The Statement: The Literary Issue by The Michigan Daily

Wednesday, February 26, 2014 // The Statement

Dear readers,

For writers, it’s a hard-knock life. Seriously. The world is funky, and the world is also filled with rainwater, chocolates, glue sticks and star fruit. Which is to say, the world is filled with the visual, the brave. We write so we can remember. We write so we can press the eye’s detail to the page; so we can make and shift and save and carve. It’s not magic, but it’s something that levitates, touches gravity and enfolds both brain and heart in a delicious way. It’s a difficult duty to do justice to the planet’s wondrous weight and gold. Yet, writers somehow manage to cause sparks with the alphabet.

This year, The Statement’s Literary Issue attempts to introduce you to writing that uproots and imagines. We hope these pieces cause readers to rethink the familiar into the strange. We hope they turn the common into the fresh. Here at The Statement, we are incredibly in awe and proud to feature the creative work

AFTER THE STORM ERIKA NESTOR

After the fever I only remember waking up to find everything revealed, my pale nightmare of the sun in a rainstorm and my mother moving in and out of sight stumbling and laughing, the messy relief of night-watch survived: my baby chanted, whispered, a thousand times. The bundle of my body under three blankets, rolling over and over again. Hot dry tongue, purple sky becoming pink & how the room grew larger as it spun. My father sat sitting by the door, his fingers curled around a cup of coffee. Close enough to touch, the lines of his mouth pulled down, my sister’s gray jumper drip dripping on stained wood. The floor shook when he stood up, and touched a single finger to my glassy skin. Behind me the rocking chair was creaking, someone’s dog somewhere barking. Beyond the great green incline of the couch I saw my mother’s fingers twitching over buttered toast, smelled her sharp familiar perfume like the aftermath of fear. In my dream, my mother turned pursuer, and I woke up with a stitch in my side. And yet: I saw her only in profile, as I dreamed— it might have been anyone.

of such talented student writers. We hope the readers will find that the poems and prose in this issue cradle, flit, unsettle the dirt and do work in the world.

VISIBILITY

Sincerely, Carlina Duan Magazine Editor ILLUSTRATIONS BY AMY MACKENS AND RUBY WALLAU

THE

statement

Magazine Editor: Carlina Duan Deputy Editors: Max Radwin

Photo Editor: Ruby Wallau Illustrator: Megan Mulholland

Amrutha Sivakumar Editor in Chief: Design Editor: Amy Mackens

Peter Shahin

ALEX KIME

I wish I could say I didn’t know what it was that marked me, that when the boys yell insults as they pass me on State or from the other side of the sidewalk, I would not know how they found out. but I do. I am aware of the way my voice sounds, what my gestures look like, the unconscious paintbrush switch of my hips as I walk down the street, the bright streaks in my asymmetrical haircut. a group of drunken frat boys is an alert. every muscle becomes stiff, every hair becomes raised, I am never more self-obsessed than in those moments, analyzing what I look like: am I wearing tight pants? am I wearing bright colors? are my nails painted? do I have glitter in my hair? have they heard my voice? how readable am I, in this moment? is it likely they’ll revisit childhood, decide to play smear the queer? in the end, it doesn’t matter. I was wearing a baggy Michigan hoodie with my painted nails in my pockets and a hood over my hair they still saw me, even from a moving car.

Managing Editor: Katie Burke Copy Editors: Mark Ossolinski Meaghan Thompson

Wednesday,February 26, 2014 // The Statement

oseph read the newspaper and sipped a coffee too hot to be drunk by a first timer. His mother made scrambled eggs on the stove and talked to Gwendolyn on the phone, a conversation defined largely by its “oh-my-God’s” and “no-way’s!” Joseph wasn’t bothered though. This was the morning ritual: coffee, newspaper and “Didn’t you hear, Gwen!” every day. Even this day. And though the momentous occasion begged the Singletons to break routine, they did no such thing. Joseph appreciated this consistency to the bitter end, just as he’d grown to appreciate the little things about his mother, who had separated from his father when her son was just two. Now, Joseph was 16. He was mature for his age; at least that’s what teachers told his mother at conferences. “He’s a quiet boy,” they’d say, “but very smart. I think he just needs a little encouragement.” His mother spoke with Joseph those nights about planning for the future, how college was just on the horizon and had he started thinking about what he might want to be when he grew up? The when of that question, after all, was fast approaching. Joseph would pause, check his watch, and say, “I don’t know yet. Ask me in three years.” To which, his mother would give him a look of indignation or disappointment — Joseph could never tell — and ask him what he wanted to do for dinner the next night. Of course, the next night didn’t matter anymore to these two, what with the clinics springing up in every town and the government orders. And it wasn’t just the next night that had lost any sort of relevance. It was the night after that. And after that. And the one after that. But most folks weren’t complaining. Life is a difficult, uncontrollable force. Life suffocates and strangles and squeezes you until you’ve forgotten what it feels like to breathe. Now, Joseph could still breathe, but he knew it wouldn’t last. He imagined it would be nice to have some say in when life began and ended. At least, with the clinics, he could make an appointment, schedule it.

“Thanks for everything, Mr. Abner,” Joseph said, shaking his teacher’s hand.

“Yes, sir.” “Ah so no essay for you huh?” Joseph laughed while he had the chance. “I guess not,” Joseph said. “Well it’s been a pleasure, son. Good luck out there.” “Thank you. Have a good one.” “You too! Hey would you mind calling Steve Mason in here? I need to talk to him about his handwriting.” “No problem.” Joseph called Steve; then went to his locker, grabbing his backpack and cramming as many books and notebooks into the three pockets large enough to hold them. His theology textbook proved especially difficult to fit, so he decided to leave it with Sister Anthony, the head of the religion department and a nun whose name caused more than one taunt from the boys of St. Charles Preparatory Academy. Regardless, the petite, scarlet-haired woman retained a tough exterior (Rumor has it she once beat a boy with a ruler for throwing a paper airplane. His parents threatened to sue if Sister Anthony didn’t automatically pass him. She did so, but not without informing both the mother and the father that they were, “failures to their son, their God and themselves.” She called them “pathetic, shriveled worms devoid of backbone, yet inexplicably filled with hot air.” Joseph considered Sister Anthony the very definition of a Woman of God). “Sister Anthony,” Joseph said, waiting at her classroom door. She graded papers and drank tea in her free periods. “Come in, Joseph,” she said, not glancing up from an essay on the sixth commandment. “I just need to return my theology textbook. I was cleaning out my locker, and it wouldn’t fit in my backpack.” “Saying goodbye to us are you, Joseph?” Sister’s Anthony spoke quickly and without inflection. “Yes, Sister.” “Should I wish you congratulations?” Her eyes looked up from the paper and stared at Joseph over the frames of her glasses. Joseph knew she expected an answer, but had none. “I suppose so, Sister.”

“Oh you’re most welcome, Joseph.” Mr. Abner said. “I hear you have an appointment

“Well congratulations then. Are you

nervous?” “A little.” “Well from what I hear, the procedure isn’t very painful. But then again, who on earth could attest to that?” Joseph laughed unsteadily. Sister Anthony sighed, removed her glasses, and stared at him with a concentration rarely seen outside of life’s most heart-swelling or heartbreaking moments. “Good luck, Joseph. It’s been a pleasure having you as a student.” Joseph’s face warmed at the old nun’s words, but his stomach churned at her tone. “Thank you, Sister. It’s been great having you for a teacher.” Sister Anthony smiled a sad smile, and Joseph said, “Well, I’ll let you get back to grading papers.” Joseph left her room, and then the school. He attended piano practice, played a few of his favorite movements, and drove home, waiting for his mother to return from work. He never saw Sister Anthony again. ***

argue with her choice, except maybe Joseph, but, like Gwendolyn, he never said a word against it. The procedure was supposed to be like falling asleep anyway. One doctor said the vaccine gave the patients a feeling of “relief,” as though the weight of life were finally off their shoulders. The anxiety, the worries, the fear, the doubt. Life has fewer pros than cons, Joseph’s mother thought. She caressed her favorite quote. “This makes sense,” she whispered. Joseph opened the passenger door and said that there would be a five-minute wait. The clinic was busy, today, but the doctors were moving quickly to get everybody in. That’s what Joseph said he heard at least. Three minutes later, Joseph and his mother left the car and walked across the parking lot to the clinic doors, which were smudged with something red, or was it pink? Joseph’s mother held his hand, that is, until he released her grip and sprinted away from the clinic, across the parking lot, and into the street. She watched her son leave her, wiped a tear from her left eye, and opened a glass door smeared with blood. “Ms. Singleton?” a nurse asked.

Joseph’s mother drove to the clinic. The driving helped her relax; at least that’s what she told her son, who wasn’t paying attention in the first place. Nostalgia had gotten the best of our Joseph. He was thinking of girls he’d never kissed, books he’d never read, and mistakes he wouldn’t have the chance to make. Most of all, Joseph wondered whether life was meant to be lived at all; if death was so inevitable and forthcoming, why even try? To quote the darkest and most melodramatic recesses of his mind, “What was the point of it all?” Joseph and his mother never did discuss it, and so on she drove to the clinic as the shy boy thought of questions he would never ask.

“Yes,” Joseph’s mother said. “The doctor will Congratulations.”

see

you

now.

“Thank you.” Readjusting a wayward strand of hair, Joseph’s mother composed herself and followed the nurse to a small room that was mostly unfurnished save a leather couch and chair. It looked like a therapist’s office without the coziness of a bookshelf or a window.

*** The clinic was a dank little building, perfect for an optometrist’s office or a two-bit law firm. Joseph’s mother pecked her son’s cheek before sending him to tell the receptionist they’d arrived for the appointment. Meanwhile, she took one last smoke while reviewing the pamphlet, which the government had loaded with percentages, statistics and quotes, her personal favorite being: “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” The line gave her confidence. She referenced those words whenever anyone questioned her decision. Gwendolyn never did, which was enough for her. No one could

BEHIND THE CURTAIN ALEXANDER BERNARD

FOR THE FULL VERSION SEE MICHIGANDAILY.COM

DESIGN BY NICK CRUZ

The day was April 12, a Thursday. His history teacher Mr. Abner assigned a paper for next Monday. Joseph was happy he didn’t have to do it. The essay topic was on the West European migration to America in the 17th century and the inherent struggles of such a transition. This issue, of course, carried little weight with 16-year-old boys, especially Joseph who, at the time, had other, more holistic matters weighing his mind, specifically an appointment with the clinic at 5:30 p.m. that afternoon.

with the clinic tonight.”

Wednesday, February 26, 2014 // The Statement

DUST & FEATHERS

we stroll through Sunday-

INEDIBLE LOVE TERESA MATHEW

I dreamt I was a dragon last night And you were a princess Don’t worry, I didn’t eat you But I didn’t save you either I didn’t stop you from braiding your hair To let in a boy I knew would steal your heart [and your wallet and vinyl records I’m sorry about that, but iTunes exists now. Let it go.] Or snatch your shoe from the staircase To stop him from coming after you In my defense I thought your beat-up converse would detract any man But we confused desperate for hopelessly devoted I’m sorry they stuck to the gum-ridden stairs And I’m sorry he let you down Then a boy showed up with a talking tea set And I could have breathed fire at him In long, angry streaks But I stayed quiet Because I was taught that only love can break a curse I guess I’m mad he broke your heart But really I just can’t believe he took our ottoman It was shaped like a puppy Damn him I’m tired of waiting For a prince to come save you And I would if I could but I can’t Because I’m a dragon And we eat people, we don’t love them Or save them or marry them But if we could I would promise to never steal your records And pretend that The National sounds better on CDs And I would treasure your shoes Never needing your foot size or bra size To identify or value you And I would never steal the furniture Or lock you in a dungeon No rose would ever lose its petals So throw away the storybook And I’ll wake up if you will I know a dragon can’t turn into a prince But I love you And I won’t eat you Can that be enough?

Daddy carries our long-trip-thermos (deep green & dented & topped with a chrome cap) it is filled with brown tea which we drink from small glasses shaped like hexagons the flavor makes me carsick

and the scene goes: trees gaping down pink-limbs drool off wide trunks thick bunches hang green & greedy above while orange lilies throw their heads back bossy & fluted capturing the silence in their soft throats i know my flaws:

BOTANICAL

sometimes i get too caught up in verbs & muscles sometimes i become damp in the sunlight sunlit rooms can swallow me sometimes i walk in circles that end with nausea and a bench surrounded by lemon grass

LEELA DENVER

JANUARY 2013 MARGARET HITCH

on the first day of the year my friends and I almost get hit by a train. afterwards, there is not much to say. our skin is red with the cold. the new blue sky in your alleyway is filled with stratus clouds. there is dirt uncovered, wet and poorly sorted. this is the place where we rang in the new millennium with glue and glitter crowns, now — 2013 looks like glitter itself — flashy channel dancing dub-step static and singing forever. youth shape — shifts onscreen yet outside, something like snow is lulling. we are already ancient. claylike, lusty red. what vibrancies lick my boot soles! stomp over every bit of untrodden earth. I run through the park, and the tongue of the mouth of the earth soaks through the snowmelt.

GOOGLE SEARCH: FLOWERING TREE SPECIES IN DETROIT

ALLISON EPSTEIN

amongst the glossy fronds and ivies i become wrecked

London, 1945. The war was over. He walked along the border of Regent’s Park with his hands tucked in his trouser pockets. It was dark already, but then, it had never been light – a thick fog hovered around the streetlights, nestling close to the ruins of what had once been the aviary of the London Zoo. It was not the first time that he had walked this way, but every day it was a challenge. Before the war, he had set himself goals for each morning: run the circumference of Hyde Park, run from St. Paul’s to Grosvenor Square and back. Now he had set the no-less heroic goal of walking past the London Zoo, calmly and without thought. Someday, perhaps, he would manage it. The remains of the building were only brick and mortar, but he smelled sulfur and manure and something musky that made his stomach turn. He longed for a drink to settle it, but it was only three in the afternoon. Too early for a pint, even by London’s standards. He turned up the collar of his coat. The wind blew cold, hinting at snow somewhere past the Tower, biding its time across the Thames. He nudged a crumbled piece of brick with his toe, feeling the pressure of destruction against his boot. It must have been an amazing sight, when the Germans dropped the air-raid bombs on the aviary. Flashes of gold and red and orange like the fireworks on Bonfire day, pinpricked through with the jewel tones of exotic feathers, emerald and turquoise and violet. Feathers floated atop the dust, driftwood and seaweed borne along by the tide. Feathers, riding like tiny boats without passengers along the Thames to the sea. There were no bright colors left in London. Only soot-covered sparrows and battle-scarred wrens stumbled across the streets under the thick fog, gorging their young on the smoke. And the pigeons that occupied Trafalgar square like refugees, huddling together, speaking in rapid non-Romance languages about places and people they had left behind the curtain of fire and dust. It was no wonder he longed to kick them when he passed – they were everywhere, atop the heads of the marble lions, watching the same people walk backward and forward, sneaking down into the Tube and waiting for the same trains to circle back and around. They didn’t know that they were no different than anybody else, that they had nothing left to wait for. He kicked the rubble in front of him like he had done with Will when they had been boys, except then they had used tins of baked beans or smooth, round pebbles, cleared of all roughness and imperfections by years of wind and water. He wondered what kinds of birds still flew over the cliffs at Normandy, and whether Will could still see their colored feathers.

fat bunches v. sweet, perfumed very sweet smelling creamcolored kind of squat small small and squat heavy in the rain bows when weighed down by water rain rainwater kissed my forehead lives on Cass Ave. by thekissed my forehead as i walked by i got wet – lives on Cass Ave. across from café with best tuna melts not far from home two-month-home home home i’m not going back to home i plucked a fat bunch and got wet from rainwater spraying off very sweet smelling cream-colored petals which I held to my cheeks and it felt so lovely.

LEELA DENVER

Can you pleasethis treeI miss it.

ROOT VEGETABLES LEELA DENVER

Dirt holds my head up and after I gauge the progress I grab hold of the forsythia’s bottom and pull up. I think about turnips and how they look like noses and how at the farmer’s market this girl held my hand once. Once, when I was five, I learned who god was supposed to be. Is? The green onions are sprouting; I hope I don’t forget about them. I break off a sprig and chew on it. It tastes good and I remember when the jungle gym in my neighbor’s basement punched me in the stomach: pungent. Zubin’s blue basement couch was where we fought about “church” and, also, made up. The hyacinth flowers don’t smell very sweet. I like that. Leaves tickle my cheeks and the sun splits shadows of bushes as I crawl out from behind the purple rows. I pinch a blade of grass and remember how I never could whistle it like my friends. I didn’t learn about angels then, but a year later I felt funny when an old lady gave me a cherry cough drop and said that I was one. and god threw his hands down and dug them into the ground uprooting tiny humans and planting gardens of angels

Wednesday, February 26, 2014 // The Statement

DESIGN BY NICK CRUZ

MY SONG, MY FAMILY AND ME SUPRIYA JALUKAR

he glare of the incandescent lights seemed brighter than ever, and the room seemed to have tripled in size in the few minutes I had been in it. Inhale, exhale, inhale, repeat. I took a few deep breaths, cleared my throat, and searched for a familiar face in the crowd. Focusing on one person always helps me get through challenges, as if the silent support of a pair of eyes could infuse me with a steady strength. The eyes seemed to blend together in an expansive sea of faces, and I could feel my heartbeat gradually quickening. I wondered if the audience could sense my anxiety. “Just feel the power of the words,” my aunt’s voice echoed in my mind, “and you’ll be fine.” I lowered my glance, and my eyes landed on a maroon-colored rectangular carpet, splashed with images of fuchsia roses and powdered lilies, the picture the song lyrics conjured up. I mustered the courage to produce a single note, but after a few seconds, the tone shook, and I couldn’t sustain it any longer. I couldn’t continue with the performance, I had disappointed everyone. It was over. It’s been six years since this scene. I was in India, around the time of my cousin’s wedding. I haven’t had the courage or desire to sing since that failure. The magic in singing seemed less clear to me after such an embarrassing experience. It was as if fear had quelled the passion that had originally driven me to perform for others, blurring my understanding of why music still needed to remain a part of my life. Despite this, I’ve grown up in a musical household. Singing and dancing were always part of my life, expected in a sort of way. Music has historically been a part of Indian culture. A number of dance and musical styles have originated in the country, and the sheer melodic variety reflects the nation’s richness. What this means for the average Indian child, however, is that by the age of 10, she will have taken classes for dance, Indian percussion, singing or any other traditional Indian art form. Most often, families try to retain a style or form of art that has trickled through the family tree. For instance, if one’s mother and grandmother danced, it is likely that the third generation of children will be enrolled in dance classes, despite their own inclinations. In my case, since my mother had been a Bharat Natayam dancer, and my father had played the synthesizer, I grew up dabbling in both dancing and singing. Since my father came from a deeply cultured, artsy Indian family, I too, began learn-

ing about Indian music early. My informal music education began when I was three, and would parrot my grandmother’s voice, learning simple Indian nursery rhymes in my mother tongue, Marathi.I had been an enthusiastic and musically inclined youngster, picking up melodies almost naturally, I am often told. My easily moldable mind, like any other young brain, soaked up any and every Indian song that it could. I enthusiastically accompanied my grandparents on rather complex songs, taking initiative to memorize various traditional tunes before I had even learned the English alphabet. The first time I sang in public was in a large 50-seater auditorium at my local temple in the U.S. I distinctly remember stepping out onto the warm wooden temple stage, showered under the bright, hot glow; I was nervous, but excited, clutching the silver microphone between my, then small, palms. Just as the varying shades of the fallen crisp autumn leaves painted and enlivened the earth outdoors, so too, the melodies fortified my world with vibrant colors. My five-year-old mind raced to remember the lyrics, composed of fewer than 100 words. My father accompanied me, easing my fears to an extent, feeding me the lines during the show, and drowning out any of my mistakes with a quick, improvisational piece on the synthesizer. Each year the ritual would repeat, evolve from innocent to more mature or complex tunes. I began to perform independently. Though I would be trembling back stage, rehearsing the lines frantically in my mind and aloud, while on stage, I would gaze out into the blinding white light and somehow, mysteriously, feel comforted, complete and fulfilled. Then, after five minutes of musical bliss, I would escape into the audience again. These cultural performances became an annual tradition, and I relished the opportunity to learn and perform Indian tunes for that one September holiday night

“

each year. Things were different in India. My aunt has been teaching music for as long as I can remember. Her voice has an incredibly mighty tone. As a child visiting my family, I would always look forward to a singing session with her. We’d sit on a pair of embroidered cushions on the cool stone floor of the small apartment, facing one another. Almost instinctively, her left hand would rise, her fingers curled, as if her hands were narrating a story through song. Her voice would rise above like a lark on the coolest day of spring leading with great pride, vigor and passion. Being present to witness such magic was inspiring beyond words, and I grew up wanting more than anything to replicate her voice, to create sounds so sweet. But the “family concerts” terrified me. Being center-room with my aunts, uncles, cousins and other distant relatives, judging my voice, labeling me as the “American girl who sings” was intimidating. When I sang in America, I felt the stakes were always lower. I sang a song, people clapped, and that was it — it was simple, painless and I didn’t have to explain or prove myself to anyone in particular. Perhaps the pressure of singing for my family in India stemmed from the fact that I knew that a single performance was always the lasting image my extended family had of me. Each trip to India, my entire extended family held a family reunion the weekend before we departed for the states. The event always promised to be fun-filled, marked by contagious laughter — the inviting kind, which cultivates authentic smiles — a savory home-cooked meal and music.However, it was the last time we’d meet for a few years. So, I feared that if I missed a note, wavered on a tone, or had any less-than-satisfactory presentation, this would be their last opinion of me. I would leave India with an impression of failure, powerless to change it until

When I sang in America, I felt the stakes were always lower

”

the next time I visited. I hadn’t sung for three years when I visited my mother country again this past summer. I had nearly forgotten how to hold a note for longer than a minute, a feat which, five years earlier, seemed much easier. So, naturally, when my aunt, who learns music regularly, asked me if I wanted to join her to observe her music class, I was hesitant. How would I be able to understand the tempos? What if they asked me to join in? I wasn’t prepared to sing, but my aunt said coolly, “Come. It’ll be good for you to hear some good Indian music.” I couldn’t resist or rather, didn’t have the motivation to, so I agreed to accompany her, rather unwillingly. The singing guru’s home was a short five-minute motorcycle ride away, and as we entered the tiny two-roomed home, a gruff-looking bearded man ushered us in. An oblong wooden instrument resembling a ukulele with a long fingerboard lay in the corner, ready to be picked up and played by its owner. For the first five minutes, my aunt and her guru began with warm-ups — arpeggios, or raagas, ranging from the simplest two-note patterns, to more intricate combinations of notes. Hearing the various tones and the brilliant combinations reminded me of trekking through a mountain with twisted turns carved into it. The tones combined in just the right places, but there was an element of mystery in that it was impossible to predict the following combination of notes. Gradually, their voices gained momentum, blending together in just the right way, yet retaining their unique traits; the sound assumed a more definitive pattern of tones as the song progressed. I realized that it was fused with particular sentiments, and that the unique ways the tones merged and diverged tugged at specific emotions. I became engrossed in the song’s melody, felt the need to catch every fleeting note and process its perfect timbre, rhythm and tone, just before it transformed into a new one. Listening to them sing together — their perfect blend of voices — touched me, and I was reminded of my childhood sessions learning music from my aunt. Then, too, I had been enamored of the magnitude of music. I had realized how music can stir and connect souls, even those oceans apart. By the time of the class’ close, I was emotionally charged from the beautiful performance, and I decided that I needed to start singing again. FOR THE FULL VERSION SEE MICHIGANDAILY.COM

Wednesday, February 26, 2014 // The Statement

A DAY AT THE FAIR AMY HENSON

’m an imposter in my blazer from eighth grade. Waiting in line at (Fortune 500 Company X), I’m mentally prepping for the eight-or-so minutes I will have to make an impression, and my brain just won’t turn off. Be natural. Be exceptional. Be funny. Be relatable. Be cool. Be smart. Be interested. Be interesting. Just be yourself. I wipe a sweaty palm across the back of the leather resume holder I felt compelled to buy junior year. It leaves a smear, and I debate blowing it dry with my mouth. Instead I open the thing up, looking at my resume for the millionth time. My resume. The story of me in a neutral serif font, size 10. Complete with a professional summary, list of experiences and strong action verbs for each bullet point (not forgetting to show the results of my responsibilities with numbers!). • Spearheaded • Implemented • Managed The result of hours of frustration with unaligned indents and bullets and headlines, this 8.5” by 11” sheet of paper has become my “foot in the door.” Kind of. “I look at resumes for new hires at Puma, and we really just go through the database and search certain buzzwords.” My cousin, the Global Product Group Manager at Puma, helped me with my resume last year. “Not higher than a 3.5 GPA? Gone. No retail experience? Gone. No leadership experience? Gone.” “How many people get hired based on their resumes?” I ask. “Barely any. It’s all about networking.” So, I learn the art of the palm-to-palm handshake (Remember: only two shakes! Any more than that and you’re stuck in a handshake-death-spiral with a recruiter who will probably dismiss you as unemployable while you incessantly shake and smile and shake and smile). I learn about selling myself, about dealing with recruiters, about “networking.” I learn because I have to, because those around me are also learning, because this is what it takes to become a successful adult, right? I imagine the career fair from above looks like a hellish, business-casual picnic. The 48 company recruiting tables are draped in brightly colored tablecloths, swarmed by eager-for-employment University of Michigan students — ants in formal attire. We crawl, we schmooze, we shake hands. Employ us, we beg. We take our promotional pens and sunglasses and water bottles and move on. Except in this ant colony, we don’t work together. In this, it’s every ant for himself. As a senior at a competitive university like Michigan, the job hunt is both exhilarating and exhausting; we hate it, but we love it. All of us aren’t sure what we will really be doing at these companies, but we go for the big jobs anyway. We want the great salaries. We want to be successful and we want to be happy. But at what point do perfected elevator pitches, strong handshakes and fontsize-10 resumes make us stand out? Finally, the recruiter smiles in my direction, indicating that my turn has arrived. She is no older than 24, fresh-faced and happy to have her day away from the office. I go in for a firm, double-pump palm-to-palm handshake, and the dance begins. “Hi! I’m Katherine. Great to meet you…” “…Amy. Hi! Great to meet you, Katherine. (insert small talk here. i.e. ‘It’s so hot in here, how are you holding up?’)”

“(Insert response small talk. i.e. ‘I know right? So hot. But hangin’ in there!’). So tell me a little about yourself, Amy.” Tell her about myself. Tell her that I am always, always, always on time. That I am naturally curious, and love working with smart, creative people. That I am a writer. That I love making people smile. That I am an English major who isn’t planning on teaching or going to graduate school, actually. That my favorite sections of the New York Times are Technology, Opinion and Books. That I would give 100 percent to this company because I’ve given 100 percent to all of my activities since I started dance class at four years old. That I really want to find a job that I love, but fear I never will. That I hate recruiting, hate this blazer, hate that my palms are sweaty, hate that I’m second-guessing my liberal arts degree. That no job offer will be better than these past years as a student and that I never want to leave this place for the real world. Myself is me, sitting in my Michigan sweats talking with friends about our obscene Oreo intake, laughing at Drake on Saturday Night Live. I am an empathetic listener with a dry sense of humor and naturally decisive tendencies — but somehow couldn’t get all that onto my resume. Just be yourself, but I don’t see how I can. Especially when I’m wearing this outfit. Why this is called business casual, I’ll never understand. Casual is jeans and a tee shirt. Casual is sneakers. Casual is comfortable, and I feel anything but. I notice with envy that Recruiter Katherine and all of her recruiter buddies from (Fortune 500 Company X) are wearing jeans and companylogo T-shirts. “We don’t dress up for work. Really, we would never wear something like you’re wearing.” This comment makes me feel weird, but okay. Conversation continues. Eventually, we end up discussing the job posting I found online for a writing-based position. I’m feeling pretty excited about it, and ask about the recruiting process for fulltime hires. “Oh, I don’t really handle that kind of work. I recruit for Sales. But you can go talk to Jessica! She knows more about those kinds of positions than me.” What? I

move over to Jessica, a girl I swear I have seen walking through the Diag over the years. She is wearing her blue jeans, standard-issue logo T-shirt and a pair of Converse sneakers, and looks more like the college student in this exchange than I do. I go through the hand-shake-smalltalk-tell-me-about-yourself routine, and then ask about that same writing position. “Oh, interesting redirect by Katherine. I actually just started three weeks ago, so I don’t really know much about anything other than Sales. You should go to www.(fortune500companyx).com/careers and check it out though!” Yes, I have checked that out, actually. “Great, thank you for your help.” “Would you like a stress ball?” Yes, I would like a stress ball. “Sure.” I don’t give her my resume, and my foot remains firmly outside the door to (Fortune 500 Company X). I crawl onward, shoving my new stress ball into my purse. *** I wait in another excruciatingly long line for a different company, and start to chat with the guy waiting in front of me. His blazer hangs folded over his right arm, and the rings of sweat pooling around his armpits make my thankful that my nervous sweating problem is in my palms. “Yeah, I’m a sophomore. I’m here for internships.” A sophomore? “Cool! What’s your major?” “Computer Science. I just built my own server this summer. I can access it from anywhere in the world. It’s dope. What’s your major?” Holy shit — what am I doing next to this kid? “I’m studying English and New Media,” I tell babygenius. “Like blogs? Wow, they have classes for that? I thought anyone could blog.” I decide to disengage, reaching for my iPhone to shut this kid up. He puts his blazer back on and taps his foot impatiently, waiting for his turn. Later on, I can hear baby-genius talking with a recruiter from a huge technology company. His voice sounds different; his hands are working it; he’s doing the dance. I close my eyes. He’s a sophomore. “NEXT!” My turn. *** “But are you having any fun there?” It’s my older brother, Max, and I just called to tell him about my upcoming phone interview with (Fortune 500 Company Y). I pause. I am, aren’t I? I’m still going to football tailgates, still hanging out with my friends, still getting beer at Jolly Pumpkin and ice cream at Rod’s Diner. “Of course I am. It’s just hard not to get wrapped up in this stuff,” I explain.

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Wednesday, February 26, 2014 // The Statement

THE THINGS WE CARRY after “Look” by Laura Kasischke I bear into this room a package full of the love my mother felt toward my father. The mug of coffee on the counter each day, the proper professor food, she told her friends about his Ph.D. And he studied galaxies, planets circling in orbit, the inevitable collision of decomposition. This space dust would fall from his mouth at dinnertime, senseless matter that would coat the kitchen plates and seats and walls. He was used to speaking, while she would touch his elbow, brush his back lightly, each point of contact a pull of gravity. My father built constellation palaces around himself. My mother passed him lemon bars to keep cool in his study during summertime. She— filled the gaps of air around him. She— smiled daily, licked at rose lipstick, trying to compete with stars.

LUCY ZHAO

VITAL ORGANS EMMA KRUSE

Half-mooned beneath my belly button is the little white puckered cross-stitch from where they stuck the camera in to see the salamander in my currant jelly insides. The surgeon told me as soon as they cut it out it burst in his hands. Of all the organs he’s held I imagine my appendix is very far down on his list. He must have held purple hearts caressed fishy lungs and maybe even touched a liver! twitching as it baptizes blood and churns it out pure. Of all my organs, I live most with my liver. After all, it is the thing that keeps me from poisoning myself. I once read that in Babylon they thought livers were souls, weighing in at three fatty pounds.

THANKS FOR READING, THANKS FOR WRITING. — THE STATEMENT STAFF