Little Brown House Review 24 by Deerfield Academy

Little Brown House Review

A journal of writing by students of English at

DEERFIELD ACADEMY FALL 2018, ISSUE 24

DEERFIELD, MA

Issue Twenty-Four Editors: Heather Liske & Anna Gonzales Design & Typography: Emily Richardson & Anna Gonzales, based on Robert Moorhead Department of English at Deerfield Academy Christian Austin · Delano Copprue · Anna Gonzales · Karinne Heise Heather Liske · Sam Morris · Peter Nilsson · Chinyere Odim Sonja O’Donnell · Mark Ott · Mark Scandling · Julie Schloat Michael Schloat · Andy Stallings · Anna Steim · Joel Thomas-Adams Kimberly Wright Cover Art: Papa Dunes Interior Art: Olivia Ontaneda, Class of 2003

Little Brown House Review A Journal of Writing by Students of English at Deerfield Academy

Table of Contents 13

Preface

The Poverty of Never Being Heard: Women and the Inability to Transcend the Body

Sultan and Julie Kiana RAWJI Winner of the 2018 Bartlett W. Boyden English Prize for excellence in the study of English

32 “Our Bodies, Ourselves”: Humanity in Hamlet, Maus, and White Teeth 37

Time Trials Sarah jane O’Connor Winner of the 2018 Robert McGlynn Award to a graduating senior for excellence in writing

In Protest of Existence

The Emergence of American Leisure and Cosmopolitanism SYdney bebon Winner of the 2018 Stuart Murray Barclay Scholarship, awarded annually to that member of the Junior Class who, in the judgment of the English Department, has demonstrated outstanding ability, achievement, and breadth of interest in the study of English. Established by his family, classmates, and friends in honor of a loyal member of the Class of 1978 who lost his life in the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 near Lockerbie, Scotland on December 21, 1988.

Senior Meditations 59

In Search of Weight KIANA RAWJI

Kids-Play Nicely Spencer Rosen

Untitled Karen Trovamala

Glass Slippers CLAIRE ZHANG

Junior Declamation Winners 84

Medicine with Meaning Raegan hill

Value in Differences Colin olson

The Truth Behind the Fences Fatima Rashid

Sophomore Poetry Contest Winners 93

Dinner Party Kareena Bhakta

(Celebration) Madeline Lee

Plague Claire Quan

The Breadloaf Prize 99

Light Bringer Maya Laur

103 Teenagers Madeline Lee 105 Cartons Claire quan 9th Grade Declamation Winners 108 For Sudan Adebisi Akilo 110 Herkimer Daisy dundas 112 Wonder Talia Rajeskar The 2018 john C. O’Brien Poetry Prize 115 Roots Noelle Abeyta

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Selected Writings: Class of 2021 117 Conformity for Survival Ellia Chiang 122 Exacting Revenge in The Merchant of Venice Angela Cui 124 Truth Kevin gu 130 The Religion of Childhood Juliette Lowe 132 High on Power Charlotte MOlinari 134 Acrobat Rosa Sun 136 Stepping Stool Rosa Sun 138 The Impact of Stereotypes Eleanor wenners Selected Writings: Class of 2020 145 Time as a River Angelique Alexos 148 Like Riding a Bike, Only Different Sydney Gregg

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151 One Home, Una Casa, Isang Bahay Netanya Jimenez 154 Silence, Please Sarah Jung 157 I Am Friday Sarah Jung & Carter WEymouth 163 The Unsurprizing Last Testament of Martha Crusoe, of Lincolnshire, Daughter and Widow Madeline Lee & Joseph Mollo 167 Untitled Irvin li 170 Speaking Mercy GRace Mazur 172 My Life Upon My Return to England Jae MOon & Sarah Wright 176 I Am Soo Oh 178 You Are Victoria Patterson 181 Learning Amy Mia Silberstein 185 To My Lovely Sisters, ... Mia Silberstein

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192 Apoptosis Lukas Trelease 196 To the Beach Carter WEymouth 198 The Handkerchief Sarah Wright 201 Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Him Again Arthur Yao Selected Writings: Class of 2019 204 Untitled Gerry Alexandre 206 The Power of Representation Jennifer Brown 208 Mezcla Ricardo Gonzales 210 Curtain Call valerie Hetherington 214 The Lost Wonder Cosmo hunt 218 Creationism by the 38th Parallel Nadia jo 220 Aminata Aminata ka

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223 HOME is Where You Feel FREE Owen louis 226 Incarnation to Holocaust Anna Mishchenko 231 The Emotion of the Forest Colin olson 236 Reflecting on Emerson and Thoreau Maxime Pitchon 239 Daydreamer Kimberly Stafford 243 260 Bennett Stankovits 245 Letter to Disney Brigid Stoll 248 Religion: Salvation or Damnation? Brigid Stoll 253 Across the Tracks Cam Taylor 255 Untitled katie zaslaw 258 My Name Jerilyn ZHENG

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Selected Writings: Class of 2018 261 Reading Sartre’s Nausea and Camus’ The Stranger Kevin Chen 266 Memories Annabelle Mauri 268 Writing the Sentence: Power Imbalances in the Love Story Annabelle Mauri 276 3 Minutes Gozzy Nwogbo 280 My MacBook Air: An Excavation Julian O’Donnell 286 Sometimes a Really Bad Headache Says Enough, and Sometimes it Doesn’t Stephanie OYolu 291 For You, I Would Never Sink Again Katie Whalen

Little Brown House Review

PREFACE

he Arms was always my first stop on trips back to Deerfield throughout college. One by one, I’d revisit my old classrooms and check for changes. I’d note the occasionally shifted placement of a Pollock reproduction or Rothko print, take comfort in the stalwart ranks of Mary Oliver’s Poetry Handbooks and Penguin Shakespeares lining the shelves, and then return to the seat I’d occupied in whichever particular class. On still summer afternoons, the building entirely empty, I would watch the dust swirl above the table and think about how I myself had changed since my last moments in that particular chair. My final foray in the building would be a brief trespass into the department office. The doors are always thrown wide, as if to welcome visitors, and yet my steps on the heavy rug had been so rare throughout my time as a student that it still seemed as though I should forbear. But a shelf in the back corner held the most important yardstick by which to measure how I’d changed in the intervening years: the Little Brown House Review. I approached the white spines of the journal with apprenhension, and always the same, self-focused questions. Would I still think my own writing was actually decent, or would I cringe? How did my junior declamation hold up? What about my meditation? Yet as I put together this year’s edition of the Review, new clarity emerged around the process of revisiting my own writing, and around the Review itself. What now seems most critical to me about the LBHR is not whether my attempts at parsing W.S. Merwin’s “The Rain in the Trees” still feel trenchant.

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Instead, the Review captures students working their hardest, draft by draft, to represent their ideas in clear and elegant fashion. It provides an authentic and essential record of who our students are here, of their questions and their delving throughout all they read and write. The pages that follow represent exactly what makes it such a joy to teach English at Deerfield, bearing witness to the process of students coming into themselves.

Anna Gonzales English faculty August 2018

nd though the pages that follow are virtual ones — this 24th Little Brown House Review marks its second online edition — the premise is the same as ever: to catch up the harvest of a school year, nine months of reading and discussing, thinking and writing. These distillations, curations, renderings, wonderings, explorations and revelations bear witness to a year of Deerfield students engaging in the work of creating meaning, what Gwendolyn Brooks calls a “blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.” This compendium of best work from Deerfield’s English students takes its name from a small structure that sits on the south side of Albany Road, once the long-time residence of esteemed English teacher Robert McGlynn — and, much earlier, dating back to the early 1800s, a smithy. I like that this collection of good work is named for a place that contained a forge — and that despite the medium’s change, this art of shaping, crafting, continues here in the Valley. Heather Liske English faculty August 2018 14

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THE 2018 BARTLETT W. BOYDEN ENGLISH PRIZE

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The Poverty of Never Being Heard: Women and the Inability to Transcend the Body Kiana Rawji

e are So much more than our bodies. This, everyone knows. Nonetheless, in our culture, women are often confined by the limits of their bodies. One chromosome — the key biological difference between sexes — can determine one’s freedom to transcend his or her own biology. Several of the love stories showcased in Jeffrey Eugenides’ curated anthology My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead: Great Love Stories, from Chekhov to Munro reveal a common pattern in comparing the relationship that men have with their bodies to the relationship that women have with theirs. In his short story, “The Hitchhiking Game,” Milan Kundera explains of his unnamed female protagonist that she “often longed to feel free and easy about her body… She was too much at one with her body, that is why she always felt such anxiety about it” (172). Whereas women in these “love stories” are “too much at one” with their bodies, imprisoned in their physical selves and in forms of social and psychological anxiety that accompany that condition, men more easily transcend their bodies and thus their consciences. Four stories, separated in time and geography — Eileen Chang’s “Red Rose, White Rose,” Kundera’s “The Hitchhiking Game,” Anton Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Little Dog,” and Raymond Carver’s “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” — expose this double standard, depicting women shamed, and men lauded for their transgressions concerning the body — for what Issue 24 · FALL 2018

they do with their own bodies as well as for what they do to women’s bodies. In Chang’s short story, “Red Rose, White Rose,” the main character, Zhenbao, is even praised when he musters up the decency not to transgress. When his first love, Rose, pushes herself onto him, Zhenbao realizes, “He could have done whatever he wanted. But… this would not do. Rose, after all, was a decent girl. This sort of thing was not for him” (374). That Zhenbao “could have done whatever he wanted” suggests that he could have sexually assaulted Rose. Yet, he stops himself from succumbing to impulse by reasoning that Rose is a “decent girl,” perhaps undeserving of such demeaning treatment, adding that “this sort of thing was not for him,” that he is what his social circle would call a “good guy.” However, a “good guy” would not have considered taking advantage of Rose’s body in the first place and certainly would not have later regretted his decision not to. Chang goes on to explain, Afterward, even [Zhenbao] was surprised by his self-control… His behavior that evening filled him with astonishment and admiration, and yet in his heart he felt regret… there was not one of his friends who was unaware of Zhenbao’s reputation as a regular Liu Xiahui, a man who could keep perfectly calm with a beautiful woman in his lap (375). For his decision not to rape a woman, Zhenbao earns a positive reputation in his own eyes and in the eyes of others, for Liu Xiahui was a Chinese politician known for his unwavering virtue (“Zhan Huo”). As Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie wrote of racism in her novel, Americanah, one might say of Zhenbao’s situation and of sexism, male dominance, and rape culture: they “should never have happened and so you don’t get a cookie for reducing [them]” (Adichie). One should not be commended for doing what, in any “civilized” society, should be expected, such as in the case of 18

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the stronger individual withholding violence against the weaker. Nevertheless, since Zhenbao is a man who fights against a fierce and supposedly innate sexual desire, his society excuses and applauds him. Ironically, Zhenbao is also praised when he does transgress, readily forgiven for his actions concerning his body. Near the end of “Red Rose, White Rose,” now a married man who has started drinking, staying out late, and frequenting prostitutes, Zhenbao’s reputation still remains untarnished. Chang describes Zhenbao “as running wild — almost to the point of bringing prostitutes home with him — but everyone still thought of him as a fine upstanding man, a good man” (416). No matter what he does with his body, including sleeping with prostitutes and cheating on his wife, Zhenbao is absolved of guilt as long as he maintains a high position in his job and provides for his family, which he does. Transcending the body means also transcending the the boundaries of shame that might be attached to it. In Shanghai in the 1940s, Zhenboa, the husband and industrialist, is free to misbehave without social repercussions. On the other hand, if the roles were reversed and Zhenbao’s wife, Yanli, his “white rose,” had been sleeping with multiple men, she likely would have been labeled a “whore” and looked down upon. The impossible expectations of purity are not lost on Chang’s reader. A similar double standard is evident in Kundera’s “The Hitchhiking Game,” where the unnamed male protagonist, significantly called “the man,” is not held accountable for his wrongdoings, while “the woman,” who significantly becomes “the girl” as the narrative unfolds, must bear responsibility for the both of them. In Kundera’s love story, what starts as a couple’s seemingly innocent game of role-playing escalates into aggressive assault. Describing the closing rape scene, Kundera narrates, He was vulgar and lascivious… She wanted to refuse, she Issue 24 · FALL 2018

wanted to be released from the game. She called him by his first name, but he immediately yelled at her that she had no right to address him so intimately. And so… she obeyed, she bent forward and crouched according to the young man’s wishes. (186) “The man” is clearly the aggressor in this scene, as he hurts and humiliates the young woman. When he yells at her, his voice overpowers hers. In comparison to “the girl’s” inability to escape her body from the inside out, “the man” has the power to penetrate the boundaries of her body from the outside in, with both his actions and his words. The reader begins to sympathize with “the girl” who “wasn’t even allowed to cry, because the young man’s furious passion gradually won over her body, which then silenced the complaint of her soul” (187). “The girl’s” soul represents her inner self, the part of her that wants to protest but is “silenced” — trapped and repressed inside of her body. Furthermore, when “the man” does not show any sign of guilt or regret after raping his girlfriend, “the girl” actually starts to take the blame. At the close of this scene, Kundera exposes, “The girl soon passed from sobbing to loud crying and went on endlessly repeating this pitiful tautology: ‘I’m me, I’m me, I’m me…’” (188). Although she is the victim of rape, “the girl” still feels as though she has to prove herself, and in light of the man’s power and point of view, this effort is viewed as “pitiful,” a sort of spectacle not to be taken seriously. She pleads to the man, almost apologetically, repeating “I’m me,” one last effort to be acknowledged as having a soul — to allow her to transcend her physicality and attain a sort of truce or end to the game. However, “the man” should be the one imploring her for forgiveness; the girl may have initiated the hitchhiking role playing game, but “the man” did not have to end it the way he did, in annihilation. He crossed a line. Yet the woman in the love story is bound to her body and must take responsibility for whatever she — or anyone else — does with it, while the man is free 20

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to do whatever he pleases, to violate any boundaries, and seemingly suffer no shame. The notion that women feel more guilt for their transgressions and suffer more severe social and psychological consequences than men do is also present in Chekhov’s 1899 “The Lady with the Little Dog,” where Anna feels awful for cheating on her husband while on holiday in Yalta, but her illicit lover, Gurov, feels no remorse for cheating on his wife. In her hotel room, Anna declares to Gurov, “God forgive me! This is terrible… How can I justify myself? I’m a bad, low woman, I despise myself and am not even thinking of any justification… I’ve become a trite, trashy woman, whom anyone can despise” (36). Anna cannot stop putting herself down for the “sin” (36) she has committed with her body, and she feels so guilty that she does not even attempt to justify her actions. She goes as far as to label herself as “trite” and “trashy” — using pre-existing labels for such behavior in women to put herself in a box and thereby silence herself. Further, Anna’s words have no effect on Gurov’s conscience, as he simply replies, “Enough, enough” (36), and kisses her just to stop her rambling. He’s heard this before, and thus much like the young man in “The Hitchhiking Game,” Gurov never demonstrates any remorse for his actions, at least not like Anna does in this scene. In the story, this double-standard is so ingrained in the culture that even women are often unforgiving of themselves or of other women for what they do with their bodies. It follows, then, that women, like the society around them, are also more forgiving of men. In Raymond Carver’s “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,” Terri is quick to pardon her abusive ex-boyfriend, Ed, and her occasionally disrespectful husband, Mel, for the ways they each treat her. At the beginning of the story, the narrator explains, “Terri said the man she lived with before she lived with Mel loved her so much he tried to kill her” (489). Instead of considering Ed’s abuse as demonstrative of maliciousness, Terri justifies it as an act of love. Just as Zhenbao’s society in “Red Rose, White Rose” said of Issue 24 · FALL 2018

him when he started sleeping with prostitutes, Terri reasons that Ed is still a “good guy.” She argues that he still loved her, just “in his own way” (490). Terri also shows sympathy for Ed despite what he has put her through. When Mel explains how Ed threatened him and Terri with a gun, Terri stresses, “I still feel sorry for him” (492). Instead of holding Ed accountable for his actions, she pities him and, in doing so, excuses him. Additionally, when her husband tells her to “shut up for once in [her] life” (495), overtly suppressing her voice, thrusting her back into her silent role, Terri overlooks the cruel comment. Instead of calling her husband out, shortly afterwards, she says, “I love you hon” (496), and kisses him. As Gurov kisses Anna to keep her quiet in “The Lady with The Little Dog,” so this kiss in this instance sweeps an important issue under the rug. An interesting distinction, however, is that in Chekhov’s story, the man uses the kiss to silence the woman, but in Carver’s story, the woman is the one using the kiss to silence herself. Even if men are not entirely forgiven for their transgressions, their actions are often ignored because, of course, “boys will be boys.” Although she appears not to, even the character Laura in “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” subscribes to the cultural norm of readily overlooking men’s transgressions. When Terri comments that Mel would love to be a knight and carry a lance, Laura adds, “Carry a woman’s scarf with you everywhere” (497), which inspires Mel to reply, “Or just a woman” (497). To this, Laura immediately retorts, “Shame on you” (497), but in the manner of the blushing damsel befitting her status in this company. Later, when Mel says that he wishes his ex-wife would either get remarried or die so that he does not have to support her any longer, Laura again reproaches him with the words, “shame on you” (500). However, her scolding is entirely fruitless, as Mel never acknowledges her. The readers get the sense that Laura knows her words are completely disregarded and that she does not care. Her determination to hold Mel accountable for his actions is seemingly unconventional. 22

Little Brown House Review

However, upon closer examination, the reader can infer that Laura is merely saying “shame on you” to say it — she is just adding to hollow dinner conversation. She likely does not mean or even understand what she says, as the futility of her words has no effect on her; she simply goes on being a polite guest. Though she appears to be saying something, Laura is as good as silent. Double-standards surrounding transgression are ubiquitous in “Red Rose, White Rose,” “The Hitchhiking Game,” “The Lady with the Little Dog,” and “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” At the core of this problem in each of the love stories is silence. As Karen Rinaldi writes in an article on sexist language and norms, “If [women] are ‘bitches’ and men are ‘good guys,’ then how do women stand a chance to be heard?” (Rinaldi). Men have historically held the power — the luxury — of voice, whereas women have long been stuck in “the poverty of never being heard” (Krauss 115). Silence is the force that imprisons women in their bodies, and it can be imposed on them by social norms, such as the prevalence of rape culture, or even self-inflicted. Either way, the silence of women is the bedrock of patriarchy. We are all somewhat complicit in confining women to their biology and perpetuating the poverty of never being heard. In selecting these four love stories — which take place all around the world, from China to Yalta, and through modern times — to include in his anthology, Eugenides presents love stories as important tools for communication; in compiling them, Eugenides conveys a powerful message, both exposing the fault lines in our culture and calling us to action. And that is the power of the love story. It is not the love that is the most potent force, but instead, the story. Perhaps the love story has the potential to break the cycle of “poverty”—it is the megaphone to women’s lips, the witness to their plights. It is perhaps the one place where women can finally be heard by those willing to read.

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Sultan and Julie: A Series of Poems Inspired by Rita Dove’s Thomas and Beulah Watching She remembers how it felt to be followed by his eyes; he was always watching, she was always noticing. His gaze was soft, gentle like his voice— his woman voice. She remembers not liking the parting in his hair— it was too centered— but she liked it when he changed it for her. Lion Her father became a man when he killed a lion in Tsavo1 but this man would kill no lion; it took him weeks to speak one word to her

1 Rural village in Kenya, known for its man-eating lions

Little Brown House Review

and though his name meant ruler, he couldn’t rule her. When he finally walked beside instead of behind her, he was too shy to ever hold her hand. Mundele2 She remembers the diamonds that were never in his pockets; She knew this man would smuggle no shiny rock. But he was a Mundele so they locked him up anyway. Pizza She remembers when they finally got out, when they sought something better, but found some things the same; she remembers his quiet rage when the white boys called them “Pakis,” when he wanted a home but no home wanted him— 2 Word in Lingala (a Congolese language) meaning white person, foreigner, or lighter-skinned person.

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he was always wanting, rarely getting. And she was always noticing. When the pizza slices smacked the windows, they didn’t crack the glass, but they did fracture his heart. Heart She remembers when his heart started to give out, when he took to the warmth of the fireplace over the warmth of her embrace, when his voice fell quiet, and his chin began to droop onto his small chest, where the red thing was enclosed—pallid, barely beating. Blow She remembers the slow sting of his glare when he yelled— when his woman voice turned into a man voice. She needed to get out of the kitchen, to get air, so she did, but only to meet the blow 26

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of a windshield. Cheese She remembers each day after, when his eyes loved her again and his voice held her, rocked her like a baby, and she knew it wasn’t her, it always something else— some things the same— A Mundele in the Congo subdued by mundeles in another world, this man was no lion slayer, no diamond smuggler; this man didn’t swallow his pride, he stepped on it, and it stuck to the bottoms of his shoes— like the cheese on the pavement when he wiped tomato sauce off the laundromat windows— so that every step, with its sticky resistance, was a reminder. History At eight years old, her father journeyed from Gujarat to Kenya, mounted on the rough back of his father, as they trudged through the jungle— by day, their bare feet struck Issue 24 · FALL 2018

hard soil, the ground dark like their skin under the searing Indian sun and at night, they slept in trees to evade the hungry eyes of tigers and when they reached the port and boarded a flimsy dhow, they gave themselves over to the mercy of the sea and the mercy of their God. They were looking for something better. They found some things the same. Echoes She can hear the sounds from history, from the time when she didn’t exist, when she was supposed to be nothing—3 she hears the leaves brushing against her grandfather’s bareback, she hears the tigers’ paws prowling, the jungle groaning, the sails rustling, the ocean churning— she hears it all, and like hearing 3 Inspired by Rita Dove’s poem, “DayStar”

Little Brown House Review

the ocean in a seashell, she remembers hearing the past when she put her ear to his chest. If she hears it all now, she can’t have been nothing before. Diamond She remembers the diamond that was in his pocket, the one he spent fifty years earning— the one thing he wanted and got besides her. Legacy She remembers the hospital room, how all the siblings, cousins, children, grandchildren— partly his legacy, partly hers— gathered around the bed at dawn, perspiring with prayer. His voice was strained, but his eyes were calm, and they said plenty as they looked around the room, pleading, yet somehow proud.

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When he left, the children and their children found his shoes, polished them, scraped the cheese off the soles, and walked in them every day. This man was no lion slayer no diamond smuggler, No, this man was something better: he was forever Watching She knows how it feels to be followed by his eyes; he is always watching, she is always noticing

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THE 2018 ROBERT MCGLYNN AWARD

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“Our Bodies, Ourselves”: Humanity in Hamlet, Maus, and White Teeth Sarah Jane O’Connor

rince Hamlet’s oft-echoed musings of “to be or not to be” (Shakespeare, 3.1.56) call into question: will we, as people, ever truly discern what, exactly, “to be” human means? Curiosity concerning the nature of our status as mankind has consumed authors from the 16th century to modern day. When striving to unravel the essence of humanity — the distinct awareness and benevolence lying deep in all individuals — William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Art Spiegelman’s Maus, and Zadie Smith’s White Teeth circle one question: Do humans glean their humanity from physical existence or from conscious thought? Shakespeare asserts that man’s humanity is rooted in his “godlike reason,” (Shakespeare, 4.4.38) rather than his physical body, a sentiment supported by Spiegelman, whose illustrations exhibit how the brutality of the Holocaust stole man’s capacity for reason and rendered humans animalistic. However, Smith embraces human physicality – to protagonist Archie Jones, the raw vitality of human bodies appears as the very antithesis of death. While both Shakespeare and Spiegelman suggest that humanness lies not in one’s bodily form, but in one’s capacity for reason, Smith contends that humanity flourishes through a combination of physicality and rationality. By depicting Hamlet’s deceased father as a ghost, Shakespeare initially asserts that physicality predicates human aliveness; however, Hamlet’s later commentary posits that mere bodily existence cannot

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grant an individual humanity. Hamlet’s close friend Horatio observes the elder Hamlet’s ghostly form, stating, “[his] spirits oft walk in death” (1.1.138). Though the ghost can interact with living beings, he is not alive; rather, as he “walk[s] in death,” the ghost is an “illusion” (1.1.127) and an “apparition” (1.1.28). Through the ghost’s image, Shakespeare establishes a key premise: without a physical body, one is not human. Hamlet’s subsequent speech stretches this logic further; although possessing a physical body remains a prerequisite to humanity, being truly “alive” requires individuals to hold a distinctly human capacity for reason. “What is a man,” asks Hamlet, “If his chief good and market of his time/ Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more” (4.4.33-35). Through Hamlet’s words, Shakespeare affirms that a man exists as “a beast,” if he does not surpass the basic inclination “to sleep and feed.” Hamlet maintains that an one’s power to employ “such large discourse,” (4.4.36) not his or her physical presence, makes one human. Though Shakespeare believes physicality is essential to human existence, he warns us: a man who solely occupies a body may descend into “bestial oblivion” (4.4.104). To be truly alive, humans must transcend their corporeal form and engage their intrinsic, “godlike reason.” Through illustrating humans as animals, Spiegelman suggests that the Holocaust stripped individuals of their innate reason, thus rendering them inhuman. Though Art’s father, Vladek, survives the Holocaust and thus retains his physical form, Spiegelman draws Vladek not as a man, but as a mouse both before, during and after the Holocaust. Spiegelman’s artistic decision suggests surviving fails to protect Vladek from terminal dehumanization. Rather, Vladek’s experience limits his capability to reason, and thus be truly human, for the remainder of his life. Rather than comforting his ten-year-old son after Artie’s friends “skate away without [him],” (Spiegelman, 6) Vladek responds with an unreasonable connection to his experience in Auschwitz: “Your friends? ... If you lock them together in a room with no food for a week… Then you could see Issue 24 · FALL 2018

what it is, friends!” (6). Twenty years later, Vladek’s past still renders him irrational; history lies at the root of his compulsive inclination to hoard food. After Art insists, “Look, we don’t want any [cereal], ok? Just forget it!” (238), Vladek admits, “I cannot forget it… Ever since Hitler, I don’t like to throw out even a crumb” (238). In Maus, Spiegelman creates a world of individuals like Vladek – humans rendered no more reasonable than animals by their history — thus highlighting the indelible impact of the Holocaust. Dehumanization spreads beyond Jewish victims; all humans in Spiegelman’s world are animals, whether they were passive bystanders, like American dogs, or perpetrators, like Nazi cats. Spiegelman’s strategic illustrations suggest that when the unreasonable horror of genocide occurs, people become less human — even if they survive. However, Spiegelman also drew humans as animals in scenes from before the Holocaust, thus offering a sinister truth: perhaps, for the Holocaust to occur at all, humans must have already lost their rationality and human compassion. Only after “time flies” (201) into Art’s future does Spiegelman draw himself as a human; now, he merely wears a mouse mask. In 1986, Spiegelman admits, “my father’s ghost still hangs over me,” (203) but he feels comfortable departing from Vladek’s world and “lous[ing] up [his] metaphor” (203) a bit. Time grants Artie and those around him a measure of humanity that, in the wake of the Holocaust, had been impossible to grasp. The Holocaust transforms the human world into an animal kingdom. There, even after maintaining their physicality, individuals fall into “bestial oblivion” (Shakespeare, 4.4.40) and thus lose their humanity. Shakespeare and Spiegelman believe that humanity is rooted in human rationality, rather than one’s physical body; however, Smith illustrates aliveness as a combination of cognitive sense and physical sensuality. After protagonist Archie Jones survives his “decidedupon suicide,” (Smith, 3) the stark contrast between a near-death moment and his new, capitalized “Life” (6) invigorates him. Though only moments before, Archie thinks he “should die on this nasty 34

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urban street,” (4) now, “Life want[s] Archie and Archie, much to his own surprise, want[s] Life” (7). “A new Archie” (15) thus consciously dives head first into Life. He briefly joins a commune, justifying his desire to engage in “a younger crowd” (17) with Bob Dylan lyrics: “‘I was so much older then… I’m younger than that now’” (17). After entering, a scene of sheer sensuality overwhelms Archie: “Inside the rooms, in certain corners, could be witnessed the passing of bodily fluids: kissing, breast-feeding, fucking, throwing up” (17). However, Archie does not find this sight repulsive. Rather, the newly rejuvenated man grows curious and “toy[s] for a moment with the idea of entering the fray, losing himself between the bodies” (17). After reasoning that he “want[s] Life,” Archie rejects his older, former self — the man that led him to attempt suicide — and embraces all aspects of being alive, including the vulgar physicality of “the passing of bodily fluids.” In this moment, Archie exists at the apex of aliveness. He wants to live, in both mind and body; this combination spurs Archie into vivacious humanity. In both the mystery of Hamlet and the tragedy of Maus, an individual’s humanity hinges on his or her rationality. However, in the dynamic world of White Teeth, Archie reaches overwhelming vitality after appeasing both his rational and physical desires. Yet, Smith’s supposition that physicality can lead to humanity does not contradict Shakespeare’s or Spiegelman’s conception of humanness. Rather, her view simply highlights the auspiciousness of Archie’s present moment. Smith speaks through the lens of the living — Archie, in this isolated instance, is perhaps the most alive he’s ever been. However, Shakespeare and Spiegelman illuminate the human condition as Hamlet and Vladek descend towards death. Perhaps, like Archie, Vladek and Hamlet would have embraced the raw appeal of physicality while standing on the ledge of a new, untainted life. But Spiegelman and Shakespeare’s protagonists slipped over this precipice long ago. Now, facing the downhill slope of their remaining days, Vladek and Hamlet cling to the most reliable and Issue 24 · FALL 2018

accessible facet of humanity: one’s capacity for logic and sense. But, clutching tight to rationality fails to grant either Hamlet or Vladek with an enlivened, human spirit. Humanity — the characteristic consciousness and heart that so many individuals seek — cannot be solely defined by either rationality or physicality. Humanity is conditional; its meaning hinges on circumstance and opportunity, thus defying simple interpretation. Restricting one’s understanding of humanity, as Shakespeare and Spiegelman do through revering rationality, endangers all humans. Humanity often slips into the most seemingly inconsequential crevices of our lives. Viewing the world simply — in terms of only mind or body — erodes what may be one of the only uniform truths of all people: our complexity. Humans are neither purely rational nor physical. To reach the apex of humanity, we must embrace reason, physicality, and all the rich, nebulous wells lying in between.

Works Cited Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Edited by A. R. Braunmiller, 2016 ed., New York, Penguin Books, 2016. Smith, Zadie. White Teeth. New York, Vintage International, 2000. Spiegelman, Art. The Complete Maus. New York, Pantheon Books, 1991.

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Time Trials Sarah Jane O’Connor After Leslie Jamison’s Devil’s Bait Introduction

e, seven trail-battered backpackers, are about to spend a day without Time. For the next twenty-four hours — though I know my use of “hours” in this sentence is ironic — we will store our watches in our first aid kit. Until tomorrow’s sunset, Time will only be accessible in case of emergency. At night, rain beats angrily on the sheer mesh of my tent. I don’t fall asleep until the sun rises and the rain slows. When I awaken, I realize: days are less daunting without a watch. These obscure not-hours are foggy and lazy, whole and hazy. We eat buttery chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast at 2PM in the name of thermoregulation. (I only know that specific Time because of the stamp on a subsequently drugstore-developed photo.) The creek below the campsite bubbles over grey granite — cold, delicious, ours: the ceaseless soundtrack of these tied-together moments. We are sleepy but awake, aggressively present, acutely aware of the today flashing past. Time is gone but oh-so present; it holds our hands, asking us to be here, in this Now, as entirely as possible — an enchanting but intimidating request. Alaska’s summer sun never fully sets; the light merely dims between midnight and 4AM. Even after twenty-two days in this wilderness, I can’t define Time here by referencing light. When I wake up from what I think was a midday doze, I crawl out of my tent

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into a bright cloudiness. The sky drips with morningness, but I can’t define this particular moment with timely parameters. Here, reality is comforting, obscure, and timeless. I stare up into the fog-blurred sun. Beams bleed into my eyes, which well with a special sort of tears, tears that warn me that being here — looking up — is something I cannot and will not sustain. I am compelled — by my desire for comfort, by my own human weakness — to look down. I blink, twice. My eyes water. This is a biological reaction. But my eyes spill over, and I wonder if science isn’t the only reason I can’t look up for just a little longer. Something like Fate mixed with Time forces me look away. But, science is part of the reason. Newton’s second law of thermodynamics states that entropy — disorder, a measure of the universe’s endless complexity — will always increase. Disorder develops; simplicity subsides — as we and they and you and I — move. Entropy is the arrow of Time — shooting forward, cooling my coffee, drying the tears below my sun-stung eyes, carefully creating a then and a Now. Scientific consensus suggests that a perpetual motion machine — “a hypothetical machine which, once activated, would run forever unless subject to an external force” — could never exist. Such a machine would either violate the first or second law of thermodynamics; it would either need to create energy from nothingness, or it would ignore ever-increasing entropy. Here lies a paradox. A machine cannot exist in endless motion, but Time? Time fires forward, bearing ceaselessly into the future, with you, I — all of us — stuck in its grasp. Time — something beyond a stretch of existence. Time — at once “eternally present” and “unredeemable,” both un-absolute and undeniable, lost and found in a moment, tangled in the auspicious removal of my watch. I am, you are, we are, trapped in Time’s tenure, held in perpetual motion — forward. 38

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Hypothesis I used to believe in a cyclical sort of Time, one where everything that’s ever happened to you and everything that’s ever going to happen to you is all (somehow) happening at once. In this time, nothing is anything but present; we are here, in a Forever-Now, and thus, we are whole. Entropy ebbs; energy endures. That was the theory. T.S. Eliot agreed. But I can’t logically justify that conclusion. Conclusion is the wrong word for it anyways. It (it being a vague pronoun whose vagueness serves my purpose here) is a hope-ridden theory, something I want to believe, but now accept as empty, desperate optimism. Now I believe that either everything is present, or nothing is. I’m leaning towards the latter. Time embodies transience. We can’t disassemble disorder; rather, we fall into its thrall, constantly moving, but constantly moving forward. The energy of the past is eroded, empty, irredeemable. Science aside, I want to stay there forever: hazy and whole, letting the Alaskan sun hit my face and warm my skin. I want to teeter on the ledge between everything that has ever happened to me and everything that may come, unmarked by the trappings of Time. But (I think) I’m going to fall, forward. I’m scared it’s going to hurt. Research Question I am moving; I have been moving; I will be moving. The past spills behind, dripping into ambiguity. I was there — looking up into the sun, but at once, I was passively pulled into the after. Now, and then, and forever: then will become now and now will become next. My has-beens seem unredeemable. How can I prove their centrality to my existence? Issue 24 · FALL 2018

Materials Twenty-eight days in the Northern Talkeetna Mountains (approx. 100 miles SSE from Denali National Park), preferably in July A six-hour and zero-minute plane ride, United Airlines, from Anchorage to Chicago Nine incomplete journals Ninety-two quotes, listed The unlikely combination of burns and numbness Sneakers Winter in Deerfield, MA Methods Trial 1: During our last days in the mountains, we anticipate the hurt of leaving. We use the ache of Time passing to hold each other closer. We stuff seven seventeen-year olds into a three-person tent on our last night, preferring discomfort to disconnection. To stave off our impending hunger, we fill ourselves with each other. Max’s vernacular, Ellie’s near-dreadlocks — I savor every sliver. Every piece of them tastes like the sun in my eyes. In the Anchorage airport, I eat a cinnamon bun and two packets of Skittles. When Max boards his flight to Seattle, Ellie and I squeeze each other’s hands. We don’t cry. On my flight to Chicago, I watch the sun rise. I forget to fall asleep. I sit on the plane. Nostalgia blurs the days past into utter perfection. They ache. I want rain to echo on my tent forever. I want the sun to never set. But I passively wished away my weeks in the wilderness. On frigid nights, where four layers and a wool hat did nothing for my quivering legs, I longed for a hot shower. I know: I did nothing to resist the passage of Time. So, maybe 40

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I deserve the consequent pain. Applied loosely, Einstein’s theory of relativity explains that after this flight, I will be a fraction of a fraction of a second younger than if I’d never gotten on the plane. If that’s true, then maybe I will be a fraction of a fraction closer to what’s receding behind me. I wish that was true. I wish that fraction of a fraction mattered. Maybe, I should’ve just never gotten on the plane. Even with my inevitable jet-lag, even considering the intricacies of space-time dilation, Yesterday won’t linger. It can’t. Time doesn’t know how to be sympathetic. I resent the fact that as soon as a story begins, it also begins to end. Trial 2: After arriving at home, I sleep for sixteen hours straight. The next day, my parents take me to tour Harvard. They talk about business school. I, disinterested, watch tourists and eat coffee ice cream. That night, I lay on a cot in the Charles Hotel. While falling asleep, I study a dilapidated navy notebook and the sunburns on my hands. I am — in this moment, in moments past and moments to come — subservient to my nostalgia. I’ve kept journals since I was ten; I’ve written close to a thousand pages of “slightly-less-organized this.” I write in pen, to make sure my ink doesn’t fade. I keep a list called “Things I’ve Heard” — ninety-two quotes I’ve noted, in passing or conversation, that probably don’t mean quite as much as I wish they did. Twenty-one of those quotes are from Alaska; in addition to that navy notebook, they’re one of the few things that might be able to prove that I was there. But what does proving something happened mean? Do quotes plus blurry memories equal experience? I’m not sure. I want to grasp onto every shaft of light that’s illuminated my yesterdays. I hope, someday, to flit between past, present, and future, at once a five-year-old too short to see outside of a school bus window Issue 24 · FALL 2018

and a seventeen-year-old staring into the Alaskan sun. Trial 3: During junior year, I detest cross-country races. I feel the fire in my lungs and legs days before it burns. I am, perhaps, the only Deerfield student who dreads weekends. But this fall, I learn to trust the combination of my body and Time. I know the pain will end. Even last year — it had to end. It has to end. A late-January day when Deerfield’s trails aren’t entirely shrouded in ice is precious. So I — sleepy, not particularly motivated that afternoon -- run to the rock. Minutes in, I taste a specific pensiveness — a realization that before I’m halfway to the summit, this run is over. My run will end; my run is defined by its end; my run began to end the second I stepped out the door. I trek up the final, steepest hill. My legs quiver. But twenty meters from the apex, my thoughts blend this present pain with my inevitable finish. They swirl fatigue into nostalgia; they turn the combination of that imminent sunset and those shaking legs into a tribute: to every run I didn’t know I could finish, to days that never succumbed to the dusk, to the mind finally, triumphantly, transcending the body. Somehow, this burning that I know as pain doesn’t really hurt. Races and hills don’t scare me anymore. Each moment, each run, as it happens, ends. I am alone, with nothing but the fragile, fleeting now — a now I can run with. Results Trial 1: I am no longer in the wilderness. But I want to believe that some sort of wildness is in me; me, skinny-dipping in a glacial pond, me, jolting awake during a midnight thunderstorm and nearly drowning in a tent. This wildness is sunlit nights. It is a slideshow of Nows I will never experience again, but want so badly to clutch tight. A “desperate, melancholy love” for this moment, a “fierce nostal42

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gia for the present” tugs me -- from has-been to is-now, again and again. Time taunts me as it tumbles towards I-don’t-know-what. I want to say that wildness is somewhere within me. But I’m not sure where it would fit. My present self is crashing forward, fast. I struggle to look back. I realize: perpetual motion isn’t all that different from perpetual pain. Trial 2: I want to hold onto everything. This desire is slightly ironic, as I suffer from Raynaud’s Phenomenon, a disorder that restricts blood flow to my extremities. My fingers turn yellow-white whenever I’m slightly cold. They ache with this stabbing numbness and are basically functionless. In those moments, I literally cannot hold onto anything. My Raynaud’s is insignificant. I could never claim that this minor inconvenience is anything more than a minor inconvenience. But hardly a day goes by when I don’t have a Raynaud’s attack. I can’t ignore them. I’m not sure I want to. My yellowish, splotchy hands are so present in my life that I find myself aching to put meaning into them. Alaska wrecked my hands. Twenty-hours-a-day sun resulted in blistering sunburns that oozed and bled and left scars that make my hands appear constantly slightly swollen. But there, my hands also turned numb for hours on end. The science behind Raynaud’s is limited. My own hypothesis is that Alaska both burned and froze the blood vessels in my hands. They haven’t been the same since. Neither have I. My ugly hands give me comfort. They are physical proof that those days in the wilderness happened. My body is etched with the dots and lines of my memory, my wildness. My body is rusting, a red, yellow-white record of the collision between then, now, and next. Red — the alivest of the colors. Those scars are vivacious. Issue 24 · FALL 2018

My memory is metonymy: scars are sleeping-bag-nights, notebook pages are buttery pancakes and forgotten watches. The things I can hold onto are a loose likeness of what I’ve lost. My memories are in my hands. Still, I’m not sure what to do with them. The scars have already started to fade. Trial 3: I sit atop the rock, small and alone, as gold stripes of a sunset blur the Valley below. I pull my knees in tight to my chest, trying to shelter my body from the churning winds. Whether the tears welling in my eyes are a consequence of the wind or my own involuntary wistfulness, I’m not sure. Motion aches. But now? I want to be running forever — to be moving, to be hurting, to be caught in an endless succession of narrow trails and fallen branches, of overwhelming smallness and quivering legs. My pain is real. My smallness, as I sit alone above this valley, is pure. But I am plunging into the future so quickly that I, myself, am a blur. Every run will end. This reality is at once excruciating and delightful. Maybe, my journals and lists, my scars and numbness, can’t do anything to bring my obscure things-past into clarity. Maybe, my past selves — SJ and Sarj, Sweet Jane and Janey — are unredeemable, Stuck In A Moment You Can’t Get Out Of, slip sliding away as I near my destination, whatever and wherever it may be. Maybe, I should fall into Time’s arms. Maybe, “it’s the only way how.” Conclusion I want my past to seep into my now, filling present inadequacies with the richness of memory. I want to stare up at the sun, to shrink above the valley, to exist in the redness of then and the yellow-whiteness of now all at once. But Time tortures. Time’s power lies in its everywhere-ness. I’ve never really spent a day without it. I never will. 44

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I am tumbling, endlessly, trying to believe that the fleeting nature of being doesn’t make it all meaningless. I am caught in the impossible reality of perpetual motion and I am grasping at reddish entropy and crystal-clear obscurity and digging my sneakers into the mud and throwing away my watch even though I know that none of this means anything at all. I want to fight the motion, but I am moving. I want to hold onto everything, but I am numb. Maybe, the only way to escape the pain is to fall into the fray. I am running into the future and sometimes, I don’t hate being a blur. At least I won’t feel quite as much. Victor Frankl wrote: “Nothing can be undone, and nothing can be done away with. I should say having been is the surest kind of being.” Can I prove that to have been is to be? I’m plunging forward — do I even want to look back? I don’t know. But I do know, or at least I’m coming to believe: life is yearning; life is losing. Life is here, but life is already lost.

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THE 2018 STUART MURRAY BARCLAY SCHOLARSHIP

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The Emergence of American Leisure and Cosmopolitanism: Cosmopolitan: A Monthly Illustrated Magazine, 18951900 Sydney Bebon

ive generations after the signing of the Constitution, the Anglo-Saxon immigrants who first fought for freedom from British rule were no longer immigrants, no longer German or British or Dutch, but American. “The American is a new man, who acts upon new principles; he must therefore entertain new ideas, and form new opinions,” wrote St. Jean De Crevecoeur, French aristocrat, in his 1783 Letters from an American Farmer, as he witnessed the character of the immigrants who would one day become Americans. Crevecoeur saw that they embraced themselves as “American” and “new men”, having come “[f]rom involuntary idleness, servile dependence, penury, and useless labor.” They bred inevitable love and loyalty to their new country, for it was their “[u] bi panis ibi patria”, meaning: where (there is) bread, there (is my) homeland. This first wave of immigrant Americans was greeted with an undiscovered frontier, the farce of democracy and religious freedom, and the pure possibility of a world to be created for one’s self. The third wave of immigrants, however, who arrived in 1895 from eastern and southern Europe, came from the same hardship and sought similar futures, but when they burst through the doors of Ellis Island, they were greeted with the tenement buildings of New York City, the cruel reality of industrial labor, and an unforgiving

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laissez-faire government. This was not the “[u]bi panis ibi patria” they had hoped for. New immigrants did not necessarily become new men; many clung to the old, to their language, their foods, their political and cultural beliefs. The melting pot of New York City was born and American high society used its international cultural knowledge to distinguish these ethnic groups. Cosmopolitan: A Monthly Illustrated Magazine, based in New York City, created a guide that dictated the culture and science in which wealthy white Americans had to be versed. Through a criticism of the new European immigrants, a glorification of European innovation and imperialism, and a reinforcement of the “gilded cage” in which women were expected to live, the Magazine revealed New York Society’s paradigm for the wealthy male American perspective. “America was known to foreigners as the land where you’d get rich,” said Pauline Newman, an Eastern European Jew who immigrated from Lithuania in 1901. To foreigners, the quintessential American, the “rich” they knew of, were the fifth-, sixth-, and seventh-generation immigrants from northern Europe who had become the wealthy merchant class and robber barons of the late nineteenth century. They had the thirst, the relentless energy needed to build the Pacific Railroad, to melt steel, to mine coal, and to build the glass emperors that ruled New York City from the sky. One such man, Cosmopolitan’s editor John Brisben Walker, served in the US military in China, was educated at Georgetown University and West Point, and was nominated for Congress — was the epitome of a “New Renaissance” man and Cosmopolitan’s target readership. After lowering The Magazine’s price significantly in 1893 to approximately one dollar per subscription, Walker increased circulation from 200,000 to 300,000 by 1897. He published authors such as Theodore Roosevelt, I. Zangwiller, and Andrew Lang, all of whom matched the criteria of a “Cosmopolitan Man,” proficient in dealings of science, foreign affairs, and the arts. The cover of each issue displayed Cosmopolitan’s foundational proverb “From every man according 48

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to his ability; to every one according to his needs”, suggesting that Cosmopolitan Magazine would be written for the educated elite male perspective. This often crimson-covered, Oxford veteran was the target audience of the publication: 12% percent of the articles were science-related, 43% were internationally focused, 72% discussed the arts, and 84% were written by men. Cosmopolitan Magazine strived to accommodate the “needs” of the characteristic wealthy white American man through articles and literature that provided its readers with a source of cultural, scientific, and foreign learning. These “needs” of the Cosmopolitan man originated in the ritual of America’s new aristocracy, the Grand Tour that entailed traveling Europe to experience and learn its culture. Cosmopolitan provided educated white males with that same erudition. The February issue of 1895 published “Reflections of a Consul: How Americans Appear to One of Their Representatives Abroad,” by Francis B. Loomis who, in 1893, had just ended his six-year term as a French Consulate. Loomis wrote that “[t]he American abroad is apt to be looked on as a profitable bird of passage,” for Americans were expected to flock to Europe each year, and those who studied their migration exploited their tourism. It is in the same way that Cosmopolitan Magazine exploited over 300,000 subscribers. The Magazine’s monthly column articles, which were titled “In the World of Arts and Letters,” during the six-year period, were internationally focused, some even written in both English and French, fulfilling the wealthy white American need for constant commentary on European culture. Each article focused on profiling a foreign figure worthy of honorable recognition, reviewing international literature or foreign arts. The column often used this space to criticize the “new” culture of Europe, while glorifying European scientific learning and innovation. For example, in the January 1895 article “l’institut Pasteur,” by Francisque Sarcey, the Institute as well as French and German scientists were idolized for their work with a Dr. Roux in discovering a cure for diphtheria. Sarcey claimed that they “are Issue 24 · FALL 2018

entitled to share in the honor of it and the gratitude of mankind.” Cosmopolitan provided a source of European learning while also glorifying European accomplishment. Alongside America’s urgency to become a part of Europe’s cultural climate, its emerging desire to also become a comparable imperial power was prevalent in The Magazine. While Cosmopolitan did not have any clear political affiliation, both culture and investigations into the political and imperialistic ventures of European powers were written about and encouraged. Leading up to the US’s first overseas imperialist war, the Magazine wrote often about other countries’ conquests. For example, in “Empire-Building in South Africa,” Albert Shaw wrote in 1896 that “[t]hey [the British] have been making political history and political geography in South Africa”, for which he compared them to the “great conqueror[s]” of Rome, glorifying their recently gained control of territory in South Africa. Two years later, in the 1898 June issue, Cosmopolitan’s focus on and support of the war are evident with articles such as “In Havana Just Before the War;” “Some Previous expeditions to Tropical Countries,” and “Transformation of Citizen into Soldier.” The first, “In Havana Just Before the War,” by Frances Baylor, appeared to be in reaction to the sinking of the Maine, one of the first U.S. battleships sent to Cuba, and called their Spanish enemies “degenerate Spaniard[s].” Baylor also victimized the Cuban people, after interviewing a local priest who said that, “I see low standards of life,” which became an easily accessible excuse for America’s first public foray into unprovoked invasion and colonisation since the Mexican War and, before that, its declaration of freedom. Clearly, Cosmopolitan Magazine did not oppose the war efforts in the Spanish American War. Ultimately, Cosmopolitan advertised the need for war to its readers with the precedent already set from glorifying the imperialistic power of Europe. With a doubling in the number of immigrants pouring through the gates of Ellis Island every year from 1895 to 1900, the established 50

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society of America did not fully understand the nature of these new immigrants. The Magazine made generalizations about these groups from its evaluation of foreign cultures to understand these new growing ethnicities. For example, it looked at Dante to understand the nature of an Italian women. An untitled and anonymous article, published in the January 1895 issue, stated, “[t]he women of Italy [...] have seldom been tender or self forgetful. It is not in their national character. Revenge is dear to them, and their hold is tenacious, and their tendency is unforgiving. They cannot support or pardon infidelity.” So, while the article provides an emotional analysis of the Italian woman, the article still elevates Dante’s Inferno, a 500 year-old emblem of quintessential Italian culture, to speak for the nature of an entire ethnicity of people as “vengeful,” “tenacious,” and “unforgiving,” exhibiting the general glorification of Italy’s artistic production but not its current citizens. In an article titled “Fools’ Paradise” by Wolf Von Schierbrand, the author used the German predilection for the lottery to assume that they are“[t]he toiling multitude of unkempt socialists” and that “[r]ich and poor alike believe in it.” Here, The Magazine reacted to the rise of the Socialist party in its own New York City, only two years after Socialist Eugene Debs was released from prison and three years before he would receive 0.6% of the electoral votes while running for office in 1900. Schierbrand took a cultural norm of modern Germany to create a stereotyped national identity. He not only made Germans an enemy to democracy, but Schierbrand also validated the ruling American ideal of Social Darwinism that excused the poverty-stricken and prospectless immigrants who inhabited the Lower East Sides of America. Schierbrand denounces the man interviewed in the article who “might have earned twice that sum [winnings of the lottery] by strictly tending to his work,” placing the onus of the man’s poverty on himself. Although Cosmopolitan may have been found in the gloved hand of the upper-class housewife, the gilded cage that many Issue 24 · FALL 2018

wealthy women lived within was reinforced through The Magazine, written for the elite male, perpetuating the male perception of female inferiority. Thorstein Veblen wrote in his 1899 study The Theory of the Leisure Class that “even today it is this aptitude and acquired skill in the formal manifestation of the servile relation that constitutes the chief element of utility in our highly paid servants as well as one of the chief ornaments of the well bred housewife.” Veblen captured the wealthy white male perspective on women and their defined role in society as “servants” to their husbands. Cosmopolitan Magazine encouraged this perspective within its readership through illustrations and articles that either characterized women as temptresses or unsuccessful in other pursuits. For example, in the May 1895 column of “In the World of Arts of Letters,” Andrew Lang covered the death of female British poet Christina Rossetti, claiming in an unsatisfactory review of her work that she is “of the sex which is made to inspire poetry, rather than create it.” Here, Cosmopolitan allowed female social latitude to be denounced, and the ideal of a female in a submissive role to be endorsed. Women were also portrayed as submissive beauties in the illustrations of the Magazine. As seen in images I, II, and III, the women were depicted with their eyes turned down or to the side, lavishly dressed, yet non-confrontational and therefore submissive, supporting their docile expectations from men. While women wrote 16% of the articles in Cosmopolitan between 1895 and 1900, when they did, they merely bolstered their own “servile relation” to men. For example, in an article published in the November 1899 issue, Olive Schreiner calls the “socially useful human toil [...] of the labor of the children of woman” a “WOMAN’s RIGHT!” She argues that as society evolves and innovates the “entire circle of female life from youth to age, becomes an episodic occupation.” She was not enraged that her sex is confined to the singular female “occupation” of motherhood and marriage, but that “millions of our women [are] precluded from bearing a child.” In the midst of innovation, cultural 52

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learning, and millions of immigrants’ hope for social mobility, Schreiner pleads for the “right” to the oppressive “servile relation” of her sex to her husband and children. As feminist scholar Anne McClintock, citing Peter Hulme, brings to our attention: “Land is named as female as a passive counterpart to to the massive thrust of male technology.” So, like land, like immovable mountains or a seashore immortalized on a map, is the female. Despite the “thrust of male technology” written about in Cosmopolitan, the role of women in the perspective of wealthy white men and women was unchanged. In an era of rapid social and cultural diversification, Cosmopolitan Magazine voiced the perspective of wealthy white American men. Cosmopolitan acted as a Grand Tour in fulfilling the “needs” of such men by both glorifying classic European culture and innovation and criticizing the ideals and nature of the new immigrants flowing through American ports. Cosmopolitan captured the seemingly immobile situation of wealthy white American women. Finally, in an age when America feared the socialism and anarchy of its new immigrants, Cosmopolitan revealed the American Exceptionalism that coursed through the veins of wealthy white American men by excusing a characteristically un-American war with the victimization of the Cuban people, glorification of European conquest, and demonization of the Spanish. Not only were these “new immigrants” unable to accept or be accepted by their new country, but these were new Americans. Works Cited Boyer, Paul S., et al. The Enduring Vision: A History of the American People. Ninth Edition ed., Boston, Cengage Learning, 2018. Crevecoeur, John de, St. Letters from an American Farmer. London, 1783, n.d.

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Foner, Eric. The Story of American Freedom. N.p.: W. W. Norton and Company, 1999. "John Brisben Walker." In West Virginia Archives and History. Previously published in Charleston Gazette, July 8, 1931. Accessed March 2, 2018. http://www.wvculture.org/history/ businessandindustry/walkerjohnbrisben01.html. Mcclintock, Anne. Imperial Leather. New York, United States: Routledge, 1995. Accessed March 2, 2018. https:// selforganizedseminar.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/mcclintock_ imperial-leather.pdf. "Migration to the United States." Unpublished manuscript, n.d. Unwin, Philip Soundy, George Unwin, and David H. Tucker. "The History of Publishing." EncyclopĂŚdia Britannica. Last modified November 15, 2017. Accessed March 2, 2018. https://www. britannica.com/topic/publishing. Veblen, Thorstein. The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study in the Evolution of Institutions. Macmillan Company, 1899. Accessed March 2, 2018. http://moglen.law.columbia.edu/LCS/ theoryleisureclass.pdf. Walker, John Brisben. "Cosmopolitan; A Monthly Illustrated Magazine." 1895-1900. ProQuest, search.proquest.com/ publication/35897. Accessed 2 Mar. 2018. Zinn, Howard. A People's History of the United States. Essex, England: Longman House, 1980.

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Little Brown House Review

In Protest of Existence Sydney Bebon

’ve always been used to the crowds, to the hordes of people flitting past, simple blurrs of color, incessant smears of white breaths in a cold winter’s air outside my car window on my way home from school. But the flash of silver handcuffs on the corner focuses my attention on one particular color as a young man’s nose paints in blood upon the hood of a police car while white hands hold him down. Graham, Ramarley; 18; Gunshot wound to the chest; New York, New York. Suddenly the air is clear, and in an instant I see them. See them as the crowd holds their breaths. See them every morning coughed up by the subway, ejected from the buses, clustered together as they lag slow against the crowd, and into Martin Luther King, Jr. High School. What happens to a dream deferred? In the shadow of two glass emperors lies their corner of brown brick. The buildings fill their hallowed halls with the tight stringed notes of violins, the resonance of the opera, and the silent padding of a dancer’s toe on the marbled floors of Juilliard. Brown, Michael; 18; Gunshot wound to the head, Gunshot wound to the chest; Ferguson, Missouri. They shrank between them, my apartment building, the glass eye that never dared to close, and the red Methodist spire next to the public library. I would watch them outside my car window and wonder why they blotted the air, together a thick dark mass of faces, boots, and backpacks. What happens to a dream deferred?

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The metal detectors blared beneath the music, as the closing school doors stifled the sounds. The masses’ obtrusive protest of existence would unclench the lungs of the crowd, allowing them to move once again. What happens to a dream deferred? King, Tyre; 13; Gunshot wound to the head, Gunshot wound to the torso; Columbus, Ohio. I wondered why the police tape two blocks up on the corner of McDonald’s was spattered with the same blood that fell that day on the hood. They said it was a gunshot wound that killed him. They said it was his friend. They said that they went to the same brownbricked school as the boy on the corner, the boy that stained my sidewalk red. McDonald, Laquan; 17; 16 Gunshot wounds to the chest and torso; Chicago Illinois. I asked her where they came from, and why I didn’t see them in the playground after school? “Well they don’t live near us, they live in the projects,” she had said, conjuring the image of the brown brick buildings, painting city blocks and muddying the skyline in a dirty color. Was that why they chose to connect fist to crunching jaw? I asked her why, but she didn’t answer. What happens to a dream deferred? Rice, Tamir; 12; Gunshot wound to the torso; a playground; Cleveland, Ohio. I watched boys’ blood drip down, down onto the hood, I watched flesh collide with bone and bone collide with flesh, I asked why and no one answered. “They’re from the projects,” she had said. What happens to a dream deferred? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or fester like a sore— I see them now, in the bustling air of a New York morning. I see the puffs of white crowd around them and shepherd them past the 56

Little Brown House Review

Methodist spire, veiled by the shadow of glass emperors, clashing the careful melodies in a noiseless cacophony of dissonance, down their narrow path, as though if they turned about their left shoulders to look back at me, to join me, the air would blow them back in protest of their existence. The crowd, it prayed I wouldn’t notice the sour, rotten note of their existence. Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Watkins, Kenny; 18; Gunshot wound; Los Angeles, California. Or does it explode? Report of Arrest: Espinoza, Hovan; 18; African American; New York, New York; Attempted homicide. Or does it explode? I didn’t feel like walking anymore. *Italicized words sampled from Langston Hughes’ poem “Harlem”

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SENIOR MEDITATIONS

Little Brown House Review

In Search of Weight Kiana Rawji “The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?” — The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera

*** n object’s mass is the measure of its intrinsic, indestructible matter. An object’s weight, on the other hand, is the measure of gravity’s pull on it. We can never be massless, but we can be weightless — it’s all a question of gravity. *** History is like gravity; without it, we’d rise higher and higher until there’d be no such thing as height anymore. Like gravity, history distinguishes us from the satellites, the comets, the golfballs, the bits of broken things floating aimlessly in space — all weightless, all suspended in their own, insufferable nothingness. History makes us something. It demands that we realize our own mass. Like gravity gives weight to an object, history lends identity to a wandering soul. *** At eight years old, my great grandfather became a wanderer. The Imam said “Go West,” and so West they went. Mounted on the rough, calloused back of his father, he journeyed from Gujarat —

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near the western tip of the Indian subcontinent — to Kenya — along the eastern coast of Africa. By day, as they trudged through the jungle, their bare feet struck hard soil, the ground dark like their skin sizzling under the searing Indian sun. At night, they slept in trees to evade the hungry eyes of tigers. After months of walking, when they finally reached the coast of the Arabian sea, they boarded a flimsy dhow for another half a year, and until they reached Africa — the promised land‚ or so they were told — they gave themselves over to the mercy of the sea and the mercy of their God. After one generation, when East Africa did not live up to its promise, when poverty and racism plagued my grandmother’s family, Canada became the next promised land. Time and time again, my family has been told that the further we venture from where we are from, the better the life we will have. Just as my great, great grandfather carried his kids on his back to another continent, my grandmother carried her children in her arms and on her lap, as they took flight, thanks to the Imam, across another ocean to another life. As my grandmother, my Nani, tells me about the lives and journeys of my ancestors, I hear the leaves brushing against my great grandfather’s bare back as he sleeps in a high-topped tree. And I hear the tiger’s paws prowling beneath him. When Nani speaks, I hear the jungle groaning, the sails rustling, the ocean churning — I can hear it all. Yet it doesn’t feel even remotely mine. To my young ears, it’s myth. As I look at her, she looks elsewhere, as if she is watching the past unfold (or rather, re-unfold) before her. And though she doesn’t move her eyes, something moves in them: her story. I can see it moving, breathing, living in her eyes, and I want it to live in mine too. But a story must first be born, written in the heart before it can live and be told by the eyes. *** You have to know where you came from before you can ever 60

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know where you’re going. Those months on that little dhow, my great-grandfather — still a child, still light as the wind that propelled him across the ocean — didn’t know where he was going. And for a long time, neither have I. My Nani comes from another world. We do not share the same reality. We may be bound by blood, but we are strangers to one another. “You don't know what's happening on the other side of the wall, because you don't want to know,” James Baldwin warned me. For so long, I haven’t wanted to know. For so long, I have denied myself of gravity, rising higher and higher into the “yet unknowing world”1 above, where truth is as absent as weight. *** Ascension 1.

In elementary school, I loathed my middle name because it didn’t sound like the other girls’ names. Throughout 5th grade, my stomach lurched every time another kid asked me what my middle name was. All I would tell them was that it started with an “N.” I would let them leave the conversation believing it was Nancy. Or Natalie. Or some other name that I’d never known another Muslim or Indian girl to have. But that was precisely why I loved this little guessing game: because the others would assume it was a name I would never have. A “normal” name. And it affirmed my belief at the time that I was just like them. That on the “inside,” I was white. I was a coconut. And what a blessing it was to be such a light, hollow coconut. 2.

Growing up, all I ever wanted was to be “normal.” Normalcy,

1 From Hamlet by Shakespeare

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to me, was paradise. In my mind, “normal” meant looking, acting, being like the main characters in my favorite TV shows — like Alex in “Wizards of Waverly Place,” like Miley in “Hannah Montana,” like Lizzie McGuire. One day in the future, I dreamed I would be cast as Dorothy in my school’s production of The Wizard of Oz. The way I was — with my skin color, my family, my history— I thought I could never be any of those things. So I blew a blissful bubble around myself, in which I could pretend I wasn’t the way I was, and in that bubble I basked, I luxuriated, as I floated higher and higher into the air. 3.

At a feed in 10th grade, when we were all eating coconut ice cream, someone asked, “Kiana, how are the coconuts in India?” At the time, I’d never been to India. So I didn’t know what an Indian coconut tasted like, but I imagined it tasted as sweet as what it felt like to be one in 5th grade. I’ve been asked where I’m from, where I’m really from. I’ve been asked if I have an Indian passport, if I can do an “authentic” Indian accent. I’ve even been asked if, for Thanksgiving, my mother cooks a curry turkey. And with each question, I’ve been offended. No, I’ve been ashamed. Disgusted. Not, however, because of anything particularly shameful or disgusting about my heritage, but only because I thought it would keep me from achieving some sort of paradise. The idea of being different, of never being who I thought I wanted to be was too heavy a burden to bear. Today, I am just as ashamed and disgusted to say that I was ever ashamed of or disgusted by my past. By myself. *** Descension 3. 62

Little Brown House Review

One summer when I was young, my dad decided to shave his beard. At 7 years old, I had never seen his face hairless and when I did, I was mortified. I wouldn’t look at him until it grew back. I remember telling him, in the best grown up voice I could muster up, to never, ever do that again. My mother and my sisters agreed with me. Ten years later, at the dinner table — where most serious conversations in my family are held — my mother suggested that my father shave his beard for good because he’d have an easier time getting through airport security without one. With that, I felt something painful strike the inside of me — something cold, something sharp. Something I still can’t entirely explain. This wasn’t just about him looking funny anymore; my father’s beard is a part of him. The thought of something taking that away from him felt so wrong to me. And I realized what I’d been taking away from myself for so long. 2.

My middle name is Noor. It’s Arabic for the light of God, the light of Allah. When I started taking Arabic, for the first time, my middle name made me feel like an insider. When we chose our Arabic names — the names by which we would call each other in class for the next 4 years — I chose Noor. Because it was real. Because it was already mine. It had always been part of my mass but it wasn’t until Arabic class that I let it become part of my weight. 1.

As I am listening to my grandmother tell me her story, I watch it dance and flicker in her eyes. And I want my eyes to hold that heavy story, to be alive like hers; I want my heart to beat, to pulse with the music she plays, with the music her grandparents and their grandparents played. Nani breathes into the air the sounds of the jungle groaning, the sails rustling, the ocean churning and I can Issue 24 · FALL 2018

hear it all, but I don’t just want to hear it, I want to own it. Like it’s an invisible anchor in my back pocket, all I need to do is reach for that story, let it drop to the ground and take me down with it — down into the knowing world. *** History makes us something. Like gravity gives weight to an object, history lends identity to a wandering soul. Will I be something? Am I something? And the answer comes: You already are. You always were. And you still have time to be.2 *** I haven’t crossed jungles, oceans, or continents like my great grandfather, but I too, have been wandering. I, too, have been venturing West, a stranger to my own Eastern past. The life of a wanderer is wondrously light, like the sails of a flimsy dhow, like the air suspended inside a bubble, like the satellites, the comets, the golf balls — all the bits of broken things floating aimlessly, weightlessly in space. The alternative is a heavier, harder existence — maybe more painful, but maybe more real. What then shall we choose?

2 From “Here Am I” by Anis Mojgani

Little Brown House Review

Kids-Play-Nicely Spencer Rosen

t was only out of respect and love for my sister Cameron that I ever put up with the Teletubbies. They freaked me out. Still do, in fact. They’re huge, they don’t speak, and their smiles are permanent. The Teletubbies comprise all the elements of terror rolled into four 7-foot monsters. I myself, I was a Wiggles guy. “Hot Potato” (a Wiggles song, for those of you brutally uncultured enough to not have been graced by their art) is a contemporary rock classic. I was a fanatic to the point that my third birthday was spent in a purple Wiggles shirt, shoveling chocolate cake into and near my mouth, listening to the swinging tune of “Fruit Salad.” Before breakfast on weekends, Cams and I would sit watching TV, her on the couch, me cross-legged on the floor because I was terrified that my small, dense body could sink into the couch at any moment. And of course I couldn’t sit in the leather chair, because that was the “Daddy” chair and I was definitely not the “Daddy.” With each turn of the day the remote switched from my responsibility to Cams’ and back again. And such, every Saturday was spent with Anthony and his amigos from the outback, and Sunday, with Dipsy and his band of grinning demons. I’m not gonna lie: between the Teletubbies that haunted my dreams and the couch that could envelop me at any moment, Sunday mornings were kind of a waking nightmare. But that’s what we do for our siblings. We persevere. The system worked; there were no squabbles over the remote. Breakfast was a family affair. In many ways it was a lot like a sit-down meal; we brought food to the table and served from there, and we waited to be excused. But conversation was free-flowing and comfortable. I munched on the classic fan favorites, pancakes,

Issue 24 · FALL 2018

bacon, and Honey Nut Cheerios without milk, because I was one of those people. But breakfast was overshadowed by the main event of the morning: After-Breakfast Candy. I was not a healthy child, so when my parents told me that after breakfast I could have a little sugar, my new prerogative was finishing breakfast. And fast. In reality though, a bite-size Snickers or 3 M&M’s are not that substantially bad for you, but still. I would always try and smuggle more for myself, and was terrible about hiding it. I would stand in the middle of my room, the door open even, and just pile candy in my mouth. I thought I could conceal my indulgence purely by having my back to the door, facing the wall, where my gaze could rest upon the judgmental eyes of Clifford the big red dog. Clifford could see my shame, my weakness. I adopted the same motto an ostrich employs while hiding: If I can’t see my parents, they can’t see me. Bad strategy. I got busted a lot. And sometimes it would become a serious problem when my dumb chocolate-covered mouth tried to lie about sneaking the candy. Honesty was a good policy in my family. They’ll forgive you for most infractions if you own up to them. So I was a bit of a glutton, with really bad hiding skills, who was not all that into restraint or sharing. Was is a conservative term when observing the sharing part. I’m still working on that. Cams: if you want fries, then order the fries. It is not my problem that you ordered poorly. I don’t know if my parents came up with the concept of KidsPlay-Nicely-On-Their-Own-Time themselves or it was from some parenting book, but it is genius. If I’m ever lucky enough to have kids, this will absolutely be a staple of the household routine. The premise is simple enough: Cams and I leave the adults alone while they read the paper, enjoy their coffee, mundane stuff impossible for them to enjoy for the last 5 years while they brought first my sister, then myself through infancy. They had an hour and a half of peace a day and no tolerance for disruptions. Once again, my sister and I couldn’t see eye-to-eye on the 66

Little Brown House Review

after-breakfast festivities. I had just found out about the world of PlayMobil, basically Legos but bigger and commanding less creativity. I had this huge PlayMobil castle. It was awesome. There were spires with little dungeons for the village people who were on time-outs, a retractable bridge to keep the enemies out, and a dragon named Tony, because, why not? Cams, on the other hand, had an extensive Polly Pocket collection. They weren’t as cool. They had accessories instead of dragons. So we dove off into our fantasy land of intrigue. Legendary battles were fought, and even I had to admit, the Polly Pockets made for valiant warriors. The script wasn’t onedimensional though. It wasn’t all action-adventure; there was drama as well. Relationships blossomed between the inanimate characters, as they fended off external forces that threatened the walls of their castle. There was something very Shakespearean about the mess of back-stabbings and plots for the throne we had scripted. I’m pretty sure at one point we came close to reconstructing Hamlet, soliloquy and all. I personally believe we could have bettered it, in fact. An angsty speech from a distraught teen could certainly be improved if the angsty teen at question was actually Tony, the fire-breathing dragon. And so for an hour and a half every morning, Cams and I got lost in our own world, our world of castles and capri pants. This creative process did not come without its fair share of disputes. One particularly heated battle occurred while determining the victor of a small skirmish. I had my mind set that the knight, with armor AND a sword, would somehow find his way to victory against the Polly Pocket’s rock-solid defense that included a tube top and a handbag. (It’s not my fault that Polly Pockets played into traditional gender roles.) Come back with some armor, or maybe a dragon, then it’s a serious fight. Until then, don’t waste my time. This argument, however, was not that simple. Words were exchanged, some regrettable. Both of us left the room in tears, racing towards our parents to deliver them the first complaint. Stone-faced, there Issue 24 · FALL 2018

was no reaction from either Jonathan or Elise Rosen. My mother simply shuffled the newspaper that she had suddenly become so engrossed by, while my father leafed to the next page in his book. They were certainly not pleased to be disturbed. In exasperation, we lingered for another half minute, berating them with our grievances. I can’t remember a time where that behavior was not met with one of a few preset responses delivered like the mindless automatons they had programmed themselves to become in order to avoid settling these vicious disputes. The responses included: “Don’t be a tattletale,” which was the nice way of saying snitches get stitches, or the perennial, “It’s Kids-Play-Nicely-On-Their-Own-Time,” followed by a threatening glance. Still, we tried. And try intrepidly we did. But each day, no matter how vicious our conflict, we had no choice but to find a solution between ourselves. So we sat, and began drawing up a peace treaty. Negotiations were tense, but we always managed to find a way through it before the end of our forced coexistence. It was a stalemate. The knight with his armor and his sword could apparently find no way past Polly who, along with her handbag, stood her ground nobly. Regardless, this fight, like all the others, lasted little longer than 15 minutes. Day in we became masters of compromise, notorious hostage negotiators that could calm any delicate situation in seconds. Compromise wasn’t always fully satisfying, of course; I still had to watch the Teletubbies every second day, so that was a bummer. Here’s an original thought for you: settings establish values. My setting was apartment 6B, with the copper kitchen table marbled with deliberate dents that danced under my sliding palm, the “Daddy Chair” with its brown leather cracking from years of hard work, reserved exclusively for my pops, and the DVR that brought my sister to tears when it broke down halfway through Star Wars. I hardly remember my time in the apartment now, just those little snippets interwoven into my subconscious, sewn with powerful, unparalleled precision. My parents forced my sister and I to play68

Little Brown House Review

nicely-on-our own, sometimes against our will, and I’m ever thankful for that. Because of it I don’t remember a single second I spent alone in that flat. When you can populate your memory with images of laughter, love, and emotion, why bother with the mundane and the lonely? I went to visit my sister over Long Winter Weekend. She’s 20. She’s pre-law and on the dance team. Goes by Cam or Cameron now, not Cams or Cammie. No more time for Polly Pockets or the Teletubbies, at least I hope so. Me? I don’t remember when I stopped with After Breakfast Candy, PlayMobil, or the Wiggles. Time is strange. It moves like the passing of the wind. A whispering, whistling, wind that blows warm against your neck. A wind you don’t realize was even there until the day it suddenly stops, and you turn around to realize that you outgrew yourself and your toys. That you wear a coat and tie everyday just like your dad, that you listen to Johnny Cash just like your mom, that in 5 short months you’re off to college with only your clothes and your character. Your character that grew stronger each weekend with a little help from your sister and Tony the dragon.

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Untitled Karen Trovamala

t’s 3:15 on a chilly Saturday afternoon in Deerfield, Massachusetts. I sit on top of my bed in my messy room on Poc I, my laptop on my knees opened on a blank page of Microsoft Word. I turn off the phone that I have been holding in my hand for way too long, and peek out of the window. It’s snowing, again. From the top of my pile of pillows, I see a group of ever-so-blond faculty kids playing snowballs out in the street. I can see them laughing, and screaming, but no noise reaches the warmth of my peaceful room. I am not going out today. It’s 3:15 on a chilly Saturday afternoon in Deerfield, Massachusetts, and Poc I has never been so quiet. I take one last glance at the blank file in front of me, then shut my computer, jump off the bed, and start cleaning up my room. I am mad at myself for having procrastinated for so long, and even more mad for having no idea whatsoever about what to write in my meditation. What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to make sense of my life in front of my classmates and teachers, when I myself have no idea what I am doing most of the times? I take the vacuum. Plug it in. I mean, I know what I should say. I know what they would want to hear. Even my modest understanding of the American mentality is sufficient for me to know what kind of story an American audience would like to listen to: a story of success, of hard work that led to the overcoming of a great struggle, the story of a teenager emerging victorious from the mess that is adolescence. The vacuum is louder than I expected. I can’t really blame the audience, though. I get it: everyone likes a good, inspiring, successful story. But as I put away my guitar and look back at my time at Deerfield, I realize I have failed more in the five months I have spent

Little Brown House Review

at the Academy than in the previous sixteen years of my life. Being different has always been an essential part of my identity, one I am most proud of. From a very young age I have never completely fit in, at least not in the conventional way, but I have never stopped believing that what makes me different is indeed what makes me special. See, I grew up in a small neighborhood in Milan, Italy — close enough to the city center to be safe and crowded with all kinds of shops, and far enough to be quiet and populated by familiar faces. In a grey city where everyone tends to homologate, it didn’t take long for my 4-year-old self, starting kindergarten, to realize that I was not quite like anyone else. First of all, my name is not Italian, and, although my kindergarten friends did not seem to care, it was far from easy getting my elementary classmates, who were just learning how to write, to understand that my name starts with a K — a letter not part of the Italian alphabet — and does not end with a vowel — which is against probably the only rule my fellow classmates had learned about spelling. However, it was even harder explaining why I did not attend church services on Sundays, and why I was not preparing to receive Communion. My relationship with God is, to say the least, unusual. My maternal family comes from a branch of Turkish Sephardic Jews, which should make me Jewish as well, but I have never really learned much about my religion. All the contact I ever had with my Jewish origins was at the very unconventional family dinners we would always have at my grandma’s house during Jewish festivities. The whole family would sit at the big crystal table in the middle of my grandma’s huge living room, holding the paper copies of the transliterated version of the prayers, as none of us has ever learnt how to read Hebrew. We would go around the table, each of us reading a few prayers, and no one having a clue about what we were saying. Before my brother turned 13, my dad, being the only man in the room and oddly enough the only Christian, would often have to start us off. I would try as hard as I could to keep a straight face as Issue 24 · FALL 2018

he started making those really funny sounds, the blue kippah almost falling from his head at every word he mispronounced, or at least at what I assumed to be a word. After ten minutes of this ridiculous scene, my grandma — who by that time was probably at her third glass of wine — would call it off because “the roast is getting cold,” and that was it. I personally stopped relying on God after two weeks of late night prayers for the attention of the kid I liked in second grade had had the opposite effect. To this day, I clearly remember my disappointment standing in my pretty pink dress in the middle of the playground while watching him ask another girl to try his new bike. Simply heartbreaking. Attending Italian public school, I inevitably grew up more as a Christian than as a Jew. At school, I was taught to thank Jesus for what I had been given, and make red and green cards to give my parents on Christmas day. I even convinced my best friend to buy me an advent calendar two years ago, but that was because I wanted to eat the chocolate. Anyway, my friends would ask me about my Christmas dinner, and send me wishes for a “Happy Easter!” only later realizing “Oh, that’s right, you’re Jewish! I always forget about that!” And I never cared. I mean, if I had to explain to someone exactly where I come from, I would have to say “Well, I am a Jewish Italian girl with Turkish and Spanish origins and a Christian paternal family.” Who understands that? Going back to my relationship with God, in my younger years, my self-confidence and self-esteem — way overdeveloped — pushed me far beyond believing I was special. When I was 8, I learned from my older brother that the Jews were still waiting on a Messiah, which was enough for me to believe that I myself was the long-awaited Messiah or, as my 8-year-old self understood it, some kind of benevolent God waiting for the day angels would come knock at my door to announce my holy role and assign me my divine powers. I can’t help but laugh when I remember this crazy phase of my childhood. I now realize that I have been staring at the picture 72

Little Brown House Review

poorly taped on my wall for a while. It’s a lovely photo of my friends and me all dressed up for last year’s yearbook picture. I take a closer look at that smiling reproduction of myself, right in the middle of the group. That ingenius smiling girl had it all, I think. Many friends, a loving family, a curriculum of academic excellence and involvement in extra-curricular activities. Sure, she had faced her challenges — people had called her names because of her Jewish origins, guys had assumed she was dumb because she was blonde and wearing a skirt, and teachers had tried stopping her from applying to boarding schools believing she was planning to attend some year-long American party — but she had overcome them all. Yes, I consider as I apply new tape to the picture, at the end of my 11th grade mine was definitely a successful story, one that an American audience would very much like. Although, luckily, my self-esteem has decreased throughout the years, when the girl in that picture found out she had been accepted to Deerfield Academy, she was still pretty confident she would make friends quite easily. The truth? She had no idea what she was getting herself into. From day one at Deerfield, I struggled to understand the American mentality, and especially the social habits among teenagers. I have to admit that my knowledge on the matter came mostly from great movies such as High School Musical and Mean Girls, as well as a bunch of stories from my older friends that had been to the US on exchanging programs and kept telling me that “Americans are so weird!” — which I and my extremely exaggerated social confidence simply refused to believe. The truth is that — from an Italian teenager’s point of view — Americans are not weird, they are incomprehensible. I do not understand why they would say hello to you only half of the times you bump into them, or act like you are their closest friend only to completely ignore you the day after. On my second night on campus, I walked out of the Koch Center after the hundredth meeting on inclusion at 9 p.m. In the complete darkness of the countryside night, which I had never been lucky Issue 24 · FALL 2018

enough to experience before, I decided to follow a group of other girls, hoping to end up somewhere near Poc, my dorm as well as the only name of building I could remember. Instead, I somehow found myself at the opposite side of campus, and had to ask some random sophomore girls to guide me back. Although I eventually made it back to my dorm, that sense of bewilderment remained with me for a while. Finding myself in an environment, which appeared so similar to — but was indeed the complete opposite of — anything I was used to, made my confidence crumble. It started with my name being pronounced differently and not being able to reply with the quick comeback I was known for back home, and went on to having potatoes at breakfast and cereal at dinner. I quickly realized that most of my confidence came from my ability to express myself and my great understanding of human interactions — two qualities that applied only among Italians, and were annihilated the second I set foot into the Academy. I was left with my brain, my instincts and my athletic abilities, all of which were miserably failing me. I was not satisfied with my grades, I had been cut from volleyball as well as JV squash, and my great instincts had led me into an infinite series of terribly awkward moments. Failure. Athletic, academic, and social failure. For a moment that was all I could see. And in the midst of my failure, I stopped caring. I stopped caring about people getting higher grades, and performing better in co-curriculars. I stopped caring about making new friends and what my peers would think of me. For a good week now, I have been acting like I do not care and I am pretty convincing, but deep down I know it can’t last. I look around. My room looks almost tidy now. I bend to pick up what seems like a pink sticky note that has fallen under my desk. As I get closer to it, I immediately recognize what that pink piece of paper actually is. When I was 9, my mom would come pick me up at elementary school at 4:30 p.m. every day, a piece of hot focaccia in a small oily white packet in her right hand. For those of you who, in their miserable existence, have never heard of focaccia before, it 74

Little Brown House Review

is an oily bread that is both crunchy and soft at the same time, and the most delicious snack a kid finishing a hard day of elementary classes could possibly wish for. When walking through the narrow scarcely-lit aisle that led to the elevator of the building where I live in Milan, still savoring my beloved focaccia, I would wait for my mom to pick up the mail — mostly bills and advertisements — and dream about the day when I too would get a letter. On a cold afternoon in January 2010, my 9-year-old self saw a pink envelope leaning out the mailbox. My heart rate accelerated as I grabbed it and rushed to my room, the pink envelope held tightly between my oily fingers, too excited to recognize my mom’s handwriting in the heading: “Dear Ms. Karen Trovamala.” Once in my room, sitting on my bed, I opened it carefully and found a white page typed in an elegant italic font with a frame of cute red balloons all around it. “My little Karen,” it started “I couldn’t be prouder of you.” In the letter, my mom expressed her love for my joyful attitude, her admiration for the extreme dedication I showed in anything I committed myself to, and then she gave the most precious advice. “For all these reasons, you have to learn not to expect always the best from yourself, and not to shut yourself in whenever things are not going exactly as you want them to.” Throughout the years I have returned to that letter many times. I read it once more in this chilly Saturday afternoon, and I realize I have not changed much in 8 years. How dumb am I for pretending to be someone else? The truth is: I care, and a lot. I care about performing well in everything I do, and I care about what others think of me. I care, and I am hardly satisfied with my results, but that’s what makes me push harder and never give up. I sit back on my bed. I realize that what my overachieving-self considers failure would look a lot like success to many others. Sure, my English is not perfect, but it has improved so much. My grades are not the highest in my class, but they are still pretty good. And as for the weird American teenagers, I might never understand why they wear Issue 24 · FALL 2018

athletic clothing to dances and pajamas to athletic events, but I am definitely in no position to judge. I realize that my 8-year-old God/ Messiah self did know better, as at least then I had the confidence to blame myself if things were not working out the way I wanted them to, and the strength to do something about it instead of shutting myself in. After all, there is nothing keeping me in my room on a chilly Saturday afternoon in Deerfield, Massachusetts. I put my snow boots on and wear my jacket. I came to Deerfield with the hope to figure out what kind of person I am. And this is who I am: a girl with complex origins, a positive attitude towards life, and big aspirations. And I am happy with who I am. I turn my phone back on. My friends have been texting me all afternoon. They are waiting for me at the Greer. I run out of Poc and shut the big white door behind me. Perhaps mine is a successful story after all.

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Little Brown House Review

Glass Slippers Claire Zhang

I. Shake and quiver, little tree, Throw gold and silver down to me. - Cinderella

y mom has never worn heels. No matter where we ended up, she would bring her heels only to hide them in the back of our closet. Mountains of worn sneakers and flats would canvas the carpeted floors, freshly worn out from her latest trip to the city. When I was little, I would scour the shoe racks until I found them: the fancy nancies in a pile of plain Janes. I always knew where to look too: tucked in the left corner underneath her pair of black loafers. No matter how hard she tried to keep them clean, they always seemed dusty, as if the years of misuse and ignorance forced the heels to stay hidden. Hidden in a perpetual state of invisibility, and cloaked by a layer of dust. Cinderella, whose name means “layer of ashes,” was no doubt my favorite fairytale when I was little. In the pile of VHS tapes stacked neatly near the TV, Cinderella would always look the most tattered: worn out at the edges of the cover with dirt in between the cracks. I marveled at the idea that a perfect shoe could lead, somehow, to a “happily ever after” — the prince, a castle, and the happiness that came with the blessing of a glass slipper. When I heard that the glass slipper had given all of this to Cinderella, it made me so desperately want the same thing too. But there were no glass slippers in my house. The closest I came were Mom’s heels under a layer of “cinder.” And there, at the age

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of nine, I wondered whether my mother was missing something. Whether she missed her chance at her own “happily ever after,” just because she wore the wrong shoes. Mom bought me a box of plastic heels for my tenth birthday. Covered by a bright pink bag was my favorite baby blue heel: the color was the exact match for Cinderella’s dress. My heels were placed right next to my mom’s sneakers. I would wear them around the house, clack, clack, clacking against the chipped hardwood floor and the gray kitchen tiles. When I asked Mom the same question over and over again — “Mom, why don’t you wear pretty shoes?” — she would chuckle, and then swiftly tuck her smile away. It was as if she was hiding something about her past, something that I’ve never touched on. Yet again, I’d never known much about my family’s history. It wasn’t for any lack of curiosity. But something unspoken between my parents and me — an impenetrable tension — had kept me from inquiring. II. Rook di goo, rook di goo! There's blood in the shoe. The shoe is too tight, This bride is not right! - Cinderella Sophomore year was the first time I had the chance to ask about my past. My uncle Michael let his silence envelop us. His mind seemed consumed by his coffee. Then, as though surprised by a loud noise, he looked up at me. “You’re really not going to believe this. It’s a crazy story,” he said, his eyes bright with the knowledge he was about to impart. My uncle Michael, whose obsession with coffee shops and Maryland colored his view of the world, was fixated on a coffee stain at the table. “Your great grandmother...” he began, jutting his finger at me. 78

Little Brown House Review

As my glass of iced tea formed a ring of water onto the worn coffee shop table, and the smell of coffee beans and syrup wafted into the air, he began to speak. My great grandmother’s feet never grew beyond the size of a three-year-old’s. Every since she was little, her feet were wrapped with linen cloth and stuffed inside slippers. “Desirable,” her mother Rose exclaimed quickly as the reason for her suffering. Girls with unbound feet could never find a husband: the smaller the feet, the prouder the parents. At night, she would soak her feet in warm water, and bind them up again during the day. It seemed that her only hope of a better life was dictated by whether she could fit into her slippers. They call it in China “Chánzú”: feet that fit into three inch slippers. Almost like Cinderella’s small feet. Only in my great grandmother’s world, all the women in her village had little feet. As if each one was their own Cinderella, desperately trying to reach their ideal of perfection. As if Cinderella was someone to look up to, a mirage of perfection and beauty. “Look at all these obstacles that were in her way, Claire.” The passion in Michael’s voice was evident: his eyes were still wide open from the story rushing through his head. “She walked 1500 miles to flee the Chinese Civil War when she was 30. Your great grandmother made it. She made it across the country. You have strength in your genes.” As the aroma of the coffee beans kicked back again and the story came to a halt, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. My great grandmother’s feet, the very part of a body used to move, were crippled. She was a victim of time, a victim of misogyny, the war, and all that life threw at her. She was, undoubtedly, a strong woman. Her slippers were not too far from glass either. They were cloth. My great-grandmother was Cinderella, but not the Disney version. She was the Cinderella from the original Brothers Grimm version. In this version of the story, Cinderella’s stepsisters cut their feet to fit into the glass slipper. Unbeknownst to the prince, he takes them Issue 24 · FALL 2018

back to the palace, believing that he’s found his true princess. Two little pigeons cry out on the way to the palace: Rook di goo, rook di goo! There's blood in the shoe. The shoe is too tight, This bride is not right! With blood trickling down the stepsister’s heels, the prince quickly finds out of the stepsister’s deceit. Both the stepsisters cut off their toes to fit the small constraints of a slipper: a physical manifestation of the “happily ever after.” In this Cinderella world where feet are disfigured, it seems as if my great grandmother’s feet fit perfectly: bruised, calloused, and never to be normal again. It was my great grandma’s slipper that hindered and made her feet blister. It was the first time I was confronted with this reality: that there was a second, darker version of Cinderella. That perhaps, my great grandmother’s Cinderella slipper was the opposite of perfection. III. Rook di goo, rook di goo! No blood's in the shoe. The shoe's not too tight, This bride is right! - Cinderella My family has always moved on our feet. We are compulsive declutterers. Ever since I was little, it was just as simple a thing to pack our bags as it was to tie our shoes. As my mother, father, brother and I moved back and forth across state lines from New Jersey to New York, and then to Beijing, California, and then to New York again, it wasn’t the best idea to keep things for the sake of 80

Little Brown House Review

keeping them. Except for our shoes. It was as if each shoe that we bought, broken, worn out, and failed to repair again was a souvenir. There was no shoe that could survive the test of time, and that was the point. Sneakers worn across train stations, on our bikes on the way to school, my mother’s shoes that grazed the platform of the New Jersey Transit: each shoe was a different part of us, manifested by the steps we took to get there. Piles and piles of shoes would tumble out of our closets. It seems that we just keep buying cabinets to fit our shoes in. But we don’t keep anything else. Rarely. As we moved around, all of my other items — my snow globe, purple lunch bag, piles of artwork — were left behind. Dropped into the bin of motion and memory: lost in the in-between. Except for this cassette tape. My parents don’t know that I have it. It’s one of the only things I have left of my years as a toddler. Once, in 6th grade, I was in my father’s office when I found it. Tucked under the fourth drawer to the left, the black and red cassette player sat firmly on top of the tape marked “Memories (Claire Zhang)”. The grooves on the side of the player, marked “play, stop, rewind” made my hand quiver as I pressed the button. I think I’m scared of the past. Scared of what it can bring up, and scared to press the “play” button and question the very beliefs that I hold to be true. It was only until I was 15 years old that I had the courage to ask. I was scared to question my version of Cinderella, in the belief that all fairytales are perfect. In reality, the wicked queen in Snow White is made to wear red-hot iron shoes for her punishment. In the true version of The Little Mermaid, Ariel drinks a potion that makes it feel like she’s walking on knives. In reality, there is so much more to uncover. Our key is to excavate it, and to press “rewind” and “play” over and over until we can uncover the truth. Maybe we should look at fairytales this way: that even though fairytales seem perfect, they are not. There’s always a different Issue 24 · FALL 2018

version, a multifaceted way to interpret each story. It’s different to everyone. And different is beautiful. Different is our “happily ever after.” My mother’s shoes are always flat. But I get it now: she is Cinderella in her own way.

Little Brown House Review

JUNIOR DECLAMATIONS

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Medicine with Meaning Raegan Hill If I must go under the knife, Let the hand be of a beating heart. Grant me the knowledge That my life lies in the grasp of another Who experiences all that I do, All that makes us human: The way we hurt. The way we love. The way we need. Allow them to understand What I have to gain What I have to lose. Allow the beating heart to feel all that I have felt. Let it swoon, Break, Burst, Shatter. Shatter, Burst, Break, Let it Swoon.

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If I must go under the knife, Let the hand be of a beating heart. Deal me a deeper scar, If you must. I pardon the healthy tissue I might lose. I can live with a scar. I can live with less tissue. And if it comes to the worst, Allow my family to know you did everything you could. If I must go under the knife, Let the hand be of a beating heart, A beating heart that belongs to more than its carrier, Belongs to a mother, to a sister, to a daughter. One who has lost before. The human mind is limited, but the human heart is infinite. Let my surgeons perform acts of God In the most humanly forms. Let them create tiny miracles during the ordinary Monday. Allow them to be imperfect, To have their toes tap as they scrub in, To have sweat drip from their brow. If they need it, Issue 24 Âˇ FALL 2018â&#x20AC;

I want them to play music in the operating room. If they need it, I want them to hear a pep talk from their colleague. If I must go under the knife, Let the hand be of a beating heart. I don’t want a chunk of metal With a name ending in 3000. If the model runs off the power of electricity And not the continuous contraction Of atria and ventricles. I don’t want it. Spare me the statistics. 5 centimeters deviated from the ideal line. 10 minutes of review versus 160 hours. I do not care. There is no warmth within a metal box. If I must go under the knife, Let the hand be of a beating heart. The machine might know my blood type, My calcium levels, My medical history, Or the length of my sternum, But it will never know The tremble in my voice when I accept all that could happen “I trust you.” 86

Little Brown House Review

It will never see the nods my children give as they take me away. It will never feel the pressure of the risk, It will never understand the height of the reward. I believe American technology can compute far more accurately than any human. I believe not every surgeon’s hands are as steady as a Silicon Valley robot’s. Yet I believe that human compassion far outweighs artificial intelligence. So If I must go under the knife, Let the hand be of a beating heart.

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Value in Differences Colin Olson

hen I was five, I travelled with my family to Italy and was promptly offloaded to a summer camp. The only caveat was that nobody spoke English. Although I picked up a few Italian words (and a killer recipe for pasta sauce), it was when I strolled through the travertine stands of the colosseum, that I fell in love with gladiators, Caesar, and the Ancient Roman way of life. Back in the States as I began to take Latin class after Latin class, I discovered that in Ancient Roman literature, authors evoke a sense of Romanitas, the Roman identity expressed by values including piety, resourcefulness, creative-thinking, and resilience. I then fell in love with Cincinnatus, esteemed by folklore not for his militaristic ability so much as his willingness to sacrifice himself for his country. Instead of Batman, I desperately wanted to be Caesar, although my friends did not appreciate it when I rode my chariot into Gotham yelling, “Alea iacta est!” When I finally ditched my bedsheet toga, I became more thoughtful about American society beyond the playground. Can we identify with common values, even an ethical code like Americanitas, in a country where a Big Gulp is a status symbol, where friendship rarely goes beyond a Facebook like, and where Kanye West, who tweeted “Ima fix wolves,” is a legitimate presidential candidate. In America, we praise our heroes for their acts, not their ethical outlook. While Cincinnatus was remembered by his fellow Romans for his morals, George Washington, the poster-boy for an idyllic American, is simply recalled as our first President and a fantastic

Little Brown House Review

general. Heck, George relinquished his political and military authority in the exact way Cincinnatus did, yet this does not appeal to our nation’s psyche. I’ve come to believe that there is no such Americanitas, no such lauding of values across American history. During our country’s formative years, if a farmer laid down his plow for service, the story would not emerge as a rallying, American epic. Yet, when Justin Bieber got high with his friends, the babble in my middle school was endless. Perhaps this is what gives Americans our materialistic and vulgar appearance to the outside world. We are Machiavellian in that our actions are often spoken of in tongues of finality and results rather than moral reckoning. Indeed, it seems we are defined by a lack of an ethical code. In a sense this lack is freeing. Acting on whims and desires is “The American Way,” a form of nationalistic pride. As Larry the Cable Guy screams about heartburn on a monster truck, a tear comes to my eye. As the late and great Billy Mays seemingly ad-libbed about the power of Oxiclean, I felt a pang in my heart. We excel in industry and economy, sciences and medicine at the expense of our sense of communal ethics. We sacrifice our retrospective thought for a global, even interstellar presence. Of course moral relativism has its positives. Perhaps this is what makes us the “melting pot.” I see you as an American, not because you conform to a strict regime of belief, but simply because you sit next to me. Tolerance is derived from ambiguity. Rome was built upon its ethical foundation. Although we romanticize its ancient Republic, there came a time when corruption and expansion disoriented the average citizen’s moral compass, causing Livy to lament that they could “neither bear [their] diseases nor their remedies” (The Latin Library). Our society ignores the ethical component, lending us present success, but perhaps endangering how we will be remembered for centuries to come.

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The Truth Behind the Fences Fatima Rashid

his is all I’ve ever known. Our souls interlock as I breathe in your atmosphere and everything that it entails: culture, language, food, democracy, nepotism, corruption, hypocrisy, underlying racism, sexism, egotism, supremacy — America, I’m sorry. It happened again. Did I offend you? You tell me that our differences won’t affect “what we are,” but what are we? I, the lone wolf running around in circles in the fences you’ve built to manipulate me and millions of others, even though I know of your habit of seducing the minds of foreigners and your lack of loyalty. Fences that you’ve built in your favorite colors: red, white, and blue. Blue: the waves of your lustful lovers immigrating and hoping that you’ll be everything that you’ve promised. White: the innocence of their virgin minds. Red: the manipulation you project upon them. You fool me into believing there’s nothing beyond these fences because I’m safe with you. But you wouldn’t hide the truth from me, would you? You want me to prosper, don’t you? Growing up, my mother and father warned me about you. You’ve hurt them, beat them, knocked them down to their knees, and I know you’ll do the same to me. I can already feel their aches echoing and latching onto my mind, body, and soul. Wait, let me finish; you’ve always told me, “This is something you need to hear.” So here’s something for you: the words I’ve heard you whisper more and more throughout the years — terrorist, extremist, Muslim — these are why everyone runs away in fear. How can we be together, America, if your core is built from oppression and your greatest desire is to be uniform and

Little Brown House Review

exceptional? A country that is so susceptible to propaganda that you still can’t seem to formulate your own thoughts because you’re simply trying to discern between the two voices in your head you call CNN and Fox. “Which is right and which is wrong, Fatima?” You ask me. Yet I sit here within these fences, fearing what I did to make you fear my identity and hoping that you’ll turn back and tell me that there’s no such thing as American exceptionalism, only the American dream — the dream that you’ve named after yourself. It’s in the red, white, and blue of the fences, but every time I reach out to grab it, it’s like a digital pixel that just disappears. When I close my eyes I see my father, a Pakistani immigrant and doctor, be interrogated by your soldiers you’ve named the FBI, days after 9/11. I see the first boy in elementary school I called “cute” call me a terrorist. I see my little brother asking me with his gentle almond brown eyes if we’re going to be deported. I always wonder if my talents are enough because they aren’t born into the “right body,” but you seem to glorify the moments when they are to show your progressive thinking, raving over MLK and Ghandi. But when the curtains close, you fall back into your default mindset. And we start arguing. I see my mother get interrogated and called a terrorist at airport security after visiting our family in Pakistan, but all we wanted to do was return back. I just wanted to return home. I’ll never ask you with a raspy voice in the middle of the night, “Are we home yet?” Because you are that home. Aren’t you? I’ll never question your loyalty when I hear that you’ve been talking to other countries behind everyone’s back. But do you? I’ll never put you down because of what I hear people say about you. Because you embody the same self-entitled grit and grace you’ve done so since the genocide of the Indians and the enslavement of the blacks — I’m sorry. But don’t you? I’ll never leave you, but now the whispers and voices are saying, “She’s speaking out. Deport her.” Would you? Issue 24 · FALL 2018

SOPHOMORE POETRY CONTEST WINNERS

Little Brown House Review

Dinner Party Kareena Bhakta Problems, politics, and plum cake on the floor — that was her father’s favorite. Consumed by the mess, she sighed through the varnish while her heels clacked against the remnants of the night. She dreamt of stolen pears and the smell of her father’s cologne. If only the body next to hers could have been half the man he was. But she found comfort in the familiar ache from the shards of a flawed lover. One, two, then three, and a slurred smile to go along with it. He is used to staring at the bottom of his glass wondering how to take those words back. Fooled by illusions, she let him feast until she began throwing up acid in the backyard next to the roses where they got married. Indentations from her ring left space for bitterness to fester.

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Her apologies piled atop a throne of mistakes like a decorative crown. Explosive fights tickled her ears like music orchestrated routinely; her words, trapped in tears, had helped water the thorns. Whoever blinked first from the smoke of what once was and a dying cigar would pack their bags, though her pride was her only loyal friend anyway. But she did once promise To never let him go.

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(Celebration) Madeline Lee She was up all evening, brought out intricate china plates rimmed with gold tea in shriveled leaves like old lady’s hands tiny tins of butter cookies forks embellished with silver roses, and soft, rich cake that melted on your tongue. The air, heavier than the rain itself makes you itch and sweat in your seat. Ghastly streetlights across the block glow yellow in puddles like souls emerging from the dark and the faint chirping of cicadas stir the silence but they are content. They sit in light laughter and make idle conversation about school and the weather and these are good cookies, why don’t we buy them more often? Yet, still, the atmosphere is fractured like the corner of a dream. A blue mosquito light pierces her eyes and rings in her ears her husband smells like old grapes and other people’s smoke. Issue 24 · FALL 2018

Plague Claire Quan Poem ending with a line by Dove. 1960s Fujian, China (Three Years of Difficulty). Nana grew up on the Infected neckline of a village Where buzzards and men hung out Straw skinned, simmering till ripe Like dumplings in the cauldron coined Industrial China Contaminated broth of booze and artillery Stitched with a fragrance too much unlike Fear Is the chickens at marketplace Amalgamation of claw and feather Molten steel flickering in blackened beads Crimson rags stitched over haunches like Some inglorious cloak The chickens, Nana says Are not beneath, but beside us in Bed Nana aches With the naked bluntness of a gaze Fevered fixation on pearls iridescent against skin From neck to knees

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Ground against swollen beads Incubated fear cocks its foul had as Womanhood in sunder unstitches To twist top beakers, vials of formaldehyde Perversion replicates, rampant, through the streets Patient Zero contracts the Plague Contagious in a melting pot of carrier agents Nana is the genetic outlier, mutated immune A scientific phenomenon She says: Simple stitches salvage sanity If you can’t be free, be a mystery.1

1 Dove, Rita. “Canary .” Grace Notes: Poems, W. W. Norton, 1991.

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THE BREADLOAF PRIZE

Little Brown House Review

Light Bringer Maya Laur

wake at dawn. The early morning light spills over the tops of the mountains and into the valley, gently painting the rooftops in orange and pink. The straws on our hut glow a soft purple. Each blade of grass is dusted in gold. But in our cabin it is dark. I keep my eyelids shut tight for a few more moments, savoring the safety of the blueness in the cool, peaceful, morning. Then a whoosh of a match striking stone, a rush of flames and the room is ablaze with harsh light. My eyes fly open. My mother is bent over, holding a lantern close to my face. “Hurry.” Lev, my 13-year-old brother, sits on the bed lacing his boots. I stumble to the kitchen basin and splash water on my face, glancing at my reflection. My 11-year-old eyes stare out from their sockets, two whirlpools of innocence and pain. My hand goes up to my beardless chin. I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. Regardless of if I’m ready, the time has come to leave. All around the village lanterns flicker on as its inhabitants rise. Fathers pack prayer shawls and candlesticks into suitcases. Mothers pack infants into their arms and clothes onto their backs. I dress quickly, throwing tsit-tsit over my shoulders, buttoning into coat after coat, placing my yamaka carefully on my head. I shrug on my nearly-empty knapsack and open the door quickly, as if the doorknob is 1000 degrees. I let it slam shut without looking back. Soon it will be some other boy’s bed, some other boy’s house. *** My father places a hand on my shoulder as we walk. “It’s going to be different. Don’t put your faith in rumors, Aaron, America’s streets are not always paved in gold.”

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“But, think of the glory we’ll feel,” Lev grins. “Knowing that we are the ones who paved them.” “I want to lay down the foundation of my children’s dreams.” I say. “But, where will I find the stones to do so?” “I don’t know. But, we don’t have to know all the answers, Aaron. We’ll learn where to find them together.” Cold silence follows us. The smell of rising challah-dough lingers by the boarded-up bakery. The ghost of laughter floats down the desolate river. We hesitate by the golden sunflower fields that we used to hide in and the synagogue where we offered our souls to God. We weave through abandoned home after abandoned home, peering into empty living rooms and forgotten kitchens where Shabbos song once mingled with the aroma of roasting chickens and simmering matzo ball soup. By noon, we’ve reached the train tracks. A lattice of rusted rails and blackened planks runs out across the sun-kissed valley and cuts straight through the heart of the purple mountains. From all corners of the meadow, townspeople peel off their homes and join the train of immigrants stretching into the midday sun. My father shifts his weight from foot to foot. I adjust the strap on my knapsack. Neither of us is ready to face what comes next. It’s my mother who turns to us first, her eyes steeled over, locking in the tears. She kisses both of us swiftly on the cheeks and shoves a tattered prayer book into my arms. “Make my grandchildren proud,” she whispers. Gingerly, my father kneels down and pulls me close. When he lets go, I see his eyes are moistened. Sadness escapes from my heart. “You are Aaron,” he whispers fiercely. “‘The light bringer.’ You are a promise of light in our future.” He drops a tin matchbox into my fist. “You will grow tired, you will be broken, you will get lost. But carry the power of light within you, and you are never alone. Strike a match and banish the darkness. Strike a match and light your way home.” 100

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*** Two days later we are at the shipyard. Lev has gone to buy tickets. A steam engine blares its horn as it chugs into the harbor. Ocean spray spurts up from the ship's bow, dampening the coats of the families packed onto the loading docks. Infants blubber in children’s arms. Street vendors call out to hurriedlooking passersby. People dressed in fur coats and jeweled hats wave tickets in the air. Chickens scamper in between legs. The smell of cow manure and garbage mixes with salt spray. I close my eyes and I am leaving my parents once more: stepping from plank to plank on the train tracks, eyes turned down, terrified to glance back. A hand falls on my shoulder: Lev’s. I reach up and squeeze it tightly. “What?” His laugh is nervous. “Did you think I would leave you?” “You’re my only family now, Lev. Stay close.” I look at his hands. “Where are our tickets?” “Listen.” His voice turns to steel. “That steamer leaves in an hour, headed west towards the land of opportunity.” I look up. A ship piled with mountains of wheat looms above us in the harbor. “The guard won’t stand there forever. We’ll wait. When he’s gone we’ll sneak aboard and hide in the wheat. Once the ship sails, no one will ever tell us apart from the paying passengers.” At dusk the guard leaves his station. “Now, Aaron!” We sprint across the gravel, onto the docks, and up the ramp way to the towering steamer. “You first.” Lev helps me up the ladder that climbs toward the deck of the ship. Footsteps. I spot the guard returning to his post. “The Guard!” Lev scampers down the latter. I dive into the wheat. Seed puffs scatter everywhere. I nail my eyes shut. Dread courses through my veins. Every cell in my body yearns to be back in my home just north of Odessa. To run down the hill as the sun casts evening shadows over the valley. To hear the ancient Hebrew melodies drift over the mountains. To see the wrinkles of my father’s face etched in a smile as he waits at the door to greet me. With the Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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power of light, you are never alone. The blaring of a horn shatters my memories. My eyes fly open. I look down to see water churning past. The ship has left the harbor. I reach out frantically for Lev but my fingers grapple at cold, empty space. Tears well in my throat. Panic pumps in my blood. My heart beats so fast, I almost donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice the sharp pain of a metal corner jutting into my hand. Slowly, I uncurl my fist and look down. In my palm is a matchbox.

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Teenagers Madeline Lee I laugh like I’m about to do something illegal. I’ve never been past a sign in firetruck red, ‘do not enter’, through a tangle of trees, sneakers on wet concrete and my heartbeat that matches its rhythm, pap pap, pap pap, he brushes his fingers against my palm for a moment (a split second only, but long enough for me, his hands are warm and careful) and when we break through the branches, we’re standing on slippery slope, there’s a stretch of sand under a melancholy sky, a dirty crescent in the forest, green-yellow-blue like a flag, down the rocks, and underneath there are a billion sea-snails like stars, glistening with salt-spray and undisturbed dreams, here I fling off my sand-filled socks and shoes to walk to the ocean’s edge, the shells pinch my feet sand, wet, in chunks between my toes yet the horizon still beckons me forward, now the water’s at my calves

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and my hair and clothes are dripping with rain and peals of laughter, with each pull of the tide a little part of me floats away, spider’s legs crawling up my back in chills between the air and sea water above and water below me the waves tumble against my legs and against the shore in swirls of white and silver and rocks my conscience gently softly I’m cold shivering but here I am most alive.

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Cartons Claire Quan

arie returns to her hometown and leaves again. Six years, it’s been. The heat, oppressive and pulsating, cordons her to a stark nostalgia. At the bordering gas station, the cashier asks: “Where are you from?”A flash as the price of a carton blinks fluorescent on the register. “Here,” Marie says. His eyebrows arch in surprise. She is quick to add on: “I studied elsewhere.” The eyebrows relax. “No wonder,” he says, “your accent sounds different.” She murmurs her agreement and ducks out of the shop, a carton in tow. *** Three miles past the border, Marie’s car breaks down. Standing at the edge of the sidewalk, she watches fumes rise from her car hood. She sighs as the engine splutters to a stop. The air clogs her throat. She envisions dust particles roaming the crevices of her lungs, appaloosa stars against paling flesh. Perhaps the urban air she breathed as a child, she thinks, somehow congealed to a brick in her stomach, concrete amalgamation of pollutant and memory. Another blue sedan hastens across the highway. It merges with the road ahead and vanishes around a bend. The tenth sedan in an hour. Sunlight coats time in a sickly sweet molasses; the hands of her watch inch forward, painstakingly slow. Finally, she decides to trudge away from the highway and towards the forest further ahead. The pines beckon, a tapestry of light and shadow, welcome relief from the blazing afternoon. A carton still carried in the nook of her

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arm, she steps past the division of concrete and soil. A step, another; beneath her feet, the moss — a sudden euphoria. Noises bloom as cicadas and katydids and beetles and grasshoppers burst to song. The groan of automobiles fades into the background. *** You’re crazy, she muses. You’re crazy. Where are you going? There is nothing decipherable before her. The trees are a labyrinth; they morph and protrude and form layer after layer atop each other. Marie trips and falls over gnarled roots embedded in the ground. She does not know where she is. The first buds of panic sprout in the forefront of her mind. Her mind screams: where the hell — The sound surprises Marie. Shocks her mind to a standstill. It slips into the periphery of her senses with a light-footed swiftness, a call she has not heard in years. Barely a whisper, swept by the zephyr, it appears — a faint roar, a faint remembrance. Disbelief mars her features. It is unlikely, she thinks, too unlikely, barely a decimal in the statistics of probability. But the sound is there. Marie stumbles after it. With delight, she finds it growing louder with each step. She forces her legs to a sprint. Air puffs from her mouth in short, sporadic bursts. Marie runs and runs. Her thighs burn. She thinks: could it be? She can now feel the sound echoing through her body, trembling through her mind. She thinks: it is. Miles away from her birthplace, in an arbitrary shred of nature, she finds the river.

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NINTH GRADE DECLAMATIONS

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For Sudan Adebisi Akilo

merican men and women on the television set speak of conflict in Darfur. They say there are tensions between the Arab Sudanese and the Black Sudanese. Trouble they are calling it. Yet the waters have opened up and churned with a taste for our blood. I have seen trouble. Trouble is a bad year for the corn crop. Trouble is a baby who won’t yet take his mother’s milk. This is not trouble. This is ruin. This is a ruthless havoc. My sister has taken our young ones and has fled this slaughter. She tells us they are almost with the relatives in the north. She asks for us to let them know what is happening over here. We tell her that we will stay strong. Yet strength doesn’t always mean survival. This house that I have built is falling and Death is coming to blow it into obscurity. For 3 days we have had smoke and ash for dinner. The scent of burning flesh has clung to my hair the time we pulled a boy out of the rubble of the temple. Indecision has wrapped its way down my throat and stood on my chest. But there is no more fleeing, the bombs found our hospital last week. I know it will find us next or if not soon. At night there are the terrors. Those men with fair skin will come and steal our breath by night, and the whole world will stay deaf to the screams of our young. We will be swallowed by fire and the whole world will remain blind to the sight of our bodies limp and gnarled. This war has carved its story onto my back and etched horror across my eyes. I have buried more children than I have delivered. I have sewn up more wounds than wedding dresses. I have found more hauntings than pretty trinkets from years gone and past. This war has made everything black just like this skin that will cost

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us life. The stories of our dead and lost have beat themselves into my face and I carry them like penance. Many of us have accepted this end we know is coming. We have ingested too much sorrow not to. And we all speak agony now in the wistful ebbings and flowings of our voices. Yet I refuse to die quietly. I will look into the face of God with righteous fury and demand an explanation for this bloodshed. I will pray without begging for any mercy. I will bear these scars like the holiest of armor. And I will dive not fall into this pit death intends to devour me with.

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Herkimer Daisy Dundas

pstate New York summers can slow down time. The air heats up ‘til it gets all soupy, and you have to fight to push it in and out of your lungs. Some folks love the weather, but most men get cranky and stay inside as often as they can. I remember my father used to invite his friends over because a few of ‘em didn’t have cable, and they’d call me Cherry ‘n wrap my hair around their orange-dusted fingers. My mother was a deep Catholic, and she’d hear 'em all garbled, yelling at the TV, so she’d sit on the bed and pray and pray. I never liked being religious myself. I’d always get scolded at confession for questioning God, so I’d hide behind the bushes when Sunday rolled around. It didn’t do much — people don’t really get fooled if you hide in the same place every week. There’s some sort of beauty in a place falling apart real slow. The winters where I’m from were bitter in every angle of the word, but there was something else about ‘em too. Something that kept the folks that could afford to leave from getting the hell out of there. Everyone got unbearably religious in the winters too, of course. Perhaps it had something to do with the primal feeling of desperation that everyone felt when the temperature dropped too quick and the first frozen deer skeleton showed up in someone’s yard. I don’t know how God was supposed to bless some more heat into our house. I learned from a young age the difference between summer drinking and winter drinking. In the heat men drank because they were thirsty, and being drunk on a warm summer’s night usually ended in some stupid or greedy blunder until the women sent 'em to bed. But in winter, there’s no good reason to drink. It’s not too hot,

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there aren’t any barbecues. So men drink in winter because they’re bored or hopeless. And if that’s how they start drinking, you can be sure they get right dangerous when the alcohol has stripped the logic from ‘em. The kind of poverty of where I lived was quiet and persistent. Even if a family drove a car and had a little meat on their bones, you can bet they still had a cash jar dangerously close to empty in the house and a pile of broken dreams under the bed. It’s kinda like a twisted love story — how upstate New York reaches inside you and pulls the hope right out. But God knows it’s beautiful in all it’s grime and glory, and God knows it’s home.

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Wonder Talia Rajeskar

he lights dim. The crowd hushes. My lush, silky, midnight gown swishes around my feet as I feel the thumping vibrations of the drums through the hard, wooden floor where many a dancer’s blood and sweat has been shed. My heart tries to slow down to match the beating of the drums, to become one with the stage, with the audience, but it beats viciously, pumping adrenaline furiously as I am about to perform for the first time since the incident. My eyes close, but I can still see the bright red silhouettes dancing playfully under my retinas, silhouettes as bloodhued as the plush, scarlet seats. I remember them telling me that I couldn’t recover. After that spine-chilling car crash, they said simply living would be agonizing, let alone dancing. My beating heart, rushing with adrenaline as I am about to showcase everything they said I couldn’t, says otherwise. Now, I straighten my chest proudly, knowing they were wrong. My past may have tried to burn away my hopes and dreams, but I refuse to give it the lighter fluid. My circumstances have no effect on me unless I give it the slightest iota of permission to do so, and I will not give them that stolen satisfaction. As I hear the extras’ fragile, hesitant movements flitting across the hardwood stage in time with the resounding beat, all I can see is light. All I can feel is light, inside and outside me. As a single bead of sweat rolls down my makeup-free face, glistening brightly as a ray of light strikes it, it reminds me, alone I came into this world, but alone I shall not leave. I shall take some of that light to my grave. A stray lock of auburn hair breaks free from my bun, softly framing the side of my face. The drums get louder and louder,

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signaling the start of my entrance. This is it, I think. Prove them wrong once and for all. Now, I am going to do it for myself. As I lift my leg in a pirouette, already craving the firm ground, I hear a misplaced voice signaling...the end of physical therapy? The hospital nurse? I think, confused beyond belief. Startled, my eyes snap open, realization dawning on me. Planting both feet firmly on the ground, I sigh deeply and close my eyes again, raising my right arm as high as I can to recapture my dream, the silky feeling of my vision slipping fast through my tender, manicured fingers. With bittersweet rivers flowing down my face, I remind myself that my imagination has once again created an inescapable portal, a universe where I won, not that crash. That was not reality. But the lights. I can still feel the lights.

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THE 2018 JOHN C. O'BRIEN POETRY PRIZE

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Roots Noelle Abeyta The ocean always came back — and so did she, Maybe it was the sum of cheerless Convention and righteous curiosity, Or maybe she finally grasped What dreams are made of. She came like the wind — unexpected And without explanation; The restless tide was like Her sleepless mind. In between whiskey drunk and heaven, Where dreams lay, She could hear the rippling waves. When she was gone, the ocean Missed her empty reflection; And when she returned, Only one of them had changed.

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SELECTED WRITINGS: CLASS OF 2021

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Conformity for Survival Ellia Chiang

ocietal conceptions of acceptable expectations and standards are controlled by the titles of high status. Those in high positions bend society to their perspective, affecting those below them. In St. Lucy’s Home for Girls, the nuns, who hold the power, pressure Claudette, a young werewolf, and her sisters to learn the culture of mankind. Claudette faces the decision of possible assimilation into mankind’s societal norms and habits by abandoning her identity and roots of home. Likewise, in Old School, the narrator feels like an outsider at his elite school. His fear and bitterness around his social status and future influence his perspective and character. This is also seen in the Merchant of Venice when Shylock surrenders to his revengeful desires towards Antonio. Hated and abused for his Jewish religion, he bonds himself and his money for a pound of Antonio’s flesh. In all three texts, the characters feel the effects of a powerful hierarchy through the difference of social classes and norms; their necessity of conformity for survival forces the making of deadly decisions. Claudette is compelled to throw her previous life away and conform to the nuns’ wishes of societal norms through external factors which include the new behavior of her sisters and environment in addition to her own internal stress to survive. Slowly, but successfully, Claudette and her sisters, with the exception of Mirabella, transition through the stages and begin to differentiate between the uncivilized and civilized: “She was loping around all fours (which the nuns had taught us to see looked unnatural and ridiculous — we could barely believe it now, the shame of it, that we used to locomote like that!)” (Russell, 329). This quotation refers

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back to Mirabella, the youngest sister of the pack, who stubbornly remains “on all fours.” She refuses to conform to the new culture and society introduced to her, unlike her sisters who are competing to reach that goal. Through the sisters’ painstaking evolution and education, they start to establish a view of their previous life habits and norms as “unnatural and ridiculous.” The nuns are essentially forcing their (mankind’s) belief about what is considered acceptable and normal in life, setting the pace and effects of hierarchy by forcing assimilation. Unknowingly, the sisters are shaped to see the “werewolf life” as “shameful” and atrocious, such as the reminder of Mirabella. As Claudette’s understanding of human aspects advances, her sense of superiority over Mirabella and her old werewolf family develops. This signals her assimilation into the social hierarchy where werewolves rest near the bottom, as they are associated with barbarians and monsters. The sense of competition flourishes between the sisters, leading Claudette to conform for fear of her own survival, but which comes at a price: “I’d bristle and growl, the way that I’d begun to snarl at my own reflection as if it were a stranger… Twitching with the shadow question: Whatever will become of me?” (Russell, 330). The phrase, “my reflection as if it were a stranger,” indicates that Claudette cannot tell who she has become. Through her assimilation and incentive of survival, she has bent her will to the nuns’ wishes, but this decision impacts her life and character as she has lost a part of herself in regards to her primitive wolf side. The last phrase in the sentence, “Whatever will become of me?” shows that Claudette faces the consequences of not knowing what she will become in the future now that she has conformed to societal norms. Similarly, in Old School, a scholarship student at a prestigious boarding school builds a façade of himself and his social status in order to fit in with his wealthy peers, forgetting who he really is inside. He is self-conscious and resents the fact that needs to work for his future while his peers do not. As a response, the narrator crafts a masquerade of his background and social status filled 118

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with false pretenses to soothe his self-consciousness: “I had made myself the picture of careless gentility, ironically cordial when not distracted, hair precisely unkempt, shoes down at heel, clothes rumpled and prayed to perfection… it somehow suggested sailing expertise, Christmas in St. Anton, inherited box seats, and an easy disregard for all that” (Wolff, 109). The words in this quote, “careless gentility, prayed to perfection, sailing expertise, inherited box seats, and Christmas is St. Anton,” suggest wealth and privilege, which is the narrator’s intention. The story he paints is caused by the effects of classism at his school and in society as he tries to fit in by changing himself. While he manages to prevent his friends from knowing his true story, it becomes a consequence because he does not have any “true” friends: “I’d been absorbed so far into my performance that nothing else came naturally. But I never quite forgot that I was performing…When I caught myself in the act now I felt embarrassed. It seemed a stale, conventional role, and four years of it had left me a stranger even to those I called my friends” (Wolff, 109). The phrase, “a stale, conventional role… a stranger even to those I called my friends” implies that the narrator’s friends, who believe they know the narrator, actually do not. In truth, he wastes four years at school just to conceal himself, losing the chance to become close with his friends. While this decision makes him feel ashamed, the narrator can no longer stop because he already committed to this decision. In addition to the lack of personal friends, his decision to conform to this social status deeply affects his passion of writing: “Most of my stories had been meant to seem autobiographical, and thus to give a false picture of my family and my life at home — of who I was. I’d allowed myself to do this by thinking that, after all, they were just stories. But they weren’t really stories… My stories were designed to make me appear as I was not. They were props in an act. I couldn’t read any of them without thrusting the pages away in mortification” (Wolff, 110). After he becomes fully aware of his performance, he is no longer able to read his stories because Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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they were only true to his mask, but not to himself: “my stories were designed to make me appear as I was not… props in act… I couldn’t read… without thrusting the pages away in mortification.” Since he is not used to writing about his situation and life in reality, his insecurity leads him to plagiarize another piece of work that relates to his real life. The stories he always wrote were to emphasis his fantasy life-style: “a false picture of my family and my life at home — of who I was”. Therefore his decision to paint a picture and create a new persona has serious consequences that cost the narrator personal friends and his reputation in writing. In the play, Merchant of Venice, the Christians force Shylock to convert from Judaism due to Shylock’s decisions that were originally based off the societal hierarchy. The Christians, the top of society, pronounce Judaism to be evil and horrendous. As a result, Antonio, a wealthy Christian merchant, and other Christians, discriminate against Shylock with mental and physical abuse: “He hath disgraced me and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies — and what’s his reason? I am a Jew” (Shakespeare, 3.2.50-5). Through the words of Shylock, “I am a Jew,” Antonio justifies and directs his actions of abuse by Judaism. Within classism, Antonio is allowed to determine right and wrong morals because of his high social status in society. As a reaction to Antonio’s actions, Shylock conforms and lowers his standards of mercy to Antonio’s level: “If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why revenge! The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction” (3.2. 637). From this quote, the words “the villainy you teach I will execute” show that Shylock has developed his hatred for Antonio and will “execute” his actions in return. Shylock wants to emphasize the fact he believes that men are equal and entitled to the same things. With his argument of equality, he uses this to justify his retaliation against 120

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Antonio. However, his conformity to Antonio’s level of “society” ends up only hurting himself. Portia outwits Shylock in court and denies him a pound of Antonio’s flesh by the law. His consequence for retaliation and conformity to society is converting to the religion that he hates in addition to losing his money. All in all, the effects of the social hierarchy give each of the three characters a motivation and desire to “survive,” but it also gives them the knowledge to realize the consequences of succumbing to conformity. The effects of hierarchy force them to make decisions that change their outcome forever. At the end of the short story, Claudette refuses to help and defend Mirabella, who disappears for good. Claudette’s assimilation as a “human” is complete, but she ends up feeling guilty for her selfish desires and is left with a foreign home. At this point, she understands that she has lost a part of herself and her family. Similarly in Old School, the narrator is unable to find his true voice and story. His decisions to plagiarize cost him his graduation and college scholarship. Lastly, Shylock loses everything he owns in exchange for a broken bond, which would have only satisfied his bloodthirst revenger. Through these texts, it is clear that the effects of hierarchy and incentive of survival in society can change a person. From this, it is clear that the submission to a powerful hierarchy requires many sacrifices that will essentially impact one’s life.

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Exacting Revenge in The Merchant of Venice Angela Cui

“I am a Jew... …If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.” (3.1.54—67)

n Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice, the antisemitism prevalent among his characters reflects the spike of discrimination toward Jewish people during his time, the Elizabethan ara. Antonio, a Christian merchant, displays this by spitting on the Jewish moneylender Shylock and calling him names in public. Throughout his speech, Shylock questions this discrimination through his use of rhetorical questions in the constant format of action and reaction: “If you prick us, do we not bleed?” (3.1.59-60). Shylock repeatedly states these questions to prove that “[Jews] are like [Christians] in the rest,” while also forcing the predominantly anti-semitic audience of his time to face these questions themselves (3.1.62). 122

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Additionally, Shakespeare portrays the slow unravelling of Shylock in his monologue. Previously, Shylock had just lost his daughter as well as his wealth, all to a Christian man, inciting his hunger for revenge. His anger manifests itself in an ironic description of a Christian’s revenge on a Jew as “humility,” as if the Christian is doing a favor for and taking pity on the Jew, although the Jew’s revenge on a Christian is “sufferance,” a punishment full of suffering and misery (3.1.63-5). These two contrasting words emphasize Shylock’s bitterness against Christians and make a satire out of Elizabethan anti-semitic social constructs. Hence, Shylock focuses his hatred on his bond with Antonio to exact one pound of flesh from him, a serious crime of murder. Shylock attempts to justify this by reasoning that if all men have the same basic physical reactions to things such as poison or pricking, then they must all have the same psychological reaction of wanting revenge when wronged, which is inherently false. Therefore, Shylock, gradually unravelling while being consumed by revenge but also realizing the reality of murder, seems to be desperately grasping for any way to morally justify his nearing crime. By exacting revenge against Antonio, Shylock actually follows the very stereotypes his Christian persecutors have boxed him into. He vows, “The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction” (3.1.66-7). His usage of the word “villany” further emphasizes the Jewish stereotypes he swears to follow, and “execute” refers to the execution of Antonio. Furthermore, Shylock uses “teach” and “instruction” to express that the Christians are the teachers of evil who discriminate against and place stereotypes of villainy on Jewish people.

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Truth Kevin Gu

he idea of “truth” at first might seem black and white, but once unraveled, it becomes subjective for every person. The conflict in the three chosen texts contest the traditional definition of truth. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian, written by Sherman Alexie, narrates a tale of a Native American boy named Arnold. He is situated in a hopeless reservation, where people of his kind are left in a cycle of impoverishment. When Arnold breaks the barrier and attends the local white school, Reardan, he begins questioning his own identity. Tobias Wolff 's Old School spins a story about a nameless narrator in a competitive boarding school setting. He is insecure about his background and adopts a fake identity to protect himself. Yet, as time goes on, the narrator undergoes an identity crisis and struggles to find his truth — until he reads another story which he associates so deeply with that he confuses it for his own. The play, The Merchant of Venice, by William Shakespeare has a recurring societal “truth” of gender inequality. Male roles are clearly different from female roles, and Portia fights these inequalities in small but significant ways in order to initiate a shift in the norm. Within each character's internal as well as external conflict, the subjective and fickle nature of truth becomes apparent in the struggle to define their identity. Arnold in True Diary faces discrimination as he was transferred from the reservation to Reardan and subsequently begins to question his ideas about the poverty cycle which illustrates the impact of peer pressure on identity. In the beginning of the story, Arnold constantly relates his Indian origins to impoverishment. He continues to emphasize his low societal position as well as his inability to climb

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the hierarchical ladder. Arnold's fixed mindset is evidenced by his narration about poverty: “It sucks to be poor, and it sucks to feel that you somehow deserve to be poor. You start believing that you're poor because you're stupid and ugly, because you're Indian. And because you're Indian you start believing you're destined to be poor. It's an ugly cycle and there's nothing you can do about it” (Alexie, 13). Arnold's word choice enhances the idea of conformity: the word "deserve" illustrates that he is putting himself down along with other Indians. He believes that he is "destined" to be poor, which suggests that Arnold does not believe in Indians collectively breaking down the cycle. He has conformed with the reservation's paradigm — that Indians are lesser than white people. Yet, his questioning nature allows him to become easily moldable, and Arnold’s interactions shape his ideas about himself. “Something magical happened to me when I went to Reardan. It had something to do with confidence. I’d always been the lowest Indian on the reservation totem pole: I wasn’t expected to be good so I wasn’t. But in Reardan, my coach and the other players wanted me to be good. And so I became good” (Alexie, 180). Through this, Arnold’s dependent nature becomes evident. Others “expectations” dictate his actions: his “confidence” is directly correlated to his basketball teammates. In the reservation, Arnold’s “truth” was that he was inferior; yet as the circumstances change, his peers improve his hope and by extension, his ideas about society. This changeable characteristic of identity also allows Arnold to break the seemingly unbreakable Indian cycle. He comes to an authentic sense of his identity as he grapples with challenges in Reardan. Regarding basketball, he states, “Coach was thinking I would be an all-state player in a few years. It was crazy. How often does a reservation Indian kid hear that? How often do you hear the words “Indian” and “college” in the same sentence? Especially in my tribe” (Alexie, 180). This realization signifies that Arnold has successfully broken down the mental barrier in his way — a barrier that he placed there in the reservation. The tone of voice he uses to Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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illustrate his point shows his disbelief: he uses the adjective “crazy,” and marvels at his achievement, exclaiming, “How often does a reservation Indian kid hear that?” Furthermore, the act of writing his story in the “True Diary” indicates that Arnold contests his original truth of poverty. His interactions lead him to this moment in which he successfully exemplifies his new belief: breaking down those cultural barriers, which leads him to acknowledge those changes in ideas. The conflicts of those surrounding Arnold mold and become his “truth.” The narrator in Old School struggles with his identity in writing and resorts to plagiarism in the effort to tell his truth. During a hazardous incident, the narrator becomes inspired to write a poem about a firefighter that he saw. Yet, as he writes the poem, he becomes insecure as his story resembles his life too much. The narrator states, “I didn’t enjoy writing this poem. I did it almost grudgingly, yet in a kind of heat too. Maybe it was good, maybe not. I couldn’t tell. It was too close to home. It was home: my mother gone; my father wounded by my disregard as I was appalled by his need” (Wolff, 36). The narrator uses the word "grudgingly" to describe how he wrote it. It seems like he didn’t want to because of his cowardice: he is insecure about his own background. The narrator couldn’t analyze the quality of his writing as it was something too personal.This consequently also shows that he is not used to reflecting about himself — if he were, he would not have trouble writing and judging his own story since he could not “tell.” The narrator, throughout the text, also mentions the lies he puts forth to hide his Jewishness and background. As the years pass by, he loses his original identity and becomes someone else to avoid it. The narrator states, “But now I’d been absorbed so far into my performance that nothing else came naturally. Four years of it had left me a stranger even to those I called my friends” (Wolff, 109). The narrator decides to use the phrase "come naturally" to describe his performance. It means that he has forgotten his original self: he is 126

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so used to pretending that even his peers do not know him. Also, it can be inferred that his "friends" are not really friends. He references them as "to those I called my friends," meaning that “friends” is just a title. If they were really his friends, he would not have used this suggestive phrase. Hence, the narrator's idea of his friendships has changed because of this performance — illustrating that truth is fickle and changes as he faces new obstacles. This property is also demonstrated through the narrator's feelings as he plagiarizes a story he found for a competition. In the midst of a haze, he is suddenly reminded of his true identity when he reads Summer Dance and sympathizes with the story to the point where he mistakes it for his own. His reaction after writing it advances this idea: “In writing those words I felt at least an intuition of gracious release. To strip yourself of pretense is to overthrow a hard master, the fear of giving yourself away, and in one sentence I gave myself away beyond all recall” (Wolff, 109). After years of acting, the narrator finally recalls his truth. It is a “gracious” release, meaning that he has waited a long time for this moment. It's a challenge that he has faced from his time in school, and the narrator compares it to overthrowing his "master." For a significant period of his life, the master, insecurity, rules him as he lies and pretends his way through school. Yet, as the narrator writes the story, he finally acknowledges the truth that he was initially so scared of. In The Merchant of Venice, Portia contests the “truth” behind the powerless position of women through her tests after the casket selection. Throughout the play, Shakespeare emphasizes the importance of gender inequality. There is an obvious innate difference between male and female societal roles, which is illustrated in the method that the king chooses to find a suitor for Portia. “I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike, so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father” (Shakespeare, 11). Portia has no choice in her suitor in her father’s will. This shows that women, in this period of time, are dictated to Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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by their male counterparts. Portia uses the phrase “neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike,” signifying that she does have a strong preference in her suitors, but it is “curbed” by the will of her father. Thus, Portia initially conforms to this societal norm as she respects the wishes of her late father. During her marriage, Portia makes a bold effort to maintain control despite being a woman. She states, “This house, these servants, and this same myself / Are yours, my lord’s. I give them with this ring / Which when you part from, lose, or give away / Let it presage the ruin of your love” (Shakespeare, 57). The ring that Portia gives symbolizes her affections. Furthermore, the action of giving it shows that she still has some control in the marriage, which usually is not the case in Shakespeare's time period. If lost, it would “presage the ruin of [his] love.” Even though Bassanio legally owns her property and riches, she establishes her dominance by giving the ring in exchange for her love. By doing this, Portia attempts to fight against the paradigm of gender inequality. She shows that Bassanio cannot control everything: her heart is still independent. This act of defiance signifies that people send defiant messages to society through their actions in order to challenge the “societal truth” and thereby initiate change. In all of their journeys to find “truth,” the characters of each text begin to realize the dynamic, constantly changing properties of truth. As they are put in new situations, all the characters begin to realize their “true nature.” As such, it can be seen that truth also has many layers, like an onion: as outside layers are peeled away by facing predicaments, their genuine nature begin to emerge. In True Diary, by going to Reardan, Arnold’s insecure nature becomes apparent. By conforming, he subconsciously begins to acknowledge Reardan’s racist ideologies, which illustrates the fickle property of truth. Old School’s narrator also struggles with an identity crisis. As time passes, his whole act begins to become his reality. Only when exposed to a Jewish story, the narrator spots another’s truth 128

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and confuses it for his own. Also, Portia in The Merchant of Venice defies the gender inequality norms by setting conditions for her love to Bassanio. Through these journeys, it is evident that truth is an ever-changing and unique story for all characters in these texts: our understanding of truthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fixed nature is therefore challenged in these stories and readers must see their roles as interpreters and arbiters of truth.

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The Religion of Childhood Juliette Lowe

he church room is bare, stark white walls broken up only by the great glass window which offers some relief to what would otherwise be darkness. Mid-afternoon sun also serves as a spotlight for the boy, the sole focus of the rays. He glides, untethered, between the benches, lost in his own private world. The red pillows offer cushion, a safety net if his feet were to betray him. Why would they? Who knows, sometimes heart and body don’t match up. That’s what he has been told, time and time again. Sitting next to his parents, the television showing images of dying children and houses turned to rubble, they told him that. Bodies can be manipulated, minds changed. Down deeper, there is always some good; unfortunately, heart and body don’t always match up, the parents explained. That night, nightmares plagued his dreams, but the next morning they had faded from his mind as quickly as a songbird’s waking call. His parents explained again when he went to visit his grandmother, not in her house, but at the hospital, where she lay sleeping. She, limbs frail, was old, they said. She loved you, yes, but heart and body don’t always match up. He nodded to this, hearing only the part that said he would see her again someday. So, for now, the boy flies. For now, under the shadow of October’s golden sun, he does not have to worry about falling. He can trust his legs to land him. In this season of change, uncertainty, he does not have to worry, because, for now at least, his heart and body are in unison. They provide a filter, a buffer. They allow him freedom. Imagination. The walls are a blank canvas. The pews don’t have to

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be straight-backed, restricting. He turns them into cliffs. Cars. Ski jumps and lifeboats. The boy does not pray here, for if he closes his eyes he cannot see darkness. Instead, he resides in a colored world with his eyes open, living his religion through every breath and move. He follows the religion of childhood, a pair of wings which he must soon leave behind. When will he have to drop down to earth? How long does he have? Tomorrow, certainly, he will come back again. And tomorrow’s tomorrow. But one day he won’t. One day his heart and body will endure the fracture that all people’s will at some point in their lives and then, suddenly, his feet will falter. The pews will be for sitting, the walls will remain white. Maybe this isn’t what he wants, surly for few it is, but it is an unavoidable truth that someday, once heart and body have been fractured, the religion of childhood will be gone. It’s okay. After awhile, he won’t remember what he has left behind.

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High on Power Charlotte Molinari

ot unlike a wedding vow, a ring, Portia’s gift to her husband, symbolizes commitment and a promise of eternal love. Its permanency on Bassanio’s finger is the sole condition that their marriage depends on, as indicated by Portia’s resounding statement: “When you part from, lose, or give away, / Let it presage the ruin of your love” (3.2.172-3). To her, the ring holds a non-negotiable importance that represents his faithfulness and devotion. On the other hand, Bassanio doesn’t read into its meaning to the same extent. He understands the ring is of great value in an emotional aspect, but he doesn’t quite grasp the weight it has on their marriage. Portia confronts him on belittling the ring and explains the significance the ring holds in her eyes, saying, If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honor to contain the ring, You would not then have parted with the ring. (5.1 198-202) The rupture of this promise is absolute treason in her eyes. However, the betrayal had been in place before the ring left his finger; its seed was planted in Bassanio’s courtroom confession: “But life itself, my wife, and all the world are not esteemed above [Antonio’s] life” (4.1 283-4). Portia, eager to prove her doubts right after that confession, finds a way to demonstrate that Bassanio does not value her, or his, vow. To achieve this goal, she breaks a promise of honesty herself.

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Upon his return, she interrogates him on the missing ring while still playing the role of the naive wife. Her choices throughout this confrontation make her motives questionable; she begins on a sincere note but as the argument progresses she crosses an ethical line, mirroring her attitude in the trial. Unaccustomed to her position of superiority over Bassanio, she toys with his emotions, even going so far as confessing to adultery as a chance to demonstrate that “a light wife doth make a heavy husband, / and never be Bassanio so for [her]” (5.1.130-1). “Pardon me” (5.1.258), she begs, testing him to see the length his love for her extends. After obtaining her desired reaction of absolution from Bassanio, she comes clean about her entire plan, causing him to re-evaluate how deeply he really knows Portia. In his eyes she is now unrecognizable, both literally and figuratively. His bafflement overshadows his anger and seeps into his realization: “Were you the doctor and I knew you not?” (5.1.280). This implication of distrust not only gives Portia a sense of victory, but, unknown to her, adds to the already existent tension in their marriage formed from their disconnection to each other. Through the trial Portia gains control and power, both of which carry over to her marriage. Behind closed doors, she isn’t able to regain her real persona, but finds herself trapped within her newly found authority. She confirms her doubts about Bassanio’s commitment to her in the trial, which leads her to abuse this power. He retaliates with a profound sense of regret in his new-formed promise that manages to seed forgiveness in Portia: “I never more will break an oath with thee” (5.1.248). Though there is clear and strong emotion in her arguments about her husband’s faithfulness, she does not seem to be driven by them, but rather the exhilaration that power is giving her.

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Acrobat Rosa Sun The swivel of his bike that accompanied every push of the pedal shook his little niece in the backseat. A round trip to the store and back. The little child demanded the ice-cream that they had just bought, which she gave to her uncle in case it slipped out of her dainty hands during their little trip. But it was a scream. Not a thank-you, for her childish dream melted before her own eyes. Oh that sweet sweet sugary dream on a boiling summer day was no more. Her uncle had gripped the little cone too hard. She stomped away, Angry, disgusted. Next time he visited, his sister told him he didn’t look so well. It wasn’t long before his body melted into the ghostly white sheets, unnoticeable,

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against his deathly dark skin. The only color was the tightrope on the monitor swiveling. An acrobat on a bike, shaking, scared that if he had looked behind him he’d only see Anger, disgust. So he let go, falling into the dark abyss below. The tightrope didn’t shake anymore, it settled into a straight, dead line.

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Stepping Stool Rosa Sun

he same old shirt under the hideous blue of the dress on top; the fabric, like that of the old rags lying on the bottom of the kitchen sink, was plaid, suggesting formality in a school which in reality was insignificant to the rest of the world. You’d wonder at my complaint, why we couldn’t just order new school uniforms? No one in this small village enclosed by rusty iron bars had that kind of money. Even when the warm rays of sunshine shone through the bars and into the classrooms, the elongated shadow of those prison bars stretched far beneath our feet, reminding us there’s no way out. If only I had a stepping stool, a starting point somewhere higher than where I am right now, so I can hop right over the walls. It makes me furious, seeing other kids play with worn-out board games donated by strangers. I never touched those toys, they reeked of sadness and pity. I often dream of my journey beyond the bars. I’ll get into college. I’ll get good grades, make good friends, and with pride tell everyone how far I’ve come. The only shame being my address; a string of words that represent a place where I grew up with my family — a family that couldn’t give me what I wanted, a family that was a heavy ball and chain around my ankles. But without them, I could step through the looming shadows of the bars, I could walk towards the sunlight and not shy away from its brightness. Who needs a stepping stool? I can jump up and grasp the cold rigid bars with my strong hands and hold myself up, I can raise my head up high and see farther than I’ve ever seen before. I can see where the sweet orange sun kisses the horizon. But I’d fall, backwards onto the familiar grey concrete, skinning my knees and biting my lip to hold back the tears. The tears of defeat that tumbled

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down my cheeks and reached my lips, and only then I’d taste the pity. Pity for myself. For no matter how much potential I have I won’t ever make it, not just over the bars, but also in the world beyond. Who knows what my name will be out there? The Pathetic One? The Uneducated One? Pity for the fact that at the end of the day, I always end up shying away from the sun and shrinking back into the cold embrace of my family.

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The Impact of Stereotypes Eleanor Wenners

lacing stereotypes on oneself and others, a normalcy in society, drives humans to conform themselves to mirror the stereotypes imposed on them, even if the stereotype doesn’t match the reality of their lives. Humans’ desire to live up to the stereotypes they place on themselves and others place on them results in low self-esteem when realizing they don’t truly embody the stereotype. In The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, Arnold, a young boy who lives on a Native American reservation, decides to transfer to a predominantly white student body school. While at Reardan, Arnold encounters stereotypes delivered by white students who are uneducated about Arnold’s culture. Arnold faces the hard decision of changing himself to fulfill the stereotypes. In Water By The Spoonful, Fountainhead, an addict, also works to improve his life to live up to the stereotypes of a “perfect life” he has put on himself and society puts on him. Finally, in The Merchant of Venice, Shylock, a Jewish man, faces harmful stereotypes from Christians in his town. Ultimately, the hatred in the stereotypes he faces causes him to lash out at his perpetrators. In The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, The Merchant of Venice, and Water by The Spoonful, the stereotypes characters impose on others of different ethnicities, religions, and mental health states can be characterized by anger and fear of the unknown, resulting in the victims lashing out as well as losing self-esteem, which provokes them to change themselves. In The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, Arnold’s white classmates stereotype Arnold based on his Native American background, as the students lack knowledge about Arnold’s culture.

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These stereotypes send Arnold’s self-worth crashing down and provoke him to assimilate into white culture. The white students at Reardan continually stereotype Arnold’s culture on the reservation, as Arnold claims, “After all, I was a reservation Indian, and no matter how geeky and weak I appeared to be, I was still a potential killer. So mostly they called me names. Lots of names” (63). One white student even goes as far as greeting Arnold with “Hey chief ” (64), which is a stereotypical name for those of Native American descent, further exposing some of the cruel stereotypes Arnold encounters. As a result of the stereotypes haunting Arnold, his self-esteem plummets, as Arnold claims, “I didn’t deserve to be there. I knew it; all of those kids knew it. Indians don’t deserve shit” (56). This quotation shows Arnold’s drop in self- esteem, especially when he claims he doesn’t deserve to be at a white school, which also reflects significant self-doubt caused by the way the white people perceive him. Arnold also claims that the white community in Reardan stereotypes the reservation for believing “that the government just gives money to Indians” (119). Arnold also adds, “Everyone in Reardan assumed we Spokanes made lots of money because we had a casino” (119). Although Arnold knows that this stereotype the white people have placed on the reservation is false, arguing, “But that casino, mismanaged and too far away from major highways, was a money-losing business” (119), he constantly attempts to hide the reality of his financial state and achieve the stereotypes the white community has placed on him. Arnold confesses, “Yeah so I pretended to have a little money. I pretended to be middle class. I pretended I belonged” (119). The use of “pretended” shows that even Arnold knows that this stereotype is false, but he continues to use it as a mask for his reality and, as he says, make it seem like he “belonged” in the white community. In the play Water by The Spoonful, Fountainhead, a drug addict, is afraid to admit his addiction, for he fears what others will think of him because of the stereotypes society puts on people Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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with addictions. Consequently, Fountainhead attempts to make his addiction seem non-existent when in reality he is going through an intense struggle. Fountainhead claims he is “Mildly athletic, but work[s] twice as hard. Won state for javelin two years straight. Ran a half marathon last fall. Animated arguer. Two medals for undergrad debate. MBA from Wharton. Beautiful wife, two sons. Built a programming company from the ground up, featured in the New York Times’ Circuits section, sold it at its peak, bought a yellow Porsche, got a day job to keep myself honest” (23). To society and Fountainhead, this seems like a “picture perfect” life. This image causes society and Fountainhead to impose a stereotype that someone with this great of a life could never have such a ‘disgraceful’ problem such as addiction. Fountainhead claims he had been going through an intense struggle, admitting, “long story short, I was at a conference with our CFO and two programmers and not an unattractive lady in HR. They snorted, invited me to join. I’ve been using on and off since” (23). Despite having what seems like a stereotypical “perfect life,” Fountainhead is coping with addiction. Fountainhead, having a large ego and stereotypes to satisfy, he decides action needs to be taken to change his life for the better by getting sober. Eager to become sober, Fountainhead states, “I’ll sit in the front row, pay attention, and do my homework. No lesson is too basic. Teach me every technique. Any tip so that Saturday doesn’t come every day. Any actions that keep you in the driver seat. Healthy habits and rational thoughts to blot out that voice in the back of my head” (24). Following his plead for help, Fountainhead says, “Today, I quit. My wife cannot know, she’d get suspicious if I were at meetings all time There can be no medical records, so therapy is out” (24). Although Fountainhead is desperate to live up to the stereotypes society has placed, and those he has placed on himself, he doesn’t want his wife to know about his addiction. This quotation reflects Fountainhead’s desire to keep his stereotypical image alive by making sure his wife doesn’t find out what he is going through. If his 140

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wife were to know about his addiction, there is a risk she might leave him. If this were to happen, his stereotypical “perfect” image would shatter; the risk of losing his wife and family due to his addiction shatters his self-esteem. When the other members of the groupchat hear about Fountainhead’s plan for recovery, they argue with his methods. Chutes and Ladders fires, “Maybe it’s something like half crack addict. Or a half husband” (25). By calling Fountainhead, a “half crack addict” and “a half husband,” Chutes and Ladders breaks the stereotype of the “perfect life” Fountainhead and society impose. Chutes and Ladders exposes the truth behind the stereotype that masks Fountainhead’s addiction claiming, “Give the essays a rest and type three words. ‘I’m. A. Crackhead’” (25). Chutes and Ladders understands why Fountainhead shared his “essay” or the background of his perfect life; he knows how difficult it is to break a stereotype society has, and you have on yourself. Despite the pleas of the members of the group-chat, Fountainhead continues attempting to change himself to embody the stereotypical image of a “perfect life.” In the play, The Merchant of Venice, a Jewish man named Shylock is stereotyped by the Christians in his society, especially Antonio, causing Shylock’s self-esteem to decline. This is shown when the anger and frustration Shylock has collected builds up, ultimately leading him to lash out. Shylock mentions that Antonio has “disgraced me and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies- and what’s his reason? I am a Jew,” (3.1.50-9), as well as calling him a “misbeliever, cutthroat dog, and spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, and all for use of that which is my own” (1.3.19). The only reason Antonio calls Shylock these stereotypical names is because, as Shylock claims, he is simply not Christian. Antonio can’t even bear to have respect for someone who doesn’t follow the same religion as his own, as shown when Shylock calls Antonio out for everything he has done. Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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Shylock, having been crushed by the hurtful stereotypes placed on him, loses his confidence and gains frustration over time. Shylock’s lack of confidence shows when ranting to Antonio by saying, “Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?— fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us do we not bleed?” (3.1.54-9). Shylock questioning Antonio if he believes Jews bleed reflects great frustration and low confidence from Shylock. The act of bleeding is a human function, so Shylock asking Antonio if he believes Jews bleed is like asking if Jews are human. Having to even ask if he is human reflects significant self-doubt. Shylock’s frustration is apparent in this quote, too, because he attempts to prove that Christians and Jews are the same, going against the stereotypes created by Antonio as well as other Christians. As a result of this frustration and drop in self-esteem, Shylock lashes out. Shylock claims that if Antonio cannot repay his debt on time, he has to “let the forfeit be nominated for an equal pound of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken in what part of your body pleaseth me” (2.1.21). This is Shylock’s way of seeking revenge on the stereotypes, for Shylock admits, “If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge” (3.1.50). Not only does this show how badly Shylock wants revenge on Antonio, but it also displays the lack of dignity in Shylock. The use of “feed” shows the extent of desperation Shylock has to get revenge on Antonio. By taking a pound of Antonio’s flesh, Shylock’s confidence will rise because he is finally the one in control after he has spent a large fraction of his life being falsely stereotyped by those of another religion. Stereotypes in The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, The Merchant of Venice, and Water by The Spoonful provoke the main characters to compose a new image of themselves in hopes of appearing as if they embody the stereotypes placed on them. Often, this need for self-change leads to built-up anger and the shattering 142

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of self-esteem. From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, where Arnold lives a lie to accomplish the stereotypes white culture places on his ethnicity, or Fountainhead’s unrealistic plan of recovery from addiction to maintain the image of his seemingly perfect life, to Shylock’s lashing out at his perpetrators who place racist stereotypes on his religion, each storyline’s stereotypes are a driving force in the plots. By understanding the stereotypes the characters encounter, and analyzing the impact the stereotypes have on each character, readers can experience a greater empathy for the characters, which may have been difficult before grasping the impact of the stereotypes.

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SELECTED WRITINGS: CLASS OF 2020

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Time as a River Angelique Alexos

. I sit on the rocks and watch the river below me. Its fluid body rushes endlessly in the space between the two mossy banks. On the banks, clusters of trees shelter the river in a canopy of green, and their thin, wooden branches embrace each other until it’s impossible to tell which branch each leaf belongs to. I feel I am part of this scene, and the river provides a lovely backdrop to a moment that feels it could go on forever. II. The river is beautiful when the sun sparkles on its surface. When it looks this way, nothing can ignore it, and I watch as both the tiniest insects and the largest birds swoop down to play in the water and catch a glimpse of themselves in it as it flows by. At times, I too cannot stop my attraction to the river, and I find myself peering down at its surface from my rocky ledge secretly hoping that I will see my reflection. The sparkling river makes me forget that only still waters are capable of showing the faces of their observers. III. I don’t know that I quite understand the river. I find it strange that it’s always hurrying somewhere beyond my sight, and it never pauses to sit with me and spend a few moments looking up at the trees. I wish I could reach down and take some of the river for myself. I want to collect some of it in a little glass bottle, so I can have it forever and observe it when I wish. But I have nothing with me on this rock, and whenever I try to capture the river with my hands it escapes through my fingertips. I am left with only wet palms which dry up quickly in the sunlight. IV. Will the river ever stop this same flowing motion? Doesn’t it ever get tired? Watching the river for so long has agitated my thoughts, and now my mind has become engrossed with finding

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answers to these questions. The motion of the river no longer excites me, and I crave change in this coursing movement that I have been observing. There is nothing for me to watch. Even the animals that used to frequently come to the river have moved on to new waterways. I am beginning to wonder if this will be the way the river runs for all eternity, but I do not move from my rocky ledge for fear that if I leave, the river and its surroundings will suddenly change. V. Why must the river flow forever like a child chattering endlessly about nonsense? Won’t it ever listen? I’ve tried speaking to it and even reasoning with it in hopes that it might pause and consider my proposals. But my words are just droplets of water that cascade into its liquid body and soon become lost amongst the identical droplets of water that already compose the river itself. The only response I receive is a burst of laughter from the river, and its loud roars flood my brain and my eyes and my ears until all I understand is the raging sound of water flowing past me. VI. I cannot stand the river any longer! It will never stop and listen to me! Even when I scream at it from my ledge, it continues to prattle to itself, and my perturbed cries are simply swept away. I am sick of its inability to pause and let me speak. Just stop and let me take a break! There is nothing I want more than to just stop the river and watch it quiver back and forth until it becomes completely stagnant. VII. I have decided to sit with my back to the river because I can’t bear to watch its constant coursing any longer. The view on the other side of the rock is so different from what I am used to seeing. The trees are the same, yet they arch above a simple green, grassy pasture. There are a few flowers that dot the pasture, and every once in a while, an animal comes to play in the grass. I know I will grow to love this view. But right now, without the river, it just feels so empty. I feel so empty. VIII. This morning I found myself unable to resist the sounds of the river, and I turned back around to see a red fox on the mossy 146

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bank opposite me staring down into the water. At first, I laughed at the fox knowing that his enchantment with the river would soon fade away, as mine had, and he would leave, confused by its inability to stop for anything, including himself. But he stayed at the river all morning pacing beside it and watching it flow by. What did this fox, this deceitful, immoral creature, understand about the river that I did not? How could he wait there for so long without glancing away even once? I need to know what he knows and see what is blinding me. IX. I want to send a message to the river. The other day I tossed a pebble into it as it rushed by, but the pebble simply sank to the bottom without any other reaction from the river. Maybe I’m not speaking to the right part of the river, and I wonder if all the answers to my questions lie further downstream. If I sent a message down there would it reach someone? I have no paper and no ink, but maybe if I send a leaf down the river it will reach a place that has answers. I want to be able to understand. X. I sit on the rocks and watch the river below me. The trees, thick with green leaves, hang down and shade us from the sun that shines just above. We have been here before. I stare at the river’s endless, fluid body rushing in the space between the two mossy banks, and I understand that each ripple that passes me is not identical to the ripples that passed by yesterday or even a minute ago. We have been here before, but the river is not the same and neither am I. All this time, I believed I was only observing its motion, but, after all this time, it has found a path within me. And now it has become part of me.

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Like Riding a Bike, Only Different Sydney Gregg

y dad tossed me the car keys. They clinked together as they hit my hands and then the ground. “Oh! I’m driving?” I bent over to pick up the keys. “Unless you don’t want to,” my dad offered. “Oh! Uh, no! I can drive!” I replied. I mean, I had driven before…around a parking lot. But I had never driven in the dark, and I had just received my permit from the DMV a few hours earlier. We should also consider that, for one to acquire a driver’s permit in Connecticut, one may only answer a maximum of five questions incorrectly on the test. Let’s just say I had passed my permit test as narrowly as my spring physics exam. I climbed into the driver’s seat of my mom’s SUV and adjusted the seat so far forward my knee hit the steering wheel. “What?” I answered my dad’s questioning look. “I like to make sure I can brake!” I successfully backed out of my garage, making sure to check over my shoulder and my side mirrors. Then, I shifted into drive and jolted forward. I waited for a break in traffic before screeching onto Albany Avenue, falling in line with the other cars. Google Maps instructed me to turn onto an upcoming side street. “Remember your blinker,” my dad said. I flipped the turn signal, but instead my high beams went shining into the windshields of opposite cars. Panicking, I flipped the bar back, but I didn’t notice a change, so I hit the bar again. “Now you’re just flashing your high beams!” My dad raised his voice. 148

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I let go of the steering wheel and hid my cursing with some indecipherable vocal sound effects until I got my lights under control. Google Maps’ monotone voice rerouted me to the next street, but I noticed there were some cars parked on the right side of this side street. Nevertheless, I approached the first car cautiously, feeling okay because I seemed right in the middle of the road. “God! Syd! Watch it!” my dad yelled. “What?” I tightened my hands on the wheel. “You almost just took off the right side of our car!” “…But I didn’t!” I exclaimed optimistically. “Watch the next car,” he replied, “Go left… Left!” I swerved. “I went left!” I retorted. “You went right!” he scolded. I exhaled deeply. After screeching to a stop at a red light, I prepared to make the turn onto the ramp of I-91. I made a wide left. Straightening the car out, I accelerated and rounded the curve of the ramp. “Pick it up,” my dad said. My eyes shifted. Rearview mirror. Side mirrors. I turned way too far around to check my blindspot. “Be careful not to drift when you check your mirrors,” my dad said, keeping his eyes on the road, since mine weren’t. I glanced at my mirrors again. “I don’t know if I’m good to merge. Am I good?” I noticed the end of the lane ahead. My blinker ticked like a timer about to run out. “Go… Now!” My adrenaline soared. I nearly floored the gas pedal, veering sharply onto the highway. The hand of the speedometer crept around the dial. Sixty… sixty-five… seventy. I kept my eyes focused on the taillights of the car ahead. Headlights from passing cars reflected through the side mirror onto my face. I reminded myself to relax my shoulders and hands. Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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Oddly, the dark highway calmed me. The winding turns and aura of the red lights of cars ahead put me at ease. The fluid motion of the wheel and the sound of the car engine settled my thoughts. I felt completely in control. So much can go wrong during the day, on and off the road. But, sitting in that car, I perceived my responsibilities for once with clarity, and I recognized if anything were to happen, I would be completely in charge of my reactions — an authority I experience so rarely. My mistakes reduced to the occasional shaky lane change. “Considering how long it took you to learn how to ride a bike, this is a pleasant surprise,” my dad joked. I laughed, “Watch me become, like, a professional race car driver.”

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One Home, Una casa, Isang Bahay Netanya Jimenez The humidity stains the pollen-filled air and the breeze keeps to itself, pushing a single cloud across the cerulean sky. Sunlight reflecting off the tall windows. Brick hugged by skinny vines. The buildings all sigh, waiting for the day they can retire. Their legs so awfully tired. The warmth brings a smile to my face. Home, yes it reminds me of home. But where is home for me? Manila, pungent smoke, pancit, pinakbet, polvoron, Pacquiao, Manny Pacman, petty politics. All that culture washing up upon the shores of golden state, knocking on the door of the golden gate. The Bay Area! Warriors! Issue 24 Âˇ FALL 2018â&#x20AC;

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KD & the Splash Bros, making it rain like Karl the Fog! Loud buses, chaos in the castro, damn good Dim Sum. Three - O - Five, Mr. Worldwide, Ocean Drive, and the bright city lights. The echo of luxury cars: Mercedes, Maserati, you name it. And the syncopated beat of reggaeton, thumping between sky high skyscrapers. ¿Que pasa mi amigo? I don’t even know. Can all of them be my Home? Home. Not homes. Not plural. My sneakers scuff along the uneven brick, then sink into the damp grass. I don’t feel the wetness on my toes. It’s too quiet in my left ear. Cardi B, Bad Bunny, J Balvin blasting through my right.

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But, silence fills every corner of my vision like a ghost, A spirit. Me odio el silencio, pero hay nada que hacer. Except step on the bricks, keep off the grass, and throw on a skirt four fingers above my knees. Seven Boyden, Frank and Helen’s court of the valley. Surrounded by too much green and too little chaos. Even a valley has its cities, I just happen to be three of them.

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Silence, Please Sarah Jung

ne evening, as Susan Barton, the female castaway and protagonist-author of J.M. Coetzee’s Foe, prepares supper on the remote tropical island, she discovers that Friday cannot respond to her command. “Bring more wood, Friday” (16), she says, yet he does not stir. Then, Cruso speaks up. “Firewood, Friday” (17), he utters, and Friday fetches the wood from the woodpile. In this account of the famous narrative known to all as The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, Cruso limits the inventory of words in Friday’s bank of knowledge, as he might restrict and control the flow of credit into a savings account, arguing, “This is not England, we have no need of a great stock of words” (Coetzee 17). It is important to note that Cruso mentions his homeland not with longing nostalgia, but with faint revulsion, as if he is glad to be away on a remote island using only a small stock of words. He rejects any recollections and habits derived from his English roots, choosing to embrace the island as his home and become the “true king of this island” (Coetzee 32). He even loses any desire to escape, and instead, devotes every day to the backbreaking work of lifting great stones and making terraces in expectation for the next generation of people to arrive and plant their seed. By the same token, his unwillingness to teach Friday more words than necessary reveals his active ambition to forget his past language. Perhaps the bourgeois character of the English language, filled with polite apologies and meaningless conversation, reminds Cruso of the dull middle life he initially sought to evade. However, the roots of civilization remain embedded within him,

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for he establishes himself the white, patriarchal king as a European colonizer would, and wears shoes and clothes on his remote island as a European man would. Cruso and Susan are both born in the “civilized” world, and their elitist enlightenment dictates their mindset toward the tongueless Friday from the start. Together, they “flatten [his] experience,” as Chimamanda Adichie explains in her TED Talk “The Danger of a Single Story,” and regard him simply as a dumb beast, as neither harbours the slightest desire to learn of Friday’s story before the island. Susan Barton even markedly flinches away not only from his black face, but also from the “horror of his mutilated state” (Coetzee 27). In contrast, Cruso stands unafraid of Friday’s mutilation and even smiles with satisfaction, for he prefers a silent slave to a questioning one. Moreover, Cruso does not crave a partner for conversation to pass time, as Susan Barton does, or for friendship, but desires only a labor animal who will help him make terraces. Limiting the stock of words and subsequent ability to think or act rebelliously is the shortest way to guarantee such labor and loyalty. In this same frame of thought, one can deduce that Cruso clearly understands the power of language lies in the power to tell one’s story. This realization confirms why he never hands his slave that power, and fulminates against Susan for seeking the true story behind Friday’s mutilation. Friday’s lost tongue manifests quite literally how he is censored and prevented from sharing his narrative. His speechlessness robs him of his dignity and leaves him helpless to the pen of Susan Barton. She can shape him any way she pleases and depict him as “cold, incurious, like an animal wrapt entirely in itself ” (Coetzee 64). Susan assumes that Friday will benefit from enlightenment, but who is she to determine that he needs exposure to civilization? She drags him off the island against his fervent wishes, only to transport him to another island that reviles him. In England, Friday’s life diminishes to one of idleness and misery, with long days spent curled in a ball in a dank Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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basement, growing fat. In Friday’s story, Susan is his biggest foe, and his reticence to communicate with her is not a product of dullness, mutilation or unintelligence, but simply “a disdain for intercourse with [her]” (Coetzee 90). In the master narrative of Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, Friday does have the power to speak, and Crusoe aims to enlighten him by teaching him language and religion, just like Susan Barton attempts in Foe. Even so, Crusoe’s (with an e!) Friday speaks not with his voice, but rather with the voice heroically given to him by a European. He is meant to feel gratitude for learning this language and gaining its riches in spite of losing his humanity. In both stories, Cruso(e) or the author-protagonist figure never projects interest in learning Friday’s language, music, or culture. The only difference lies in the master narrators’ manner of disguising Friday’s loss of language by enlightening him and permitting him voice. Foe hides nothing, and truthfully unmasks the role of silence in this story.

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I Am Friday Sarah Jung and Carter Weymouth

ran, fast as a cheetah. My feet kissed the land underneath, my heart flying away from the confines of my chest. My head turned back to sense the people behind me, allowing my eyes to sweep the green woodland. When I reached a stream of fastflowing water, I dove in with a strong push off my legs, saying O to Benamuckee, for the current took me down the river and further away from my pursuers. As I emerged out of the water to come upon land once more, a tremor traveled down my body when I spotted the figure of a white beast, a wilder specimen than goat or ape, not far in the distance. He stood upright on two legs, his body covered strangely in goat-skin. A monstrous patchwork of fur and animal skin perched atop his head, under which coarse, matted hair fell down past his torso. In his hand, he clutched a stick adorned with a poorly rounded dome of cloth. The beast crouched closer and with his bare fist struck one of the brown-skinned men behind me. Quite suddenly, a loud pop reverberated in the air, signaling the hairs on my neck. I quivered with strange intensity as the second man crumpled to the ground, glancing upwards at the white beast, who was now beckoning me closer. My feet seemed rooted to the ground, and my breath came slow to my lungs, even as fire screamed in my veins. My gaze honed in on the weathered hand that continued to gesture me forth. When my mind succumbed to exhaustion and started to run in circles, I crumbled to the ground in gratitude I am obliged to feel for this glowing white figure. Slow as can be, I drew nearer and nearer, perching nimbly on my knees, kissing the ground, and placing his foot on my head. My mouth moved to speak the words I know, yet stopped short when I realized

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he could not understand my language. I said O to Benamuckee and hoped he understood this as my plea for mercy. Scrambling to my feet, I cautiously signaled for the man to lend me his sword, for my captor still breathed raggedly behind me. With quick, learned movements embedded in my muscles, I charged at my enemy and with one clean blow, cut off his head. That night, I rested at the white man’s abode, and the next time the sun rose, the man immediately began to speak. Soft, pleasant singing notes, accompanied by hard, guttural swings in intonation filled my ears. He pointed his finger at my chest and repeated the same sound again and again. The third time, I could decipher it and attempted to utter in return. “Fri-day,” I repeated, my voice cracking as it wrapped itself around an unfamiliar shell of sounds. The man nodded vigorously, and his eyes seemed to sparkle. Then, he pointed at himself and uttered another sound: “Master.” Thus, with the simplest of actions, this white man branded me his own and claimed it as his own duty to tame my savage, beastly race with his superior civility. When I first arrived in European society many years later and glimpsed the wondrous marvels of this new world around me, I recognized immediately that my most consequential mistake in the span of life thus far was to have been born in a primitive place such that Master could never be my equal. This one misfortune beyond my control immediately governed my place beneath Master’s shoe on his island. Yet, as I settled into England, I found myself hiding from the distasteful sneers directed to me from the people surrounding me. I came to despise myself for thinking of my family as a curse and grew to resent the white man instead. Now that I have spake my mind, I shall return to my narration of events. From then on in the course of our years together on the deserted island, the white man always spoke the word Friday when he addressed me, and I came to understand that He is Master, and I am Friday. When he desired of me to clean up the heap of skulls, 158

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bones, and bloodied flesh at the site of my people’s feast, I replied, Yes, Master. When he asked me whether I still hungered for human flesh, I learned to say, No, Master, Friday no eat human no more. My limited English at the time could not communicate to Master that my stomach did not hanker for human flesh. When we came upon the corpses lying upon the ground, he grimaced, flaying his hand over his face, furiously as if to wave away the stench, and stared at me with a curious, distrusting gaze, expecting me to throw myself on the ground next to the corpses and devour the revolting remains of my people. He signaled with his fingers to stay away, like he would to a dog. My blood churned and rose to my face, a sign of the shame and anger I felt inside, for he does not know that my people only eat human flesh ceremonially, to commemorate the valour of our enemies in battle and absorb their spiritual or physical powers. This is not savage. Master handed me rough garments made of goatskin and some others I do not know. They were similar to the ones on his own body, and I was well pleased to receive them, for I could now cover my crude vulnerability. These uncomfortable twinges of indignity twisted in my thoughts more than I would like to admit, for I never felt such shame. As each tiring day came to a close, Master reinforced his excessively fortified abode by creating yet another wall between my body and his. To him, I was no human, but a wild creature that could not be trusted. Soon after my early days on the island, Master put me to work. He taught me how to bake delicious bread with his corn flour, and I learned how to shoot his long wooden gun so that I could help him hunt for food. I also learned how to farm and cultivate crops, such as corn, in the island’s rich soil. Eagerly, I soaked up the lessons he freely gave me of his language so that I might fix the heavy accent in my voice and converse fluently with him. I hold memories of my primitive father back home in my Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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savage land, unclothed, uneducated, and uncultured. He must still be fighting wars for his nation and reveling in cannibalistic banquets. I wished for him to come join me and Master so that Master may put clothes on his back and plant the seeds of light in him like he did for me. One day, Master asked me who made me, and I did not understand at first. I finally replied that Benamuckee lives beyond all. Master informed me fervently that old Benamuckee was not the “real” God, and he proceeded to tell me of his God. We read many passages in a book called The Bible, which, I was told, is the sacred text of Master’s religion. I learned about a man named Jesus Christ, who had been sent by God to redeem all of Master’s sins and my own. It seemed to me that Master’s God is more powerful than old Benamuckee, for he could reach all the way to this remote island. Soon enough, Master and I began to plan a voyage back to my homeland, and my heart swelled with happiness to think of my people, whose savagery I might embrace and enlighten with my new knowledge. When Master bade me to go to the sea shore and see if I could find a turtle, or tortoise, I strained my eyes first with shock, then fear, then awe at the sight of a fleet of canoes. Immediately, I was running, my feet flying and pawing up mounds of dirt underneath. I cried to him that there were one, two, three! canoes approaching our beloved sanctuary. He discerned that these men were coming to our island to devour the flesh of three prisoners. Master quickly commanded me to prepare for a fight with what he called “the savages.” He gave me many guns to load and his hatchet. After I loaded all of the weapons, Master let me carry a pistol and three long guns. We readied ourselves mentally for the battle, and the only thought that ran through my head was that I would die when Master bade me to. The men disembarked from their canoes and began to eat their first prisoner. The events that ensued after Master fired the first shot were quite graphic. The two of us were overtaken by a 160

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kind of bloodthirsty barbarism. In all, we slaughtered 21 men, and Master freed the other two prisoners. When I came upon one of the prisoners, who appeared to have the same color skin as me, spoke my tongue and shared the face of my father, I could not believe my eyes. I kissed his cheeks and embraced him with all the strength of my wiry arms, crying, laughing, dancing, singing, and crying again while wringing my hands. My father, whose battle-hardened face and crinkled eyes I thought I would never see again, stood right before my eyes? I did not know how to act, how to breathe, or how to move, and I did it all in a haze of ecstasy. The sight of my wounded, aching father chafed at my heart, and his rumbling voice, the language of my people, recalled the faces of my mother and my sister. I hearkened to the chants of our tribe thundering before battle, the lulling melody of our chief ’s calling song, and the crackle of our nightly bonfire. More than ever, I wished to hear these sounds ring not just in my mind but in the air around me. Yet, Master was cold to the idea, and I vowed not to depart from Master’s side. Icy horror paralyzed me to even think of leaving my savior behind me. God would most certainly punish my ingratitude, and I could not live an enlightened life without Master to keep my brazen barbarity in check. I held father close to my chest, instead, and shared my blessings and prayers to God. One day, a ship appeared not far from our shores. Master reported that the ship seemed to be English-made. There were eleven men in all, three of them unarmed and tied at the wrists on shore. I asked if these bound men would be prepared and eaten by their captors. Master flashed his eyes at my suggestion, and my cheeks burned red with shame. Yet again, I was reminded that I have much to learn. The armed men wandered off to explore our island, and we discovered, by talking to the prisoners, that the captors were involved in a mutiny aboard the English ship. Master arranged for Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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the captives’ free passage to England if they would help rid the vessel of the mutiny. With the help of Master, the ship’s captain cleverly tricked the mutineers into surrendering and staying upon the island. Soon after, we departed our humble island, having finally found a means of escape. My heart jumped and fluttered at the looming, unknown prospect of Master’s home. All I knew was that I would follow him wherever he wished to go, for I am Friday.

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The Unsurprizing Last Testament of Martha Crusoe, of Lincolnshire, Daughter and Widow: Having Been Cast into Life by Robinson Crusoe, Mariner; With An Account How She was at Last Never Strangely Deliver'd by Pyrates like her Father Madeline Lee and Joseph Mollo

n the Name of God, Amen. I, Martha Crusoe, from the county of East Lindsey in the County of Lincolnshire, widow, having fallen deathly ill of the plague that has claimed my entire family, and many other families, being of weak and sickly body, but of sound and lucid thought, and to satisfy my friends and relations after my death, in the year 1708, I hereby state the dispersal of my property and chattel upon my death. As a reflection of life, and death, and all visions and sounds of the soul that have thus constituted my existence, I wish to make a statement to all those who knew me, met me or who wish to know my story. As a childe born to the man Robinson Crusoe, who returned to England after spending one score and eight years on a remote tropical island and, after his wife’s death, left his family in England to sail abroad again to the East Indies, abandoning me and my two

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brothers to the custody of a workhouse, I found solace in a life of honest, hard work. My younger brother dying of malnutrition at age six, the bitterness and harshness of the cruel worlde seeped into my bones, gifting me with a tough exterior that would save my soul throughout my life. A man gifted me with ownership of a biography of my own father’s text authored by Daniel DeFoe, which held all that I ever knew of him. Having recently been taught to read by the kind, Christian wife of our foreman, I learned of my famous father’s “adventures,” through which I discovered only his utter lack of consideration for himself and for those who cared for him, namely his parents and then later on his wife and children. His cheap value for life and insatiable lust for wealth and excitement led him to run away from his family and responsibility and to exhaust his body with adventure until he dropped dead. This, I never quite forgave him for, but through the mistakes he made, I profited from by evading those moments that would lead to my misfortune and executing with precision and dexterity those opportunities which would grant me success. Learning of my father’s disregard for others and self-centered thinking helped me carve my own path, one independent of his actions. I spent time learning to write and recorded my own thoughts and passions in a small leather-bound book. The power and freedom of creating and forming stories that led to my future success in book writing, as well as finding introspective solace, was and is the greatest gift God has bestowed upon me. This carried me through my many tiring years as a seamstress, labor in which I had no choice but found meaning in through both the Holy word and my own. I routinely kept a diary much like that of my father’s, though I also filled mine with sensory details and even lines of poetry. I wrote about the silk sliding through my fingers and those extravagant women wealthy enough to afford such a piece of fabric. I recorded the names and ages of people I met and knew, all of them 164

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who had their own story to tell. Ironically, I have written many a story through my life, yet reserve mine own for my deathbed. A young bachelor once entered my space and inquired about my books, my personal works that I had intended to save for my own keeping. I told him a few stories of the people I knew and of my infamous father and — I remember this clearly — his eyes shone as the morning sun eclipsing the dew on an open field and the freshness and subtlety of his smile, melted the protective case that had sealed my heart for so long. His name was John Scott, and he accompanied me through the rest of my days. The rest is history; I married wealthy to the aforementioned John and published my very own works under a pseudonym, just for the excitement of doing something out of the ordinary and masking my identity. It was still my greatest aspiration to tell the tale of the underdog, individuals who felt that they themselves were forgotten by the masses, children shuffling down the streets in the shadows searching for coin and commons, doxies searching for money and love, customers waiting for dresses in the stifling summer heat, the people waiting for something — a man, a woman, a grand idea — to sweep them off their feet. I wrote about about the people, people waiting for people, people waiting for something, because that was how I viewed — and I still do — the world for so long. Now I await my own death, and with my husband six feet under, God bless his soul, I write in the sovereignty of my own thought. Having no immediate relatives to inherit these effects, I gift my money to the cause of founding an orphanage, so that no child will have to endure the strenuous job of working in a workhouse as I had done, waiting and wanting for escape, and I decree that the orphanage be focused on educating children in literacy, studying reading and writing and literary works, and geography to let them learn about the world around them, so that the children will not only hope to explore that world, but that they will have hope for the Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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changes and differences and discoveries that they can make in their society, so they will not have to be kept waiting for someone to take them by the hand and lead them through life, but that they will carve their own path. I set my hand and decree that my wishes be acted upon accordingly, and seal this entry on the thirteenth day of April. Witness: Jane Stewart

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Untitled Irvin Li

man was walking home late at night. The only route available to him passed through a graveyard, so he was quite scared of the chance that a ghost might pop up. Even with his lantern, he could not see anything clearly farther than a yard. To make things worse, it was raining heavily outside with thunder and lightning. Therefore, his hearing was just impaired as his vision. There was a bridge that crossed over a creek. Just as the man approached, he caught sight of a faint light ahead of him. It looked like someone else with a lantern walking towards him. Suddenly, a scary thought emerged in his mind: “That might be a ghost.” The man wasn’t sure what to do. His legs were shaking, and he struggled to move forward little by little. He tried his best to act normal, but his heart raced faster and faster as the sight of the lantern became brighter and closer. Eventually, they encountered each other in the middle of the bridge. Without catching a glimpse of the being, he was so overcome by the fear of ghosts that he immediately shoved that thing off the bridge into the creek below and ran off as fast as he could to avoid being captured by the ghost. The second day, as the man came to the same bridge at night, he was terrified when he saw the same sight of that lantern walking towards him. He was scared, but the experience from yesterday had taught him that sharp courage is the only way to survive. Alarmed but prepared, he marched onto the bridge. He was getting closer and closer to the middle. Six paces, five paces, four paces, very soon! Three paces, two paces, one pace, now! He extended his arms with all his might, but his hands felt only the gloomy wind. Before he had

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time to react and strike again, his chest felt a robust push. The world suddenly flipped! Splash! The shock from his skin indicated he was soaked in the chilly current of the creek. He swiftly swam towards the shore and fled, screaming, into the darkness. After it was evident that there was nothing following him, he spent an hour attempting to reorient himself and get back on track. When he got home, shivering in cold and fear, it was already past midnight. The next morning, the man went to the local Taoist priest, who was known to be an expert about both the living and the dead. He told the story of how he encountered a ghost twice and was shoved off the bridge by that ghost. He pleaded with the priest to make him an amulet that repel the ghosts, who might otherwise feast on his blood and kidnap him to the underworld. After hearing the story, the Taoist priest grew quite doubtful of its authenticity, since he saw no signs of the residual yin spirits on that man that would have indicated any interaction with a ghost. Yet the man appeared to be truly frightened. However, he soon had a realization about what happened. “There was no ghost,” he told the man. “It was just another poor traveler, whom you blindly shoved off the bridge. You definitely did not encounter a ghost.” “Then why did that thing shove me off the bridge the next day? It was clearly hostile to me.” “Well,” replied the priest, “what was the reason that someone like you, an ordinary, mortal, and tangible person, shoved a stranger off the bridge for no reason?” “Because I thought that thing was a ghost.” “Exactly. So the same idea could be applied to you as well, lad. That man probably thought you were a ghost, especially after you pushed him off the bridge on the first day. Next time, when you are in a situation like this, do not merely think from just your own perspective. All the answers will emerge if only you can consider the viewpoints of other people, or even ghosts, monsters, or deities. 168

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In fact, the nature of my job as a Taoist obligates me to be able to communicate smoothly with the non-human beings in other dimensions. Without language, a lot of my communication with them requires a good sense of empathy.” “I think I understand a bit of what you are saying. But what can I do at this point now that we have already shoved each other into the creek once?” Asked the man. “What should I do to prevent the same incident from happening again?” “It is simple,” answered the priest. “You just need to greet him before you get too close, then apologize to him and laugh it all off. When it comes to dealing with ghosts or humans, etiquette is always the best amulet.”

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Speaking Mercy Grace Mazur

ociety hands each of its members advantages and disadvantages with an identity, and with these, rules. Though mercy is only mentioned six times in Othello, it is a lense through which one can read the character of each individual in the play. First mentioned in Act IV, mercy is invoked by Othello when he first accuses Desdemona of being unfaithful (IV.2.88). Iago pleads identically in another weighty situation, after he accuses the first person he sees of his own wounding of Cassio (V.1.69). Soon realizing his “mistake,” the phrase “I cry you mercy” is used dismissively, as if it is a mere courtesy. In order to gain influence, adding conventional phrases, such as those Iago employs, to one’s speech builds and upholds an “honest” reputation while it devalues the speech’s content. Both Iago and Othello are meticulously careful to speak this way around others. Throughout the first acts, they both ask “pardon” from the influential lords Lodovico and Gratiano (III.3.55; III.3.247; III.3.274; IV.3.2). Furthermore, when Emilia tells Desdemona of Iago’s sadness that Cassio and Othello are at odds, Desdemona asserts, “O, that’s an honest fellow!” (III.3.5). Though not honest, Iago is as patient and crafty as ever, taking time to build an “immortal part” of himself (II.3.282) through his speech. Desdemona, conversely, is subject to another’s will or desires for her and thus given no access to an “immortal part.” Though she does manage to rebel against her father’s will and convince the men of the Senate to allow her to travel to Cyprus, the ultimate decisions are never hers. Thus, when Othello decides she is unfaithful to him and is about to kill her, she cries for mercy, but only out of desperation. The double nature of the word mercy, as defined by

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Portia in the famous trial scene of The Merchant of Venice, as “twice blest;/ It blesseth him that gives and him that takes” (IV.1), has been denied her. Desdemona first exclaims for the “heavens” (V.2.40) and “Lord” (V.2.71) to have mercy on her, and later for Othello to “have mercy, too” (V.2.73). It is far removed from her power to change her situation, so she offers sincere pleas without return. Such a raw act of desperation is the clearest way to see the heart. Though framed for being unfaithful, Desdemona’s use of the word mercy shows her true compassionate character and honest self. Initially plagued by uncertainty to believe Iago’s slanderous words about Desdemona, Othello remembers these feelings and recalls that quality of his wife “that excels the quirks of blazoning pens” (II.1.89). Though he seems sure of his desire to kill her, refusing to grant her mercy, once he is killing her, he cries, “My wife! My wife!” (V.2.98) and laments the day, saying “O heavy hour!” (V.2.99). In deciding to kill his wife quickly, he asserts, “I that am cruel am yet merciful” (V.2.87). Though seeming to validate his character, his statement harkens to his and Iago’s prior use of the word; it gives him surety to think of himself as moral, as honest. With opposite ideas of when mercy should be invoked, the hearts of characters in Othello, and indeed, in our very own society, are revealed. Mercy is the most selfless concept, and the word loses meaning when mundanely thrown around by the dishonest.

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My Life Upon My Return to England Jae Moon and Sarah Wright

anuary 20, 1686 — Many years have passed since my return from my island, and with each passing day, the longing for “my little kingdom” (Defoe 40) grows, as I sink further into my mundane life in England. I have decided to, once again, document my life in a journal, for purposes of a sense of comfort and routine rather than practicality. On the island, journaling helped me stay connected with the outside world I could not see. Now, journaling has become a way for me to express the emotions I am feeling in this changed life, in full detail. February 3, 1687 — The loyalty shown to me by others, like the Portuguese captain, in my absence astonishes me. I’ve witnessed the extent of human greed — consuming the flesh of another man just to take his dignity away from him. Did they not want to take away my fortune? I would have been a powerless fool upon my arrival to civilization. The strength of true loyalty astounds me, maybe because I had been in solitary for almost 28 years. I wonder where Friday is right now. How is he? What is he doing? I will never again have such a loyal companion. March 15, 1687 — Upon my return, I found that I had acquired a great deal of wealth in my absence. This reminded me of my father, who emphasized the leisures of the middle station, which he described “had the fewest disasters, and was not expos’d to so many vicissitudes as the higher or lower part of mankind” (Defoe 6). I have achieved the “low risk” upper middle life rather than earned the high life. Yet, I have never felt more empty. And “any one would think that in this state of complicated good fortune I was past running any 172

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more hazards — and so, indeed, I had been, if other circumstances had concurred; but I was inured to a wandering life, had no family, nor many relations” (Defoe 239). Life to me feels like a to-do list, merely checking off each day as it flies by without purpose. May 7, 1688 — “I marry’d, and that not either to my disadvantage or dissatisfaction” (Defoe 240). She is a woman of good standing who will bear my necessary heirs. Although she is not quite as good of a companion as Polly, my colorful parrot, or as loyal as Friday, she does as I say and maintains the estate, so I am satisfied. June 21, 1688 — I do not know whether the readers that enjoyed my voyage will be thrilled about my “Adventures in England.” How do I differentiate myself from the people I live with and devise adventures? Why would readers prefer to read about a boring life that everyone lives? On the island, I had an abundance of stories to write about but not enough ink. Now, I have a bottomless well of ink and nothing to write about. August 15, 1688 —I am being faced with a different problem than the one that I faced on the island. On the island, I had to choose the most important facts and the most intriguing events. However, in England, I have only tedious stories to write about. What good is ink if all I can write about is my breakfast or the stroll I took through one of the many London manicured gardens? How is it possible that it was easier to choose one scene from many adventures rather than write as many scenes as I want from my daily life? October 4, 1689 — I often find myself in my local church reminiscing about my days on the island and thanking God again and again for the mercy he showed me while I was on the island. It’s surprising how much my faith has changed. I recall the day that “I did what I never had done in all my life, I kneel’d down and pray’d to God to fufil the promise to me” (Defoe 76). There were days when I lost hope; I remember when I was bedridden with fear of those savages, I opened my Bible and read “Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver, and thou shalt glorify me. Upon this, [I Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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rose] cheerfully out of my bed, my heart was not only comforted, but I was guided and encouraged to pray earnestly to God for deliverance” (Defoe 125). Without God, I am not sure how I would have survived life on the island, and that is why I never fail to pray to him each day. October 16, 1689 — The first sin: committed by Adam and Eve. It led to the start of humanity. Though they broke a rule, God’s one rule, their transgression launched human civilization. Yet, it is still considered a sin. Why? Is every lie bad? What if it does no harm at all? But, isn’t it still a sin? I have started to ponder the validity of my published story. I published for the entertainment of my audience, but they weren’t aware of the full story. They only know the facts that I wanted them to have. January 3, 1690 — Language. The pen is more powerful than my gun. Though I can and did end lives with guns, I can change people’s perceptions with my pen. I was the only one who had the ability to record and narrate the events on the island after 28 years, but now Friday has learned to read and write, so perhaps he can tell stories of what happened too. January 7, 1692 — “I liv’d mighty comfortably…” (Defoe 108) and “...I was so enamour’d of [that] place…” (Defoe 81). Here, in England, I follow the laws laid down by my superiors — it was a hard adjustment to make. “There was my majesty the prince and lord of the whole island; I had the lives of all my subjects at my absolute command. I could hang, draw, give liberty, and take it away, and no rebels among all my subjects” (Defoe 118). Now, I live on my estate and follow the rules of the government. It took so long to adjust to everything around me. I no longer have to grow my own food — there is a market for that. And, I no longer need to make my own clothes — there is a shop for that. What purpose do I have in society? How am I contributing to the greater whole? I miss “my little kingdom” (Defoe 109). March 23, 1694 — I have decided to go back to sea, where I 174

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previously cowered in fear. Now, I welcome the sea with open arms. I am not entirely over my fear of the sea, but I welcome it. When my breath quickens and my heart races, maybe I will finally feel alive again. Throughout my time back in England, I have found myself missing the adventure I once lived daily. I will go “as a private trader to the East Indies” (Defoe 240). Perhaps I will journal while I am there. You will just have to wait and see.

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I Am Soo Oh

look in the mirror and see someone new every day. Sometimes I am S-U-E, sinking in a culture that I want to stay afloat in and desperately trying to scrub away the yellows of my skin. Other times I am S-O-O, correcting my mispronounced name and explaining to my peers that bowing to elders is respectful, not abnormal. Who am I? I am American according to many of my friends because I live in Massachusetts. “You are basically like us,” they say. “You can’t even speak Asian.” I am Chinese according to the man who shared the elevator with me at the Canadian hotel where I was staying two years ago. “I can tell by the way you look,” he said as I politely smiled, unable to bring myself to correct him. I am Korean according to my birth certificate and passport. I am an immigrant according to my green card. I am white to some. I am yellow to others. I have always struggled with my identity and what version of “me” would seem the most appealing to my peers. In 7th grade, I became self-conscious of my Asian identity. On a chilly, fall morning, I woke up to the crisp smell of stir-fried tofu and sesame kimchi, a traditional Korean breakfast. The clangs of ceramic rice bowls being placed on our marble table echoed throughout the apartment, my daily alarm to get up. My mother always told me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so I grew up eating heavily every morning. Thirty minutes later, I was hiking up the stairs to my locker. As I traced the familiar path to my locker, I caught a strong whiff of artificial roses. Two arms snaked around my shoulders, and

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I felt a light squeeze. As I turned to greet my best friend, her eyes narrowed. She took two breaths, each sharp and brief. “You smell like Asian noodles,” she said. “What the hell?” That memory stuck with me throughout the rest of my time at that school and followed me to my new school. For two years, her words haunted me. I did not want to be known as the girl who smelled Oriental. I wanted to be like the other girls, and I wanted them to think I was like them. In 7th grade, I identified as S-U-E. I started waking up later to stop eating breakfast, only drinking a glass of orange juice every morning. My first perfume, Dot by Marc Jacobs, was my 13th birthday gift. I still don’t know who I truly am. My identity varies with each passing day. I am a desperate girl who wants to fit in with the crowd. I am also a girl who wants to embrace her heritage. I am not ashamed of my race, but I think a lot about the way I smell or how people think of me when they see me. Intent doesn’t matter if the impact leaves a huge scar. My friend probably forgot about what she said. She probably didn’t think it was hurtful. But I still remember her words today. However, I do thank her for helping me find the closest thing to my identity.

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You Are Victoria Patterson You are reliable Like the east rising sun Warming the frosted tips of the tall tender grass. Sunlight Disperses between the blades as the morning dew drips down its droplets into the thirsty ground. It fills the vegetation with ultraviolet rays that start the process of photosynthesis. You are reliable like a sturdy tree branch bearing the weight of a sixyear-old girl playing with the blush colored buds of a magnolia tree. You are balanced Like two grey oval smooth stones Stabilizing despite the roaring wind. Stacked they brace themselves and never allow the knocking wind enter through their doors. You are balanced like the handcrafted cedar swing lifting the sixyear-old girl to new heights. You are intricate Like the petals of a flower Unfolding in full bloom. Drawing nutrients from the stalk through the intertwined veins, the tips of the petal are saturated with a royal velvet pigmentation. Resembling the trailing silk train of the Queenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cloak,

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the bulb’s petals are soft to the touch. You are intricate like the segments of the body of the hairy caterpillar held in the hands of a six-year-old girl. You are passionate like the dark cherry, honey, watermelon, peach, strawberry, and grape colors of the roses, tulips, lilacs, and pansies. They silently scream for a sniff or a glance. You are passionate like a songbird’s sweet song sang outside a sixyear-old girl’s window on a magnolia branch. You are strong Like the roots of a white oak Entangled in the deep soil. Grounding It despite wind and lightning And feeding It despite invasive bugs and creatures Burrowing through the trunk. You are strong like the blazing enduring wooden logs of a camp fire warming the hands of a six-year-old girl. You are loving Like mother nature Sustaining and nourishing the tall creature filled trees, the green grass weeds, the black and yellow bumble bees, Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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and the humans living in nature with ease. You are loving like the gentle touch of a cool sea breeze Rippling through the blonde hair of a six-year-old girl.

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Learning Amy Mia Silberstein

he first thing Mia Learns about Amy is her clothes. The baggy gym shorts and her “Champion” tank top are so different from Mia’s own lacy camisoles and pastel capris, but Amy looks happy in them, so she decides Amy is happy. The second thing Mia Learns is Amy’s tangled, dirty blonde (or is it just dirty and blonde?) hair shoved into what she thinks is called a ponytail, with strands poking over the flimsy elastic like spines on a porcupine’s back. Amy is kind of spiky, so maybe she wants her hair that way, too. The third thing she Learns is Amy’s smile. It’s hideously bucktoothed and a little comical, but so painfully genuine that Mia always smiles back with one of her own. The fourth thing she Learns is Amy’s freckles. They’re faint and so inconsistent it looks like half the stars in the night sky have landed on her face, but she wears them well, and Mia decides maybe they’re prettier on Amy than on the sky anyways. The fifth thing she Learns is Amy’s eyes. They’re what people call electric blue. They light up in this special way, so they’re electric, and they’re blue because...well, that’s just stupid. She knows her colors. But they have a spark in them that makes Mia’s heart do a little jump, so she decides she likes this girl with the big teeth and messy hair and baggy clothes and pretty eyes with stars on her face. Within the first few months of Learning Amy, Mia Learns that Amy likes her clothes baggy because “I can’t play sports if I wear what you wear. I mean, you look nice, but how do you run in that?” She also Learns that Amy’s hair is, indeed, dirty blonde, though she’s covered in dirt most of the time anyways. She Learns that Amy doesn’t really like her hair, which is unacceptable because everyone

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should like her hair, so Mia helps her decide on a new haircut with bangs like the fashion models she sees in magazines. It turns out the bangs make it harder to play sports, and Amy kind of hates them, but she smiles at Mia with her huge grin anyways, so no one ends up feeling that bad. Mia Learns that when Amy thinks something is funny, her whole face lights up and her eyes crinkle and she gets a little line in her nose that makes her freckles explode like a supernova. She Learns that Amy really likes biking, and the first time she sees Amy fall off her bike, Mia jumps off hers so fast she almost crashes, and she runs to Amy’s side to find her shoulders shaking and her head buried in her hands. She’s scared until Amy lifts her head and the crinkle is there and it turns out she’s been laughing the whole time. She Learns that when Amy is sad her whole body freezes up and her smile is still there but the crinkle is gone, and that’s when Mia draws her little pictures and sits next to her and rests her head on her shoulder until the crinkle is back and they can go back to biking again. She Learns that when Amy loses her crinkle, sometimes she needs alone time, so Mia gives her her favorite books with little stars next to the sentences she thinks will give Amy back her crinkle. They read together with the sides of their heads pressed against each other so tightly that if one moves the other will topple over, so Mia Learns how to sit so that Amy won’t fall if she has to move. She Learns that Amy’s hair smells like pine trees and coconuts, and after those days when all they do is read, when she goes to sleep, she can smell Amy’s shampoo on her pillow. She Learns that she can’t fall asleep without it. She Learns that Amy likes to argue. About books, or math problems, or even the color of the sky. She Learns that Amy argues because she likes to hear what Mia thinks, so Mia argues right back because she likes what Amy thinks too. She Learns Amy and Amy Learns her, so they decide to go an entire day without talking, just to see if they can do it. It turns out they have Learned each other 182

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so well that everything is the same. She is disappointed when they Learn they don’t need the elaborate hand gestures they had come up with in preparation – only a glance at each other’s faces. Amy’s still explodes with stars even when the corners of her mouth only tug up just a little, and Mia feels plain. But Amy looks at her like maybe there’s enough stars for the two of them to share. When Amy first sleeps over, she sleeps on the new futon in Mia’s room that her parents had bought just for Amy. They stay up and talk and talk until their words blur and their eyes are heavier than the backpacks they lug to school. (Mia also Learns that Amy organizes her backpack in order of the size of her books, and she asks Amy to teach her how to do that too. They end up sitting on the floor lost in an A-Z Mystery they had found in Mia’s bag, and even though the bag does not get organized, it feels one hundred times lighter the next day.) When Amy sleeps over the next time, they Learn that they can’t really talk when Amy is all the way across the room, so she moves into Mia’s bed, and when they wake up, they can’t tell whose limbs are whose. Mia Learns that Amy is kind of snuggly, so from then on out, they go to bed holding each other’s hands tight, their hair splayed out on the pillows beneath them like a black and blonde halo. Sometimes Mia wakes up only to feel Amy’s head on her chest and the rhythm of her slow breathing. The stars are at rest then, and Mia goes back to sleep in a cloud of pine trees and coconuts. One day Amy has an eyelash, and Mia Learns what it feels like to touch the stars. Then Amy plays with Mia’s long hair, which, it turns out, Amy knows how to take care of a lot better than her own. Sometimes Amy spends hours braiding little flowers into Mia’s hair, only for them to fall out as soon as she stands up. When Mia gets scared Amy will be mad, Amy just laughs and drags her away to find more flowers. She tells Mia that her hair is like the ocean and Mia tells her that her freckles are like the stars. After that they both Learn to do a lot more telling. They start telling each other “I love you” and Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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the stars explode over the ocean like a New Year’s party on an ocean liner. They Learn how to walk in sync, their steps matching the beating of their joined heart. They finish each other’s sentences even if they aren’t said out loud, and people stop talking about them like Amy and Mia. Instead, they are AmyandMia. And by that time, they don’t have to Learn to be AmyandMia. They already had. They were waiting for everyone else to Learn too.

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To my Lovely Sisters... Mia Silberstein

very few months, the letters arrive like clockwork. “To our Lovely Sister,” they read. “How are you?” They occupy a single page and are neatly lettered on faded graph paper, usually accompanied by small sketches of potted flowers or houses, and an English translation messily scrawled in the margins by a detached hand. As I grow older, they arrive with increasing infrequently, their length shortening to three or so lines, and caricatures long gone. When I turn seven, they slow to a mere two or three a year. The latest letter reads: “To our Lovely Sister, Do you miss us?” accompanied by little else. I never respond. I never have. Instead, my parents send money and photographs of me smiling shyly at the camera. The year the letters stop is the year we visit Cambodia. The rusted jeep trundles along a winding dirt road, stirring up clouds of fine brown dust as its wheels battle cracked, uneven ground. White-knuckled, my mother, father, and I cling to each other’s arms, our sticky backs momentarily pulled from hot plastic only to be wrenched backwards as we encounter pothole after pothole. My brothers and aunt gently sway beside us, oddly complacent in the midst of our bumpy travels. We are all uncharacteristically quiet, each afraid of interrupting the other’s thoughts. “Dry season,” our guide, Elephant, suddenly offers, flashing us a wide smile from the passenger seat. As I stare at his turning head, it strikes me that his name is oddly fitting. His lanky body easily slides backwards as he nonchalantly adjusts the drawstring of his khaki sunhat and chats goodnaturedly with our driver in rapid Khmer. It occurs to me that he has made this trip at least a hundred times

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for us — for me — delivering my parents’ pictures and funds, and gathering my sisters’ letters. I wonder how often he comes here now. I haven’t received a letter in months. The thought gives me an odd feeling in my stomach I find I cannot name. As we reach a particularly smooth patch, my mother’s hand gently squeezes mine. Though her sunglasses obscure her eyes, I can tell by the nearly imperceptible crease in her forehead that she’s just as apprehensive as I am. “It’s going to be okay,” she assures me quietly. “I won’t even let go of your hand if you don’t want me to.” She squeezes my clammy hand once more for good measure, and I squeeze back, finally allowing myself to relax into the burning seat. My father catches her eye and they exchange an indiscernible look. Fear? Resolution? I pretend not to notice and shift my focus to the roadside fields ahead populated with rows upon rows of women (and some who could not yet be called women) clad in flowing blouses and intricately knotted skirts, many donning patterned headscarves. Some have children slung on their backs as they pick bright yellow flowers and deposit them into overflowing baskets. “They work very hard,” Elephant remarks slowly. “Some mothers must take the children.” My father lets out a small grunt of affirmation, and the car lapses into another uneasy silence. As we grow nearer, I am at all loss for what to expect. I see people who look like me around every bend, yet I have never felt more different or uncomfortable in my own skin. We drive in silence, occasionally interrupted by Elephant’s chipper commentary, though his remarks barely register with our distracted minds. Soon enough, the car trundles into a barren lot, and unfamiliar snippets of domestic life slip into view as we round a sharp bend. Before the engine has fully shut off, Elephant is out of the car and throwing open the passenger doors for us, a warm smile gracing his thin, cracked lips. “This is village of your birth,” he tells me. “Family is here to see 186

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you.” I nod quickly, avoiding his expectant gaze. We gingerly climb out of the gently rocking vehicle onto bone-dry ground. The village is the size of a large parking lot, with a dozen or so houses settled around an uneven perimeter, interspersed with tall, thin trees and patches of greenery. Each house rests on four foot stilts “for rainy season,” Elephant interjects, giving each dwelling an eerie air of instability and aloofness. Made of brittle straw and flimsy, uneven planks of wood, the houses look as though one strong wind could send them tumbling back to earth. Deflated tires, broken bricks, and discarded plastic litter the ground beneath each house, and my eyes widen as I spot stray chickens wandering through the common area. I catch sight of the wary inhabitants. They crowd on their porches, the ones without on their stairs, surveying us as we are led to a forest green house in the far right row. Their penetrating stares follow our odd band: the trembling brown girl led by a short, determined white woman with bushy brown hair and big blue eyes, followed by a gaggle of similarly-built white Americans, and accompanied by Elephant’s lean frame and confident stride. We reach the house, and I suddenly feel as though there is nothing else in the world but the house, its inhabitants, and the soft pressure of my mother’s hand in mine. Two girls, who appear to be several years older than me, watch me curiously. My sisters — my subconscious reminds me. Those are my sisters. Behind them, imperiously perched on the step above is a thin, bony woman. Her sinewy arms drape protectively over my sisters’ shoulders, a piece of paper clutched tightly in her left fist. Upon closer inspection, I realize she holds a picture of me at the beach from last summer. In the photo, my eyes focus on an unnamed object beyond the camera as a playful grin splits across my face. The contrast of the carefree girl in the photo and my present state is almost laughable. My eyes travel from the photo to the gaunt face belonging to whom I now realize is my birth mother, and I find that I am paralyzed by Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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her inscrutable countenance. In her dark eyes I find an unsettling emptiness. They dart to my mother’s hand in mine, prompting a deep inhalation before she meets my eyes again. She makes no move towards me, nor I her. I wonder what she sees in my eyes. I barely know my own emotions, but I have an odd feeling that she does. Then Elephant is swiftly marching towards the family. They lean in as he speaks in hushed tones, gesturing to us, then me alone. An elderly woman who had been lurking in overhanging shadows starts towards us. I helplessly watch as she draws closer, her eyes fixated on me alone, and before I can blink, her face is inches from my own. Dazed, I feel her wrinkled, calloused hands grasp my right wrist. She roughly pulls my arm towards her and pushes up the sleeve of my cardigan, exposing my forearm, turning it over, rubbing at my wrist frantically. Dissatisfied, she drops my right arm and proceeds to my left, repeating the same ritual of scouring my skin as I stand frozen at her mercy. This time, she stops on my left wrist and, with unexpected tenderness, rubs over a dark patch of skin just above the joint in question. The mark has faded over time, but I have been told it was most prominent in my infant years. She refuses to let go and calls over her shoulder in what I realize is a signal of confirmation. Suddenly everyone is in motion. My sisters and birth mother make their way towards us, suddenly surer, though fear still lingers in their gaze. My oldest sister is the first to reach out, breaking away from the safety of the group to take my hand in hers, eyes brimming with tears. She repeats the same rubbing motion over my wrist. I can feel her hands shaking as she looks up at my with pleading eyes as the tears flow freely down her cheeks. Frozen, I squeeze my mother’s hand tighter, allowing my other hand to rest in my sister’s vise grip. The agony in her dark stare leaves me breathless. She never says a word. She doesn’t have to. My other sister follows suit, grabbing hold of the same arm. Her eyes do not hold the same pain, yet, like our older sister, they soon fill with tears. Both girls rock against me, swaying and grasping at my arm 188

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like a lifeline, and I feel myself numbly moving with them. In my peripheral vision, I see Elephant conversing with my parents, aunt, brothers, birth grandmother, and mother. My birth mother looks detached and skittish, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, leaving my family’s warm and curious gazes unreciprocated. Her eyes dart back to me and my sisters, and, upon seeing their distress, fill with something akin to sympathy. I feel a strange pang from somewhere deep within upon witnessing their intimate connection and quickly divert my attention to Elephant’s animated speech. As if sensing my desperation for a distraction, he raises his voice in suggestion for the group. “Let’s see inside.” Somehow, after minutes of undignified clambering up rickety steps, we find ourselves in the tiny, rundown home. An odd sense of foreboding strikes me as I peer around the darkened shack. Hammocks shrouded in mosquito nets hang from the sloping ceiling, and I catch sight of several tattered pots and pans strewn across the bamboo floor. What if this was my home? This foreign and unnerving thought evokes emotions I do not yet have the words for. Having finally released my arm, my sisters join the rest of my birth family in an awkward huddle in the far corner as the rest of us tentatively peer around. Beneath a hole carved in the wall (a makeshift window), I spot a small cot littered with graph paper and an assortment of dull pencils. That must be where they write my letters. The letters I never respond to. The rest of the tour is stunted and awkward with the language barrier, and we soon find ourselves back outside under the harsh midday sunlight. Soon enough, we are saying our goodbyes. For the first time, my birth mother approaches me. She takes my hands in hers and stares into my eyes as if she knows that words and choppy translations are futile. In her eyes, I find the same haunting emptiness and an urgency for understanding. I imagine she is saying to me: I gave you up to give you your best chance, and I imagine saying back: I Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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know. Thank you. I can only hope that my eyes convey what my words cannot. She steps back, and my sisters once more swarm me, tears streaking faces I realize are so alike my own. We have the same nose, I think. And the same eyes. And the same hair. And the same mouth. Looking at them is like looking in a mirror. In their eyes, I see nothing but regret and a deep sense of mourning. Mourning of the irreplaceable time together we have lost and the time we have yet to lose. I could have had sisters. I see my grandmother speaking to Elephant, gesturing tenderly towards my mother. His eyes instantly soften, and he leans towards my mother’s inclined head to translate. She immediately rises to meet my grandmother’s reserved smile with one of her own and turns to me. “Time to go.” I am simultaneously reluctant and relieved. As we drive away, I watch my birth family standing immobile beneath their house, silent tears running down their cheeks, grasping at each other’s hands with such force I am concerned they might break. I watch them until the road bends behind an island of crooked trees and they disappear from sight. Even then, I whip around to peer out the back window, desperate for one last look, but see only miles of leafy foliage and a swiftly elongating dirt road. Sinking back into my seat, I find my mother staring straight ahead, unseeing. I carefully nudge her side, and her damp eyes meet mine. “What’s wrong?” I whisper. After some hesitation, she responds. “Take her back here before I die.” “What?” “Your grandmother. That’s what she told me.” “Oh.” We sit in heavy silence for a while, unwilling to express our unsettled thoughts aloud. I ache to know what my mother is thinking, but I realize if she’s anything like me, she won’t have the words to describe it either. When we reach the hotel room, I make a beeline for my bedside 190

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table. I yank open the drawer and root around until I find a monogrammed pen and paper pad. Blinking back tears, I sink back into my bed and write. To my Lovely Sisters…

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Apoptosis, or the normal and controlled self-destruction of cells Lukas Trelease Cells and DNA and RNA molding and meshing together in long bending loops of complex language that link together our lives memories weaving through decades and eons of inheritance the weight of ancestry hangs heavy upon us right down to our very nuclei we dream we touch we smell we look we are what was once us we are what to them we will be and to us what we were then it has reached the penultimate decade of hospitalized facilities and Styrofoam cells whose walls exhale basic fluid and refract the images of bright lights around the corridors spiraling therein an effulgent continuum of cleanliness and anemia as white as the cap on a dentist’s tooth a tree shivers with breezes blown from third-world seas as its leaves shed like cloven proteins outside the church where scientific study cannot be received the nurse’s hand reaches and reaches but never seems to touch and the touch of homo sapiens has been forgotten on weathered flesh and dusty skin where the air bruises and unknown kisses would leave blemishes an umbrella bent backwards in a rain quenched ditch feeling these unnatural abandonments and nurse nurse nurse heartfelt singing in the throat of a collapsing sheep sacrificed to the

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charitable and good natured who play board games while singing of missed chances and the comfortable paradise beyond and move pieces of a puzzle into place as the withered sink into soft chairs of moth-eaten pleather and chains of toothed pieces wrap around throats choking words of gratitude as their lives flit in and out of focus a stethoscope with nothing underneath a petri dish with no activity the church bench is warm from young thermal bodies and the ceiling dark and enigmatic they raise their hands and sing with hope but they are only a mass of linear polymers of amino acids linked together by peptide bonds the TV is between channels and the zigzag moves across the screen like a horde of zebras or a different beast never to be seen or a newspaper nurse and she comes the tube slides in and the mouth closes over it and pale, speckled lips tighten around a hose the mask presses tight with a gag and the chair holds firm like a dog with a cone on its head it can’t see what’s wrong with it what it has become the waiting the endless interminable sea of remoteness removed from quotidian and trivial activities like grocery shopping to taste a self-bought orange and self-squeezed into a glass the bitterness tartness juicy flavor life blooms in vivid orange the color of cream soda and tangerine a reverie to cease the boredom of the almost deceased coughing crimson with irritation and mucus retched from the depths of crumbling caverns strewn with collapsing stone stalagmites built up by extracellular death signals organized in groups of hard schedules and intracellular proteolytic cascades of cataracts and metal plates that never move glued to an operating chair in silence cell necrosis swirls and bends like whorls on a Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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fingerprint fragmenting and disassembling cells upon cells with nuclear lamina and the cleavage at aspartic acids with caspases and the world goes round and round like a snake eating its tail burning alive on a sea of fire with no handholds to have understood what happened amen says the priest and eyes blur hips collapsing in shuffling out “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner is renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16) so then why is our body’s stimuli making suicide cells drip drop from the bag confined to darkness but only the soft murmur of animated figures deep in the recesses of this holding chamber no family no visitors it would be too hard do they not want to see their relative their ancestor moved on to a joyous life free from the known and the approaching death receptor proteins natural to age to fall apart to disappear down this rabbit hole to the dark subterranean no ischemic damage no autoimmune disorder or neurodegenerative diseases no carcinogenic remnants just life and oldness rusting into antiquity the lines on the wall one stretched further than the other a blessing a curse perhaps God’s one mistake this hitch in the system DNA unzipping until the veil of immortality lifts and you see the light Next: death autophagy begins mutually exclusive from damaged mitochondria bred in the hepatocytes and the organelles ruin while the nurse closes the lids with an infusion of funereal C17H19NO3 accelerating the cannibalistic cells until the mind the heart the preached soul are elucidated like all other mammalian orthologues in the modern age

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carried into heaven by dark compartments to a patch of poaceae of the gramineae constituents of alismatales who have a family a genus unlike the one they will soon self-nourish while others pray in far off basilicas to an empty husk of a pious legend with intersected timbers swinging worms twist into lipids hastily sealed in coffins as bodies lick the dust in plots as far as the eye can glimpse of a silvery tunnel and the mind tricks tip-toeing on fibrous roots as the lightning dies down in the instance that the storm activates dissolving to the ground with molding wood to the historne variant that becomes phosphorylated and stained in the myofibers as the ground and the mycelium feed not through tubes but through roots into the earth sacred and molded to the water up through alimentary provender evolved in perpetuity through verdant paleness of a seed into the chlorophyll of cyanobacteria into photosynthesis regeneration sucked from the energy of others vampiric microscopics they would’ve asked why if they weren’t decomposed picked by a human with a basket to be gobbled down in a salad those selfsame cells fluorescently conjugated inhibitors and undergo immunoprecipitation into the stomach lining and then into the blood and then into the cells where it all begins again inspired by Miraculous Weapons by Aimé Césaire and the film, Annihilation, by Alex Garland

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To the Beach Carter Weymouth Waves crash against the bow. The previous meal sloshes about on the craftâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flat deck, where men hold their gear close to their freezing bodies. Bullets batter the adjacent boats. The gate drops. Go! Go! Go! Chaos. Time, a precious commodity, slows. Harry remains calm, channeling entropy to order through the haze, he sees clearly. A round cracks by his ear. Men fall to the ground. Shuddering at the horrors, Harry focuses on the objective, and, with the men around him, completes the task. His breathing slows as he calms down

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from his excited state. Why here? Why not at home in college? He was sent to rid the land of a certain evil. The death, the blood, the noise, for his country. It was his duty.

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The Handkerchief Sarah Wright

small, silk square, patterned with strawberries (III.3.434-435) helps Iago orchestrate Othello’s demise. After it is seen in another man’s hands, this piece of cloth causes Othello to lose trust in his wife’s faithfulness. And it is clear that Othello is obsessed with the idea of this handkerchief after the seven times he exclaims the word through the final acts of the play (MIT). What value must this “trifle,” as Iago calls it, have held for Othello (III.3.322)? Through analysis, it becomes clear that the handkerchief carries both a connection to Othello’s parents and past as well as a connection to his relationship with Desdemona. It is a talisman, without which the Moor’s grasp on reality is lost. A final gift to her son from her deathbed, the handkerchief came to Othello’s mother from a witch, the origin of the object’s meaning or magic based on how it captures Othello’s every thought. Because of this connection, this square of delicate fabric, carried and used to wipe one’s nose or hands, according to the OED, is simply much more than a commodity regularly bought and sold at the marketplace. For Othello’s mother, the handkerchief grows beyond the obvious, and through story is said to give her the power to entrap Othello’s father in her love (III.4.56-58). But, as stated by Othello, “if [his mother] lost [the handkerchief] or made gift of it, my father’s eye should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt after new fancies” (III.4.55-63). This childhood story is eerily mirrored through the span of Othello and Desdemona’s relationship. The accusations of witchcraft made by Brabantio against Othello in the very first act may not have been far from the truth (I.3.60-64). Othello’s story imbues the

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handkerchief with the power to make the owner “amiable” (III.4.59), which explains how Desdemona, an upper class Venetian woman, could fall in love with someone like the foreign Moor of Venice. Desdemona appears “subdued entirely to Othello’s love” (III.4.5960), as she follows him all the way to Cyprus, a warzone across the Mediterranean. Thus, once Othello sees the handkerchief in Cassio’s hands, all the love in his heart for Desdemona turns into hatred and anger, as the witch said it would. There is evidence throughout the birth and death of Othello and Desdemona’s relationship that points only to the handkerchief being the catalyst of Desdemona’s love for Othello. So, Othello’s story about his mother is quite possibly a foreshadowing of what the future would bring for his own relationship. Two hundred years after the Elizabethan era, it became common practice for women to give handkerchiefs to the men they had affairs with. These inconspicuous tokens of affection were a means of flirting without being caught by the judging eyes of society (Victorian Fashion Society). So, when Othello learns from Iago that his wife has given a handkerchief to another man, what conclusions could Othello have come to other than that his wife was having an affair? After being told that his relationship was the result of some form of witchcraft by Desdemona’s father, seeds of doubt had been planted in Othello’s head. And, with Iago’s masterful cultivating of this garden, there’s no wonder these seeds unfurled and caused Othello to spiral into a jealous, murderous rage. A seemingly small, “trifle” killed the Moor of Venice. Without it, according to himself, Othello never would have even existed, because it was the object that brought his parents together and kept them there. For Othello, it is an object imbued with love and childhood memories until he spies it in the hands of a woman who is not his wife. Then, the narrative unfurls, until the handkerchief is all Othello can think about before he plunges a knife into his chest. For Iago, the master narrator, the handkerchief is a means to bring Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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about Othelloâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s end, an act of completing the story that only took his insinuating that the trifle was given to someone else. This seemingly insignificant object tore apart a marriage and brought the fall of a great general.

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It’s Him Again Arthur Yao The thermometer broke that year, Perhaps he broke it with his toy airplane. The paper thin walls of our house slowly peeled away, Perhaps he scratched them off. The ash gray sidewalks were abandoned, Perhaps he scared all the people away, Ugh, he’s back. The vehicle pulled up our driveway. Bucktoothed and blackeyed, He stepped out immediately, Staring with his eyes out wide. Tension was in the air, For we have been in scrimmage for weeks, without any real techniques. He started to whine, As he launched his body against mine. I reciprocated. A kick and a miss. A swing and a miss. We looked like ponies on a battlefield, far from mastering the skills of modern fist fighting. Yet we still tried. From our mistakes we learned,

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From our empty punches we learned, From our bloody noses and lost teeth we learned, The importance of brotherhood.

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SELECTED WRITINGS: CLASS OF 2019

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Untitled Gerry Alexandre

hen people asked me if I ever lived in the ghetto, I often didn’t know how to respond. Depending on my mood, I dismissively answered with a yes or a no, for science of course. As you may guess, responses varied immensely. When I said yes, their follow-up question was, “Have you ever heard a gunshot?” I immediately turned my head and walked away without hesitation, an action many know me to perform quite easily. When I said no, their follow-up response was, “But you’re black.” I returned a confused look to the person and we immediately laughed off the awkwardness as if what he/she just said wasn’t incredibly disturbing. It wasn’t until freshman year of high school that I began understanding the underlying meaning of the question. On the surface, am I being asked where I live? Yes. However, unknowingly, this question is challenging the legitimacy of my black heritage. The fact that I was actually Haitian American held no importance. In America, I’m African American now. Not wanting to disappoint the people who placed me in a box, I began to stop speaking of my Haitian Heritage. After all, many don’t believe diversity exists within the black community. This, of course, shouldn’t come as a surprise. Those of African American descent are expected to either: 1) play basketball, 2) live in the ghetto, or 3) say the n-word. If you don’t do at least one of these, can you really call yourself black? Needless to say, I partake in none of these actions. Unlike me, my mother and my father weren’t born in the United States. Born of Haitian descent and into a life of poverty, a poor fate seemed inevitable. Soon after birth, my father was abandoned by his

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father, and my mother often slept famished. I, on the other hand, have never had to go through such situations. After all, here I am, a Haitian American in one of the most prestigious independent high schools in the nation. My mother and father speak fluently: French, English, and Haitian Creole. It is clear to anyone who knows me that I strictly speak English. Sure I may be in French IV, but that basically means I know how to say in French how bad I am at French. Not being able to speak with my parents in their native tongue further justified my reason to stop telling people of my heritage. I felt an enormous pressure to fit in, which coexisted with the pressure I felt to not fit in. I wasn’t solely African American, but what kind of Haitian doesn’t speak Creole, let alone French. Slowly but surely, a loss of identity began to form. Constantly hearing the same foreign language in my own home only succeeded in validating the justification of my stubbornness. It’s not that I wanted to be African American; I simply couldn’t escape being Haitian American. Having friends that spoke to their parents in Turkish, Russian, Spanish, and Chinese didn’t help the situation. Yet, in the end, an unanswered question looms in the depths of my mind. Am I proud of my Haitian Heritage? Though still unanswered, my quest for knowledge has led me to answers far less fulfilling. As much as I would like to say my story is unique and original, I simply can’t. My story isn’t as uncommon as I thought. There are many Americans in this very room who also struggle with their identity, solely because of America and its history. This isn’t to say I have answered my own question; however, once I came to terms with America’s history, I was able to see novelty in both its and mine.

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The Power of Representation Jennifer Brown

t was 10:00 pm on Thursday night and I had gotten comfortable on my couch ready for my weekly ritual. Annalise Keating, once again, defending her client that was wrongly accused of murder. She works her magic and in a matter of seconds, her case is thrown out. This was probably the 10th time I had seen her do this, but I was still in awe. Seeing this woman on my television every week gave me chills. Having her dark skin bless my screen on a regular basis was life-changing. Finally, someone who resembled ME on a TV screen, in a position of power. Growing up, seeing people who never looked like me on TV was a constant reminder of how people of color were disregarded, and even forgotten. I felt invisible, like my story didn’t count. I was always consumed with the thoughts in the back of my head: Is there something wrong with me or the way I look? Why are people who look like me never on TV or movie screens? Television and media affect huge aspects of our daily lives, including how we see others and how we see ourselves. The inaccurate representation of people of color sent a message to me, and others like me, that we didn’t belong on TV screens at all, which was undeserved and unfair. While this might seem disappointing, certain shows that have entered my life give me hope that the television industry is changing for the better. It means that my perspective has a voice, and my story can be told because it is just as important as the rest. Females of color in the TV industry, such as Annalise Keating from the TV show How to Get Away with Murder and the executive producer of the show, Shonda Rhimes, are women like me that I am able to admire because of their many accomplishments. Even in shows like

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Grey’s Anatomy, seeing characters like Miranda Bailey being Chief of Surgery and Maggie Pierce being head of cardiothoracic surgery affirms the idea that black females can play these roles and serve in these positions. When I was younger, I didn’t realize why I had such an attachment to these shows or the significance of the characters that these women embody — until now. They were more than just characters on a screen, they were role models, paving the way for other females of color to be taken seriously in the entertainment industry. These characters have inspired me to understand the need for more diversity in the fields represented by these women. Even if they are fictional characters, what these women symbolize means so much more to me than whether or not they are real. Seeing these women in courtrooms and operating rooms is enough to show me that it is possible for me, and those who look like me, to attain and dominate in these influential careers. Representation of black women in TV holds an important place in my heart because it sends a message to a group that has always been overlooked. It is now telling stories and sharing perspectives that are too often not told, and the sad thing is that there are more stories that still need to be shared. While progress is being made, there is still so much more to do so that what we see on our screens accurately represents the diversity of America. But I can confidently say that our country is moving in the right direction, bringing us closer and closer to representation for all people in American TV.

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Mezcla Ricardo Gonzales

“

Yo, but are you actually Mexican?” Those are the words that swirl in my head every day as I sit down in front of my friends. I think about it a lot. I’ve always thought of myself as this person who is normally associated with a race, a person that everyone knows as, “Oh yeah, that one Mexican dude.” But I’ve never thought of myself as American, like the ones many call Gringos. I’ve always pushed back my American Identity to take pride on the other Mexican side, always identifying as more true Mexican and less Americano. But the truth states otherwise. I was born in the states. I am a citizen. I am very light skinned. I am fortunate enough to have a family. Am I American? There is no doubt that I am. The more and more time I’ve spent on the East Coast, the more and more I’ve slid into the position of a typical American. I look at my friends back home and see the waiting faces. What do I say to them? Do I tell them I’m not as Mexican as they are? Do I tell them I’m a liar? Do I tell them I’ve never lived in Mexico? Do I tell them I’m losing my Spanish? Do I tell them I don’t know every state and capital, that I don’t even know who the president is? Do I tell them that in Mexico I’m like royalty and that just because I’m American, I get treated better, with more respect than natural born Mexican citizens? Most importantly, do I tell them I'm no true Mexicano, that I’m actually just another one of those Gringos? “If you’re not Mexican, dude, then why you actin’?” they’ll ask. I'll have to think about that. I'll have to think about why I push to be Mexican, why I go so far to say that I am Mexican, not American. Why do I do it? Is it because I want to preserve the culture and the

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ways and methods of my family? Is it because the Spanish language is dying in my family? Is it because half my friends, cousins — family — don't speak it anymore, or because they choose to be American and take pride in that? Is it because I don't want to disappoint my grandparents when they pass from this Earth, and leave all their traditions covered in dirt? Is it because the politics in this country have changed so much that I want to call myself a Latino, a Dreamer, when in actuality, those groups and I have nothing in common? Now at Deerfield, I have learned that I'm not just Mexican. I'm not an international student, but I’m not like every other American student. I am a mixture of both sides, a mixture between two cultures, two languages — two worlds. I realize I'm not the only one who deals with this, as many more U.S. students are mixed as well, and like me, have to deal with being part of two, three, or even more cultures and identities. When I go back home I’ll have an answer for those kids. I'll let them know “Yeah, I’m American.” I am the two sides of a vinyl record, with Mexico on side A, and America on side B, hidden, not forgotten. I’m a mixture of lives, peoples — a mixed society. I’m the true portrait of a Mexican-American. A real Chicano.

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Curtain Call Valerie Hetherington

he lights come up on a perfect stage: glistening food stretches for miles across an hors d'oeuvre table, the garden is lit up to turn evening into daytime, a talented orchestra waits ready to accompany. With a backdrop like this, one would certainly expect the players on the stage to be talented — able to incite emotion through their believable story, just as the director intends. Despite the illusion, this is no Broadway production; it is just another wild party directed by Jay Gatsby. Of course, to him the illusion is more than just a celebration; for the man formerly known as James Gatz, the production is a means to an end. Gatsby has conducted a play of extravagance since his initial encounter with Daisy, the subject of his never-faltering goal, but when his star goes off script, the entire performance collapses. At these fantastic parties, the masses create chaos, but everyone behaves exactly as the host wants them to. The walls of the house are crammed with so many guests that they stop appearing as people. Through rooms and throughout the house, “men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars” (39). Despite the crowded environment, Jordan Baker asserts that she likes large parties for their intimacy because at small parties “there isn’t any privacy” (49). Her statement seems odd at first, but toward the end of the extravaganza, that desired intimacy is clear. In the middle of a singer’s concert, she suddenly begins to cry over a fight with her husband, prompting the rest of the female party goers to follow suit as they too begin “having fights with men said to be their husbands” (51). These women realize they are just single moths in a swarm — individual drops in a swirling stream which

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allows them to show private emotion and go essentially unnoticed. Jordan’s assertion confirms that the show of emotion is somewhat of a regular occurence, a practiced one even, and therefore directed by Gatsby himself in the hope of drawing Daisy in. Befriending Nick is Gatsby’s way of getting one scene closer to the finale, and he tries just as hard at directing the party as he does using props. The rumored bootlegger tries to prove himself able to protect Daisy when he presents Nick with his medal of valor and a dramatic war story. Nick engages with this information as though “skimming hastily through a dozen magazines” and indicates his initial doubts by describing his astonishment to find that the medal “had an authentic look” (67). Further, Gatsby produces a photograph from his time at Oxford to prove the legitimacy of his upper class status. Upon processing the photo, Nick decides “it was all true” and suddenly associates the “skins of tigers” and “rubies,” possessions of the wealthy, with Gatsby. Of course, Gatsby’s biggest ploy to win back Daisy was getting rich. Carrying this second souvenir allows him to prove that his wealth matches old money, which makes him worthy of Daisy’s affections. Both of the props support the same illusion that Gatsby emulated when he was “penniless” and consequently knew “he had no real right to touch her hand” (149). The director has a clear vision for his finale and how it will come to fruition. As a confidant, Nick knows that Gatsby wants “nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: ‘I never loved you.’” (109). Because of the director’s eagerness to secure Daisy’s love, he and his star would have discussed the matter and practiced the line to get it just right. This moment, after all, would be the audience’s final impression; it would be Nick and Jordan’s final impression. This audience of two creates a presence in the hotel room that ups the stakes even higher. When Daisy hesitates in the climax of the performance, she looks to this audience “with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at least what she was doing” (132). The main actress does so in realization of her situation, perhaps Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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wishing she were instead in their position. The gesture creates a divide between the actors and spectators, highlighting their role in the scene. Despite his failure in controlling Daisy, the director succeeds in arousing reaction from said spectators, especially in Nick. The scene’s only member of the middle class becomes so engaged in the events unfolding in front of him that only after the tensions relax does he announce, “I just remembered that today’s my birthday” (135). In the most important scene on Gatsby’s stage, everything is arranged just as it should be, but it would soon all fall apart. Jay Gatsby’s play is meticulously arranged and carried out, but when it matters most — when he tries to win Daisy back — Tom claims the role of director. In the hotel room, Gatsby prompts Daisy repeatedly to deny her love for Tom, but she resists, causing the supposed directors to panic and improvise by putting words in her mouth. “‘Daisy, that’s all over now’” (132), he coaxes, prompting her to draw “further and further into herself ” (134). At first, she does acquiesce and states with “perceptible reluctance” that she “never loved” Tom (132), but not a word of what she says is true. Her performance is nothing but veneer, and suddenly the play takes a wild turn. Tom needs only say a few words to remind her of the love that they once shared, and suddenly Gatsby’s ending collapses. In this moment, Tom becomes the director. He reclaims Gatsby’s star, and suddenly has enough influence over her to coax an admission that she once loved Tom, to which Gatsby responds by opening then closing his eyes, as if he would open them to find control back in his hands (132). Instead, Daisy’s decision draws him back to reality: she tells Gatsby “pitifully” that she can’t say she “never loved Tom” (133), essentially telling her director that she cannot convince her audience of the illusion, thus bringing the show to an absolute halt. The second she admits to loving Tom, every party the host has thrown becomes useless; Jay Gatsby has officially lost all hope of getting what he we wanted. At this point, Daisy is not his, in fact it was “as 212

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though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all” (132). Tom watches as Gatsby’s curtain closes, responding with the assertion that Gatsby “realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over” (135). The events of that one afternoon suddenly force five years of preparation and rehearsal to fizzle out without so much as a round of applause. Every since he rose to the polite class, everyone around Jay Gatsby became an actor. His guests do exactly as they are supposed to, letting loose in the confines of his control. Nick is drawn in and casted as a wingman; he is assigned the key role of reintroducing Daisy. Gatsby even employs props to prove his worth to those around him, and perhaps even to himself. Ultimately, however, the ploy fails. As Daisy and her husband retreat “back into their money” (179), leaving Gatsby with his unrealized dream and an empty stage that once was a house brimming with lively parties. Even though he had turned his rags into riches, Jay Gatsby’s life ends as penniless as it was five years before; he is left forever aching for that “voice full of money” (120).

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The Lost Wonder Cosmo Hunt

ay Gatsby is a dreamer, one with an unparalleled ability to aspire and achieve. Coming from humble origins, Gatsby set no limitations on his future and, consequently, rose through the ranks of his peers — both in the military and otherwise — toward greatness. According to his father, Gatsby “was bound to get ahead” for he always seemed to be “ improving his mind” (173), and for that reason, “he’d of been a great man” (168). However, somewhere along his path, Gatsby loses his aptitude for greatness. Before heading overseas to fight for his country in the Great War, he met a girl. After a few nights together, time stopped dead in its tracks in one fateful moment, which was neither to be repeated nor recovered, leaving Gatsby at a mental crossroads. Forced to decide between Daisy Fay and his gifted vision, the profound effects of Gatsby’s powerful dreams become increasingly evident to him toward the end of his empty life. Nick Carraway, the narrator, introduces Jay Gatsby as an ominous, almost god-like figure hovering over all of his guests during one of his elaborate summer parties. Yet the first time we see Gatsby, he stands by the Long Island sound, arms stretched toward a singular green light on the opposing shore as if he were yearning something. The discrepancy between Jay during intimate, personal moments and those more visible to the public reveal a dissonance within his own personality. As Nick gets to know the man better throughout his summer in East Egg, Gatsby sheds his protective veneer and opens up, making his neighbor one of the lucky few to observe his true personality. After his second night at the Gatsby mansion, Nick finds himself waiting for a new friend Jordan Baker,

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who had been talking in private with Gatsby. The two come out to the entrance hall, and almost instantaneously, “the eagerness in [Gatsby’s] manner tightened abruptly into formality” (52). As if he instinctively closes himself off in public settings, Gatsby’s incapacity to open up to others is foretelling of the future disconnections between his exorbitant conceptions and others’ more grounded interpretations of reality. As time passes, Nick slowly discovers that the dreamer’s passion for Daisy Buchanan, Nick’s second cousin, still burns. With this revelation, Gatsby “[comes] alive to [Nick], delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendor” (78). The fantasist’s drive for realizing dreams had been suppressed since the war but was rekindled by Nick’s coincidental relation to Daisy, finally giving Gatsby an opportunity to pursue once more. During his five years without Daisy, Jay had to make due with nothing more than the memories of their brief--yet powerful--time together. Now that she was soon to be back in his life, he began conveying his reminiscence in increasingly vivid detail. Bit by bit, Gatsby comes down from the clouds to stand with the other mere mortals as Nick gains a deeper understanding of Gatsby’s character and his longing for Daisy. Although Gatsby was working to win back Daisy throughout the entire summer, he aimed not to open a new chapter of the relationship but rather reopen one from the past. He had been dreaming far too long about a specific Daisy to even consider the possibility of a new one. His uncanny ability to dream had molded Daisy into nothing more than an “enchanted object” (93) in his mind. After what had seemed like centuries since he last saw her, Gatsby experienced doubt as to whether the woman of his dreams could possibly fill his idealized image of her, which had dominated his mind ever since their parting. Revealingly, Jay stood at the doorway of Nick’s cottage, “pale as death” and “glaring tragically into [Nick’s] eyes” (86). His lack of confidence rises from the fear that perhaps it had been too long and the nervous excitement that Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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accompanied the moment he had played in his head a million times over. After entering though, he and Daisy seemingly do start right from where they had left off. Gatsby had yet to comprehend how their relationship had changed. In his dream, Jay sees Daisy leaving her husband without hesitation, completing their reunion and making their love eternal. When the perfect opportunity arises in a New York City hotel, he pounces. Nick and Jordan sit to witness as Gatsby and Tom mentally tear poor Daisy apart. She too had been dreaming, “as though she had never, all along, intended” (132) for this confrontation to materialize. Reality bears down on both Daisy and Gatsby with a ferocious aggression, and she finally admits she did love Tom at one point, but adds in a desperate attempt at reassurance that she loved Jay too. At that, “Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed,” and in that everlasting blink of an eye, his whole world crumbled before him and “‘Jay Gatsby’ [broke] up like glass” (148). The sole desire that had festered from within for the past five years and had become a part of his identity is suddenly ripped away when Daisy utters the word “too” (132). When Tom chimes in saying, “There’re things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know,” “the words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby” (132). They quite literally do, seeing that Gatsby has become a man defined by his obsession with the past. Tom takes that obsession and introduces reality to it for the first time, reminding Jay that during those five years, Daisy wasn’t waiting like he was. Gatsby spent the rest of his time in the hotel “with a touch of panic” (133) as he realized the impossibility of his one dream. His mask of seclusion began to creep back on. Gatsby only comes to this realization when he finally puts the fate of his dream in others’ hands. He lays all his cards on the table in front of Daisy and Tom, and only then can he see that the dream had already died. In fact, it had died five years earlier, before the two even parted ways. Just before their first kiss, Gatsby “waited, listening for a moment longer,” knowing that after the kiss, “his 216

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mind would never romp again like the mind of God” (110). In that moment, he was forced to choose between the girl and his incomparable mentality. The fact that he had hesitated though made it clear that he wasn’t fully prepared to sacrifice his future. When he finally decided, “the incarnation was complete” (111), and Gatsby’s divine abilities evaporated. He had forever given up the capacity to make dreams a reality, so when the time came to say goodbye and Gatsby began to dream about Daisy, there was never any possibility that the dream would transpire later on. The kiss that promised so much — that was seemingly the beginning of a powerful bond — was in reality the poison that seeped into Gatsby’s mind and left him with a singular futile desire and inhibited him from having any other. Before meeting Daisy, “he could suck on the pap of life [and] gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder” (110), leaving nothing in the way of him and his aspirations, but that same gift led him right into Daisy’s trap. Gatsby “took her because he had no real right to” (149), but would let nothing stop him from doing so regardless. Ironically, he loses her only after he he earned the right to have her. Jay Gatsby, the man destined for greatness, dies a man defined by his singular, hollow vision, ultimately leaving nothing in the wake of his existence.

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Creationism by the 38th Parallel Nadia Jo The 38th Parallel is a common name for latitude 38°N roughly outlining the border between North and South Korea, chosen by U.S. Military planners in 1945. Like Genesis, it begins with a body of water.1 Here, there are no boundaries: head/fission, throat/shockwaves, tongue/vapor. Like Genesis, it begins with a body. The arm is removed from the shoulder socket, and I go on walking with my body drooping to one side. After Hiroshima, people’s shadows were imprinted on the ground. Which is to say, violence does not end with flesh rupturing; the body knows to translate trauma into silhouettes. Which is to say that in war, messages are disseminated from the sky, and people channel a response through their bodies. Like how broadcasts boom through radios saying there is no war. We wedge our throats with promise, muffle the pulsating fear. I walk with a cavity in my shoulder waiting to be filled. I walk with a mouth waiting to be drained,

1 1 Genesis 1:2 – “Now the earth was formless and empty... and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” 218

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paranoia threatening to flood over teeth. Until we see another’s mouth empty: bombers spitting above the border. A message written in splinters. After the rain, who will be left to gather my limbs? What ground will be left to chart my body’s wailing? I imagine my ribs becoming a shelter for all the wreckage, and I imagine wearing my fear like a cape, pulling it so close over my backbone it will cast a shadow over me and my arm when the bomb flashes overhead.

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Aminata Aminata Ka

ames and words arise, change shape and form to serve and to fit the people they are attached to. There isn’t a word in English to console another in pain. In Wolof the word is

“masa.” In Senegal, Aminata becomes America. In America, Aminata becomes Africa. It seems that no matter how desperately I clutch, I am neither and both.

America America is defiant. She doesn’t know what’s good for her but she is expected to do what’s right. She doesn’t know about culture. She doesn’t know enough words — like the names of Senegal’s presidents or the lyrics to the anthem. It doesn’t matter that she can hold a conversation in English or Wolof, perfectly peppered with ‘pleases’ and ‘thank-yous,’ without skipping a beat. Her sentences? Clumsy. Her gaze? Too direct. America is culture-less, rude and cutthroat. Naive. Young. Africa Africa is opinionated, tough, socially liberal and Black. She couldn’t care less about politics but dutifully hates Trump. She tirelessly seeks new achievements to check off. She raves about Basquiat and is unimpressed by Andy Warhol. Africa is book-smart, stumbling between politically correct and social justice. Fierce.

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Aged by circumstance. Aminata When she gets to Deerfield she becomes another mass of living particles in the ecosystem of trees, grass, ties, white shoes and more grass; no one tells her that this will become her existence. Like how no one told her that American was a branding that all of the water in the Atlantic couldn’t wash off. She is no longer the gangly girl caught between Africa and America; now Deerfield defines her existence. She hurts when she can’t open her mouth to speak her mind, the mass of white faces clutch at her throat and threaten to silence her forever, the darkness of her Sahara desert dermis burning holes into her courage. She hurts when another boy, probably as tall as her 13-year-old brother, is added to the mass of hoodie-wearing black bodies brutalized on American television. She hurts when she doesn’t get that grade on her bio test. Each pain cutting through the equator of her heart. Bleeding and battered, still, she thinks, “Here, I can be Aminata, here, I will stay.” Aminata? Tell me, who is she? Is she lady liberty beckoning black bodies to her shore, promising education and success? Is she the matronly figure of the monument to the West African Renaissance — cowering in the shadow of her muscled protector, his stern brow a sword venging to slash the white demons that dare sully his red-sanded shore? Or is she the simple girl who dares to claim Africa while reaping America’s fruits? Well, Africa, Africa just can’t have that. Africa turns her nose at Aminata’s American education, Aminata’s American Islam, Aminata’s American clothing, Aminata’s “ideals,” Aminata’s “dreams,” Aminata’s hard-earned love for her body and mind. Worthless. Every curvature and tangent of her being screams “outsider.” So, America must embrace all of Aminata’s dreams of freedom, right? If tired eyes, tired mind and tired limbs battered red, white and Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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blue can perform a strange alchemy that turns tears into treasure then, yes, America is the motherland of dreams. But America is culture-less, loud, rude and cutthroat. Africa still stumbles between politically correct and social justice. Names and words arise, change shape and form to serve and fit the people they are attached to. There isn’t a word in English to console another in pain. America needs healing. Aminata can’t heal America; the wound is too deep and Aminata is too weak. Aminata longs for mother Africa to console her: “Masa, masa. Come home.”

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HOME is Where You Feel FREE Owen Louis

hroughout James Baldwin’s Sonny’s Blues, Sonny is not free. He is controlled and dominated by his dependence on heroin and it takes the entire story for the narrator to figure out what it is that Sonny needs to be free. As the narrator is given little character development or personality, we are able to project ourselves onto his image as if we were one. Baldwin uses this blank canvas of a character to present us with information that is not fully interpreted but is processed enough to encourage the reader toward a certain understanding of the word “freedom” and its meaning in Sonny’s life. We know little about the narrator, but when it comes to understanding Sonny we are able to use what background we are given to enhance the understanding and evaluate his realization about freedom further: “Freedom lurked around us and I understood, at last, that he could help us to be free if we would listen, that he would never be free until we did” (Baldwin, 47). Although on the surface this is not a typical understanding of freedom, it is directly comparable to the dictionary definition: “The power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint” (Oxford American Dictionary). In Sonny’s case the hindrance is caused by everyone’s immediate judgement of him, especially the average person, or, in this case, the narrator. He cannot fully explain or speak as he wants because of this lack of understanding and the large societal judgment that prison imparts on convicts; thus, if the narrator chooses to simply listen, he could be free from this burden of restraint. Now, this burden of being held hostage by ignorance is clearly reflected upon the reader and narrator themselves through the statement, “He could help

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us to be free if we would listen” (Baldwin, 47), creating a mutual gain in freedom if both parties simply listen. Even though it may seem as though we, or the narrator, are not hindered by anything, our freedom from judgement towards others is lost throughout the beginning of the story. In order to show that we cannot avoid our intrinsic judgments, Baldwin sets up Sonny to be judged and deemed irresponsible by describing him as not the best student and as a drug addict. He finishes off our façade of being the only free one in the story by twisting that need to judge into a restriction rather than a freedom: “he could help us to be free” (Baldwin, 47). Baldwin explains freedom, for anyone, as the moment at which someone fully understands you and your struggle. At this moment of listening and understanding through music, both parties are understood more fully and the hindrances that plagued their thoughts were dispelled and ejected. Both parties were free to live free. On the surface, “home” and “freedom” seem to be separate concepts. One is a place where you feel comfortable and another is a feeling or an ability to do what one chooses. Toni Morrison manipulates the idea of “home” in Home to become strikingly similar to Baldwin’s concept of “freedom.” Frank Money, the main character, struggles with finding his place at home and finding what home truly is; he knows it has to do with Cee and his protection of her, but as soon as he begins to become comfortable with her he remembers his past. He remembers the Korean girl. He remembers his horrible deed. It haunts him and makes him feel as though he cannot be “home.” When he finally buries the dead father in front of the bay tree he feels as if he has buried his past and he is the tree: “hurt right down the middle but alive and well” — “Here Stands A Man” (Morrison, 145, 147). Cee confirms this by patting him on the shoulder and saying, “Let’s go home,” as if she understands and forgives him for anything that he could have done. She has forgiven him for his sinful past and vows to move on, reaffirming that he is and always will be her “brother.” Toni Morrison uses this scene to 224

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define “home” as a freedom from the struggles of the past because of a feeling or place that forgives you and allows you to live in the present, linking her “home” and Baldwin’s “freedom.”

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Incarnation to Holocaust: The Great Gatsby’s Demise Anna Mischenko

rifting in a pool, Gatsby, mind romping in seductive dreams, feels his mortality yank him from the old world to the new, grotesque reality, which punishes him for having “paid a high price for living too long with a single dream” (161): the dream of timelessness. The yearner’s imprisonment to the past deteriorates his supposedly uncontaminated beam of green light, his powerful vision of transcending human mortality. His idealized perception of breaking societal barriers, class and wealth, compels the faithful fantasist to follow an impossible dream under the spell of Daisy’s enthralling romance and to give up on himself. The ultimate demise of Gatsby lies in his choice to pursue a destructive dream that forces the betrayal of his incorruptible conception. Determined to revive his withering incorruptibility, Gatsby “had committed himself to the following of a grail” (149). In his impossible quest, the infatuated man searches for the seemingly promising cup of purity, bestowing the regeneration of his life through a recovery of Daisy, who, to Gatsby, bears the grail’s transcendent powers. While Daisy’s presumed godlike qualities manipulate Gatsby to accept nothing in return for his undying faithfulness, her gilded corruption casts a spell, creating a mask to hide her far-from-pure flaws. As Daisy’s voice transforms to become “more charming than ever” (150), Gatsby draws further into the past. In becoming “overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery” (150), he deters his focus from distractions to focus solely on fulfilling his thrilling quest, leaving the yearner 226

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vulnerable to the imperceptible trap of wealth’s allure. Concealing her corruption within a “white palace” facade, Daisy is truly “the golden girl” (120), gilded in a shiny, luxurious veil as she gleams “like silver” (150) to entice Gatsby’s thirst for their stimulating past, one encasing his lost spirituality. The tempting materialist, Daisy rests in her own guise “above the hot struggles of the poor” (150) and beyond Gatsby’s intense struggle to rediscover his highest spirituality; her “wealth imprisons” (150) him to an impossible dream. In blind pursuit of the unrealizable wonder, disguised as unchanging romance even after the accident, Gatsby eagerly observes Daisy’s already closed house, a blocked destination, without discerning its emptiness of promise. Mirroring Nick’s first glimpse of his ominous neighbour, stretching out arms on the dock overlooking to the lover’s green light, Gatsby retires inward as “he put his hands in his coat pockets” (145), ignoring the glaring truth. The yearning revivalist turns back, distancing himself from the strident reality that Nick symbolizes. Gatsby’s “scrutiny of [the Buchanans’] house” (145) demands a meticulous survey, the search for his now-departed love, that remains an impossible goal. Nick, the possessor of unpleasant truth, undercuts Gatsby’s transcendent aspirations, now marred and broken by the newcomer. In ignoring his trustful neighbour, the faithful dreamer abandons his own awareness, overtaken by his stubborn quest for the holy grail. In turn, he allows himself to deny clarity and instead become entranced by the “sacredness of the vigil” (145), commemorating the death of his perception of reality on the eve of an overripe romance. Captivated by empty aspiration, Gatsby merely stands in the moonlight, radiating iridescent white and blue, colors of purity and mirage. Trapped in this everlasting cycle, moon’s orbit, Gatsby surrenders to deception, convincing himself of Daisy’s pure, unwavering love and her absence of corruption. Still craving the past, he stays, Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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“watching over nothing” (145), as his dream blurs all awareness of Daisy’s abandonment. In a vigil of emptiness, Gatsby, the figure of undying hope, transitions backwards, withdrawing alone from reality as he is defeated by an elusive dream of imagined romance. The next day, in waiting for the future-determining phone call from Daisy, the corrupt bearer of transcendent powers, Gatsby allows his mind to slip to reflection, inciting him to finally understand the unpleasant circumstances of his dream. Floating carelessly in the pool, Gatsby turns absent-minded, his thoughts fleeting daydreams of the past. As the sun sets, so does Gatsby’s incorruptible dream. Only the distant fragments from his enthralling quest alongside a harsh epiphany linger. Departing the world of illusions and returning back to reality, Gatsby mourns the loss of the “old warm world” (161) that had once bestowed him the comfort of masked romance and a seemingly foreseeable future. Instead of looking forwards, to the hopeful future, or backwards, to the reverberating past, Gatsby notices the sky’s unfamiliarity, missing the warmth of his incorruptible world of illusions. The dreamer fears what he now realizes: the corruption in distressing reality. He discovers “what a grotesque thing a rose is” (161), seductive but thorny like Daisy, a hazard disguised by a mask of innocence. His lover, once the light of his life, now shines raw in apparent abandonment over his dead hope. The delusioned man finally escapes his imprisoning enchantment by the ‘golden girl’ to enter a new world, containing previously unnoticed materialism, corruption and sinfulness. The yearner traces backwards, realizing he had betrayed himself all along to an already perished dream. Years before this sorrowing realization, Gatsby invents the idealized version of himself, one soon to perish with the choice to pursue his delusional grail. Before his stardom, Gatsby crafts “his Platonic conception of himself ” (98), developing his image as a pure descendant from God, incorruptible yet also nonhuman. 228

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While saint-like, this birth of a new ‘Jay Gatsby’ places him inside Plato’s cave, where he remains trapped in darkness and unenlightened to cruel reality. At Daisy’s burst into Gatsby’s seemingly incorruptible life, she shines her charming light onto the yearner’s house, while he searches for the holy grail in the shadows. In brewing imagined romance, Gatsby impulsively makes an ill-fated choice between mortality and immortality at the stroke of the lovers’ first, spell-casting kiss. The dreamfollower understands the burden of the kiss: forever wedding his “unutterable visions” (110) to Daisy’s concealed corruption, erasing all possibility of succeeding in his enthralling quest in having his mind “never romp again like the mind of God” (110). In a moment of lulling hesitation, the strike of a tuning fork upon a star sets in stone Gatsby’s tragic destiny. With lips’ touch, Daisy - his forbidden fruit - temporarily opens the gates to a world of enticing illusion that points Gatsby into his ultimate demise. Through the yearner’s promise to deterioration, his “incarnation was complete” (111); Gatsby betrays himself, transforming from divinity to human mortality, permanently susceptible to the new world’s ashen demolition. Caught in this kiss of degenerating corruption versus an enchanting dream, Gatsby’s cursed choice to betray his ‘Platonic conception of himself ’ destined his demise. At his pivotal incarnation, Gatsby entered into the ‘golden girl’s’ splendour, a trap of magnificent illusions: the old world, ringing nostalgia for imagined romance. Imprisoned by the grasp of his grail quest, the yearner can’t move onwards. He is perpetually stuck in the past, dreaming of empty promises to rediscover his ideal self that he gives up in fatal incarnation. With the dissolving summer heat, Gatsby floats in his pool for the first time, letting his daydream reflection drift to a new, discomforting revelation. The dreamer eventually discovers he betrayed himself and paid too high a price not for pursuing his impossible quest, but for abandoning his Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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Godly image for gilded corruption, hurtling him into the cold new world. Ending Gatsby’s irreversible deterioration, his unattainable search for his relinquished conception ceases in an echo to his described incarnation: “the holocaust was complete” (162). From enchantment to destruction, old world to new -- incarnation to holocaust -- the searcher chooses his permanent path to mortality in pursuit of a dream that perishes in a single, decisive kiss; Gatsby chooses his own demise.

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The Emotion of the Forest Colin Olson

ighlighting the power of the wilderness to provide a new world for its visitors and perhaps spur on new mindsets, Lord Byron claims that in the woods, “there is society where none intrudes…” and where one “cannot all conceal…” (“Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”). In The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne also portrays the forest as another realm, diminishing if not eradicating completely the pressures of Puritan society which impose a conformity to a strict ideology. Furthermore, as in the case of Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, the forest provides a chance for Puritans to escape the confines of their occupational pressures. The woods also provide the opportunity for Dimmesdale to free himself from his moral code. Dimmesdale, a minister among the zealous Puritans, commits adultery with Hester Prynne, and lives a life full of suffering as he recognizes the difference in “what [he] seems and what [he is]” (182), constantly placing his hand over his heart in moral agony. Within the forest, Dimmesdale expresses feelings unacceptable for a Puritan man in his position, emotions he has monitored in the past and would struggle to contain in the future. Nathaniel Hawthorne orchestrates his novel so that Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale expresses his feelings in the forest rather than in society, showing how society, especially in the Puritan realm, serves as a hindrance to open, natural discourse. Hawthorne establishes the forest as a separate world where society’s sphere of influence cannot penetrate. When Prynne and Dimmesdale acknowledge each other on the wilderness trail, the forest feels foreign to them, “like the first encounter, in the world beyond the grave…” (181). By denoting the experience as

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otherworldly, Hawthorne establishes the nature of the forest as a place physically separate from Puritan society. Furthermore, the influences of Puritan civilization hold no sway amongst the trees, as “seen only by his eyes, the scarlet letter need not burn into the bosom of the fallen woman...Arthur Dimmesdale, false to God and man, might be, for one moment, true!” (186). By claiming that the scarlet letter, a sign of ignominy plaguing Hester’s public existence, and that Arthur’s falsehood, a societal notion shaking the foundations of his vitality, fade away highlights how, in the woods, even the most powerful stigmas of Puritan society dissipate. Hawthorne describes the forest itself, after Hester and Arthur resolve to leave, as a place devoid of “human law, nor illumined by higher truth” (194). The fact that human law and religious fervor, here described as “higher truth,” two hallmarks of Puritan society, cease to exist in the wilderness shows how the forest greatly lacks the moral code and values present in Boston. Along with lacking Puritan pressures, the forest lessens the effects of society on the heart of Dimmesdale, one deeply entrenched in social life, as the wilderness causes him to feel like “a prisoner just escaped from the dungeon of his own heart...breathing the wild, free atmosphere of an unredeemed, unchristianized, lawless region” (192). By allowing the minister, a man often seen as most holy among his fellow Puritans, to enter into an “unchristianized” state, Hawthorne embellishes the separation between Dimmesdale and the aspects of his nature which society has affected. Overall, Hawthorne highlights the differences between the woods and Boston as he clarifies that the trees represent a separate realm, devoid from Puritan pressure entirely. Dimmesdale, who has to monitor “not [only] his acts...but each breath of emotion, and his every thought,” strays from the societal norm in terms of the feelings he expresses in the forest, an act that the aforementioned separation of realms brings about. Despite his withering away, due to the guilt he feels for his sin, the priest in some manner shows forgiveness towards himself. Society would 232

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frown upon this acceptance as Boston designates the crime he committed as punishable by death. Sitting in the wilderness with his fellow adulterer, Arthur claims “May God forgive us both! We are not Hester, the worst sinners in the world” (185). After society has stifled him for so long, this conversation represents the first instance of the novel where Dimmesdale partially removes himself from his sin-induced guilt, all because of the seclusion the forest provides. The minister, who, by the nature of his profession is sought after for guidance, openly seeks the strength of Prynne to navigate a treacherous situation while conferencing with her in the forest saying, “Think for me, Hester! Thou art strong. Resolve for me!” (187) The woods allow Dimmesdale to make himself vulnerable, a natural feeling for all humans, showing how the pressures of Boston no longer suppress him. Within the forest, when the prospect of leaving his town and all of his devoted followers arises, Dimmesdale’s joy shines through. Upon resolving his desire to leave with Prynne, Dimmesdale cries out, “Do I feel joy again...Methought the germ of it was dead in me!” (192) Although the opportunity to abandon those he has accepted to spiritually guide ought, in society’s terms, to appall the minister, the woods allow him to express his unconventional emotion. Lastly, Dimmesdale expresses a deep level of affection for his fellow adulterer when he sits with her in the woods. Arthur acknowledges that he cannot, in reference to Hester, “...any longer live without her companionship; so powerful is she to sustain—so tender to soothe!” (192) The minister, by loving the woman he engaged in sin with, puts his feelings over his societal duty of spirituality and godliness, a change the forest administers. Overall, the medium of the forest allows Arthur Dimmesdale to acknowledge feelings that, in Boston, could bring about defamation or mockery, but are, in fact, present. Dimmesdale, upon returning from the forest, becomes more aware of the stifling nature of his town in contrast with the woods as he feels compelled to restrain himself when engaging with passersby. Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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In the past, relative to his forest adventure, Hawthorne alludes to the feelings of being closed in as present in Dimmesdale, saying that, when Dimmesdale engages the opportunity to look at the universe more objectively, “It was if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer atmosphere into the close and stifled study where his life was wasting itself away…” (116). However, the feeling of being stifled only increases once Arthur has experienced the freedom of the woods firsthand. Upon returning from the forest, Dimmesdale has to restrain himself from expressing dangerous, unconventional feelings to the community members. When feeling compelled to utter “blasphemous suggestions” to a deacon, Dimmesdale only resists through “most careful self control” (208). As he walks through the town, he feels forced to hold “his Geneva cloak before his face, and hurr[y] onward, making no sign of recognition,” so as not to impart evil on one of his newly-converted sisters (209). Finally, Dimmesdale, still walking through town, after avoiding whispering bad words into the ears of little boys, in reference to the devil asks, “Did I make a contract with him in the forest, and sign it with my blood?” (210). The notion of the forest being the turning point where Dimmesdale has to actively restrain himself from committing actions he desires (horrible as these actions may be), shows how, in the woods, he feels more free. Overall, the position of Dimmesdale and his societal involvement cause him to feel stifled in comparison to the forest as he re-enters Boston. The forest provides a medium, completely separate from Puritan life, in which Arthur Dimmesdale expresses unconventional feelings. Hawthorne not only creates this contrast to mock the false godliness of Puritans in the colonial era, but also uses the separation to commentate on the role of society at large. By causing Dimmesdale to struggle with restraint immediately upon exiting the woods, Hawthorne illustrates the superficial, society-imposed aspect of the pressures and constraints of daily life, and shows how nature, not “illumined by higher truth,” offers an escape (194). In conclusion, in 234

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The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne points out the restrictive nature of society at large by contrasting the freedom Arthur Dimmesdale feels in the forest with the oppression he experiences in town.

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Reflecting on Emerson and Thoreau Maxime Pitchon Skyscape “The beauty that shimmers in the yellow afternoons of October, who ever could clutch it? Go forth to find it, and it is gone: ‘t is only a mirage as you look from the windows of diligence.” —Emerson, “Nature” The Rock. The terrain’s furrowed folds undulate towards the horizon like frozen waves of the sea, tinted blue like the ocean’s vibrant reflection — the valley air a pale white of humidity like an invisible lake suspended in the atmosphere, fading off the hills to the north into the sky. The sun shines pale rays of light through the mist into the golden-green valley below. The cries of red-tailed hawks hunting over the forest and the croaking of common ravens high in the sky above accompany me at this summit. Too many other things are on my mind — too many distractions and responsibilities and reminders of commitments, but the sight of the campus where I spend my days, pretty in itself, but prettier in context of the colorful hills and the vast skyscape above, takes me out of myself, if only for a moment. Its beauty may not be tangible, but the air radiates brilliance. What cannot be touched is not always a mirage. This moment — this experience, and the fact that I am living it — is possession enough. The artist’s eye clutches the beauty that shimmers in the air, and taps into the invisible lake of splendor.

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Landscape “So we saunter toward the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn.” —Thoreau, “Walking” Mamoní Valley, Panama. We march along a high rainforest ridge, a pouring waterfall below, surrounded by the ceaseless singing of jungle animals — the otherworldly whooping of howler monkeys, the whining of insects, and the warbling of bright jungle tanagers in the canopy. Leafcutter ants march along the trail under our feet, carrying massive segments of leaves over their heads. As we begin to descend the other side of the ridge, the trees part to reveal the spectacular golden valley of rainforest and pastures, lit perfectly by the evening tropical sun, filtering its superb light through the dramatic, soft clouds, shining towards the green earth in subtle rays. I stop. The pastures look perfect from this mountainside, so impossibly picturesque. I never want to leave this moment. The sun glows like it has never before — brighter, more strikingly, gilding the valley in gaseous gold. Everything is more vibrant, more full of life: the sky a bluer blue and the trees a greener green. I stand in the path and let the sun’s rays shine into the valleys of my own mind and heart. This is all the joy I need in life: the serene warmth of the sun over the steep rolling pastures and jungle palms, so new and so foreign, yet so comforting and so incredibly beautiful. Seascape “Live free, child of the mist…” —Thoreau, “Walking”

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Penobscot Bay, Maine. The tall, impressive, salty Maine ocean waves roll over my kayak as I paddle heroically against the tide. A moment ago I wished for a break, feeling nothing but the exhaustion in my core from hours of paddling, paddling. Now, with a smile I cannot erase from my face no matter how hard I try, I am elated. As I gauge my progress on the shoreline, jagged and rocky with the ocean’s powerful tide crashing repeatedly against its cliffs, I can tell I am barely moving. I paddle on. The horizon is filled with spruce-covered islands. Some days the sky is the brightest azure, others, dull white and bleary. Some days the coastline’s vast landscape is shrouded in mist, transforming the expansive shoreline into a completely different, mystical scene. Paddling, day after day, is hard. Everything I take for granted in “civilized life” I now fight for. We paddle a dozen miles a day to reach the island where we make camp for the night. I am entirely in the moment: I focus on the rhythm of the paddles’ strokes and the grandeur of the remarkable seascape. All that I work for in the day is a bare necessity of life. I have never done anything remotely like this. At times I do not know how to interpret the lifestyle I suddenly find myself living, or how to justify my presence in this scene. While Thoreau advocates “sauntering” in a religious sense, he also mentions that “some…would derive the word from sans terre, without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere” (“Walking”). Gazing on the distant hills that rise from the sea, I realize I have spent too much time in Maine trying to hold onto the definition of home I have always known. I need to make a home of this foreign land. I need to melt into its seascape like I am a part of the ocean. I thought I had found myself bound by the chains of daily exertion, but truly I am living freely, unbounded by the complexities of society, living for the necessities of life. I am a part of the seascape on the water, floating on the ocean’s omnipotent tide, a child of the mist. 238

Little Brown House Review

Daydreamer Kimberly Stafford

ubconsciously or not, Jay Gatsby has retained the same main goal all throughout his life: he has attempted to be godlike. Since the changing of his name as a young teenager, his “platonic conception” (98) of himself has always strived to be of a higher-figure; it’s no wonder why he meticulously throws around the phrase “old sport” to downgrade his peers and distinguish himself from others. Despite dogged efforts to achieve divine superiority, Gatsby fails mainly due to the fact he cannot see his own reality clearly. Gatsby adores his conception of Daisy in the past, one similar to his “platonic” idea of himself, but not the hollow, vacant person she has become in the present. He tries to associate the two things as the same, but never comes to terms with the fact that his idealistic creation of Daisy and the person herself are two completely different things until his very final moments before being killed. Throughout his short life, he tries hard to achieve a divine status, but when Gatsby is aimlessly floating on his deathbed — when he does nothing, sees nothing, and stops trying — he truly becomes god-like with regard to finally seeing the real world. He sees things for what they truly are in their raw form. He discovers that a rose has thorns, that the light is harsh, and that the cloudless sky is abrasive in its striking clarity. When he finally stops trying so hard to become something he’s always wanted, Gatsby truly acquires the transcendent forces of a god. Jay Gatsby, a man who, upon first glance, seems to have the world within the touch of his fingertips, manipulates his own reality to see only the things he wants to see. He doggedly refuses to acknowledge Daisy as the vapid, colorless, mold-of-a-woman she is, and chooses

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instead to fall in love with the person she was five years earlier. Gatsby is a firm believer of the past repeating itself — he even confesses it himself — but what he doesn’t realize is that he isn’t living in his present nor his past, but rather in an unachievable dream. Gatsby has seen glimpses of Daisy’s inept hollowness ever since their first encounter, but despite sensing these tiny cracks of reality, he still refuses to acknowledge that his idol is nothing like the ideal he has been dreaming of. The day after the fatal accident when Gatsby waited for Daisy outside the Buchanan mansion and “watches over nothing”(145), he finally realizes his conception of Daisy is just only that. He discovers “what a grotesque thing a rose is”(161) and that his “green light”(21) — the hope of a utopian-like fantasy with Daisy — has finally been extinguished. Perhaps it is only fitting that Gatsby realizes this shortly before his death, as this is his first — and final — revelation of his infinitely elusive grail before he leaves this world. His vision is finally clear, but it’s too late. Ironically, only during Gatsby’s final moments left on earth does he realize that the one thing he has been pursuing for more than half his entire life nothing but an illusion. You can buy as many flowers as you want, but they won’t necessarily live. Their physical beauty and alluring fragrance are illusory in their effect. A flower herself, Daisy Buchanan ultimately shrivels and withers when she is exposed to hints of the raw sunlight of reality. Just like a woman, flowers must be delicately taken care of, and, arguably, the most fragile flowers of all are roses. Roses embody love, beauty and passion, and oftentimes their beauty is so overwhelmingly poignant that we forget their thorns, synonymous with pain and suffering. Daisy, a young woman who has been part of elite society ever since birth, seems to fit the qualities of a rose, but in actuality, is hollow and substance-less. Gatsby’s failure to recognize this throughout his pursuit of her is only more telling of his incapacity to see the truth. Even five years before the summer reunion takes place, when Gatsby, a “penniless” (149) soldier, kisses 240

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Daisy for the first time, something is not quite right. “She blossom[s] for him like a flower” (111), but does not bloom, hinting that Daisy still holds back. A blossom has the capability to turn into a blooming flower, but if mistreated, will never open up to its full potential. We see a morsel of passion between the two during their intimate moment in Louisville, but that bud shrivels up and fails to bloom into something bigger. Right before the two embrace, Gatsby curiously looks up to the sky, showing a hint of reluctance and uncertainty. Despite seeming like a “true love” situation, Gatsby and Daisy have always had some barrier between them from the start. Both of them fell under the false pretenses that their love was perfect from the beginning, but in truth, something has always been holding the two of them back. Whether it was Daisy’s unpromising blossoming in Louisville or Gatsby’s last-minute hesitation leading up to their kiss, their destinies have always been doomed since their inceptions. Nonetheless, this isn’t the last time Gatsby looks up to the sky. Projecting the dreamer’s final thoughts, Nick envisions his friend “[looking] up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves”(161) shortly before being shot. The dreamer glances up to the sky in search for answers, resulting in a clouded, murky response. But once Gatsby comes to terms with his gripping reality, he looks up to see a strange and scary revelation. To him, the sky looks foreign because it is cloudless- he isn’t used to having clear vision and his final moments disturb him in its lucidity. All his life, Gatsby is used to hazy, blurry perceptions marring the prospect of his future, so when he is finally introduced to a chilling epiphany, it frightens him. His tendency to resort to comfort in the past has always hindered him from seeing the future, and although he is introduced to his true reality, it is only during the last few moments of his life that he sees this. Daisy had the potential to open up to Gatsby that night in Louisville five years ago, but instead, she chose to remain closed to her true love. She was too afraid to take a risk by marrying Gatsby: as a result, she chose the easy way Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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out, and followed a path of uniformity and convention by marrying Tom Buchanan, a wealthy older man who financially provided everything his wife could ever desire. In the end, however, Gatsby is too good for Daisy; he prevails by truly seeing beyond the restrictive confines of high society. Clouded vision had become so normal to Jay Gatsby that when he is exposed to the “raw sunlight” (161) and chilling realization that his love — and lover — are not what he formerly thought, he encounters a whole “new world” (161) where, in his fleeting moments left on earth, he no longer cares about superficial and materialistic extremities. Despite taking nearly his entire life to come to terms with actuality, Jay Gatsby achieves divine enlightenment by finally letting go of his elusive dreams. Sadly, his returned to his elevated conception comes at the moment of destruction.

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260 Bennett Stankovits She rubs her eyes as she slides off her skyscraper of a bed. Kicking aside her rolling chair, she fetches her backpack and trudges through her laundry and candy wrapper filled room. Past the walls designed to look like anywhere but where she is One quick, emotionless look into the mirror, and she slowly walks alone to hopefully make her second class. Tuesday morning and she’s never felt worse. Opening the Koch classroom door always makes her shudder, but the looks on the classmates’ and teachers’ faces are all too familiar. A bitter mixture of second-hand embarrassment and disappointment. But also a taste of curiosity For how many APs this girl can attach to her belt before she drowns. 260 260 reasons why Elly is unaccountable for her own actions 260 reasons why she is not worthy of her heritage But what is accountability to a girl whose white silk pillow is the only thing she can lean on?

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And what is worthiness when the community views her as the bad apple, picked from the muddled scramble of branches on the Stankovits tree? One would have thought that after the first hundred, the default school solution wasn’t going to work. That confiscating room signup tiles isn’t the best idea for someone struggling socially. That sleeping in is a sign of stress And that the cure for stress isn’t community service on exam week. A school should measure restrictions’ success by how many people leave it, not by how many people are added. The fact that it’s the same people for four years who dwell in the quiet, brick filled room on Fridays speaks to its success. But she’s still breathing as she walks through that green and white tent. 260.

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Letter to Disney Brigid Stoll Dear Disney, You made me want to be a princess with shiny hair and a sparkly diamond tiara, waiting for a dashing prince to save me when I prick my finger. Dear Disney, You started by portraying Minnie Mouse as a flapper. You hiked up her skirt, showed her knickers to the country. What were you teaching me? Dear Disney, You made Belle a bright young woman. But you stripped her of her dignity, forced her to wear the infamous yellow gown that the Beast, her love, her enslaver, requested simply because he gifted her a library. You expected her to forget his brutality, how she used to shudder at the touch of his paw, for what? A room of books… Dear Disney, Cinderella, Ariel, and Belle needed makeovers to win over their suitors. Does that mean I need a makeover too? You left me questioning my body image, criticizing every little thing about myself that needs to change. Dear Disney, You let princes kiss unconscious princesses. If Prince Phillip didn’t need Sleeping Beauty’s consent, Prince Charming didn't need Snow White’s consent, Robert didn’t need Giselle’s consent, why should I

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believe that any man needs mine? Dear Disney, Why did Rapunzel’s daily lineup consist of sweeping the floor (twice), pottery and ventriloquy and candle making, and most importantly, brush and brush and brush and brush her hair? Do you truly believe that’s all I am worth? Dear Disney, You took away Ariel’s voice and with it, you took mine. Do you remember telling her, “They're not all that impressed with conversation. True, gentlemen avoid it when they can. But they dote and swoon and fawn on a lady who's withdrawn. It's she who holds her tongue who gets a man”? Dear Disney, Why did Ursula tell me my voice is my flaw, holding me back from happiness? Dear Disney, Little girls all over America watch you, learn from you, love you. Can you love them too? Yes, you’ve shown me that you can. Disney, Thank you for showing my nine year old cousin Maggie that Merida can be brave, that Mulan can save China, that Moana can be the chief of her people. Disney, Thank you for teaching her that she deserves the respect of others, that her opinions have value. For showing her that Moana cannot be underestimated by Maui, that Elsa doesn’t need to fall in love with the first man she encounters. 246

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Disney, Thank you for letting Judy Hopps show Maggie that her gender, her race, her sexual orientation cannot hold her back from achieving what she sets her mind to. For showing her that although she’s bound to face adversity along the way, her strength of character will always pave the path towards her dreams. Disney, I’m proud of what you’ve done, how far you’ve come. But Disney, There’s a long road ahead. Please help our struggling country as you have once before. Disney, You carried our children through the Cold War, keeping smiles on their faces as they sang “M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E” while the world around them crumbled. Disney, American children need you to carry them again. You shape their thoughts, their opinions, their beliefs like clay. What will you mold them into? Disney, The eyes of our youth are fixed on you. Will you guide them? Dear Disney, You made me want to be a princess. What will you make my daughter want to be?

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Religion: Salvation or Damnation? Brigid Stoll

eligion earns its reputation for being a positive, guiding force in the world. However, few consider the harm malpractice of religion can bring. If one’s path to the true lessons of religion is marred with roadblocks, how can one be expected to internalize them? Racial representation in the Church has long been contested on a global scale, with numerous pushbacks from various sources. Christianity’s unwanted, forceful entry into the African world, imposed by white, European domination, serves as the seed for the growth of further tension. European and American influence first introduced Christianity to Africans, as they enslaved them for labor, to provide motivation from the implicit promises of the religion’s fundamentals. As Ako Adjei describes in An African View, “Many Africans look upon the Christian church as nothing more than an agent of European and American imperialism in Africa.” For centuries, Africans were taught to worship a God that failed to represent their identity simply to ensure the continuation of their work, leading many freed Africans to abandon the religion that helped secure their ancestors’ position in the vicious cycle of slavery. They felt that the Christian religion held inherent hypocrisy, for it claimed all humans were children of God, brothers, yet it was clear that the African men were no brothers of the white men. Surely, they believed that God, depicted as a kind, white, blue-eyed old man, was not meant represent and protect his African children. In the late 1920s, a glimmer of hope emerged for African Catholics under the leadership of Pope Pius XI. While he never 248

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directly confronted the issue of segregation in the Church, he alluded to his intent to unify these two sects. His sentiments were embraced and echoed by Dr. Mordecai Wyatt Johnson of Morrison’s alma mater, Howard University, who stated, “Negroes may be freed from civil slavery, but segregation of them in colored churches is just as bad.” In response to Johnson’s assertion, the Federal Council of Churches of Christ in America adopted an ambiguous, yet hopeful resolution, “to give special attention to the griefs of Negro brethren.” However, this progress halted when Pope Pius XI passed, leaving all ecclesiastical decisions to Pope Pius XII. Pius XII stood far more conservatively than Pius XI, recognizing widespread Christian concern about the integration of Churches. During his 19 years as Pope, he did little to continue or support the integration of the Catholic Church, setting an example for other branches of Christianity to follow. But, the push for Church integration in the United States remained present, growing alongside the Civil Rights Movement. In 1943 Chicago, Bishop Bernard J. Sheil, a white man, shared his support for an integrated Church stating, “Jim Crowism in the Church is a disgrace… Who would hesitate to join in this crusade [for integration], to fight in brotherly comradeship for such high ideals? ... If I were a Negro I would continue unrelentingly the struggle for equality and recognition. . . ." This promising movement, with support from both African and caucasian Americans, proved able of sparking the long-contested change in the Church towards racial equality under God in the late 20th century. This rich, intertwined history of the African race and Christianity shaped the characters of Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, especially her main antagonist, Cholly Breedlove. Raised by his devout Great Aunt Jimmy and influenced by Miss Alice’s frequent Bible readings, Cholly held a deep understanding of Christianity and its principles from a young age. However, he struggled to internalize its lessons the way his aunt and her friends seemed to because he could not identify with its prominent figure, God. “God was a nice old white Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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man, with long white hair, flowing white beard, and blue eyes that looked sad when people died and mean when they were bad… He never felt anything thinking about God, but just the idea of the devil excited him,” Cholly, whose childhood spanned from nearly 1905 to 1920, grew up in a world where the Church was entirely segregated. Though many fellow African Americans worshiped God and he himself went to Church, Cholly saw that Christianity was truly a white man’s religion and thus was unable to connect with it. Due to the societal stigmas regarding race, Cholly came to equate the African race with the devil, inherently inferior, while the white race represented God. Because the fight against Church segregation was not present during his youth, Cholly felt as rejected by Christianity as he was by his parents. Furthermore, while Christianity preached lessons of salvation and the mercy of God, Cholly saw no evidence of these miracles in his life. Where was this God when his mother left him for dead? Where was this God when Aunt Jimmy died and Blue grew too drunk to care? Where was this God when the two white men forced him onto Darlene? Where was this God when his father denied him? With seemingly no support from God in his life, Cholly’s lack of belonging burgeoned, leaving him alone in a dangerous world. His anger and frustration towards Christianity kept him from using it as a means of moral guidance. As Morrison explains, “Cholly was free. Dangerously free… Free to take a woman’s insults, for his body had already conquered hers. Free even to knock her in the head for he had already cradled that head in his arms… He was free to drink himself into a silly helplessness, for he had already been a gandy dancer, done thirty days on a chain gang, and picked a woman’s bullet out if the calf of his leg. Cholly was truly free… there was nothing more to lose. He was alone with his own perceptions and appetites, and they alone interested him.” This passage shows that Cholly’s state, void of all religion or moral guidance, proved a danger to himself and others, leading the way 250

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towards his violent adulthood. With the setup of Cholly’s childhood, Morrison essentially claims that his rejection of religion, leaving him in the aforementioned state, serves as the cause of his actions. His alcoholism, which harmfully affects his wife and family’s well-being, emerges from his sense of freedom and helplessness. His abusive relationship with his wife, Pauline, is a result of his perceived freedom to “knock her in the head.” Worst of all, the rape of his own daughter, Pecola, comes purely from his lack of understanding of love and familial relationships, two key pieces of the Christian religion. One of Morrison’s well-hidden claims suggests that if Cholly had the moral guidance of Christianity and had embraced rather than rejected it as a child, the rape never would have occured. By drawing direct parallels between the freedoms that Cholly was exposed to upon his rejection of religion to the injurious actions of his adulthood such as his use of alcohol and treatment of women, Morrison directly correlates his lack of religion to his cruelty. More broadly, Morrison’s underlying message is calling for change. Published in 1970, The Bluest Eye closely follows the Age of Consensus in America. During this time period, Americans widely believed that “any religion is better than no religion” because religion provides citizens with a moral compass to guide their actions. Morrison seemingly agrees with this notion, for her novel highlights characters gone astray because of a lack of personal identity within the religion they worship. Her cautionary tale takes many forms, yet each warns that exclusion in the Church holds drastic consequences and thus a shift towards representation of the African American identity in the Church is an absolute necessity. While Cholly serves as the main example of the danger of an unrepresentative religion, both Pauline Breedlove and Soaphead Church signify this danger in their own ways as well. Morrison begins Soaphead’s tale by acknowledging slavery as the root of the convergence of the African and Christianity bringing the reader’s attention to the historical Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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context discussed above. Because Soaphead feels abandoned by Christianity’s God who seems unable to care for Africans, he chooses to pervert the religion to justify his pedophilic actions. He accuses God and calls Him out for his injustice towards the African race when he states, “Tell me, Lord, how could you leave a lass so long so lone… How could you?” Furthermore, a misguided understanding of religion leaves Pauline Breedlove’s life broken as well. Pauline believed herself to be an, “upright and Christian woman,” and that Jesus is meant to be a Judge rather than a Redeemer. This view leads her to cast her family aside believing that Christ wanted her to punish them, as she tended meticulously to the white Fisher family. Though her characters typically, knowingly or not, blame God himself for failing the African community, Morrison, a Catholic, does not view God as the problem, but rather the preaching and segregation of the Church that portrays the African race as inherently inferior and unworthy of the mercy of God. Morrison’s story, showcasing the harmful effect of the Church on the African community through various character’s stories, serves as motivation to continue integration movements in the Church born in the 1920s and expanding since. While this more representative and inclusive version of the Church that the movement aims for was not present to guide Cholly and his fellow characters, Morrison warns that it is a vital piece of the American future.

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Across the Tracks Caleb Taylor

he storybook is divided. Two characters. I, Cam, am homegrown, a young black male from North Carolina with a lil ole Southern accent. To be more exact, I’m the flower that emerged from the concrete. Born in Weldon, North Carolina, I was raised in a primarily black community encompassed in homogenous mindsets and experiences. A small town believing that ‘trying’ was more dangerous than ‘doing.’ A place encouraging the purchases of release-day sneakers and Supreme clothing to later not be able to keep the lights on and the water running. Running through our veins, we knew we were project kids — governmental experiments. If I place this person under these conditions, what will happen? Hope will be eradicated; promised probability will be lost; ambition will become an illusion; the option of failure is nonexistent because no one believes in trying. The only thing that created the barrier towards betterment was one set of railroad tracks. Across those railroad tracks, white people moved freely. White people redefined success. White people tried. So, I moved to Halifax, a primarily white community, where there’s a set of railroad tracks within walking distance to my house. The move allotted myself many opportunities, including Deerfield. Now, look at me. Here. But where is he? My friend. My brother. My family. I call him Caleb because he is my one regret, my one secret. I am not worthy of my name. A name that descends from the land flowing with milk and honey. Caleb is just like me. To be honest, Caleb is me. He plays ball. He attends school. He lives with two functional parents. He is exceptionally smart and loving. The only difference between Caleb and me is the

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railroad tracks. The tracks that led me to Deerfield are not the same tracks that led him to a life of crime. A life consumed by fear. A life desperate to live. I lied. I get it, I lied. Caleb is not like me!! Caleb is NOT me!! I have no right to say that I am like him. I haven’t endured his struggles nor have I experienced his conditions. Never have I eaten only Ramen for weeks at a time. Never have I not had a safe place to lay my head down. Never have I not had a place to call home. Never have I been afraid to say goodbye because I don’t know if it will be my last. Never have I. The railroads didn’t take us to the same place as I hoped. Maybe if we hopped on at the same time, he’d be at Deerfield with me. Maybe. There’s no certainty. There’s never certainty. Truthfully, a black male from Weldon, North Carolina shouldn’t have made it here. I was not supposed to make it out of my town, let alone my state. But, I did. What if we both had? I sit back and I think. I think that history repeats itself. I claim that people are products of their environment. I believe that people don’t change, they adjust. In the midst of my wandering mind, I can’t place Caleb in any of those sayings. I left him when he needed me the most. I crossed those railroad tracks without him. Currently, I find myself at Deerfield. Another community, another place with railroad tracks, another crossing without him, without Caleb. I wish we could’ve held hands and crossed the railroad together. I wish I could’ve been that project kid who tried.

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Untitled Katie Zaslaw

“

Are you trying to say that we’ve neglected you?” “No mom, I’m not saying that, I’m just saying that nothing has happened to us.” “Well isn't that a good thing? You’re making me feel bad.” I see the sad look on her face which she tries to disguise with subtle laughter. “Mom, it’s not funny. You sheltered us, I have no story to tell.” I first acknowledged the problem when it had already began to shape every part of my life. My family was watching the Kentucky Derby, betting on horses, and remembering what it used to be like at “home.” While they see tradition, gambling, fun, and fashion, I now see wealth, prestige, and a lack of diversity. Beautiful white women in extravagant flimsy hats and lavish dresses accompany men dressed in pastel and Vineyard Vines. I thought back to my Kindergarten classroom at Rosa Parks Elementary School in Kentucky. The faces of white children with happy smiles were the only thing I could remember. While our school promised equality and diversity, the great values of Rosa Parks, I couldn’t remember the face of one child of color. The town of exceptional education, immense pride for college sports, and stunning horse farms completely lacked diversity. Of almost 300,000 people, 75% of Lexington, Kentucky is white. My true roots are in Scituate, MA. My parents both grew up in Scituate and all of my family lives there now. 96.1% of over 18,000 people there are white. I don't think I have ever seen a person of color in Scituate. Once, when my grandfather came from Scituate to visit my parents in Philadelphia, he questioned whether we were safe living there, because there were black people walking around.

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My own grandfather thinks that black people are dangerous because he has never lived near anyone different. I constantly think of my cousin, describing her college visit: “I really liked Maryland, but I could never go there… it’s just too diverse. I don't like Asians or Black people,” she says. My mother and I exchange looks of shock and disgust. My cousin laughs, and I realize that she has no idea the impact her words have on other people. I’ve never considered Yorktown to be home, despite the 12 years I’ve lived there. I’ve never truly felt like I belonged in Westchester. I never truly connected to Yorktown High School, but I noticed one thing every single day. When I was a freshman, the school decided to integrate with another school full of students of color. They were now a part of our school, but separated into their own hallway, with their own teachers and classes. Though this segregation was shocking, my peers’ reactions were more so: the white students were scared. Supposedly, we live in a time of racial progress, but my peers remained scared of people of color, fueling their segregation and inequality. The fact that we live in the 21st century, yet white people are scared of people of color, and this is one cause of their separation and inequality is beyond me. With a population of 8000 people, 90.5% of people in Yorktown are white. I question the places I’ve lived, and how, in a country that stresses the “we,” things like this are still happening. “We” are supposed to be establishing justice, “we” are supposed to be securing the blessings of liberty, and “we” are supposed to be forming a more perfect union, yet we are still supporting segregation, and places like Yorktown, Scituate, and Lexington demonstrate how unchanged we remain. Coming to Deerfield has completely changed my outlook on life and race. I’ve never before been surrounded by so many different kinds of people, both in race and perspective. And while I’m given this unbelievable opportunity, only 10% of school-age children attend private schools. So while I am becoming more aware of race, and privilege, and am able to recognize the lack of diversity in the 256

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places I’ve lived, my experience is not exemplary of the typical American teenager.

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My Name Jerilyn Zheng

y names are an exercise for the throat: Jerilyn Zheng, Jiē jiē, Jié ling, Jiě jiě.

Jerilyn: I hear it at school, the three syllables blended together into a smooth harmony of letters: Jeralin. They roll off the tongue, effortlessly sliding through the American syrupy twang, enunciation lost. I hear it at home, “Je-ri-lyn!”, the syllables cookie-cutter clear and I know the face behind the articulation: eyebrows furrowed into bushy caterpillars, eyes harsh with disbelief when they figure out that I have not yet folded my laundry, not even after a week of constant nagging. I hear it in the confusion of strangers, “Jerilyn?”, as they try to decipher the spelling behind the name. They prompt, “What an interesting name! So pretty! I’ve never met a Jerilyn before!” I quite enjoy being “a Jerilyn”: identity morphing with pronunciation, no connotations except for the relationship between three syllables. Jiē: Jiē jiē: first tone, a flat, even pronunciation. Jiē jiē is grandma and grandpa’s favorite grandchild, who have called her that since birth. She reads books on the couch with her toes in the air. She brews tea only for herself. She watches HBO with no regard to the volume or flying expletives for the other members of the household. She eats all the leftovers, especially her brother’s favorites, even though she’s already pretty full. Jiē jiē is definetly not my parents’ favorite, but she’s one of mine. Jié: Jié ling: second tone, almost sounds like a question. Jié ling is

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for when I’m introducing myself to complete strangers, formally, with a shy voice and sing-songy pronunciation because my Chinese is a little rusty. It was modeled after Jerilyn, an extension of my American identity to my Chinese. Jié ling is spelled with obscure characters that don’t appear in the language very often. Sometimes I will struggle to remember how to spell it. My brother’s name is Jié kai. Jié ling and Jié kai. His was modeled after mine. I like to think that way, to know that my identity has influenced my brother’s. Jiě: Jiě jiě: third tone, a sharp crevice that the vocal chords tumble down and up. Jiě jiě is the older sister. She is thrust into the role, somewhat unwillingly, to set a proper example for her brother. Jiě jiě is obtrusive with the business of her sibling. She likes to give unsolicited advice because she knows that life is hard. I like Jiě jiě’s privileges with the notions of experience and knowledge. I like her being the de facto go-to for help. I don’t like her sacrifice, her being the guinea pig, her being set to harsher standards. I love being a Jiě jiě, but it’s like the pronunciation, sometimes a harsh trek uphill, sometimes an easy stroll downhill. And then my last name is a misunderstanding. Zheng: My last name is Zheng, pronounced with a hard Zh-. It has become lost in translation, now mostly just “Zeng”. I would like to pronounce it the right way, but I know that it would make it harder for me to spell and harder for others to understand. So now it is altered, forever lost from its original pronunciation, its original identity.

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SELECTED WRITINGS: CLASS OF 2018

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Reading Sartre’s Nausea and Camus’ The Stranger: Two Confrontations with the Absurd Kevin Chen

he French philosophers Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus were contemporaries, and their works Nausea (La nausée) and The Stranger (L’étranger), respectively, bear striking similarities. Both works are existential: they posit that there is no inherent meaning in existence, though every person holds the power to endow his or her existence with meaning. However, the two philosophers seem to differ in their views of the absurd: Sartre believed that the confrontation with the absurd leads to an unpleasant “nausea,” while Camus believed that the confrontation with the absurd is meaningful and beneficial in itself. Sartre’s novella Nausea is presented in the form of a series of journal entries written by the protagonist Antoine Roquentin, a historian, who moves from Paris to Bouville to study the 18thcentury historical figure Marquis de Rollebon. Roquentin goes about his daily life until a curious “nausea” begins to overcome him. He recounts how debilitating the nausea is: “Now the Nausea seized me, I dropped onto the seat, I no longer even knew where I was; I saw colors slowly turning around me, I wanted to vomit. And afterwards, the Nausea never left me, it took hold of me. … The Nausea is not in me: I feel it out there in the wall, in the suspenders, everywhere around me. It is one with the café, it is I who is in it” (37-38). Roquentin does not understand the source of his nausea until he encounters a chestnut tree and considers its root, explaining, “I Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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had repeated in vain, ‘It’s a root’ — that did not work anymore. … The function did not explain anything: it allowed us to understand what a root is in general, but not at all this one. This root, with its color, shape, and fixed motion, was… beyond all explanation. Each of its qualities eluded it a bit, flowed out of it, half solidified, almost became a thing” (Sartre 185).2 In considering the chestnut tree’s root, Roquentin realizes that the word “root” is inept in describing the object he is looking at. While the word “root” explains the object’s general purpose, no words seem to be able to exactly describe the nuances of the object. In other words, the object’s existence seems to be separate from its perceived essence; imposing qualities or labels on the object detracts from the existence of the object, which seems unable to be described through words. Roquentin continues, “I saw that the bark was still black. Black? I felt the word deflating, emptying of meaning with extraordinary speed. Black? The root was not black … was it more than black or almost black? That black against my foot looked not black, but rather the confused effort to imagine black by someone who had never seen black and would not know when to stop, who would have imagined an ambiguous being, beyond colors” (Sartre 185-186).3 By questioning what it means for an object to be the color black, Roquentin questions the very qualities that people use to describe the world around them. After all, it is impossible to see an abstraction such as black—one cannot point to “black.” Skin tone, the midnight sky, and tree bark can all be described as black, but these are clearly not all the same color. Even in the case of a tangible object such as a root, pointing to one root cannot allow one to understand the diversity of all roots that exist. In a larger sense, the root itself is also an abstraction: the entire universe is composed of just a handful of atoms, and the universe does not care where what we call a root ends and where what we call a trunk begins. Thus, labels, while they help us better understand the world by categorize its parts into functional units, ultimately provide a simplified 262

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description of an object; all the nuances of the existence of an object cannot ever entirely be described by its qualities. Roquentin’s encounter with the chestnut tree root allowed him to understand the source of his nausea: “I understood the Nausea, I possessed it. … The essential thing is contingency. I mean that, by definition, existence is not necessity. Existence is simply being there; those who exist let themselves be encountered, but we can never deduce anything from them” (Sartre 186). By understanding that the function of an object is inadequate in describing the fullness of its existence, Roquentin separates essence from existence. That is, it would be incorrect to state that the root of the chestnut tree exists because it provides the tree with water and support. Rather, all one can say is that the root exists, and it provides the tree with water and support; asserting that it exists in order to provide a function would be premature. Of course, in the modern view of biology, trees as species evolved roots because roots provided them with an evolutionary advantage; otherwise, roots would have been selected against by evolution. Thus, roots do have a purposeful existence in that sense, but Roquentin’s argument holds in other cases: the sun is purposeful to us in that it makes life on earth possible, but that does not necessarily mean that the sun exists in order to make life possible; it could be that the Sun simply exists. This view causes Roquentin to experience a debilitating nausea because it revolutionizes the way that he previously viewed the world. Understandably, his new view of the world is disillusioning: if nothing in the world has an innate purpose, then what is the purpose of his own existence? How does he continue to live in a world where nothing seems to matter? Despite a hefty confrontation with the absurd, Roquentin is left only somewhat relieved, and only by the prospect of a different future. At the end of the novella, Roquentin thinks that writing a book could help endow his life with meaning. He states, “But a time would come when the book would be written, behind me, and I Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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think that a bit of clarity would fall over my past. Then perhaps I could, through it, remember my life without repugnance. Perhaps one day, thinking precisely of this hour, of this gloomy hour when I wait, stooping, for it to be time to board the train, perhaps I would feel my heart beat faster and say to myself, ‘It is that day, at that hour that everything started.’ And I would manage — in the past, in nothing but the past — to accept myself ” (Sartre 250). Thus, simply confronting the absurd did not bring Roquentin relief, and though he seems optimistic about the future, it is unclear whether writing a book will actually bring him a sense of fulfillment. Of course, now he knows the source of his nausea, which is an improvement from the beginning of the novel, but one may wonder whether Roquentin would have been better off had he never encountered the absurd in the first place. If he had gone about his daily life believing there was inherent meaning in everything, one may argue that he would have been more ignorant, but would he have been happier? On the other hand, Camus’s The Stranger offers a more optimistic view of the absurdity of existence. In many ways, Meursault acts similarly to Roquentin because they believe that there is no inherent meaning to the world or existence: Meursault and Roquentin both watch people and events pass as if they were merely observers, and they fail to connect emotionally with others. However, Meursault still experiences many “pleasant” moments in life, he enjoys his time with Marie, whereas all that Roquentin experiences is a debilitating nausea. Additionally, for Meursault, the encounter with the absurd is a meaningful and positive experience in itself. After encountering the absurd, Meursault states, “For the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. … I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again” (Camus 122-123). Encountering the absurd is a beneficial experience for Meursault because it gives him a sense of peace and happiness before death. This contrasts with Roquentin’s encounter with the absurd because although Roquentin gained a greater understanding 264

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of the world, it is unclear if encountering the absurd allowed Roquentin to lead a better life—he thinks that writing a book will bring him happiness, but this is only a guess; it is not a passion that he had put off, as he had never written a book before. Sartre’s Nausea and Camus’s The Stranger offer differing views of the encounter with the absurd, an important theme in existentialist thought. Camus’s view of the absurd is more optimistic, as the encounter with the absurd is a positive experience in itself for Meursault, bringing him peace before suffering, whereas in Sartre’s novel, the encounter with the absurd causes Roquentin to feel overwhelmingly nauseated, and he is left only somewhat relieved at the end of this narrative. Still, both works are empowering in the sense that even though they argue that there is no inherent meaning to existence, one can endow one’s own life with meaning, whether that be through confrontation with the absurd or perhaps by writing a book.

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Memories Annabelle Mauri

y uncle Klaus and my aunt Luise lived in a row house in the city of Monheim in Germany, within walking distance of a number of playgrounds, which as a child was very important to me. Their doorbell was in the shape of a goose with a little red ribbon around its neck, and when you pressed it, instead of the normal beeeeep that doorbells make, it played Beethoven’s “Für Elise” at such a high volume and pitch that you could hear it even from the attic, and if you happened to be sitting in the kitchen at the time, you would need a few seconds to allow your ears to recover from the shock. Once, when I was seven or eight, I got lost trying to find my way back from my Oma’s apartment. The row houses were almost indistinguishable from one another, and I raced up and down Benrather Strasse in a panic trying to tell them apart. In tears, I finally remembered the little goose-shaped doorbell, and I darted from door to door searching for it. When I found it, I banged on it with all my might again and again until my aunt and uncle came running to the door in alarm. Once inside, however, I felt safer than anywhere else in the world. Each morning started with fresh rolls coated in Nutella that my aunt bought from the bakery down the street. On sunny afternoons in June, we used to sit in the cool shade of the patio eating cake and sipping coffee with whichever cousin or aunt or uncle or grandparent happened to be passing through. We would play cards, always the same game, Rommee, until the sun began to set and then we would take a walk before dinner through a nearby playground or along the wheat fields lined with poppies on the edge of town. From the balcony of my mother’s room, you could see the kitchen window

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of my Oma’s fourth floor apartment with her red geraniums in the window box, and if you watched for long enough, you could see her silhouette drift past the window as she cooked dinner. Some parts of my aunt and uncle’s house terrified me. My sister and I slept in the third-floor bedroom, which had previously belonged to my cousin Nora. Nora had painted larger-than-life cartoon animals onto the wall, tigers and lions, and when the brightness of passing headlights swept by and crept through the blinds, the animals seemed to move and lurk and slink along the walls. It was hot up there during summer, the hottest room in the house, but I would always have to tuck my toes under the covers so they couldn’t be eaten by the wild animals. When I was thirteen or so, my aunt and uncle abruptly sold their house and moved to Cochem. Upon hearing the news, I was inconsolable, because I knew I was losing something precious that I had somehow assumed I would have forever. But the next summer, when we went back to Germany and walked once again down Benrather Strasse, I didn’t make myself go to see if the little goose doorbell was still there. I didn’t want to know, I guess, but to some extent, I didn’t need to know. I remember this house and our lives inside of it with the sort of magical, dream-like spin that we attach to memories that could be real just as easily as they could be made up. These memories are the most beautiful because they belong to us completely. We fill in the cracks using our imagination, and, after a while, they become more of a reflection of ourselves than a factual representation of the past. When I close my eyes, I can feel these memories rising, stronger and more vivid than ever, up and up through my stomach and chest before they come to rest behind my eyelids, and I know that they are mine.

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Writing the Sentence: Power Imbalances in the Love Story Annabelle Mauri

s it possible to love without either seizing or sacrificing power? Characters in three stories included in Jeffrey Eugenides’s anthology of love stories My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead struggle with this question. In Anton Chekhov’s “The Lady With The Little Dog,” Gurov and Anna begin a forbidden love affair with disastrous consequences for their happiness and well-being. “The Hitchhiking Game,” by Milan Kundera, chronicles the love story of a young man and a girl on a long road trip who begin to play a game; as pretend strangers, the girl finds herself able to explore new aspects of her personality, accidentally overturning the precarious balance of their relationship with a horrible outcome. Finally, Eileen Chang’s “Red Rose, White Rose” tells the story of Zhenbao over the span of years, as he floats from woman to woman in his quest for control and perfection, never quite achieving peace or happiness. The common thread in these tales is the “love story,” where “the characters...seek a paradise that recedes endlessly before them” (Eugenides xiv). This “paradise” could be interpreted as the idea of a happy ending: two people who are tremendously in love, share power and control equally, and have nothing left except to live out their days in bliss. However, “paradise” is unattainable for these characters because they suffer not from lack of love, but from an imbalance of power. One-sided control is gained and then maintained through gender dynamics, societal expectations for women, age differences, and the vulnerability inherent in romantic love, making for unhealthy relationships without the possibility of reaching the paradise that the characters so desperately long for. 268

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Power is ubiquitous and multifaceted, especially in the context of romantic love. For Audre Lorde, power is “the erotic,” a fundamental, highly individual, natural knowledge that comes from deep within. She writes: “[W]hen we begin to live from within outward, in touch with the power of the erotic within ourselves, and allowing that power to inform and illuminate our actions upon the world around us, then we begin to be responsible to ourselves in the deepest sense” (Lorde 90). According to Lorde, this power is personal, and, as she presents it, uncorrupted — without malice or ill intent, seeking only to better understand oneself without attempting to extract obedience from another. However, it is clear that the characters in these stories deal with other, more malignant manifestations of power, which are necessarily different because they no longer concern just one person’s relationship with herself, but a person’s relationship with someone else. One person loves another: one is the subject, the other the object. We often speak about women in particular as objects of affection or objects of desire. As Elaine Hoffman Baruch points out in her book Women, Love, and Power, “[p]sychologically, [the term “object”] is...problematic since it implies a subject of desire to which the object is not equal” (Baruch 3). So here is another definition of power: power is being the subject of a sentence, acting instead of being acted upon. Power is being able to write the sentence in the first place, to tell a story, and to have the world take you at your word. Naturally, with this sort of power comes safety, security, self-love, and freedom of choice, which the male characters in these stories all seem to exhibit, begging the question: how is this power attained? First and foremost, gender plays an enormous role in creating or taking away power. Gurov makes explicit his views towards women, referring to them as “an inferior race” and “easy conquests” (Chekhov 31-2). It is obvious that he sees women as possessions and their bodies as prizes, and these judgements, tinged with contempt, show that he treats women as subordinates instead of equals. Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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However, gender’s role can also be slightly less glaring, such as in the young man’s remark: “‘I’m a free man, and I do what I want and what it pleases me to do’” (Kundera 177). This comment may seem innocuous, but in truth, the young man is free because he is a man and because no one sees him as a possession, in stark contrast to the way Gurov sees women. Going one step further, Zhenbao believes that a man’s role is to control women, as evidenced by his experience with a prostitute in Paris: “With a woman like this — even a woman like this! — ...he couldn’t be her master. The half hour he spent with her filled him with shame” (Chang 372). He feels a degree of disgust towards this woman and towards himself, as if not being in control of her diminishes his masculinity and self-worth. He looks condescendingly on Wang Shihong’s equal treatment of his free-spirited wife, Jiaorui, thinking, “Of course...she was like this precisely because her husband couldn’t control her; if Wang Shihong had managed to get a handle on her, she wouldn’t be quite so unruly” (381). All three male main characters seem to feel that there are inherent, insurmountable differences between being male and female, and that these differences reach way past basic biology, into the realm of mental fortitude and personal value. This opinion seeks to justify depriving the female characters of power. Similarly, gender dynamics go hand-in-hand with societal expectations for women, which are deeply entrenched both in the characters’ minds and in their surroundings. Most noticeable is the expectation of purity, represented by the white rose. After Anna and Gurov sleep together, Anna becomes distraught, realizing that her worth in the eyes of her society has diminished significantly as a result of her infidelity. She remarks sadly to Gurov, “‘You’ll be the first not to respect me now’” (35). Interestingly, Gurov’s response is to sit down and eat a slice of watermelon in silence, seeming calm and composed (35). It is clear from these reactions that the consequences of their affair would be much worse for Anna than for 270

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Gurov. That puts her at a serious disadvantage, because she stands to lose her husband, reputation, and future, whereas he stands to lose almost nothing, which is itself a form of power. The girl and the young man interact with this expectation of female purity as well. The young man “valued precisely what, until now, he had encountered least in women: purity” (171). He views purity as an attractive trait that renders the girl worthy of his respect and attention. She, however, feels trapped by this expectation and “often longed to feel free and easy about her body” (171). In fact, this societal expectation has been so prevalent that “she had never been able to get rid of the fourteen-year-old girl within herself who was ashamed of her breasts and had the disagreeable feeling that she was indecent” (181). Purity has been stifling to the point of her being ashamed of her own body. Additionally, in “Red Rose, White Rose,” the red rose represents Zhenbao’s passionate, forbidden affair with Jiaorui, whereas the white rose signifies his relatively boring relationship with Yanli, who seems to embody the idea of purity. Yanli is the woman he marries, not because he loves her, but because she is pure to the point of being described as “a perfect backdrop for men” (411). Society’s expectations require that women worthy of respect remain pure and faithful to their husbands, and violating this rule places them in danger of social ruin and ostracization. Even today, there is a double standard — it is unlikely that there would be any consequences for the men involved in these affairs. And so this expectation of purity is a way for a patriarchal society to control women and their bodies by punishing severely any transgressions. In this way, the male characters gain power over their female counterparts not necessarily by direct, intentional action, but simply because they all belong to this type of society. A third way that power is gained in these stories is through an age difference. For example, Gurov understands that “quite recently, [Anna] had been a schoolgirl” (33), much like his own daughter. Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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This reality places Gurov in an almost paternal position of power over her — age has led him to self-confidence and knowledge of the world. Anna seems to acknowledge this age and power difference through her body language, blushing and looking away when they meet (32). Similarly, the girl in “The Hitchhiking Game” is six years younger than the young man, who is 28 (170-1). Even referring to the characters as “the girl” and “the young man” implies a power difference: “the girl” suggests innocence and naivety whereas “the young man” seems more worldly and experienced. It is clear that the young man is responsible for the girl, proclaiming: “‘Don’t worry! I’ll take care of you’” (177), which is something that one might say to a frightened child. Additionally, in “Red Rose, White Rose,” Zhenbao sees Rose, his first love, as “remarkably childlike” (373), reinforcing his belief that he is in control of the relationship. However, age differences can work the other way, as well. Dubao looks down on Jiaorui for her age: “‘[Jiaorui]’s gotten old, really old.’ Which apparently meant, for a woman, that she was finished” (408). Since she is no longer youthful, her value in the eyes of Dubao has significantly decreased, and he now thinks of her dismissively. Age is clearly a factor in determining the perceived worth of a person, particularly a woman. The young women in these stories who are involved with older men are at a disadvantage because of their innocence and lack of life experiences — they tend to be inherently trusting — but are awarded a man’s attention because of this naivety. On the other hand, the women who are deemed too old might be less easily manipulated because of their knowledge of the world but are seen as less desirable and less worthy of attention as a result of their age. Furthermore, power can be gained on an individual level through love itself, by viewing or exploiting love as a weakness. Gurov knows that “Anna Sergeevna’s attachment to him grew ever stronger, she adored him” (46). Even though Anna is miserable as a result of her 272

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relationship, even though she has no hope for the future, she cannot simply shake off her love for Gurov — love is irrational. As such, it can be a weakness for both men and women. Similarly, the girl “was so devoted to the young man that she never had doubts about anything he did, and confidently entrusted every moment of her life to him” (178). Love engenders trust, which, misplaced or not, makes a person vulnerable and susceptible to manipulation. Fearing this sort of vulnerability, Zhenbao is “determined to create a world that was ‘right’...In that little pocket-sized world of his, he was the absolute master” (372). In his interactions with love, he pulls away whenever his “little pocket-sized world” is threatened. In the hospital at the end of his relationship with Jiaorui, for example, he realizes that, although “[h]e’d thought that he had it all under control and that he could stop whenever he wanted” (399), he is no longer in charge of himself because he has fallen in love. Interestingly, the inherent vulnerability in the expression of love is one of the few sources of power that has nothing to do with gender. Both the female and male characters are aware of this potential weakness, and no one is safe from it simply because of their sex. An imbalance of power in these romantic relationships is not healthy for any of the people involved, regardless of who wields the control. It does not make anyone happier, kinder, or a better person. The more extreme the power difference, the truer this realization becomes. For Gurov, the result of the power imbalance in his affair was at times a feeling of disdain for Anna. He thinks, “There’s something pathetic in her all the same” (34). He looks down on her for her “pathetic” powerlessness. In this way, the power difference might drive a wedge in their relationship by creating feelings of contempt. In “The Hitchhiking Game,” the power imbalance took a cruel, brutal form as it was first interrupted by the game, then reestablished in a very violent way. The game brings out a new side Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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of the girl, one she has never explored, that seemed to give her more power and confidence over her body and sexuality. To the young man, it then appeared “that the girl he loved was a creation of his desire, his thoughts, and his faith and that the real girl now standing in front of him was hopelessly other….He hated her” (184). The girl’s attempt to assert her own power and autonomy over herself is met with anger and disgust, as the young man “longed to humiliate her” (184). That’s exactly what he then does, as he tries to wipe away any self-respect or autonomy by raping her. In this case, the reassertion of the power imbalance results in sexual violence and utter disrespect, probably irreparably damaging their relationship. Similarly, Zhenbao feels the need to re-establish dominance. At the beginning of his marriage, “Zhenbao was [Yanli’s] God, and assuming that role was no problem for him” (404). However, as time goes on and Yanli is unfaithful, Zhenbao attempts to display his power, taking revenge through domestic violence and neglecting his family. Finally, “Zhenbao felt that [Yanli] had been completely defeated. He was extremely pleased with himself. He stood there laughing silently, the quiet laughter flowing out of his eyes and spilling over his face like tears” (418). It seems that the hunger for power has driven him to the brink of insanity. Once again, the power imbalance only creates unhappiness and cruelty in a relationship. In these three stories, power (the freedom to make choices and to tell a story) is usurped through gender dynamics, societal expectations for women, age differences, and exploitation of love and devotion, resulting in unhealthy imbalances of power. At the end of these stories, the characters look to the future with heavy hearts and great sadness or resignation. Anna and Gurov realize that “the end was still far, far off, and that the most complicated and difficult part was just beginning” (47). This was never what they had intended nor expected from love. In many ways, these stories serve as a warning, because unhealthy power dynamics make for a lot of misery. At the same time, however, they encourage the reader to continue on 274

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with all the strength he can muster. And perhaps that is another sort of power, individual and personal, similar to what Audre Lorde had in mind: to wake up in the morning and go on. To find the strength from within to look to the future (as did Anna and Gurov), to comfort a weeping lover (the young man), to stop crying (the girl), to decide to make a fresh start (Zhenbao and Jiaorui). Their individual experiences with love have taught them this bravery, ultimately making each one stronger. Works Cited Baruch, Elaine Hoffman. Introduction. Women, Love, and Power: Literary and Psychoanalytic Perspectives, NYU Press, 1991, p. 3. EBSChost. Accessed 5 Nov. 2017. Chang, Eileen. “Red Rose, White Rose.” My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead, compiled by Jeffrey Eugenides, HarperCollins Publishers, 2008, pp. 369-418. Chekhov, Anton. “The Lady with the Little Dog.” My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead, compiled by Jeffrey Eugenides, HarperCollins Publishers, 2008, pp. 31-47. Eugenides, Jeffrey. “Introduction.” My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead, by Eugenides, HarperCollins Publishers, 2008. Kundera, Milan. “The Hitchhiking Game.” My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead, compiled by Jeffrey Eugenides, HarperCollins Publishers, 2008, pp. 170-88. Lorde, Audre. “The Uses of the Erotic.” Sister Outsider, Crossing Press, 1984, pp. 87-91.

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3 Minutes Gozzy Nwogbo

t is said in my household that “a privileged life is a life partly lived.” The roof over my head alone was a privilege that the average citizen of my country could not afford. Our single family car, food on the table, and three cooling fans were a luxury in a country like Nigeria. My parents tried their very best to shield me from the “outside world,” a community with traits not quite suitable for the mind of a child. They tried everything, from keeping me at home whenever possible to limiting what I watched on television, tirelessly trying their best to distance me from the inevitable. At the age of seven, I became an “adult,” trading my naïvete and childhood utopia for knowledge and the real world, complete with all its ugly secrets, the same secrets that my parents had tried so hard to keep at bay. I was born in a city where greed was the norm. Lies, murder, corruption and death were my neighbors, some residing closer to me than others. The most subtle of them all, lies, lived oddly close to my parents’ room and caused them to tell tales of “Fada Christmas” and “tooth fairies.” The more sinister corruption was farther away, but its vicious and dangerous presence latched onto people like a parasite, polluting the morals of its victims. “Adulthood” also opened my eyes to the social structure of my country, and the strong influence that all these neighbors possessed. On one side of the spectrum, taxpayers’ money was rarely used to benefit the public; instead, it was hoarded by politicians, and being a politician ensured social and judicial immunity. On the other side of the spectrum, the average man, woman, and family struggled with receiving household power, food, and education. For most, no matter how much you worked, your socioeconomic standing would

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most likely not change. To top it off, this existence became the cause of random spurts of violence, an outlet for the built-up tension. The police were no beacons of justice; they were (and still are) selfish and grotesquely greedy individuals, who use weapons and fear to control and rob the same people they have sworn to protect. Unlike the current situation in the U.S, these men and women don't act on the basis of racial hate or discrimination. They act almost as if it were their natural instinct, like terrorizing the innocent is their way of survival. So, rather than contributing to the resolution of these random conflicts, the police end up being the major catalysts. There are, of course, many memorable times that stem from one’s childhood in Lagos, Nigeria. These “memories” greatly vary between people. Good, bad, long or short, certain events shape and sculpt us all, changing us for life. My “memory” was simply the result of my being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a twisted game strung together by fate’s cold hands, and while it has most definitely helped to shape who I am today, I am not sure if it was for the better. Since my country is so close to the equator, the West African sun feels as if it never sets. Around this time of year, about a decade ago, the sun was just as prominent as it is in spring. I remember the whispers of the cool afternoon breeze, the gentle kiss from the sun’s rays and the silence surrounding my wandering mind. Harmattan is what we call the dry season, and at the time it was reaching its final stages. Red dust that migrated from the north settled on the ground, bathing the streets and the shoes that walked in them. It was just a typical Friday; school had just ended, and I was contemplating the different tactics I could use to trick my parents into letting me visit my friends when I saw them. After a short wait, my father’s colleague — whose name was Obiora, but I always called him Obi — had arrived to pick me up from school. His car, an old Toyota Corolla, had several dents and a missing bumper; there were scratches on the sides, and the license plate was hanging for dear life. But only a select few, myself included, knew that the car’s damaged exterior Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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was nothing more than a shell for the comfortable nursery-like interior. The car’s air conditioning whisked away the heat that once battered my already black skin, the smell of our favorite lavender air freshener filled my lungs, and the seat cushions felt like the warm motherly hugs that I used to get when I was little...calm and comforting. The cool air complimented the comfort of the car seat. This uncanny combination closely resembled that of my bedroom late at night; on any other occasion with a similar setting, I would most likely be asleep, but on this day, I was particularly alert. Leaning my head on the car door, my eyes absorbed the landscape. I disregarded the usual safety precautions when riding in the back-seat of cars, because my seven years of experience had made me an expert. The car also served as a shield, protecting me from the chaos outside, while still allowing me to observe it through its windows. I noticed every detail around me — the stray dogs, the commodity-laden merchants walking in the streets, the market shop owners, and the pieces of plastic that invaded every possible walkway — with the feeling that nothing I witnessed could touch me...pr so I thought. These visions became the very foundation of a profound memory, a mental mural. While building my tableau, I experienced a disturbance. I heard strange loud noises and screams; the road to my house cut right through a conflict between the police and a group of partly armed men. I had never seen a conflict in real life, and this one appeared to me, as it would for you, like a movie. From my safety bubble inside the car, I observed sticks, stones, and bullets fly through the air and over my car. I watched in absolute awe, occasionally flinching and ducking to the sound of gunfire. Peering through the violence, I made eye contact with a man on one side of the road. He was guiding a group of children away from the conflict when he suddenly turned his head toward me; his teary eyes seemed full of fear and regret. He was saying something — a message I tried to decipher by reading his lips — when in an instant, his head cocked 278

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back, imploded, and a red mist filled the air, painting the concrete canvas beneath him. I remember everything as if it were in slow motion. My heart sank as the man’s lifeless body collapsed to the ground, surrounded by what I now know to be brain matter. Several more shots followed, hitting the children he had been guiding. They seemed around my age. Whose children are those? Everything seemed to stand still as so many questions ran through my head, and then the next shot shattered the safety of my car. Sharp and unpleasant sounds, accompanied by a strange and intense heat, just nearly missed my ear. I ducked, with Obi screaming, “Get down now!” I broke into a cold sweat, hands over my head, hoping that the next bullet would not choose me as its next victim. From the pinkysized holes in the window, the screams intensified. I could hear everything: the cries of the wounded, the sound of objects striking flesh, and the mixture of Yoruba and English commands: “Run.” ”Keep shooting.” “Egba mi O.” Tears ran down my face as I realized where I was. No longer in a bubble, but in real conflict — the real world. For what seemed like ages, I held my head down, whispering the prayers that my grandmother had taught me. When we got past the conflict, Obi pulled over to check on me. I was frozen with fear struggling to believe what I had just been through. I glanced at the car’s clock, my mental mural was complete: all it took was 3 minutes.

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My MacBook Air: An Excavation Julian O'Donnell “A thing is right when it it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise.” — Aldo Leopold, “The Land Ethic”

eading “The Land Ethic” by Aldo Leopold complicates what it means to participate in an ecologically sound community, to thrive in a world where humans do not play the “conqueror.” Leopold draws a distinction between animal instincts as “modes of guidance for the individual in meeting [ecological] situations” and ethics as “a kind of community instinct in-the-making,” as both an “evolutionary possibility and an ecological necessity.” A “land ethic,” therefore, “enlarges the boundaries of the community to include soils, waters, plants, and animals, or collectively: the land.” It is too easy to lose myself in the glare of my MacBook screen for a considerable amount of time each day, a “thing” that is central to my work as a student and most important to my immediate future, as it is the very “thing” with which I am completing this assignment, hours before graduation. Apple’s official website includes a new and elaborate page titled simply “Environment.” On this page, a mission statement in bold exclaims: “To ask less of the planet, we ask more of ourselves.” “Climate Change” is cited three times on this page, accompanied by ambitious, yet encouraging claims: “All our facilities worldwide are now powered entirely by renewable energy.” At the very bottom of the page yet another slogan: “Good for you. Good for the planet” (Apple). “In our attempt to make conservation easy,” Leopold writes, “we have made it trivial.” I’m not so sure my 280

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MacBook is good for me, let alone my planet, yet, emboldened by Kip Andersen’s journey in Cowspiracy, I decided that I was ready to dig a little deeper. On September 30, 2016, The Washington Post published an extensive article titled “The Cobalt Pipeline,” exposing the bloody cycle of mining and transporting rare earth materials from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I can vaguely recollect having come across this article before, and even though I was intrigued by the footage of the Congolese miners crawling into muddy, claustrophobic holes in the ground, I hadn’t thought of it since. “Rare earth materials” like cobalt and lithium, among a myriad of others, are essential for almost all modern electronic devices that rely on a battery as a power source (think lithium ion battery), including electric cars, our smartphones, and this computer. Nearly all of the world’s accessible reserves for such minerals are found and mined in the Congo, including 60% of all the world's cobalt. Corporations like Apple and Samsung are the largest producers of lithium ion batteries on the planet, and the exposure of unethical practices including child labor in the mining process of the required minerals has not been, needless to say, good for either company. Yet, as shocking as the article by The Washington Post proved to be, it did practically nothing to diminish Apple’s income or the continued environmental destruction of the land and its communities. Lithium ion batteries are supposed to be a “green” energy source, replacing the dirty and damaging modes of energy production, like natural gas and oil. The truth is, however, there is very little that is sustainable about the way we currently approach the mining of such materials. In the Congo, swaths of land must first be deforested to begin the mining process, disrupting the surrounding ecosystem, before certain chemicals are used to help extract the materials. The high level of toxicity in the metals has been known to cause serious respiratory illnesses for the miners and the thousands of civilians who live near these mines. The real climate crime here, however, is Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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the cumulative carbon footprint left by the elaborate transportation process undergone by these minerals s they make their way to China, where products like my MacBook are assembled. Apple was forced to make a number of milquetoast public announcements. In response to the post, Apple admitted that some of the minerals mined by children as young as ten years old made it into their products. A Sky News journalist even managed to capture footage in secret of a young Congolese boy, age 8, named Dorsen, forced to work in one of the very cobalt mines from which Samsung and Apple purchase rare earth materials. There is “no state of harmony between men and land here,” for in such an economic “land relation,” there are “privileges but no obligations” (Leopold). Through each millisecond of this battery-powered screen — a witness to my feeble attempts all my high school years to compose, to research, to fill the void with entertainment and procrastination — glows deforestation, the unfathomable cruelty of child labor, and mining disasters, frequently claiming the lives of dozens of nameless, faceless Congolese, feeding my innate feelings of a profound duty to protect my planet, to curb climate change, for as the “The Land Ethic” reminds me: “an ethical obligation on the part of the private owner is the only visible remedy for these situations.” In other words, “A thing is right when it it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise” (Leopold). Thus, ironies multiply. This biotic community I dwell in right now, where I am visibly composing this essay, the one I am witnessing in every direction I gaze, as I lift my eyes away from the screen to take in the manicured lawns, the sculpted landscape, the brick paths, and farther away the “wilder” hills beyond our campus confines, just as I am taught by that witness, within our classroom, outside our classrooms (perhaps not in this classroom!), “integrity, stability and beauty” reign all about me. How can I translate this sense of “integrity, stability and beauty” to other biotic communities 282

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of the world I have and have not seen without imposing the one I am experiencing now as a sort of standard against which I measure all others? How does one carry this sense back through the screen? Am I to walk away, as some members of the community depicted in Ursula K. Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” do? Or, return my ticket, as Ivan says to his novice priest-brother Alyosha in the famous “Rebellion” chapter of The Brothers Karamazov: “Besides they have put too high a price on harmony [“integrity, stability and beauty”]; we can’t afford to pay so much for admission. And therefore I hasten to return my ticket. And it is my duty, if only as an honest man, to return it as far ahead of time as possible” (Dostoevsky). In both “stories,” happiness or harmony depends on the deliberate suffering of children, in the case of the community depicted in Le Guin’s story, the suffering of a single child: “In the basement under one of the beautiful buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room.” Le Guin plays with the reader’s mind like this throughout her amazing tale, first the room is somewhere else, then it is closer to home, but the distance between is not very far: “[The room] has one locked door, and no window...In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or it could be a girl” (LeGuin). After much more description of this dismal space, the reader is reminded that “the child, who has not always lived in the tool room,...can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes speaks. ‘I will be good,’ it says. ‘Please let me out. I will be good!’ They never answer” (LeGuin). It is that child’s memory that causes all the pain for anyone reading the story willing to remember. It is the never answering that sends chills down the spine. How often have we been face to face with a “grown up” unwilling to risk a reply? Where is empathy to be found? It may be a leap, yet one I am willing to take, that my MacBook links the mines of the Congo with the brick and mortar hallways of Deerfield, that in both “biotic” communities there is deforestation Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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(this is a field, after all, and has been one for a very long time!), diminishment of species diversity, and the suffering of children. “Privilege without obligation” (Leopold) is a sort of toxin. While a recent Newsweek headline informed me that humans “make up just 0.01 percent of life on earth — but we’re decimating the rest” (May 22, 2018), I still cannot wrap my head around the fact that being “dwarfed by the mass of bacteria, fungi, earthworms and pants,” humans have, according to research reported in the journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, “driven the extinction of ancient megafauna, countless modern animals and even plants.” Extinction seems to be everywhere, that it is extinction that renders any community lacking in its ability to “preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community.” Extinction is like memory loss. The “situations” Leopold refers to are quite different from that of mining rare earth materials and writing essays at Deerfield, but I wondered what the invisible or “ethical” solutions are, if any. Am I doomed to give in again? To forget where such a thing as a MacBook comes from? Or, is it worse to know exactly where it comes from and then willingly continue to use and purchase Apple products (not to walk away, but where to)? So often are we exposed to images of glaciers receding at alarming rates, ribby polar bears stranded on feeble icebergs, and the deforestation of our last remaining rainforests on the planet, and yet a video of a small child, forced to sift through mud and rocks in the pouring rain does nothing to penetrate the impregnable facade of cleanliness and clever design, of beauty, that is Apple Incorporated and Deerfield Academy. An unethical system of such vast proportions that is left widely unrecognized, unattended, can seem so abysmal that a successful remedy is almost unimaginable. (It is worth noting that neither Dostoevsky nor Le Guin could do that, for neither author imagines the “away.”) What I hope, above all else, is that I retain the strength I need to act, big or small, visibly and invisibly. I firmly believe that 284

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the only thing that can ever be realistically expected of the consumer is to make the individual choices necessary to make a difference in the world, to conflate “stone and bread” (Leopold). As I close my MacBook for the night, I want to know, deep down, that I will not forget where it comes from, and who and what has been harmed in its conception, even its very user. “No important change in ethics was ever accomplished without an internal change in our intellectual emphasis, loyalties, affections, and convictions” (Leopold).

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Sometimes a Really Bad Headache Says Enough, and Sometimes it Doesn’t Stephanie Oyolu

ehind everything — school, homework, dance, college applications, summer applications... stress — is an incessant pulsating, sometimes throbbing...not pain, but sensation in my skull. I seldom name what I feel as pain. In fact, I try to be so specific in describing my experience that oftentimes I avoid at all costs saying, “It hurts.” Instead, I list symptoms: no aura, nausea, lightheadedness, impaired vision, extreme irritability. It keeps what I am experiencing impersonal so that the throbbing or the pins and needles will never become more than background noise that I can drown out as I please. Of course, this never works. I first told my mother that I thought I was experiencing migraines in the sixth grade. I had heard the term before described to me as “a really bad headache,” and I felt I had been having “really bad headaches.” With the little I knew, I brought this matter to my mother’s attention. I lay in my parents’ king-sized bed next to her, probably watching one of our mother-daughter classics, “Impractical Jokers,” “Dr. G: Medical Examiner,” perhaps “Forensic Files.” Finally, I blurted out, “I keep getting migraines.” She asked me where I’d learned the word and how I knew they were migraines. Unfortunately, 11-year-old me cowered at what I considered to be the third degree, so instead I said, “Did I say migraines? I meant headaches.” Probably a little suspicious of my response, her professional, medical background pushed her to ask, “Have you hit your head recently?” The answer, of course, was no. My eyes darted

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around the room from the slow-turning ceiling fan to the sea foam green paint on the walls. That was the end of that conversation. In hindsight, I suppose I did not have a strong enough understanding of what migraines were anyway to address my mother with any legitimate concern, but still, somehow, I was right about them. I realize now that there are times when complicated matters are best made simple. Sometimes “a really bad headache” says enough. *** I come home on a Friday night after school, band practice, a two-hour dance rehearsal, and the impending doom of schoolwork that I feel is rapidly catching up to me. I anticipate my misery. It’s already 8 o’clock at night when I flip the light switch and enter the kitchen. Before the lights have reached their full luminosity, I am opening the refrigerator looking for dinner after having survived with my father a one-hour commute from school that could have been a drive of less than 30 minutes without traffic. As I microwave the final remnants of our Hong Kong City Buffet takeout from two nights prior, I dream of hitting the hay. However, I know this dream will not come to fruition, as I have a debate tournament requiring a 5 a.m wakeup the following morning. Sunday is just as busy as Saturday, which is just as busy as Friday. When I can finally crack down on my work Sunday afternoon, I am spent, but still, I do not regret my band practice, or dance rehearsal, or debate tournament. I do, however, struggle to manage my parents’ demands as I seem to understand less and less of what they want from me, especially without the support of my siblings, whom I now, jokingly but with partial truth, call traitors for having left me at home by myself whilst they went off to pursue their own esteemed educations in Iowa and Maine, to make something for themselves. It was around then that they started occurring more frequently. I don’t believe that one thing or the other triggered the development of my migraines, but rather, a culmination of it all: my Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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responsibilities, my hobbies, and the people I fought to please. *** Some medical professionals say it’s the body’s way of attacking itself in trouble, for instance, from overexertion. The incessant nicking, pinching, pulsing — whatever it is — alerts the individual to take it easy. What does one do, however, when after a long night’s rest, when the moment the eyes begin to flutter open, the throbbing returns? I’ve also heard that stress, genetics, and certain triggers like food or a particular activity can cause migraines, what the textbooks explain as “constricted blood vessels that accumulate pressure on the brain.” There is no medical consensus on the matter. So, I start off avoiding bananas, then red meat, then caffeine, then stress (yeah, right). I hydrate, rest, take deep breaths...hydrate, rest, take deep breaths. The more preemptive measures I take, the more I can visualize my already slim and cylindrically-shaped blood vessels becoming tighter and tighter, appearing narrower and narrower until the blood supply to my brain is caught off, and I suffer from...a stroke, an ischemic event at least. I’ll be the girl who died from a migraine, however that works out. I imagine medical professionals will yearn to understand my mysterious death. Dramatic, I know, but also the only way I can make sense of it all, because otherwise, I can’t seem to fathom how besides “pain,” neurologists have not yet discovered any other implications of migraines or any definitive causes. Why do people experience the “warning sensation” of different shapes and colors of light, a certain smell right before it happens that has come to be known as aura? I have no answer, obviously, so I struggle. I struggle with considering migraines, strangely enough, as a part of who I am whilst I simultaneously try to overcome them. One day I come to terms with that tapping in my skull and realize that it will always be there — dull or prominent, chronic, as they call it. The next, my brain feels empty inside in the best way possible, and I get used to 288

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that feeling of lightness, like two eight-pound weight plates have been lifted from my cerebrum. And when that tapping returns, I am utterly crushed; I have fallen for the trap again, and this time hurts more than the last. *** I compare MRIs: of brains with cellular masses and healthy brains, of different ages and genders. It’s not a hobby but the next best thing, I suppose, so as I enter the neurologist's office, I am ready to put my research to the test. When Dr. Jacome pulls up my MRI and walks away momentarily, I snatch the opportunity and run with it. I approach his screen and begin examining what I see: absolutely nothing. When he returns I appear casual and curious again. He takes a look at that same screen and scrolls, but I know there is nothing there. Still, he is getting paid to tell me that there is nothing there, so he better be darn right. My hands are clasped tightly. I rock ever-so-slightly in my chair that seems to consume me because deep, deep down I wish for something. I know it is a horrible thought, but don’t we all have them? Wouldn’t you prefer to identify a concrete problem and then look for its solution than to be some medical mystery given different medications and restrictions, poked and prodded like some guinea pig to solve something as simple as a headache? As I leave the doctors office I am defeated, but I plaster a smile on my face because I received what would be classified as “good news.” I feel sorry for myself just a teensy tiny bit, because how can I possibly be so weak? I remind myself to suck it up, to buck up, to fire it up — whatever it takes. I sort of concede that migraines are, in fact, a part of who I am, so I hang on tight to the enjoyable times when my head is at peace. *** I am a tightrope walker balancing on the silver lining of my life, Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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but I often fall off onto either side: an abyss of pity and defeat, or the other, of immense optimism that is unsustainable in an environment with limited resources and success stories. I fight to stay on; my metatarsals grip the line for dear life, but as I do, I know I will soon fall again because I have learned. I used to think that to be most successful, I should drown myself in an excelsior mindet — excelsior being a Latin word to describe the state of being “ever upwards.” I thought that I should know that I will fall at times but that I should always be reaching ever upwards. However, a friend of mine recently proposed to me that life is not a linear graph with occasional falls. It is surely not an exponential function. Rather, it is a series of cycles that repeat themselves. That at any given moment we may be at a point in our own cycle that we can make peace with, but that sensation is subject to change. I’m not sure I buy into this theology, perhaps because it’s simply too hard for me to believe that I can be progressing steadily for some period of time to somehow fall back to a rudimentary phase that I was sure I had passed. Or perhaps, I cannot accept this notion because it too perfectly describes the phenomenon that I experience but can’t seem to make sense of...or maybe don’t want to sense. One day my migraines seem like a thing of the past, the feeling a victim of a common cold experiences when he or she awakes clear and de-congested for the first time in weeks, unable to imagine how they could have struggled to breathe for so long. Then I move to the next phase of the cycle. Sometimes it happens immediately and other times more gradually, but it is always the same: everything comes crashing down. Perhaps if our lives were mapped out on a large, white wall, we’d witness a series of concentric and overlapping circles manifest themselves, and if this is the case, perhaps every cycle we live through bestows upon us the experience we need to live through better the next time. Perhaps each crash won’t be as unfortunate, and that the tapping may eventually subside.

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For You, I Would Never Sink Again Katie Whalen After penetrating the water’s surface your body is sinking. It’s only a few seconds until you are still. Buoyancy effortlessly pulls you upwards towards approaching light. How long will it be until your lungs reach oxygen again? It’s a thought for the minds of unforgiven people that lay awake at 4 am. I awoke the other night to the sensation of drowning, or falling in love. While driving away from our little town streets, you almost missed the red while falling in love. Miles passed like pieces falling into place and I felt like my body was sinking. It’s hard to define a sensation until it startles you awake on a Tuesday night at 4 am. We sped 20 over the limit through the middle of Vermont, I thought love was keeping me still. I pretended I didn’t know it, but I knew in my heart I would come home again. I chased the dripping sunset, while my mom stared at the driveway for the glare of a headlight. If you sink deep enough, your eyes open to a chilling darkness that absorbs any remaining light. I laid awake for my chest to spill: water filled my lungs and my heart soaked up his love. As the two fluids brewed together, I decided to never go swimming Issue 24 · FALL 2018

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ever again. Why is it called ‘falling’ in love when a more accurate verb would be ‘sinking’? Gravity is a sweeter killer than the sea of moments that paralyze the body into remaining still. Each parcel of memory packaged inside you is painfully ripped open at 4 a.m. My parents do not like the sound of footsteps at 4 a.m. They prefer that I find my way to bed before the windows of our house are filled with light, and before fog silences the ripples on the water and it becomes uncomfortably still. During those hours I think I became close to experiencing love. I’ve been told that staying out until dawn is a sign of someone sinking. But if I could relive the dark hours of the summer, I would do so just to examine how it felt again. I wonder if he’s in love again, and why autumn came and I am still awake at 4 a.m., and why my body lays atop this mattress, yet my mind fails to fade away and begin sinking, and why I still am not falling asleep, or in love, in the dark hours without light. I only know what the car ride home felt like: although I didn’t feel it, I now believe in love. I can’t forgive myself for leaving his car without knowing, but I was never good at staying still. I try to remain still as I squirm beneath my comforter again and again, wondering if getting out of that car is why I can’t definitively say I 292

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have experienced love. I don’t miss the departed feeling, but not knowing if it was ever there keeps me up at 4 a.m. I felt a gravitational force drowning me, but it was not strong enough to keep me from the light. For him, I’ll try to decide whether I’m floating or sinking. Maybe youth is to blame for my mind’s resistance to thinking clearly and being still, along with my body’s inexplicable necessity to be awake at 4 a.m. This confusion is a discomfort I need to feel, despite never wanting to experience it again. I wish it was darker so I didn’t have to see his disappointment in the light. For now, I can conclude that it is best to trust that there is love, but I still crave the youthful joy of swimming, so I cannot embrace the descent of sinking.

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Department of English at Deerfield Academy

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