TCU Creative Writing Awards 2016 by TCU Creative Writing Awards

2016 CREATIVE WRITING AWARD WINNERS

Contest #1. The Neil Daniel Drama Contest SPONSOR: AN ANONYMOUS DONOR Judge: Dr. Chantel Langlinais Carlson, author of The Exhibit Winner: Daniel Custard for “Walkin’ in Memphis” Honorable Mention: Taylor Jensen for “The Whispers of the Welcoming Committee” Contest #2. The AddRan English 10803 Award SPONSOR: AN ANONYMOUS DONOR Judge: Dr. Brad Lucas, author of Radicals, Rhetoric, and the War Winner: Carter Howell for “Curative Coaching” Contest #3. The Australia Tarver Award for Critical Essay on Race, Post-colonialism, or Multi-Ethnic Studies SPONSORS: DR. KAREN STEELE & DR. STACIE MCCORMICK Judge: Dr. Karen Steele, author of Ireland and the New Journalism Winner: Sue-jin Green for “Strange Fruit from a Poisonous Tree: The Legacy of Lynching and the Black Lives Matter Movement” Honorable Mention: Kacey Williamson for “The Middle Passage” Contest #4. The Non-Fiction Prose Contest SPONSOR: THE THURSDAY GROUP, TCU WOMEN EXES Judge: Dr. Charlotte Hogg, author of Reclaiming the Rural Winner, 1st Place: Hayley Zablotsky for “Always, Sometimes, or Never” Winner, 2nd Place: Sara Kate Bould for “Privilege” Honorable Mention: Zachary Amato for “Appliance of the Future” Contest #5. The Woman’s Wednesday Club Research Paper or Essay Contest SPONSOR: THE WOMAN’S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judge: Dr. Neil Easterbrook, 2014 Master Tutor in Criticism, Royal Observatory, Greenwich England Winner: Sue-jin Green for “Literary Borderlands: An Analysis of Craft in A Map of Home” Honorable Mention: Annaliese Miller for “Blame Game” Contest #6. The Woman’s Wednesday Club Fiction Contest SPONSOR: THE WOMAN’S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judge: Mr. Jeramey Kraatz, author of The Cloak Society Winner: Hayley Zablotsky for “Let’s Talk About the Weather”

2016 CREATIVE WRITING AWARD WINNERS

Contest #7. The Bill Camfield Memorial Contest for Humorous Fiction, Screenplays, and Essays SPONSOR: ENDOWMENT ESTABLISHED BY PAUL & STEPHANIE CAMFIELD IN MEMORY OF MR. CAMFIELD’S FATHER Judges: Mr. Will Camfield & Tyler Camfield Winner, 1st Place: Kaylee Bowers for “Fluoride” Winner, 2nd Place: Jessie Gooch for “The Death of Romance” Contest #8. The Margaret-Rose Marek Memorial Multimedia Writing Contest SPONSORS: DR. STEVE SHERWOOD, AND THE NEW MEDIA WRITING STUDIO Judge: Dr. Jason Helms Winner: Kacey Williamson for “History of Honors” Contest #9. The Subversive Thought Contest SPONSORS: DR. DAVID COLÓN, DR. NATHANAEL O’REILLY, & MR. ALEX LEMON Judge: Dr. Nathanael O’Reilly, author of Distance Winner: Lea Shackelford for “Hard Things Like Unicorns” Contest #10. The Tony Burgess Environmental Writing Award SPONSORS: MS. CYNTHIA SHEARER, DR. STEVE SHERWOOD, & DR. DAN WILLIAMS Judges: Dr. Dan Williams, author of The Wright Stuff, Ms. Cynthia Shearer, author of Celestial Jukebox, and Dr. Steve Sherwood, author of No Asylum Winner: Jessie Gooch for “I am Jessie, I Speak for the Trees” Contest #11. The Kurt Lee Hornbeck Poetry Award SPONSOR: THE KURT LEE HORNBECK MEMORIAL ENDOWMENT Judge: Dr. Lachlan Brown, author of Limited Cities Winner: Garrett Gomez for “Scotch” Contest #12. The Siddie Joe Johnson Poetry Contest SPONSOR: DR. DONALD W. JACKSON, PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF POLITICAL SCIENCE, TCU Judge: Anonymous Winner: Sue-jin Green for “Quasi-Stellar” Honorable Mention: Meggy Ralston for “Birdhill” Contest #13. The Bob Frye Satire Contest SPONSOR: AN ANONYMOUS DONOR Judge: Rima Abunasser, author of Bahamut Winner: Hayley Zablotsky for “The Puberty Contract” Contest #14. The David Vanderwerken Short Story Contest

2016 CREATIVE WRITING AWARD WINNERS

SPONSOR: DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH FACULTY Judge: Anonymous Winner, 1st Place: Aubrey Fineout for “The Striped Door” Winner, 2nd Place: Adam Kelley for “Bye Bye Blues” Winner, 3rd Place: Hayley Zablotsky for “Bald Eagles” Honorable Mention: Kaylee Bowers for “Iris” Honorable Mention: Zachary Amato for “Reason to Be” Contest #15. The Woman’s Wednesday Club Essay Contest SPONSOR: THE WOMAN’S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judge: Dr. Rich Enos author of Greek Rhetoric Before Aristotle Winner: James Chase Sanchez for “Recirculating our Racism: Public Memory, Folklore, and Place in East Texas” Contest #16. The Betsy Colquitt Graduate Poetry Contest SPONSOR: LINDA CLARK OF GEORGETOWN, TX Judge: Dr. Chantel Langlinais Carlson, author of The Exhibit Winner: James Chase Sanchez for “Ouroboros” Contest #17. The Margie Boswell Poetry Contest SPONSOR: THE BOSWELL FAMILY, WHOSE ENDOWED GIFT HONORING MARGIE B. BOSWELL FUNDS THIS AWARD Judge: Anonymous Winner, 1st Place: Eric Fisher Stone for “Immensity, The Sermon on the Mount, South Padre Island” Winner, 2nd Place: Jerry Bradley for “Approaching the Coast of Arizona” Contest #18. The Sigma Tau Delta Essay Award SPONSORS: CHI ALPHA CHAPTER, SIGMA TAU DELTA, DR. ARIANE BALIZET & DR. KAREN STEELE Judge: Mr. T.J. McLemore Winner: Kelsey Geller for “The Jealousy that Came Before the Fall: A Critical Review of Paradise Lost” Contest #19. The Woman’s Wednesday Club Merit Award SPONSOR: THE WOMAN’S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Winner: Kaylee Bowers

EXT. OPEN COUNTRY ROAD - DAY Two men are walking on the grass alongside a country road. BUDY (early 30s), sporting a crimson sweatshirt and white slacks, is walking alongside his friend SLIM (late 30s), who is wearing essentially the opposite in color, white shirt, crimson slacks. They continue down a long stretch, both carrying suitcases and bags as the sun beats down. BUDY Ya know what this reminds me of? SLIM What? BUDY Walking with my Dad to go fishing by the river. SLIM That sounds awful. Budy looks at him cross-eyed. BUDY Awful? catching fish with your Dad is awful? SLIM Uh-huh, especially when the fish ain’t a commin’. BUDY. Well you just gotta sit long enough. SLIM (interrupting) Aaaah I don’t have time to wait on the fish. I prefer to just jump out there and catch ’em my own damn self. BUDY By golly that’s not what fishing is about. SLIM. Oh really?

(CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

BUDY Really, it’s about waitin’ for the right time and then once you grab hold of him, ya reel ’em in. SLIM Is this your life philosophy? BUDY No, well yes, sort of. I‘m just talkin’ about fishin’. SLIM You never are just talkin’ about fish. BUDY What the hell does that mean? SLIM You always say somethin’ on the surface, but underneath you’re swimmin’ in the deep of slight handed commentary. BUDY You’re shootin’ at air. SLIM No buddy, my aim is dead on like always. BUDY Aah pigskins. You’re makin’ me hot with all this nonsense. It’s hot enough in this 90 degree heat. SLIM Quit your whinin’, talkin’ about it don’t make it no better. A black 1950s Oldsmobile suddenly drives up and pulls over along side them. A MAN in his early 40s, rolls down the window and begins talking to them. MAN Hey how you boys doin’? They both look at him as they continue walking, the vehicle easing along to their pace.

(CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

3. BUDY Carryin’ weight from one step to the next I suppose. MAN Where ya headed to? SLIM A place called nowhere.

The Man chuckles. (cont’d) I’ve been there before. Slim looks hard at the man. SLIM What do you want? MAN Just tryin’ to be a good Samaritan is all. Wanna give you boys a lift. SLIM No thanks. BUDY Aw come on Slim, we been walkin’ for hours. SLIM Wouldn’t be the first time my legs have done it, they’re more than capable of doin’ it again. BUDY Slim..., I would sir but my partner here is being a stubborn goat. MAN I see, well, you boys take it easy now. Nowhere can’t be comin’ up any time soon. The man begins to pull off. SLIM (under his breath) On the contrary. He is finally off into the distance headed down the long stretch of road, leaving Slim and Buddy still trudging forth. (CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

BUDY Damn Slim, you tryin’ to kill us ain’t ya? SLIM Buddy, no I think just living will do that job by itself. Besides, whose to say that buck son of a gun wasn’t gonna kill us? Buddy contemplates silently, his face mirroring his thoughts as he tries to sort out. BUDY I don’t think he would, well, we are a couple of negroes walkin’ out in nowhere. SLIM Evenin’ soon approachin’. BUDDY Yeeaah. But, lets say he was genuine... SLIM (interrupting) Couldn’t have been. BUDDY What? SLIM He couldn’t have been genuine. BUDY How? SLIM What color was his shirt? BUDY Black I think. SLIM Honky-tonks wear black on Sunday? BUDY I don’t know. SLIM The answer to that question is no.

(CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

BUDY How do you know that? SLIM I knew when I saw him. I never seen a white man where a black shirt on Sunday. He certainly didn’t wear it to service in the morning. Only person to wear black is the Reverend and his robe. And he sure is hell wasn’t no Reverend. BUDY What you gettin’ at Slim? He the devil or somethin? Slim shoots a look over at Buddy as if to confirm his suspicion. A raven suddenly flies directly over head the two of them, cawing into the air, the sound screeching. BUDY Slim for someone who calls me out on being outlandish, if you are sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’ then you may be takin’ my place. SLIM I mean he was wearing a black shirt, inside of a black car. BUDY What of it? Why does black always have to be a negative? SLIM I don’t know, just is I suppose. BUDY Well look at us Slim. We’re black and the white man says we’re evil. SLIM Nope, when you die, they carry you in the black Hurst, people come dress in all black. BUDY I mean what do you see with your eyes closed?

(CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

6. SLIM What? BUDY Black.

Slim looks at him funny. SLIM Okaaay, what does that have to do with anything? BUDY Um... SLIM I ain’t lookin’ to go to no funeral. Especially not my own, no sir. BUDY So... Budy stops and begins to sniff for a smell. He turns his head to notice slightly a body of smoke emerging eastward from where they stand. BUDY Hey Slim you see that? SLIM What. Slim looks in the direction of the smoke. SLIM Yeah I see it. BUDY I wonder what happened? SLIM Probably somebody just burning wood. BUDY Naaaw that don’t look that kind of smoke. SLIM You goin to get the fish or you gon’ wait for it? Budy appears puzzled for a moment, then seeming to realize. (CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

BUDY I think I‘m goin’ to get it. Budy begins to walk over in the direction of the smoke, hidden behind a fence of tall trees. BUDY You commin’? SLIM You go ahead, I‘ll be here. Budy descends into the forest of trees. Slim stands waiting a few moments, glancing at his watch, a car passing by here and there. He puts down his suitcase, opens it and begins to move his hand around the bottom of it. After a while Budy emerges from the trees again. SLIM What’s the news? BUDY Somebody was burning a fox? SLIM A fox? Budy makes his way back over to the side of the grass where Slim is on, him closing the suitcase now and getting up. BUDY It was dag’ on disgustin’. SLIM What were they gonna do, eat it? BUDY Maybe the devil’l eat it. Slim chuckles. SLIM (Sarcastically) Right. BUDY I didn’t see anybody though which was strange.

(CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

8. SLIM Alright, let’s go.

Slim and Budy begin to go on for a few steps when they suddenly hear footsteps coming in the direction of the fire. SLIM I knew somebody was comin’ Slim reaches behind himself, letting his arm rest. An OLD MAN (60s) dressed in all white from head to toe emerges with a shotgun. OLD MAN Was one of you niggers just on my property? Slim whispers to Budy. SLIM Stay cool. BUDY He has a shotgun pointed at us. OLD MAN (yelling) Hey I‘m talkin’ to you. BUDY No sir, we just passin’ by. A car begins to emerge out of the distance from behind them. It is drawing near quickly. The Old Man begins to point the gun at them, finger on the trigger. Slim reaches from behind him to pull out his pistol and quickly points back at the Old Man. The Old Man fires, but hitting the black car as it stops right in front of Budy and Slim. They both duck behind it. Suddenly a man in all black emerges from the driver’s seat and falls out onto the ground. A pool of blood emerging from his body and his head as Budy and Slim sit there, noticing a cross around his neck. They both look at each other. (CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

CUT TO BLACK.

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Contest #2. The AddRan English 10803 Award SPONSOR: AN ANONYMOUS DONOR Judge: Dr. Brad Lucas, author of Radicals, Rhetoric, and the War Winner: Carter Howell for “Curative Coaching”

Curative Coaching She didn’t give herself a chance to hesitate. Digging her cleats into the ground, Michalle McCallister instinctively pivoted and launched herself towards the enemy. Her mechanical arms pumped through the air, powering her legs forward. There was not time to slow down. There was no time to think. She ran as if the goal was her child; nothing was more important than protecting it from the shot, not even herself. The monstrous player she was closing in on easily towered 6 inches above, and weighed 50 pounds more than her. However, McCallister did not allow these physical differences to deter her. Focused, she continued sprinting at her opponent. At this time, the enemy had begun following through her shot on goal. Momentum was coursing through her body. She planted her foot firmly into the ground. Then on the tip toes of the stable foot, she rotated her body generating more power till the momentum was about to burst. As soon as the energy peaked, she leaned into herself, thrusting a surge of power into her swinging leg. Instantaneously, McCallister threw herself in front of the girl, swiftly jabbing her right foot forward. The soccer ball was sent soaring past the sideline, another successful block. The beastly player was not done with her move, however. With McCallister’s leg extended, the girl was not able to stop her powerful leg from following through the initial kick. Like a wrecking ball, the girl’s leg crashed directly into the muscular walls of McCallister’s inner thigh. The force of the blow sent her flying backwards into the air, to come crashing back

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down like a rag doll. The side of her neck collided into the ground, forcing her elbow to smash into her hip bone. After seeing the incident, the head referee and coaches immediately rushed on to the field. McCallister was still laying on the ground by the time they reached her. They began to rapid fire questions like “Where are you hurt?” or “Can you stand?” at her. McCallister fell into a state of confusion trying to answer these questions. She could not pin point where on her body the pain was coming from; her whole body seemed to be throbbing. Trying to shake off these feelings, she tried to stand. Immediately stabbing pain rushed over her, forcing her back on to the grass. The urgency of the situation hit the coaches. McCalliter was not known to make scenes like this. One minor incident, just a few years back she dislocated her shoulder playing soccer. The coaches decided it was better for her not to push herself, and dragged her off of the field. However, she did not want to rest. McCallister knew no limits and relocated her own shoulder on the sidelines. “Put me back in Coach.”

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Again against her will, the coaches took McCallister off the field, but this time to the nearest hospital. Soon it became obvious to the coaches that even she had physical limits. The impact of the blow had completely torn the tendons and ligaments of her right thigh. The magnitude of the impact was so great that the hip bone of that inner thigh was even hit. How could she not answer the coaches where the source of the pain was with these horrific injuries? While landing awkwardly onto her neck, three discs of her vertebrae had been torn, impairing her brain’s reception of nerves. Unlike the coaches, McCallister was unable to accept that she had physical limits. She was determined to get back out on to the field. To her this injury was only a minor setback, like the dislocated shoulder. She refused to consider soccer not being part of her life again. Since the age of four, McCallister had been playing the sport. Growing up with soccer, she started out in the YMCA and over time moved to year round clubs. “Honestly it kept me out of doing stupid stuff,” she would say. Anything that would hinder her chances of playing soccer like failing grades or substance abuse was not an option for McCallister. Soccer was her focus, drive, and life. Her diligence paid off for the first time in middle school, when she participated in the Junior Olympics. Then in high school she became part of the Olympic Development Program and the national select team. By the age of 16, she was offered a position of the professional

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soccer team in Paris. Instead of going to France, McCallister decided to first play for the University of Arizona and earn a degree. The incident with the monstrous girl occurred while playing as a freshman for the University. Before her injuries, McCallister was in line to take over a senior’s position as sweeper the following year. For three years following the incident, McCallister went through ten grueling surgeries. Following each of these surgeries was intense physical therapy. None of this phased McCallister, she was determined to earn back the position. By senior year, she saw a Baylor game as the perfect time to come back from rehab. On the Baylor Bear’s team were several girls she played club soccer with growing up. Her competitive spirit convinced her she could not miss an opportunity to defeat the girls she used to be on the same team with. Stepping back out onto the field, McCallister sighed a breath of relief. The familiar dew of the grass crunched under her cleats. Wind whipped the tips of her pony tail across her face, and brazed through the uniform hanging from her petite body. Her long, tight socks pressed her lucky shin guards against her calves. The eagerness to play, subdued for three years, was now rising back up. Right as she was about to over flow with anticipation, the sound of the referee’s whistle started off the game. Her chance to make a move came when a forward from Balor’s team crossed into her defensive territory. She swayed to the side, attempting to juke out a player, but instead gave out her hip. She was on the field no more than ten minutes before hurting herself. It was then she realized that she could never physically play the sport again. She had been avoiding the truth for years; now there was no way around it. McCallister began becoming defensive and withdrawn. The excitement she once had was now being replaced with bitterness. “I became mad at myself for not being able to keep going”, she claimed. More importantly, she became bitter towards the sport. She eventually became so bitter that she

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admitted, “I didn’t even want to go back to soccer.” The foundation for everything she did and believed in was slipped right out from under her. What once was her life was now cut out of her life completely. Over ten years passed after the incident. Within that time, McCallister never let go of her anger. Instead she buried it deep within herself, not wanting to accept the harsh reality. Her injuries will never allow her to competitively play soccer again. Despite this, she continued on with her life refocusing her energy towards teaching. For the past three years McCallister has worked at Robert G. Middle and High School as a 8th grade science teacher. The Principle of this school, Mrs. Clayton, knew of her past soccer career. She would persistently nag McCallister about the forbidden topic. The school was in need of a new varsity girls’ soccer coach. At this school, the girls’ soccer program always seemed to be labeled as a joke. The stereotype that anyone could walk on the varsity team, even if you haven’t played the sport before, was well accepted. Not only was it like pulling teeth to have girls come out to play, it was just as hard to get people to come out and cheer for the team. Only a handful of parents would be scattered in the bleachers to support the team through their home games. No one seemed to care. Purely out of annoyance, McCallister agreed to coach the team in the fall of 2012 to quiet the principle. She walked into the season extremely reluctant. She did not know that subconsciously she “wanted to go back to the game since [she] was still mad at the game”. The girls’ soccer program at the school was known to be a joke, but she was determined to turn it into something that had meaning. She thought to herself, “I’m going to make them care.”

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The first day of tryouts, I looked down to see a petite, young women. Her thin, brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail, highlighting her makeup-less face. An athletic jacket covered her crossed arms, and jeans extended down to her spread legs. Out of her small body came a direct voice snapping, “I’d rather have a team with little skill and 100% heart over a team full of talent and not heart.” The frankness and sincerity of her statement caught me off guard. She continued on stating that gossiping would not be tolerated among teammates, and warned us that she would not handle loosing well. This was definitely a first for the girls at tryouts and myself. It was my third year of high school, and Coach McCallister was now my third new soccer coach at this school. Just like her I wasn’t sure what to expect, and did not have high hopes. However, the quirky group of girls, including me, quickly began to for a tight bond with Coach McCallister and each other. Our lively group made t-shirts together, hosted pasta parties, and sang carols on the bus ride home from away games. We all became close enduring the winter morning practices together, and enjoying huddling together to

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yell our team’s chant before every game. Coach McCallister soon came to realize “that is where [she] was supposed to be, with the moral of the team.” My teammates and I, or scrubcakes as Coach McCallister would call us, became her second family. In a lot of aspects, she saw her past self in the team. Looking back, McCallister said, it “took me back to where I started.” The team’s spirit began to break down the protective walls McCallister put up. The girls and I helped her get passed the bitterness of the injury, and fully allow herself to move forward.

The girls and I knew how to have fun, but they also were serious. Even in sub-freezing temperatures we continued to work hard for Coach McCallister. All of us grew to respect her opinion when she would place us in positions we were unfamiliar with. “I’m a Coach who understands your weaknesses,” she would say, “so I know where to put you that would be best for the team.” With Coach McCallister’s guidance, our varsity girls’ soccer team ended the season undefeated for the first time in the school’s history. Together “we [were able] to make everyone else care.” In the end, for Coach McCallister, coaching was meant to be. If she began coaching any sooner, she does not believe she would have lasted. On the other hand, she also believes if she

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began any later she wouldn’t have cared anymore. Ultimately she believes that if she coached another team that year that had a different attitude, she would not have that same view of soccer she has today. “It went full circle,” she says. She goes on to explain, “[Soccer] went from being my life, to cutting it out of my life, to being part of my life”. I was able to witness firsthand the impact Coach McCallister had on the soccer program at Robert G. Cole High School. The serious way she addressed the sport influenced everyone’s perspective of soccer. The program went from being a joke to a serious, competitive sport. That fall of 2014, I also saw her withdrawn attitude shift into love as her competitive spirit came back out. Coach McCallister would run and fling her arms in the air along the sidelines, as if she was part of the game, yelling, “We are not handing out cupcakes ladies! Come on!” Even though she was hard on the team, she has always influenced the girls and me positively. After witnessing her transformation that season, I learned that if you truly love something and it is meant to be, then it will always find its way back to you.

Contest #3. The Australia Tarver Award for Critical Essay on Race, Post-colonialism, or Multi-Ethnic Studies SPONSORS: DR. KAREN STEELE & DR. STACIE MCCORMICK Judge: Dr. Karen Steele, author of Ireland and the New Journalism Winner: Sue-jin Green for “Strange Fruit from a Poisonous Tree: The Legacy of Lynching and the Black Lives Matter Movement”

The deaths of Eric Garner and Michael Brown, both unarmed black men that that were

unjustly killed by police in Staten Island, New York and Ferguson, Missouri respectively, have sparked multiple media-‐based movements that decry the rampant police brutality in the United States, most notably Black Lives Matter (GarcÍa and Sharif 27). While the official Black Lives Matter movement is a relatively recent development, the type of systematic violence that African Americans face is symptomatic of a larger social ill that dates back to the late 19th century: lynching. By analyzing Ida B. Wells-‐Barnett’s pamphlet A Red Record and Angelina W. Grimke’s play Rachel: A Play in Three Acts, although written nearly a century before the start of Black Lives Matter, one can see the parallels between the racial terror of the lynching described by Wells-‐Barnett and Grimke and that of the police violence (and reluctance to convict said officers) that Black Lives Matter opposes today. Written at the height of lynching incidents in the United States, A Red Record discusses how lynching became a social norm due to Emancipation. Wells-‐Barnett states it succinctly: The slave was rarely killed, he was too valuable; it was easier and quite effective, for discipline or revenge to sell him “Down South.” But Emancipation came at the vested interests of the white man in the Negro’s body were lost. The white man had no right scourge the emancipated Negro, still less has he a right to kill

him…In slave times the Negro was kept subservient and submissive by the frequency and severity of the scourging, but, with freedom, a new system of intimidation came into vogue; the Negro was not only whipped and scourged; he was killed. (670) In other words, when slavery ended there was no legal channels for white people to control African Americans. Because of this, white people resorted to vigilante ‘justice’ and mob violence in order to “stamp out alleged ‘race riots’”, deter them from voting, and “avenge their assaults upon women” (Wells-‐Barnett 671-‐2). However, no riots ever arose and the numerous rape allegations were found to be false; the true intentions of the lynching was to keep African Americans in their place which was subservient to white Americans. Although lynching was not legal, the people that made these false accusations and carried out these atrocities were rarely brought to justice. Of the thousands of African Americans that were lynched, only three white men were ever convicted and executed (Wells-‐Barnett 671). This pattern of systematic killing and hesitation to bring those responsible to justice parallels the series of murders committed by police officers that Black Lives Matter is attempting to bring to light. Just as the events of the time periods mirror each other, so does the reasoning. These killings were not committed to keep peace or prevent suspected crimes, but to keep African Americans in a perpetual state of fear of simply existing as full-‐fledged citizens in America. In another disturbing parallel concerning the cases of Garner and Brown, none of the officers involved were indicted for their crimes despite the evidence against them (Garcia and Sharif 27). The African American

community responded to these terrible injustices in similar ways: by taking to various forms of media.

One form of media that African Americans utilized in response to lynching was theater,

resulting in the sub-‐genre of lynching plays. As Dr. Koritha Mitchell states in her book Living with Lynching: African American Lynching Plays, Performance, and Citizenship, 1890-‐1930, lynching plays: Served as mechanisms through which African Americans survived the height of mob violence…dramatists who lived in and wrote in the midst of lynching often refused to feature physical violence; their scripts spotlight instead the black home and the impact that the mob’s outdoor activities have on the family”. (2) One of the most well recognized lynching plays is Grimke’s Rachel. The play revolves around the Loving family: Mrs. Loving and her two children, Tom and Rachel, the protagonist. By tracking Rachel’s character development through the play, the reader can see the effects of living in a society where lynching is acceptable. Consider the following passages regarding Rachel’s attitude towards being a mother: RACHEL: Ma dear, here’s something I don’t understand: I love the little black and brown babies best of all. There is something about them that-‐that-‐clutches at my heart. Why-‐why should they be-‐oh!-‐pathetic? I don’t understand. It’s dim. More than other babies, I feel that I must protect them. They’re in danger, but from what? I don’t know. I’ve tried so hard to understand, but I can’t. (Act. I, 13)

At this point in the play Rachel does not know that her own father and half-‐brother had been lynched, but she already subconsciously understands that by virtue of being African American, some children are at risk for greater harm yet she still yearns to have many children of her own. However, that changes as the play progresses. Compare the above passage to the following: RACHEL: Dear, little, baby rosebuds,-‐I am accursed. (Gradually her whole form stiffens, she breathes deeply; at last slowly). You God!-‐You terrible, laughing God! Listen! I swear-‐and may my soul be damned to all eternity, if I do break this oath-‐I swear-‐that no child of mine shall ever lie upon my breast, for I will not have it rise up, in the terrible days that are to be-‐and call me cursed. (Act. II, 63) After finding out about the boys that verbally and physically assaulted Jimmy, a neighbor boy she looked after, Rachel is determined to never bring a child into a world where such injustices are normalized and tolerated. The effects of living in a society like this are pervasive and influence everyone, from young children to adults. Rachel’s struggle surrounding being a mother reflects fears that many African Americans had at the time. Thematically speaking, the focus on motherhood counteracted the mammy trope that African American woman were usually assigned; familial, romantic, and communal ties were emphasized because “the nation encouraged the denial of African American familial ties by tolerating lynching and the circulation of photographs that cast mob victims as isolated brutes” (Mitchell 148). In regards to recent police brutality outrage, the media is often hesitant to condemn white officers, but quick to paint victims as aggressors or somehow culpable in their own deaths. Another similarity that the two movements share is a reluctance, or sometimes outright refusal to show mutilated

black bodies as a direct protest to the voyeuristic tendencies of the mainstream (read: white) media. Black Lives Matter has utilized social media, particularly Twitter, to accomplish the same goals as lynching plays: to create a community for those who have lost loved ones as victims, to initiate conversations about race, and to provide a more holistic view of the victims’ lives than that of mainstream media. Both Black Lives Matters and lynching plays play a pivotal role in the collective healing and psychological processing within the African American community and “by engaging in and recording discourses and practices of black belonging, African Americans sustain[ed] themselves, even as they watched their homebuilding efforts negated in the mainstream” (Mitchell 148).

To say that history repeats itself can be disheartening, especially concerning the topics

of institutionalized racism and racial violence. From the parallels drawn from A Red Record, Rachel, and Black Lives Matter it would appear that the American society has not evolved much from the early 20th century to now. As Wells-‐Barnett so poignantly stated: “the wrongs of two centuries cannot be righted in a day” (672). That is to say that that as a society that was founded upon a white supremacist ideology, African Americans cannot expect true racial equality to occur instantaneously. However, there have been significant strides taken towards racial equality in the United States concerning legislature and social reform because African American citizens and their allies have refused to be complicit in their own oppression and demand to be recognized as fully realized people that are deserving of respect, dignity, and justice. Perhaps we as a society are not simply going in circles, but rather in an upward spiral-‐ sometimes repeating incidents from the past, but always moving towards progress.

Works Cited García, Jennifer Jee-‐Lyn, and Mienah Zulfacar Sharif. "Black Lives Matter: A Commentary on Racism and Public Health." American Journal of Public Health 105.8 (2015). Web. Gates, Henry Louis, and Nellie Y. McKay. The Norton Anthology of African American Literature. 3rd ed. Vol. 1. New York: W.W Norton &, 2014. Print. Grimke, Angelina W. Rachel: A Play in Three Acts. Boston: Cornhill, 1920. Print. Mitchell, Koritha. Living with Lynching: African American Lynching Plays, Performance, and Citizenship, 1890-‐1930. Urbana: U of Illinois, 2011. Print.

Contest #4. The Non-Fiction Prose Contest SPONSOR: THE THURSDAY GROUP, TCU WOMEN EXES Judge: Dr. Charlotte Hogg, author of Reclaiming the Rural Winner, 1st Place: Hayley Zablotsky for “Always, Sometimes, or Never” I. The Monks One time, in a crowded parking lot, I saw a pair of monks from my car window. Apricot-‐‑ colored robes fluttered around their legs in the dusty wind. They had no hair. So hairless were they that I wondered if they might have waxed their heads. What I knew about monks was assumed and vague, but I knew enough to know the monk lifestyle was not something I wanted for myself. First of all, burnt orange has never been my color (really, is it anybody’s?). And second of all, I was pretty sure the standard answer about what monks do had something to do with enlightenment. I knew that true enlightenment is practically unattainable. I knew this because I read things, and that’s the way of things, according to people who are not enlightened. A monk sighting is a strange thing. I don’t know what they were doing -‐‑-‐‑ errands, maybe -‐‑-‐‑ life, I guess -‐‑-‐‑ but my immediate reaction was you can’t be out here. You can’t be out here in the world, crossing at that crosswalk, going toward my grocery store. You’re supposed to be in your caves doing… whatever it is you do. You can live in a cave or you can live in the world. Make your choice. “What a thing to say,” my older sister Kaitlin said when I voiced my thoughts about the cave. She was already in high school, but I was a few years behind in the turbulent time that is eighth grade. As we walked toward the grocery store to pick up a few things for

mom, Kaitlin gave me an explanation. “Sometimes monks hang out in their caves, Hayley. But sometimes they don’t.” My sister is very wise. I puzzled this over in the produce section of the store, rearranging apples we weren’t going to buy. Sometimes. Sometimes. SOMETIMES. I flirted with the word as we pushed the cart up and down the aisles. I started to like the word more and more. Do you like this brand of salsa? Yes or no? Come on, come on, make a decision. Oh, well, I like it sometimes. So do you support democrats or republicans? Come on, choose a party, choose a way of life, choose a side of the controversy. Hm, well, sometimes I support one side and sometimes I support the other side. This was magnificent. Absolutely commitment-‐‑less. I would never be wrong. By the time we left the store, I had a new favorite word and a new life philosophy. Everything could be answered with sometimes. What a wonderful discovery. II. The Naughty and Nice Boxes The best part of Christmas is not the day itself. The best part is the season, the days of December when cookies leave crunchy little crumbs of backwash in milk and Bing Crosby dreams of a white Christmas on almost every single radio station. The world seems to be, just for a little while, at peace. Everything seems cold and quiet and good, like the snow that collects on the tops of garden walls, hardly touched at all by anything besides an occasional pair of bird feet. The world is not, of course, actually at peace.

But think of the damage we would sustain if we didn’t lie to ourselves. The world is still a smoking, blackened, over-‐‑cooked cut of unidentified meat with whitish yellowish fat called humanity seeping through the cracks. Neighbors still honk at me when I stop fully at that new stop sign, too impatient to remember the child who died before the stop sign was installed. People still whine about lazy poor people and ungrateful handicapped people and attention-‐‑hogging underprivileged children. Joggers still crush frightened beetles beneath the heels of their scuffed tennis shoes just because they can. Parents still put their toddlers on leashes so they don’t have to deal with the guilt of losing a child. People still live in quiet and tranquil fear of WWIII. It’s not like we’re miserable. I mean, I think we’re all pretty happy with the way it all works -‐‑-‐‑ even at Christmas. Maybe especially at Christmas. At least, I’m pretty happy at Christmas. Oh, Christmas. The song doesn’t lie, you know -‐‑-‐‑ about it being the most wonderful time of the year. Some of my best memories of my entire childhood take place during the Christmas season. Unfortunately for God, these memories have less to do with the fact that Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ Was Born to Die For Our Sins and more to do with the fact that Our Indulgent Parents Shopped and Baked Delicious Foods for Our Childish Delight. I mean, my family goes to the candlelight service at church every year. We have an almost-‐‑but-‐‑not-‐‑quite life-‐‑sized manger scene in the front yard. And some years we even buy postage stamps with Mary and Jesus on them. So it’s not like we’re disrespectful of the holiday or anything. It’s just… my best memories of Christmas involve things like the obscenely huge electrical bills from the shameless display of secular Christmas decorations surrounding the manger

in the front yard. The cookies shaped like bells and the organic eggnog. Going Christmas shopping at the mall and ending up buying myself something at Bath and Body Works because I really, really need my skin to smell like Vanilla Bean Noel. I think what it comes down to is this: Santa. Santa runs the show. Santa is the reason Christmas is what it is today. Fat, happy, and material. I have a problem with Santa, but it isn’t because of those things. My problem is with Santa’s Naughty and Nice lists. As an English nerd who over-‐‑analyzes everything -‐‑-‐‑ including but not limited to the punctuation of text messages from members of the opposite sex, the Nutritional Facts of snack packages, and the secret intentions and undertones of Pixar movies -‐‑-‐‑ I wonder is Santa a metaphor for God? Is the Nice List really just a way of saying you little sweeties are going to Heaven someday and the Naughty List is really just a way of saying there’s a place for you puny hellions -‐‑-‐‑ just you wait and see. I’m not sure I like the black-‐‑and-‐‑white of it all. I want to know where we draw the line. How bad… is bad? How much can I get away with before I get put on the Naughty List? Can I talk back to elders? Can I run red lights? Can I keep a chinchilla in a concealed habitat under my lofted bed in my dorm room? And what about the Nice List? Do I have to volunteer 25 hours daily at the community center (except on Sundays and Christian holidays) to make the Nice List? Do I have to include everyone on guest lists for parties? Do I have to move confused earthworms off the pavement and back into a flowerbed -‐‑-‐‑ with my bare hands?

Please do not make the mistake of thinking that I don’t want to be good. I just think… there should be some middle ground. Some kind of Christmas purgatory. How about the We’re Really Rather Mediocre Here List or the We’re Only Human List? Because we are humans, and humans are fallible creatures. But does that make us inherently naughty, absolutely hell-‐‑bound? Does one slip-‐‑up ruin everything? Through a few random actions, we put ourselves in boxes. The lace-‐‑trimmed box is the Nice Box -‐‑-‐‑ welcome to the world of genteel volunteers for charitable organizations such as Ladies and Gentlemen Against The Spread Of Human Hydrophobia. The metal-‐‑studded box is the Naughty Box -‐‑-‐‑ welcome to the world of shirked responsibility, guns, moldy spaghetti, and temper tantrums. These two boxes were made for extraordinary people. The extraordinarily good and the extraordinarily bad. But what about the rest of us? I mean, don’t even try to tell me your gray, flaccid dentist who puts everything in “finger quotes” and drives with both feet is extraordinary. So where is he going? Which box does he belong in? He is an outcast, a stranger, a misfit in both lands. He needs a home, a land of his own. Let’s have a So-‐‑so Box for people like him. People like him and the extras on movie sets who slide off the Golden Gate bridge in alien attacks and the people who write fortune cookie messages and also probably my entire high school administrative staff. Let’s have a land of sometimes where no one is always and deeply good and no one is always and deeply bad. In this box, these so-‐‑so people would never have to make a choice between naughty and nice. Theirs would be a world without controversy where everyone has the right to be fickle. A lot of people would be content with this, I think.

III. Midpoints Sophomore year of high school, I took geometry. The teacher’s name was Mr. Wu. He had pet llamas at home, and that is the only nice thing I can say about him. The class’s expectations for him were low: this was high school geometry. We weren’t asking for brilliance and beauty. But he managed to come up short even so. One time I drew a really excellent sketch of him in my notebook with some unflattering speech bubbles. That was my best moment in his class. In this class, we were offered pointless logic statements about polygons with the answer options always, sometimes, or never. A square is a rectangle. Always, sometimes, or never? A quadrilateral has four sides. Always, sometimes, or never? I hated these questions. The exams were excruciating. I would sit there in the front row listening to the clock clicking, listening to the kid behind me snapping his spearmint gum, listening for a voice in my head to commit to an answer choice. Always, sometimes, or never? It was too much pressure -‐‑-‐‑ the choice. At this point of my life, my knee-‐‑jerk reaction was to choose sometimes every time. Tell people I was a moderate. Compromise by saying sometimes I loved chocolate more and sometimes I loved vanilla more. Sometimes was fine. Sometimes was correct in these situations. But in geometry class, sometimes could actually be the wrong answer -‐‑-‐‑ not an answer I could talk my way through until I won my case. This wrongness of sometimes was new. IV. The Funeral

When I found out that my family had been invited to our neighbor’s funeral, I was inappropriately excited. At seventeen, I’d never been to a funeral. It was something I needed to do. It was something I needed to experience. This kind of proximity with death entailed a certain loss of innocence. And I was dying to lose all the innocence I could. There is no joy in innocence for a seventeen-‐‑year-‐‑old. Her name was June, and she was almost eighty-‐‑nine when she died. We hadn’t seen her in several years except when she drove to her weekly hair appointments in her cranberry Lexus. My memories of her were unrelated fragments from when I was little, distilled moments crystalized randomly out of a sea of blur -‐‑-‐‑ a jade statue of Buddha in her front garden -‐‑-‐‑ the plush white-‐‑carpeted stairs leading down into the living room -‐‑-‐‑ the soft footprints my little socked feet left imprinted in the whiteness. But that was all. My mother put down the phone and then shared the news that June Was Not With Us Anymore. June’s daughter had called to invite us to the funeral. I directly ran to my closet to find something to wear. I ended up borrowing a simple dress in black sweater material from my sister. I would smooth on nude lipstick because it was subdued and conservative -‐‑ -‐‑ respectful of the family’s grief -‐‑-‐‑ and slip my black nylon-‐‑ed feet into black leather pumps. I would be cool, calm, and compassionate, the neighbor from the past (all grown up!) with flawless skin and shapely, concerned eyebrows. I would walk through the cemetery looking somber, and if all went well, there would be a breeze to whip my hair around dramatically. It would be a good experience. The minute the funeral began, my eyes quickly picked out all things pathetic, things I could glibly criticize. Things like: the chaplain forgot to show up for the ceremony -‐‑-‐‑ forgot there even was a ceremony that day -‐‑-‐‑ so the funeral director, Wes, had to step in.

Wes was a patronizing, meager insect of a man with greasy strands of yarn-‐‑like hair raked across his shiny head. He stood at the front of the room looking anxious. It was decidedly a room and not a chapel even though chapel-‐‑like things happened here. There were folding chairs rather than pews. There was too much natural light. There were white columns along the front wall certainly reminiscent of the Parthenon. Wes liked “inviting” us to do things such as pray and proceed. He said things like “… in this Fleeting Time of Grief” and “Those Who Have Traveled Far To Be Here Today.” He had a stuttering problem, though, and then he screwed up the Lord’s Prayer, trailing off helplessly somewhere around “And forgive us our trespasseseses….” Then one of June’s nieces -‐‑-‐‑ the boozy one -‐‑-‐‑ brought her tiny dog inside dressed in a little Velcro watermelon dress. I watched in delighted horror as the boozy niece stood up to give a little speech, determined to relate her fight with alcohol to June’s death (there was no correlation whatsoever). It was all pathetic and hilarious. Pathetically hilarious. Then suddenly anonymous men in suits wheeled in a giant creamy white casket and positioned it at the front of the chapel so we could all stare at it. And stare at it we did. Insect Wes kept talking and inviting us to do other things like “reflect” and “share,” but I don’t think anybody was paying any attention. The white casket was very much the elephant in the room. It made my stomach feel itchy to think that there was a dead woman inside of it. And then it wasn’t funny. Nothing was funny, and dammit I was starting to cry. I have a policy about crying and it goes like this: don’t. Or if you must, do it alone in your room where you can be absolutely wretched and no one will ever know. Blinking tears away

doesn’t work. And so there they were -‐‑-‐‑ fast-‐‑rolling little droplets, little bastards -‐‑-‐‑ racing down my cheeks. And after the service, we followed the rolling casket out to the gravesite where June’s husband was already buried. And my heels were sinking into the grass, sliding slickly in and out of the mud. And I was stumbling every few steps -‐‑-‐‑ and yes my hair was blowing just like I’d wanted -‐‑-‐‑ and yes tears were streaming down my face -‐‑-‐‑ and yes it was just like those movies with the close-‐‑ups of actresses who can somehow remain pretty when they cry. And it was incredibly painful -‐‑-‐‑ this grief -‐‑-‐‑ and nothing like the world promised it would be. There was the little watermelon dog peeing on someone else’s grave, and suddenly it was hilarious again -‐‑-‐‑ and equally pathetic -‐‑-‐‑ and completely terrifying. This combination was terrifying -‐‑-‐‑ this everything-‐‑ness, this feeling it all at once. V. New Zealand When I lived in New Zealand, I visited my first planetarium. Of course, the workers there (who have so much astronomical knowledge crammed in their heads that they lack all sort of people skills and socially acceptable humor) made sure we got an Educational Experience. They often inserted the words “in fact” in highly accentuated commas to sound more monumental. Among the tidbits I picked up are the following facts: 1) The milky stuff in the Milky Way is not, in fact, milk. 2) It is, in fact, stars. 3) And most importantly, we are, in fact, specks. Actually, our entire reality is a speck.

I used to think that Costco was big. But now I know it really isn’t. Not even when you include the parking lot. Nothing we have here is big. Not truly. Not the new Panera Bread with the giant seating area. Not your electric bill. Not your friend’s walk-‐‑in closet. Not the annotated collector’s edition of Anna Karenina with footnotes, endnotes, and an appendix. Not Texas. Not your butt (hurrah!). Not the national debt, not the number of times you lost the nerve to call him back, not the Statue of Liberty, not the Great Pyramids, not even the saturated fat content in an Almond Joy. Everything you know and see and breathe and eat and dream and are is infinitesimal. Because look up. Past the trees and the lonely red helium balloon drifting away. Keep going. And going. And going. If you used the rounding system, which people use for mental math, exaggerations, and monetary transactions in New Zealand, none of us here would exist. The only way we could possibly matter is if you’re the kind of person who won’t round 0.000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001 to 0.0. That is the only way. And what of it? Should we be depressed? I mean, depression is a reasonable approach. But sometimes I’m unreasonable. I’ve been told this by more than one credible source. And I’m not depressed about this. That moment of looking up and out into the stars and everything -‐‑-‐‑ knowing that I was a speck -‐‑-‐‑ was the most incredible thing. Feeling infinitesimal was glorious. I loved the feeling. Knowing that there is something bigger and better and more luminescent than our little lives somehow makes the whole fiasco of living here bearable and maybe even

beautiful. When we stand beside the ocean, we are stunned by our own insignificance, awed by our own fragility. There is something so spiritual and exquisite in vulnerability. Staring up at the New Zealand sky, I had never felt so unimportant yet so complete in all my life. I was tiny, I was nothing, but I was important. Everything was important. And it was suddenly enough. VI. Not Always, Not Sometimes, Not Never They say -‐‑-‐‑ I think -‐‑-‐‑ that belief is or isn’t. It just is. Or it just isn’t. You believe in God. You don’t believe in God. You are enlightened. You are not enlightened. You love nut butter and believe it to be the solution to all problems, real and imagined. You hate nut butter and will in fact die if you ingest it. This can’t be right, though. Because how is it that I can stand beneath the New Zealand sky and feel tiny and important at the same time? If I believe that we matter -‐‑-‐‑ and I also believe that we are, in fact, specks -‐‑-‐‑ then I have to let the So-‐‑so Box go. I have to accept extremes, learn to love them, because our world is extreme. I have to realize that there simply is no sometimes, no middle ground. Instead, it’s all valid, and it’s all real. There is no in between and it’s okay. Instead of having a sometimes option, I think we have a both option. Sometimes and both are not the same thing.

We don’t sometimes believe and sometimes doubt. We don’t sometimes love and sometimes hate. We don’t sometimes succeed and sometimes fail. We don’t sometimes feel big and sometimes feel small. We are, in fact, feeling and doing all of it at the same time. We should honor our smallness. Love the sky for its enormity. Resist and embrace God at the same time and laugh at funerals because sometimes there is no other way. And have faith that all our spinning and orbiting and tripping through life mean something incredible.

1 Contest #4. The Non-Fiction Prose Contest SPONSOR: THE THURSDAY GROUP, TCU WOMEN EXES Judge: Dr. Charlotte Hogg, author of Reclaiming the Rural Winner, 2nd Place: Sara Kate Bould for “Privilege” 1. “Wearing those shorts is a privilege” One of my mother’s favorite sayings. This one came up at Six Flags and waterparks and beach vacations. She used to flick her wrist, point, and scrunch up her face at the dimpled legs that sometimes fell out of women’s shorts. The denim cutoffs that constricted the healthy thighs of biscuits and gravy, the too-tight khaki cargo shorts worn by my Girl Scout camp leaders, and the satin shorts paired with heels that my friends and I would wear when trying to get into bars underage. A privilege that my mother unknowingly encouraged me to partake in when I was 5’6”, weighed 90 pounds, and the airbag light wouldn’t turn on in my abusive ex-boyfriend’s car.

2. “It’s a privilege to be this pretty, Kate” Although this one usually came in dressing rooms as a subtle reference to the way the skin hung off of my bones, this one in particular, came as I was preparing for a high school formal. I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, tears streaming down my face and grabbing mascara off of my lashes, dragging it down and getting caught in the frown lines framing my wet lips. My hair looked fine. I looked fine and I was never one to even care what I looked like. But in that moment, when I was told that my subjective beauty, seen through my mothers eyes, was a privilege, was not something to take advantage of, I cried with guilt and I cried because I couldn’t understand why I didn’t see what they saw. Through the thin yellow fabric and cutouts on my dress, you could see the bones running up my back and jutting out from my hips. My collarbones were draped in thin tan skin shimmering with some strange sort of body bronzer that my mother had sought out. I sat surrounded by magazines and uppity women who get their hair

2 done twice a week, and I cried. For five seconds I felt guilty and pissed that these two people, the one that birthed me, and the one that I was paying to make me feel good, were telling me that I was pretty.

3. “It’s a privilege to stay out late” My father, every night when I came home hours after my curfew. I was going on seeing my boyfriend every day for 112 days in a row. He was counting. Every perfect day, somehow ended up with this sweet boy that I was so in love with, shaking me, and screaming at me, and crying because why didn’t I love him. Every night, my ability to pull away from his house without hitting him as he jumped in front of the car, improved. Every night, I sat, hearing the muted banging on my thick window, to just talk for four more minutes because he was sorry that he got so mad that I wouldn’t walk upstairs and hug him before I left. Then driving home at 90 miles an hour partly because I wanted to get a ticket and partly because I thought saving those two minutes would somehow excuse my hours-late arrival. It wasn’t a privilege to stay out late. Every day, routinely, I begged my mother to tell him I was grounded or else he would show up at my house with flowers for my mom, a cigar for my father, a bad influence for my little brother, and a movie for me that we wouldn’t even get to watch.

4. “Kate, this is a privilege, you should do it.” This one was by far the best, said by my mother, of course, referring to the engraved letter I’d received in the mail. It read, ‘you have been invited to be a debutante’, insert royal name and family crest and ask someone to pay thousands of dollars so that they can have anxiety for weeks about perfecting their walk and curtsy, before being pimped out to society with a

3 dowry. I find coming out balls to be thoroughly amusing because at the time, I hadn’t yet come out to my parents as queer. So when they presented me to a room full of men that looked like the equivalent of a bad day on tinder, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a privilege. I even wore a tiara.

5. “It’s a privilege to have a role completely drawn up for you.” Famously said by my ‘big’ in Delta Nu* that I only talked to once a year. And it was not a privilege. They all probably felt like shit because I shouldn’t have been a Delta Nu in the first place. They recruited me because they liked my older brother and the thought of ‘Kate Bould’: awkward nice girl. I joined with the mindset of wanting to make a change and helping kids and reaching out to others on campus before realizing that I had joined an organization of majorly David Yurman bracelets, xl t-shirts, and catty girls who talked about each other with the insults of a seventh grader. My thoughts on different members varied in polar opposites, I loved them or I had no respect for them. They drew up a position that may as well have been called assistant vice president executive of chapter development the third. I was like the new intern that you hire because you feel like you should, and it’s for free, so you might as well, but in the end, all that I did was pick up bagels and coffee one day for $200. They were supposed to reimburse me but never did because I couldn’t find the receipt, as if all of them splitting bagels into fourths and eating low fat cream cheese was not evidence enough.

6. “This is SUCH a privilege” Declared by the elder wannabe sorority woman that lived in our house who served no purpose other than declaring things and making you feel guilty for smoking weed in the

4 bedrooms. I received this bit of wisdom when I was elected as a recruitment chair of my sorority. This privilege had me passively aggressively working with middle-aged women trying to convince them that we shouldn’t be racist anti-feminist assholes because it was indeed no longer the 1950’s. Then they might correct me with their graduation date like when on their sixth thirtieth birthday, they knowingly proclaimed, it’s actually my 29th. No one ever said ‘no’, but when references were hidden, and names were erased, and calls were made behind my back, I realized that some of the judgment I’d placed on the women my age was misplaced, and that this was both a privilege and a burden.

7. “My privilege.” My liberal queer roommate that intimidated me on our first day studying abroad in Budapest. Within the first five minutes of our meeting, she had suggested that we use a suitcase wall to divide the ends of our beds and I finished unfolding my heart-covered comforter and applying a janky bird decal on the wall. Throughout the semester, she respectfully, and with a knowledgeable and appropriate tongue, acknowledged her privilege. I’d never heard it in this way and it was somehow the first time that I gained a real familiarity with the term. Privilege was no longer something to be given and taken away, privilege was having the natural opportunity in which something could be given and taken away.

8. “Privileged” This isn’t my story to tell and maybe I fabricated it as a result of my ignorance. But this came about because of my Pakistani friend, Alina*, who when we were all talking about our privilege and how hard it was to be a woman, maybe she said it, or someone else did, or she

5 wasn’t even there, but that in Pakistan, a woman’s privilege was far different from my own. Alina was the first person that I’d spent a significant amount of time with that wasn’t white and I think that sometimes, because of that, I treated her like a trophy friend. She was brilliant, and sarcastic, and absolutely stunning. She defied her family and my bullshit racist stereotypes when she talked about her cat tattoo and ‘cool’ sex stories, only cool because I fetishized her and her life. She and I were fairly close until my first Facetime call with my mother, when she continuously commented on how beautiful Alina looked and sounded, treating her like an animal, complimenting her accent and asking her questions that she wouldn’t ask anyone else. That was the first time that I hung up on my mother.

9. “My privilege.” The first feminist book I had ever read, unless you count the breast exercises and period talks in “Are You There God? It’s me Margaret.” I probably wouldn’t count it. I had met my best friend, Ava*, abroad. She was the mystery girl that arrived in late from LA. I hypothesized that she was some entitled blonde jetsetter, but turns out this vegan LA brat was actually a fiery little Jewish girl. She was the child who called the radio screaming when they were making sexist comments and whose dad used to constantly catch her masturbating at the age of six. We became completely integrated into one another’s lives, we took all of the same classes, sacrificing what requirements we actually needed, slept in the same cramped twin bed, knew more about her than anyone else and vice versa, when her boyfriend visited, he was a third wheel. We were straight, we were best friends, and she had a boyfriend. We sat on the bus ride home from Romania, oblivious to our friends, her legs draped over my lap, my head on our shoulders, giggling like little girls passing notes in class. She gave me

6 her illuminatingly beautiful “Bad Feminist” book by Roxane Gay and I responded by giving her my heteronormative, racist book about two white anthropologists observing the ‘savage’ brown islanders. Roxane Gay ruled my world, not just because she was given to me by Ava and not just because I finally felt empowered but because Gay was a Haitian, bisexual woman, acknowledging just how immensely privileged she was, as I sat on a paid-for vacation in Transylvania, living abroad in Budapest, with allowance in my bank account, and pale white skin.

10. “Being aware of my white privilege” The first worthwhile blog that I’d written. I had started writing them abroad before eventually focusing on my drunken plane trips and hot dog pursuits all over Western Europe. I began to surround myself with people so special that when someone asked, ‘who would you want to have dinner with, dead or alive?’ I would still ask for just a few moments with them. This was the first time that I’d publicly opened up about my life, complaining about what may have been petty, while also acknowledging my privilege. It was the first time that I’d semicomfortably used the word, testing the waters, and subtly asking my inspiring peers, so comfortable with this idea, to please hold me accountable.

11. “This life is such a privilege and now you’re just going to make it hard on yourself” The first time my mother made me feel guilty for coming out. I’d been hiding it for months now, years in reality, but there were too many things on my plate. Like clockwork, each day after school, I’d sit in my car and cry, sobbing because I was queer, sobbing because I was in love with my best friend, sobbing because I was stuck in Fort Worth, TX for one more year that

7 would go on to feel like centuries. My mother made it clear that I shouldn’t come out because everybody would be mean to me. Nobody told me that the bigger issue was that people would be horrible to you, solely because of who you wanted to sleep with. I suddenly morphed into whatever people saw me as, an outsider girl, a tie-dye girl, an angry bra-burning girl, a confused girl, a lost girl, a purple girl, a softball girl, a sexual girl, a gross girl, a threesome girl, an attention whore girl, a boy girl. My mother was looking out for me and she was right.

12. “Alright, can anyone define privilege?” From the first and only gender/women studies class I’d take at TCU. I’d heard my fair share in this class. The girl that didn’t understand why we never talked about how hard it was for the cop in the Michael Brown case. The girl that talked about how she experienced racial profiling when getting pulled over and then the girl that asked her what edition car she had, ‘did you pay more for the reclining seats? The leather?’ The girl who thought that privilege was a burden because then she felt bad for not going to her nice comfy college. Surrounded by blank white boards, we were each assigned a topic for which we would write where privileges might apply: cisgender, sexual orientation, race, education, and so on. For the first time, I saw it all and could pick and choose what made up my privilege. We all sat in a rather harsh light, coming together, and pulling apart at the different intersections, each person having a completely different answer. For the first time, I couldn’t quantify privilege because I couldn’t understand anyone else’s, therefore what I initially saw as uniform, actually changed with each version, each factor, each level. Cisgender, upper class, educated in a place with ‘exceptional’ in the mission statement, white, Christian, queer, woman, and privileged enough to not even have to think about the other categories.

8 *Names changed

Contest #5. The Woman’s Wednesday Club Research Paper or Essay Contest SPONSOR: THE WOMAN’S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judge: Dr. Neil Easterbrook, 2014 Master Tutor in Criticism, Royal Observatory, Greenwich England Winner: Sue-jin Green for “Literary Borderlands: An Analysis of Craft in A Map of Home” “The term "borderland" may denote geographic boundaries, political constructions, lines of territory, but most especially cultural meeting spaces (Anzaldua, 1999: 20). By considering identity and culture, borderland space may not necessarily imply physical borders, but an interaction of cultural realities.” (Albakry and Silan)

To show rather than tell is often the goal of many writers, some being more successful

than others. In her novel A Map of Home, Randa Jarrar stylistic choices lend themselves to creating an immersive experience for the reader that mirrors the protagonist’s struggle to create a fixed identity of herself in the wake of her ever fluctuating cultural backdrop. Although it is difficult to concretely define ‘craft’ in the literary sense, for the purposes of this essay it will be defined as an amalgamation of the technique, style, and form an author uses (Zimber, Etherington, and Bower 273). The craft of A Map of Home is not arbitrary or simply aesthetic, but rather crucial in understanding the narrative as a whole. It focuses on the collision and hybridization that occurs when contrasting cultures make contact, otherwise known as a borderland novel (Albakry and Siler). Because of this, it is important to consider the two cultures that are being contrasted and the ramifications of and meaning behind that contrast. In the words of scholar Mara Naaman, we must examine the “very real gulf that exists between scholars of Arabic literary studies in the Middle East and those working from locations in the U.S. and European metropoles” (448).

The ‘gulf’ between Western and Arabic literary studies, besides language, is that

Western literary studies tend to focus solely on classical Arabic literature as opposed to contemporary. In the last ten years, only about half of the articles published in the Journal of Arabic Literature (a European based periodical) focused on contemporary subject matter (Naaman 455). This is a common phenomenon in other Western-‐based periodical that focus on Arabic literature, tending to value the classic body of Arabic literature over contemporary. This can be problematic for a few reasons, but mainly it keeps the Western perspective of Arabic literature static. When focusing so much on classic literature, it overshadows the work of modern artists, keeping Arabic literature ‘other’ and a historical lens that is temporally frozen. It is not reflective of what constitutes Arabic literature today and ultimately perpetuates the idea that non-‐Western literature is inherently not universal or relatable, in a form of literary neocolonialism (Hassan 46). There tends to be a preference-‐in terms of publishing and distribution-‐ given towards works produced in English or French (former colonial powers) rather than Arabic (Hassan 46). Although Jarrar’s novel was written in English, she uses various techniques to craft a novel that conveys a truth about coming of age with mixed or changing identities.

One technique that Jarrar uses to denote Nidali’s struggle to toggle between her

identities is code switching or “the use of several languages or varieties within the text” (Gardner-‐Chloros and Weston 186). Although code-‐switching is usually a spontaneous phenomenon observed in speech, Jarrar accomplishes this by leaving certain terms or phrases in Arabic or Greek. Consider the following passage:

For years, Yia Yia, my grandmother, would always tell Mama not to eat out of the pot, which Mama still does to this day, but to get a plate out and eat like a human, or zay elnas, like people do…Yia Yia told her not to eat too much because pollo faya pollo scata-‐the more you eat the more you shit, and goddamn it, if she didn’t stop eating out of the cursed pot it would rain on her wedding day… (38) Although these would be foreign terms to most Western readers, Jarrar usually defines them in text to avoid any confusion. However, as the novel progresses, there is often less blatant defining of terms. This leaves the reader to use context clues to figure out the meaning; this is purposeful. By leaving terms undefined, it forces the reader out of their comfort zones and helps them better empathize with Nidali, who is constantly having to translate as she is moved from country to country. It also “gives the overall impression of an informal register, of a rejection of literary standards, and thereby of realism or piquancy; in short, it heightens the orality of a text” (Gardner-‐Chloros and Weston 186). This codeswitching can also be seen in the cultural references that Nidali uses and the formality of her English. When she is speaking with her new friends in the United States, Nidali is constantly trying to navigate the foreign cultural landscape. For example, when her friends comment on her English: I don’t know what we babbled about later, but every few minutes they would correct my English. “This one talks like she’s on public radio,” they said, which at first I thought meant I talked a lot, because in Egypt when you wanted to make fun of someone who talked a lot you said, “she’s a radio!” but here they meant that I spoke like a white girl on NPR, all boring and with nary a crazy emotion…In

Egyptian my language was full of songs and lilts and catchy turns of phrase. I wished, then and for many months later, that I could translate the way I was, my old way of being, speaking, and gesturing, to English: to translate myself. (225) Although Nidali is fluent in English, it’s clear that she struggles to express herself the way she wants to. Codeswitching often occurs in multilingual speakers because often there are no direct translations for certain phrases or references that speak to a specific cultural experience (Gardner-‐Chloros and Weston 185-‐6). However, as the novel progresses, there are more and more examples of Nidali incorporating American vernacular into her speech and writing, seen most succinctly in Combozishan #3: I Come from Crazy Stubborn, Mad Lovin’ Hoes, where she effortlessly uses American slang and profanity while describing her genealogy (261).

Jarrar also shifts perspectives in different chapters of the novel, using first, second, and

third person to denote varying degrees of distance between the narrator and characters. In Chapter 14, Jarrar puts the reader directly in Nidali’s position with the chapter title: “You Are a Fourteen-‐Year-‐Old Arab Chick Who Just Moved to Texas” and continues with a chapter written in second person (232). Again, the choice to shift perspectives keeps the reader in an uncertain state, much like Nidali. A pattern emerges where the more comfortable Nidali gets with her surroundings, she likelier she is to use first person, like at the beginning of the novel. However, when her family first moves to the United States, she switches back to second person perspective. Because of this, reader is actively made to empathize with a multicultural experience that may not reflect their own. This is particularly interesting when considering the novel as a genre through the lens of Arabic literature. As Samah Salih states:

“The novel informs and acquaints various groups of a nation with one another: the city-‐dweller with the villager, the serving man with the shopkeeper, the Kurd with the Baluch . . . the Orthodox with the Sufi . . . and in so doing removes and eradicates many thousand differences and biased antagonisms which are born out of ignorance and lack of knowledge and information” (114). This is just the goal of Jarrar’s novel, to acquaint seemingly disparate cultures through literature.

Another technique that Jarrar uses is eye-‐dialect-‐“the use of non-‐standard spelling for

speech to draw attention to foreign or dialectal pronunciation” (Albakry and Siler). Although it is clearly stated where Nidali and her family are geographically, Jarrar uses eye-‐dialect as a more creative way of showing the reader the language that is being spoken at any given time. In the beginning of the novel, Nidali’s parents appear to be speaking Standard English, but it is implied that they are in fact speaking Arabic and that their dialogue is being translated. When they come to the United States, they sometimes will switch letters like B and P, or other small changes of that sort. Take the following passage of Nidali’s father explaining why she must write him an essay about why she should have her curfew extended: “You will thank me for this one day, ya Nad-‐dooli,” he said, as I huffed off to my room. “You will write the greatest dissertation of all human times. People will make bilgrimage to see your manuscript, like they do for the guttenburger or whatever it’s called….that bible. You will be world-‐renown scholar!" (239)

It is clear to the reader now that Nidali’s father is speaking accented English, which has multiple effects. While it denotes what language is being spoken, it also adds to theme of otherness that is expressed in the action of the plot. Obviously the story deals with displacement and feeling alienated or otherwise like a misfit and having language that does not conform to the standard is another layer of separation for the characters.

As the title of the novel would suggest, maps and the concept of home are central

symbols and themes, respectively. Early in the novel, Nidali’s describes a scene with her father teaching her about Palestinian history: He told me to go get a blue book from the bookshelf; PALESTINE IS MY COUNTRY in big white letters on its side. I thought that was funny because the Israeli flag is blue and white. Baba flipped to a page with the real map of Palestine on it and made me draw it over and over again….Baba checked my last map, the map of home, he called it, and let me go, saying I drew the Galilee perfectly, like the water violin that it is. (68) Because she is the protagonist, the reader gets the most insight into Nidali’s struggle to find her ‘home’ as she is of multiple cultural backgrounds, but her father is also seen struggling with this concept after being displaced from his birth country. His struggle continues after the family learns that they will not be allowed to return to Kuwait. I sat at the dining table and drew a map of Palestine from memory. Baba walked by, coffee cup in hand, and said, “You still remember that?” I nodded and looked at the map nervously, hesitant about whether I’d drawn it right. I pointed at the

Western border and asked, “Is that right?” “Who knows,” he said waving his hand dismissively….”What do you mean, Baba, when you say ‘who knows’?” “I mean…there is no telling. There’s no telling where home starts and where it ends.” The notion of home for Nidali’s father had been a fixed location in space, making the transition very difficult, but later on in the passage, Nidali describes a sense of freedom she feels after she can erased parts of, and then the whole, map. Home is not a place, but rather a sense of belonging that is carried within the individual. Jarrar cleverly uses maps, both literally as the characters are moving from country to country, but also in the sense of this being a borderlands novel that transcends physical boundaries.

Although it may be hard to define craft in the literary sense, it is obvious when it is

present. In the case of A Map of Home, Randa Jarrar skillfully uses a myriad of literary devices and techniques in order to create a unique reading experience. The novel is simultaneously rooted to its heritage and dynamic in its ability to oscillate between nuances of a multicultural reality.

Works Cited Albakry, Mohammed, and Johnathan Siler. "Into the Arab-‐American Borderlan: Bilingual Creativity in Randa Jarrar's Map of Home." Arab Studies Quarterly 34.2 (2012): 109-‐21. Web. Gardner-‐Chloros, P., and D. Weston. "Code-‐switching and Multilingualism in Literature." Language and Literature 24.3 (2015): 182-‐93. Web. Hassan, Waïl. "Postcolonial Theory And Modern Arabic Literature: Horizons Of Application." Journal of Arabic Literature 33.1 (2002): 45-‐64. Web. Naaman, Mara. "Disciplinary Divergences: Problematizing the Field of Arabic Literature." Comparative Literature Studies 47.4 (2010): 446-‐71. Web. Selim, Samah. "The Narrative Craft: Realism and Fiction in the Arabic Canon." Edebiyat 14.1-‐2 (2003): 109-‐28. Web. Zimbler, J., B. Etherington, and R. Bower. "Crafts of World Literature: Field, Material and Translation." The Journal of Commonwealth Literature 49.3 (2014): 273-‐78. Web.

Contest #6. The Woman’s Wednesday Club Fiction Contest SPONSOR: THE WOMAN’S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judge: Mr. Jeramey Kraatz, author of The Cloak Society Winner: Hayley Zablotsky for “Let’s Talk About the Weather”

When Sybil first adopted the cat from the shelter, she had let her entire family of lawyers down by neglecting to ask about the return policy. The girl with the nose ring at the shelter had assured Sybil that the aged cat with only one incisor would be a fantastic companion, but she was wrong -‐‑-‐‑ as were most people who had nose rings. The cat had disappeared last week, but Sybil wasn’t too concerned, because she didn’t really like it anyways. The apartment door was open when Sybil returned at four in the morning. She had been working on a case, and time had gotten away from her. She was sure she’d locked the front door when she left the previous morning for work. She was too tired and fed up to be afraid. When she grew angry, she grew stupid, so she stormed into the apartment. She dropped her things and kicked off her heels. “Alright, game’s up. I’m calling the cops.” She pulled out her phone and calmly dialed 9-‐‑1-‐‑1. “I knew moving to Chicago was a bad idea,” she muttered while it rang FOUR FREAKING TIMES before a bored-‐‑sounding woman answered. After answering a few questions for 9-‐‑1-‐‑1, she hung up while the woman started to give her instructions about safely leaving the premises. “Don’t tell me to leave the premises,” Sybil grouched, her feet slapping angrily against the cherry wood floors of the kitchen. “This is my goddamn house.” She dragged down a wineglass and

splashed some dry red wine into it. She left the bottle on the counter uncorked and stomped toward the living room. “Do you hear me? This is my house.” Was anyone even listening? The intruder could have been long gone by now. Sybil paused before the mantle and regarded an expensive glazed urn. “This is gross, though,” she said contemplatively. “You could take this.” There was a yowl and Sybil whipped around. It was the cat. “Oh. Hi. Fine time for you to show up.” She used to think the cat didn’t care about her well-‐‑being in the slightest. But now the cat was agitated, pacing, growling. She stared a moment. “What. Little varmint.” It was trying to tell her something. Wasn’t that special. And for the first time ever, Sybil understood. “Oh. He’s in the bathroom, is he?” She stalked to the door. “Hello. The cops are coming. You’re being a coward locking yourself in the bathroom.” “Your cat is mean.” Sybil didn’t even jump. He had a low voice, a little husky with some kind of accent, and it suddenly and inappropriately occurred to Sybil that she’d like her boyfriend, Oliver, to talk like that in the dark. “Hm. I guess.” She shrugged and leaned against the doorframe, watching the cat. “Are you afraid to come out?” She swirled her wine. “Because he’s waiting for you.” She smiled to herself, amused with her own pathetic attempt at intimidation. “I know.” “So are we just going to stand here and wait for the cops to show up?” “Unless you call them back and say never mind.” “Ha, ha.” She swirled her wine. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to rob you, but I changed my mind.” “No, the cat changed your mind.” “Touché.” She leaned her back against the door. Why wasn’t she afraid of him tearing the door open behind her and slitting her throat? She eyed the cat and gave a silent, slightly dazed thumbs-‐‑up. “Well,” he said after a moment. There was a recognizable tone in his voice, distant and conversational. He was going for it… he was going for the small talk… it was coming… “Don’t you dare say a word about the weather,” Sybil snapped just before he could. “I swear to God, if you say one word about the weather, I will kick down this door and come in there and strangle you with my bare hands,” she growled. “Someone’s had a bad day,” he said through the door after a slight pause. Oh. He was more perceptive than Oliver as well. “No shit, Sherlock,” she muttered. “Tell me about it. Or else I’m going to sit here on the edge of the bathtub and wonder what you’re thinking.” “I’m not talking to you. And get off my bathtub.” “Well, if you don’t want to be social, I guess I’ll just entertain myself. What’s in this drawer?” “Don’t you go through my drawers.” She heard the unmistakable scrape of the top left drawer sliding open.

“Pink razors… clear hairbands… watermelon lip balm… ech. Do you actually use this? It’s smells God-‐‑awful. Hm… well, at least it says it wasn’t tested on animals.” “I don’t buy anything without that label,” she said indignantly. Damn it. He’d goaded her into dialogue. “And I’m not discussing anything else with you.” “I don’t get the sense that you’re really into animals, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re just a harmless old cat lady.” “I’m not old.” Sybil, stop it. Just stop responding. “I know you’re not. I’m teasing you. You’re young. And you’re beautiful.” Okay, just one more response. Then she would shut up and punish him with silence. “How do you know I’m beautiful?” she asked. She shook out her hair. Oliver never told her that anymore. To come to think of it, Oliver never told her that. “I can hear it in your voice.” “No, you can’t. That’s not possible.” Okay, but was it really weird to hear it in his voice? “Yes, it is.” She was quiet a moment. She heard the drawer scrape shut, and it made her shiver. “Also,” she finally said, “I hate cats.” “Noted.” She took a slow sip of wine and waited. She knew he was going to start talking again. “Okay, really, what’s the problem?” he finally asked. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe that there’s a criminal in my bathroom. You’ve probably even spit on my toothbrush.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not an animal.” “That’s up for debate.” “I meant before you even got home. You’ve had a hell of a day…er… night.” “Don’t try to interrogate me. I’m an attorney. It’s not going to work.” “Whatever,” he said. “But I’m a no-‐‑risk chance for you to unload. The police’ll show up and arrest me, and you’ll never see me again. But whatever.” He had a point. This could be like therapy, but free. Telling someone something without an immediate change in subject to all the rain we’ve been having would be… really nice. And she knew the man on the other side of the door would not be making weather comments. “Actually,” she said, staring into her wine. Her voice was suddenly soft. “Actually, pretty soon, I… won’t see anyone ever again.” “How’s that?” he said. “I have this… thing. Er… I’m…” The cat stared at her. “What… do you have?” She swallowed hard. “Um… this condition. I’m… kind of… going blind.” I’m so sorry to hear that. Whew, it’s chilly out here, isn’t it? Oh, that’s… terrible. Goodness, this weather! You should… get that checked out. Do you think it will ice tonight? Can you believe the wind, today? Wow, look at those clouds. I wish it would just stop raining. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Sybil asked after a moment of quiet.

She felt him on the other side of the door, actually felt him. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was soft, and it ended there. There wasn’t a weather comment, there wasn’t an oh my grandma had a similar experience but she’s dead now story. There was just one little thing. One little I’m sorry. And somehow, it was enough. “I told everyone at the office today. I told my family last night.” The cat kept staring at her. “I swear, no one will even look at me anymore. Everyone’s on eggshells. And even Gerry…” Gerry and Sybil went to court all the time to fight each other. They were the two most argumentative lawyers in the state. She hated Gerry’s guts. Gerry was her best friend. “Gerry… Gerry started to say see you later because we have a meeting tomorrow… but then he froze up all panicked because of the word see… and then I ended up… cheering him up with a coffee. And it’s just…” She took a big sip of wine and squeezed her eyes shut against the burn in her throat. She opened them again slowly, worried that the world would be dark. But it was okay. She could still see. “I just feel…” “Like it’s not even about you anymore.” She looked up sharply. “Yes.” “Okay,” he said. He didn’t say I understand the way she thought he would. Because he must have known that he didn’t understand. He could empathize -‐‑-‐‑ and she appreciated that because lots of people couldn’t face her new reality -‐‑-‐‑ but he didn’t pretend to know what she was going through. And that meant even more. And most importantly -‐‑-‐‑ “Bet Gerry talked about how cold it was today,” he said. And there was something cautious but knowing in his voice. “Wind was a bitch.”

She nodded, the crown of her head still pressed against the door. Then she realized he couldn’t see her, and she let out a small laugh. Her eyes burned with tears. “All of them talked about the cold, the wind, maybe ice. Every time.” No matter what went on in the world. No matter if there was a fucking alien invasion, people would turn to the weather for help. People were simply unable to function in social situations without that benign, watery, unifying topic. “Do you think it will be dark?” she finally whispered. “What.” He was right there, leaning against the other side of the door. “I mean… is being blind like being in a pitch black room? Or is it… white? Is it the absence of color? Or all colors at once?” There was something in her voice she hadn’t allowed once yet since the diagnosis, and it was fear. “I don’t know,” he said. “Will it even matter… if my eyes are open or closed?” “Let’s find out.” “What…?” “Close your eyes.” “Now?” “Yes.” She took a final sip of wine and set the glass beside her. Then she closed her eyes. “Alright. What now.” “Can you still hear me?” he asked, as if that answered everything. “Yes.” “That’s good.”

“Yeah, that’s good,” she whispered. “What did he say?” “Who?” she asked. “Whoever owns the aftershave in here.” “Oh… him.” Oliver. Her boyfriend. The whole idea of him seemed vague, hazy. Why was she going out with him again? All that really came to mind was his perfect golden body and handsome, chiseled face. Would that even matter when…? “Yeah, him. How did he react when you told him?” “He left the country.” “Seriously?” “It was a business trip… but yes. He’s coming back tomorrow. He says we’ll talk.” “What is there to talk about?” Whether he’d still love her when she couldn’t see him, couldn’t drive herself, couldn’t even read a book? “I don’t know,” she said instead. “Have you seen the Pyramids?” he asked suddenly. His voice was lower to the ground as if he was sitting now with his back pressed against hers on the other side of the door. “No.” “The Northern Lights?” “No.” “The Jelly Belly factory?” “No.” “Those hills where Maria spins around in The Sound of Music?”

“No.” “That’s what he should be doing. Taking you to see those.” “He’s… busy.” Sybil was ready to jump to Oliver’s defense, but then she realized she didn’t want to anymore. Her eyes opened. She stretched her legs out and lined up her ten toes. They were painted robin’s egg blue. It wasn’t professional, but it didn’t matter because she never showed her toes at work. And the blue made her happy. What would she do without robin’s egg blue? A single tear slid down her face. “Hey, stay with me.” His voice was soft on the other side of the door. How did he know what she was thinking? How did he know she was getting lost in herself? “I’m here,” she said shakily. After a moment, he said, “How long do you have.” “I don’t know.” She kept staring at her feet as she itched the arch of one with the blue toes of the other. “Could be a month. Could be years. The doctors are all too scared to even give me an estimate. Worried I’ll sue if they’re wrong.” The next few minutes were quiet. Sybil could hear his breathing through the door and leaned into him through the plaster and wood. Then there were sirens. The police. Sybil had completely forgotten about them. They were distant still. Traffic was always bad in emergencies. “You need to see this,” he finally said through the door. She heard him standing up and moving around. The doorknob clicked, which meant he’d unlocked it. Then he stilled. “Can you trust me a sec?” Sybil slowly stood up. What the hell? “Okay.”

“Close your eyes.” She did. “Okay.” “Keep them closed.” She listened to the bathroom door open softly. “Don’t look yet.” Sybil heard the cat hiss and couldn’t help a small smile. “Still doesn’t like me,” he muttered. Then his hands landed on her shoulders, and he steered her into the bathroom. The tile was stinging cold against her bare feet. The room smelled faintly of hairspray and watermelon lip balm. And also him. “Give me your foot.” He lifted her foot onto something flat and cold -‐‑-‐‑ the closed toilet lid? -‐‑-‐‑ and said, “Okay, step up.” She obeyed and felt his hands under her elbows helping her up. She was standing on the toilet. She must have been insane. He stepped up behind her, and since there wasn’t much room on the toilet lid, her back pressed along his body. Her feet were icy cold but he was warm. He was just warm. She didn’t know his name. Or what he looked like. But those things didn’t matter very much. “Open,” he finally said. There was a tiny window high above the toilet. Sybil had never taken the time to look out of it. She had never understood why it was even there. Why would an architect do that? But now it made total sense. The tiny window was there for this one moment. This was its moment. The sunrise was peeking over the city, framed perfectly in the tiny window. It was a symphony of light and color, oranges and yellows. It was the smell of cinnamon toast and coffee first thing in the morning. It was the sound of school busses with squeaky brakes and backpack zippers. It was smeary newspapers,

soggy from morning dewdrops. It was foggy exhales, hot breath meeting frosty air. It was the moon’s view of the world waking up. In that moment, Sybil realized that she’d never actually witnessed the sunrise. Never intentionally. Never completely. Never like this. She let out a little gasp of a sound and felt his hands steady her, slide over the goose bumps on her arms, and stay there. “Some view, huh?” he murmured. And they stood there on the cold toilet lid together. Peering out a tiny window, sharing the architect’s secret for just a moment. Below, the police car lights flashed into view. But Sybil didn’t see them, because she was too busy seeing everything else.

Contest #7. The Bill Camfield Memorial Contest for Humorous Fiction, Screenplays, and Essays SPONSOR: ENDOWMENT ESTABLISHED BY PAUL & STEPHANIE CAMFIELD IN MEMORY OF MR. CAMFIELD’S FATHER Judges: Mr. Will Camfield & Tyler Camfield Winner, 1st Place: Kaylee Bowers for “Fluoride” Bae arrived at the Greyhound station, but not for an hour and a half. Her lengthy dressing process was undoubtedly what kept her. The advantages of being a wedding planner never cease to amaze me; only the most fortunate of grown women can sleep without consequence until noon. By then sweat was visible through my clothes, and I was disgusted. Sweat stains are only acceptable on marathoners. Bae, at least, was equally damp when she rolled up because, as always, her windows were down. She said fresh air whipping through her convertible pink Beetle made her a safer driver, but all it really did was render her airconditioning useless. Ignoring the outline my ass left behind, I dragged my suitcase to her car and hovered near the door, meeting her eyes through the window. We held eye contact for a full ten seconds. Her tank top, skirt, and earrings were all the same pale shade of blue, and while I admire the color, I prefer it in smaller quantities. Bae may be wonderful, but she doesn’t share my fashion sense. Against my better judgment, I pictured what would look better with the skirt. I saw a patterned white blouse before I gasped and stumbled against the door. “Shit!” I muttered, yanking my arms from the superheated metal. “Margie?” Bae said, raising an eyebrow. “You okay?” The pain distracted me from designing. “I’m great,” I said, “but I’m not getting in

that car until you close the windows.” “Stop being so dramatic,” Bae said, rolling her eyes. She came around the Beetle to give me a sweaty hug. Since I’d run away, she’d earned the right to break my Don’t Touch Margie rule. “I want to stay with you,” I said. “We’ll tell Dad I’m fine, but I don’t want to see Janice.” Even though I knew it was unfair, my problematic relationship with Janice was most likely the karma-inducing one. Biting her lower lip, Bae said, “I don’t know, Margie. Two days ago, Janice wouldn’t even get out of bed.” She patted my arm. “I thought I was going to lose my sister and my niece in one week.” Leave it to Janice to steal my spotlight even when I was missing. I shook Bae’s hand off, trying to convey that my dislike of her touch wasn’t personal. “Look, I’ll show her I’m fine, but I’m not staying in that house.” “We’ll decide when we get back.” She wouldn’t say another word until I slid my dull black suitcase into the trunk. Sitting in the passenger seat wasn’t much better than sitting in direct sunlight. When I left, I’d have marks on my tank top where my back pressed against it. At least the tank top wasn’t one I designed—no, I couldn’t think about that. The phobia was worse. I’d bought two outfits from Walmart the first day I left because I couldn’t stand the ones I’d created. That was when I knew I was in a bad place: no self-respecting clothing designer would ever wear clothes from Walmart. Sighing, Bae rolled the windows up, U-turned at the next light, and headed south. We lived half an hour from the Greyhound depot, and with the advent of Bae’s air-

conditioning, I relaxed and wanted a nap. Unfortunately, Bae had other goals. “Is your tattoo really of Joffrey?” She didn’t take her eyes off the road, but I wondered if she knew what was beneath my shirt. Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “If I said yes, what would you say?” “I’d be flattered,” she said, grinning. “The tattoo part was a bit unnecessary, but Joffrey’s getting the recognition he deserves.” “Hm,” I said. “And if I said no?” “Margaret, what is it?” “Aunt Bae…” “Margie, you know I’m not a patient woman.” “It’s—it’s a bra.” I’d accurately predicted her response: silence and then a stammered, “What?” “It’s a bra,” I said, taking a breath. Even the idea was too close to designing for comfort. “That I desi—you know.” “On your boobs?” I tried not to be offended at the disgust in her voice. “No, on my kneecaps,” I snapped. “Of course it’s on my boobs.” “Maybe your father is right,” Bae said. “Darling, don’t hate me, but I think you need help.” I’d heard those words before. When I was eleven, I tried to kill myself by eating too much fluoride toothpaste. I landed in the hospital for my efforts then went to a counselor until Janice said enough. She didn’t believe in depression. Her solutions to life were selfhelp and the occasional emotional binge-eat.

My two months of counseling taught me one thing: I needed a healthy outlet. Thankfully, designing had been at my fingertips. When Bae pulled into her driveway, my parents were standing outside our modern adobe house. “You called them?” I said. “Janice is my sister, and you like Jerry,” Bae said, unapologetic. “I wasn’t about to let them believe you weren’t coming back.” My parents were running toward us, which was flattering, especially from Janice. It was the hottest time of day; even healthy people sweat. “Marg, we were worried sick!” Janice cried, her eyes shining with tears. “I’m sorry,” I said, surprised by my sincerity. “I panicked. Did Aunt Bae explain?” “A little,” Dad said, hugging me again. “What happened?” I hesitated. “You can tell us anything, Marg,” Janice said, tears spilling unnecessarily down her flabby cheeks. “Of course, we don’t have to like what you’re saying, but that’s not the point.” “Janice,” Dad said quietly. Janice frowned, put her arm around me, and guided me toward our house. “I don’t like your tone,” she said, not looking at him. “She’s an adult now, as she keeps reminding us. She’ll live knowing we might not like what she has to say.” “Thanks for the support, Mom.” “I am not the villain here!” I decided to be mature and ignore her as she led me into our living room, where two

tan couches faced each other on either side of our TV. “Dad, I’m sorry,” I said, extricating myself to sit on the couch farthest from the entryway. “Nothing happened, which is why I panicked. There’s no explanation for this, and designing…designing is my life.” “There’s no need to exaggerate,” Janice said, sitting across from me. Dad and Bae gave her pointed looks from where they stood at the end of the couches, and she said, “So she’s afraid of failure? All right. She’ll move on once she gains some perspective.” “Janice,” I said, furious with her nonchalance, “I can’t say the damn word without my stomach turning! I am not hiding from failure.” “Prove it.” My mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” “You’ve always tried to avoid hard work. Why would this be any different?” “Maybe we—” Dad said. “Jerry, I am not doing anything to help her until I am convinced this isn’t…. How can I say this? This could be stress or her imagination.” He shook his head. “Margie, you don’t have to—” “I’ll do it,” I said, conquering my fear by imagining the smirk I’d flash Janice when I proved myself. I led them to my room and threw the door open with my eyes closed, ignoring Janice’s muttered complaint. The self-inflicted blindness helped but not completely. I knew my room, from the clothes I’d designed in my closet to my mannequin and the sketchbooks on my desk. I’m told after hard workouts, athletes sometimes notice their pulse in strange

places, and my body responded like that when I opened my eyes. My pulse was everywhere, and its sound drowned out everything else. Staggering, I felt my white rug beneath my flip-flops and sucked in a heaving breath. The rushing in my head dwindled to a river instead of a flood, and I could hear my family again. Bae walked around me so she could see my face. “You’re pale.” “I know,” I gasped. “Are you satisfied, Janice?” Dad said, almost snapping. “She might be faking,” Janice said. Dad gave her another look and she said, “I’m just being rational. We need to make sure.” “Janice, you’ve seen her act before,” Bae said. “She’s not pretending.” I focused on that memory to distract myself from my designing tools. I was a high school freshman and believed I had potential. As soon as they brought me a copy of Hamlet, I understood how wrong I was. It was like reading another language. They cast me as Ophelia, and I didn’t understand a word. If my drama teacher could have fired me, she would have. I realized Janice was standing a few inches away, and then it was too late. She thrust one of my sketchbooks into my hands. I screamed and fell to my hands and knees. As one final test, Janice nudged the sketchbook toward me with her foot. When it made contact with my skin, I couldn’t take it anymore. The reawakened flood in my head turned into a hurricane, and I vomited the cheap cheeseburger I had for lunch onto my carpet. When I finished retching, I dragged myself from the ground and ran.

Dad chased me to the kitchen, probably afraid I’d disappear again if I was left alone. I stopped by the island and bent to press my forehead against its smooth, cold surface, wishing I had taken my best opportunity ever to throw up on Janice’s feet. “Do you believe me now?” I said. “I always did.” He poured me a glass of water, and I was sitting on the countertop drinking it before Janice and Bae appeared. I met Janice’s eyes, glaring, and said, “You’re cleaning that, Janice.” “I’m sorry, Marg.” I looked away, too exhausted to correct her. “Anyone have any ideas?” I read the answer in their eyes. “Damn it,” I said, almost calmly. Again, they said nothing, so I made a quick decision. Quick, not rash—I needed a change. “Listen, I’m moving out,” I said. “Today.” “Don’t be ridiculous, Margaret,” Janice said. “You need help.” I looked at her, saw the genuine concern in her flabby face, and felt some of my anger ebb. Whatever my phobia was, my mother was not to blame. She was trying to maintain our relationship. Could I blame her for sucking at it? “I need something different. I won’t be far, but I need space. Aunt Bae said she has room.” Janice stared. “Margaret—” “She’s right,” Dad said. “Margie, I’ll help you pack what you need if you’ll promise to ask us for help as soon as you’re willing to receive it.”

“Deal,” I said, smiling weakly. No one had anything else to say. Janice and Bae went to prepare a room in Bae’s house for me. Dad helped me pack, which mostly consisted of my telling him what I needed from the room I couldn’t risk entering. My only other job was to gather my toiletries. One thing hadn’t changed: I still used fluoride toothpaste. I had a few extra bottles in my bathroom, and I packed every one of them, just in case. We gathered in the living room one last time. Janice started crying, and I stared at the ground. “You call me every few days, you understand?” Janice said. “I can’t lose contact with my only daughter, Marg.” I looked at her. Janice meant well, she always had, and I loved her in my own way. But I couldn’t live by Janice’s rules anymore. Screw karma. Screw curses and fairytales. Screw fucking phobias. A tidy lesson about familial love was not about to solve my many problems with her. That would come with time, if it came at all. I hoped it would. “Marg, I need to hear the words from you,” Janice said. I shook my head and met her eyes. “I love you, Mom,” I said and walked toward the front door. I didn’t look back.

Girls, imagine yourselves sitting all dolled up waiting for the cute guy you

met a couple days back to pick you up for a date. Boys, you all can take notes on this too. And when I say date I don’t mean to go eat the oh so ever appealing BLUU food and then continue to go sit in an uncomfortably small dorm room and “chat,” while his roommate plays Call of Duty. I’m talking about a real date. Where the guy picks you up in his car, drives you to a nice restaurant to eat, maybe a movie or stroll in a park, and then finally to a small little bakery or gelato place where you end up talking for hours in peace. Like hello it’s a no brainer. Most girls would obviously appreciate the gesture of putting some effort into the dating process. Personally at TCU I have found that a lot of guys (not all) seem to think that the dating process is not one of importance. This got me thinking. In today’s society, our generation has

forgotten what it means to “date.” Technology, culture, and time have changed the meaning of a date, and people have become custom to a different way of romantic endeavors.

When you think of going on a date you get ideas from movies like the

timeless story of Noah and Allie in The Notebook, or Danny and Sandy in Grease. In today’s society it seems there is a loss of that old fashion romance, according to The New Times article, “The End of Courtship,” by Alex Williams “Dating culture has evolved to a cycle of text messages, each one requiring the code-‐‑breaking skills of a cold war spy to interpret.” People no longer communicate in person, and really take the time to get to know them face-‐‑to-‐‑face. Our phones and other sources of technology are glued to our bodies, and even if you happen to be out on a “real” date with someone you often can catch them glancing at their phone or texting.

The texting world is also one of great confusion, as I have even found myself

misinterpreting and misunderstanding things due to the lack of personality and character we are unable to include over the phone. As the New York Times article continued on the author mentions that, “Instead of dinner-‐‑and-‐‑a-‐‑movie, which seems as obsolete as a rotary phone, they rendezvous over phone texts, Facebook posts, instant messages and other “non-‐‑dates” that are leaving a generation confused about how to land a boyfriend or girlfriend.” Technology has forced not only our generation, but also generations below us to forget the meaning of dating and courtship. Instead of sharing an intimate smile and a wink of the eye with a person you wish to grab the attention of, we find ourselves hiding behind Facebook

pages and twitter accounts. Instead of confronting a person you find interesting people now a day’s direct message you on twitter or Facebook, or ask a friend of a friend for your number. Nothing is personal anymore, and traditional romance and thoughtful gestures have been hidden behind the mask of technology. In the CNN article, “The Lost Art of Offline Dating,” by Ashley Strickland the author discusses the fact that people have become so confident behind the computer screen, and as a result when meeting said person in real life the characteristics you found appealing may not really be there. She also goes on to mention that people have become too comfortable with just picking the right “emoticon” to display their emotion instead of actually showing what they feel though body language and facial displays. Strickland goes on to introduces a body language expert Blake Eastman who mentions, “We feel that we don't need to look people in the eyes to communicate anymore -‐‑-‐‑ a keystroke has replaced that look," Eastman said. "But at the end of the day, we're designed for human contact, not a computer screen." Human’s need physical contact, it is built in our minds and souls. We need physical contact and body language to affirm affections and to identify our significant others wants and needs.

Texting and using the phone is often the main source of distraction when on

or asking your significant other on a date. But what about other types of social media that have redefined the courting process? One example of this would be an app called “Tinder.” In this app you are basically judging people on appearance and on a brief profile that the person could easily manipulate and lie about. You simply see a picture and either like it, or scroll past. In Laura Stampler’s article “The New Dating Game,” the author states, “Smartphone apps have turned courtship into an addictive pastime. Can love really be a swipe away?” People are misusing the dating scene, and to be quite frank using love as way to pass time to entertain themselves. The reality is, is that love is not a game and our generation seems to take the whole process with a grain of salt.

So why are people in this day and age so okay with using technology as a way

to court and date one another? Well dating coach and author Adam LoDolce suggests the following in Strickland’s article, “Meet people organically. But the paralyzing fear of rejection often can make us long for the distance technology offers.” Through the Internet and phone the sting of rejection is much lighter than if you were to be rejected in a real time situation. Yet, meeting someone in the grocery store, or at the office are much more natural and can lead to a better and more truthful first impression. You have to be willing to take the risk and sting of rejection to find the person who is for you.

Yes, technology has clearly changed what it means to date, but also the

culture our generation lives in has defined dating as something more to do for “fun” than for actually trying to find someone to spend your life with. According to

Dolores T. Puterbaugh, an American editor of USA Today, “Dating has segued form screening to hooking up.” She goes on to say that the problem is that fun has become the primary cause for choosing a potential mate, rather than people “screening” or looking to get to know and meet someone to spend your life with. It is interesting to see in the college scene how true this theory really is. At the end of Dolores T. Puterbaugh’s article, “Dating Has Become Outdated,” she cynically writes, “Figuring out how to assess the kind of person who will be the right match for a long, happy, ordinary life sounds offensive-‐‑ and boring.” I have to disagree with this. Dating is an adventure and although it may have lots of ruff patches, the chance of finding true happiness with a person is worth the effort.

Now, as college student here at TCU sometimes budget can often be an issue

when trying to put the romance back into the dating scene. Taking your significant other out on a nice date can be a challenge, but boys, don’t worry there are plenty of things you can do for your girl that require little to no money at all. Fort Worth is filled with fun places to go and visit, such as parks, the downtown area, and not to mention TCU’s campus is a beautiful place for a nice walk and talk. If you want to spend a little something there is always a trip to the Fort Worth zoo, the Movie Tavern, or a nice restaurant in the downtown area which not to mention is only ten minutes from campus. It is important to put in the effort, because when it gets down to it we are all growing up and looking for someone to happily spend the rest of our lives with. And if that isn’t motivation I don’t know what is. No one wants to be alone, and whether you are a girl or guy I think it’s pretty worth it. So girls put your

best dress on and guys put on your thinking caps, let’s put the romance back into dating.

Citations

Puterbaugh, Dolores T. "Dating Has Become Outdated." USA Today Magazine 139.2786 (2010): 57. Academic Search Complete. Web. 8 Apr. 2014. SANDERS, J. VICTORIA. "Rewriting The Rules." Bitch Magazine: Feminist Response To Pop Culture 53 (2011): 55-‐‑56. Academic Search Complete. Web. 8 Apr. 2014. Stampler, Laura. "The New Dating Game." Time 183.6 (2014): 40. Academic Search Complete. Web. 8 Apr. 2014. Strickland, Ashley. “The Lost Art of Dating.” Living. CNN. Web. 12. Feb. 2013 Williams, Alex. “End of Courtship?” Fashion and Style. The New York Times. Web. 11. Feb. 2013

Contest #8. The Margaret-Rose Marek Memorial Multimedia Writing Contest SPONSORS: DR. STEVE SHERWOOD, AND THE NEW MEDIA WRITING STUDIO Judge: Dr. Jason Helms Winner: Kacey Williamson for “History of Honors”

Please access the video with the following YouTube link: https://youtu.be/YU3SGDvarYY It is listed on YouTube as “TCU – NCHC Time Capsule Video.”

Contest #9. The Subversive Thought Contest SPONSORS: DR. DAVID COLÓN, DR. NATHANAEL O’REILLY, & MR. ALEX LEMON Judge: Dr. Nathanael O’Reilly, author of Distance Winner, 1st Place: Lea Shackelford for “Hard Things Like Unicorns”

My mom is crying, she was just picking at her socks and the teacher was

reading that book, the one with the mouse and the cookie that she usually likes so much. But she was turned away from the teacher and all the other kids and was just picking at her socks. It’s like she didn’t even know where she was. Her first day of Kindergarten and already there’s a problem.

And my dad is silent, trying not to be mad that something is wrong with his

daughter. My dad is silent, he just doesn’t know what to do.

And my mom keeps crying. We’ve known for a long time that something was

different but we didn’t think it could be this bad, be like this. We just didn’t want to face the facts. It’s all those little things, she didn’t speak a word until she was three, and she never looks people in the eyes. We just couldn’t face the facts. She keeps repeating that, face the facts, we couldn’t face the facts.

And the doctor, the one in Houston we had driven an hour to see, sighs and

looks like he wants to care but has so much else to deal with that he just needs my parents to leave. He pats my mom on the back and says you know, Autism isn’t uncommon. Everything will be fine.

And my mom cries some more and says what do we do now, how can it really

be fine? This isn’t something you cure. The doctor gives her a list of other doctors to set up therapies for Maggie.

And I sit in the cold waiting room with blue beige walls with my grandmother

and Maggie and I am working on multiplication and my grandmother is reading a book and Maggie is picking at her socks, the kind with the lace frills around the ankles, and I don’t know anything is wrong. I don’t know Maggie has autism. I won’t for a long time. ***

The joke book I got for my eleventh birthday the day before is tucked under

my arm. My mom is in the kitchen making dinner and Maggie is sitting on our white tile countertops watching her. I notice there is spaghetti sauce splattered on the blue and white patterned tile of the wall behind the stove. I ask my mom Knock knock. Who’s there? Banana. Banana who? Knock knock. Who’s there? Banana. Banana who? Knock knock. Who’s there? Orange. Orange who? Orange you glad I didn’t say banana again? Yes Anna, very funny mom smiles even though this is the third time today she’s heard it. Maggie twists her white blond hair around her fingers and laughs like she’s never heard anything funnier—she laughs that way every time.

I have a joke too she tells us. Knock knock. Who’s there? Light bulb. Light bulb

who? Light bulb house! Wait, wait, one more! Knock knock. Who’s there? Light bulb. Light bulb who? Light bulb unicorn! Maggie laughs until she cries. My mom laughs too, but I know she isn’t really laughing. She looks sad and nervous, her green eyes are filled with tears.

But her jokes make me so mad my fists ball up so I start yelling that’s stupid,

it doesn’t make any sense! You can’t tell jokes right, you never do anything right! There’s something wrong with you! Maggie cries hard enough that the red blotch she

sometimes gets is on her forehead and my mom grabs me and tells me to go to my room. That she will deal with me later. I stomp off. Why was I in trouble again when Maggie was the one who didn’t even understand how to tell a joke? I hate that my parents never make her do things better. I hate that they downplay everything I do so that Maggie won’t be jealous.

I hate her. ***

I do not enjoy haircuts. I desperately want long hair, and I resent my mom

every time she takes me for a trim. We compromise and she doesn’t make me get my hair blown dry after they wash it—I think it looks longer wet.

Today Maggie is with us. She sits in the chair shaped like a hippo while I lay

back in the bed connected to the sink that looks like an alligator. The hairdresser asks me what I want and my mom laughs and says She doesn’t want anything. She’d never cut her hair if I didn’t make her. I scowl. The hairdresser laughs and tells me I should cut my hair like my mom’s, then we really would be identical.

Maggie smiles and tells my mom It’s really cool that you and Anna both have

brown hair and green eyes and your faces look the same. My mom nods, and Maggie keeps talking. She looks at the hairdresser and says Cut my hair like mom’s, that way all three of us can look the same!

I snicker, and mom flashes the warning look at me. It’s the one where her lips

purse tightly together and her brows furrow creating the uneven three wrinkles between her eyebrows, but I ignore it.

You can’t be identical to us, you look nothing like us! You have blonde curly

hair, ours is brown and strait! We’re skinny, you’re not! We have green eyes you have blue! We… Mom cuts me off that’s enough, apologize, but it’s too late. Maggie looks at my mom and her nose crinkles and she whimpers Why don’t I get to look like you? If I don’t look like you, do I still get to be your daughter? ***

I get to be an orphan. And so does Maggie. We spend all our time singing

“Tomorrow” and pretending to clean the Chrysler Building and we can’t wait to wear old clothes and draw uneven freckles on our faces with our mom’s black eyeliner.

The only not fun part about being an orphan is that you have to practice

being an orphan. And also, you have to dance in front of people. One day during dance practice Maggie messes up. She kicks left when we’re supposed to kick right, she trips herself while the rest of us play air guitar. She can’t figure out the dance, she tries and tries, but she can’t. All the orphans form a kick line, Maggie accidentally gets kicked.

So she pulls her hair and screams and soft piles of yellow hair cover the

dance floor, and the director doesn’t know what to do so I grab her arm and drag her in the hallway and tell her it’s okay but she has to stop screaming.

I’m shaking, I don’t know what to do, so I just hold her hands so she can’t

yank her hair, and we cry together. ***

Eighth grade sucks but my mom doesn’t notice. She doesn’t know that all my

friends have stopped being my friends and won’t let me sit with them at lunch. She doesn’t know that my best friend stole my date to the eighth grade dance and my life is going to end. Maggie has one doctor every day and two on Thursdays my mom says. Just come home do your homework and then make yourself dinner. Dad is out of town on a job, we’ll be home by eight.

I wish my mom wasn’t always gone. I wanted her to be with me, pick me.

We’re standing in the kitchen by the backdoor, Maggie is already outside and my mom is digging in her big black purse trying to find her keys. I tell her I need her to stay. But I need help with my homework I beg. I want her to sit with me the way she does with Maggie every night. No you don’t. She rolls her eyes. You always say that, but you always do well. I don’t have time to sit and watch you do homework. I don’t understand why you want me to. Maggie and I are running late. We have to go. They are gone, and I’m standing in my kitchen alone.

Fine.

I’ll make sure mom has to notice.

The next day I have a math test. I walk into the classroom and I know exactly

what I’m going to do. The teacher hands out the test, three pages of order of operations and factoring. I know every answer. I fail the test on purpose. So now she has to make time for me. She has to help me with homework just like she helps Maggie.

When mom gets home from work she calls me downstairs. Says she got an

email from my math teacher. I try not to smile.

Anna, what happened in math class today? I don’t know I tell her in my best

innocent voice. It was too hard. Can you help me now?

I don’t have time mom says. She’s slapping sandwiches together to take for

their dinner. She’s moving so quickly that she forgets Maggie doesn’t like mustard.

Maggie has OT in thirty minutes. Go to tutoring before school tomorrow. You’re

smart, I know you’ll be fine.

That’s not the point I mumble.

What was that?

Nothing.

My mom calls Maggie downstairs, they’ve. I cry. I hate how unfair life is. The

next morning I go to tutoring. What happened the teacher says. I tell her the truth, that I failed so my mom would have to make time for me. She hugs me tells me she knows how hard things must be. That day after school I retake the test. I get an A. ***

It’s Thanksgiving break so I’m watching TV instead of doing the reading my

high school freshman English teacher assigned. The maid comes downstairs and she’s holding something in her hands. She’s holding all the buttons from the brand new lime green couch my mom got us for the playroom. And she starts to ask me why anyone would cut all the buttons off the couch and I’m confused, but then suddenly I’m not.

I’m thinking back to yesterday when I yelled at Maggie because she wasn’t

good at polishing silver, and my mom had said that polishing the silver was our responsibility for the Thanksgiving party. And I’m remembering Maggie yelling back

at me and pulling out her hair because she was so upset and couldn’t calm herself down. And I’m remembering my mom sending Maggie to her room and her telling me I had to finish polishing all the silver by myself. And I know that when Maggie went upstairs, she cut all the buttons off of the green couch because she was angry.

So I tell the maid I know what happened and to give me the buttons. And I

hold those buttons in my hand for the next three hours until they’re soggy with sweat, until my mom and Maggie are home, and as soon as they walk in the backdoor I’m telling my mom all about everything, right in front of Maggie.

See, she did this! She cut all the buttons off the couch, see here they are I have

them all! The maid found them and Maggie did it!

My mom is shocked, her eyes keep darting between the buttons in my hand

and Maggie, and Maggie is crying. Maggie, go upstairs, I’ll be up soon and we’ll talk about this. No! Maggie yells and then she’s gone. She stomps her way up the stairs, pausing after each step like a wedding march so that she can exert the maximum amount of effort in her stomps. Our stairs are covered in a fuzzy tan carpet, so her stomps sound like dulled thuds.

Anna I’ve had enough of this my mom tells me. She’s not yelling, she’s very

quiet. Somehow it is worse than yelling, I get those goose bumps that only come when I’m in really bad trouble. Do you not see that Maggie is different? Do you not understand how mean you are to her? And I’m defending myself, that she was wrong, she was bad, I was just telling.

Anna, Maggie can’t help it my mom sighs. Maggie has Autism. And now I’m

confused, I’ve never heard of that before. Is that a disease? Is Maggie sick? My mom

tells me that you know how Maggie has a hard time in public and she never seems like other kids? It’s because there’s something in her brain that makes her see the world differently. She’s not sick, just wired differently.

This word, autism, it’s scary. It’s scary and foreign so I go upstairs and spend

the next hour reading about it online.

And for the first time I kind of understand why Maggie’s different, why my

mom has to give her so much time. I understand that she doesn’t understand emotions, I understand that empathy is harder for her. And I’m really sad. I come downstairs to tell my mom I think I get it. She smiles but then gets serious, almost panicky.

You can’t ever tell her. She wouldn’t comprehend it, it would upset her. Do you

hear me my mom says. Don’t talk about it. My mom looks tired. I need to start dinner she says. ***

My parents are all about doing things that build character. So this year

Maggie and I get a Christmas present that we’re going to share. We hate this until we find out that the present is a Wii. And Santa brought us each a game. My game is the Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Game.

The day after Christmas is always play day—play with our new stuff day. So

we play my game. While my dad sets up the Wii Maggie and I glue two Crayola markers together, one on top of the other, and wrap the whole thing in brown construction paper. We dip the end in Elmer’s glue and then dip it again in gold

glitter. We take these and tape them to our Wii controllers so that while we play we can use wands.

We keep these for years, and we both know the rule. If you play Harry Potter

Wii, you play with your wand. There is no game without your wand. ***

It’s my day to pick up Maggie from Zoo Camp. She’s zoo crew, middle school

students who get to help take groups of younger kids around during their zoo camp days and teach them about different animals. She’s working with the pink flamingo second graders. She feels great, she’s in charge. They have to ask her permission to go to the bathroom.

I pull up to the front entrance; the giant arch that Welcomes Us To The

Houston Zoo is bright green like it just got a new coat of paint. People wait in lines that twist around the big waiting area, and other people walk out of the zoo holding stuffed animals and pictures and water. Everyone looks hot, like if they don’t get something to drink soon they might faint. I park by the curb and turn on my hazards. I wait. Five minutes after she’s supposed to come out I call. No answer. Maggie, when you get this, please come out front, I’m here.

Ten more minutes. I call again, no answer. Maggie, when you get this, please

come out front. I’ve been waiting for a while.

Ten more minutes. I’m panicking. I call—no answer. Maggie, where are you?

Get out here! Are you okay? What’s going on?

I call my mom and start to cry I don’t know where she is and she isn’t

answering her phone and I don’t know what to do, it’s been half an hour and she isn’t

here. My mom panics, but she tries to keep her voice calm. Her voice sounds wavy, caught half way between a sob and a shout. Go get someone from the help desk. Explain, they can help you look.

I get out of my car, leave it in a no parking zone. I run to the desk marked

“Information” and knock on the glass, pound on the glass until someone comes. And I’m telling them everything but I’m not really telling, I’m screaming and I’m crying. The man I’m talking to grabs my shoulder and he tells me take a breath. Slow down. So I do. I say Sister zoo crew missing Autism. And he understands. So he gets his walkie-‐‑talkie, the official one, and barks into it Sister zoo crew missing Autistic blond hair short blue eyes Autistic. And then we’re running. I go in the exit, and then I run through the zoo screaming Maggie, Maggie, but none of the medium height girls with blonde curly hair are her. I leave the man behind, he’s too slow.

I see other people wearing yellow staff shirts walking briskly and I hear them

ask people if they’ve seen a girl with blond hair by herself. They say No, sorry.

I stop by the seal statue, the one with the shiny grey seal with peeling paint

that sits on a drum and balances a red ball on it’s nose, the one that’s been there since I was born, the one I have pictures with when I was four and Maggie was one. I cry, and my dad calls me, and he says he’s leaving work, he’ll be there soon. But he works far away, far away. What can he do from far away?

My heart hurts, it hurts so badly, like every time I breathe a little piece chips

off, and I feel like a failure, I let her down.

But then I know suddenly, I know where she is. I can’t believe I hadn’t

thought to check there first. It’s her favorite place. So I run, run as fast as I’ve ever

run and then I’m in the reptile house. I’m surrounded by the creepy crawlies, the ones I hate but she loves. And there she is, staring at the albino crocodile. He looks the same as every other time we’ve ever seen him, long, scaly, milky white, a long scar on his face. And she’s standing there calmly with one hand pressed up against the glass. She starts to move away towards the King Cobra, but I grab her, and I’m shaking her, and I’m screaming at her, and I can’t catch my breath. I yell Why didn’t you answer your phone? Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? Don’t you remember I was picking you up right after camp?

But she just looks at me. She’s sorry, she just doesn’t understand what she’s

sorry about. I’m ready to go home now. She’s calm, she’s just standing and staring at me.

Can’t we go home now? ***

The best part about high school sports is seeing my family in the stands. I’m

the captain of the color guard and today is my final performance of senior year. I’m nervous, I have a new flag toss my director put in the show. We’re in the warm up room and we’re all supposed to take a few minutes to throw our hardest toss. I take a minute to visualize the toss in my head: hold the very tip of the six-‐‑foot flagpole behind my back, make sure the bright yellow sail stays untangled. Flip the flag up, catch the pole upside down in a toss grip. Throw the pole above my head, spin twice, trust the pole to end where it’s supposed to, catch and pose.

I let out a big breath. I try the toss. I drop it. I try again, it hits me in the arm. I

try again, I drop it.

My director walks over, he says Do it again, and then tells me You don’t trust

yourself. I laugh, the whole thing is a blind toss—the flip behind my back, the release, the catch, it’s all blind. How am I supposed to trust?

He tells me I just have to, it’s the finale toss, I’m the only one who still has a

flag, I’m the centerpiece of the show. If I drop, I let everyone down.

We leave warm up and walk out into the gym. The JV guard pulls out our

performance floor—a giant tarp that has a brilliant sunrise painted on it. We set up our equipment around the floor and take our starting positions. I face the back and everyone else faces front. I look all my teammates in the eyes—we’re all beautiful. We wear grey sparkly costumes with grey velvet legs and long sleeve shiny silver arms. Our makeup is perfect, airbrushed, and our hair is pulled back into tight buns.

The announcer presents us and asks is the guard ready? I breathe, turn

around, salute the judges and take my place, alerting the judges that we’re ready. The music starts.

As the four minutes of our show pass in that dreamy way where I don’t really

remember the moments happening, the classical music of our show gets happier and happier, more and more dramatic, meant to mirror the rising of the sun. My muscle memory takes over, I go through the show and I barely remember what I’ve done. I dance, I toss flags, sabers and rifles. I do things that most people think are crazy. We hear cheering as we complete tricks. We are one of those guards that other guards are jealous of. We win.

We get to the end of the show; I’m dancing across the floor with my flag and I

end in the middle of all the other girls. They fan out in a circle around me and finish

dancing as I begin the toss. My heart is pounding—if I drop, my last toss ever will be a failure. I flip the tip of the pole into my hand, I get the grip right, I get the pole wrenched up above my head, I launch it into the air. I can tell that it’s spinning at the perfect angle: 45 degrees 10 feet in the air, exactly where it’s supposed to. I close my eyes as I spin, my hands pulled in to my chest. I stop spinning, put out my hands, and the flag is there.

I don’t think, I just smile. And I look up and see Maggie in the stands cheering

madly. And I know that even if I had dropped, I would have looked up into the stands and she would still have been cheering madly.

After our performance my family meets me outside the gym. It’s our

routine—they come to every competition, no matter how far away. My parents hug me and tell me how proud they are, that I was beautiful, that I was perfect. Maggie gives me an awkward hug and says nothing.

Two little girls run up to me. They tell me they just watched me and they

want to be exactly like me. I smile and their mom takes a picture of us together. I let them hold my flag, and they can’t stop squeaking.

I look over at Maggie and she is smiling. She tells the girl’s mom She’s my big

sister. ***

I’m driving home from college to see my family in Houston; I’m a freshman

and it’s the first time I’m coming home. I walk in the front door and my mom cries and she hugs me and my dad almost cries. I hear him sniffling, and he hugs me. I’m looking for Maggie but I don’t see her.

Maggie, Anna’s here my mom yells. No response. I go upstairs into her room

and she’s sitting on the floor by her bed reading. I move towards her to hug her but she seems distant, like she doesn’t know how to feel that I’m there. She looks at me and says Hi and then asks me to shut the door on my way out. I leave—I pause outside her room and I hear her giggle at what she’s reading, and I feel my heart again, I feel more little pieces chip off.

And then I’m downstairs and I’m crying She didn’t miss me at all, she doesn’t

love me, and my mom is hugging me. I’m asking why Maggie doesn’t care about me and why she didn’t miss me and my mom says She did, she was really sad, but you know she can’t express it and she doesn’t know how to act. And I say Yes I do know, but it still hurts and I hate that we aren’t really friends like other people are with their siblings and it’s not fair.

And then my mom is crying and hugging me and says I hate it that I don’t get

to have a normal daughter, it’s not fair that I don’t get a normal daughter. She realizes instantly what she said, so we stand in a sad silence, a shameful silence. Eventually she whispers that she’s so proud of me and that Maggie is still a good sister.

From upstairs we hear Maggie laugh again, this time a big, loud laugh, the

kind of laugh where she has forgotten that she’s not alone in the house and we can hear her. And we both agree that we wouldn’t want anyone else but Maggie in our family. ***

I’m studying at church for my sophomore finals and my phone rings. Maggie?

I hear screaming—I did it I did it I got my driver’s license! And then I’m screaming I’m so proud and I love you and she says thanks and hangs up. And I don’t care that she didn’t say I love you back because I know she does. I know she called me first, and I’m so proud of her and I love her. I start to cry, and my friend Rebekah asks if I’m okay, so I tell everyone around me that somehow she did it. Maggie got her driver’s license after two and a half years of trying. And then my mom calls me and she says I heard you on the phone and I just wanted to tell you how much I love you and how much you mean to Maggie. And then I’m crying because Maggie can drive, and all the people who were studying are looking at me like I’m crazy. It’s a big deal I say to everyone who has stopped studying to stare at me, we weren’t sure she would be able to do it. But she did it and I’m so proud of her. And then someone hands me a tissue, one of those really soft ones that smells like Aloe Vera, and we all go back to studying. ***

It’s lunch time and my mom, Maggie and I are at a Café Express the first day

I’m home for Christmas break my junior year of college. I’m talking about my favorite class, one where I studied empathy and I remember this thing we did. We had this picture of a big E made up of small S’s and a big S made up of small E’s. We learned that normal functioning people would see the big letter, but an autistic person would see the small details, the small letters that made up the letter. I pull out my phone and show Maggie the picture because I want to see if it works and it does. She sees the small letters and I show my mom and she sees the big letter and

Maggie asks what I see and I say The big letter. So Maggie wonders why she sees it differently. She thinks about it for a minute while I try to figure out what to say, and then she laughs and says Oh, it’s because I have Autism.

And I’m staring at my mom, who had no reaction to what Maggie just said,

and I’m trying to figure out when she told Maggie and then I realize that Maggie doesn’t care. She’s now talking about our dog Daisy and has completely moved on. And so for the first time my mom and I don’t seem to care that Maggie has Autism, it’s just a part of our lives.

We finish our lunch. And our lives continue.

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Contest #10. The Tony Burgess Environmental Writing Award SPONSORS: MS. CYNTHIA SHEARER, DR. STEVE SHERWOOD, & DR. DAN WILLIAMS Judges: Dr. Dan Williams, author of The Wright Stuff, Ms. Cynthia Shearer, author of Celestial Jukebox, and Dr. Steve Sherwood, author of No Asylum Winner: Jessie Gooch for “I am Jessie, I Speak for the Trees” Close your eyes. Yes, you, go ahead close your eyes, do exactly as I say, and imagine this. You are bare foot, walking in a field of grass the color of those little green candy apple sweeties, and as you look up the light blue sky is endlessly stretching as far as your eyes can see. There is not one puff of white cloud to disrupt the beauty of blue sea above. You hear the bustle of soft winds amongst the tiny grass blades, and feel its caress along your skin. The chirps of little colored birds echo around you; and the flowers blossom and dance in the wind. The trees rustle too, and the leaves tango alongside the flowers and birds. Now… inhale. Really inhale. It’s sweet isn’t it? The air I mean. It’s beautiful really, the way it finds its way to your lungs and breathes life into you. A simple action it is, to breathe, but a most important one. Now, inhale again…but this time you taste nothing. Your lungs thirst for the sweetness of air, but they cannot be quenched. You struggle, why? The rustling trees, and the green grass, and the dancing birds and flowers no longer surround you. It’s all gone. You are lifeless. Open your eyes. The trees did not take away your air, you did. Humans. We killed ourselves by destroying the things that gave us life. And for what? Money? Wealth? Technological advancement? Who knows this may not be the case now, but it is the path we have paved for ourselves thus far. The question is will we follow this path? Or will we forge a new trail that will perhaps better the future of our environment and species? I guess I went all “doom and gloom” on you huh? Well let’s fix that. On a brighter note, society has brought the

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environmental issues to light through lots of avenues including the film industry. The movie The Lorax has done a beautiful job presenting the issue and creates a story that reaches out to the children of our generation in most need of an education on the environmental issue. Calling to action our generation specifically, we are to learn from past mistakes and courageously make choices to better the future of the planet. The Lorax’s attempt to warn society of the dangers of industrial pollution and environmental destruction is an effective means of promoting a “greener” and cleaner world.

The Lorax is a Doctor Seuss inspired movie that tells the story of a world that has no

tree and of a society that pays for air. An old secluded man, known to the people of ThneedVile as the “Once-‐‑ler,” destroyed all the trees in the land in order to gain wealth and acceptance in society. Although, the protector of the forest The Lorax warned him not to abuse the forest and become consumed by wealth and money, he ends up doing just that. Much later on when the Once-‐‑ler is old and gray, he relays his story to a young hopeful boy, Ted, who has traveled outside the city limits in order to find the last “real” Truffala tree seed to give to his true love. In doing so, he learns that the value of money and wealth are not worth more than the air we breathe and the trees that provide that air. Throughout the movie the issues of environmental destruction and industrial pollution are constantly reinforced through the story plot and the characters’ actions and choices. The movie as a whole is not only a warning but also an educational tool to the young children of our society. They are the future of our generation, and they will be the ones to forge new paths and lead our race into an environmentally safe world. I will now focus on two scenes specifically that reinforce the movie’s argument as a whole.

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Through out the film there is a major emphasis on how the industrial advancements of our society are destroying forests, forcing animals from their homes, and as a result, stealing the air from our lungs. In one scene in The Lorax the Once-‐‑ler is producing his new product, the Thneed, which is a fluffy pick contraption that can be used for many different things like a hat, carpet, sweater, or umbrella. As his company grows, so does the amount of pollution he is expelling into the air. The Lorax, speaker for the trees, comes down to visit the Once-‐‑ler saying, I’m sorry to yell, but my dander is up! Let me say a few words about gluppity-‐‑glupp. Your machinery chugs on, day and night without stop, making gluppity-‐‑glupp, and also schloppity-‐‑schlopp! And what do you do with this leftover goo? I'll show you, you dirty old Once-‐‑ler man, you! ("Quotes"). The pollution is causing a stir in the Truffala tree forest forcing the animals out and filling the air with smog and gases. The Lorax goes on to say, “You're glumping the pond where the humming fish hummed! No more can they hum, for their gills are all gummed. So I'm sending them off! Oh, their future is dreary”("Quotes"). The pollution not only effects the skies but also the rivers and lakes. Children can easily associate the events taking place within this scene with the “real” world, and with the pollution real companies are emitting into our air.

The second scene I’d like to discuss specifically emphasizes the fact that the people

of ThneedVile live in a city where the air cost money and is no longer a free luxury. The mayor of ThneedVile Mr. O’Hare is the founder of O’Hare Air, the company that sells purified air to the city. He does not want anyone to find out that trees use to provide free air for all. In this scene, O’Hare’s employees sell him a pitch on bottled air and how it is a

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proven fact that people buy things that are put in plastic bottles. They then go on to say that the O’Hare Air Company will have to build another factory to make the bottles, and as a result more pollution will be emitted into the air; therefore, people will have even more of a reason to buy the bottled air. Mr. O’Hare then goes on to manically laugh and says, “The more smog in the sky, the more people will buy!”(“Selling Air -‐‑ Movie Clip from The Lorax."). This scene targets the negative industrial impacts on the planet; as well as, society’s greedy cravings for money and wealth regardless of the consequences.

The Lorax does a great job through out the movie to reinforce the argument and

educate young children on environmental awareness and the dangers of greediness by using a creative story plot, enchanting characters, exquisite animation, and special effects. What’s not love? While the movie is pretty wonderful all around, there are some fallacies I’d like to delve into and address. First I’d like to discuss the slippery slope fallacy and its effect on the movie. In The Lorax, the story plot assumes that if you cut down some trees for your business, then next you will end up cutting down all the tree’s that exist on the planet (not to mention in a such a short amount of time). Finally, before you know it air will no longer be a free luxury but something you have to pay for. The film fails to mention that it is nearly impossible to cut down every tree on the planet let alone in such a short amount of time. Also entrepreneurs would not fail to realize that when cutting down trees more must be planted in their place in order to keep their potential business thriving. However, by using this fallacy it appeals to children because the over exaggeration puts a heavier emphasis on the situation and gives the children an easier understanding of effects pollution.

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Secondly, I’d like to address the fallacy known as hasty generalization and its effect

on the movie and its audience. Through the story plot, the movie reveals that one human, the Once-‐‑ler, is responsible for the extinction of the Truffala tree. Therefore assuming, all humans are bad and will only wreck havoc on the planet. This if far from the truth, there are plenty of people that want to help save the planet from industrial pollution, and wish to aid in creating a greener and cleaner world. However, in order to educate young children it is important to “over exaggerate” the situations in the film to prove a point and help young children understand.

After happily watching the movie, for the millionth time is seems, I can say I once

again thoroughly enjoyed the magic and hopefulness this story brings. Dr. Seuss really has a way with taking really life situations and problems, and turning them into lighthearted whimsical tales people of all ages can enjoy. I do especially agree with the film’s attempt to warn and educate society of the dangers of industrial pollution and environmental destruction. According to 51 Facts About Pollution, “Pollution is one of the biggest global killers, affecting over 100 million people.” This is something huge, and something I believe most people are not aware of. Also 11 Facts About Pollution also mentions that, “Each year 1.2 trillion gallons of untreated sewage, storm water, and industrial waste are dumped into US water.” Pollution affects every aspect of our lives, and industrial waste is a huge part of why our oceans and lands are being destroyed. We must be the ones to educate our children as we learn from our mistakes in order to create a better future for humanity. It starts with us; we can make a difference just like Ted did, by listening and learning from tales such as The Lorax. The Once-‐‑ler gave a very important piece of advice to a small hopeful boy, ““Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get

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better. It's not”("Dr. Seuss' The Lorax."). And for the record I think there is a little “Ted” in all of us. Work Cited "Dr. Seuss' The Lorax." Rotten Tomatoes. Flixster Inc., 4 Feb. 2014. Web. 8 Apr. 2015. The Lorax. Dir. Chris Renaud and Kyle Balda. Perf. Zac Efron, Taylor Swift, Danny DeVito. Warner Home Video, 2012. DVD. "Selling Air -‐‑ Movie Clip from The Lorax." WingClips. WingClips LLC, 2004. Web. 09 Apr. 2015. "Quotes." IMDb. IMDb.com, n.d. Web. 08 Apr. 2015. "11 Facts About Pollution." 11 Facts About Pollution. Do Something, n.d. Web. 08 Apr. 2015. "51 Facts About Pollution -‐‑ Conserve Energy Future." ConserveEnergyFuture. CFF, 08 Sept. 2013. Web. 09 Apr. 2015.

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MEMES for Paper 3

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Contest #11. The Kurt Lee Hornbeck Poetry Award SPONSOR: THE KURT LEE HORNBECK MEMORIAL ENDOWMENT Judge: Dr. Lachlan Brown, author of Limited Cities Winner: Garrett Gomez for â&#x20AC;&#x153;Scotchâ&#x20AC;?

My head is clogged. Stitched with rats and turtle doves; the World Series is on TV. The sound drones and sits behind my door, crushing the lights. Prescriptions ought to do the trick, but I know Drain-O is best: to unclog. Or was it Comet? The best team won, I assume; everyone is screaming. My friends are discussing baseball, speaking in tongues. I survey the skies, crack the window, but the wind isn't enough to cool my body. Lightning fractures, broken toothpicks across the sky scorching my cheek bones. Smells like white noise, it feels like ash. My eyebrow twitches, so I scratch it; Shadows still my wall, peeking at me while a pair of claws muscle my forehead. It's starting to soothe me now, my skin, it slips while bar napkins soak up the Seagrams from my veins.

Contest #12. The Siddie Joe Johnson Poetry Contest SPONSOR: DR. DONALD W. JACKSON, PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF POLITICAL SCIENCE, TCU Judge: Anonymous Winner: Sue-jin Green for “Quasi-Stellar” I read once that we are made Of star stuff Our lungs and each molecule of air Swirling in the vacuum Of our concaving ribcages Were manufactured in the long-‐dead Hearts of galaxies. Maybe that explains The quasar radiance of your skin, Constellations of freckles traversing The bridge of your nose Dousing fires between your fingertips. Whispering moon dust under My skin, singing I love you’s through particles of dust Stepping in time to their celestial waltz. I read once that we are made of star stuff. That the calcium of my bones Longs for the silent space beyond our heavens An ineffable tug in my core that forces My eyes skywards. Meteorites might beat in my chest, but You’ve held universes in your palms And that’s home enough for me.

Contest #13. The Bob Frye Satire Contest SPONSOR: AN ANONYMOUS DONOR Judge: Rima Abunasser, author of Bahamut Winner: Hayley Zablotsky for “The Puberty Contract”

Welcome: A note from the author Welcome, girls. Welcome to puberty. This will be the worst time of your life, probably, unless you get a double mastectomy and a divorce later on, in which case this will be the second-worst. Here is the complete handbook of things you’ll need to know as you move through these years. We’ll need you to sign and date the document when you reach the end. By doing so, you are a) agreeing to the policies and terms set forth within this document, b) releasing the writers and publishers from any and all liability of unfavorable results as a direct or indirect result of following or not following the following guidelines, and 3) hereby renouncing individuality, creativity, and possibly personal integrity. Do you have what it takes to be a Pubescent Girl? We hope you do, and we hope this guide will prove helpful on your journey. All the best, H

1. Physical Appearances This is basically the reason you are here. So it only makes sense that we start with this section.

1.1.0 Tops If you ate a lot of hormonal beef as a child, developed breasts early, and wear real bras, continue to section 1.1.1. If you are still wearing training bras, continue to section 1.1.2. If you still do not require a bra, there is the door. You may walk through it.

1.1.1 Bras Bras with lace and dots are preferable. Solid pinks, purples, and blues are fine. Silk bows are not. Let the straps show so that your peers will know about the hormonal beef and early development. You can unbutton that top button of your shirt once you get to school. Keep all buttons buttoned around your mother or she will tell you that she didn’t raise you to act like that.

1.1.2 Training bras Eat more hormonal beef. In the meanwhile, try stuffing things down there.

1.2.0 Bottoms Just as important as tops. You don’t want to let down a boy when he gives you the once-over.

1.2.1 Jeans If there aren’t holes in your jeans, there is the door. You may walk through it. If your mother says she has no interest in buying you damaged clothes, see section 3.1.

1.2.2 Skirts If you have to wear one for your uniform, wear it as short as possible without getting detention. If you do have to get detention, do it on the day Tyler mouths off in class because he is ohmigod cute and will also be getting a detention. Otherwise, proceed with caution. Avoid denim skirts. Denim skirts are for homeschoolers. You don’t want people to think you’re a homeschooler, do you? No. No, you do not. 2

Note: “Skorts” are never appropriate.

1.3.0 Makeup Your faces are unacceptable. Your natural skin is heinous, and we don’t want to see it. If you have acne, you need to cover it with makeup. If you don’t have acne, you will have it soon when you start wearing makeup, and then you will need to cover it with more makeup.

1.3.1 Mascara If you don’t wear mascara, there is the door. You may walk through it.

1.3.2 Eye Shadow The more the better. Eyes may be windows to the soul, but every window needs curtains.

1.3.3 Lip Gloss Reapply between every class period. Fight with your elbows if you need to in the bathroom for mirror space. No one is going to think you’re attractive if you don’t wear lip gloss. And for God’s sake, no more of that watermelon ChapStick you used to get in your Christmas stocking.

1.4.0 Hair If flat-ironed, plucked, and shorn in the proper places, it can be your crowning glory. Don’t let it be your downfall.

1.4.1 Legs Mow the lawn, girls. And don’t leave the shower looking like a crime scene.

1.4.2 Short Hair You might think that getting a bob is a good idea because of famous people like Jennifer Lawrence (ohmigod, she’s so down-to-earth). It’s not a good idea for you. You know why? You’re not famous enough, pretty enough, or confident enough to pull it off. Don’t be offended. Or do. We don’t really care. Either way, you’ll thank us.

1.4.3 Long Hair Layers are crucial. In fact, layers are one of the preliminary factors that separates little children from what you want to be. If you don’t have layers, you might as well go back to eating goldfish crackers out of a colorful plastic bowl and sitting in a car seat. Also, get your grandparents -- or some other relatives who buy you stuff even though you’re a little jerk them -- to buy you a curling wand. Wands are so much better than curling irons.

1.4.4 Facial We’re going to whisper in this section because even acknowledging stray hairs on your face is super disgusting. Get rid of them. Do whatever you have to do.

2. Social Positioning 2.1.0 School Middle school will be hell. The only thing you can do is try to set yourself up for a slightly-less miserable high school experience. Middle school could very well be a determining factor in who you sit with at lunch in the high school cafeteria. If you don’t play your cards right, you might end up sitting with the girls who have no layers in their hair and who reheat canned corn and tuna casserole in the cafeteria microwaves for lunch.

2.1.1 The Classroom Never sit in the front row. That’s where the goody two-shoes girls sit, and you definitely don’t want to be one of them. To all goody two-shoes girls: there is the door. You may walk through it. Chew gum. It can make you look slutty and disinterested if you do it right. Offer your gum to Tyler everyday even if this turns out to be a highly expensive habit. If you have to doodle in your notebook, never doodle hearts. REPEAT: never doodle hearts. They make you look desperate. And if the goody two-shoes girls doodled, this is what they would draw. You may draw all sorts of weather conditions, abstract shapes, patterns, and assorted fruits. You may also draw figure eights, because those are cool. Also, you have wrists and hands, so draw on them. It’s cool.

2.1.2 Passing Period 4

Walk in a pack at all times. Giggle and twitter and say ohmigod a lot, because that is cool. Trust us. When you pass a pack of boys, do not make eye-contact whatever you do. Get kind of quiet as you pass, and then as soon as you turn the corner, giggle and twitter and say ohmigod some more.

2.1.3 Intelligence The number of times you say “like” in a sentence is inversely proportional to your apparent intelligence. You should never appear too intelligent, so feel free to insert as many “likes” as you possibly can. Remember that the number of times you say “like” in a sentence is directly proportional to your apparent coolness.

2.2.0 School Dances Wear the shortest dress you possibly can. Never dress appropriately for the weather. If your legs are flecked with millions of bumps from the cold, deal with it. Huddle in packs on one side of the gym. It is Tyler’s job to come to you. If Tyler comes to you, see section 2.2.1. If Tyler does not come to you but MAKES EYE-CONTACT, see section 2.2.2. If Tyler is dancing with another girl, see section 2.2.3.

2.2.1 Dancing with Tyler Say yes. Walk awkwardly, trying not to step right out of your spiky heels, with him out into the middle of the shiny basketball court. Place your hands on the tops of his shoulders and wait for the heart-catching moment he fumbles for the right spot on your waist. If he’s an inch too high or a centimeter too low, you’re going to have to overact and tell the girls that he was getting, like, super handsy. Your arms should be fully extended. The space between the two of you should be large enough to fit a medium-sized child. Dressing the part -- looking like a little skank who is comfortable pressing up against boys -- is one thing. Actually making physical contact with a boy is an entirely different matter. It’s like saying the S word -- “sexy” -- out loud. It is going just a little too far.

2.2.2 Getting Tyler to Come to You Try these suggestions. 1. Position yourself on the outside of your flock of girls. Force the rest of them against the wall if you have to. You should be slightly out in the open but not in a firing squad manner. Look over at Tyler a few times. Play with your hair. If he 5

tries to make eye-contact again, look away if it’s too much for you. If you’re really that desperate, make eye-contact again. 2. Look at your phone in distraction. Text your mom if you have to just so you legitimately have someone to text. Look bored. Make Tyler want to save your night. 3. Get the pimply boy with noodles for arms and legs to dance with you. Or better, smile at one of Tyler’s friends. Start a fight over you. Pretend you’re worth it. (This takes a lot of self-confidence, and we all know that that is dangerous. So watch yourself.)

2.2.3 Tyler is Dancing with Another Girl Go to the bathroom with your flock and cry. He’s ruined your night, and there’s nothing anyone can do to save it.

2.3 The Thigh Gap Have one.

3. The Home Your family is stupid. They don’t understand you. Keep this in mind, because it is important.

3.1 Mother Your mother will be your biggest obstacle to happiness in these years. When your mother won’t cooperate, try these angles: 1) “But all the girls at school…” 2) “I’m not a child anymore.” 3) “If you loved me, you’d…” 4) “You don’t understand what it’s like!” 5) “It’s my life.” If these don’t work, make an indirect remark about her age. Say, “Things have changed a lot since you were my age” or gently probe, “don’t you remember what it’s like to be my age?” and then let the alternative hang unsaid, “… or was it too long ago…?”

She won’t like this. She’s safely within middle age now, and she doesn’t need you to remind her of this.

3.2 Father If he won’t cooperate, threaten him with mentions of the time of the month. This should shut him right down. No father wants to have that conversation.

3.3.0 Siblings If you have siblings and there’s nothing you can do about it, you might as well use them.

3.3.1 Older Sister If you have an older sister: “borrow” her clothes, makeup, magazines, and excuses for poor behavior. She’s done it all before.

3.3.2 Older Brother If you have an older brother: force him to introduce you to all of his hot friends. Note: if your older brother is involved in the science club or the marching band, you can forget it. His friends will not be cool, and you might as well go sit with the tuna casserole girls.

3.3.3 Younger Sister If you have a younger sister: make her befriend Tyler’s little sister. This will bring you and Tyler together.

3.3.4 Younger Brother If you have a younger brother: we are sorry.

3.4 Family Vacation Bring your cell phone and do NOT forget the charger. This is the only way you will survive. Look unpleasant in all the family photos. Try to look like a carefree little hottie in all of your selfies. For more on selfies, see section 4.3.

4. Social Media

4.1 Texting

Receiving a text from a boy is perhaps the most important thing that will happen to you in these years. Pay attention. 1. Don’t over-‐‑use exclamation points or all-‐‑caps. No one wants to be yelled at. 2. Make boys wait before you text them back. Take his response time, multiply it by two, and then subtract seven. That is how long you should wait before responding. 3. Don’t capitalize “i” -‐‑-‐‑ it’s pretentious and self-‐‑confident, and no boy wants that. (If you are too self-‐‑confident, there is the door. You may walk through it).

4.2 Facebook

If your mom is one of those weird parents who has a Facebook, block her. You don’t want her to see what you’re posting. You don’t want her to know that you liked Tyler’s shirtless swim photo. You don’t want her to know about the kissy faces you sent to him after he liked your profile photo. You don’t want her to know that you kind of look like a mini prostitute in your profile photo.

4.3 Selfies

Purse your lips really hard and try to look pouty and sexy. Yes, we said the S word actually out loud. Remain calm. If you look like a fish, you’ve failed, and there is the door. You may walk through it. If you look like a perfume model, college student, or even a Hooters waitress, you may stay and continue taking selfies.

4.4 Instagram

Your self worth depends upon your number of followers. That is all.

5. Free Time (without Social Media)

If everything works out, you won’t have much of this. But here are some general rules in the event that you find yourself without a phone, laptop, tablet, TV, or other digital device.

5.1 Literature A book is good reading material if it somehow fits the following guidelines:

1) Catty girls at Victorian boarding school 2) Diary format of never-been-kissed girl who gets kissed 3) Futuristic dystopian society (you don’t know what dystopian means or even that these books are social commentaries injected with hormones, but that’s fine) 4) Hot vampires 5) Faeries are fine, but fairies are not 6) Angst-y classics

5.2 Loitering You absolutely must have your mom drive you around town and drop you off at the mall to loiter. Buy Starbucks, flirt with the idea of going inside Victoria’s Secret just because you know your mother wouldn’t want you to, decide not to go in Victoria’s Secret because Tyler and his friends just walked by, say ohmigod and something snide about the girl who made your Cupcake Frappuccino which is just basically like a vanilla bean frap with two pumps of hazelnut syrup (ohmigod, don’t you know about the secret menu? It’s, like, so secret), and always remember to travel in packs and bounce off each other with your scrappy little cross-‐‑body purses.

5.3 Girl Games First of all, you never have “play dates.” If your mother or some other sad creature accidentally uses that offensive name, stop the habit right now. More appropriate descriptions of social interaction with friends are “hanging out” and “chilling.” During your hangouts, it is important that you play games like Truth Or Dare and Would You Rather. These games generate good conversations and critical thinking. Some appropriate Would You Rather suggestions include the following:

1) Would You Rather have hair ALL OVER or have no hair at all? 2) Would You Rather eat your family pet or kill your parents? 3) Would You Rather be rich and have a poor boyfriend or be poor and have a rich boyfriend? 4) Would You Rather sweat cheese or cry glue?

5.4 Deprecation Say mean things about yourself and others. It doesn’t matter if you want to say them or not. It doesn’t matter if you believe them. You must say them. If you do not know how to say mean things and refuse to learn, there is the door. You know what to do.

Contract

I acknowledge that I have thoroughly read and understand this document. I understand that by signing this document, I will be socially bound to uphold the standards of Pubescent Girls. I understand that failure to honor my signature could result in social expulsion, romantic stagnation, loneliness, and in some cases, nausea and vomiting. I know where the door is. And I’ll know what to do should I be directed toward it. Signature Date _________________________________________________ ______________________

1 Contest #14. The David Vanderwerken Short Story Contest SPONSOR: DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH FACULTY Judge: Anonymous Winner, 1st Place: Aubrey Fineout for “The Striped Door” The door was a different color again. Yesterday it’d been red, now it was wet blue with paint tears dripping beneath the peephole. I couldn’t knock. “Momma!” I shouted, kicking the doorframe. “I’m home.” The door didn’t move. I stood there a moment, sniffing the paint, knowing she wouldn’t come. I set down the paper sack of groceries I carried and wrapped my arms around the large, clay flowerpot that guarded our key. The pot was bigger than I was, but I dug my heels in and made it move, scraping across the concrete like a rusty cookie pan. I snatched the wormy key off the ground and wrestled it into the lock, wiggling it until it turned. I carefully pushed the door open and carried the sack of groceries inside. “Momma?” I called. It was dusky gray in the living room as though night had fallen inside before outside. I thrust the groceries onto the couch, my arms giving out. Even just bread, peanut butter, milk, and jelly got heavy if you carried it too long. “Momma?” I tried again. “Back here, baby.” It sounded like she was in the sewing room. I let my backpack slide off my shoulders and scampered down the narrow hall and through the back bedroom where Violet used to sleep. I paused as I reached the threshold to the sewing room. Momma was at her cutting table, scissors in one hand and yellow fabric in the other. The ceiling lights were off, but Momma had turned on her sewing machine and its warm bulb illuminated her face, making her the only glow in the dark. “I’m here, Momma. You working on something?” I asked hopefully. My mother moved to look at me and one side of her face turned blue in the shadows. “No.” She let out her breath like she’d been waiting for me to ask. “Not yet, baby,” she said softly, dropping the scissors onto the cutting table.

2 “Were you thinking of making something for me? I’d like a shirt like Jenny Ritchenstock,” I prodded. Momma looked down at the fabric and let it slide out of her hand. “Have you seen your daddy?” Her voice was papery and thin like katydid skin. “I thought if you and Violet talked to him, he’d come back and give us another chance.” “I bought peanut butter and jelly for dinner with my lunch money, Momma. I’ve been saving it.” I jumped down two steps into the sewing room and grabbed her hand. It was cold, like she hadn’t had blood pumping through her in a long time. “Let’s go eat. Freddy told me Violet’s coming soon, so we gotta go clean all those dishes in the kitchen. They’re starting to smell.” I pulled my mother into the living room and made her sit on the couch while I slathered peanut butter and strawberry preserves onto two pieces of bread. I’d gotten Wonder white because that was the kind I liked, even though Violet said grainy was better for your stomach. Momma didn’t say much, so I talked about how I got all the questions right on my history quiz and my plans for the house in our pecan tree. “You think your daddy might come help you?” Momma asked, leaning forward. I shrugged, knowing the answer was no. He was too busy at the newspaper for building houses in trees. “I’ll ask him,” I told her. Momma smiled weakly for the first time that whole week. “Thank you, baby.” The smile melted and she leaned back on the couch cushions. “My body feels old and my mind doesn’t want to move.” I gathered up the leftover sandwich crusts and put them on the coffee table. “I saw you painted the door again. What’s the blue for?” “I painted it red because I thought…” Momma frowned like she was searching for a lost sock. “I thought if Milton saw it, he might think different people lived here.” “What about the blue?”

3 “Oh, he likes blue––that’s his favorite. He always wanted to live by the sea.” Momma looked all wistful and dreamy eyed like she was remembering something that happened before I was born. I slipped out of the living room and darted through the kitchen until I reached the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. I squinted up at the pecan tree. Its leafy branches waved to me down below and I almost gave it a smile, but then I remembered my business. First thing I needed was wood. I skipped over to the storage shack that leaned heavily on our rotting fence. I rummaged through our junk heap, looking for anything pretty or useful. I found some cracked plastic plates, a sack of blue marbles that were mostly smooth, a rusty saw, and a broken hammer. Beneath a pile of wet, moldy quilt batting, I found some old wooden milk crates that Momma had probably saved, right next to her stash of canned green beans. I bundled everything up in a holey rug and dragged it to the foot of the pecan tree. My arms hurt a little and my nose felt raw like the sun had perched on it, but as I looked down at my pile of treasures, I filled my lungs with evening air and smiled. I was going to build me a summerhouse that was all mine. Maybe I’d build pyramids someday like the Egyptians and then archeologists would come dig me up to see how I did it. “Penn––what are you doing?” I turned at the sound of my sister’s voice. She stood in the doorway, but kept her white pumps safely inside the house. I knew she must’ve come straight from college because her hair was still rolled and her lips were still red. Violet was the only person I knew who dressed up for school. “I’m building stuff,” I replied vaguely. “Did Freddy say anything?” Violet’s boyfriend had come by earlier today to deliver the mail, nosing around like he always did. He’d looked pitiful and shaky like those skinny hunting dogs.

4 “He called me, yes. Penn, you’re dressing like a boy and having to buy groceries…” Violet stepped through the doorway and came toward me. “Mother isn’t all right.” I shrugged and stuck my hands in my overall pockets. “She’s sad, Violet. People do funny things when they’re sad. Remember when a hawk ate your rabbit and you buried its bones with your dollhouse so it’d have a place to live?” “That was different.” Violet sighed and put her hands on my shoulders. “Listen, you can’t keep on staying here. If the state finds out you’re living like this, they’ll take you away from us.” “What––you want me to come live at college with you?” “No, not that. I can’t take care of you.” “Can’t you move back here, then? You lived here your first year of college. You said the drive wasn’t that bad.” “Penn, listen. I had to leave.” Violet closed her eyes and clinched her teeth together. “When I lived here, I felt like I was the mother,” she said quietly, almost a whisper. She opened her eyes, but wouldn’t look at me. “I came home from class and there were messes everywhere and you were hungry so I had to cook and clean and make money for the water and the electricity and I just…can’t do that again, Penn. I’m sorry, but I can’t take care of you and Mother. I’ve got to do well and make something of myself.” Violet let go of my shoulders and stood up straight. “I already talked things over with Daddy and Mother and they agreed that you’d be better off living with Gramma.” “You talked to Daddy?” “It was a short conversation, Penn. Freddy’s going to take you tonight, so you’d better go pack.” Violet marched back through the doorway and disappeared into the kitchen without looking back.

5 Momma wanted me to leave? Who’d buy her peanut butter if I weren’t there to get it for her? And Gramma…I only remembered meeting her once at my uncle’s funeral when I was four. She was gray and wore a big black hat and Momma barely spoke to her. I bent down and picked up the bag of marbles. I didn’t love my house. It was dark and hot in summer and made me feel like I was wrapped up in smothering felt. But I did love Momma and she was all I got. I ran inside, the marbles clinking angrily in my pocket. “Momma!” I raced into the living room. She was still on the couch, exactly where I’d left her. “Momma…Violet says you want me to leave and go live with Gramma?” “Maybe just for the summer, baby. Just until your momma can get herself back.” She spoke slowly like we were under water. “One summer won’t be so bad?” Momma patted my hand with butterfly fingers and closed her eyes. “Let your momma sleep now, baby.”

I climbed into Freddy’s blue pickup, squishing Violet’s dress, and pulled the door shut. I watched the porch to see if Momma would come running, wanting me back. But the truck started to rumble and croak and then my house was behind us and she was gone.

By the time Freddy’s truck rolled to a stop, the moon was at the top of the sky and my eyelids were drooping. “This is it––1325 South Winchester? Or is it north?” Freddy leaned over the steering wheel, peering at the small white house on our right. There weren’t any lights on inside. “She’s not here,” I said. “Let’s go back home.” “No, Gramma said she’d be here to let us in.” Violet reached across me and opened the door. “Get out, Penn.” We both climbed out and Violet and clicked her heels up the drive, stepping carefully over the large cracks in the concrete. I slung my backpack over my shoulder

6 and followed. Freddy stayed in the truck. Violet knocked on the glass storm door and then folded her arms. I couldn’t see anything but black inside. Just then, a bright light blinked on and I jumped back. A hunched woman peered at us right behind the glass. She wore an apron tied snugly around her thick middle and her curly white hair floated above her head in a glowing orange halo. The woman’s face was dwarfed behind thick, heavy glasses that made her eyes look bigger than peace dollars. She unlatched the door and pushed it open. “Hi. Want an energy pill?” Violet and I glanced at each other. “I brought Eugenia to stay with you for the summer, Gramma.” “Eu-gen-i-a.” Gramma looked down at me. “I’ve been waiting for you. Nearly finished my quilt, it took you so long to get here.” Gramma dug something out of her apron pocket. “You two look like you need an energy pill.” We held out our hands and Gramma dropped a warm lump into our cupped palms. Mine was green and smelled like chocolate. “They’re M&Ms with peanuts inside.” Gramma grinned and I noticed there were peanut bits between her teeth. “I take my pills every night, just like Dr. Farthing tells me to.” “All right.” Violet gave me a quick hug and backed away. “I’ve got to get back to campus. I’ll check on you later.” She waved as she turned toward Freddy’s pickup. “Bye Penn.” Gramma pulled me inside. “I’ll show you your room. It used to be your mother’s.” She took me through the living room and down the hall on the left. We stopped at the first door and Gramma flipped on the lights. There was a small chest-of-drawers and a bed against the wall, covered with a Dutch doll quilt. Each figure on the quilt had a different calico print for their bonnets and hats. I set my backpack on the bed and then ran my fingers over a blue Dutch girl. “My momma used to make these,” I said. “She always embroidered on the bonnets.”

7 “Did she, now.” Gramma sounded amused. “I guess she learned from you?” “I guess.” Gramma shuffled out of the room. “I’ll let you get settled. I don’t fix meals, so find something to eat when you’re hungry. The kitchen is around the corner. Good night, Eugenia.” “They call me Penn,” I told her quickly. “Pennington’s my second name. Daddy’s mother is Eugenia. I’m Eugenia the second, but I like Penn.” Gramma nodded at me like she didn’t care what I preferred.

I woke up early the next morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. The clock over the dresser said six, but it didn’t look like it’d been wound in this century. I’d slept in my clothes from the day before so I pushed myself off the bed and slipped on my sneakers. I made my way down the hall and turned into the kitchen. The walls were yellow like baby ducks, and in the corner there was a narrow stove, a sink, and two tall cabinets. There was a wooden table, too, but only one chair. I opened the first cabinet and found a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly, so I made myself a sandwich using a greasy knife I found in the sink. I wandered through the house, looking in drawers and little boxes. Every room was painted a different color, like Gramma had tried to make her house a patchwork quilt on the inside. Only my room was white. It didn’t take me long to make it all the way through the house and back to the living room with the tangerine walls. Gramma was still in there, leaning back in a plump armchair, mouth open like a dead fish. I watched her from the hallway, wondering if she was just playing at being asleep. What if she really was dead? I tiptoed through the room until I was right in front of her. I couldn’t see her chest moving, but I could hear a faint whiffling sound coming from her nose. Oh thank God she wasn’t

8 dead. Violet would blame me if Gramma died on my first night. I let out a breath and slowly pushed the front door open. It groaned and squeaked as I made it move, but Gramma never opened her eyes. I skipped down the front steps, the wind rushing around my face, welcoming me outside. Blue jays cawed in the tree above me, peering down with their black beetle eyes. “Go away, you cannibals,” I told them harshly. Lots of people thought they were pretty, but I knew better. I’d seen a pair of them attack a cardinal’s nest and eat a baby bird right in front of me. Daddy told me that if something eats its own kind, then it’s a cannibal like the savages of Papua New Guinea. I rounded the tree, shouting at the birds until they flapped away like a bunch of bluebellied cowards. I was still standing there, looking up at the tree, when something hit me in the back of the skull. I pitched forward into the tree trunk and everything went black.

“Hey, you okay?” A hand patted my cheek hard, making my skin numb. I knocked the hand away and slowly sat up. A boy knelt in front of me, his freckled face narrow and flushed. His dark hair was pushed down under a baseball cap with an upturned bill, and he wore a dirty messenger bag across his chest. He leaned back on his feet and grinned. “Gee, I think you’re going to have a nice shiner––maybe even two. You sure banged into that tree hard.” “Did you hit me with a newspaper?” I finally asked. The boy nodded, still smiling like he hadn’t just knocked a girl out. “To be fair, I did try to warn you. I’ve got a pretty good arm, haven’t I?” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “I’m gonna be a big baseball player some day. I’m gonna be a pitcher for the Dodgers.” I glared at the boy until he stopped talking. He frowned as he looked at my face. “You should go put some frozen corn on your head. It’s turning green.” The boy pushed himself off

9 the ground and picked up his bicycle. “I’ll come by later after I finish my route and see if you’re still alive,” he called over his shoulder as he shoved off down the drive. I sat in the dirt at the foot of the tree, watching the boy pedal down the street, hurling papers at each house like they were baseballs. My head hurt and that boy was strange and I wanted to go home. I pulled myself up and stumbled back inside the house. Gramma jerked awake as I let the storm door slam behind me. “What happened to you, child?” “I got hit by a newspaper and then I fell into a tree,” I blubbered, tears beginning to brew. “My head is going to blow up,” I cried. “Violet said that if you get hit too hard your brain expands and then just blows up!” I started to sob and Gramma just sat in her chair as I sniffled and rubbed my sleeve across my face. “Aren’t you going to hug me?” I asked indignantly, now too angry to cry. “My momma would’ve hugged me and given me ice cream. That boy just told me to put corn on my head!” Gramma wormed her hand into her apron pocket and handed me another melted M&M. “Here’s some energy, Eugenia. You’re not dying, child. No reason to cry. I’m sure Jack wasn’t aiming for your head.” Gramma used the arms of the chair to push herself up. “I think I have some frozen peas I shucked last summer.” She shuffled to the kitchen, still talking. “I always have some cold peas for little girls with battered heads.” Gramma went to the small white chest in the corner and opened the icebox. “I’ve got two bags––one for the front, one for the back.” She plastered the peas around my head and then wrapped my head and the bags all up in a towel, giving me a turban like I was the Queen of Sheba. “Don’t you think I should lie down?” I asked, trying to balance the mound on my head.

10 “Why? You feeling woozy?” Gramma stooped down and looked me in the eye. She straightened and made her way back to the armchair in the living room. “I’m going to finish this quilt today. Did Jack say he’d stop by after work?” I started to nod, but had to grab my turban to keep it from falling. “I guess. He’s strange.” “Jack comes by for energy pills and my company.” Gramma gave me a peanut smile and pulled an unfinished quilt square onto her lap. “He’s my gentleman caller. Why don’t you go play outside?” I rolled my eyes. She sounded like Violet trying to get rid of me before a big date. “I’ll be in the backyard, then. I’m not going out front with this thing on my head.” “Violet told me you wanted to build a tree house this summer. I saved a few things for you on the back porch. Jimmy, your uncle, built a tree house in that big oak in the back before he left for service. Most of it fell down, but I think the floor is still sound,” Gramma said without looking up from her square. “Thanks, Gramma.” Gramma’s backyard was full of broken toilets, their bowls filled with weedy flowers and stray grass. It was kind of pretty in a way, but I didn’t like the idea of having a bunch of toilets around my tree house. I rummaged through the stack of junk on the porch and found a hammer that still had its handle, some tarnished nails, a bunch of wood scraps, and an old rusty doorknob. There were also six paint cans, but they felt mostly empty. I took a few pieces of wood and the hammer to the base of the oak tree. The trunk rose straight up, thick and sturdy, until it split into three branches, balancing the wooden floor between them. It looked sturdy. All I’d have to do is add walls, a roof, and a door. Maybe a rope ladder too, instead of the wooden ladder that currently rested against the trunk. You couldn’t get away from pirates if you had a wooden ladder––they’d just follow you up.

11 “Hey!” I turned as Jack stepped out onto the porch. “Mrs. Busby said you’re her granddaughter.” “I’m just here for the summer,” I told him stiffly. Jack looked past me at the oak tree. I watched him as he took in the tree and the wooden floor. Every feature on his freckled face seemed to turn up sharply––his eyes, nose, even his eyebrows. “Want help with that tree house?” “No, I don’t. It’s going to be mine.” Jack laughed like I was thickheaded. “It can still be yours if I help. My family moved here in October, so I don’t really have any friends either. Pop said I should get a job, now that I’m twelve. That’s why I’m throwing papers. Say, how old are you, anyhow?” “I, uh, eleven,” I stammered, though it wasn’t quite true. I was still ten for another month-and-a-half. “That’s what I thought. You can always tell the age in the eyes––that’s what my pop says.” Jack gathered a stack of wood and brought it to me. “Look, I’ll help with the tree house and then we can call it even. You can decorate it however you want––all girly and pink.” “I don’t like pink,” I said. “I’m going to build big things one day––like the pharaohs––so if I tell you to do something, you’ve got to do just that or you’ll ruin it.” Jack laughed again, but this time it was an easy sound, like a birdcall. “Okay, deal.” He put out his hand and I shook it quickly. He smelled like chocolate, peanuts, and fresh cut grass. “I’ve got to get home now, but I’ll come back tomorrow.” Jack sprinted back to the house and disappeared inside. Jack did come the next day, just as he promised. He even brought an extra hammer and a short saw. He showed me how to steady a piece of wood between two tree stumps and cut it in

12 two. Jack made a pulley with a metal bucket and a length of old rope, and we hauled wood up to the platform and stacked it in a corner. “So here’s my plan: we’re going to take the four long pieces.” I lifted a plank of wood that was tall than I was. “And nail two of them together like an upside down ‘V’, kinda like a tepee––one ‘V’ in the front and one in the back. They’ll be the frame for the walls and roof.” I handed Jack another plank. “We can put these smaller boards across the long pieces and then nail plywood on top. Then this part out here can be a porch and I can have flower pots for a garden.” “Seems like you got it all worked out,” Jack said, looking a little surprised. “How long have you been planning this?” “All during school last year. I read a story about a family that got shipwrecked and built a tree house to keep out tigers and pirates. My daddy was supposed to help me, but can’t now. We used to build lots of stuff together.” “Did something happen to him?” Jack asked slowly, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, he left. He said Momma was unhappy with him, so he left to make her happy.” “Oh. Did it work?” “No, but she hasn’t been happy for a long time. I think she thought her life would turn out a little different. That’s why I’m here for the summer––so Momma doesn’t have to take care of me. She needs to figure herself out.” Jack grinned and sat down on the edge of the platform, dangling his legs over the side. “You don’t seem like you need much caring. My mom got real independent while Pop was gone in the war, but I don’t remember much of that.” “Your daddy fought?”

13 Jack shook his head. “He stitched people up just like my grandpop did in the first war. Doctoring runs in the family, I guess. My mom is a secretary because she has a real nice voice. Did your pop fight?” “He was in the reserves, but never got called. He works at a newspaper office now, so I don’t see him much. Momma says it’s his fault, but he used to be nice to me.” “Is it his fault?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? They married right out of high school and Momma says that hardly ever ends well.” Jack nodded. “Want a cigarette? I got a pack at the dime store on my way here. The strawberry ones are my favorite.” Jack pulled a small red box out of his front pocket and flipped it open. “Here.” He handed me a stick. It was white and orange on the outside, just like regular cigarettes, but the inside was pink and smelled sweet. “You’ve never had one? They’re real good.” Jack put one in his mouth and let it dangle between his lips. “I look like a Flying Ace, don’t I?” He pretended to take a drag and then bit off the end of the stick. “It’s chewing gum,” he told me, laughing at my expression. I put the cigarette in my mouth as Jack climbed down the ladder. “I’d better go. Mom likes me to be home for dinner. See you tomorrow.” Jack waved and ran off, leaving me sitting alone on the edge of the platform, chewing my chalky cigarette.

Jack came over every day that week, and every day for the next month, except on Sundays. He’d always bring me candy––either strawberry cigarettes or Holloway Milk Duds (but those cost more)––to eat while we worked. Sometimes we got rained out, but Gramma would give us quilts and string to make forts, and we’d play solider. I made Jack be the allied forces because I wanted to be the United States, but we’d band together to fight the Krauts. When the

14 weather was too nice to spend the day nailing wood together, Jack and I would play baseball and go around Gramma’s neighborhood looking for usable junk for the tree house. I wasn’t too good at pitching, but I could catch fair, and that’s what was important. I could also squeeze in and out of the dumpsters better than Jack could. Jack told me his family went to a church called Pioneer Drive Baptist, and the people there were real nice. I asked him if pioneers really drove there, but he told me that the church was only called that because “pioneer” was the name of the street the church was built on. He asked me to go, but I knew I couldn’t because my parents were Methodist, and that wasn’t the same thing. It was like “mixing salt and sugar,” my daddy said. Instead, I made Gramma and me milkshakes for Sunday breakfast, and read the Bible aloud while she sewed. Violet visited once, but didn’t stay long. She had to work to pay for school and I think she just wanted to make sure Gramma and I were both alive. I asked Gramma nearly every night if Momma called, but she always said no, and finally she just pretended she didn’t hear me. Gramma did like to talk, though. I laid in the floor playing with my blue marbles as she told me about how she painted her house by herself, even though she was eighty-five. “When we moved here in ’24, my Ernest told me that I had to paint our house with respectable colors like ‘eggshell.’ So I did, and I left it that way for twenty years after he died. But then…” Gramma shrugged, putting her bony shoulders up around her ears. “Well, I found me some paint at a garage sale so I thought, why not? I like them colors. I left your momma’s room white though, just so she can come back if she wants. Your momma has an artistic turn, you know. Colors mean important things to her. Not to me. I just slap on whatever looks pretty.” “Why don’t you and Momma talk much?” Gramma laughed and returned to her sewing. “Oh, child, if I tried to answer that, it’d be like translating the Holy Book from He-brew.”

“Send up more nails,” I yelled from my perch. Jack was down on the porch nailing pieces of wood together to make a front door while I put real shingles on our slanted roof. “Sure, Coon. Got enough shingles?” Gramma told him that my Christian name was Eugenia, but he preferred “Coon,” since he’d been the one that gave me two black eyes for a month. “I think we’ll make it,” I said, pounding my hammer on the roof. We’d found the shingles in the dumpster at the end of the street. Most of them had big holes, but there were enough shingles to overlap and make it look like a proper roof. Jack tapped the bucket with his hammer to let me know the load was ready, and I hauled it up. I took the handful of nails and put them in my front overall pocket. “Clear!” I shouted, and let the bucket slide back to the ground. Jack clambered up the ladder and stood watching me as I finished securing the last two shingles. “What’re you looking at?” I laughed at his serious face. “Didn’t you bring the door?” “Hey, after we finish building this thing, are we still going to be friends? I mean…I know what our deal was. We shook on it and I gave my word.” “Well.” I leaned on the roof while I took a candy cigarette out of my pocket and put it between my lips. “The way I see it is: you helped build the house, so it’s got to be half yours. I can’t keep you from coming to your own side of the house.” Jack grinned and pulled his Dodgers baseball cap down, making his dark hair fall in front of one eye. “What happened to wanting the tree house all to yourself?” “It’s only fair––you did help. And I can change my mind if I want to,” I reminded him. I bit off the end of the cigarette. “What about after summer ends?” Jack asked, watching me chew on my strawberry stick.

16 I hadn’t thought about going home in a while. I didn’t know if Momma even wanted me back, or if she was even getting better. “Why’re you thinking like that?” I scoffed. “We’ve got plenty of summer left and we still have to plant my garden.” “I was thinking peas for the porch,” Jack told me with a grin. “Aw, shut up.” I laughed and nudged him with my toe. “I’m gonna paint the door tonight after you leave. You don’t get a say in that.” Jack raised his hands like he was a prisoner of war. “I was about to leave anyway.” He turned and shimmied down the ladder. “I’ll bring some old newspapers tomorrow and we can paper the inside with comics. Just don’t paint the door black. I don’t like black,” he called as he ran off. I stayed up in the tree house until the sun disappeared and the crickets started chirping along with the katydids’ hum. Gramma turned the porch light on, but I didn’t go inside. I still didn’t know what color to paint my door. Momma always said that eyes were the windows into people’s souls, and doors reflected people’s hearts. The color of the door was supposed to mean something to the people who lived there. But Momma changed her door so much that I didn’t think she even knew who lived inside anymore. I climbed out of the tree and sat cross-legged on the back porch next to Jack’s door. Each piece of wood had been sanded and fit together like a jigsaw. Jack had even scraped the rust off the doorknob and tried to shine the metal. I pulled the six paint cans over to the naked door and pried the lids off. There was dandelion yellow, fresh green, dark lavender, rusty orange, ocean blue, and angel white. There wasn’t enough paint in any of the cans to cover the whole door. I hit the paintbrush against my knee, absently picking white flakes off the stiff bristles. I pushed the yellow can away. I never liked yellow. The color was overly cheerful and unrealistic, plus it hurt my eyes. I plunged my brush into the green and painted a long strip down

17 the far left side, making it as straight as I could. There was only enough paint for one stripe. I rinsed the brush with the water hose and then painted another stripe in purple, right next to the green. Then I painted a white stripe without bothering to wash the brush. Leftover lavender swirled in the white like a straying galaxy, and I thought it beautiful in a messy, accidental way. Orange came next and, even though I hadn’t washed the brush, the bold color overpowered the mild white. Only blue was left. I rinsed the brush and carefully painted a blue stripe on the far right side of the door. I finished and stepped back, looking at my colorful door. It did reflect me, I think. My very own quilt. One stripe for each person who made me who I was. I knew that when Momma finally felt better and came to get me, she’d see my door and find herself––the white stripe in the middle––and everything would turn out all right, because Momma would know who lived behind that door.

Contest #14. The David Vanderwerken Short Story Contest SPONSOR: DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH FACULTY Judge: Anonymous Winner, 2nd Place: Adam Kelley for “Bye Bye Blues”

It was a Tuesday afternoon in February when the demon first approached me. He was fair haired

and soft spoken, dressed in jeans and a plaid button down (not exactly attire of an overtly evil nature). I was at I.H.O.P alone, as I often was in those days, working my way through a stack of blueberry pancakes (the blueberries served as my justification for the 12 stack of cakes, as I could claim that fresh fruit were a staple of my daily diet). He sat down in the booth across from mine. I thought nothing of it. He seemed friendly enough; clean cut and fairly good looking. Clearly not the dangerous type. We began talking about nothing in particular: the weather, food, traffic. Typical topics of discussion between strangers. But after several minutes of formalities, and frankly boring conversation, his tone began to change. The demon told me he knew: knew about my life, my family, my struggles. He knew I had been recently let go from my job at the high school for sexual harassment. I told him that I merely complimented a fellow staff member on her new tits (as they were clearly not the same ones she had the previous semester). But unfortunately for me, that bitch had just been given a huge salary bonus as part of her promotion to tenured teacher status, so my case never stood much of a chance. The school board has kind of a zero tolerance policy for that kind of stuff. I asked how he knew about that. The demon didn’t answer. Maybe it was in the paper. He told me he knew about my divorce and about my ex-‐wife’s new boyfriend Phil (that pudgy little fuck). They live in some tiny middle-‐class town in Iowa now, working in real-‐estate. He told me about how every Tuesday they rent a movie from Blockbuster (an actual Blockbuster), make some microwave popcorn and cuddle on the couch. Friday nights they go out to eat at Applebee’s where Phil’s nephew works. And Sunday night is board game night. A perfect Hallmark card family. He told me he had worked with Phil before. I wasn’t sure what that meant.

2 The demon told me about my gay son Kevin who I hadn’t seen in three years, and who hated my guts for saying that his wearing makeup and lipstick in public made me uncomfortable (a perfectly natural reaction, I think). He told me about my 3-‐legged dog, Stumpy, who used to wheeze during long walks. He told me about my flunking out at the University of Missouri and my battles with alcohol and cocaine during my mid-‐twenties. How I settled into a job as a P.E. teacher when I finally got clean some three years later. He told me about my childhood crush Stephanie Connor and how I always wanted to be a writer but never finished a single story I started. He told me everything about my life. And I didn’t like how it sounded out loud. I was alarmed at how much he knew, but my curiosity forced me to hear him out. I asked if he was some kind of psychic or an angel. Or an extremely thorough stalker. He told me not exactly. He offered me a deal: said he could make my deepest wish come true. I didn’t believe him at first. Naturally so. Who the hell was this Old Navy model looking fucker coming up to me at I.H.O.P, telling my life story and claiming he could grant wishes? But I didn’t say that. Honestly the whole experience was more than a little unnerving, but what could it hurt if I agreed. Maybe he was telling the truth. Or maybe he was a lunatic. At that point I had nothing to lose either way. It’s like tossing a coin in a fountain. You don’t expect anything to happen, but you do it anyway. So I asked what he wanted from me. The demon smiled. It was a sinister half smile, revealing a set of beautiful white teeth: the kind of teeth that were almost too perfect. “Nothing,” he said. “At least nothing right now. Just think of it like an I.O.U. A favor of sorts. In ten years I’ll come back and ask you to do something for me. All you have to do is grant me what I ask for. Easy as that.” I frowned in disbelief. “A favor in ten years?” I asked. The demon nodded. “Pretty good deal if you ask me,” he said. “A wish for a favor.” I finished off my last pancake and pondered the deal for a while.

3 “And whatever I wish for, you’ll give me?” I asked through a mouthful of starch. “Yes. Anything.” I finished chewing. His eyes sparkled a bright blue which contrasted with the dull mustard color of the surrounding walls. I made up my mind. “I want to be successful,” I said. “Big house, lots of money. Maybe even a family. A whole new life. Can you do that?” “Absolutely,” the demon smiled again. “I want to be a writer. You know; have a best-‐selling novel that gets made into a movie or something. Like J. K. Rowling.” The demon stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal,” he said. I took his hand, firm and cold, and shook it. Shortly after my waitress came by and asked if I needed more orange juice. I told her “no thank you.” When I looked back across the aisle the strange man with the button down shirt was gone. I went home that day feeling no different than before. Still overweight and worthless, with frequent heartburn and a bad haircut. I arrived in my dusty single-‐bedroom apartment thoroughly convinced it had all been some kind of strange hoax…or at least mostly convinced. Some part of me still hoped it was real. It was the same part of me that looked over the dozen unwashed dishes in my sink, the garage-‐sale couch covered with cat hair (I didn’t own a cat), and the twin sized bed still wrapped in a set of star wars sheets I got when I was 12, and was disgusted. Ashamed. I fell asleep that night staring at the water mark on my ceiling that looked like Abraham Lincoln, wondering what I could have done differently in my life. Almost everything. I awoke the next morning motivated. No longer would I be complacent. So I sat down at the kitchen table and opened up my laptop: determined to finish something for once in my life. The best writers are those who come from troubled backgrounds, I thought. I was born to do this. The first few minutes went by fairly quickly. Then time slowed. My mind was racing, coming up with potential

4 characters and story lines. All of them shit. I stared at the blank word document in front of me for almost an hour. No words came to page. “God dammit,” I muttered. I stood up and walked to the pantry to pour myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. Breakfast helps stimulate brain activity. I ate about half of the bowl (finishing once I ran out of marshmallows) and sat back down reinvigorated…for about five minutes. I could think of nothing. The empty white page taunted me. “How the fuck do people do this?” I asked my microwave. It didn’t answer. “Do people actually know what they’re going to write before the do it, or do they just—” I started typing gibberish: no conscious decision behind any of the letters. Then the nonsense started to form into coherent sentences. And then I had a page written. A good page. A promising page. And then I had two. Three. Ten. My fingers moved on their own, forming beautiful prose and engaging dialogue seemingly out of thin air. I couldn’t stop. The first chapter came in ten minutes. Six hours later I finished the whole thing. 412 pages of the greatest story I had ever read. My masterpiece. I thought about the demon briefly, although at the time I still only thought of him as that weird guy at IHOP, and whether he had something to do with this. But I quickly dashed the thought and focused back on my accomplishment. My book was a tale of redemption in the face of adversity, loosely based off of my own life. The story begins in a small town in Louisiana where my protagonist Tommy Johnson is born into extreme poverty and an abusive family. At 16 Tommy runs away from home with only 3 dollars and the tattered clothes on his back. After several days of eating scraps and sleeping in the woods he comes across an old guitar in the trash. Tommy teaches himself to play, performing at various bars and lowbrow music clubs across the south, eventually becoming one of the most successful musicians of all time. I stared at the title page: Bye-‐Bye Blues By George Faust

5 I began to weep. This is my big break, I thought. This is going to change my life. The book was accepted by the first publisher I sent it to. In about eight months “Bye-‐Bye Blues” was No.1 on the New York Times Bestseller List. Soon I was invited for interviews on Oprah and Ellen, as well as various other night shows. The high school emailed and asked me if I wanted to come back as a full time teacher. I told them to eat a dick. After a few more months I got a call from Steven Spielberg about a movie adaptation. I agreed. The film was a box office hit pulling in over $200 million on opening weekend and winning nine Oscars. Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance as Tommy’s manager Ned was captivating, finally earning him that prestigious award that had eluded him all those years. I cried when I saw the premier. Perfect. Not too long afterward I moved out to Colorado where I bought a house at the base of the Rockies. The weather was absolutely perfect. I don’t think it rained once. I even began exercising; running for the first time since freshman year of college. I dropped 20 pounds in six weeks before buying another property in California. It was there that I happened upon the love of my life. I met her at a book signing in San Diego. Her name was Carmen, and she told me she was my biggest fan. I fell for her instantly: her wavy blonde hair, forest green eyes, and slightly freckled skin. Not to mention her huge…personality. She was always laughing. A bright beautiful laugh that resembled church bells, or maybe a door bell. Some kind of bell. She loved Van Halen, the smell of gingerbread, corndogs and baseball. We never argued. Not even on where to go for dinner or what color to paint the shed. She was perfect in nearly every way. We were married on a beach in Honolulu after 8 months of dating. I sent an invitation to Phil and my ex-‐wife in Iowa. They never responded. Honestly I was a little disappointed. I had completely turned my life around and the woman that I used to love didn’t seem to care. I found out later that Phil had died of a heart attack the day before the wedding. I sent my condolences.

6 In February of the next year Carmen gave birth to a beautiful baby boy named Peter. Eight pounds exactly, with a full head of his mother’s golden hair. I could tell immediately that Peter would grow up to be strong and handsome. The day after Peter’s birth I got in contact with my oldest son. I asked him to forgive me for not being involved in his life. I asked if he wanted to come visit his half-‐ brother. “I want us to start over,” I said. “It would be nice to see you again, Kevin.” The phone crackled. “We’ll see, George.” “You don’t need to worry about travel expenses or anything like that,” I said. “I’ll take care of everything.” I heard a deep breath on the other end. “Ok.” I shook my son’s hand when he arrived at the airport. I should have hugged him, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe it was the guilt. By then in his senior year of college, he seemed taller than the last time we had seen each other. His hair was slicked back and parted on the side, and he wore a polo and freshly ironed khakis. No makeup. He looks so normal, I thought. Carmen and Peter were there with me. I introduced them and Carmen embraced my oldest son like she had known him his whole life. “Absolutely wonderful to meet you,” she said. “I hope we can be great friends.” Kevin smiled. “I hope so too.” We grabbed a quick bite to eat and then I took both of my sons to the zoo. When we got there one of the zookeepers recognized who I was and let us ride the elephants free of charge. We took turns holding Peter as the other rode an aging bull with one tusk around the dirt covered enclosure. Kevin had always loved the zoo. Animals in general just made him smile. I like to think that it was because of his gentle soul. He wanted to be a vet once, when he was younger. I had told him it was a waste of time. Vets got paid dirt compared to real doctors. I grimaced at the memory.

7 As we walked through the rainforest exhibit we eventually got into a conversation about school. I asked about his grades, his major, love interests. I told him not to do what I did: blow off class and end up flunking out. In my entire life of mistakes, it was one of the things I regretted the most. Some of the others include my stint as an addict after college, as well as being a horrible father and husband. I planned to make sure that didn’t happen again. I told Kevin that. It was probably the longest conversation I had had with him since he was ten years-‐old. I’d be lying if I said our relationship became perfect after that trip to the zoo, but it definitely improved. Kevin came out to visit about once a month and made all but one of Peter’s birthdays. I used that as a platform to start repairing other broken relationships in my life. I started writing my ex-‐wife. Nothing huge, just little updates every now and then. Hey, I just wanted you to know that Kevin came over today for Peter’s 4th Birthday party. Wish you could have been here too. All of the other kids from his preschool class were there and we got a huge cake with stars and rockets on it from that bakery on Boardwalk. It was a space themed party. Peter wants to be an astronaut. You know he can name every planet in our solar system in order! I don’t even think I can do that. Kevin suggested that we get a spaceship bouncy house thing, so I rented one online. It’s been nice reconnecting with him. I think he understands how sorry I am for…well, everything. He tells me that he’s living with some guy now that he thinks could be “the one.” I’m really proud of him, you know. By the way the offer still stands if you ever want to come by to talk or something. Carmen really wants to meet you. And I think Peter does too. I hope everything is going well with you. With love, George

8 She didn’t write back at first. Kevin told me that she was still trying to recover from everything. I knew that was code for “she just doesn’t want to talk to you.” But after some time I began to wear her down. Her response letters were short. Usually just something like: I’m glad to hear that you’re doing ok. Tell Peter Happy Birthday. We wrote back and forth every few weeks. It was a mostly one-‐sided conversation, but still—it was something. She didn’t mention my offer to meet until the sixth letter. I’m going to be near San Diego for a business conference in a couple weeks. Maybe…we can meet up for lunch or something. Just lunch though. You can call if you want. -‐Claire I sat with Carmen in the Sweet Café at a table that was four inches too tall, waiting for Claire to show up. Ten minutes before our agreed meeting time I started to worry. I told Carmen my fears: that she wouldn’t show up. Or that she would. I honestly didn’t know which I was more afraid of. Carmen rubbed my back gently, and told me that she loved me, regardless of what happened. My ex-‐wife arrived right on time, wearing a purple blouse and grey stripped skirt. Her business attire and shoulder length dark hair stood in stark contrast to my current wife’s bleach blonde mane and vintage Van Halen t-‐shirt. I gave Claire a one armed hug (two seemed inappropriate), and Carmen shook her hand, while wearing that wide smile she always had. We ordered chicken sandwiches and iced tea, and talked for a half hour over the feint sound of construction outside. I think they’re building a new library or something. I told her about Peter; how he would be starting Kindergarten soon. And how next week we were all going school supply shopping. Claire smiled at the thought. I hadn’t seen her smile in a long time. She said her real-‐estate company was considering starting a branch on the West Coast. She said that she was a candidate for the managerial job, and if selected she’d have to move out to California. I

9 told her about a few neighborhoods to consider if she did. Carmen expressed her excitement at the prospect. “We could all be one big family,” she said, beaming. I looked at my ex, wondering how she’d take the proposition. Claire smiled again, but said nothing. She left for a meeting before finishing her sandwich. The managerial job ended up going to some skinny bald guy named Chad, from Ohio. Claire stayed in the Midwest. I guess we weren’t meant to be one big family. We continued writing letters though, every couple of weeks. Claire even came down to visit the following Fourth of July. She brought Peter a model of the Apollo XI space shuttle that she picked up at a conference in Houston. He was absolutely thrilled. Peter asked me if the nice lady could stay with us, and cried when I told him she couldn’t. Claire was almost tempted to stay the weekend after she heard that. But she refused the temptation. Sometimes, on slow days, I thought about that blue eyed man in I.H.O.P. all those years back. How he motivated me to get my life together. I wasn’t sure if he had actually granted my wish or not. But I didn’t think it really mattered. I wanted to thank him nonetheless. About five years after the initial release of “Bye-‐Bye Blues” I decided to write a sequel. I sat at my kitchen table overlooking the endless waters of the Pacific Ocean, poured myself a bowl of Lucky Charms and got to work. The writing didn’t happen as quickly as the first book, of course, but I felt I was making solid progress. At the end of the first day I had about 15 pages. 15…decent pages. I showed them to Carmen who, in the nicest way possible, told me they were complete garbage. But I pressed on, unperturbed. In a few months I had the first three chapters completed, and sent them to an editor in Los Angeles. He was extremely excited to read my new work. But after finishing what I had written the editor called back to tell me not to send anything else, and condemned

10 me for impersonating “the real George Faust.” Heartbroken, I never finished the sequel. That was over four years ago. The nightmares started a couple months back. About a week after Christmas. I dreamed of a woman screaming, snarling black dogs, and a terrible maniacal laughter. But mostly I dreamed of being paralyzed, and a shadowy figure with deep blue eyes. We were coming up on the tenth anniversary of my first book. And the closer it got, the more I thought about the demon. Although at the time I still didn’t know what he was. I wondered whether he would actually show up. It was possible that he would. After all I had gotten what I wished for. But still I thought it unlikely. For the most part I had been too busy over the past decade to give the idea much consideration. At times I even convinced myself that the incident all those years ago never actually happened. It was just a delusion, or maybe even a sign from God to turn me toward the right path. I made myself believe that my book had come from inside of me, and nowhere else. It was a talent that I always possessed. I had to keep faith in myself. If I accepted that my talent as a writer was a sham, then what would stop me from seeing the rest of my life as fake too? My marriage? My family? All just some sort of trick. I fought off those thoughts. But still that sense of dread remained. I became sick, both physically and mentally. I was cold constantly, but would sweat for no reason, and my muscles ached to the point where it became difficult to move. I started hallucinating. The things I saw in my dreams would appear in the world around me. I would see massive black dogs in my peripheral or out the window in the back yard. Animal control came up empty. I asked Carmen at dinner how she could stand the sound of that woman screaming all the time. But she had no idea what I was talking about. It was worst when I was alone with Kevin or Claire. Something about them amplified my condition. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room with either of them for more than a few minutes at a time. The doctors told me I was perfectly healthy as far as they could see, and prescribed me some pain killers for the muscle aches. I threw them away when they didn’t work. The time grew closer.

11 I woke up in bed, drenched in sweat. Carmen was still asleep next to me. I shivered, seeing my breath appear as fog. The clock read 12:01am. I began feeling around for the light switch on our custom maple wood nightstand: a wedding gift from Carmen’s father. I stopped dead when I caught sight of two glowing blue orbs at the foot of the bed. “Hello George,” a familiar voice whispered. I reached again frantically for the nightstand, but a hand shot out of the dark and seized my arm. “Now now,” the demon said. “We don’t want to make a big scene out of this. There are people sleeping.” “You-‐you’re,” I stuttered. “I’m the person who made all of your dreams come true.” I could make out the white glow of perfectly straight teeth as he smiled. “No need to thank me.” “What do you want?” I said more loudly than I meant too. The demon shushed me quietly, placing a finger over my lips. “It’s been ten years to the day, Georgie. It’s time for you to hold up your end of the deal.” “Deal?” “Yes, our deal. Don’t you remember? What, you thought that book and this life of luxury you’re living was just a result of your hard work and determination? Georgie that’s adorable,” he cackled. “From rags to riches with nothing but a GED and a go get’m attitude! George you kill me.” I stared ahead blankly feeling beads of sweat trickle down my cheek. “No,” the demon continued. “That was all me. I’m what you might call, a man of many talents.” “Who are you?” I gulped. “I mean who are you really?” “Who is not really important, Georgie. I am simply someone who believes in the value of an arrangement. A covenant, if you will.” The demon inched closer, his face merely inches from my own. “I hope you haven’t forgotten,” he smirked.

12 “You want a favor.” The demon stood up quickly and clapped his hands “Bingo! We have a winner!” Suddenly Carmen sat up, witnessing the dark figure in front of her and let out a piercing high-‐ pitched scream. The scream that had been haunting my dreams: a hideous sound to behold. “Oops, look what I did,” the demon, upon realizing his mistake, turned and slashed my wife’s throat with long, claw-‐like fingernails. “Sorry about that. Where were we?” I starred in silent horror, as Carmen clutched at her neck, spitting and coughing up blood. She gurgled, eyes flashing back and forth frantically. A pool formed underneath her, staining the sheets a deep scarlet. Her legs kicked in desperation. I watched her lips form the syllables of my name. And then she was still. “You—YOU SON OF A BITCH!” I screamed. The demon crossed his arms and scowled, blue eyes boring into me. “That hurt my feelings George. I expect an apology.” “You killed her!” I threw a hard clumsy punch. He dodged it easily and pinned me against the bed. “Settle down now Georgie,” I could feel his hot breath on my forehead. “Who do you think brought you that pretty blonde lady in the first place?” I struggled against his grip, which only caused him to apply even more force, squeezing the wind from my lungs. “You’re not listening to me George. I told you to calm down.” His fist came down hard on my chin. I felt the warm trickle of blood. The demon then released my arms and stood up. “I’m sorry buddy, you didn’t deserve that. Now what do you say we get down to business?” I said nothing.

13 “Here’s what’s going to happen, George. We’re going to complete our deal, and then I’m going to walk out of here and we’ll both be very happy. You hold up to your end of the bargain, and I’ll give you your little wifey back, good as new. I can do things like that. And all I want in return is your son.” I was dumbfounded. “You—” I stuttered. “You want Peter?” He cocked his head and frowned. “No, no. Not the little space man. Really George, what am I supposed to do with a baby? No, I want the other one. The one who really likes Manwiches, if you know what I mean. Oh, and his mother too.” “Kevin…and Claire?” I asked horrified. “Those are the ones!” he pointed at me and grinned. “But I need your permission in order to take them. Part of the rules you see. We demons are all about rules.” “Demon?” I had suspected something of the like over the years, but never in seriousness. It was the first time that my horrible thoughts had been confirmed. “But that’s beside the point,” he leaned in toward me. “So what’s it gonna be? Your son and ex for your wife. Old life for the new. Keep in mind, however, if you refuse, the deal will become void and I’ll just have to kill everyone in this house, so there’s not much sense taking that option. It would be a lose-‐lose for both of us. Because truth be told I kinda like you, Georgie. And having to kill you would really put a damper on my evening.” “Why? Why do you want my family?” “Always the ‘why’ with you people. Why does why matter? We made an agreement that I would give you what you wanted, and in return you had to give me what I wanted. That’s how deals work. And I was even nice enough to give you ten years before you had to worry about it. Besides, they’re not really your family. Not anymore at least. You made sure of that.” I felt a fury building in the pit of my stomach. “You can’t take my family!”

14 The demon sighed. “George, I really don’t want to have to kill you and your little Aryan baby tonight. Not to mention your wife, whom I kind of killed already. I would much rather just take college boy and single working mom, bring back Carla or whatever, and be on my way. It’s a pretty easy decision in my opinion. Three lives, or none. Plus you have a new kid now. You’ve been given the chance to start over from scratch, so you don’t fuck the boy up like you did the first one. I’m offering you a totally clean slate.” I started crying. Why is this happening? What did I do to deserve this? Memories of every mistake I ever made began flooding my mind. There were plenty of them sure, but all revolved around that February afternoon ten years ago. My life since then, the money, the fame, the success; I would throw it all away in a heartbeat if it meant saving my family. I heard a deep snarling sound and looked up to see three black hounds staring into the window on the far end of the room, teeth barred and saliva dripping from their fangs. “Preferably sometime today, buddy. My doggies are getting impatient.” “Just take me instead,” I begged, grabbing at the demon’s shirt. “Leave the others out of this.” The demon shook his head and clicked his teeth. “Can’t do that George. Your options have already been presented. There’s no way to get around it. Fame comes with a cost, you know. You can’t hold on to two lives at the same time.”

“Then just,” my lips were quivering. “Just take it away. The book, the success. Just take it all

away. I don’t need it anymore.”

“Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. You know that would include your new wife and baby too, right?

Plus I’d have to kill you, as I already mentioned. I have a reputation to keep. Can’t have people weaseling out my deals and getting away with it.” He started to pick at his teeth with a long pointed fingernail.

“I—” I looked around the room, as if there were something I could find that would tell me what

to do: tell me the right answer. “What are you going to do with them? If I say yes?” I asked.

“Who? The queer and his mommy? Like I said, I just need to take them with me. Out of your life

for good. That’s all you need to know.”

“Take them where?”

The demon threw back his head and groaned. “To fucking Narnia, what does it matter?” I stared into darkness, avoiding his gaze. “If I agree,” I whispered harshly. “You promise not to

hurt them?” “Your words wound me yet again, Georgie. I would never hurt a couple of innocents. You think I’m some kind of monster?” he glanced over at Carmen’s corpse, still dripping blood off the side of the bed. “Well, there are always exceptions. But you understand, dontcha buddy?” “I need your word,” I said through clenched teeth. “That you won’t hurt them.” The demon sighed again. “I swear to you that if you agree to our deal, I will not harm your son and ex-‐wife, and I will bring your current wife back to the land of the living. What say you?” I nodded silently, and held out a trembling hand. The creature smiled widely, laughing. He turned toward the dogs in the window and whispered “fetch.” The beasts took off into the night, barking and howling furiously. Then he looked back at me once again and gripped my hand tightly in his own. He pulled me in close, hissing in my ear. “It’s a deal.”

Contest #14. The David Vanderwerken Short Story Contest SPONSOR: DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH FACULTY Judge: Anonymous Winner, 3rd Place: Hayley Zablotsky for “Bald Eagles” Every July, the Petersons take a vacation. Jon takes the reins on the planning. In fact, the destination is always a grand surprise for the rest of the family, announced in late May after the plane tickets have been purchased and it is too late to do anything about it. Jon is very enthusiastic about planning the trips, which is why Lilla -‐‑-‐‑ his wife -‐‑-‐‑ just sips her fizzy water in silence when Jon picks a vacation spot she dislikes. What Jon doesn’t know is that Lilla actually sort of hates his trips, his new apricot striped tie, his “famous” pineapple upside down cake, and, well, sometimes his very guts. Jon wants so very badly to have a Perfect American Family that he ignores this and all other possibilities. Jon and Lilla have two daughters. Everyone calls them smart and sweet, and it’s starting to bother Jill -‐‑-‐‑ the older one who just turned seventeen. Jill thinks she would like to be a little bit edgy. She thinks she’d like the respect that comes with the occasional hickey. She also thinks she’s too old for permission slips. She does not, however, object to her monthly allowance. Carly, the younger one, is eight. She recently learned her first curse word -‐‑-‐‑ and it’s shocking -‐‑-‐‑ and is still okay with being sweet. As long as she is allowed to be sweet and a field biologist, it’s all good. Jill hates the vacations because Lilla hates the vacations. Carly is on the fence about the whole thing.

“Are you all packed, sweetheart?” Jon asks Carly at dinner. Lilla has served a particularly apathetic meatloaf. It is the most apathetic meatloaf yet. Jon uses lots of A1 sauce and chews with oblivious relish. Carly nods. She is excited but insecure. Lilla and Jill aren’t excited, and Carly feels a certain unintentional betrayal of her kind in wanting to go on this trip. Alaska is a great unknown, and it could be really exciting. “What are we supposed to pack, anyway?” Jill asks, pushing a bite of meatloaf around the plate, leaving flecks of seasoning and ground meat in the A1 sauce. “A good attitude,” Jon says, spearing a cooked carrot. “Ha-‐‑ha. And your pretty smile. I’m bringing the New Camera.” The New Camera was a Christmas present from “Santa” because “Santa” thought the act of making and saving memories would bring the family together. As if the New Camera could guarantee that the family would remain intact for years to come. As if the family would remain intact for no other reason than to look at the photos once they had properly aged and yellowed. “Jeans. Short-‐‑sleeved tops. Some light jackets,” Lilla answers Jill pragmatically, slicing a carrot in half. “Night time will be chilly.” “But remember!” Jon says excitedly, scrambling for the travel guidebook sitting on the table, “It won’t get dark until very late -‐‑-‐‑ probably not until around midnight, if then.” “Oh, great,” Jill says, sounding sour, “thanks for that. I’ll leave my night vision goggles at home then.” Jill glares at the puddle of A1 sauce on her plate, refusing to make eye contact with Jon because she knows she is wrong to talk to him like that. Lilla doesn’t say anything. Jon closes the guidebook.

“Do you know what I want to see?” Carly says, slurping her milk noisily and leaving a white film around her lips. Everyone turns eagerly to the youngest member of the family. Everyone adores Carly. She is better than all of the rest of them put together, and they all know it. “What, my love?” Lilla asks. “A Bald Eagle.” “And a Bald Eagle you shall see,” Jon announces. “The baldest of all Bald Eagles in the world!” He flattens his hair on his head to look bald and makes Carly giggle. “I want to see a moose,” Lilla says, relenting with a smile. Maybe it won’t be so bad. It’s all about attitude, isn’t that right? That’s what Oprah says. “What do you want to see, Jill?” Lilla prompts. “The Justin Timberlake concert.” Everyone heaves a great sigh, including Carly (though she doesn’t know why she’s doing it -‐‑-‐‑ she just knows it’s the thing to do). Jill has been hemming and hawing for weeks now about how this vacation is preventing her from attending the much-‐‑anticipated concert with her friends. This is the kind of concert where people get hickeys, you see. “Oh, my God,” Lilla says when they get their first look of Wrangell, Alaska. “Where are all the people?” Carly asks. Until corrected, Carly assumes every destination will have as many squirming, sweaty bodies as her second grade classroom at Gibson Elementary. “It’s a freaking ghost town,” Jill says. Honestly, it is. It looks like the zombies recently came through on their U.S. Tour of Apocalypse: This is the End but then decided that doing

an absolutely thorough job here in Wrangell would just be a waste of effort. So here it is. Sort of desolate, sort of decimated. Sort of breathing, sort of twitching with the weak aftershocks of electrocution. “Smell the clean air!” Jon breathes deeply and theatrically. He never knows just what to make of his family’s reactions. Women are complicated creatures. It’s best to say benign things about weather, food, scenery, etc. in moments like these. “Smells like garbage,” Lilla says calmly. She looks around her as they head up the sidewalk to their bed and breakfast. Each house they pass has a collection of flotsam and jetsam in the front yard -‐‑-‐‑ split tires, broken lawn chairs, dead washing machines. Lilla and Jill exchange a look. Jon promised views -‐‑-‐‑ beautiful views! and this is crap -‐‑-‐‑ absolute crap! “I’m going for a walk,” Jill announces that night. The whole family is supposed to sleep in one room at the bed and breakfast. It is cozy. Not in a good way. Lilla and Jon will share the queen bed, Jill will get the pullout sofa with the uncomfortable springs, and Carly will get the roll-‐‑away. Hopefully, she will not roll away. No one is pleased about the snug accommodations. Lilla and Jon haven’t, in fact, slept in the same bed in over a year. “No, you’re not going anywhere,” Jon says, without looking up from his travel guide. Carly instantly looks up from her book -‐‑-‐‑ she’s reading Black Beauty -‐‑-‐‑ and she’s suddenly holding her breath, quivering, like a startled deer. She knows where this is headed. She always knows. “I can’t stay in here another second,” Jill says flatly, shoving her feet in her shoes. Jill is slowly going crazy. And they’ve only been here half a day. “I’m going to get some air.”

“Not alone, you’re not.” “Don’t follow me.” “Young lady, it’s unsafe.” Jon feels he has to say things like young lady even though it feels unnatural. “If it’s so unsafe, why did you bring us here?” Jill asks and leaves the words hanging as she lets the door slam behind her. Jill is not a bad person, not even a bad daughter. Her family just doesn’t understand what it’s like to dangle in this space. She’s mature enough to understand the adult world, childish enough to want it, but not old enough to have it. She feels like her feet are pumping hard but not connecting with the ground. She wants so badly to make contact with the gritty cement, to feel the aching impact of it in her knees. Jill’s walk is turning out to be extremely uneventful. No shady strangers. No dangerous wildlife. Nothing. What does a girl have to do to get some action? And then she sees a man -‐‑-‐‑ a boy -‐‑-‐‑ something. She can’t decide how old he is since it’s getting dusky. He’s leaning against the side of the Laundromat smoking something. When she gets closer, she sees that he looks Native American, which probably means that he’s Tlingit. The Tlingit people are pictured in textbooks under the subheading’s subheading’s subheading Alaska: Southeast Region: Native Peoples: Tlingit. That is all Jill knows, because she got bored after reading the subheadings. Jill can hear Jon’s voice in her head telling her to keep walking -‐‑-‐‑ quickly and away. So she walks over to the boy. “Hey,” he says. “Hi,” she says back. “Tourist?”

“Yeah. I guess. Or whatever.” “Want a piece of the native culture, huh?” he says. His voice is resentful, but he’s smoldering beneath his dark brows and it’s sort of sexy. Jill isn’t sure what this means. Do tourists mistake him for a native male prostitute? Gee, how would anyone get that idea with him standing out here smoking and leaning up against the side of an abandoned Laundromat? “Not really, no,” Jill says dully, crossing her arms and leaning against the building beside him. “I hate it here. I don’t want anything to do with the native culture.” He settles his back against the bricks more comfortably. “Want one?” Jill’s heart races. One what? Is it illegal drugs? Tlingit weed? But then she looks down and sees him holding out a box of plain old cigarettes. These do not impress her. “No,” she says. “Yeah, probably best. Your family would be mad?” “Yeah.” She hates that he knows. “My family is always mad at me, too,” he says. “What’s your name?” “Jillian.” She hardly ever calls herself by her real name. “Jillian. I’m Charlie.” For a moment, she is attracted to him. She’s always liked the idea of kissing a boy called Charlie. But she’s not kissing him or anything. Not now, at least. He would taste like cigarettes, anyway. But think of the stories she could tell the kids at school if something did happen with Charlie. Think of the social status a hickey from an ALASKAN NATIVE would give her. She sure as hell would never be called nerdy or sweet again. She would never want for anything ever again.

“You know, my people?” Charlie is saying. “We have these things called moieties. You’re either Eagle or Raven. Whatever your mother is.” “Okay…,” Jill says. Where is he going with this? “You’re not supposed to get involved with someone within your own moiety. So like I’m Raven. I’m supposed to end up with an Eagle girl. Traditionally, I’d be ostracized for getting involved with another Raven.” “I’m not Raven,” Jill blurts out, feeling daring. “Or… Eagle.” “I know. You’re even more dangerous. My mother -‐‑-‐‑ she says there’s one other moiety, and that getting involved with someone from it is worse than getting involved with someone from your own.” “And what moiety is that?” Jill asks. Exactly half of his mouth curls up in a grin. “Tourist.” It is a beautiful day on the river. The Peterson family is on a boat with a tour guide. “Isn’t it a beautiful day on the river?” Jon asks Lilla. The air is crisp and invisible, just verging on nippy. It is sunny enough that Lilla slathered Carly’s nose and ears in sunscreen earlier. The scenery is a blur of browns and greens as the boat speeds down the river. “Sure, yes. Beautiful,” Lilla says. She is hiding behind the New Camera, taking photos of the dead trees they are passing. To be honest, Lilla is feeling a little strange after sharing a bed with Jon last night. “It smells weird,” Jill mutters without looking up from her cell phone. “That is the smell of nature!” Jon says with the robust enthusiasm of those heartburn relief ads on TV.

“I hate nature,” says Jill. “Did you know,” Carly says, looking up from Jon’s travel guide, “that Bald Eagles mate for life with the same partner?” Lilla and Jill shoot each other a quick look. Carly has incredible ironic timing. “It’s called mo-‐‑no-‐‑ga-‐‑my,” Carly articulates. “That’s right,” Lilla says. “Jon, listen to our daughter. She’s learned something from your travel guide.” “She has -‐‑-‐‑ my little genius!” “Tell him what it’s called, darling,” Lilla says to Carly. “Monogamy, Daddy,” Carly says. “That’s what it’s called.” “Yes, Daddy,” Lilla says, slipping her face behind the camera again. “That’s what it’s called.” Jon beams with pride. That is such a big word for such a little girl to know. But it’s important that she know it. Monogamy is an important concept. Jon knows all about it. The male figure in the Perfect American Family knows monogamy inside and out. He also knows his secretary inside and out. The two entities -‐‑-‐‑ monogamy and secretaries -‐‑-‐‑ are perfectly compatible. They are both important parts of the status quo of the Perfect American Family. Jon must do his duty (and his secretary) to preserve the status quo. So proud is Jon of his thorough maintenance of the status quo that he let Lilla find out last year about his secretary. Nothing has been the same since, though, and Jon swears he will do anything to make it right with Lilla. Jon is not a bad person, not even a bad husband. His family just doesn’t understand how important it is that they be the Perfect American Family. The world is watching Jon -‐‑-‐‑ he

knows it -‐‑-‐‑ and he must have the social status that comes with having the Perfect American Family (secretary and all). It is a point of honor. The land along the sides of the river is brown and spotted with spindly trees. On these spindly trees, Carly sees her Bald Eagles. “The symbol of America,” Jon says proudly. “Look at him -‐‑-‐‑ he’s perfect.” “Actually,” Carly says, “I think it’s a she. The females are bigger than the males.” Jill smiles secretly. She likes the idea of woman on top. It might involve her giving someone a hickey. Hm. Jon is still proud. “Smart you are,” he tells Carly. “Smarter than old dad.” “Did you know,” Lilla suddenly says, “that Benjamin Franklin hated the idea of having the Bald Eagle as America’s national bird?” Lilla was a history major in college; contrary to what Jon thinks, she was not at college for her Mrs. degree. “Franklin thought that Bald Eagles have ‘bad moral Character.’” Jon is taken aback. “No kidding.” Lilla flings him a look. “No kidding.” A hesitant smile picks at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “You’re joshing me.” “It’s true,” Jill says with no animation. She holds up her cell phone. She is getting surprisingly good service on this stretch of river. “Google never lies.” Jill is the type of person to pause an argument just to use Google to prove her opponent wrong. Every family has one of those. Lilla sits down beside Jill. “What a view, huh.” Jill rolls her eyes. “I can’t wait until we get off this Stinking River.”

“Stikine, sweetheart,” Jon says absentmindedly. He has the camera now and is trying to get Carly in the foreground and the dead trees in the background. “It’s called the Stikine River.” “Whatever,” Jill says. “It comes from the Tlingit language,” Jon says. “Move a little to your left, Carly.” Jill looks up. The Tlingit language? “Let your father have this one,” Lilla says mildly. “He likes to pretend he knows things.” Carly comes over and sits on Lilla’s lap. “Don’t you just love eagles?” she sighs happily. “They’re so beautiful.” “I don’t like eagles,” Jill says. Carly is appalled. “What do you like then?” Jill looks back to her phone. “I’m more into ravens.” Lilla is in a bad mood when the boat docks. She did not see her moose. They were out for SIX HOURS and she did not see one moose. She was promised a moose. And instead, all she’s been shown is a collection of Bald Eagles -‐‑-‐‑ ugly things, really, when you look long enough for the majesty to melt off. They go to dinner. Jon decides to try bear meat. Lilla is disgusted. It’s like he has something to prove. ME MAN AND ME EAT MEAT. Jon is so primitive sometimes. Lilla orders a Caesar salad wrap and fizzy water. They don’t have fizzy water. Why is she surprised? As Jon teases Carly about tasting his meat, Lilla eyes the gargantuan steak knife the waiter has given Jon. She stabs at a crouton with her bent fork prong, but it isn’t soggy

enough yet to skewer. She gives up on the crouton, and her eyes return to the steak knife. Shame she didn’t get one. She would have enjoyed having one right about now. Her eyes flick between Jon’s knife and the hollow at the base of his throat. She didn’t have nearly enough room in the bed last night. She’d been so worried that she’d accidentally sprawl and touch her husband that she had barely slept at all. No woman should have to deal with that. Lilla is well aware of Jon’s obsession with the Perfect American Family. Well. Isn’t the Perfect American Family’s wife supposed to think about killing her husband at least once? Especially if we consider the secretary? It’s textbook stuff. Cliché as it gets. Jon would be proud of her for harboring such thoughts. But Lilla is not a killer. She is only kidding. She likes dark humor; she was an English minor, so she knows all about that sort of thing. The Perfect American Family that Jon so craves could be the very thing that does him in. Sweet irony -‐‑-‐‑ how Lilla loves thee. Lilla is not a bad person, not even a bad wife. Her family just doesn’t understand that she wants to be -‐‑-‐‑ in fact, is -‐‑-‐‑ more than a placeholder. Jon looks at her and sees wife. Jill and Carly look at her and see mother. Sometimes she feels like she could swap lives with any other wife and mother in the world and her family wouldn’t even notice. As long as there is a wife and a mother, Lilla doubts that it matters very much just who fills the roles. Silly Lilla, wives and mothers don’t have actual names, actual souls. Silly Lilla. Jill goes out for a walk the next night once her family is snug in the bed and breakfast. And the next. Jill meets Charlie by the Laundromat every night that week. She feels adrenaline. And she feels edgy. Gone is the nice girl, the front row student with square-‐‑ish

glasses and a fetish for extra credit. She is now a creature of the night. It’s a little bit glorious. (The only thing that diminishes it all is the fact that it’s light outside, but Jill makes do.) Then on the night before their last day, Charlie takes Jill to some kind of basement club. It’s surprisingly urban, pretty much the kind of thing her peers back home have. It’s dark with strobe lights, and the music is so loud that Jill can feel it pummeling against her heart. Everyone is young and drunk, sweaty and handsy, grinding and dancing and laughing and spilling sticky alcoholic drinks all over the place. So this is what it’s like, Jill thinks. This is life. Welcome to life, Jill. Jill has never grinded (ground?) against anyone or anything in her life. But she pretends that she knows what she’s doing when Charlie pulls her onto the dance floor. And then they all shift around, and she’s suddenly dancing with people she doesn’t even know. It’s a strange exploration of touch. They are all allowed to touch and press and rub, and none of it means anything. Boys are putting their hands all over her, unknowingly teaching her how to flick her hair and how to move to get a reaction. She holds a Solo cup with something alcoholic inside it but doesn’t drink. She wants to be here for every moment of this. And then Charlie teaches her how to make out later. He doesn’t realize he is teaching her, doesn’t realize that her first kisses ever are these. His. Jill loves the attention. She loves what all of this means, signifies. And she knows she will love telling the stories over and over. She will love her hickey. Very much, she will. But does she love this? This moment? Maybe. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell when she feels absolutely nothing.

Carly wakes up when Jill returns late. Carly is awake to witness the wrath of two parents united by fear. “It’s no big deal,” Jill mutters, shutting the bathroom door quickly. “No. Big. DEAL?” Jon practically shouts through the door. Jon is secretly thrilled at the formulaic perfection of it. Rebelling teenage daughter? Check. Right on schedule. Lilla knocks tentatively on the bathroom door. “Sweetheart, are you alright?” “Fine,” comes Jill’s voice through the door. Then there’s a lot of harsh murmuring. It becomes less about Jill and more about Lilla and Jon, as usual. “Maybe it’s because she has a bad example?” Lilla is hissing. “We are not a bad example,” Jon responds. Carly rolls over, hugs her new stuffed animal eagle, and pretends not to hear it. She’s been pretending not to hear things like this for a long time. They just talk so mean to each other -‐‑-‐‑ her family, her people. She doesn’t understand it. They’re not bad people, not even a bad family. They just don’t understand. They just don’t understand. Carly wakes up again when Jill climbs into the squeaky pullout sofa bed. Lilla and Jon have moved into the bathroom, steamy from Jill’s shower, and shut the door. They argue better in private. Their arguing is always high-‐‑level, but it’s world-‐‑class arguing when they are behind closed doors -‐‑-‐‑ especially doors that are too thin to hold in the sound of their voices. Carly climbs into bed next to Jill. “Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks softly.

Jill looks over at her sister. “Sure,” she says. Carly snuggles close and notices a mark on Jill’s neck. “Somebody hurt you, Jill?” she whispers. Jill is not proud in this moment. “No,” Jill says quickly. “I mean… yes… I guess. But it’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry.” “Okay, love you,” Carly says. “Love you, too.” And that’s really the only thing Jill is certain about. Jill can’t sleep, so she plays with Carly’s hair and thinks. She feels a combination of triumph and self-‐‑abhorrence. There is a certain sense of accomplishment in proving that nerdy sweet Jill has a bad side. That she can get drunk boys to put their hands all over her and one certain drunk boy to put his tongue in her mouth. But watching Carly sleep, she wonders what kind of accomplishment is that? She wonders why she did it. Did she do it for herself? She got nothing out of it. Did she do it for the boy? He probably won’t even remember. Did she do it for her friends back home, her shocked parents, the watching world? Maybe. And just what kind of person does that make her? It is the last day in Wrangell. The whole family is on the boat again, heading out to LeConte Glacier. It’s a great photo op. The guide says so. Lots of families take photos in front of the glacier and then use the shot as their Christmas card picture. Lilla thanks the guide for his advice. LeConte Glacier is as good as anywhere for the Christmas photo. When they get close, the guide pulls a chunk of ice out of the water. “Take a look at this, folks,” he says. “This ice is over one thousand years old.”

Carly surges forward to touch it. Jill watches her, wishing she also still had the desire to reach out and touch. “Hey, like my lovely wife,” Jon jokes. No one finds it funny. “Careful,” the guide tells Carly, “it’s really cold.” “Also like my lovely wife,” Jon mumbles. Once they reach the glacier, they pose on the rail of the boat. Lilla passes around her lip gloss to the girls while Jon fiddles with the New Camera’s settings. Jon hands the camera to the guide. “You know what would be cool is if you could catch a Bald Eagle flying in the background,” Jon jokes. “That would be super cool,” Carly says supportively. They hold still while the guide takes several shots. The air is cold and clean, and they are standing close to each other. Close enough to share body heat. They are a family, trying to fit together, snap in place. And in these photos, it really looks like they have done it. “Look at us,” Jon says proudly as they scroll through the photos later. They are speeding back to land. He points to a few specks in the sky that he doesn’t like, gliding his finger along the camera screen. “And we can just use Photoshop to fix these.” He looks closer. There’s something on Jill’s neck, and she’s smiling in spite of it. Or maybe because of it. No one can really be sure. “And that,” he says, pointing the mark out to Lilla. “No, Jon. We can’t,” Lilla says. Her voice is edgy. “Yes, we can,” he says. “And we could even edit in a Bald Eagle for Carly. Ha-‐‑ha. Photoshop is great.”

“No, we can’t,” she snaps. All of their Christmas card friends -‐‑-‐‑ the friends who only see them in matching sweaters, nestled among computer-‐‑generated holly berry borders -‐‑-‐‑ would be convinced that the eagle is real and that their family is real. But Lilla isn’t convinced. Lilla won’t ever be convinced. “Photoshop and Bald Eagles can’t fix everything, Jon.” Jon smiles, though. “Yes, dear, but they come pretty damn close.”

Contest #15. The Woman’s Wednesday Club Essay Contest SPONSOR: THE WOMAN’S WEDNESDAY CLUB, FORT WORTH Judge: Dr. Rich Enos author of Greek Rhetoric Before Aristotle Winner: James Chase Sanchez for “Recirculating our Racism: Public Memory, Folklore, and Place in East Texas”

“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” ---Maya Angelou

My home relocated to Grand Saline, TX, a small salt mining town between Dallas and Shreveport, in the year of 2000. I moved to the town a few weeks into my seventh grade year and stayed there until I left for college at eighteen. Though I still have a few childhood friends from other places, most of my lifelong friends are from Grand Saline, and I still refer to the town as my home. Maya Angelou, in the quote above, finds home to be the “safe place” for no questions, and during my schooling years, I would have easily appropriated her definition of home as my own for Grand Saline. However, the idea of home changes, over time, and all safeness can disappear too. I say this because before the summer of 2014, most people who knew me in town would say that it was my home too. But things changed. On June 23, 2014, a white preacher, Charles Moore, self-immolated in Grand Saline’s biggest parking lot in protest of the town’s racial history. The selfimmolation received little news coverage, but I felt Moore’s death deserved more recognition. So, I solicited a few newspapers to cover the event and a few of them did. Residents of my town knew I provided this information, and many of them afterwards labeled me as a “traitor.” One childhood friend, in particular, called me “a self-righteous, uninformed, self-serving psuedo-academic…[who] used this town [and] defamed it” (“Racism in Grand Saline?”). Needless to say, my relationship with my hometown changed.

Reading Moore’s suicide note, “O GRAND SALINE, REPENT OF YOUR RACISM,” reveals that Moore’s death rhetorically involved more than some vague remorse or discontent— Moore specifically felt pain over the town’s racist history. In his letter, he recites a precise memory that affected the outcome of his life: When I was about 10-years-old, some friends and I were walking down the road toward the creek to catch some fish, when a man called “Uncle Billy” stopped us and called us into his house for a drink of water—but his real purpose was to cheerily tell us about helping to kill ‘niggers’ and put their heads on a pole. A section of Grand Saline was (maybe still is) called ‘pole town,’ where the heads were displayed. It was years later before I knew what the name meant. Charles Moore was born on July 18, 1934. He was “about ten-years-old” during the mid-1940s, over forty years before I was born. Nevertheless, when I moved to Grand Saline in the early-2000s, I heard similar stories of “Pole Town” from friends and peers, except they were not first-hand experiences; rather, they were third- and fourth-generation stories (at the earliest). Legends of Pole Town, the site of black decapitation and massacre, extend at least over three quarters of a century, and the same stories that led Charles Moore to self-immolate made me believe during high school that being racist was cool and normal. Now, I reflect on my past with disgust. My time in Grand Saline appeared normal enough even as I left to enter college in 2006. But it was only when I left this closed-off culture that I slowly began to see how my town’s past traumatized me. I could never tell people where I was from because I feared that they would associate me with racism. Soon, when I critically examined my past, I understood how racism constructed my realities. Pep rallies before football games would end with the entire team shouting with pride, “We’re alright cuz we’re all white!” A coach once told me to not piss off the black boys on the other team because “black kids become better athletes when they are pissed.” In hindsight, I

desperately attempted to become white in high school, to disassociate all of my brownness, so I would not be the point of ridicule for many peers. Still my nicknames were “Beaner,” “Wetback,” and “Sancho.” These names did not hurt me at the time because it was a playful way for me to fit in with my friends, but I see now how this was a way for me to cope with the color of my skin, to be the whitest brown kid in school. The story that Charles Moore alludes to does not just present a racialized folklore of one specific location. It combines with other stories of Clark’s Ferry and the Sundown Town to represent a larger legacy for the entire area. More specifically, each legend corresponds with a particular place: Pole Town with a small section of the town on the southwest side, Clark’s Ferry to a spot seven miles north of town on the banks of the Sabine River, and the Sundown Town stories with the entrances to the town from both sides of Highway 80. All of these folklores situate three or four particular sites of memory, but they also designate place in the town of Grand Saline, too: a place for racism to continue breeding well into the 21st-century. The racist stories of Grand Saline utilize a systemic structure to maintain power, producing a culture implicit in everyday, casual racism that does not appear racist. To fully explore the implications of my hometown’s public memory, I interviewed residents to better understand their memory of these folklore. I had the pleasure to interview ten different people about my hometown. Half of these interviews were completed in person, and the other half were conducted via telephone and email. I solicited interviews through my website and Facebook, and particularly, I attempted to recruit people who I knew stood on various sides of the Grand Saline racial history (based on a recording of their public comments). Each interview focuses on questions about the public memory of Grand Saline. I asked respondents open-ended questions on these stories (such as, “What is your memory of the story of Pole Town?) and racial relations in the

town (such as, “What do outsiders think about the town?). The people I recruited represent a wide array of responses about the town’s history and culture and were selected for this exact reason. Public Memory, Place, and Race My analysis of Grand Saline’s folklore stems from recent scholarship in public memory rhetorics. In his chapter “Public Memory in Place and Time,” Edward S. Casey asserts, “Public memory is both attached to a past (typically an originating event of some sort) and acts to ensure a future of further remembering of that same event” (17). Casey relates public memory to acts of tradition, consisting of a past and a commemoration. Other scholars, such as Amy Heuman and Catherine Langford, use public memory to analyze traditions too. These authors study whiteness at Texas A&M University, claiming, “Memory constitutes identity and identity constitutes memory. Our analysis examines how ideologies get remembered and perpetuated through the traditions of an institution, a culture, or a community as a response” (121). To Casey and Hueman and Langford, public memory lives through acting out renditions of these memories, such as in reenacting a Civil War battle at a famous site. For my argument, I believe that people in Grand Saline “perform” their memories through retelling their folklore. Public memory develops because town members keep these legends alive and tell them to new people who move into town. My research does not just fit within a broad realm of public memory; it also signifies memory as placemaking too. Greg Dickinson, Carole Blair, and Brian L. Ott declare emphatically on placemaking, “Of course, real and imaginary places have long stood metonymically for grand ideas, satirical commentary, geopolitical histories, horrifying or scandalous events, idealized community, maligned political stances and so forth (23). Their edited collection situates public memory with certain public memorials. To these editors and their authors, actual sites of memorials embody public memory, such as in the National Jazz Museum and at Alcatraz Island. Greggory Clark also believes, “Rhetorical experiences, whether discursive or not, present powerful symbols of shared

identity that teach people whom they ought to aspire, individually as well as collectively, to be” (5). His work expands “our awareness of the rhetorical resources that prompt the individuals who constitute a community to adopt a common identity (8-9). Clark’s book identifies certain sites, such as Yellowstone and the Lincoln Highway, that ask tourists to enact certain traditions to develop a communal experience. Where Dickinson, Blair, and Ott focus on how sites symbolize public memory, Clark finds that experiences and traditions at these sites often encompass a public experience, a new type of memory. The stories of Grand Saline correspond with particular sites of memory too, on the edges of town on Highway 80, at the bridge in Pole Town, and at the river bank at Clark’s Ferry. The stories, combined with the sites of these memories, work to maintain memorials of Grand Saline’s racist legacy and molds place for storytellers and visitors. Lastly, some recent scholarship has connected public memory and place with race, which is vital for my own scholarship. In his book, Paul A. Shackel finds that “minority groups often struggle to assert their view through commemoration, although sometimes their views are overpowered by those of the dominant group,” and often times, the control of a collective public revolve around intense debates between minorities and dominant groups (173-4). Race then becomes a lens to understand sites of public memory. Shackel’s work opens the door for my own scholarship, that race can become a lens in rhetorical placemaking. Victoria J. Gallagher and Margaret R. LaWare use the public memory of race in their own analysis of the Monument of Joe Louis, situated in downtown Detroit. The authors declare, “Artifacts that memorialize individuals and events that are ‘raced,’ are essentially complicated, unfinished texts that…creat[e] a place and occup[y] a space that is ambiguous yet recognizable and, ultimately, rhetorical” (102-3). Race remains in an on-going conversation of meaning because it has such a complicated relationship in America’s history and future. Scholars such as Carl Gutierrez-Jones note this, believing “the processes of defining race and racism must themselves be ongoing and incomplete because these terms have complex rhetorical

lives,” and thus the analysis of the monument makes sense: the authors comprehend the complexity of race’s relationship with place as being the meaning behind the piece (27). For my argument, I believe racialized folklores can embody this ambiguity at public sites of racism, especially as it relates to white people remembering racism publicly. I argue that for my hometown, the three specific stories of a racist past keeps the town’s racist legacy intact. By simply retelling these stories and visiting these sites, the residents of Grand Saline continually memorialize themselves as being racist. The Shadows of Our Sins A windy backroad takes residents from the north side of Grand Saline to the Sabine River, a body of water that spreads from the border of Texas and Louisiana and meanders to near the Oklahoma border. Jack Kerouac once referred to the Sabine as “an evil old river” in On the Road. He could have written that line from Clark’s Ferry, the spot where the old trail in Grand Saline meets the Sabine. From the center of town, the journey to Clark’s Ferry is 6.5 miles of bumpy, rotting pavement, leading to a mile of dirt, and then to the turnaround at the Sabine. As adolescents, we spent many nights drinking beer at this spot and trying to scare one another from these woods. But Clark’s Ferry denotes more than childhood freedom; it also embodies the legacy of racism as well. There are two legends of Clark’s Ferry that distinguish themselves easily from one another but which tie place and folklore together. One origin narrative states that a long time ago, a man named Clark helped schoolchildren cross the river on his ferry. Unfortunately, one day the ferry flipped, and the children all drowned. The story always seemed unreal to me because the river bed is only a few feet deep, but nevertheless the spot received its name from this story. Another story defines the space of Clark’s Ferry as well, one still persistent with folklore but which carries a more haunting tune. To many of us high schoolers, Clark’s Ferry exemplified an evil past—more particularly a secret meeting spot for the KKK. Growing up in this area we heard the legends:

various residents in the area claimed to have seen people amongst the woody shadows at night, partaking in the rituals of the Ku Klux Klan. People I interviewed about this folklore all narrated similar stories about the area. Sarah Dern, a woman who has lived in Grand Saline for seventeen years, clearly remembers stories: I’ve always heard Klan activity takes place out there. I can remember my husband saying when he was in high school they were out on the back roads out there one night, and there was a tree across the road, and they got out to move it so that they could get through, and looked over in the pasture, and there was a Klan meeting with a cross being burnt. And when [my husband] saw [the Klan], they took off after [him], and [he] literally were doing like 80 down that blacktop road to get out of there. It scared [him] to death. Dern also recalls that local kids in the late-1990s attempted to create a project on Clark’s Ferry but were scolded by elders in the town. A previous resident of the town, Brittney Welch, who I knew in high school, declares quickly when asked about Clark’s Ferry, “Well, everyone says that is where the KKK is still active.” However, not everyone I interviewed was as quick to remember this story. Another interviewee close to my age, Amanda Jones, states that she has “never heard of a story about Clark’s Ferry,” but does remember “growing up hearing the usual stories we all did: the KKK used to have meetings, [and] someone’s grandparents had white robes in their closet.” The image of the KKK pervading Grand Saline’s culture emerged in six of the seven interviews from town residents, without being directly prompted about the KKK in my questions. Though not everyone mentioned the story of Clark’s Ferry, most could remember, vaguely, stories about the KKK being present. Clark’s Ferry exemplifies an interesting space for me. Every once in awhile, we would drive out there and find a dead hog or another animal that someone displayed as a ritualistic sacrifice. I

always assumed it was just other high school students. The memory of the KKK is not explicit in the river’s movement or in the trees blowing in the wind; the only hint of its racist past and presence exists in the story of others. The origin story appears innocent enough to the people of Grand Saline, but it remains rhetorical in its very presence. By retelling tales of the KKK, suggesting that racism still breeds in our woods, the people of Grand Saline perpetuate a racism. Though none of the storytellers would claim to be racists, the story embellishes the town’s history and culture, indicting the culture as racist and also providing the place “with some lastingness,” or a factor that makes Clark’s Ferry memorable (Casey 39). The act of retelling folklore memorializes storytellers, appointing them participants in the tradition and denying them responsibility. Another folklore transports us to the southwest side of town, across the railroad tracks, in one of the poorer parts often referred to as “Pole Town.” To get to the area when I lived in the town, you crossed an old wooden bridge that shook the hell out of your vehicle. Each wooden plank wiggled with pressure from tires, and I distinctly recollect holding my breath each time I crossed it, knowing this would be the time I would fall onto the train tracks below. However, sometime after I left the town, the bridge eventually fell and was not replaced. Brittney Welch and I talked about the significance of the bridge during our session. “They are not even rebuilding the Pole Town Bridge,” Welch indicated to me. “It is down, but they are not going to rebuild it, which amazes me…they have no intentions of rebuilding it, even though it is the main access to the rodeo.” The bridge and the tracks always felt strange to me as a kid, somehow reminding me of a past I could not explain, and as Welch states, it remains the main access to a popular venue. Yet, the town refuses to rebuild the bridge. I believe this directly relates to its racist symbolism. The story of Pole Town conveys more explicit racial implications than Clark’s Ferry. As the legend goes, residents of the town hung black people on the bridge and let trains demolish their dead bodies as they passed by. Residents would then decapitate the bodies and place the heads on

poles all around the area. As an adolescent, I remember hearing this story and thought about it often as I trekked through Pole Town on the way to friends’ houses. I associated the story of the lynchings with the roughness of the bridge—with every jolt in my car I could imagine the deceased swinging below, bouncing off trains like my tires bouncing off the cracked wood. While not everyone recollected a specific story associated with Clark’s Ferry, all town residents I interviewed recalled legends about Pole Town. Alan Greggory, a man who went to high school with me, hesitated to discuss more specific stories at first. He acknowledged, partially, the legend of Pole Town, though he seemed timid due to the volatile nature of the interview. He stated when asked specifically about the story, “Man, I feel like I have one story, and I can’t remember it. Something pertaining to the actual pole.” Alan remembers a story connected to the area, but does not move past this simple description. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Maybe he chooses not to. Amanda Jones, another participant who pushes against Grand Saline’s racial culture, clearly recalled the story though: “I believe the name ‘Pole Town’ originated from [stories that] black people would be hung by members of the KKK on poles” there. Other participants produced the stories with ease. Shirley Crawford, the only minority from town I interviewed, articulated a clear pain: “I was told they would sometimes torture them by throwing rocks at them, cutting them, or making them watch their other family members die before they died.” Welch even noted that “when the Saline Café was open they still had pictures up of the bridge and I think it had a couple of lynchings in them.” When I asked if she remembered specifically seeing those pictures, she nodded in agreement. This café closed down in the mid-1990s. The story of Pole Town designates a place with a more lingering image of racism. Compared to Clark’s Ferry, Pole Town remains a site of pain, focusing less on tales of the KKK and more on a real image of decapitated black people. I can hear it in the people’s voices when they bring up the Saline Café and the brutal descriptions of the deceased. John Bodnar writes that pain often

rhetorically situates war memorials because it reminds communities of their dead (156). I believe the bridge and site at Pole Town fulfills a similar effect for those in Grand Saline, reminding them of a past pain of racism and lynching and a realization of the horrors of their ancestors. The bridge may have fallen, but that pain still peeks through the crevices of cracked road on both sides of the train tracks. Though the previous two stories aligned strongly with actual places, one of the final stories about Grand Saline’s racist history emerges in a more vague space. Highway 80 splits the town in half, running all the way to Dallas (about sixty miles west) and to Shreveport (about 125 miles east). The road parallels Interstate 20, which is ten miles south of the highway, but for many travelers in the area, Highway 80 is the main access to not only the town but to larger cities as well. From the east, the town nestles behind three large hills. Upon entering the city limits, an old abandoned steel plant rests on the left followed by the skating rink which was every kids’ weekend outing in late grade school and middle school. From the west, one drives around a large curve with the train tracks on the right, tucked behind a small tree line. Rounding the curve a large sign welcomes people to Grand Saline, followed by a large lumber store on the left side of the highway. I explain these entrances to better imagine what the story of Grand Saline being a “Sundown Town” looks like. “Sundown Towns” are towns that forbid African-Americans from living within their city limits. James W. Loewen notes that they were so-named “because many marked their city limits with signs typically reading, ‘Nigger, Don’t Let The Sun Go Down on You In ___’” (1). In his research on sundown towns, Loewen confirms Grand Saline as one in his “Sundown Towns Database.” In his oral history of the town, Loewen has gathered some interesting narratives. One person claimed that the town purged black residents after Reconstruction, “killing all who were unable to escape…The mass killings were followed by mutilation of the corpses for public display” (“Grand Saline, TX Sundown Town”). A former slave who travelled through town even said that

“Dey had a big sign dere wid ‘Nigger, don’t let de sun go down on you here’ on it.” The history of Grand Saline’s Sundown Town status seems well-recorded through oral history, yet the actual place of the sign(s) remains unknown in these oral stories. Where non-residents I spoke to were mostly unable to attest to stories of Clark’s Ferry and Pole Town, many of them acknowledged knowing stories of the Sundown Town signs. Latonya Winters, a black woman who grew up in Edgewood, a town ten miles west of Grand Saline, stated certainly, “I do believe I heard there was a sign in Grand Saline that stated, ‘Niggers don’t let the sun go down on you here!’” Leon Sylvester, a white reporter who worked for the county’s newspaper for thirteen years and lived in Canton, a town twelve miles south of town, spoke with many locals about the signs in the past. He asserts, “Most people in Grand Saline, however, seemed to deny the sign’s existence and would not talk about it when asked. A number of people I spoke with, however, were certain of having seen it at some point in the past.” For people outside of Grand Saline, the stories of the Sundown Town sign seem real and historical. Though the people of Grand Saline remain uncertain about the sign’s existence, they have all heard the stories (mostly from outsiders). One former resident, Lacey Michaels, grew up in the town her entire life and recalls “being told, mostly by people from surrounding town, that Grand Saline used to have a sign at the city limits.” She states that her father was unsure if this was true or not. Sarah Dern, who grew up an hour from the town, even remembers people in her small community calling the town a Sundown Town. Though nine of the ten respondents recalled the sign, none have ever seen it, and many believed it was just another legend as well. This legend only stays alive through the tradition of retelling these stories and visiting the edges of the town where the signs might have existed. Heuman and Langford believe, “Traditions are customs and practices handed down from the predecessor. Tradition is not observed; tradition is enacted” (126). The people of Grand Saline breathe life into these stories, memorializing them, by keeping them in the public’s

storytelling imaginary. Though there is little proof the signs existed, the stories themselves make them real. Together, these three stories not only assign a physical place for racism, located in certain areas of the town, but also stay in existence through the public memory of the town. More specifically, the continual telling and retelling of these folklores represent a 21st-century racist practice. A Legend of Race My interviews demonstrate that hardly anyone in the town would refer to themselves as racist or would label Grand Saline as a racist town. Their logic pushes against an essentialist viewpoint. Critical race scholars Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic state, “When we think of the term ‘essentializing,’ we think of pairing something down until the heart of the matter stands alone” (62-3). Scholars typically use this term when discussing stereotypes of race—so believing something like “all brown people speak Spanish” would be essentializing Latinas/os since many of us do not speak Spanish. In terms of the Grand Saline interviews, people of the town believe that calling the town racist essentializes their residents, and since they are not all racist, people could not label the town this way. However, the stories many recollect from town imply something different. Where most of the resident’s arguments against being called racist (on social media platforms) focus on the explicit use of racism, I contend that the town’s culture postulates this racism by keeping these stories in the public sphere. Thus, when I refer to “the town” in this chapter, I am pointing to its culture, not every single resident in the town. Many of the people I spoke to referred to these stories as being “folklore” or “things that kids just say.” Others, such as Tracy Lunsford, a woman who left town and never looked back, see things differently. “Fear,” she declared. “By retelling these stories they are keeping the fear alive, thus keeping them cocooned in their ‘white bubbles.’” These stories mold

the town’s understanding of race and keep black people as a distant ‘other.’ They also explain how the town’s culture fears blackness—making them the victims of the town’s racial power. The hegemony protects itself by continually demonstrating historically how they have oppressed black people. And without having any remorse within these stories, the culture of Grand Saline demonstrates their hegemonic prowess. Each story revolves around not only a certain place, but objects within these spaces as well. Clark’s Ferry derives from the turnaround at the river’s edge; Pole Town surfaces from the cracked bridge; and the Sundown Town receives fame from the hateful sign(s). Yet, the history of the Sundown Town signs remain ambiguous. The bridge at Pole Town fell a few years ago, and the city has not bothered replacing it. Even the turnaround at the Sabine has been closed off, gated by a private property owner tired of kids messing around in his woods. To me, this expels the importance of these sites of memory—by taking away access to them or by removing the symbols of each site, the town attempts to erase a racialized past. But they can’t. The stories, the true power behind this folklore, keeps them alive, even as the fences, fallen bridges, and destroyed signs call for erasure. I am not the first one to talk about Grand Saline’s racist culture. Mike Daniel, a Dallas attorney who filed suit against Grand Saline’s discriminatory housing in 1985, acknowledges the problem: “The Ku Klux Klan hasn’t bothered to go to Grand Saline because they know they don’t have to. Nothing’s going to change in Grand Saline.” What a powerful statement. And it seems to still hold true thirty years later. To me, and to some others who reside outside of the town’s perimeters, the town has a stain of racism unable to be cleaned in their culture; they continually cover it with preachings of inclusion and acceptance, but it still persists below the surface, breeding in the stories of their (public) memories. My own story attests to this. Still, the people of my hometown are not “evil” racists. They follow the same principles of most of America, believing in colorblindness (a different problem) and having fundamental

American values. Main Street Baptist Church (the largest church in town) even recruited a black preacher to be their full-time minister, and he just won “Man of the Year” honors from the Grand Saline Chamber of Commerce in 2015 (Fite). Overall, the residents could be the people of any rural city in the South. What prevents them from being more progressive is the persistence of racist folklore across the 20th- and 21-centuries. No one individual is responsible for the memorialization of these sites; we are all culpable merely by visiting them and retelling the stories. And as long as young kids go backroading at night and tell the legends of their ancestors’ misdeeds, this sphere of agony will continue to thrive, even as the sites decay and lose symbolic value. My mom no longer lives in Grand Saline. She moved ten miles east with my stepfather to the slightly larger town of Mineola. This leaves me no real reason to go to the town except to visit occasional friends who still live there or in passing by on the way to visit my mother from the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex. When I get close to the town’s entrance, a tingle always shoots up my spine. I don’t think it is nostalgia or a sense of home anymore, but a memory of the traditions I took part in—telling the legends, visiting the sites, keeping the folklore alive. The feeling soon dissipates. Grand Saline may no longer be my home, but it will always represent a racialized place of my past, one I choose to remember so I can choose to do better.

Works Cited Bodnar, John. “Bad Dreams about the Good War.” Dickinson, Blair, and Ott. 139-59. Bonilla-Silva, Eduardo. Racism without Racist. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003. Print. Callaway, Wendi. “Man Sets Himself on Fire in Public Parking Lot.” Grand Saline Sun. 25 Jun. 2014. 1. Print. Casey, Edward S. “Public Memory in Place and Time.” Framing Public Memory. Ed. Kendall R. Phillips. Tuscaloosa: U of Alabama P, 2004. 17-44. Print. Clark, Gregory. Rhetorical Landscapes in America. Columbia: U of South Carolina P, 2004. Print. Crawford, Shirley. Personal Interview. 15 Apr. 2015. Delgado, Richard, and Jean Stefancic. Critical Race Theory: An Introduction 2nd ed. New York: New York UP, 2012. Print. Dern, Sarah. Personal Interview. 12 Mar. 2015. Dickinson, Greg, Carole Blair, and Brian L. Ott, eds. Places of Public Memory: The Rhetoric of Museums and Memorials. Tuscaloosa: U of Alabama P, 2010. Print Feuchtwang, Stephan. “Ritual and Memory.” Memory: Histories, Theories, Debates. Eds. Susannah Radstone and Bill Schwarz. New York: Fordham UP, 2010. 281-298. Print. Fite, BR. “Chamber of Commerce throws annual banquet fundraiser.” Grand Saline Sun. TownNews.com. 4 Apr. 2015. Web. 14 Apr. 2015. Gallagher, Victoria J., and Margaret R. LaWare. “Sparring with Public Memory: The Rhetorical Embodiment of Race, Power, and Conflict in the Monument to Joe Louis.” Dickinson, Blair, and Ott. 87-112. Greggory, Alan. Personal Interview. 15 Mar. 2015.

Gutierrez-Jones, Carl. Critical Race Narratives: A Study of Race, Rhetoric, and Injury. New York: New York UP, 2001. Print. Hueman, Amy, and Catherine Langford. “Tradition and Southern Confederate Culture.” Public Memory, Race, and Ethnicity. Ed. G. Mitchell Reyes. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2010. 120-40. Print. Jones, Amanda. Personal Interview. 3 Apr. 2015. Kerouac, Jack. On The Road. New York: Viking P, 1957. Print. Loewen, James. W. “Grand Saline, TX. Sundown Town.” Sundown Towns: A Hidden Dimension of American Racism. James W. Loewen. ND. Web. 1 Apr. 2015. ---. “Sundown Towns.” Poverty and Race Newsletter 14.6 (2005): 1-2. EBSCO. Web. 25 Mar. 2015. Michaels, Lacey. Personal Interview. 11 Apr. 2015. Lunsford, Tracy. Personal Interview. 16 Apr. 2016. Moore, Charles. “O Grand Saline, Repent of Your Sins.” Letter. 23 June 2014. MS. Grand Saline, Texas. Obasogie, Osagie K. Blinded by Sight. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2014. Print. “Racism in Grand Saline?—Comments.” Facebook. 15 Jul. 2014. Web. 15 Jul. 2014. https://www.facebook.com/grandsaline.sun/posts/291551221025462 Shackel, Paul A. Memory in Black and White. Walnut Creek: AltaMira P, 2003. Print. Stewart, Richard. “Desegregation – ‘Nothing's ... to change in Grand Saline.’” Houston Chronicle 17 Oct. 1993, 2 STAR, STATE: 1. NewsBank. Web. 16 Apr. 2015. Sylvester, Leon. Personal Interview. 12 Apr. 2015. Towns, W. Stuart. Enduring Legacy: Rhetoric and Ritual of the Lost Cause. Tuscaloosa: U of Alabama P, 2012. Print. Welch, Brittney. Personal Interview. 9 Mar. 2015.

Winters, Latonya. Personal Interview. 12 Apr. 2015. Â

Contest #16. The Betsy Colquitt Graduate Poetry Contest SPONSOR: LINDA CLARK OF GEORGETOWN, TX Judge: Dr. Chantel Langlinais Carlson, author of The Exhibit Winner: James Chase Sanchez for “Ouroboros”

As the winter chill begins to fade, and the spring brings on a rebirth of Spirit,

I move past the summer's gaze and return to tragedies of autumn's gloom

of cloudy skies falling leaves

and lack of hope.

For next winter will surely be our demise, if only we can hold on much longer.

Contest #17. The Margie Boswell Poetry Contest SPONSOR: THE BOSWELL FAMILY, WHOSE ENDOWED GIFT HONORING MARGIE B. BOSWELL FUNDS THIS AWARD Judge: Anonymous Winner, 1st Place: Eric Fisher Stone for “Immensity, The Sermon on the Mount, South Padre Island” Immensity Even the air is immense while I swing at a playground years ago, the fireball sun filling each daylit thing, my hands, rubbed chains hoisting me on the set, inside the pores of luminous sandgrains. I remember gulls twisting through the sky like paper boats, their wings over the wheat of dragonflies whose larvae crawl from ponds and night’s dark wheel and great whales surface from black seachambers and cosmic namelessness to birth-light and I swing higher thinking about galaxies and their billions and beaded cloud-smoked worlds and different dawns stirring above them each as real as my life, every moment honest as when I saw my friend swinging next to me, his mother spreading the picnic blanket on the grass and he died later that day from asthma, his body melting trillions of cells back to immensity after burial and every atom is such a cathedral I can’t know how vast I am, so many crystals glinting unseen in caves, so many ghosts.

The Sermon on the Mount Sunrise ringed the peaks, nettles quivering in winds perfumed by clouds and resin as I walked up the trail over Taos, New Mexico with quaking aspens shafted upwards, ponderosa pines and Douglas firs spired the sky’s rim before I saw a mountain man, his hands soiled by earth, his gray beard flooding his tattered shirt, black boots swallowing his feet to his knees— a seasoned traveler or poacher or rebel or shepherd or redneck or drifting criminal or hippie or hipster lost for decades or voyaging prophet or all multitudes of men masked in one person I didn’t know what to make of until he talked: Hey man, want to toke? Ah, I sighed. Thanks but I keep my lungs clear. I knew you wasn’t a cop, he grinned. I can show you my stash but you ain’t got to smoke nothin’. I live out here. Here? I asked. Yeah. Here. I didn’t tell him it’s illegal to live off Carson National Forest but I followed him past a snowmelt stream in the wooded arc of mountains and saw his home upheld by sapling boughs and he pushed a pallet over a foxhole he reached in for his stash of weed and rolled some to a blunt, conjured a fire with flint and tinder and smoked while we chatted.

He told me, Staying hungry for forty days I chewed mushrooms milked with magic and saw a policeman who wasn’t there yell at me to turn toadstools to bread. I said no and he yelled at me to jump off the mountainside and the swat team would catch me and I said no and then he said to look below and I could become a pastor of the largest megachurch and all the people down there would be my flock and I said no and then he disappeared. Since then I’ve owned nothing, wanted nothing besides my body and the grass I walk on. I’ve recited psalms of chipmunks and sang in the green choirs of mountain bluebirds. My brother the elk, my mother the she-bear, are welcome here; creatures uncorrupted by knowledge of good and evil gather druidic thoughts, hunting, mating, nursing, their hoof-steps holy in the vaulting sun’s fire and they speak and see without words, so I learn from the animal saints unnaming the universe, from birds, beasts, flowers, meteors needling heaven’s black cloth until my sight and voice is pure as a newborn’s cry when his eyes open the first time. Blessed are turning worms swirling beneath our feet. They refute the afterlife while bodies, not spirits, make love. Blessed are pigs and the rainbow, the stairs to second infancy. Blessed are human feet and genitals rolled with red clay. Blessed are dancers, spinning through the mystery of the air.

Blessed are oceans pounding with jellies and slender dolphins. Blessed are.

South Padre Island Ark shells arrow through currents urchin-washed, wheeling whales far from starfish-slipped shores in broiling depths, where I come at last to open space, Earth ending as skies gather, no trees from fuming plumes and I cannot see an edge. The darkness of the darkness pooled in my dreams dashes where monstrous fishmouths gorge on blackness and magic crabs big as trucks pray with their claws for the loggerhead’s journey. May my marrow slicken to jellyfish pillowing the sea’s mystery. I shall join the Alpha and Omega, singing the beginning from the end, and the end from the beginning. Glaciers crumble into falls rushing rivers towards oceans in the face of the deep and waters of the void. Creation only blooms from oblivion. Corals scrape the waves’ briny belly. A pearled nautilus dances with eternity. Eels whip the stern of a ship, coiling upwards, still farther like gulls and sea turtles mounting glowing land. Let there be light.

Contest #17. The Margie Boswell Poetry Contest SPONSOR: THE BOSWELL FAMILY, WHOSE ENDOWED GIFT HONORING MARGIE B. BOSWELL FUNDS THIS AWARD Judge: Anonymous Winner, 2nd Place: Jerry Bradley for “Approaching the Coast of Arizona”

Approaching the Coast of Arizona Kerouacing through West Texas, we pass miles of tessellated farms, some with cotton, some summer hay. We sleep with friends when we can – though they’ve always been too far between – collapsing into possibility onto cots and old mattresses like Schrodinger’s cat, every bit alive but dead from the road. One afternoon we took relief under trees behind an elementary school where weeks earlier kids had pledged themselves to a wall, until a colony of flannel moths drove us back to the pavement. Days later in a shinnery near the caprock, we lay beneath the ellipsis of Orion’s belt and let go. The universe seemed to let go too, and the planets delayed their appointed rounds. But our lives have always been like that: a little on the small side. No hope either across the border: the Jornado del Muerto, Smokey’s burial mound, the Bisti Badlands, Billy the Kid’s grave, and old Lincoln where the Grey Fox beat cancer with a bullet. Beyond, California has begun to sink into the sea.

Contest #18. The Sigma Tau Delta Essay Award SPONSORS: CHI ALPHA CHAPTER, SIGMA TAU DELTA, DR. ARIANE BALIZET & DR. KAREN STEELE Judge: Mr. T.J. McLemore Winner: Kelsey Geller for “The Jealousy that Came Before the Fall: A Critical Review of Paradise Lost” In the Biblical narrative of the Creation story, Satan’s motivation and character are glossed over in favor of the fall of man. In fact, his name is not even mentioned in the narrative, and one has to look to other biblical sources in order to determine that Satan was the serpent behind Eve’s temptation in the first place, such as: “The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world – he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him” (New Revised Standard Version, Rev. 12.9). In writing Paradise Lost, John Milton attempts to fill in the blanks of the Creation story by expanding the character of Satan in order to make sense of his actions. In Book One, Satan reveals to Beelzebub that he refuses to submit to God, confessing “Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven” (362). This quote suggests that Satan’s main reason for rebelling rested in God himself and his sovereignty over the rest of the angels. He goes on to assert that God has no right to reign over the angels, as they should all be treated with equality. However, based on further revelations of Satan’s character throughout the poem, his motivation can and should be called into question, as it is far more likely that his motivation stems from jealousy toward the Son. A cunning character, Satan disguises his true jealous motives by spouting off egalitarian ideas that his fellow demons and even Milton’s readers could understand; by giving Satan the ideas his audience could support, Milton intentionally makes his readers uncomfortable and forces them to consider what they read, rather than simply accepting his ideas blindly. Though Milton’s portrayal of Satan in the early books of Paradise Lost may appear to be that of a fallen angel seeking equality in heaven, the character should not, in fact, be trusted.

Book Two describes a scenario in which Satan is caught in a subtle manipulation of Beelzebub and the rest of the fallen angels. In what is meant to be a democratic process, the demons hold a counsel to decide their next course of action now that all have been banished from heaven to hell after their great rebellion. After listening to the speeches of Moloch, Belial, and Mammon, Beelzebub stands and proclaims that remaining in Hell and attempting to build an empire would be fruitless. However, he also states that open war against God is not necessary, and that the demons can wreak havoc on a “new world” that the almighty is building instead (Milton 383). The demons vote and agree on this plan, and the process seems just. It is violated, however, by the fact that it was actually Satan who gave Beelzebub the idea for his speech in the first place. First, after Beelzebub admits his uncertainty about continuing a fight with God, Satan encourages him by saying that open war was not necessary, and that they would simply have to work to pervert all of God’s good intentions for the sake of evil. … If then his providence Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, Our labour must be to pervert that end, And out of good still to find means of evil; (Milton 360) Even after Beelzebub presents his speech, the narrator says he had first been “devised by Satan,” leaving no mistake on where the demon truly received his ideas (Milton 385). Beyond that, upon addressing the myriad of demons for the first time after the fall, Satan even mentions the new world that God is rumored to have created: Space may produce new worlds; whereof so rife There went a fame in heaven that he ere long Intended to create, and therein plant

A generation, whom his choice regard Should favour equal to the sons of heaven: Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps Our first eruption, thither or elsewhere; (Milton 372) At the time that Satan planted these ideas, every demon was in an incredibly vulnerable state. They had been defeated and banished to eternal punishment, their only hope being that Satan had not been vanquished and that they were not “lost in loss itself” (Milton 368). Satan’s quiet manipulation of their thoughts and feelings toward future actions shows his cunning and deceptive nature from the very beginning of Milton’s epic poem. Despite his subtle manipulations of Beelzebub and his demonic army, Satan might have been able to leave Milton’s readers completely convinced of his stated motivation for rebellion had it not been for the archangel Gabriel revealing a significant part of his past that Satan had kept hidden up to this point. For the majority of Paradise Lost, Satan spends time arguing against the innate sovereignty of God. Book Four reveals, however, that this had not always been the case. During Satan’s heated argument with Gabriel in the garden, Gabriel accuses Satan of hypocrisy. He reminds him of how not only did Satan serve and worship God, but that no other angel achieved the same amount of devotion that he offered (Milton 444). Based on Satan’s prior deceptions of his own followers, one must assume that Gabriel is telling the truth on this matter. The fallen angel does not even deny the charges laid against him in this moment, further proving Gabriel’s validity. By revealing that, prior to the great rebellion, Satan had been a loyal servant, standing out above all other angels, Milton’s audience can no longer give Satan credibility. Despite Satan’s unreliableness, Milton offers a unique interpretation of his motivations that avoids declaring him evil from creation. Satan’s primary objective could not have been

gaining power over God, since he had been truly dedicated to worshipping the almighty before the rebellion, as revealed in Book Four. Instead, Paradise Lost offers a glimpse at the catalyst that drove Satan to begin building an army in the first place: the exaltation of the Son. His promotion was met with rejoicing and dancing from the other angels, welcoming his newly appointed sovereignty with open arms. However, as Raphael reveals to Adam in the garden, Satan was the only one who felt no joy in his heart. According to him, Satan was “fraught with envy against the Song of God, that day / Honoured by his great father, and proclaimed / Messiah king anointed” (Milton 462). This event is the moment of inspiration for Satan’s rebellion against God. Instead of desiring to overpower God, Milton asserts that envy toward the Son was the ultimate motivation behind Satan’s actions. Knowing that Satan’s envy was his inspiration, one of two things can be assumed by the reader: either Satan thinks no angel should be promoted over the others, or he thinks the Son’s newly appointed position should have been his. Based on the evidence Milton gives to build Satan up as a positive character despite any biases his audience would have toward him, one can assume that Satan believed he would be worthy of power. The narrator, in fact, gives several instances of Satan’s prowess as a leader; although the rebellion ended in banishment and punishment, he still maintained a personal victory in how close the battle had come. He and his followers had not been decimated immediately, but rather the battle had been hard fought. While speaking to Beelzebub in Book One, Satan rejoices in this victory, claiming God’s “utmost power with adverse power opposed / In dubious battle on the plains of heaven, / And shook his throne” (Milton 358). The fact that he and his army had come so close as to threaten the very throne of God, in Satan’s mind, proved their strength and righteousness. With his leadership,

Satan was able to lead the rebellion that almost caused God’s downfall, highlighting his skill as a leader amongst his people. Aside from Satan’s own confidence in his natural leadership abilities, he could have been a clear choice for promotion based on the confidence his peers held in him. The battle between the demons and God’s army had been long and wearisome, and the fallen angels are introduced first by lying on hell’s floor still holding their weapons. It is not until Satan calls them forward that they finally move. … which on his countenance cast Like doubtful hue: but he his wonted pride Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore Semblance of worth, not substance, gently raised Their fainting courage, and dispelled their fears. (Milton 369) To gain the loyalty and devotion of one’s army is the mark of a good leader, and Satan managed to gather a substantial number to follow him. After losing so painfully, for his army to still follow him and revel in his presence demonstrates the respect they felt towards him, even in defeat. Despite his abilities as a leader, Satan was still denied exaltation above his peers; instead, God chose the Son for qualities that Satan continually lacks throughout the narrative. The Son, upon his promotion, is not described by his ability to lead either. Instead, God reveals it was the Son’s love and goodness that separated him from the rest. … because in thee Love hath abounded more than glory abounds, Therefore thy humiliation shall exalt

With thee thy manhood also to this throne; (Milton 410) Satan’s main claim to a leadership position in heaven has been his dedicated worship to God, his glory on the battlefield, and the respect of his peers. However, God desired an heir who acts out of love and compassion rather than for personal fame and glory. For these reasons, God did not promote Satan, leaving him to grow bitter and jealous. Satan’s described jealousy and unreliable nature assure the reader that they are not meant to side with him. However, his original arguments against God would have sounded familiar to readers in Milton’s day. In fact, Milton gave him the same arguments for equality that he and his peers gave during the civil war against the king of England. Having Satan promote equality and egalitarianism might give the reader the impression that he can be considered a positive hero in the first books of Paradise Lost – a heretical concept indeed. Even though Satan is revealed to be a liar and a manipulator, the reader may feel disturbed that his “lies” are actually valid arguments. Does this mean that Milton wanted his audience to see those egalitarian ideas as falsehoods? Considering they were his own arguments against the throne, this is unlikely. Instead, Milton merely intended for his audience to stop and think. The experience of reading a poem by Milton is not meant to be a passive experience. The reader is therefore challenged to determine whether or not they agree with Satan’s egalitarian beliefs and come to terms with the fact that they might actually be agreeing with the devil. Although Satan declares that his motivations in turning against God were purely based on how unfair it was that one angel would rule above the rest, Milton proves this false systematically throughout Paradise Lost. First, he quickly establishes Satan’s unreliability as a character. Then, he reveals Satan’s pride in his leadership abilities that would lead him to desire the promotion given to the Son by God. And finally, he lays out the differences between Satan

and the Son. Through careful reading of Milton’s epic poem, one can clearly see how Satan’s true rebellion came from an overwhelming jealousy of the Son’s rise to power, which then led to the fall of angels and of man; that careful reading may leave some of Milton’s audience questioning their own beliefs, but that was exactly what Milton intended from the very beginning.

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Works Cited Milton, John. John Milton: The Major Works. Ed. Stephen Orgel and Jonathan Goldberg. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Print. New Revised Standard Version. Bible Gateway. Web. 17 Dec. 2014.