Formal Poetry.
I Have Sinned
Theresa Ener, Winner, Eleanor Award for Undergraduate Formal Poem
On Friday evening, June 27, 1969, the New York City tactical police force raided a popular Greenwich Village gay bar, the Stonewall Inn. Raids were not unusual in 1969; in fact, they were conducted regularly without much resistance.
However, that night the street erupted into violent protest as the crowds in the bar fought back. –Ken Harlin “The Stonewall Riot and Its Aftermath”
Forgive me, Father John, for I have sinned.
These forty years I’ve lived with guilt and shame
for things I’ve done that weigh upon my heart.
I’ve tried to find some peace, to no avail,
and cannot even say the awful deeds.
I fell in line with others who, like me,
were bound by honor to the policeman’s oath.
We had to do our job no matter what,
but some of us just knew it wasn’t right.
We stormed the Stonewall Inn with no regard
to those unlucky souls still trapped inside
who tried to run, but we’d barred all the doors.
We raised our guns and hit them with our clubs,
yet some of them refused to flee in fear.
The stench of blood and sweat infused the air
as tensions rose and things got out of hand.
I chased and clubbed a frightened older man
who begged and cried for mercy on his life.
His eyes were locked on mine, but nothing changed;
I had to do what we were sent to do.
I hope that God will somehow find a way
to clear my name and help me to forgive
myself for doing hateful, evil acts
against the men who did not do a thing
to warrant all the rage that we let loose
inside that bar in June of ’69.
I wish with all my heart that I could right
the wrongs that never should’ve come about
within that place where men were free to be
themselves without the judgment of the world.
Those men who wouldn’t give in to the hate,
who chose to make a stand against the law.
I wish with all my heart that I were brave
and not a coward hiding from the truth.
For God has known what I have tried to hide,
that I was not a stranger to that Inn.
The Fall (Doré)
Stephen Gonzales
Morningstar, bright shining child of Heaven,
Divine light flying higher than the rest,
Leader of chorus, instrument, and praise,
pride ravaging your heart.
Sorrowfully watching the stars fall to earth,
Flaming plumes altered to obsidian,
An onyx crown of death adorned your head,
malice flooding your soul.
Standing upon the crags at Heaven's gates,
Turned away from that gleaming firmament,
Battle worn and blade heavy in your hand,
Hell beckoning your name.
Shadows from below embrace the Fallen,
Holy songs over which he had command,
Now turned to screams, and the blood of the damned
covers his blackened hands.
Figurine (Canis Lupus)
Stephen Gonzales
Oval crystalline oak colored
jagged edged pedestal.
Ringlets,
aqua, opal, onyx,
distorted halos around the center.
Positioned in the middle of
this carved rock place-holder,
you stand
alone, your head reared back.
Bound forever in metallic casing.
Eternally silent statue,
framed in sterling silver.
Staring,
motionless eyes searching
the skies for a moon you will never see.
A Field of Dreams
Christina Landry
Based on “Happy Couple Silhouette under the Dusk Sky” by SwanSong
A walk through the field
Where the fireflies dance
Warmth clings to the air
Like stickers to our socks
Stars blanket the sky
A path to the unknown
We talk of our past lives
And dream of the future
Our laughter echoes around us
Like a pleasant tune for lovers
Carried on through the breeze
By the feather’s distant flutter
Our imaginations run as wild
As the mare taking full stride
Smiles dance across our faces
As we take it all in with pride
Hell On Wheels
Christina Landry
For Stan Lawley (1943-2011)
When the long road stretches out for a ways,
I often am reminded of your voice.
Longwinded tales of your once younger days,
the far and hard route always was your choice.
Service to your country led you astray,
but handle bars and Harley roars set your
soul right. The law you never would obey,
once that you were back on your country’s shore.
But now and then you are brought back to life,
by people who remember you the best.
The times of sorrow and the times of strife,
yet good times did seem to trump all the rest.
I’d give my life to hear your tales once more
or see your smile when a Harley would roar.
A Widower of a Wild Woman
Christina Landry
Roy Thorton to the jailer on the death of his former bride, the infamous Bonnie Parker, and her new lover, Clyde Barrow
I look up at the bars that keep me bound
in this dark cell. The news in which you bring
upsets me so. You see she was the light
that led the way out of the dark in here.
I wish for one last look upon her face,
but any love she had for me has died
along with all the sanity I had.
The rumor of their love had met my ears,
causing me to wonder the big what if’s.
Like If I had not been here all this time,
perhaps I could have saved her from her fate.
It saddens me to hear that when she fell,
My ring she had still on her warm finger.
But newspapers say what they will for sales
and sell papers they certainly do well.
If there was anything that I could say
to my poor wife now in the ground, I would
say I’m happy she was not caught. Far worse
to be locked in the place with nothing but
the thoughts of those I will see not. I fear
the thought of forgetting her lovely face,
her hair, or the soft smile she always had,
or how she made me feel. I will not find
another girl like her, they do not come
in pairs you see. I must now say goodbye
to thoughts of her, for she is gone for good.
Never will I hold her small hand in mine
again. This saddens me but all the same,
my thanks I give to you, and I confess,
to overcome this news, will cost my life.
The Lantern and the Sea
Lauren Schuldt
Our hearts are strong enough to beat the waves
Ebbing and flowing across these countless miles,
That separate us, bind us, make us slaves.
We're strong enough to live on promised smiles,
Gazing across the distance at the glow
Of beacons that remind us to hold fast
To precious hope and don't dare let it go;
It's just a storm we know we can outlast.
But when a lighthouse gives off feeble light,
And leaves in shadow passage back to land,
Strong ships fall prey to stormy seas at night;
The hope of sailors crumbles into sand.
Yet cast your darkest doubt behind and light before,
And all the oceans cannot hold us to the shore.
Theresa Ener, Winner, Eleanor Award for Undergraduate Formal Poem
On Friday evening, June 27, 1969, the New York City tactical police force raided a popular Greenwich Village gay bar, the Stonewall Inn. Raids were not unusual in 1969; in fact, they were conducted regularly without much resistance.
However, that night the street erupted into violent protest as the crowds in the bar fought back. –Ken Harlin “The Stonewall Riot and Its Aftermath”
Forgive me, Father John, for I have sinned.
These forty years I’ve lived with guilt and shame
for things I’ve done that weigh upon my heart.
I’ve tried to find some peace, to no avail,
and cannot even say the awful deeds.
I fell in line with others who, like me,
were bound by honor to the policeman’s oath.
We had to do our job no matter what,
but some of us just knew it wasn’t right.
We stormed the Stonewall Inn with no regard
to those unlucky souls still trapped inside
who tried to run, but we’d barred all the doors.
We raised our guns and hit them with our clubs,
yet some of them refused to flee in fear.
The stench of blood and sweat infused the air
as tensions rose and things got out of hand.
I chased and clubbed a frightened older man
who begged and cried for mercy on his life.
His eyes were locked on mine, but nothing changed;
I had to do what we were sent to do.
I hope that God will somehow find a way
to clear my name and help me to forgive
myself for doing hateful, evil acts
against the men who did not do a thing
to warrant all the rage that we let loose
inside that bar in June of ’69.
I wish with all my heart that I could right
the wrongs that never should’ve come about
within that place where men were free to be
themselves without the judgment of the world.
Those men who wouldn’t give in to the hate,
who chose to make a stand against the law.
I wish with all my heart that I were brave
and not a coward hiding from the truth.
For God has known what I have tried to hide,
that I was not a stranger to that Inn.
The Fall (Doré)
Stephen Gonzales
Morningstar, bright shining child of Heaven,
Divine light flying higher than the rest,
Leader of chorus, instrument, and praise,
pride ravaging your heart.
Sorrowfully watching the stars fall to earth,
Flaming plumes altered to obsidian,
An onyx crown of death adorned your head,
malice flooding your soul.
Standing upon the crags at Heaven's gates,
Turned away from that gleaming firmament,
Battle worn and blade heavy in your hand,
Hell beckoning your name.
Shadows from below embrace the Fallen,
Holy songs over which he had command,
Now turned to screams, and the blood of the damned
covers his blackened hands.
Figurine (Canis Lupus)
Stephen Gonzales
Oval crystalline oak colored
jagged edged pedestal.
Ringlets,
aqua, opal, onyx,
distorted halos around the center.
Positioned in the middle of
this carved rock place-holder,
you stand
alone, your head reared back.
Bound forever in metallic casing.
Eternally silent statue,
framed in sterling silver.
Staring,
motionless eyes searching
the skies for a moon you will never see.
A Field of Dreams
Christina Landry
Based on “Happy Couple Silhouette under the Dusk Sky” by SwanSong
A walk through the field
Where the fireflies dance
Warmth clings to the air
Like stickers to our socks
Stars blanket the sky
A path to the unknown
We talk of our past lives
And dream of the future
Our laughter echoes around us
Like a pleasant tune for lovers
Carried on through the breeze
By the feather’s distant flutter
Our imaginations run as wild
As the mare taking full stride
Smiles dance across our faces
As we take it all in with pride
Hell On Wheels
Christina Landry
For Stan Lawley (1943-2011)
When the long road stretches out for a ways,
I often am reminded of your voice.
Longwinded tales of your once younger days,
the far and hard route always was your choice.
Service to your country led you astray,
but handle bars and Harley roars set your
soul right. The law you never would obey,
once that you were back on your country’s shore.
But now and then you are brought back to life,
by people who remember you the best.
The times of sorrow and the times of strife,
yet good times did seem to trump all the rest.
I’d give my life to hear your tales once more
or see your smile when a Harley would roar.
A Widower of a Wild Woman
Christina Landry
Roy Thorton to the jailer on the death of his former bride, the infamous Bonnie Parker, and her new lover, Clyde Barrow
I look up at the bars that keep me bound
in this dark cell. The news in which you bring
upsets me so. You see she was the light
that led the way out of the dark in here.
I wish for one last look upon her face,
but any love she had for me has died
along with all the sanity I had.
The rumor of their love had met my ears,
causing me to wonder the big what if’s.
Like If I had not been here all this time,
perhaps I could have saved her from her fate.
It saddens me to hear that when she fell,
My ring she had still on her warm finger.
But newspapers say what they will for sales
and sell papers they certainly do well.
If there was anything that I could say
to my poor wife now in the ground, I would
say I’m happy she was not caught. Far worse
to be locked in the place with nothing but
the thoughts of those I will see not. I fear
the thought of forgetting her lovely face,
her hair, or the soft smile she always had,
or how she made me feel. I will not find
another girl like her, they do not come
in pairs you see. I must now say goodbye
to thoughts of her, for she is gone for good.
Never will I hold her small hand in mine
again. This saddens me but all the same,
my thanks I give to you, and I confess,
to overcome this news, will cost my life.
The Lantern and the Sea
Lauren Schuldt
Our hearts are strong enough to beat the waves
Ebbing and flowing across these countless miles,
That separate us, bind us, make us slaves.
We're strong enough to live on promised smiles,
Gazing across the distance at the glow
Of beacons that remind us to hold fast
To precious hope and don't dare let it go;
It's just a storm we know we can outlast.
But when a lighthouse gives off feeble light,
And leaves in shadow passage back to land,
Strong ships fall prey to stormy seas at night;
The hope of sailors crumbles into sand.
Yet cast your darkest doubt behind and light before,
And all the oceans cannot hold us to the shore.
Free Verse.
Heaven
John Rutherford, Winner, Barnes Award for Undergraduate Free Verse Poem
When I die, I don't know what will happen.
Nobody really does, but I don't especially,
I don't know whether I shall hear St. Peter's voice,
or if,
when it ends for me, it really will end,
and everything that was me shall fade.
In my head, I picture
a hodgepodge heaven,
pissed off atheists complaining for being wrong,
unpleasant in their dour tones,
and pleasantly surprised agnostics, like myself,
happy to be wrong, but feeling like those years
of self-doubt were pointless all the same.
At the corners, the Egyptians and nordic tribes
huddle confusedly in clumps, their own gods
sitting at a great table, discussing whether the world
will return to the seas of chaos, or whether the great wolf,
Fenrir, shall break loose his bonds, and a great debate ensues
as to whether the earth shall end in fire and water.
Absent, notably, is the Christian God,
who has taken this time to rest,
as he has, since the seventh day,
he takes some calls from freaked out sects,
who are unhappy about the overpopulation
of their heaven.
Their heaven,
as if they had any right to it,
as if they could decide the borders
of the boundless bountiful land,
as if they could issue visas for entry
with little passports marked with crosses,
and golden gates, and halos.
Farewell Tripoli
John Rutherford
Just after four o'clock in the afternoon
of April the tenth, two thousand and fifteen
the colossal antique blew her last horn.
The USS Tripoli,
snaking her way up the Neches River
to the reserve fleet at Beaumont;
mothballed, her power station out of fashion,
steam turbines exchanged for gas turbines,
the old for the new.
She's being towed by four tugs,
one Navy, three private sector
to keep her stripped hulk in line
despite the wind and the rain
and the rising tides.
Farewell, Tripoli,
for ne'er again shall you
carry Marines on your decks,
consigned now, to the moths
and the salt of the Neches.
Brauronia*
Casey Myers-Blanchard
A pile of saffron robes,
chanting in the air,
our breath: clouds of cold,
our skin: uncomfortably bare.
We crawl upon all fours,
the temple floor’s grit
rubbing our knobby knees.
The ritual fire is lit;
the priestess’ eyes roll back,
avoiding our naïve stares.
To be a woman, one
must learn to play the bear.
Family Reunion
Casey Myers-Blanchard
Persephone, the Great Underworld Queen,
Hated the dreary season of spring
For when that fated time came round
Her family hosted a Deity Fling
Yearly in the land of gongs,
Of robes and laurel laced throngs--
Immortals dancing and drinking all night,
Deafening her with festive songs.
Reminding of her maiden days
Spent tramping through a misty haze
Making flower-woven crowns,
And dancing over covered graves,
Before she knew the truth of things,
Before she saw the rowboat bring
Souls—ready and not--
Across the noxious, toxic stream.
But now those things made up her home,
And she missed her skeleton brush and comb,
And the way the dead would grasp her hands,
Praising her with their endless groans.
Torturous now it was to be
Near the Olympian family tree,
Conscious of their ambrosia breath
And garland-covered vanity.
And all the nectar she could drink
And all their glorious, godly deeds
Could not make her forget the taste
Of that single pomegranate seed
At the Loom
Casey Myers-Blanchard
Over and under, out and back in
Fingers all flying, I spin and I spin
Continuously turning, weaving all night
Crossing strand after strand, and pulling them tight
Be it day, be it night, rarely I’m seen
Though dew sometimes finds me (it’s then that I gleam)
The sharpest of eyes I seem to make blind:
I’m easy to miss, till you pass through my lines
You ask why I weave; I’m tempted to lie
A mother, alone, must work to get by
It’s been 3 days since I did him in
But the children must eat—don’t count it a sin
Boxes
Katherine Waterbury
Movers come on Tuesday for the boxes.
Massive boxes, filled with encyclopedias,
Cook books, photography manuals,
Books of case law you memorized but kept.
Mid-sized boxes, the contents of your kitchen;
Remembrances of homemade donuts,
fresh baked bread on Sundays, funky spices,
Weird Cajun food I hated having to eat,
branded with STORAGE in bright red ink.
Small boxes, their contents swathed delicately
in tissue, protecting each memory:
A bouquet from your wedding, a boutonniere,
Tiny ivory ornaments, china,
A crystal bowl you gave mom the day you came with hospice
She wept as we packed.
To the new apartment, or Uncle Bob’s
Your life: Seventy-three years into twenty-five boxes.
The Needle
Katherine Waterbury
Anxiously sitting, tapping my foot
Knots in my stomach as I start to sweat.
This need has become all encompassing.
I eye the needle and instantly calm.
I pause momentarily to admire
the simplicity: such a small instrument
capable of such an eternal high.
I unbutton my blouse exposing flesh.
Leaning forward. I anticipate the sting
Jumping from its prick, I settle myself.
Breathing, patiently waiting for the numb.
Upon its arrival I sit for hours.
Euphoric. Orgasmic. Adrenaline.
Beautiful with pain, forever embedded.
The Desk
Theresa Ener
rests
where it shouldn’t,
hulking and weighty,
aged,
a battered ship
once
useful, treasured,
but now a cast-off,
scarred,
and forgotten.
The
faint scent of Old
English polishing
oil
still lingers here.
Its
snug drawers emit
squeals and tired moans when
roused
from their slumber.
Ink
stains, coffee rings,
loosened bolts and screws,
nicks
and scratches mar
the
dulled surface where
once pen and paper
lay,
waiting for verse.
Inclusion
Uzma Quraishi
On the outside
Looking in
From the echoing
Depths
Of shadow
A bleak expanse
Of desolation
Its leaden sky
Untouched
By the rays of dawn
Despondent
Yet
Despite the onerous winds
Ever
Awaiting
Through a hazy sheen
Of yearning
Ever calling
Ever chasing
Ever reaching for
A distant murmur
An ephemeral warmth
Of silhouettes
Ever receding
Eyes on
The fading vestiges
Of life
Buffeted by
The oppressive silence
Crumbling in their wake
Faltering
Until
A smile
A greeting
A hand outstretched
Backlit
By the dazzling sun
Of appraising empathy
John Rutherford, Winner, Barnes Award for Undergraduate Free Verse Poem
When I die, I don't know what will happen.
Nobody really does, but I don't especially,
I don't know whether I shall hear St. Peter's voice,
or if,
when it ends for me, it really will end,
and everything that was me shall fade.
In my head, I picture
a hodgepodge heaven,
pissed off atheists complaining for being wrong,
unpleasant in their dour tones,
and pleasantly surprised agnostics, like myself,
happy to be wrong, but feeling like those years
of self-doubt were pointless all the same.
At the corners, the Egyptians and nordic tribes
huddle confusedly in clumps, their own gods
sitting at a great table, discussing whether the world
will return to the seas of chaos, or whether the great wolf,
Fenrir, shall break loose his bonds, and a great debate ensues
as to whether the earth shall end in fire and water.
Absent, notably, is the Christian God,
who has taken this time to rest,
as he has, since the seventh day,
he takes some calls from freaked out sects,
who are unhappy about the overpopulation
of their heaven.
Their heaven,
as if they had any right to it,
as if they could decide the borders
of the boundless bountiful land,
as if they could issue visas for entry
with little passports marked with crosses,
and golden gates, and halos.
Farewell Tripoli
John Rutherford
Just after four o'clock in the afternoon
of April the tenth, two thousand and fifteen
the colossal antique blew her last horn.
The USS Tripoli,
snaking her way up the Neches River
to the reserve fleet at Beaumont;
mothballed, her power station out of fashion,
steam turbines exchanged for gas turbines,
the old for the new.
She's being towed by four tugs,
one Navy, three private sector
to keep her stripped hulk in line
despite the wind and the rain
and the rising tides.
Farewell, Tripoli,
for ne'er again shall you
carry Marines on your decks,
consigned now, to the moths
and the salt of the Neches.
Brauronia*
Casey Myers-Blanchard
A pile of saffron robes,
chanting in the air,
our breath: clouds of cold,
our skin: uncomfortably bare.
We crawl upon all fours,
the temple floor’s grit
rubbing our knobby knees.
The ritual fire is lit;
the priestess’ eyes roll back,
avoiding our naïve stares.
To be a woman, one
must learn to play the bear.
Family Reunion
Casey Myers-Blanchard
Persephone, the Great Underworld Queen,
Hated the dreary season of spring
For when that fated time came round
Her family hosted a Deity Fling
Yearly in the land of gongs,
Of robes and laurel laced throngs--
Immortals dancing and drinking all night,
Deafening her with festive songs.
Reminding of her maiden days
Spent tramping through a misty haze
Making flower-woven crowns,
And dancing over covered graves,
Before she knew the truth of things,
Before she saw the rowboat bring
Souls—ready and not--
Across the noxious, toxic stream.
But now those things made up her home,
And she missed her skeleton brush and comb,
And the way the dead would grasp her hands,
Praising her with their endless groans.
Torturous now it was to be
Near the Olympian family tree,
Conscious of their ambrosia breath
And garland-covered vanity.
And all the nectar she could drink
And all their glorious, godly deeds
Could not make her forget the taste
Of that single pomegranate seed
At the Loom
Casey Myers-Blanchard
Over and under, out and back in
Fingers all flying, I spin and I spin
Continuously turning, weaving all night
Crossing strand after strand, and pulling them tight
Be it day, be it night, rarely I’m seen
Though dew sometimes finds me (it’s then that I gleam)
The sharpest of eyes I seem to make blind:
I’m easy to miss, till you pass through my lines
You ask why I weave; I’m tempted to lie
A mother, alone, must work to get by
It’s been 3 days since I did him in
But the children must eat—don’t count it a sin
Boxes
Katherine Waterbury
Movers come on Tuesday for the boxes.
Massive boxes, filled with encyclopedias,
Cook books, photography manuals,
Books of case law you memorized but kept.
Mid-sized boxes, the contents of your kitchen;
Remembrances of homemade donuts,
fresh baked bread on Sundays, funky spices,
Weird Cajun food I hated having to eat,
branded with STORAGE in bright red ink.
Small boxes, their contents swathed delicately
in tissue, protecting each memory:
A bouquet from your wedding, a boutonniere,
Tiny ivory ornaments, china,
A crystal bowl you gave mom the day you came with hospice
She wept as we packed.
To the new apartment, or Uncle Bob’s
Your life: Seventy-three years into twenty-five boxes.
The Needle
Katherine Waterbury
Anxiously sitting, tapping my foot
Knots in my stomach as I start to sweat.
This need has become all encompassing.
I eye the needle and instantly calm.
I pause momentarily to admire
the simplicity: such a small instrument
capable of such an eternal high.
I unbutton my blouse exposing flesh.
Leaning forward. I anticipate the sting
Jumping from its prick, I settle myself.
Breathing, patiently waiting for the numb.
Upon its arrival I sit for hours.
Euphoric. Orgasmic. Adrenaline.
Beautiful with pain, forever embedded.
The Desk
Theresa Ener
rests
where it shouldn’t,
hulking and weighty,
aged,
a battered ship
once
useful, treasured,
but now a cast-off,
scarred,
and forgotten.
The
faint scent of Old
English polishing
oil
still lingers here.
Its
snug drawers emit
squeals and tired moans when
roused
from their slumber.
Ink
stains, coffee rings,
loosened bolts and screws,
nicks
and scratches mar
the
dulled surface where
once pen and paper
lay,
waiting for verse.
Inclusion
Uzma Quraishi
On the outside
Looking in
From the echoing
Depths
Of shadow
A bleak expanse
Of desolation
Its leaden sky
Untouched
By the rays of dawn
Despondent
Yet
Despite the onerous winds
Ever
Awaiting
Through a hazy sheen
Of yearning
Ever calling
Ever chasing
Ever reaching for
A distant murmur
An ephemeral warmth
Of silhouettes
Ever receding
Eyes on
The fading vestiges
Of life
Buffeted by
The oppressive silence
Crumbling in their wake
Faltering
Until
A smile
A greeting
A hand outstretched
Backlit
By the dazzling sun
Of appraising empathy
Short Fiction.
The Cure
Jackie Benavides
“Ama, no me siento bien,” Marissa says snuggling as close as she can to her mother.
Sylvia reaches over Marissa for the remote and pushes pause, “Qué quieres, Mija. Ya sabes que no debes de interumpir mi novella”.
“Amá, stop. I’m serious, I don’t feel good. I have a really bad headache and I feel like I am going to throw up.”
“Ve y traeme un huevo from the fridge.”
“Amá, no. I want to go to the doctor and get real medicine and find out what’s wrong with me. I’ve been feeling weird for a couple days.”
Sylvia pushes Marissa off her and looks at her daughter with wide eyes, “¿Sabes qué, Marissa? I already told you about talking back to me. Una vez más, y le voy a decir a tu papá. "¡Ve ahorita!”
Marissa reluctantly gets off the couch and walks to the kitchen holding her head. She walks over to the cabinet and grabs a glass cup fills it halfway with water from the sink. She sets it down on the counter and goes to the refrigerator grabbing the carton of eggs from the top shelf. She looks down at the eight remaining eggs and chooses the biggest one hoping that it would give her the best results. She figures the bigger the egg, the greater its ability to pull the evil out of her.
“Ten, Amá,” Marissa says handing her mother the egg.
“Espérate, wait till commercial,” Sylvia says never looking away from the TV.
Marissa places the supplies she had fetched on the end table and sinks into the couch. Her head is throbbing and she can feel the faint pulsing in her forehead. She hopes that the egg will at the very least relieve her of her headache. Maybe it will work, maybe she doesn’t have to waste time going to the doctor.
“Acuéstate,” Sylvia commands.
Marissa obeys the request and lies on her back along the length of the couch. She watches her mom grab the egg and wipe the sweat forming on its shell on her pants. Then Sylvia begins the ritual. She holds the egg with the tips of her fingers and thumb and drags it meticulously on Marissa’s body. She begins with Marissa’s head and makes small signs of the cross on her nose, both cheeks, chin, and forehead, all the while softly whispering a prayer. She does one big cross with the egg on Marissa’s entire face before moving on to her chest. There she does the same, making small crosses and final big crosses for each area. This continues with each arm, each leg, and Marissa’s abdomen.
“Voltéate.”
Marissa complies and turns over, relaxing into the couch that smells of Cheetos and lavender Febreze. She thinks back to when she was a little girl and remembers the way her mother had explained curar de ojo to her. She had said that she prays a special prayer and asks God, Saints, and our ancestors in Heaven for help to get all of the bad stuff out of her. She had said that she asks them to help release her from her sickness and allow her to be healthy. When she was young, she never questioned it. She would see the resulting egg, her mother would explain each bubble and strand of cooked egg white to her and then she would tell her she would feel better, and she always felt better. Growing up, she thought curar de ojo was normal. It wasn’t until recently that Marissa had learned that it’s not normal and most people go to the doctor when they don’t feel good.
Sylvia begins the same routine on Marissa’s back starting with the back of her head. Marissa flinches as her mother pulls hairs tangling around the moist egg. Marissa tries to move to move her hair but her mother stops her. “"¡No te muevas!” Sylvia yells. Marissa lies back down and endures the hair pulling until she feels her mother do the big cross and move on. Sylvia then goes over both arms, both legs, Marissa’s entire back and her butt for good measure.
“Bueno, ten. We are done,” Sylvia says holding the egg out to Marissa.
Marissa sits up and grabs the egg from her mother’s cold hands. “What if it doesn’t help?”
“Ay si, with an attitude like that, it’ll never work,” Sylvia scoffs. “I don’t know why you have to question everything I do lately. I bet it’s that new friend of yours, ¿cómo se llama?”
“Amá, it’s superstition. We have so many little tricks that we believe in.” Marissa sits up and looks at her mother gauging her reaction.
Sylvia looks at Marissa briefly, “tengo que limpiar la cocina,” she says walking towards the kitchen.
“Sometimes we need real doctors and real medicine. We can’t just put vaporú on everything and hope it fixes it. Amá, I just think there are better, more reliable ways to cure things. I mean, we treat earaches by sticking newspaper in our ears and lighting it on fire,” Marissa says throwing her hands in the air. “That’s not normal, and don’t get me started on how a red piece of thread glued on the forehead with saliva is supposed to cure hiccups. Amá, I love our traditions, I just wonder why we still do the things we do. You see what I mean, don’t you?” Marissa says standing to the side of her mother at the kitchen sink.
“Bueno, if it works it works,” Sylvia says drenching a sponge in dish soap before turning to Marissa. “Why question it?”
“Sooner or later you have to accept modern medicine into your life. All of this other stuff is just old, out-of-date myths.”
“No, you can’t say that. Siempre te cura, dame el huevo para verlo.”
Marissa hands the egg over and watches Sylvia tap it on the table and open it into the glass. The egg pours out of the shell as one thick heap of mucus.
“Mira, ¿vez las burbujas?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That means that a girl was envious of you. Mira, tiene un moño encima.”
“Amá, somebody could easily say it looks like three bubbles, not a girl wearing a bow.”
“Mira, that long line connecting the bubble to the egg means that it is rooted deep in her and she has been celosa for a while,” Sylvia says examining the egg and ignoring her daughter’s comments. “She’s been watching you and is jealous of you. I bet it’s that new friend of yours. ¿Cómo se llama?”
“Amá, you’re reading all this from an egg. You don’t think that is a little bit crazy?”
“You better watch the way you’re talking to me. Una vez más, Marissa, ya te dije,” Syliva says shaking her head at her daughter.
“Amá, I’m just saying,” Marissa hesitates. “What if I have the flu or something? I mean, I could have something that the egg just can’t cure or take out of me.”
Sylvia looks at her daughter with a blank expression. “Ay si, then why is the egg cocido?”
“Body heat, Amá. You rubbed it all over me and I am almost positive I have a fever so it’s not that crazy that the egg cooked.”
“"¡Ya cabrona! Get out of here! Go,” Sylvia says pushing Marissa towards her room. “You used to love when I would do curar de ojo on you when you were little. It always made you feel better, you were never sick after I did it. Curar de ojo always worked on you to take out all of the evil and jealousy.”
Marissa hangs her pounding head and walks towards her room while her mother continues yelling about her lack of faith. As far back as she could remember, curar de ojo was the go-to remedy for all sicknesses in the house. You had a headache? Curar de ojo. You had a stomach ache? Curar de ojo. Sunburn? Curar de ojo. Fever? Curar de ojo. Every illness is believed to be caused by somebody wanting bad things to happen to you. It’s the same as when Marissa was little and her prima Patricia told her that if she stared at somebody’s feet long enough and with enough focus, they would trip. Now, she realizes the flaws in what she has grown up knowing and now it feels different. She can no longer trust that the mystical powers of an egg and prayer can heal her. She’s growing up, she has to stop believing that everything her mother tells her is true.
***
“"¡Marissa, ven! Hice papas con huevo.”
Marissa sits up and looks around her room confused. She grabs her phone and pushes the button to turn on the screen. The screen lights up and displays 8:00 AM in thin white lettering. She groans and forces herself up and into the bathroom.
“Marissa!” Sylvia yells from the kitchen.
“Ya voy,” she screams back from the bathroom. She quickly brushes her teeth and heads to the kitchen.
“¿Por que te tardastes?”
“Amá, it’s the weekend. Why do we even have to be up this early?”
“Next time I call you, you don’t yell at me. ¿Me oyes?”
“Si, Amá.”
“¿Como te sientes?”
“Worse. I still feel like I am going to throw up and I have a headache and now I kinda feel dizzy.”
“Bueno, después de desayunar, I’ll call Güelita and see if she has time to do curar de ojo on you today. Whatever is wrong with you, Guelita will be able to get it out.”
***
“Marissa, ven! Salte del carro, tu Güelita nos esta esperando.”
Marissa reluctantly unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the car door. She uses the door to pull herself up and stumbles when she tries carrying her weight by herself. “Angel, ayúdame,” she cries.
Angel crosses in front of the car and lets Marissa support her weight on his shoulder. He is about half a foot shorter than his older sister and the two stumble as they try to walk in step with one another.
“Ay, Marissa, vas a lastimar a tu hermano.” Sylvia reaches her hand up to Marissa’s face and places the back of her hand on Marissa’s forehead. “You are warm,” she says before opening the front door. “Mamá, ya llegamos,” she calls as they enter the house.
A frail woman with a thick grey bun sitting on top of her head pokes her head around the corner of the entryway. “Mis nietos,” she says swinging one arm open for her grandkids to embrace her while the other supports her weight on an intricately carved cane. Angel and Marissa limp over to their grandmother and hug and kiss her.
Marissa’s grandmother steps back from the children’s embrace and looks Marissa over. “Ay, Niña, estas muy caliente y te vez muy pálida. Ven conmigo. Ahorita vamos a curarte de ojo.” Marissa’s grandmother grabs her by her arm and pulls her into her bedroom. “Ahí sientate,” her grandmother says motioning to her bed.
Marissa slowly lifts herself onto her grandmother’s bed and sits there waiting for further direction. She knows the routine by now, but her grandmother is a strong and stubborn woman and Marissa has made the mistake before of skipping her grandmother’s specific steps and instructions which resulted in an attack with a chancla.
“Sylvia, ve a traer las cosas,” Marissa’s grandmother says to her mother, motioning with a limp wrist for her to leave right away.
Sylvia quietly walks out of the room, leaving Marissa and her grandmother alone. Marissa watches as her grandmother calmly lights a match and turns on five long white candles in glass vases each with different religious images on them. As she lights each candle she says a prayer and Marissa closes her eyes in respect with each one.
“Ya, acuestate,” Marissa’s grandmother says tapping on the pillow at the head of the bed.
Marissa lies down, just as she is getting close to the edge of the bed her mother walks in with the egg and glass of water.
“Bueno, ¿estás lista?” her grandmother asks nodding both towards Marissa and her mother.
“Sí, Güelita,” Marissa says nodding before closing her eyes.
Marissa’s grandmother takes the egg from Sylvia and runs it down the length of Marissa’s body chanting a prayer in an airy whisper. She then does the same thing Sylvia did; first Marissa’s face, then her chest, each arm, each leg, and repeats it all on Marissa’s back, each area ending with one big cross.
Over time, Marissa begins noticing that her grandmother’s airy whisper gets louder and louder until she reaches a point where she is using an almost hypnotic tone. Each word that her grandmother chants comes out stronger and louder than the one before it. Marissa focuses on her grandmother’s prayer and is reminded of the time she watched this ritual done on her little brother when he had a stomach virus. She can remember his loud cries when the egg first touched his sensitive skin and how by the end of the curar de ojo, he was asleep. Her grandmother’s soothing yet powerful chant fills her ears and she hopes this is all she needs to feel better.
“Ya tremine, Mija. Ten el huevo. ¿Necesitas algo? ¿Agua?”
Marissa sits up and feels the room spinning around her. She reaches out for the egg and holds it up to her forehead hoping that there is enough cold left in the shell to make her headache subside. “No, Guelita. No necesito nada ahorita. Gracias,” Marissa says gently shaking her head at her grandmother.
“Bueno, Mija. ¿Como te sientes?” Sylvia asks as she sits on the bed next to Marissa. “Do you think Guelita’s curar de ojo did the trick?”
“No, Ama. I think I got up too fast, my head is spinning.”
“Lay back down, Mija. I’ll warn you before Güelita regrese,” Sylvia says with a smile before tapping Marissa’s leg and standing up.
Marissa keeps her eyes closed hoping that the egg will somehow pull the pain out of her head. She can hear her mother and grandmother speaking in the other room but everything sounds muffled to her.
“Marissa, ¿lista para ver que dice el huevo?” Sylvia says entering the room a few steps before Marissa’s grandmother.
“Amá, Ayudame,” Marissa says holding out her hand.
Sylvia grabs her hand and slowly pulls her up to a sitting position just as her grandmother walks in the room.
“Damelo,” her grandmother says holding a shaking hand out for the egg.
Marissa hands over the egg and scoots close to the bedside table to get a good view of the egg being cracked. Marissa’s grandmother hits the egg on the side of the table twice before putting it above the glass and breaking the shell open. She gasps as what looks like a poached egg flops out of the shell and into the water, making water splash onto her grandmother’s face. “No no no, Sylvia, yo nunca habia visto esto. Ahorita regreso,” her grandmother says before grabbing her cane and stumbling out of the room.
Marissa looks at her mother confused. “Amá, why did Güelita run out?”
Sylvia runs a hand through her hair and leaves it on the nape of her neck as she stares at the glass where the egg has now sunk to the bottom. Marissa and her mother look at the glass on the nightstand and remain silent. Then Marissa’s grandmother walks in holding a lemon and shaking it in the air yelling, “Con esto. Esto sí. Esto te va a curar.”
Marissa looks over at her mother confused, but Sylvia is still distracted by the egg. Marissa’s grandmother walks closer and holds her hand out to Marissa. “Es un limón, esto te va a curar, Niña,” her grandmother says bouncing the lemon in her hand.
Marissa looks at the lemon and sighs. She knows her grandmother means well, but she wishes they could all go to the emergency room where she feels she belongs, instead of her grandmother’s bed to be rubbed down with another food item. Marissa leans back and braces herself for another round of curar de ojo this time with a lemon.
Her grandmother leans her cane against the bedframe and begins the ritual. She starts her prayers as soon as the cold lemon touches Marissa’s forehead. The prayers sound different this time, almost like a whine.
As the lemon covers each of Marissa’s eyes, she feels her ears begin ringing. By the time the lemon reaches the big cross going from her forehead, to her chin, her left cheek, to her right, Marissa begins convulsing. Her grandmother steps back and holds the lemon high above Marissa’s body.
Sylvia screams, “Mamá, ¿qué está pasando?” Marissa’s grandmother ignores Sylvia and chants her prayers even louder, overpowering the sounds of the shaking bed. “Mamá, muevete,” Sylvia cries lunging toward her daughter.
Marissa’s grandmother takes a step back and leans on the nightstand for support. She continues holding the lemon, but stops praying. Sylvia pushes Marissa’s flailing arms against her body, “Marissa. Mija, estoy aquí.” Sylvia notices blood trickling out of Marissa’s mouth. “Marissa!” She pulls Marissa’s chin down and sees that Marissa’s tongue is caught in the lock of her jaws. “"Mija!” Sylvia looks into Marissa’s eyes that are blinking rapidly showing glimpses of them rolling to the back of her head. “Angel, call 9-1-1,” Sylvia screams.
***
“Ma’am, it is likely that your daughter had a seizure because her body temperature reached a point above one-hundred and two degrees,” the paramedic explained. “After she stopped convulsing, we checked her temperature and it was one-hundred and three point two. We have to get her to the hospital right away and try and bring her fever down immediately, before she goes into another episode.”
“Yes, sir. I understand,” Sylvia says holding Angel close to her side.
“Ay, "¡Dios mio!,” Marissa’s grandmother says as they watch the paramedic shut the ambulance doors.
Night and Day
Tim Collins
I first realized I was different when the boy across the hall grabbed me by the hair and asked why it was so curly. I didn't really know what to say, so I said it was probably because I sit so close to the radio at night.
The next time I saw the boy across the hall, he was huddled close to his family's radio (practically hugging it, in fact) while he listened to The Shadow stalk organized crime. "What evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows..." I asked what he was doing, and he said he was trying to get his hair curly. My heart melted just a little bit, but his father didn't approve.
"Why'd you wanna do that?" he said. "You wanna look like a spook?”
A spook? I hadn't heard that name before. I spent the night in the bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror and thinking, "Am I a ghost?" The next morning, at breakfast, I kept asking my mother if I was a "spook." She just got a horrified look on her face and smacked her pan of eggs with her spatula.
"People call you that because you look different, honey.”
"How so?"
"Your skin is different."
"Huh? But you're white."
"Your father wasn't, honey," she said. "And he's not around anymore. Some people have a problem with that."
"Why?"
My mother couldn't do anything but sigh, and she had a strange look on her face, like she was just about ready to give up.
"I don't know, honey," she said.
I grew up in that small Chicago apartment and soon realized that quite a lot of people had a problem with it. I always wanted to be a singer, a performer on a grand scale like those girls on the Ziegfeld Follies or Ella Fitzgerald. I even joined a theatre troupe on 175th street, but every month I was told by the director, a weedly little man in a business suit, "We don't got nothin' for ya. Sorry, toots. How about you rearrange the scenery? We don't got nobody doin' that."
"But I can sing, Mr. Louie."
"Sure ya can, but so can my parakeet. You don't see me putting that up on stage."
"I can dance, too."
"Honey, you got two left feet."
"Yeah, but they're always pointed in the right direction, unlike some of these girls."
"Look, I put you up there, I got a riot on my hands. Sorry, toots. Better luck next month."
So I would be forced to move wooden palm trees around on the stage and sweep the dirt while the girls got dressed backstage in their glamorous outfits. My eyes would sting and my hands would turn black from the dust. Sometimes I would cry in the spaces between the backdrops, all the while the white girls gossiped about their lives in the dressing room.
"Eloise just got a spot at the Rhumboogie on Thursday night."
"How'd you know that?"
"She told me," the first voice says. "She's going to be singing 'I Got Rhythm' and 'Night and Day.' Rockefeller's son might be there."
"Lucky."
"Oooh," a third voice says, "I just heard Clara Stanwyck's marrying a rich man from upstate. I saw him the other day, all dressed up to the nines..."
And on it would go. To make ends meet, I got a job as a "taxi dancer" at the Beaufont Dance Hall. A taxi dancer dances with men for money, and it's pretty much just as degrading as it sounds. Dateless, scummy-looking men file into a crummy, dilapidated old dance hall, pay ten cents at the door, and pick out one of the girls to stumble around with for half an hour. I got tossed around so much that my arms felt like they were going to rip out of their sockets, my feet got stepped on so much that they often bled at the end of the night, and some men can't help trying to kiss me, but hey, it's a living.
The one man who troubled me the most was the sailor. He would come by every Sunday, just before closing time, and always with a scowl on his face. I don't think I'd ever seen him smile. He wasn't a particularly good dancer, either, but I don't think he'd ever tried to kiss any of the girls. And they say sailors have a reputation for that kind of thing. Ha!
It was a Thursday and Eloise was probably performing at the Rhumboogie, but there I was, being scooted around by some wiry, oily shrimp of a man with red hair. He looked sort of like a cockroach, and smelled like one, too, but ten cents is ten cents, and when there are a bunch of other women lining the wall waiting to dance, all ready to replace you the second you can't work anymore, you're not allowed to refuse a client.
"You smell like chocolate," the oily man said.
I wasn't sure that I'd heard him.
"Excuse me?"
"You smell like chocolate," he said, and smiled. Only it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was the kind of smile you want to run away from very fast.
"That's, uh, nice," I said.
"No, really, you do," he said, and I nodded. I already agreed with you, sir. What more do you want?
"I bet you taste like chocolate, too," he said, and ran his tongue up my cheek.
I slapped him as hard as I could and tried to run, but the man grabbed me by the leg. Then he slapped me, hard, and started screaming things I can't repeat here. Things which aren't decent for mixed company.
"You spook! You chocolate piece of $#!&!"
Soon I couldn't feel my face. It was numb. But then the man was off me, and I looked over with one bloated eye to see the sailor smacking the redheaded man across the face.
"You treat her like a lady!" the sailor said. Smack! "You want to hit a girl, huh?" Smack! "You had your dance. Now get the hell out of here!"
The sailor then shoved the man across the hall to where his friends, a group of burly sailors, were waiting, and who dragged the man through the curtain and out the back. The sailor picked me up, perhaps a little roughly, but not meaning to, and wiped the blood from my face.
"You okay?" he asked. I nodded.
We went out into the alley. The other sailors and the redheaded man were gone. The sailor found a few cubes of ice and wrapped them in a dirty towel, and talked for an hour while he looked after my bruises. It turned out he was from France and was here on leave. The dancing was just a way to kill the time.
"I leave on the fourth," he said.
"To where?"
"To war," he said. "I've got to do what I can for the war effort. Not a lot of our men are making it back, and I may not, too. But c'est la guerre, as my father used to say."
"That's okay," I said. "I'm pretty sure I'm fired."
"Why?"
"You can't slap a customer, no matter how much of a jackass he's being."
"I know someone who can help," the sailor said, and scrambled for a pen. Then he wrote a phone number on my hand, handed me the now-dripping towel, and said, "I have to go. The ship leaves in half an hour."
The number turned out to be for a man at the USO, the organization that performs shows for the troops overseas. The man didn't judge my skin color, only my singing talent and my patriotism. It wasn't long before I got to perform alongside the Andrew Sisters and Billie Holiday, and I actually got to meet Bob Hope. He told his assistant to get him a tall drink of water, and when I showed up to ask for his autograph, he did a double-take, looked at his assistant, and said, "Well, that was fast!"
It took me a while to get a letter to Buddy, the sailor, and he was thrilled to find out I got to perform on stage as part of the show. I told him I would be performing at one of the military bases in France, and he told me he would be there. For weeks I thought about that performance and how I would dedicate it to a very special person in the audience, the man who taught me that not everyone has evil lurking in their hearts.
But five minutes before I went on stage, I asked his company where he would be in the audience so I could point him out, and they told me he'd died. A German shell slammed into his jeep, killing both him and the driver, just a week before I arrived.
It was difficult, but I still went up there and performed “Night and Day.” But before I did, I dedicated it to one of our fallen soldiers. Thank you, Bud.
The Dark Alley
Maegan White, Winner, Pulse Award for Undergraduate Fiction
I remember my first year of junior high like it was yesterday- not because of my classes, not because of the sports I was involved in, not because of school in any way. My most vivid memories come from the alleyway between the school and the apartment building where I lived. The school wasn’t even one mile from the building so my parents and I decided it would be fine for me to walk home.
“Be sure to walk with a group of friends though,” Mom reminded me every morning, “And no matter what, don’t- DO NOT- I mean it- go near that alley on your way back. It’s full of thugs and all kinds of bad people. You and your friends rush past that area as quickly as possible. Don’t even look toward it.” Obviously mom was just doing her job, trying to protect me. I was good though. I always listened to her, but sometimes things don’t always go as planned.
For a solid month, my friends and I walked home, past the dark, dank alley. We were all told not to even glance at it. We made up silly games with tennis balls and yoyos. We played tag and keep-away, always extending our short walks into thirty minutes of goofing off. We talked about boys and homework, of dresses and dances, and of secrets that we all thought were so important in junior high. All the while, we acted as though the alley did not even exist. We’d joke about it on occasion. Sometimes my friends would say that the teachers would send the bad kids to the alley instead of detention. It was never a real concept for us. That is- until one Friday when we were released from school early for a holiday.
My friends and I used the extra time for more goofing off. We sat around the parent-pickup area for quite a while, talking about the Halloween dance coming up soon. It was especially a treat for us, because we could wear costumes.
“I’m going as a zombie cheerleader! It’s going to be perfect. I’ll wear my cheer uniform and paint my face! The whole sha-bang!” Maggie said excitedly. Everyone bounced ideas back and forth for a bit. Judy wanted to be a cat (they were her favorite). Corra was the vampire fanatic of the group, so it was obvious what she would go as. She always chatted excitedly about murder mysteries and dark vampire novels, though I was certain she’d faint at the sight of real danger.
“Sadie! What will you go as?” Grace chimed. I hadn’t thought about it much until she had asked. I had been so preoccupied with school, dance class, pageants, and poetry club that the Halloween dance slipped my mind entirely.
I thought a moment, “Maybe an elf. Like a fantasy elf, not a Santa Claus kind of elf. A forest elf. Yah. Maybe that.” I liked writing about fantasy in my poetry, so an elf, fairy, or anything of that nature was perfect for me.
After a few minutes of planning, my friends and I began our stroll home. I say stroll because we stopped every few minutes to continue a game of keep-away with a tennis ball Grace had in her bag from tennis practice. Judy tossed the ball towards me, right over Maggie’s head…and right over mine as well. I leaped as high as I could to catch it. My fingertips grazed the bottom of the tennis ball and a few pieces of the neon green fuzz flew about as the ball continued on its course. We all watched it as it raced through the air and straight into the alley, disappearing into the abyss.
We hadn’t even noticed that we were already to the alley. We had learned to ignore it so well. Our parents all told us not to even look at it and now, there we were, staring directly into the face of the cool darkness of the alley. A breeze swept through the alley, blowing bits of trash around and creating an eerie scuffling noise. It sent a chill down my spine. Frozen, we stared in frightful amazement at the alley we hadn’t dared to look upon before. It felt wrong to even look at it. Our parents would be furious if they knew we were so near to it. The smell of mold and dumpsters filled my nostrils. It was like staring into the face of a monster, I couldn’t move. My heart was racing and I began to sweat.
After what seemed like a decade, Grace spoke. “It’s fine, leave it. It’s just a tennis ball. Let’s get out of here,” she whispered with a shaky voice. Petrified, we all slowly took a few steps back, but before we could turn and run, the tennis ball came rolling back, right up to my feet. I swear, at that moment I jumped higher up than I ever have before. My friends and I raced away, without another word. When we turned the corner around the next building, something caught my eye. Hypnotically, I stopped and peeked back around the corner of the building. I made sure not to even reveal half of my face.
There was a little boy. He was so skinny. He wasn’t wearing shirt and I could count his ribs. He emerged from the alley like a slimy creature from its cave. He looked about nervously as his dark, messy, unkempt hair fell in his face. I watched as he picked up the tennis ball and turned about, as if searching for something. His shoulders drooped and his head followed the motion. He turned back to the alley, taking the tennis ball with him. Just like that, the boy was gone.
I lingered around the side of the building a few moments longer. I don’t know what I had expected to come out of that alley, but it certainly wasn’t a child.
“Why are you staying in that alley?” I whispered softly to him, though I know he was far out of earshot. My friends had all abandoned me and were likely home by now. It was getting darker outside and I knew I should get home too.
The next few days I didn’t walk past the alley because we were on holiday, but that didn’t keep it out of my mind. Before, it would take effort to even force me to acknowledge that alley and now I could think of nothing else. That little boy looked so small. A little kid shouldn’t be anywhere near that dark alley, that was a fact. Everyone knew that. All the parents told their children to stay away from there. Why didn’t someone tell that boy?
Later that week at school, I found myself unable to focus on my work. I walked past the alley every day that week, expecting to see the boy. I couldn’t make myself stay for too long, though. My friends wouldn’t stick around with me if I did and I definitely didn’t want to be near the alley alone. My friends and I didn’t speak of the day the tennis ball came rolling back to us, they chose to act as if it didn’t happen. They went back to not even glancing at the alley. It no longer existed to them. That wasn’t the case with me.
I don’t know exactly how long it was before I lingered in front of the alley again, but the chance presented itself again one day. Life’s funny like that. My friends and I walked home, talking about Grace’s new boyfriend and how cute he was. I noticed my shoes were untied and said, “Hold on guys,” as I kneeled down to tie them. “Over, under, through the loop…”
When I stood up, I was alone, in front of the alley. I was looking right into its indescribable, forbidden darkness. The air was musty and there were a few dark shapes down the alley. Far toward the back, there was a small, flickering light. I thought that perhaps it was a candle. As I stared, trying to figure out as much about the mysterious alley as I could, a tennis ball appeared from nowhere and bounced toward me. I gasped. What was I supposed to do? All was silent for a moment. I remembered the little boy. I picked up the tennis ball and lightly tossed it back into the alley. It was tossed back to me, though I could not see who was on the other side of it. The alley was shaded so much from the surrounding buildings that it was almost impossible to see any definite shapes. I could only distinguish vague outlines. The ball returned to me. I was tossing a tennis ball back and forth to something in a dark alley. Looking back now, it doesn’t really seem like the smartest decision. I rolled it back the next time.
“Why you not take?” I heard a young voice ask. The darkness was communicating with me now. It had a voice: rough, but very young. I was so surprised I couldn’t speak. “Why you no take your ball back? I try to give it back. You lost it before. Why you give back?”
“Um. well,” I didn’t know how to answer exactly, “ I was playing a game. It’s fun to throw it back and forth. Don’t you think?” I was becoming less afraid. I was certain it was the little boy. He was drawing closer, he gave off a foul odor and I knew now that he must be homeless.
“A game? Oh. I not played no games for a long, long time. Not since I used to have a big family. But I don’t got that no more. Just me and Nathan. And he don’t like games no more.” he said. His voice grew more near. A dark tan arm reached out into the light, but that was all. In it, was the tennis ball. “Here you go.”
I felt a pang of sorrow in my heart. The little boy once had a family. I wondered what had happened to them, but I hadn’t the heart to ask. “Why don’t you keep it for me?”
“Really?” He asked with excitement. I smiled and told him I wanted him to keep it. “Wow! Wow! Thank you miss!”
“What’s your name?” I asked him. He responded by telling me his name was Reggie “today.” Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Today?”
“Yah, one day ago it was Chad. Different names. I change them a lot. Don’t member what first one was. Nathan does though. Said he’d say so if I ever got the right one.” He didn’t remember his original name. That told me he must’ve been on the streets for a long time without parents. I wanted to cry, but held back my tears.
“Well that’s kind of like a game isn’t it?” I suggested to the child. I heard a little laugh as he bounced the tennis ball.
“I guess you right miss. That a good game. That a good game! You come back tomorrow to throw dis with me again?” I looked around nervously, but guilt made me agree. I told myself I’d also bring him some food from the cafeteria.
After that, I rushed home. My parents questioned why I was so late. I told them I’d forgotten my backpack at school and had to run back to get it. I knew I’d have to come up with another excuse if this habit persisted. I decided I’d say that poetry club was having a practice for an upcoming presentation.
The next day I returned to the dark, forbidden alley with a backpack full of various foods I had saved from lunch. I was always lucky. I had food. I had a family. I had a home. I could travel and play sports any time. I had friends and opportunities. This little boy had nothing, except his elusive brother. I wanted to help any way I could. If that meant tossing a ball back and forth every afternoon and bringing him food when I could, that’s what I’d do. The next day I waited in front of the alley. I knew exactly what I was waiting for. A tennis ball bounced from the darkness up to my feet.
“Reggie,” I said, “I have something for…” My sentence stopped as a tall, tan boy with dark brown hair emerged from the shadows. He had a lot of facial hair and was covered in sweat. It dripped from his forehead and ran down his face as he smirked. His smile was that of a wicked person. He grabbed my arm. I didn’t want to be pulled into the darkness. Stay out of the darkness. Don’t let him get you in the darkness, I thought. I struggled to free my arm.
“Hand over your money and I won’t hurt you. You can go free,” he said. I began crying. “I don’t have any money! I don’t have any money! Don’t hurt me. Please! I was bringing food to Reggie. You can have some too. Please, that’s all I have!” The boy let go of my arm and caught his breath. He acted as if the light bothered his eyes and stepped back into the shadow.
He scowled. “Reggie is my brother. He’s always trying to make friends with the outsiders. He doesn’t understand that nobody cares yet. He doesn’t get that no one wants us around. He doesn’t understand that people see us as a burden. And his name isn’t Reggie today. It’s Grayson. I’ll take you to him.” He grabbed my arm, gently this time and led me into the darkness. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. I didn’t want to go in the alley, but I was scared to fight. “You know you don’t have to pity us. We don’t want your pity,” he said bitterly as he led me through the alley full of pungent odors and puddles of water. There were a few dumpsters and a lot of scattered trash. We passed a few men exchanging money for something in plastic bags. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I knew they were drug dealers. I was shaking. Nathan laughed. “The real world is scary ain’t it, little girl?” He sounded so raspy and sinister. “Those guys aren’t all bad though. Joe and Scooter both had my back when a gang down the street almost killed my brother and me. They won’t be pickin’ on any kids now. Heh,” I gulped. “They’re good people,” he said, “I’m a good person. Well, used to be. I gotta rob people now ya see? I gotta get things for my brother. Promised my parents I’d keep him safe.”
We arrived at a grouping of boxes and tin roofing materials. My heart sank. Grayson was inside with a candle, making shadow puppets. Nathan nodded and began coughing. He left me with Grayson and walked outside of their home.
“Hey,” I said nervously, “I brought some stuff for you,” I said, digging into my bag and getting the food from lunch. His eyes widened excitedly. I was still shaking as I handed him apples, crackers, and a water.
“My brother take that ball you gave me. I’m sorry. Thank you for the food miss,” Grayson said. I sighed, slightly relieved. I felt safer in their little hut. I told him my real name.
“Sadie,” I said, smiling. The little boy’s dark eyes lit up. He was so excited to know my name. He repeated the name many times to himself. His joy was interrupted by the sound of someone choking and vomiting outside. I jumped.
“Don’t worry miss Sadie. That’s Nathan. He sick. Been sick since he was little. Somthin’ our parents passed down to him is what he tolded me. He do that lots. He feel better later,” Grayson said, scarfing down the apple. I suggested he give some of the food to Nathan. “He won’t take no food if he think people feelin sorry for us, but you my friend miss Sadie. He’ll be eatin foods you bring. You our friend.”
I lived in such a different world from this, such a happy world. How could these two boys live in such a place, so sickly, so lonely? I sat and made shadow puppets with him for a bit longer, before I left to go home. Nathan had been waiting to walk me out of the alley, “I’ll give him the ball back. You’re not a stranger anymore little girl.”
Over the next few months, I found myself in the alley more than I had ever imagined. I avoided my friends from school to help Nathan and his little brother. I brought them food and any money I’d find on the ground. I even took some of my brother’s old clothes that I had slept in sometimes, and brought them to the alley. Over time, it seemed the alley wasn’t so dark. Joe and Scooter became less criminal-like and more like weird uncles. They didn’t seem to have any bad intentions for anyone in the alley. Joe was once in the army and had his own hardware store, but they went bankrupt. He said that once he lost everything, this was the only way he could make money. Scooter had a similar story. Two prostitutes at the other end of the alley, Susanna and Beyonka were sisters. They ran away from their foster homes where they had been abused when they were teenagers and by selling their bodies they were able to make a living. I got to know all of these “thugs” and “riff-raffs” as my parents called them. Yes, these people were diverse. They had terrible lives, they’ve done terrible things, but they were just trying to live in a world that wanted to pretend they didn’t exist. What could be more heart breaking?
Dance class and school events became less important to me. Shopping made me feel empty inside, knowing that my friends in the alley really never had the option of just hanging out in the mall and grabbing a cheeseburger at the food court. I eventually stopped eating lunch entirely so that I could save all of my food to give out in the alley. I’d ask my friends if I could have their left overs when they were done. They noticed my strange behavior, but didn’t ask much about it. They were so preoccupied with boys and clothes, how could they notice?
I enjoyed going to the alley so much that sometimes I stopped by to say hi to my friends in the morning as well. The little boy, who now wore a shirt I had given him almost every day had changed his name many times. He was Luke, Blake, Anthony, Antoine, Derrick, Nicholas, Kevin, Jason, and a great variety of names. He hadn’t guessed the correct name yet. He and Nathan had been playing this game for quite some time. The little boy and I would sometimes brainstorm together to come up with really creative names. One day he was “Dragon” and another day he was “Wizard.” I looked forward to seeing that tennis ball come rolling out of the darkness to my feet every day. One day, however, in late May, it didn’t come to meet my feet.
I became very worried. After waiting about thirty minutes, Joe met me at the entry of the alley. He had the saddest look on his face. “Nathan’s not doing well,” his eyes were swollen, “He hasn’t got long. You’d better come on and say your goodbyes while you can. The little one’s not going to know what to do.” We walked down the alley. Nathan was in the hut, laying on his side, coughing up blood. His eyes grew glassy, he reached for my hand.
“Tell him, his name is Abraham,” Nathan said and his hand unclenched and fell to the ground, just like that. I didn’t even have time to react. I was in shock. Nathan was gone. Tears fell from my cheek as I turned around to see little Abraham with wide eyes.
“No! My name not Abraham,” he sobbed, “It not Abraham. My name gonna be Nathan. Like my brother.” His speech became inaudible through the crying. I stared upon the faces of my friends from the alley. We cried and huddled around the candle with the little boy. These people all had good inside them. They were kind, they were protectors, and they were a family. Like the tiny candle in the hut, they were the light in the darkness. People feared them, but light wouldn’t have much purpose without darkness would it?
Jackie Benavides
“Ama, no me siento bien,” Marissa says snuggling as close as she can to her mother.
Sylvia reaches over Marissa for the remote and pushes pause, “Qué quieres, Mija. Ya sabes que no debes de interumpir mi novella”.
“Amá, stop. I’m serious, I don’t feel good. I have a really bad headache and I feel like I am going to throw up.”
“Ve y traeme un huevo from the fridge.”
“Amá, no. I want to go to the doctor and get real medicine and find out what’s wrong with me. I’ve been feeling weird for a couple days.”
Sylvia pushes Marissa off her and looks at her daughter with wide eyes, “¿Sabes qué, Marissa? I already told you about talking back to me. Una vez más, y le voy a decir a tu papá. "¡Ve ahorita!”
Marissa reluctantly gets off the couch and walks to the kitchen holding her head. She walks over to the cabinet and grabs a glass cup fills it halfway with water from the sink. She sets it down on the counter and goes to the refrigerator grabbing the carton of eggs from the top shelf. She looks down at the eight remaining eggs and chooses the biggest one hoping that it would give her the best results. She figures the bigger the egg, the greater its ability to pull the evil out of her.
“Ten, Amá,” Marissa says handing her mother the egg.
“Espérate, wait till commercial,” Sylvia says never looking away from the TV.
Marissa places the supplies she had fetched on the end table and sinks into the couch. Her head is throbbing and she can feel the faint pulsing in her forehead. She hopes that the egg will at the very least relieve her of her headache. Maybe it will work, maybe she doesn’t have to waste time going to the doctor.
“Acuéstate,” Sylvia commands.
Marissa obeys the request and lies on her back along the length of the couch. She watches her mom grab the egg and wipe the sweat forming on its shell on her pants. Then Sylvia begins the ritual. She holds the egg with the tips of her fingers and thumb and drags it meticulously on Marissa’s body. She begins with Marissa’s head and makes small signs of the cross on her nose, both cheeks, chin, and forehead, all the while softly whispering a prayer. She does one big cross with the egg on Marissa’s entire face before moving on to her chest. There she does the same, making small crosses and final big crosses for each area. This continues with each arm, each leg, and Marissa’s abdomen.
“Voltéate.”
Marissa complies and turns over, relaxing into the couch that smells of Cheetos and lavender Febreze. She thinks back to when she was a little girl and remembers the way her mother had explained curar de ojo to her. She had said that she prays a special prayer and asks God, Saints, and our ancestors in Heaven for help to get all of the bad stuff out of her. She had said that she asks them to help release her from her sickness and allow her to be healthy. When she was young, she never questioned it. She would see the resulting egg, her mother would explain each bubble and strand of cooked egg white to her and then she would tell her she would feel better, and she always felt better. Growing up, she thought curar de ojo was normal. It wasn’t until recently that Marissa had learned that it’s not normal and most people go to the doctor when they don’t feel good.
Sylvia begins the same routine on Marissa’s back starting with the back of her head. Marissa flinches as her mother pulls hairs tangling around the moist egg. Marissa tries to move to move her hair but her mother stops her. “"¡No te muevas!” Sylvia yells. Marissa lies back down and endures the hair pulling until she feels her mother do the big cross and move on. Sylvia then goes over both arms, both legs, Marissa’s entire back and her butt for good measure.
“Bueno, ten. We are done,” Sylvia says holding the egg out to Marissa.
Marissa sits up and grabs the egg from her mother’s cold hands. “What if it doesn’t help?”
“Ay si, with an attitude like that, it’ll never work,” Sylvia scoffs. “I don’t know why you have to question everything I do lately. I bet it’s that new friend of yours, ¿cómo se llama?”
“Amá, it’s superstition. We have so many little tricks that we believe in.” Marissa sits up and looks at her mother gauging her reaction.
Sylvia looks at Marissa briefly, “tengo que limpiar la cocina,” she says walking towards the kitchen.
“Sometimes we need real doctors and real medicine. We can’t just put vaporú on everything and hope it fixes it. Amá, I just think there are better, more reliable ways to cure things. I mean, we treat earaches by sticking newspaper in our ears and lighting it on fire,” Marissa says throwing her hands in the air. “That’s not normal, and don’t get me started on how a red piece of thread glued on the forehead with saliva is supposed to cure hiccups. Amá, I love our traditions, I just wonder why we still do the things we do. You see what I mean, don’t you?” Marissa says standing to the side of her mother at the kitchen sink.
“Bueno, if it works it works,” Sylvia says drenching a sponge in dish soap before turning to Marissa. “Why question it?”
“Sooner or later you have to accept modern medicine into your life. All of this other stuff is just old, out-of-date myths.”
“No, you can’t say that. Siempre te cura, dame el huevo para verlo.”
Marissa hands the egg over and watches Sylvia tap it on the table and open it into the glass. The egg pours out of the shell as one thick heap of mucus.
“Mira, ¿vez las burbujas?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That means that a girl was envious of you. Mira, tiene un moño encima.”
“Amá, somebody could easily say it looks like three bubbles, not a girl wearing a bow.”
“Mira, that long line connecting the bubble to the egg means that it is rooted deep in her and she has been celosa for a while,” Sylvia says examining the egg and ignoring her daughter’s comments. “She’s been watching you and is jealous of you. I bet it’s that new friend of yours. ¿Cómo se llama?”
“Amá, you’re reading all this from an egg. You don’t think that is a little bit crazy?”
“You better watch the way you’re talking to me. Una vez más, Marissa, ya te dije,” Syliva says shaking her head at her daughter.
“Amá, I’m just saying,” Marissa hesitates. “What if I have the flu or something? I mean, I could have something that the egg just can’t cure or take out of me.”
Sylvia looks at her daughter with a blank expression. “Ay si, then why is the egg cocido?”
“Body heat, Amá. You rubbed it all over me and I am almost positive I have a fever so it’s not that crazy that the egg cooked.”
“"¡Ya cabrona! Get out of here! Go,” Sylvia says pushing Marissa towards her room. “You used to love when I would do curar de ojo on you when you were little. It always made you feel better, you were never sick after I did it. Curar de ojo always worked on you to take out all of the evil and jealousy.”
Marissa hangs her pounding head and walks towards her room while her mother continues yelling about her lack of faith. As far back as she could remember, curar de ojo was the go-to remedy for all sicknesses in the house. You had a headache? Curar de ojo. You had a stomach ache? Curar de ojo. Sunburn? Curar de ojo. Fever? Curar de ojo. Every illness is believed to be caused by somebody wanting bad things to happen to you. It’s the same as when Marissa was little and her prima Patricia told her that if she stared at somebody’s feet long enough and with enough focus, they would trip. Now, she realizes the flaws in what she has grown up knowing and now it feels different. She can no longer trust that the mystical powers of an egg and prayer can heal her. She’s growing up, she has to stop believing that everything her mother tells her is true.
***
“"¡Marissa, ven! Hice papas con huevo.”
Marissa sits up and looks around her room confused. She grabs her phone and pushes the button to turn on the screen. The screen lights up and displays 8:00 AM in thin white lettering. She groans and forces herself up and into the bathroom.
“Marissa!” Sylvia yells from the kitchen.
“Ya voy,” she screams back from the bathroom. She quickly brushes her teeth and heads to the kitchen.
“¿Por que te tardastes?”
“Amá, it’s the weekend. Why do we even have to be up this early?”
“Next time I call you, you don’t yell at me. ¿Me oyes?”
“Si, Amá.”
“¿Como te sientes?”
“Worse. I still feel like I am going to throw up and I have a headache and now I kinda feel dizzy.”
“Bueno, después de desayunar, I’ll call Güelita and see if she has time to do curar de ojo on you today. Whatever is wrong with you, Guelita will be able to get it out.”
***
“Marissa, ven! Salte del carro, tu Güelita nos esta esperando.”
Marissa reluctantly unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the car door. She uses the door to pull herself up and stumbles when she tries carrying her weight by herself. “Angel, ayúdame,” she cries.
Angel crosses in front of the car and lets Marissa support her weight on his shoulder. He is about half a foot shorter than his older sister and the two stumble as they try to walk in step with one another.
“Ay, Marissa, vas a lastimar a tu hermano.” Sylvia reaches her hand up to Marissa’s face and places the back of her hand on Marissa’s forehead. “You are warm,” she says before opening the front door. “Mamá, ya llegamos,” she calls as they enter the house.
A frail woman with a thick grey bun sitting on top of her head pokes her head around the corner of the entryway. “Mis nietos,” she says swinging one arm open for her grandkids to embrace her while the other supports her weight on an intricately carved cane. Angel and Marissa limp over to their grandmother and hug and kiss her.
Marissa’s grandmother steps back from the children’s embrace and looks Marissa over. “Ay, Niña, estas muy caliente y te vez muy pálida. Ven conmigo. Ahorita vamos a curarte de ojo.” Marissa’s grandmother grabs her by her arm and pulls her into her bedroom. “Ahí sientate,” her grandmother says motioning to her bed.
Marissa slowly lifts herself onto her grandmother’s bed and sits there waiting for further direction. She knows the routine by now, but her grandmother is a strong and stubborn woman and Marissa has made the mistake before of skipping her grandmother’s specific steps and instructions which resulted in an attack with a chancla.
“Sylvia, ve a traer las cosas,” Marissa’s grandmother says to her mother, motioning with a limp wrist for her to leave right away.
Sylvia quietly walks out of the room, leaving Marissa and her grandmother alone. Marissa watches as her grandmother calmly lights a match and turns on five long white candles in glass vases each with different religious images on them. As she lights each candle she says a prayer and Marissa closes her eyes in respect with each one.
“Ya, acuestate,” Marissa’s grandmother says tapping on the pillow at the head of the bed.
Marissa lies down, just as she is getting close to the edge of the bed her mother walks in with the egg and glass of water.
“Bueno, ¿estás lista?” her grandmother asks nodding both towards Marissa and her mother.
“Sí, Güelita,” Marissa says nodding before closing her eyes.
Marissa’s grandmother takes the egg from Sylvia and runs it down the length of Marissa’s body chanting a prayer in an airy whisper. She then does the same thing Sylvia did; first Marissa’s face, then her chest, each arm, each leg, and repeats it all on Marissa’s back, each area ending with one big cross.
Over time, Marissa begins noticing that her grandmother’s airy whisper gets louder and louder until she reaches a point where she is using an almost hypnotic tone. Each word that her grandmother chants comes out stronger and louder than the one before it. Marissa focuses on her grandmother’s prayer and is reminded of the time she watched this ritual done on her little brother when he had a stomach virus. She can remember his loud cries when the egg first touched his sensitive skin and how by the end of the curar de ojo, he was asleep. Her grandmother’s soothing yet powerful chant fills her ears and she hopes this is all she needs to feel better.
“Ya tremine, Mija. Ten el huevo. ¿Necesitas algo? ¿Agua?”
Marissa sits up and feels the room spinning around her. She reaches out for the egg and holds it up to her forehead hoping that there is enough cold left in the shell to make her headache subside. “No, Guelita. No necesito nada ahorita. Gracias,” Marissa says gently shaking her head at her grandmother.
“Bueno, Mija. ¿Como te sientes?” Sylvia asks as she sits on the bed next to Marissa. “Do you think Guelita’s curar de ojo did the trick?”
“No, Ama. I think I got up too fast, my head is spinning.”
“Lay back down, Mija. I’ll warn you before Güelita regrese,” Sylvia says with a smile before tapping Marissa’s leg and standing up.
Marissa keeps her eyes closed hoping that the egg will somehow pull the pain out of her head. She can hear her mother and grandmother speaking in the other room but everything sounds muffled to her.
“Marissa, ¿lista para ver que dice el huevo?” Sylvia says entering the room a few steps before Marissa’s grandmother.
“Amá, Ayudame,” Marissa says holding out her hand.
Sylvia grabs her hand and slowly pulls her up to a sitting position just as her grandmother walks in the room.
“Damelo,” her grandmother says holding a shaking hand out for the egg.
Marissa hands over the egg and scoots close to the bedside table to get a good view of the egg being cracked. Marissa’s grandmother hits the egg on the side of the table twice before putting it above the glass and breaking the shell open. She gasps as what looks like a poached egg flops out of the shell and into the water, making water splash onto her grandmother’s face. “No no no, Sylvia, yo nunca habia visto esto. Ahorita regreso,” her grandmother says before grabbing her cane and stumbling out of the room.
Marissa looks at her mother confused. “Amá, why did Güelita run out?”
Sylvia runs a hand through her hair and leaves it on the nape of her neck as she stares at the glass where the egg has now sunk to the bottom. Marissa and her mother look at the glass on the nightstand and remain silent. Then Marissa’s grandmother walks in holding a lemon and shaking it in the air yelling, “Con esto. Esto sí. Esto te va a curar.”
Marissa looks over at her mother confused, but Sylvia is still distracted by the egg. Marissa’s grandmother walks closer and holds her hand out to Marissa. “Es un limón, esto te va a curar, Niña,” her grandmother says bouncing the lemon in her hand.
Marissa looks at the lemon and sighs. She knows her grandmother means well, but she wishes they could all go to the emergency room where she feels she belongs, instead of her grandmother’s bed to be rubbed down with another food item. Marissa leans back and braces herself for another round of curar de ojo this time with a lemon.
Her grandmother leans her cane against the bedframe and begins the ritual. She starts her prayers as soon as the cold lemon touches Marissa’s forehead. The prayers sound different this time, almost like a whine.
As the lemon covers each of Marissa’s eyes, she feels her ears begin ringing. By the time the lemon reaches the big cross going from her forehead, to her chin, her left cheek, to her right, Marissa begins convulsing. Her grandmother steps back and holds the lemon high above Marissa’s body.
Sylvia screams, “Mamá, ¿qué está pasando?” Marissa’s grandmother ignores Sylvia and chants her prayers even louder, overpowering the sounds of the shaking bed. “Mamá, muevete,” Sylvia cries lunging toward her daughter.
Marissa’s grandmother takes a step back and leans on the nightstand for support. She continues holding the lemon, but stops praying. Sylvia pushes Marissa’s flailing arms against her body, “Marissa. Mija, estoy aquí.” Sylvia notices blood trickling out of Marissa’s mouth. “Marissa!” She pulls Marissa’s chin down and sees that Marissa’s tongue is caught in the lock of her jaws. “"Mija!” Sylvia looks into Marissa’s eyes that are blinking rapidly showing glimpses of them rolling to the back of her head. “Angel, call 9-1-1,” Sylvia screams.
***
“Ma’am, it is likely that your daughter had a seizure because her body temperature reached a point above one-hundred and two degrees,” the paramedic explained. “After she stopped convulsing, we checked her temperature and it was one-hundred and three point two. We have to get her to the hospital right away and try and bring her fever down immediately, before she goes into another episode.”
“Yes, sir. I understand,” Sylvia says holding Angel close to her side.
“Ay, "¡Dios mio!,” Marissa’s grandmother says as they watch the paramedic shut the ambulance doors.
Night and Day
Tim Collins
I first realized I was different when the boy across the hall grabbed me by the hair and asked why it was so curly. I didn't really know what to say, so I said it was probably because I sit so close to the radio at night.
The next time I saw the boy across the hall, he was huddled close to his family's radio (practically hugging it, in fact) while he listened to The Shadow stalk organized crime. "What evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows..." I asked what he was doing, and he said he was trying to get his hair curly. My heart melted just a little bit, but his father didn't approve.
"Why'd you wanna do that?" he said. "You wanna look like a spook?”
A spook? I hadn't heard that name before. I spent the night in the bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror and thinking, "Am I a ghost?" The next morning, at breakfast, I kept asking my mother if I was a "spook." She just got a horrified look on her face and smacked her pan of eggs with her spatula.
"People call you that because you look different, honey.”
"How so?"
"Your skin is different."
"Huh? But you're white."
"Your father wasn't, honey," she said. "And he's not around anymore. Some people have a problem with that."
"Why?"
My mother couldn't do anything but sigh, and she had a strange look on her face, like she was just about ready to give up.
"I don't know, honey," she said.
I grew up in that small Chicago apartment and soon realized that quite a lot of people had a problem with it. I always wanted to be a singer, a performer on a grand scale like those girls on the Ziegfeld Follies or Ella Fitzgerald. I even joined a theatre troupe on 175th street, but every month I was told by the director, a weedly little man in a business suit, "We don't got nothin' for ya. Sorry, toots. How about you rearrange the scenery? We don't got nobody doin' that."
"But I can sing, Mr. Louie."
"Sure ya can, but so can my parakeet. You don't see me putting that up on stage."
"I can dance, too."
"Honey, you got two left feet."
"Yeah, but they're always pointed in the right direction, unlike some of these girls."
"Look, I put you up there, I got a riot on my hands. Sorry, toots. Better luck next month."
So I would be forced to move wooden palm trees around on the stage and sweep the dirt while the girls got dressed backstage in their glamorous outfits. My eyes would sting and my hands would turn black from the dust. Sometimes I would cry in the spaces between the backdrops, all the while the white girls gossiped about their lives in the dressing room.
"Eloise just got a spot at the Rhumboogie on Thursday night."
"How'd you know that?"
"She told me," the first voice says. "She's going to be singing 'I Got Rhythm' and 'Night and Day.' Rockefeller's son might be there."
"Lucky."
"Oooh," a third voice says, "I just heard Clara Stanwyck's marrying a rich man from upstate. I saw him the other day, all dressed up to the nines..."
And on it would go. To make ends meet, I got a job as a "taxi dancer" at the Beaufont Dance Hall. A taxi dancer dances with men for money, and it's pretty much just as degrading as it sounds. Dateless, scummy-looking men file into a crummy, dilapidated old dance hall, pay ten cents at the door, and pick out one of the girls to stumble around with for half an hour. I got tossed around so much that my arms felt like they were going to rip out of their sockets, my feet got stepped on so much that they often bled at the end of the night, and some men can't help trying to kiss me, but hey, it's a living.
The one man who troubled me the most was the sailor. He would come by every Sunday, just before closing time, and always with a scowl on his face. I don't think I'd ever seen him smile. He wasn't a particularly good dancer, either, but I don't think he'd ever tried to kiss any of the girls. And they say sailors have a reputation for that kind of thing. Ha!
It was a Thursday and Eloise was probably performing at the Rhumboogie, but there I was, being scooted around by some wiry, oily shrimp of a man with red hair. He looked sort of like a cockroach, and smelled like one, too, but ten cents is ten cents, and when there are a bunch of other women lining the wall waiting to dance, all ready to replace you the second you can't work anymore, you're not allowed to refuse a client.
"You smell like chocolate," the oily man said.
I wasn't sure that I'd heard him.
"Excuse me?"
"You smell like chocolate," he said, and smiled. Only it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was the kind of smile you want to run away from very fast.
"That's, uh, nice," I said.
"No, really, you do," he said, and I nodded. I already agreed with you, sir. What more do you want?
"I bet you taste like chocolate, too," he said, and ran his tongue up my cheek.
I slapped him as hard as I could and tried to run, but the man grabbed me by the leg. Then he slapped me, hard, and started screaming things I can't repeat here. Things which aren't decent for mixed company.
"You spook! You chocolate piece of $#!&!"
Soon I couldn't feel my face. It was numb. But then the man was off me, and I looked over with one bloated eye to see the sailor smacking the redheaded man across the face.
"You treat her like a lady!" the sailor said. Smack! "You want to hit a girl, huh?" Smack! "You had your dance. Now get the hell out of here!"
The sailor then shoved the man across the hall to where his friends, a group of burly sailors, were waiting, and who dragged the man through the curtain and out the back. The sailor picked me up, perhaps a little roughly, but not meaning to, and wiped the blood from my face.
"You okay?" he asked. I nodded.
We went out into the alley. The other sailors and the redheaded man were gone. The sailor found a few cubes of ice and wrapped them in a dirty towel, and talked for an hour while he looked after my bruises. It turned out he was from France and was here on leave. The dancing was just a way to kill the time.
"I leave on the fourth," he said.
"To where?"
"To war," he said. "I've got to do what I can for the war effort. Not a lot of our men are making it back, and I may not, too. But c'est la guerre, as my father used to say."
"That's okay," I said. "I'm pretty sure I'm fired."
"Why?"
"You can't slap a customer, no matter how much of a jackass he's being."
"I know someone who can help," the sailor said, and scrambled for a pen. Then he wrote a phone number on my hand, handed me the now-dripping towel, and said, "I have to go. The ship leaves in half an hour."
The number turned out to be for a man at the USO, the organization that performs shows for the troops overseas. The man didn't judge my skin color, only my singing talent and my patriotism. It wasn't long before I got to perform alongside the Andrew Sisters and Billie Holiday, and I actually got to meet Bob Hope. He told his assistant to get him a tall drink of water, and when I showed up to ask for his autograph, he did a double-take, looked at his assistant, and said, "Well, that was fast!"
It took me a while to get a letter to Buddy, the sailor, and he was thrilled to find out I got to perform on stage as part of the show. I told him I would be performing at one of the military bases in France, and he told me he would be there. For weeks I thought about that performance and how I would dedicate it to a very special person in the audience, the man who taught me that not everyone has evil lurking in their hearts.
But five minutes before I went on stage, I asked his company where he would be in the audience so I could point him out, and they told me he'd died. A German shell slammed into his jeep, killing both him and the driver, just a week before I arrived.
It was difficult, but I still went up there and performed “Night and Day.” But before I did, I dedicated it to one of our fallen soldiers. Thank you, Bud.
The Dark Alley
Maegan White, Winner, Pulse Award for Undergraduate Fiction
I remember my first year of junior high like it was yesterday- not because of my classes, not because of the sports I was involved in, not because of school in any way. My most vivid memories come from the alleyway between the school and the apartment building where I lived. The school wasn’t even one mile from the building so my parents and I decided it would be fine for me to walk home.
“Be sure to walk with a group of friends though,” Mom reminded me every morning, “And no matter what, don’t- DO NOT- I mean it- go near that alley on your way back. It’s full of thugs and all kinds of bad people. You and your friends rush past that area as quickly as possible. Don’t even look toward it.” Obviously mom was just doing her job, trying to protect me. I was good though. I always listened to her, but sometimes things don’t always go as planned.
For a solid month, my friends and I walked home, past the dark, dank alley. We were all told not to even glance at it. We made up silly games with tennis balls and yoyos. We played tag and keep-away, always extending our short walks into thirty minutes of goofing off. We talked about boys and homework, of dresses and dances, and of secrets that we all thought were so important in junior high. All the while, we acted as though the alley did not even exist. We’d joke about it on occasion. Sometimes my friends would say that the teachers would send the bad kids to the alley instead of detention. It was never a real concept for us. That is- until one Friday when we were released from school early for a holiday.
My friends and I used the extra time for more goofing off. We sat around the parent-pickup area for quite a while, talking about the Halloween dance coming up soon. It was especially a treat for us, because we could wear costumes.
“I’m going as a zombie cheerleader! It’s going to be perfect. I’ll wear my cheer uniform and paint my face! The whole sha-bang!” Maggie said excitedly. Everyone bounced ideas back and forth for a bit. Judy wanted to be a cat (they were her favorite). Corra was the vampire fanatic of the group, so it was obvious what she would go as. She always chatted excitedly about murder mysteries and dark vampire novels, though I was certain she’d faint at the sight of real danger.
“Sadie! What will you go as?” Grace chimed. I hadn’t thought about it much until she had asked. I had been so preoccupied with school, dance class, pageants, and poetry club that the Halloween dance slipped my mind entirely.
I thought a moment, “Maybe an elf. Like a fantasy elf, not a Santa Claus kind of elf. A forest elf. Yah. Maybe that.” I liked writing about fantasy in my poetry, so an elf, fairy, or anything of that nature was perfect for me.
After a few minutes of planning, my friends and I began our stroll home. I say stroll because we stopped every few minutes to continue a game of keep-away with a tennis ball Grace had in her bag from tennis practice. Judy tossed the ball towards me, right over Maggie’s head…and right over mine as well. I leaped as high as I could to catch it. My fingertips grazed the bottom of the tennis ball and a few pieces of the neon green fuzz flew about as the ball continued on its course. We all watched it as it raced through the air and straight into the alley, disappearing into the abyss.
We hadn’t even noticed that we were already to the alley. We had learned to ignore it so well. Our parents all told us not to even look at it and now, there we were, staring directly into the face of the cool darkness of the alley. A breeze swept through the alley, blowing bits of trash around and creating an eerie scuffling noise. It sent a chill down my spine. Frozen, we stared in frightful amazement at the alley we hadn’t dared to look upon before. It felt wrong to even look at it. Our parents would be furious if they knew we were so near to it. The smell of mold and dumpsters filled my nostrils. It was like staring into the face of a monster, I couldn’t move. My heart was racing and I began to sweat.
After what seemed like a decade, Grace spoke. “It’s fine, leave it. It’s just a tennis ball. Let’s get out of here,” she whispered with a shaky voice. Petrified, we all slowly took a few steps back, but before we could turn and run, the tennis ball came rolling back, right up to my feet. I swear, at that moment I jumped higher up than I ever have before. My friends and I raced away, without another word. When we turned the corner around the next building, something caught my eye. Hypnotically, I stopped and peeked back around the corner of the building. I made sure not to even reveal half of my face.
There was a little boy. He was so skinny. He wasn’t wearing shirt and I could count his ribs. He emerged from the alley like a slimy creature from its cave. He looked about nervously as his dark, messy, unkempt hair fell in his face. I watched as he picked up the tennis ball and turned about, as if searching for something. His shoulders drooped and his head followed the motion. He turned back to the alley, taking the tennis ball with him. Just like that, the boy was gone.
I lingered around the side of the building a few moments longer. I don’t know what I had expected to come out of that alley, but it certainly wasn’t a child.
“Why are you staying in that alley?” I whispered softly to him, though I know he was far out of earshot. My friends had all abandoned me and were likely home by now. It was getting darker outside and I knew I should get home too.
The next few days I didn’t walk past the alley because we were on holiday, but that didn’t keep it out of my mind. Before, it would take effort to even force me to acknowledge that alley and now I could think of nothing else. That little boy looked so small. A little kid shouldn’t be anywhere near that dark alley, that was a fact. Everyone knew that. All the parents told their children to stay away from there. Why didn’t someone tell that boy?
Later that week at school, I found myself unable to focus on my work. I walked past the alley every day that week, expecting to see the boy. I couldn’t make myself stay for too long, though. My friends wouldn’t stick around with me if I did and I definitely didn’t want to be near the alley alone. My friends and I didn’t speak of the day the tennis ball came rolling back to us, they chose to act as if it didn’t happen. They went back to not even glancing at the alley. It no longer existed to them. That wasn’t the case with me.
I don’t know exactly how long it was before I lingered in front of the alley again, but the chance presented itself again one day. Life’s funny like that. My friends and I walked home, talking about Grace’s new boyfriend and how cute he was. I noticed my shoes were untied and said, “Hold on guys,” as I kneeled down to tie them. “Over, under, through the loop…”
When I stood up, I was alone, in front of the alley. I was looking right into its indescribable, forbidden darkness. The air was musty and there were a few dark shapes down the alley. Far toward the back, there was a small, flickering light. I thought that perhaps it was a candle. As I stared, trying to figure out as much about the mysterious alley as I could, a tennis ball appeared from nowhere and bounced toward me. I gasped. What was I supposed to do? All was silent for a moment. I remembered the little boy. I picked up the tennis ball and lightly tossed it back into the alley. It was tossed back to me, though I could not see who was on the other side of it. The alley was shaded so much from the surrounding buildings that it was almost impossible to see any definite shapes. I could only distinguish vague outlines. The ball returned to me. I was tossing a tennis ball back and forth to something in a dark alley. Looking back now, it doesn’t really seem like the smartest decision. I rolled it back the next time.
“Why you not take?” I heard a young voice ask. The darkness was communicating with me now. It had a voice: rough, but very young. I was so surprised I couldn’t speak. “Why you no take your ball back? I try to give it back. You lost it before. Why you give back?”
“Um. well,” I didn’t know how to answer exactly, “ I was playing a game. It’s fun to throw it back and forth. Don’t you think?” I was becoming less afraid. I was certain it was the little boy. He was drawing closer, he gave off a foul odor and I knew now that he must be homeless.
“A game? Oh. I not played no games for a long, long time. Not since I used to have a big family. But I don’t got that no more. Just me and Nathan. And he don’t like games no more.” he said. His voice grew more near. A dark tan arm reached out into the light, but that was all. In it, was the tennis ball. “Here you go.”
I felt a pang of sorrow in my heart. The little boy once had a family. I wondered what had happened to them, but I hadn’t the heart to ask. “Why don’t you keep it for me?”
“Really?” He asked with excitement. I smiled and told him I wanted him to keep it. “Wow! Wow! Thank you miss!”
“What’s your name?” I asked him. He responded by telling me his name was Reggie “today.” Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Today?”
“Yah, one day ago it was Chad. Different names. I change them a lot. Don’t member what first one was. Nathan does though. Said he’d say so if I ever got the right one.” He didn’t remember his original name. That told me he must’ve been on the streets for a long time without parents. I wanted to cry, but held back my tears.
“Well that’s kind of like a game isn’t it?” I suggested to the child. I heard a little laugh as he bounced the tennis ball.
“I guess you right miss. That a good game. That a good game! You come back tomorrow to throw dis with me again?” I looked around nervously, but guilt made me agree. I told myself I’d also bring him some food from the cafeteria.
After that, I rushed home. My parents questioned why I was so late. I told them I’d forgotten my backpack at school and had to run back to get it. I knew I’d have to come up with another excuse if this habit persisted. I decided I’d say that poetry club was having a practice for an upcoming presentation.
The next day I returned to the dark, forbidden alley with a backpack full of various foods I had saved from lunch. I was always lucky. I had food. I had a family. I had a home. I could travel and play sports any time. I had friends and opportunities. This little boy had nothing, except his elusive brother. I wanted to help any way I could. If that meant tossing a ball back and forth every afternoon and bringing him food when I could, that’s what I’d do. The next day I waited in front of the alley. I knew exactly what I was waiting for. A tennis ball bounced from the darkness up to my feet.
“Reggie,” I said, “I have something for…” My sentence stopped as a tall, tan boy with dark brown hair emerged from the shadows. He had a lot of facial hair and was covered in sweat. It dripped from his forehead and ran down his face as he smirked. His smile was that of a wicked person. He grabbed my arm. I didn’t want to be pulled into the darkness. Stay out of the darkness. Don’t let him get you in the darkness, I thought. I struggled to free my arm.
“Hand over your money and I won’t hurt you. You can go free,” he said. I began crying. “I don’t have any money! I don’t have any money! Don’t hurt me. Please! I was bringing food to Reggie. You can have some too. Please, that’s all I have!” The boy let go of my arm and caught his breath. He acted as if the light bothered his eyes and stepped back into the shadow.
He scowled. “Reggie is my brother. He’s always trying to make friends with the outsiders. He doesn’t understand that nobody cares yet. He doesn’t get that no one wants us around. He doesn’t understand that people see us as a burden. And his name isn’t Reggie today. It’s Grayson. I’ll take you to him.” He grabbed my arm, gently this time and led me into the darkness. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. I didn’t want to go in the alley, but I was scared to fight. “You know you don’t have to pity us. We don’t want your pity,” he said bitterly as he led me through the alley full of pungent odors and puddles of water. There were a few dumpsters and a lot of scattered trash. We passed a few men exchanging money for something in plastic bags. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I knew they were drug dealers. I was shaking. Nathan laughed. “The real world is scary ain’t it, little girl?” He sounded so raspy and sinister. “Those guys aren’t all bad though. Joe and Scooter both had my back when a gang down the street almost killed my brother and me. They won’t be pickin’ on any kids now. Heh,” I gulped. “They’re good people,” he said, “I’m a good person. Well, used to be. I gotta rob people now ya see? I gotta get things for my brother. Promised my parents I’d keep him safe.”
We arrived at a grouping of boxes and tin roofing materials. My heart sank. Grayson was inside with a candle, making shadow puppets. Nathan nodded and began coughing. He left me with Grayson and walked outside of their home.
“Hey,” I said nervously, “I brought some stuff for you,” I said, digging into my bag and getting the food from lunch. His eyes widened excitedly. I was still shaking as I handed him apples, crackers, and a water.
“My brother take that ball you gave me. I’m sorry. Thank you for the food miss,” Grayson said. I sighed, slightly relieved. I felt safer in their little hut. I told him my real name.
“Sadie,” I said, smiling. The little boy’s dark eyes lit up. He was so excited to know my name. He repeated the name many times to himself. His joy was interrupted by the sound of someone choking and vomiting outside. I jumped.
“Don’t worry miss Sadie. That’s Nathan. He sick. Been sick since he was little. Somthin’ our parents passed down to him is what he tolded me. He do that lots. He feel better later,” Grayson said, scarfing down the apple. I suggested he give some of the food to Nathan. “He won’t take no food if he think people feelin sorry for us, but you my friend miss Sadie. He’ll be eatin foods you bring. You our friend.”
I lived in such a different world from this, such a happy world. How could these two boys live in such a place, so sickly, so lonely? I sat and made shadow puppets with him for a bit longer, before I left to go home. Nathan had been waiting to walk me out of the alley, “I’ll give him the ball back. You’re not a stranger anymore little girl.”
Over the next few months, I found myself in the alley more than I had ever imagined. I avoided my friends from school to help Nathan and his little brother. I brought them food and any money I’d find on the ground. I even took some of my brother’s old clothes that I had slept in sometimes, and brought them to the alley. Over time, it seemed the alley wasn’t so dark. Joe and Scooter became less criminal-like and more like weird uncles. They didn’t seem to have any bad intentions for anyone in the alley. Joe was once in the army and had his own hardware store, but they went bankrupt. He said that once he lost everything, this was the only way he could make money. Scooter had a similar story. Two prostitutes at the other end of the alley, Susanna and Beyonka were sisters. They ran away from their foster homes where they had been abused when they were teenagers and by selling their bodies they were able to make a living. I got to know all of these “thugs” and “riff-raffs” as my parents called them. Yes, these people were diverse. They had terrible lives, they’ve done terrible things, but they were just trying to live in a world that wanted to pretend they didn’t exist. What could be more heart breaking?
Dance class and school events became less important to me. Shopping made me feel empty inside, knowing that my friends in the alley really never had the option of just hanging out in the mall and grabbing a cheeseburger at the food court. I eventually stopped eating lunch entirely so that I could save all of my food to give out in the alley. I’d ask my friends if I could have their left overs when they were done. They noticed my strange behavior, but didn’t ask much about it. They were so preoccupied with boys and clothes, how could they notice?
I enjoyed going to the alley so much that sometimes I stopped by to say hi to my friends in the morning as well. The little boy, who now wore a shirt I had given him almost every day had changed his name many times. He was Luke, Blake, Anthony, Antoine, Derrick, Nicholas, Kevin, Jason, and a great variety of names. He hadn’t guessed the correct name yet. He and Nathan had been playing this game for quite some time. The little boy and I would sometimes brainstorm together to come up with really creative names. One day he was “Dragon” and another day he was “Wizard.” I looked forward to seeing that tennis ball come rolling out of the darkness to my feet every day. One day, however, in late May, it didn’t come to meet my feet.
I became very worried. After waiting about thirty minutes, Joe met me at the entry of the alley. He had the saddest look on his face. “Nathan’s not doing well,” his eyes were swollen, “He hasn’t got long. You’d better come on and say your goodbyes while you can. The little one’s not going to know what to do.” We walked down the alley. Nathan was in the hut, laying on his side, coughing up blood. His eyes grew glassy, he reached for my hand.
“Tell him, his name is Abraham,” Nathan said and his hand unclenched and fell to the ground, just like that. I didn’t even have time to react. I was in shock. Nathan was gone. Tears fell from my cheek as I turned around to see little Abraham with wide eyes.
“No! My name not Abraham,” he sobbed, “It not Abraham. My name gonna be Nathan. Like my brother.” His speech became inaudible through the crying. I stared upon the faces of my friends from the alley. We cried and huddled around the candle with the little boy. These people all had good inside them. They were kind, they were protectors, and they were a family. Like the tiny candle in the hut, they were the light in the darkness. People feared them, but light wouldn’t have much purpose without darkness would it?
Analytical Essay.
The Identity(ies) Within: One Voice for All
Kara Timberlake
Identity is comprised of a myriad of internal and external representations of self. Some fragments of self include sexuality, gender, and identification/belonging with culture. In the fifth chapter of Gloria Anzaldúa’s book, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, titled “How to Tame a Wild Tongue,” Anzaldúa employs writing to comprehend and communicate the compound nature of identity. One of the identities she explores in her piece is herself as a mestiza, an identity that contains its own distinctive features, including language, allowing her to connect with a wider audience. Through the rhetorical mode of narration, Anzaldúa utilizes metaphor, demonstrating how each particular aspect of her mestiza self contributes to her overall identity. By refusing to identify solely as an Anglo or Spanish-speaker, Anzaldúa crosses cultural boundaries while also disintegrating preconceived notions about conforming to societal expected identities. Anzaldúa, through this perspective, enables people from various backgrounds to unite in the cause of embracing plural identities without feeling pressured to yield to popular, pre-established identity roles.
Simultaneously “a Chicana, queer, poet, feminist, writer, theorist, spiritual activist, and more,” Anzaldúa straddles many borders (Koegeler-Abdi 71). Exemplifying her composite nature in Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, Anzaldúa writes, “I am a border woman. I grew up between two cultures, the Mexican (with a heavy Indian influence) and the Anglo (as a member of a colonized people in our own territory)” (Anzaldúa 19). Labeling herself as a mestiza, a term referring to a woman of mixed race, Anzaldúa proclaims her identity as a hybrid, tied to more than one culture. Struggling with dual, opposing expectations from Anglos and those of Spanish-speaking origin, Anzaldúa states, “Like all people, we perceive the version of reality that our culture communicates. Like others having or living in more than one culture, we get multiple, often opposing messages. The coming together of two self-consistent but habitually incomparable frames of reference causes un choque, a cultural collision” (Anzaldúa 100). However, Anzaldúa emerges beyond these placed restrictions, imparting a voice to the people of the borderlands. Unwilling to conform to a singular cultural role, Anzaldúa, “resists accommodating the identifying labels that patriarchal society, with its absolute terms, compels her to do. Likewise, she rejects choosing between her racial and historical influences or positioning herself as either a Mexican or North American” (Henríquez-Betancor 40). Instead, Anzaldúa, “welcomes the new ‘mestiza’s’ plural personality that embraces all the different parts of which she is made” (40).
With the medium of personal narrative, Anzaldúa employs metaphors, conveying her feelings about language and the noteworthiness it holds to her mestiza identity. Anzaldúa’s fifth chapter of Borderlands commences with the narrator’s visit to the dentist, introducing the metaphor of controlling the tongue. She recollects the appointment and how the dentist remarks while pulling the metal from her mouth, “‘We’re going to have to control your tongue’” (Anzaldúa 75). Anzaldúa articulates the notion of obliterating language in an attempt to subsume into a cultural group with the metaphor of cutting the tongue for the purpose of taming it. This exemplifies how Anglo society attempts to control her tongue by expecting her to speak solely Standard English to fulfill their societal harmonization. However, Anzaldúa rebels against this thought process by manifesting her mestiza identity. In an article surveying the mestiza on the geographical and cultural fringe, Ana María Manzanas Calvo states that Anzaldúa “moves beyond nationalist positions that seek to secure and define an identity untainted by Anglo influence to articulate an impure and mestiza consciousness that arises from various cultural traditions and in cross-cultural exchange” (48). Refusing to regard any language and its representative culture superior, Anzaldúa meshes all of her ethnicities and corresponding values into one hybrid identity. Labeling herself a mestiza, Anzaldúa acknowledges that her upbringing in an Anglo environment inevitably shaped her identity. Recognizant that she is the incarnate representing the contamination of manifold cultures, Anzaldúa believes her identity should reflect her Anglo and Spanish-speaking influence. Through the metaphor of the tongue, Anzaldúa resists the indication that those of diverse linguistic discourse should acquiesce to cultural pressures. Instead, she disputes this limiting rationale and by virtue scatters the seed of embracing one’s amalgamated self.
Continuing with the device of metaphor, Anzaldúa shares her personal experiences to challenge preconceived notions concerning identity. Furthermore, concerning the dentist’s comment, Anzaldúa postulates, “How do you tame a wild tongue, train it to be quiet, how do you bridle and saddle it?” (Anzaldúa 75). With the extension of the metaphor, Anzaldúa references the title of the chapter and lays the foundation for the arguments she builds upon concerning the pivotal link between language and identity. In this excerpt, Anzaldúa insinuates that the very characteristics defining a wild tongue inhibit it from reaching a tame state. To become docile requires the loss of previous features, most succinctly encapsulated as freedom. The two ideas, tame and wild, are irreconcilable. Likewise, this meaning is applicable to her message regarding linguistic identity. In solely speaking Standard English or Spanish, Anzaldúa is forced to choose polar extremes and confined in the process to a certain culture. However, neither language nor its representative culture truly represents her mestiza self. A prolongation of her previous thought, Anzaldúa inquires, “How do you make [a wild tongue] lie down?” (75). Symbolizing the submissive nature the Anglo society craves for her, the metaphor works to address how without the expression of her plural languages, Anzaldúa becomes similar to a domesticated animal domineered by controlling forces. However, Anzaldúa notes with the use of this metaphor that she, unlike an animal, has a choice about her outcome. She can choose to overrule the oppressive societal judgments by expressing her mestiza self. By conversing in multiple languages, Anzaldúa welcomes her hybrid identity while showing the world around her that she refuses to conform to a singular selfhood.
Concluding the aforementioned metaphor concerning the tongue, Anzaldúa resolves, “Wild tongues can’t be tamed, they can only be cut out” (Anzaldúa 76). In this statement, Anzaldúa expresses an accusatory scrutiny of the borderlands she inhabits, reflecting her struggle to relay her hybrid identity to a repressing Anglo world. While the Anglo civilization wants to confine Anzaldúa to their Standard English principles, she cannot solely engulf their language and thereby eradicate the other dialects she speaks, without losing a part of her self. Revolting against the Anglo-placed linguistic fetters, Anzaldúa declares her mestiza identity. In author María Lugones’ piece on the borderlands, she explains, “The mestiza consciousness is characterized by the development of a tolerance for contradiction and ambiguity, by the transgression of rigid conceptual boundaries, and by the creative breaking of the new unitary aspect of new and old paradigms” (Lugones 34). This description of the mestiza collectively summarizes the aims of Anzaldúa. Faced with her different cultures’ contrasting languages and ideologies, Anzaldúa becomes caught in a linguistic tug-of-war. The metaphor seeks to narrate Anzaldúa’s place within the cultural fissures she finds herself wedged in, a place between the border of Anglo civilization and her Spanish-speaking roots. However, as Lugones articulates, because “la mestiza is captive of more than one collectivity…she crosses from one collectivity to the other and decides to stake herself in the border between the two, where she can take a critical stance and take stock of her plural personality” (34). Already trapped in the middle of a cultural divide, Anzaldúa uses her position to deliberately assert her mestiza identity. Her message aptly contains pertinence to any people who find themselves thrust in the chasms pressured by both cultures to shun the other, unifying the diverse audience found in the borderlands.
Exploring the complexities of identity in the fifth chapter of her book, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, titled “How to Tame a Wild Tongue,” Gloria Anzaldúa addresses many components that comprise the self. Through the stylistic device of metaphor, conveyed via rhetorical mode of narration, Anzaldúa illustrates how language contributes to her mestiza identity. As a mestiza, Anzaldúa observes the distinct aspects that comprise her umbrella identity furthermore allowing her to relate to a diverse audience. Although this paper is centered on the importance of language in one’s identity, Anzaldúa mentioned a plethora of other factors, including sexuality, gender, and culture. Direct implications of her work can lead to a discussion concerning identity politics, arguments pertaining to how individuals’ politics are molded by facets of their identity. Moreover, these forms of political activity shaped by one’s identity are shared experiences of oppression by broadly associated social groups including race, class, religion, gender, and ethnicity. There is an unlimited capacity to extrapolate on how Anzaldúa utilizes other elements, such as gender, to demonstrate that social expectations do not confine her, continuing with her overall theme of staying true to the self. By rejecting the notion of socially placed roles, Anzaldúa crosses more boundaries than cultural, creating a platform for people from assorted backgrounds to unify in the movement of embracing multiple identities without yielding to societal pressures.
Works Cited
Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. 3rd ed. San Francisco: Aunt
Lute, 2007. Print.
Henríquez-Betancor, María. "Anzaldúa and ‘the new mestiza’: A Chicana dives into collective
identity." Language Value 4.2 (2012): 38-55. Web. 28 July 2014.
Koegeler-Abdi, Martina. "Shifting Subjectivities: Mestizas, Nepantleras, And Gloria
Anzaldúa’s Legacy." Melus 38.2 (2013): 71-88. Humanities Full Text (H.W. Wilson). Web. 25 July 2014.
Lugones, Maria. "On Borderlands/La Frontera: An Interpretive Essay." Hypatia 7.4 (1992):
31-37. Art & Architecture Complete. Web. 1 Aug. 2014.
Manzanas Calvo, Ana María. "A Mestiza In The Borderlands: Margarita Cota-Cárdenas'
Puppet." Atlantis: Revista De La Asociación Española De Estudios Anglo-Norteamericanos 34.1 (2012): 47-62. Literary Reference Center. Web. 25 July 2014.
Unraveling The Facade: A Reevaluation of Penelope
Casey Myers-Blanchard
The power dynamic of The Odyssey is a complicated one, balancing the wills and abilities of gods, mortals, and monsters. Some figures are, in one way or another, overtly powerful, (e.g. Athena, Odysseus, Poseidon) affecting the course of events directly in some clear and meaningful way. The character on which Odysseus' fate rests most, however, is not one of them. Described by some as sniveling, pathetic, and even useless, one of the most powerful characters in The Odyssey is Penelope. Utilizing her talent for foresight, manipulation, and self-control, she proves more powerful than even Odysseus, and arguably more pivotal than any other character in ensuring Odysseus' successful homecoming and preventing his tragic downfall.
At first glance, it might easily appear that the suitors take advantage of Penelope, rendering her powerless. This would not be wholly inaccurate. They feast on the finest food and drink of her household, they sleep with her servants, they bully her son, and they pester her to choose one of them to marry, scratching at her bedroom door day in and day out for three years. Penelope, understandably, does not relish the presence of the suitors. She weeps often for her lost husband and openly complains about and denounces the suitors. Yet she never refuses their proposals of marriage. Instead, she stalls, making them wait until she finishes weaving a burial shroud, weaving by day and unraveling by night. At any time over the course of the three years, Penelope could unambiguously inform her suitors that she has no intention of marrying any of them, or conversely, she could choose one to marry, securing her own safety. Penelope knows, however, that if she marries off, her safety may be guaranteed, but in so doing she dooms her husband and son. If she tells the suitors that she will never marry any of them, she knows that they will seek the throne in other ways, and if they have no further reason to impress her, there is no telling what these brutes, who show very little respect in the current situation, will do. Her ability to understand the situation and the consequences of taking action and to plan accordingly puts her ahead of Telemachus, whose plan seems to be to mope angstily until he is powerful enough to take them all out himself. Her prowess in manipulating the suitors demonstrates that her mental acuity is on par with that of her husband and that her use of her skills are equally vital to the plot.
If Penelope's prowess for scheming puts her on par with Odysseus, her talent for self-control puts her far ahead of him. Odysseus' chief character growth over the course of The Odyssey is his growing ability to restrain himself, especially by withholding his identity and by suppressing his excessive masculine energy and outbursts. Early in the story, Odysseus clearly struggles with this, often dooming his crew with his compulsions. Most notably, he does so as he sails away from the island of Polephemus, unable to stop himself from shouting out his own name to take credit for crippling the Cyclops. For this, many of Odysseus' crew pay with their lives. Odysseus himself pays in guilt, woe, and many years away from home. In this instance and in several others, Odysseus' inability to control himself takes away his ability to control his own destiny, forcing him to surrender power to the gods. Eventually, through a great deal of trial and error, Odysseus comes to learn some measure of self-control. Penelope, however, needs no lesson. From the beginning of the story, she exercises near-perfect command of herself in important matters. For twenty years, while Odysseus is out sleeping his way across the sea, fornicating with anyone who asks (a surprisingly large number of solicitors), Penelope remains faithful to her husband, while still managing to keep the suitors at arm's length. It is a tight rope she must walk, demanding rigid self-control in more than one way. She must, of course, resist the urge to sleep around. Odysseus' hypocrisy would not allow for any digression on Penelope's part. She must also, however, resist the urge to lash out against the suitors, to give them a definitive "no" and shoo them all away, because to do so would leave her family, her home, and her husband's claim and household vulnerable to attack.
When Odysseus finally returns home, Penelope hints to the audience (no one in the story seems to pick up on these) that she recognizes her husband through his disguise as a beggar, referring to him as "your master" to Eurycleia (Homer 19.3 88-91). She quickly corrects herself, successfully avoiding suspicion. From this point forward, Penelope strategically withholds her knowledge of her husband's true identity. By doing this, Penelope effectively takes control of Odysseus' official homecoming, putting herself in the place of power, interrogating him, putting him on the defensive, forcing him to prove his identity (his worthiness) to her, and putting his fate in her hands. In questioning Odysseus, and declaring her intention to ensure that he is no impostor, she also makes a subtle statement about her place in the household for the past 20 years, demonstrating that she has protected, and continues to protect, her family, her home, and her husband's place as king successfully and through her own faculties.
In his article, "'Reading' Homer Through Oral Tradition," John Foley explores what he calls "'words,'" which in this case refer to what Foley calls "thought-bytes" (9) used in the oral tradition (from which The Odyssey originates). He explains that these "'words'" can be phrases, passages, or even entire texts. He discusses how these are comparable to what we understand as words in that they are defined by a cultural understanding. Examples Foley gives of these "thought-bytes" are (from smallest to largest) the Homeric epithets like "grey-eyed Athena" (10), type-scenes like that of the feast (11), and "story-patterns" (18) like the "Return Song" (20). Foley goes on to explain that The Odyssey is a version of the "Return Song" (20), a story structure with which contemporary listeners would be familiar and one which would carry with it certain expectations. One such expectation, Foley explains, is that "this story-pattern reaches its telos [goal] as a result of the test that proves the wife's or fiancée's fidelity—for good or ill" (20). As we are constantly reminded in The Odyssey with the story of Agamemnon's fate at the hands of Clytemnestra, the "ill" option is very real, and it is completely within Penelope's power to destroy Odysseus in the same way. The structure of The Odyssey, then, puts Penelope in place to decide the fate of the story. As Foley puts it, "we notice again and again the ultimate centrality of this figure: as the fulcrum in the plot, it is she (and not her mate) who determines how the end-game plays out" (Foley 20).
Penelope's role in The Odyssey gives a much more subtle image of power than is embodied by the gods and heroes that dominate the story. Penelope is not strong in the sense that Odysseus is, or Telemachus is sure to become. She cannot protect her family in battle. She is not powerful in the way Helen is, as she reminds us repeatedly, claiming that her own beauty has been "destroyed" (Homer books 18-19). She does not appear at first glance to be particularly powerful at all--Telemachus commands her around, she weeps often, she is confined to the house, and she seems to be completely under the control of the men and social structures in her life. A closer look, however, shows us that Penelope is absolutely a strong, powerful, and meaningful character in The Odyssey. Her wisdom, foresight, and self-control give her what it takes to pull the strings, to protect what she loves, and to decide the fate of The Odyssey. Considering Penelope as such a dominant force in the story, one creates grounds on which the modern understanding of The Odyssey's underlying cultural treatment of women and power might be reevaluated. The idea of gender roles in Ancient Greece tends to conjure images of helpless women peeping out from under the shadow of men's super-human egos and absolute control. Yet Penelope, despite giving off the appearance of this expected role, holds power in its purest form. Her power is not given to her, nor is it acknowledged; she must attain it on her own and in secret. Her power makes her potentially dangerous to the protagonist, yet she utilizes it for his benefit. Penelope may not be the warrior, the adventurer, or even the femme fatale, but she is every bit the heroine of The Odyssey.
Works Cited
Foley, John Miles. "'Reading' Homer Through Oral Tradition." College Literature 34.2 (2007): 1-28. Print.
Homer. The Odyssey. Trans. Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Pub. Co., 2000. Print.
Kara Timberlake
Identity is comprised of a myriad of internal and external representations of self. Some fragments of self include sexuality, gender, and identification/belonging with culture. In the fifth chapter of Gloria Anzaldúa’s book, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, titled “How to Tame a Wild Tongue,” Anzaldúa employs writing to comprehend and communicate the compound nature of identity. One of the identities she explores in her piece is herself as a mestiza, an identity that contains its own distinctive features, including language, allowing her to connect with a wider audience. Through the rhetorical mode of narration, Anzaldúa utilizes metaphor, demonstrating how each particular aspect of her mestiza self contributes to her overall identity. By refusing to identify solely as an Anglo or Spanish-speaker, Anzaldúa crosses cultural boundaries while also disintegrating preconceived notions about conforming to societal expected identities. Anzaldúa, through this perspective, enables people from various backgrounds to unite in the cause of embracing plural identities without feeling pressured to yield to popular, pre-established identity roles.
Simultaneously “a Chicana, queer, poet, feminist, writer, theorist, spiritual activist, and more,” Anzaldúa straddles many borders (Koegeler-Abdi 71). Exemplifying her composite nature in Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, Anzaldúa writes, “I am a border woman. I grew up between two cultures, the Mexican (with a heavy Indian influence) and the Anglo (as a member of a colonized people in our own territory)” (Anzaldúa 19). Labeling herself as a mestiza, a term referring to a woman of mixed race, Anzaldúa proclaims her identity as a hybrid, tied to more than one culture. Struggling with dual, opposing expectations from Anglos and those of Spanish-speaking origin, Anzaldúa states, “Like all people, we perceive the version of reality that our culture communicates. Like others having or living in more than one culture, we get multiple, often opposing messages. The coming together of two self-consistent but habitually incomparable frames of reference causes un choque, a cultural collision” (Anzaldúa 100). However, Anzaldúa emerges beyond these placed restrictions, imparting a voice to the people of the borderlands. Unwilling to conform to a singular cultural role, Anzaldúa, “resists accommodating the identifying labels that patriarchal society, with its absolute terms, compels her to do. Likewise, she rejects choosing between her racial and historical influences or positioning herself as either a Mexican or North American” (Henríquez-Betancor 40). Instead, Anzaldúa, “welcomes the new ‘mestiza’s’ plural personality that embraces all the different parts of which she is made” (40).
With the medium of personal narrative, Anzaldúa employs metaphors, conveying her feelings about language and the noteworthiness it holds to her mestiza identity. Anzaldúa’s fifth chapter of Borderlands commences with the narrator’s visit to the dentist, introducing the metaphor of controlling the tongue. She recollects the appointment and how the dentist remarks while pulling the metal from her mouth, “‘We’re going to have to control your tongue’” (Anzaldúa 75). Anzaldúa articulates the notion of obliterating language in an attempt to subsume into a cultural group with the metaphor of cutting the tongue for the purpose of taming it. This exemplifies how Anglo society attempts to control her tongue by expecting her to speak solely Standard English to fulfill their societal harmonization. However, Anzaldúa rebels against this thought process by manifesting her mestiza identity. In an article surveying the mestiza on the geographical and cultural fringe, Ana María Manzanas Calvo states that Anzaldúa “moves beyond nationalist positions that seek to secure and define an identity untainted by Anglo influence to articulate an impure and mestiza consciousness that arises from various cultural traditions and in cross-cultural exchange” (48). Refusing to regard any language and its representative culture superior, Anzaldúa meshes all of her ethnicities and corresponding values into one hybrid identity. Labeling herself a mestiza, Anzaldúa acknowledges that her upbringing in an Anglo environment inevitably shaped her identity. Recognizant that she is the incarnate representing the contamination of manifold cultures, Anzaldúa believes her identity should reflect her Anglo and Spanish-speaking influence. Through the metaphor of the tongue, Anzaldúa resists the indication that those of diverse linguistic discourse should acquiesce to cultural pressures. Instead, she disputes this limiting rationale and by virtue scatters the seed of embracing one’s amalgamated self.
Continuing with the device of metaphor, Anzaldúa shares her personal experiences to challenge preconceived notions concerning identity. Furthermore, concerning the dentist’s comment, Anzaldúa postulates, “How do you tame a wild tongue, train it to be quiet, how do you bridle and saddle it?” (Anzaldúa 75). With the extension of the metaphor, Anzaldúa references the title of the chapter and lays the foundation for the arguments she builds upon concerning the pivotal link between language and identity. In this excerpt, Anzaldúa insinuates that the very characteristics defining a wild tongue inhibit it from reaching a tame state. To become docile requires the loss of previous features, most succinctly encapsulated as freedom. The two ideas, tame and wild, are irreconcilable. Likewise, this meaning is applicable to her message regarding linguistic identity. In solely speaking Standard English or Spanish, Anzaldúa is forced to choose polar extremes and confined in the process to a certain culture. However, neither language nor its representative culture truly represents her mestiza self. A prolongation of her previous thought, Anzaldúa inquires, “How do you make [a wild tongue] lie down?” (75). Symbolizing the submissive nature the Anglo society craves for her, the metaphor works to address how without the expression of her plural languages, Anzaldúa becomes similar to a domesticated animal domineered by controlling forces. However, Anzaldúa notes with the use of this metaphor that she, unlike an animal, has a choice about her outcome. She can choose to overrule the oppressive societal judgments by expressing her mestiza self. By conversing in multiple languages, Anzaldúa welcomes her hybrid identity while showing the world around her that she refuses to conform to a singular selfhood.
Concluding the aforementioned metaphor concerning the tongue, Anzaldúa resolves, “Wild tongues can’t be tamed, they can only be cut out” (Anzaldúa 76). In this statement, Anzaldúa expresses an accusatory scrutiny of the borderlands she inhabits, reflecting her struggle to relay her hybrid identity to a repressing Anglo world. While the Anglo civilization wants to confine Anzaldúa to their Standard English principles, she cannot solely engulf their language and thereby eradicate the other dialects she speaks, without losing a part of her self. Revolting against the Anglo-placed linguistic fetters, Anzaldúa declares her mestiza identity. In author María Lugones’ piece on the borderlands, she explains, “The mestiza consciousness is characterized by the development of a tolerance for contradiction and ambiguity, by the transgression of rigid conceptual boundaries, and by the creative breaking of the new unitary aspect of new and old paradigms” (Lugones 34). This description of the mestiza collectively summarizes the aims of Anzaldúa. Faced with her different cultures’ contrasting languages and ideologies, Anzaldúa becomes caught in a linguistic tug-of-war. The metaphor seeks to narrate Anzaldúa’s place within the cultural fissures she finds herself wedged in, a place between the border of Anglo civilization and her Spanish-speaking roots. However, as Lugones articulates, because “la mestiza is captive of more than one collectivity…she crosses from one collectivity to the other and decides to stake herself in the border between the two, where she can take a critical stance and take stock of her plural personality” (34). Already trapped in the middle of a cultural divide, Anzaldúa uses her position to deliberately assert her mestiza identity. Her message aptly contains pertinence to any people who find themselves thrust in the chasms pressured by both cultures to shun the other, unifying the diverse audience found in the borderlands.
Exploring the complexities of identity in the fifth chapter of her book, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, titled “How to Tame a Wild Tongue,” Gloria Anzaldúa addresses many components that comprise the self. Through the stylistic device of metaphor, conveyed via rhetorical mode of narration, Anzaldúa illustrates how language contributes to her mestiza identity. As a mestiza, Anzaldúa observes the distinct aspects that comprise her umbrella identity furthermore allowing her to relate to a diverse audience. Although this paper is centered on the importance of language in one’s identity, Anzaldúa mentioned a plethora of other factors, including sexuality, gender, and culture. Direct implications of her work can lead to a discussion concerning identity politics, arguments pertaining to how individuals’ politics are molded by facets of their identity. Moreover, these forms of political activity shaped by one’s identity are shared experiences of oppression by broadly associated social groups including race, class, religion, gender, and ethnicity. There is an unlimited capacity to extrapolate on how Anzaldúa utilizes other elements, such as gender, to demonstrate that social expectations do not confine her, continuing with her overall theme of staying true to the self. By rejecting the notion of socially placed roles, Anzaldúa crosses more boundaries than cultural, creating a platform for people from assorted backgrounds to unify in the movement of embracing multiple identities without yielding to societal pressures.
Works Cited
Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. 3rd ed. San Francisco: Aunt
Lute, 2007. Print.
Henríquez-Betancor, María. "Anzaldúa and ‘the new mestiza’: A Chicana dives into collective
identity." Language Value 4.2 (2012): 38-55. Web. 28 July 2014.
Koegeler-Abdi, Martina. "Shifting Subjectivities: Mestizas, Nepantleras, And Gloria
Anzaldúa’s Legacy." Melus 38.2 (2013): 71-88. Humanities Full Text (H.W. Wilson). Web. 25 July 2014.
Lugones, Maria. "On Borderlands/La Frontera: An Interpretive Essay." Hypatia 7.4 (1992):
31-37. Art & Architecture Complete. Web. 1 Aug. 2014.
Manzanas Calvo, Ana María. "A Mestiza In The Borderlands: Margarita Cota-Cárdenas'
Puppet." Atlantis: Revista De La Asociación Española De Estudios Anglo-Norteamericanos 34.1 (2012): 47-62. Literary Reference Center. Web. 25 July 2014.
Unraveling The Facade: A Reevaluation of Penelope
Casey Myers-Blanchard
The power dynamic of The Odyssey is a complicated one, balancing the wills and abilities of gods, mortals, and monsters. Some figures are, in one way or another, overtly powerful, (e.g. Athena, Odysseus, Poseidon) affecting the course of events directly in some clear and meaningful way. The character on which Odysseus' fate rests most, however, is not one of them. Described by some as sniveling, pathetic, and even useless, one of the most powerful characters in The Odyssey is Penelope. Utilizing her talent for foresight, manipulation, and self-control, she proves more powerful than even Odysseus, and arguably more pivotal than any other character in ensuring Odysseus' successful homecoming and preventing his tragic downfall.
At first glance, it might easily appear that the suitors take advantage of Penelope, rendering her powerless. This would not be wholly inaccurate. They feast on the finest food and drink of her household, they sleep with her servants, they bully her son, and they pester her to choose one of them to marry, scratching at her bedroom door day in and day out for three years. Penelope, understandably, does not relish the presence of the suitors. She weeps often for her lost husband and openly complains about and denounces the suitors. Yet she never refuses their proposals of marriage. Instead, she stalls, making them wait until she finishes weaving a burial shroud, weaving by day and unraveling by night. At any time over the course of the three years, Penelope could unambiguously inform her suitors that she has no intention of marrying any of them, or conversely, she could choose one to marry, securing her own safety. Penelope knows, however, that if she marries off, her safety may be guaranteed, but in so doing she dooms her husband and son. If she tells the suitors that she will never marry any of them, she knows that they will seek the throne in other ways, and if they have no further reason to impress her, there is no telling what these brutes, who show very little respect in the current situation, will do. Her ability to understand the situation and the consequences of taking action and to plan accordingly puts her ahead of Telemachus, whose plan seems to be to mope angstily until he is powerful enough to take them all out himself. Her prowess in manipulating the suitors demonstrates that her mental acuity is on par with that of her husband and that her use of her skills are equally vital to the plot.
If Penelope's prowess for scheming puts her on par with Odysseus, her talent for self-control puts her far ahead of him. Odysseus' chief character growth over the course of The Odyssey is his growing ability to restrain himself, especially by withholding his identity and by suppressing his excessive masculine energy and outbursts. Early in the story, Odysseus clearly struggles with this, often dooming his crew with his compulsions. Most notably, he does so as he sails away from the island of Polephemus, unable to stop himself from shouting out his own name to take credit for crippling the Cyclops. For this, many of Odysseus' crew pay with their lives. Odysseus himself pays in guilt, woe, and many years away from home. In this instance and in several others, Odysseus' inability to control himself takes away his ability to control his own destiny, forcing him to surrender power to the gods. Eventually, through a great deal of trial and error, Odysseus comes to learn some measure of self-control. Penelope, however, needs no lesson. From the beginning of the story, she exercises near-perfect command of herself in important matters. For twenty years, while Odysseus is out sleeping his way across the sea, fornicating with anyone who asks (a surprisingly large number of solicitors), Penelope remains faithful to her husband, while still managing to keep the suitors at arm's length. It is a tight rope she must walk, demanding rigid self-control in more than one way. She must, of course, resist the urge to sleep around. Odysseus' hypocrisy would not allow for any digression on Penelope's part. She must also, however, resist the urge to lash out against the suitors, to give them a definitive "no" and shoo them all away, because to do so would leave her family, her home, and her husband's claim and household vulnerable to attack.
When Odysseus finally returns home, Penelope hints to the audience (no one in the story seems to pick up on these) that she recognizes her husband through his disguise as a beggar, referring to him as "your master" to Eurycleia (Homer 19.3 88-91). She quickly corrects herself, successfully avoiding suspicion. From this point forward, Penelope strategically withholds her knowledge of her husband's true identity. By doing this, Penelope effectively takes control of Odysseus' official homecoming, putting herself in the place of power, interrogating him, putting him on the defensive, forcing him to prove his identity (his worthiness) to her, and putting his fate in her hands. In questioning Odysseus, and declaring her intention to ensure that he is no impostor, she also makes a subtle statement about her place in the household for the past 20 years, demonstrating that she has protected, and continues to protect, her family, her home, and her husband's place as king successfully and through her own faculties.
In his article, "'Reading' Homer Through Oral Tradition," John Foley explores what he calls "'words,'" which in this case refer to what Foley calls "thought-bytes" (9) used in the oral tradition (from which The Odyssey originates). He explains that these "'words'" can be phrases, passages, or even entire texts. He discusses how these are comparable to what we understand as words in that they are defined by a cultural understanding. Examples Foley gives of these "thought-bytes" are (from smallest to largest) the Homeric epithets like "grey-eyed Athena" (10), type-scenes like that of the feast (11), and "story-patterns" (18) like the "Return Song" (20). Foley goes on to explain that The Odyssey is a version of the "Return Song" (20), a story structure with which contemporary listeners would be familiar and one which would carry with it certain expectations. One such expectation, Foley explains, is that "this story-pattern reaches its telos [goal] as a result of the test that proves the wife's or fiancée's fidelity—for good or ill" (20). As we are constantly reminded in The Odyssey with the story of Agamemnon's fate at the hands of Clytemnestra, the "ill" option is very real, and it is completely within Penelope's power to destroy Odysseus in the same way. The structure of The Odyssey, then, puts Penelope in place to decide the fate of the story. As Foley puts it, "we notice again and again the ultimate centrality of this figure: as the fulcrum in the plot, it is she (and not her mate) who determines how the end-game plays out" (Foley 20).
Penelope's role in The Odyssey gives a much more subtle image of power than is embodied by the gods and heroes that dominate the story. Penelope is not strong in the sense that Odysseus is, or Telemachus is sure to become. She cannot protect her family in battle. She is not powerful in the way Helen is, as she reminds us repeatedly, claiming that her own beauty has been "destroyed" (Homer books 18-19). She does not appear at first glance to be particularly powerful at all--Telemachus commands her around, she weeps often, she is confined to the house, and she seems to be completely under the control of the men and social structures in her life. A closer look, however, shows us that Penelope is absolutely a strong, powerful, and meaningful character in The Odyssey. Her wisdom, foresight, and self-control give her what it takes to pull the strings, to protect what she loves, and to decide the fate of The Odyssey. Considering Penelope as such a dominant force in the story, one creates grounds on which the modern understanding of The Odyssey's underlying cultural treatment of women and power might be reevaluated. The idea of gender roles in Ancient Greece tends to conjure images of helpless women peeping out from under the shadow of men's super-human egos and absolute control. Yet Penelope, despite giving off the appearance of this expected role, holds power in its purest form. Her power is not given to her, nor is it acknowledged; she must attain it on her own and in secret. Her power makes her potentially dangerous to the protagonist, yet she utilizes it for his benefit. Penelope may not be the warrior, the adventurer, or even the femme fatale, but she is every bit the heroine of The Odyssey.
Works Cited
Foley, John Miles. "'Reading' Homer Through Oral Tradition." College Literature 34.2 (2007): 1-28. Print.
Homer. The Odyssey. Trans. Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Pub. Co., 2000. Print.