Ariel has a new article at Psychology Today
I wanted to be good, and I wanted life to be fair.
Mom and I sat on the porch, and I told her how I thought things should be.
“You know how Joseph Smith created a whole new religion based on the idea that white people had been to this place before and that the Indians and white people had lived together before, long ago, but the white people all died out and left this great religion, etched into tablets and buried it all for the return of the white people to America.”
I reasoned that I could write a religion that allowed women to be equal to men.
I said, “Women could have multiple husbands.”
Mom said, “I don’t want even one husband.”
We laughed as the sun set over the chalk-colored hills and the great mesa in the distance and the mountains behind us became dark giants.
“What are you laughing about,” my brother wanted to know, his hair shuffled on his head, no t-shirt over his rib-ragged chest.
“Oh, nothing,” my mom said. She shushed me with her gaze.
This was one of those conversations that wasn’t for my brother Brian’s ears.
Later, mom said, “You can have children without being married. If you get married because you’re pregnant, you’re making two mistakes instead of just one.” But she looked me in the eye and said, “You, of course, don’t have to worry about any of that yet. Not until you’re much older.”
When I told her that there were girls in this town having sex already, she said, “Well, that couldn’t be true.”
And then she said, “If they are, they’ll ruin their reputations.”
I would have to learn how to navigate mixed messages.
Jenny Forrester was the 2011 recipient of the Richard Hugo House New Works Competition award and has been published in a variety of places including Nailed Magazine, Penduline Press, Hip Mama Magazine, and Indiana Review. She and Ariel Gore co-edited the anthology The People’s Apocalypse. She’s the curator of Portland’s Unchaste Readers Series.
New memoir excerpt from Bastard Child of a Renegade Nun by Laura Green
“I can’t believe you have this book in your apartment.”
From where I’m sitting on the floor by the bookshelf I can only see the leaping crest of Tara’s bangs over the couch’s cat-shredded arm.
“Oh my god, it’s porn.”
Is that bad? I can’t tell, which makes me want to grab The New Our Bodies, Ourselves from her hands. Or knock her out. Or stay very still.
Sex is dangerous. Sex is all-you-can-eat at my favorite restaurant and everything’s free but half the food’s poison. I’m starving all the time but I don’t want to be the first to sink a fork in.
I thought I was safe with Tara. I thought she was just as grease-stained and drooling as I am, because a few weeks ago she showed me three condoms and a thick pink rod in her mom’s nightstand. The rod had a turn on switch. It was splayed and nubbed at one end like the nose of the star-nosed mole I saw at the Museum of Science. Tara said I couldn’t touch anything in the drawer because her mom would know, but I think Tara touches that rod.
Is twelve too old to like the Museum of Science? I worry that going there’s something I shouldn’t admit to. Especially going there with my mom. Twelve. Twelve is too old, isn’t it? To kneel by the egg-shaped chick incubator? Hatch, chicks. Hatch before I move on.
Maybe Tara’s never touched the rod. Maybe she would never even think of it.
“It’s, like, a medical book,” I dodge. There are medical things in the book, but – come on, who am I kidding? It has a chapter called “Sexual Pleasure and Enthusiastic Consent.” Enthusiastic.
“It totally tells how to do it.” Tara sounds triumphant. Why? What has she found out? I’m sure it’s worse than I’ve feared. I should run. What should I grab? What should I cover? Her bangs quiver like antennae in a buffeting wind.
It does tell how to do it. The New Our Bodies, Ourselves tells about all different ways to do it. It tells how to do it if you’re in a wheelchair. In one place it even tells about ladies doing it to each other.
“Really?” I try to sound surprised. My spine is prickling. “Gross.” Is it gross that I have this book in my apartment? Is it great? Is this book more dirty than condoms and star-nosed rods? Is it dirty in a worse way? I can’t know from just Tara’s bangs.
One time, weeks ago, I rubbed lotion that smelled like peach-scented plastic on Tara’s puffy breasts. She’s covered in freckles, but not in places the sun’s never touched. Those places were pale white with blue veins. It doesn’t mean she couldn’t turn on me.
And one time we pretended I was Mr. Harrison, our woodworking teacher with whom Tara’s in love. Tara lay under me while I struggled to get my hand so my fingers could reach inside her. I needed to do it without breaking the belly-to-belly sex position I think Mr. Harrison would employ.
She was soft and warm down there; inside she was slick and pillow-y. I didn’t expect it to be so slick, almost pleated. It was different than I am inside, I think. Was it? I was so afraid while it was happening I could only hold on to every third or fourth thought. I wanted to change positions so I could slide my whole finger in, but that’s not how sex works.
After a while Tara said she was going to be Mr. Harrison and we flipped so Mr. Harrison could press herself against my thigh.
We were just practicing, though. It isn’t like I thought that was a real thing. Tara and I aren’t like the homos in The New Our Bodies, Ourselves. Is that what she thought I thought? Was she mad about it? Is she here to get evidence? But she did it too. Will anyone believe me?
“Don’t act like you haven’t read it. You’ve totally read this a million times.”
Of course I have. At least a million, which is why it’s so strange I’ve never seen the little red journal before, just three books over from Our Bodies Ourselves. Its spine is no thicker than my pinkie. It says RECORD in shiny gold letters. There’s a shiny gold box around the word and smaller boxes all up and down the spine. The other books in the bookcase are soft-covers with cracked bindings mashed to just white paper at their corners. This is something different.
“What time does your mom get home?” Tara asks, tipping her head back so I can see her pink forehead and the end of her flat, speckled nose.
“I don’t know, like, five-thirty?” I’ve sunk into matching positions with her. Head against the wall, back against the floor, knees tenting up in front of me. Book balanced against my legs.
“What time is it now?” Tara voice is still sharp, it could be a trick. Her questions could mean anything. What time is it now. What does that mean?
The journal’s cover is slightly bumpy. When I hold it at an angle I can see it’s etched with a pattern that looks like the residue of thousands of tiny bubbles, popped. It’s marbled like an Easter egg. It’s as light as an egg. I crack it open.
The pages are measured out in tightly spaced baby blue lines running horizontally with one pale pink vertical stripe at their left edge. My mother’s handwriting slants along the blue lines in dark blue pen. Neat and even like a lake being blown by a steady breeze.
In the open space at the top before the measuring begins she’s written, June 13, ’75. Three months before I was born.
Here you are, six months old already and I’ve talked with you so many times. When I found out you were with me a warm feeling came over me, which has never left–not even for a moment. It’s like having all my hopes and desires of a lifetime fulfilled.
I close the cover quickly. My heart feels too near my skin. This is from when I was not separate. This is from when I was only imagined. From when everything was still furled tight and I might become a thousand different people. Now so much set and unchangeable. My throat feels stretched, like I’m trying to choke down all the years.
The bend in my neck and the hard knot of time in my esophagus make it hard for blood to get through. I can feel it struggling below my jaw. I can hear it.
“Hey, what time is it now?” Tara corkscrews her body and pushes herself up so her head is propped on the arm of the couch. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing her chin at the journal.
“Nothing. For homework,” I improvise. “Four? Prolly?”
My mom from long before. Here in this book. Talking to me. It’s toppled me so completely I forgot about navigating Tara. I forgot the perils on the couch right in front of me. The thousand different people this moment could turn me into.
“Wanna read it in your room?” She thumps the thick book filled with sex that’s wedged between her chest and the couch. Relief. It washes away the knot. I swallow it. We’ll read the book and practice stuff. It won’t fill all my brain. Worry will still chatter in the background, but it will be a mumble, not a howl.
I lead the way. Another step further from being curled tight and perfect, another step I won’t be able to walk back.
I don’t put the journal on the bookshelf. I take it with me. It was written to me. It’s mine. I close the door to my room, my door. Lock my lock. I have a lock. It feels like just another thing that I’ve made up, but I pinch and twist – I feel it click. The knob won’t turn now. What if my mom comes home early? What if, like God, she’s always watching me? I need to close her out. I need to keep her close.
Under my bed there’s a Converse shoebox where I hide my diary. It’s a gigantic box for the gigantic men’s high-top leather sneakers I make my mom buy me. I like them in a size that exceeds my feet by inches. I’m too tall for my age, I have breasts and hips and my period already, and I hope maybe no one will notice. Maybe no one will see it–me.
They do, of course. Once a boy called me Green Giant. Jolly Green Giant. Do they all call me that? All of them. All of them do, but despite it, I intend to grow. The giant shoes make me trip climbing stairs and I have to take them off to run or to walk on anything but perfectly flat, well swept terrain. My mom thinks it’s weird and hysterical that I want them, but I need them. I need the extra space. There’s more of me, I’m sure of it.
There’s plenty of room in their box for this book. I drop it in. I take out the peach scented lotion.
“The person reading gets a backrub. You read first.” This is one of the ways to start. She lies on a pillow on my rug.
She points at a drawing, “Gross! Who’s that hairy?!” I push up her shirt. She reaches around and arcs like a swimmer, then it’s over her head and off.
“Gross,” I agree. In the twisting my pillow moved. I can see its flowered case between her legs.
“Lips,” she reads in disgust. “Our lips.” She laughs and laughs. I laugh.
We both know this food is poison but we’ve skipped so many meals and you can die from hunger too.
I tug on the waistband of her stirrup pants. She lifts her hips so I can pull them down.
My mom fell asleep before I did.
If I fall asleep while she’s still awake and the house is lighted, while she’s still tending things and taking care of us and moving, then I’m okay. Mostly. But if I’m still awake when she turns out the lights in the living room and kitchen and the only light left is the one by her bed and then if she snaps off even that yellow bit of consciousness–if I’m still awake then–I’m doomed.
Because of the Museum of Science, I know this sort of magic trick. You stand in a doorway and open your arms to the sides like wings. The doorjamb stops them, but you have to keep pressing against it as hard as you can for a slow count of 60. After enough time your arms re-calibrate. They accept this new intense and specific gravity and resign themselves to live under it forever. Then, just when they start to forget the press of the world they came from, you step into the room and your arms fly from your body like snipped balloons. That’s what nighttime is, but instead of my arms it’s my whole being flying away.
Don’t be such a baby, I coach myself, You’re twelve years old. What are you, scared of the dark?
It isn’t the dark. It’s the space.
Where am I? Where are my edges?
I sit up and reach for the wooden dowel folded into the bottom of my shade. I tug it and it springs up, unlatched, from my hand. The pink haze of the streetlight near my room shines in, but weakly. It isn’t enough to pin me in this moment, which is gone already.
I try praying. Dear God, please make me believe in you. If you exist make me believe in you. It instantly makes me feel guilty. If God exists he should be spending time saving babies with no lips and holes in their spines and women trapped in lagoons by scaled and yellow-eyed creatures. I’m just one girl in one moment in endless, sprinting time. One tiny flick of girl. I’m sorry , I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Small and selfish. Pompous. Presumptuous. What kind of God would notice me?
If I get up and walk the ten or twelve steps from my room to my mom’s room I can climb into her bed and that will be enough, but I’m twelve. I swore off sleeping in my mom’s bed when I turned nine and again when I turned ten. Eleven. Don’t be a baby. You just need to stop it. STOP IT. But I can’t. I need something outside of me to make me stop. I hang myself over the edge and pull out my box, slide the lid off and pull out the red journal.
July, 31 1975 Today I’m worried about you. The doctor said you were small for your age. Up until two weeks ago you were big for your age. What happened to you? Aren’t you eating well? Please, please grow big soon.
I will! I do! I’m fine, pregnant mom. I turn out fine. For a second it’s comforting to know how it turns out. Then it’s just horribly sad that it’s always turning.
August 2 Today you had the hiccups! Or at least I think you did. Maybe you were just kicking with rhythm. You’ll have to try out different instruments!
September 1 You’ve been so active lately. I hope you’ll always be this energetic and happy. I have so many things I should be doing but I spend hours just marveling at you. You’re not even born yet and already I can’t concentrate on anything but you.
This is the God I need. Who can make me and carry me and still think that I am the miracle. That I’m reason enough.
But she isn’t a god, and someday there will just be this book. The thought makes hot fear pool in the base on my brain. Or cold – the kind of cold that burns your skin clean off.
October 1st. I’m born. You like to lie in the opposite direction of the fetal position with your back curved like a swan and your arms free. My darling, I hope you’ll find the freedom you seem to want, and that, in some small way, you’ll make this world a freer place to live in.
But I didn’t want to be free.
I wanted to be held.
Laura Green lives in Portland, Oregon. She’s working on a memoir tentatively called Bastard Child of a Renegade Nun (plus half-Mexican and gay). Please contact her if you have an elegant way to work it all into a title.
REGISTRATION IS NOW OPEN FOR FALL & WINTER CLASSES
I was at a loss after finishing my MFA program… But after eight years of infrequent publishing and no time to write, I found an alternative that works for me. Three years ago, I hooked up with Ariel Gore’s online Literary Kitchen workshops and finally found a group that was the right fit for me: writers not full of privilege (and themselves) who offer honest criticism and support at the same time, and whose work I truly enjoy reading. And that infrequent publishing? It’s not so infrequent anymore.
—Margaret Garcia, Poets & Writers
Lit Star Training
The Original Literary Kitchen Online Writing Workshop
Taught by Ariel Gore
September 6 – Early November
A new session of Lit Star Training — the 8-week+ writing course taught by Ariel Gore — starts September 6. Writers in Lit Star Training spend at least a few hours each week on their writing and online critiques. You can log in any time of the day or night. Writers in the group are new and seasoned, wanting to work on memoir or fiction. The class works as well for those writing to weekly assignments (with no big projects in mind) and for people who are starting or working on existing book projects.
The class is $295 — a $90 deposit will hold your spot. You can pay the deposit right here:
* * *
SPECIAL 4-WEEK SESSION OF LIT STAR TRAINING
A $55 deposit saves your spot.
December 19 – January 1
You’ll get 12 assignments in 14 days and lots of great feedback (an-assignment-a-day & take 2 days of your choosing off.)
Class size is limited, so please sign up early.
Ariel Gore is a fabulous workshop facilitator; I’ve been taking classes from her since 2001. In each of the workshops, she brings together a diverse group of writers with varying degrees of competency; and, whether the writer is seasoned or a beginner, she understands exactly where each person is coming from and she meets them there. Not only did I find my unique voice, I learned how to be a thoughtful listener and how to provide insightful critique. I would recommend her workshops to anyone interested in memoir and the art of a good story.
—Lani Jo Leigh
Ariel’s workshops jump-started my psyche. I’m back into looking at the world as a writer instead of as a would-be writer. I have her to thank for that. Workshops are almost at your own pace. Always encouraging. She has a knack for assembling a great group of writers together every time.
—Margaret Elysia Garcia
Ariel Gore’s writing workshop pushed me past the borders of my creativity and into an exciting unknown place of writing within myself. If you’ve ever put to pen to paper and wondered what you were really capable of Ariel’s workshop will take you there.
I thoroughly enjoy Ariel’s workshops. Writers from a variety of backgrounds gather together, bringing in work with all kinds of themes, and as each piece is workshopped, Ariel’s ear for the crucial aspects of great storytelling kicks right in. Her feedback is thoughtful, insightful, precise, and multilayered.
When I started writing with Ariel, I had zero idea how to write for audience. In work shopping with her, I have found my voice and with practice have found different ways to formulate story. I have learned how to incorporate dialogue and am so much more confident with my work. I recommend this workshop to all aspiring, practicing, and practiced writers.
Why, it’s a mythical place, a philosophy of life, a new book you’ll love.
It’s a collection of stories about vampires and superheroes, gypsy curses, giant killer robots, psychics, love potions, bar fights over stolen angel wings, and imaginary monsters.
It’s also a novel about overcoming depression, handling loss, and trying to find meaning in a world where the supernatural isn’t the hardest part of life to accept.
It’s the most fabulous book behind the most understated cover. And it will make you happy to be alive.
The print edition of The Greatest Most Traveling Circus is all yours from Sweet Candy Press: http://www.sweetcandypress.com. And there’s a Kindle edition, too.
Ariel: I fell in love with The Greatest Most Traveling Circus almost immediately when I cracked the cover. I could just feel the joy emanating from the pages. Is writing for you as joyous a process as it seems from the reading point of few—or more an arduous art?
Jonas: It was definitely a joy. I loved telling these stories. I would get immersed in them for long stretches of time. I’d write at work, at home, during my commute to work, in the bathroom; practically everywhere. When I wasn’t writing, I was still thinking about the characters and story lines. It was really exhilarating. On the train home from work, I’d write something that would have me literally laughing out loud, and I’d get a little worried that people around me thought that I was a crazy person. Then some parts actually had me in tears right after I wrote them. I can think of a few parts in particular that hit me pretty hard.
I mean, it was draining at the same time. There’s quite a lot of really personal stuff embedded in there. But writing it never felt like a chore.
Ariel: Can we talk about genre? Your book had been called an anthology but also a novel. What more can you tell me about the genre? I usually think of an anthology as multi-author, and all these stories are written by you. And I think of a novel as single-author and single-protagonist…
Jonas: I was really torn on whether to call it an anthology or a novel. Technically, it’s an anthology. But at one point during the writing, I started thinking of each story more as a chapter. There are recurring themes, a lot of characters reappear or are mentioned in several stories, and often details in one story resolve or unfold certain situations from previous stories. I wanted it to feel like an anthology at first, then unfold slowly in a way that feels like one story with a large cast of characters. I think, for me at least, the character Ramona is the protagonist, and the whole book is building up to her story.
Ariel: A theme of the book—right from the start—seems to be a certain randomness of existence. I was recommending it to someone and I called it “kind of a beach read that is also meditation on existential philosophy.” Do you think that’s a fair characterization? Or am I just maybe feeling very random and reading into it?
Jonas: That’s a perfect way to put it! I was reading an awful lot of philosophy while I was writing the book. Right from the beginning, what I tired to do was tackle a lot of very complicated philosophical ideas within the context of very simple stories. The layers are there, but you don’t have to dig for them to enjoy the book. I didn’t want it to be stuffy. Then, yes, many of the characters each seem to be in the middle of an existential crisis, you know, looking for a deeper personal meaning to life—which they realize, for better or worse, through the friendships they build.
Ariel: How long did it take to write The Greatest Most Traveling Circus? What do you like about the final product?
Jonas: I wrote the first stories around 2006 or so. I’d write large batches of them, compile them and give them to my wife as small gifts. I started writing the Amazing Man stories just after the Virginia Tech massacre in 2007. The inspiration was pretty clear at the time, you know, contrasting the renewed excitement over superheroes in movies with a tragic mass murder; you know, the fascination with superheroes in a country that keeps showing us very real, dangerous villains. It’s mind-boggling that, since then, superhero movies have become even more popular, and there have been many more mass murders like the Virginia Tech shooting. I mean, there was that Colorado shooting in 2012, where the shooter actually referred to himself as The Joker, and went on his rampage at the premier of a superhero flick.
But yeah, around 2007 is when I started to look at the work as a cohesive book and not just a set of stories that occasionally intersected. I finished it around the spring of 2011, but then there were edits here and there right up until it was published.
I’m really happy with how it all comes together, but I still think it works if you just flip through it and read the individual stories at random.
by Avery Cassell
I want to die in the present, not the past. Will that happen, or will I be buried beneath the weight of my wispy past, my past that smothers me, yet when I try to write it down runs away, leaving me with only smokey remnants?
My memories are brilliantly glimmering, yet fleeting. I don’t feel strong enough to make this gift for you, this gift of possibilities and deliverance. And I wonder, is it even ethical to write a memoir as an amnesiac? It isn’t that I don’t remember being a child, however all I remember are odd snippets, with my family almost completely removed from my stories. My reputation inside of my family was that of the overly dramatic, habitual liar. Add a dollop of secrecy and dissociation bred by incest, growing up in Iran where paranoia ran hand in hand with Savak, and you suddenly have a child who felt it was safer to stow memories away tightly. I am the scurrying secretive one that everyone avoids in the lunchroom for fear of contamination. I’m the different one even now, bearing the scars of my past like stigmata. I want you to like me. I want to tell you a common story about watching Gunsmoke on television, eating McDonald’s hamburgers, bullied at school for being queer, and avoiding my senior prom. I want to tell these stories so that we can bond. I cannot. Mass burial pits, Savak, dinosaur bones, chamber pots, roasted baby camel, my father’s hand on my thigh. . . and I’m undone, floating through life alone at age five.
Is this a dream, or is it real? I was always the one with too many stories, the liar, the daydreamer in the back of the classroom, smelling of chalk dust and cobwebs, and doodling in my notebook with my dry heart wandering. And is this another tale from the prodigal daughter? The child that returns over and over looking for love, only to be sacrificed, head down and splayed like an insect.
I’m sitting in Tartine Bakery eating a coconut tart, searching the Friday morning crowds for the most gullible one. I’m going to give you my story. I’m the nicest girl, the one with lush crinolines and an Easter bonnet looking at you slyly from beneath my curls.
This prologue is a scrawl upon a coffee-stained notebook written in the last row. It is a nothing–a fable invented by the worst child imaginable. An incorrigible brat, a fire-starter with one hand on a blade held to her forearm, and the other clenching a bottle of Turkish vodka. I’m the evilest girl; we all know this daughter, the one with her sly eyes cutting whomever she sees to shreds.
This is the story I tell over and over, polishing the details. I dissect it into piles of truth, possible truth, and you-must-be-nuts. No, really. I toss each tid-bit onto their stack grimly. I’m going to catalog this day into a linear narrative that shines like a row of cobalt blue glasses on a window shelf in the sun. Just send this beauty into me like a sliver of glass, straight into my cunt; I’m crucified for your secrets. This day will become a nothing day, just like the day before it and the day after.
I was a boy. I was a boy on that day. I became a boy on that day. I became an artist on that day. Boyhood has nothing to do with pissing standing up, or trucks, or sneakers, or baseball. I know what being a boy means; being a boy is all tender lips opening, bent over at the waist, and soft assholes opening with a grunt and the sharp waft of come. I slip through time, and I change over and over. Not really. I’m lying because that is what I do best. I lay around, a louche who’s up to no good, full to the top of my devious head with dreams and escapades. Please don’t believe me. Walk away. Turn your little head and leave.
Make this story into a hat, and then turn it inside out. Hide the words twirling in the crown and ending in the brim. Full stop. Punch it out. Punch it out of me, until it spurts from my mouth, a gush of black bile. Remember, this is all a lie.
I keep on reinventing myself to get away from my lies, but they sniff me out every time. That tingling in the crock of my left arm, the brilliant shining green grass, the hexagonal quilting pieces, the tall cool pines. . . and I’m lost once more.
My father said that I was a liar. Am I a liar? I know that everything after age 14 is true. Everything after my father stopped fucking me is true. I was cast out of the family several times starting at age 17, and if anyone else had told me this story of family bickering and disownment, I would have been quick to defend the child. Someone has to be the devil around here, and I’ve been a sacrificial victim for so long that I have the role memorized and mesmerized to a nanosecond. I want my father to be good. I want him to be blameless. I want him to be loved. I’ve been researching details for this memoir, and have discovered that I’m not a pathological liar. This is momentous to my personal and family mythology. The truth of my past places me on a desolate plain, surrounded by pain and beauty.
I have an idea. I’ll tell you my biggest lie and you can keep it. It’s my gift to you as a gracious host, wearing a grey woolen smoking jacket and wobbling in the twilight. I’m holding court, dispersing my past like so many bitter licorice whips. This is a confessional–a sprinkle of spit upon my bowed head and I’m absolved, freed. Don’t you fucking look at me.
Avery Cassell is a writer, painter, and cartoonist. They live in San Francisco and are currently working on their memoir, a children’s picture book about a transgendered boy and his family, and an erotic novel. www.averycassell.wordpress.com
It was a Tuesday late in May. The early Southern summer haze pressed down, locking the humidity in, a barrier between us and the sun. But a light from the heavens shone down on us that day when a judge cleared Mr. Jimmy Jones’ criminal record of the first degree murder and rape charge for which he’d wasted two decades behind bars. DNA proved he didn’t do it and the white man let him go. But the crime stayed on his record, keeping him unemployable.
Two years we’d been working on getting Mr. Jones’ record expunged. The district judges convened. Even though the rape and murder occurred in the 1950s, the killer was never found. Now it might be one thing to let Mr. Jones out of prison, but erasing those words from his record meant that woman died without anyone known to blame. It was one thing not to have enough proof to support a charge of guilty, but quite another to not have a person accused of the crim. And that didn’t sit easy with folks in a small southern town. Once the district judges agreed they sent the case to the state-level judges for another stamp of approval. They signed the expungement papers and then sent it back to the county for one final hearing, just to be sure. Sure of what nobody was saying, but everyone knew. They had to make sure they weren’t letting a black man off the hook for raping and killing a white woman.
That day when we told Mr. Jones that finally his name was cleared of criminal charges, he reached up from his wheelchair and hugged me. He was seventy years old and wouldn’t be filling out another employment application, but he thanked us with exquisite grace. “Never had white people help me. Sent by God, you two were.”
My contentment of working at a job that changed lives made me stay an extra fifteen minutes at the park pushing my toddler on the swing. As I pushed him higher, it sunk in that Mr. Jones, perhaps for the first time in his life, believed a white person had seen him as an individual, not a statistic based on his skin color. My son and I stopped at the ice cream store before heading home for dinner, splurging on chocolate cones with sprinkles. I fired up the grill and turned veggie kabobs over the grey charcoal while my son played with his train set. After his bath, I opened the windows to let the evening breeze cool off the house. The evening was perfect, right down to the end when he went to bed after one book without a struggle.
Then I made the mistake of checking Facebook and saw a news release reposted by many local friends. “A single mom was raped in her home at approximately 5 a.m. yesterday morning. Her young child was in the house. The suspect is a very dark-skinned black male, with short dreads, facial hair only on his chin, and wearing overalls. Report all suspicious activity to the police.”
I called my best friend who tried to reassure me. “She lives on the other side of town – the bad part.”
Google maps showed the rape occurred less than two miles from my own house.
“So ugly that rape happens. All I can think about is a big black man towering over me. I don’t mean to be prejudice or anything, but imagine being raped with someone like that. The woman probably knew him, it wouldn’t happen to us,” she rambled on in an effort to sooth my nerves.
Someone like what exactly, I wondered. I reread the description of the man. None of the details really mattered except for one. His short dreads could be cut, his facial hair shaved, and he could take off the overalls. But his dark skin could not be hidden. He was a faceless, nameless Black Man.
And I wondered what or who kept me safe. I’d been acting like I lived in a bubble ever since buying the house two years ago. I never locked my doors. I strolled around the neighborhood with my son in his stroller wearing sundresses and fip flops.
That night I bolted my doors and locked my windows for the first time. I picked up my sleeping boy in my arms and carried him to my bed, whispering into the soft nook of his neck, “you’re going to sleep in mama’s bed tonight.” If someone broke into my house, I wanted to have him close, even if I didn’t know how I was going to protect him. I locked my bedroom door and barricaded it with a chair, sleeping with my iPhone next to my bed, 911 pressed on the number pad.
I didn’t sleep that night, getting up to peer out the windows, looking for the Black Man. How stupid to leave my kayak paddles outside, to give the Black Man a weapon he could use against me. I tossed and turned, half wanting to go grab them but then too afraid to get out of bed. If I had a man, I’d be safe, I thought. The Black Man found the single mom home alone with her child. I worried I’d never feel safe until I found a man, any one would do. That night I craved a body to protect me, mostly from my own thoughts.
Maya Angelou died the next day. I read her poem, “Still I Rise” for the first time. I thought about the rapist, whether he could just be a black man instead of the Black Man or every black man. Whether I could look at each black man I passed that evening as I pushed my son in a stroller to the park, look into his eyes and smile, seeing his individual features and the contours of his being. And whether I could rise enough to unfurl my single-mama heart and press love into the withered and wrinkled parts the way Mr. Jones had managed to do despite decades of being falsely imprisoned. Maya Angelou challenged me to rise and find security in the abundance of kindness instead of clinging to prejudices and lingering in the shadows of blame. “And still I’ll rise.”
Ky Delaney practices law at a grassroots legal aid office and solo parents her two-year old son in Asheville, NC. Her website www.kydelaney.com provides links to her writing and blog.
New Prose by Laurie Jones Neighbors
Sherilyn sat cross-legged on her bathroom vanity, her hair wrapped in a towel as she picked dead skin off of the bottom of one of her feet. Her mom was crying in the kitchen. The sky was turning rosy, and something about the light streaming through the bathroom window made me suddenly aware of my sour, stale odor. I picked up a bottle of Jean Naté and sprayed myself head to toe.
Late last night, Sherilyn had tapped on my bedroom window. I pulled on a flannel shirt and 501s, laced up my red high-top sneakers, and snuck out the back door of my parents’ house. We shuffled across Melanie Park, our arms filled with cans of Schlitz from my dad’s stash in the garage and a pack of unfiltered Camels I’d pulled from a carton in the kitchen pantry. I had a yellow Bic lighter in my pocket.
We’d sat on the swings, the velvety West Texas sky surrounding us, drinking the beers one after the other, smoking the cigarettes, then pumping our legs and swinging high into the arms of Andromeda, Perseus, and Cassiopeia. When the sky started to turn from black to blue, we walked down a side street then slid through Sherilyn’s front door, sleepy and thirsty.
Sherilyn’s mother stood at the kitchen island, translucent as onion skin, her bald head powdery in the yellow light coming from under the range hood, holding a piece of dry toast in her hand. I stopped, tried to stand up straight, and couldn’t help but look away from her sunken, red-rimmed eyes. Sherilyn kept walking, not even glancing her mother’s way, heading to the bathroom. I turned and followed.
Sherilyn’s mother called after her. When she didn’t get an answer, she’d appeared in the doorway. “Where have you been all night?” she asked. Her voice was high-pitched, trembling, but her face was flat.
“What the fuck do you care?” Sherilyn said as she unscrewed the cap on a bottle of conditioner. Her mother left, using the hallway wall to steady herself as she made her way back to the kitchen. Sherilyn poured conditioner into her hand and started to rub it into the dry tips of her hair. “My ends need extra conditioning,” she said.
When Sherilyn had rinsed her hair under the sink, she wound a towel around her head like a turban, tucking the tail in at the back of her neck and climbing up on the vanity. “She pukes all day and night,” she said. “It’s disgusting. She stinks. The whole house stinks.”
I took a long drink of water from the bathroom faucet, then slipped out the front door and walked back home as the sunrise burnished the sky. By the time I got there, it was daylight. Through the screen door, I saw my dad in his bright blue terry-cloth robe reading the sports page. He caught me over the top of his horned-rimmed glasses, looking at me like I was a loose dog limping along on the side of a busy highway, then returned to reading the newspaper.
Wiping the grit out of my eyes, I made my way down the hall, wishing that he’d said something to me. I paused at the first door on my right. This was the room where my mom slept, curled up on a daybed in her sewing room with a portable black-and-white TV going all night. Intermingled with the punched-up voices of the local weather forecaster, I could hear her soft, husky snoring.
I imagined my mother on the other side of the door, asleep on her back with her beige robe knotted loosely around her waist, the lace trim of her mastectomy bra peeking out, the sad, deflated pocket on the left-hand side. And beside her, on the bedside table—a full ashtray, her cigarette case, a bottle of red nail polish, and her silicone breast form.
As I listened, she coughed, struggled for a few moments, and then sighed and rolled over.
My mother had been in and out of the hospital all year with pneumonia. The last time, I hadn’t wanted to visit her, but my dad insisted. I flopped onto the cracked vinyl seat in his gold El Camino and slammed the heavy passenger’s side door shut, rolling the window all the way down for fresh air even though it was freezing outside. I knew my dad kept a bottle of vodka under the seat, and I wondered if it was calling out to him as he drove the two miles to the hospital. I could never forget about it.
Walking through the automatic doors and down the slick hallway, my tongue had swelled in my mouth from grinding my teeth. I couldn’t stop pulling my fingers. My dad led me to my mom’s room. She was awake when we walked in, pale and afraid, an oxygen mask strapped to her face. I wanted to run back out the hospital doors and keep going. But there was no place to go. My dad sat down and picked up a magazine. I just stood there, looking around the room at the familiar objects: plastic water pitcher, bedpan, blood pressure gauge, barf bucket.
My molars ached. Turning my back on my mom, I walked into the bathroom, clicking the door behind me. I stood in front of the sink, looking at myself in the mirror. Greasy hair, swollen acne, bags under my eyes. Fat. Dirty clothes. Ugly. I was disgusting. Enough time passed that my father came and tapped on the door. “Can we go home now?” I asked him when I came out.
My mom pulled the oxygen mask away from her face. “For god’s sakes, Laurie,” she sighed. “What’s wrong with you?” Her eyes filled with tears. Her face was yellow.
I looked at her, knowing, as I always did, that she could die any minute. My chest hurt. “I hate you,” I said. She turned her face to the windows, weeping quietly behind the oxygen mask. My dad ushered me out and back to his truck.
Now, outside her door, I listened, my hand flat on the dark wood as if on her bony chest. I wanted to open the sewing room door, wake my mother and beg her to forgive me for being such an awful, ungrateful daughter. I wanted to open the door, find that it was finally over, that she’d finally died. I wanted to open the door and find her there, sitting at her sewing machine in jeans and a sweater, a bright red lipstick smile and her hair twisted into a chignon.
I thought, When she dies, I’ll die too.
I wanted to walk through my mother’s door, but instead I turned, went into the bathroom, stripped off my sour shirt and cruddy jeans. I climbed into the dirty shower and stood under the hot water for a long time, my forehead resting against the tile, then picked up a bottle of shampoo from the corner of the tub and started to wash my hair.
Laurie Jones Neighbors lives in San Francisco. “Flatlands” is excerpted from her memoir-in-progress about growing up adopted, being an adoptive mother, and finally figuring a bunch of stuff out.
REGISTRATION IS NOW OPEN FOR FALL, 2014
I was at a loss after finishing my MFA program… But after eight years of infrequent publishing and no time to write, I found an alternative that works for me. Three years ago I hooked up with Ariel Gore’s online Literary Kitchen workshops and finally found a group that was the right fit for me: writers not full of privilege (and themselves) who offer honest criticism and support at the same time, and whose work I truly enjoy reading. And that infrequent publishing? It’s not so infrequent anymore.
—Margaret Garcia, Poets & Writers
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Lit Star Training
The Original Literary Kitchen Online Writing Workshop
Taught by Ariel Gore
September 6 – Early November
A new session of Lit Star Training — the 8-week+ writing course taught by Ariel Gore — starts September 6th. Writers in Lit Star Training spend at least a few hours each week on their writing and online critiques. You can log in any time of the day or night. Writers in the group are new and seasoned, wanting to work on memoir or fiction. The class works as well for those writing to weekly assignments (with no big projects in mind) and for people who are starting or working on existing book projects.
The class is $295 — a $90 deposit will hold your spot. You can pay the deposit right here:
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Portland Writing Intensive with Ariel Gore
Ariel is teaching her first in-person workshop in ages… and it’s in Portland, Oregon…
May 18 – 20
May 18: 4 to 8 pm
May 19: 4 to 8 pm
May 20: 4 to 7 pm