COURTESY OF KAYLA D’ANGELO
8
The Comma
November 20, 2014 THE OBSERVER
www.fordhamobserver.com
Robotic Angels at 14th Street By DANNI HU
Stepping outside the F train station, I smell a burned plastic, like ill chemicals Poured into stomachs of dead angels. It is always there in the exit, Revolving with the round metal skeleton. I caress the ashes of that odor, red, hot, roaring. Watching flux running into wells Climb inside the sewer. Vaporize into a grey cloud, Falls back down through storm. The water and the lightning vomit the flavor of ill chemicals inside the mezzanine. It traces the rushing trains, Stains our shiny clothes, dresses, pants, socks; Not a single piece of fabric remained pristine. I sense, Clockwise tongues speak to me, Galvanizing eyes of golden fishes chase me, who abandoned themselves on the beach after running out of their energy.
It’s the black and white films tangled around our bones, Wrapped us together in separate bundles, Unattached. Sculpt our images for a thousand decades Until we believe they are real, Unchanged. The smell follows us, Have our beginning and our end Wound by the rolling wheels, strolling, howling. Once again I walk out the F train. The scent of the burned plastic. The saints that shed my tears. The smell of the robotic angels is always there in the exit, with the screeching of the turnstiles making me cringe. I am always there going through the entrance, Taking out the metro card, Swiping out my gut.
Yet this is the scent we could not resist; We helplessly look for once it fades. It is the rhythm of our progress, The catalyst of our production in the name of humanity.
SARAH HOWARD/THE OBSERVER
We’ll Always Have Sung Chu Mei By RACHEL FEDERMAN
“I hope we end up together,” said Evan, not long after we broke up. “Do you really think that will happen?” I was tearful and droopy, carting around too many bags. He nodded vaguely, then pointed out how clear the sky was, how razor-sharp the moon. We were already over, officially, but still each other’s one essential person, cracking apart the ice sculpture of the relationship like waiters cleaning up after a wedding, when there’s really nothing else left to do. We were on our way to a gallery on West 22nd where a gaggle of naked women would be dispatched from a pickup truck into a room full of giant blue mushrooms. The curator of the show was our friend Brian, the artist who’d introduced us three years earlier. “So you’re over, but still friends?” Brian was handing out plastic glasses of wine inside the gallery. Most people were just reaching over each other’s shoulders and grabbing as many as they could. “That makes it sound—” I turned to Evan for help, not sure what kind of word even I wanted. “Uncomplicated.” He offered, guzzling back the wine with more bravado than I think I’d ever seen him show. “Yeah, that.” I realized I should try to take in the art, but it was like a group dressing room—there wasn’t anywhere to comfortably let my eyes stop. I skimmed over the crowd, then looked back at Evan. We were never the finish-your-sentences type of couple. I had worried about that being too cutesy. I know he doesn’t believe it, but that’s part of the reason I couldn’t even commit to one definite date night a week with him. Too cutesy. Too precious. Yet here I was, intensely committed to making these last nights together mean something. As the crowd swelled to greet the toned and shining women, we made our way against the tide, probably seeming to be on to bigger and better things. What we were on to in fact was not bigger and better but smaller and worse—one last lonely dinner at the Chinese place on Hudson Street where we’d gone on our first date.
The fortune at the end would have been funny on any other night. “Let me see it,” Evan pulled it out of my hand, spurting orange pulp in my direction. “‘You are the guiding star of his existence’” he read, mouth trying to smile but not. “Yep.” I looked around at the gurgling fish tank, then at the hostess who smiled and started to come over until I shook my head to signal no, we were okay, or at least there wasn’t anything she could do for us to make it better. Evan was still staring down at the fortune, mouthing the words. Finally he looked up at me and handed it back. “Well that’s off base,” he said, with that exaggerated Seinfeldstyle intonation that he could never really pull off. “Not really,” I said, mostly to myself, putting the fortune in my pocket and almost feeling relief. It wasn’t a cold night, but there was a draft at our table, bringing with it the smell of bleach, which I guessed was seeping up from the bathroom. Evan chomped down his fortune cookie and mine—one of a million unspoken agreements. We split the check, and hovered for a minute outside the door. The opposite of the awkward, hopeful delay of our first few nights together—Are we going in the same direction? This was more like an extended curtain call where the actors overestimate the number of claps the audience has left in them. “Which way are you headed?” I asked, looking up at that razor moon. “You tell me,” Evan said, trying again to smile, handing me my bags. “Where I’m going?” I asked, keeping my voice flat. “No. Point me in the right direction.” He smiled, sarcastic I think, and a little sincere. “The fortune?” Oh right. I swung the bags over my shoulder. I was tired and wanted to go home. Very little slack can be cut for a guiding star. It had better remain constant and predictable and bright.
TESSA VAN BERGEN/THE OBSERVER
www.fordhamobserver.com
THE OBSERVER November 20, 2014
The Comma
9
Jasmine By MARGARET FISHER
Sweet little ponytail Bounces past the smear and graffiti. This is my fairytale kingdom. Twists and X’s on brick swirl to birthday cakes in the backyard, A concrete castle with a chain link swing. Plastic cups and Grass beneath the stairs. One, two, three, The door. Laced magic sparkle sneakers And if I believe, I can fly. Puddles are shiny with rainbow oil slick, And gray is the best color Because I can paint it again. The little white flowers grow under our fence And take me far away. There’s a princess, too, With long black hair and golden shoes. A purple rug and marble balcony. Sand and sky and bright eyes. Daddy is my knight. He has armor in the pores of his skin: Barbed wire and momma as a name. There are numbers for the day I came along. The day he got his princess. He told me and it’s true. But he looks sad and Leans back to close his eyes. I look out the window. The birds come to see me and The sky is blue behind the clouds. Jasmine is in her castle; and with no one around, She sings and sleeps and Moves on fast.
SARAH HOWARD/THE OBSERVER
One Man’s Ash By ERIKA ORTIZ
It was a clear and warm Saturday morning when Amy sat down with a map, a red pen, and that day’s newspaper. She opened to the appropriate section and began to search the personal ads, checking the details of the items offered and then referencing her map to mark out her plan of action. Once Amy finished and was ready to go, she wrote up her list on a “Things To-Do” pad and headed out. When Amy reached the first destination, she pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine. She quickly grabbed her purse and climbed out of the car, eagerly crossing the street. She ascended the driveway that led to a yard swarmed with people. She smiled brightly and jumped into the fray, happily searching and critiquing with her fellow bargain hunters. Like most people that spend Saturday after Saturday at garage sales (and you must trust that these people do indeed exist), Amy wasn’t in search of anything specific. That was the beauty of a bargain; even if you didn’t need something, the deal was too good to pass up. For most of the morning Amy continued on her merry way, weaving between crowds and digging through bins, arguing her case for a price reduction and walking away with a sly smile and her hands full of purchases. As the day was winding down (and her car was getting full), Amy decided that the next stop would be her last.
She pulled up in front of a house that had a sign in the window that read “Estate Sale.” As usual, Amy poked through the various bins and boxes, doing her best to ignore the larger items that wouldn’t fit in her car no matter how much she wanted them. But even so, she managed to find a few things that she enjoyed, her favorite being a decorative brass jar with a lid. She thought it would be perfect to use as a vase in her living room. When Amy finally returned home that afternoon, she embarked on the task of unloading all of her treasures and putting them to their intended uses. She hung pictures on the walls, arranged lawn ornaments in her garden, and packed away out-ofseason holiday decorations. As she finished putting everything in its place, Amy took the last item she purchased and brought it to the living room. Just as she had suspected, the jar matched the decor wonderfully. She happily moved the decoration to its new place and made work of transferring the fake bouquet of roses from the old jar to the new. In her haste, however, she managed to knock her bargain on its side— and a waterfall of ashes cascaded out. She cocked her head to the side, staring at the mess in confusion, before simply shrugging her shoulders. Amy then swept the ash back into the jar, rearranged the flowers, and walked to the kitchen to make herself a late lunch.
KIRSTIN BUNKLEY/THE OBSERVER
12
The Comma
November 20, 2014 THE OBSERVER
www.fordhamobserver.com
Dirty Feet By HANNA TADEVICH
I’ve got very mixed feelings about washing my feet at the end of the day. It’s the coziest thing to slide off my sandals and stretch out my toes and let them slap down on the wooden panels that creak under my weight, absent for a whole twelve hours. Weighted, grounded, slap slap slapping toes and my heels that thunk down behind them. New York City sidewalk dirt and Alvin Ailey studio dirt and Fordham hallway dirt have all snuck beneath my feet today and mingled together between sandal bottoms and calluses. The whole story is there: the bruise from rehearsal, the blister from the extra-long walk I took to get the extra-needed cupcake, the toenail I dropped my laundry basket on. It just wouldn’t be right if my feet didn’t get some home dirt on them too: a fringe from my notebook paper that endlessly graces our floor no matter how many times I pick it up, some dirt particles from my roommates’ shoes… now I’m mingling with their days as well. But I’m supposed to wash the dirt off before I crawl under my covers. It’s not good to bring one day’s mess into the next. Clean breaks and fresh starts is the path to levelheadedness. I’ve been trying to live life that way. Tabula rasa if you will, one day at a time. And it has been quite successful on the surface! I deleted your phone number last week and oh how soapy and scrubbed I felt. I sold your old bicycle that was still in my garage. I replaced the photo in the picture frame you gave me for my birthday. But traces of the dirt remain… like I would know it was you if you ever called because those numbers are still in my head. And I sold the bicycle to my cousin in Wisconsin in case you ever want me to buy it back for you. And
just because it’s not in a frame doesn’t mean it’s not half-visible on my wall, poking out behind some art I have hung up now. I’ve fallen in and out of love with other people since you. I’ve lost track of anything tangible that’s stuck to my feet from walking with you. But there you are still, the coziest thing, the dirt mingling with today’s dirt, and I’m happy to have you there. I know you’re one to cut your toenails meticulously and take care of calluses with a good deal of Burt’s Bees. You are stoic and clean and I imagine it is not a source of conflicted emotion for you to wash your feet of the day. I’ve come to accept it as much as I possibly can. But let me tell you, it makes life interesting to keep some dirt around. It makes you feel things: crunchy beneath your feet things, callussy Iworked-for-this things. It’s evidence of a life lived fully. Sometimes I come home to my home dirt and I say, let me pull on some thick wool socks right now, let me hold in all this dirt for a moment and appreciate what a mess I am. Let me get some of this day’s dirt on these socks so that they can hold my memories for a time when I want to deal with them. And then a couple weeks later, I pull on those socks again – you remember the ones, brown-orange-tan-red-greenpurple-orange-brown Ecuador socks – and I walk around in my years of dirt; I might think of you and I might not, I might smile or I might cry. But it’s pretty good to sift dirt through our toes and hold memories in our socks. If you ever want to walk beside me again, I’d gladly show you how it’s done.
SARAH HOWARD/THE OBSERVER
For Songbirds Wept By SANJANA RAJAGOPAL
Urns of ash steeped in dreary April rain spilt their secrets to the red dirt of the delicate earth.
Aoide By VALERIA SHATILOVA
Her robe like Neptune’s hydrogen atmosphere, is tumultuous gusts of tulle, ice particles, and her own divine cold.
Your blue eyes were carved into the violet clay; rolling like marbles as the potter turned them over in his wet hands. I have nothing left to remember anymore. The polaroids burnt until the smoke filled my lungs and the memories choked my throat. My corpse turns numb on touch— The holy water he sprinkles on my bruises sears my skin mercilessly. The bronze folds of his smile haunt me— A Greek beauty, an ornate vase for my collection. Orange wasps come crying in the gentle spring breeze— Don’t you love him? Don’t you love him? Blood and heat pool in the dark corners of my heart. The mortician comes in hues of black to set flames to his pale grin. And tears were shed, for the songbirds wept on the eve of his silent passage into obsidian night.
COURTESY OF HALINA SHATRAVKA
www.fordhamobserver.com
THE OBSERVER November 20, 2014
The Comma
13
Courage By KAYLA D’ANGELO
Courage (n.): 1. the ability to do something that frightens one. 2. strength in the face of pain or grief. For a long time, I equated courage with stupidity. Better to be cunning enough to avoid the problem, Better to think before you jump into a situation, Better to hide from the complications that rear their heads Like venomous snakes just waiting for a bite.
Misophonia By SOPHIA NOULAS
Everywhere she went, she went Chak, Chak, Chak. Except on carpets, then she went Chut, Chut, Chut. Oh, he hated her Chuts and her Chaks, but worse than her thick heeled boots were the days when her bright pink bubble gum went Smack, Shlop, Smack. Chack, Smack, Slop, Chack, Smack, Slop, Chut, Smack, Chut, Chut, Smack, Slop… gurgle. The infernal gurgling of the water cooler! The water cooler was what sealed the deal, when it was in the break room, then he could’ve stood the noise, but now it was next to his desk. Five times a day, she would sidle out of her chair in the back of the room and then slowly and loudly she would make her way up to the water cooler. Five times a day. It was a wonder how after all the Chut’s, Smack’s, Slop’s and Chack’s he finally cornered her in the break room and went SZIZK, SZIZK, SZIZK. What was even better than the sound of those SZIZK was the silence that came blissfully after.
Once in school they asked me to write about the bravest person I knew, And I laughed to myself And even as I wrote what the teacher wanted to hear on the page, I mocked the assignment in my head. I don’t remember how old I was. Once in school they asked me to write about the person I most admired, And I thought for the first time, “My mother is the bravest person in the world, and I love her for it.” And I didn’t think she was stupid for being brave. I thought of how I hadn’t told anyone I
thought I was depressed, And I wished I had the same kind of courage. At the time I couldn’t quite explain to anyone else why she was brave. She’s afraid of heights and closed spaces, Gets vertigo from the slightest amount of spinning, Thought of guinea pigs only as slightly horrifying rodents Until one snuggled into her throat like a child. No one could understand how a person like that could be brave. I knew she was but I didn’t have the words to tell them. My mother would never be the type to portray a hero in a fairytale, And that’s all anyone ever seemed to see of her. But my mother is brave enough to live even crippled by illness And always with a smile And always for someone else. Despite getting to live thirteen days of her life For everyone fourteen everyone else gets, She is selfless, giving away what time she has, And that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
COURTESY OF HALINA SHATRAVKA
Little Boy Purple By NICK LAWTON
Purple was my favorite color. Is my favorite color, currently. But there was a time when I had lost purple in my life. A time when the warm, pinkish hues turned cold. Frigid, even. A time when my purple became blue. I hung up my purple bucket hat. I stuffed my purple L.L. Bean backpack, nearly the size of my tiny body, into my closet. I threw my purple T-shirts into the garbage. I put my purple gym shorts at the very bottom of my pajama drawer. I was determined to obliterate all signs of the color from my life. I was seven. The things a boy my age should desire seemed to come in shades of blue. Blue trucks. Blue jerseys. Blue dinosaurs. I wanted to be blue so badly, but not for myself. Never for myself. I wanted to be blue for my mom, so she wouldn’t have to worry if I would come home from school crying because the girls at school didn’t want to play dress-up with me. I wanted to be blue for my dad, so we could laugh together while we played basketball in my backyard, and so I wouldn’t have to look at his deeply disappointed face after I told him I was quitting. I wanted to be blue for my brothers, so they could stop having to explain to their friends about my inexplicable Barbie collection and obsession with belting Britney Spears’ “Lucky” in public places. Motivated to make life for my family easier, I was committed to being blue and everything that it represented. I took on this new persona without understanding the damage it would later cause to my identity. I stifled my effeminate tendencies, and along with them my creativity and individualism. I wasn’t supposed to be purple, but try as I
might I couldn’t be blue. My wardrobe became a never ending grayscale, and other parts of my life followed. Purple and I felt like strangers to one another, with no hope of ever meeting again. I became ill with normalcy, and it plagued me for years. A seven-year-old does not even understand the science of tying one’s shoes properly, let alone the complexity of gender. Seven year-olds are curious, though. At such a formative age, a child is eager to take in everything around them, questioning all the while. How can we deny them the right to question what they may like or dislike? How can we as a society let a human that has only lived seven years on this planet hate themselves to the core? Allow a child to feel worthless because they don’t fit in with either of the acceptable genders? I’m still picking up the pieces of a childhood happiness that was shattered the day that seven-year-old realized judgment existed. The warmth of the purple within me was drawn out without permission. I’ve completed many parts of the puzzle of my life, and am now authentically me every day. There are pieces still floating on the sidelines. Pieces of selflove and self-acceptance that are still waiting for a place to call home. I have this picture of myself at about four years old, standing on a dock near my boat and rocking my purple bucket hat with a purple t-shirt. I am smiling wide, beautifully innocent to the trauma that would attempt to capsize me on my journey of discovery. I hope that I’m almost there, and my remnants of blue will become purple once again.
ISABEL FRIAS/THE OBSERVER
COURTESY OF KAYLA D’ANGELO