The Comma by Fordham Observer

COURTESY OF TY LEE AND ADRIANA GALLINA

The Comma

February 12, 2015 THE OBSERVER

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Every Word Seems to Be the Hardest Word By IRIS DAI

I am paralyzed with fear, hands clammy and cold, heart pounding. The room is silent. A beat passes. Then another. A voice breaks the silence. I am simultaneously relieved and angry. Relieved because I am momentarily spared from the excruciating pressure of wanting to say something but not being able to, and angry because the voice now filling the dozens of ears around me is not my own. Welcome to my daily hell, class participation. School used to be a lot more fun for me, back when I didn’t have to talk. I was every kindergarten teacher’s dream student – content to color within the lines, a master at cutting with scissors, and most importantly, the undefeated champion of the quiet game. I loved everything about school – learning to read, going to assemblies, signing my name in a notebook to use the bathroom. While other kids welcomed the last day of school because it signaled the start of a glorious, homework-free summer, I looked forward to it because it meant I would get my report card. Upon receiving the goldenrod envelopes, most of my peers shoved them into the depths of their soon-to-be-forgotten bookbags and bolted out the door. But I tingled with anticipation, relishing the feeling of prying open the two metal prongs from the reinforced eyelet of the envelope to procure the piece of paper affirming my academic prowess. I was rarely disappointed. Upon removing the report from the envelope, I was greeted with gleaming rows of 4’s (exceeding standards), and at worst, there were a few 3’s (meeting standards) scattered about. Then the most exciting part – turning the report over to read what my teachers really thought of me. Elementary school teachers must have been forced to endure a grueling handwriting boot camp before being awarded their licenses, because all of my teachers had perfect penmanship. In beautiful, looping script was an equally lovely message: “Iris is a pleasure to have in class.” In the same self-absorbed way, I hounded my mother after she had gone to parent teacher conferences, eagerly asking what had been said about me behind closed doors. Year after year, the consensus was more or less the same: I was an excellent student, but my teachers wished I would speak up more. I always disregarded the latter part of this comment with an eye roll, choosing instead to focus

on my obvious brilliance. And for a while, that was fine. Grade school teachers busy yelling at my over talkative peers were thankful that at least one person in the class could shut up and listen, and my reticence was considered more of a character quirk than a real problem. But middle school was the first indication that I couldn’t live in my silent bubble forever. Gone were the teachers who extolled my quietness as a virtue and commended me for being an excellent listener. In their place were aliens who encouraged group discussions and favored people who couldn’t stop yammering. I began to notice passive aggressive comments in work that was returned to me – “Nice job, but please share your thoughts with the rest of the class!” The hastily scribbled smiley faces beneath these chilling messages did nothing to reassure me. Despite these new developments, I still clung to my silent ways, and felt a smug sense of satisfaction when I still managed to receive higher marks than my chattier classmates. Seeing this, my teachers relented, but they warned me that while this sort of behavior might still fly in middle school, high school wouldn’t be so forgiving. And oh, how right they were. After nine years, my once happy marriage with school began to crumble. I was completely unprepared for the horrors that would await me. Even though I had been warned repeatedly that I had enrolled myself into one of the best (and therefore toughest) high schools in New York City, I was confident that I could still succeed. To my dismay, I soon learned that my new peers had a secret weapon: an unceasing enthusiasm for class participation. English, which had always been my favorite subject because it allowed me to read by myself in peace, was no longer just about reading or even writing. It now involved forty-five minutes of sitting in a circle discussing some aspect of the assigned reading. To my amazement, as soon as a question left my teacher’s lips, several hands would shoot up. Confident voices gave impassioned, eloquent arguments about the merits of this sentence or that character, while I shrank back into my seat and did my best to look preoccupied flipping through the book’s pages. My charade continued class after class, and I enviously looked on as my peers effortlessly contributed to the topic

of the day while I struggled to form a coherent answer on the spot. When mid-term reports came around, I was for the first time, extremely nervous. As I read my teacher’s comments, my fears were confirmed: “Please participate more in class.” And that was it – not even a crooked smiley face to soften the blow. This intervention would be the first of many to come. I had always thought I was in control and that I had simply chosen not to participate, but the truth was that I was at the mercy of my debilitating shyness. Of all the diseases to be plagued by, shyness is a pretty incriminating one. It not only renders you speechless, but also implies that you’re an egotistical narcissist who allows the fear of what other people think control your actions. Logically, I know that I have nothing to be afraid of, and even if people do judge me for what I say, so what? But once I get to class and a question ending in “...and what do you think?” is asked, my mind goes blank. On the off chance that I feel like I know the answer, more often than not I’m still too scared to raise my hand. What if I’m wrong? What if people think it’s weird that I’m suddenly talking after not having said anything for the past three classes? What if – oh look, someone else has already raised their hand. And darn, they just said what I was thinking! And now I don’t know how to answer the next question. Oh great, now I’m being called on. Cue the blushing, awkward garbled speech, and self-loathing. It’s hard to feel sorry for shy people. Who do they think they are, thinking they’re so self-important that people will scrutinize their every syllable? Why do they have to make things so awkward by just sitting there and not saying a single word? As a certified, 100% genuine shy person who hates being shy, I have to agree. Anyone who is shy and proud of it is delusional. At least I recognize that, and I think I’m making some semblance of progress in the fight against my own demons. This year, I’ve voluntarily participated in class at least three times, which has to be a new personal record. I have high hopes for myself – after all, there’s nothing more motivating than knowing that unless I step up my act, I’ll be forever known as the person who peaked in kindergarten.

ISABEL FRIAS/THE OBSERVER

n” o g a r D the n a D “ om r f t p r e Exc LVER IE SI N A H EP By ST

I guess I’m a cautious person; I don’t smoke enough to kill me, I take my vitamins, and I wait for the walking signal while crossing the streets of New York, even when some partisan painter blotches the pixelated hand into the universal sign for Rock n’ Roll. I still wait. The other night I went out with my friend Dan. While we sat amidst the stench of beer in a low lit bar, we caught up on the happenings of the six months we had gone without seeing one another. Dan inquired about my living situation, asking why I had stayed in my school’s dorm after telling him about my plans of moving off campus months earlier. After hearing my reasoning, Dan immediately challenged me: “So you’re saying you’re just too immature to live alone then.” Though I was sipping while he began, beer gilded my chin as it poured from my lips, which were so ready to refute the thought that they prematurely parted. I told Dan immaturity had nothing to do with it, going on to paint the foreboding image of myself, a young woman, walking home from class every night to a neighborhood that would provide cheap housing, and therefore, may not be equipped with the greatest security measures. “Every night.” Probability alone seemed enough for me to predict the threat of danger. “New York is not out to rape you,” replied Dan and the intensity of his language perplexed me. I didn’t say “rape,” I had only alluded to the danger of travelling alone in the city as a woman, something I didn’t think would be so hard to imagine that he injected the fear with a sense of fantasy, implied by the ferocity of the word. I told Dan how often I had experienced the discomfort of being cat-called, followed, and sometimes touched on the streets, but he continued to fight me, arguing that he “knew” what I had described because he had lived in the city all his life, but had never witnessed it in the amount which I had cited and which to him, had exaggerated. I replied saying “You don’t know. You’re a man,” but Dan could not be moved in his cement ignorance. As a woman, the reminder of my vulnerability has been a constant in my life, as if the space in front of me were a pane of glass covered in a million post-it notes advising me to “beware.” While Dan, as a man, is so perpetually faced with his privilege as a wealthy, New York bred male, he can’t even begin to compare or place his experience against my own. So, because I failed to say it at the time, here’s to you Dan, you, part of the parody and population leaving “patriarchy in place” to stew in your ignorance. When you say I’m immature, I guess I should take it to mean that your own boyishness is so present that you’re blinded to my exercise in prudence as a grown, intelligent woman. So, Dan, maybe next time we haven’t seen each other for six months, we could make it an even dozen. ISABEL FRIAS/THE OBSERVER

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THE OBSERVER February 12, 2015

m o r tf p er c Ex SS RO y B

” g n i b m i l “C

RT PE M LA

I am eight years old, and I am climbing the tree outside of my church. I have not seen Michael Canalas since I switched schools last year and I have accepted that I will likely never see him again. Instead, I have made new friends, the kind one makes at church. They are all watching me on the ground, except for my brother, who has decided to stay on the bottom branch of the tree, to sit and watch my ascent from below. He is something of a climber himself, but I do not realize that this is because he looks up to me. The baptism happened an hour ago, in front of a congregation of around a hundred people. Fifteen of those people were family members, and one of them was me. It was one of the biggest ceremonies the church has ever done before, almost as big as Christmas usually is. The church is Presbyterian, has one pastor, a few deacons (my father was one of them), and four or five Sunday School volunteer teachers. There are portable classrooms outside of the church, where I have Sunday school classes. I can already see them pretty well from where I am hanging, but I imagine how they would look from the top of the tree, where I intended to reach. I kept climbing. I see the sun above me, shimmering down through the bright green leaves, warming my body all the way through to my heart. There are no clouds in the sky that day. I think to myself, with nothing blocking the sky, does that mean I will be able to see God? When you get baptized, they tell you that God is love. I think of the girls.

The Comma

I think of Michael Canalas. I think of the way I eat lunch alone at my new school. I think, maybe if I climb high enough, I will be able to see Him. Maybe I can ask Him where to find love. I remember reaching the top. I remember swearing I did, and swearing that I saw Him, too. Although, neither of these things can I remember with absolute certainly. But the need to climb and the climbing, these things I grasp with ease. Because I have been looking for love my whole life. I am willing to climb for it. I did not even know what it was. I am twenty years old and I want to be better than this. Despite all I have seen and all that I know, I do not want to give up. In fact, I refuse to do so. I don’t want scared, chased, loose, objectified, used, or put on the back burner love. I refuse it all for the sake of something greater, something far more true and pure. I want love, real love. It is not too much to ask – to a climber, nothing is. I can exercise a will that defies even gravity, for that is the only way to climb, and I am willing to climb for love. Willing to pull myself up by my arms, willing to loose my footing, willing to strain, willing to reach, willing to guess, willing to fall, willing to try again, willing to climb for love. To climb is to not give up, to resist the fundamental gravity that pulls us all, one by one, down to the ground below. I do not care if everyone else is on that ground, looking up at me, wondering how long it will be before I come down. I will not come down. I will climb.

YUANXI LIU/THE OBSERVER

Excerpt from “Like No One’s Watching” By HUNTER LANG

I attended Theater Arts Center, a blandly-named performing arts studio in our town, which was owned by a woman “all the way from New York City” named Christine. I’d been taking classes at TAC for two years when Sydney showed up. Because Sydney was a beginner, Christine decided she would teach Sydney herself, a rarity (perhaps, having witnessed my abilities, Christine thought her expertise would save Sydney from also becoming a disastrous dancer). My mother, wishing to avoid paying extra for private classes, insisted another student take Christine’s class with Sydney. Someone, I forget who, made the horrendous suggestion that it would be cute to have two sisters dancing together. That is how Christine became my teacher. Christine was a tiny, angular woman with a bottleblonde bob and heavy “stage” makeup that she wore all the time. Despite being in her seventies, Christine was alarmingly energetic, and she moved from one place to another in a series of prancing, Liza Minnelli-esque movements. Having spent her life both chain-smoking and belting out show tunes, her voice was croaky. Christine considered herself to be a very important in the theater world. From what I understood, she’d worked as a casting director for a few Broadway productions. Christine seemed convinced, however, that she was as influential as Rogers and Hammerstein, and reminded us often that she had the power to “make or break us.” To this woman Sydney and I were handed over. My sister and I had a jazz class each week, and from the first class we realized a horrible mistake had been made. Christine rejected the stretches and warm-ups that traditionally precede dance lessons. Instead, she would face the mirror and perform a series of disturbing aerobics, flailing her arms as if she was about to take off and fly away. “Come on!” she’d rasp at us, her arms still pumping, when we failed to follow her lead. The frantic fluttering would lead into a cool-down period, where Sydney and I were expected to emulate wood-nymph hippie ladies, serenely waving our arms to our internal rhythms, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Finally, Christine instructed us to lie down on the floor, belly up, and lift our legs at a 90 degree angle. “Now, walk on the ceiling,” Christine ordered, as if that were the logical thing to do. Two pairs of legs scissored back and forth in the air, while Christine stood and watched with beady eyes. I can’t fathom what we looked like to the occasional outsider who may have peered in through the tiny window on the door, expecting to witness art in motion. What those exercises most closely resembled was an exorcism.

In the spring, there was always a big Theater Arts Center recital for which we had to purchase expensive costumes. Each dance class performed a number or two at the recital. Having taken Christine’s class for a few months, Sydney and I were apprehensive when she announced that we too would be in the recital. We became outright horrified when she played us the song we would dance to. While the other classes taught by younger teachers would dance to trendy pop songs, we had a crackly, obscure vaudevillian jazz number so old that every person who had a part in producing it was likely dead.

But Sydney and I were awkward, sullen teenagers, the last demographic anyone would want to see grapevining. The dance that accompanied the song was no less embarrassing. It seemed like a bizarre homage to something even our grandparents would have considered old fashioned. With a serial killer smile, Christine presented Sydney and me with top hats and canes, and with them in hand we executed jazz squares, the Charleston, and clumsy pinwheels. All of this would have been adorable had it been performed by, say, apple-cheeked toddlers or genial old people bearing hard candies. But Sydney and I were awkward, sullen teenagers, the last demographic anyone would want to see grapevining. Like most teenagers, we were also cripplingly self-conscious. Needless to say, this was not the dance for us. One particularly complex part of the dance involved Sydney and me throwing our hats to each other, catching them, and then tossing them back. Christine dedicated an entire class to perfecting this move, a measure any sane person would tell you was a waste of time. No matter how much we practiced, Sydney and I knew in our hearts that, come the night of the show, we would certainly drop the hats. Nevertheless, that night we lobbed the hats back and forth, sweat beading on our brows as Christine bellowed, “Again!” We succeeded half the time. Our failures varied from failing to catch the hats to launching them like frisbees and hitting each

other in the eyes. Christine was not impressed, and voiced her concern for the future of our dancing careers. Our costumes arrived, and we hated ourselves for expecting anything else. Out of the packaging sprang two new plastic canes and top hats, along with the most offensive garments we’d ever seen. The ensemble was made up of a tunic, cut into a universally unflattering box shape and generously adorned with sequins, glitter, and tassels, and faux-velvet stretchy pants, with flared bottoms. Sydney and I tried them on, avoid each other’s gaze, for fear that we would start either laughing or crying and be unable to stop. The reality of our situation was setting in. When we stepped out of the bathroom to show Christine the revoltingly flamboyant final product, she clapped her hands together, exclaiming with her usual dramatic flair, cawing, “Oh, they’re perfect, just perfect!” On the night of the recital, Sydney and I, sparkling with sequins, huddled behind the curtains, listening to the seats fill up. It was a full house. “Hunter, what are we going to do?” Sydney looked pale. She was turning to me for help. I was her older sister, wiser, wilier. I would surely have the solution. “Okay, let’s face facts,” I growled, gripping her shoulders, ripping off the band-aid, “we’re not getting out of this.” Sydney grimaced. “So here’s what we’re going to do, we’re going to go out there, and dance like no one’s watching. We have to pretend that this is dance good, and we’re having fun. They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!” I delivered this speech like a general leading his troops into certain death. I was Braveheart, in a bedazzled tunic and top hat. Sydney stared at me as if I’d just suggested we jump in front of a train. But there was no time for further discussion, we were on next. And, by God, we danced like no one was watching, throwing ourselves into each move, tumbling about the stage, grinning like mad women. The whole thing is a blur to me now, but I do remember one thing: everyone in that theater witnessed what could only be described as a miracle. Sydney and I caught those damn hats! When we got off the stage, Christine screeched, “What were you doing? That was a disaster! Hunter, is that what you call a cartwheel? Sydney, you missed a jazz square! If this was a professional production, you two would be fired!” As Christine railed, Sydney and I could only grin, comforted in knowing we’d never have to perform that dance ever again. KIRSTIN BUNKLEY/THE OBSERVER

Comma

February 12, 2015 THE OBSERVER

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EDA

PAULA MADERO/THE OBSERVER

EDA

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THE OBSERVER February 12, 2015

Comma

EDA

The Comma, Selected works from visual artists at Fordham College at Lincoln Center Featured artists: Alexander Jahani and eda

DESTRUCTION IS A CREATIVE FORCE BY ALEXANDER JAHANI

EDA

CARDINAL LANE BY ALEXANDER JAHANI

The Comma

February 12, 2015 THE OBSERVER

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Something January Asked For By AREEG ABDELHAMID

How To Tell Your Mother You Love Her

Last Night, January came and slept with me, Her numb hands grazed my face and

By MARK LEE

we were both sucked into this loneliness. Of waiting.

Tell her how the scent of onions browning on a stovetop makes you think of her. The way her red curls drifted across the kitchen in autumn, her long fingers folded over your hands as she taught you the importance of feeding the soft parts of the soul.

You’re a fool, with nothing but deep cranberry lust

Remind her that the things you love best about yourself are pieces of her. Her softness, her forgiveness, and her sacrifice. Show her the shirt you still own. The one she got in Colorado when she was your age. Tell her that when you wear it to bed, you remember how to be good, how to be strong. How to give up pieces of yourself so that others can be whole. Tell her that the salt of your own tears always seems to be hers. That you want to protect her in all the ways she protected you, and sometimes that means protecting her from yourself.

and nightmares to compare She dragged herself, dry skin and all hanging on this polished dreamless night. Before midnight,

Tell her that she is the thread that secures your Mississippi feet to these New York sidewalks. That she taught you to carry yourself in those places she can’t hold your hand. That when you walk home at two in the morning, lost and crying over all the things that can’t be, it’s her words echoing in your head that bring you back to yourself.

chained herself to the throne. She asked me to remember this night

Let her know that you learned the world through her. That she gave you her eyes when you couldn’t see and that her hands are your hands. That she taught you there is no greater bravery than tenderness.

and to dump you right in the middle of her lap

Remind her that you’ve grown. That you’ve changed. That you will carry her with you until you die, and when you do, that whatever is left of you will shout her name, her face, her love into the universe.

and she’ll take care of you and of us.

SARAH HOWARD/THE OBSERVER

Botticelli: “The Birth of Venus” By JESSICA VITOVITCH

Seductive flesh in deepest swoon Arise from shell as if from womb, Violets float in a west wind’s grace With dancing hair and a soft-fleshed face, A lustful gaze her love doth bear In a divine arousal driven stare, As Passion looms in lightly play Where sweet sand shores her gaze may lay

Listening for Silence By BENNY REGALBUTO

I am born. I cry and squeal like a pig being slaughtered. All around me, noises: the doctors’ joy, my mother’s pride, my father’s elated “It’s a boy!” I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come.

graciously receives her diploma. All around me, celebration: parents clapping incessantly, caps flying, students declaring victory. I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come.

I am eight. I yell and scream with my friends as we obliterate the birthday piñata. All around me, sounds: family chattering, music blaring, our footsteps echoing off the walls. I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come.

I am sixty-seven. I protest and fume as the cancer silently assassinates my once vibrant wife. All around me, pointlessness: machines whirring, family sobbing, doctors saying “I’m sorry.” I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come.

I am fourteen. I weep and sniffle as my parents exchange their feelings violently. All around me, cacophony: tears exploding on the ground, curses reverberating, furniture falling. I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come.

I am seventy-six. I revolt and rebel as my son gently suggests a retirement home. All around me, confusion: my son’s arguments, the TV news broadcasting, the teapot whistling. I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come.

I am twenty-six. I sweat and stutter as I pull out the ring. All around me, clamoring: seats shifting, people gasping anxiously, her fervent “Yes.” I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come.

I am eighty-two. I laugh and guffaw as my grandson slips in the mud by my favorite sycamore. All around me, delight: the boy’s amusement, the porch rocking chair squeaking, birds chirping. I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come.

I am thirty-three. I bark and flail my lead-heavy arms as I give orders to my men. All around me, chaos: bullets blanketing bodies, men moaning for mommy, outraged bombs. I’m listening for silence, and still it has not come. I am forty-nine. I cheer and applaud as my daughter

I am one-hundred. I grunt and swear as I painfully slip into bed. All around me… Nothing. No one. I only hear the nighinaudible crashing of atoms. I’m listening to silence, waiting for the cloaked, silhouetted man to carry me away.

KIRSTIN BUNKLEY/ THE OBSERVER

Har dwo od

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ET AR G AR M y B

THE OBSERVER February 12, 2015

The Comma

ER SH I F

They leaned sideways in the yellow glow With sheen faces and empty lungs. She promised to come back And dance during the summer. Like Cinderella, but she didn’t leave her shoe. The days burned into the sidewalk outside. The leaves blew over the steps up to Big, heavy, double doors. His name was Parker and he taught me how to dance. Asked for my hand and walked me out, Step, step, rock-step. I watched my feet while he smiled at my forehead. He smiled at my steps. Good Great Wow He smiled at me. “I’m the type to fall hard,” he said. “It’s all about love,” he said. I believed him. He twirled and lifted. My hair swirling in the air above the hardwood floor, He fell in love and Placed his hand on the small of my back.

Try to look into my face, Pull me to the floor again and again. Feel the warmth burn under our eyelids, Periphery crystal Glitter and liquid music. The girl who kept her shoe, Who didn’t leave a number or a name; Who hates the hope that Crawls inside and shatters out. I’ve grown heavy with this story. A glass slipper and a glass man. A thick door and click click heels. The dance swirls on inside. I stand with the leaves In the street. In November I hear your voice as it crawls across, A smile for someone far away. It is warm enough. I see a flash of tool and feel the light bulbs On my cheeks. I’m glad you don’t remember. And even though it doesn’t matter at all, Cinderella will wait, Just one more moment, Before I turn and go. SARAH HOWARD/THE OBSERVER

Excerpt from “Naked” By DEAN FRYN

“I want to be in the ocean,” I thought aloud. “Then jump in the ocean,” May retorted. “I need to be in the ocean…I’m going to jump into the ocean.” There I began to undress. I took off each article of clothing hurriedly as my impulse became a gripping and unusual carnal desire. I never felt anything like this before: I was hungry for a sensation that I did know. Within seconds, I stood before the water in my baby blue underwear, a color that the sky should have been on this weird day. The next couple of moments blurred into a gradient of screams, cheers, and gasps as I ran into the ocean. I strode over the waves, like a cheetah that was going to devour a gazelle. My heart accelerated as my feet splashed with the water that caressed my legs even though I tore through it. I no longer felt human; I was soaring as I was running and I leaped into the waves, this time transforming into a dolphin. The arc of my body was unified with the salt water and in delicate moments I was enveloped by the sea. I

did not feel the frigid temperature of the Pacific Ocean felt profound warmth as I sped through the miraculous water. I was not gay here. I was not underweight here. I was not human here. I was free. And I was so free to the point where my body convulsed in ecstasy and symphonies played in my head. It was like I was experiencing what it physically feels like to see God. Whirling motions and colors that burst out of the blackness of my closed eyes harmonized with liquid that was surging past my ephemeral body. I was not submerged underwater – I floated in a serene and vibrant universe. I felt the edge of insanity and spiritual rebirth; I was a phoenix being reborn from the indescribable, aquatic flames. The surface of the water rushed to my face and I gasped for breath. I began to shiver as I looked back on the crowd that formed on the shore. Some applauded, others laughed, most just stood in disbelief. I was a gladiator, and I proudly began to strut toward the shore like I was Mr. Universe.

PAULA MADERO/THE OBSERVER

COURTESY OF KAYLA D’ANGELO