Accolades The 2014 Santa Fe Community College Student Writing Awards

Accolades The 2014 Santa Fe Community College

Student Writing Awards

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6401 Richards Ave. Santa Fe, NM 87508 505-428-1000 www.sfcc.edu

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Table of Contents Poetry Winner Susan Aylward..........................................Villanelle: Winds of Early Spring Runner-Up Esmé Vaandrager......................................................... To Make Me Strong .......................................................When I Die I Will Fly & Drip Horses Honorable Mentions Holly Baldwin............................................................................... Hollow Susan Aylward........................................................................... Resilience Isabel McGowan..................................................................... I miss you…

Joia Sivan-Capocchi............................................................................. um

Fiction

Winner Lorraine Leslie.......................................................................... The Cause Runner-Up Angela Udemezue.................................................My First Hotel Business Honorable Mentions Joia Sivan-Capocchi...........................................................................Burn Cathy Notarnicola................................................................. Bundling Up

Personal Essay

Winner Veronica Clark....................................................................... Break Down Runner-Up AJ Pufnstuf....................................................................... My First Rodeo Honorable Mentions Emily Floyd........................................................................ The Black Suit Vanessa L. Mendez.......................................................................“El Rey”

Academic Essay

Winner Daniel Ellis-Green......................Transfiguration in the Glass Lake of A. & P. Honorable Mention Daniel Ellis-Green..................Blake and Eliot: Two Views of Life in the City .............................................. Shakespeare, Deception, and Human Nature 1

The Santa Fe Community College Student Writing Awards are given out annually. All students enrolled in at least three credits in either the Fall or Spring semesters are eligible. Interested students submitted their work, which was then judged by a group of judges selected from the staff at SFCC. The places were determined on the basis of the judges’ rankings. In addition to being published in Accolades, the authors were invited to give a public reading at the SFCC Student Writing Awards Celebration. Winners and Runners-up also received monetary prizes.

The Student Writing Awards exist to celebrate the diverse voices of SFCC students and to recognize the already-present talent of these stilldeveloping writers. This recognition also provides encouragement to the writers to continue their pursuit of original written expression.

The Winner and Runners-up in each category are also eligible for the Richard Bradford Memorial Creative Writing Scholarship.

The Student Writing Awards are directed by Daniel Kilpatric. The following people were essential to making The SFCC Student Writing Awards and Celebration happen: Shuli Lamden, Colleen Lynch, Justine Carpenter, Janet Berry, Kathy Romero, Deborah Boldt, Kelly Smith, Peg Johnson, Michael Lehrer, Jennifer Bleyle, Kay Bird, Laura Mulry, Dorothy Perez y Piriz, Ken McPherson, Margaret Peters, Sandra Lucero, Miriam Sagan, Julia Deisler, Marci Eannarino, Bethany Kilpatric, Dorothy Massey and The Collected Works Bookstore, all the instructors who encouraged their students to enter, and all the students who entered but did not receive an award.

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Poetry Winner Susan Aylward

Villanelle: Winds of Early Spring Descansos pummeled, winds of early spring, bait and stir ghosts never old, a bird flies alone, what song does it sing Here spirit flew as if in a dream, they’ll return until their stories are told, descansos pummeled, winds of early spring Mothers weep for those taken wing, oh seeking one, the nest will grow cold, descansos pummeled, winds of early spring Grandmothers cross hearts, beads on a string, welcoming buds in purple and gold, a bird flies alone, what song does it sing Kindness, unexpected, makes my heart sting, trumpets blow, life never grows old, a bird flies alone, what song does it sing and when it returns, what will it bring, current of destiny, ours to unfold, descansos pummeled, winds of early spring, a bird flies alone, what song does it sing?

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Poetry Runner-Up Esmé Vaandrager

To Make Me Strong It’s lonely and the TV’s blue light is a jellyfish digesting my head.

My dad & brother aren’t really here.

The computer abducts them, leaves their bodies to slowly break the chairs.

They are black holes.

Their gravity is contagious.

I inch through the living room like I am on the side of a building 81 stories up until I get to the window (don’t worry I take off my shoes to stand on the couch) & stare hard to abduct my mother’s car from her work into the driveway until my vision blurred permanently & I had to get glasses. * 10 pm. The strain of hoping that Mom will get home early has passed.

The front door sighs & I smell the cold on her coat.

I tell her I have to warm up her hands or they’ll fall off.

I squish the veins on the tops of her hands & tame those rebellious rivers turning inside out underneath her skin.

I do this to make sure she is real & it is not my dreams of her returning that have just clopped through the creaky front door.

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She pulls her hands from me before they are warm.

I almost hope her hands fall off.

Her voice, not my dream of her voice, wrings out like gray water from a dish towel, You are not guests in this house!

No maid lives here!

My throat hurts for her. * I waited & waited for my mom to come home & grew 2 & a half feet longer hallucinating her car’s breaks squeaking their arrival in the driveway, the front door creaking, her beeper abducted somehow by the toilet.

I waited so I could crawl into her lap, drive the blue screen from its kingdom, make her soft, make her sit, tell her I floated on a bench with a pink & turquoise wind breaker on, big as her, and leaned back into the wind, unwound one eye to watch my little shadow’s parachute chest sweep the playground dirt.

I waited to put my mouth on her shoulder like a catfish & hum that there were 2 boys at school who called me Asthma & repeated the things I said like the words were old milk sliding down the cafeteria trash can.

My throat hurt for her.

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Poetry Runner-Up EsmĂŠ Vaandrager

When I Die I Will Fly & Drip Horses A murder of craggy cottonwoods murmurs in its sleep of a train trundling north, a future bend in their branches writing as she rides through the dusty morning: Gray and gold and dark are the only colors that stick to the bark.

Underneath, shaggy horses stand as if they materialized from dream syrup the branches dripped all night.

The smallest branches whir into a blurry lace.

The murder beats its wings all spring until in summer the cotton takes flight.

When dancers die, they become cottonwoods.

At least their arms do. Angel arms form yearning chains to articulate wilder angles than any one elbow could bloom.

Dance laces the dream syrup.

Look. The gentle horses half trot, half float, half bloom amongst the shadows.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Holly Baldwin

Hollow The words escaping my soft honey lips are hollow bullets meant to appease Like bubbles to your heart they burst into oblivion and leave nothing substantial in their wake It is exhausting, this façade My soul feels like empty steel, an enormous weight of guilt and love…spite and desire I can’t escape who I am in this moment I can’t escape that time is marching I want to burn with love, anew until I am nothing more than a petal flying empty in the desert wind.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Susan Aylward

Resilience invisible sap, she wears the bark of the weeping willow, bending to the wind stubborn angel, she guides me out of bed, presses the piùon roast, sets me on my day sister of perseverance, she lives in cocoons, pawn shops, and the wink of my grandmother’s eye lone dandelion, she eats what her stomach will allow, what she can get away with, what her mother fed her blazing phoenix, dog with a bone, because of you, I am happy to be alive

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Poetry Honorable Mention Isabel McGowan

I miss you…

So, I thought of you this morning.

I think it was because of the glistening dew on my window pane.

You know how much I like to look out my kitchen window while having my morning tea as I watch the butterflies flutter by.

Well, nowadays I make believe that they are you.

Beautiful and free.

There’s this big, majestic monarch that visits every morning to take a sweet sip from my roses.

Yes, I think that one is you.

You always loved helping me in my garden.

Now your angelic spirit can live forever among the lilies and roses.

So, every morning in the warm months you will come to say, “Hello” as you delicately sit on the petals of your favorite rose.

And I will smile and know that you still love me.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Joia Sivan-Capocchi

um He’s crying when he asks what’s keeping you here.

He’s crying and you feel sorry for him.

You fold your sleeves, neatly.

You push them up past your elbows to reveal the white nylon ropes wrapped around your wrists.

“I made those,” He kisses your hands, “I made them for you.”

He’s crying, “so you wouldn’t get lost.”

He’s kissing your palms.

What’s keeping you here.

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Fiction Winner Lorraine Leslie

The Cause It was a day like any other, as Mary Catherine McGuire, after a hardy breakfast of boiled oatmeal, toast and carrying a milky cup of hot tea, walked out to the green house that was now serving as her workshop. It was a fine fall morning and the tea helped to warm her bones. She had turned her greenhouse into a workshop, because there was no reason now to grow plants or vegetables in there anymore.

She had more important things to do. She wasn’t getting any younger, turning 68 this past summer, but she was still an attractive woman, “just a wee slip of a girl,” like everyone used to say, just measuring in at barely 5 feet tall.

Mary still had a nice figure and was slender with long snowy white hair, that hung down past her backside, just like her granny, “god rest her soul.” Her hair often looked like “who did it and ran lately,” so she curled it up into a halo around her face. Looking like a tiny angel, she was anything but angelic and often felt like the devil incarnate at times.

Mary had been attending the local IRA meetings at Seamus McManus’s house out in DunLaoghaire. It was a 30 minute drive, but it was worth it and she looked forward to attending them every Wednesday night. It was better than church and she had been a practicing Catholic her whole life, but there was something about those meetings that had sparked something inside of her, set her aflame. She had a fire burning inside of her that she couldn’t put out, and that Seamus McManus wasn’t too hard on the eyes either. She had plans and she had to go ahead with them and like a car with its pedal to the metal, she was a woman driven. Mary really hadn’t thought that way about another man, since her husband Shane, who she’d been married to for 30 years, had passed away 13 years ago, “god rest his soul.”

The truth be told, he was a right “blaggard,” pissing his life away on the drink and spending more time at the local pub with his mates than with her. It was ironic that Shane would be killed in a drunken stampede at a football match, which started when his mate threw an empty bottle of Jameson’s whiskey at one of the opposing team’s fans. It started a riot and nearly 100 people had to be treated for injuries at hospital. Shane unfortunately was the only one to lose his life that day. Mary always knew that the drink would kill him eventually, but not in such a weird twist of fate.

Why she stayed married to Shane for so long, she would never know, but he left her the farmhouse, so he had been good for something. Actually, it was his parent’s that left them the farmhouse. Thankfully it was all paid off, since Shane could never hold down a job more than 6 months. They grew their own vegetables and had several chickens and goats. It provided much of their food and was good for bartering. The cheese Mary made, she sold to local restaurants and 11

shops. It helped her to buy the car she now drove. With her old age pensioner money coming in every month, she did okay.

Mary always knew she would never marry again. If truth be told, she really enjoyed being a widow. It suited her nicely. She was free to pursue her hobbies and interests. She didn’t have time to be married because she was now married to her cause and would go to her grave before ever turning her back on it. It became her new faith, even though she still went to mass on Sunday. She couldn’t be bothered much with the church anymore, even though in her heart she still carried the faith like a torch. She only now attended out of habit. Mary Catherine Frances McGuire would hopefully go down in history as the first person, and a female Irish Catholic at that, to blow up the Vatican. “Take that Ms. Sinead O’Connor and stick it where the sun don’t shine, all you ever done for the cause is rip up a photo of the pope on American television. I will send this pope and his skirts a soaring to heaven! That dirty bugger and his minions won’t even know what hit them.”

“It’s God’s will,” would be her last words, when the bomb went off. She was going to succeed. She wasn’t going to fail in her cause, and play the heroine that saves the day, like that stupid Robert Langdon character in the book, “Angels and Demons,” by Dan Brown, who saved the pope and the Vatican City from being blown off the face of the earth by a canister of antimatter from CERN in Switzerland. No, she was going to be successful, “god willing!”

Mary had always considered herself to be a feminist. It was rare to be a feminist in Ireland, but she always stood her ground. She believed in birth control, never having had a child herself, “thank god,” and believed in the right for a woman to choose if they wanted to have an abortion or to carry a child to term. But her real issue with the Vatican had always been it’s handling of the filthy pedophile priests that the Catholic Church harbored, protecting them instead of the children who had been abused and molested by them and frankly, it made her sick to her stomach. Enough was enough!

The luck of the Irish had been on her side. Being a lifelong member of St. Patrick’s Church as well as having her first cousin, Father Dougal McGuire, working as a priest there, Mary was part of the group chosen last year to meet with the pope at the Vatican tonight. She would be presenting to him an illustrated facsimile of the holy Book of Kells, which was Ireland’s greatest treasure. It would be a gift to his holiness from the parishioners of St. Patrick’s Church, in Enniskerry.

Being an artist all her life, she had made and illustrated the book herself, and had spent the last year in her workshop fitting it with enough high tech explosives to blow the Vatican to kingdom come, if the plans that Seamus McManus had given her during the meetings she attended worked. She never actually tested the plans to see if the bomb would work. How could she? Nobody could know of her plans. This she had to do alone if she was going to succeed. Everything she did was an act of faith.

Mary spent the last remaining hours on her farm, in her workshop, before she would walk to the church, making sure that everything was just right. She double checked the special insulated bag she had made, that the large book would be 12

wrapped in, which would conceal the bombs components from detection. She had faith and was sure that it would pass through the x-ray inspection at Dublin airport, as well as through the strict security at The Vatican. She checked, one last time, to make sure that if security decided to open the bag and inspect the book closely, that it would look like a normal facsimile of The Book of Kells and not the bomb it was supposed to be, until Mary would insert the special key under the secret flap on the spine that started the bomb, right before she presented it to his holiness the pope.

That key hung from a chain that hanged around her neck and shared real estate with her silver medallion of the holy mother Mary, her name sake. Pretty soon it would be time for her to get onto the shuttle van that would take her and the rest of the church group to the airport in Dublin. From there she would take the two-hour flight to Rome.

Mary was excited that she would be sitting on the plane between Father Ted Crilly, with that lovely thick hair of his, and Father Eamon Coyne, with the gorgeous dimples. Both were close to her in age and maybe, just maybe, she could convince one of the filthy bastards, to join her in the airplane’s lavatory for a quick shag, gaining entry into “The Mile High Club,” before she would be blowing them both, a mile high, later tonight.

They needed to pay for their sins, every last one of those priests. Mary was done paying for hers. In her heart she knew she was doing the right thing. In her heart she knew it was God’s will.

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Fiction Runner-Up Angela Udemezue

My First Hotel Business This is a story on how I met a man called Emmanuel at a hotel in Nigeria. I went for a seminar at Tracy’s hotel in Anambra state, Nigeria 12 years ago. I was the presenter at the seminar on a topic named acupuncture. At the end of the seminar, Mr. Emmanuel approached me with a happy face. I was polite with him because I needed to sell my massaging machines. After exchanging pleasantries, we talked about business, how effective the machine could be which he promised to buy 21 of them maybe he was convinced, and he made his choice. We exchange addresses to meet at Lagos Nigeria. Two weeks later, my phone rang and that was Emma, asking me to meet with him at Rita-Lori hotel in Lagos Nigeria. At the hotel room, this is my conversation with Emma. He is called the man while I am called the girl.

The man said, “Do you care for a drink or something?”

The girl said, “No thanks I am okay.”

The man said, “Do you have a boyfriend or a husband?”

The girl said, “Yes I have a boyfriend who wants to marry me.”

The man said, “No, you don’t have to marry your boyfriend; I’ve plans for both of us. I will give you anything you want just to have you by my side. I will make you happy all the days of your life.”

The girl said, “My boyfriend loves me and I love him too. For me, what matters in a relationship is love.”

The man said, “Not when I send you to my house in London because that’s everywoman’s dream to live overseas.You will marry my best friend because I am an old man with a wife and kids.”

The girl said, “Then there’s more to it. Maybe you just want to sleep with me, send me to your friend and then have the opportunity to have me anytime you want maybe we will be living in your house in London. That doesn’t make any sense to me.You are a player, I love my boyfriend.”

The man said, “You’re mistaken. I love you honey. There’s something about you that makes me go crazy. Please don’t turn my offer down.”

At this juncture, he brought out his cheque book and asked me: how much do you think would be enough for you to start business? I was getting confused now. I needed the money but I disliked this man. I was even afraid that he might be one of the evil men in the society who triples their wealth by sleeping with a woman. I gave it a long thought without letting him read my mind.

The girl said, “Mr. Emma, you’re just a nice man. Every woman will be willing to accept you as a husband and a friend but it’s unfortunate that you were married with kids and I wouldn’t want to be your second wife. First, you will go ahead to purchase the 21 massaging machines you promised to buy then I’ll trust you for 14

every other promise you would make to me later.”

I guess he thought of it for a while and he said; okay, that would be fine. I will prove myself now.

Emmanuel wrote me a check for the 21 machines. I was astounded because those machines were expensive, one of the machines cost fifty thousand naira and that’s about four hundred U.S dollars. I knew this is one of the strategies men used to get what they want. Garbage in, garbage out which means the amount of money and effort he used to entice me determines how easily I could fall for him not minding how long the relationship is going to last. I was happy though for selling my products and getting a bigger bonus from it but I didn’t want to yield to his offer. I collected the check and thanked him immensely. We both left the hotel room with the promise to give him my reply in the next meeting.

I had a profound insight about this whole thing. He claimed he loves me and was ready to do anything for me as far as I agreed to be with him. But I am a descent girl from a descent home. I might be poor but I am not a flirt. Men classify every woman as money lovers but I’ll stand out, to show Emma that I am an exception. I told my boyfriend what transpired between Mr. Emma and me, and he was dumbfounded; he looked at me astonishingly then with a low voice he said “I knew you were different from other girls.You’ve actually proved your love for me. Please, my baby, marry me so that I can take care of you. I was shocked, and now it’s my turn to be amazed because I’ve been waiting for this proposal. I said yes to him right away.

After one month of doing business with Mr. Emmanuel, he called me one day that he would like us to meet again at the same hotel, that he has some gift for me and would like to order for more machines. I said okay to him and we agreed on the date and time. I discussed with my fiancé and we agreed that he would go with me this time but he will wait at the reception should the man acted funny by trying to rape me, then I should pretend as if I needed to use the bathroom then call my fiancé to come. We agreed that I should be diplomatic with him so that I can continue to sell my machines to him. My fiancé did as we planned while I went upstairs to meet Mr. Emmanuel.

The man said, “Oh my sweetie, I missed you.”

The girl stammering said, “Thank you sir, I missed you too.”

The man said, “I don’t really need any machine. I just wanted to see you and to express my love to you. He handed a small bag to me while trying to get hold of me.”

The girl said, “Pushing him away, but you don’t have to do this or buy me gift.”

The man said, “Why not, open the bag first. If you don’t like the gift then you can leave them.”

The girl said, “Oh my goodness! A car key for me! Woo! A flight ticket to London for both us! Jesus, you don’t have to do this sir.”

The man said, “Anything for my baby, do you like them? I will do more if you permit me to. I love you my sweetheart.”

I was quiet for a while, tears gushing down my cheeks, and with a low voice I said “Riches and good manners don’t go together, I might be poor but I 15

am fulfilled. I am engaged now to the same boyfriend I told you about the other day and I promised to be faithful to him. I really appreciate the gift and your love for me but I will not accept them. If you like me for who I am sir, I guess you have to understand my feelings and respect them. I am a descent girl about to be married and I don’t think this hotel would be a good place for us anymore. If you want to buy machines from me next time we will be meeting in open places in other to avoid temptations.”

As I finished talking, I dropped the bag for him. He was about saying something but I told him good bye, opened the door and left. Mr. Emmanuel rushed down the stairs after me with the bag in his hand, not minding who will be seeing him with me. As we match down, he was saying different kinds of apologies which fell on my deaf ears. I walked straight to the reception, hugged my fiancé and kissed him. Standing next to me was Mr. Emmanuel and I did a proper introduction to both of them. Mr. Emmanuel could not believe it that my fiancé had come with me and has been waiting all this while. He felt embarrassed and shook hands with my fiancé that he (Emmanuel) couldn’t have allowed his wife to be to do what I did. That means we really trust each other so much. He begged my fiancé to allow me accept the car he bought for me to stand as his parting gift for me. My fiancé and I looked at each other and marveled. It was a clean metallic Honda accord which I actually desired in my heart. So my fiancé accepted the offer. We all departed happily, I got married to my husband and since then I’ve never set my eyes on Emmanuel.

At this point in time, I would say that favor comes in different ways. Only those who have the insight to recognize them could actually merit it. Whatever my heart desires, I shall receive them in Jesus name amen.

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Fiction Honorable Mention Joia Sivan-Capocchi

Burn My first cigarette tasted like the tar they use to sew parking lots together. My brother and his friends were blown away that an eleven year old could finish the whole stick. I coughed and the air came out black. It felt like there was sand in my throat. Like I had swallowed the desert. I loved it. I bought my first pack when I was thirteen from a man who spoke enough english to charge you extra.

On the box were two red arrows and the face of an indian with a white man’s smile. I thought it looked like my dad. My second pack came in the mail for my uncle. He ordered them in bulk each month. Smoked more than all the other men on the rez combined. I buried one in the torn lining of my windbreaker, where I kept all my secrets. He offered me a drag the next day as we stood in the lot behind the bowling alley doing nothing in particular. I declined, having figured he had been kind enough without knowing it. In high school I would’ve been a drunk if it weren’t for cigarettes. While all the boys I knew took suit of their fathers, I became my uncle. They drank. I smoked. They vomited and bred and I breathed in and out. I was one of the few of us to go to college out of state.

I finished in two years. Got a degree in something I cared too little about to remember. I burned down my first apartment after I fell asleep with a lit match in my hand. I ended up back home. Not much had changed. My friends had gotten older and fatter and drunker, but my uncle still smoked like a tree struck by lightning. It was the same scene. He and I, a night sky of spent cigarette butts at our feet, new ones between our teeth, standing behind the bowling alley now shut down but still reeking of feet and chili. My uncle turned to me. I saw myself.

He spoke. I heard myself. “You’ve gotten bigger,” he said. “That’s what happens,” I said. He smiled. Like the man on the cover of my first pack. Like my father. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t pained. It wasn’t happy. It was white.

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Fiction Honorable Mention Cathy Notarnicola

Bundling Up

The autumn light filtered through the laundry room blinds where little Gina stood restlessly waiting for her Mother to “bundle” her up. She was anxious to join her big sisters outside who had arrived home from school where they went every day except Saturday and Sundays. As she bounced up and down shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she wondered, what were they doing?

Were they riding bicycles in circles, jumping rope, climbing trees, singing like the Supremes and Diana Ross? She so wanted to join them! Mom hated outside. All she ever wanted to do was cook, clean, watch soap operas, do laundry and eat.

How monotonous, Gina thought, as she grew more impatient, her imaginings became more fanciful, thinking of all the fun that was happening just outside that door. She burst out exclaiming, “Hurry up before they come inside!”

The anticipation was killing her as her Mom proceeded in extra slow motion with the “bundling up” process. Gina wondered, is this really necessary? Her Mom barked back saying sternly and with great concern. We MUST bundle you up or you’ll catch a DEATH of pneumonia!” Gina exhaled another deep breath of great weight while shaking her head back and forth thinking…

Really? Really Mom? Death? Pneumonia? Why must you always be so dramatic? She reviewed the many warnings from her Mother in the voice of the public announcements on the radio and television, “It’s 10:00 do you know where your children are?

“Don’t run! You’ll fall and crack your head open!”

“Don’t go swimming! You will drown” “Don’t go to the park! You’ll get kidnapped.”

Why crack your head open, drown and get kidnapped, Gina wondered, as she tried to imagine what a cracked open head would look like but, could only visualize a cracked eggshell and humpty dumpties’ body after falling off the wall.

In reality, Gina got a few scrapes and bruises, worst case scenario like the time she crashed her bicycle after braking on sand at the bottom of the hill. The pavement scraped off a layer of her skin and little bits and pieces of dirt and gravel stuck to her wounds. Mom brought out the bright orange medicine that stung like vinegar on chapped lips! The memory of the sharp pain brought Gina out of her daydream back to the present moment where she realized she was still awaiting the completion of the “bundling up” process. Just then, that Autumn light brushed against her Mothers hair and face as she knelt down on the laundry room floor to button Gina’s coat. The light shone on her Mothers eyes and a warm rush of calmness and love radiated through Gina’s little body. Mom carefully and slowly buttoned every last one of those buttons as she gazed adoringly into Gina’s eyes for what seemed to be a very long time. It was almost as if time stood still 18

in that very moment. She then hugged Gina and kissed her forehead, patting her backside saying, “Go play with your sisters and be careful!�

Gina raced towards the door. Her steps echoed down the hallway and throughout her life and thoughts now as an adult. She felt deeply loved and secure by her Mother in that moment. A feeling she has deferred to during difficult times. Today, Gina recalls this moment nearly 50 years later and wonders how she will ever be able to comfort her Mother in that way, as she moves her into an assisted living facility for sufferers of Dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. How can she bundle her Mother up and keep her safe and secure from her forgotten memories?

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Personal Essay Winner Veronica Clark

Break Down

Three coca-colas, five doctor peppers, and one sprite. That’s what’s on my tray. One of them has spit in it and I’m trying to remember which it is so I don’t accidentally give it to one of the kids at my table. This is by far the most disorganized restaurant I’ve ever worked in. Veteran’s day weekend is no time to be understaffed and have a hostess who doesn’t know what she’s doing and a bartender who takes fifteen minutes to make an order of drinks. I’m getting too old for this.

I hurry my steps so I can get to my other twelve tables. Apparently some woman’s been complaining about me. She said I was too slow. Oh yea?

You try working on such a busy day when you’re this overworked and this hungover. She said I seemed like I didn’t want to be there. Yea? Guess what, I don’t.

I considered calling in, but I knew they would be understaffed as it was and if I called in I would probably get fired. Yea, I should have called in.

The tray feels heavier with every step. I turn the corner and Jessica bends down talking to one of my tables. I really hate working with her. And now she’s going to complain to me that my table was complaining to her. If I didn’t have to grab every single one of her angry customers a soda refill or a water refill or a “can you please find our waitress” then I wouldn’t have fallen so far behind in the first place.

Ok, wait, which one had spit in it again? Just as I walk past the table, Jessica stands straight and spins around. Just in time to catch the edge of the tray and send all nine full pint glasses crashing to the floor. Just in time to add the final straw.

I watch the glasses crash to the floor. There are two pints in a quart and four quarts in a gallon so there is now 1.125 gallons of liquid surrounding shards of broken glass on the floor next to my angriest customer. Now I’ve always been a bit of a masochist, but for me to sit there with towels and a dust pan in front of that bitch who is now having a spit-free doctor pepper made by Jessica while she screams at me for terrible service would be just plain crazy.

Of course I don’t think all this out in this moment. I don’t think anything in this moment. I don’t have to. My body thinks for me. Before I can even register what’s happening, I throw the tray to the ground, grab my belongings from the break room, and get in the elevator. It’s not until I’m in the elevator that it hits me. I’m walking out of my job. It’s not until now that that little voice in my head kicks in, “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s hard to find a job this time of year, you know? Maybe you should have a cigarette and see if you cool off enough to go back in.” Sounds reasonable enough. So I sit down in the alley way outside of my work and smoke a cigarette. A cigarette that is gone much too soon.

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The voice inside my head speaks up again, “There. You see? Feel better now?”

“Nope.” I say out loud. I pick up my belongings and stomp out my cigarette. I take the check presenter filled with all the payments I’ve had today and throw it next to the elevator. And with that, I walk to my car, taking off my work shirt on the way.

“You sure are burning a lot of bridges right now.” The voice inside my head says.

“Good. Let them burn. That way I can never go back.”

Euphoria washes over me as I unlock my car door. This must be the feeling I hear people talk about. Women, when they see their first born child.

Daredevils, when they come seconds away from crashing their motorcycle into a wall. Rock stars, when they take too many drugs. I can see more clearly and my body is completely numb. And I can’t, for the life of me, wipe that shit-eating grin off my face. Yes, this is happiness.

So I’ve now walked out of my awful job that made me want to kill myself. Great. Terrific. But why stop there? Why don’t I just blow this town.

Once and for all. Like I’ve wanted to since I was sixteen. Now I have a car. And a teeny tiny bit of money. So why not go for it? Yes, that’s what I’ll do. But first, I have to stop and get gas.

I turn up my radio as I pull away from the gas station. Some over-played song I’ve never really cared for comes on, but I know all the words and I’m on top of the world, so I sing along loudly and tap my hand against the steering wheel. As I drive to my house I think of all the things I’ll be leaving behind. My job, this town, my so called friends who drive me crazy, recent failed relationships, my family…I will miss my family, but they’ll understand, my roommates who I hate. My roommates, I hope they’re not home. This could get awkward.

I pull up to an empty driveway, whew. My dog greets me with a wagging tail.

“Didn’t expect me home so soon, did ya, buddy?” I scruff his ears, “Come on inside, we gotta pack. We’re getting out of here, Otto. We’re gonna start a new life.”

I grab a duffle bag from under my bed and begin stuffing it with only my favorite outfits. I take a backpack and fill it with my notebooks. I wonder if I should dye my hair when I get there, just for fun. A full new fresh start. I’ve always wanted to go red. Like a deep auburn red. I grab a book that sits next to all my notebooks and look at the cover. I borrowed it from one of my friends a couple weeks ago. I should probably return that before I leave. All this packing is exhausting. I need a cigarette.

I stick a cigarette in my mouth and go out to my back patio. I reach in my pocket and pull out a red lighter. Oh… this is Gavran’s lighter. That’s right, he wanted to hang out tomorrow. I stare at the lighter for a minute. I shrug, light my cigarette and stick the lighter back in my pocket. Well, I’m sure he’ll figure it out.

21

I finish my cigarette and go back into my room. I stare at the piles of clothes I’ve thrown out of my closet and the half-packed duffle bag. What else do I need? I don’t know. Toothbrush? Passport? The thing they don’t tell you about euphoria highs is the part when you crash. Suddenly, I’m not on top of the world. Suddenly, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I don’t know how far I’m going. I guess that decision is up to my car. But if I’m lucky, I’ll be driving for at least five hours. I’ve got a long evening ahead of me. I should probably take a nap.

I place my bags on the side of my bed. I crawl onto my bed and curl into a tight fetal position. And then, I cry. I cry for an hour. I cry myself to sleep.

I awake to the sound of my phone ringing. I was wondering how long it would take Andrea to get back to me after the text message I sent her when I walked out.

“Hello?” I answer groggily.

“So you finally quit that place, huh?” she’s never been one for long introductions.

“Yup.” I say proudly, “Finally quit.”

“Well good. So what is this about you leaving town?”

“I just want to get out of here. I’m sick of everything.”

“Uh huh.” I sense some cynicism in her voice.

“What?” I sigh.

“And where do you plan on going?”

“I’m gonna try to make it to California.” California had always been my dream destination. I’m always a little homesick for the ocean even though I’ve never actually lived by it. I’ve never been to San Diego, only Los Angeles and San Francisco, but I’ve heard wonderful stories of San Diego and I’m convinced that my soul mate is there.

“You’re going to try to make it to California? Good plan,Verons. And what happens when you don’t? You’re just gonna live in Gallup or what?”

“I might make it.”

“Uh huh. And then what? What are you gonna do when you get there?”

“Just get a job in a restaurant until I figure it out and get my feet on the ground. Then I’m going to try to get a job as a screen writer.”

“Well what if you don’t find a job right away? You’re going to be homeless?”

“I would rather be homeless in California than stay in Santa Fe another minute!” I snap. After ten years of knowing me, Andrea recognizes the irrationality in my voice and knows that I can’t be reasoned with at this point.

“Listen,” She says gently, “I just don’t know if your car will make it to California, ok. But here’s the thing. Why don’t you just come here, stay with me for a couple days. I haven’t seen you in forever. I’ll call in to work. We can go out, hit the town, stay home, relax, whatever you need. Ok? We can go shopping if you want. We’ll go pick up some men, since you sound like you obviously 22

need to get laid. It’ll be fun. And then you can go to California. And maybe you can buy a plane ticket instead since I don’t think your car is going to make it.

And that way you don’t get stuck in the middle of nowhere. Ok?”

It’s true, I haven’t seen her in a couple months. I haven’t gone out in Albuquerque in forever.

“We can go get ribs at The Cube.” She adds, as if to bribe me.

I laugh, “Oh yea, remember that one time we went to The Cube?”

She laughs too, “Yea. That was hilarious! We’ll have a night like that, ok?”

“Ok.” Relief overcomes me, like a crying child being held by her mother at last. I would be the last one to admit that I doubted it in the first place, but now I know, everything is going to be ok.

I take the first exit into Albuquerque just past three o’clock the day after Veteran’s day. I would have left immediately, however, I did have plans to keep with Gavran. I pull up to Andrea’s dad’s house to see her waiting for me outside.

Our dogs rush to greet each other as we do the same.

“Mija!” She exclaims as we wrap our arms around each other, “It’s so good to see you!” At this point I must say something about Andrea. Andrea is extremely blunt. She wants the best for everyone, which for those who don’t necessarily want the best for themselves, can be misinterpreted as judgment.

Andrea can also come across as cold, though she’s the warmest person I’ve ever met. My guess for this misinterpretation is her boldness and her clear sense of herself which allows her to bypass others’ opinions and sometimes existence. The point is that Andrea would be the first person to tell you if she thought you were making a bad decision. She’d be the first to tell you if she thought you were a bum. She was the first to tell me when I started gaining weight. She was the only one to tell me when I was dating someone who “wasn’t good enough for me”. So for this blatantly honest, no-nonsense woman to take me in her arms, not say a thing about me being crazy, and express how happy she is to see me, means the entire world right now.

She smacks me a kiss on the cheek. I kiss her back. We hug a minute longer as our dogs begin to wrestle.

“Come in, come in!” She welcomes, “Do you need help carrying anything?”

“No, I just have one bag. I got it.”

“Oh good.”

We go inside and head upstairs. She shows me her stepbrother’s room and tells me I’ll be staying there for as long as I need since her stepbrother is apparently missing in action. She promises to change the sheets and offers to vacuum too. I tell her vacuuming won’t be necessary and I settle in. As soon as I make myself at home, Andrea tells me she’s hungry and asks if I’m hungry too. I haven’t thought about it but in fact, I am starving.

“You’re staying at my house this week and I’m giving you all my dad’s liquor. So you’re buying lunch.”

23

“Fair enough.” I agree.

“But change your outfit and put on some deodorant and some makeup for Christ’s sake. I’m not going out with you looking like that.”

I stare into the mirror at the image of my haggard reflection. Wild, dirty hair, un-plucked eyebrows, purple bags under my eyes. I glance down at my sweat and coffee stained shirt. I get her point.

“Should I take a shower?” I ask.

“We don’t have time for that shit. Just change your shirt and let’s go.” I make myself as presentable as possible and in ten minutes we’re out the door.

We arrive at Quarter’s thirty minutes later. There’s no wait at the bar.

We get immediate service. We both get a beef brisket sandwich. When the bill comes I’m shocked at the price. Two shots, two beers, two sandwiches, less than thirty dollars.

“I didn’t know lunch was going to be so cheap.” I tell Andrea, “Let me buy you another drink somewhere else.”

“Ok. But let’s go home first. We’ll have my dad drop us off.”

My stay at Andrea’s consists of lots of barbeque, alcohol, movie watching, and coddling. Gavran hasn’t contacted me at all, even though he seemed very concerned about my alleged “mental breakdown” and said he would be in touch.

Sova, a man I met in the fall and obsessed over, has recently gotten back in touch with me after months of no contact. He, on the other hand, sends me text messages everyday. He told me he found a really cheap timing belt for my car and he could find someone to change it for me for really cheap. It is a tempting offer, but after what I went through when he abruptly stopped answering my calls, I’m wary to accept his help. My mom sent me messages to check in. My boss also sent me messages begging me to come back. I told her I’d think about it. Every few hours I get another message from her wondering if I’ve made my decision and another message from Sova asking if I want to go fishing sometime or asking what make and model my car is. I decide to turn my phone off and focus on Tony Jaa movies for a day.

“Who should I choose? Sova or Gavran?” I ask.

“Well I don’t know. I only saw a picture of Gavran and it was a mug shot. Who’s hotter?”

“Sova.”

“So him then.”

“But he didn’t call me for months. You can’t just stop calling me and then think you can just pick me back up when you feel like it!”

“Well you seemed pretty excited that he did get back in touch with you. And he was nice enough to explain himself. You gotta give him something for that.”

“Like what? A bj?”

Andrea laughs. “Well show me a picture of him.”

“I told you, he’s not in the Santa Fe County database and I couldn’t find him on facebook.”

24

She laughs again. “I say sleep with both and go with the one who’s better.”

I laugh. “I don’t want to do that. I would feel bad. I’d feel like I wronged Sova.”

“But you wouldn’t feel like you wronged Gavran?”

I shrug and shake my head.

“Well then Sova. But enough of this. I’m trying to watch Tony Jaa’s topless, sweaty body.”

I start packing up my things on Thursday night.

“I don’t think you should leave tonight.” I look up to see Andrea’s dad standing in the doorway watching me pack.

“I’m not too tired.” I answer.

“Yea, but I don’t think your car is going to make it. I’ve heard cars make sounds like that before and I’m telling you, that car is at the end of its life.”

“It’ll make it to Santa Fe. It’s only fifty miles.”

“But just to be safe. It would be better to break down during the day when everything’s open and people are awake to come pick you up.”

I know I can make it back to Santa Fe, but this is a very valid point. And I know there’s some left over pot roast with my name on it. So I agree to stay.

I leave the next morning at the same time Andrea and her dad leave for work. I sent my boss a text message after checking my account balance and told her I would most likely come back to work. I didn’t message Sova back yet, but the moan of my engine as I pull away tempts me more and more to just let this guy help me. After all, he wants to. And after all, I need it. But no. I think we should start with coffee and then maybe fishing and go from there. My phone beeps, I look at the screen to see a text from him. I can’t deal with this right now.

A low battery light flashes at the top of the screen. Good. Let it die. I toss it on the passenger seat. I turn up the radio. Otis Redding’s velvet voice pours out of the speakers. I sing along as I drive down the highway. It’s freezing outside but my car is acting up, so I turn the heater on, then off, then on, then off. I glance in my rearview mirror to see my dog staring at me. I turn around and smile at him.

“See Otto? I told you everything was going to be alright.”

I could swear he just rolled his eyes, as if to say, “Um, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who told you that.”

About two miles south of San Felipe my car begins to tremble. Then my engine stops moaning and lets out a loud pop. This is it. I’m not even going to make it back to Santa Fe. I say a silent prayer, but I have a feeling it’s a little late for that. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with….oh, never mind. I’m screwed.

I watch my speedometer drop as I press the gas petal to the floor. Sixty.

Fifty. Forty. I better get off the highway. I’m coming to the San Felipe exit right now. Good. Perfect. Well, not perfect exactly. Perfect would have been making it back to Santa Fe. Or breaking down when it’s not snowing. Or maybe not breaking down at all. But this is better than breaking down on the side of the 25

highway. So I’ll take it.

I pull onto the off ramp. My foot is still on the gas but my car is slowing. I want to pull into the gas station in front of me, but that is not going to happen. I pull to the side of the road just as I get off the off ramp just before my car stops all together. I try to start it again. Just to see. Nothing. I stare straight ahead at the gas station for a moment. I turn to look at Otto in the back seat.

We stare at each other for a minute, then simultaneous sigh. I grab my purse and his leash.

“Alright buddy, let’s go.” He sits up and waits for me to open the door.

He jumps out and slips his head into the leash. I lock my car and we walk side by side to the gas station. By the time we reach the entrance, his nose is almost as cold as mine. Which, by the way, is freezing. A large sign plastered to the window states, “Absolutely no pets, including service animals, allowed.” I look at Otto.

He stares back up as if he already knows what it says.

“Hold on buddy. I might as well check.” He almost nods. I tie his leash to a bench and open the door.

I look at the attendant, “Hey, can I bring my dog in here? I just broke down.”

She shakes her head, “No animals allowed. Sorry.”

“Not even service animals?”

She shakes her head, “Sorry.”

I walk back out and take a seat on the bench.

“Sorry buddy. Not even service animals.”

Otto stares up at me. I pull my tobacco out of my purse and roll a cigarette. A chill wind rushes by. I shiver. Otto jumps up onto the bench next to me and lays across my lap.

“Thanks, buddy.” I light my cigarette. I pull my phone out of my purse.

It beeps obnoxiously to let me know it’s about to die. I dial my mom’s number.

“Hello?” She answers. My mom has always been a talker so I rush to the point before she wants to know how I’m doing, if I’m going back to work, and how my stay with Andrea went.

“Hey. My phone’s about to die so I can’t talk long. My car broke down.

I’m in San Felipe. They won’t let me bring my dog into the gas station.”

“Oh no, sweetie. I’m sorry. Are you ok? Are you cold?”

“Yea. I’m really cold.”

“Do you need me to call a tow truck?”

“That would be good in case my phone dies. If you can just tell them where I am I can just wait in the car with Otto. I’m directly after the off ramp.”

“Ok. Well why don’t you wait in the gas station so you’re not cold.”

“But what about Otto? And what if I don’t know when they get here?”

“He’ll be fine. Do you have a blanket in your car?”

I remember the time she told me to always keep a blanket in the trunk of my car in case I break down or in case I come across an accident where someone is about to go into shock. She gave me a blanket at that time and for once, I listened to her.

26

“Yes. I do have a blanket.”

“Oh good. Well why don’t you just cover Otto with the blanket and go wait inside. He’ll be ok. He’s a dog. And you can just call me back to see how long the tow truck will be. It’s probably going to be at least half an hour.”

“Ok.” I agree, “Thank you. So yea, just tell them where I am and I’ll call you back from a pay phone in a few minutes.”

“Ok, sweetie. I love you. And…” my phone beeps one more time, then shuts off. I pull it away from my ear and stare at the blank screen.

“I love you too.” I mutter. I look at Otto. We sigh again. “Alright, buddy. Back to the car now.” He hops off my lap. I untie his leash and we start walking.

We arrive at the car and I open the back door. Otto gets in. I pull the blanket out of the trunk and cover him. I stare at him. He would never just leave me alone in the cold. I slam the door closed. I open the driver door and get in.

“Let me try this one more time.” He wags his tail. I stick my key in the ignition and turn. Click, click, click, nothing. This car is not starting. No way.

I glance at the auxiliary outlet. I open the glove box to see a car phone charger. Ok, so if it is my timing belt, there shouldn’t be any reason why my battery doesn’t still work. I turn the key the other way. My radio comes on. Yes! I grab the phone charger and plug it in. The screen on my phone lights up and says “charging”. Good deal. I turn the heater on and hot air begins to blow. I look in the back seat and smile at Otto. He wags his tail. I spot my notebook on the seat next to him. Now that’s what I can do while I wait. Write.

“Well, buddy. I got no car, I got no money, I pretty much got no job, although I guess I do. But, I got my notebook and pen. We got each other. We got heat, we have a phone, and we got Otis Redding. So if you can think of something else we actually need for happiness, please let me know. Cause I sure can’t think of anything.” He wags his tail faster. I crawl into the back seat. “Here, let me share that blanket.” I crawl under the blanket with him and we snuggle close together. I set the notebook on my lap and add a few pages to a short story I’ve been working on. The track changes and “I’ve Been Loving You” starts playing. I pause and set my pen down. A smile stretches across my face.

“Hold on a second.” I say to Otto, “I don’t know if you know this, but I’m actually quite good at singing this song.” The good thing about having a dog for a best friend, aside from the fact that they’ll never let you down, is that they’ll believe everything you say. Even if it’s far from the truth. And even after he hears me slaughter a perfectly good song, he’ll still believe that I’m a terrific singer.

“You wanna hear it?” He looks up at me. His mouth stretches into a little smile.

I reach to the radio. I restart the song and turn it up. Then I lean back in the seat, kick my feet up on the back of the front seat and put my arm around Otto.

“I’ve beeeeen loving yooooou toooo loooong to stop nooooww…..” I belt out. In this moment, nothing else exists than what is here. No decisions to make of what man to choose or where I should work, what I should do with my life, how I’m going to pay to get my car fixed, where I should live, nothing. Just me, Otto, and a song. And all of these things are beautiful. I nail 27

the song without missing a beat or running out of breath on a long note. My entire life I’ve been singing. Audiences are only involved in karaoke when I have the excuse of being drunk for my poor singing. But in the shower, when I’m home alone, when I’m in my car, I sure do belt it out. I’ve sung many different songs, many different keys, and I’ve sung this particular song uncountable times.

But I think that in this moment, this is by far my best singing. I honestly believe that if a music producer heard me just now, I would immediately be offered a record label. However, this could never be reproduced, so I would lose my record label just as immediately. But only Otto and I heard it. And only Otto and I needed to hear it. Because only Otto and I know exactly why I nailed this song. Because after years of working awful jobs, having my heart broken repetitively, being too broke to get my car fixed, feeling unaccomplished, and feeling like I had nowhere to turn, in this moment, with nothing more than my dog, my notebook, and a little good music, I feel completely content. After a lifetime of searching, I found happiness. Right here in the back seat of my broken down car. Right here in the warmth of my dog. Right here in the comfort of a pen and a page. Right here in a beautiful melody. Right here in my own voice.

And in the realization that everything is, in fact, not going to be ok. It never is, and it never will be. No matter how good of a job I have, no matter how much money I have, what kind of a car I have, or what kind of love I find, something will always go wrong. Tragedy will always find me, just as it does everyone.

Because this is part of life. Life involves suffering. Everything is not going to be ok. But I am. No matter what walls fall down around me, I will always be ok.

Life does not only involve suffering, it involves happiness. The difference is that suffering cannot always be controlled. But happiness is a choice. And I am happy.

28

Personal Essay Runner-Up AJ Pufnstuf

My First Rodeo

In Autumn of 2004, I moved from Boston to Santa Fe. I had planned on moving to San Francisco, but life had other plans for me. I relocated site unseen. Wikipedia wasn’t a huge thing back then and I was too frivolous for research. I moved to this high-desert ski-resort town thinking I had managed to escape Winter. It turns out I hadn’t. But I had managed to escape the hoards of corporately-programmed humanoids. And the rapid tick-tock pace of the bigger cities. Santa Fe is on island time, mon. I mean, bro.

My first impressions of New Mexico were postcard perfect. All cotton-candy pink streaked cloudy sunsets, face-melting molten green chile and earthy shades of adobe houses. Even the Home Depot had a faux-dobe facade. I felt like I had landed in an old reel of the Flintstones - my very own Stone Age wonderland. Until I heard that the original adobe clay was stained pink with the blood of pigs. And some of the charm turned to chalky dust that blew out across the mesa.

My chronic asthma had followed me across the country. I found myself desperately gasping for breath. I hadn’t anticipated the elevation. I had lived in Denver for a summer when I was twenty. With all their “Mile High” talk they convince everyone that a capital city with a higher elevation couldn’t possibly exist. Lo and behold - Santa Fe: crazy secret artist retreat / high maintenance über entitled retirement community / messy cultural triad of the likes I had never seen.

At the end of my first week, David Byrne played at the Opera House. I had seen him a number of times before in dingy smoke-stained clubs and stuffy ornate theatres lining the east coast. But wow. The show was phenomenal and the Opera House was a natural beauty - simply stunning. I was so excited. Flush with greedy thoughts of all the amazing performers I imagined would be booked there.

Coming from the city, it was easy to be an experience junkie. With a veritable Trapper Keeper full of possibilities - musicians, gallery openings, installations, talks, tastings, films, performances, parties, readings. It was crucial to be selective and choose only the best options.

But moving to Santa Fe, my planner was suddenly empty. No bands were coming to town - at least none I had ever heard of. Or some new-age whatnot. Or some adult contemporary country question mark. And hardcore and local bands playing at this battered old shack called Warehouse 21. I checked out Chicanobuilt night at the Paramount, the only legit venue in town. The culture listing classified it as “underground hip-hop”. But it was mainstream bullshit, and my booty was too small to blend in with the clientele.

Word of mouth eventually landed me at Half Rack for Halloween. The format was a bit unfamiliar to me. I had been to house parties, warehouse raves, 29

and underground concerts before. But this was an odd mixture of the three. We journeyed past a half dozen authentic Mexican taco joints until we reached a metallic storage unit on Airport Rd. The edge of town. A parallel dimension to my recently transplanted self. Entering the party, I was immediately impressed by everyone’s outrageous costumes. The entire cast of the Royal Tenenbaums was on the dance floor. A greasy-ass girl whose costume was simply “sweaty” won my invisible blue ribbon of respect. I dressed as “Beatrix” (dressed in Buck’s scrubs) from the hospital scene from Kill Bill. “My name is Buck, and I’m here to fuck” was my dazzling one-liner. Drinking cheap beer and admiring everyone’s homemade creations, I was finally surrounded by young people. Maybe there was hope for Santa Fe.

The music was pretty good. A weird mustachioed tranny-man was djing from his laptop and turntables. Eclectic and party-moving. But the power cable for the speakers was running right across the dance floor. And people kept tripping over it, and unplugging it. And the music kept stopping. From bumping jams to dead silence. Until it was plugged in again and the beats resumed. I alerted the dj to the cable placement issue.

“You’ve got to do something about this.”

He distractedly nodded in affirmation and wandered off to slug off a vampire’s tequila bottle. Exasperated at his aloofness, I took charge and embodied the party warrior. I would defend this dance floor. Splattered in fake blood, rocking my plastic gold Elvis frames, I stood on top of the tenuous cable - guarding our lifeline to the sound. And that lasted for another fifteen minutes before another drunk-o-weenie tripped over it, and the music cut out again.

Fucking amateur hour. I was done. Over it. My hawk-eyes pierced through the crowd until I located my moving target - the crossdressing dj. Why the hell wasn’t he behind the dj booth? Why wasn’t he dealing with the sound issue? Rerouting the cables? Anything? I marched over and scolded him “You are the worst dj I’ve ever heard”. His mustache frowned momentarily, and he returned to his conversation. Seriously? I had just unloaded my most combative dj ammo all over this guy – and he just shrugs it off? How dare he not fix this? How dare he not try to please me – his audience? How dare he continue to sip on mescal as if everything is just hunky dory? FUCK THIS. I exploded. And I left the stupid Halloween party and its incompetent dj and its stupid hippie-hipsters behind.

Two years earlier, I was living in Madrid. Mad-reeeeed. Pronounced like a true Spaniard, not a lazy Texan. Southwest of Santa Fe, there’s another Madrid – an old coal mining town turned cowboy-hippie-artist community.

Local pronunciation of the name emphasizes the first syllable: MAD-rid. When I would mention to Norteños (Northern New Mexicans) that I had been living in Madrid, their brains geographically placed me in the sleepy, quirky ghost town forty minutes away. But I had been living in Mad-reeeeed, Spain. A gilded magickal land where everyone from the moment of conception instinctively knows how to party – all night long. Endless nights and days stringing together into tremendous dance party benders. And those epic days 30

bleeding into weeks and then months of blurry night clubs, bleached bone-white monuments and lush royal gardens full of peacocks, roses and fine topiary. Madrid - where cheap red wine flows in the street gutters and everyone rolls gooey, inky hash into their harsh tobacco. Even then, I could palpably sense that these were the best times of my life.

From Madrid to Boston and onto Santa Fe. The migration had really deflated my inner party balloon - squeaking wails of melancholy as the last breaths came farting out. The desert had brought me sunlight and warmth in a vast, beautiful, boring landscape. I was thirsty for moisture, proper nightlife, a connection with my peers.

Why the hell had I come to Santa Fe anyway? I was planning to move to San Francisco - where I would thrive, satisfied with myriad distractions and interactions. But I was still mildly curious about this high desert – still half-interested in cracking it open and revealing the hidden crystals within. If only I could make it through the dead of winter – with everyone hibernating or covertly cavorting in their secret covens of private fun. I kept one ear to the ground – listening for a far off thumping of bass. Staring deep into the distance – searching hard for clues but only finding rainbows. And hail storms.

And another fucking breathtaking sunset. Delicate washes of petal pink, peachy orange, golden wheat. Meh, I give it a 5.5. The stark beauty losing its power so quickly. Burnt out on the omnipotent unyielding beauty of the desert. Like when you smell a delicious blossom and inhale deeply, and are so overwhelmed by its aroma that you can no longer detect it. And lose your awe.

My friend who brought me to the Half Rack Halloween party had heard about another underground event happening at the Santa Fe Brewing Co, or well, the main building was being renovated, and someone threw a party in structure that is now the tasting room. It was convoluted. I was a little skeptical entering the part-residential / part-commercial space. Downstairs a dj was spinning some passable clubby shit and beers were being poured behind a large wooden bar. After reviewing my drink options, I settled on a “Chicken Killer”. Intrigued by its threatening name. It was an experimental new offering from the Brewing Co - 11% Barley Wine. I had skipped dinner, and this sweet, malty brew quickly filled my belly. Nowadays, Chicken Killer is a regular staple at SFBC, but they maintain a strict serving limit of two pints. That night, I was served four full pints of the intoxicating yeasty concoction. And I went bat shit crazy.

Upon receiving my first pint of Chicken Killer, I hurried upstairs to check out the rest of the scene. There was another dj playing. The room was dark and colorful beams bounced off the floor and walls. The vibe, the music, the general bootleggery - I’m digging this, I thought to myself. My rusty joints and appendages needed a few squirts from the old oil can. But with some alcohol coursing through my system, I managed to unfold my under-used body and began to move about the dance floor. It was full of weirdos indiscriminately shaking their shit. And it was awesome.

I still didn’t know many people in town. But I did recognize this kooky 31

old cello player who had paid me to photoshop a UFO into the background of his promotional head shot. I giggled into the bottom of my glass. It was time for a refill. And then another.

I was beyond intoxicated. I did not belong in public. I navigated my way to the only bathroom. There I discovered a giant whirlpool tub and decided to start drawing myself a hot bath. Completely forgetting where I was, overcome with the urge to submerge myself in water. Until frantic urgent pissers started banging on the door. And I half-snapped back to reality, but was mostly just still out of my mind and drunk as fuck. I shut off the steaming faucet without draining the tub and opened the door to find my friend looking annoyed.

“What the fuck are you doing in here? I need to pee.”

“Uhhhhhhhh...”, I stumbled past her and down the stairs. I saddled up to the bar and ordered my fourth Chicken Killer. The edges of the room were hazy and my breath was labored as I climbed the stairs and reentered the dance floor.

It shone sick with super saturated red and green laser lights. I danced hard, splashing beer on myself and the floor. The dj was still killing it. My inner dance snob was honestly impressed. And my outer-alcoholic was in full-blown, non-filtered extrovert attack mode. I noticed the dj was slipping outside for a cigarette break. I don’t smoke but I drunkenly followed him into the frigid night, sans-jacket. I hovered like a hungry hummingbird waiting for the perfect moment to approach him. To bestow my greatest compliment “Just so you know, you’re the best dj I’ve heard in New Mexico”, I gushed.

My girlfriend magically appeared and was standing beside me, carrying my jacket. She handed it to me and discreetly pulled me aside.

“Dude, that’s the same guy you told off at the Halloween party two weeks ago. The worst dj you’ve ever heard? Ring a bell?”

My glazed-over eyes squinted intensely in the dark. Landing definitively on his moustache.

“I am such an asshole.” I winced to myself.

Extinguishing his cigarette, he walked over and extended his hand,

“Hi, I’m Paul Feathericci. Nice to meet you.”

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Emily Floyd

The Black Suit

Mark Twain said, “Clothes make the man.” What about the woman?

I was in the midst of ending my marriage, when the purchase of a black suit suddenly gave my work life a new direction. It also gave me a glimpse into the glossary of the workplace and although it brought me success, it gave me a glimpse of how women struggle to find their way in a working world still dominated by men.

I had just separated from my husband of seven years. We had been skidding towards the end for a while, but when the end finally came I was miserable. I lost weight, joking with my friends that the divorce diet was better than Atkins and Weight Watchers combined. My one solace was work. Lacking any good reasons to go home, I threw myself into work. I really did enjoy my work as a meeting planner for a large medical association, so it wasn’t a hardship to spend extra hours at the office. I took on more projects. I responded quickly to e-mails and phone calls. I discovered the more willing I was to jump in and help, the more I had to do. I was asked to help clean up a manager’s office that was filled with stacks and stacks of papers. The office had become an eyesore and I was offered overtime to help sort and file all the papers. Even as I took on these tasks, and delighted at the extra money in my paycheck, I realized I wasn’t necessarily getting more responsibility. I was definitely getting more to do, as in “you have time, let’s have you do this.” But I was not getting, “you are smart and capable, let’s give you more challenging responsibilities.” I was quickly learning the difference. Still, I was busy. In that painful time, busy was good.

I was still fairly young and dressed that way, usually only dressing up when specifically told it was required. Otherwise, I spent most of the time skirting around the edges of our office guideline: business casual. Khakis and a black polo shirt one day, black slacks and a red sweater the next. As with most offices, we indulged in casual Fridays. So, at least once a week jeans and a t-shirt or sweatshirt sporting the logo of your favorite sports team was acceptable. I fell within the guidelines set out by the human resources department, but I certainly wasn’t going to be the poster child for our dress code. I definitely wasn’t the only one. The director of my department was notorious for her slacks and sweater sets, topped off with a cat pin flourish. Even the older ladies, who had been brought up in the more formal office culture of yesteryear, were loathe to stretch outside of their skirts and blouses. Still, they usually wore panty hose and heels, a step up from my scuffed loafers and argyle socks.

One evening, my friend Cathy had persuaded me to join her for dinner.

We went to a pizzeria that served my favorite pizza, one topped with arugula and prosciutto. Still suffering the effects of the divorce diet, the slice of pizza sat on 33

the yellow plate while I picked pieces of arugula off one at a time and nibbled them in my best imitation of a sick rabbit. Over dinner, I complained that none of my clothes fit anymore and Cathy suggested we go to Lord and Taylor’s department store which was within walking distance.

In the store, Cathy pointed to the black suit dangling at the end of the rack, almost jutting into the aisle. “The wrap style jacket would probably fit you better,” she said. The genetic hand I had been dealt included a large bust. It was a very pretty suit, not particularly special. As with most women’s suits it was a blend of polyester, viscose, rayon and a bunch of other synthetic materials. But it hung beautifully, draping gracefully over the curves of a woman’s body. The fabric gave the suit a feel that was very different from the standard wool suit sold to men. Men’s suits were usually stiff rather than yielding and had a bit of wooly scratch to them. This suit was soft and smooth. It had a very feminine feel to it. The one flourish was that the jacket closed with a tie rather than a button. It wrapped around the side to tie in a floppy, feminine bow just above my left hip.

It was expensive, a little over $150 on sale. But, I reasoned, it was a suit I could wear to a funeral or a job interview. It was versatile and it was a good investment.

I found a couple of blouses, one a silky beige and one a crisp pink oxford. And finally a pair of black heels.

I began to wear my new suit to work. One day a week I would dress up. I would alternate between the two shirts, always surrounding them and myself with the black suit. Making sure to not fall into the “cat pin ladies club”, I looked for accessories that spoke to a more fun aesthetic. An antique charm bracelet that I dug out of a bin of jewelery at a consignment shop near my new smaller apartment. A pair of “Wizard of Oz” red heels that I joked would take me home to Kansas. And finally, an expensive new Swiss Army watch with a metal bracelet-like band. The new clothes and new accessories created distance from the pain of my divorce and created closeness with my new comfortable space, work.

One night, I was working late and an executive vice president came over to my cubical to ask me a question. I honestly didn’t realize she even knew my name until that moment. I wondered if I was beginning to look like someone who was smart and capable. I decided to test my hypothesis. I bought more suits and more shirts and more heels and more skirts and more pantyhose. The CEO started saying hello to me in the hallway.

Within a few months, I was asked to take on planning and execution of two annual board meetings. The board of trustees included the executive management team and cardiologists elected from the membership of the association. I was going to be the main point of contact for these meetings, making sure that the board meetings were successful. It was an acknowledgement that I was smart and capable. I had been smart and capable all along, but somehow putting on that black suit had proven it to my department director and even the executive management.

After a few board meetings, I began to get to know the doctors and their wives and even some of their children. I was aware of what drove the president 34

crazy (squeaky doors), what kind of candy the secretary preferred to have on the meeting room tables (mints) and who wanted to have chocolate desserts served after dinner (almost everyone). My black suit, and by now the many other suits I owned, got worn frequently. I even remember sprinting down a long hallway in a tan suit and black high heels to catch a meeting room sign that had been taken away by an overzealous bellman. My suits had become a sign of self-assuredness, capability and power.

I was vividly aware of the fact that this suit had changed the way I was perceived by the doctors, the executive management team and even my department director. I wasn’t a girl anymore, I was a woman. One that could fit into a man’s world. The doctors, who were all men during this time, especially took notice. One evening, I was sitting in the hotel lobby bar waiting for a room setup to be completed and one of the doctors joined me for a drink where we chatted about the particulars of the board meeting and how he thought the association was progressing. I was no longer an anonymous employee completing tasks. I was someone they could rely on, talk to and treat as an equal.

I was a professional.

I left the job. But, important lessons about dressing for success weren’t left behind. The past few years I’ve spent taking care of people, ailing grandparents and my own new little girl. Those jobs required empathy, patience and above all comfort. Dressing for success meant jeans or sweatpants topped with a comfortable and versatile t-shirt. My reliable black suit hung in the closet untouched. Recently, I returned to work full-time. The first few months I slid by on my old standbys of khakis or colored jeans with polo shirts and dressy t-shirts.

I remained unnoticed. A recent washer breakdown pushed me into the far corners of my closet and one morning I pulled out my black suit. Just as it did so long ago, wearing a black suit with a pink blouse made me visible. The director greeted me in the hallway. Just as before, I found comfort and success in slipping on my professional skin, the black suit.

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Vanessa L. Mendez

“El Rey”

It was the fall of 2009, that marked the worst year of my life. I had just started English classes at Santa Barbara City College. There were many different faces, but one in particular caught my eye. This person had many tattoos along their chest, arms, legs, and a quite scary one around his eye. I thought to myself, “Oh man this person is a hard-core gangster,” but then I realized, “What am I saying?” and remind myself that you can’t judge a book by its cover. So I walk on over, my feet cold, my heart pounding a million miles per hour, and my nerves on edge as if my legs were about to brake from shaking so much. Somehow I manage to say, “Hi my name’s Vanessa. What’s your name?” as droplets of sweat start falling from my forehead. He says, “Rey, please sit down?” He has the softest voice; his sound was of a shy fearful five-year-old hiding behind his mother’s back after meeting a stranger. After hearing his voice, I knew from then on that he wasn’t a bad guy after all. His tattoos did not depict his character. Since that initial encounter, we became close. We were like two peas in a pod and sure enough the best of friends.

Looking back, I remember one day, it was the early morning and my alarm had just gone off. It sounded like a football referee had just blown his whistle after someone made a bad penalty. I jumped out of bed at once, I ran out the door, and there he was waiting patiently with a cup of coffee: it was Rey. “Good morning Vanessa. I brought you coffee before we head to school.” I looked stunned because none of my other friends would have done this for me. “Yum! My favorite vanilla coffee it’s nice and hot! Thanks Rey,” I said. The coffee was so hot that I burned my tongue. “OUCH!” I said out loud. Rey started laughing; he looked like a joker from a cartoon drawing because of his tattoo around his eye.

The tattoo was triangular in shape coming from the top and the bottom of his eye. It looked like something a joker or clown would have painted on himself. Over time, our friendship grew and grew to the point where we would do anything for one another. I remember thinking to myself, “Wow I finally found a true friend.”

Summer came and I wish it never had because Rey was back in jail and I wasn’t going to be able to spend the summer with him.You see, he is not from Santa Barbara, and I didn’t have the time to show him around town. Nonetheless, I always kept in touch with him despite the difficulties of the distance that the facility created. I sat and waited for Rey. I kind of felt like I was in a movie: sitting by the window, watching the rain fall and holding my hot cup of vanilla coffee which unfortunately to this day, still burns my tongue. “OUCH!” Weeks and months have passed now, but no matter how long it has been, I always thought about Rey. 36

In the mid-morning, I went for my usual bike ride to the beach. It was a nice sunny day, seeing the palm trees flying back and forth, hearing dogs bark, and feeling the nice ocean breeze touch my face. I had to say to myself, “Today is a good day.” As I returned home, I heard someone scream my name. As I wondered who it could be the sound of the voice sparked a memory. I looked up and saw him, it was Rey. I was in shock, he was out and I hadn’t known. He did not sound like himself after all, I never knew he could scream. I never heard him scream. I had the biggest smile on my face once I saw him. I felt like a kid in the candy store. I yelled back at him “Rey, you’re out!” But as I looked at him he didn’t look like a happy camper. Rey walked towards me and said, “Vanessa I’m going back home,” confused, I asked him, “What do you mean? You are home.” Wasn’t this place home? Even though I didn’t believe it, I knew he meant back home with his family in San Diego. So I guess, I have to take that back; it was not a good day after all.

I couldn’t bear to see him leave the next day. All this time I had been waiting for him, for more good times and now he was going away once more.

I knew there was nothing I could do or say, he wanted to go back home. I remember when he was boarding the train he turned and said to me, “Vanessa you’re like my sister, my family, and I will never forget you.” We hugged so tight and so long to the point I thought my eyes were going to pop out. Then all of a sudden, he was gone. I cherished that moment and I will never forget that day.

My heart was heavy and I missed my friend. I remember one night I went out to a local bar. When I entered I could see the bartender waiting patiently at his alcohol station. I walked over to him and I could just smell vodka, whiskey, tequila, and beer running down his table. It smelled like a vomit fest to me. He poured me a shot, then another, another, and another the drinks just kept coming my way no stopping him. After that I lost count and I knew I was about to go down. My head was pounding like someone was hammering needles into my head. I knew I had to call a taxi and go straight home.

When I woke up the next day I saw that someone had called me at 3:00 am; it was a number I did not know. Instantly I think to myself, “Damn collectors!”

The phone rings again and the same number appears as before on my phone.

Something tells me I have to answer. “Hello,” they timidly respond. “Yes, is this Vanessa? I would just like to inform you that Rey died last night.” In shock I dropped the phone when I heard the news. Tears started running down my face like a streaming waterfall, my heart was in my stomach and it felt like everything went dark around me. I said to myself, “How can this be? I just saw him? I didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye?” Immediate feelings of guilt consumed me.

I felt like shit because I was too drunk last night to answer the phone. He was my best friend and now he was gone forever.

His tattoos gave off an image of a bad ass, but he was more than that. He was a very strong man, talented, kind and sweet. I will never forget the day when he spoke in his soft voice, “You are like my sister and you will always be family.”

I keep those words close to my heart and a spoken kindness that serve as a constant reminder to never judge a person by the way they look because looks 37

are deceiving and that person might become your best friend some day. If you are looking for friends or have a best friend, or someone you are close to, cherish them, cherish the moment, look beyond the physical, because one day they may be gone and you might not have the chance to say goodbye. My friend’s name was Rey, but I called him “El Rey.” “The King,” and that is what he will always be to me.

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Academic Essay Winner Daniel Ellis-Green

Transfiguration in the Glass Lake of A. & P.

It can be interesting to consider characters in literature that emerge with an altered outlook as a result of an ordeal or happenstance, or a combination of the two. In John Updike’s short story “A. & P.,” Sammy has a change of heart while working the checkout register of a convenience store, and then walks out on his job. In Tennessee Williams’ play The Glass Menagerie, Laura has her small world of isolation opened one evening by a gentleman visitor. The narrator of T. Coraghessan Boyle’s short story “Greasy Lake” nearly makes good on his promise to become a bad character, but is interrupted and finds himself afterwards with an altered outlook. These are very different characters in very different stories, but they all share in common a transformation in their essential outlook brought about by chance occurrences and traumatic circumstances.

In John Updike’s 1961 story, Sammy is a nineteen year old checkout clerk at an A. & P. convenience store, located five miles from the beach north of Boston. His reaction to three young women who enter the store in their bathing suits is typical of a young male. He is primarily interested in looking at the exposed parts of their bodies as they wander up and down the aisles, and he reacts by trading declarations of wonder with his coworker, Stoksie.

After several delightful paragraphs fleshed out with Sammy and Stoksie’s ogling, Updike takes the story in an unexpected direction, signaled by a shift in Sammy’s thoughts. “Poor kids,” he writes, referring to the bikini wearers, “I began to feel sorry for them” (19). Sammy’s awareness of the situation has broadened just enough to allow him to perceive that at the meat counter “old MacMahon [was] looking after them and sizing up their joints. . .” as though they were chunks of meat. This is not very different from Sammy’s or Stoksie’s attitude to the young women, but witnessing someone older than himself engaged in the same mental diversion awakens Sammy’s conscience. This awareness is the catalyst for Sammy’s transformation from a hormone-driven teen to a young man with slightly higher ideals.

Tennessee Williams’ 1945 drama The Glass Menagerie introduces us to the dysfunctional Wingfield family. Laura Wingfield lacks the extroverted attitude of “A. & P.”’s Sammy. She is the anxious, painfully shy daughter who stays in her mother Amanda’s apartment listening to old phonograph records and arranging her collection of glass animals. She prefers these activities to attending college or entertaining the “gentlemen callers” that her mother so longs for Laura to have (1,182 - 3). Under unrelenting pressure from Amanda, Laura’s brother Tom invites his co worker Jim to have dinner with the three of them. Jim enters Laura’s life as unexpectedly as the three bikini wearing shoppers entered Sammy’s, and he will have a similar impact on Laura’s life as the young shoppers had in his.

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As Laura’s evening with Jim progresses, it is revealed that they knew one another in high school, and that Laura had always very been fond of him. Jim’s ego is favorably touched by Laura’s admiration, and he dances with her and kisses her - Laura’s first kiss from a man, though she is 24 years old - before revealing that he is engaged to be married. During the dance, Laura’s favorite glass unicorn is knocked to the floor and loses its horn, becoming a glass horse instead.

As her unicorn is physically transfigured, Laura begins her own awakening and transfiguration.

The unnamed main character of T. Coraghessan Boyle’s 1985 short story “Greasy Lake” undergoes a similar transformation as Sammy in “A. & P.” and Laura in The Glass Menagerie, but of the three, his change is brought about by the most traumatic circumstances. It is part happenstance, but also the result of choices made in a deliberate lifestyle of disaffection. The time-period is later than that of either “A. & P.” or The Glass Menagerie, and although all three characters are similar ages, the attitudes of young people in the late 60s and early 70s are very different from those 20 to 40 years earlier.

Greasy Lake is a gathering place for young people with time to waste and a disregard for social norms. This descriptions suits the narrator and his two friends, who together pay a nocturnal visit to the lake. The trio happens upon a car which they mistake as belonging to someone they know. Seeing that some late-night groping is taking place within the parked automobile, the three decide to play a prank by pulling up behind the car, flashing their headlights and blaring their horn. They are then confronted not by their acquaintance, but by a “. . . very bad character in greasy jeans . . .” (410).

It takes the efforts of all three to fight him off, as well as a tire iron wielded by the narrator and brought down solidly across the side of the bad character’s head.

With him out of the way, things go from bad to worse as they prepare to rape his girlfriend on the hood of the car. At this crucial moment another car approaches and scares the trio into the woods, fleeing from the almost-violated young woman and what they suppose to be one dead bad character. The narrator cannot get far enough away from his deeds, and in his scramble he ends up in the lake.

In the fetid water of Greasy Lake the narrator encounters a dead body and hears the shouts of the not-dead very-bad character. He is simultaneously horrified by the floating corpse and relieved that he has not himself become a murderer.

The eventual departure of the new arrivals with the very bad character and his girlfriend leaves the narrator alone in the lake with the cadaver. In the ooze and muck, as the aftershocks of violence subside within him, he has time to reflect on what has just happened, and also on what might have happened if the third car had not approached when it did. The putrid waters of Greasy Lake become a baptismal font from which the narrator will emerge, reborn as a sober young man.

Back at the A. & P., the store manager Lengel confronts the three bikinied young women about their attire, and Sammy witnesses their ensuing embarrassment with considerable discomfort. Sammy’s discomfort is all the greater for having noticed and lingered in great detail over the very same (lack of) attire that Lengel is now openly calling attention to. A small crowd has gathered as the young ladies 40

pay for their few items and prepare to leave. At that moment Sammy announces that he is quitting. “You didn’t have to embarrass them,” he says to Lengel (21).

He folds his apron and walks out, ignoring Lengel’s protestations.

Sammy is still a young man with a young man’s hormones, and he continues to muse to himself over the young women (“. . . a really sweet can . . .” and “. . . not that as raw material she was so bad . . .”), but he has just emerged from an inner struggle and decided to take a different path from Lengel, MacMahon and their customers, who he thinks of as “sheep” and “scared pigs” (20). In a few moments he has been transfigured from someone who could one day take MacMahon’s place behind the meat counter of life, and has chosen instead to step out into the bright sun of the parking lot and squint into his uncertain future as the proverbial sadder, wiser man.

Laura’s transformation is still progressing as well. In The Glass Menagerie, she is portrayed as a young woman who is emotionally fragile and lacking in self regard.

Jim’s attention to her is enough to awaken in her a flicker of self esteem. Instead of being devastated by the disbudding of her glass unicorn, she instead muses aloud how it will now feel “. . . less freakish . . .” and more at ease with the glass horses in her collection (1,215). One senses that, consciously or subconsciously, Laura is applying this same logic to herself. Through a brief glimmer of romantic hope stimulated and then truncated by Jim, Laura has had her own horn knocked off.

Jim’s kindness to Laura demonstrated that her peculiarities do not have to exclude her from a social life outside her mother’s apartment. This is made clear when Jim departs to return to his fiancé and Laura offers him the hornless unicorn as a keepsake of their evening together. In doing so, she is letting go of her precious and too-fragile former self. The evening with Jim has transformed the painfully shy and anxious Laura into a young woman who can face a reality beyond her glass collection and her mother’s expectations. As Sammy faces his future alone in the bright sun of the A. & P. parking lot, sans checkout apron, Laura faces hers without her glass unicorn for company.

Back at Greasy Lake, when dawn comes the narrator pulls himself out of the muck and rejoins his companions. Before they can make their getaway, a car pulls up and two young women get out. They are looking for someone, and the narrator realizes that the someone is probably the body in the lake he has just spent the night with. If the narrator needed any further convincing that his lifestyle of wayward delinquency needed reexamining, then the link between the floating corpse and these two young women provides it.

When one of the young women extends her hand with pills and an offer to party, the three men flatly decline the invitation drive away. The main character is now sober in more ways than one. Prior to the traumatic events of the night, he never would have passed up the opportunity to consume stimulants and mess around with a couple of young women by Greasy Lake, but he is now a changed man. In the world of literary characters, he has joined the company of Sammy and Laura Wingfield as a transfigured individual.

When the reader is first introduced to “A. & P.”’s Sammy, he leads a fairly 41

un-extraordinary life, and there is no reason to think that his trajectory of normality will be interrupted. With his decision to quit his job, he has chosen to keep his eyes open and his mind alert. There is no one to welcome him into the fraternity of martyrdom, and the absence of admirers to his stand-taking reinforces that he has chosen a lonely path.

Laura’s transformation in The Glass Menagerie is in some ways the opposite of Sammy’s: Laura hopes to replace her loneliness with a companion, and although it cannot be Jim, his attention and kindness to her have awoken a sense of self-worth in her that was debilitatingly absent before. In giving her glass unicorn to Jim, she is simultaneously letting go of her childhood isolation, and accepting the adult world that exists beyond the walls of her mother’s apartment.

Of the three stories, the main character of “Greasy Lake”’s transformation is the most sensational and traumatic. Following a night of unintended violence, dawn finds the story’s narrator with a graver and far more sober understanding of life and his own actions and intentions. Initially disdaining of the self reflection of someone like Sammy, or the fragility and timidity of someone like Laura, one suspects that violence is the only thing that would facilitate such a transformation for the wayward boy baptized and transfigured by the slime of Greasy Lake.

All three of these characters are changed in an essential way during the course of the stories they inhabit. Their stories are as distinct from one another as their characters are different from each other, but the three share a common theme of transfiguration through chance circumstances and traumatic ordeal.

Works Cited Boyle, T. Coraghessan. “Greasy Lake.” Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia.

7th Compact ed. New York: Pearson, 2013. 408-415. Print.

Updike, John. “A. & P.” Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama,

and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. 7th Compact ed.

New York: Pearson, 2013. 17-21. Print.

Williams, Tennessee. The Glass Menagerie. Literature - An Introduction to Fiction,

Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia.

7th Compact ed. New York: Pearson, 2013. 1174-1220. Print.

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Academic Essay Honorable Mention Daniel Ellis-Green

Blake and Eliot: Two Views of Life in the City Although the lives and words of the poets William Blake and T.S. Eliot are separated by a hundred years, both men wrote of the bleak daily existence imposed by city life, and the damage to the human spirit that these conditions create. The non-fictional study Condition of the Working-Class in England in 1844 by social scientist Friedrich Engels supports both poets’ depictions of city life. The work of all three men reflects the general hopelessness of day-to-day life in a declining urban setting, as well as the particular ordeal of people who lack in material wealth and social standing in large cities.

In his poem “London,” William Blake views the city-dweller’s plight with sympathy, and condemns church and state together for imprisoning the hearts and minds of ordinary citizens. In “The winter evening settles down,” T.S. Eliot could be writing about London or almost any other city, but in contrast to Blake, Eliot’s city seems nearly deserted. Eliot’s portrait of the confines of post-industrial social order is more broadly implied than Blake’s explicit indictment. Blake’s view is wholly bleak, while Eliot concludes on a hopeful note.

William Blake wrote “London” in 1794, and he is the speaker, relating from a first-person point of view the misery he finds in the titular city. He refers to both the streets and the river as “chartered” in the poem’s first two lines, which implies a corseted confinement. These few architectural details give way to descriptions, in lines three and four, of the people Blake meets as he moves through the streets.

He describes the faces he sees, and states that every one of them shows signs of fatigue and unhappiness.

In the second stanza, lines five to eight, Blake begins to hear voices, and audible in each voice and “ban” (7) is what he refers to as the “mind-forged manacles” (8).

An older meaning of the word ban is a summons to arms, and this is likely the very meaning Blake had in mind, as he will later reference soldiers. “Mind-forged manacles” implies that these poor souls are chained not physically, but mentally, and that their every utterance bears testimony to their condition of emotional enslavement.

In the third stanza, comprised of lines nine to twelve, Blake narrows his focus to a chimney sweeper and a soldier, the latter of which was foreshadowed in the preceding stanza by the “ban.” Within these lines are Blake’s most specific accusations of church and state: by hiring children to keep its chimneys clean, the church is complicit in the conditions which create a class of people commonly referred to today as the working poor. Blake says that it “appalls” the church, a word that means to dim, weaken, enfeeble, or impair (10). Blake wants his readers to understand that this is directly opposed to the Christian ideal of helping those less fortunate.

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The image in line twelve of the “. . . soldier’s sigh [running in] blood down palace walls” holds to account those who conscript the soldier’s service. Here, the palace walls represent the ruling monarchy that sends young men off at will to die in foreign countries. In an essay for the Explicator, Robert Rix says that, for many, joining the army was an “. . . economic necessity. Often as the only way to support their families, the poor became cannon fodder in the war George III had declared against France in February 1793” (29).

This third stanza is also interesting for the acrostic it contains, HEAR. Citing the Longman Anthology, Roy Neal Graves points out that the word hear also concludes lines 8 and 13. Graves asserts that “. . . this confluence of hear/ HEAR/hear has the look of formal craftsmanship . . .” (132), which is to say it is a deliberate device of Blake’s. “London” was written at a time when seemingly no one heard the cries of the very poor. The upper classes turned deaf ears and blind eyes to their plight. Blake wants his audience to not only read the words, but to hear the cries and sighs embodied in these critical lines.

The fourth and final stanza (lines thirteen to sixteen) are the most difficult to interpret. By considering the meanings of some specific words as they may have been more commonly used in Blake’s time, a clearer picture emerges. Line thirteen sets the scene as “. . . midnight streets . . .”, so the reader understands that it is night. The central character of the stanza is a “. . . youthful harlot,” a word that may refer to a beggar or vagabond, or more basely, a prostitute. The “. . . harlot’s curse . . .” is not an obscenity uttered by the harlot, but rather the vengeance of a deity that has been visited upon her.

It then follows that this curse is a form of infectious disease, such as syphilis, and therefore “. . . blights with plagues the marriage hearse” can be interpreted as a sign of divine anger (16). To blast, as in line fifteen, is to ruin, and to blight, as in line sixteen, is to destroy the promise of something. Finally, the word hearse is not used here as a funerary conveyance, but as a frame, usually triangular, designed to carry candles during Holy Week. With this established, the final lines can be understood as a condemnation of the needless spread of disease which snuffs out the light of a candle that has only just been lighted.

In his short poem, Blake effectively uses detail to awaken the reader’s sympathies and anger over the conditions imposed by life in a large city. In contrast to Blake, while exploring a similar theme in “The winter evening settles down,” T.S. Eliot takes a more impressionistic approach. Written in 1917, Eliot’s language is less dense than Blake’s, and rather than describing individuals, Eliot wants the reader to see, feel, and even smell the grime and dissolution of the city. By immersing the reader in the city, Eliot may have hoped to awaken the same sympathies as Blake did one hundred years before him.

The first line of “The winter evening settles down” is the title restated, and it is followed in line two by the smell of cooking food. Eliot does not show who is cooking, but in line three he gives “six o’clock” as the time of day. Having already established that it is winter, one can safely assume that it is now dark. Line four is evocative of smoke, smudge, and generally unclean air, all qualities commonly associated with cities, and in particular the less prosperous parts of a city.

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In lines five through eight, Eliot pulls the reader into the poem, and actually places him in the city, as “. . . a gusty shower wraps the grimy scraps of withered leaves about your feet (emphasis added) . . .” More rain falls in lines nine and ten, but the focus has shifted away from the reader and back to the city itself, for now it is “. . . broken blinds and chimney-pots” that are being rained on. These details of disrepair further establish that this is the poor part of town.

So far, Eliot has not mentioned the sight of anyone in this city. The only human presence is the reader who got his shoes soiled in line seven, but in line twelve there is a “. . . lonely cab-horse [that] steams and stamps,” which lets the reader understand that someone must be close by. It is probable that the cab driver has taken shelter from the rain, though this respite will likely prove a temporary one before duty calls again.

All of this amounts to a richly layered melancholy, an atmosphere of longing, and one of few comforts. To evoke this atmosphere may have been Eliot’s only intent, but he may have had a deeper purpose. After all, Eliot himself is known to have struggled with life in London, and wrote to a friend in 1920 that it was “‘extraordinarily difficult . . . one bleeds to death very slowly here’” (qtd. in Carver 57). Perhaps in showing the bleakly dismal details of a city in winter, Eliot hopes to lead the reader to ask if there might not be a better way of life. Certainly Eliot does not accuse in the same forthright manner as Blake the social order that builds cities as containers of human misery. By leaving judgment in the hands of the reader, Eliot gives his audience an opportunity to ponder.

It is worth noting that in another contrast to “London,” which concludes as darkly as it opens, “The winter evening settles down” ends on what can be interpreted as a note of optimism. In Eliot’s poem, line thirteen is given a special emphasis by its physical separation from the preceding lines. It reads: “And then the lighting of the lamps.” This could, on one hand, be interpreted as another detail of the monotony of everyday city life. It is a nail-in-the-coffin image, implying that another day has died away. It is also possible that Eliot wanted to express a vision of hope by suggesting that after so much darkness there is light.

The fact that it is a man-made light is a validation proclaiming that not all the works and deeds of men are ill-intended, or have ill consequences.

At an approximately midway point in time between Blake and Eliot, the German social scientist Friedrich Engels examined the lives of the poor in London, as well as other English cities. The resulting portrait, drawn in 1844 from his own first-hand observations, is even bleaker than the poems that precede and succeed him. Engels describes the ruin and squalor of the houses, and states that here “. . . no doors are needed, there being nothing to steal. Heaps of garbage and ashes lie in all directions, and the foul liquids emptied before the doors gather in stinking pools.”

Only those who have no other choice could tolerate such conditions, “. . . the poorest of the poor . . . sunk in the whirlpool of moral ruin which surrounds them . . . losing daily more and more of their power to resist the demoralizing influence of want, filth, and evil surroundings” (Engels 27). The rent for such dwellings amounts to exploitation “. . . by the property-holding class . . .”, and 45

yet Engels deems as fortunate those living in such squalor compared to the fifty-thousand people in London that were completely homeless in those days (31).

Taken in sum, these are the conditions that Blake and Eliot witnessed and wove into their poems.

Both William Blake and T.S. Eliot saw the human misery that Friedrich Engels worked to expose. Both poets use the monotony of daily routines and the grime inherent to city living to question the human condition. Blake asks directly if those in power should not take better care of their citizens, while Eliot uses atmosphere and impression to coax the reader towards the same question. Blake’s poem concludes with the assertion that the light of the human spirit will be snuffed out.

Eliot finishes by suggesting that the powers that impose darkness into people’s lives also bring some light into that darkness.

In a study that considers surviving institutional records in London, Robert Shoemaker says that there “. . . is the evidence . . . of . . . multiple sources of support available to the London poor,” especially as the 19th century crept towards the 20th century (96). This progress may have been due in part to Friedrich Engels’ efforts to reveal the plight of the poor. In any case, if Shoemaker is correct, the improvements he notes may partially explain the contrasting conclusions of “London” and “The winter evening settles down.” With more opportunities and resources available to assist the poor by the start of the 20th century, the hundred years between Blake and Eliot allow for a slightly more hopeful perspective on their ordeal.

Works Cited Blake, William. “London.” Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. 7th Compact ed.

New York: Pearson, 2013. 550. Print.

Carver, Beci. “London As A Waste Of Space In Eliot’s The Waste Land.” Critical Quarterly 49.4 (2007): 56-70. Literary Reference Center. Web. 12 May 2013.

Eliot, T.S. “The winter evening settles down.” Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia.

7th Compact ed. New York: Pearson, 2013. 562. Print.

Engels, Friedrich. Condition Of The Working-Class In England In 1844 With A Preface Written In 1892 (1892): 1. Literary Reference Center. Web. 7 May 2013.

Graves, Roy Neil. “Blake’s London.” Explicator 63.3 (2005): 131-136. Literary Reference Center. Web. 8 May 2013.

Rix, Robert W. “Blake’s Auguries of Innocence, the French Revolution, And London.” Explicator 64.1 (2005): 27-29. Literary Reference Center. Web. 7 May 2013.

Shoemaker, Robert B. “Narrating The Poor.” Eighteenth-Century Life 34.3 (2010): 94-98. Literary Reference Center. Web. 8 May 2013.

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Academic Essay Honorable Mention Daniel Ellis-Green

Shakespeare, Deception, and Human Nature

Deception is used by key characters in many plays by William Shakespeare, which leads to both comic and tragic outcomes. Much Ado About Nothing, Othello, and King Lear all contain characters who, for one reason or another, use deception to manipulate other characters. By examining the varied motives behind the deception and the various responses to it, one can gain a fuller appreciation for Shakespeare’s keen understanding of human nature and psychology.

The comedy Much Ado About Nothing has both malicious and benevolent deception. Claudio is a victim of the former brand of deception. He is a weak-willed young soldier who, because of his pride and relative lack of life-experience, is easily manipulated. Claudio’s compatriot Don Pedro, who is the Prince of Arragon, has a bastard brother named Don John. Shakespeare’s audience recognizes Don John for what he is: a man with a bad disposition who harbors malicious intent for no good reason. He proudly proclaims himself to be “a plain-dealing villain” (1.3.23-24).

Don John is a bully who schemes out of pure malice, and like all bullies, he prefers a weak victim. With only a little effort, Don John is able to convince Claudio that Hero, his young bride-to-be, has been unfaithful. Shakespeare, ever mindful of motive, illuminates the resentment Don John holds against Claudio when the former declares that Claudio is the “young start-up [who] hath all the glory of my overthrow” (1.3.49). He goes on to say that “if I can cross him anyway, I bless myself every way” (1.3.50).

Don John’s scheme succeeds, at least initially, and Claudio is so completely taken in that, as a result, the morning of the wedding ends in unhappy chaos. Claudio accuses Hero of infidelity and sensual intemperance in front of the large assembly gathered to witness their nuptials. Claudio’s prideful nature is consistent with his gullibility. He is unwilling to speak to Hero about what he has seen, and does not give her a chance to explain her side of the story. This illustrates the flaws of human nature that Shakespeare had in mind when he created Claudio.

Don Pedro is also deceived and stands with Claudio as the young woman’s honor is publicly undone. Don Pedro, being an older and by all accounts wiser man than Claudio, might have counseled his young friend to seek out Hero in private, or with only a small audience, to interview her about her actions on the night in question. Perhaps it is only a lapse in judgment on Don Pedro’s part, and when viewed in this light, both Claudio and Don Pedro are imbued with Shakespeare’s deep understanding of human foibles, though each in a different manner.

The benevolent deception in Much Ado About Nothing revolves around the difficult relationship between Benedick and Beatrice. A group of their friends conspire to bring the two together by making them believe that each is secretly 47

in love with the other. In one of the play’s most memorable and funny scenes, Benedick is worked on chiefly by Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato, while Beatrice is persuaded by Hero and Ursula. In the lively dialogue Shakespeare shows the motives of these friends to be partly impish mischief, and partly the natural affection they all feel for their headstrong companions. In the same way that a mother might tell her child a white-lie to boost his or her confidence, Beatrice and Benedick’s friends use white-lies to make each believe in their worthiness of the other’s affections.

Together with these conspirators, the audience can see that Benedick and Beatrice would make an ideal couple, though the two of them, being perhaps too alike in many respects, have not been able to admit as much to themselves or each other. The deception woven by the group of companions succeeds in overcoming this obstacle. By the end of the play, Beatrice and Benedick are promised to each other in marriage, along with the reunited Claudio and Hero, Don John’s treachery having been uncovered. In one delightful comedy, Shakespeare reflects back to his audience many of their own shortcomings, such as pride and gullibility, as well as examples of their better natures, such as concern for their friends and family, and a willingness to work together to effect a happy outcome.

In a much darker vein, Shakespeare’s tragedy Othello offers an even more finely detailed portrait of deception and its ugly motives in the character Iago. Iago’s resentment toward the celebrated general Othello is revealed in the opening act of the play. Othello has passed over Iago in favor of Cassio to be his lieutenant in battle, and Iago has instead been named as Othello’s ensign. “Now, sir, be judge yourself whether I in any just term am affined to love the Moor” (1.1.38-40), rails Iago. He feels that his own worth was amply displayed in action “at Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds . . .” (1.1.29). Iago considers Cassio’s skill so far beneath his own that he must interpret Othello’s promotion of Cassio as a personal slight, a bitter insult, and a deep injury. “Mere prattle without practice is all his soldiership” Iago says disparagingly of Cassio (1.1.26-27). By the close of Act One, Iago twice exclaims “I hate the Moor” (1.3.366, 1.3.386).

Iago decides that Cassio and Desdemona will unwittingly provide the raw materials for his revenge, and by convincing Othello that the two are secret lovers, Iago can “get his place” (1.3.401). Iago’s talent lies in spotting and taking advantage of other people’s weaknesses, and he sums up Othello’s vulnerability thusly: “The Moor is of a free and open nature, that thinks men honest that but seem to be so” (1.3.407-408). Iago’s cunning is such that he does not rush to tell Othello of a suspected tryst between Desdemona and Cassio, but instead has it reluctantly drawn from him by Othello. All the while he feigns regret at having to reveal to Othello the less noble aspects of Cassio, and the inconstancy of Desdemona.

While most people would hesitate to use such manipulation to achieve their aims, Iago has no qualms in doing so. In Iago, Shakespeare has created a character that modern psychology would label sociopathic, or even psychopathic. Today, Iago might be a successful corporate CEO, climbing his way to the top without a 48

second thought for the workers he has trampled over in the process. Iago has no conscience and no regard for the feelings or needs of anyone but himself, and he never loses sight of his own ambitions and desires. As such, he will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Iago is not above using deception to ruin Desdemona and Cassio’s reputation and to drive Othello to distraction with murderous jealousy.

Iago may well be the most ruthless of all of Shakespeare’s villains, and the audience watches as, one by one, Othello’s nobler qualities are devoured by the crazed jealousy that Iago skillfully crafts and nurtures in him. Those of a “free and open nature,” such as Othello, do not stand a chance against the relentless manipulations of a sociopath such as Iago. Revenge is more important to Iago than social or moral conventions, and he holds true to his creed right to the end.

When his dreadful schemes are finally brought to light, he has no remorse or regret. With his revenge secured in a pile of corpses, Iago has nothing more to say.

In Othello, Shakespeare shows how dangerous such personalities can be, but he leaves his audience to decide if they should avoid those who, like Iago, care for no one but themselves.

The protagonist of King Lear has some things in common with Claudio and Othello. Lear is prideful and easily deceived. In contrast to these other characters, Lear is an old man, and he is ready to step down from the responsibilities of his throne. As with Claudio and Othello, there is a willful antagonist waiting to prey upon such an easy target. Shakespeare created the bastard Edmund, as well as two of Lear’s daughters, Goneril and Regan, to fill these roles. In King Lear’s antagonists Shakespeare replaces the former motives of mischief, malice, and revenge with lust for power.

Edmund is ambitious, and does not believe that his status as a bastard should prevent him from holding all the power and wealth that he can obtain by his own wiles. Similar to Iago, Edmund is a victim of the age in which he lives.

Indeed, in modern western society there would not be any constraint imposed on an individual because of the manner of his or her conception or birth, since the individual has no say in these matters. Not so in Edmund’s time. In Act One, he muses “My mind as generous and my shape as true, as honest madam’s issue?

Why brand they us with base? With baseness? Bastardy? Base, base?” (1.2.9-11).

Shakespeare understands that not everyone is happy with the hand that life has dealt them, and Edmund is one such person.

Edmund does not seek revenge as Iago did, nor does he act out of spite as Don John did. Edmund longs for equality with those who hold power and influence, and then gets carried away with greed, intoxicated by his own success. As the story progresses he covets superiority, and he will use every advantage that fate presents to him in order to bring himself to a higher position than that of his legitimate brother, Edgar, his father Gloucester, and Lear’s daughters. As Edmund says, “Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit: all with me’s meet that I can fashion fit” (1.2.160-161).

As the play opens, Lear divides his kingdom between two of his three daughters and relinquishes his power. This sets off an upheaval in his kingdom that Edmund is quick to capitalize on. With a faked letter, he deceives his father Gloucester into 49

disowning Edgar, his legitimate son. By sharing another letter from his father to the King of France, he ensures Gloucester’s status as a traitor to Cornwall, who is Regan’s husband. Cornwall retaliates by gouging out Gloucester’s eyes.

Meanwhile, Edmund has become a lover to both Goneril and Regan, and he intends to keep both of these options open until it is clear which of the two connections will prove most profitable to him.

Shakespeare imbues Edmund with a keen and clever mind, equal even to Iago in Othello. His mental facilities are demonstrated when, in a conversation with his father Gloucester in Act One, he dismisses Gloucester’s statement that many recent misfortunes can be traced to “these late eclipses in the sun and moon” (1.2.93). Edmund’s sharp reply begins “This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune - often the surfeit of our own behavior - we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon and the stars . . .” (1.2. 106-108).

Edmund is a man of hard facts and no sentimentality; a man of reason and will, he has no interest in mysticism or superstition.

In King Lear, Shakespeare also works with self-deception: Lear’s ultimate folly is that he allows himself to be deceived by the demands of his ego. He turns away from Cordelia, the only daughter of his who truly cares for him, and puts his trust and his future in the hands of his two older daughters, Goneril and Regan. The pair exaggerates their love for their father in the play’s opening scene, and they secretly revel in the resultant banishment of Cordelia. Lear’s ego impedes his ability to see these events for what they truly are, and he is pulled along by the false notion of Goneril and Regan’s superior regard for him.

Like Edmund, Goneril and Regan use deception to gain advantage over Cordelia and their father. Since the older sisters are each given one-half of Lear’s kingdom, it is difficult to understand their behavior. Perhaps they are bitter because their father favored their younger sister and had little to do with them as they grew up.

Having no respect for their father, Goneril and Regan are pleased to humiliate him. Their emotional deception gives them additional power over their father in light of the poor decisions he makes out of pride. Lear disowns and disinherits Cordelia because she makes no attempt to out-do Goneril and Regan’s false professions of love for him. As a result, Lear must turn to Goneril and Regan for hospitality that never materializes. As a final insult, the two sisters collaborate in stripping Lear of his retinue.

Shakespeare knew that many who are caught up in creating schemes will be struck with a crisis of conscience, but that it often comes too late to make a difference. And so Edmund, in the last moments of his life in the play’s final scene, tries to intercede to prevent the death of Cordelia, a death that he arranged to further secure his power. “[S]ome good I mean to do, despite of mine own nature” (5.3.283-284). His last-minute intervention comes too late to save Cordelia, and Edmund goes to his grave with the heavy knowledge that his deeds were selfish and dishonorable. Edmund has not the satisfaction of Iago, or perhaps even Don John. In contrast to these two characters, Shakespeare created Edmund with a conscience which seems to have full possession of Edmund’s mind in the end. With King Lear, Shakespeare makes clear the perils of ignoring 50

one’s conscience and giving full rein to one’s ego. As Shakespeare understood, everyone is subject to such faults from time to time, not only extreme characters like Edmund, Goneril and Regan.

To conclude, Shakespeare’s keen grasp of human nature is abundantly evident in his characters and in the different manner that many of them use deception. In Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare demonstrates both shallow, malicious deception through Don John, and playfully benevolent deception through Beatrice and Benedick’s friends and kinfolk. Don John’s treachery is discovered and he is apprehended and awaits punishment. Beatrice and Benedick are happily betrothed as a result of their friends’ plot, and are blissfully unaware of the deception that brought them together. In Othello, Shakespeare sketches a shrewd and cunning brand of deception, wielded for revenge, and cruelly embodied in the character of Iago. Though discovered, Iago is neither repentant nor regretful.

True to character (his only goal having been revenge), he is satisfied in Othello’s undoing and has no remorse. In King Lear, Shakespeare explores deception designed to gain power and influence. Goneril, Regan, and Edmund all die as a direct result of their machinations and only Edmund is portrayed as regretful in the end, but too late to make amends for his many misdeeds. In these three plays Shakespeare demonstrates that deception born of ill-intentions often ends tragically for all involved. However, deception conceived from playful affection can lead to a happy ending for those deceived.

Works Cited Shakespeare, William. King Lear. Mineola: Dover Publications, Inc., 1994. Print.

Shakespeare, William. Much Ado About Nothing. Mineola: Dover Publications, Inc., 1994. Print.

Shakespeare, William. Othello. Mineola: Dover Publications, Inc., 1996. Print.

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Accolades The 2014 Santa Fe Community College

Student Writing Awards

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6401 Richards Ave. Santa Fe, NM 87508 505-428-1000 www.sfcc.edu

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Table of Contents Poetry Winner Susan Aylward .........................................Villanelle: Winds of Early Spring Runner-Up Esmé Vaandrager ........................................................ To Make Me Strong .......................................................When I Die I Will Fly & Drip Horses Honorable Mentions Holly Baldwin .............................................................................. Hollow Susan Aylward .......................................................................... Resilience Isabel McGowan .................................................................... I miss you…

Joia Sivan-Capocchi ............................................................................ um

Fiction

Winner Lorraine Leslie ......................................................................... The Cause Runner-Up Angela Udemezue ................................................My First Hotel Business Honorable Mentions Joia Sivan-Capocchi ..........................................................................Burn Cathy Notarnicola ................................................................ Bundling Up

Personal Essay

Winner Veronica Clark ...................................................................... Break Down Runner-Up AJ Pufnstuf ...................................................................... My First Rodeo Honorable Mentions Emily Floyd ....................................................................... The Black Suit Vanessa L. Mendez ......................................................................“El Rey”

Academic Essay

Winner Daniel Ellis-Green.....................Transfiguration in the Glass Lake of A. & P. Honorable Mention Daniel Ellis-Green.................Blake and Eliot: Two Views of Life in the City .............................................. Shakespeare, Deception, and Human Nature 1

The Santa Fe Community College Student Writing Awards are given out annually. All students enrolled in at least three credits in either the Fall or Spring semesters are eligible. Interested students submitted their work, which was then judged by a group of judges selected from the staff at SFCC. The places were determined on the basis of the judges’ rankings. In addition to being published in Accolades, the authors were invited to give a public reading at the SFCC Student Writing Awards Celebration. Winners and Runners-up also received monetary prizes.

The Student Writing Awards exist to celebrate the diverse voices of SFCC students and to recognize the already-present talent of these stilldeveloping writers. This recognition also provides encouragement to the writers to continue their pursuit of original written expression.

The Winner and Runners-up in each category are also eligible for the Richard Bradford Memorial Creative Writing Scholarship.

The Student Writing Awards are directed by Daniel Kilpatric. The following people were essential to making The SFCC Student Writing Awards and Celebration happen: Shuli Lamden, Colleen Lynch, Justine Carpenter, Janet Berry, Kathy Romero, Deborah Boldt, Kelly Smith, Peg Johnson, Michael Lehrer, Jennifer Bleyle, Kay Bird, Laura Mulry, Dorothy Perez y Piriz, Ken McPherson, Margaret Peters, Sandra Lucero, Miriam Sagan, Julia Deisler, Marci Eannarino, Bethany Kilpatric, Dorothy Massey and The Collected Works Bookstore, all the instructors who encouraged their students to enter, and all the students who entered but did not receive an award.

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Poetry Winner Susan Aylward

Villanelle: Winds of Early Spring Descansos pummeled, winds of early spring, bait and stir ghosts never old, a bird flies alone, what song does it sing Here spirit flew as if in a dream, they’ll return until their stories are told, descansos pummeled, winds of early spring Mothers weep for those taken wing, oh seeking one, the nest will grow cold, descansos pummeled, winds of early spring Grandmothers cross hearts, beads on a string, welcoming buds in purple and gold, a bird flies alone, what song does it sing Kindness, unexpected, makes my heart sting, trumpets blow, life never grows old, a bird flies alone, what song does it sing and when it returns, what will it bring, current of destiny, ours to unfold, descansos pummeled, winds of early spring, a bird flies alone, what song does it sing?

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Poetry Runner-Up Esmé Vaandrager

To Make Me Strong It’s lonely and the TV’s blue light is a jellyfish digesting my head.

My dad & brother aren’t really here.

The computer abducts them, leaves their bodies to slowly break the chairs.

They are black holes.

Their gravity is contagious.

I inch through the living room like I am on the side of a building 81 stories up until I get to the window (don’t worry I take off my shoes to stand on the couch) & stare hard to abduct my mother’s car from her work into the driveway until my vision blurred permanently & I had to get glasses. * 10 pm. The strain of hoping that Mom will get home early has passed.

The front door sighs & I smell the cold on her coat.

I tell her I have to warm up her hands or they’ll fall off.

I squish the veins on the tops of her hands & tame those rebellious rivers turning inside out underneath her skin.

I do this to make sure she is real & it is not my dreams of her returning that have just clopped through the creaky front door.

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She pulls her hands from me before they are warm.

I almost hope her hands fall off.

Her voice, not my dream of her voice, wrings out like gray water from a dish towel, You are not guests in this house!

No maid lives here!

My throat hurts for her. * I waited & waited for my mom to come home & grew 2 & a half feet longer hallucinating her car’s breaks squeaking their arrival in the driveway, the front door creaking, her beeper abducted somehow by the toilet.

I waited so I could crawl into her lap, drive the blue screen from its kingdom, make her soft, make her sit, tell her I floated on a bench with a pink & turquoise wind breaker on, big as her, and leaned back into the wind, unwound one eye to watch my little shadow’s parachute chest sweep the playground dirt.

I waited to put my mouth on her shoulder like a catfish & hum that there were 2 boys at school who called me Asthma & repeated the things I said like the words were old milk sliding down the cafeteria trash can.

My throat hurt for her.

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Poetry Runner-Up EsmĂŠ Vaandrager

When I Die I Will Fly & Drip Horses A murder of craggy cottonwoods murmurs in its sleep of a train trundling north, a future bend in their branches writing as she rides through the dusty morning: Gray and gold and dark are the only colors that stick to the bark.

Underneath, shaggy horses stand as if they materialized from dream syrup the branches dripped all night.

The smallest branches whir into a blurry lace.

The murder beats its wings all spring until in summer the cotton takes flight.

When dancers die, they become cottonwoods.

At least their arms do. Angel arms form yearning chains to articulate wilder angles than any one elbow could bloom.

Dance laces the dream syrup.

Look. The gentle horses half trot, half float, half bloom amongst the shadows.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Holly Baldwin

Hollow The words escaping my soft honey lips are hollow bullets meant to appease Like bubbles to your heart they burst into oblivion and leave nothing substantial in their wake It is exhausting, this façade My soul feels like empty steel, an enormous weight of guilt and love…spite and desire I can’t escape who I am in this moment I can’t escape that time is marching I want to burn with love, anew until I am nothing more than a petal flying empty in the desert wind.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Susan Aylward

Resilience invisible sap, she wears the bark of the weeping willow, bending to the wind stubborn angel, she guides me out of bed, presses the piùon roast, sets me on my day sister of perseverance, she lives in cocoons, pawn shops, and the wink of my grandmother’s eye lone dandelion, she eats what her stomach will allow, what she can get away with, what her mother fed her blazing phoenix, dog with a bone, because of you, I am happy to be alive

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Poetry Honorable Mention Isabel McGowan

I miss you…

So, I thought of you this morning.

I think it was because of the glistening dew on my window pane.

You know how much I like to look out my kitchen window while having my morning tea as I watch the butterflies flutter by.

Well, nowadays I make believe that they are you.

Beautiful and free.

There’s this big, majestic monarch that visits every morning to take a sweet sip from my roses.

Yes, I think that one is you.

You always loved helping me in my garden.

Now your angelic spirit can live forever among the lilies and roses.

So, every morning in the warm months you will come to say, “Hello” as you delicately sit on the petals of your favorite rose.

And I will smile and know that you still love me.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Joia Sivan-Capocchi

um He’s crying when he asks what’s keeping you here.

He’s crying and you feel sorry for him.

You fold your sleeves, neatly.

You push them up past your elbows to reveal the white nylon ropes wrapped around your wrists.

“I made those,” He kisses your hands, “I made them for you.”

He’s crying, “so you wouldn’t get lost.”

He’s kissing your palms.

What’s keeping you here.

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Fiction Winner Lorraine Leslie

The Cause It was a day like any other, as Mary Catherine McGuire, after a hardy breakfast of boiled oatmeal, toast and carrying a milky cup of hot tea, walked out to the green house that was now serving as her workshop. It was a fine fall morning and the tea helped to warm her bones. She had turned her greenhouse into a workshop, because there was no reason now to grow plants or vegetables in there anymore.

She had more important things to do. She wasn’t getting any younger, turning 68 this past summer, but she was still an attractive woman, “just a wee slip of a girl,” like everyone used to say, just measuring in at barely 5 feet tall.

Mary still had a nice figure and was slender with long snowy white hair, that hung down past her backside, just like her granny, “god rest her soul.” Her hair often looked like “who did it and ran lately,” so she curled it up into a halo around her face. Looking like a tiny angel, she was anything but angelic and often felt like the devil incarnate at times.

Mary had been attending the local IRA meetings at Seamus McManus’s house out in DunLaoghaire. It was a 30 minute drive, but it was worth it and she looked forward to attending them every Wednesday night. It was better than church and she had been a practicing Catholic her whole life, but there was something about those meetings that had sparked something inside of her, set her aflame. She had a fire burning inside of her that she couldn’t put out, and that Seamus McManus wasn’t too hard on the eyes either. She had plans and she had to go ahead with them and like a car with its pedal to the metal, she was a woman driven. Mary really hadn’t thought that way about another man, since her husband Shane, who she’d been married to for 30 years, had passed away 13 years ago, “god rest his soul.”

The truth be told, he was a right “blaggard,” pissing his life away on the drink and spending more time at the local pub with his mates than with her. It was ironic that Shane would be killed in a drunken stampede at a football match, which started when his mate threw an empty bottle of Jameson’s whiskey at one of the opposing team’s fans. It started a riot and nearly 100 people had to be treated for injuries at hospital. Shane unfortunately was the only one to lose his life that day. Mary always knew that the drink would kill him eventually, but not in such a weird twist of fate.

Why she stayed married to Shane for so long, she would never know, but he left her the farmhouse, so he had been good for something. Actually, it was his parent’s that left them the farmhouse. Thankfully it was all paid off, since Shane could never hold down a job more than 6 months. They grew their own vegetables and had several chickens and goats. It provided much of their food and was good for bartering. The cheese Mary made, she sold to local restaurants and 11

shops. It helped her to buy the car she now drove. With her old age pensioner money coming in every month, she did okay.

Mary always knew she would never marry again. If truth be told, she really enjoyed being a widow. It suited her nicely. She was free to pursue her hobbies and interests. She didn’t have time to be married because she was now married to her cause and would go to her grave before ever turning her back on it. It became her new faith, even though she still went to mass on Sunday. She couldn’t be bothered much with the church anymore, even though in her heart she still carried the faith like a torch. She only now attended out of habit. Mary Catherine Frances McGuire would hopefully go down in history as the first person, and a female Irish Catholic at that, to blow up the Vatican. “Take that Ms. Sinead O’Connor and stick it where the sun don’t shine, all you ever done for the cause is rip up a photo of the pope on American television. I will send this pope and his skirts a soaring to heaven! That dirty bugger and his minions won’t even know what hit them.”

“It’s God’s will,” would be her last words, when the bomb went off. She was going to succeed. She wasn’t going to fail in her cause, and play the heroine that saves the day, like that stupid Robert Langdon character in the book, “Angels and Demons,” by Dan Brown, who saved the pope and the Vatican City from being blown off the face of the earth by a canister of antimatter from CERN in Switzerland. No, she was going to be successful, “god willing!”

Mary had always considered herself to be a feminist. It was rare to be a feminist in Ireland, but she always stood her ground. She believed in birth control, never having had a child herself, “thank god,” and believed in the right for a woman to choose if they wanted to have an abortion or to carry a child to term. But her real issue with the Vatican had always been it’s handling of the filthy pedophile priests that the Catholic Church harbored, protecting them instead of the children who had been abused and molested by them and frankly, it made her sick to her stomach. Enough was enough!

The luck of the Irish had been on her side. Being a lifelong member of St. Patrick’s Church as well as having her first cousin, Father Dougal McGuire, working as a priest there, Mary was part of the group chosen last year to meet with the pope at the Vatican tonight. She would be presenting to him an illustrated facsimile of the holy Book of Kells, which was Ireland’s greatest treasure. It would be a gift to his holiness from the parishioners of St. Patrick’s Church, in Enniskerry.

Being an artist all her life, she had made and illustrated the book herself, and had spent the last year in her workshop fitting it with enough high tech explosives to blow the Vatican to kingdom come, if the plans that Seamus McManus had given her during the meetings she attended worked. She never actually tested the plans to see if the bomb would work. How could she? Nobody could know of her plans. This she had to do alone if she was going to succeed. Everything she did was an act of faith.

Mary spent the last remaining hours on her farm, in her workshop, before she would walk to the church, making sure that everything was just right. She double checked the special insulated bag she had made, that the large book would be 12

wrapped in, which would conceal the bombs components from detection. She had faith and was sure that it would pass through the x-ray inspection at Dublin airport, as well as through the strict security at The Vatican. She checked, one last time, to make sure that if security decided to open the bag and inspect the book closely, that it would look like a normal facsimile of The Book of Kells and not the bomb it was supposed to be, until Mary would insert the special key under the secret flap on the spine that started the bomb, right before she presented it to his holiness the pope.

That key hung from a chain that hanged around her neck and shared real estate with her silver medallion of the holy mother Mary, her name sake. Pretty soon it would be time for her to get onto the shuttle van that would take her and the rest of the church group to the airport in Dublin. From there she would take the two-hour flight to Rome.

Mary was excited that she would be sitting on the plane between Father Ted Crilly, with that lovely thick hair of his, and Father Eamon Coyne, with the gorgeous dimples. Both were close to her in age and maybe, just maybe, she could convince one of the filthy bastards, to join her in the airplane’s lavatory for a quick shag, gaining entry into “The Mile High Club,” before she would be blowing them both, a mile high, later tonight.

They needed to pay for their sins, every last one of those priests. Mary was done paying for hers. In her heart she knew she was doing the right thing. In her heart she knew it was God’s will.

13

Fiction Runner-Up Angela Udemezue

My First Hotel Business This is a story on how I met a man called Emmanuel at a hotel in Nigeria. I went for a seminar at Tracy’s hotel in Anambra state, Nigeria 12 years ago. I was the presenter at the seminar on a topic named acupuncture. At the end of the seminar, Mr. Emmanuel approached me with a happy face. I was polite with him because I needed to sell my massaging machines. After exchanging pleasantries, we talked about business, how effective the machine could be which he promised to buy 21 of them maybe he was convinced, and he made his choice. We exchange addresses to meet at Lagos Nigeria. Two weeks later, my phone rang and that was Emma, asking me to meet with him at Rita-Lori hotel in Lagos Nigeria. At the hotel room, this is my conversation with Emma. He is called the man while I am called the girl.

The man said, “Do you care for a drink or something?”

The girl said, “No thanks I am okay.”

The man said, “Do you have a boyfriend or a husband?”

The girl said, “Yes I have a boyfriend who wants to marry me.”

The man said, “No, you don’t have to marry your boyfriend; I’ve plans for both of us. I will give you anything you want just to have you by my side. I will make you happy all the days of your life.”

The girl said, “My boyfriend loves me and I love him too. For me, what matters in a relationship is love.”

The man said, “Not when I send you to my house in London because that’s everywoman’s dream to live overseas.You will marry my best friend because I am an old man with a wife and kids.”

The girl said, “Then there’s more to it. Maybe you just want to sleep with me, send me to your friend and then have the opportunity to have me anytime you want maybe we will be living in your house in London. That doesn’t make any sense to me.You are a player, I love my boyfriend.”

The man said, “You’re mistaken. I love you honey. There’s something about you that makes me go crazy. Please don’t turn my offer down.”

At this juncture, he brought out his cheque book and asked me: how much do you think would be enough for you to start business? I was getting confused now. I needed the money but I disliked this man. I was even afraid that he might be one of the evil men in the society who triples their wealth by sleeping with a woman. I gave it a long thought without letting him read my mind.

The girl said, “Mr. Emma, you’re just a nice man. Every woman will be willing to accept you as a husband and a friend but it’s unfortunate that you were married with kids and I wouldn’t want to be your second wife. First, you will go ahead to purchase the 21 massaging machines you promised to buy then I’ll trust you for 14

every other promise you would make to me later.”

I guess he thought of it for a while and he said; okay, that would be fine. I will prove myself now.

Emmanuel wrote me a check for the 21 machines. I was astounded because those machines were expensive, one of the machines cost fifty thousand naira and that’s about four hundred U.S dollars. I knew this is one of the strategies men used to get what they want. Garbage in, garbage out which means the amount of money and effort he used to entice me determines how easily I could fall for him not minding how long the relationship is going to last. I was happy though for selling my products and getting a bigger bonus from it but I didn’t want to yield to his offer. I collected the check and thanked him immensely. We both left the hotel room with the promise to give him my reply in the next meeting.

I had a profound insight about this whole thing. He claimed he loves me and was ready to do anything for me as far as I agreed to be with him. But I am a descent girl from a descent home. I might be poor but I am not a flirt. Men classify every woman as money lovers but I’ll stand out, to show Emma that I am an exception. I told my boyfriend what transpired between Mr. Emma and me, and he was dumbfounded; he looked at me astonishingly then with a low voice he said “I knew you were different from other girls.You’ve actually proved your love for me. Please, my baby, marry me so that I can take care of you. I was shocked, and now it’s my turn to be amazed because I’ve been waiting for this proposal. I said yes to him right away.

After one month of doing business with Mr. Emmanuel, he called me one day that he would like us to meet again at the same hotel, that he has some gift for me and would like to order for more machines. I said okay to him and we agreed on the date and time. I discussed with my fiancé and we agreed that he would go with me this time but he will wait at the reception should the man acted funny by trying to rape me, then I should pretend as if I needed to use the bathroom then call my fiancé to come. We agreed that I should be diplomatic with him so that I can continue to sell my machines to him. My fiancé did as we planned while I went upstairs to meet Mr. Emmanuel.

The man said, “Oh my sweetie, I missed you.”

The girl stammering said, “Thank you sir, I missed you too.”

The man said, “I don’t really need any machine. I just wanted to see you and to express my love to you. He handed a small bag to me while trying to get hold of me.”

The girl said, “Pushing him away, but you don’t have to do this or buy me gift.”

The man said, “Why not, open the bag first. If you don’t like the gift then you can leave them.”

The girl said, “Oh my goodness! A car key for me! Woo! A flight ticket to London for both us! Jesus, you don’t have to do this sir.”

The man said, “Anything for my baby, do you like them? I will do more if you permit me to. I love you my sweetheart.”

I was quiet for a while, tears gushing down my cheeks, and with a low voice I said “Riches and good manners don’t go together, I might be poor but I 15

am fulfilled. I am engaged now to the same boyfriend I told you about the other day and I promised to be faithful to him. I really appreciate the gift and your love for me but I will not accept them. If you like me for who I am sir, I guess you have to understand my feelings and respect them. I am a descent girl about to be married and I don’t think this hotel would be a good place for us anymore. If you want to buy machines from me next time we will be meeting in open places in other to avoid temptations.”

As I finished talking, I dropped the bag for him. He was about saying something but I told him good bye, opened the door and left. Mr. Emmanuel rushed down the stairs after me with the bag in his hand, not minding who will be seeing him with me. As we match down, he was saying different kinds of apologies which fell on my deaf ears. I walked straight to the reception, hugged my fiancé and kissed him. Standing next to me was Mr. Emmanuel and I did a proper introduction to both of them. Mr. Emmanuel could not believe it that my fiancé had come with me and has been waiting all this while. He felt embarrassed and shook hands with my fiancé that he (Emmanuel) couldn’t have allowed his wife to be to do what I did. That means we really trust each other so much. He begged my fiancé to allow me accept the car he bought for me to stand as his parting gift for me. My fiancé and I looked at each other and marveled. It was a clean metallic Honda accord which I actually desired in my heart. So my fiancé accepted the offer. We all departed happily, I got married to my husband and since then I’ve never set my eyes on Emmanuel.

At this point in time, I would say that favor comes in different ways. Only those who have the insight to recognize them could actually merit it. Whatever my heart desires, I shall receive them in Jesus name amen.

16

Fiction Honorable Mention Joia Sivan-Capocchi

Burn My first cigarette tasted like the tar they use to sew parking lots together. My brother and his friends were blown away that an eleven year old could finish the whole stick. I coughed and the air came out black. It felt like there was sand in my throat. Like I had swallowed the desert. I loved it. I bought my first pack when I was thirteen from a man who spoke enough english to charge you extra.

On the box were two red arrows and the face of an indian with a white man’s smile. I thought it looked like my dad. My second pack came in the mail for my uncle. He ordered them in bulk each month. Smoked more than all the other men on the rez combined. I buried one in the torn lining of my windbreaker, where I kept all my secrets. He offered me a drag the next day as we stood in the lot behind the bowling alley doing nothing in particular. I declined, having figured he had been kind enough without knowing it. In high school I would’ve been a drunk if it weren’t for cigarettes. While all the boys I knew took suit of their fathers, I became my uncle. They drank. I smoked. They vomited and bred and I breathed in and out. I was one of the few of us to go to college out of state.

I finished in two years. Got a degree in something I cared too little about to remember. I burned down my first apartment after I fell asleep with a lit match in my hand. I ended up back home. Not much had changed. My friends had gotten older and fatter and drunker, but my uncle still smoked like a tree struck by lightning. It was the same scene. He and I, a night sky of spent cigarette butts at our feet, new ones between our teeth, standing behind the bowling alley now shut down but still reeking of feet and chili. My uncle turned to me. I saw myself.

He spoke. I heard myself. “You’ve gotten bigger,” he said. “That’s what happens,” I said. He smiled. Like the man on the cover of my first pack. Like my father. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t pained. It wasn’t happy. It was white.

17

Fiction Honorable Mention Cathy Notarnicola

Bundling Up The autumn light filtered through the laundry room blinds where little Gina stood restlessly waiting for her Mother to “bundle” her up. She was anxious to join her big sisters outside who had arrived home from school where they went every day except Saturday and Sundays. As she bounced up and down shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she wondered, what were they doing?

Were they riding bicycles in circles, jumping rope, climbing trees, singing like the Supremes and Diana Ross? She so wanted to join them! Mom hated outside. All she ever wanted to do was cook, clean, watch soap operas, do laundry and eat.

How monotonous, Gina thought, as she grew more impatient, her imaginings became more fanciful, thinking of all the fun that was happening just outside that door. She burst out exclaiming, “Hurry up before they come inside!”

The anticipation was killing her as her Mom proceeded in extra slow motion with the “bundling up” process. Gina wondered, is this really necessary? Her Mom barked back saying sternly and with great concern. We MUST bundle you up or you’ll catch a DEATH of pneumonia!” Gina exhaled another deep breath of great weight while shaking her head back and forth thinking…

Really? Really Mom? Death? Pneumonia? Why must you always be so dramatic? She reviewed the many warnings from her Mother in the voice of the public announcements on the radio and television, “It’s 10:00 do you know where your children are?

“Don’t run! You’ll fall and crack your head open!”

“Don’t go swimming! You will drown” “Don’t go to the park! You’ll get kidnapped.”

Why crack your head open, drown and get kidnapped, Gina wondered, as she tried to imagine what a cracked open head would look like but, could only visualize a cracked eggshell and humpty dumpties’ body after falling off the wall.

In reality, Gina got a few scrapes and bruises, worst case scenario like the time she crashed her bicycle after braking on sand at the bottom of the hill. The pavement scraped off a layer of her skin and little bits and pieces of dirt and gravel stuck to her wounds. Mom brought out the bright orange medicine that stung like vinegar on chapped lips! The memory of the sharp pain brought Gina out of her daydream back to the present moment where she realized she was still awaiting the completion of the “bundling up” process. Just then, that Autumn light brushed against her Mothers hair and face as she knelt down on the laundry room floor to button Gina’s coat. The light shone on her Mothers eyes and a warm rush of calmness and love radiated through Gina’s little body. Mom carefully and slowly buttoned every last one of those buttons as she gazed adoringly into Gina’s eyes for what seemed to be a very long time. It was almost as if time stood still 18

in that very moment. She then hugged Gina and kissed her forehead, patting her backside saying, “Go play with your sisters and be careful!�

Gina raced towards the door. Her steps echoed down the hallway and throughout her life and thoughts now as an adult. She felt deeply loved and secure by her Mother in that moment. A feeling she has deferred to during difficult times. Today, Gina recalls this moment nearly 50 years later and wonders how she will ever be able to comfort her Mother in that way, as she moves her into an assisted living facility for sufferers of Dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. How can she bundle her Mother up and keep her safe and secure from her forgotten memories?

19

Personal Essay Winner Veronica Clark

Break Down Three coca-colas, five doctor peppers, and one sprite. That’s what’s on my tray. One of them has spit in it and I’m trying to remember which it is so I don’t accidentally give it to one of the kids at my table. This is by far the most disorganized restaurant I’ve ever worked in. Veteran’s day weekend is no time to be understaffed and have a hostess who doesn’t know what she’s doing and a bartender who takes fifteen minutes to make an order of drinks. I’m getting too old for this.

I hurry my steps so I can get to my other twelve tables. Apparently some woman’s been complaining about me. She said I was too slow. Oh yea?

You try working on such a busy day when you’re this overworked and this hungover. She said I seemed like I didn’t want to be there. Yea? Guess what, I don’t.

I considered calling in, but I knew they would be understaffed as it was and if I called in I would probably get fired. Yea, I should have called in.

The tray feels heavier with every step. I turn the corner and Jessica bends down talking to one of my tables. I really hate working with her. And now she’s going to complain to me that my table was complaining to her. If I didn’t have to grab every single one of her angry customers a soda refill or a water refill or a “can you please find our waitress” then I wouldn’t have fallen so far behind in the first place.

Ok, wait, which one had spit in it again? Just as I walk past the table, Jessica stands straight and spins around. Just in time to catch the edge of the tray and send all nine full pint glasses crashing to the floor. Just in time to add the final straw.

I watch the glasses crash to the floor. There are two pints in a quart and four quarts in a gallon so there is now 1.125 gallons of liquid surrounding shards of broken glass on the floor next to my angriest customer. Now I’ve always been a bit of a masochist, but for me to sit there with towels and a dust pan in front of that bitch who is now having a spit-free doctor pepper made by Jessica while she screams at me for terrible service would be just plain crazy.

Of course I don’t think all this out in this moment. I don’t think anything in this moment. I don’t have to. My body thinks for me. Before I can even register what’s happening, I throw the tray to the ground, grab my belongings from the break room, and get in the elevator. It’s not until I’m in the elevator that it hits me. I’m walking out of my job. It’s not until now that that little voice in my head kicks in, “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s hard to find a job this time of year, you know? Maybe you should have a cigarette and see if you cool off enough to go back in.” Sounds reasonable enough. So I sit down in the alley way outside of my work and smoke a cigarette. A cigarette that is gone much too soon.

20

The voice inside my head speaks up again, “There. You see? Feel better now?”

“Nope.” I say out loud. I pick up my belongings and stomp out my cigarette. I take the check presenter filled with all the payments I’ve had today and throw it next to the elevator. And with that, I walk to my car, taking off my work shirt on the way.

“You sure are burning a lot of bridges right now.” The voice inside my head says.

“Good. Let them burn. That way I can never go back.”

Euphoria washes over me as I unlock my car door. This must be the feeling I hear people talk about. Women, when they see their first born child.

Daredevils, when they come seconds away from crashing their motorcycle into a wall. Rock stars, when they take too many drugs. I can see more clearly and my body is completely numb. And I can’t, for the life of me, wipe that shit-eating grin off my face. Yes, this is happiness.

So I’ve now walked out of my awful job that made me want to kill myself. Great. Terrific. But why stop there? Why don’t I just blow this town.

Once and for all. Like I’ve wanted to since I was sixteen. Now I have a car. And a teeny tiny bit of money. So why not go for it? Yes, that’s what I’ll do. But first, I have to stop and get gas.

I turn up my radio as I pull away from the gas station. Some over-played song I’ve never really cared for comes on, but I know all the words and I’m on top of the world, so I sing along loudly and tap my hand against the steering wheel. As I drive to my house I think of all the things I’ll be leaving behind. My job, this town, my so called friends who drive me crazy, recent failed relationships, my family…I will miss my family, but they’ll understand, my roommates who I hate. My roommates, I hope they’re not home. This could get awkward.

I pull up to an empty driveway, whew. My dog greets me with a wagging tail.

“Didn’t expect me home so soon, did ya, buddy?” I scruff his ears, “Come on inside, we gotta pack. We’re getting out of here, Otto. We’re gonna start a new life.”

I grab a duffle bag from under my bed and begin stuffing it with only my favorite outfits. I take a backpack and fill it with my notebooks. I wonder if I should dye my hair when I get there, just for fun. A full new fresh start. I’ve always wanted to go red. Like a deep auburn red. I grab a book that sits next to all my notebooks and look at the cover. I borrowed it from one of my friends a couple weeks ago. I should probably return that before I leave. All this packing is exhausting. I need a cigarette.

I stick a cigarette in my mouth and go out to my back patio. I reach in my pocket and pull out a red lighter. Oh… this is Gavran’s lighter. That’s right, he wanted to hang out tomorrow. I stare at the lighter for a minute. I shrug, light my cigarette and stick the lighter back in my pocket. Well, I’m sure he’ll figure it out.

21

I finish my cigarette and go back into my room. I stare at the piles of clothes I’ve thrown out of my closet and the half-packed duffle bag. What else do I need? I don’t know. Toothbrush? Passport? The thing they don’t tell you about euphoria highs is the part when you crash. Suddenly, I’m not on top of the world. Suddenly, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I don’t know how far I’m going. I guess that decision is up to my car. But if I’m lucky, I’ll be driving for at least five hours. I’ve got a long evening ahead of me. I should probably take a nap.

I place my bags on the side of my bed. I crawl onto my bed and curl into a tight fetal position. And then, I cry. I cry for an hour. I cry myself to sleep.

I awake to the sound of my phone ringing. I was wondering how long it would take Andrea to get back to me after the text message I sent her when I walked out.

“Hello?” I answer groggily.

“So you finally quit that place, huh?” she’s never been one for long introductions.

“Yup.” I say proudly, “Finally quit.”

“Well good. So what is this about you leaving town?”

“I just want to get out of here. I’m sick of everything.”

“Uh huh.” I sense some cynicism in her voice.

“What?” I sigh.

“And where do you plan on going?”

“I’m gonna try to make it to California.” California had always been my dream destination. I’m always a little homesick for the ocean even though I’ve never actually lived by it. I’ve never been to San Diego, only Los Angeles and San Francisco, but I’ve heard wonderful stories of San Diego and I’m convinced that my soul mate is there.

“You’re going to try to make it to California? Good plan,Verons. And what happens when you don’t? You’re just gonna live in Gallup or what?”

“I might make it.”

“Uh huh. And then what? What are you gonna do when you get there?”

“Just get a job in a restaurant until I figure it out and get my feet on the ground. Then I’m going to try to get a job as a screen writer.”

“Well what if you don’t find a job right away? You’re going to be homeless?”

“I would rather be homeless in California than stay in Santa Fe another minute!” I snap. After ten years of knowing me, Andrea recognizes the irrationality in my voice and knows that I can’t be reasoned with at this point.

“Listen,” She says gently, “I just don’t know if your car will make it to California, ok. But here’s the thing. Why don’t you just come here, stay with me for a couple days. I haven’t seen you in forever. I’ll call in to work. We can go out, hit the town, stay home, relax, whatever you need. Ok? We can go shopping if you want. We’ll go pick up some men, since you sound like you obviously 22

need to get laid. It’ll be fun. And then you can go to California. And maybe you can buy a plane ticket instead since I don’t think your car is going to make it.

And that way you don’t get stuck in the middle of nowhere. Ok?” It’s true, I haven’t seen her in a couple months. I haven’t gone out in Albuquerque in forever.

“We can go get ribs at The Cube.” She adds, as if to bribe me.

I laugh, “Oh yea, remember that one time we went to The Cube?”

She laughs too, “Yea. That was hilarious! We’ll have a night like that, ok?”

“Ok.” Relief overcomes me, like a crying child being held by her mother at last. I would be the last one to admit that I doubted it in the first place, but now I know, everything is going to be ok.

I take the first exit into Albuquerque just past three o’clock the day after Veteran’s day. I would have left immediately, however, I did have plans to keep with Gavran. I pull up to Andrea’s dad’s house to see her waiting for me outside.

Our dogs rush to greet each other as we do the same.

“Mija!” She exclaims as we wrap our arms around each other, “It’s so good to see you!” At this point I must say something about Andrea. Andrea is extremely blunt. She wants the best for everyone, which for those who don’t necessarily want the best for themselves, can be misinterpreted as judgment.

Andrea can also come across as cold, though she’s the warmest person I’ve ever met. My guess for this misinterpretation is her boldness and her clear sense of herself which allows her to bypass others’ opinions and sometimes existence. The point is that Andrea would be the first person to tell you if she thought you were making a bad decision. She’d be the first to tell you if she thought you were a bum. She was the first to tell me when I started gaining weight. She was the only one to tell me when I was dating someone who “wasn’t good enough for me”. So for this blatantly honest, no-nonsense woman to take me in her arms, not say a thing about me being crazy, and express how happy she is to see me, means the entire world right now.

She smacks me a kiss on the cheek. I kiss her back. We hug a minute longer as our dogs begin to wrestle.

“Come in, come in!” She welcomes, “Do you need help carrying anything?”

“No, I just have one bag. I got it.”

“Oh good.”

We go inside and head upstairs. She shows me her stepbrother’s room and tells me I’ll be staying there for as long as I need since her stepbrother is apparently missing in action. She promises to change the sheets and offers to vacuum too. I tell her vacuuming won’t be necessary and I settle in. As soon as I make myself at home, Andrea tells me she’s hungry and asks if I’m hungry too. I haven’t thought about it but in fact, I am starving.

“You’re staying at my house this week and I’m giving you all my dad’s liquor. So you’re buying lunch.”

23

“Fair enough.” I agree.

“But change your outfit and put on some deodorant and some makeup for Christ’s sake. I’m not going out with you looking like that.”

I stare into the mirror at the image of my haggard reflection. Wild, dirty hair, un-plucked eyebrows, purple bags under my eyes. I glance down at my sweat and coffee stained shirt. I get her point.

“Should I take a shower?” I ask.

“We don’t have time for that shit. Just change your shirt and let’s go.” I make myself as presentable as possible and in ten minutes we’re out the door.

We arrive at Quarter’s thirty minutes later. There’s no wait at the bar.

We get immediate service. We both get a beef brisket sandwich. When the bill comes I’m shocked at the price. Two shots, two beers, two sandwiches, less than thirty dollars.

“I didn’t know lunch was going to be so cheap.” I tell Andrea, “Let me buy you another drink somewhere else.”

“Ok. But let’s go home first. We’ll have my dad drop us off.”

My stay at Andrea’s consists of lots of barbeque, alcohol, movie watching, and coddling. Gavran hasn’t contacted me at all, even though he seemed very concerned about my alleged “mental breakdown” and said he would be in touch.

Sova, a man I met in the fall and obsessed over, has recently gotten back in touch with me after months of no contact. He, on the other hand, sends me text messages everyday. He told me he found a really cheap timing belt for my car and he could find someone to change it for me for really cheap. It is a tempting offer, but after what I went through when he abruptly stopped answering my calls, I’m wary to accept his help. My mom sent me messages to check in. My boss also sent me messages begging me to come back. I told her I’d think about it. Every few hours I get another message from her wondering if I’ve made my decision and another message from Sova asking if I want to go fishing sometime or asking what make and model my car is. I decide to turn my phone off and focus on Tony Jaa movies for a day.

“Who should I choose? Sova or Gavran?” I ask.

“Well I don’t know. I only saw a picture of Gavran and it was a mug shot. Who’s hotter?”

“Sova.”

“So him then.”

“But he didn’t call me for months. You can’t just stop calling me and then think you can just pick me back up when you feel like it!”

“Well you seemed pretty excited that he did get back in touch with you. And he was nice enough to explain himself. You gotta give him something for that.”

“Like what? A bj?”

Andrea laughs. “Well show me a picture of him.”

“I told you, he’s not in the Santa Fe County database and I couldn’t find him on facebook.”

24

She laughs again. “I say sleep with both and go with the one who’s better.”

I laugh. “I don’t want to do that. I would feel bad. I’d feel like I wronged Sova.”

“But you wouldn’t feel like you wronged Gavran?”

I shrug and shake my head.

“Well then Sova. But enough of this. I’m trying to watch Tony Jaa’s topless, sweaty body.”

I start packing up my things on Thursday night.

“I don’t think you should leave tonight.” I look up to see Andrea’s dad standing in the doorway watching me pack.

“I’m not too tired.” I answer.

“Yea, but I don’t think your car is going to make it. I’ve heard cars make sounds like that before and I’m telling you, that car is at the end of its life.”

“It’ll make it to Santa Fe. It’s only fifty miles.”

“But just to be safe. It would be better to break down during the day when everything’s open and people are awake to come pick you up.”

I know I can make it back to Santa Fe, but this is a very valid point. And I know there’s some left over pot roast with my name on it. So I agree to stay.

I leave the next morning at the same time Andrea and her dad leave for work. I sent my boss a text message after checking my account balance and told her I would most likely come back to work. I didn’t message Sova back yet, but the moan of my engine as I pull away tempts me more and more to just let this guy help me. After all, he wants to. And after all, I need it. But no. I think we should start with coffee and then maybe fishing and go from there. My phone beeps, I look at the screen to see a text from him. I can’t deal with this right now.

A low battery light flashes at the top of the screen. Good. Let it die. I toss it on the passenger seat. I turn up the radio. Otis Redding’s velvet voice pours out of the speakers. I sing along as I drive down the highway. It’s freezing outside but my car is acting up, so I turn the heater on, then off, then on, then off. I glance in my rearview mirror to see my dog staring at me. I turn around and smile at him.

“See Otto? I told you everything was going to be alright.”

I could swear he just rolled his eyes, as if to say, “Um, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who told you that.”

About two miles south of San Felipe my car begins to tremble. Then my engine stops moaning and lets out a loud pop. This is it. I’m not even going to make it back to Santa Fe. I say a silent prayer, but I have a feeling it’s a little late for that. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with….oh, never mind. I’m screwed.

I watch my speedometer drop as I press the gas petal to the floor. Sixty.

Fifty. Forty. I better get off the highway. I’m coming to the San Felipe exit right now. Good. Perfect. Well, not perfect exactly. Perfect would have been making it back to Santa Fe. Or breaking down when it’s not snowing. Or maybe not breaking down at all. But this is better than breaking down on the side of the 25

highway. So I’ll take it.

I pull onto the off ramp. My foot is still on the gas but my car is slowing. I want to pull into the gas station in front of me, but that is not going to happen. I pull to the side of the road just as I get off the off ramp just before my car stops all together. I try to start it again. Just to see. Nothing. I stare straight ahead at the gas station for a moment. I turn to look at Otto in the back seat.

We stare at each other for a minute, then simultaneous sigh. I grab my purse and his leash.

“Alright buddy, let’s go.” He sits up and waits for me to open the door.

He jumps out and slips his head into the leash. I lock my car and we walk side by side to the gas station. By the time we reach the entrance, his nose is almost as cold as mine. Which, by the way, is freezing. A large sign plastered to the window states, “Absolutely no pets, including service animals, allowed.” I look at Otto.

He stares back up as if he already knows what it says.

“Hold on buddy. I might as well check.” He almost nods. I tie his leash to a bench and open the door.

I look at the attendant, “Hey, can I bring my dog in here? I just broke down.”

She shakes her head, “No animals allowed. Sorry.”

“Not even service animals?”

She shakes her head, “Sorry.”

I walk back out and take a seat on the bench.

“Sorry buddy. Not even service animals.”

Otto stares up at me. I pull my tobacco out of my purse and roll a cigarette. A chill wind rushes by. I shiver. Otto jumps up onto the bench next to me and lays across my lap.

“Thanks, buddy.” I light my cigarette. I pull my phone out of my purse.

It beeps obnoxiously to let me know it’s about to die. I dial my mom’s number.

“Hello?” She answers. My mom has always been a talker so I rush to the point before she wants to know how I’m doing, if I’m going back to work, and how my stay with Andrea went.

“Hey. My phone’s about to die so I can’t talk long. My car broke down.

I’m in San Felipe. They won’t let me bring my dog into the gas station.”

“Oh no, sweetie. I’m sorry. Are you ok? Are you cold?”

“Yea. I’m really cold.”

“Do you need me to call a tow truck?”

“That would be good in case my phone dies. If you can just tell them where I am I can just wait in the car with Otto. I’m directly after the off ramp.”

“Ok. Well why don’t you wait in the gas station so you’re not cold.”

“But what about Otto? And what if I don’t know when they get here?”

“He’ll be fine. Do you have a blanket in your car?”

I remember the time she told me to always keep a blanket in the trunk of my car in case I break down or in case I come across an accident where someone is about to go into shock. She gave me a blanket at that time and for once, I listened to her.

26

“Yes. I do have a blanket.”

“Oh good. Well why don’t you just cover Otto with the blanket and go wait inside. He’ll be ok. He’s a dog. And you can just call me back to see how long the tow truck will be. It’s probably going to be at least half an hour.”

“Ok.” I agree, “Thank you. So yea, just tell them where I am and I’ll call you back from a pay phone in a few minutes.”

“Ok, sweetie. I love you. And…” my phone beeps one more time, then shuts off. I pull it away from my ear and stare at the blank screen.

“I love you too.” I mutter. I look at Otto. We sigh again. “Alright, buddy. Back to the car now.” He hops off my lap. I untie his leash and we start walking.

We arrive at the car and I open the back door. Otto gets in. I pull the blanket out of the trunk and cover him. I stare at him. He would never just leave me alone in the cold. I slam the door closed. I open the driver door and get in.

“Let me try this one more time.” He wags his tail. I stick my key in the ignition and turn. Click, click, click, nothing. This car is not starting. No way.

I glance at the auxiliary outlet. I open the glove box to see a car phone charger. Ok, so if it is my timing belt, there shouldn’t be any reason why my battery doesn’t still work. I turn the key the other way. My radio comes on. Yes! I grab the phone charger and plug it in. The screen on my phone lights up and says “charging”. Good deal. I turn the heater on and hot air begins to blow. I look in the back seat and smile at Otto. He wags his tail. I spot my notebook on the seat next to him. Now that’s what I can do while I wait. Write.

“Well, buddy. I got no car, I got no money, I pretty much got no job, although I guess I do. But, I got my notebook and pen. We got each other. We got heat, we have a phone, and we got Otis Redding. So if you can think of something else we actually need for happiness, please let me know. Cause I sure can’t think of anything.” He wags his tail faster. I crawl into the back seat. “Here, let me share that blanket.” I crawl under the blanket with him and we snuggle close together. I set the notebook on my lap and add a few pages to a short story I’ve been working on. The track changes and “I’ve Been Loving You” starts playing. I pause and set my pen down. A smile stretches across my face.

“Hold on a second.” I say to Otto, “I don’t know if you know this, but I’m actually quite good at singing this song.” The good thing about having a dog for a best friend, aside from the fact that they’ll never let you down, is that they’ll believe everything you say. Even if it’s far from the truth. And even after he hears me slaughter a perfectly good song, he’ll still believe that I’m a terrific singer.

“You wanna hear it?” He looks up at me. His mouth stretches into a little smile.

I reach to the radio. I restart the song and turn it up. Then I lean back in the seat, kick my feet up on the back of the front seat and put my arm around Otto.

“I’ve beeeeen loving yooooou toooo loooong to stop nooooww…..” I belt out. In this moment, nothing else exists than what is here. No decisions to make of what man to choose or where I should work, what I should do with my life, how I’m going to pay to get my car fixed, where I should live, nothing. Just me, Otto, and a song. And all of these things are beautiful. I nail 27

the song without missing a beat or running out of breath on a long note. My entire life I’ve been singing. Audiences are only involved in karaoke when I have the excuse of being drunk for my poor singing. But in the shower, when I’m home alone, when I’m in my car, I sure do belt it out. I’ve sung many different songs, many different keys, and I’ve sung this particular song uncountable times.

But I think that in this moment, this is by far my best singing. I honestly believe that if a music producer heard me just now, I would immediately be offered a record label. However, this could never be reproduced, so I would lose my record label just as immediately. But only Otto and I heard it. And only Otto and I needed to hear it. Because only Otto and I know exactly why I nailed this song. Because after years of working awful jobs, having my heart broken repetitively, being too broke to get my car fixed, feeling unaccomplished, and feeling like I had nowhere to turn, in this moment, with nothing more than my dog, my notebook, and a little good music, I feel completely content. After a lifetime of searching, I found happiness. Right here in the back seat of my broken down car. Right here in the warmth of my dog. Right here in the comfort of a pen and a page. Right here in a beautiful melody. Right here in my own voice.

And in the realization that everything is, in fact, not going to be ok. It never is, and it never will be. No matter how good of a job I have, no matter how much money I have, what kind of a car I have, or what kind of love I find, something will always go wrong. Tragedy will always find me, just as it does everyone.

Because this is part of life. Life involves suffering. Everything is not going to be ok. But I am. No matter what walls fall down around me, I will always be ok.

Life does not only involve suffering, it involves happiness. The difference is that suffering cannot always be controlled. But happiness is a choice. And I am happy.

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Personal Essay Runner-Up AJ Pufnstuf

My First Rodeo In Autumn of 2004, I moved from Boston to Santa Fe. I had planned on moving to San Francisco, but life had other plans for me. I relocated site unseen. Wikipedia wasn’t a huge thing back then and I was too frivolous for research. I moved to this high-desert ski-resort town thinking I had managed to escape Winter. It turns out I hadn’t. But I had managed to escape the hoards of corporately-programmed humanoids. And the rapid tick-tock pace of the bigger cities. Santa Fe is on island time, mon. I mean, bro.

My first impressions of New Mexico were postcard perfect. All cotton-candy pink streaked cloudy sunsets, face-melting molten green chile and earthy shades of adobe houses. Even the Home Depot had a faux-dobe facade. I felt like I had landed in an old reel of the Flintstones - my very own Stone Age wonderland. Until I heard that the original adobe clay was stained pink with the blood of pigs. And some of the charm turned to chalky dust that blew out across the mesa.

My chronic asthma had followed me across the country. I found myself desperately gasping for breath. I hadn’t anticipated the elevation. I had lived in Denver for a summer when I was twenty. With all their “Mile High” talk they convince everyone that a capital city with a higher elevation couldn’t possibly exist. Lo and behold - Santa Fe: crazy secret artist retreat / high maintenance über entitled retirement community / messy cultural triad of the likes I had never seen.

At the end of my first week, David Byrne played at the Opera House. I had seen him a number of times before in dingy smoke-stained clubs and stuffy ornate theatres lining the east coast. But wow. The show was phenomenal and the Opera House was a natural beauty - simply stunning. I was so excited. Flush with greedy thoughts of all the amazing performers I imagined would be booked there.

Coming from the city, it was easy to be an experience junkie. With a veritable Trapper Keeper full of possibilities - musicians, gallery openings, installations, talks, tastings, films, performances, parties, readings. It was crucial to be selective and choose only the best options.

But moving to Santa Fe, my planner was suddenly empty. No bands were coming to town - at least none I had ever heard of. Or some new-age whatnot. Or some adult contemporary country question mark. And hardcore and local bands playing at this battered old shack called Warehouse 21. I checked out Chicanobuilt night at the Paramount, the only legit venue in town. The culture listing classified it as “underground hip-hop”. But it was mainstream bullshit, and my booty was too small to blend in with the clientele.

Word of mouth eventually landed me at Half Rack for Halloween. The format was a bit unfamiliar to me. I had been to house parties, warehouse raves, 29

and underground concerts before. But this was an odd mixture of the three. We journeyed past a half dozen authentic Mexican taco joints until we reached a metallic storage unit on Airport Rd. The edge of town. A parallel dimension to my recently transplanted self. Entering the party, I was immediately impressed by everyone’s outrageous costumes. The entire cast of the Royal Tenenbaums was on the dance floor. A greasy-ass girl whose costume was simply “sweaty” won my invisible blue ribbon of respect. I dressed as “Beatrix” (dressed in Buck’s scrubs) from the hospital scene from Kill Bill. “My name is Buck, and I’m here to fuck” was my dazzling one-liner. Drinking cheap beer and admiring everyone’s homemade creations, I was finally surrounded by young people. Maybe there was hope for Santa Fe. The music was pretty good. A weird mustachioed tranny-man was djing from his laptop and turntables. Eclectic and party-moving. But the power cable for the speakers was running right across the dance floor. And people kept tripping over it, and unplugging it. And the music kept stopping. From bumping jams to dead silence. Until it was plugged in again and the beats resumed. I alerted the dj to the cable placement issue.

“You’ve got to do something about this.”

He distractedly nodded in affirmation and wandered off to slug off a vampire’s tequila bottle. Exasperated at his aloofness, I took charge and embodied the party warrior. I would defend this dance floor. Splattered in fake blood, rocking my plastic gold Elvis frames, I stood on top of the tenuous cable - guarding our lifeline to the sound. And that lasted for another fifteen minutes before another drunk-o-weenie tripped over it, and the music cut out again.

Fucking amateur hour. I was done. Over it. My hawk-eyes pierced through the crowd until I located my moving target - the crossdressing dj. Why the hell wasn’t he behind the dj booth? Why wasn’t he dealing with the sound issue? Rerouting the cables? Anything? I marched over and scolded him “You are the worst dj I’ve ever heard”. His mustache frowned momentarily, and he returned to his conversation. Seriously? I had just unloaded my most combative dj ammo all over this guy – and he just shrugs it off? How dare he not fix this? How dare he not try to please me – his audience? How dare he continue to sip on mescal as if everything is just hunky dory? FUCK THIS. I exploded. And I left the stupid Halloween party and its incompetent dj and its stupid hippie-hipsters behind.

Two years earlier, I was living in Madrid. Mad-reeeeed. Pronounced like a true Spaniard, not a lazy Texan. Southwest of Santa Fe, there’s another Madrid – an old coal mining town turned cowboy-hippie-artist community.

Local pronunciation of the name emphasizes the first syllable: MAD-rid. When I would mention to Norteños (Northern New Mexicans) that I had been living in Madrid, their brains geographically placed me in the sleepy, quirky ghost town forty minutes away. But I had been living in Mad-reeeeed, Spain. A gilded magickal land where everyone from the moment of conception instinctively knows how to party – all night long. Endless nights and days stringing together into tremendous dance party benders. And those epic days 30

bleeding into weeks and then months of blurry night clubs, bleached bone-white monuments and lush royal gardens full of peacocks, roses and fine topiary. Madrid - where cheap red wine flows in the street gutters and everyone rolls gooey, inky hash into their harsh tobacco. Even then, I could palpably sense that these were the best times of my life.

From Madrid to Boston and onto Santa Fe. The migration had really deflated my inner party balloon - squeaking wails of melancholy as the last breaths came farting out. The desert had brought me sunlight and warmth in a vast, beautiful, boring landscape. I was thirsty for moisture, proper nightlife, a connection with my peers.

Why the hell had I come to Santa Fe anyway? I was planning to move to San Francisco - where I would thrive, satisfied with myriad distractions and interactions. But I was still mildly curious about this high desert – still half-interested in cracking it open and revealing the hidden crystals within. If only I could make it through the dead of winter – with everyone hibernating or covertly cavorting in their secret covens of private fun. I kept one ear to the ground – listening for a far off thumping of bass. Staring deep into the distance – searching hard for clues but only finding rainbows. And hail storms.

And another fucking breathtaking sunset. Delicate washes of petal pink, peachy orange, golden wheat. Meh, I give it a 5.5. The stark beauty losing its power so quickly. Burnt out on the omnipotent unyielding beauty of the desert. Like when you smell a delicious blossom and inhale deeply, and are so overwhelmed by its aroma that you can no longer detect it. And lose your awe.

My friend who brought me to the Half Rack Halloween party had heard about another underground event happening at the Santa Fe Brewing Co, or well, the main building was being renovated, and someone threw a party in structure that is now the tasting room. It was convoluted. I was a little skeptical entering the part-residential / part-commercial space. Downstairs a dj was spinning some passable clubby shit and beers were being poured behind a large wooden bar. After reviewing my drink options, I settled on a “Chicken Killer”. Intrigued by its threatening name. It was an experimental new offering from the Brewing Co - 11% Barley Wine. I had skipped dinner, and this sweet, malty brew quickly filled my belly. Nowadays, Chicken Killer is a regular staple at SFBC, but they maintain a strict serving limit of two pints. That night, I was served four full pints of the intoxicating yeasty concoction. And I went bat shit crazy.

Upon receiving my first pint of Chicken Killer, I hurried upstairs to check out the rest of the scene. There was another dj playing. The room was dark and colorful beams bounced off the floor and walls. The vibe, the music, the general bootleggery - I’m digging this, I thought to myself. My rusty joints and appendages needed a few squirts from the old oil can. But with some alcohol coursing through my system, I managed to unfold my under-used body and began to move about the dance floor. It was full of weirdos indiscriminately shaking their shit. And it was awesome.

I still didn’t know many people in town. But I did recognize this kooky 31

old cello player who had paid me to photoshop a UFO into the background of his promotional head shot. I giggled into the bottom of my glass. It was time for a refill. And then another.

I was beyond intoxicated. I did not belong in public. I navigated my way to the only bathroom. There I discovered a giant whirlpool tub and decided to start drawing myself a hot bath. Completely forgetting where I was, overcome with the urge to submerge myself in water. Until frantic urgent pissers started banging on the door. And I half-snapped back to reality, but was mostly just still out of my mind and drunk as fuck. I shut off the steaming faucet without draining the tub and opened the door to find my friend looking annoyed.

“What the fuck are you doing in here? I need to pee.”

“Uhhhhhhhh...”, I stumbled past her and down the stairs. I saddled up to the bar and ordered my fourth Chicken Killer. The edges of the room were hazy and my breath was labored as I climbed the stairs and reentered the dance floor.

It shone sick with super saturated red and green laser lights. I danced hard, splashing beer on myself and the floor. The dj was still killing it. My inner dance snob was honestly impressed. And my outer-alcoholic was in full-blown, non-filtered extrovert attack mode. I noticed the dj was slipping outside for a cigarette break. I don’t smoke but I drunkenly followed him into the frigid night, sans-jacket. I hovered like a hungry hummingbird waiting for the perfect moment to approach him. To bestow my greatest compliment “Just so you know, you’re the best dj I’ve heard in New Mexico”, I gushed.

My girlfriend magically appeared and was standing beside me, carrying my jacket. She handed it to me and discreetly pulled me aside.

“Dude, that’s the same guy you told off at the Halloween party two weeks ago. The worst dj you’ve ever heard? Ring a bell?”

My glazed-over eyes squinted intensely in the dark. Landing definitively on his moustache.

“I am such an asshole.” I winced to myself.

Extinguishing his cigarette, he walked over and extended his hand, “Hi, I’m Paul Feathericci. Nice to meet you.”

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Emily Floyd

The Black Suit Mark Twain said, “Clothes make the man.” What about the woman?

I was in the midst of ending my marriage, when the purchase of a black suit suddenly gave my work life a new direction. It also gave me a glimpse into the glossary of the workplace and although it brought me success, it gave me a glimpse of how women struggle to find their way in a working world still dominated by men.

I had just separated from my husband of seven years. We had been skidding towards the end for a while, but when the end finally came I was miserable. I lost weight, joking with my friends that the divorce diet was better than Atkins and Weight Watchers combined. My one solace was work. Lacking any good reasons to go home, I threw myself into work. I really did enjoy my work as a meeting planner for a large medical association, so it wasn’t a hardship to spend extra hours at the office. I took on more projects. I responded quickly to e-mails and phone calls. I discovered the more willing I was to jump in and help, the more I had to do. I was asked to help clean up a manager’s office that was filled with stacks and stacks of papers. The office had become an eyesore and I was offered overtime to help sort and file all the papers. Even as I took on these tasks, and delighted at the extra money in my paycheck, I realized I wasn’t necessarily getting more responsibility. I was definitely getting more to do, as in “you have time, let’s have you do this.” But I was not getting, “you are smart and capable, let’s give you more challenging responsibilities.” I was quickly learning the difference. Still, I was busy. In that painful time, busy was good.

I was still fairly young and dressed that way, usually only dressing up when specifically told it was required. Otherwise, I spent most of the time skirting around the edges of our office guideline: business casual. Khakis and a black polo shirt one day, black slacks and a red sweater the next. As with most offices, we indulged in casual Fridays. So, at least once a week jeans and a t-shirt or sweatshirt sporting the logo of your favorite sports team was acceptable. I fell within the guidelines set out by the human resources department, but I certainly wasn’t going to be the poster child for our dress code. I definitely wasn’t the only one. The director of my department was notorious for her slacks and sweater sets, topped off with a cat pin flourish. Even the older ladies, who had been brought up in the more formal office culture of yesteryear, were loathe to stretch outside of their skirts and blouses. Still, they usually wore panty hose and heels, a step up from my scuffed loafers and argyle socks.

One evening, my friend Cathy had persuaded me to join her for dinner.

We went to a pizzeria that served my favorite pizza, one topped with arugula and prosciutto. Still suffering the effects of the divorce diet, the slice of pizza sat on 33

the yellow plate while I picked pieces of arugula off one at a time and nibbled them in my best imitation of a sick rabbit. Over dinner, I complained that none of my clothes fit anymore and Cathy suggested we go to Lord and Taylor’s department store which was within walking distance.

In the store, Cathy pointed to the black suit dangling at the end of the rack, almost jutting into the aisle. “The wrap style jacket would probably fit you better,” she said. The genetic hand I had been dealt included a large bust. It was a very pretty suit, not particularly special. As with most women’s suits it was a blend of polyester, viscose, rayon and a bunch of other synthetic materials. But it hung beautifully, draping gracefully over the curves of a woman’s body. The fabric gave the suit a feel that was very different from the standard wool suit sold to men. Men’s suits were usually stiff rather than yielding and had a bit of wooly scratch to them. This suit was soft and smooth. It had a very feminine feel to it. The one flourish was that the jacket closed with a tie rather than a button. It wrapped around the side to tie in a floppy, feminine bow just above my left hip.

It was expensive, a little over $150 on sale. But, I reasoned, it was a suit I could wear to a funeral or a job interview. It was versatile and it was a good investment.

I found a couple of blouses, one a silky beige and one a crisp pink oxford. And finally a pair of black heels.

I began to wear my new suit to work. One day a week I would dress up. I would alternate between the two shirts, always surrounding them and myself with the black suit. Making sure to not fall into the “cat pin ladies club”, I looked for accessories that spoke to a more fun aesthetic. An antique charm bracelet that I dug out of a bin of jewelery at a consignment shop near my new smaller apartment. A pair of “Wizard of Oz” red heels that I joked would take me home to Kansas. And finally, an expensive new Swiss Army watch with a metal bracelet-like band. The new clothes and new accessories created distance from the pain of my divorce and created closeness with my new comfortable space, work.

One night, I was working late and an executive vice president came over to my cubical to ask me a question. I honestly didn’t realize she even knew my name until that moment. I wondered if I was beginning to look like someone who was smart and capable. I decided to test my hypothesis. I bought more suits and more shirts and more heels and more skirts and more pantyhose. The CEO started saying hello to me in the hallway.

Within a few months, I was asked to take on planning and execution of two annual board meetings. The board of trustees included the executive management team and cardiologists elected from the membership of the association. I was going to be the main point of contact for these meetings, making sure that the board meetings were successful. It was an acknowledgement that I was smart and capable. I had been smart and capable all along, but somehow putting on that black suit had proven it to my department director and even the executive management.

After a few board meetings, I began to get to know the doctors and their wives and even some of their children. I was aware of what drove the president 34

crazy (squeaky doors), what kind of candy the secretary preferred to have on the meeting room tables (mints) and who wanted to have chocolate desserts served after dinner (almost everyone). My black suit, and by now the many other suits I owned, got worn frequently. I even remember sprinting down a long hallway in a tan suit and black high heels to catch a meeting room sign that had been taken away by an overzealous bellman. My suits had become a sign of self-assuredness, capability and power.

I was vividly aware of the fact that this suit had changed the way I was perceived by the doctors, the executive management team and even my department director. I wasn’t a girl anymore, I was a woman. One that could fit into a man’s world. The doctors, who were all men during this time, especially took notice. One evening, I was sitting in the hotel lobby bar waiting for a room setup to be completed and one of the doctors joined me for a drink where we chatted about the particulars of the board meeting and how he thought the association was progressing. I was no longer an anonymous employee completing tasks. I was someone they could rely on, talk to and treat as an equal.

I was a professional.

I left the job. But, important lessons about dressing for success weren’t left behind. The past few years I’ve spent taking care of people, ailing grandparents and my own new little girl. Those jobs required empathy, patience and above all comfort. Dressing for success meant jeans or sweatpants topped with a comfortable and versatile t-shirt. My reliable black suit hung in the closet untouched. Recently, I returned to work full-time. The first few months I slid by on my old standbys of khakis or colored jeans with polo shirts and dressy t-shirts.

I remained unnoticed. A recent washer breakdown pushed me into the far corners of my closet and one morning I pulled out my black suit. Just as it did so long ago, wearing a black suit with a pink blouse made me visible. The director greeted me in the hallway. Just as before, I found comfort and success in slipping on my professional skin, the black suit.

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Vanessa L. Mendez

“El Rey” It was the fall of 2009, that marked the worst year of my life. I had just started English classes at Santa Barbara City College. There were many different faces, but one in particular caught my eye. This person had many tattoos along their chest, arms, legs, and a quite scary one around his eye. I thought to myself, “Oh man this person is a hard-core gangster,” but then I realized, “What am I saying?” and remind myself that you can’t judge a book by its cover. So I walk on over, my feet cold, my heart pounding a million miles per hour, and my nerves on edge as if my legs were about to brake from shaking so much. Somehow I manage to say, “Hi my name’s Vanessa. What’s your name?” as droplets of sweat start falling from my forehead. He says, “Rey, please sit down?” He has the softest voice; his sound was of a shy fearful five-year-old hiding behind his mother’s back after meeting a stranger. After hearing his voice, I knew from then on that he wasn’t a bad guy after all. His tattoos did not depict his character. Since that initial encounter, we became close. We were like two peas in a pod and sure enough the best of friends.

Looking back, I remember one day, it was the early morning and my alarm had just gone off. It sounded like a football referee had just blown his whistle after someone made a bad penalty. I jumped out of bed at once, I ran out the door, and there he was waiting patiently with a cup of coffee: it was Rey. “Good morning Vanessa. I brought you coffee before we head to school.” I looked stunned because none of my other friends would have done this for me. “Yum! My favorite vanilla coffee it’s nice and hot! Thanks Rey,” I said. The coffee was so hot that I burned my tongue. “OUCH!” I said out loud. Rey started laughing; he looked like a joker from a cartoon drawing because of his tattoo around his eye.

The tattoo was triangular in shape coming from the top and the bottom of his eye. It looked like something a joker or clown would have painted on himself. Over time, our friendship grew and grew to the point where we would do anything for one another. I remember thinking to myself, “Wow I finally found a true friend.”

Summer came and I wish it never had because Rey was back in jail and I wasn’t going to be able to spend the summer with him.You see, he is not from Santa Barbara, and I didn’t have the time to show him around town. Nonetheless, I always kept in touch with him despite the difficulties of the distance that the facility created. I sat and waited for Rey. I kind of felt like I was in a movie: sitting by the window, watching the rain fall and holding my hot cup of vanilla coffee which unfortunately to this day, still burns my tongue. “OUCH!” Weeks and months have passed now, but no matter how long it has been, I always thought about Rey. 36

In the mid-morning, I went for my usual bike ride to the beach. It was a nice sunny day, seeing the palm trees flying back and forth, hearing dogs bark, and feeling the nice ocean breeze touch my face. I had to say to myself, “Today is a good day.” As I returned home, I heard someone scream my name. As I wondered who it could be the sound of the voice sparked a memory. I looked up and saw him, it was Rey. I was in shock, he was out and I hadn’t known. He did not sound like himself after all, I never knew he could scream. I never heard him scream. I had the biggest smile on my face once I saw him. I felt like a kid in the candy store. I yelled back at him “Rey, you’re out!” But as I looked at him he didn’t look like a happy camper. Rey walked towards me and said, “Vanessa I’m going back home,” confused, I asked him, “What do you mean? You are home.” Wasn’t this place home? Even though I didn’t believe it, I knew he meant back home with his family in San Diego. So I guess, I have to take that back; it was not a good day after all.

I couldn’t bear to see him leave the next day. All this time I had been waiting for him, for more good times and now he was going away once more.

I knew there was nothing I could do or say, he wanted to go back home. I remember when he was boarding the train he turned and said to me, “Vanessa you’re like my sister, my family, and I will never forget you.” We hugged so tight and so long to the point I thought my eyes were going to pop out. Then all of a sudden, he was gone. I cherished that moment and I will never forget that day.

My heart was heavy and I missed my friend. I remember one night I went out to a local bar. When I entered I could see the bartender waiting patiently at his alcohol station. I walked over to him and I could just smell vodka, whiskey, tequila, and beer running down his table. It smelled like a vomit fest to me. He poured me a shot, then another, another, and another the drinks just kept coming my way no stopping him. After that I lost count and I knew I was about to go down. My head was pounding like someone was hammering needles into my head. I knew I had to call a taxi and go straight home.

When I woke up the next day I saw that someone had called me at 3:00 am; it was a number I did not know. Instantly I think to myself, “Damn collectors!”

The phone rings again and the same number appears as before on my phone.

Something tells me I have to answer. “Hello,” they timidly respond. “Yes, is this Vanessa? I would just like to inform you that Rey died last night.” In shock I dropped the phone when I heard the news. Tears started running down my face like a streaming waterfall, my heart was in my stomach and it felt like everything went dark around me. I said to myself, “How can this be? I just saw him? I didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye?” Immediate feelings of guilt consumed me.

I felt like shit because I was too drunk last night to answer the phone. He was my best friend and now he was gone forever.

His tattoos gave off an image of a bad ass, but he was more than that. He was a very strong man, talented, kind and sweet. I will never forget the day when he spoke in his soft voice, “You are like my sister and you will always be family.”

I keep those words close to my heart and a spoken kindness that serve as a constant reminder to never judge a person by the way they look because looks 37

are deceiving and that person might become your best friend some day. If you are looking for friends or have a best friend, or someone you are close to, cherish them, cherish the moment, look beyond the physical, because one day they may be gone and you might not have the chance to say goodbye. My friend’s name was Rey, but I called him “El Rey.” “The King,” and that is what he will always be to me.

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Academic Essay Winner Daniel Ellis-Green

Transfiguration in the Glass Lake of A. & P. It can be interesting to consider characters in literature that emerge with an altered outlook as a result of an ordeal or happenstance, or a combination of the two. In John Updike’s short story “A. & P.,” Sammy has a change of heart while working the checkout register of a convenience store, and then walks out on his job. In Tennessee Williams’ play The Glass Menagerie, Laura has her small world of isolation opened one evening by a gentleman visitor. The narrator of T. Coraghessan Boyle’s short story “Greasy Lake” nearly makes good on his promise to become a bad character, but is interrupted and finds himself afterwards with an altered outlook. These are very different characters in very different stories, but they all share in common a transformation in their essential outlook brought about by chance occurrences and traumatic circumstances.

In John Updike’s 1961 story, Sammy is a nineteen year old checkout clerk at an A. & P. convenience store, located five miles from the beach north of Boston. His reaction to three young women who enter the store in their bathing suits is typical of a young male. He is primarily interested in looking at the exposed parts of their bodies as they wander up and down the aisles, and he reacts by trading declarations of wonder with his coworker, Stoksie.

After several delightful paragraphs fleshed out with Sammy and Stoksie’s ogling, Updike takes the story in an unexpected direction, signaled by a shift in Sammy’s thoughts. “Poor kids,” he writes, referring to the bikini wearers, “I began to feel sorry for them” (19). Sammy’s awareness of the situation has broadened just enough to allow him to perceive that at the meat counter “old MacMahon [was] looking after them and sizing up their joints. . .” as though they were chunks of meat. This is not very different from Sammy’s or Stoksie’s attitude to the young women, but witnessing someone older than himself engaged in the same mental diversion awakens Sammy’s conscience. This awareness is the catalyst for Sammy’s transformation from a hormone-driven teen to a young man with slightly higher ideals.

Tennessee Williams’ 1945 drama The Glass Menagerie introduces us to the dysfunctional Wingfield family. Laura Wingfield lacks the extroverted attitude of “A. & P.”’s Sammy. She is the anxious, painfully shy daughter who stays in her mother Amanda’s apartment listening to old phonograph records and arranging her collection of glass animals. She prefers these activities to attending college or entertaining the “gentlemen callers” that her mother so longs for Laura to have (1,182 - 3). Under unrelenting pressure from Amanda, Laura’s brother Tom invites his co worker Jim to have dinner with the three of them. Jim enters Laura’s life as unexpectedly as the three bikini wearing shoppers entered Sammy’s, and he will have a similar impact on Laura’s life as the young shoppers had in his.

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As Laura’s evening with Jim progresses, it is revealed that they knew one another in high school, and that Laura had always very been fond of him. Jim’s ego is favorably touched by Laura’s admiration, and he dances with her and kisses her - Laura’s first kiss from a man, though she is 24 years old - before revealing that he is engaged to be married. During the dance, Laura’s favorite glass unicorn is knocked to the floor and loses its horn, becoming a glass horse instead.

As her unicorn is physically transfigured, Laura begins her own awakening and transfiguration.

The unnamed main character of T. Coraghessan Boyle’s 1985 short story “Greasy Lake” undergoes a similar transformation as Sammy in “A. & P.” and Laura in The Glass Menagerie, but of the three, his change is brought about by the most traumatic circumstances. It is part happenstance, but also the result of choices made in a deliberate lifestyle of disaffection. The time-period is later than that of either “A. & P.” or The Glass Menagerie, and although all three characters are similar ages, the attitudes of young people in the late 60s and early 70s are very different from those 20 to 40 years earlier.

Greasy Lake is a gathering place for young people with time to waste and a disregard for social norms. This descriptions suits the narrator and his two friends, who together pay a nocturnal visit to the lake. The trio happens upon a car which they mistake as belonging to someone they know. Seeing that some late-night groping is taking place within the parked automobile, the three decide to play a prank by pulling up behind the car, flashing their headlights and blaring their horn. They are then confronted not by their acquaintance, but by a “. . . very bad character in greasy jeans . . .” (410).

It takes the efforts of all three to fight him off, as well as a tire iron wielded by the narrator and brought down solidly across the side of the bad character’s head.

With him out of the way, things go from bad to worse as they prepare to rape his girlfriend on the hood of the car. At this crucial moment another car approaches and scares the trio into the woods, fleeing from the almost-violated young woman and what they suppose to be one dead bad character. The narrator cannot get far enough away from his deeds, and in his scramble he ends up in the lake.

In the fetid water of Greasy Lake the narrator encounters a dead body and hears the shouts of the not-dead very-bad character. He is simultaneously horrified by the floating corpse and relieved that he has not himself become a murderer.

The eventual departure of the new arrivals with the very bad character and his girlfriend leaves the narrator alone in the lake with the cadaver. In the ooze and muck, as the aftershocks of violence subside within him, he has time to reflect on what has just happened, and also on what might have happened if the third car had not approached when it did. The putrid waters of Greasy Lake become a baptismal font from which the narrator will emerge, reborn as a sober young man.

Back at the A. & P., the store manager Lengel confronts the three bikinied young women about their attire, and Sammy witnesses their ensuing embarrassment with considerable discomfort. Sammy’s discomfort is all the greater for having noticed and lingered in great detail over the very same (lack of) attire that Lengel is now openly calling attention to. A small crowd has gathered as the young ladies 40

pay for their few items and prepare to leave. At that moment Sammy announces that he is quitting. “You didn’t have to embarrass them,” he says to Lengel (21).

He folds his apron and walks out, ignoring Lengel’s protestations.

Sammy is still a young man with a young man’s hormones, and he continues to muse to himself over the young women (“. . . a really sweet can . . .” and “. . . not that as raw material she was so bad . . .”), but he has just emerged from an inner struggle and decided to take a different path from Lengel, MacMahon and their customers, who he thinks of as “sheep” and “scared pigs” (20). In a few moments he has been transfigured from someone who could one day take MacMahon’s place behind the meat counter of life, and has chosen instead to step out into the bright sun of the parking lot and squint into his uncertain future as the proverbial sadder, wiser man.

Laura’s transformation is still progressing as well. In The Glass Menagerie, she is portrayed as a young woman who is emotionally fragile and lacking in self regard.

Jim’s attention to her is enough to awaken in her a flicker of self esteem. Instead of being devastated by the disbudding of her glass unicorn, she instead muses aloud how it will now feel “. . . less freakish . . .” and more at ease with the glass horses in her collection (1,215). One senses that, consciously or subconsciously, Laura is applying this same logic to herself. Through a brief glimmer of romantic hope stimulated and then truncated by Jim, Laura has had her own horn knocked off.

Jim’s kindness to Laura demonstrated that her peculiarities do not have to exclude her from a social life outside her mother’s apartment. This is made clear when Jim departs to return to his fiancé and Laura offers him the hornless unicorn as a keepsake of their evening together. In doing so, she is letting go of her precious and too-fragile former self. The evening with Jim has transformed the painfully shy and anxious Laura into a young woman who can face a reality beyond her glass collection and her mother’s expectations. As Sammy faces his future alone in the bright sun of the A. & P. parking lot, sans checkout apron, Laura faces hers without her glass unicorn for company.

Back at Greasy Lake, when dawn comes the narrator pulls himself out of the muck and rejoins his companions. Before they can make their getaway, a car pulls up and two young women get out. They are looking for someone, and the narrator realizes that the someone is probably the body in the lake he has just spent the night with. If the narrator needed any further convincing that his lifestyle of wayward delinquency needed reexamining, then the link between the floating corpse and these two young women provides it.

When one of the young women extends her hand with pills and an offer to party, the three men flatly decline the invitation drive away. The main character is now sober in more ways than one. Prior to the traumatic events of the night, he never would have passed up the opportunity to consume stimulants and mess around with a couple of young women by Greasy Lake, but he is now a changed man. In the world of literary characters, he has joined the company of Sammy and Laura Wingfield as a transfigured individual.

When the reader is first introduced to “A. & P.”’s Sammy, he leads a fairly 41

un-extraordinary life, and there is no reason to think that his trajectory of normality will be interrupted. With his decision to quit his job, he has chosen to keep his eyes open and his mind alert. There is no one to welcome him into the fraternity of martyrdom, and the absence of admirers to his stand-taking reinforces that he has chosen a lonely path.

Laura’s transformation in The Glass Menagerie is in some ways the opposite of Sammy’s: Laura hopes to replace her loneliness with a companion, and although it cannot be Jim, his attention and kindness to her have awoken a sense of self-worth in her that was debilitatingly absent before. In giving her glass unicorn to Jim, she is simultaneously letting go of her childhood isolation, and accepting the adult world that exists beyond the walls of her mother’s apartment.

Of the three stories, the main character of “Greasy Lake”’s transformation is the most sensational and traumatic. Following a night of unintended violence, dawn finds the story’s narrator with a graver and far more sober understanding of life and his own actions and intentions. Initially disdaining of the self reflection of someone like Sammy, or the fragility and timidity of someone like Laura, one suspects that violence is the only thing that would facilitate such a transformation for the wayward boy baptized and transfigured by the slime of Greasy Lake.

All three of these characters are changed in an essential way during the course of the stories they inhabit. Their stories are as distinct from one another as their characters are different from each other, but the three share a common theme of transfiguration through chance circumstances and traumatic ordeal.

Works Cited Boyle, T. Coraghessan. “Greasy Lake.” Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia.

7th Compact ed. New York: Pearson, 2013. 408-415. Print.

Updike, John. “A. & P.” Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. 7th Compact ed.

New York: Pearson, 2013. 17-21. Print.

Williams, Tennessee. The Glass Menagerie. Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia.

7th Compact ed. New York: Pearson, 2013. 1174-1220. Print.

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Academic Essay Honorable Mention Daniel Ellis-Green

Blake and Eliot: Two Views of Life in the City Although the lives and words of the poets William Blake and T.S. Eliot are separated by a hundred years, both men wrote of the bleak daily existence imposed by city life, and the damage to the human spirit that these conditions create. The non-fictional study Condition of the Working-Class in England in 1844 by social scientist Friedrich Engels supports both poets’ depictions of city life. The work of all three men reflects the general hopelessness of day-to-day life in a declining urban setting, as well as the particular ordeal of people who lack in material wealth and social standing in large cities.

In his poem “London,” William Blake views the city-dweller’s plight with sympathy, and condemns church and state together for imprisoning the hearts and minds of ordinary citizens. In “The winter evening settles down,” T.S. Eliot could be writing about London or almost any other city, but in contrast to Blake, Eliot’s city seems nearly deserted. Eliot’s portrait of the confines of post-industrial social order is more broadly implied than Blake’s explicit indictment. Blake’s view is wholly bleak, while Eliot concludes on a hopeful note.

William Blake wrote “London” in 1794, and he is the speaker, relating from a first-person point of view the misery he finds in the titular city. He refers to both the streets and the river as “chartered” in the poem’s first two lines, which implies a corseted confinement. These few architectural details give way to descriptions, in lines three and four, of the people Blake meets as he moves through the streets.

He describes the faces he sees, and states that every one of them shows signs of fatigue and unhappiness.

In the second stanza, lines five to eight, Blake begins to hear voices, and audible in each voice and “ban” (7) is what he refers to as the “mind-forged manacles” (8).

An older meaning of the word ban is a summons to arms, and this is likely the very meaning Blake had in mind, as he will later reference soldiers. “Mind-forged manacles” implies that these poor souls are chained not physically, but mentally, and that their every utterance bears testimony to their condition of emotional enslavement.

In the third stanza, comprised of lines nine to twelve, Blake narrows his focus to a chimney sweeper and a soldier, the latter of which was foreshadowed in the preceding stanza by the “ban.” Within these lines are Blake’s most specific accusations of church and state: by hiring children to keep its chimneys clean, the church is complicit in the conditions which create a class of people commonly referred to today as the working poor. Blake says that it “appalls” the church, a word that means to dim, weaken, enfeeble, or impair (10). Blake wants his readers to understand that this is directly opposed to the Christian ideal of helping those less fortunate.

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The image in line twelve of the “. . . soldier’s sigh [running in] blood down palace walls” holds to account those who conscript the soldier’s service. Here, the palace walls represent the ruling monarchy that sends young men off at will to die in foreign countries. In an essay for the Explicator, Robert Rix says that, for many, joining the army was an “. . . economic necessity. Often as the only way to support their families, the poor became cannon fodder in the war George III had declared against France in February 1793” (29).

This third stanza is also interesting for the acrostic it contains, HEAR. Citing the Longman Anthology, Roy Neal Graves points out that the word hear also concludes lines 8 and 13. Graves asserts that “. . . this confluence of hear/ HEAR/hear has the look of formal craftsmanship . . .” (132), which is to say it is a deliberate device of Blake’s. “London” was written at a time when seemingly no one heard the cries of the very poor. The upper classes turned deaf ears and blind eyes to their plight. Blake wants his audience to not only read the words, but to hear the cries and sighs embodied in these critical lines.

The fourth and final stanza (lines thirteen to sixteen) are the most difficult to interpret. By considering the meanings of some specific words as they may have been more commonly used in Blake’s time, a clearer picture emerges. Line thirteen sets the scene as “. . . midnight streets . . .”, so the reader understands that it is night. The central character of the stanza is a “. . . youthful harlot,” a word that may refer to a beggar or vagabond, or more basely, a prostitute. The “. . . harlot’s curse . . .” is not an obscenity uttered by the harlot, but rather the vengeance of a deity that has been visited upon her.

It then follows that this curse is a form of infectious disease, such as syphilis, and therefore “. . . blights with plagues the marriage hearse” can be interpreted as a sign of divine anger (16). To blast, as in line fifteen, is to ruin, and to blight, as in line sixteen, is to destroy the promise of something. Finally, the word hearse is not used here as a funerary conveyance, but as a frame, usually triangular, designed to carry candles during Holy Week. With this established, the final lines can be understood as a condemnation of the needless spread of disease which snuffs out the light of a candle that has only just been lighted.

In his short poem, Blake effectively uses detail to awaken the reader’s sympathies and anger over the conditions imposed by life in a large city. In contrast to Blake, while exploring a similar theme in “The winter evening settles down,” T.S. Eliot takes a more impressionistic approach. Written in 1917, Eliot’s language is less dense than Blake’s, and rather than describing individuals, Eliot wants the reader to see, feel, and even smell the grime and dissolution of the city. By immersing the reader in the city, Eliot may have hoped to awaken the same sympathies as Blake did one hundred years before him.

The first line of “The winter evening settles down” is the title restated, and it is followed in line two by the smell of cooking food. Eliot does not show who is cooking, but in line three he gives “six o’clock” as the time of day. Having already established that it is winter, one can safely assume that it is now dark. Line four is evocative of smoke, smudge, and generally unclean air, all qualities commonly associated with cities, and in particular the less prosperous parts of a city.

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In lines five through eight, Eliot pulls the reader into the poem, and actually places him in the city, as “. . . a gusty shower wraps the grimy scraps of withered leaves about your feet (emphasis added) . . .” More rain falls in lines nine and ten, but the focus has shifted away from the reader and back to the city itself, for now it is “. . . broken blinds and chimney-pots” that are being rained on. These details of disrepair further establish that this is the poor part of town.

So far, Eliot has not mentioned the sight of anyone in this city. The only human presence is the reader who got his shoes soiled in line seven, but in line twelve there is a “. . . lonely cab-horse [that] steams and stamps,” which lets the reader understand that someone must be close by. It is probable that the cab driver has taken shelter from the rain, though this respite will likely prove a temporary one before duty calls again.

All of this amounts to a richly layered melancholy, an atmosphere of longing, and one of few comforts. To evoke this atmosphere may have been Eliot’s only intent, but he may have had a deeper purpose. After all, Eliot himself is known to have struggled with life in London, and wrote to a friend in 1920 that it was “‘extraordinarily difficult . . . one bleeds to death very slowly here’” (qtd. in Carver 57). Perhaps in showing the bleakly dismal details of a city in winter, Eliot hopes to lead the reader to ask if there might not be a better way of life. Certainly Eliot does not accuse in the same forthright manner as Blake the social order that builds cities as containers of human misery. By leaving judgment in the hands of the reader, Eliot gives his audience an opportunity to ponder.

It is worth noting that in another contrast to “London,” which concludes as darkly as it opens, “The winter evening settles down” ends on what can be interpreted as a note of optimism. In Eliot’s poem, line thirteen is given a special emphasis by its physical separation from the preceding lines. It reads: “And then the lighting of the lamps.” This could, on one hand, be interpreted as another detail of the monotony of everyday city life. It is a nail-in-the-coffin image, implying that another day has died away. It is also possible that Eliot wanted to express a vision of hope by suggesting that after so much darkness there is light.

The fact that it is a man-made light is a validation proclaiming that not all the works and deeds of men are ill-intended, or have ill consequences.

At an approximately midway point in time between Blake and Eliot, the German social scientist Friedrich Engels examined the lives of the poor in London, as well as other English cities. The resulting portrait, drawn in 1844 from his own first-hand observations, is even bleaker than the poems that precede and succeed him. Engels describes the ruin and squalor of the houses, and states that here “. . . no doors are needed, there being nothing to steal. Heaps of garbage and ashes lie in all directions, and the foul liquids emptied before the doors gather in stinking pools.”

Only those who have no other choice could tolerate such conditions, “. . . the poorest of the poor . . . sunk in the whirlpool of moral ruin which surrounds them . . . losing daily more and more of their power to resist the demoralizing influence of want, filth, and evil surroundings” (Engels 27). The rent for such dwellings amounts to exploitation “. . . by the property-holding class . . .”, and 45

yet Engels deems as fortunate those living in such squalor compared to the fifty-thousand people in London that were completely homeless in those days (31).

Taken in sum, these are the conditions that Blake and Eliot witnessed and wove into their poems.

Both William Blake and T.S. Eliot saw the human misery that Friedrich Engels worked to expose. Both poets use the monotony of daily routines and the grime inherent to city living to question the human condition. Blake asks directly if those in power should not take better care of their citizens, while Eliot uses atmosphere and impression to coax the reader towards the same question. Blake’s poem concludes with the assertion that the light of the human spirit will be snuffed out.

Eliot finishes by suggesting that the powers that impose darkness into people’s lives also bring some light into that darkness.

In a study that considers surviving institutional records in London, Robert Shoemaker says that there “. . . is the evidence . . . of . . . multiple sources of support available to the London poor,” especially as the 19th century crept towards the 20th century (96). This progress may have been due in part to Friedrich Engels’ efforts to reveal the plight of the poor. In any case, if Shoemaker is correct, the improvements he notes may partially explain the contrasting conclusions of “London” and “The winter evening settles down.” With more opportunities and resources available to assist the poor by the start of the 20th century, the hundred years between Blake and Eliot allow for a slightly more hopeful perspective on their ordeal.

Works Cited Blake, William. “London.” Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. 7th Compact ed.

New York: Pearson, 2013. 550. Print.

Carver, Beci. “London As A Waste Of Space In Eliot’s The Waste Land.” Critical Quarterly 49.4 (2007): 56-70. Literary Reference Center. Web. 12 May 2013.

Eliot, T.S. “The winter evening settles down.” Literature - An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Ed. X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia.

7th Compact ed. New York: Pearson, 2013. 562. Print.

Engels, Friedrich. Condition Of The Working-Class In England In 1844 With A Preface Written In 1892 (1892): 1. Literary Reference Center. Web. 7 May 2013.

Graves, Roy Neil. “Blake’s London.” Explicator 63.3 (2005): 131-136. Literary Reference Center. Web. 8 May 2013.

Rix, Robert W. “Blake’s Auguries of Innocence, the French Revolution, And London.” Explicator 64.1 (2005): 27-29. Literary Reference Center. Web. 7 May 2013.

Shoemaker, Robert B. “Narrating The Poor.” Eighteenth-Century Life 34.3 (2010): 94-98. Literary Reference Center. Web. 8 May 2013.

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Academic Essay Honorable Mention Daniel Ellis-Green

Shakespeare, Deception, and Human Nature Deception is used by key characters in many plays by William Shakespeare, which leads to both comic and tragic outcomes. Much Ado About Nothing, Othello, and King Lear all contain characters who, for one reason or another, use deception to manipulate other characters. By examining the varied motives behind the deception and the various responses to it, one can gain a fuller appreciation for Shakespeare’s keen understanding of human nature and psychology.

The comedy Much Ado About Nothing has both malicious and benevolent deception. Claudio is a victim of the former brand of deception. He is a weak-willed young soldier who, because of his pride and relative lack of life-experience, is easily manipulated. Claudio’s compatriot Don Pedro, who is the Prince of Arragon, has a bastard brother named Don John. Shakespeare’s audience recognizes Don John for what he is: a man with a bad disposition who harbors malicious intent for no good reason. He proudly proclaims himself to be “a plain-dealing villain” (1.3.23-24).

Don John is a bully who schemes out of pure malice, and like all bullies, he prefers a weak victim. With only a little effort, Don John is able to convince Claudio that Hero, his young bride-to-be, has been unfaithful. Shakespeare, ever mindful of motive, illuminates the resentment Don John holds against Claudio when the former declares that Claudio is the “young start-up [who] hath all the glory of my overthrow” (1.3.49). He goes on to say that “if I can cross him anyway, I bless myself every way” (1.3.50).

Don John’s scheme succeeds, at least initially, and Claudio is so completely taken in that, as a result, the morning of the wedding ends in unhappy chaos. Claudio accuses Hero of infidelity and sensual intemperance in front of the large assembly gathered to witness their nuptials. Claudio’s prideful nature is consistent with his gullibility. He is unwilling to speak to Hero about what he has seen, and does not give her a chance to explain her side of the story. This illustrates the flaws of human nature that Shakespeare had in mind when he created Claudio.

Don Pedro is also deceived and stands with Claudio as the young woman’s honor is publicly undone. Don Pedro, being an older and by all accounts wiser man than Claudio, might have counseled his young friend to seek out Hero in private, or with only a small audience, to interview her about her actions on the night in question. Perhaps it is only a lapse in judgment on Don Pedro’s part, and when viewed in this light, both Claudio and Don Pedro are imbued with Shakespeare’s deep understanding of human foibles, though each in a different manner.

The benevolent deception in Much Ado About Nothing revolves around the difficult relationship between Benedick and Beatrice. A group of their friends conspire to bring the two together by making them believe that each is secretly 47

in love with the other. In one of the play’s most memorable and funny scenes, Benedick is worked on chiefly by Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato, while Beatrice is persuaded by Hero and Ursula. In the lively dialogue Shakespeare shows the motives of these friends to be partly impish mischief, and partly the natural affection they all feel for their headstrong companions. In the same way that a mother might tell her child a white-lie to boost his or her confidence, Beatrice and Benedick’s friends use white-lies to make each believe in their worthiness of the other’s affections.

Together with these conspirators, the audience can see that Benedick and Beatrice would make an ideal couple, though the two of them, being perhaps too alike in many respects, have not been able to admit as much to themselves or each other. The deception woven by the group of companions succeeds in overcoming this obstacle. By the end of the play, Beatrice and Benedick are promised to each other in marriage, along with the reunited Claudio and Hero, Don John’s treachery having been uncovered. In one delightful comedy, Shakespeare reflects back to his audience many of their own shortcomings, such as pride and gullibility, as well as examples of their better natures, such as concern for their friends and family, and a willingness to work together to effect a happy outcome.

In a much darker vein, Shakespeare’s tragedy Othello offers an even more finely detailed portrait of deception and its ugly motives in the character Iago. Iago’s resentment toward the celebrated general Othello is revealed in the opening act of the play. Othello has passed over Iago in favor of Cassio to be his lieutenant in battle, and Iago has instead been named as Othello’s ensign. “Now, sir, be judge yourself whether I in any just term am affined to love the Moor” (1.1.38-40), rails Iago. He feels that his own worth was amply displayed in action “at Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds . . .” (1.1.29). Iago considers Cassio’s skill so far beneath his own that he must interpret Othello’s promotion of Cassio as a personal slight, a bitter insult, and a deep injury. “Mere prattle without practice is all his soldiership” Iago says disparagingly of Cassio (1.1.26-27). By the close of Act One, Iago twice exclaims “I hate the Moor” (1.3.366, 1.3.386).

Iago decides that Cassio and Desdemona will unwittingly provide the raw materials for his revenge, and by convincing Othello that the two are secret lovers, Iago can “get his place” (1.3.401). Iago’s talent lies in spotting and taking advantage of other people’s weaknesses, and he sums up Othello’s vulnerability thusly: “The Moor is of a free and open nature, that thinks men honest that but seem to be so” (1.3.407-408). Iago’s cunning is such that he does not rush to tell Othello of a suspected tryst between Desdemona and Cassio, but instead has it reluctantly drawn from him by Othello. All the while he feigns regret at having to reveal to Othello the less noble aspects of Cassio, and the inconstancy of Desdemona.

While most people would hesitate to use such manipulation to achieve their aims, Iago has no qualms in doing so. In Iago, Shakespeare has created a character that modern psychology would label sociopathic, or even psychopathic. Today, Iago might be a successful corporate CEO, climbing his way to the top without a 48

second thought for the workers he has trampled over in the process. Iago has no conscience and no regard for the feelings or needs of anyone but himself, and he never loses sight of his own ambitions and desires. As such, he will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Iago is not above using deception to ruin Desdemona and Cassio’s reputation and to drive Othello to distraction with murderous jealousy.

Iago may well be the most ruthless of all of Shakespeare’s villains, and the audience watches as, one by one, Othello’s nobler qualities are devoured by the crazed jealousy that Iago skillfully crafts and nurtures in him. Those of a “free and open nature,” such as Othello, do not stand a chance against the relentless manipulations of a sociopath such as Iago. Revenge is more important to Iago than social or moral conventions, and he holds true to his creed right to the end.

When his dreadful schemes are finally brought to light, he has no remorse or regret. With his revenge secured in a pile of corpses, Iago has nothing more to say.

In Othello, Shakespeare shows how dangerous such personalities can be, but he leaves his audience to decide if they should avoid those who, like Iago, care for no one but themselves.

The protagonist of King Lear has some things in common with Claudio and Othello. Lear is prideful and easily deceived. In contrast to these other characters, Lear is an old man, and he is ready to step down from the responsibilities of his throne. As with Claudio and Othello, there is a willful antagonist waiting to prey upon such an easy target. Shakespeare created the bastard Edmund, as well as two of Lear’s daughters, Goneril and Regan, to fill these roles. In King Lear’s antagonists Shakespeare replaces the former motives of mischief, malice, and revenge with lust for power.

Edmund is ambitious, and does not believe that his status as a bastard should prevent him from holding all the power and wealth that he can obtain by his own wiles. Similar to Iago, Edmund is a victim of the age in which he lives.

Indeed, in modern western society there would not be any constraint imposed on an individual because of the manner of his or her conception or birth, since the individual has no say in these matters. Not so in Edmund’s time. In Act One, he muses “My mind as generous and my shape as true, as honest madam’s issue?

Why brand they us with base? With baseness? Bastardy? Base, base?” (1.2.9-11).

Shakespeare understands that not everyone is happy with the hand that life has dealt them, and Edmund is one such person.

Edmund does not seek revenge as Iago did, nor does he act out of spite as Don John did. Edmund longs for equality with those who hold power and influence, and then gets carried away with greed, intoxicated by his own success. As the story progresses he covets superiority, and he will use every advantage that fate presents to him in order to bring himself to a higher position than that of his legitimate brother, Edgar, his father Gloucester, and Lear’s daughters. As Edmund says, “Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit: all with me’s meet that I can fashion fit” (1.2.160-161).

As the play opens, Lear divides his kingdom between two of his three daughters and relinquishes his power. This sets off an upheaval in his kingdom that Edmund is quick to capitalize on. With a faked letter, he deceives his father Gloucester into 49

disowning Edgar, his legitimate son. By sharing another letter from his father to the King of France, he ensures Gloucester’s status as a traitor to Cornwall, who is Regan’s husband. Cornwall retaliates by gouging out Gloucester’s eyes.

Meanwhile, Edmund has become a lover to both Goneril and Regan, and he intends to keep both of these options open until it is clear which of the two connections will prove most profitable to him.

Shakespeare imbues Edmund with a keen and clever mind, equal even to Iago in Othello. His mental facilities are demonstrated when, in a conversation with his father Gloucester in Act One, he dismisses Gloucester’s statement that many recent misfortunes can be traced to “these late eclipses in the sun and moon” (1.2.93). Edmund’s sharp reply begins “This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune - often the surfeit of our own behavior - we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon and the stars . . .” (1.2. 106-108).

Edmund is a man of hard facts and no sentimentality; a man of reason and will, he has no interest in mysticism or superstition.

In King Lear, Shakespeare also works with self-deception: Lear’s ultimate folly is that he allows himself to be deceived by the demands of his ego. He turns away from Cordelia, the only daughter of his who truly cares for him, and puts his trust and his future in the hands of his two older daughters, Goneril and Regan. The pair exaggerates their love for their father in the play’s opening scene, and they secretly revel in the resultant banishment of Cordelia. Lear’s ego impedes his ability to see these events for what they truly are, and he is pulled along by the false notion of Goneril and Regan’s superior regard for him.

Like Edmund, Goneril and Regan use deception to gain advantage over Cordelia and their father. Since the older sisters are each given one-half of Lear’s kingdom, it is difficult to understand their behavior. Perhaps they are bitter because their father favored their younger sister and had little to do with them as they grew up.

Having no respect for their father, Goneril and Regan are pleased to humiliate him. Their emotional deception gives them additional power over their father in light of the poor decisions he makes out of pride. Lear disowns and disinherits Cordelia because she makes no attempt to out-do Goneril and Regan’s false professions of love for him. As a result, Lear must turn to Goneril and Regan for hospitality that never materializes. As a final insult, the two sisters collaborate in stripping Lear of his retinue.

Shakespeare knew that many who are caught up in creating schemes will be struck with a crisis of conscience, but that it often comes too late to make a difference. And so Edmund, in the last moments of his life in the play’s final scene, tries to intercede to prevent the death of Cordelia, a death that he arranged to further secure his power. “[S]ome good I mean to do, despite of mine own nature” (5.3.283-284). His last-minute intervention comes too late to save Cordelia, and Edmund goes to his grave with the heavy knowledge that his deeds were selfish and dishonorable. Edmund has not the satisfaction of Iago, or perhaps even Don John. In contrast to these two characters, Shakespeare created Edmund with a conscience which seems to have full possession of Edmund’s mind in the end. With King Lear, Shakespeare makes clear the perils of ignoring 50

one’s conscience and giving full rein to one’s ego. As Shakespeare understood, everyone is subject to such faults from time to time, not only extreme characters like Edmund, Goneril and Regan.

To conclude, Shakespeare’s keen grasp of human nature is abundantly evident in his characters and in the different manner that many of them use deception. In Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare demonstrates both shallow, malicious deception through Don John, and playfully benevolent deception through Beatrice and Benedick’s friends and kinfolk. Don John’s treachery is discovered and he is apprehended and awaits punishment. Beatrice and Benedick are happily betrothed as a result of their friends’ plot, and are blissfully unaware of the deception that brought them together. In Othello, Shakespeare sketches a shrewd and cunning brand of deception, wielded for revenge, and cruelly embodied in the character of Iago. Though discovered, Iago is neither repentant nor regretful.

True to character (his only goal having been revenge), he is satisfied in Othello’s undoing and has no remorse. In King Lear, Shakespeare explores deception designed to gain power and influence. Goneril, Regan, and Edmund all die as a direct result of their machinations and only Edmund is portrayed as regretful in the end, but too late to make amends for his many misdeeds. In these three plays Shakespeare demonstrates that deception born of ill-intentions often ends tragically for all involved. However, deception conceived from playful affection can lead to a happy ending for those deceived.

Works Cited Shakespeare, William. King Lear. Mineola: Dover Publications, Inc., 1994. Print.

Shakespeare, William. Much Ado About Nothing. Mineola: Dover Publications, Inc., 1994. Print.

Shakespeare, William. Othello. Mineola: Dover Publications, Inc., 1996. Print.

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Accolades The 2014 Santa Fe Community College

Student Writing Awards

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