Journal of Writing & Democracy

Content

  • Terminal 3

    Terminal 3

    The Commute

    The Man leaves his apartment, 6:45 am. 

    He travels by bicycle, West to Fort Lauderdale Airport as he does every Wednesday. 

    Turns left on Springtree Drive. 

    Stops, at the corner between W. Atrium and N. University Drive, one block before State Road 817. 

    Dismounts bike, unloads the worn knapsack from his shoulders. 

    Glares at the grocery store’s buzzing red neon sign. 

    Mumbles in a language only he can decipher.

    He enters the grocery store, surprised by the crowd.

    He wheels the shopping cart down the middle aisle. 

    The cart, an extension of The Man’s thoughts, his language, his voice. 

    The shoppers’ carts are in the aisle, already in position and waiting. 

    But he is faster. 

    He pushes into the other carts, hard, but not hard enough. He hums a tune to block out the metal colliding, their shrieks, their bellows piercing his ears. 

    This is a new war, and the shoppers—new enemies.The four-star General contorts his face, flailing his arms to force the enemy to retreat. 

    Instead, the manager approaches and tells him to disappear. 

    “What about the bread and milk?” The Man asks.   

    “Keep it. Now, get out.”

    Outside, he looks at his wrist. The black, waterproof watch tells him he is off schedule. The Man rides off; milk and bread still on the ground. 

    He reaches his final destination, 9:02 am. 

    Terminal 3: Arrivals. 

    He waits at the airport terminal, but no one arrives. 

    He puts the new gold-plated SEIKO watch he bought as a gift for his son-in-law back in his jacket pocket. 

    He pulls a few photos from his knapsack: shadow images of his three daughters, son-in-law, his seven grandchildren. The Long Island Hi-ranch, the beaches, walking the Akita pups, Sunday night ice cream frappes—all lost. 

    He descends on an escalator to a darkened place, far away from the bustle of people, the whir of the planes, the P.A announcements, his family. 

    He remembers that he is thirsty. 

    The instinct to shift from emotional pain to the mundane is his parachute. A coping mechanism well-honed for survival.  

    He finds a concession stand and chug-a-lugs a cold ginger ale on the way out.

    Point of Impact

    The Man pedals home on the highway. A breeze sweeps through his silver hair. He glides, freeing his arms from the handlebars. No voices, only the whoosh of the wind and the sound of the gears spinning under his feet. He does not hear the engine behind him. He does hear the sound of crushing metal. A jolt propels him several feet up in the air. The old General feels shrapnel embed his skin. He wonders whether the value of him in pieces is worth more than the whole. His body slams to the ground. Metal cradles his chest. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t hear the screech of tires as they pull away.

    Then, it stops. All of it.

    “I” is for Linda…

    My relationship with my father is complicated. Complex. Conflicted. With him being schizophrenic, I have spent most of my life reconciling my feelings toward him.

    I daydream a lot about floating in the air. A slow, sort of dead man’s float across the sky. This doesn’t make much sense to me because I don’t like planes. Or swimming. I prefer concrete over carpet. Analysis over meditation. So, the floating in the air thing—well that is a little crazy. A contradiction to my nature that feels oddly good.

    I was sad and relieved when my youngest sister called on that cold February morning, one week before my 48th birthday. My father had been killed by a hit and run while riding his bicycle.

    He was—both my father and my enemy.  

    Father, Enemy

    Father, when he introduced me to EVERYONE as his “beautiful, lesbian, writer, daughter” and my girlfriend as his “daughter-in-law,” even before same sex-marriage. 

    Father, when he taught us his silly humor and his love for animals. A love that sparked with my first pet, Wally, an “ugly duckling” guinea pig that he brought home from Woolworth’s.

    Father, when he took me to work with him. Chevy Impala windows rolled down, my head poking out from the back seat, eyes tearing from the highway heat and the smell of gasoline.

    Father, when he coached me and my friends at those lazy Sunday afternoon softball games. 

    Enemy, when he broke my mother’s nose when he thought we were asleep. 

    Enemy, when he chased me around the house for a chapstick, which he believed I stole from him.  

    Enemy, when his moments of lucidity were replaced with days of mental delusions: 

    Like firing the gardener for cutting holes into the hose. 

    Like accusing the next-door neighbor of shoveling snow onto our driveway, and then shoveling the snow back onto the neighbor’s driveway. 

    Like handing out business cards on the street with the name Bruce Wayne. 

    Like pouring a jug of water over my mother’s head, then after she calls the police, pouring water over his head and telling the police she did it. 

    Like the dinners beginning with grievances, and ending with shattered plates, thrown cups, broken glass. 

    Like Wheel of Fortune’s Vanna White speaking to him through the T.V.

    Like looking in the mirror and saying over and over: “It’s in my head. It’s in my head.”

    Like my father, who is a stampede of one.

    I felt my mother’s fear when she said, “I have to pick up your father at the train station.”

    I felt that if I left for college, my mother’s life would end before I even finished, so I don’t go. 

    I felt the danger and even considered murder, sleeping with a knife under my mattress. 

    I wondered how much jail time I would get for killing him since I was still in high school. 

    In therapy, the knife is revealed to be a butter knife. 

    I don’t want to kill my father; I just want to kill the illness.  

    My Dad’s Apartment

    My sister Teri’s plane hadn’t arrived yet so I go to the Police Station by myself. I pick up his belongings: a windbreaker, a worn green knapsack, and a bunch of keys strung together. The keys are heavy and I have no idea why my father would need so many keys or what they might open. I have a strong urge to drop them on the ground. I find it hard to hold them in my hands. The keys both scare and repulse me. I do not want to step into his world. I do not want to be here. But I have to.

    My sister meets me at my father’s apartment. The door lock has been removed and in its place there is a hole, which the condo manager blames on our father. We don’t believe this—removing a door lock is not something a paranoid schizophrenic would do, but my father is not here to defend himself. His apartment is filthy: there is a hole-y bare mattress on the bedroom floor, and a worn weight bench and barbell in the living room. 

    There is no electricity. The fridge is empty and in the Florida heat, a moldy smell lingers in the dark. The countertop and cupboards are blackened and rotting. I breathe in his tainted air, his disease, and I have to leave. We drive to CVS and return with dust masks, gloves, and two flashlights.

    There are boxes and papers strewn all over. One of the many keys from the police station unlocks a suitcase in the bedroom closet. Xeroxed copies of handwritten complaint letters from over the years spill out. Grunts and gripes imagined but made real by mailing to various judges, police chiefs, and utility companies. I recognize many of them—having also received Xeroxed copies of my own. I was his designee, a lifetime witness to his many grievances. This was my father’s life. 

    In the dark living room, on the wall, there is a shrine of us. The pictures are soiled, an effect from the dirt and humidity. With gloves, I pick them up. I want to keep them, but most of the images are too far gone. I take a few and put the rest back. My brave sister is still rummaging through the bedroom. I may be the oldest, but she is now more courageous than I am. I want to leave, but she insists on staying. She is searching for documents, statements, condo papers, and the SEIKO gold-plated watch my father had recently bought for her husband, Scott. My father had told Teri and Scott about the watch in a handwritten letter. In some ways my father was like a child. He couldn’t keep a secret. 

    We recover the receipt for the SEIKO watch and an Amtrak train ticket he had purchased to visit New York, with a departure date set for the week after he died. A refund from the watch might help reimburse us for the onyx and diamond pinky ring that went missing from the list of items from the police. It was a ring my father had for years and never removed. An extension of him that was invaluable to my sister.

    Of the three girls, Teri was closest to my father. He was her tennis coach and her softball coach. I remember one night when she couldn’t sleep, crying, he spent hours playing cards with her until her melancholy had passed. 

    In my father’s knapsack, we find more pictures. These have retained their original condition having been protected from the elements. The infrequent times I saw my father, I remembered him carrying that knapsack. Photos of nieces, nephews, the triplets, my sister Laurie on her first day at sleep-away camp. First dogs. First vacations.Teri’s wedding. 

    My mother’s therapist told her that the pictures kept him grounded to earth. To reality.

    To us. Even just for a few moments.

    Perspectives

    “He lived a violent life; he died a violent death.” 

    – something my mother’s sister said.

    “I don’t know what I would have done if it wasn’t for Bobby. He saved my life.”

    – something my father’s brother said.

    Family Crest

    Mental illness, like a twisted sort of family crest, seems embedded within the Kravitz name. My father’s sister Rhoda was the first person that I identified as mentally ill. Though she was married, Rhoda had an imaginary boyfriend named Sal that she would often speak to and dance with while chain smoking L&M cigarettes in the living room. Rhoda’s husband Al was fair-haired, handsome, gregarious, liked to cook lasagna, but he was also violent and regularly beat my aunt. Al was previously arrested for the attempted murder of his first wife, a bit of familial gossip that fascinated me in my teens. 

    My father loved his older sister, Rhoda. 

    In my preteen years, there would be these nights, when my Aunt’s psychosis would induce wandering episodes through the streets of Brooklyn. When it happened, my father was the one who Uncle Al called to come find her. My father would drive straight from his new textile company in the Garment District, across the bridge, and canvass the streets of Brooklyn for hours searching for his older sister—sometimes with success, sometimes not. Then he’d take the Belt Parkway all the way back out to our Hi-ranch on Long Island. 

    I remember one evening: 

    Eyes open. Alarm clock glares red, 11:30 pm . 

    Bathroom light is on, door partially ajar. 

    I peer inside. My mother’s hand is over her nose. 

    Blood escapes between her fingers, matching the blood drenched towel in the sink. My father, back against the wall, whispers, 

    “You’re dreaming. Go to sleep.” 

    The second time I wake up, my mother is in the kitchen, her nose bandaged.

    The next day, my father leads a family meeting in the den, my sisters and I on the ugly brown floral couch. He stands in front of the dark TV while my mother hovers in the archway between the den and the adjacent dining room. He tells us that he hit my mother and that it was her fault. He tells us about the long night he spent searching for my wandering aunt, whom he did not find, and my mother badgering him when he returned home. “A simple example of cause and effect,” he says. The meeting goes smoothly. Efficiently. He pauses, turns toward my mother. She repeats what he says, her voice nasally through the bandage, “I should have left your father alone.” 

    I’m confused.

    What part of this is a dream?

    The Archives

  • Drift Away

    Drift Away

    All Photography by Rebecca Friedman

    Following a stroke caused by a damaged artery, everything hurt my brain and my head and left me feeling sad because I was me and I wasn’t me, and I wanted the rest of me back. I had lost my recall of words when I went to use them, whether in writing or in speaking. As a writer, it felt like a profound loss. Without the recall of all of my words, the camera became my chosen method of communication. I have held a camera in my hand ever since I received a Kodak X-15 as a child. My camera did not require words yet still allowed me to compose, create, and communicate. I was a part of life again, even if not completely partaking in living.

    I found I was still able to evoke emotions and capture beauty. It was safe. It was comfortable, and I never had to look away. Rather than feeling lost, I felt that I wanted more and could do more. I began to see the clouds as art, as the way they might look or could look. I saw them as paintings, as layers, and eventually, some as abstracts. When I take the original photo, I often see the possibility of the end image. Sometimes, I imagine displaying a full collection of images all blown up to life-size, not quite sheer but with a translucence. Some are on the wall, and some are free-standing. This encourages people to walk through the clouds in all of their forms and to reach out and almost touch them. 

    While I worked on ways to find and keep my words, I turned towards faith. In doing so, I discovered that as bad as things seemed, I could find hope in unexpected places. I see my series as a blend of faith, possibility, and the beauty of living, even with limitations and not letting them define me, while being grateful to be able to keep moving forward. I do not look at life in terms of what I am not able to do but in the hope of the possibilities. 

    —Rebecca Friedman

  • Six Poems

    Six Poems

    The Great Entrance

    Angry bloom of purple
    skin wrapped in
    gossamer
    gauze soaked, human seran
    wrap with an expiration date


    I come from
    the repeated
    rupture like a
    hole in a hose
    faucet turned to
    flooding is that a
    setting?


    Usher in the future
    generations of shuffling
    feet


    Before childhood
    comes the inevitable
    rip


    open clock never
    closed lunar sore of
    beginnings torn apart
    like a t-shirt over a
    too-big chest

    I was safe inside the
    belly of a chipmunk
    once
    I did not want to be
    drawn out of the
    sack it was a pain
    I can’t remember


    The suction sound
    pulling tendrils of
    hair from a clogged
    drain Oh, suction
    sound popular
    plumbing song


    Dear God, please be
    kind to this bloody
    thumb thrusting itself
    out and into the grease
    of morning


    Light filters through the
    glass lamp on the hospital
    table there is only sweat
    and crying


    I pat my silent, empty
    spot the minutes stick
    on my fingers
    like over chewed chewing
    gum or too much sex


    Praise the expected
    hierarchy of birthing
    trauma
    cavern of unspent
    years praise the
    children that slide
    down like dirty rain
    on angry purple skin.

    Sitting in the Grass

    Why didn’t I cry
    when my grandmother
    died?
    Did I hate her, want her
    to drown in the bathtub upstairs?

    Do I miss the sound of
    her 50s mentality
    silence?

    Who gave birth to the concept of
    silence? What drugs were they on?

    Was the inventor
    a housewife?
    Did she wake up before
    dawn to roll on a fresh
    coat of paint? 

    Did she slide
    back into bed, close heavy
    lidded eyes
    just before the alarm ticked eight?

    Do the train tracks behind
    Grandmother’s house ever close their
    parallel legs?

    Do they tire of being an in-between body, 
    of bearing so much weight?

    Do I sit here now singing hymns in a church pew, 
    or am I somewhere else?

    Is the subtle crook of my black clad elbow,
    the subtle crook of my black clad elbow
    or an empty house?

    Do I wear her funeral like a mask 
    of expressionless glue?
    Do I drape her death around my shoulders 

    when the pastor bites his lip? 
    Do I want to bite 
    the pastor’s lip?

    After the ceremony, why do I dig a six foot hole 
    and toss my baby teeth in? 

    Do I imagine those yellowing keys 
    are seeds of my mouth?

    Do I hope for my own tree to
    climb? Do I want to burn it all
    down?

    Are the static voices pushing through the telephone my parents? 
    Can they tell me the history of hunger? 

    Will they ever stop the pattern passed down to them 
    from sweaty thigh to sweaty thigh?

    Lesson On Breathing

    Find me
    in the
    seams
    of all  
    broken
    things
    kept silent
    in a drawer
    of the sea

    floating fragments
    char colors
    of indignant
    waves goodbye
    glue that
    held dirt
    walls
    standing
    together.

    Kick or Be Kicked

    Ten thousand wombs
    wounded by wire
    rods assemble in a
    row outside the door
    of my bedroom

    I climb their
    hollows wrung by
    wrung

    a fleshy ladder
    of fully formed
    fingernails scratch the
    amber sky

    I smother my face
    soft edges and
    seams

    catch my woolen
    screams they hold me
    together like a half
    hearted pillow I cannot
    fit inside

    Knuckles tight
    around severed
    chords sick of
    unsung 

    lullabies concrete
    cough syrup I am
    careful to refuse

    Motherhood bangs her
    hands of pots and pans

    There is no
    food on the
    table


    one leg tilts low
    a bow to the plentiful
    pantry empty and vertical
    coffin angry bare-breasted
    shelves

    Can something die if it was never alive? Legs part and flutter

    open like battered
    wings after rain,
    wetness slides down
    cracks

    in my windowpane

    Wetness slides
    down body bursts
    out a history of
    names, 

    I am intent to repeat
    repeat the birthing game.

    Proximity

    I never questioned why the cemetery bordered the elementary school. I questioned just about everything else, but not that. The headstones are so weathered and moss covered that they can’t be threatening, caked with so much time. I think it would’ve been different if the plots were marked in crisp cut granite with the hard edges of yesterday. Corners that silently slice the mourners apart with the freshness of death, the immediacy of loss. 

    But many people who lie there have been sleeping a long time, so long that their children’s children have lost the map to get to them. I never saw anyone in the cemetery unless school was out, and floods of children invaded the library, the corner store, the square. Then, I would see clusters of teens wading among the graves with bottles of purple Fanta in hand. They would push smoke out of their mouths in an attempt to chase away their innocence. When it grew dark, some would have sex and sleep under the shadow of someone’s great grandmother. They would flounce into school the next day with dirt on their backs, smelling like something sticky.

    The only time a person passed the gnarled gate to pay their respects I am not there to witness it. A man with faded red corduroy trousers puts flowers below a name in crumbling letters that reads “Sheila Downing”. Let’s say the man is her father, Mr Downing. He touches Sheila’s years on the earth, “1970-1973”, before she became the dirt beneath his feet. He does not know enough of her to cry. Her three years passed forty years ago. It’s like setting paint out to dry in the August heat. He only wonders about this daughter, this ghost of a girl he can’t stamp out. He sits in the grass for a while tearing up dried yellow sprouts among the mass of green.

    All the while, I get paper cuts in my second grade classroom and curse mathematicians. I get older and pass the cemetery every day on my way to school, I learn about Sheila. I learn to be afraid of that bedroom of disintegrated bodies. I learn to hold my breath as I walk by. I learn to pray to God and renounce the devil. I learn that one day, someone will come to me, perhaps dressed in red corduroy pants, and pull out the dried bits of grass above my head.

    Archive of Sleep Through Withdrawal

    Lobotomize loved ones

    leave their letters etched into the skin
    on the sidewalk Be still and

    listen.

    Listen to the din of broken branches growing
    through the wall
    of this boisterous room

    Be still.

    Silence behind eyes eyes move
    in reclusive circles with
    lids pursed

    Tight like an oyster’s shell

    Bodies made of mud and 
    sand crawl through callused doors

    Snakes in the street steal the tongue of God
    rainless mouths
    crave wet words

    Listen.
    A nosy stethoscope exposes

    the ground beneath this city of stacked
    metaphors and mattresses

    afraid
    to touch yourself?

    hollow in

    draw finger to flame

    _______________________________________________________________________________

    search for a shock

    _____________________________________________________________________________

    _______________________________________________________________________________

    too strong.

    _______________________________________________________________________________

    Indulgence
    waits

    in every crevice

    of anatomy

    concealed in each voice

    found sleeping.

  • Powdered Donut Days

    Powdered Donut Days

    My dad used to eat a bag of Hostess mini powdered donuts every single day. After a long night of drinking and grading papers, he would wake up at 4 AM, head to the neighborhood 7-Eleven, buy a bag of Donettes and a tall cup of coffee, and walk home to eat them throughout his day of dissociation. As a child, I never understood these habits. I laughed every time I caught him eating his mini powdered donuts. Daddy, you’re going to get a stomach ache, I would taunt. He would put his sugar-coated index finger up to his lips, tell me not to tell mama, then turn back to his desk covered with empty beer bottles and big bags of Donettes. 

    The beckoning call of drugs and alcohol was louder than the calls coming from my elementary school’s office when my father failed to pick me up again and again. My mother had to rush over instead, and every single time I felt my childhood naiveté be washed away by the tears, I cried in the back of my mother’s black minivan. Powdered donuts were not the only things my dad was addicted to. He was no longer someone I trusted, let alone someone I wanted to keep secrets for. I only saw him as an absent vessel of screwed synapses with powdered sugar smeared across his face. 

    He worked for years to sober up, but it was never a given. 

    “Addiction is all or nothing thinking,” my father told me, “like your battle with depression. You either pull yourself together or completely succumb to the sadness, never leaving your bed. All or nothing thinking, the hardest and most manipulating kind of reasoning.”

    At first, I didn’t believe that the same kind of thinking that encouraged my father’s addiction also affected me. 

     After I started college, my negative thought patterns became more evident than ever before. Without the comfortable structure of home, I failed to take care of myself. I either ate too much, consuming loads of cheap fast food, or barely ate for days. I only sent in my assignments if I thought they were perfect, and if they weren’t, I didn’t bother sending them in at all. I constantly socialized to the point of losing my voice or isolated myself in the prison of my dorm room, dreading the thought of even talking to my roommate. I drank like my father used to for days on end until I felt so sick and disgusted with myself that I wouldn’t bother going out for weeks. I could not do things in moderation no matter how hard I tried. I seesawed back and forth between everything and nothing, my subconscious eager to tip the scale. 

    One night, after a heavy day of drinking and smoking, my friend knocked on my door. I was frozen in a fetal position with my stomach crawling up to my chest cavity. She kept knocking. Louder and louder, harder and harder. Eventually, the knocking vibrations aggravated my headache, so I opened the door, sluggish and disgruntled. “You need to eat,” my friend said to me as she passed me a roll of mini powdered donuts from the vending machine. I stared absently through the white wormholes to my past. “Just at least take them, and I’ll leave.” 

    My hand reluctantly reached for the donuts, and I shut the door. I threw the silicone package on my desk and retreated back into the fetal position. I could feel the eye-shaped cakes staring at me, mocking me. Without realizing it, I had become my dad, using all or nothing thinking to cope with the chaos of life and loneliness. I deserve more than this, I thought of my dad. We deserve more than this. We deserve stability and balance. 

    In an attempt to quit all or nothing living and escape my fear of becoming more like the past versions of my father, I experimented with moderation. My mother helped me create a plan to ensure more stability in my life. I started eating with my friends at breakfast, lunch, and dinner instead of eating or not eating in secrecy. I sent in all of my assignments even if they weren’t perfect and found that this helped me enjoy school more. I tried to sleep 9 hours every night, unlike my typical 5 hours and occasional 14. Still, the hardest area of creating balance in my college life was substance use. I did not know how to moderate my drug and alcohol use, and I was afraid to try. 

    I was tip-toeing between developing an addiction like my dad and losing what I was told was a “crucial” part of my college experience. I was a kid who couldn’t eat a Kit-Kat—a college student scared of drinking a single beer or taking a couple of hits from a joint. How could I enjoy the blissful recklessness of college life when all I could envision was how tumultuous the path ahead of me could become? I watched people at parties, observing the recently retired high schoolers slur their speech and stumble across backyards, unconcerned with how quickly a couple of years of drinking can turn into empty bottles and bags of powdered donuts on their desks. I imagined their future children, unable to understand why their mom and dads couldn’t stop eating, drinking, and numbing themselves. 

    Over the holiday break, I begrudgingly told my dad that I struggled with all or nothing thinking and that I was envious of others who didn’t think that way. My dad smiled back at me, put his wrinkled arm around my shoulder, and said. “Most people struggle with it, at least on some level, even if you can’t obviously tell. The secret that has helped me defy this type of thinking is simply trying to live life one day at a time. It takes the pressure away. If I am focusing on living life for today, then why would I waste the day worrying about the mistakes of the past or fretting about the days to follow? All or nothing thinking isn’t a mindful way of thinking, but one day at a time is.” 

    One day at a time. Life seemed a lot less daunting that way and living could finally feel more like an experience and less like a duty. One day at a time meant that the desire to be healthy, happy, sober, and safe could be tackled in smaller increments instead of feeling overwhelmed by trying to maintain that state for the rest of my life. 

    Once I returned to school, I took my father’s words with me, trying to create balance in my life by adjusting my all or nothing thinking one day at a time. Instead of worrying about what I was or wasn’t eating, drinking, or doing, I focused more on the experience and less on the thoughts that came along with it. I began to enjoy the taste of cereal in the morning and loved the sound of my friends’ laughter echoing in the library while we procrastinated on homework. I became more easy-going and joyous, less afraid of the idea that every decision I made would eventually lead me to some sort of impending doom. I became stronger and spoke up to my mind instead of falling victim to it. 

    I went to parties, sometimes partaking in substances, but other times not. On some nights, I would still feel guilty or nervous about how my actions could affect my future, but then I would remind myself that one day at a time meant not neurotically thinking about the rest of my life. One day at a time gave my father the strength to continue his recovery journey, whereas my one day at a time meant not letting my anxiety keep me from living life because I was afraid I would turn out like my father. Nothing is forever, everything is meaningful, and life is best balanced when faced mindfully. I am still young and am continuously figuring out how to live a balanced life, but I consistently remind myself that I am not bound to my or my father’s past.

    Nowadays, I try not to put myself in the box of a child with an addictive parent, defying the idea that I either have to give up substances altogether or give into the path of addiction laid out before me. Of course, I still have to be careful about my substance use, but the need to be cautious has forced me to find moderation. I live life one day at a time, with courage and care helping me forge my path as a young adult. Somedays, I even eat a couple of mini powdered donuts, admiring my body’s ability to digest them just as time moves, cycled by the sun and moon. I’ll sit there, blissfully licking the white sugar off of my fingertips, taking pleasure in knowing that I am in no rush to finish the bag. 

  • So Long, Farewell My Child

    So Long, Farewell My Child

    I like how the little one reaches out for me first. The crawling motions of her knees gliding in a storm of hurried interest along the star-struck pads of her feet. Unthinking towards the jagged edges I’ll hurt her with. Or the leftover pail of water streaming over her head from what little is left of me still. When up there on the table, I am half the color of the sun. Still beautiful if only curtained with a note of once kissing the lips of some worldly prince and his large amount of sums. But down here, I am a puzzle waiting to be swept. Unnoticed still, except for a toddler and her sagging overnight pair of soiled diapers. “But where’s mama,” I want to say. “Where’s your human with the breakfast of eggs and a feed sack of corn, waiting to be strewn in the yard for the soft chirping of chicks?”

    “Where’s your mama?” I want to say. Because I don’t want to hurt you or the sweet fingers that bring me along the backseat ride of your daddy’s Ford truck. Not when I’ve heard the scrambling of your words, confusing a moose for the sweetness of juice, as you picked me up like a linen of towels lapping in the current of easterly winds. When it was only yesterday, I was a placeholder for your set of paintbrushes, and the lone stem of lilac plucked fast and harshly for the wondrous taking. Whole and filled with an amorous delight of bearing a random of goods, just enough for the specific world of being just two. 

    “Where’s your mama?” I want to say. Because I’ll only slice you up like a twirling of a dancer’s blade breaking into a thin sheet of ice. No longer bearing the familiar touch of glass once beautifully spun. I’ll prick you clean, and cut right through, like little pieces of knives waiting for that first, iron taste of blood. With no teeth and yet still poise for that very first eruptive cry for help. Seeping into the first fracture of skin and maybe into the still-growing lineup of bones.

    “Mama,” you’ll say. “Mama, Mama.” And I’ll be the one to blame. Taking a second fall that never pushes back against a tide of shits and mouthful of fucks. Nameless and easy to point out the pangs of absence and guilt. Useless and replaced with something even more robust and diligently cared for. 

    With no more car rides and watercolor of blues, painting the rest of a bird-filled sky. No more hiding Cheerios and snippets of hair cut from a doll or two. No more bath time and the large pouring of suds on the soaked, black curls of your hair anymore. And no more pickings of flowers that carry the roses and lilacs from the pretty garden, where grandpa now rests upon his stays.

    “Mama,” you’ll say. 

    And I’ll be gone tomorrow before you awake. 

    Tossed and emptied into a landfill of others, 

    waiting to be plundered 

    and forgotten in waste.

  • The Depths To Which We Sink

    The Depths To Which We Sink

    Inspired by ‘The Little Mermaid’ by Hans Christian Anderson and Tales of ‘Sirenas’ in Philippine Mythology.

    _________________________________________________________________________

    The wood feels coarse under the spines of my fingers. Grain chipped. Paint cracking and peeling over the body. The water is cut jaggedly as if by a blunt knife, pressing and pulling until it slices right through. A knot forms in my throat; darkness settles over my vision. Too long have I remained above water. I dive, tracing the vessel’s hull. It is a poor prince’s ship. There is rot in places: algae sequester in open pores. Carcasses cement to the bilge keels. 

    “Remember, only focus on one,” I instruct Magindara, whose hair floats around her like a dusky halo. “If you stray, they will know that neither of them is your heart’s desire.” 

    “But they’re repulsive,” scoffs my sister, averting my knowing look. “How can I be expected to desire them?” 

    I look at her pensively and recall humanity through the veil of the kataws, our rulers. Mortals are not desirable for their pleasing features, although there is pleasure in the ease with which their hearts fall. In truth, they are desirable for their fragility. Disappearing as fast as a bloom of ice beneath the sunlight, made more by the fact that they are constantly changing. There is magic in their ability to leave the body far behind; to flash swiftly from place to place; to ebb and flow with the tides. Fragility is a virtue for mortals. It lies in their souls. That Earthly promise of life beyond the flesh and ascent into the sky along an arch formed by rain. It is only the drowned—buried under the seafoam corpses of our ancestors—whose souls remain in the sea. 

    Overhead, the current pulls clouds into thin strands. The horizon darkens, tipped with blue, and I am brought back to the present. “Enough, little sister, bunso,” I say, gritting my teeth. “It’s time.”

    While Magindara keeps to my side, we smoothly follow the ship’s steady pace across the water. Some time passes before the prince finally steps onto the deck and casts his eyes downward, impervious to our presence. Our fins are merely a flash of iridescent gold beneath the waves. Magindara looks at me with ravenous eyes that yearn for blood. I smile in return. We emerge from the froth and part our lips, singing in unison. Our song is a euphonious trill forged by seawater and regality. A sacred language of cadence and rhythm that has weighed on the stretched husks of the Bantay Tubig, guardians of the water, for centuries. Desire—for sound, water, skin—is a powerful pull. 

    Our voices echo in the sky and reverberate in the wind. We sing together as if we are one chorus. We sing as though we are an entire chorus. Our haunting melody ricochets and climbs, sinking into the hearts of the crew. The ship slows to a halt. 

    “Do you hear it, Dayang?” asks the prince, his voice high and dreamlike. 

    The princess stands beside him on the deck. 

    “I don’t hear an. . .”

    Her voice falters as the melody strokes her into submission. It morphs into a command, bodies frozen as they search beyond the ship. I keep my focus on the prince and croon a gentle seduction that masks what my kind craves more than the sea: power. No longer shall we be idle while mortals walk among the sun and claim our waters for their own. 

    Within moments, his eyes fall to mine. 

    “Gods, diyos,” he whispers. “It’s you.” Though he smiles, a single tear slips from his left eye. “My love, iniirog ko. I have found you at last.” 

    I stop singing. My voice now fades into a low hum. 

    Grasping the ratlines, the prince peers over the edge, chest flat against the wood. The strings on his clavicle dangle loosely from his beige shirt, his sleeves are torn and moth-bitten. The thin gold of his crown looks as though it might break under my touch.

    And then, there is his face. Soft and round, with skin like varnished wood. His eyes are dark and potent with mortal delicacy. Unlike our siyokoy counterparts, his palms lack webbing, and his torso is absent of tentacles. His hair mirrors our waters, swirling and coiling tightly on his head. I smell the blood that runs hot beneath his skin. I wonder if it scorches. 

    “You are so beautiful, maganda,” beams the princess, gazing down at my sister with reverence. “How could I have ever considered another?” 

    Magindara’s grin is more primordial than earth or sky. Her narrow face, large eyes, and receding jaw beckon the princess towards her. I turn back to the prince, who frantically stretches his hands out to meet mine. 

    “Mahal,” he pleads. “Come to me.” 

    I shake my head, wading further away from him. With each hum, the wind groans, lulled by my voice. 

    “I’ll come to you then!” he shouts—as though it was ever a choice. 

    Shifting his stance, the prince flings himself into the water. Succeeding him is a second splash, which I know to be the princess throwing herself to my sister’s mercy. The sounds of their descent awaken something in the crew. They lean over the ship’s edge, fifty or so of them clinging to ropes and railings, watching the spectacle below with stricken faces. But none dare throw themselves overboard to save their sovereigns. I can taste their fear, as bitter as the red algae that muddles the water’s clarity, twinged with confusion born from the sudden absence of our song. 

    I meet the eyes of my prince and stroke his supple skin. It is at once strange and familiar: devoid of scales and viscous coating, yet smooth as the underbelly of the mola mola fish. Gently, resting one hand on his cheek and the other on the frail bones of his shoulders, I kiss him. As my lips taste him, we submerge, brine flowing past our limbs. The kiss breaks as we sink into the depths. My song has long since ended, but the prince remains transfixed. Even as the water fills his gaping mouth and lungs, he keeps his gaze on me, touching his fingers to his chapped lips. 

    Beside me, Magindara’s princess thrashes. With one hand, the princess desperately clutches at her throat while the other bats my sister away. Furious, Magindara grips her ankles and yanks her toward the sand beds. The princess sneers as she tries to escape, though her efforts are futile. A sirena’s hold is adamantine. 

    I stroke my dying prince. Tan skin and lips blue with the sea. Hair flowing behind him like the black seaweed that shifts below. Such a pretty face, I think, running my thumb over his mouth, savoring his peaceful expression—the humanity of it all. Awoken from the depths of the Pampanga River, I let out a shriek capable of butchering bones and clawing through skin. It stings with the same vengeful lust of the ancestors that hunted before me.

     In one swift motion, I plunge my fist into the prince’s chest and rip out his heart. 

  • David In The Dark

    David In The Dark

    “You are my inspiration and my folly. You are my light across the sea, my million nameless joys, and my day’s wage. You are my divinity, my madness, my selfishness, my transfiguration and purification. You are my rapscallionly fellow vagabond, my tempter and star. I want you.” —George Bernard Shaw

    Robert, the long-faced chain-smoking shopkeeper, made his start as a restaurateur in SoHo the year President Reagan was re-elected for a second term. His restaurant was a dreamy nook full of odd trinkets, tchotchkes, and paintings of nude men mounted in the way of old French salons that gave one the impression of a slightly tilted room. When the disease took Arturo, Robert’s partner of eleven years, he fell under a terrible spell and was forced to close down his restaurant, selling most but not all of his collectibles from centuries past. Robert kept a few of his favorite things: a vanity mirror from Paris; a stained-glass triptych from a Florence monastery; his infamous collection of Indonesian dolls; some paintings worth a pretty penny, and last, but certainly not least, the framed photograph of “the David” that Arturo took on their last trip to Italy. 

    Robert spent many nights in the quiet dark of his apartment looking at David: severe architectural muscles, the living ribcage, his godly head of wreath-like curls, and that queer expression on his face Robert couldn’t quite put his finger on. The sort of expression one makes when they notice something glimmering in the distance, like a mirage. To Robert, David’s face carried an air of cosmic irony.

    And every night, like clockwork, his mother Sue called, demanding where he was and who he was with: “Robbie, are you on dope?” Sue would ask, and Robert always replied, half-jokingly, “I wish,” popping another one of Arturo’s expired oxycodone. 

    Like her son, Sue was both a hoarder and a collector of miscellaneous things. She spent most of her days scouring the Home Shopping Network for clearance sales while bargaining for cheap China sets over the phone. Robert avoided visiting her in the Garden City house as much as possible. The smell bothered him—that mildewy stench mixed with frankincense—but it was the plaque from Matthew 3:17 in the front hall that accosted him every time he walked into his father’s house:

    This is My Son, whom I love; with Him, I am well pleased. 

    For years after Arturo’s death, Robert lived as a recluse, conspiring with David in the dark. David understood what it felt like to be modeled after his maker and his maker’s desires, only to become something far greater, lonelier, the romantic genius always looking over the precipice.

    On New Year’s Eve in 1995, after his second botched suicide attempt, Robert had an epiphany. He was going to leave New York and move to the countryside, where he would open a café and antique store. He would bring everything with him from the city, especially David. Together they would create a singular experience for their customers. An experience David felt would have the power to transform anyone curious enough to enter their shop. 

    When Sue passed that spring, Robert used his inheritance to purchase and renovate an old barn in the quaint farming town of Housatonic. He installed rafter beams across the slanted ceiling to display his largest antiques from the region, a twin set of ten-foot-long Mohican canoes he’d won at an auction in Great Barrington. Bookshelves, tables, chairs, glasses, and strange figurines adorned Robert’s collection. Paintings and prints were stacked in every corner. Outside, he built a sculpture garden with tables scattered around. It was charming and motley, an assorted display of scrap metal giants and Greco-Roman busts swallowed in moss. On the barn door hung a row of gilded mirrors, and when the sun was out, the garden would look as if a ball of light had dropped from the sky, bleaching the statues bone-white. In the center was an old wood-burning stove that Robert fed year-round. The smoke masked the smell of cigarettes he habitually smoked through his teeth, like he was sucking on a piece of candy. 

    Besides Robert, the shop had one elderly waitress named Rebekah. She has been around long before the curiosity shop when the land surrounding the Housatonic River was covered with trees, and the forest floor was as luscious and as red as molasses. Years ago, she appeared to Robert while he was working in the sculpture garden. Rebekah, who had been long in the business of amending treaties, struck a bargain with the shopkeeper. The same deal she’d made with the farmer and the farmer’s grandfather who built the barn. A covenant between them and the land, which would forever flourish and produce from the river of tears soaking the earth. Land that demanded sacrifice.

    *    *    *

    On the day I wandered into the curiosity shop, at least thirty minutes went by before Rebekah visited my table. I spent that time admiring the artful chaos and considered buying an oil painting when I noticed, almost every ten minutes or so, an alarm bell trilling in the distance. 

    “Excuse me, Ma’am?” If not for her jingling bracelets, I would never have noticed Rebekah breezing by. For a woman who looked as if she could expire at any moment, it was surprising how light she moved on her feet. “What’s that bell I hear ringing every few minutes?”

    Rebekah froze in place, splashing tea on the floor as she abruptly turned around. Her moon eyes bore into mine, sending a tingling down my spine. The waitress’s face was soft yet stern, her expression was sphinx-like as she looked me up and down. 

    “Someone’s been peeking in the bathroom again,” Rebekah said, clicking her tongue. Before I could muster up an appropriate response, she filled my cup with lukewarm tea and disappeared.

    Curious and somewhat startled, I headed straight for the bathroom. The room was roughly the size of a broom closet, and hanging there, on the peeling walls, was a framed photo of Michelangelo’s “the David.” Covering David’s pubic area was an old French letter box dyed with patina and the printed letters PRIVÉ. Beside the letterbox was an iron key dangling from a string. My hands trembled with anticipation as I pressed the key into the lock and slowly pried the box door open. 

    There were David’s creamy muscular thighs looking larger than life and dangling there, just below his pelvis, was a wooden fig leaf. I lifted the fig and found myself face to face with David’s penis, as tiny as a thimble. I heard the familiar trill in the distance. A childlike giddiness spasmed inside my body. I now understood the “peeking” joke. I threw back my head, laughing from the pit of my stomach. What a garish and funny place I had wandered into! 

    When the bell rang again, I could no longer move. I had shrunk, too, my line of sight level with the peeling yellow wallpaper marked by a broken radiator on the ground. It was Rebekah who found me minutes or hours later—time was somewhat slippery—and put me on the windowsill near the front of the shop. 

    “Robert will come by soon to assess your value, which may change depending on how long you stay here. You’re lucky, you know, that you’re a pretty thing. Some folks get turned into fishing rods or wooden dolls. And the spiders make their nests all over them. That guy,” Rebekah said, pointing to a shrunken head in a jar with its eyes and mouth stitched shut. “He tried to steal from Robert way back when, but the boss is very keen. He made a deal with the spirits of this land, and they don’t suffer trespassers.” With that strange and secretive smile, Rebekah turned, jingling away. 

    When I caught my reflection across the room, I was stunned. I had turned into a lamp, old but newly wired with a baroque hourglass body and an ivory lampshade dripping with fringe. My first and last memory was of my mother, of her slender hands, cutting my hair under the yellow glow of the Tiffany lamp on her bedside table. She used to laugh and say that I should’ve been born a girl because my hair kept growing back like ivy, curling past my shoulders. Did mother see me as I saw myself now? I was beautiful. 

    *    *    *

    I enjoy the sunlight, the living dust, the volley of local gossip exchanged over tea and scones. When I am noticed, and someone carefully runs their fingers through my fringe, I have these incredible orgasms and shiver with delight. At night, Robert will sometimes sit by me and ask in his dreamy, quiet way if he can borrow my light. “Yes, but only if you tell me a story,” I say. Robert tells me about Arturo and all the beautiful men in his life who died in unimaginable ways: “I have something of theirs. All sixty-two of them. Shirts, photographs, records, paintings, poems, rosaries. I’ve heard people call my friends the ‘lost generation,’ but as long as I have a piece of them, they’re not really lost. Only a different shape.” As he speaks, my light draws out shadow figures that dance little stories of their own.

    Meanwhile, in the sculpture garden, Rebekah stands over the fire, chanting for the dead.

  • Why I don’t drink

    Why I don’t drink

    I am often asked why I don’t drink. Everyone asks me: people in Pakistan and people in countries that are not Pakistan. I like to joke that I do drink—water, lemonade, coffee, chai. If I didn’t drink, I would likely die. No one ever wants to know why I don’t drink carrot juice or why I don’t eat hard-boiled eggs, but it is of utmost importance for them to know why I don’t drink alcohol. 

    I don’t drink because when I was born, my Muslim parents recited the azaan in my ear and made me a Muslim. Alcohol is forbidden in Islam. That is why I don’t drink—so I will not go to hell when I die. Just kidding. Religion is selective. That’s not why I don’t drink. That’s what I like to tell Islamophobes is why I don’t drink. 

    I don’t drink because I am a woman, and I am afraid that drinking and not being in control of my sensibilities will put me in danger. I am a person of impulse and passion, so it is likely that if I drank, I would do so with gusto and volume. Just kidding. I am a woman, so I am unsafe most of the time regardless of whether I drink or not. I am ironically in the most danger where alcohol is illegal: Pakistan. That’s not why I don’t drink. That’s what I like to tell creepy men is why I don’t drink. 

    I don’t drink because, as I said, drinking has been outlawed in Pakistan since the 70s. I have been conditioned to fear state authority, and I happen to be a law-abiding citizen. Just kidding. Most laws are bullshit—Pakistani law also says that daughters inherit half of what sons do. That’s not why I don’t drink. That’s what I would tell Zulfikar Ali Bhutto is why I don’t drink. 

    I don’t drink because I dislike the taste of alcohol. It is just disgusting. It tastes like mashed-up boiled egg yolks blended with carrot juice. Just kidding. I have never drank alcohol, so I don’t know exactly what it tastes like. That’s not why I don’t drink. That’s what I like to tell other Pakistani kids is why I don’t drink, so they don’t think I’m uncool for never having tried it. 

    I don’t drink because my liver is weak—I may have gout. I cannot endanger my health and risk an intensified disease. Just kidding. I am young and healthy. That’s not the reason why I don’t drink. That’s what I will tell people is the reason why I don’t drink when I’m over 45 years of age.

    I don’t drink because one night when I was small, my father drove me and my younger brother to my grandma’s place, where my mom was waiting for us. The car was going left and right, swerving dangerously on the potholed roads of Karachi. I was sitting in the passenger seat up front. I don’t remember many things vividly from when I was that young, except for the things that really terrified me. This car ride terrified me. After a while, the car halted on a dark roadside near a pile of garbage. I called my mom using my dad’s phone, which he was too indisposed to notice me using. His head was slumped on the steering wheel. I told her that dad was sick. My mom and uncle auditorily guided him home, sporadically whispering hushed Quranic prayers on the other end of the line. He smelled like shit and disappeared after we pulled up into the garage. I was distraught and had to console my brother Ali, who was maybe six at the time. We ate cookies and slept. I hated riding shotgun even a decade after. That week at school, we went to the chemistry lab to learn titrations, and it smelled like that whole night, and I connected the dots. That was my introduction to alcohol at ten years old. Many other things happened after that night, things that I would rather forget. That is why I can’t drink.

  • HBO’s “Our Flag Means Death” is A Masterpiece in ‘Fuckery’

    HBO’s “Our Flag Means Death” is A Masterpiece in ‘Fuckery’

    On the left, Stede Bonnet (Rhys Darby) with Blackbeard (Taika Waititi)  HBO Max

    The new HBO Max series Our Flag Means Death is a fantastic addition to the streaming platform’s lineup of smash-hit comedies like Curb Your Enthusiasm and The Righteous Gemstones. Created by David Jenkins (People of Earth) and produced by New Zealand comedic actor and director Taika Waititi (What We Do In The Shadows, JoJo Rabbit, Reservation Dogs), the 18th-century pirate series is a love letter to minorities that have been excluded from and often abused in historical narratives.  

    Our Flag Means Death re-imagines the life of ‘Gentlemen Pirate’ Stede Bonnet, the wealthy owner of a sugarcane plantation in Barbados who left his family and cushy life for the open seas. Bonnet is played by New Zealand actor and longtime friend of Waititi, Rhys Darby. Darby’s Bonnet is a much more forgiving depiction of the 18th-century pirate. He is a foppish, well-read dandy who parades around his ship, The Revenge, in silken robes and recites Shakespeare. He commands a motley crew of colorful characters that often question his leadership but eventually, come to appreciate their captain’s genteel idiosyncrasies and talk therapy skills: “What do we say, gents? Talk it through with the crew!”

    After nearly surviving a fatal altercation with the British Navy, Bonnet and his crew find themselves on the run from the Crown. This lands them in the path of a polyamorous pirate queen and crime boss named Spanish Jackie (SNL’s Leslie Jones), who harbors a personal vendetta against one of Bonnet’s crew members, Jim: a nonbinary pirate/assassin with some serious knife-throwing skills. Jim is played by non-binary actor and activist Vico Ortez. 

    On the left, Jim (Vico Ortez) holds a knife to Spanish Jackie (Leslie Jones) HBO Max

    Jim’s character, who is also Latine, is refreshingly different from most lackluster nonbinary representations on television. In fact, the show’s B storyline is all about Jim and their quest to avenge their family’s death. Jim is assisted by their best friend on the ship, Olu (played by a charmingly sincere Samson Kayo). Olu, the Mr. Congeniality of The Revenge, will do anything to protect his best friend Jim (who he’s secretly-very-obviously in love with).

    In an interview with Gizmodo, Jenkins shared that he wanted his audience to become more acquainted with Bonnet’s incompetence and his moon bathing, cat fearing, penis-drawing crew before introducing the most exciting plot of the series: the meeting of Stede Bonnet and the infamous Blackbeard, played by Taika Waititi. When Jenkins first started conducting research for the show, he learned that Stede Bonnet was a friend of Blackbeard’s, which prompted the idea that they were lovers. This is why I love the historical depictions in Our Flag Means Death. The subtext in recorded pirate history that is queer, multiracial, and polyamorous is the textual backbone of the show. We’re not being baited. The “opposites attract” energy between Stede and Blackbeard (who is “Edward” to Stede) is funny, brave, and full of feeling.

    Waititi’s Blackbeard is also deeply nuanced. Sure, he rocks a dirty beard and black leather outfits (and may have tortured and killed dozens of people), but he’s also a middle-aged man yearning to retire and enjoy the gentler, finer things of life. He is drawn to Stede because he also wishes to abandon his former life and forge a new identity. Figuring out one’s identity is a prevailing theme in Our Flag Means Death.

    In the fourth episode, Stede shows Blackbeard his secret walk-in closet that would make any dandy faint from ecstasy. The secret closet is a clever metaphor, too, like when Stede gives Blackbeard his favorite red handkerchief under a yellow full moon: “You wear fine things well,” Stede whispers, folding his handkerchief into the other man’s breast pocket. The two pirates also cosplay as each other for fun, which confuses the crew, but, most of all, infuriates Blackbeard’s right-hand man, Izzy Hands (played by a roguish and sexy Con O’Neil). As Stede and Blackbeard’s chemistry bubbles to the surface, Izzy starts to loathe his boss for no longer being the fearsome killer of legend and plots to murder Stede. One can’t help but wonder if Izzy and Blackbeard had a thing in the past—like Blackbeard’s old flame Calico Jack (played by a hilarious Will Arnett)—which might explain his possessive behavior and sexually curious homophobia.

    While Stede yearns to be a swashbuckling pirate, Blackbeard yearns for a life of comfort. This is where the show employs some of the best romance tropes: Stede teaches Blackbeard how to dress and dine like an aristocrat, and Blackbeard teaches Stede how to wield a sword. One of my favorite episodes in Season One is “The Best Revenge Is Dressing Well,” where Stede takes Blackbeard to a dinner party full of chatty ghoulish aristocrats. Among them are characters played by A-list comedic actors such as Kristen Schall (Bob’s Burgers) and Nick Kroll (Big Mouth). Blackbeard charms the crowd with his ridiculous alias as “Jeff the Accountant” and crazy pirating anecdotes but is later humiliated by a melon fork—much to the aristocrats’ delight. Fortunately, Stede saves his friend’s pride by doing what aristocrats do best—wounding others with passive aggression. As he put it in a previous episode: “Polite menace. That will be my brand.”

    Stede and Blackbeard’s diametrically opposed strengths are the “sun and moon” gravitational pull that makes their blooming romance the stuff of fandom heaven. And there is something remarkably refreshing about watching two middle-aged men in mid-life crises supporting each other and falling madly in love. 

    I’m getting Hufflepuff/Slytherin couple vibes HBO Max

    However, #StedeBeard isn’t the only romantic ship worth fanning over. Jim and Olu’s “will they or won’t they” dynamic gives their storylines rich emotional texture, and seeing a nonbinary character be accepted and desired for who they are is also a rare treat. Our Flag Means Death had three nonbinary writers in the writers’ room, thanks to Jenkins and Waititi’s commitment toward genuine representation both on and off the screen.

    Additionally, there is Stede’s openly gay first mate Lucius (Nathan Foad) and his neurodivergent boyfriend, Black Pete (Matthew Maher). In my opinion, Foad, who is a British comedian, is the show’s secret weapon with his sassy loquacious one-liners and gooped-and-gagged expressions. Lucius also functions as a mouthpiece for the audience as we see him witness the romantic tension brewing between Stede and Blackbeard: “Oh my god… this is happening.” Lucius and Black Pete have an open relationship, too—another proverbial toast to the polyamorous history of pirates.  

    Lucius (Nathan Foad) smoochin’ his boyfriend, Black Pete (Matthew Mayer) Tumblr

    Our Flag Means Death thrives on timeless tropes: best friends-to-lovers, dramatic breakups, trickster pirates, bougie Brits. But what makes it truly special is that queer, POC, and nonbinary characters get to live out these tropes, which they’ve typically been excluded from. Although the show doesn’t cut out micro-aggressions or the existence of slavery in the 18th-century, Black and Brown characters come out winning at the colonizers’ expense. Instead of battling societal trauma, they battle their own personal traumas, supporting one another along the way.  

    Putting aside the scurvy, wooden fingers, and telepathic seagulls, Our Flag Means Death is a show about outcasts for outcasts. It’s silly, sometimes irreverent, but brilliantly tender. It’s not just a rom-com or situational comedy; it’s a queer elegy—honoring those outcasts in history who chose to risk their lives for freedom and perhaps even love. While the plot is certainly imaginable and at times illogical—for instance, many characters seem to have an internal navigation system that helps them find exactly who and what they’re looking for on the open sea—the characters are familiar and believable.

    I wish to write a love letter of my own to Jenkins and Waititi for making a show about queer nonbinary pirates during a time when anti-LGBTQ state bills are on the rise, most of them attacking minors. For years, TV shows that target younger demographics have used a marketing technique called queerbaiting, in which creatives hint at queer romances but won’t allow them to bloom before our eyes. The baiting tactic is the reason why fanfiction has become a phenomena in the last 20 years. It’s a slow-burn song and dance that often leaves the bitter taste of ash in your mouth. Having been immersed in fandom culture for many years, I can attest to how frustrating and painful it feels to have your hopes for a same-sex romance dashed over and over again.

    Seeing how LGBTQ+ youth are responding to the show online proves how important television is as a social and cultural medium that not only entertains but also heals. I have seen hundreds of posts from fans who can’t believe there is a show that depicts homosexuality in the 18th-century with respect and dignity; reclaiming romantic symbolism that historically has been afforded to heterosexuality without restraint. I have seen numerous interviews with Vico Ortez, who plays Jim, teary-eyed as they talk about their experience playing a nonbinary character who is accepted, not as a man or a woman, but for exactly who they are by a crew of pirates that basically say, “Okay, we see you Jim.” Our Flag Means Death is a show about chosen families that see each other without projections or prejudice. It’s no surprise, then, that it would appeal strongly to those, like myself, who often feel misunderstood and boxed in by a world bent on rules and binaries. This is the power and transformative magic of television. 

    HBO’s Our Flag Means Death exploded on the internet when it first premiered in March 2022, resulting in over a thousand published fanfictions in less than a month. Not to mention the stunning plethora of fan art.

    @Mostrovska on Tumblr

    The hearty pirate series is both a dramedy and a work of theater, or as Blackbeard likes to call it: “The Art of Fuckery.” Our Flag Means Death is a show that says loud and clear: we are queer, and we’ve always been here. GET USED TO IT. 

    Our Flag Means Death’s entire first season is available to stream on HBO Max.

  • Seeing is Believing

    Seeing is Believing

    I leave a restaurant serving Vietnamese sandwiches after just ordering the pilot and the shrimp papaya. I climb up the steps and stand on the sidewalk. I see a sign for Graffitea. I investigate. I look down. The tea spot is closed. I look up into a window momentarily. A woman turns around. I walk a couple of paces back to the restaurant. I stand for a moment. I feel it on the back of my neck. I turn around and see her leaning out the window, staring at me. 

    “I wasn’t looking into your window. I was looking at Graffitea,” I say. 

    “Really?” she says. Amused. Not believing me. 

    “I promise you, I wasn’t looking into your window,” I say with a nervous smile. Finding some surface-level amusement. Maybe hoping I could get this cleared up. I turn around. Should I tell her I am a student? 

    “Hey!” she says. 

    I turn around, and she has her phone in her hand. 

    “Hey, wha. . .?” I put up my hand to block the camera. I am terrified. She fumbles with her phone and descends back into the apartment. I sit down on the steps of the sandwich shop. I gaze into the sandwich shop. Is this how it ends? Does she have my face? Am I gonna die? Why is it that a simple thing like going to get food and trying to eat healthy spirals into something where I don’t feel safe? Cops could be involved. The server brings out my food. 

     Nobody believes me. 

    The most fucked up part.

     Her “Really?” subverted my own confidence, my truth.

    Her “Really?” violated then me and violates me even now.

    I’ll never forget the way she said “Really?” to me. 

    No one will believe me. 

    I won’t be able to sleep tonight.

    I wanna cry. 

    Is this where my world collapses under someone else’s reality?

    All of my good trauma dissolving into a puddle of blood, broken bones.

    Lost appetite. No release. 

    Every siren makes me quake and shiver.

  • CANDY SHOP

    CANDY SHOP

    I wasn’t the girl you wanted me to be. Although, I sure did look the part:

    a brunette in wedges and fishnets who met you at a dive bar on the East Side.

    We made some conversation, not one about my age.

    Instead, you talked about yourself and joked about John Wayne.

    ———————————————————————————————————————————–

    But you are not John Wayne, and I am not Judy Garland.

    We don’t ride off into the sunset. Instead, I cry in a garden

    of horrors. It’s the place where the lonely red roses grow,

    and every girl who makes it out ends up alone.

    ———————————————————————————————————————————–

    In my worst nightmares, I’m standing outside the Candy Shop, 

    crying on the sidewalk in Brooklyn.

    A moment in time—

    where only I could remember

    the night you refused to come out and talk.

    —————————————————————————————————————————-

    I always wake up before freezing on a cold September,

    or maybe it’s May

    when we’re back in your apartment on the corner of Saint Marks.

    You’ve got a bloody nose,

    I’m drinking rosé in the bathroom.

    At first, the duality fits, as it’s all fun and games.

    But we paint the tiles blue without saying a word.

    ———————————————————————————————————————————–

    I leave in a taxi cab, and it feels like a curse.

    I should’ve lit a match to burn the place down;

    at the very least, it’s what you deserve.

    ——————————————————————————————————————————–

    The worst forms of violence are the ones without apologies.

    Flashbacks of love get dotted with a question mark

    from a lack of forgiveness

    for the scars you left.

    There is no happy ending in this.

    You wanted silver-screen romances. I got a narcissist.

  • The Ewe’s Blood Trickles Down Mazant

    The Ewe’s Blood Trickles Down Mazant

    Illustration by Malu Edwards

    In response to the music video “Wash Us in the Blood”

    —

    A roaring Lion walketh about seeking whom He may devour

    Four blocks I gotta keep my wits about me each evenin’. Four blocks of nods, checks, daps—just keepin’ enough distance to stay outta the vortex’s drag while tryin’ to beat out the sun on my way home from that drudgery they call hospitality. Already well toiled. Starts bout N. Villere, where them 9th ward roosters long feralized by Katrina’s mournful wake tease pitbulls those retirees are breedin’ in the back of the corner. Their neck feathers coquetted and fallin’ like a flared gown, streaks of green and yellow overtaking the red and orange base, peckin’ at all that’s stepped on, keepin’ away from the back steps lest they get too brash in their scouring. 

    I keep to Mazant St. now. Open market sanctioned by NOPD one block over on France St., but when I was a youth squattin’ at an old chop shop on Rocheblave, you’d see a similar scene one ward up on Port St. past N. Galvez. All that ravenous chaos diffused by dillegents holdin’ on to their last life landin’ each evenin’ backatown by the Industrial Canal. More room thereabouts, even on the riverside, where an ol’ fogue keeps goats on a lot stretchin’ the whole block to Franklin—cousin wardens to the roosters gobblin’ their way downriver, perennially pushed by the gentry while always at the brink of makin’ a plate in the 9—innumerable I’s keepin’ one step ahead, one step ahead, railroad tracks cuttin’ St. Roch from the 9, the only thing carvin’ room for your bed. Them gruffs always looked a bit touched, kicked in the head by car exhaust and leaden sprigs, tongues hangin’ out as they made circles at the center of the lot with those Columbia Pictures clouds bearin’ down from where the Gulf laps at ol’ Mississippi’s mouth. ‘Cept the Villere pits get turned out young, never gettin’ comfortable in their chains, languishing while roosters trot out their territory. The ones up Port always seemed bout to break, always temperin’ their lunges to keep from chokin’ out on the ricochet, never stirred enough to lash at the leash. 

    On my way to N. Robertson, Blue Angels fly overhead, makin’ their arc on their return to the naval base out by Belle Chasse, all in purported homage to those altruists redeemed as essential workers now that they’ve been wholly entangled in a safety net long privatized and tattered, kitchens and clubs cobwebbed with them cottaged interior, visitin’ hours abolished with Corona runnin’ rampant down Rampart, down Royal, downriver: the whole of downtown destitute with the Quarter bequeathed to those ghosts that drew dallyin’ denizens to this chipped bowl worn to chipped veneer and patched leaks barely holdin’ whetted bodies gyratin’ on subsidence. And now they regale us with the pageantry of fighter jets flyin’ high for those still stuck in service, still strugglin’ the same with exponential risk, all to subsist on the obstinacy of tourists too committed to sacrifice their momentary escape. I’ve always wondered when deafened by this grievous gesture if it’s just a cover to remind the Grindin’ that there’s enough firepower across the river to sink the whole city if people got it in their heads to seek real restitution. The engines roar like a mob’s chorus, like the course of a shared fever, and I can’t see any way how folks could feel it celebratory. 

    Same sounds as Martine’s Lounge in ’89, when David Duke routed Jeff Parish, Canaan of White Flight, and would walk round Ol’ Metairie to a chorus of Yats chantin’ his name cuz they knew damn well what Pro-White and Anti-Tax meant. Squeezin’ the Crescent: flight drain flood; flight drain flood; eternal siphoning with the tank well dry and engine all rust. And now they holler at Pontchartrain Center, that aluminum monstrosity where they hold gun shows more akin to state fairs, their hoods replaced by bloodied hats, gettin’ amped before pouring into the city to counter—counter any attempt at agency by those that don’t just sweep up contracts and hit the streets for Carnival. 

    Is there anybody here? Is there anybody here? Anybody that can save no matter how much He player-hate?

    I brisk past the intersection and hit the jam between the lights, weavin’ between stopped cars and kids carryin’ to and fro with balls—balls, bags, and bills—and think it strange the interweaving, the nonchalance of business and play—business and play and the few still Employed comin’ home after a long day. And all the signs of life are strewn about: cans, needles, and salvaged machinery kicked to the rhythm of Tchoupitoulas grooves and Hollygrove rips. And I recognize harried faces from walkin’ up N. Rampart St. on my daily trudge from work, past them Creole Mansions, havin’ punched in the livelong day and left it dead for paltry pay knowing damn well this is what’s left of the exchange: this is what’s left of the scarred streets with eyes pryin’ all the more since everyone’s supposed to stay inside and away, but certain things can’t shut down. And I can’t help thinkin’ the world’s all fetid or sterile, all rehabbed or dilapidating, all vacancies of scalpelling: roots mistaken for gangrene cuttin’ into projected gross so long as Section 8 keeps tattered roofs over the populace’s heads. Scalpelling: excising a Devil that turned only cuz we shunned him and turned to a God reciprocating indifference, all cuz we never cared to learn of ’em past prayerless words, and are thus left no recourse when they copulate and Manichae take the reins. And with tourism shut down, all we got is calling upon that indifferent God: calling upon rain that won’t flood and blood that won’t mark, but cleanses the sinking streets and cracked out shotguns, the drains all clogged with spent sharps and shells. 

    We walk through the blast and the residue/Now look what we headed to

    A whip pulls off without window service, leaving the passenger exposed and fussing with his shirt that’s too tight. I catch a glint of metal and pick myself up, tryin’ not to take notice so I can make the block before the circuit’s peeled through. It was France St. last night. I took it for the Meat Market, but it all ends up racin’ down Poland and veering back into the neighborhood to hide out ‘fore holin’ out across the Canal. I spot Ms. Ida leanin’ for a view, the flowers on her crown droopin’ from the stiflin’ heat, and make for the jagged sidewalk. In passing, I nod up: “Get them kids inside, hitter just got dropped.” 

    In reciprocation, I feel only her scrutiny over the railing, so I just keep on in severity, hoping stucco walls stop lead. I don’t look back. 

    There’s no point lookin’ back as a bystander never to be Witness: there’s nothin’ to see but found footage that splices without notice, whose signature we share the duty of smearing before it sets, left only with the clinical spiel of casings and bulletins and the momentary give into shelter that lacks a bosom to hold the weight that’s certain to be passed off—someone’s pacing—there’s always someone pacing, someone nodding, someone shaking—each our own acknowledgment that we’re petrified as a bystander never to be Witness before and after the only fact we can still count on. 

    And as we live in this evil and crooked and jezeblic world?

    Pac hails me from behind his auntie’s gate of spaded hearts, salt stain lapping from his trained-up drool. He shills up onto the street, holdin’ his hand out for a dap I receive with my guarded elbow. 

    “Where y’at cuz, ain’t seen ya in a minute, you still workin’?” 

    Pac’s tongue trips over his teeth as he sidles, unable to ascertain the proper distance. 

    “Ye, six days to and fro, gotta keep it down, ya feel me? But I gotta hit it, it’s boutta pop off, bruh with the strap’s fixin’ to make the corner.“

    Pac lapses into his goofy smile before lifting his paw to shield incipient laughter. 

    “Aight, getchyo lilly ass back to ya pa. But you get a line on somethin’ steady-like, holla at me.”

    I turn and get to backpeddlin’, more of a skip to keep from gettin’ caught in craters and them shelves left snaggin’ from the crewless block’s haphazard gravelin’. 

    “All them barrooms riverside hirin’ with the city gettin’ loose. Hit the pavement in them Quarters ‘n you’ll find somethin’.” 

    He spaces, caught on all those hurdles that check you when you’re reachin’ for a check after spendin’ your youth penned in at the Angola Plantation, ridin’ rodeo for stale biscuits and peanut butter upcharged past Ritz ‘spite those weevils carried back from Antebellum fields ambered by the 13th, countin’ days then months then years til you can head back downriver. 

    “Jus’ holla at me if you hear of somethin’, ye?” 

    I lumber back straightways, sure to forget the request before I switch up to dodge the inevitable pitch: “I got that hard, y’herd?”

    I don’t turn to assert my position. It’s just pillars of powder best left puddled as trenchant desire evaporated by the southern sun, gemming glass dripping down my face, reflecting, reflecting cuz my fleshy suit never made sense, affording an excess of strikes for a muddled visage. That’s why I don’t carry cash on me no more, not outta fear of bein’ jacked—no—but to keep my head on straight, that window shut up for good no matter how stifling it gets, no matter how hard it gets to breathe—always hyperventilating, always alwaysing, always but—but still, still I got the pestilence and the innocent in me, the settler and the dispossessed, and I could sprout wings and locust away cuz I don’t show my origins on my skin like my pa, or my neighbors, or the boys on the corner; I can strut all I want without gettin’ eyes I never called upon. 

    Still, we all born in the mud and think ourselves clean the instant we start bleedin’ and scabbin’ over, forever blind to the gunk that stays below the skin; Adam was sculpted of clay never cured and Eve of a rib torn asunder, a rib we keep beatin’ her with, beatin’ each other with, lungs distended in a ramshackle cage, unable to catch our breath no matter what tubes we’re stuck with or what respirators are strapped, unable to stop battin’ cuz the job was never finished and we still walkin’ all hobbled, lumber or stumble towards slumber, but still—

    I feel pulled towards the earth, not the concrete, but below, as above, there’s only pigs with wings squealing incessantly to raise your hands up though they’re still shittin’ on your sty, chortling at us foreign bodies stuck ruttin’ on stolen land, buried land, land that rears its ugly head and seeks its revenge in paroxysms of passion, land I always feel swelling below my trampling feet. 

    Jaywalking’s the only way through ceaseless traffic

    It’s been too long. I keep at three minutes per block. I cross N. Derbigny St., makin’ six. The anonymous repos are lined up to N. Roman St., stripped of plates and tags. All bulk: vans and SUVs good for cargo and good to sluice and dent when under fire, keepin’ combustion up before racin’ for cover through the now repurposed Desire Projects, nouveaux yet not rehabbed but prefabbed and placed across the dormant Florida Canal; a perfect pit stop before veerin’ onto Chef Highway where the wayward shooter can drag and spin on the concrete plains of New Orleans East in peace. A couple tweakers ramble between cargo primed to haul, just as antsy, turning heads same as me though they ain’t tipped to the coming cacophony.

    It’s better to not be tipped: you just approximate distance and soothe yourself with knowledge that the crack lags behind the stray, no need to keep on toes, no need to curl if you ain’t already laid out. And I’m tired: tired of being at the whim of brain chemistry I’ve given up on maintaining; tired of not just taking care of what’s in front of me; tired of not sleepin’; tired of tumbling out of bed to thunder acclimated fleshy, metallic, and electric; tired of taking care with no garden to tend to. But everyone’s fallin’ in, out, down, past, with no bedrock to catch us; it’s just a matter of trajectory, it’s just a matter of how you leanin’. I get relief at that crack I’ve been fussin’ over all these blocks, releasing the tension built up as I instinctively scrunch. I don’t count, set at ease that there’s no return despite the implication. I’m past the gate and its canine sentinel: that pampered and blondin’ pit that roams between the empty lots on N. Roman and Mazant. And now it’s just a matter of home.

    But not for long. Word is I’m moving to NYC when this is all over. And I get to leave cuz I didn’t catch a charge before I stopped stoppin’ and started walkin’ through, people throwin’ me jobs though I kept leavin’ cuz I look like a sweet Jewish boy lost in a Chocolate City—and I say I’mma shower my privilege on my return, but Lord knows if by the time I get back there’ll be anywhere or anyone to come back to, Atropos always bein up in a frenzy, and how can you do right if there’s nothin’ to do right by? Cuz I get to walk away, and I been walkin’ away, and it ain’t about right or rights, it’s about skin and rollin’ snake eyes on melanin, and how can I do right, how can I make right if only I get to walk free? My pa’ll still be down here in the 9, body too broken to swim, spine long fused by overseers that wouldn’t look twice at me, barely treading with Boston Police still breathin’ down his neck from that beating in the cop shop by the Commons, and I make this my story—resurrecting history frankensteined and zombified cuz I got that metal taste of haste and waste drippin’ from my bleedin’ gums—the audacity, the audacity, just cuz I settled in an auld city; not the Delores I was born to, Heights doled from the crowded Mission cryin’ curbside to rise up that Hill and away from the Bay; not the lakeside millage that called from Island and Rez, that industrial metropolis promising shelter from poverty frigid in Pine Ridge and seering in Cuba—no, here I am at the Zenith again making that ancestral trudge to high ground just to roll back to the flood plains with the next generation: same as this cobbled livin’ in an auld colonial city with the whole backatown screamin’: 

    FUCK YOU PAY ME! 

    And when the cataracts split again, will Great White Father send a life preserver? What will he say in the next bill? Will he be Santa Claus, or Herod? What sentence will be embroidered with the print? Will it be another cage, with tighter, prettier bars, churning the sea of chains? What of incessantly sinking ground levied and robbed of nourishing silt? What of HiiiWaTeR?

  • Notes from In Between

    Notes from In Between

    Sky I’d Dye For

    At your first mention of going outside 
    I was overcome with irresistance
    Four hundred and ninety-five
    Cars raced at sixty in the near distance
    The only sound disrupting the stillness
    As the early sky melted into dyes
    Slipping without resistance
    As the moon was begging the sun to rise
    A bleached-out blue spidered out from the highs
    Turning our ceiling to acid wash jeans
    Like a pair of old Levi’s
    Then shifted into bright, turquoisey greens
    In all of the twisted years of my teens
    Ocean waves crashing hard from overhead
    Is something I’d never seen
    Splattered hues in a fierce, watery thread
    This sea started simmering into red
    Sparks from our blunt mixed with the glowing bits
    Of heaven viewing bloodshed
    The golden oranges shown through in fits
    In the final phase of the morphing spritz
    The light show faded to normal day break
    And the sun sat in its glitz
    Knowing that this sleepy street would soon wake
    Back inside free of any pain or ache
    The vibrancy of the morning flooding
    Your house with plenty at stake
    But so much beauty had begun budding

    Intersubjective

    Beaming black bullets bursting from the whites
    You say you don’t care
    I know your emotion goes elsewhere
    You’re not dead inside
    Like two-way mirrors masking megabytes
    Of files hidden
    From the world we live in, forbidden
    Yet your light shines bright
    A nose not nearly as sharp as your wits
    Smells lies from miles
    Forcing simplicities into trials
    In justifiable fits
    Knowing even when I taint truth with twist
    Because of the fear
    Giving you reason not to be here
    Only you could make me admit
    Blush pillows providing a perspective
    On how to handle
    Situations without a gamble
    Never defective
    I want you to ramble unrejective
    About why you front
    They’re fooled, but I see right through your stunt
    Intersubjective

    Violet

    I’m so absorbed in astrology when I should be engrossed in the entities and ironies of birth flowers
    as mine is a violet
    and yours is a marigold
    But I’m living in a world of light so gloriously golden
    that it glares white
    despite
    the dirt I had to reroot myself time and time again in order to evolve
    enough to cradle
    the capacity of embodying such a light
    of being a light

    And I’m still evolving

    Meanwhile you stalk around with a disposition so dark purple
    that it smolders black
    like your eyes
    I have a fascination with them that could be described as both a sickly
    amber and a
    plum of dusk
    with how they keep me from reading you fully
    I would’ve left a lot faster than I did
    if I had been able to provide myself with a rainless view of the void of a
    mind that hides
    behind
    midnight-dyed eyes

    Nolita

    Shooting stars seen through light pollution
    don’t know the first thing about fate
    Hennessy and lemonade
    convinced me I had a soulmate

    Beach days and fighting nights,
    We recharged under city lights,
    Making out and making up… 
    overnight bags and waterproof makeup

    The woman at the front desk
    thinks that we’re engaged
    Please don’t come up to the eighth floor,
    you won’t look at us the same

    The volume alone
    slurred over tones of defeat
    should be enough for you to know
    we’re not as discrete as we seem

    It’s actually my mom’s ring I’m wearing
    No, I wouldn’t call this a “fling” we’re sharing
    I’m just the pretty face he needs to keep around… 
    to show off in Brooklyn and the East Side of town

    Through four sound proof walls and bleached out sheets,
    I’m thinking back to that kiss on 56th Street
    While he rolls over to answer his phone,
    I’m thinking about how far it is to walk home

    We sleep on separate sides of a king,
    anchored with a figurative flaming twist,
    names I’ve never heard, blue pills, and lies,
    and I’ll be out right after sunrise

    ****

    Nolita felt sincere,
    like we were supposed to be there
    It was the least you could do since I picked up the debris… 
    of your two fragmented affairs

    She got dedicated posts,
    parties with your friends
    I got manipulated the most,
    With a phone call when you hit a dead end

    No amount of smoke screens we’ve choked on,
    chased down with iced coffees
    could prepare you for the city
    that you now have to chase without me

    ****

    I should have left you in Nolita.

    illustration by Max Hamilton

  • Dreams Like

    Dreams Like

    2. dreams like

    Went to bed a boy
    awoke a man in the sheets
    pounding on the door as a woman shrieks

    “They killed him, They killed him!
    he’s gone, he’s gone!”

    While I’m in
    fantasy land, still in a song
    but I get up, console her
    I get up and hold her

    A man at twenty, not a month older.
    squeeze hard and fast

    tears from a stone,
    tears in a home, dismantle the fabric

    the broken-hearted to handle the frantic
    moths to a candle like addicts

    Hostage to circumstance
    try to affirm that I’m magic
    but it doesn’t matter if dead or alive:

    two black boys
    lives over before twenty-five.

    It seems like
    these dreams like
    reality.

    illustration by Max Hamilton

  • An Interview With Claire Potter

    An Interview With Claire Potter

    I had the pleasure of sitting down with Claire Potter, author and Professor of History at The New School. Potter is the Co-Executive Editor of Public Seminar, she hosts the podcast Exiles on 12th Street, and she spends her free time writing Political Junkie, a Substack newsletter about politics, culture, media, and higher education. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, Politico, Yale Review, AlterNet, Dissent, Eurozine, The Village Voice, Inside Higher Education, and Jacobin. This past summer, Potter published her new book, Political Junkies: From Talk Radio to Twitter, How Alternative Media Hooked Us on Politics and Broke Our Democracy (Basic Books, July 7, 2020). Currently, she is researching and writing a biography of journalist and radical feminist activist Susan Brownmiller. 

    In conversation, we take a deep dive into Potter’s new biography of Susan Brownmiller and issues surrounding social justice discourse. Potter’s motivation for writing about Brownmiller encompasses the notion that “it’s incumbent upon older feminists to step up and help lay the historical groundwork” for younger activists to organize socio-political change. Her work as an author serves to inspire younger generations of feminists and activists to engage with each other and share their ideas through writing. 

    12TH STREET: Recently, you have been working on a biography of Susan Brownmiller. What led you to choose Susan and her life as a topic?

    CLAIRE POTTER: There aren’t enough biographies about feminists, which is sort of surprising because women’s history has been around since the 1970s. I think part of the reason is that not many historians like to do recent history. It’s hard to do recent history. There are a lot of people still alive. There are a lot of people who will disagree with you. On the other hand, doing recent history has a lot of advantages because a lot of people are still alive. I did a lot of research before I wrote my last book about feminist anti-rape and anti-violence projects, and Susan Brownmiller was one of the women who helped me write it. I had worked a little bit in her archive at Harvard University, so when I went on sabbatical, and we had a pandemic, there was a whole other book that I was supposed to be writing. I realized I couldn’t do it because I couldn’t do the research, so I went back into this old research. While I was going through it I thought, “You know, nobody has ever written a biography of Susan Brownmiller, and she basically invented the anti-rape movement.” That book she wrote, Against Our Will: Men, Women, and Rape, was just a feminist blockbuster of immense proportions. Not only did it change how the law was enforced, it changed laws. For example, women used to be legally required to talk about their sex lives, talk about what they were wearing, and so on. Susan helped to change all of that, and honestly, there was a big feminist movement behind her. But you needed people like Susan Brownmiller to take feminist ideas to the larger public. I became interested in writing that biography when I realized I had so much material about her. I called her and said, “Susan, you know that book I was working on that you were helping me with? I put it aside, but now I want to write a biography of you.” She was silent for a couple of minutes, and then she said, “Well, you better get started; I’m very old.” 

    STREET: What are your hopes and intentions for the biography?

    POTTER: I think the biography will be useful for a couple of reasons: one is because of how the feminist movement was structured. They had horizontal leadership; they believed in leaderlessness and that everybody’s ideas belonged to everybody. Because of that belief, we don’t have a very clear picture of what particular individuals did and how they moved women’s liberation forward. So I think that’s a really important project. Susan is a part of many written histories of the women’s movement, and people tell the same stories about her over and over again. But nobody has dug into who she was: A working-class girl from Brooklyn whose father was an immigrant and the first person in her family to go to college. She worked her way through college and fought to become a journalist in the 1950s and 1960s when women were not offered these jobs. Then, she helped build the Women’s Liberation Movement with everything that she knew about media. 

    One thing all historians know is that the Women’s Liberation Movement made powerful use of the media. The question is, how did they know how to do that? And if you look at the evidence, it’s Susan Brownmiller saying, “If you’re going to have an anti-pornography movement, you have to put your office right in Times Square. Not just because that’s where the pornography is, but because Times Square is the center of the media world, and that is where people will notice us.” Here’s a woman without whom the Women’s Liberation Movement would have been a very, very different movement. It wouldn’t have been as powerful or as public as it was. You’re hearing about my reasons for writing the book while at the same time you’re hearing about my hopes for the book, which is that when people read it, they will understand radical feminism differently. 

    STREET: With sexual assault being such a complicated subject to navigate, what was the drive behind writing and publishing this project now?

    POTTER: Well, I think one of the things I’m very informed by is the #MeToo movement. When I talked to my writing group about this book—there were three other women in my writing group and eight men—everybody was very enthusiastic. Then one of the men asked, “So why does this book have to be written now?” I said to him, “The reason why this book has to be written now is we need to know why this shit is still happening fifty years later.” We owe it to younger women to figure out what went wrong there. Now, on the other hand, there are things that can happen now, like you can get the governor to resign because he’s been, you know, groping women. That was unthinkable in the 1970s. Activism in the 1970s laid the foundation for that, but there were other things that it didn’t accomplish. Radical feminism didn’t dislodge the patriarchy. Radical Feminism helped to bring women into the workplace without ever really reforming the workplace. Radical feminism championed divorce without ever being able to change the fact that single women are more likely to fall into poverty after being divorced than any other group. I think Radical feminism had a vision that was only partially realized. In the later chapters of the Brownmiller biography, which takes place in the 1990s and 2000s, I’ll explore how Brownmiller and her sisters watched what they had achieved. It morphed into a kind of popular feminism, a kind of lean-in feminism, where women CEOs were telling other women that all you have to do is be really well organized and go after what you want, and everything’s gonna be fine. 

    How did the radical Women’s Liberation Movement—which was full of former communists, red diaper babies, people who really, really cared about class—how did that vision for radical working-class feminism disappear? I think younger feminists are owed answers because now they are organizing to change these things again, and they are making great strides. And I think it’s incumbent upon older feminists to step up and help lay the historical groundwork for that.

    STREET: Do you have a predicted timeline for this Brownmiller project? 

    POTTER: Yes, I do. The 50th anniversary of Against Our Will: Men, Women, and Rape by Susan Brownmiller is in 2025. I want this book to come out in 2025, and I want Against Our Will to get a lot of attention in 2025. I’m talking to Susan about doing a new edition of the book with an introduction, possibly by me, or possibly by feminist writers like Rebecca Traister or Roxane Gay. Or maybe a combination of essays that are packaged with the book. I mean, it’s an interesting text that was very controversial at the time for a variety of reasons. One being there were a lot of men that just didn’t want to read about rape. They either dismissed it or thought it was absurd. On the other hand, there were a lot of women who said, “This is one of the most important books that’s ever been written.” And then another critique has lasted—a critique of the kind of feminism in the book—which, to some extent, demonized Black men. There were passages in the book about Emmett Till, who was lynched at age fourteen for allegedly whistling at a white woman. Brownmiller expressed her horror at Till’s lynching but also asked the reader to imagine the position of the woman who was “whistled at” as the object of daily sexual harassment. In doing so, she positioned Till in a place of masculine privilege. And I think it was extremely controversial because many Black feminists and activists believed at the time that the incident was invented (decades later, the woman linked to Till’s murder admitted that she had made up the whole thing). They believed that Brownmiller’s telling of the story lacked that crucial context and excused the lynching, as well as the power of white women in the South to condemn Black men to death. But what I find interesting is that it’s one of those books that people have read about, but they have never actually read. Very often, people will read these critiques and just dismiss the book and say, “Well, you know, that’s a racist book, I don’t want to read it.” I want to push people back toward the text. I want to push them back to those difficult conversations that white feminists and feminists of color were having about sexual violence in those days because I think they’re very, very relevant to our current moment. I want to remind them of how feminists are actually trying to repair that long-term damage and move forward together. 

    STREET: How do you plan on addressing these critiques and getting your message across without alienating people?

    POTTER: Partly, it’s by representing those criticisms fully and making my own judgment about them. Angela Davis was one of the chief critics of Brownmiller’s book. She had a radio show on KPFA in San Francisco, and on the show, she did four segments in which she critiqued the book and then opened the mic to call-ins. Part of what Davis was doing, which I think was really important, was that she taught her audience how to read. She was going through it and saying, “Okay, here’s my criticism. Now, here’s the evidence behind my criticism. Here’s another criticism. Here’s the evidence behind that.” In other words, Davis’s criticism was saying, “Yes, this is a racist book, and let me tell you why.” So I want to represent that moment fully because there’s this idea that there was white feminism and Black feminism in the 1970s. In fact, there was a tremendous amount of interaction between both groups of intellectuals, sometimes working together, sometimes crossing lines, but always speaking to each other. And I want to recreate that moment because I think it’s hard to understand when you only read about it in a history book. You need to know who the characters are, what they were trying to do. Angela Davis was not trying to destroy Susan Brownmiller. She was trying to say, “Your book is wrong. It is doing racist work in the world, and this is why.” Susan disagreed emphatically, and so it was a debate among feminists in which the stakes were quite high. But I think representing that debate is extremely important. 

    STREET: What made you focus on political writing versus creative writing and fiction or other types of nonfiction?

    POTTER: I became interested in politics very young. My father and I used to watch the political conventions together, and he would go out on Sundays to get bagels and orange juice and always bring back a copy of The New York Times for me. Cornelia Dayton, a really good friend of mine who’s a historian now at the University of Connecticut, spent the entire summer of 1973 with me watching the Watergate hearings. Whenever there was a break, we would call each other on the telephone and say, “Oh, my God, can you believe what Gordon Liddy said?” After that summer, Cornelia’s mother wanted to do a birthday thing for her. She said, “I’ll take you on a trip, and you can invite anyone that you want.” And Cornelia was like, “I want to go to Washington with Claire, and we want to go to the Senate and the House of Representatives.” We were, I don’t know, fourteen years old. I fell in love with Washington. Just fell in love with it. It was like that line in Hamilton: “I want to be in the room where it happens.” And I’ve wanted to be in the room where it happens ever since. Not everyone has the time to fully engage in politics but for me, writing about politics, writing about political history, getting my hands dirty and jumping into political campaigns, and using what I know to try and help a candidate win. . . I think it’s some of the most exciting work in the world. 

    12TH STREET: Was it your interest in politics that motivated you to become a history professor and study recent history?

    POTTER: When I went to graduate school to study history, I intended to become a journalist. I did not intend to become a history professor. And then, I became a history professor through this sort of circuitous route. Very often, when you’re in grad school, part of your financial package is teaching. There was a certain moment in which I thought that I would have a better chance of being the writer I wanted to be if I became a professor; if I could support myself in this extremely pleasurable way, in which I am around lots of smart people all the time, including incredibly smart students who bring good ideas to the table. There was a very long time when I was doing what all academics do: writing academic books, writing academic articles, and so on. Around 2006, I started focusing on public writing. Because of that, I now write scholarly books for a general audience. That’s what I call them because they’re all extremely well researched, and they should stand up to anybody’s scrutiny. I want people beyond the academy to read, enjoy, and be informed by them.

    STREET: Is that what plays a part in your Substack Political Junkies?

    POTTER: Absolutely. I started blogging in 2006 in part because I was having difficulty finding time for my academic writing. I was at a crossroads about what I wanted to do, and I thought if I got up every day and wrote a blog post, then at least I’d be writing. At least I’d be back to feeling good about writing. So, Substack is a continuation of my life as a blogger. After I started blogging, I started writing a lot of articles for Inside Higher Ed, The Chronicle, The New York Times, and The Washington Post. I shut down my blog in 2015 and started working for Public Seminar. And then when I figured out what Substack was all about, I thought, “this is like blogging! I can just publish something whenever I have something to say,” and so I started doing it again. The newsletter feeds back into my books and allows other people to know what I’m thinking about and pull me into other kinds of conversations. 

    STREET: How do you think the format of writing, article versus book, changes the way politics can be explored and communicated?

    POTTER: One of the reasons I like writing the newsletter is that most people don’t have time to read books. And most people are stuck on their computers. When you write shorter pieces, you grab people where they are, and you grab this small amount of attention that they may have for you. You have to write to fit that window of attention. Most people, when they read a newspaper article, don’t even finish it. So, that’s a whole different kind of reading challenge. How do you persuade people to read the article you’ve written? I think writing books is a different matter. Writing books is how to get an audience to engage with a much bigger slice of history. Most of us are very consumed with the now, but my opinion pieces are also inevitably historical. The first piece I ever did for The New York Times was on likability. It was when Elizabeth Warren had announced her campaign for President, and an editor from the NYT called me and said, “People are saying that she’s not likable. They said Hillary Clinton wasn’t likable. What does that mean?” So, I did all this research about likability. I learned that it’s only men who can be likable. For instance, there are all these historical reasons why liking women is impossible because the standard for likability was established with Eisenhower, then Kennedy. What was great about that piece is that I got to make it an argument for this conversation that was just stuck. People were saying, “I don’t like Hillary, I don’t like Elizabeth Warren, I don’t like Kamala.” But nobody could say why. They would be like, “Oh, I don’t like her clothes. She’s too fat. She’s too harsh. I don’t like the sound of her voice.” You could say that’s all misogyny, which it is, but then you also have to ask why are women so de facto unlikable? Anyway, that’s what the piece was about. And people read it to the end. I know this because there were thousands and thousands of comments that people wrote in the NYT. All of a sudden, they were inviting me onto television and radio shows. I was on MSNBC, CNN, and NPR, and people were just calling a mile a minute. Then, there was this wonderful moment when I was in a history department meeting, and a text from my sister came in on my phone: “Kamala Harris is talking about your article right now.” Somebody on Kamala’s campaign had read it. With those articles, you have an opportunity to make an impact on people. But you also have an opportunity to make an impact on decision-makers who don’t have time to read a whole book. 

    STREET: How did it feel when you found out that prominent political figures like Kamala Harris talked about your article and circulated it?

    POTTER: It was awesome. And I have to say that one of the best feelings in the world was when the article came out. It came out online on a Saturday, and it made the front cover of the Sunday Review above the fold, which is a big deal. I read the newspaper online, but a lot of people in my building get it delivered. So I came down to walk my dog that Sunday morning, and there was The New York Times with my piece. There is no better feeling than that. That’s what most writers want to do: persuade other people and change how other people think. And so, when policymakers have read my work, I know I’ve done my job right. It is a dream. 

    STREET: Clearly, you’ve been successful in your career, so I wanted to ask you writer-to-writer: what’s been your biggest challenge or setback in your career, and how did you overcome it?

    POTTER: I hit a point where, without giving you any of the gory details, members of my department at Wesleyan decided they were going to get in the way of my moving forward, my promotion to full professor. It was a tremendous blow to my confidence. The thing is, when you’re doing a review for something like that, you have to turn in all of your writing. And over and over again, they would get back to me and say, “We just don’t think that your writing is advanced enough for us to promote you to full professor.” Meanwhile, they were promoting other people who had written far less and published a great deal less. It was initially very confusing because it was the first time in my life that I actively understood that I was the object of sexism. And that’s speaking from a position of enormous privilege. Most Black women historians that I know realized very early on that they were going to have to battle racism and sexism to make a career as a historian. When that happened at Wesleyan I started questioning, “Am I not a good writer? Do I not know how to do this in the way I thought I did?” Eventually, that changed. Part of how that changed was blogging. That’s how I got myself out of that rut. And I was like, “I’m going to write every day, and I’m going to write for people and find out who wants to read me.” I became part of this network of bloggers on Substack. We all encouraged each other, pushed each other forward, and developed projects together. I was able to overcome that blow to my confidence at Wesleyan. But I think the advice I would give to anybody who has a failure of confidence is to find some readers. Because part of what can destroy your confidence as a writer is thinking that nobody cares. Whether it’s joining a writing group, starting a Substack, a blog, taking part in a community newspaper, or working with others on getting stories out about your local community, whatever it is—find the people who want to read you, even if they’re not the people who are supposed to be nurturing you. Because once you do that, your confidence returns. 

    STREET: Do you have any other tips for writers who are struggling to produce material?

    POTTER: I believe in the writing group. I had a wonderful writing group while I was living in New Haven. A guy named Edward Ball had won the National Book Award, which was very cool. We had a rule that everybody had to present every time we met, whether it was five pages, a book proposal, a chapter, you just had to give something to the group. I credit Edward Ball as one of the people who helped me. Edward could look at a piece of writing and say, “We’ve almost got it, but not quite.” And then he would make suggestions, and he was always right. So, Edward was able to teach craft without calling it that. I’m not sure I even believe in craft, but certain kinds of things make for better writing.

    STREET: Can you tell me a bit of how your work as a professor informs what you put forward for publication?

    POTTER: Most of The New School, including Eugene Lang College, is seminar-style teaching, but I taught one seminar and one lecture every semester where I used to teach. When you’re teaching a lecture course, you’re telling a story. If you’re gonna stand up in front of students for an hour and 20 minutes, you can’t just say, “Here are all the things that happened, and this is what they mean.” You have to tell a story about America, in all its complexity at that moment. That kind of storytelling fed back into my writing; there’s no question about that. Also, when you’re teaching, students challenge you all the time. The best students challenge you a lot, so teaching is a really good way to figure out what you think. They may have a perspective that has come out of not being trapped in the knowledge that already exists. They’ll ask a question that challenges what is on the page. Then you have to listen to them and figure out, “Alright, how am I going to respond to that? That’s an interesting question. I’ve never thought about that before. Okay, let me think out loud here and see if I can respond to that.” And it pushes you forward enormously.

    . . .

    You can find more information about Claire Potter and her work on her website, https://clairepotter.com. 

  • Fables

    Fables

    A girl runs away from home, hoping to see her boyfriend. It’s the middle of the night. She gets in a car with a stranger. They share a beer and things get weird. She jumps out of the car and hides in a doorway. {don’t date jerks} 

    A woman lets ten years go by in a marriage without joy. A child exists but the woman never feels she’s giving her best. She takes the child and moves into the forest. The two transform into raccoons. {if you let too much time pass you may lose yourself forever} 

    A boy beats his girlfriend so terribly she has to go to the hospital. The boy’s mother can’t believe he could be so bad. She goes to the hospital and sees the girl. The mother is fascinated by the bruises. {boys who beat girls usually have bad mothers} 

    A story is told about a boy who beats a girl. The mother is blamed which seems logical. The father has bullied and assaulted his family so many times, their story has become irrelevant. {fathers can do whatever they want} 

    A girl drinks so much she must take a car service home. The driver does not bring her home. He brings her to a motel and rapes and strangles her. He calls a friend and they wrap her in a rug. They dump her body near an airport. {good friends come when you need them}

    A man cries in the night for all the things he has lost. He  hears a noise in the alley outside his window. Two raccoons are  looking for food. He knows these raccoons. The next day, he sets up a trap in the alley. {you’re never as free as you think you are} 

    Once a woman was so pretty, she had everything. Inevitably she began to grow old. She got herself a dog and some heroin. She began to neglect the dog and its hair became matted. She began to neglect herself and she became matted. When she overdosed her body blocked the front door, making it difficult for the E.M.T.s to get in. {be mindful to walk the dog before you leave} 

    A woman is sick with a fatal disease. She tells no one until the last moments of her life. {it didn’t matter, no one really cared anyway}

  • Holistic Pharmacy

    Holistic Pharmacy

    Click to enlarge images.

    At the boundary between East Harlem and Carnegie Hill, my class and I were challenged with creating a food pharmacy that could fuse the needs of two communities, while keeping in mind the imposing problems of gentrification in respect to novelty creation. I saw this assignment as a challenge to further what a food pharmacy could be by incorporating functional medicine. To tackle this challenge, I proposed the creation of a holistic food pharmacy: a new institution that would teach individuals about preventative and alternative medicine through collapsed programming. This would address concerns (like inflammation and high blood pressure) by providing in-depth descriptions for each supplement, along with employees who can offer additional guidance to the public. The primary objective of this component is to distribute knowledge of functional medicine to those that may not have the means to attain it otherwise. Functional medicine doctors are in a lucrative domain rarely covered by insurance, some charging upwards of $750 an hour. The hope is to reconnect people with nature and natural medicine by creating a space that facilitates education and encourages stasis in an intriguing environment that echoes this educational ambition.

    The food pharmacy would accept prescriptions from doctors, which would hopefully be covered by insurance, acknowledging food as a viable option for preventative and allopathic treatment. Although preventative and more holistic approaches to health tend to not be covered by insurance, we would accept all forms of government-subsidized payments, incorporating the practices of GrowNYC, and hopefully work in tandem with them.

    The design of the space is heavily informed by collapsed programming, where goods are complemented by their supplement form, along with other supplements that achieve similar outcomes. For instance, the various forms of turmeric: raw, capsule, tea, and powder would all be housed in the same area. This would allow the individual to explore all forms of the supplement, whether it comes from raw produce, a pill, powder, or whatever best suits their needs and lifestyle.

    The first space, devoted to produce, is especially influenced by this collapsed programming. Further, a more traditional pharmacy will cater to the customer’s Big Pharma needs while also providing over-the-counter remedies and their natural counterparts. The customer would then file into the non-perishable area. This area would be organized by a bulk goods system that will hopefully offset the organic costs by providing wholesale items and thereby mitigating marketing surcharges. Following this, a section of fresh and frozen refrigerators will be used to hold other food groups, as well as small, fresh meals and juices. Finally, before checkout, a bar would display various supplements from throughout the space, with an emphasis on those that target prominent health concerns in East Harlem, such as high blood pressure, diabetes, and heart disease.

    Should one not have the time to go through the holistic food pharmacy, a food pantry will offer an array of prepped meal-boxes that target different populations with a window to the outside where people can stop by and purchase the box.

    From conceptualization to production, Sarah Luna Van Arsdale engages in a multifaceted approach to design that is informed by a dual-track curriculum at  Parsons School of Design and Eugene Lang College of Liberal Arts at The New School (BAFA). 

    Through Religious Studies, Art History, and Philosophy, Sarah Luna hopes to acquire an understanding of how the world thinks, understands, and communicates, allowing for the creation of environments that honor the local vernacular of the population they serve. Studying within the realm of constructed environments, she became curious as to how environments aid in the transference of wisdom and the creation of connection and belonging. This experimental approach to design seeks to better understand the evolution of human consciousness and how design molds and plays off of this evolution. The culmination of Sarah Luna’s studies at Lang will be the dissection of the tangible elements of sacred spaces, while her capstone at Parsons will be centered around the creation of non-denominational, sacred/contemplative spaces for the spiritually curious.

  • Potholes

    Potholes

    I WONDER WHY CARS 
    Z I I I I I I I I I I P 
    DOWN The 
    suburban street 
    I call home. 

    The street where p o T H O L E S  
    G E T

     DEEPER 

    The more you look at them 
    sidewalks remain 
    upended from August storms 
    that linger through 
    the very presence of 
    a town like this. 

    Each night I
    wonder 
    when I shut off the lights 
    s c r AMBLE to find my 
    retainer in the dark 
    and head into bed 

    Why those damn cars come racing
    down the most inconsequential street in
    the most 
    inconsequential town 
    I can imagine 
    those shitty cars screeching 

    T I R E M A R K S 

    Against the asphalt 
    Marking their territory 
    Loud and clear 
    Into the night 

    Is it the street 
    That feels so inconsequential 
    or is it me? 

    Is…… it me?

    ME wondering when the
    noise will stop 
    begging 
    for 
    the 

    M O N O T O N Y 

    of a pandemic 
    for just 
    I just 
    right now 
    a break 
    a b r  e   a    k
    a glimpse 
    of confidence 
    of hope 
    of a piece of 
    the life 
    I once knew.

    illustration by Max Hamilton

  • RIDER’S ROOM (Ep.1)

    RIDER’S ROOM (Ep.1)

    Character List:

    ROBERT “BOBBY” RIDER – Early 20’s, African American, aspiring writer

    JOSH – 40’s, white male, showrunner                             

    STEVE – 30’s, white male, writer                        

    MICHELLE – 30’s, white female, writer                           

    EDDIE – 40, white male, writer                      

    KELLI – 20’s, white female, social media personality, writer                                                     

    JIMMY – 40’s, Bobby’s agent                    

    ROBBER – 20-30, African American                       

    JAY – mid 20’s, African American, the lead character of the script

    MIA – mid 20’s, African American, Jay’s girlfriend                                             

    DENSE – mid 20’s, African American, Jay’s best friend/roommate                                    

    Synopsis:

    An aspiring African American writer sells an urban TV pilot to a studio and is forced to rewrite the show alongside a team of studio-appointed white writers.

    ______________________________________________________________________________

    RIDER’S ROOM

    ________________________________________________________________________________

    INT. JAY’S BEDROOM – DAY

    JAY, mid 20’s African American playboy type, and GREYSI, a mid 20’s racially ambiguous free spirit, kiss erratically as they undress in the bedroom. Greysi lowers out of view.

    JAY (V.O.)

    What’s up y’all. I’m Jay. Overall, I’d say I’m a pretty good guy. Got a job, a crib, I love my mom, even take her to church on Sundays. And, I love my girl too. Yeah, I’ll admit it. But I do have one problem. . .

    CAMERA PANS down to Greysi swinging her hair wildly.

    JAY (V.O.)

    This is not my girl.

    MIA, African American, mid-20’s, reserved, corporate type, bursts through the door. DENSE, mid-20’s, African American, lags behind her.

    MIA

    JAY! what the –

    Screen FREEZES on Mia.

    JAY (V.O.)

    That’s my girl, Mia. Now I’ll admit, I’ve messed up in the past but I’ve never been caught in action. . . Until now.

    The screen UNFREEZES. Mia reaches for a glass and throws it at Jay and Greysi. Jay turns around in shock. Greysi jumps up and quickly gets dressed.

    Mia paces back and forth talking to herself and Jay in the process.

    MIA

    I knew you was up to something. You no good, lying, cheating, dirty dog. My girl told me not to trust your ass!

    Mia’s sound fades as Jay’s voiceover comes in.

    JAY (V.O.)

    I’d always hoped her catching me cheat would end like this. . .

    INT. JAY’S BEDROOM (FANTASY) – DAY

    Jay and Greysi kiss erratically as they undress in the bedroom.

    Mia bursts into the room angrily.

    MIA

    Jay, how could you… not invite me!

    Mia lifts her shirt over her head and pounces towards the bed, they all embrace.

    INT. JAY’S BEDROOM – DAY

    Jay is watching Mia pack, her voice is muted.

    JAY (V.O.)

    Didn’t quite go according to plan… 

    Mia finishes gathering her things and storms out of the bedroom.

    MIA

    I bought this.

    Mia snatches the Playstation off of the wall. Dense closes his eyes in pain.

    DENSE

    Mm, petty. . .

    Jay follows her into the living room.

    INT. JAY’S LIVING ROOM – DAY

    Jay stands in the living room as Mia heads towards the door.

    JAY

    Mia, wait.

    Mia continues out of the apartment without looking back. Greysi comes from the bedroom fully dressed.

    Jay looks surprised.

    JAY (CONT’D)

    You leaving too?

    Greysi continues walking. Dense is lying on the couch trying to mind his business.

    JAY (CONT’D)

    How you let my girl get all the way in the room like that?

    DENSE

    My bad dog, I was half sleep.

    JAY

    Half sleep bro?!

    Jay pulls a gun from his waist, then points it at Dense. The scene FREEZES, we hear JOSH’S voice.

    JOSH (O.S)

    Gotta keep those ratings up!

                                                        WIPE TO:

    INT. WRITERS ROOM – DAY

    A table of writers sit in front of their computers. ROBERT “BOBBY” RIDER, early 20’s, African American American, looks confused.

    BOBBY

    Wait, why would he pull out a gun?

    KELLI

    Because he’s mad…

    BOBBY

    Do you pull out a gun every time you’re mad?

    Everyone is silent for a BEAT.

    JOSH

    What I don’t think you get is that in “Urban Culture,” guns are a more common part of daily conflict resolution.

    STEVE

    Exactly.

    STEVE, 30’s, White Male, slacker of the group, points and smiles at JOSH, 40’s, White male, and showrunner. 

    MICHELLE, 30’s, Caucasian female, notices that Bobby looks upset.

    MICHELLE

    I know you have a vision for this show, but when you sold your script to XXXXX, you exchanged control of that vision for cash.

    Bobby looks down at his feet in frustration. EDDIE, 40 yr old, Caucasian male, gives an empathetic look to Bobby.

    EDDIE

    Maybe pulling a gun on his friend is a bit much though. What else could he do to express his frustration?

    INT. JAY’S APARTMENT – DAY

    Jay is frozen while pointing a gun at his roommate.

    KELLI (O.S)

    What if he’s holding an ax?

    Jay’s gun is replaced with a massive medieval axe.

    BOBBY (O.S)

    Seriously, brothers don’t have axes.

    JOSH (O.S)

    He’s right. Typically, they don’t.

    INT. WRITERS ROOM – DAY

    Bobby looks annoyed at Josh. Josh gives him a wink as if to express he has his back.

    INT. JAY’S APARTMENT – DAY

    Jay is still frozen, holding the ax.

    KELLI (O.S)

    Ok, no ax. . . How about Axe. . . body spray and a lighter!

    Jay is now holding a bottle of Axe body spray. He lights a lighter and sprays the flame, creating a makeshift flamethrower.

    INT. WRITERS ROOM – DAY

    JOSH

    Guys, guys I got it. Check this. . . an African bow staff.

    Josh leans back, looking menacing. Steve applauds him.

    STEVE

    Masterful!

    INT. JAY’S APARTMENT – DAY

    Jay is now holding a bow staff against the nape of his roommate’s neck.

    INT. WRITER’S ROOM – DAY

    Bobby is heated. Eddie looks over and sees Bobby about to blow up.

    EDDIE

    Ok, so. . .

    INT. JAY’S APARTMENT – DAY

    EDDIE (O.S)

    What if it’s just a knife?

    Jay’s staff switches out with a knife.

    INT. WRITERS ROOM – DAY

    Eddie gives a reassuring nod to Bobby. Bobby is bewildered.

    JOSH

    I dunno, doesn’t feel “urban” enough.

    KELLI

    Yeah. . . What about. . . a gun?

    JOSH

    Exactly!

    STEVE

    Nailed it.

    JOSH

    Who’s hungry! Celebratory lunch?

    Bobby gives a look of disgust and walks out the door in disbelief.

    INT. BOBBY’S CAR – NOON

    Bobby is eating alone in his car. The car is an abomination of different car parts cobbled together. The floor is so filthy with fast food wrappers that you can’t see it.

    BOBBY

    Look at this. . . they’re whitewashing me in front of my very eyes.

    Bobby looks in on the writer’s room through the window of his car.

    BOBBY (CONT.D)

    This ain’t it… this can’t be life. I gotta call my agent.

    Bobby calls his agent, JIMMY, 40s.

    JIMMY (O.S)

    Bobby, my guy, what’s happening brother.

    BOBBY

    Hey, Jimmy what’s up man. Yeah, I’m not feeling this, bro. These people don’t get me. This show is not turning out to be what I envisioned. I think I want out.

    JIMMY (O.S)

    I thought I wanted out when a trip to the massage parlor had me taking a paternity test nine months later.

    Bobby looks at the phone confused.

    JIMMY (O.S)

    Turns out my 3-year-old daughter is the best thing that ever happened to me. 

    BOBBY

    I’m not thinking about kids right now.

    JIMMY (O.S)

    You’re not thinking long-term. You’re a Junior in college right now. You’re way ahead of the game. What are you gonna do if you walk out on your show?

    BOBBY

    I got time. I’ll write another script. I can barely recognize the script I wrote in there. This shows colonized.

    JIMMY (O.S)

    It’s not “this show”, it’s YOUR show. There would be no show without you. You created it. Don’t let anyone run you away from what you’ve created. Even if your vision is distorted right now, you never know what may happen down the line. It’s better than sitting in Biology Lab for 2 hours, right? I say, see it through.

    Bobby contemplates.

    BOBBY

    Yeah, you’re probably right. I can’t let these people discourage me. I know I gotta finish what I started. . . but damn.

    JIMMY (O.S)

    One thing about life, Bobby, is that nothing ever goes perfectly according to plan. The people that are able to adjust, keep moving forward. The people that can’t, get stuck where they are. You, my friend, got the engine revved up and are just getting started.

    BOBBY

    Facts. I just pulled out the driveway.

    JIMMY (O.S)

    On your road to success. Now, go back in there and steer your project back in the right direction!

    BOBBY

    Thanks, Jim. I needed that.

    JIMMY (O.S)

    Don’t mention it, buddy, good luck, talk to ya later.

    Bobby hangs up in better spirits.

    INT. WRITERS ROOM – DAY

    Bobby takes a seat among the rest of the writers.

    JOSH

    So, is everybody revitalized and ready to go?

    Bobby gives Josh a confident nod.

    JOSH (CONT.D)

    Great! Let’s pick up where we left off.

    INT. JAY’S BEDROOM – DAY

    Jay’s knife gets switched back to a gun.

    INT. WRITER’S ROOM – DAY

    BOBBY

    Seriously?!

    Bobby slams his hands on the table and stands up.

    BOBBY (CONT.D)

    Do you think young Black men can’t reconcile a problem without weaponry?

    The room goes silent.

    BOBBY

    Did it ever occur to any of you that two Black men could solve a problem with words?

    Josh coughs and cleans his glasses with his handkerchief.

    JOSH

    Bobby, I think you’re not understanding that your Black experience isn’t THE Black experience.

    Bobby slams his laptop shut and throws it in his bag.

    BOBBY

    It would help you guys to know that not all Black people have guns. . . Even the “URBAN ONES!” Bobby storms off and slams the door.

    EXT. PARKING LOT – NIGHT

    Bobby angrily walks to his car, muttering to himself. He starts fumbling with his keys. As he goes to open the door, he notices a large African American man standing behind him with a gun.

    ROBBER

    Don’t move. You know what this is.

    Bobby closes his eyes, sighs, and shakes his head in defeat.

    BOBBY

    Son of a. . .

    BLACKOUT

  • If Blood Were Clear

    If Blood Were Clear

    If Blood were clear. . .
    Would it still raise the sickening, eerie, sensation that is Gore?
    Would its corpus matter still resonate with deep fear?
    Thus,
    Blurring the lines of accident and purpose

    Would its assigned urgency be replaced with a tranquil calm? A handling?

    Perhaps Purity would embrace freedom 
    if the crimson Darkness that pools
    no longer Stains

    How convenient for civilization would it be?
    For all the minds with their pieces scattered

                            Clicked

    An effort to conceive of a higher Ignorance?
    Only to produce chaos and agony
    The faults behind the Killing of innocent beings
    Would conceive of a higher Ignorance?
    As Ignorance courses heavier than morality
    The Poison of the conscious

    Manipulation to free will 
    The synapses mitigated from fight or flight, 
    beneath the skin a rush of intrusive decisions
    Boiling by the pint

    So perhaps
    If Blood were clear. . .

    Becoming a doctor would be the most feasible 
    Accountability left in the hands of narcissists  
    With constitutionality belittled to a mere opinion 
    Societal constructs blurred into federal law
    And disputes tied down by the name of equity.