to Smith!” I told them, then I gave Grandpa the finger.
I gathered my coat around me, clutched my bag, and walked toward the pay phone. I had promised I’d call my mother when I got close to home. I pulled out my card and pressed the digits. Ma answered on the first ring.
“How’s your trip going?” she asked.
“All right,” I answered. This was my biggest lie yet.
“It’s a cast of characters ain’t it?” she laughed. I loved her laugh. It was full, colorful, and Southern.
“How far are you along?” she asked.
“Right outside of Columbia.”
“How far are you along?” she asked again.
“I’m right in Sumter. Outside Columbia, I’ll be there in another two hours.”
“No, Arna, how far are you along?”
“You know? How could you know?”
“I just do. Something about the way you told me out of the blue you were moving back home. You love Boston.”
She didn’t sound angry or disappointed. She sounded psychic.
“Everything is going to be all right. You’re not around any smoke are you? They say that now. That ain’t good for the baby.”
“I’m only two months in, Ma,” I told her.
“It’s too bad you have to travel pregnant. You have morning sickness and jet lag.”
I smiled. It felt strange to smile. ”Ma, you can’t get that from a bus because you feel every mile.”
“Buses ain’t so bad anymore. Don’t they show movies?”
“Certain ones do. Greyhound has a spin off. Peter Pan. I’m just on the regular one.”
“Well, you’ll be home soon. We’ll all be there to pick you up.”
“I don’t have a job lined up.”
“You’re a mother now. That’s your job.”
“But I had a career.”
“You’ll find something down here. You’ve always been smart.”
“Ma, I let a dumb thing happen.”
“You’re the first one in the family to ever go to college, Arna. You’ll find something down here. We’ve got everything Boston’s got. Just a little less of it.”
I saw a mass of people heading toward the bus. “Ma, I have to go.”
“See you soon.”
The bus was just about to pull off as I climbed back aboard. The driver asked me if I knew The Rock.
I crossed my fingers and said, “We’re like this.”
There was a reshuffling of the seats, and I found my middle of the bus seat gone. I went to the back.
It’s always those honor student, 16-year-olds who don’t want to disappoint their parents who hemorrhage from grimy abortions. Ma took the news better than I thought.
My mother had emphatic ears. She didn’t wear makeup or nail polish. She had basic hobbies; she liked to sew and cook. She was lucky; she didn’t go out to the world to discover herself. She was married at 15. I was the exact middle child of seven. Maybe Macon wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not like I had a job on Wall Street. There are shelters in my hometown, or at least people in need of shelter.
A voluptuous, big-hipped woman sat next to me. She had swollen ankles. She was one of the nude women I saw in the restroom.
I guess I wasn’t put into this world to be pampered; I was put in this world to be squeezed between a window and foul-smelling misery.
Back home, kids ride their bikes and chase each other up and down the sidewalk. Just thinking of that made me feel warm enough to ignore the draft that was coming from the metal vent alongside the window.
I will not end this life.
If it’s a girl, I will cover her pigtails with red and purple plastic. If it’s a boy, I will teach him to be kind.
The bus started up, and I got a mild case of whiplash caused from my neck bouncing against the headrest.
There are times when it seems like all the beauty is sucked out.
This isn’t one of them.
Hybrid Fiction
We Take Racism Very Seriously
By Miranda McClellan
Please circle your answers to these questions regarding our workplace climate.
________________________
Monday morning at work, there is a
A. panel
B. town hall
C. corporate all-hands
D. community listening session
for diversity and inclusion led in response to
A. the killing of a black man by police
B. the killing of a black woman by police
C. Wow! You thought they would call a meeting over a “women’s issue?” The answer is A.
I arrived late because
A. I would rather not have come.
B. I took advantage of the empty office to cry at my desk instead of in the bathroom.
C. Black people just don’t know how to act professionally.
D. I wanted to take a quick poop at work.
I am a Black woman, so everyone here assumes I care the most. I do not. What would make me care more? If everyone stopped sending me texts that say, “I hope you’re OK <3.”
I am not “OK.”
The white people in the room make way for me. This is the one time of the year when
A. Karen
B. Becky
C. Brad (my boss)
D. Chad (Brad’s uncle and his boss)
makes space for me, and (for the first few minutes, at least) tries not to
A. interrupt me
B. take credit for my work
C. ask me how my hair grew so much. Gee-wiz! 15 inches over the weekend!
D. accidentally call me “Sharon”
because I have “already faced enough struggles being…” *whisper* “…Black.” It’s OK for them to say that word, right? I can see we are all on edge today. I tell them “It’s OK.”
The event starts with an address by the chair of the board:
“Dear employees, we are gathered here today because
A. a survey
B. the employee turnover rate
C. the spike in harassment cases reviewed by HR
has demonstrated that we have an issue with
A. the racial climate in America.”
B. respecting authority.”
C. structural racism.”
D. ungrateful employees.”
Never fear, a white man who looks like Captain America is here to fix it because he
A. finally bothered to find some industry experts
B. is the designated guy who signs off on initiatives like this
C. googled “industry best practices to avoid making any lasting change”
D. asked his only Black friend what to do
and subsequently put together this event. He feels confident organizing an event to address racism because he
A. is part Native American
B. is Jewish
C. is gay
D. has a Black friend (the same Black friend from the option above)
and understands what it means to be #oppressed. Should we trust this man? I do not, but
A. Karen
B. Becky
C. Brad (my boss)
D. Chad (Brad’s uncle and boss)
does. This is part of the problem.
“It is truly despicable that that such a tragedy occurred in our backyards. We take racism very seriously. Instances like this are un-
A. American.
B. just.
C. worthy of the time I have to spend away from the golf course but keep coming up.
I want you all to know that our
A. university
B. company
C. corporate family
is doing everything in our power to
A. address injustice in the world.”
B. save our asses from liability.”
C. produce a semi-credible PR release for tomorrow in which we will forget to capitalize the word “Black.”
D. figure out a way to profit off this opportunity.”
My white coworkers whole-heartedly agree this is the optimal next step in line with
A. industry standards.
B. posts made within their Facebook bubble.
C. a brief Google search conducted this morning while on the toilet.
D. a deep understanding of American history.
E. a Black person’s opinion (the same Black friend from the options above).
“We really value our
A. diverse employees
B. highest performers
C. shareholders
D. boss’s growing number of gainfully employed family members.
We dare you to find a workplace with a more inclusive culture! We pride ourselves on the fact that our employees enjoy the best
A. free coffee.”
B. maternity leave.”
C. opportunity for internal mobility and growth.”
D. view of their boss’s office that has an actual window, unlike their cubicle.”
I have not enjoyed any of these things. Instead, we all just enjoyed another year without a cost of living adjustment to
A. offset costs of expanding facilities in India.
B. make up for stock losses after our PR blunder about this same issue last year.
C. make us feel grateful for not being one of the 40 people let go recently.
D. help Chad’s cousin finally afford his dream yacht with his new raise.
“In fact, we just hired a Chief Diversity officer!” The white man is very proud. I feel like I’ve seen him before. I think this is Chad’s cousin, Dave.
There is a single brave soul in the audience, The Black Man (not the same as above) from accounting. I don’t know his name because I avoid his area, so people won’t ask
A. if we’re dating/married.
B. if he is single.
C. if he is into Asian women.
D. if we are enough Black people to finally fill the Affirmative Action quotas.
Most days, I am too tired to find the fun in fucking with white people by giving the wrong answer.
The Black Man asks a question: “So…we have one diversity officer to manage centuries of injustice for this whole group of 2500 people?” Provocative! I make a note to learn his name.
His question is followed by
A. awkward silence.
B. a slow clap initiated by the other Black woman in the office, Sharon (my best friend at work).
C. a hasty response from upper management.
“Interesting that you brought that up! We have big plans to answer your question! We need to
A. hire an Associate Diversity Officer.
C. institute a special task force for diversity and inclusion.
D. conduct a new workplace climate survey.
E. actually address systematic racism in our organization.
And we’re looking for volunteers!”
Sharon and I share an annoyed eyebrow raise. Everyone else is looking at
A. me.
B. Sharon
C. Sharon (but thinking that she is me).
D. The Black Man.
E. their coworker turned friend-with-benefits seated across the room.
F. their bank balances and wondering if the extra work comes with a pay increase.
G. inside themselves to question their own racist upbringings, for once.
H. their phones. There was another school shooting just now.
The extra work does not come with a pay increase. Upper management once again proves that they expect us to be
A. happy corporate slaves
B. free consultants
for their white savior dreams. I am tired of 400 years of empty promises. I am tired of working in this “culture.”
I decide to leave this meeting early because
A. I would rather not have come.
B. I want to take advantage of the empty office to cry at my desk instead of in the bathroom.
C. Black people just don’t know how to act professionally.
D. I want to take a quick poop at work.
By Miranda McClellan
Please circle your answers to these questions regarding our workplace climate.
________________________
Monday morning at work, there is a
A. panel
B. town hall
C. corporate all-hands
D. community listening session
for diversity and inclusion led in response to
A. the killing of a black man by police
B. the killing of a black woman by police
C. Wow! You thought they would call a meeting over a “women’s issue?” The answer is A.
I arrived late because
A. I would rather not have come.
B. I took advantage of the empty office to cry at my desk instead of in the bathroom.
C. Black people just don’t know how to act professionally.
D. I wanted to take a quick poop at work.
I am a Black woman, so everyone here assumes I care the most. I do not. What would make me care more? If everyone stopped sending me texts that say, “I hope you’re OK <3.”
I am not “OK.”
The white people in the room make way for me. This is the one time of the year when
A. Karen
B. Becky
C. Brad (my boss)
D. Chad (Brad’s uncle and his boss)
makes space for me, and (for the first few minutes, at least) tries not to
A. interrupt me
B. take credit for my work
C. ask me how my hair grew so much. Gee-wiz! 15 inches over the weekend!
D. accidentally call me “Sharon”
because I have “already faced enough struggles being…” *whisper* “…Black.” It’s OK for them to say that word, right? I can see we are all on edge today. I tell them “It’s OK.”
The event starts with an address by the chair of the board:
“Dear employees, we are gathered here today because
A. a survey
B. the employee turnover rate
C. the spike in harassment cases reviewed by HR
has demonstrated that we have an issue with
A. the racial climate in America.”
B. respecting authority.”
C. structural racism.”
D. ungrateful employees.”
Never fear, a white man who looks like Captain America is here to fix it because he
A. finally bothered to find some industry experts
B. is the designated guy who signs off on initiatives like this
C. googled “industry best practices to avoid making any lasting change”
D. asked his only Black friend what to do
and subsequently put together this event. He feels confident organizing an event to address racism because he
A. is part Native American
B. is Jewish
C. is gay
D. has a Black friend (the same Black friend from the option above)
and understands what it means to be #oppressed. Should we trust this man? I do not, but
A. Karen
B. Becky
C. Brad (my boss)
D. Chad (Brad’s uncle and boss)
does. This is part of the problem.
“It is truly despicable that that such a tragedy occurred in our backyards. We take racism very seriously. Instances like this are un-
A. American.
B. just.
C. worthy of the time I have to spend away from the golf course but keep coming up.
I want you all to know that our
A. university
B. company
C. corporate family
is doing everything in our power to
A. address injustice in the world.”
B. save our asses from liability.”
C. produce a semi-credible PR release for tomorrow in which we will forget to capitalize the word “Black.”
D. figure out a way to profit off this opportunity.”
My white coworkers whole-heartedly agree this is the optimal next step in line with
A. industry standards.
B. posts made within their Facebook bubble.
C. a brief Google search conducted this morning while on the toilet.
D. a deep understanding of American history.
E. a Black person’s opinion (the same Black friend from the options above).
“We really value our
A. diverse employees
B. highest performers
C. shareholders
D. boss’s growing number of gainfully employed family members.
We dare you to find a workplace with a more inclusive culture! We pride ourselves on the fact that our employees enjoy the best
A. free coffee.”
B. maternity leave.”
C. opportunity for internal mobility and growth.”
D. view of their boss’s office that has an actual window, unlike their cubicle.”
I have not enjoyed any of these things. Instead, we all just enjoyed another year without a cost of living adjustment to
A. offset costs of expanding facilities in India.
B. make up for stock losses after our PR blunder about this same issue last year.
C. make us feel grateful for not being one of the 40 people let go recently.
D. help Chad’s cousin finally afford his dream yacht with his new raise.
“In fact, we just hired a Chief Diversity officer!” The white man is very proud. I feel like I’ve seen him before. I think this is Chad’s cousin, Dave.
There is a single brave soul in the audience, The Black Man (not the same as above) from accounting. I don’t know his name because I avoid his area, so people won’t ask
A. if we’re dating/married.
B. if he is single.
C. if he is into Asian women.
D. if we are enough Black people to finally fill the Affirmative Action quotas.
Most days, I am too tired to find the fun in fucking with white people by giving the wrong answer.
The Black Man asks a question: “So…we have one diversity officer to manage centuries of injustice for this whole group of 2500 people?” Provocative! I make a note to learn his name.
His question is followed by
A. awkward silence.
B. a slow clap initiated by the other Black woman in the office, Sharon (my best friend at work).
C. a hasty response from upper management.
“Interesting that you brought that up! We have big plans to answer your question! We need to
A. hire an Associate Diversity Officer.
C. institute a special task force for diversity and inclusion.
D. conduct a new workplace climate survey.
E. actually address systematic racism in our organization.
And we’re looking for volunteers!”
Sharon and I share an annoyed eyebrow raise. Everyone else is looking at
A. me.
B. Sharon
C. Sharon (but thinking that she is me).
D. The Black Man.
E. their coworker turned friend-with-benefits seated across the room.
F. their bank balances and wondering if the extra work comes with a pay increase.
G. inside themselves to question their own racist upbringings, for once.
H. their phones. There was another school shooting just now.
The extra work does not come with a pay increase. Upper management once again proves that they expect us to be
A. happy corporate slaves
B. free consultants
for their white savior dreams. I am tired of 400 years of empty promises. I am tired of working in this “culture.”
I decide to leave this meeting early because
A. I would rather not have come.
B. I want to take advantage of the empty office to cry at my desk instead of in the bathroom.
C. Black people just don’t know how to act professionally.
D. I want to take a quick poop at work.
One World, Or None
By Allison Whittenberg
Mama, how come you never told me about
the A-bomb?
Were we too busy
running from the men
with pillowcases and sheets
to duck and cover?
How come there’s never
any of us in those
public service announcements?
They claim we can’t get
a suntan, but are we also
immune to gamma rays?
Is it like flesh colored
crayons, something that
was created without
us in mind?
There weren’t
whites only signs
on the air raid shelters
so I guess
they would
have
cracked
open
the door,
if we knocked
hard enough,
right?
We would have been
one
big,
at last,
happy family,
at the end of the world,
wouldn’t we?
By Allison Whittenberg
Mama, how come you never told me about
the A-bomb?
Were we too busy
running from the men
with pillowcases and sheets
to duck and cover?
How come there’s never
any of us in those
public service announcements?
They claim we can’t get
a suntan, but are we also
immune to gamma rays?
Is it like flesh colored
crayons, something that
was created without
us in mind?
There weren’t
whites only signs
on the air raid shelters
so I guess
they would
have
cracked
open
the door,
if we knocked
hard enough,
right?
We would have been
one
big,
at last,
happy family,
at the end of the world,
wouldn’t we?
Non-Fiction
Welcome to the Neighborhood
By Lisa Braxton
They stepped out of front doors, proceeded down spacious brick pathways to the foot of their manicured lawns, and with the precision of a military unit, pivoted to face us. All of them were white—men and women—homeowners in a leafy enclave in Fairfield County, Connecticut suburbia anchored by raised ranches, Dutch Colonials, and split-level homes.
All eyes were on us—my mother, father, sister and me—as the realtor led us down the front steps of a well-appointed three-bedroom, three-bathroom house with a two-car garage that she’d just shown us.
It was around 1969. I was eight or nine-years-old at the time. My dad was carrying my sister, who was a toddler. I remember my parents’ stride toward our car slowed as they realized that we were under surveillance. The members of our “audience,” consisting of about a dozen people on both sides of the street, were expressionless, motionless, arms hanging at their sides. Their body language was unreadable, but their presence screamed volumes.
I don’t recall what the realtor said to my parents as she took in the scene, but I remember that she was flustered, apologetic, and tripped over her words. It was a moment that she had apparently not anticipated—the visceral reaction of white residents at a black family being shown a house in their affluent neighborhood. At my age, I didn’t think deeply about their demonstration, but I did find it odd that all of those adults were standing on their front lawns, their eyes on us. As my father put our car into gear, I scooted to the edge of my seat in the back to eavesdrop on my parents’ conversation as I often did when we were on car rides.
My mother leaned toward my father, and in a hushed tone said, “They don’t want us living here.” After a moment, he gave a slight nod and said just as quietly, “I know.” I slid back on my seat, my eavesdropping undetected.
At that age I knew a little bit about prejudice. I had a classmate who made a remark when we were in the third grade that stunned me. My class was lined up at the water fountain after coming back from chapel at the church next door that operated our parochial school. She blurted out angrily, “I wish all the black people would go back to Africa!” When I came home upset about the incident my parents sat me down for a talk and said that most likely she’d heard that remark from her parents and was repeating what they’d said.
A child in my neighborhood with whom I’d spent countless hours having pretend picnics and competing on who could swing the highest on my swing set made the statement one day as we played near the fence that divided our yards, “White people are better than black people.” With indignation I retorted, “No, they’re not!” My naïve childhood self didn’t understand why anyone would think something so ridiculous. I felt that the idea of white people being better than black people turned logic on its head. How could one group be better than another?
After we ping-ponged our positions on the matter for a while, I ran into the house to tell my mother about my friend’s unfathomable pronouncement. I still remember the pained look on my mother’s face
.
At the time of the silent front lawn protest, I didn’t know that this was but the latest racial indignity my parents had had shoved in their faces. They came of age in the early 1950s in the western section of Virginia in the Shenandoah Valley region, known generally for its picturesque, bucolic nature, but also for an ugliness manifested in hostility for many African Americans.
Because of Jim Crow laws, my parents attended segregated schools. They told me that whenever they came close to approaching a white person on the sidewalk, they had to lower their heads and step into the street. Taking a bus involved going to the “black” section in the back and standing if there were no seats, even if there were empty seats up front. Dining out involved going to the back door of a restaurant for takeout. My mother recounts saying nothing for fear of reprisal when white individuals would cut in front of her at retail stores when she was in line to pay for a purchase. And when she did get to the front of the line, she’d count her change to make sure she wasn’t being cheated.
My parents shared these accounts with me, and later, with my sister when she was old enough to understand, because they wanted us to have the best life possible. They wanted us to advocate for ourselves and understand that people would not always have our best interests in mind. They didn’t want us to be held back by people who used race as a means of control and disrespect.
Both of my parents knew that because of the racial climate, growing up poor in the South with only high school educations and not having connections to anyone with any level of power or influence, their prospects would be limited if they stayed in Virginia. Like a massive number of African Americans from southern rural areas during the middle of the past century, they made their way North. For my parents, “The Promised Land” was Bridgeport, Connecticut, an industrial force at the time.
Once they’d arrived, they realized that they hadn’t escaped racism, but encountered a subtler form of it. My mother would respond over the phone to a classified ad for an employment opportunity, be encouraged to come to the location to fill out an application, and then be told once she walked in the door that the job had been filled.
My parents discovered that there were only certain apartment buildings in the city that would rent to them and moved into one housing African American and Latinx renters. When they purchased their Cape Cod-style home in early 1961, they were the only non-white family on their block in the working-class neighborhood. A neighbor later told my mother that after she and my father bought the house, a man who lived around the corner from them went to every house on the block and “warned” them that a black family was moving in. She was told that one family put their house on the market in response and moved to the suburbs. It was common knowledge that at least one property owner, in possession of a large parcel of land in the neighborhood, would not sell homes to African Americans.
By the time my parents looked at that house in suburbia—one of many like it that they were shown during that period of time—my father had moved up from a machinist at the General Electric plant in Bridgeport to foreman. My parents were opening up a business, a high-end men’s clothing store. They had me enrolled at the parochial school and my mother was considering pursuing a bachelor’s degree and possibly law school. Mom and Dad were invited to join some of the African American professional charitable and civic clubs and organizations in Bridgeport. Moving out of their starter home to suburbia seemed like a logical step.
My parents chose not to pursue that house. Most likely they were concerned about hostility from the neighbors in light of the demonstration. They probably worried about my sister and me being subjected to racial taunts and remarks from neighborhood kids and classmates and also thought we’d feel isolated. Every so often on car rides near that neighborhood I’d overhear my mother, her voice catching in her throat, go back to that day and say to my father how terrible it was for, “those people to come out onto their front lawns like that.”
Mom and Dad stopped looking at houses and made improvements to the Cape Cod. They had the roof raised on the back and the attic upgraded so my sister and I could have separate bedrooms. By the time I reached my early teens, I noticed significant changes in the neighborhood. My white playmates had moved away. The white families whose homes flanked ours were gone. I heard that the property owner who refused to sell to African Americans had passed away. The neighborhood became more African American and Latinx. Recent immigrants moved in. A dramatic level of white flight occurred not just in my neighborhood but throughout the city. The white families most likely moved to the suburb where my parents went house hunting all those years earlier or to another Fairfield County suburb.
In 1958, political scientist Morton Grodzins identified that "once the proportion of non-whites exceeds the limits of the neighborhood’s tolerance for interracial living, whites move out." Grodzins termed this phenomenon the tipping point in the study of white flight, the sudden or gradual large-scale migration of white people from areas becoming more racially or ethnoculturally diverse. Economists attribute white flight both to racism and economics.
In the 1960s and '70s, "There goes the neighborhood," became a popular catchphrase, most likely originating as an expression of concern by a homeowner that a newcomer would lower property values and in many instances an expression of fear among white homeowners when the first minority family moved in.
Undoubtedly, thoughts of property values deteriorating was on the minds of the silent activists when we visited their neighborhood. Some of those residents may have lived in a Bridgeport neighborhood at one time and escaped to the suburbs when the racial ratio reached the tipping point. Our presence may have symbolized a nipping at their heels when they thought they had outrun us.
Black flight is a term applied to the migration of African Americans from predominantly black or mixed inner-city areas to suburbs and newly constructed homes on the outer edges of cities. In some ways their goals have been similar to those of the white middle class heading to the suburbs: newer housing, better schools for their children, and attractive environments, what my parents had in mind in their house hunting.
I couldn’t help but think back to that “front lawn moment” in the mid-1990s when I had a realtor helping me look for an apartment in the coal region of Northeastern Pennsylvania. I had accepted a news reporter position at a television station there and had driven to the area ahead of my start date for a weekend hoping to secure an apartment. Toward the end of the Saturday, after not finding anything I liked, the realtor suggested that I look at an apartment that was in her building. It was a charming corner unit in the heart of the downtown and had large, old-fashioned windows that let in plenty of light, decorative moldings along the doorways and ceilings, and walls of mirrors that had me reminiscing about visiting the hall of mirrors at the Palace of Versailles when I was a high school exchange student. The apartment was less than a block from the TV station. I’d be able to walk to work, the bank, the library, church, and just about everywhere else. I knew the moment I walked in the door that I wanted to rent it.
The realtor got on the phone with the owner to let him know that she had a renter. I noticed her jaw tighten in reaction to whatever he was saying on the other end. She glanced at me and said a series of “no’s.” into the receiver. I knew what was going on and was incensed. He was asking her about race. She next responded to him with a “yes.” Then after a pause, she said, “If you won’t rent to her, she’ll do an investigative report on you.” When she hung up, her tone was apologetic. She stated that some people in the community were narrow minded. She added that the owner wanted to meet with me before deciding whether or not to rent the apartment.
I looked forward to it. I wanted to meet this man who decided that because of race I shouldn’t be rented the apartment and only reconsidered under threat. After my meeting with him, the realtor handed me a rental agreement. I had mixed feelings as I signed and dated the document, but the window of time for me to find another apartment was limited.
Sociologists are finding that now that more minorities are moving into the suburbs, white flight is happening all over again. Samuel Kye at Indiana University has documented an exodus of white residents as more minorities have entered the middle class and established themselves in healthy suburban neighborhoods. Kye discovered that white flight was particularly pronounced in areas with fewer high school dropouts, strong home values, median income levels and large numbers of professionals. Low-income whites didn’t have the means to leave. His conclusions are in line with those of other academics who’ve done similar research.
The expression, “There goes the neighborhood,” may have gone out of fashion decades ago, but the mindset persists, in spite of all of the conversations this nation has had in recent years about race through town hall meetings, academic forums, college classes, debates, discussions, special reports in the media, speeches by politicians, lawsuits, and informal talks among friends and colleagues.
Memory works selectively. We hold onto certain memories and others we disregard. What I experienced all those years ago during that house hunt was a moment I didn’t fully understand at the time but never forgot. I held the memory deep inside and developed an understanding of the incident as I matured. It echoes through experiences I continue to have of biased treatment and outright racism and reminds me that this country still has so much work to be done in terms of racial justice.
Poetry
|
Welcome Home
By Lisa Braxton On car rides down I-95 When my feet barely crested the edge of the back seat I asked you why we didn’t live Down South Instead of Up North We wouldn’t be in the car eight hours getting there To see our kin. The ones who talked real slow And said “y’all” and “fixin’” and “flustrated” And “tarred” when they wanted to get some sleep. The ones who sat in house dresses on the front porch Rocking on metal-framed floral-cushioned lawn couches As they held onto fly swatters they’d forgotten to leave in the kitchen. Turning their heads until they almost broke At the sight of an ambulance going by. Then talking about it all evening Until the lightning bugs came out. You held loose onto the steering wheel Looked at me through the rear-view mirror Your eyes twinkling and simply told me “Your mother and I wanted a better life.” When my feet almost touched the footwell you told me what a better life was-- A place where a white playmate wasn’t your best buddy after school Then got on his school bus the next morning, threw rocks at you and called you a N______ As you waited for your bus to your own school The one with worn books and grades merged in one classroom. A place where you didn’t have to go to the back door of the restaurant to order a meal. Where you didn’t have to step off the sidewalk for “Miss Ann” and “Miss Kate” coming in your direction And keep your eyes lowered as they passed you. A place I could not fathom. Years after my feet reached the brake and gas pedals easily I took my own car ride Not venturing Down South But staying Up North In my own neighborhood Got chased by a driver I accidentally cut off. Got called a N_______, Practically got run off the road. |
PANDEMIC HAIKU
By Martha Darr Dear elder dark ones space is at a premium no vaccine for you The Fabric of Our Cosmos
By M.A. Dennis I’m not trying to be fly no more. All that stuff doesn’t matter…. Chanel, Fendi and Gucci don’t mean crap right about now. – Trina Marshall Facebook post, 4/8/2020, 4:48 pm, Pandemic Standard Time The devil is a Fabricator! What a lie making you believe you had to try to be fly. Black woman you be fly you stay fly there is no try I put that on Baby Yoda. Black woman she makes the clothes; the clothes don’t make her. Oh, no! Black woman, Chanel serves at your pleasure. You make Fendi trendy. Gucci ain’t nuthin but a double G thang playing backwards-- that sound like satan to me. Monogram designers say: The devil is in the liar, liar a Black woman’s pants only need pockets (not names) to be on fiyah. |
|
Beauty Shop Rock
by Tsebiyah Mishael Derry on the west side highway at midnight on a thursday suddenly I smelt a familiar smell of silky smooth chemical dominance and teleported. the fuming thick white cream sweet on vision and vicious in its practice swift with its fine-toothed partner commanding the kinks to straighten out and stand down. In the shop the comforting clatter of robust rolling R's and thick Ts and fat As slide out from the mouths above me. laughter fills the air and blow dryers scream their sleepy howls beneath me the seat sticks to my thighs and hair wisps its strands in front of my eyes. I hold my head against the pull of an intimidating spherical brush. outside the world whizzes by and the street stays the same as it changes the evening drops a lady mops I look in the mirror and stare at my unlucky shiny straightened hair. years later, on the west side highway at midnight on thursday I was grateful for the strength I had to cut it all off. |
Myrtilla "Betsy" Ross Puts God before Country by Ron Dwell
"Watts UpRise" By Ron Dwell
|
|
The Pass
By Langston Epps My great-great grandfather does not have a wikipedia page But the man who owned him does. I am a child of greenery and blackness. Asphalt and lawns, skin and the sea. This is the warm salt of my polluted blood, that dominates the surf And runs in the gutters like filth after a storm. The streets are an ocean. I was drowning, but I kept my head down until I learned to breathe water. Gulls in the sun, blindingly white. They harried me, but I buried myself in the sand and concrete. Now when they look for me above the surface all they find is their reflection in the waves. And when they think they’ve spotted me, I vanish into a shimmer of heat off the blacktop. College Football
By Raihana Haynes-Venerable “I was drugged at the football house” the white girl whispered in my communal living space, smell of weed emanating from the hotboxed bathroom on the side of the kitchen there are no tears but pain seeps through her pours in beads of sweat that leak into the couch cushions -- previously stained by unanswered questions, hormones, blackouts. I remember how he pushed my head down, palmed my skull like a football the taste of his cum and my stomach acid held between my cheeks, in the bathroom there are no tears “I was drugged at the football house” she says again and I wonder if this couch trapped similar secrets. She was the first to approach me — over ten more came forward later, we had a meeting in a classroom where I sit on the floor as women replay their own personal horror stories for a room full of people too ashamed to look in eachothers eyes, midway through two football players walk in say, “we want to help” say, “we think its wrong” say, “what can we do” — I am hesitant to speak because I am only anger. The players are Black, I know them well enough they are freshmen not much power — yet change is slow, a professor in the room explains “this has persisted for twenty five years” the men want us to find solutions to problems they are more equipped to solve the women are still mourning what has been stripped from them, from the women sitting next to them, from the women outside the room. I speak with one of the players alone in the classroom after everyone else has left, a strong voice indeed, kind mild mannered Southern Christian man, I am only a few years his senior but there is no authority here “druggin’ girls? that’s some white boy shit” he says with a stern seriousness, he is confident in his conviction that somehow Black men are immune to misogyny. When do we stop looking at the few rotten apples and begin to examine the roots of the whole God damn orchard? A week later the football team and Project S.A.F.E chalk the quad with platitudes, a phallic hopscotch sketch, “solidarity” - “trust” - “survivors” scattered on concrete so visible, so vocal, a ploy to be witnessed when I see him, I can feel my stomach churn, seeking an escape, liquid comes up my esophagus and I taste him in my mouth again. He smiles, his braids shake as he skips around the quad, he slaps a teammate on the ass, grabs a piece of chalk and writes “we are here for you.” |
Santísimo Sacramento
By Ozzýka Farah I wish I could go back to Sacramento wintertime life was easier then. waking up an hour early grabbing the comb to pick through knots & kinks made flat by not enough sleep putting unwrinkled clothes in the dryer warming them; what I most looked forward to. Mother dearest is ready for work in her Monday best; loose, colourful scrubs with birds printed on them my grandmother is alive frying dead livestock with southern grace. We talk briefly but never long enough, I forget to thank her for everything anyone could ever be thankful for. I have come to associate bacon grease sizzling in the skillet to our unconscious sacred morning rituals. Sleepwalk scramblings in the dark, the light being too painful for strained eyes & dilated pupils, hellogoodbyes, lopsided afros, & loose-fitting garments. Clothing was baggy then; we carry baggage now – it is even heavier. To someone who has never lived anywhere else, California can be so damned cold in the morning the golden rays break dawn down in layers filtering out bruised purples & beat up blues the sun is just a striptease, it only makes getting out of bed harder. I used to walk the morning skye or hop the fence when the neighbour was not looking. Walking to school to unlearn trying to find traction through the fields of frost-bitten grass on the way to school the sand track of the adjacent middle school tracks sand in- between the nooks & crannies of my outsoles on this particular morning, it is still dark & eerie; my nose spills, I use my sleeve to wipe, I tuck my red ear inside my beanie. Kids meet early at the top of the park, huddle in a circle for a blunt before first period – they will be back before lunch Tyree (the other one) would steal vodka from his father's cupboard & take homemade jerky from the trays of the dehydrator I ate meat then, so we would eat & drink like Vikings during class unbeknownst to the teacher who spoke of Steinbeck, spoke of Fitzgerald, spoke of Salinger. In early spring comes the blossoming of the callery pear that produces the scent of spermatozoa it is supposed to symbolise fertility & new life, apparently. Ironically, Sacramento is where dreams go to die where they are never born in the first place. Sevon tells me poets turn life into art - he admires that; I admire him because he has been through hell in his head poets put their hell on a page, critics define it as fine art – canonise it I put his hell aside, I cannot let myself think of it. It is not that I miss this place at all I miss who I once was at that time, in that place in a space where no amount of cow's milk will make you grow big & strong Sacramento suffocates when you become too big for the fishbowl or too tall for the ceiling I died in this town. My ghost is still there, miserable & cold though it is not cold unless you are from Sacramento. |
|
cradle.
By Nailah Mathews my grandmother lived in a lagoon of silt between the nine middle west winds, somewhere around zephyr four-point-five-nine. this was a woman who ate stone plums for pleasure who made mosaics from bones and vomit, who had enough hands to shove all her husbands down the stairs at once. my mother was born east of magic, spoke only in verbs until she became a woman and when that moon came, the sky opened up. she received one nut for each wish the world made she baked pies with them, made the houseblockneighborhood smell like hope for the future. i was born south of no-man’s land, no more than handful and a half of miles from isiscyra my mother touched a screw on the railroad tracks forty-five days before she got fat in the belly and it still did not protect her from me. her granddaughter is a keloid scar on my retina. she walks in phalanx formation. she has electric cheekbones, she is vulpine at the dinner table. she is the miracle of girlhood savagery. |
5th Avenue Kings Fruit & Vegetables, Brooklyn
By Jamal Michel Is where I was conceived as an idea, maybe at first by the ripened tomatoes or in the spaces left between newly stocked yogurt cups-- one such cup picked up by a young stud from Port-au-Prince who thought to take it to the Indian girl at check out, until he checked out and never asked for her number the first time but thought better the next, only thing was he needed at least four more cups of yogurt to make it a full conversation. Did they pick my name at the register? Or did my being float about their innocuous phone calls? Or perhaps in the unkempt lawn of their first home in Sylmar, CA? Or it certainly must have happened upon them all at once, at Olive View hospital, a brown boy swaddled in a blanket caught in their branches. |
|
Seeing Oscar Grant at the Movie Theater
By Jamal Michel Your son, like mine, was unarmed at the time he was killed by a law enforcement officer. No words can ever assuage the pain we feel as parents when our precious children are taken away from us in such a violent, senseless manner. -Wanda Johnson, Grant’s mother His daughter was old enough to walk by his side and not atop his shoulders, but he wrapped his arm around her like he did her mother It was their date night She pointed to the poster next to them, the one with jazz trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie and he proceeded to fashion his own trombone from thin air, her face reddened, and he ever the star ever the show did a number, while no one watched She raised her phone to capture him still and he smiled wide, like in all his photos, his laugh lines worn down further with each grin And he paid for the soda And she paid for a candy bar His phone rang before they made it to their theater and I heard, just as he passed me, him in a low and assured voice whisper to the receiving end of the single most important call in the world, say yes, love I’ll tell you all about it at home |
When First I Heard My Mother Scream
By Jamal Michel “They used to take pregnant women and dig a hole in the ground and jut their stomachs in it and whip them. They tried to do my grandma that way.” -Arkansan Marie Hervey, who lived on the Hess plantation in Tennessee. If Autumn a howling, sucking wind then it was around that time There, a scent calling the flies to Southern fruit Fertile soil, caked to my mother’s belly, a divot made in my image Hands from the field, the stuff of crust at the bottom of their pots Blood curdling from my mother’s gullet, stuck to my basal skin, my blood She named me Death, called out to me by name, I know it How the earth rocked, how it cradled and soothed My father sediment, held me close and covered my ears My mother sank her teeth into him, swallowed root and root and blood The sun, a crescent a boiling and cells make my eyes hurt Turn my eyes slits, make holes this divot, wholly her own |
|
Cracker--
By Durell Thompson My son has earthquakes in his Heels. When he moves about the apartment, he stomps so hard that the Neighbor downstairs takes cover. My Son with earthquakes in his Toes, is 20 pounds--he Is, according to the pediatrician “Short and underweight”. My son with earthquakes in His feet love to eat crackers-- when he tells us that he wants a cracker. The word Cracker… creams and splits from His mouth like warning sirens. Immediately after the floor shakes: he runs to the cabinet And Bangs on the door Until we comply: I want to rename his plate tectonics jr-- his mom disapproves. My son has earthquakes In his soles-- The earthquake Makes him a prime Target for scrutiny-- For example, the neighbor downstairs would Beat on the floor anytime My son ran to the cabinet. I told him, before he hung up in my face, you can’t stop An earthquake So enjoy the ride-- |
How Jim interprets Basketball in a HOA lead community
By Durell Thompson Basketball Goals: can be in a Lot (20') from the curb. Backboard must be perpendicular And mounted on black metal. Portable basketball goals In the street right-of-way must be painted or portable. To be placed on any Lot, A Basketball Goal Must be in Compliance with these restrictions. Provision or any remedy costs and expenses will be collected by the association By any means. Omission to comply violates the owner as a nuisance. In such cases, the association will amended owners who fail injunction With a declaration of collection chargeable by foreclosure or liens. A remedy for basketball goal violation is including sums maintainable by Applicable lawful, rates plus time and interest payable to The Association. |
|
MAKING A TEE SHIRT QUILT FOR MY BLACK SONS
By Cynthia Robinson Young 1. In step one you collect them one by one. Beware; they tend to pile up rapidly. You soon find out that one gives birth to many, a ruler measuring your child’s growth. Your memories are sweetly stored within them like faded photographs with rips and frays. Then one day you realize there are too many, the closets and the drawers have overflowed. The shirts, like years, have piled up way too quickly. Your children have outgrown the ones they loved Amassed like years your sons have quickly passed, unaware that you’ve always been present, not noticing the cotton of your touch. 2. In order to not let your sons go too soon, you must progress onto the second step: You gather shirts, and now with scissors sharp, then cutting off the excess, leave its heart. You must be careful not to cut too close, And when the squares are cut, square upon square, You lay them out to see what goes with what. You want to have a faultless fit together, though faded, shrunken, stained, some very used. None of the shirts can be considered perfect but they are paired now, like your sons will be. So sew the imperfections all together. Don’t mourn cut shirts and broken promises But know the “good ole days” are every day. New tee shirts will replace the ones you’ve cut. 3. The next step is the most important one. A backing must be chosen to enfold your sons with dreams of perfect parenthood, a maternal nest of softness you create, a womb where tags and stiff clothes don’t exist. 4. Now, sandwich cotton batting in-between, a buffer against the coarseness of this life, then sew with equal stitches time together, your fingers pock- marked from quilt needles pushing through layers of years of thick-headedness, and finish with a binding that you bless. 5. At last the time has come! Release the quilt. Release the days and hours that you’ve spent and pray the seams can hold their lives together And keep them from the harm the streets might bring, the dangers from their Blackness, hovering. |
SHE DIED BEFORE OBAMA
-for my sister By Cynthia Robinson Young Remember how she worked? Left school when she was sixteen at the factory she was always on time General Electric wouldn’t have it any other way punch in punch out punch in again Foreman always watching She hardly spoke back or asked for a little respect when foreign hands roamed when icy blue eyes rested on her a little too long She never took days off not even when we were sick but called us during her lunch hour and during her smoking break to remind us to keep up the salt water rinse and promised to make Campbell’s Chicken Noodle when she got home at four When she went on strike and joined her friends in line, in hopes of something better for her for us for everyone in the house depending on her She did it with money that insurance plan she invested in since we were little girls hiding in the curtains from the only white man we knew in a suit who, once a month came to collect those dollars she pocketed away for her two daughters Half orphaned at nine and fourteen She made us go to college She made us co-sign at the bank told us to prepare to pay it forward then found a car to drive us to the Ivy Towers white landscaped more than black white landscaped more than brown white landscaped more than Newark and advised us to return made us promise to be somebody kept saying Yes You Can She died investing money a few dollars here and there pensions and retirement riches written on paper and tucked in the leather brown purse that could burn up in an instant if we didn’t grab it in a fire She was always saving dollars tucked inside bras dollars hidden away from the men because we never know how men can be She died waiting for retirement She died waiting for a chance to rest from working two and three jobs She died before she held her ninth grandchild, read to her tenth and spoiled her eleventh She died before she saw the ones who looked the most like her She died after she had buried Her husband Her sister Her own mother She died before she taught us how to take her place Before she taught us how to stop weeping how long will it take to stop searching for her in every brown mama face? She died before she taught us How to bury the dead when to bury the dead meant to bury our mother. |
ART
"Education for All" by Guilherme Bergamini
"Truth Versus Propaganda" by Darrell Urban Black
"Friday" by Adrienne Christian
|
"Will You Be That Voice?" by Osamase Ekhator
"Passing" by Quixote
|
"Living in a White World" by Chad Murray
|
REVIEWS
Film Reviews
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Directed by Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman, Bob Persichetti
Prior to 2018, the character of Miles Morales might have been foreign to all but the most well read comic book aficionados. Morales, an Afro-Latino teenager, debuted in the Ultimate Marvel comic series as Peter Parker’s successor to the Spider-Man legacy in 2011. Unlike Parker, however, Morales never received big-screen treatment. Just as viewers and critics began to burn out on Spider-Man origin stories, directors Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman, and Bob Persichetti announced Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, a computer-animated film focused on the rise of Miles Morales. With the recent momentum of the Black Lives Matter movement, it seems more important than ever to re-examine films that utilize Black or ethnic culture to tell a story, and the cinematic story of Miles Morales feels like one of the most poignant in years.
My first viewing of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse amounted to an amalgam of adrenaline and awe. As a Latina, I connected deeply with Miles Morales, his family, and his struggles, but as someone familiar with Morales’ story, it became obvious to me that the creative talent behind Spider-Verse poured their hearts and souls into rendering Morales’ previously obscure world onto the big screen. With nearly 150 animators and a slew of musical and artistic talent at its helm, Spider-Verse boldly experiments with myriad cinematic and audiovisual styles that differentiate it even from other animated films. Daniel Pemberton’s score, for instance, blends cinematic orchestration with techno whines, electronic beats, and contemporary hip-hop and R&B while the narrative unfolds through a mix of computer animation, traditional comic styling, and moody environments. The film’s reliance on blending various musical, narrative, and artistic techniques seems particularly appropriate for Miles Morales, who lives a culturally blended life. Such considerations elevate this film above its peers, animated or otherwise.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse’s narrative components outshine even its technical achievements. From the outset, Morales’ experiences as a young man of color in New York shape the film. Morales never explicitly mentions the hardships of being biracial in fictionalized-but-familiar America, but he faces a series of challenges unique to people of color. Morales has trouble adjusting to his new boarding school and tries to sabotage his academic career all while attempting to remain close to his streetwise uncle, whom Miles’ stern, policeman father considers a poor influence. Most importantly, when saddled with the identity of Spider-Man—previously held by the white and beloved Peter Parker—he realizes the folly of trying to act as Parker’s replacement. Into the Spider-Verse skirts around identifying race as one of the film’s most important narrative elements, but even Morales’ unexpected power of invisibility recalls Ralph Ellison and the importance of visibility for people of color. Although Spider-Verse occasionally waters down elements of social justice, it never feels exploitative of Black or Afro-Latinx culture; on the contrary, many viewers might feel seen by the film’s understanding of interracial families, biracial struggles, and the power of visibility.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse is a phenomenal film but not a perfect film. For a movie about growing up Black and Latino on the streets of New York, Morales has few Black or Latinx friends. The film builds its other diverse characters around tropes or relegates them to silence: for instance, Morales’ Korean roommate, Ganke Lee, plays a significant role as Spider-Man’s sometimes-sidekick and best friend in the comic books, but he becomes entirely mute in Spider-Verse. Likewise, Peni Parker becomes a mish-mash of Japanese pop culture tropes despite her importance as one of the few Japanese American superheroes. Her anime-inspired style might have sufficed to underscore the role that Japanese pop culture plays in her design, but she spends most of the film flouting her computer skills, piloting a mech suit, and fighting in a schoolgirl outfit. Japanese audiences received Peni Parker warmly, but the film does not feature nearly enough Japanese writers or artists in its credits to justify the use of so many tropes.
Even so, the film does make other efforts to represent diverse characters healthily. The narrative becomes refreshingly gender inclusive by renaming “Spider-Men” to “Spider-People,” and avoids ageist pitfalls by giving Aunt May a significant role as the hero’s tech-savvy coordinator and gadget inventor. The Black and Latinx characters in the film feel multidimensional and alive. Morales’ uncle has compelling, realistic complexity, Morales’ father learns and grows beyond the biases of his uniform, and Morales’ mother emphasizes the strength and resilience of Latina mothers without the sass that Hollywood usually tacks onto them. While the directors appropriately cast Black, Latinx, and Japanese voice actors and feature Black artistic and musical talent throughout the film and soundtrack, Sony Entertainment Films will hopefully ensure that characters like Ganke Lee and Peni Parker receive better treatment in future installations by diversifying their writers and directors and consulting with more authors and artists of color.
Despite its occasional missteps, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse serves as a modern benchmark of cinematic ingenuity. Viewers new to Spider-Man’s adventures will find themselves charmed by Miles Morales and the energetic ensemble around him, while those familiar with the franchise will find that the film’s artistic, musical, and narrative achievements have ushered in a timely and most welcome new era of Spider-Man.
— Monica Gudino
University of California, Davis
Directed by Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman, Bob Persichetti
Prior to 2018, the character of Miles Morales might have been foreign to all but the most well read comic book aficionados. Morales, an Afro-Latino teenager, debuted in the Ultimate Marvel comic series as Peter Parker’s successor to the Spider-Man legacy in 2011. Unlike Parker, however, Morales never received big-screen treatment. Just as viewers and critics began to burn out on Spider-Man origin stories, directors Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman, and Bob Persichetti announced Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, a computer-animated film focused on the rise of Miles Morales. With the recent momentum of the Black Lives Matter movement, it seems more important than ever to re-examine films that utilize Black or ethnic culture to tell a story, and the cinematic story of Miles Morales feels like one of the most poignant in years.
My first viewing of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse amounted to an amalgam of adrenaline and awe. As a Latina, I connected deeply with Miles Morales, his family, and his struggles, but as someone familiar with Morales’ story, it became obvious to me that the creative talent behind Spider-Verse poured their hearts and souls into rendering Morales’ previously obscure world onto the big screen. With nearly 150 animators and a slew of musical and artistic talent at its helm, Spider-Verse boldly experiments with myriad cinematic and audiovisual styles that differentiate it even from other animated films. Daniel Pemberton’s score, for instance, blends cinematic orchestration with techno whines, electronic beats, and contemporary hip-hop and R&B while the narrative unfolds through a mix of computer animation, traditional comic styling, and moody environments. The film’s reliance on blending various musical, narrative, and artistic techniques seems particularly appropriate for Miles Morales, who lives a culturally blended life. Such considerations elevate this film above its peers, animated or otherwise.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse’s narrative components outshine even its technical achievements. From the outset, Morales’ experiences as a young man of color in New York shape the film. Morales never explicitly mentions the hardships of being biracial in fictionalized-but-familiar America, but he faces a series of challenges unique to people of color. Morales has trouble adjusting to his new boarding school and tries to sabotage his academic career all while attempting to remain close to his streetwise uncle, whom Miles’ stern, policeman father considers a poor influence. Most importantly, when saddled with the identity of Spider-Man—previously held by the white and beloved Peter Parker—he realizes the folly of trying to act as Parker’s replacement. Into the Spider-Verse skirts around identifying race as one of the film’s most important narrative elements, but even Morales’ unexpected power of invisibility recalls Ralph Ellison and the importance of visibility for people of color. Although Spider-Verse occasionally waters down elements of social justice, it never feels exploitative of Black or Afro-Latinx culture; on the contrary, many viewers might feel seen by the film’s understanding of interracial families, biracial struggles, and the power of visibility.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse is a phenomenal film but not a perfect film. For a movie about growing up Black and Latino on the streets of New York, Morales has few Black or Latinx friends. The film builds its other diverse characters around tropes or relegates them to silence: for instance, Morales’ Korean roommate, Ganke Lee, plays a significant role as Spider-Man’s sometimes-sidekick and best friend in the comic books, but he becomes entirely mute in Spider-Verse. Likewise, Peni Parker becomes a mish-mash of Japanese pop culture tropes despite her importance as one of the few Japanese American superheroes. Her anime-inspired style might have sufficed to underscore the role that Japanese pop culture plays in her design, but she spends most of the film flouting her computer skills, piloting a mech suit, and fighting in a schoolgirl outfit. Japanese audiences received Peni Parker warmly, but the film does not feature nearly enough Japanese writers or artists in its credits to justify the use of so many tropes.
Even so, the film does make other efforts to represent diverse characters healthily. The narrative becomes refreshingly gender inclusive by renaming “Spider-Men” to “Spider-People,” and avoids ageist pitfalls by giving Aunt May a significant role as the hero’s tech-savvy coordinator and gadget inventor. The Black and Latinx characters in the film feel multidimensional and alive. Morales’ uncle has compelling, realistic complexity, Morales’ father learns and grows beyond the biases of his uniform, and Morales’ mother emphasizes the strength and resilience of Latina mothers without the sass that Hollywood usually tacks onto them. While the directors appropriately cast Black, Latinx, and Japanese voice actors and feature Black artistic and musical talent throughout the film and soundtrack, Sony Entertainment Films will hopefully ensure that characters like Ganke Lee and Peni Parker receive better treatment in future installations by diversifying their writers and directors and consulting with more authors and artists of color.
Despite its occasional missteps, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse serves as a modern benchmark of cinematic ingenuity. Viewers new to Spider-Man’s adventures will find themselves charmed by Miles Morales and the energetic ensemble around him, while those familiar with the franchise will find that the film’s artistic, musical, and narrative achievements have ushered in a timely and most welcome new era of Spider-Man.
— Monica Gudino
University of California, Davis
Candyman (1992)
Written and Directed by Bernard Rose
Candyman is a 90’s cult-classic horror movie with a twist. Although most moviegoers expect to experience another generic slasher film, writer and director Bernard Rose subverts those expectations by crafting a film that tackles social and racial issues with an urban legend at its core.
The film follows the ambitious University of Chicago graduate student, Helen Lyle (Virginia Madsen), and her friend and colleague Bernadette Walsh (Kasi Lemmons) as they conduct research for their thesis on local urban legends and modern, oral folklore. While interviewing freshmen and trying to keep her marriage together with her husband, Trevor Lyle (Xander Berkeley), Helen discovers the legend of Candyman (Tony Todd), a vengeful specter with a hook for a hand that cuts his victims from “gut to gullet.”
Candyman is a film adaptation of Clive Barker’s short story, “The Forbidden.” Unlike Barker’s story, which focuses on the lives of an impoverished Liverpool community, Rose centers on an African American housing project in Chicago known as Cabrini-Green—a real-life housing project. Cabrini-Green plays an essential part in Rose’s social commentary on housing project families and where the story of the Candyman originates.
The success of Mr. Rose’s film is in part to its leading actor Tony Todd as Candyman, the supernatural African American antagonist with a tragic past. Mr. Todd’s performance as the vindictive ghost with a hook for a hand is terrifying yet superlative. Todd delivers his lines with a husky, seductive voice that evokes respect and sheer terror all at the same time. Todd also excels in the physical demands of his role as Candyman that includes working with a hook, levitation, and kissing his co-star, Virginia Madsen, with a mouth full of bees!
Along with Todd, Ms. Madsen’s performance as Helen Lyle is memorable. Helen at the beginning of the film positions herself as the doe-eyed academic that minimizes the legend of Candyman as a figurative representation of inner-city violence than a fearsome boogie man. As the film progresses, so does Helen’s character. Although some might label Helen as falling victim to the “white savior” trope, it is through Helen that the unfair living conditions of the residences of Cabrini-Green become revealed. In addition, Helen never once in the film positions herself as superior to anyone. Instead, she sympathizes and attempts to understand the lives of the people in inner-city Chicago, unlike her African American friend, Bernadette, who fears the housing project for its association with gang violence and crime.
Bernard Rose’s commentary on urban legends is especially fascinating. Throughout the film, Rose plays with the idea if the Candyman exists or not. According to Helen’s husband Trevor Lyle, a professor at the University of Chicago, urban legends represent the “true unselfconscious reflection of the fears of urban society.” The audience, therefore, assumes that the Candyman is a mere fabrication. However, when Helen herself starts to doubt the existence of Candyman, he finally appears to her. Candyman explains to Helen that he needs followers to believe in him or he perishes. Rose suggests in the film that the legends of our lives depend on believers and the continuation of the legend to keep it alive.
Candyman is a tension-filled thrill ride from start to finish that is not afraid to tackle social and racial issues head-on. The film owes much of its suspense to Philip Glass’s spine-chilling score and Anthony B. Richmond’s cinematography that both capture the violence and horror depicted in the film. The movie does contain moments of explicit violence, malicious horror, and nudity. Although Bernard Rose’s Candyman borders on the absurd, it is nonetheless a horror movie that lives up to its cult-classic status.
—Morgan Lincoln
CSU Stanislaus
Written and Directed by Bernard Rose
Candyman is a 90’s cult-classic horror movie with a twist. Although most moviegoers expect to experience another generic slasher film, writer and director Bernard Rose subverts those expectations by crafting a film that tackles social and racial issues with an urban legend at its core.
The film follows the ambitious University of Chicago graduate student, Helen Lyle (Virginia Madsen), and her friend and colleague Bernadette Walsh (Kasi Lemmons) as they conduct research for their thesis on local urban legends and modern, oral folklore. While interviewing freshmen and trying to keep her marriage together with her husband, Trevor Lyle (Xander Berkeley), Helen discovers the legend of Candyman (Tony Todd), a vengeful specter with a hook for a hand that cuts his victims from “gut to gullet.”
Candyman is a film adaptation of Clive Barker’s short story, “The Forbidden.” Unlike Barker’s story, which focuses on the lives of an impoverished Liverpool community, Rose centers on an African American housing project in Chicago known as Cabrini-Green—a real-life housing project. Cabrini-Green plays an essential part in Rose’s social commentary on housing project families and where the story of the Candyman originates.
The success of Mr. Rose’s film is in part to its leading actor Tony Todd as Candyman, the supernatural African American antagonist with a tragic past. Mr. Todd’s performance as the vindictive ghost with a hook for a hand is terrifying yet superlative. Todd delivers his lines with a husky, seductive voice that evokes respect and sheer terror all at the same time. Todd also excels in the physical demands of his role as Candyman that includes working with a hook, levitation, and kissing his co-star, Virginia Madsen, with a mouth full of bees!
Along with Todd, Ms. Madsen’s performance as Helen Lyle is memorable. Helen at the beginning of the film positions herself as the doe-eyed academic that minimizes the legend of Candyman as a figurative representation of inner-city violence than a fearsome boogie man. As the film progresses, so does Helen’s character. Although some might label Helen as falling victim to the “white savior” trope, it is through Helen that the unfair living conditions of the residences of Cabrini-Green become revealed. In addition, Helen never once in the film positions herself as superior to anyone. Instead, she sympathizes and attempts to understand the lives of the people in inner-city Chicago, unlike her African American friend, Bernadette, who fears the housing project for its association with gang violence and crime.
Bernard Rose’s commentary on urban legends is especially fascinating. Throughout the film, Rose plays with the idea if the Candyman exists or not. According to Helen’s husband Trevor Lyle, a professor at the University of Chicago, urban legends represent the “true unselfconscious reflection of the fears of urban society.” The audience, therefore, assumes that the Candyman is a mere fabrication. However, when Helen herself starts to doubt the existence of Candyman, he finally appears to her. Candyman explains to Helen that he needs followers to believe in him or he perishes. Rose suggests in the film that the legends of our lives depend on believers and the continuation of the legend to keep it alive.
Candyman is a tension-filled thrill ride from start to finish that is not afraid to tackle social and racial issues head-on. The film owes much of its suspense to Philip Glass’s spine-chilling score and Anthony B. Richmond’s cinematography that both capture the violence and horror depicted in the film. The movie does contain moments of explicit violence, malicious horror, and nudity. Although Bernard Rose’s Candyman borders on the absurd, it is nonetheless a horror movie that lives up to its cult-classic status.
—Morgan Lincoln
CSU Stanislaus
Night of the Living Dead (1990)
Directed by Tom Savini, written by George A. Romero
In this 1990 remake of the 1968 horror classic Night of the Living Dead, renowned special effects artist and director Tom Savini works directly with original creator George A. Romero to expand on and reintroduce the film in a new setting. This recreation of one of the pioneering films in the zombie genre draws from the original maintaining a sense of commentary while also standing alone as a quality zombie film. Savini’s experience as an effects designer resulted in an appealing aesthetic allowing for the sense of panic, distrust, and desperation to resonate within the viewer.
The film follows a group of individuals in the Pennsylvanian suburbs during a zombie outbreak. Survivors Barbra (Patricia Tallman), Ben (Tony Todd), Judy Rose (Katie Finneran),Tom ( William Butler), as well as Harry (Tom Towles) and Sarah Cooper (Heather Mazur), along with their sick and injured daughter convene in an old farmhouse in an attempt to barricade away from the attackers as they try to plot an escape. Amongst the stress and terror of the circumstance the viewer witnesses a multitude of fear responses as the characters clash in their means of protecting themselves and their loved ones to overcome the situation.
Tony Todd’s iteration of Ben, a still rare though recently the trend has begun to shift, African American horror protagonist brings forth an intimidating yet comforting type of lead as he tries to rally the group into fighting against the hoard. His various interactions with the other survivors allow for a sense of depth within his character. He and Harry conflict from the beginning surrounding their adamance of the proper course of action. Towles’ Harry is a competent foil in his stubborn argumentativeness as he actively and argumentatively opposes any actions that stray from his own, and it breeds a constant pushback against Todd’s Ben. On the other hand, Ben appears as more of a guiding force when interacting with Barbra or Tom. While still adamant in his beliefs, his apparent self-assured confidence and definitive plan offers a sense of stability and purpose to them amidst the chaos instead of competition.
Though the character relationships are compelling, the persistent arguments on what to do even as a course of action is being taken can at times feel like the movie is stagnating rather than progressing. Similarly, in Savini’s distinct style, color, and possibly because of the sense that things are absent due to issues with production conflict, the pacing and suspense of the film can seem off. Along with this, the similarities to the original film can make the modern additions feel almost distracting as checkpoints as opposed to cohesive creative decisions. Despite the style differences however Savini’s practical effects with the zombies does provide convincingly menacing monsters, and his adjustments to the characters fit into the media landscape they were released into.
Ben as an African American hero in a horror film did not have quite the same resonance with 1990’s viewers as 1968’s, or even now in the current landscape, but his presence still holds a place in horror history as representative of what is not often seen. Even the type of agency present in the female characters is demonstrative of changing narratives in film. Similarly, as a zombie film in general, it is designed to reflect a fear of the self in ways it can be perverted into destruction.
Ultimately, 1990’s Night of the Living Dead remake stands on its own as an entertaining and compelling zombie film that clearly respects its predecessor. This updated introduction of a defining film of the genre has carved a place for itself alongside it.
— Essence Saunders
CSU Stanislaus
Directed by Tom Savini, written by George A. Romero
In this 1990 remake of the 1968 horror classic Night of the Living Dead, renowned special effects artist and director Tom Savini works directly with original creator George A. Romero to expand on and reintroduce the film in a new setting. This recreation of one of the pioneering films in the zombie genre draws from the original maintaining a sense of commentary while also standing alone as a quality zombie film. Savini’s experience as an effects designer resulted in an appealing aesthetic allowing for the sense of panic, distrust, and desperation to resonate within the viewer.
The film follows a group of individuals in the Pennsylvanian suburbs during a zombie outbreak. Survivors Barbra (Patricia Tallman), Ben (Tony Todd), Judy Rose (Katie Finneran),Tom ( William Butler), as well as Harry (Tom Towles) and Sarah Cooper (Heather Mazur), along with their sick and injured daughter convene in an old farmhouse in an attempt to barricade away from the attackers as they try to plot an escape. Amongst the stress and terror of the circumstance the viewer witnesses a multitude of fear responses as the characters clash in their means of protecting themselves and their loved ones to overcome the situation.
Tony Todd’s iteration of Ben, a still rare though recently the trend has begun to shift, African American horror protagonist brings forth an intimidating yet comforting type of lead as he tries to rally the group into fighting against the hoard. His various interactions with the other survivors allow for a sense of depth within his character. He and Harry conflict from the beginning surrounding their adamance of the proper course of action. Towles’ Harry is a competent foil in his stubborn argumentativeness as he actively and argumentatively opposes any actions that stray from his own, and it breeds a constant pushback against Todd’s Ben. On the other hand, Ben appears as more of a guiding force when interacting with Barbra or Tom. While still adamant in his beliefs, his apparent self-assured confidence and definitive plan offers a sense of stability and purpose to them amidst the chaos instead of competition.
Though the character relationships are compelling, the persistent arguments on what to do even as a course of action is being taken can at times feel like the movie is stagnating rather than progressing. Similarly, in Savini’s distinct style, color, and possibly because of the sense that things are absent due to issues with production conflict, the pacing and suspense of the film can seem off. Along with this, the similarities to the original film can make the modern additions feel almost distracting as checkpoints as opposed to cohesive creative decisions. Despite the style differences however Savini’s practical effects with the zombies does provide convincingly menacing monsters, and his adjustments to the characters fit into the media landscape they were released into.
Ben as an African American hero in a horror film did not have quite the same resonance with 1990’s viewers as 1968’s, or even now in the current landscape, but his presence still holds a place in horror history as representative of what is not often seen. Even the type of agency present in the female characters is demonstrative of changing narratives in film. Similarly, as a zombie film in general, it is designed to reflect a fear of the self in ways it can be perverted into destruction.
Ultimately, 1990’s Night of the Living Dead remake stands on its own as an entertaining and compelling zombie film that clearly respects its predecessor. This updated introduction of a defining film of the genre has carved a place for itself alongside it.
— Essence Saunders
CSU Stanislaus
Us (2019)
Directed by Jordan Peele
Us is a 2019 horror film by Jordan Peele which possesses an unflinchingly cheery surreal vibe and that mood is not lost during the acts of terror and violence. It is as if Peele bottled the deep feeling of unease that spawned from the nightmarish chocolate riverboat scene in Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory (1971) and cultivated it into an entire film. The plot centers around the Wilson family, specifically Adelaide Wilson, who gets attacked by a group of strangers that share their likeness. Going into the film I expected something akin to Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), but now I would say that a more accurate description would be to call it the passionate love-child of The Hills Have Eyes (1977), Coraline (2009) and They Live (1988). From the very first moments in the opening scene, it becomes abundantly clear that there is something deeply wrong with the world these characters inhabit.
One night at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk, a young Adelaide wanders away from her parents and comes face to face with a sinister doppelgänger, who appears to terrorize Adelaide into a post-traumatic state. The plot then quickly shuffles time forward to Adelaide as an adult, returning to Santa Cruz with her husband and two children. The Wilson family’s likability cannot be understated. From light-hearted jokes to well-meaning repermands, their wholesomeness is vividly communicated in confidently laid-back acting style. This allows the duplicates to stand in stark contrast by seizing the positive characteristics of the Wilsons and twist them into brutal eccentricities. For example, Jason—the impressionable and kind hearted son—enjoys magic tricks and wearing masks. Whereas his duplicate, Pluto, is an animalistic pyromaniac that wears a mask to cover the burn scars that cover the bottom half of his face. The duplicates state that they have had no free will, up until now, and have been forced all their lives to mirror the actions of the Wilsons—such as giving birth to the children, regardless of their own desires to conceive—in a twisted parody of the Wilson’s lives. The duplicates’ existence has been an unending parade of pain, madness, and torment, made all the worse by the knowledge that they are simply mimicking a happier life. But now they are free, and have come to sever the tethers that keep them linked to the family. They intend to relish in the family’s helplessness and fear before killing them.
Thematically, there is a lot to unpack here. For starters, there is an overabundance of twinning instances—and not simply with the duplicates. Props, numbers, behaviors, and shot compositions are mirrored or recreated so often that my head began to spin. Even the duplicates’ murder weapon—a pair of scissors—have two equally large finger holes. The holes are emphasized by the duplicates holding the scissors at the blade in a two-handed grip. The twinning quickly becomes apparent and by the time you start consciously looking for mirroring, you will probably have missed a large amount of twin instances or callbacks. Thankfully, this means that there is a lot of meat on it’s bones for subsequent viewings, and what a delightful viewing experience it is! The cinematography, ontop of being devilishly clever, relishes entombing the characters in deep shadows, only to strike out with vivid colors. At times I was reminded of scenes from Suspiria (1977), although the color pallet leans closer to pop-art, rather than hyper-aggressive purity.
Beyond the staggeringly beautiful mise-en-scène, the film masterfully articulates the stark differences between ‘the haves’ and ‘have nots’ and the rage that builds from being raised as part of a suppressed people. The duplicates' painfully stunted/shunned existence links up with a wide variety of marginalized groups or societal outcasts that desperately wish to strike out against those that live without strife or are draped in privileges that were given to them through the circumstances of their birth. The duplicates are the embodiment of oppressed rage, unbound and desperate to express themselves in a manner that brings them fulfillment and freedom from their unwitting oppressors. It soon becomes clear that their attack is far greater than one calculated assault, this is a full blown revolution that threatens to dismantle the very foundation of society. However, at about the three-quarters mark the plot evolves into a far more convoluted and perplexing beast. There is a definite need to suspend your disbelief and accept the dream-like quality of the climax, otherwise your mind will start to snag on a large number of valid questions that the film is simply uninterested in answering.
Us takes a firm stance, focusing solely on projecting powerful thoughts and even stronger visual messages, but the methods it uses to accomplish these goals may leave viewers feeling slightly underwhelmed or even frustrated. The best way to enjoy Us is to go into it understanding that the “whys” are far less important than the “whos.” Allow yourself to relax and get lost in shadowy forrest of delightfully sharp dialogue and darkly hilarious usage of Luniz’s “I got 5 on it” and N.W.A’s “Fuck The Police.” Feast upon the squirming buffet of memorable scenes, shockingly powerful performances, and deeply nuanced themes. Just don’t go chasing down any narrative rabbit holes or you may find yourself lost in a never-ending funhouse maze of confusing tunnels. . .and who knows what manner of creature could be lurking down there, eagerly waiting to pounce upon us.
— Jarred White
CSU Stanislaus
Directed by Jordan Peele
Us is a 2019 horror film by Jordan Peele which possesses an unflinchingly cheery surreal vibe and that mood is not lost during the acts of terror and violence. It is as if Peele bottled the deep feeling of unease that spawned from the nightmarish chocolate riverboat scene in Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory (1971) and cultivated it into an entire film. The plot centers around the Wilson family, specifically Adelaide Wilson, who gets attacked by a group of strangers that share their likeness. Going into the film I expected something akin to Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), but now I would say that a more accurate description would be to call it the passionate love-child of The Hills Have Eyes (1977), Coraline (2009) and They Live (1988). From the very first moments in the opening scene, it becomes abundantly clear that there is something deeply wrong with the world these characters inhabit.
One night at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk, a young Adelaide wanders away from her parents and comes face to face with a sinister doppelgänger, who appears to terrorize Adelaide into a post-traumatic state. The plot then quickly shuffles time forward to Adelaide as an adult, returning to Santa Cruz with her husband and two children. The Wilson family’s likability cannot be understated. From light-hearted jokes to well-meaning repermands, their wholesomeness is vividly communicated in confidently laid-back acting style. This allows the duplicates to stand in stark contrast by seizing the positive characteristics of the Wilsons and twist them into brutal eccentricities. For example, Jason—the impressionable and kind hearted son—enjoys magic tricks and wearing masks. Whereas his duplicate, Pluto, is an animalistic pyromaniac that wears a mask to cover the burn scars that cover the bottom half of his face. The duplicates state that they have had no free will, up until now, and have been forced all their lives to mirror the actions of the Wilsons—such as giving birth to the children, regardless of their own desires to conceive—in a twisted parody of the Wilson’s lives. The duplicates’ existence has been an unending parade of pain, madness, and torment, made all the worse by the knowledge that they are simply mimicking a happier life. But now they are free, and have come to sever the tethers that keep them linked to the family. They intend to relish in the family’s helplessness and fear before killing them.
Thematically, there is a lot to unpack here. For starters, there is an overabundance of twinning instances—and not simply with the duplicates. Props, numbers, behaviors, and shot compositions are mirrored or recreated so often that my head began to spin. Even the duplicates’ murder weapon—a pair of scissors—have two equally large finger holes. The holes are emphasized by the duplicates holding the scissors at the blade in a two-handed grip. The twinning quickly becomes apparent and by the time you start consciously looking for mirroring, you will probably have missed a large amount of twin instances or callbacks. Thankfully, this means that there is a lot of meat on it’s bones for subsequent viewings, and what a delightful viewing experience it is! The cinematography, ontop of being devilishly clever, relishes entombing the characters in deep shadows, only to strike out with vivid colors. At times I was reminded of scenes from Suspiria (1977), although the color pallet leans closer to pop-art, rather than hyper-aggressive purity.
Beyond the staggeringly beautiful mise-en-scène, the film masterfully articulates the stark differences between ‘the haves’ and ‘have nots’ and the rage that builds from being raised as part of a suppressed people. The duplicates' painfully stunted/shunned existence links up with a wide variety of marginalized groups or societal outcasts that desperately wish to strike out against those that live without strife or are draped in privileges that were given to them through the circumstances of their birth. The duplicates are the embodiment of oppressed rage, unbound and desperate to express themselves in a manner that brings them fulfillment and freedom from their unwitting oppressors. It soon becomes clear that their attack is far greater than one calculated assault, this is a full blown revolution that threatens to dismantle the very foundation of society. However, at about the three-quarters mark the plot evolves into a far more convoluted and perplexing beast. There is a definite need to suspend your disbelief and accept the dream-like quality of the climax, otherwise your mind will start to snag on a large number of valid questions that the film is simply uninterested in answering.
Us takes a firm stance, focusing solely on projecting powerful thoughts and even stronger visual messages, but the methods it uses to accomplish these goals may leave viewers feeling slightly underwhelmed or even frustrated. The best way to enjoy Us is to go into it understanding that the “whys” are far less important than the “whos.” Allow yourself to relax and get lost in shadowy forrest of delightfully sharp dialogue and darkly hilarious usage of Luniz’s “I got 5 on it” and N.W.A’s “Fuck The Police.” Feast upon the squirming buffet of memorable scenes, shockingly powerful performances, and deeply nuanced themes. Just don’t go chasing down any narrative rabbit holes or you may find yourself lost in a never-ending funhouse maze of confusing tunnels. . .and who knows what manner of creature could be lurking down there, eagerly waiting to pounce upon us.
— Jarred White
CSU Stanislaus
