The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism, Volume 11

STAFF

Co-Editor in Chief

Co-Editor in Chief Illustrator

Outreach Coordinator

Managing Director Publishing Director

Financial Director

Graphic Design & Layout Editor

Associate Editor of Poetry

Associate Editor of Art

Associate Editor of Nonfiction

Associate Editor of Academic Papers

Associate Editor of Fiction

Associate Editor of Prose

Associate Editor of Academic Papers

Ria Dhingra

Anna Nelson

Nuha Dolby Sophia Shashko

Julia Kay Smith Sophia Smith

Jonathan Tostrud

Emily Wesoloski

Lacey Brooks Carsyn Barber

Nuha Dolby Aspen Oblewski

John Nugent

Shala Pacheco

Landis Varughese

Design Credits

A special thank you to Mario Loprete for allowing us to use the oil on canvas piece, “PERFORMANCE” as our cover.

Thank you to Nuha Dolby for providing many of the digital illustrations used throughout this edition.

All other designs and backgrounds were compiled and arranged by Emily Wesoloski via Canva

In summer of 2022, we were gifted the Madison Journal of Literary Criticism as a vehicle to exercise praxis of our abolitionist research—a project we have devoted ourselves to since our freshman year. Our study focuses on examining interconnectedness between systems of harm and various forms of activism. Before adopting the MJLC, we decided to define the complex and polarized subject of abolition as: asking “why?” and dreaming of more.

This fall, MJLC has functioned primarily as a study group engaging in social and literary critique. Our study group brings together students, activist stakeholders, and a larger Madison community in discussions regarding local politics, abolitionist texts, artwork, and practicing forms of critique. Our group applies the academic skill of critical analysis to subjects often left out of academia such as film, fashion, music, public addresses, grocery habits, dental care, and more. Our group has been beyond inspiring—motivating our staff to create and curate an issue that reflects our discussions. Despite our shared panic of the shortened semester deadlines, our staff graciously took to work soliciting submissions, designing artwork, conducting interviews, and writing features themselves. With this inspiration, panic, grace and a short sixty days, we were able to cultivate and write for the collection you now hold in front of you.

The Consciousness issue represents a moment of clarity in a complicated present day. It’s realizing that the institutions within our society – the systems of criminal justice, education, healthcare, housing, and labor/credit markets – did not simply shatter under the strain of pandemic; rather, it’s recognition that the glass was always cracked, was always broken and just barely holding together. For some, Consciousness began during the Black Lives Matter movement, or learning about just practices taking place in courtrooms, classrooms, and doctors’ offices throughout the pandemic. For others lacking the privilege to only now become attuned towards injustice, consciousness is a collection of lived experiences. Still, it is clear to us that consciousness and understanding is what creates care, what motivates change. Unlike awareness about an issue—which can be turned on and off, easily ignored—consciousness is a visceral understanding of complexity—it’s impossible to disregard it.

As an abolitionist effort, our publication invited creators and now invites readers to tune into a moment when they first become conscious towards institutions of systemic harm, oppression, or activist initiatives. Or, maybe, “consciousness”can be interpreted as a personal awakening towards one’s identity, standing, or recognition. As a journal of literary criticism, we chose to move away from solely focusing on academic works to surate art, poetry, journalism, and more. As a team, we assert that literary criticism is criticism of narratives we have been fed. It is providing alternatives and suggestions. It is a methodology and a tool that allows young scholars to engage with what frustrates them. Coupled with art, a medium that has always been a space for creatives—for dreamers—we truly believe that this new direction of MJLC embodies asking why? And dreaming of more.

Much like embracing consciousness, creating this introductory edition was far from easy. We experienced burnout, doubt, frustration, and setbacks. We questioned if this sort of collection would contribute to abolitionist initiatives. Despite our fears, we received a plethora of amazing submissions that promoted consciousness within us. Our weekly study group discussions left us feeling empowered rather than hopeless. Our team’s determination pushed us to keep going.

We are beyond grateful for them.

We are honored to be expanding the MJLC to bring together activists and artists. We believe that today, more than ever, narrative literacy and artistic imagination are skills required by everybody to not only encourage an abolitionist world, but to simply navigate the harms of the world as it exists presently. We invite everybody to join us. To ask questions. To dream big. To continue to care for one another.

This edition was all about learning, navigating, and growing. Ultimately, it was becoming conscious of the editorial and publication process. It was moving from abolitionist theory to artistic praxis. We are beyond proud of this edition and our team.

Keep asking questions. Keep dreaming. We hope to see you all very soon.

Editors in Chief

With Love, Ria Dhingra and Anna Nelson

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank the previous MJLC team for trusting us with their publication and helping us transition into this role. Additionally, we are grateful for the continued support of English Advisor Erin Polnaszek Boyd, the L&S Honors Department, WUD Publications, and the Activist Student Action Program. Furthermore, we are inspired by and indebted to our study group members—individuals who embody our mission and engage in discussion that motivated the direction of this publication. In a world of uncertainty, we were always left feeling hopeful following our weekly sessions. Without these individuals and organizations, this publication simply would not have been possible.

To our contributors, thank you for sharing your work with us. We are honored to be showcasing your art—work that made us conscious about your identities, beliefs, experiences, and situations. Work that elicited care, inspired us to ask “why?” and then dream of more. To all those who submitted—thank you. Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe how we felt we first saw submissions flood our inboxes. We received emails from fellow students, scholars, community members, and international academics. Editing, reading, and viewing your work was a joyous process. We do hope to hear from you all again.

The organizations of YWCA-Madison, PAVE, and the Chazen Art Museum were kind enough to allow us to feature their work in this publication. Thank you. The same can be said for the series of professors we were allowed to interview and feature in this edition as well.

We would also like to shout out our spectacular team: Julia Kay Smith, Sophia Smith, Jonathan Tostrud, Sophia Shashko, Emily Wesoloski, Lacey Brooks, Shala Pacheco, John Nugent, Nuha Dolby, Aspen Oblewski, Landis Varughese, and Carsyn Barber. Upon reviving the MJLC as an abolitionist collective, this is the first group of students who took the time to join our study group, interview for executive positions, and devote countless hours putting together this issue with us. As a group, this team worked to be advocates, activists, and an editorial board all whilst being full time students. They wrote features, read close to one hundred submissions, and provided us with their constant creativity and energy. Above all, we are so grateful for this team’s trust. As we navigated the complexities of putting together a publication for the first time, this team was incredibly flexible and so willing to deal with countless changes. They put up with “Hell Week” during midterms and stayed up past midnight designing artwork and reaching out to contributors for edits. Over the course of the last two months, this group has become a tight knit community—a sort of family. We became conscious of one another’s needs and then grew to care for each other. We could not have asked for a better work environment and are confident that this publication has the foundation to continue its mission long after we graduate thanks to this inaugural group of amazing individuals.

Finally, we would like to thank Professor Ingrid Diran. Although this is our first edition of the MJLC, this magazine has been in the works for two and a half years. As freshman, Professor Diran inspired us to study the carceral state—resulting in two years of researching ecological abolition. Our study group and resulting magazine could not have happened if we weren’t Professor Diran’s students. She changed the course of our collegiate careers and our lives. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Thank you all for your trust, time, and care. We are so excited to share this edition with all of you and our surrounding community.

With so much love and gratitude, Ria Dhingra and Anna Nelson Editors in Chief

Paying Attention to the Cracks: An Abolitionist Reflection on Consciousness

Ria Dhingra

Imagine an old glass Mason jar. Sturdy and solid. The first thing you reach for to hold your ice water, smoothies, hot chocolate, tea. You use it to take salads and pasta to work—it’s multipurpose! The point is, this mason jar is your heuristic—its convenience allows you to rely upon it for everything. One morning, you realize you left your mason jar of ice water in the freezer. You take it out, set it on the counter, and allow the frozen jar and liquid to thaw. Later in the day, you use your same jar to take leftovers to work. Upon putting your jar in the microwave, you hear a loud shattering sound. Your jar—the one you used for everything—has shattered into pieces. The microwave has sputtered to a stop—releasing sparks, smoke, unfamiliar noises. When you mention this incident to your coworkers, they exclaim that this was bound to happen; your mason jar has been cracked for ages. You never really noticed that before. Only under strain did the cracks make themselves visible.

Of course, this is a metaphor. The jar is the perspective and practices of the status quo—a status quo that arose from a racist history and subliminally perpetuates racism in all aspects. This jar is your way of life, your “normal.” The privileged among us never saw the cracks—its flaws. The temperature changes, the “shocks” upon the jar, upon “normal life,” is the COVID-19 pandemic. The explosion is the aftermath, when we, the jar, our way of life, cannot hold up under the strain anymore. And our response, the choice to admit to ourselves that relying on a single jar was flawed, is what leads to change in behaviors and practices. Finally, seeing the cracks—that’s consciousness. No matter how you choose to respond, it’s there. It cannot go away. . . .

Under the strain of the pandemic, the already flawed healthcare system began to reveal its disparate effects with people of color in terms of covid treatment. Those living in areas of extreme pollution, predisposed to conditions such as asthma, suddenly manifested into ecological “maps” where covid was more deadly for specific populations. Our treatment of essential workers who were underappreciated pre-pandemic and overworked during the pandemic became national news. Schools shutting down drew attention to the labor conditions of teachers and the disparities in teaching neurodivergent students. Online education shed light upon severe economic disparities within student populations engaged in higher education. Additionally, the expansive media and social media coverage on such strains made it impossible to ignore the issue—resulting in national consciousness regarding systemic failings and racism.

What came from this? Well, for one, people spoke out. There were protests and rallies and fundraising. There were strikes and mutual aid efforts and swarms of young people heading to the polls. Collectives were formed, murals were painted, and documentaries were watched. Consciousness gets people to care. Unlike awareness about an issue, consciousness leads to complete understanding of an issue—it’s harder to forget about, impossible to ignore. Consciousness creates care, and in caring for one another, we can promote change.

Often, when people hear I study abolition, they assume the misguided stereotype that I’m an anarchist who wants the world to go up in flames. That couldn’t be further from the truth. As someone working to become conscious, to understand harm, the last thing I want to do is create more of it. Rather, abolition is ridding the world of conditions that create harm—it expands far past the prison industrial complex. For example, if someone were conscious about the fallacies and racial targeting in the “War on Drugs,” this abolitionist might advocate and vote to legalize marijuana. In doing so, the social construction of “crime” for an action is now “decriminalized” resulting in less incarceration and the harms that come from it. Similarly, an abolitionist would be more inclined to restorative justice and accountability over vindictive and punitive justice. This doesn’t just mean prisons—but in personal practice. For example, choosing discussion and prioritizing accountability rather than promoting suspensions and exclusions in schools. Or, realizing that movies where the hero goes off to slaughter all who have wronged him promotes vigilante narratives that harmful actors often internalize.

An abolitionist is a believer in after-school programs, accessible healthcare, fair labor wages, affordable housing, and getting to know your neighbor. They recognize that “safe” and “secure” are not synonymous and that safety is cultivated by creating environments where people are connected to one another. An abolitionist is hoping to abolish the conditions that lead to harm, that lead to a reliance on prisons. Abolition is not a targeted takedown of the prison industrial complex; rather it is building up care in every social institution and system. Abolition is not reform of current systems either. Rather, abolition is all about creation. It’s a perspective. A methodology of questioning harm, becoming conscious of harm, dreaming of a world without harm, and working towards that world.

Consciousness is only the first, essential step.

The jar has been broken. Rather than piecing together the shards and gluing back the status quo as we move out of the worst stages of the pandemic, we must ask ourselves—what now?

Conscious Playlists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The MJLC Staff

We Reckon: The Public History Project’s Presence at the Chazen Museum of Art & Beyond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Landis Varughese

“Ukranian ice cream concrete sculpture” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mario Loprete

3/16 Bus ride . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Ashley Cheung

“Untitled” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Mario Loprete

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In Collaboration: PAVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sophia Smith

Responding to My Odd Talking. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Caleb Delos-Santos

I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nathaniel Lasker

“Your face is mine” : An Examination of the Troubled Category of the Gothic “Other” in Toni Morrison’s Beloved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sophia Betts

Plant Beings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alexis Conners

YWCA: Madison and the Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Lacey Brooks

“You!”: Second-Person, Representation, and Mimicry in Modern American Racial Narratives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Emma Tolliver

Dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Illustrations by Nuha Dolby

We Reckon: The Public History Project’s Presence at the Chazen Museum of Art & Beyond

Landis Varughese

On September 18th, 1894, the UW Board of Regents wrote three words that would shift the campus culture for generations to come. Starting on September 12, 2022, the Public History Project’s three word mantra would help the UW community recognize what kind of culture has been created on the UW campus, however their mere existence beyond the holiday season remains in question.

UW-Madison is known as what some call a “protest-school,” with the 1960’s demonstrations against the Vietnam War setting national precedent for how campuses choose to respond to global-conflict. However, students voicing their concerns through protest actually began much earlier in the University’s history.

As a gift to the university, the Class of 1910 gave the famous “Sifting and Winnowing” plaque. The Board of Regents rejected the gift because they thought that

radicals influenced the students. But the students didn’t march in the streets, or hold picket signs to change the Regents’ mind; instead, they took to the local newspaper. Students also wrote letters to the state legislature, garnered support from alumni, and sent waves of bad press towards the University. After five years, the Regents surrendered, and the plaque was installed in its forever home atop Bascom Hill.

Here is one of the earliest forms of protest on our campus, and it already breaks the mold of what our perception of a typical protest looks like. While our current perception of protests may be clouded with picket lines, tear gas, and violence, an important aspect to an impactful demonstration remains unaccounted for: organization. The Class of 1910 exemplified the importance of organizing, and outside support when it comes to a grassroots campaign.

“Sifting and Reckoning Exhibit Piece” by Landis Varughese

Decades later, UW students continue to act when forms of injustice arise. However, seldom do we as an educational community reflect on our past when fighting for academic freedom in our future.

“Sifting and Reckoning,” like many grassroots initiatives, started small. In August of 2017, Former UW-Madison Chancellor Rebecca Blank commissioned a study group to examine two student organizations from the 1920’s that shared a name with the Klu Klux Klan. The results of this report made one thing clear: our university has a history of exclusionary policies and actions that were worth uncovering on a larger, deeper scale. The Public History Project officially began in 2019, and its work culminated with the “Sifting and Reckoning” exhibit in the Chazen Museum of Art this past September 2022.

The exhibit consists of various archived materials, photographs, and oral histories of individuals, and organizations who have dealt with the marginalization and discrimination that has plagued our univesrities’ history. It unpacks several topics including: the early years at UW, student life, classroom experiences, housing, athletics, and student activism.

jor uproar. The fraternities reponse? He is “just another Phi Sig pledge; we can look at him no other way.” While instances of discrimination have the power to divide students along the lines of what makes us different from one another, our history also shows us the sense of community, and empathy people have developed because of these incidents.

A clear message is made through the various artifacts, descriptions, and stories that “Sifting and Reckoning” displays, that existence is resistance. Since marginalized groups were never given a place on campus to enjoy their college experience, they forged their own spaces to simply live through their college experience. Resistance to injustices such as discrimination in housing, or lack of accessability in the classroom, catalyzed futures of inclusion for students on campus and fostered unique relationships between students of different marginalized communties as well.

One of the many stories the exhibit outlines is that of Sonny Sykes, a black student whose decision to join the all-white Jewish fraternity Phi Sigma Delta caused ma-

One of the most impactful pieces recovered by the Public History Project would have to be the piece of toilet paper recovered from the infamous “Gay Purges” at UW-Madison. Between 1948 and 1962, UW regularly punished male students who they believed were participating in same-sex sexual acts. As the purges continued, mem bers of the UW community expressed their disdain for the unorthodox practices, such as conversion therapy, used by the University to detect and punish gay students. A male student wrote on a piece of toilet paper warning the person next to him that Officer Joseph Hammersely of the UWPolice Department was conducting an undercover operation nearby. The student passed it to Hammersely without knowing and was charged with disorderly conduct.

byLandisVarughese

The Public History Project contributes to the ongoing social efforts by illustrating our campus’ history through a lens most have never seen before. The project headquarters began to be filled with over 150 note cards depicting a unique story that the researchers were yearning to share. However, now that these stories have

been shared, and the information has been readily available and accessible for anyone who wishes to see it, what happens next?

This is a question that many people, including myself, asked upon seeing this exhibit for the first time. It turns out that reckoning with our history is actually quite the opposite of winnowing with grain. Winnowing requires the individual to to separate the indigestible parts from the grain before harvest. However, when we decide to simply winnow parts of our history, that is, removing the portions that we refuse to recognize as fact -- we actually fail to harvest fruitful discourse and meaningful change within the UW community.

Contrary to popular belief, reckoning is not a mere apology for our past mistakes, but rather a conversation about how we as a community choose to move forward. “Sifting and Reckoning” gives a platform for future discourse regarding issues of accessibility, equity, and inclusion.

It seems as though the decision to remove the exhibit more closely reflects the practice of winnowing, seeing as though we are so quick to remove something once it’s perceived to be no longer of use.

The reality is: we are not done reckoning.

“Sifting and Reckoning” is a unique space at UW-Madison, as it is a university backed initiative that takes an in-depth look into our history of discrimination. Several classes have taken field trips there, visitors make sure to stop by the exhibit; needless to say people want to know more about our history. Marginalized students on this campus sadly cannot just reckon (nor winnow) our past, they are living proof of the people that stepped foot here before them, and have to deal with the repercussions of our history as well.

However, in order to maintain a conversation, you need to remain conscious of the subject at hand. In the Public History Project’s case, consciousness may be a fleeing wish. After December 23rd, 2022, “Sifting and Reckoning” will be removed from the Chazen with little to no more research being done on the University’s archives.

Whether you want to learn more about our history, or you are our history, a space dedicated to the celebration of movements, demonstrations, and organizations, deserves space to be welcomed with open arms.

Illustration by Nuha Dolby

“Ukranian ice cream concrete sculpture” by Mario Loprete

3/16 Bus ride

Ashley Cheung

An orange hangs from the sky Suspended, her weight pulling her down She unfurls herself In a scented spiral Strands ripping from flesh Letting her citrus scent Wash the world in brightness Her essence radiates in rays Of golden sticky sweet spray Settling gently each and every way Coating in aroma Whatever she pleases, Awakening awareness of her place.

Sharp words come out when we feel tender and afraid. But only once we have food in our mouths and money in our hands.

Yet we step away and dance In the kitchen where plates get broken And we dance around opening Cupboards and fridge doors While our friends Critique reality But I’m sitting here eating Typing with sticky citrus fingers And oily thumb prints processing Imprints processing Plants growing Minds flowing.

Thanks brother for permitting or putting up with Our noise For putting your cereal bowl By the joint

Illustrations by Nuha Dolby

“Untitled” by Silvia Craig

Harris Non-Fiction Essay

James Harris

* Content Warning: This piece discusses themes tied to self-harm and racism *

Growing up, I had a normal life. I was born in a small Chicago apartment, delivered by a midwife assisting my mother. My first real memory of that house was when my sister was born. She was tiny and precious. I didn’t understand why the midwife left, and an ambulance arrived. I didn’t know why strange men put tubes down her nose or why we buried her in a small, cardboard box a short week later.

Years later, I was riding in my mother’s car. We drove down some backroads, leaves falling and the scent of corn heavy in the air. I don’t know if it was the atmosphere, or enough time had passed that she felt comfortable.

“Your dad was a different man before your sister died,” my mother told me, a wistful expression on her face.

I sat in silence for a moment before replying, “I never knew that man.”

We left Chicago a year later. My mom was pregnant with my brother and nearly got robbed a few feet from our house.

“I’m not living in this town!” she screamed at my father.

Never one to care about a woman’s opinion, my father paced the room, muttering angrily.

“Look at all the work I put into this house!” he snarled at her before continuing to wear the tiles with his

footsteps. As much as it pained him to admit, my mother was right.

“Fine, we’ll leave,” he muttered as he fell into a couch.

We bounced around for a brief time before buying a large farmhouse near Oshkosh. The location was beautiful. Scents of farming, planting, tilling and fertilizer filled the air through the summer months. Gently rolling hills and beautiful forests stretched as far as the eye could see. The atmosphere was quiet, and we were treated to a glorious sight when day and night traded places.

The house, however, needed help. Old wooden shingles dangled at precarious angles, the roof only kept most of the rain out and an ancient barn perpetually appeared one stiff breeze from collapse. Over several years, we repaired these issues, one minor disaster at a time. With fewer demands placed on his time, my father found his purpose in life.

My parents met in Chicago in the late 1980s, at a religious gathering. My mother was a successful occupational therapist. My father had recently been expelled from Bible College and was getting his commercial driver’s license. Within a few weeks of dating, my dad sat her on his lap and asked her to marry him. A short several months later, a tiny wedding was held at a picturesque rustic chapel. I was born about a year after, and they pooled their savings for a tiny house in the city. My father found work as a trucker and persuaded my mother to give up her career after I was born. He convinced her that a Godly woman’s place is in the home.

My father’s first decision while in Chicago was to have me homeschooled. I was extremely young and had no idea children learned any other way. Eventually, I asked my mother questions about where children that got on buses went. She sat me down, gave a brief explanation of the public school system, and told me, “The world is an evil, wicked place, and we need to protect you from corruption.” This accomplished, my father spent his free time studying his one true passion of theology.

We were kicked out of two churches that I can

remember. The details of the first one escape me, but I remember the broad strokes. The pastor was a pleasant man who taught astronomy to children in his free time. He always spoke a positive message, and his singing was equal parts enthusiastic and off-key. One day he was ill, and my father offered to preach in his stead. He delivered an hourlong rant on how women should never speak in church. The furious congregation contacted the pastor with an “It’s him or us!” ultimatum, and I can’t say he chose wrong.

The second instance I remember clearly. The church was in a tiny-but-easy-to-miss town on the wrong part of Main Street. The pastor and his wife were solely responsible for all the services. He wrote the sermons while she organized music. The entire congregation consisted of a couple dozen people who were all on a first-name basis.

One day the pastor dared to claim that divorce and remarriage could be forgivable. “God does not want you to be alone forever if you leave an abusive partner,” he proclaimed from the tiny pulpit, voice echoing through the small room. My father sat motionless through the service, eyes locked on the preacher. A bulging vein in his forehead was the only outward clue to his mental state.

“Remarriage is never acceptable after divorce!” my father half-shouted at the pastor after the congregation had nearly all left. “God does not tolerate sin!”

gradually became more extreme. After a few years and iterations, he settled on a Mennonite philosophy with pacifism substituted for militarism.

Entertainment was wrong. Movies, television and music were almost completely banned. Videos that served an educational purpose were allowed, and worship music that didn’t have a sinful beat was okay. We spent all our time learning, worshiping and accomplishing things. My mother did her best, but some tasks were impossible. Teaching some of my siblings required all her free time, so if I looked busy, my work never got checked.

“It’s very important you learn how to shoot and know how to defend yourself,” my father explained to me on a fall afternoon. “The government wants to take our guns away, and we need to be ready when they try.”

My father was my role model, and the smartest man I knew. I listened to him and blew off my normal education to learn anything I could about guns. Before I was 13 years old, I owned several guns, knew how to convert several rifles to fire fully automatically and could construct a functional silencer from common household parts. Whenever we went in public together, my dad had me carry a loaded pistol in my fanny pack. It was necessary, he said, because the Muslims, Mexicans and Catholics were planning on attacking us. The second coming of Christ was also imminent, and we needed to be prepared. I accidentally shot a hole in his car once while putting my pistol away. He wasn’t even slightly upset about it – just bought me a new pistol that wouldn’t go off accidentally.

The pastor was taken aback by the abrupt aggression and steadied himself. “If God didn’t forgive, every single one of us would go to hell,” he replied in a dignified but firm voice.

My father listened to none of it. “Sinning to repent later is unforgivable,” he snarled before angrily leaving the church. We would never regularly attend services again, and without feedback from others, my father’s opinions

Shortly after Hurricane Katrina, my father came up with a plan on a Saturday night. My younger siblings were playing with Hot Wheels in the family room, I was reading a book in my bedroom and my mother was working on the Sisyphean task that was laundry.

He called from my bedroom door in a voice slightly louder than a whisper, “JJ, you got a second?”

I started slightly and looked at him. “Sure, daddy!” He motioned me to follow him, and I caught up to him in the kitchen.

It was early afternoon, and the sun shone brightly

through the farmhouse windows. My dad walked around the room, closed all the blinds, and unplugged the telephone to make sure nobody would hear us. After making sure the rest of the family was still busy, he looked me in the eyes and spoke.

“Muslims are looting New Orleans, and it’s my fantasy to go down there and shoot some of them,” he stated with firm conviction.

I didn’t say anything. My father was the most intelligent person I had ever met. I obeyed him unquestioningly and worshiped the ground he walked on. And while I found his repugnant, I didn’t want to show any signs of disobedience. I don’t remember the rest of what he said. I stood still and nodded along when he talked.

This was the first time I questioned him, but not the last. Earnest cleanup efforts were going on in New Orleans before he could come up with a plan to get there, and fortunately it never happened.

We frequently trained with a local militia group planning to stop illegal immigrants. I distinctly remember spending a week in a mosquito-infested swamp near Wisconsin Dells. We practiced military maneuvers like bounding overwatch and patrolling an area efficiently. By the time we left, I had counted over a hundred mosquito bites on just one arm before getting bored. In my father’s opinion, the knowledge we gained was worth the pain. The group we trained with thought that most of America’s problems resulted from drug dealers crossing the southern border and wanted to stop them. The time and date we planned on doing this kept getting pushed back, and fortunately that too never happened.

A few months after my 13th birthday, I heard a John Denver song in a chance encounter. This music was a massive contrast to the severe worship music I listened to previously. Country Roads awoke emotions I hadn’t experienced before. I felt an intense beauty in the world Denver described, and I needed to listen to more. For the first time in my life, I felt like the world could be a wonderful place. My father would often preach doom and gloom about how the world would end any day now, and we would likely

die in a shootout. After hearing this, I often snuck off to my bedroom, put on a broken set of headphones I stole and used music to find hope. He caught me eventually and punished me. I don’t want to go into graphic detail about it, but it’s why my nose isn’t straight. My father beat me a second time after he discovered I peed my pants. Me and my broken nose never stopped listening to John Denver, though; I just didn’t let him catch me.

I was a highly conflicted child as I transitioned to being a teenager. According to my father, the world was ending soon, but I wanted to enjoy life. I would have to shoot people in self-defense any day now, but I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I was terrified and powerless. I began cutting myself as a coping mechanism.

I was meticulous to avoid areas where anyone could see, but my mother eventually caught me one day. I had fallen off my bike and ripped my shirt. I tried to pass it off as scrapes from the accident, but anyone could see the difference between a fresh scrape and a mass of parallel scabs. I was terrified of being punished again, but somehow my mother understood what was happening perfectly. Within a week, she filed for divorce.

It took me years to undo the damage and understand who I am. My father hasn’t changed any of his opinions but is much less vocal since most of his friends went to prison. My mother has always been the most loving, generous person I have ever met. After leaving my father, she finally had a chance to be herself. I have children of my own now. I do not know what their future holds, but I am goddamn sure they will feel loved while they figure it out.

Illustrations by Nuha Dolby

“Long Morning Shadows” by Josh Prado

Ariel Borns is a PhD candidate in the Department of Education Policy Studies with a concentration on Comparative and International Education. She teaches Educational Policy Studies 595, Language Politics and Education, which focuses on how language policies, politics, and practices are understood, negotiated, and implemented by various actors–including educators–and how language policies may exacerbate or redress inequalities. She invests herself in teaching about language because “there is a lot more that comes with language than just the words we speak. We have to consider our communicative repertoires, how different aspects of our identities are encoded in the ways that we communicate, and how that may, or may not, be understood by others.” Borns is bilingual and has taught Spanish speakers, some of whom had been told they do not speak Spanish the “right” way. From these experiences, Borns has become interested in the experiences of multilingual learners and educators and how linguistic diversity is addressed in educational contexts. She emphasizes that we “unpack common assumptions about language” and value a wide range of linguistic practices. She hopes her students walk away from her class with more awareness around the concept of language ideologies, how particular beliefs around language relate to language discrimination, and how schools are institutions that engage with language politics in both implicit and explicit ways.

- Carsyn Barder

Grant Nelsestuen is the Chair of the Integrated Liberal Studies Department at UW-Madison, as well as a Professor of Classics. Integrated Liberal Studies 205: Western Culture: Political, Economic, & Social Thought, seeks to connect ancient texts from writers like Homer, Sophocles, and Plato, with contemporary issues. Grant deeply values the importance of criticism when it comes to classical writers. He is “Not necessarily being critical of the writers as people, but understanding their work on a deeper level– modern ideas and beliefs we have that have ties to these classical works.”

Although ILS 205 places a certain emphasis on “Western Culture,” Grant recognizes the eurocentric narrative perpetuated across various classical literature courses. He claims, “For example, many people picture medieval individuals as historically white, when in reality the same time period occurred across the entire world; their stories deserved to be shared too.” Grant hopes to amplify consciousness in his field of study through increased representation of historically marginalized groups across ILS curriculum, because being conscious of these perspectives serves to strengthen our understanding of classical literature as a whole.

- Landis Varughese

Dr. Sarah Wood, a professor in UW-Madison’s English Department, has been with the university teaching American Literature since 2011. Dr. Wood instructs a variety of classes, from Protest Literature to American Identity: Contemporary Minority Writing and more. She finds importance in making her syllabi diverse and decolonized. In creating classes that de-center white voices, she asks herself, “How can my syllabus be an opportunity to broaden the scope,” engage with race, gender and oppression, and be about things she and her students both be interested in. In 2020, Black Lives Matter protests and the topic of systemic racism took a more prominent place in the (white) American consciousness. Dr. Wood recalls students messaging her in thanks for introducing them to the frameworks of understanding these topics. For the Fall of 2022, Dr. Wood is teaching three classes of English 474: Climate Crisis Literature. The idea came to her from a sentence she read, the sentiment being that “In the future, all writing is going to be climate-related because there is no avoiding that this is a part of our world. It’s going to have to become a cultural shift.” Dr. Wood invites her students to see the classroom as a productive space to try out new ideas, embrace their interests, and challenge themselves in their understanding of intersectionality in our world.

- Emily Wesoloski

Mark Copelovitch is a professor in the Department of Political Science and Robert M. La Follette School of Affairs at UW-Madison. His course Political Science 350, International Political Economy encourages students to explore the intersection of economics and politics by using “economic benchmarks” to explain what actually happens underneath layers of political motivations. He inspires students to question why seemingly perfect economic models are not applicable in response to political forces. His commitment to adjusting and complicating the students’ world perspective encourages a reexamination of both politics and economics, and how they are “inseparable.” Beyond the lecture hall, Professor Copelovitch wants his students to leave with the ability to consume news consciously, and develops these skills by embedding current events into lecture content as illustrative examples or case studies. He himself is conscious that not every student in his class is getting a PhD in political science, so instead of getting bogged down in every technicality, he helps students become active consumers of the news – a skill that is fundamental to all members of society. Professor Copelovitch’s ability to balance multiple perspectives on society and translate that information successfully to students is a feat of its own, but when coupled with the application of such perspectives on current news, his students leave every lecture conscious of a new aspect of the world around them.

- Sophia Shashko

Ralph Grunewald is a professor in the Departments of English and Legal Studies. In his class Sociology 131: Criminal Justice in America, he aims to create a space where students can “become aware in [their] everyday interactions with the law, that [they] are not experiencing the system as others do.” He explains consciousness with a metaphor comparing the brain to raw pizza dough, saying that “when you have this ball, you stretch it. The brain has the capacity to understand, but you have to start stretching it. You tap it and make it into a circle and you stretch it further to increase consciousness of proceeding.” He aspires for students to leave his class learning how to think critically and “become intellectuals,” explaining that “[t]heir consciousness of legal proceedings and how the law works is by-and-large informed by their upbringing. But the law is more.” To Grunewald, consciousness is an automatic state of mind that can be applied not only to classes, but to everyday life. “Our consciousness changes,” he said. “I am very aware of it. Be conscious of your own regulatory system.”

- Aspen Oblewski and Jonathan Tostrud

Melanie Herzhog is a professor in the Department of Afro-American Studies. She recently transitioned from teaching AfroAmerican Studies 242 to teaching AfroAmerican Studies 338 and 267, all of which focus on various black art movements and the history of Afro-American art. Her teachings provide students a way to learn about “art and visual culture at particular historical moments and to get a sense of the whole . . . rich and layered trajectory of african american art history . . .” This element of consciousness about history carries through more broadly as well. She described how her course materials promote consciousness around “race and intersections of race with other social locations” such as class, gender, sexual orientation, and gender identity. Threading this awareness throughout all her teachings is important to her. Melanie described how “It’s a big piece of why I’m an educator . . . because of how it can introduce and facilitate students coming into this kind of self awareness, not just an awareness of oneself as an individual but of oneself in relation to the world.” Asking questions such as “what does it mean to be a human being” and “what does it mean to engage with other human beings and engage with the world” are questions that will be invited when you enter Melanie’s classroom, no matter what educational or social background you have.

- Lacey Brooks

Professor Finn Enke is part of the History and Gender Women’s Studies Departments at UW-Madison. He focuses on the history of sexuality and gender, and teaches about queer and other social movements through various mediums. In English 350, The Art of Queer Memoir, Professor Enke and his students examine queer, trans and queer crip studies through a variety of lenses and creative methods such as memoir, poetry, sound, visual art, and comics. Enke states that “teaching graphic and multimedia work is part of inviting everyone in the room to experience our own consciousness.” By examining a topic in different mediums, his students open up their possibilities for more unique perception, awareness, and insight. Working in this collaborative space allows students to “invite modalities that allow [their] minds to work in different kinds of ways.” In many academic contexts, the definition of knowledge and the bounds of it are constricted by a binary understanding of learning. Utilizing various methods of learning and mediums lets students explore different methods of knowledge. His classes, outside of English 350, utilize this method of examination. This method ensures that students have an “awareness and insistence that all of our body minds work in unique ways.” Professor Enke’s work and teaching style helps students explore their own consciousness by embracing new perspectives and how they construct themselves differently in a binary world.

- Sophia Smith

Illustrations by Nuha Dolby

My English Major

Carsyn Barber

* Content Warning: This piece discusses themes tied to eating disorders *

When I tell people I am an English major, I am often met with the wondrous “But what will you do with that?” While this question lends some curiosity, it mostly implies that I am majoring in something useless, or something that is not stimulating. This common response is one which baffles me for two reasons. One reason being that in a world saturated with media presence and social commentary, I can’t imagine a more useful major. The second reason being it has given me incredible access to my own identity as it relates to literature characters, and awareness of identities different from my own.

My English major demands that I form and nourish a sustaining relationship with my brain and become intimate with my ways of thinking, because I have been forced to articulate my thoughts on dense texts. Put into other words, I didn’t really know myself until I was forced to sift through all of Shakespare’s early manuscripts, select one I felt passionate enough about, produce a ten-page research paper which built off a close read analysis, and write it with some style (or attempt to). Jokes aside, I became in touch with my interests and values in order to produce the authentic and convincing writing that an English major requires. Being in touch with myself was something that was often annihilated by an eating disorder–whose destructive tendencies and intrusive thoughts were in tandem with my diminishing self-talk and outlook for six years. My diagnosis only began to unravel the layers of experiences that worked to cover up my sense of self so I could people please to avoid conflict. In any other sphere of my life, I minimized myself literally and symbolically, but in the English classroom I did not. I took up space by paying attention, analyzing, and taking an argumenta-

tive stance in an essay. And these moments in literature classes felt like they belonged to a different realm of living–one which distracted myself from worrying about food. It was refreshing to have moments of passion in these classes and share these moments with my classmates. Literature classes have been so crucial because they encouraged me to dig deep into myself to discuss and engage with humanity’s stories, even when I was depleting myself from the inside out.

It was when I was going through treatment for my eating disorder that I was able to access other parts of my identity I hid from myself, and the English classroom facilitated a considerable amount of this work. I read Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin at a time when I was questioning my sexuality. I felt paralleled to Giovanni’s inability to find a comfortable place socially and internally while he struggled with self-image and acceptance. It was therapeutic to read and witness someone else’s juggling of life while I also felt out of control. In these moments of transition, into a healthier body and mindset, I was able to imagine other ways of being.

Sitting with Baldwin’s literature allowed me to process my feelings around claiming a new identity through Giovanni’s story. It felt safe to keep my thoughts and feelings around being bisexual tangled up with James Baldwin’s writing. He gave me a space where I could dip my toes into this new, uncertain image of self, while also acknowledging the different experience a man has when questioning sexuality.

While my major has given me space to be passionate and mend my relationship with myself, it has also exposed me to people’s stories and histories that are different from what I have experienced. Whatever headspace I walked into the classroom with was collided with Saidiya Hartman’s Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments which contained black women’s experiences with sexual trauma, systemic racism, strength, and resilience. I have read the disorienting and heartbreaking story of a Chinese immigrant who carries the effects of diasporic trauma in Patricia Lowe’s The Pagoda. And I have also had the privilege of reading Oliver Bendorf’s collection of poetry, The Spectral Wilderness, which celebrates humans’ capacity for emotions as he beautifully offers his experience as a trans man in his collection of poems. From this collection I have gained a glimpse of how we may relate to our environment and our bodies hopefully. I realize holding onto these moments in my memory is not enough, and something needs to be done in return to bearing witness. Part of my response can also come from my major, continuing to think of these topics and have conversations with people who want to engage. But I hope I strive towards some kind of change or instill some kind of passion in high school students as an English teacher, and start these conversations early on.

This presence of mind hasn’t escaped me. Since my major has helped develop this mode of thinking, and since I have been residing at this level of consciousness, I cannot turn it off. Turning it off is to remain impartial

and complicit in ignorance which can harm populations with less privilege than I have. Watching Pleasantville, a film shot in black and white where the charcaters (who are all white people) are shown in color once they have sex, I cannot help but be bothered by the way race is represented and how the representation of “people of color” only work to reinforce the problematic fetishization and hypersexualization of people of color. Viewing art in museums makes me wonder whose stories are being told and wonder how much agency they have to tell their own stories in visual culture. Consuming podcasts

I am interrogating the angle being used, listening to ads on streaming services I think about capitalism’s effects, and hearing other people’s use of language makes me think about how we can begin to decolonize our minds with language. And it’s not all critical, there are times I am struck into silence. I admire the brave way students respond to the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the ways in which they are protesting and fighting for people with uteruses’s rights, the way my classmates insightfully engage in collaborative discussions in class, the support my professors and advisors extend to me endlessly, the impossibly moving human bonds and connections I have established with my friends, beautiful songs I listen to on my way to class, the offering of free books in the public libraries around Madison, and all the ways life is wonderful.

I have learned to value my relationship with my mind. I have pushed myself to return to lessons–to learn, unlearn, and relearn the way I am thinking about humanity and to examine my pulse towards social justice and how it relates to literature. Cultivating a relationship with myself and holding onto humanity’s stories is what I am doing with my English major. Even if this is all I ever do with my English major, it has been overwhelmingly worthwhile.

The dichotomy between my former city, and my hometown is quite interesting. I was born in Des Plaines, Illinois, but three years later I moved to another Chicago suburb called Wheeling. However, it was only when I moved to my current hometown of Buffalo Grove, that the apparent disparities between the neighboring towns were clear as day. My townhome in Wheeling was surrounded by gang violence. The reason we moved was actually because my dad found someone shot dead on our front porch. Conversely, the most noise we hear in our Buffalo Grove home only came from the nearby fireworks during the 4th of July. Our neighbor in Wheeling was the same guy who would walk around the neighborhood selling paletas in his little cart, whereas our Buffalo Grove neighbor only used his home in the summer, and would venture to his other home in Florida to escape the harsh winters. Needless to say, these two sides of my upbringing are vastly different, and it’s even crazier these two towns are geographically divided by a single road: Lake-Cook Road. Such division runs deep in our towns, and with affordable housing becoming even harder to come by, we as a society have effectively separated ourselves from other people on the mere basis of the money in our pockets. I’ve sadly become more aware of this division as I’ve grown up, and hope that we make the active choice to include rather than exclude when it comes to drawing the line.

- Landis Varughese

I recently had a conversation with a coworker which I immediately wrote down as a red pill moment. On my way to work I overhead people in Library Mall proclaiming anti-gay statements, and there was another crowd of people nearby booing these statements. I thought it was important for people to boo these statements because they were inherently hateful and silence would be complicit with this hate. My coworker, who also walked by the protests, had a different take on the situation. He felt that the people saying the anti-gay statements on a liberal campus wanted to pick a fight, and giving into this energy only ends up neglecting the people who’s wellbeing are at stake. By booing these hateful statements and getting into arguments about who is “right,” people end up forgetting how they can actively support gay people. In other words, it is more important to focus energy towards communities who are at risk of societal harm in a grassroots way as opposed to pointing fingers or engaging in performative actions so people know which “side” you are on. This is a new way to view political arguments–political fighting is a form of mental incarceration because it keeps people stubborn and prideful which prevents them from focusing on care and sup port for marginalized groups they are fighting on behalf of.

- Carsyn Barber

I had the opportunity to travel to Macedonia the summer after my freshman year of highschool. Having never been on such a journey, I was rattled with fears about plane crashes, kidnapping, and getting lost in the big, wide world. But beyond that, I was afraid of what I didn’t know - faces I didn’t recognize, languages I couldn’t speak. I was naive and a homebody, hoping to never leave my cul de sac. After a blur of traveling, we landed in Skopje, the capital of Macedonia, and it came time for me to face my fears. I had to put on my big girl shoes and brace for three weeks of discomfort and uncertainty. Next thing I knew, I was eating fried fish and salads, stopping at ice cream shops, going to museums, and shopping at local vendors - all things I had done and seen before only in Wisconsin, not Macedonia. Traveling in general always comes with new learned lessons, but more than ever before I became aware that the world is not as dissimilar to my cul de sac as I had previously thought. While I do not foresee myself as a globetrotter, I am now conscious of a world closer to home.

- Sophia Shashko

I think that having a book that you read in a high school English class change the trajectory of your life is a shared experience for students all over the country – the world, even! For me, that book was absolutely William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. Despite the fact that I entered my “reading phase” in early middle school, I hadn’t read anything so visceral up until that point. The conversations that the class had following each assigned chapter made me think deeply about the circumstances of the book and what I would do in their situation. It may be a cliché answer, but delving into the brains of young boys that are desperate to survive gave me so much insight on the human psyche and how people interact when they feel trapped. Until then, I was living in a bubble and assumed that people only acted out of the goodness of their heart, not for their own benefit. This novel changed my life and perspective for the better, and I’m glad that I was able to read it at such a formative point in my life.

- Aspen Oblewski

One of the “red pill moments” in my life that sits with me is something that happened my freshman year of high school. I was in my social studies class, and our teacher was tuned into the 2016 presidential inauguration ceremony. A small group of us didn’t want to watch, sitting in the back avoiding the Smartboard. The whole thing left us with a sinking feeling that, as a group of mostly sheltered, mostly white girls in a mostly white school district, we were still learning what it meant. It was a sense of worry that we’d continue to educate. I’ll never forget how my teacher looked at us and said “Calm down, girls. It’s not like this will affect your lives directly.” Since then, I’ve looked at the world with that phrase in mind. Because he was wrong about my life, of course — but more importantly because it didn’t matter if those next four years would affect me directly or not. It mattered that they would absolutely affect others. I use that memory to focus myself on thinking of others complexly and working for the whole, not the self.

- Emily Wesoloski

One distinct red pill moment I had was my freshman year of high school. I had just graduated from an extremely liberal, small middle school which one could describe as “granola.” At my middle school, everyone had similar political beliefs (whatever that meant as a middle schooler); however, when I attended my Catholic high school, I was initially surprised by the fact that people could disagree politically. Since I had never been truly exposed to that disagreement amongst my peers, I was shocked. This was also the year of the 2016 election between Hilary Clinton and Donald Trump. I would walk into school, seeing people wearing Trump flags as capes and openly talking about how their parents supported him. At that time, I don’t think I had ever met a Republican that was my age. At first, I didn’t know what to think about this, since the school environment that I was used to didn’t completely prepare me for this. I learned how to have conversations with people whose beliefs not only went against mine, but sometimes opposed my very identity or my friend’s. This time taught me how to effectively articulate my viewpoints in a constructive way. I went through some growing pains – of not knowing when to speak out or how to. This time made me realize that not everyone fundamentally agrees on everything, but it is essential to have important and uncomfortable conversations in order to understand one another and know when to set certain boundaries.

- Sophia Smith

As other kids ran out the door for recess, I sat alone on the rainbow carpet. My third-grade teacher held a test in her hand, complete with a big red “F” at the top. My first one. She knelt down to me and asked, “Did you leave your brain at home? I don’t want you to lose your potential.” I promptly started crying and ran into the bathroom. As I spent the rest of recess angrily ripping up a piece of toilet paper, I thought to myself— why did one test suddenly mean I didn’t have a brain? What about the kids who had their first “F” earlier than me? Does that mean they never had brains? That they never had potential? The notion seemed ridiculous to me. Though I wouldn’t have put it in such terms with my elementary-school vocabulary, I became conscious of how a student’s sense of worth is molded by a teacher’s dialogue around grades and academic success. Some would say I never found my potential after that day. I graduated high school with a 1.9 GPA. But, I’d argue that my potential became fully realized in that elementary school bathroom. It was there that I decided I wanted to be a teacher, to give solace to the slackers. As I scrape by through undergrad, I think of the “underachievers”, and how we get counted out. Yet, we are still capable. We are still smart. We are still learning. C-students, I see you.

- Shala Pacheco

The time I can best remember being my “Red Pill Moment” comes from just a couple of weeks ago. I had just finished a class and was on my way to finding a decent spot to study for an upcoming exam. I headed to the elevator for the higher floors in College Library, and entered a room full of people waiting for the elevator to arrive. Out of at least ten people standing there, I was the only one not buried in their phone. This was the moment I truly felt the full effect of technology on our society, considering that phones are a commonplace item in the hands of every student and professor at this university. This issue extends far beyond this university, because everyone uses and needs their phones, and many don’t realize their reliance on them. It can be an endeavor to break out of that routine and reduce phone usage, and I even fell victim to my phone quite often. However, once I was conscious of my issue, breaking out of the habit seemed essential for my well-being. Reducing my phone usage to cut out distractions has allowed me to enjoy the more mundane aspects in any given day.

- Jonathan Tostrud

Illustrations by Nuha Dolby

Last Remaining Seconds

Keely Palmer

* Content Warning: This piece discusses themes regarding school shootings *

Counting down the seconds until we are found

We sit tightly packed in the dark corner

A shooter’s favorite breeding ground

With only backpacks and books as armor

We sit tightly packed in the dark corner

Our lungs constricting, squeezing out vital air

With only backpacks and books as armor

Tears slip from our eyes as we send out prayers

Our lungs constricting, squeezing our vital air

A familiar squeak of shoes down a voiceless hall

Tears slip from my eyes as I send out a prayer

Waiting as the silence hangs like a pall

A familiar squeak of shoes down a voiceless hall

The clock tick tick ticks, round and round

Waiting as the silence hangs like a pall I question whether I am in a school or a burial ground

The clock tick tick ticks, round and round

Footsteps come to a halt outside our door

Am I in a school or a burial ground

A single crash, then glass shatters to the floor

Footsteps come to a halt outside our door

Screams rise as bullets fly, people are left to drown

Another crash, then more glass shatters to the floor

The sound of a shot, a lifeless corpse falls down

Screams rise as bullets fly, people ar eleft to drown

A shooter’s favorite breeding ground

The sound of a shot; and more lifeless corpses fall down

Counting the seconds until our bodies are found.

In Collaboration: PAVE

Sophia Smith

What is PAVE?

Promoting Awareness Victim Empowerment, or PAVE, is a student-led organization here at the University of Wisconsin Madison whose mission is to “prevent and educate” on issues of domestic violence, stalking and sexual assault. PAVE Chair, Dani Rosen, states that the organization works through an “Anti Racism and Anti Oppression Framework.” The organization also aims to bring awareness to how marginalized groups on campus are affected by these issues. By putting this framework at the “forefront” of their goals, PAVE works to incorporate as many people as possible into their mission. PAVE not only brings awareness to issues of domestic violence, stalking, and sexual assault, but provides all survivors a place to feel safe and seen. Rosen states that PAVE wants to make campus a safer place for all and that the organization “stands with and supports” every survivor affected. “We hear you, we believe you” Rosen declares.

PAVE & “CONSCIOUSNESS”

“Consciousness” is about addressing underlying narratives that harm groups in society. MJLC’s theme is about recognizing that acknowledging an issue is not the same as being conscious of it. To be fully conscious, we must be aware of the harmful narratives and how they affect groups of people. Rosen explains that a cognitive landscape is a “framework of thinking that is shared by a group of people.” An example of this landscape in the context of what PAVE fights against on the University of Wisconsin’s campus is how many people have a “preconceived notion of what sexual assault looks like - that it just happens to white, cisgender women;” however, Rosen explains that not every instance of sexual assault looks the same and can happen to anyone. PAVE works toward bringing awareness to how every survivor’s experience is valid. PAVE holds campaigns through out the year during the months dedicated to Domestic Violence Awareness, Stalking Awareness, and Sexual Assault Awareness. During their on going work, PAVE aims at deconstructing dangerous cognitive landscapes that make some victims feel invalidated.

In this process of meeting with PAVE . . .

Meeting with Dani Rosen from PAVE and discussing their mission made me realize how the Madison Journal of Literary Criticism’s work connects outside of our study group and editorial board to their organizations and their missions on campus. Abolition as a practice is everywhere, not just within the confines of discussion. MJLC wants to deconstruct oppressive narratives, similarly to how PAVE functions on an antiracism and anti oppression framework. Both organizations attempt to include everyone in the conversation and amplify the voices who may not always be heard. Both efforts are essential to implement systemic change. Meeting with Dani made me see how important it is to connect with other organizations here on campus because each may be connected by a common goal. Connection is also essential to consciousness because consciousness is a collaborative effort – the more individuals and groups who work towards spreading awareness and dismantling harmful narratives, the more “consciousness” as a mentality, effort, and lifestyle becomes part of communal existence.

Responding to My Odd Talking.

Caleb Delos-Santos inadvertently, i speak loopily, screaming nonsense things, like “BLEEBLOO” or “SPLINGS.”

psychologically, this insanity answers to my feelings: sad = “BROMBLE.” mad = “CRINGS!”

most think these noisy mechanisms may be ridiculous or even dangerous. but, i disagree. these wacky “words” always seem to soothe me.

“SMAPPLE SNOOPLE SNOB” offers relief. “SMEE SMOO DEEB DOO” produces peace. “ROMBLE BOMBLE LOMBLE OPPOLUS” is just funny. despite their emotional and notably “loco” variety, each and every nutty term and phrase strangely and amazingly makes and keeps me astoundingly happy. so, please, shut up. or, join me. who knows? you might like saying, “SMLEBLY,” “BREBBILY,” or “REBDIZZY.”

when your daily word-registry doesn’t meet your emotionally aching needs, try wildly shouting out whatever sound you do need. and maybe, hopefully, odd talking will eventually lead to you and me feeling equally and astoundingly happy, “FLAPPERLY,” lively, and free.

Nathaniel Lasker

I found an envelope Inside my favorite book. The one I lent to you.

Do you remember it? The book, I mean. It was The one I showed to you

When we first met. You said It was a handsome book. And very hard to read.

I blushed because I knew That you had never read My book before. I knew

Because I always kept It close to me. But then You opened it. Your eyes

And fingers strayed upon The page. They settled on A scribble in my hand.

And I could almost feel Your hand upon my skin. I quobbed and quivered then

And closed my book again. And then you left. But I Remembered you. You left

A dimple in my book. A very handsome one And not so hard to read.

That’s when I knew. And when I felt you near, then I Began to lose my book

Where you might find it first. I hoped you’d take the chance To read. It looked so light

In your lithe arms when you Returned it to my care. I always found fresh dints

And dimples there after You came. I read my book Again and liked it more

For all the marks you made. There came a time when I No longer left my book

Behind, but handed it To you. The ecstasy Was all too great to give

What I had given none Before. I could not stop. I loved you more and more.

At last I lent my book. I felt as though it longed For you as much as it

Belonged to me. Sometimes I cried because I felt So empty then. Without

My book I had no words To read. And I was scared Your favorite book was lent

To someone else. Your book Was still a mystery To me. That’s when I knew.

About a month had passed When you misplaced my book Where I could find it first.

No handsome dimples bent The page. No signs that we Had shared my favorite book

Were visible to me. And yet the book had lost Something. Its purity

Perhaps. I could not read Again those words. I felt Another book could be

What she had been for me. But then I saw a line Of white in that clear tome.

I found an envelope Inside my favorite book. The one I lent to you.

Do you remember it? I’m sure you don’t. I do. A letter was inside.

I didn’t want to open it. It was a little book And it belonged to you.

But it was fixed within A larger book and that Was mine. And so I did.

I dreamt of you. That’s all I read. I stopped because I saw two names. The one

I knew and loved. More time Must pass before I shall Announce that other name

But I have dreamt of it. It is part of me. And so Are you. And so am I.

“Your face is mine”1: An Examination of the Troubled Category of the Gothic “Other” in Toni Morrison’s Beloved

Sophia Betts

The ambivalence of the characterization of Beloved, the titular character in Toni Morrison’s gothic novel, Beloved, has sparked debate for decades. A ghost-or-demon-like character with mystifying origins, Beloved’s characterization has resisted, thus far, all attempts to be pinned-down to one cohesive interpretation. Perhaps what is most bewildering about Beloved is her accounts of her own origin: “‘Dark,’ said Beloved. ‘I’m small in that place. I’m like this here.’ She raised her head off the bed, lay down on her side and curled up . . . ‘Hot. Nothing to breathe down there and no room to move in . . . A lot of people is down there. Some is dead’” (Morrison 88). Debate regarding the interpretation of who Beloved is has frequently tended to fall within two major camps, as described by Andrew Smith in his book Gothic Literature: “There is a deliberate ambivalence about Beloved [the character] who can be read as either the return of Sethe’s daughter, or as someone whose account of the past suggests that she experienced the journey on the slave ships used to transport Africans to America” (147). Thus, Beloved’s account of her origins may be understood, according to Smith, as either describing her experience on the Middle Passage as an enslaved woman, or as being in a type of afterlife space (more specifically, somewhere with other members of the deceased). Therefore, in her “returned” state throughout the novel, Beloved is either Sethe’s child raised from the dead or a “real” person who escaped the Transatlantic slave trade (and is somehow in possession of intimate knowledge of Beloved’s short life). While these interpretations are certainly plausible possibilities, I argue that reducing Beloved as a character to these two possible explanations is to unfairly limit the possible significations that Beloved’s characterization warrants within the narrative of Beloved. In this essay, I challenge this oversimplified interpretation, and instead present an alternative to these two explanations.

However, it is crucial first to establish the ways in which the African American Gothic distinctly differs from the “classical” Gothic or, rather, the Anglo Gothic as it was developed by white European and American writers. Most imperatively, it is significant to note the ways in which the African American Gothic tradition

has developed a more self-reflexive tradition within the genre by repurposing Anglo Gothic tropes to critique the very genre being invoked. More precisely, as Maisha Wester notes in her book, African American Gothic: Screams from Shadowed Places: “the gothic trope proves particularly useful for Black writers in reimagining history and identity because politicized notions of identity such as the queer Other, the black rapist, and the fainting and helpless woman pervade the genre, while the genre proves a likewise capable means for these writers to contest and deconstruct such inscribed identities and histories” (29). Hence, the African American Gothic displays an engagement with classical Gothic tropes in a highly self-aware sense, utilizing those very tropes of the Anglo Gothic to critique the systems of oppression that produced those tropes in the first place. This self-reflexive nature of the African American Gothic is crucial in two ways. First, it is crucial for understanding the complexity of Beloved as a character that interacts with and challenges the Anglo Gothic tropes of the ghost, demon, monster, and predator. Second, it is significant for the purpose of critically contemplating why interpretations of Beloved, such as Smith’s, are incomplete.

Wester also notes that, while past writings of the Anglo Gothic frequently construct narratives around the threat of a proposed “Other” (such as Bram Stoker’s Dracula from Dracula, or Frankenstein’s Monster from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein), the African American tradition in the Gothic radically troubles categories of the “Other.” Furthermore, it challenges the ways in which the character of the “Other” is inscribed with the same rhetoric of “monstrous” characteristics that have been developed as discourse about Black bodies in the racist history and present of the US and Europe: “African American texts go beyond merely inverting the color scheme of the gothic trope— blackened evil that torments and is defeated by good whiteness— to destabilizing the entire notion of categories and boundaries. In revising the genre, African American writers also critique and complicate the identities white gothic writers imposed upon them. Black Gothic . . . reveals the archetypal depictions of racial, sexual, and gendered others as constructions useful in the production of white patriarchal dominance” (Wester 2).

In this manner, the African American Gothic tradition challenges the construction and categorization of the gothic “Other,” scruti-

Illustration by Nuha Dolby

nizing and critiquing the ways in which this “Other” is inscribed with the same racial, sexual, and gendered characteristics that signify cultural and social “Others” in white American and European societies. More radically, the African American Gothic challenges the construction of the category of “Other” altogether, revealing it to be a tool wielded by oppressive systems. The tradition of the African American Gothic not only contests the ways in which the Gothic “Other” is produced by real-world social and cultural discourses, but also critically repurposes the “Other” within the Gothic narrative itself to highlight how the character of the “Other” is produced by oppressive forces within the narrative: “Black texts . . . replace the notion of the uncanny . . . with the process of repression and moment of hiding. They look at the institutions that marked them as savage, look at the reasons for the hiding and the historical moment of silencing” (Wester 29). In this way, the African American Gothic tradition reveals the monstrous “Other” to be both produced by oppressive discourses outside of the narrative, as well as produced by systems of oppression within the text. The character of Beloved, by complicating the construction of the “Other,” challenges the discourses that have, and do, produce the Gothic monster at multiple levels.

In his essay Race, Roderick Ferguson argues that: “race . . . is . . . a category that sets the terms of belonging and exclusion within modern institutions . . . race both accounts for the logics by which institutions differentiate and classify, include and exclude, and names the processes by which people internalize those logics” (208). I argue that we must apply Ferguson’s argument to a critical reading of literature and, more specifically, to the Gothic genre. More precisely, I employ Ferguson’s perspective that race seeks to account for “the processes by which people internalize” the “logics” of positing racial minorities as the excluded “Other.” This framework should be applied to an analysis of the generation of the racially-inscribed, “monstrous Other” of the Anglo Gothic tradition. In other words, the Anglo Gothic genre is a literary landscape upon which we see this exclusion and “Other-ing” taking place and being internalized.

In this essay, I contend that Morrison’s Beloved is an example of the ways in which the African American Gothic grapples with the racial “Othering” of Black individuals within the Anglo Gothic tradition, as posited by Wester above. The African American Gothic is a literary terrain upon which the very need to construct a categorized “Other” is challenged. I argue that Beloved, as a character, must be read as taking up a liminal space in which she interacts with and contests the inscription of “Other-ness” by both adopting some of the classical traits of the insidious Gothic “Other,” and also taking on traits that directly transgress the confines of the category of “Other.” This transgression is most clearly seen when the line between Beloved, the supposed “Other,” and Sethe, the protagonist, is blurred. Ultimately, I argue that Beloved cannot simply be reduced to the trope of a

ghost, demon, or other traditional Gothic “villain.” Instead, she also represents a part of the protagonist herself–namely, her trauma, or, the parts of her that “died” to ensure her survival.

In order to take-up a liminal space between “Other-ness” and “Human-ness,” however, Beloved does adopt many characteristics that align with traditionally eerie qualities of the Anglo Gothic genre. These characteristics, with which Beloved is characterized as unnatural or abnormal, are numerous. An example of one such characteristic is Beloved’s obsession with protagonist Sethe. For instance, after her arrival, Beloved follows Sethe everywhere she goes and voraciously consumes tales of Sethe’s past: “Beloved could not take her eyes off Sethe . . . Sethe was licked, tasted, eaten by Beloved’s eyes. Like a familiar, she hovered, never leaving the room Sethe was in unless required and told to . . . It became a way to feed her . . . Sethe learned the profound satisfaction Beloved got from storytelling” (Morrison 68-69). Beloved also is described as being in possession of strange information that she ought not to know: “Denver noticed how greedy she was to hear Sethe talk. Now she noticed something more. The questions Beloved asked: ‘Where your diamonds?’ ‘Your woman she never fix your hair?’...How did she know?” (75). As the narrative progresses, Beloved begins to take on increasingly bizarre and disturbing behaviors, such as initiating a sexual encounter with Sethe’s lover, Paul D, and eventually dissolving their relationship (134, 137). Her unsettling behavior reaches its climax near the end of the novel, as she takes on a quasi-vampiric relationship with Sethe, draining her of her food, money, clothes, bed, and even her body weight (281-286).

Despite Beloved’s relationship to Sethe and Paul D being obsessive, consumptive, and frequently unnatural, it would be reductivist to posit that Beloved fits neatly within the boundaries of the Gothic “Other.” Beloved’s transgression of the confines of the “Other” into the realm of the “Human” occurs, for example, when Beloved breaks from her typical and unnervingly flat affect and cries in pain: “Beloved, inserting a thumb in her mouth along with the forefinger, pulled out a back tooth . . . ’Must be wisdom,’ Said Denver. ‘Don’t it hurt?’ ‘Yes’ ‘Then why don’t you cry?’ ‘What?’ ‘If it hurts, why don’t you cry?’ And she did” (Morrison 157-158). Although Beloved maintains a disconcertingly flat affect for the vast majority of the narrative- coming across as disconnected and even sinister, she is suddenly humanized by Dever’s suggestion that she could “cry” in response to feeling pain. This chain of events- Beloved feeling pain but not crying until Denver suggests it, is reminiscent of Sethe’s own reaction to her past trauma. That is, Beloved’s lack of emotive expression in her pain parallels the same reaction that Sethe has throughout the narrative in response to her own trauma. This is most notably exemplified upon Paul D’s arrival, when Sethe describes a horrific sexual assault and beating that she experienced while enslaved at Sweet Home: “‘They used cowhide on you?’ ‘And they took my milk’ ‘They beat you and you

was pregnant?’ ‘And they took my milk!’” (Morrison 20). Even while conveying the horror of her assault to Paul D, Sethe focuses not on expressing her own pain directly but, rather, focusing on how they “took” something from her that was intended for her infant children. Moreover, while describing this harrowing experience, Sethe does not weep. Like Beloved, her initial reaction is not to convey the pain of her experience by crying. However, as Paul D embraces her next to the kitchen stove, she begins to cry: “he knew without seeing them or hearing any sigh that the tears were coming fast” (21). Like Beloved, it is only when prompted or encouraged that Sethe is able to express her pain through tears. Beloved is not only humanized by her tears, but also blurs the line between herself and Sethe. That is, in her initial response to pain (to not express it outwardly), she reflects Sethe’s own repression and internalization of her pain, which is only released when prompted by Paul D’s presence. Thus, it is justified to interpret Beloved as, at least in part, reflecting a part of Sethe’s own self: a part that feels intense pain and trauma, but is forced to repress it to ensure her survival. By transgressing the boundary of the “Other”–in this instance, by mirroring the identity of the protagonist–Beloved calls into question the category of the “Other” altogether.

The line between Sethe and Beloved is blurred further as more parallels between their respective behavior appear. For example, upon Paul D’s arrival, Sethe describes the ways in which his presence encourages her to be vulnerable and open in ways she usually is not: “Strong women and wise saw him and told him things . . . desire in them had suddenly become enormous, greedy, more savage than when they were fifteen” (Morrison 20). As a mother who has sacrificed in unimaginable ways for her children (e.g. in engaging in an unwanted sexual encounter in order to “pay” for Beloved’s tombstone), Paul D’s presence awakens in Sethe a desire for “selfish” personal pleasure–or, the right to be “greedy” (5, 20). This language used to describe Sethe’s desires upon Paul D’s arrival is remarkably reminiscent of Beloved’s later behavior towards Sethe: her quasi-vampiric consumption of all of Sethe’s resources, time, and even bodily health (281-286). Thus, I argue that not only is the line between Beloved and Sethe blurred in this similarity, but also that Beloved may be understood as embodying a piece of Sethe: the part of her that has needed to deny her own desires, pleasure, and satisfaction due to the trauma of her past and the dangers of her present. Directly contrasting her extreme sacrifices for her children, Sethe’s desire to be “greedy” is manifested in Beloved’s ravenous consumption of resources. By blurring the line between the protagonist and the “Other” in this way, Beloved reveals the ways in which the parts of her (and, likewise, of Sethe) that have been relegated to “Other-ness” were produced by systems of oppression. More precisely, Sethe’s need to “kill” the part of herself that has desires and wants, in order to ensure her survival, are directly linked to her trauma as an enslaved woman.

The interpretation of Beloved as embodying elements of Sethe’s own self is further reinforced when Beloved gives her account of her own origins. The exchange begins when Denver asks Beloved where she came from:

“‘What’s it like over there, where you were before?’...’Dark,’ said Beloved. ‘I’m small in that place. I’m like this here.’ She raised her head off the bed, lay down on her side and curled up . . . ’Hot. Nothing to breathe down there and no room to move in . . . A lot of people is down there. Some is dead . . . I was in the water. I saw her diamonds down there’” (Morrison 88-89). This passage is key for interpretations of who Beloved is and where she came from. More specifically, this passage has been used to justify the two popular interpretations of Beloved’s origins, as noted by Smith: that Beloved is either an escaped enslaved woman who was on a ship through the Middle Passage, or that she is truly Beloved come back from the dead (147). However, I argue that this passage also maintains space for an additional interpretation: that Beloved is a manifestation of a part of Sethe herself. For example, when Beloved describes her place of origin as “dark” and “I’m small in that place,” she is describing her experience as a part of Sethe’s psyche or, more specifically, as a part of Sethe that was repressed, such as her past trauma. This interpretation is supported when Beloved describes the place further: “A lot of people is down there. Some is dead” (Morrison 88).

While some scholars, such as Smith, have interpreted this description to mean that Beloved was either on a slave ship or in some sort of afterlife, I argue that the “people” in the “dark” place–especially those described as “dead”–could be other members of Sethe’s repressed trauma, such as the memory of her own mother’s and Paul A’s murders by hanging (Morrison 72-73, 233). However, while “some” of the people in Beloved’s “dark” place are dead, others, apparently, are not. Thus, some of the other “people” of Beloved’s “dark” place could also be repressed individuals linked to Sethe’s trauma, such as the schoolteacher and his pupils. Additionally, Beloved’s description that “I saw her diamonds down there”–the diamonds that were taken from her while she was in jail directly after killing Beloved–could be a further example of parts of Sethe’s past that were repressed along with Beloved. In other words, the diamonds are also within this psychological space of the repressed, as they are linked to the horrific experience of killing her own daughter. This passage further supports the interpretation that Beloved not only blurs the lines between herself and Sethe, but is, in fact, a repressed part of Sethe herself. By refusing to allow Beloved to be relegated to the category of the “Other,” Beloved aligns itself with the broader African American Gothic tradition of problematizing the category of the “Other” more radically, and revealing the cultural and social discourses that produce this literary category both within and without the novel.

This explanation of Beloved’s origins is further reinforced shortly after this exchange, when Denver asks Beloved not to leave them: “‘You won’t leave us, will you?’ ‘No. Never. This is where I am’” (Morrison 89). It is imperative to note the use of the words “Never” and “I” in Beloved’s response. First, the phrase “This is where I am” comes almost directly after Beloved explains to Denver that she has returned to see Sethe: “‘What did you come back for?’ Beloved smiled. ‘To see her face.’ ‘Ma’am’s? Sethe?’ ‘Yes, Sethe’” (88). Because Beloved’s response occurs so quickly after her remarks about Sethe, it is reasonable to estimate that this is her reason for saying she will “never” leave. However, that being the case, then, it is notable that Beloved states that “This is where I am,” rather than “This is where she is” (89). By using the words “I am,” I contend that the line between Beloved and Sethe is effectively blurred, as the use of the term “I” identifies Beloved with the person that she is staying for–Sethe. In other words, the use of the term “I am” conflates Beloved and Sethe.

This understanding of Beloved’s use of the word “I” is further substantiated by Beloved’s response that she will “never” leave Denver and Sethe. While on the surface, Beloved’s response may seem like a simple expression of an intention to stay at 124 Bluestone Road forever, I suggest that an alternative interpretation of the word “never” is warranted. More specifically, when Beloved states that she will “never” leave, I argue that she is not merely indicating an intention to stay at 124 but, rather, that she is also expressing a truth: that she is a part of Sethe and, therefore, will never leave them. In other words, Beloved is not necessarily expressing an intention but rather stating that, because she is a part of Sethe and always will be, she will never leave them. By taking on this relationship with Sethe, in which the line that separates Sethe and Beloved is blurred, Beloved challenges notions of her characterization as fitting neatly into the categorization of the Gothic “Other.” Instead, Beloved’s characterization challenges readers to critically consider the dynamics that produce the “Other” in the first place, such as the oppressive systems that led to Beloved’s death to begin with. The interpretation of Beloved as a part of Sethe is further reinforced in a nebulous and muddled exchange that occurs between, the reader presumes, Beloved and Sethe. Written in an almost poetic format, with no explicit indication as to who is speaking, the two exchange sentiments of love, possession, obsession, hurt, and regret: “You came back because of me? / Yes. / You rememory me? / Yes. I remember you. / You never forgot me? / Your face is mine. / . . . You’re back. You’re back. / Will we smile at me? / . . . Beloved / . . . You are my face; you are me” (Morrison 254-255). It is crucial to note the choice of diction in this passage. For example, the phrases “Your face is mine” and “Will we smile at me?” further fortify interpretations of Beloved as being a part of Sethe. More specifically, while the declaration that “Your face is mine” could be interpreted as being an acknowledgement of shared genes (i.e. that Sethe and Beloved share a “face” because of their biological connec-

tion), I argue that the phrase that follows shortly after–“Will we smile at me?”–challenges this simplistic interpretation. Rather, the unconventional use of “we” in “Will we smile at me?” implies a convergence of Beloved and Sethe. Thus, instead of “Will you smile at me,” Beloved identifies herself with Sethe, and refers to them jointly as “we.” In this light, a more nuanced interpretation of “Your face is mine” may take place. Rather than simply referring to shared biological characteristics, the phrase “Your face is mine” may refer instead to an actual convergence of the two characters. Interpreting this passage as a merging between Sethe and Beloved is further justified by two phrases that follow shortly after: “Beloved / . . . You are my face; you are me” and “You are my face, I am you” (Morrison 255-256). Once again, a melding of Beloved and Sethe is implied, as the phrases “You are me” and “I am you” indicate.

A final example of the blurring of the line between Sethe and Beloved occurs when Sethe describes her experience with “rememory” early in the novel: “Some things go. Pass on. Some things just stay . . . What I remember is a picture floating around out there outside my head’ . . . ’Can other people see it?’ asked Denver. ‘Oh yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes’” (Morrison 43). Although discussions of rememory frequently describe it as being similar to trauma, this textual description of the phenomenon of rememory challenges these limited notions of what rememory can mean. For example, while trauma is typically understood to be something that exists within a person, this description of rememory implies that, in some sense, that it also manifests outside of the body–so much so that others are able to see it: “‘Can other people see it?’...’Oh yes’” (43). While I do not debate the validity of interpreting rememory as being similar to the experience of trauma, I argue that the implication that the experience of rememory involves an external manifestation of that which is remembered challenges the simple designation of rememory as only trauma.

Instead, rememory takes on a similar boundary-defying role as Beloved does. I argue that rememory is not only similar to Beloved but, rather, can be connected to Beloved in a more fundamental way. Namely, if readers accept an interpretation of Beloved as a character that is, at least in part, a manifestation of a part of Sethe, then her existence outside of Sethe is not unlike that of rememory. Like rememory, Beloved is an external embodiment of a part of Sethe (e.g. her trauma, the parts of her that “died” to ensure the survival of herself and her children) that is connected to her harrowing past. Like Beloved, rememory is an external manifestation of a traumatic past. Moreover, the two share the common quality of being observed by others–Beloved is observed by a number of characters (Paul D, Denver, Stamp Paid)–and rememory, according to Sethe, can also be seen by others (43). Furthermore, this connection between Beloved and rememory, then, ought to be understood as another manner in which the line between Sethe and Beloved is blurred. The line between Sethe’s private memory

and trauma is blurred in the external manifestation of her rememory; so, Beloved may be understood, at least in part, as an external manifestation of a part of Sethe. By creating this liminal space between what is a part of Sethe as a discrete character and what is either Beloved or rememory, Morrison challenges simplistic categorizations of Beloved as the classic, monstrous “Other” of the Gothic. Beloved cannot be the simplistic “Other” if she is also a part of the protagonist.

This deciphering of the link between Beloved and rememory, and of Beloved and Sethe, is validated further when one considers the ways in which Beloved’s final appearance, and eventual disappearance, takes place. Emerging from 124 Bluestone Road, hand-in-hand with Sethe, Beloved is seen completely differently from separate accounts: “Disappeared, some say, exploded right before their eyes. Ella is not so sure’...Sifting daylight dissolves the memory, turns it into dust motes floating in light’” (Morrison 310-311). Eventually, it becomes clear that some even begin to doubt that they saw Beloved at all, as revealed by a conversation between Paul D and Stamp Paid after Beloved’s disappearance: “‘Who Janey tell him the naked woman was?’ ‘Told him she didn’t see none’” (312).

Readers learn, within the last few pages, that with time the memory of Beloved as an actual person begins to disappear altogether, and readers are left to wonder if Beloved really existed at all: “They forgot her like a bad dream. After they made up their tales, shaped and decorated them, those that saw her that day on the porch quickly and deliberately forgot her. It took longer for those who had spoken to her, lived with her, fallen in love with her, to forget, until they realized they couldn’t remember or repeat a single thing she said, and began to believe that, other than what they themselves were thinking, she hadn’t said anything at all” (Morrison 323-324). This crucial passage acts as compelling evidence for interpreting Beloved as being a manifestation of a part of Sethe herself or, rather, an embodiment of Sethe’s trauma. This description of Beloved’s disappearance further parallels Beloved’s connection to Sethe’s rememory. For example, like in Sethe’s earlier descriptions of rememory, Beloved is seen by others while, at the same time, being fundamentally linked to personal history and memories. In other words, Beloved’s disappearance and her memory, like in the case of rememory, takes up a space between the categories of what is aprivate part of Sethe as a discreet character (i.e. her memories, her trauma) and what may be observed by others (i.e. Beloved as acharacter observed by other characters). Thus, the

convergence of Beloved and Sethe is further strengthened and, likewise, the relegation of Beloved to the category of “Other” is further troubled.

In this essay, I have argued that the character of Beloved is an example of the ways in which the African American Gothic breaks from and critiques the Anglo Gothic tradition, specifically in its challenging of the construction of the classic Gothic “Other.” The Gothic “Other” in Anglo Gothic literature has frequently been inscribed with the same characteristics as the excluded “Others” of society (e.g. the queer-coded vampire, the racialized monster). The African American Gothic troubles these constructions of the “Other,” revealing them to be constructions of oppressive systems, as Wester has argued: “the gothic trope proves particularly useful for Black writers . . . the genre proves a . . . means for these writers to contest and deconstruct . . . identities and histories” (29). I have argued that it is exactly this place of contested category that the character of Beloved takes up, and that this troubling of categorization is made uniquely feasible due to the tropes of the Gothic genre–namely, the creation of liminal spaces between the living and the dead, the past and the present.

In other words, the effectiveness of this challenging of categories is due, at least in part, to the utilization of classically Gothic tropes, such as the classic “ghost story,” in which the past, the dead, and the repressed make contact with the living and present. This repurposing of classically Gothic tropes results in the production of liminal spaces between dichotomies such as the living and the dead, as is often argued to be the case of Sethe and Beloved (i.e. Beloved is the dead making contact with the living). Beloved as a narrative employs these classically Gothic tropes, however, to utilize the creation of liminal spaces to, instead, challenge the categorization of the “Other” that is constructed and reproduced within the Anglo Gothic. This is accomplished by blurring the lines between Sethe, the protagonist, and Beloved, the supposed monstrous “Other.” By blurring the lines that delineate Sethe from Beloved, Morrison disrupts the relegation of Beloved to the status of the classic Gothic villain. Furthermore, I argue that one way in which this blurring of the line between Sethe and Beloved operates within the text is in positioning Beloved’s identity as being, at least in part, a part of Sethe herself. In the aforementioned examples, this convergence between Beloved and Sethe–and, more precisely, the manifestation of a part of Sethe in Beloved as a character–may be observed in moments when Beloved’s behaviors and statements reflect elements of Sethe’s own experience with trauma, both in the narrative’s past and present. This connection is exhibited, for example, when Beloved’s expressions of physical pain (or lack thereof) mirror Sethe’s expression of trauma, when Beloved describes her origins using imagery that may be interpreted as reflecting Sethe’s repression, when Beloved uses language that conflates her own identity with Sethe’s, and when parallels appear between Beloved’s characterization and descriptions of rememory. In each of these examples, Beloved’s language,

behavior, and memory mirror an aspect of Sethe’s private psyche as a character, such as her trauma and the parts of her that she has repressed in order to survive.

In the creation of this connection between Beloved and Sethe, the category of “Other” is not only troubled, but repurposed to reflect critically upon, as Wester describes, “the archetypal depictions of racial, sexual, and gendered others as constructions useful in the production of white patriarchal dominance” (2). In line with this criticism, the character of Beloved does not only trouble the construction of the category of the “Other” in the Gothic, or the ways in which that “Other” is frequently inscribed with the characteristics of the cultural or social “Other.” Rather, Beloved’s characterization proceeds a step further to critically scrutinize the oppressive forces that “created” Beloved in the first place–namely, the forces of racism and white supremacy. Beloved’s existence as an embodiment of parts of Sethe’s own repressed and traumatized self mirrors the forces that caused the trauma in the first place: the brutal dehumanization, exploitation, abuse, and assault that Sethe suffered at the hands of white supremacist enslavers in a larger system of racist oppression. Effectively, Beloved as a character causes readers to ask: Who created this “Other”? The answer, as detailed by Sethe’s harrowing past, is clear: the “Other” was created by a system of white supremacist oppression. By reflecting critically upon the ways in which the narrative of Beloved reveals the complexities of the creation of the literary “Other” in the Gothic tradition, readers may engage more critically with and scrutinize what Ferguson describes as the project of racial discourses: to trace “the terms of belonging and exclusion within modern institutions . . . the logics by which institutions differentiate and classify, include and exclude, and names the processes by which people internalize those logics” (208). By critically examining the construction of the Gothic “Other” in Morrison’s Beloved, readers may probe more critically the cultural discourses that construct and perpetuate the category of the “excluded.

Works Cited

Ferguson, Roderick. “Race.” Keywords for American Cultural Studies, edited by Glenn Hendler and Bruce Burgett, NYU Press, 2014

Morrison, Toni. Beloved. First Vintage International edition, Vintage, 2004. Smith, Andrew. Gothic Literature. Edinburgh University Press, 2007. Wester, Maisha L., and ProQuest. African American Gothic Screams from Shadowed Places. 1st ed., Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.

Plant Beings

Alexis Connors

The forest is not a free market, no sole competitors for scarce resources. Malthus, Locke, Darwin indoctrinated cutthroat capitalism onto the plant world.

An individual tree, fighting for survival, working the soil for its own benefit. Lone worker, provider, stagnant and stoic. Unfeeling object, our tool to clear cut.

They did not see the trees for the forest. The hidden networks of fungi, mycorrhizal connection, intimately bonded to the roots of the forest. Selfless sharing of carbon, water, nutrients, information.

Family trees branch out, an interspecies community. The shaded sapling gets help from elders, older growth aids the survival of new. Pines provide for those who lose leaves in winter.

The fallen tree makes a sound even if we did not hear it. The injured send scented distress signals, that fresh-cut grass smell. In death, the trees donate resources to the rest of the forest, and the nutrient-rich earthy decay and fresh sunlight make a home for life anew.

These complex relationships of trees, fungi, bacteria, soil brings us into question, into their sensory experience. They know our voices, our footsteps, our heartbeat. Everything, everything, is the forest.

IllustrationbyNuhaDolby

YWCA: Madison and the Community

Lacey Brooks

The Young Women’s Christian Association (YWCA) has been a trailblazer for racial and social justice. They have provided support for women in America and the world for over 100 years, truly living out their mission statement: The YWCA is dedicated to eliminating racism, empowering women and promoting peace, justice, freedom and dignity for all.

A summit that the YWCA annually hosts exemplifies and promotes this support of women and racial justice. Madison’s 2022 Racial Justice Summit was entitled “Past, Present, and Emergent Futures: For Racial Justice and Co-Liberation.” They showcased the idea that where you’ve been informs who you are now, and in turn impacts where you will go. In her welcome letter at the summit, Vanessa McDowell, The CEO of YWCA Madison described how “[They] are looking forward to examining ways in which racial justice, restorative justice, gender justice, immigration justice, disability justice, climate justice, and so on are all interconnected. We are also hoping to uplift the intersectional and intergenerational nature of the work.” The summit featured keynote speakers sisters Angela Davis – an activist, educator, organizer, and visionary who has worked and taught around the world for social and racial justice - and Fania Davis – an author and attorney who has dedicated her time to fighting for civil rights and restorative justice.

YWCA’s origins epitomized the theme of “looking back and moving forward by demonstrating an aim to be a long-lasting organization. While YWCA USA was officially organized around the 1850s, YWCA Madison wasn’t formally organized until November of 1908. Despite this later start, by 1909, they already had over 300 members. By 1960, they housed 72 permanent residents and had further lodgings for transient women. After having multiple locations, in 1968, YWCA Madison purchased what is now their current residency: the Belmont Hotel.

Currently, YWCA Madison offers a multitude of services and accommodations. They have two locations: a downtown facility and an Empowerment Center. Their downtown facility is located on Capitol Square in the old Belmont Hotel - a 12 story building which is the “largest provider of affordable housing to women in Dane County’’ and “is home to more than 450 women, children, and families each year” (info found on YWCA Madison website). Their Empowerment Center, located a few miles south of the downtown location, provides job and career services for women and young girls. YWCA Madison also hosts young women education and training advocacy, as well as their housing and shelter opportunities. Through these efforts, YWCA Madison aims to “eliminate barriers that exist for individuals looking to become self-sufficient, expand the thinking of individuals looking to explore privilege and advocate around issues that most affect marginalized communities.” Beyond that, further resources they pro-

vide are various contacts, services, and ways to get involved, as well as a podcast, blog, newsletter, and social media.

These values and actions are reflected through YWCA’s work with their Racial Justice Summit. The 2022 summit opened with a letter from CEO McDowell and then eventually led to a large section on the “Three Pillars for the Summit Practice - Interconnected, Intergenerational, and Emergence. The first pillar tied together the past, present, and future aspects of the Summit, by starting with ‘Complexifying Ancestors: Who we’ve Been, Who we are, Who we want to be . . .’ This section outlines the idea that by recognizing the intergenerational connections people hold, by being aware of what ties people together, they are then able to hold each other accountable and grow and heal together. The next pillar, “Why Interconnectedness” and “Interdependence (Decolonization),” discusses heavily the idea that everyone is equally accountable and needs to actively end harm. It holds the idea that people don’t change because of hate, they change for love. The Summit described how people “must continue to lean into making just and liberated futures irresistible for us all.” People must equally trust and hold each other accountable for change. Finally, the third pillar asks “Why Emergence?” and discusses the role patterns play in people’s lives. The patterns and habits that people take part in reflect where they have been and where they are going. But these patterns can change. It describes how people should engage in “new patterns that might sustain us, build us, challenge us, so we have the chance to integrate them, or let them go and revisit them as we need.” These practices that bring people “closer to liberation is how you can actively practice emergence.” Being mindful of new practices will help people be mindful of where they’re going.

The Racial Justice Summit allowed people to reflect on where they are expected to and want to go. Both the Racial Justice Summit and YWCA as a whole provide a space and platform for women and women of color to grow a community that supports one another. The summit is just one layer to the grand role of the organization to unveil and heal injustice.

Looking ahead, the summit and YWCA plan to continue being trailblazers in social and racial justice. There are a multitude of ways to support the organization and get connected - donating, voting, volunteering, and researching and learning.

Illustrations by Nuha Dolby

“You!”: Second-Person, Representation, and Mimicry in Modern American Racial Narratives

Emma Tolliver

The unfamiliarity of, situational appropriateness related to, and representation of mimicry resulting from second-person perspective command Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric and Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist. By utilizing second-person perspective, Rankine and Hamid place emotional labor on the reader by decreasing the narrative distance between the reader and the experience of racism. While Rankine and Hamid differ in the degree of narrative distance they employ, both create a similar effect of situating the reader in a literary experience requiring strenuous emotions from the audience. Hamid’s confrontational second-person narrative style represents the confrontational racism Muslim Americans and immigrants experienced after 9/11, while Rankine’s more subtle and ambiguous usage of second-person perspective represents microaggressions African-Americans experience. These representations ultimately serve as a tool in which Rankine and Hamid disrupt the norms of colonialism by representing situations of failed “mimicking”— failed cultural assimilation—and placing the reader within that failure. Ultimately, the use of second-person narration in both texts seeks to represent experiences of racism in America, making second-person perspective a literary tool to both emphasize the ability to subvert American racism and alleviate the authors’ emotional burden by displacing the burden onto the audience.

Both Citizen and The Reluctant Fundamentalist immediately open in second-person perspective, which is disorienting for audience members that are suddenly thrust into the text as actors. Forced to depart the safety of the role of the reader, audience members find themselves in representations of the unsafe conditions resulting from American racism. Hamid opens the narrative by stating, “Excuse me, sir, but may I be of assistance? Ah, I see I have alarmed you” (Hamid 5). Alternatively, the first line of Rankine’s lyric is, “When you are alone and too tired even to turn on any of your devices, you let yourself linger in a past stacked among your pillows” (Rankine 1). By referring to “you” in the opening lines, both texts immediately situate the reader as a participant in the narrative, and, as a now-participant, the situation is forcefully and inescapably pressed upon the reader. This forced pressure serves a notable purpose; second-person perspective represents the conditions of experiencing racism.

Of second-person narratives, literary scholar Irene Kacandes writes, “It demands attention. It is perceived as unfamiliar in a narrative context. It is not neutral...‘you’ calls those who hear it, evoking a strong reaction on the part of the audience.” (Kacandes 22-23). In the specific examples of Rankine and Hamid’s writings, the demanding of attention, unfamiliarity, and lack of neutrality emulated through second-person perspective—although certainly on a smaller scale—the effect of experiencing an act of racism. Being a victim of racism makes one feel “abnormal,” “pressured” and “trapped,” according to Ph.D. Derald Sue; readers of Citizen and The Reluctant Fundamentalist experience these emotions—although in a significantly safer form—by being placed into and trapped by narrative perspective (Sue). The usage of second-person narration allows the authors to capture the experience of racism by depicting disorientation, unfamiliarity, and pressure and situ-

ating the reader within that depiction. This disorientation completes a subversion; both Rankine and Hamid displace the emotional burden of experiencing racism onto the reader-made-participant through their respective representations.

While both Rankine and Hamid complete a subversion using second-person perspective, there are variations of second-person perspective based on the situational appropriateness of the text. To proceed, it is necessary to define two different forms of second-person perspective: overt second-person and covert second-person. The former refers to a form of second-person perspective in which “you” is markedly distinct from the reading audience, maintaining some narrative distance between the reader and “you”. The latter, covert second-person, refers to a form of second-person perspective in which “you” and the reading audience are indistinguishable, severely limiting narrative distance. Hamid uses overt second-person to force the audience to confront their status as a reader; Rankine uses covert second-person to place the reader directly into a racially violent experience. The usage of second-person perspective by both writers indicates the universality of second-person in the goal of placing the emotional labor accompanied by racial violence onto the audience. However, the differences between the two create unique effects that are more appropriate to the specific audiences of Rankine and Hamid, respectively.

Hamid’s usage of overt second-person is apparent from the opening lines of the narrative, and the narrative distance created by overt second-person creates a strange effect of making the reader self-consciously aware of their status as both a witnessing bystander and a participant. Hamid writes, “How did I know you were American . . . True, your hair, short-cropped, and your expansive chest—the chest, I would say, of a man who bench-presses regularly, and maxes out well above two-twenty-five—are typical of a certain type of American” (Hamid 1). These remarks by Hamid’s narrator, Changez, make this narrative one of overt second-person perspective; the audience is not the white, muscular American man with short-cropped hair. The reader immediately becomes a participant in the narrative by virtue of Hamid’s usage of second-person, only to then move back to a bystander perspective due to the narrative distance of overt second-person. Kacandes describes the “bystander” phenomenon of overt second-person narration by writing that, “the appellative power of second person [writing] is hard to ignore even when we know the specific addressee is an other” (19). Advancing Kacandes’s idea, Hamid’s usage of overt second-person exceeds “hard to ignore”: it is direct, confrontational, and aggressively forces the reader to confront their status as the reader. This aggressive and forced confrontation of overt second-person makes the reader self-conscious of their identity as a reader. It is this self-consciousness that Hamid is attempting to create because it emulates the experiences of racism against Muslim Americans and immigrants.

A study out of the University of Michigan found that, “Following September 11, 2001, the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) reported a 1,700 percent increase of hate crimes against Muslim Americans between 2000 to 2001 . . . Muslim Americans faced an upsurge in negative stereotypes expressed by the larger society . . . [leaving them] fearful of potential hatred and hostility” (Khan). This study holds that Muslim Americans faced extremely confrontational racism that made them self-conscious of their identity in society due to fear it could lead to racial violence. Hamid draws on overt second-person to represent a form of this self-consciousness for readers. Ultimately, this makes the reader self-conscious in their status as the reader by both commanding the participation of the reader by employing “you” and also creating narrative distance by making the distinction between “you” and the reader obvious. The intention of producing this self-consciousness is to represent the

self-consciousness Muslim Americans experienced in identity following 9/11. Rankine’s usage of covert second-person perspective introduces a deviation from Hamid’s; the ambiguity that Rankine employs through covert second-person closes narrative distance for the reader and situates the reader within a racial microaggression. While Rankine occasionally utilizes a more overt form of second-person throughout Citizen: An American Lyric, the opening is covert second-person, and this choice to open in covert second-person deserves evaluation. Rankine opens by describing a situation in which: You never really speak except for the time [your white peer] makes her request [to cheat] and later when she tells you you smell good and have features more like a white person. You assume she thinks she is thanking you for letting her cheat and feels better cheating from an almost white person. (Rankine 5) The usage of “you” in this specific passage is indistinct, ambiguous, and undetailed; the speaker has no defining features except that they are “almost white” (Rankine 5). This ambiguity serves to close narrative distance. Because little about the speaker is identified, the reader is immediately and fully immersed in the narrative’s opening. Unlike Hamid, there is no distance between Rankine’s reader and Rankine’s “you”, which serves the purpose of capturing the effect of a racial microaggression. Rankine uses covert second-person to remove her emotional burden of explaining the effects of the racial microaggression; the reader instead inhabits a situation that illustrates the sly and subtle damage caused by microaggressions. Microaggressions appear to be “insignificant slights”, but they “[sap] psychological and spiritual energies of targets and [contribute] to chronic fatigue and a feeling of racial frustration and anger” (Sue). By utilizing covert second-person, Rankine both creates a representation of the emotionally burdensome onus resulting from experiencing microaggressions and places that onus directly on readers. Thus, covert second-person perspective eliminates the narrative distance between “you” and the reader in the opening scene, ultimately placing the reader into the situation as a recipient of the microaggression.

While both Citizen: An American Lyric and The Reluctant Fundamentalist may utilize different forms of second-person perspective, both use their respective forms to represent an act of racial violence and to place their readers within an experience of mimicry. Utilizing the language of Homi Bhaba, mimicry “emerges as one of the most elusive and effective strategies of colonial power and knowledge” (Bhaba 126). It is this power and knowledge that Rankine and Hamid use in their writing. Of himself, Hamid’s narrator Changez says, “Do not be frightened by my beard: I am a lover of America” (Hamid 1). The distinction is clear: he is a lover of America, but he is not an American himself like “you” are. Rankine similarly describes “you” as “an almost white person” (Rankine 5). Again, the distinction is clear: “you” are not and will never be white, but “you” are passable as “almost white”. While this distinction emphasizes that racial violence occurs, it also highlights that Hamid and Rankine have disrupted the expectations of racial violence. The failed mimicry of Rankine’s “you”—to be “almost white” yet not white—and Hamid’s Changez—as “a lover of America” but not American—illustrates another failure: the failure of the colonial project. Rankine and Hamid subvert the colonial power of mimicry that holds that the “Not quite / not white” must engage in mimicry; they instead create representations that illustrate situations that are racially violent to individuals that are “Not quite / not white” (Bhaba 132). They then situate the reader within their respective representations of mimicry to stimulate the experience of racial violence through second-person perspective. Thus, representations of racially violent mimicry through second-person perspective become a tool in which Rankine and Hamid subvert the power of the colonial project. By placing their respective reader within a representation of racially violent mimicry, they compel the reader to

engage in the necessary emotional labor that accompanies such racial violence and use the colonial violence of mimicry to further their intentions of displacing emotional labor.

The usage of “you” in this specific passage—notably, the opening passage—is indistinct, ambiguous, and undetailed; the speaker has no defining features except that they are “almost white” (Rankine 5). This ambiguity serves to close narrative distance. Because little about the speaker is identified, the reader is immediately and fully immersed in the narrative’s opening. Unlike Hamid, there is no distance between Rankine’s reader and Rankine’s “you”, which serves the purpose of capturing the effect of a racial microaggression. Rankine uses covert second-person to remove her emotional burden of explaining the effects of the racial microaggression; the reader instead inhabits a situation that illustrates the sly and subtle damage caused by microaggressions. Microaggressions appear to be “insignificant slights”, but they “[sap] psychological and spiritual energies of targets and [contribute] to chronic fatigue and a feeling of racial frustration and anger” (Sue). By utilizing covert second-person, Rankine both creates a representation of the emotionally burdensome onus resulting from experiencing microaggressions and places that onus directly on readers. Thus, covert second-person perspective eliminates the narrative distance between “you” and the reader in the opening scene, ultimately placing the reader into the situation as a recipient of the microaggression.

While both Citizen: An American Lyric and The Reluctant Fundamentalist may utilize different forms of second-person perspective, both use their respective forms to represent an act of racial violence and to place their readers within an experience of mimicry. Utilizing the language of Homi Bhaba, mimicry “emerges as one of the most elusive and effective strategies of colonial power and knowledge” (Bhaba 126). It is this power and knowledge that Rankine and Hamid use in their writing. Of himself, Hamid’s narrator Changez says, “Do not be frightened by my beard: I am a lover of America” (Hamid 1). The distinction is clear: he is a lover of America, but he is not an American himself like “you” are. Rankine similarly describes “you” as “an almost white person” (Rankine 5). Again, the distinction is clear: “you” are not and will never be white, but “you” are passable as “almost white”. While this distinction emphasizes that racial violence occurs, it also highlights that Hamid and Rankine have disrupted the expectations of racial violence. The failed mimicry of Rankine’s “you”—to be “almost white” yet not white—and Hamid’s Changez—as “a lover of America” but not American—illustrates another failure: the failure of the colonial project. Rankine and Hamid subvert the colonial power of mimicry that holds that the “Not quite / not white” must engage in mimicry; they instead create representations that illustrate situations that are racially violent to individuals that are “Not quite / not white” (Bhaba 132). They then situate the reader within their respective representations of mimicry to stimulate the experience of racial violence through second-person perspective. Thus, representations of racially violent mimicry through second-person perspective become a tool in which Rankine and Hamid subvert the power of the colonial project. By placing their respective reader within a representation of racially violent mimicry, they compel the reader to engage in the necessary emotional labor that accompanies such racial violence and use the colonial violence of mimicry to further their intentions of displacing emotional labor.

The use of second-person perspective in both Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric and Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist functions as a literary device to displace the emotional labor from the authors onto the audience. This displacement is obvious within the opening lines of both texts. While Hamid utilizes overt second-person and Rankine utilizes covert, both authors write in second-person to disrupt the colonial project by placing the emotional burden they are typically forced to bear onto the reader. The differences in their

forms of second-person become appropriate when evaluating the effects; Hamid’s narrative distance heightens the reader’s self-consciousness in their role, and Rankine’s lack of narrative distance situates the reader within a microaggression. Furthermore, the psychological evaluations of racial violence in America, as well as the literary analysis of Homi Bhaba, support this reading of second-person as a tool for disrupting the colonial project. Rankine and Hamid utilize representation of mimicry as a tool to situate their readers within the emotionally cumbersome experience of racial violence. As modern texts utilizing second-person, both Citizen: an American Lyric and The Reluctant Fundamentalist subvert the colonial project through second-person perspective, which puts the onus on the reader to bear the emotional burden of racial violence. These modern texts provide innovative narrative techniques for modern readers to understand the psychological effects of racism, which, in turn, can promote solidarity and allyship. It is the unique capacity of second-person perspective to build racial and ethnic solidarity by sharing experiences of racial violence through literature; this situates audiences within these experiences, which furthers their understanding of racism in America. Ultimately, both authors use the innovative second-person perspective as a tool in American racial narratives to subvert racist colonial powers and alleviate their emotional burdens by attributing the burden of understanding racism onto the audience.

Works Cited

Bhabha, Homi. “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse.” October, vol. 28, 1984, pp. 125–33. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/778467. Accessed 6 Jun. 2022.

Hamid, Moshin. The Reluctant Fundamentalist. Harcourt Books, Inc., 2007. Kacandes, Irene. “Narrative apostrophe: Case studies in second person fiction”. ProQuest Dissertations Publishing, Harvard University, 1991.

Khan, Mussarat, and Kathryn Ecklund. “Attitudes Toward Muslim Americans Post-9/11.” Journal of Muslim Mental Health, Michigan Publishing, University of Michigan Library, 1 Jan. 1970, quod.lib.umich.edu/j/jmmh/10381607.0007.101?rgn=main;view.

Rankine, Claudia. Citizen: an American Lyric. Graywolf Press, 2014. Sue, Derald Wing. “Racial Microaggressions in Everyday Life.” Psychology Today, Sussex Publishers, www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/microaggressions-in-everyday-life/201010/racial-microaggres sions-in-everyday-life.

Illustrations by Nuha Dolby

Dreams

by Silvia Craig

Where do you want to go for dinner?

Blake Martin

I hear him speak on the other side of the hot tub. The question is not addressed to me. He looks to the woman I can only assume is his wife, and he awaits an answer. He doesn’t get one. I keep my head facing the sky and pretend to ignore their conversation. Actually, it’s not a conversation at all, he just speaks to her. Actually, I’m not ignoring it at all, I’m listening to this not-conversation.

“I was thinking we could go to that Korean Barbecue place.”

Silence and the hum of the jets dominate the conversation the two don’t have. They seem to have more interesting things to discuss.

“I know you like the one back home, so I just thought it would be nice to give it a try.”

Silence cuts the jets off, and the hum of the hot tub machinery seems to take a more passive role in this conversation.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just, I don’t know, it could be fun.”

Silence wins and I can barely hear the jets anymore.

From the bottom of my sunglasses, I look at him. He looks a few years older than me, but years that mean something. He seems plain, someone you would give the benefit of the doubt by calling “nice” because it feels rude to call him boring. I can’t stop thinking about his age, probably less than ten years older than me, but more than five. In those five to ten years, he has managed to find himself married and making enough to stay here. Five or ten years: the difference between sitting in a hot tub to avoid your parents on vacation and becoming them. Gross.

“I’m not really hungry.”

Silence has a new contender. These are the first words I hear her speak. The answer is not addressed to me, but I doubt it’s really addressed to him either. She just speaks out, only to be listened to, not to communicate with anyone in particular. Her sunglasses stay on her nose, and her face points to the sky. I can’t see her eyes, but if I did, I think I could figure out what’s going on. I think that’s why she hasn’t taken them off.

“I just don’t feel like eating right now.”

She begins a polite chatter with silence, almost apologizing for making it carry the weight of the conversation. She defuses the situation, out of, what I gather, is impulse.

The second thing I heard her say seems to be addressed to him. Her defenses seem to be wavering.

“Where do you want to go for dinner?”

She wants to prove a point, but I think she feels bad about doing it, or maybe she’s not used to it, but I can’t tell. I can’t help but think that if I was her friend, I would be on her side. Here, sitting in this hotel hot tub, an un-elected third, I don’t know how I feel.

“That’s fine, we’re in no rush I mean, it’s a-”

“Vacation, yeah,”

She revoked her apology. Silence begins to talk again, and I begin to listen.

I can tell she’s heard that line again and again on their trip. I wish I knew more about what was going on between them. I wish I knew how to feel, but I’m confused. I keep giving him the benefit of the doubt. I don’t want to.

He tries to move closer to her, and she immediately stands.

“My head hurts.”

“Too much chlorine?”

She sighs, pauses. “Yeah.”

Silence shouts even though it already had our attention.

He doesn’t respond. She walks back to where, I can only assume, is their room. I turn my head to look at him. He stares at the bubbles forming in the middle of the whirlpool. He just sits and stares for a while. He looks at me. I think he’s embarrassed, and then, he speaks.

“All that just for asking where she wants to go for dinner.”

My thoughts cut silence off mid-sentence.

He wants me to sympathize. I realize that he wants me to look him in the eye and say something and pardon him of his guilt. He wants me to pretend that her frustration with him is nothing but a punchline. He wants me to pretend her anger came from a simple question. But by far, the worst thing he asks me to do is to give him the benefit of the doubt. He asks me to afford him the patience he seems to receive everywhere else. He asks me to continue to doubt myself, to doubt her, to benefit him. I know how to feel. Standing to leave, I go to where he can only assume, is my room. I leave the conversation, and silence picks up where they left off, speaking, only for him to listen.

Illustrations by Nuha Dolby

“Untitled Collage” by Cynthia Hernandez

Contributors

“We Reckon: The Public History Project’s Presence at the Chazen Museum of Art & Beyond,” “My English Major,” “In Collaboration: PAVE”, and “YWCA: Madison and the Community” were feature pieces written by Landis Varughese, Carsyn Barber, Sophia Smith, and Lacey Brooks respectively, all members of the Madison Journal of Literary Criticism’s (MJLC) editorial team. Pieces “Conscious Playlists,” “Professors Promoting Consciousness ,” and “That Red Pill Moment” were collaborative spreads compiled by the MJLC’s staff.

Sophia Betts - “Your Face is Mine...”

Sophia Betts is a senior undergraduate at the Oregon State University Honors College in Corvallis. She is majoring in Philosophy and English, and minoring in French. Her research interests include Modernist and Postmodernist prose, Gothic literature, and print history. Outside of the classroom, Sophia enjoys composing and printing letterpress projects at the university print studio, and is an avid fan of rugby. In the future, she hopes to attend graduate school to continue studying literature, with a focus on Modernism and Postmodernism.

Ashley Cheung - “Otis” and “3/16 Bus Ride”

Ashley Cheung, pronouns she/her, is a 20-year old Posse scholar studying Conservation Biology and Community & Environmental Sociology with a certificate in Environmental Studies at UW-Madison. She is a Canadian-American descendant of Cantonese immigrants, and a student organizer in Madison. She mobilizes communities in Madison participating in collective care and systemic change to achieve reproductive justice, climate justice, and liberation for all, including poor, queer, disabled and BIPOC people. Consciousness is a process of reckoning with and accepting her relationship to the world and the people in it. Emotions are a powerful product of this process of consciousness, which she channels into the poems she writes and the organizing she participates in.

Alexis Connors - “Plant Beings”

Alexis Connors is a 20 year old from Mt. Horeb, WI. She’s a junior at UW-Madison studying Political Science, History, and Environmental Studies. She’s always been interested in how plants work, and especially how they experience the world, and people’s relationships with them, so that is what her poem is based on.

Silvia Craig - “Untitled,” “Dreams”

Silvia Craig is a third year student at the University of Chicago. The goal of her submitted painting was to represent a person trying to understand themselves and their position in life. While life is chaotic and overwhelming, there is a strength that comes with being conscious of this fact. The goal of her second piece, originally a stop motion video but represented in screenshots in print, was to play on the concept of dreams as being an element of consciousness.

Caleb Delos-Santos - “Responding to My Odd Talking”

Caleb Delos-Santos is a senior (2023) double majoring in Acting for the Stage and Screen and English at Azusa Pacific University. He has thirteen published poems and one non-fiction with West Wind Magazine, Outrageous Fortune, GoldScriptCo, Bluepepper, Poetry Archive, Spectrum, Indian Periodical, Forbes and Fifth, and North Dakota Quarterly. He also won the APU Esselstrom Prize for writing and has recently published his first poetry book called A Poet’s Perspective through Cyberwit.net. Finally, He dreams of successful careers in writing and acting.

James Harris - “Harris Non-Fiction Essay”

James Harris is a 30-year-old non-traditional student at UWGB. He worked as a machinist and welder for years before becoming passionate about social and environmental issues.

Cynthia Hernandez - “Untitled Collage”

Cynthia Hernandez is a Freshman at UW, pursuing Russian Studies. Growing a up in Chicago made her realize she is interested in learning New Languages, Photography, and Graphic Design.

Nathaniel Lasker - “I”

Mario Loprete - “Ukranian ice cream concrete sculpture,”

“PERFORMANCE”

Mario Loprete, born in Catanzaro, Italy in 1968, is a graduate from Accademia of Belle Arti, Catanzaro (ITALY). Painting for him is his first love. An important, pure love. Creating a painting, starting from the spasmodic research of a concept with which he wants to transmit his message, this is the foundation of painting for him. Sculpture is his lover, his artistic betrayal to the painting that voluptuous and sensual lover that inspires different emotions which strike prohibited chords.

Blake Martin - “Where Do You Want to Go for Dinner”

Blake Martin is a sophomore at the University of Wisconsin-Madison studying English-Creative Writing and Political Science. In the future, he aspires to be an attorney or an English teacher. As he heads toward the classroom, or the courtroom, he plans to write every step of the way and is excited to have his first piece published in the MJLC!

Keely Palmer - “Last Remaining Seconds”

Keely Palmer is a recent graduate of the University of Wisconsin - Green Bay, where she studied English, humanities, and human development. She is typically writing at her desk with her dog keeping her company. When she is not writing poems, she is working on writing her debut novel.

Joshua Prado - “Long Morning Shadows”

Joshua Prado is a photographer from Madison, WI who has been taking photographs for 4 years. Initially starting as a press photographer at his high school, he has expanded his scope to portraits, weddings, and street photography. As an assistant to a highly acclaimed photojournalist, he pushes himself to use light, people, and location to show and provoke emotions. In his free time, Joshua enjoys weightlifting for the University’s Club Powerlifting Team and getting clinical experience as a Nursing Student at UW.

Emma Tolliver “You!”

Emma Tolliver is a fourth-year undergraduate student at the University of California, Davis. She is majoring in English and Political Science - Public Service and minoring in Human Rights Studies. Tolliver is currently serving a one-year term as a research fellow for the UC National Center for Free Speech and Civic Engagement, where she serves as the principal investigator on a project evaluating student advocacy movements and determining effective advocacy strategies for college-aged activists. Following her undergraduate education, Tolliver plans to enter public service with the ambition of helping survivors of human trafficking receive justice.

The Madison Social Justice Center