Temper Literary Review 2018 by Dan Simcock

TEMPER LITERARY REVIEW 2018

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Dear Temper reader, Thank you for picking up the 2018 edition of Temper Literary Review. Here at Temper, we get a lot of emails asking, “What is Temper?” You may be asking yourself the same question as you read now. It’s a fair question, one we feel compelled to answer. In short, Temper is a literary arts magazine produced annually by students at UMass Dartmouth. We are committed to providing students from all backgrounds the opportunity to publish their creative work and to mingle with the literary community at large. We go back a long ways - our first publication began in 1971. We won’t bore you with all of the details, but let’s just say we’re kind of a big deal. This year’s edition includes pieces that illuminate the range of the human experience - how we make sense of the strange and the mundane, how we process and repress emotions, and how we shape and are shaped by our intersecting identities. It’s an impressive collection of poetry, prose, and art, and we are proud of all the students involved in this edition. Temper is truly a labor of love, and we’d be remiss not to thank all those who support us. So, to our faculty advisors, Lucas Mann and Caitlin O’Neil Amaral - thank you for your continued investment in our project. You don’t get paid enough to deal with us. Also, to the fabulous poet, Angel Nafis - thank you for visiting UMass Dartmouth this April and for letting us interview you for this edition. And lastly, thank you, reader, for your support of the literary arts. We hope you enjoy reading Temper as much as we enjoyed creating it. Happy reading! Dan Simcock Jonathan Moniz Managing Editors

contents

POETRY 01

Andrew Bickford

Esther Campbell

Insomnia Recycled Glass

Danilson Galvao

The Lake, The Shore, & Junior Year

GALLERY 05

Jessika Lazala

To My Sisters & Error 2318: Unavailable

Jonathan Moniz

Destiny Rodriguez

The Forest of Dreams An Elmered Heart

09 11 16

Madison Bailey-Schofield

Nature versus Nurture Markaveus Barnes

Selected Images Esther Campbell

Girl With Freckles

FEATURE Interview with Angel Nafis

Madison Bailey-Schofield, Jessica Lazala, and Dan Simcock

PROSE 25

Erin Elizabeth Fay

Samantha Howard

30 37 43

Book Club Memories Alexis Njoku

Working Girl Sabrina Pacheco

Rum Red Amanda Rioux

Memento Mori

Amber Shimbkus

Wesley White Williams

The Gold Starts to Rub Off Come (of Age) as You Are

Insomnia Andrea Bickford

I can’t sleep, So, I’ve given up on trying, The bags that sag beneath my eyes, Release the tears I’m crying. All I want to know, Is a sweet and blissful rest, But my mind’s condemned to stress and bend, Through the night I must pretend, To shut my eyes and sleep again, Exhaustion is my only friend. Insomnia I cannot best, Each sleepless night leaves me a mess, Fatigue is heavy on my chest, “I must stay up to pass this test.” For hours, I lay in my bed, I feel this pounding in my head, Because I realize, and I dread, I’ll get to sleep when I am dead.

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Recycled Glass Esther Campbell (poem and drawing)

I stumbled across a shop and the first thing that came to mind was you There was a woman, with dark hair and eyes that sparkled so bright Selling recycled glass There way she cherished each piece made me think to myself You are like shattered glass, broken but not irremediable You are crafted in such a way that even a stranger can see the beauty in you If you look at the way you sparkled in the light You could see the array of colors you bring about Mabey, you could see the what others see The uniqe creature that you are.

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Lake the

Danilson Galvao

I went for a walk. A walk I go on when I usually have company. Airplane mode on. It was calming. I saw a few people. Strangers. It might’ve been weird for them to see a kid in pajamas just walking around. I’m sure they enjoy walking around the lake too. All I can think to do is sit at the picnic table and stare into the water. I’ve done it so many times, and every time it’s peaceful. A lady was on her way out. I thought she’d ignore me and go straight to her car. I was half wrong. The lady approached her car. Not the one in the driveway, no. The one in front of her lawn. When she got close enough to the street. She waved and said, “Good morning.” I replied with “Morning,” and I carried on. I didn’t expect that. I smiled, and my thoughts became more positive over the course of my walk. Cute. I think I’m only happy when I’m busy or in someone else’s presence. I overthink when I’m alone. I thought the lake was a good place to walk to. I thought I needed the perfect place to think. Right and wrong. I tried to think of all the negatives and pour them into the lake. That’s where I was wrong. I didn’t have any negatives. Nothing to pour. But, I was right. The lake did help me think, and it was all positive. Morning walks might be my thing. I thought sleeping was my thing, but I don’t do much of that anymore. I mean lately at least. I know what my dream is. I guess that’s why I have no need for sleep. I’ll make it happen. Everyone has that power. I just need a way to use it. Easy enough.

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The Shore

Junior Year

Danilson Galvao

hey captain do you think that i’m a loser because every first mate thinks i tie the knot too fast hey captain do i have permission to come aboard this deserted island doesn’t have shade for every hour past this time i’ll leave the shore behind and every deck on which you step will have my name carved inside unless the waves carve your hand from mine

You were destructive, And I let you stay that way. You pushed the envelope, But I provided the stamp. I didn’t care until I found that the letter was addressed to me. You were destructive, And it just hit me.

Error 2318:

Unavailable Jessika Lazala

I knew I could love him three years ago when my trauma didn’t bother him because his scars were as deep as mine. I knew I could love him when we first met, and he made it clear he wanted me but I was scared of what that meant. I knew that I loved him every time I was with someone else and couldn’t stand him not being mine. I knew that I loved him every time I had to leave him. But I knew he was special every time we found a way back to each other. I knew that I loved him when the silence became warm energy and all the things left unsaid between us were louder than ever. I knew that I loved him when I had to contact him the other day to not only ask for help, but to finally say “I love you”. When he beat me to it, I read the message f*cked someone else and then replied “I love you too”.

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To My Sisters Jessika Lazala

The sad reality of being a woman of color in America means that you are always overlooked. In your professional life, you will make less when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re overqualified. In your personal life, men of all races will surprise you. At home, your family will adore and support you. If you choose to disagree with a white woman You should be prepared to look like the mean one Even if you were just defending yourself. If you choose to love a man of color, prepare to lose him at some point. Whether it be to gang or police violence To money, or a woman He will be targeted Your kids will lose a parent. Signed Surrounded by the horrors of the system

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the forest of

Dreams Jonathan Moniz

The forest of dreams, Thoughts, memories, emotions, The intangibilities of a person Woven throughout every tree, Like snow upon the branches, The blades of grass imbued, With meaning of a most personal nature, Streams and ponds, the reservoir of the mind, Our hopes and ambitions, As soft and sweet as petals on the flowers.

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An Elmered Heart Destiny Rodriguez

Her eyes hung low now. If she did not see then She would not be seen What stupid logic. She knew that it was coming, and Was not mourning over the remains of What was left, they had decayed Months ago. Even her skin had drained, her arms Would not leave a cross over her torso, protecting What was left to protect, but here not much Was left either. She crafted a rounded shape, lumpy then sharp The best she could manage, her supplies being A few scraps of construction and a single stick Of Elmers. This excuse of a heart would fill her until her own Returned to full health, this will have to do. Her mind could be fooled, perhaps, maybe her creation Was no replacement at all, but her own. She just missed the feel of it, slowly realizing that she was In complete and utter control. This lifted her, more because It was new found but not new, she gives the thing a beat. Maybe her tune could change, she thought, and it did. Sadness still dwells but her capacity has expanded. She has Always been a hoarder of intangible things and this was no Intervention, but a reorganization it seems. With her not much heart, And her eyes a tiny bit less low, she persists. Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

GALLERY

Nature vs. Nurture Madison Bailey-Schofield

Nature vs. Nurture is the offiicial title of this drawing. It depicts two primordial characters; Mother Nature, seen as the woman covered in branches and vines and crowned in blooming flowers, and Pollution, which is a smog demon that bares the weight of a steel and flame headdress. Mother Nature is constructed in a position that echoes elements of Lady Justice; as seen with her scales, sword, and enforced blindfold. The sword is meant to represent authority and to convey the idea that justice is swift and final. While Mother Nature is holding the sword in Nature vs. Nurture, she is offering it to her audience. This illustrates how the audience has the final authority - they could choose to take up the responsibility of the sword and ward off the smog demon if they choose. The scales represent the fairness in the judicial process where each side of a caseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strength and opposition will be considered. It deals with the weighing of evidence and the scales are usually held in balance with each other. In Nature vs. Nurture however, the scales are being forced out of balance by the weight of Pollution holding one side down. The blindfold is meant to imply that justic does not favor a party based on characteristics like wealth, class, gender, or race. It is the objectivity that justice is supposed to carry, without fear or bias towards a side. Yet, as seen in the drawing, it is Pollution who has covered Mother Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes and has taken away her sight. On the right side of the drawing there is an industrial city skyline. Buildings and factories cover the expansion of the Pollution side of the drawing and spew thick clouds of billowing smoke that drift dangerously close to Mother Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s side. The Eiffel Tower stands distant in the background, almost covered by the smog being produced by the factories and buildings. This represents the break away from the Paris Climate Accord that strived to protect the environment from pollution that the USA did earlier in the year. Without balance and checks in place for corporate pollution and environmental protection, the smog grows thick on the skyline in the drawingt. On the left side, there is an old tree with bare branches stretching into the skyline. At its base is a source of water that is being polluted by run-off from a company. Not only is Mother Nature being physically affected by the pollution in this drawing, but the wildlife is as well. The duck family in the water is stuck trying to survive the toxic environment, the bird is taking off away from Mother Nature to search for a better place to live, and the tree can no longer produce anything due to the corporate waste being dumped into the water in which it lives off of. Pollution effects everything in this drawing - even Mother Nature is effected, with her flower crown wilting the closer it gets to the smog demon.

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Untitled Markaveus Barnes

Untitled Works Markaveus Barnes

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Untitled Works

Markaveus Barnes

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Girl with Freckles Esther Campbell

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Angel Nafis interview with

Madison Bailey-Schofield, Jessika Lazala, & Dan Simcock

On April 10th, we were lucky enough to have acclaimed poet Angel Nafis visit our campus as part of the Living Literature series. She was nice enough to sit down with a few students and answer their questions about her work, her inspiration, and writing in general.

Jessika: What kind of brainstorming techniques do you have? Angel: I don’t know if I brainstorm anymore. I don’t think I brainstorm so much as I am always in a state of like collecting shit that is interesting to me and speaks to me, for lack of a better phrase. I’m always sonically really inclined. So, like, sounds or the way that people say things. My friend Morgan used to call it – you know when you are like channel surfing, but like in life. You know, like crack your window and let whatever come to you, like you hear people on the street yelling or laughing …you kind of let it all in until something sticks out to you, and then I will collect that Spring 2018

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kind of stuff. I’ll just jot it down or I have an endless Google Docs, just like “don’t forget.” Lines I want to remember. And some of that stuff won’t even be lines, some of them might be textures. It’ll be like a dash, and then “the corduroys I wore in third grade.” So I’m collecting a bunch of textures and then. Either it will trigger a specific memory and I’ll want to go there, and I’ll want to write into that moment or it will be something totally unrelated, but then I have this dump list of cool lines and cool images I can pull from. Jessika: What do you think poorly written poems have in common? Angel: They’re not specific. There’s no sensorial fingerprint to it. It’s basically anyone could say it, anyone could have said it. And it’s something that’s cliché...All that means is that somebody already said that. If you just want to find a way that…you know this novelist John Vandal, this old, Irish white dude but I love him so much, he’s so smart and I love his interviews, He was in this weird three-minute interview where he was talking about writing and he was saying how wonderful and how terrible and how particular it is to try to find the right, no the exact, no the only word. I think about that a lot, what’s the only way I can say what I am trying to say. I think all poems that are written poorly, they lack rigorous specificity, they lack that drive to be said the only way they can be said. Dan: What if any difference is there between writing your work for the page versus performing your work?

and it falls apart when someone goes to read it on their own, it shouldn’t be written either. There is no allegiance to one or the other, they are both constantly in harmony…I think any good writing stands up either way. Jessika: What environment do you write best in? Angel: I don’t know. It’s less about where and it’s more about when. I can write anywhere. It’s just about that I have the time that I need to write and not rush it and feel out whatever instincts I have going on… It’s like, “Am I writing for a deadline? Have I started early enough where I can really stretch or am I like, pressed? What time of day is it? Have I set myself up where I have groceries in the refrigerator, or is it just like ketchup and tuna?” It’s really more of a ‘when’ and less of a ‘where’ because I think that especially since I live in such a congested and weird city, it’s necessary that I be able to write anywhere. It can’t be precious. It has to be just like anything else. I think people think you have to like light an incent or call on an aura or some shit, but you have to be able to write. It’s just like building a podium. It’s just a job just like anything else. It’s really helpful for me to just think of that. I mean I come from a working-class background. You know my dad was a janitor and my mom made clothes, so I approach writing with that same type of mentality where I have to get up every day and do it. It’s not like this theatrical thing that I’m summoned to do. It’s just like, I’m doing it.

Madison: What advice to you help writer’s burnout, Angel: I don’t think there is a different. I don’t really especially since some of your poems deal with heavy think I perform. I think that I write the poems and I emotions, about home life and body life – what advice say them aloud. There is no difference. If I can’t read do you have for people that are trying to deal with the it out loud, I shouldn’t write it. If it’s not something same things, but are trying to avoid the emotional that I could say without people falling asleep, then it’s toll of writing? not going to be a good poem. If it’s something that, likewise, only comes alive when I’m there to read it, 19

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If you only write once a month, it’s so much more tender, you are so much less able to evenly look at what you are doing and you are so much less emotionally fortified to delve into what you are delving into.

Angel: Well, good luck, for sure. I can’t imagine avoiding an emotional toll. But I do think there are many different answers to this question so I’m going to try to slice it into two, but one is like everything I just said: I think doing it; I think the habitualness takes the preciousness out of it and it takes the sting out of it. If you only write once a month, it’s so much more tender, you are so much less able to evenly look at what you are doing and you are so much less emotionally fortified to delve into what you are delving into. If you are touching on it a little bit every day, it’s just like anything else that you don’t do often. If I don’t run and then I run, I’m going to be like, “Am I going to die?” but If I’m doing it a little bit every day, then I’m like feeling myself, maybe I’ll go a little longer. Everything is like practice, I don’t mean like putting yourself in proximity to things that will harm you enough so that you don’t feel them, that’s not what I am saying, but if you get in proximity with the things that are tender for you, or have a toll on you emotionally enough, you will start to situate the necessary boundaries and relationships you need to have with that stuff. It’s the people that never look at that shit that have no ability to be healthfully manage that. I also think like, you know, I have a therapist. So, you know like therapy is therapy. My writing isn’t therapy. That’s not like where I’m sifting through my demons. I’m in therapy. That’s why that person got a doctorate so I could be healed. My writing isn’t doing that. My writing is how I process things and how I synthesize it and how I make meaning out of my life, but it’s not how I fix my life. I think that is a dangerous path to tow. So, I would say like, A) Get a therapist, and B) Always be writing so that it’s not like super tender…I have this poem about my sister who has lupus. It’s an autoimmune disorder that’s really gnarly. If I never talked about it and then went to write a poem about it, like A) That poem would be terrible, but B) the amount of Spring 2018

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There is something about having other people that makes learning a verb... it’s like it’s just a noun or some shit when it’s just you and a book. With other people you are, like, living it. 21

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pressure or the stakes, you know how high the stakes are for that poem. The poem can’t do everything. The poem can’t like, heal my sister. The poem can’t make me not scared. The poem is the poem. In a way, the fact that I am always talking about it and always writing about it a little bit, this poem that I wrote about it can just do the job of being that poem. I know that sounds really vague…Like if you’re never talking about this stuff, there’s so much weight for that poem to be a hero. But if you are always flexing that muscle, that poem can just be the telling of that story. And then, you can write a poem that enters that same topic from a different window, right, so that’s again about the habitualness. The more you’re writing about the things that you are trying to figure out or that are difficult for you, the more – and again, this is talking about the burnout – I’ll never be done, I’ll never not have shit to say. I’ll always be able to talk about what I want to talk about. It’s like, when you asked about the poorly written poems, it’s like if you start writing the same poem over and over again, that’ s a problem. But you could talk about one thing for your entire career, but entering it from different windows. That’ s another thing, just like, trying to think of the same shit in different ways, trying to hold it up to the light and move it and look at it differently. I know I’m saying a lot of shit, I don’t know if that’s helpful. Madison: Yeah, it is. Angel: Yeah, I mean it’s not easy. Sometimes it’s harder than other. I mean it depends. Sometimes it will really sneak up on me too. It depends, because I read poems all the time, and sometimes there’ll be like a new poem and I’ll get really choked up. Just the sensation of saying words out loud can be a lot. Sometimes it’ll be a poem that I wrote when I was like 20, and it’ll be a weird night, and there’ll be someone in the audience who just talked to me before or something, and I’ll feel

like I just wrote it. But I think again, you know, I don’t like run off stage crying, but I think there’s something about the muscle flexing habitualness that’s helpful. Jessika: Who are you reading? Angel: I’m in grad school, so I’m reading a lot. I haven’t had non-required reading in like, ten years. I’m reading Chen Chen’s book of poetry, poems like “When I Grow Up, I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities”…and I’m reading some Emily Dickinson right now, I never really did that as an undergrad. I had never actually read her, and because I’m having to do such close readings of it, I have like a whole new appreciation. It’s not necessarily what I would naturally turn to, but like she’s got some deep cuts, she’s got some B sides that are fresh – yeah, she’s kind of a freak, she’s cool. She’s kind of counter-culture to what was happening at the time. Her dad was like a preacher, but she’s got these poem like, “oh, all these people say they’re so religious, A, B, C, D” like a little battle rant. Like she was on another level. Dan: I know you said Emily Dickinson is not necessarily your style. Is there anybody who you really like? Angel: Frank O’Hara. I will fight someone for Frank O’Hara right now. I can’t get enough. When I read him, I feel like I might act out. He’s like so good. He’s so good. I really love him. I really love Aracelis Girmay, she’s a real one. Kingdom Animalia is so good. The list of shit I love is so long. And then I love my friends. Morgan Parker. Tommy Pico. Danez Smith. Nate Marshall. They’re like all writing right now these incredible books And, then I read a lot of fiction. When I’m not in school, I can like burn through a novel.

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Dan: Have you ever written anything other than poems?

accomplishment that I have. Madison: I wanted to know, what can we as a university that’s trying to explore supporting arts and supporting spoken word, what can we do to help give our students those voices and give those students those spaces? I know that you’ve been going through teaching and hosting workshops and developed really good plans for getting people active for those skills, so what advice do you have for UMass Dartmouth and other universities?

Angel: A little, but then I’m like, “Girl. Go write your little poems.” I think I can like essay stuff and I would be interested in venturing out, but it’s not like my great white whale or some shit, not like…I MUST. By no means. I think that people have that under control… When I read Toni Morrison, I’m not like, “I can go write my Beloved.” Like no-I-can-not. And so, I think that stops me, or not stops me but like grounds me. Like where is my journey right now. And that takes a long time too. Angel: It’s hard because I would tell you different shit than I would tell the institution. You know what Madison: What accomplishment are you most proud I mean? So, I would tell you, Madison, something of ? different. For the university, I would say, “Cut a check. Cut a check. Cut a check and give it to someone who Angel: Man, this is going to sound corny, super sap. knows. Not someone who kind of knows, or thinks, I have, like, such an incredible – like, incredible – but give it to somebody who is going to disperse it in education, like latch-key education growing up, like a way that the most people benefit from it.” But if I’m my afterschool program which is bomb, and it was just talking to y’all, I would say like, the only, not the basically like they would bring in authors and not only, but the biggest ingredient that is the difference only was that amazing because it helped me foster between Angel here and Angel in a dumpster, is friends this thing that I really love to do, but it also provided who also wrote and also cared about it as much as concrete examples of living people who were doing me. Like that’s all. That’s it. I was an avid reader, you it. It wasn’t like Edgar Allan Poe, whose like dead as know the scholastic shit, where you read and check it fuck. I was like, “this person’s alive and doing this, and off and you like – I can be alive and do this – I’ve never thought and it had never occurred to me the myth “you can never be Jessika: Get the prize a writer.” Like I never thought that was true, and so I am like very lucky and very, like, predisposed. And so, Angel: Yeah. That was like my whole shit. While you because I never thought it wasn’t possible, it’s really can be and learn that way and develop those kinds of skewed what I am proud of. But I had a very difficult skills, and like reading is so critical, I don’t want to coming of age personally and familial-ly, and while I undermine that, but there is something about having knew it was possible to be a writer and do my thing, I other people that makes learning a verb that it’s not – didn’t know for sure that I would be like healthy and it’s like it’s just a noun or some shit when it’s just you happy and that I would be dependable and would go and a book. With other people you are, like, living it. to the dentist. You know, I didn’t know that, so I think Reading is how I have taste, but other people is how I am more proud of that, I think that being an adult I am like not a freak, like alone, whistling and writing that doesn’t make recoil, than I am of any literary weird shit…I guess what I’m really trying to say is, 23

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the writing programs I was in as a youth, all the poets that would come in and read poems, all the people who would come in and tell us very generously about their lives and where they came up and where they’re going next on tour, it was so great and it was even better because I could look to my friends and like, *gasp* like look back, you know. I can’t say it another way, but it becomes a lived experience with other people. It’s not like a memory, it’s like who you are. Other people make culture, I guess. One person isn’t a culture. It’s many motherfuckers that make a culture, and I think that is what I needed. If I’m talking to y’all I’d say, “don’t be alone.” Like wherever you have to wring the rag out of to give you some money to get a space, even if you can’t bring people in, like have a space, have food, have someone that is facilitating a workshop that week, write together, read out loud together, that was a huge thing. You know, like, reading out loud to people when I was 17 or 16 is why I can read out loud now to like hundreds of people. I say like, those small communities. They sustain me even now. I have mentors and heavily decorated professors that will edit my work and I still am like, “hey homies, you wanna read my shit,” you know. That is who I turn to and I’m sure until I die… Yeah, so don’t be alone. If it’s just you, there’s more of a chance you’ll stop. And to the university, just truly, give us money so that we can do fresh stuff and cultivate it.

For more information about Angel Nafis, please visit: angelnafis.com and check out her book, BlackGirl Mansion.

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Book Club Erin Elizabeth Fay

A loaf of rye bread, a pear tart, and a bottle of olive oil. Christine stared absentmindedly at the contents of her shopping cart. Having forgotten her list, she was wandering aimlessly, hoping she would remember each item. Cruising past the dairy aisle, she heard her name. She turned around to see Tracy Lynn, one of the neighborhood moms, flit toward her. Christine winced. Tracy Lynn seemed to find new ways to irritate her with each interaction. Her critical eye always made her uneasy. “Christine!” she squeaked with exaggerated excitement. “I haven’t seen you in ages! I missed you at the last PTA meeting.” The PTA meetings were interminable. Before the last meeting, Christine’s husband jokingly suggested she stash a nip of Jameson in her purse, and she had seriously considered it. “And don’t you look adorable! I wish I had the confidence to wear that,” she said, gesturing to Christine’s plaid skirt. “Thanks?” Tracy Lynn continued, “When did we see each other last? The assembly? When the kids read those poems?” “I think so.” “Your daughter read those kooky ones by what’s-his-name…” “E e cummings?” “Yes! That’s the one. I don’t know if you heard, but I’m hosting book club this weekend. We’d love if you could stop by.” As Tracy Lynn talked, Christine was already thinking about how to lie her way out of the event. The book club meetings were really just an excuse for the moms to drink chardonnay and gossip, and Christine didn’t think she could stomach another one of Tracy Lynn’s flavorless gluten-free cookies. “Um. David’s going to be 25

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out of town that day, so it’ll depend on whether or not “Probably not. She lives in New York,” Christine said my oldest can babysit.” nonchalantly as she inspected a carton of eggs. “Anyway, she came to town to help her brother move and…the “Just let me know when you know,” she chirped. “You’ll rest is history.” never guess who I ran into at the salon.” She grabbed Christine by the crook of her arm. “Tessa and Jill. Do “Are you telling me it’s someone in town?” Tracy Lynn you know what they told me? The sex ed teacher, Miss asked, her eyes bulging. Hill, and Mr. Mercer are going to elope! I already had my suspicionws because she’s been flaunting a new “Professor Vronsky.” ring lately.” “Vronsky? I’ve never heard of him.” “Good for them,” Christine said with a smile, inching “Alexei Vronsky. He goes by ‘Alex.’ He teaches Russian her cart toward the deli. literature at the community college.” Tracy Lynn followed close by. “Just between you and me, I heard that she’s pregnant. Ironic, isn’t it? Considering “Vronsky,” she repeated, mulling it over. she’s supposed to be teaching our kids about birth control. Then again, she was always strutting around “It’s been difficult. She’s thinking of leaving her husband for him.” in those short skirts. It’s really no wonder.” “I don’t think that’s—

Tracy Lynn’s mouth was agape. “How did they meet?”

“So, what’s David been up to? I haven’t seen his car “The two of them ended up sharing a cab at the airport. They had this instant, palpable chemistry.” around,” Tracy Lynn probed. Her nosiness really knew no bounds. Was she watching her house now? She didn’t owe Tracy Lynn an explanation, but just to suppress her suspicions, she replied, “Some idiot backed into his car at the gas station, so we’ve been sharing my car while it’s in the shop.” Christine stooped to grab a package of Swiss cheese. Suddenly she had an idea. “It’s been an insane week to be honest,” she said, setting the bait. “Oh?” “I found out my friend Anna is having an affair.” “Anna? Have I met her?”

“Oh my god…” “She and her husband have been having problems for months now. But you know what they say, ‘Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’” “Wow,” breathed Tracy Lynn. “Well, I’d better be going. I’m sure you have a lot of shopping do for that book club meeting,” Christine said, heading for the check-out. As she placed her groceries onto the conveyor belt, she couldn’t help but smile. For the next week Tracy Lynn would be scouring town for the characters of Anna Karenina. Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

Memories Samantha Howard

She sits in the middle of the room. There is no one else there, just her and the boxes. They are silent and still, nothing is making noise except her breath flowing in and out of her nose. These boxes are all different shapes, from the size of a mouse to the size of a bookshelf. They are also different materials and colors, some being black and metal while others are softer colors and cardboard. No box is exactly like another. She has no idea how she has come to be in the room. One moment she was walking into an appointment, the next she was in the room. The walls of the room are black and isolating but somehow there is light, somehow she can see every single box that surrounds her. She knows she must start opening boxes, but she doesn’t know where to begin. Should she start with a light colored small one? Maybe a large dark one to get it out of the way? What is in the boxes? She doesn’t know. She stands and starts to walk among the boxes, there are so many variations and it seems like they all are begging to be opened. Finally she decides on a box. It is the size of a book and is not too heavy. She chooses this box because it’s her favorite color, green, but not just any green it’s a seafoam light green. It seems like the most welcoming so therefore the best box to open first, the rest of the boxes might not be so pleasant as this. The young woman, our She, runs toward a young man who seems to be waiting for something. He’s waiting for her. She squeals loudly as she gets to him and wraps her arms around him enthusiastically. I haven’t seen you in forever, the young woman exclaims. Her face is bright red and her body is thrumming with excitement, she buries herself into the embrace of the man as if she would never let him go again. He is also excited to see the young woman, though he shows it in a different way, smiling and squeezing her so tightly he believes he’s

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never held anything so tightly before in his life. They are happy for this moment. She closes the box and holds it close to her chest as if clutching the man close once again. Then suddenly this box disappears from her arms, from the room entirely. She looks around and tries to find it again but it is truly gone. She sighs and looks to the sea of boxes that awaits her. She looks around to choose another box to open and takes a moment to decide before picking a box that was much larger than the last but just as light colored. This box was as large as an old television, the wooden ones, and the color of strawberry ice cream. Strawberry ice cream is certainly not her favorite but for some reason this box called to her so she has decided to go ahead and slowly pry open the lid.

things that she doesn’t want to find in them. She decides to just look at boxes for a while, not choose any, but just look. She walks and walks through the scattering of boxes. The light in the room has dimmed a little so the really small boxes are a bit harder to see but she can still find them. The boxes aren’t in any defined rows or sections, they’re just scattered around the floor just as someone would throw a handful of dice on a table, no order just turmoil. She runs her fingers along a wooden box that’s at the height of her hip as she walks past and continues on her path. She decides that she won’t open the largest boxes if she can help it, or at least leave them until the very end, they seem too daunting. She finally reaches a wall and decides to sit down against it, leaning her back against its solid black surface. There are a couple small boxes on either side of her, one metal and small enough to fit in her palm, the other velvet and a little larger so she has to cup her fingers around it to keep it in her hand. She weighs them both in her hands, bringing one up to eye-level then the other. She sighs and finally decides on the velvet box, it’s soft in her hand and feels lighter than the metal box. She places the metal one on the floor then rubs both hands on the velvet box before popping open the lid.

The little girl, still our She, runs toward a grown man at the park. This man wasn’t entirely familiar but still someone that she knew she should be excited to see. He looks unsure himself and the little girl looks toward her mother to make sure everything was alright. Her mother nods and the little girl gives the man a bright smile. She is ready for a few hours of play at the park, one of her favorite places, though she doesn’t know if this man will stay around for the entire time in the park or if her mommy will take over after some time. The little girl doesn’t touch the man at first but leads him around the park nonetheless, showing him what she likes and letting him push her on the swing. They are apprehensive but content for the moment. The teenage girl, still She, sits in a teahouse with another teenage girl. They are drinking exotic smelling tea and She slams this box closed and shoves it onto its side. eating food that no one else in their friend group would It’s not the contents of this box that has her upset but consider touching. They laugh freely and speak openly with what this box began that upsets her so. She stands there one another, they are close friends. The teenage girl giggles with her arms wrapped around her torso until the box as her friend blushes asking a personal question, there is fades to nothing, then she paces around the space that no malice behind the giggle it’s only the taboo of it. They the box freed up. She doesn’t want to open any more are inseparable for this moment. boxes, she wants to leave. There are many things that these boxes contain that could make her happy such She smiles at this box holding it tight in her hand. as the first box, she presumes, but there are also many This box made the other boxes seem less scary, less Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

intimidating than the one before. The box fades and she looks to the other metal box, thinking of opening this one too but deciding against it in favor of exploring and finding a completely different box. She pushes herself forward on her hands and knees to crawl amongst the boxes to find the smaller ones, they seem safe. She finds one that interests her after a while of crawling. It’s the size of a votive candle and a milky white. She sits cross-legged on the floor and holds the box in both hands examining it a bit more before the inevitable unfastening. The box was smooth like wax but not malleable like wax, it had the definite shape of a box. She rolled it around in her hands, stalling a little, before giving a sigh. The preteen girl, the same She, is in the town library. The smell of old books and ink is familiar and comforting to her as she searches. She doesn’t know exactly what book she is there for but she is determined to find one. The preteen girl suddenly sees a green spine sticking out of the shelf, standing out like a neon sign. She grabs it with her small hand and brushes her dyed black hair out of the way to get a good look at the cover, it immediately sucks her in and she has to borrow it. She is fascinated at this moment. She leans her forehead against the small white box for a couple seconds before it fades into nothing. The box was a good one and it lead to a many things afterward that were very important to her. She stands up and looks around for an exit again, just in case one appeared, but no such luck. She walks against the walls of the room running her fingers against the smoothness until she slams into a box, this one at her navel. The box is heavy and a murky grey. It feels like stone and is rough at every edge, it’s intimidating and she wants to back away from it. Though she walked straight into it, as if she was meant to open it now, as if this was the right time. She bites her lip and crosses her 29

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arms tight to her chest staring down the box, willing the damn thing to disappear so she didn’t have to open it but alas it went nowhere. She growled and stomped her foot against the floor glaring at the box as if this was all its fault and not her own for walking into it. She dropped her arms and pouted before putting her hands against the edge of the lid and pushing hard. The girl, our poor She, is sitting in the back of a car, her mother’s car. Her mother is the one driving but she is also screaming at the man in the passenger seat. They are arguing and the girl is scared. The car stinks of body odor and alcohol which is seeping from the man, he is supposed to be someone that the girl can trust but he looks, sounds, and smells more like a stranger to her. The girl pulls her knees up to her chest as the argument continues on. It is the middle of the night, she is supposed to be in bed for school the next day, but instead they are speeding down the highway. Then I’ll just get out now! The man shouts and suddenly pushes the passenger side door open. The girl screams and tears well up in her eyes, she doesn’t want him to jump out of the car she doesn’t want him to get hurt even if he is being scary. The mother screams as well and grabs the man pulling him back toward her so he closes the door. She is terrified at this moment. Hope jolts forward in her chair. That moment was too much for her. Her therapist holds his hand out as if to steady her but refuses to touch her. “Welcome back,” he says, “that must have been rough to share. Our session is now over. Is there anything you’d like to ask or close with?” Hope looks at him as if he doesn’t exist when she replies, “I’ll be back next week.”

Working Girl Alexis Njoku

My good friend Cindy talked up her job at AlphaBest as we cruised down the TX-121 to my LSAT class in Plano. With her wit, jovial sarcasm, hankering love for obscure indie rock and cool R&B with funky undertones, and little knowledge of what the world has before us—Cindy is my Texan equivalent. From what I have gathered from her, my job as an afterschool helper for a group of about seventy kids will go quite nicely. In a lengthy description riddled with southern slang, Cindy reminds me that the children are “wilin” and she often “don’t be caring because all we’re supposed to do is make sure we can see these kids” despite our bosses expecting us to do “the most”. Additionally, Cindy also warns me of the “head-ass-ness” of AlphaBest that I will have to deal with on a regular basis such as having to switch Zones every so often or getting touted at by our supervisor, Keith, for the kids’ backpacks touching. However, Cindy’s warnings cannot keep me from applying. Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

Before AlphaBest, I spent my days at Ulta Beauty in McKinney getting touted at for not bombarding stayat-home moms with Ultimate Rewards MasterCards. I’d repeated the line so many times that I’ve managed to pick up the both nasally and preppy ring of a North Texas accent. “You’re eligible for the Ulta Ultimate Rewards MasterCard pre-approval if you’d like to start today you’ll receive 20% off your purchase today and receive two points with every dollar you spend and three points with ever two dollars you spend.” “No, thank you,” the customer will always say and their reason for doing so would usually range between: “I’m trying to buy a new house” to “My husband will kill me if I open up a new credit card” and the occasional “My credit is terrible”. Our response: “I definitely understand. But depending on how often you shop with us, you can actually save—” “No.” I spent my Friday nights from nine PM to two AM stocking the daunting NYX section. My tired eyes would fight to remain open when trying to place the color of one of the many lip liner formulas and colors in its corresponding location. Three different formulas, four different shades of brown, thirty minutes left in my shift, and I put them all in back stock. After nailing the interview and getting my placement at one of the many elementary schools in the Frisco Independent School District. My boss’ name is Kristal, or Ms. Kristal by the time we’ve punched in. The iPad, Walkie Talkie, and crucial reminder that the safety of these children rest on our shoulders meaning that hanging around in the final—excited to finally feel the sweet taste of freedom—was simply not an option. The 31

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two devices feel heavy in my hands gives me the sudden fear that I might have bitten off more than I could chew. Before AlphaBest, I was bouncing from retail store to retail store making chum money good enough to feed and clothe me through college. Before moving to Texas, I was offered an internship fetching coffee and filing papers for my stepdad’s patent attorney in the Back Bay-area. However, with my family’s sudden relocation to the DFW area I was forced to take up much more important responsibilities than baking cookies and answering phones. Due to the fact that I couldn’t obtain a professional job with an English degree in a highly tech, Jesus, and What-a-Burger region of the United States—my job prospects landed on tying shoes: a slippery slope from a knee scrape, unsatisfied parents, and a potential unemployed postgrad. We begin our day precisely at two-thirty when their final bell rings. When the walkers, bus-ers, and pickup-ers are gone—the remaining seventy or so are under AlphaBest’s supervision. Our iPads tell us the names of all the students in my Group who will be with us for the evening and as I take attendance, I wave kids come chasing after me begging to be my special helper, or do the pledge, or be a line leader, or be the second-man special helper, or be the second-man special after the second-man special helper leaves. To quiet everyone down and have them sit down I usually chant “One, two, three, eyes on me!” to which they would scream back “One, two, eyes on you!” By the time I’ve finished attendance, the kids wash their hands for snack, and we march our way down to the cafeteria. When working with kids, I learned quickly that the best way to get things done is to turn everything into a game—the simple task of walking down the hallway transports these kids into an army training field playing as valiant heroes for their snacks and toys. It’s also the only way to get them to stay in a single file line because “that’s what soldiers, do”. Ms. Desi, one of my co-workers,

often switches the script around and turning the kids into ninjas having to stealthy sneak through a gang of ruthless tomatoes around the corner. It’d have the kids tip-toeing their way to the cafeteria doors without a peep escaping from their lips. By the time, they’d reach the cafeteria, they were at a mad dash to their tables, screaming mad about a troupe of tomatoes trying to eat them. If you are ever in the mood for your flaws to be loudly shouted out in front of many, then I would highly recommend for you to volunteer at your nearest elementary school. An insult from a second-grader leaves a scar more painful than one from an adult. At least when an adult insults you ,they actually mean it and are intending to hurt your feelings. The simple fact that a majority of these burns come from genuine curiosity adds salt to this metaphorical wound. A first-grader was told by Ms. Kristal that she had to sit down at her table with her hand up as the fifth graders did the AlphaBest pledge on the microphone. With her eager hand up in the air, anxiously waiting for someone to assist her, I took the liberty of asking what she needed myself. Her response: “Are you a boy or a girl?” Here I was thinking that the Lupita Nyong’o buzz cut I had fashioned for the past two years made me look trendy and chic while all it did was confuse kids on their prescribed gender roles. For the rest of the week, I wear earrings. I may be a role model during recess and snack but nothing could snap those little chicken nuggets from a havoc beehive to a group of US Marines like the roll of tickets. With those tickets, I am their queen (or king, depending on if all of them got the memo). My requests for a cleanup partner after homework time or a friend to bring the first aid kit with us to the playground never went unheard. Seventeen tiny hands would fly up in the air, kids jumping up and down and stomping their feet for my attention as well as

the two tickets that came along with them. With that roll of tickets glued at my hip, I’m relieved of lifting a finger. I monitor kids sweep up blueberry muffin crumbs from the floor, collect fat Crayola markers and doodle-covered sheets of paper, and wait quietly in line for a bathroom break. I spend my day ripping tickets and watching their glow in excitement. Nonetheless, anarchy ensues within those rosy-cheeked little angels when I start skimping on tickets despite their good behavior. I’m running low on tickets, okay! A quick trip back to the cafeteria in a single file line becomes too high of a demand despite the roll of tickets sitting on stage. When tickets run low, tomatoes bandits are a fear no more. I try shouting “Macaroni and cheese!” and only hear four or five students call back “Everybody, freeze” while the others take advantage of this opportunity to dance around the hallways or give up altogether, curl up in fetal position, and fake cry. I have betrayed these children. With their fingers on their quivering lips and eyes sulking from a job well done of holding the door left unpaid, I feel their pain. The disappointment in their once loyal and benevolent superior falling with each minute tolling by—hours, in fact, considering their concept of time. “Ms. Alexis, where’s my ticket?” or “Ms. Alexis!” jumping up and down with their finger on their mouths and the other hand up in the air in Quiet Coyote. The Second Grade Revolution ends by the time we get back to the cafeteria and reparations are paid. All is well in the kingdom and games of Simon Says go on in peace. These kids like Jake Paul. During Simon Says, Simon would say “Dab” and all of the kids will dab. Some of the kids will do one, quick and swift dab while the others will do one freeze frame dab—patiently holding their elbows to their noses for Simon to give another demand. Other kids will dab aggressively; they will dab dozens of times as if they were in a fit of a million second-long sneezes. During a game of Charades, I Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

Realistically, I’m just as much as an eight-year-old as they are: I rely on my parents for everything, I can cry on cue, I have no money, and I use my fingers to do basic addition.

mimicked the wand movements from Harry Potter. Darsh—a second grade boy who dabbed the most and arguably the best out of all the other pupils—guessed that I was “It’s every day bro, on that Disney Channel flow…” which prompted all of the other kids to follow along to the kid-friendly rap. So now, whenever I see Darsh, I tell him to dab on the haters and he always does. Then there’s a cheeky little girl named Tara—a short little scamp with loads of energy and an infatuation for all the AlphaBest workers. At only seven she was a total schmoozer—a hilarious class act, generic “funnygirl” in the making, dressed in pink, and often glued to my hip. Her need for tickets would prompt her to throw her arms around me and attempt to tango dance with the lower mid-section of my legs. “Ohhhh, Ms. Alexis. Ohhh, Ms. Alexis. Can I please have a ticket?” She would grab my hand, hold it tight, and playfully twirl around in circles. The sound of my cheery boss’ southern accent would bleat through the sound of my Walkie Talkie indicating me that it’s time to give another head count, and just as I reach for my back pocket for my device, Tara’s fast hands would quickly head upwards to the chain of tickets hanging off the roll. Before she could rip off the preferred two that she so rightfully deserves for the begging, I would snatch the roll away and remind her that begging is not the AlphaBest thing to do for tickets. She would often fall to her knees, blow kisses, or wrap her arms around my legs begging me for just one little ticket. So I get their undivided attention primarily through knocking myself down a few notches and getting on their level. Realistically, I’m just as much as an eight-year-old as they are: I rely on my parents for everything, I can cry on cue, I have no money, and I use my fingers to do basic addition. My child-self loved films like Elf and virtually anything else starring Will Ferrell because they featured adult leads embracing

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the childish tendencies that they very much wanted to take part of. So shouting “Can I get an aww yeah!?!” and hearing a collective “Aww yeah!” definitely helped ease down the makeup-and-hair savvy jet setter persona I’d adopted at Ulta. Rather than schmoozing about highend shampoos with hair enthusiasts at the checkout line, I was the caboose of the caboose in a line of dabbers marching their way from the cafeteria to their art lesson of the day. You may think that being childish may make these children lose some respect in me. However, let’s not forget that I am the holder of a hefty round of tickets. Their good behavior buys them packets of slime and tacky joke glasses two times the size of their heads on Fun Friday. It buys them all of the boxes of Skittles and Sour Patch Kids that they very much desired. But then again, this all came in exchange for good behavior. Bryson’s speediness reined him as playground champion in games of Color Tag and Infection but kept his ticket count low in the most mundane of acts such as walking. Bryson’s only method of transportation is running. That’s it. I will tell Bryson to go and collect all of the pencils in class and put them away in the box as a part of cleanup time and within seconds, he has not only finished but is waiting in line to be directed to his next class with Mr. Matthew. He’s that one kid from your elementary school who’s energetic attitude often leads him head-first into a bed of woodchips but will manage to pop right back up and survive in a heated game of Red Light-Green Light. I once had to walk him to the bathroom and, on our way there, he began to run. I told him to walk and he began to walk as if he was on a Broadway stage seconds away from breaking into a jaunty tune. Close enough.

first to run into my arms for a hug at the beginning of the day and a job request. During snack time their table was free of all loose Goldfish and in art, it was glue free. No criers, screamers, runners, but one lone apparent partner dancer. A group of six so well-behaved—a gift straight from Heaven for any professional in the school department. However, their law-abiding pursuits leaves them with one too many tickets. Each and every one of them will do anything for a ticket and trump any other student who gets in their way. With their tickets combined they could easily wipe out all of the store brand fidget spinners at the prize table on Fun Friday. Another student named Braden was a direct cardboard cut-out of my old roommate from UMass. Bleach blonde hair, blue eyes, square-framed glasses, and an admiration for video games. A language and culture class that Ms. Desi had the kids coloring kimonos for the fiftieth time that year. While most of the boys stayed true to having fire and dragons on theirs and boys stylized their kimonos with hearts and flowers— Braden dedicated each section of his kimono to a video game that he loved. The final section featured a video game that he was destined to develop when he grew up. He went down all of the specifics—this guy has this thing that does this and there’s this explosion and it’s so cool!—and delivered a drawing of a stick figure. Just a stick figure.

But nothing could prepare me for my biggest challenge of all: fifth graders. I had spent so much time with seven and eight-year-olds that I grew a bit nervous having spent the next half hour with older kids assisting Ms. Desi for drama class. However, I then realized that I was literally twenty-two, I had lived on the East Coast which basically means that I had lived in New Tara’s hyperactive attitude somehow fit in with the York City, and I had a cool haircut thus making me table of quintessential “good girls” in my class. They the coolest person that they had probably ever met strived in obedience and never left a day at AlphaBest in their lives. The fifth graders usually participated, without their homework done. They were always the often did good deeds for the sake of doing them rather Spring 2018

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than tickets, and kept it to themselves through the day. However, one girl in particular acted as the most audacious out of the bunch. Sarah didn’t have a filter; normal conversation involved everyone around her knowing the excruciating details of her day. She was the tallest in her class and tough enough to beat down a boy if she had to. Sarah dedicated her kimono to the K-Pop band, BTS. I know nothing about Korean Pop but I do know that their obsessive fans walk down the same path as us Jonas Brothers fans did in 2007, so I understand why she decorates her kimono in Japanese cherry blossom flowers. I understand why she dedicates the two sleeves to her two favorite members of the band. I understand why it’s so important for her to move to Korea when she grows up. I am totally a Sarah. She’s the individualist who stands out amongst others in the town—a different girl stuck in a remedial town in dire need to break out. As she compares her height to mine and boasts about how she’ll grow up to be six-foot-three by the time she’s fifteen and walks off as though she already is, I sense that she’s a high dreamer; taking pride in her flaws and—at only ten—totally over it and ready to move on. She wasn’t all that different, though. She, too, was a Jake Pauler. As the day winds down, and parent and after parent comes by for their child, the AlphaBest employees feel less of a weight on our shoulders. I feel great now knowing that I have no kids to watch over. Additionally, I have a picture from one of the kids in my group with the text: “I [heart] Ms. Alexes” sitting in my backpack. No longer do we have to use attention-getters for a crowd seventy but rather the remaining four of five that we basically let do whatever they want within our eyesight because we can’t be bothered. Just today as I am stacking up chairs, Mr. Mohammed, asks me how my day had gone. I tell him that I accidentally swore in front of the kids. He asks me what I said, and I reply “Hella”. In context: “Shwetha is being hella 35

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quiet waiting in line right now, looks like she’s gonna get a ticket!” and I immediately cover my mouth for blurting out a no-no word. However, Mohammed laughs. He understands. Employees have to do their AlphaBest to not lose their mind by breaking the fourth wall every so often. Ms. Desi and I would add beats to our clean up announcements and turn them into trap songs. Also, when Ms. Desi asks for a song request and the mere sound of Jake Paul escapes from one of these kids lips, Desi looks at me and whispers “Oh, hell no” and turns on the clean version of God’s Plan. My boss, Ms. Kristal, kept tabs on me throughout my entire training process. She’d often follow me around and call me when I don’t look busy. For a sweet, southern ping to her voice, the sound of her calling me over makes me quiver in my Converse. I fear that she’ll tell me that she had heard one of my students use the term “hella” or worse, that I was mean. Thankfully, she supplies me with nothing but a few pointers on keeping the kids focused. She then reminds me that I’m doing great and that everything was going a-okay. Back in elementary school, my sister and I used to always be the last kids to leave our own after school program: Explorer. We had two teachers—Amy and Jeff—and Jeff would always keep us entertained while Amy bitched at us for making her stay out all night (like, 6:30) because she wanted to go home and watch the shows on her DVR. My parents never took us back to Explorer after Amy shouted at my dad for taking too long to pick us up. It took me a few days to accept the fact that my dad didn’t take took long because he didn’t care about us. He took too long because he had a very long commute from Boston back to Canton on Fridays. Luckily, the last kid is having far too much fun playing a game of Silent Ball with Mr. Matt to feel anyway about it. As soon as he’s gone, our suffixes are

dropped. We are five grown-ass adults drinking from leftover juice boxes and eating Rice Krispie Treats as we prepare for the next day. “So, what brings you to Texas?” Mr. Matt asks me. “I moved down here with my family, I just finished college.” “Where did you go?” “UMass Dartmouth.” “You went to Dartmouth College?” “…Yes.” To our side, I see Kristal giggling to herself while flipping through sheet after sheet of computer paper covered in comic-book style doodles by the fifth graders. It was the AlphaBest News. Inside held events about jump roping competitions, snack requests, a petition of a few choppily written signatures for a longer recess, and gossip. Yes, gossip. Most of it was directed towards the AlphaBest employees. “Matthew? More like, Fat-thew!” Matt, who is totally in great shape by the way, read out loud. “That’s actually pretty clever but I’m not fat.” “Mr. Mohammed. More like, Mr. No-Hammed. I can see that.”

We are five grownass adults drinking from leftover juice boxes and eating Rice Krispie Treats as we prepare for the next day.

In the far right corner was a picture of stick figure head with a mass of curly hair on top and a question mark on its face. “New teacher! Who is he?” “Yeah, I should have seen that coming.”

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Rum Red Sabrina Pacheco

I underestimated Jerry’s work when he was helping out my mom at the bar. Now I was the one who had to take care of inventory, make sure no one was stealing money from the cash register, and keep the place spotless from top to bottom. Adulthood hit me hard and I wasn’t even twenty-one yet. But being the owner of a bar had its perks. Well, at least I called myself the owner because no one above me was around at all anymore. I was completely on my own with no one to care about and no one to care about me. I guess that is the life I was meant for. The people who went to the bar became oblivious because they wanted to. We had mostly regulars come in all the time so they definitely knew who I was. Strangely enough, they didn’t question my age or report me to the authorities. I guess when you love something enough, you’ll do anything not to lose it. I could understand that. The bar’s regulars didn’t want to risk having to go somewhere else and lose their comfort at a place they knew well. Just as I suspected, no one talked about what happened there in the back alley. No one looked me directly in the eyes so I wouldn’t see their pity. No one stopped me when I began to drink. Something I had never done before. I hated the taste of alcohol but it made the nightmares go away. Any time a memory of Jerry smiling came into mind I took a shot of whiskey. The memories of him hugging me or giving me a soft kiss on the forehead, just like father’s do to their daughters, I took too shots of whiskey. “Becca!..Becca!..Hey Becca!” And just like that, I’m tugged back into this endless 37

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shit hole I call my life. “Sorry Josh. There is a lot running around up here.” I say as I point to my forehead.

“Go away!” I screamed. “Open up Becs, it’s your mother!” she said with her shrill voice, in slurred words.

“No worries, just seemed like you were on a different planet for a minute there. Even Loud Larry couldn’t get you to snap out of it.” “I don’t have a mother!” I yelled back at her.

“Honestly, I wish I was on a different planet right now. “Now come on Becs, we need to talk serious talk right It’s been a hell of a day. Pass me the Jack Daniels. Sure now honey.” to wake me right up.” I didn’t even wait for him to pass me the bottle. I knew he’d hesitate so I just got it myself. “Stop calling me that! You don’t get to call me that!” “Seriously, Becca? It may be 5 o’clock somewhere but it sure as shit isn’t here.”

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry baby I just miss you so would you open the door so we could stop yelling to one another like we have bullhorns in our hands. I “Give me a break Josh. I sign your paycheck so get off don’t think your neighbors appreciate it.” my back will ya?” I knew she wouldn’t leave until we talked so I opened I like Josh. I do. He tries to look out for me, as much the door and let her in. She put on that fake smile that as I let him. But he is just an employee I hired so I she had, the smile that got anyone to be at her beck wouldn’t have to be swamped at the bar by myself. and call. As soon as she stepped foot in my apartment, Can’t pour myself some drinks if my hands are too she went straight for the fridge to open up a can of busy serving it to others. Josh is older than me, which beer. She didn’t say she missed me, I love you and I’m makes things a bit uncomfortable at times considering sorry, how have been? It was like Jerry never meant I’m his boss but we’ve come up with a good system. anything to her and it made me furious. That is, neither one of us ever says how old we are. We don’t even celebrate birthdays to keep the anonymity “Get me one too would ya?” I said. going. That was my suggestion of course. I won’t let myself get too close..ever..again. “Since when did you start drinking?” she said as she opened up both cans and handed me one. “Got it boss. Don’t lose your shit on me.” He said. “What do you care?” I was her spitting image: brown “I’ll try my best.” I said. hair, long legs, and piercing blue eyes. Maybe I really was my mother’s daughter now. I got so drunk that I barely remember if I locked up last night. But yet somehow I woke up in my bed, with “So Nancy, have you missed your bar yet?” multiple hammers banging at my temporal lobes, and the vexing sound of my absentee mother banging on “Oh I know it’s in good hands. You’re the smartest my door. person I know.” For some reason this left a knot in my stomach, a knot I didn’t care for. How would she know Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

if I was smart or not? She was always on trips with her boyfriends throughout my entire childhood. She never once asked me how I did on a test or helped me with school work. She doesn’t even know I dropped out of college. It isn’t like she would give a crap either way.

For so many years I have been waiting to have this heartfelt moment with my mother where she would actually listen to me and comfort me in my time of need, as opposed to, just hearing words come out of my mouth while she is simultaneously thinking about the new man currently in her life at the time. Oh no, “Well, don’t you want to go down and see it at least, this time would be different, I told myself. We needed before you on your next adventure with the new each other this time. boyfriend I’m sure you have by now.” I said purposely trying to sound harsh. With this thought in mind, I said yes. Nancy started jumping up and down, arms flailing, jewelry swinging “Of course that sounds wonderful girly but that is in all directions. She seemed genuinely happy to spend actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” time with me. This brought me back to one of the few good memories I had of my mom and I growing up. “What do you mean?” My mom threw a huge birthday party for me when I was seven, the year when she was with Bill, the lawyer. “My new boyfriend and I are going to Greece until She was so happy with him that she had a different the New Year.” she said with all too large grin on her lightness to her, like she suddenly had so much love face. We leave next week Friday and we’d really like to give to others. Bill was actually one of the guys she it if you came along. His name’s Carlos, I think you’d dated that I liked. He would bring me presents, play like him. Plus, he has a pretty daughter. You would soccer with me, and he had such a soft, gentle voice finally have a girlfriend to shop and chase boys with.” when he talked to people. At this party my mom was what I had always hoped for. She baked me a cake, This whole thing sounded ridiculous to me and it sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me, and took loads of pictures. made me want to kick her out. I did not want to spend What I couldn’t forget was the bouncy house. She went any time at all with another boyfriend of hers who in with me and we were jumping around, laughing would stare at me when she wasn’t looking or who hysterically. Her arms were flailing and her jewelry would make rude remarks at everything. I swear it’s swung in all directions. I never had so much joy in one like she didn’t know me at all. I knew she wished I moment. Coming back from my memory, I let go of was something I’m not and she took me for granted a faint smile. I didn’t think I’d ever smile again, but I because of it. But I took her up on her offer because needed hope that things would turn around for me. as stupid as this sounded, I wanted to believe that That’s exactly what the universe wants you to think. something good would come out of this. That maybe I Then you get knocked down even more when you’re could be the daughter she’s always wanted and maybe already at your lowest point. A few weeks after the only we would heal together. I needed time to heal. Besides, birthday party I can still think about without wants to my mother was the only person I had left. Even if it hurl something at the wall, Bill left my mom because was only for a few moments in my life. I figured this he came to see her for who she really was and no trip would change things between us. I thought the amount of light could defeat that much darkness. She hurt affected us both in different ways and that my hasn’t been able to get it together since. I lost her once mother would finally open up to me and me to her. again..only she never threw me another birthday party. 39

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Her excitement for this trip, gave me the same glimmer of hope that the birthday party did. How stupid of me. My so-called mother disappeared for four days after this and left me a note on my pillowcase the night before we were leaving for the airport to go to Greece. The note said, “Carlos and I broke up and the Greece trip is off so I’m headed to Mexico with Roger instead. See you in 2016!” I tore the note into as many little pieces as I could get it to and screamed, “THAT BITCH!” as loud as I could because it made me feel good. There was no “I love you”, or “I’m sorry” just excuses. Again. How could she do this to me? I let it slide in the past because in time I would forget. But that was when I had Jerry around to help me forget. This time I could not forget. It was like she didn’t consider my feelings at all. She didn’t acknowledge the fact that I was hurting. She did what was best for her, as usual. But how can someone be so selfish at a time like that? Did she even care about Jerry? He did so much for us and she just pushed him further and further into the dirt. She didn’t care if he rotted in it. She didn’t even care if I rotted in it. If anything, this taught me that I need to look out for myself. No one is around anymore who will make me see what I’m doing to myself. I’ve been living like a shadow of myself. It is only the outline of the real me. Jerry would be so disappointed in who I’ve become. He was my protector and is forever my hero. “Hey Becca, what are you up to?” he said. I was sitting at the booth right between the giant flashing Texas sign and the bikini girl stand with a book in my hand and a glass of ice water sitting on the table. Jerry was bartending that night so I knew he wouldn’t like what was going to happen. I saw him look over so I didn’t say a word until he came over.

an apple. “No problem, just asking Becca here what she’s up to.” he answered back. “Well it doesn’t seem to me like this little lady wants to talk to the likes of you.” Jerry said. “She don’t look like no little lady to me buck.” he replied. That’s when Jerry lost it. There was no hesitation when he decked the filthy bearded man right in the nose. There was blood rushing out of his nose and it looked like it had grown two sizes larger. Jerry’s hand was bright red with some hair sticking to his knuckles. The man didn’t even realize what had just happened because he got knocked out cold. His two buddies, who both also had filthy beards and bandanas around their heads, carried him out to their truck. They knew that Jerry wasn’t one to mess with, but they’d be back. They always come back. “Thanks Jerry, you really didn’t need to do all that. If I just ignored them long enough they’d go away.” I turned to Jerry as the truck raced out of the parking lot. “But you shouldn’t even have to hear their voices Becs.” he said using that ridiculous nickname he gave me as a child. “You just don’t like them because the last few times they came in here they got really drunk and really loud.” “They also started to throw chairs and threaten people that if they didn’t stop looking at them they would run over their dogs with that ridiculous truck of theirs!” Jerry replied in an angry voice.

“Is there a problem here?” Jerry asked the man with the straw hat, filthy beard, and belt buckle the size of “I doubt they would actually do anything. They just Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

seem like big, arrogant fools to me.” “It is amazing how you still think so highly of people. And besides, I’m still your Uncle and it’s my job to protect you from monsters.” “Jerry, I’m twenty years old. I’m a full-fledged adult now. I don’t need you to fight all my battles for me... Literally.” “I know sweet pea, but you have to let someone take care of you for a change. Since your parents aren’t around that would be my job. I’ll always be here if you need me.” he said with his doughy eyes and soft smile. “Thanks Jerry.” I said trying to smile back. “Now...how did you get here?” “I’m trying to save gas so I walked.” “Alrighty then, I guess I’ll be driving you home then. Why don’t you go wait for me outside while I lock up for the night.” “Okay sure.” I said as I walked through the bar door, hearing the swinging sound come to a silent breeze when I reached his truck. It wasn’t a truck like the filthy bearded man’s truck. This truck was heavy duty with big wheels, and an engine that purred like a cat. I leaned on the truck as I put my earbuds in to listen to music and finish the part of the book I was interrupted at. Before Jerry could come outside and tell me I’m too much of a brainiac and that I need more fun in my young soul. Then I’d shrug and he would look at me with pity once again. It was really something I would like to avoid. I read five pages before I realized that Jerry still hadn’t come outside yet. I removed the earbuds and dog-eared my page in the book before I set them both down on the seat of his truck. I walked back into 41

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The men standing over him didn’t move, they just stared at me. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run to Jerry or even run away. I was stuck there like there was super glue keeping my feet to the ground.

the bar but Jerry wasn’t there. I looked everywhere for him. The office, the ice room, even the bathroom, which I quickly realized was a bad idea. That’s when it came to me, maybe he went to take out the trash. Before I went through the office to the door, which led to the back alley, I stopped. I touched my right ear to the door to hear what was going on outside. I heard voices but I was too scared to go outside and see what it was about. But then I heard, “Not such a tough guy now huh Jerry?” I held my breath. It can’t be. I recognized that voice anywhere. I swung the door open and there they were, those filthy bearded men. And one, the one who made all those comments towards me, the leader, holding a bloody knife. I glanced down, and Is saw Jerry bleeding out on the ground right in front of the dumpster. The men standing over him didn’t move, they just stared at me. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run to Jerry or even run away. I was stuck there like there was super glue keeping my feet to the ground. The man with the knife looked me right in the eyes. Almost as if he was looking into my soul. That’s when he plunged the knife into Jerry’s chest. Straight through his heart. I heard Jerry gasping for air, in pain and I just screamed. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “NO!” The men had worried looks on their faces when they noticed the light of one of the neighbors turn on. They looked in my direction one last time before they ran off in the dark. I wanted to try and stop them, but I how could I? And anyway, I didn’t want to leave Jerry. As soon as they were gone, I ran over to Jerry. I took his head in my arms and held him there, in my chest, while putting pressure on his. He was still trying to breathe while I was holding him. I could tell he was in pain. Tears were rolling down his eyes as tears were pouring out of mine. All I could say to him was, “I love you Dad.” as he closed his eyes and took his last breath. I could swear he smiled before he went. For some reason he was proud of me. As I lay there holding him, uncontrollably crying, I realized that I couldn’t let him down.

2 2 2 He was just laying there in my arms, with his hands and legs spread out. Those beautiful doughy eyes were wide open but there was only fear in them now. Fear of death. Through my sobbing I closed them. Looking at them that way was too painful because I couldn’t see a vibrant life anymore. At least, if they were closed I could pretend like he was just asleep. Jerry was stabbed five times. He was stabbed first as soon as he opened the door, in the arm. Which explains the blood on the doorknob. The second, third, and fourth times, were all in his abdomen. They were bad wounds but there was still a chance of survival at that point. The last stabbing was the one that killed him. The one that I witnessed go straight through his heart. The best part of him. My entire body felt numb and I had been crying for so long that the tears were starting to burn my eyes. I’ve never felt any pain remotely as strong as this. How could I say goodbye to the only person who had ever cared about me? I had no one now. Those filthy bearded men took the biggest part of my soul and cut it into pieces. But this was never supposed to be my life. I had aspirations. I had dreams. I wanted to be a writer, and I was pretty good too. I kept good grades all through middle school and high school, which paid off because I received a scholarship for English at the University of Houston. I didn’t want to be away from home, where Jerry was. I also didn’t want him getting all the responsibility for taking care of the bar when I knew my mother wouldn’t be around too often. I promised myself and I promised Jerry that I would finish school until the end, get my degree, and never become my mother. I want to keep the feeling of knowing Jerry is proud of me for the rest of my life. I will keep this promise to Jerry. Attend school and get my life in order. And maybe then, I can begin to trust in hope.

Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

Memento Mori -2017-

Amanda Rioux

The yellowed photograph stares up from the bottom of the box. Old and soft. Thinly coated in stale and ancient dust. The paper frame crumbles easily away with the slightest touch. Two pairs of eyes--one male, one female--look past the cameraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lens. There is something haunting in their expressionless faces, the way their eyes stare into nothingness. The manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brow is furrowed beneath the brim of a derby hat, his eyes dark and brooding. The woman beside him has her hair tightly pulled back. Her eyes, partially hidden behind a dark veil, are as hollow as his. There is a subtle softness in her features, yet pain and resilience register on her face. They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t appear to acknowledge one another. Their arms extend downwards, as they rest on the shoulders of a young girl. No more than 6 or 7 years old, she is propped in a cushioned chair, asleep, head slightly tilted to the side. Her long hair is neatly combed, fanned delicately across her shoulders, with a large white bow resting on top. Not a strand out of place. She is the picture of angelic innocence in her dark, satin dress and white apron. She clasps a porcelain doll, dressed

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identically, in her lap. Faint wisps of pink powder have notorious hypochondriac, up and quit without warning, been applied to her cheeks, atop the photograph. A preferring to find employment in a warmer climate. light brushing of the fingers rubs small traces of it away. Attempts at quickly replacing her proved fruitless once word of the feared illness spread throughout town. There is a disconnect between them, as though they The elderly farm hand who tended the horses was exist in different times. They are stiff and lifeless, temporarily sent away to convalesce with his daughter uncomfortable; the child, blissfully unaware. The dour in the countryside, out of precaution. No visitors dared expression of the adults is a juxtaposition to the child’s to call; a veritable dark and unwelcoming shadow apparent peaceful state. Although the depiction of cast itself over the house. Those on the staff who were a family, something about the photography appears fortunate enough to remain healthy were extra vigilant off. At the bottom of the photo, scrawled in small when performing their daily tasks. All efforts to stave but painfully neat script, is written: Margaret Victoria off the sickness were strictly adhered to. Bennett, in repose, following her death from Spanish Flu in her 7th year. Father, a businessman in the financial district, spent very little time at home; his bout with the dreaded only flu laid him up momentarily, perhaps a day or two. -1907When his strength returned, he tended day and night The sickness spread, relentlessly, throughout the to Mother, as she lay abed, feverish, praying for death household. First it was the kitchen maid. The poor to come. Tenderly, her husband nursed her—wiping dear; so lithe, so frail. She was gone in a matter of the boiling sweat from her brow, administering sips days, her body whisked away in the dead of night, of cool water—as the fever took hold. Silent prayers hidden beneath a sheet. The heartier, more robust staff were frantically whispered under his breath. Within soldiered through it, and regained their strength after days the fever broke, and life returned to her. For a a few weeks’ bed rest. The doorman came close to the moment, at least, it seemed all was well. brink of death, but years of breathing the countryside air had strengthened his lungs. The first footman But the illness wasn’t done. somehow continued his daily duties, despite a raging temperature and several sleepless nights. The cook, a It came late one night for its final victim: the couple’s Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

young daughter. Normally a precocious and playful child, the sweet little Margaret was reduced to a limp, quivering form in a matter of hours. The sweet sound of laughter that once penetrated the halls of the house were replaced by a cold, ominous silence.

Mother take their place behind the chair. They share a saddened look. Sighing, Father replaces his hat on his head. After dabbing tears with the hem of her dress, Mother composes herself. They both reach forward, placing a hand on their departed daughter’s shoulders.

While she lay in bed, her favorite doll by her side, her parents fretted. Father, head bowed, anxiously paced the room while Mother, hands wringing, attempted to soothe the girl with gently sung lullabies and familiar fairy tales. The local doctor was called. His stern expression upon examining the child told her parents all they needed to know: It was hopeless. A few days later, Margaret succumbed as she took her final breaths, wrapped tightly in her mother’s arms, a priest administering her last rites. Inconsolable with grief, the husband and wife clung to the withered body, refusing to let go.

There is one last gesture from the photographer. Mother and Father hold their breath and try to stay still—a feat that comes naturally now to Margaret. The photographer holds three ingers in the air, silently counting down to one. There’s the pop of a flashbulb, a wisp of smoke: a moment soon over; an image forever captured.

The house is in mourning now: black curtains cover the windows; more dark fabric hides every mirror. The staff work to replace rapidly drooping flowers; their overpowering aroma an attempt to mask the rancid, ever-present scent of death. The tiny body, dressed in satin, has been removed from the viewing table. The mourners have come and gone; only family and staff remain. After placing her daughter in a cushioned chair, Mother delicately applies powders and blush to the decaying face. Small tabs are placed beneath the tiny eyelids to keep them closed. Holding his hat in his hands, Father is speaking softly with a man—a photographer. The photographer assembles a tripod before placing an Ensignette camera which, unfolded, resembles an accordion, on top. He gestures to Father, who nods and walks to his wife and child. His face now obscured behind a dark cloak, the photographer motions with his arms as Father and 45

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The Gold Starts to Rub Off Amber Shimbkus

I love the windows in hotel rooms. It’s the first thing I do when I check in: go up to my room, tip the bellhop, and throw open the blackout curtains and the hinges to reveal: a city view, an ocean vista, a country lane. “A Whole New World,” like in Aladdin. A fresh start, and a week or two of time to reap every benefit of that new place, before it fills just another spot in your memory. Before it becomes just normal, while the magic is still there. This time, I was perched on the tiniest balcony of Hotel Moliere, meshed between a restaurant and a newer hotel, on one of those little islets on the Seine. Late afternoon- too late for coffee, but there’s always time for nicotine. I was hiding from everyone. I lit up another cigarette. What a perfect pairingcigarettes and ennui. Wished I had one of those extendable holders to keep my teeth from getting yellow, like Holly Golightly, the role that got Audrey Hepburn plastered on every 18-year old girl’s bedroom wall, right next to a smiling, perfectly coiffed Marilyn. Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

Give me a break. I read once that Audrey Hepburn found the role challenging, because Holly was this haphazard, outgoing wine-o and Audrey was really this quiet little doe, just how she looks. Pretending to be something you’re not- treason or poetry?

I scratched absentmindedly at the faux-gilding on the phone, a plastic coating with already so much “gold” hacked off. What a dumb design. “Mademoiselle, Monsieur Etienne Auberee is calling for you.” Etienne was an old flame- and I mean from ages ago, like in my 20’s. I found his number and we met up for an uninspired rendez-vous. He had inherited his father’s dairy farm in the Loire, and while he was sinewy and tan from eating mostly beef and shoveling shit or whatever he did all day, intellectually he was a bore. Not how I wanted to spend my last night in Paris.

The phone rang from the vanity- I really couldn’t be bothered, though. Who was even calling? Was it Phil, had he hunted me down from Frankfurt, where I was “still staying” because the goons at the “Women in Literature” conference took such an interest in my Big Idea that they asked me to stay an extra two weeks to go around lecturing mini-Goethe-wannabes about Walt Whitman’s work being all about sex, sex, sex? “Alan,” I begged, a dusting of ash flitting from the Phil, you idiot. briefly-abandoned cigarette onto my palm. “Can you get rid of him for me? I don’t have the energy.” How long would it take Phil to uncover my lie, and really somehow get ahold of me, and I would have Alan, after an experienced pause, “Is there something to gently explain to Phil that Phil, you idiot, I’m not you’d like me to tell him?” coming back? I don’t want to come back. Take your ring (waste of one-hundred-sixty-thousand yen, bought in Tell him anything, who cares? “Tell him I’m in the salon, Tokyo on our first and final adventure together), and or something. These eyebrows won’t wax themselves.” flush it down the nearest gas station toilet. While you’re at it, flush the 5-bedroom Colonial, and see if they’ll let “D’accord, mademoiselle. He won’t be a bother.” us flush the marriage contract, too. Divorce is a bore. I thanked him and hung up. The phone rang again. Fine. I crawled back from the ledge, my noticeably more muscled legs half-asleep from In front of the (also peeling-gold) mirror, I nodded at sitting scrunched up like a gargoyle. A month’s worth the 25-year-old spark blinking through my 40-year old of walking in Paris, drunk and sober and everywhere eyelids. She secreted angst, she was irate being stuck- in in between, will make a noticeable improvement in a hotel, in this life. She thirsted for newness. Younger one’s shapeliness. Josephine had gotten exactly what she wanted- novels published, the most ridiculously expensive wedding “Ouais?” I answered indifferently. (after Kim Kardashian’s), love and fame, every bit of financial padding…so why wouldn’t she go away, and “Mademoiselle March?” It was Alan from the front leave her older, dulling counterpart be? desk. With Etienne dismissed (“Jojo, why you no answer my “Present.” calls?” I imagined him whining. This was a guy who ordered martinis only to pick out the olives, grimace 47

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while taking only two sips, then complaining that it wasn’t a rye whiskey.), I decided to get something to eat, and I wanted to get out of the hotel, which was no longer fresh and new, but tired like they always become after a while. After a while, you start to see the flaws in the grand design. The elevator or the pool closes for maintenance (for a good week), a red-faced guest gets in a tussle with one of the staff, and the annoying gold trim on everything chips or gets picked off (by me) and everything starts to look tragic.

It was mostly the young Jojo in me who needed it; and I had learned I cannot escape her, no matter where I go.

Paris glowed from a late spring sunset, and cars splashed unlucky pedestrians with yesterday’s rain. I didn’t have the volition (nor the energy- I didn’t lie to Alan at the front desk) for a traditional 3-course production, so I settled for a chocolate pastry washed down with another cigarette and a walk towards Montmartre. Street vendors were taking a breath before the hoard of tourists taking photos of (insert attraction here) by night. They were the usual sellers of cheaply made, Eiffel-Tower-themed items, Edith Piaf records, Art Nouveau prints, caps and berets. I only ever stopped for the book vendors, since I had once stumbled upon a tattered compilation of Fernando Pessoa’s works that The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them. I have since treasured. Today’s book vendor was a squinting middle-aged woman, who, upon noticing my interest in her merchandise, drew her cigarette from her mouth and smacked a book an elbow’s distance away with the back of her hand, like it was a naughty child. “Wheetman,” she announced, with a heavy accent. It was not a question. “Ah,” I agreed, picking it up and opening it gingerly. Predictably, it was Leaves of Grass. I opened to “Song of the Open Road” and read to myself, Here is man tallied- he realizes here what he has in him,

“Yes,” the vendor nodded as I read, “Fifty euro.” I shook my head with a smile. “Someone will want it more than I do.” She waved me away as a heavy British couple approached, eyeballing touristy magnets to send to their friends back in Stratfordshire, probably. I meandered back to my hotel after some time, ignoring the usual street performers and professional scam artists as I went. The next day I was on a train headed for Cologne, then Denmark- a kite festival was underway, and I needed the colors and the fresh air, like comfort food. It was mostly the young Jojo in me who needed it; and I had learned I cannot escape her, no matter where I go. Spring 2018

Temper Literary Review

Wesley White Williams

Come ( ) of Age

As You Are 49

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Hingham, Massachusetts is an affluent seaside suburb with a population of about 23,000. Major landmarks include its harbor, Wampanoag State Park, the Old Ship church (the oldest still-operational church in the United States), Marky Mark’s Wahlburgers restaurant, and innumerable colonial-style McMansions lining what Eleanor Roosevelt called “the most beautiful Main Street in America”. 97.5% of Hingham’s population is white, with all other racial groups making up less than one percent each. Oh, it’s such a great place to raise kids… assuming you have an income of at least six figures. It was here that I spent the bulk of my public school years, and for better or for worse, I consider it my hometown. Memorial Day, 2008. “This is all temporary,” she told me. I had just returned to Beal’s Cove from a triumphant Boy Scout outing on Cape Cod, still in my scout uniform and neckerchief. Beal’s Cove is the condominium complex my mom and I lived at for much of my childhood. It always felt sunnier here than anywhere else in the already-postcardesque Hingham, whether I was riding my bike outside, having snowball fights with the neighbors’ kids, cannonballing into

summer pool parties, or wasting away those endless afternoons on Club Penguin in the air conditioning. But alas, it was “all temporary.” After Memorial Day weekend, mom’s condo looked much barer than when I left it. Cardboard boxes were strewn across the floor – filled ones, empty ones, still-folded-up ones. “This is all temporary”. It took a while for the revelation to set in, but when it did, it impacted me like an oncoming freight train. From the fall of 2008 to ’10, I only “officially” lived in Hingham. I attended its school system, but through circumstances beyond my control, my mother had to rent out our condo and move. We now lived across the Back River in Weymouth, the next town over, with my maternal grandma. During this period in my life, my innocence was uprooted and in its place, a black weed was in bloom. One morning in early September, 2008. Following a thoroughly unproductive summer spent between the computer at my granny’s real estate office in Quincy and a Super 8 Motel in Brockton, it was time to hit the books again. Gone were the days of endless Chuck Norris facts and dick and fart jokes on the school bus in Hingham. Now my transportation was a somber car ride from mom. The origin was granny’s house, crossing the rubicon of childhood innocence in its death throes, to a Hingham Middle School that felt nothing like the one I walked out of on my last day of 6th grade. In a time when my peers were just beginning to realize a sense of control over their lives, for me, that illusion was dashed before it could even take shape. I returned to Hingham Middle School no longer a boy, but far from a man. For the first time in my 12 years of existence, I felt truly insignificant. I felt… selfconscious. The preps and jocks of HMS whooped it up over their burgeoning social lives, planning hang-outs

and dates, while I wasn’t even allowed to have a cell phone. They were all clad in their American Eagle and Abercrombie and Hollister clothes, while my wardrobe consisted of rags from Wal-Mart. I fell out of touch with the friends I’d made in 6th grade and elementary school, as they had no way or incentive to maintain contact with me. Bailey, Jack, Matt, Mimi, and the Townsend twins all gazed right through me as I passed them between classes. The dregs of youthful warmth were dwindling as my homework mounted. Reality was like a ceaseless regimen of beatings. I wanted any escape I could get my grubby mitts on. Any Sunday from Fall of 2008 to Summer 2010. Granny has set the sole condition of my living with her: accompanying her to church. Every week, the congregation was herded into the sanctuary of the Eastern Nazarene Church in Quincy, and I wanted nothing more than to be back at gran’s house sleeping in. “Sunday morning is a time of renewal!” she’d tell me. Oh, I sure was feelin’ it. The pastor delivered his sermon, and it went in one ear and out the other as I slouched in the pews. While gran’s intention was to save my soul, she only served to galvanize the darkness within it. My indignation was compounded by an iron grandmother and a mercurial mother. Gran always berated me for not pulling my weight or being grateful enough for her opening her home up to me. Meanwhile, mom swung unpredictably from the verge of kicking me out to making empty threats of suicide if I didn’t stay in line. With no friends in Weymouth, and no means or ability to keep up my friendships in Hingham, I turned to the wild digital frontier to cultivate my social life. I was already a regular internet surfer, mostly for watching cringy YouTube videos and browsing Newgrounds for crude Flash animations. On one forum devoted to a gory video game I wanted but didn’t have, I found a friend who was in a similar Spring 2018

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situation to my own in many ways. He was a loner, a gloves, black military cap, and black Chuck Taylors (the hater, the son of a single mom. His name was Vincent. knockoff kind from Payless, no less). At the latter store, I ogled over the idiotic gag gifts and trinkets, envious On the home front, mom and gran collaborated in and resentful of faceless fellow youths snickering as policing what seemed to be every facet of my pubescent they browsed the merchandise. On return to gran’s, I life. My dress, social life (or lack thereof ), rationing would borrow mom’s digital camera and I flip the bird my contact with my dad’s side of the family, shrink in every selfie I took with it, flaunting my edgelord appointments – all of these prohibitions I would swag, then heavily edit these photos and upload them to bemoan to Vincent in our late-night MSN Instant a deviantART account I should’ve never been allowed Messenger chats, which felt more like sleepovers. He to make. Using the site’s journal feature, I spilled my lived in Chicago and was a couple years older than I guts about my life and how butthurt I was over it in was, his misanthropy having festered uninterrupted for grandiose, ham-fisted rants. All the while, Vincent years into something that I somehow envied. Pothead, was the only person I truly felt like I could confide in. conspiracy theorist, obsessed with serial killers – Vince really was the full package, folks. My 7th grade self Truth be told, I was always wary of his interests, thought he had it all figured out: when the world gets and hesitant to get into marijuana like he constantly you down, just drop out from it, and live by your own raved about. (Eventually I’d adopt that vice of my own rules. If only it were so easy. Although I’d never admit volition, long after my friendship with Vincent had it then, I saw Vincent as a mentor, almost a father figure, run its course.) But I could always rely on Vincent as a pathetic substitute for the one I lacked at the time. a listening ear, and for music recommendations. His He empathized with my rage, and groomed me into favorite band was Nirvana, and soon it became mine what I thought was self-actualization. as well. His reverence for their frontman Kurt Cobain was something I soon emulated. “I’m convinced that As mom and gran pushed, I pushed back, and not he’s God,” he’d tell me. “Courtney was his Judas, and just against them. The divide between myself and when he blew his brains out, he became the messiah.” my classmates deepened, and as such I began to feel While I never took my Nirvana groupie-ism to the like it was me against the world. My aspiration was level he did, the band’s albums became fixtures in my no longer to be accepted by it. It was to be rejection playlists, and the de facto soundtrack to my teen angst. manifested. My very continuing to breathe was an act of rebellion. I wanted to embody the antithesis of This angst is something I know isn’t unique to my Hingham’s plastic conformity. I wanted to be edgy. So middle school experience. Everyone has done things at Vincent’s suggestion (in hindsight, it was probably as a teen that they regret and wish could expunge from at his behest), I started developing an edgy aesthetic the annals of history. However, with me it was allfor myself accordingly. consuming. I only existed in relation to my suffering and less-than-ideal home life. My circumstances and Some spring afternoon, 2009. The Hanover Mall my reaction to them defined me. I hated the world became something of a second home for me. Any time with no legitimate reason for doing so, and while deep my mom took me here, my “go-to”s were Hot Topic down I was screaming out for the validation I’d been and Spencer’s. From the former store, I got a Punisher denied, in doing so I only brought my social isolation skull t-shirt that complimented my fingerless black on myself. I reeked of teen spirit. 51

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Temper Literary Review

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