Things Break Easily in My Big Hands

BY SUSAN RUKEYSER

The night I found the chinchilla, I was on crutches, snooping around the newly-built mansions behind my aunt’s subdivision. I looked into empty rooms where nothing had happened yet. Life might still be pretty, inside and out.

It used to be thick Georgia forest back there, but they stripped it to clay, trucked in sod and saplings and built nine distinctive homes for no one. Flags on stakes heralded a Spring Open House, with pony rides and a petting zoo for the kids.

I figured that’s where the chinchilla came from.

He lay on a bricked driveway, wet from sprinklers. He looked like a tiny squirrel with huge ears. Fur twisted in dark curls. It took some doing, with leg casts, but I managed to pick him up. I tucked him into my messenger bag. Back in my aunt’s kitchen, I laid him on the counter. I tried to dry him with a towel, then my hairdryer. An internet search showed me what he should look like. Chinchillas were beloved for their beautiful, dense fur. Farmers raised a hundred for a single soft coat. Or they were sold as cuddly pets. Beneath the fur, he was a scrawny, pink-skinned rodent. You weren’t supposed to see that.

He wasn’t dead, but he was close.

After what happened in New York, my aunt invited me to Georgia, to live in her house until it sold. She didn’t know me well, her Yankee niece. But she understood the need for escape. 

She’d just moved to Orlando with her new boyfriend. She said I could keep tabs on her good-for-nothing realtor. Keep the nosy HOA off her back. They didn’t like vacant homes. They worried their houses looked shabby, compared to those nine new mansions. They planted more crape myrtles at the entrance.

“People like crape myrtles, I guess,” said my aunt. “But every winter they’re hacked back. The branches are blunt as fists. When they finally bloom again, I can’t look. Ornamental trees, where there used to be wilderness,” she scoffed.

I didn’t mind the crape myrtles, but then I only saw them at night. My aunt told me her neighbors turned in early. I’d have the sidewalks to myself after dark. She’d heard from my mother, how people stared.

I’m big. Tall, but more than that: I’m hefty. Large. Thick limbs, dense trunk. Not a pruned ornamental, but a tree that crowds out the neighboring flora.

When people stare, they seem angry.

The New York detective said my size probably wasn’t a factor in the balcony collapse. Balconies should be locked, even on the lower floors, in a building full of NYU undergrads.

Thankfully I’d been alone.

Awnings broke my fall. No one on the street was dead, but some were close.

In my hospital bed, I burned with pain the narcotics couldn’t reach. Humiliation squeezed my heart until I gasped. My pulse looped.

The chinchilla wasn’t interested in the lettuce I ripped up for him or the carrots I diced. He wouldn’t rouse himself to sip water from the dish. He was utterly still, at peace or in shock. 

Next door, Mr. Patel went out back for a cigarette. His smoke hung in the thick, humid air. When he was done, he flicked the cigarette away from his azaleas, into brush. I watched until the ember went dark.

Fire scares me. I imagine air sucked from my lungs, flesh melted to bone, my body reduced to weightless ash. I want that so much it scares me.

Before NYU, there was a doctor who wouldn’t help. He said my hormones were normal. No pituitary tumor. My weight was okay, for my height, which appeared to be levelling off.

“Your weight doesn’t qualify you for bariatric surgery,” he said. “And, Gerry, you are not a giant. Leg shortening is very rare. Extreme. You don’t want surgery. You’re just a big girl.”

“Worst kind of girl you can be.”

“Fashion models are tall,” he said too brightly. He gave me a kind, reproachful look, like my father did sometimes. Then he stood to leave. That also reminded me of Dad.

Hours later, the chinchilla hadn’t moved. His fur was still damp. I found the number of an emergency vet.

“Lethargy, diarrhea, cloudy eyes,” she repeated. “There’s only one thing I can do for him. But it won’t be long. Keep him home.”

I told the detective I went out on the balcony for some air. In the common area by the elevator, I shoved aside a couch that blocked access to doors that were locked, but things break easily in my big hands.

It was Friday afternoon, classes done. My roommate and a cute Hellenic Studies major sat on her bed and licked ice-cream. I left, wishing I had a cone, too, but I won’t eat in public.

I imagined my roommate’s sticky hands on that boy. Skin meeting skin: it was easy for some people.

I imagined it was easy.

I wanted to leave a hole as big as me. Free up the space I’d taken, more than my share.

If only that surgeon had cut me down to size.

By dawn, the chinchilla was dead. I tucked him back into my messenger bag, made my way on crutches to those empty mansions. One of the never-used backyards had a young magnolia tree, the base circled by stones. I brushed away leaves like leather scraps, pulled back a corner of sod and dug a hole. I whispered a eulogy: He was more than his fur. He was forgotten, but I’ll remember.  

Then I put one of the stones in my bag and hobbled to the glass patio doors. Inside were rooms full of lies. I threw the rock, hard as I could. Sometimes you need to hear something splinter.

Later, back inside my aunt’s house, I watched Mr. Patel toss another cigarette. This one also failed to catch.

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Susan Rukeyser is the Reviews Editor for Necessary Fiction, a Copy Editor for Newfound, and Managing Editor of the Twitter-zine escarp. She is the author of Not on Fire, Only Dying. 

How My 85-Year-Old Mom Rebooted Her Modeling Career

BY ANNA MURRAY

“Does your mother have an agent?” the creative director asked.

Eileen Ford died two years ago. “Um. Not at the moment.”

“What about travel to Paris? Is she up for it?”

I was waiting in line for chopped salads. Ninety seconds prior, I saw the overseas number and answered my cell phone. Now I was talking to a woman from my past about pitching my mother and me in a global ad campaign.

A photo essay I wrote for Vox was going viral. It was about my mom, Patsy Shally, a former world-famous fashion model. 

From 1948 through 1960, my mother was the apex of commercial beauty – young, thin and exquisite. Discovered at 13, she was a top model for Eileen Ford, on the cover of practically everything. She went for screen tests with Rock Hudson and one-on-one interviews with legendary Hollywood producer Melvyn Leroy.

Mom and I recreated her most famous Vogue, Glamour, and McCall’s covers. The piece I wrote was about beauty and aging.

A particular series of photographs was drawing the most attention: our twist on my mother’s 1956 Irving Penn Vogue cover.

It is July 1956. Mom is the fresh bloom, the ingénue and prize in marriage. Today, on the brink of turning 50, I am the November rose, the last of summer. At 85, Mom is still gorgeous. She is the petals pressed in a diary.

“The elderly shouldn’t be invisible,” Mom said. “We matter.”

It was clear from our photo shoot Mom, at 85, still “had it.”

The project hit home. We were picked up in the Daily Mail and ran in their network worldwide. We were being tweeted by Racked, by Newsweek and by the producer of Rizzoli and Isles.

People were contacting me from all nooks and crannies of my life, including Sam, a long-past acquaintance, and the current creative director for an international ad agency. She said our story resonated. The brand was thrilled. We could be big.

“I think she can probably travel,” I answered. Mom has her frail moments. But we were talking Paris.

“I’ll need whatever additional photos you have. Also traffic and social shares.”

Over the last few weeks, Mom and I had received hundreds of comments from people who said our project touched them.

Here’s what I found most surprising:

·       People called us “fearless.”

·       People said they cried.

·       Men said the essay touched them.

·       Someone suggested my mother might be the next Mrs. Donald Trump.

Mom and I had joined a great zeitgeist-y army of age-barrier-busting beauty warriors.  There was Elon Musk’s mother, 68, now elbowing out Botox blondes for ad campaigns. And Vogue putting a 100-year-old on its cover for their 100th anniversary.

“It's important that all women and consumers are featured on the runway and in advertorials. Women of all ages wear clothes- why should they be left out?” said fashion designer Carrie Hammer, famous for her recent fall 2015 show called, “Role Models Not Runway Models.”

“Your recreations of your mother’s covers are a powerful message of love, courage and understanding,” said Nyna Giles, author of the upcoming book The Bridesmaid’s Daughter.

Giles was one of the most amazing out-of-the-woodwork surfacers. Her mother, Carolyn Scott, modeled with mine. Giles book recounts her mother’s career, including Barbizon roomie Grace Kelly. It will be published by St. Martin’s Press next year.

It’s important, Giles said, even at this late date, to give our mothers their names back. “They were the first super models. Today they would have been household names. But back then, only the photographers were credited.”

A modeling job in 2016 would be quite a capper to Mom’s career. What a terrific irony: My mom, who defined the mainstream ideal of youth and beauty, was challenging that very ideal in her 9th decade.

The next few weeks were ferociously busy. Sam’s team prepared the pitch and she contacted me daily for additional information—copies of comments, web stats, requests for more photographs. Dad, 88, got their passports renewed.

Mom was calm. She knew the gig, literally, despite the 56-year gap between this and her last job. She only asked, “Did they say how many days would we be working?” There would, after all, be shopping to do.

Then, a week ago, Sam said the brand in question was favoring an alternate concept her agency had pitched.

I was disappointed. Mom shrugged: That’s life in super model fast lane. Sam salved the blow by saying I would be shocked and “so proud” once I knew who actually got the job. “You won’t believe who you were up against and almost made it!”

Who could it be? I conducting a quick survey of Mom’s and my new fans—asking them to guess who won out over us.

“Lord, I hope it’s not Kim Kardashian and Caitlyn Jenner!” Howled one. That might rattle even professional Mom’s sang froid.

Here are the guesses. The leading candidates for Mom’s and my nemeses:

·       Gwyneth Paltrow & Blythe Danner

·       Goldie Hawn and Kate Hudson

·       Isabella Rossellini and Elettra Rossellini Wiedemann

·       Ellen & Betty DeGeneres

·       Madonna & Lourdes Leon

·       Jerry Hall & Georgia May Jagger

·       Iman & Lexi Bowie

·       Jada Pinkett Smith and Willow Smith

·       Twiggy and Carly Lawson

·       Zoe Kravitz and Lisa Bonet

·       Anderson Cooper and Gloria Vanderbilt

I’m keeping watch on Ad Age to see if someone gets it right.

In the meantime, we are receiving other interesting nibbles. And Mom could really use an agent.

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Anna Murray is CEO of emedia, llc., a technology consulting company, and a writer. Her essays have appeared in Vox, The Daily Mail, Soundings Review, Piker Press, Adanna, and The Guardian Witness. Her recently completed new novel is represented by David Black Agency. It features a once-famous model and her look-alike daughter. Her non-fiction title, The Complete Software Project Manager, was published in January 2016 by John Wiley & Sons. One reviewer commented, “This is a technical book that reads like a novel.”

An Interview with AmpLit Fest's Founder – June 11, Lit on the Hudson

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

I spoke with Clare Smith Marash, the Founder and Director of Amp Lit Fest, which is co-produced by Lamprophonic and Summer on the Hudson. If you're free June 11, it's worth heading to the festival, which has a really great lineup, with panels. (See bottom of the post for more).

AmpLit Fest is, as their site says, "a free, daylong festival that brings authors of all backgrounds, styles, and levels of recognition to center stage. With readings, workshops, panels, and a community market, AmpLit Fest makes one of life’s most solitary acts — writing — a public celebration."

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1. I love the idea of this festival – promoting new, fresh voices and emerging writers. So necessary. Literary scenes can, at times, feel repetitive and cliquey, so was it important to start from a place of celebrating other voices, new voices, diverse voices? 

Definitely. The mission of Lamprophonic is to encourage a robust, diverse, and supportive literary community, so those objectives were always in our minds.

2. Is the focus on emerging writers answering to a larger issue in the NYC literary arena?

Lamprophonic’s flagship program is a reading series for emerging writers. I won’t claim it started anywhere too lofty - I was in graduate school when I started the series, getting my MFA while working as a bartender. The bar wanted to drum up business during a slow summer, so I suggested I bring some friends in for a reading, those friends being my classmates, who were emerging writers. Pretty quickly, though, I saw real value in protecting that space. There are many reading series in the city, but most - to my knowledge - have a hierarchical structure.
There’s an established headliner. I thought about how hard it was to get up there and read your work in front of strangers, but also how important it was. I wanted to encourage that impulse to share at every stage of a writer’s career.

By keeping the series wholly emerging writers, we can celebrate the artist-in-process and not make any kind of judgment on what it means to be successful or known, what that line is between emerging and emerged. We can avoid the hierarchy and create a space for newer writers to make connections outside of institutions, which I think also fosters a more inclusive community. 

Anyway, that’s a really long way of saying that the emerging writer community is kind of Lamprophonic’s home base and we felt no reason to disregard that in AmpLit, though the festival has afforded us the opportunity to present people who we adore but would not necessarily consider themselves “emerging” and get those two parties side-by-side in a way that feels less tiered, to me, than wide-reaching. We’ll also be holding writing workshops, so we’ll be encouraging soon-to-be emerging writers to join the fun, too! 

(See a list of performers here).

3. I love the idea of having a community market. What's that about? 

For all we were able to do in this first run of the festival, there was so much more we wanted to do. There are so many literary-driven organizations in New York who do great work and if we had the time and resources, we’d be partnering with all of them. That’s rather unrealistic, though, so the community market was our way of extending our reach, offering a space for these great entities to share their efforts with our audiences, even if we couldn’t present them or formally partner with them at the festival. 

4. You are also offering a panel on diversity. This is such a necessary area of focus, and one that has been neglected for some time by many bigger institutions. Can you talk a little more about that – as well as prepping for and choosing what panels you are offering?

Again, if only we could do more! From the start, I felt it was really important to have a discussion about diversity in the literary field — because how could you not? It’s real, serious problem in the industry and, particularly if we were going to set out to amplify new and fresh voices in the field, we must acknowledge how many voices have been systemically muted and the work being done to change that. 

As for our other panel, YA Grows Up: A Genre For All, that came out of my desire to reach audiences who maybe don’t consider themselves “literary.” Because what does that mean, really, to be literary? YA seems to be this across-the-divide genre that engages people who don't consider themselves big readers as well as the passionate literati. It’s a fantastically popular genre and has now churned out repeated blockbusters, too. It got me thinking about how categories so often end up having all these additional implicit messages. 'Young Adult’ signals a lot for people, but not necessary does it signal an intended audience. So then I wanted to talk about the categorization’s use and usefulness in the market, and therefore talk about the business of books. Because it is a business, as well as an art.  

5. You have so many major literary sponsors! What do you think this says about the state of literary arts in NY?

Enthusiasm! I was totally stoked to put this festival together and yet, for whatever reason, remained completely surprised that other people were just as jazzed. Anyone who supported the festival in anyway - from donating books to being represented by an author or staff member, we asked if they wanted to be acknowledged on the website and almost everyone said yes. Not to promote themselves, but to say this was something they were behind, to say they were happy to be there. Which I think is amazing.

Throughout this whole process, we’ve gotten so few ‘no’s; it’s rather incredible. Or biggest hurdle was competing with wedding season (we had several people who wanted to participate but were out to town for a wedding on the 11th). It just shows you how much this community is built on passion. We all just want to talk about this stuff all the time and are so happy when a forum appears in which to do it! 

6. What do you want the community – writers and listeners alike – to take away from the fest?

Many things big and small. I want people to have fun. I want them to learn something. I want them to feel inspired. But if I had to choose one overarching thing, I think I want, at the end of the day, for literature to feeling more inviting to everyone. Everyone has a story to tell, and maybe we’ll get a few more people encouraged to try, or get a few more people to spend a bit more time with a book in their very busy lives, or get people to think about what influences their reading choices and change it up. We’re here to remind everyone just how much a good story can offer us. 

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Clare Smith Marash is the winner of the Avery Hopwood Award in Short Fiction and numerous fellowships, Clare received her Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Columbia University. Clare currently freelances as a writer and editor. She has written about topics ranging from particle physics to political music, and has taught at the high school and university level. You can learn more about her writing and work by perusing claresmithmarash.com

Witchy World Roundup: June 2016

BY JOANNA C. VALENTE

From Lindy West to Casey Rocheteau, we've got it all:

'Beyond the “girl power” anthem: Beyoncé, Lana Del Rey and pop’s radical embrace of female vulnerability' by Arielle Bernstein on Salon:

"The most interesting female artists today are pushing away from “girl power” for something more interesting—vulnerability. For the past few years, two of the most interesting and different artists, Beyoncé and Lana Del Rey, have released albums that unabashedly reclaim the love story as a fertile ground for asking existential questions, not just about what it means to be a woman in the world, but also what it means to be a person."

Lindy West on why you should silence your trolls on Buzzfeed:

"Just blocking and ignoring never felt satisfying to me. It just felt so passive and it felt unfair that we were supposed to not talk about this thing that is just pervasive in our professional lives. And the justification was like, if you give them attention then they’ll keep doing it. Well, they’re not stopping anyway! They’re going to hate me no matter what I do. So either I have this sort of unsatisfying, wet-blanket, powerless feeling, or I take control of the conversation. And I’m a professional writer. I’m better at writing than them. It’s really easy to win an argument with an internet troll if you’re good with language and you’re smart.

I started doing it and I don’t know that it made a difference either way, but it was at least privileging my feelings over the troll’s feelings. Why should I not do this because it might make some dude happy? I don’t care if he’s happy or not happy. I care about myself and my mental health. And something always sat wrong with me about hundreds of people screaming at me trying to make me go away, trying to drive me out of my job and silence me. Silence never felt like the right response to that."

Mary Gaitskill was interviewed at Guernica, and she's pretty badass:

"But at a very core level, people still think that a woman who doesn’t have children or doesn’t want children is really lacking in something. I’ve seen this over and over again in my life. I’ve had this thinking used against me repeatedly. I remember I had a therapist once, and I brought this up, and she said, “Well, I think women who don’t have children feel very self-critical. They feel bad, so they think other people are critical in that way.”

Bridget Minamore on ‘Racism and misogyny explains why there are so few black women in politics' on The Pool:

"For the black female politician in the West, racism and sexism (or, as feminist scholar Moya Bailey called it, misogynoir) is a part of life. Like all women, the way we look is often disparaged, but brown skin takes any sexist mocking or criticism and adds a grimy layer of racism to it – like the icing on a particularly shitty cake."

Mallika Rao talks ‘From Nina to Lemonade, Why We’re Still So Bad at Talking About Colorism' on Slate:

"Yet even as terms like yellowface and whitewash sink into our cultural vocabulary, there remains confusion on basic matters of colorism. In a 1983 essay, the writer Alice Walker coined the word to explain “prejudicial or preferential treatment of same-race people based solely on their color.” Simply: Lighter is better. “Light blacks,” as Walker called them, fare better in white society than “black blacks,” and their skin is prized in black communities. Colorism endures because both black and white people perpetuate it."

Ella Wilks-Harper on ‘There’s a Fine Line Between Tokenism and Diversity‘ on Gal-Dem:

"Diversity and tokenism also comes when organisations employ people to enhance diversity, but then assume the skills and competencies of the individual are trapped within their identity. It becomes a problem when their identities are assumed to not be compatible with the mainstream. Within journalism, they are then only asked to write about black issues or Muslim issues, as opposed to being allowed to explore their careers and abilities in any area they feel interested in."

Joanna Sing explores race in ‘What I Have Learnt from Being (Occasionally) White-Passing‘ on Gal-Dem:

"However, this is not to say that being white-passing does not come with its own unique experiences and issues. For instance, you have the privilege of being considered “one of our own” by white people, and are treated as such, but this does also mean white people sometimes feel comfortable enough around you to air their racist beliefs. Sometimes about one of the ethnic groups you associate with; such as that of your mother."

Casey Rocheteau challenged the way the lit community is run in her amazing piece ‘Literary Juneteenth (or Why I Left The Offing)‘ on The Offing:

"In other words, despite her having the best intentions and excellent experience, I nonetheless began to ask ‘how is this magazine truly an agent for change if it seems to exploit the very population it seeks to serve?"

6 Lady Book Vloggers We Love to Watch

BY CHARLOTTE COOK

YouTube has an active community of vloggers, artists and personalities for almost everything or occasion – makeup, music, gaming and even colouring. Of course, it’s only fair that books have their own respective corner in the YouTube world, and these are some of the lovely ladies making some of the best bookish content out there. 

Jean Menzies from Bookish Thoughts
PhD Classics student, book reviewer and all-round literary princess. Jean is crazy clever, but down to Earth and reads a huge variety of books from classics to contemporary fiction and graphic novels. If you like “banging your feminist drum”, then you should definitely check out her Feminist Orchestra book club!

Watch her if you’re interested in classical fiction and feminism – or if you just enjoy a delightful Scottish accent.

If you have a problem with anyone who identifies themselves as LGBTQ+ etc. then please, there is an unsubscribe button on my channel page that I encourage you to click.

Jen Campbell
Booktube pretty much begins and ends with Jen Campbell, most likely because she’s so well-read and lovable. Jen is a published author and poet, with great taste in fiction and poetry of all kinds. She has a series of children’s books currently in the making which are no doubt going to be amazing. Plus, her dog, Lola, is so adorable.

Watch her if you’re a fan of magical realism, fairy-tale retellings and a good old cup of tea.

Hello, I'm Jen - I'm the author of the Weird Things Customers Say in Bookshops series, The Bookshop Book and The Hungry Ghost Festival. Click 'Show More' for more info on the books mentioned in this video -- International Women's Day: http://www.internationalwomensday.com/ -- unrecorded memories of the forest by Jen Campbell You know, sir, there are bones in my body that are yet to have names.

Mercedes Mills from Mercy’s Bookish Musings
Mercy is the certified queen of book hauls. If there were ever such a thing as retail jealousy, Mercy’s channel would embody it. She’s always chirpy and friendly, but her reviews are straight-talking and on point. If I’m ever thinking of which book I should buy next, her channel is my first stop!

Watch her if you want some awesome reviews and mouth-watering hauls.

Lauren's review of My Brillian Friend: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRUmNQRn9Xs Follow me on Twitter at: https://twitter.com/MercysMusings Follow me on Goodreads at: http://tiny.cc/xnyaay

India from Books and Big Hair

The popularity of Young Adult fiction has blown up over the past few years, and if you jumped on the YA bandwagon then India’s channel is definitely one for you. She’s super bubbly and keeps her videos short and snappy. If you’re looking for a YA recommendation, then definitely check out her monthly wrap-ups where she chats about the books she read that month. She’s also re-reading the Harry Potter series (for a bonus side order of nostalgia!)

Watch her if you’re a fan of Young Adult fiction and want to relive some Hogwarts memories.

Idk why I'm whispering lol. Let me know if you plan on re-reading the Harry Potter series, too!! :D Follow me on the socials! Blog: http://www.indiahillwrites.com Twitter: http://www.Twitter.com/IndiaHillWrites Tumblr: http://booksandbighair.tumblr.com Instagram: http://Instagram.com/BooksandBigHair Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/booksandbighair Snapchat: BooksandBigHair

Lauren Whitehead from Reads and Daydreams
Lauren is just a beacon of bookish joy, with a lovely smile and infectious laugh. Of course, no badass lady booktuber is complete without a good dose of literary love and Lauren has plenty of it. Her “Page to Screen” series is also a great way to get a double-whammy book and movie recommendation.

Watch her if you’re a fan of a good classic book analysis with some movie adaptations thrown in – oh, and if you need to smile!

A discussion and comparison of the different film adaptations of Wuthering Heights! Would love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Page to Screen playlist - https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLSrEV86D66JZ-kQ6zZ9smb6sJuWTIeT3e Twitter: https://twitter.com/LaurenWhitehead Instagram: http://instagram.com/laureneeni/ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/readsanddaydreams

Sophie Carlon
On the other side of the Earth is the lovely Sophie Carlon, an Australian booktuber with a great sense of humour. She makes book hauls, reviews and tags with a smattering of vlogs which are always welcome as she has such a kick-ass personality (and a snake, to boot!). Possibly the most underrated booktuber out there!

Watch her for some seriously funny reviews and an occasional shot of a serpent (her name is Abbey).

I got more books. Anyone surprised? No, neither am I. PREORDER MY BOOK! : https://sophiecarlon.bigcartel.com BUSINESS EMAIL: sophie.a.carlon @ gmail.com (no spam please and thank you x) TUMBLR: http://sophiecarlon.tumblr.com INSTAGRAM: https://instagram.com/sophie.carlon/ TWITTER: https://twitter.com/Sophie_Carlon

Who are your favorites? Leave them in a comment below.

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Charlotte Cook is a journalist, poet and strident shark defender. Having just graduated from University with a BA in Philosophy, you will most likely spot her writing about feminism, sex and culture - all whilst accompanied by a cup of tea and a heap of books. You can find her on Twitter @charlotte__cook, or peruse her blog: www.charl-cook.blogspot.co.uk

Seeking Submissions: Stories of Hollywood, Death, Fame & Glamour

A note on the submission: Word count: 600-2000. Essays and features preferred. Open to the right poetry. We can't wait to read your work. We're looking for the beautiful and haunted. Essays around the women who inspired you, the deaths that will never make sense, and the poisonous world of glamour and fame. To submit, see here. 

Anagnorisis: Rebirth in Recognizing Your Truth

My arms yearned for these strangers, these men and women who walked in the shadows of their minds, feeling alone, feeling as though they did not share a thread with any part of society.

Pinterest

BY S.K. CLARKE

I am a firm believer that humankind requires food, water, shelter, and intimacy. After our stomachs are full and our bodies are kept warm, we desire the ability to be seen by another human being, to be heard and understood.

The pivotal moments in my life have centered on someone acknowledging my self, the oft-guarded soul that is tucked away from casual observers. Often the other’s ability to see me results in an enlightenment; a move from shaded reality to exposed self-truth. It is important to note that this truth is not always beautiful. We may not always be ready to accept the knowledge when it is thrust upon us by the seeing few, but it is honest and bears the weight of import, all the same.

Aristotle called this moment of self-reveal or recognition, anagnorisis. Often in Greek tragedies, the protagonist is in the dark about some aspect of their being. InOedipus Rex, Oedipus was ignorant to his truth: he had killed his biological father, married his biological mother, and gave her children.

In the case of Oedipus, his understanding of self, both what he stood for and who he was in society, came with the reveal of his paternity. But what’s interesting to note, is that the audience was fully aware of who Oedipus was long before the big reveal. The Greek people were a learned audience who had seen these stories play out several times before. The Oedipal legend was old and the men who had gathered to see the play performed would have known the ending before the characters on stage would live it. The reason they went was in order to see which playwright wrote the best version; which Oedipus would spark something new within the audience.

In this I find a unique formof anagnorisis that can only be found in art: a recognition of ourselves within the creative minds of the artist.

This movement of self-knowing from the external to the internal can often be found in the paintings, the music, the poems and stories that traverse time and space to enter our psyche through the crackle of a record player or the luminescence of a Kindle screen. Lyrics and verses and compositions and brushstrokes that navigate time, space, and language to knock at the cement fortresses within our souls and say, “Hey, I know you. You are not alone.”

For me, there has been a therapy in the words of Neil Young, Billy Joel, Damien Rice, and Ray LaMontagne. Their lyrics call to me, assuring me that someone somewhere has been a miner for a heart of gold and they, too, see me in all of my vulnerability, in the darkest places where my self lies hidden from the daily world. Their careful placing of syllables and emotions finally, exuberantly, pitifully give voice to all that I’ve been wanting to say, whether I knew it before or not.

I’ve found it in the carefully constructed words of authors Sherwood Anderson, Edgar Lee Masters, and Colum McCann, the dark despair of poetess Christina Rossetti, the inspirational instruction of Brené Brown. Within the isolated activity of reading, within their solitude of writing, I found a piece of myself. A communication between myself and an unknowable stranger who, reaching across distance, reaching beyond death, declares that they see me as I am and have shared in what I have felt.

As an educator, theatre artist, and writer, I often strive for this feeling of communion with my students, aiming for them to experience the power to be known. I hope that in the pages of dramatic literature, my students and actors can say, “In this, I see me.” I hope that they can find the human in all and through that magic of recognition, they will see themselves in Stella, Ophelia, and Everyman. And, perhaps, that Stella, Ophelia, and Everyman will cause them to see humanity within themselves.

Through this seeing, this knowing, a beauteous progress is made. Stagnation is held at bay and something entirely cosmic enters into our lives, whether we expected it or not.

As an instructor, I often do not anticipate this progress to be made in my own life. I have read Hamlet no less than thirty times. For me, the recognition has already been made and now I get to enjoy those steps in my students.

However, when I began directing a play this past semester, I was shocked to find that art still had more to show me.

The play centered on the cycle of abuse within relationships, both romantic and familial. A young wife is beaten within an inch of her life and through a series of increasingly absurd circumstances, is all but forgotten by the end of the play. Both she and the brain damage she possesses are erased from the family’s consciousness. The end of the play leaves the audience with the impression that the mental and physical abuse done to her is doomed to be repeated because it has never been fully addressed.

The artist in me latched on to the uncomfortability of this, the unfinished, unpolished ending that would remind us all that abuse knows no happy conclusion. I wanted the audience to feel embarrassed and uneasy, hoping that through some self-reflection they would see abusive behaviors in their own lives and after much thought, seek to eradicate them.

The future mother in me, however, felt that I personally needed to create a positive change in the community. I needed those who I worked in and around to know that this did not have to be the answer: that cycles can end and progress can be made to heal, to repair.

Encouraged by projects such as Humans of New York and PostSecret, the drama club and I worked together to place boxes throughout the college campus, asking for students, faculty, and staff to submit their “secrets,” their moments of abuse, harassment, or discrimination in hopes that, through the sharing, they would gain back a voice they did not feel they had.

Over the course of three weeks, we received over 150 responses. A few of the posts were drawings of a penis ranging in anatomical accuracy, but the majority of the submissions were heart-wrenching confessions of disease, abuse, insecurity, and desire.

“I feel like I have no true useful purpose and no true direction,” one submission said.

One confessed: “I forgot my little sister’s birthday.”

“I suffer from claustrophobia because my father used to lay on top of me,” exposed another.

Many revealed a long-harbored affection toward their best friends while others admitted to instances of infidelity. A large majority dealt with mental illness and some confessed the wish to end their own lives. One revealed that they were HIV-positive.

My arms yearned for these strangers, these men and women who walked in the shadows of their minds, feeling alone, feeling as though they did not share a thread with any part of society. Perhaps feeling that no one could empathize. No one could understand.

But I am writing this today to tell you I do understand. I do see you. I get it.

As I paged through secret after secret, I felt an unexpected click of recognition, a cracking of my defenses, a revealing of my truth. Many of the secrets dealt with rape. Many of those same confessions were also partnered with the statement that they had not told anybody, some for many years. Some had not mentioned their abuse until they had put it down on the slip of paper I now held in my hand.

I did not submit a secret to the project, but if I did it would read: I was raped and for three-and-a-half years I believed that it had been my fault.

I was staying at a friend’s family home in Italy. My friends and their family were all tucked away in their beds. I was downstairs being raped.

The guy was placed in my path deliberately. He was supposed to be a good flirt. A morale booster. He was not supposed to sit on my chest and force himself in my mouth. He was supposed to hear me when I said no. He was supposed to stop. He was not supposed to tell me that I deserved it, that I had led him on, that I had to finish what I had started.

I was not supposed to believe him.

But I did.

For years I believed that it had not been rape. It should have been more violent. I should have had scars. If it had been rape, I would have fought harder. The only rape that counted was the violent kind, not the kind that left me asking him quietly to stop, lest I wake anyone.

And so, I remained silent. I did not speak up about what had happened, did not utter the “R” word. I did not tell my friend who had slept upstairs. She had seen me flirt with him earlier in the night and I assumed she would think I was a tease. I didn’t tell my grandmother, though I called her the minute I got back to my apartment. I wanted her to hear my voice. I wanted her to fix what had broken inside of me. She had sounded tired when she had asked me if something was wrong and I chose not to burden her. She was going through chemo after all, and I felt that I was just another whore. I did not tell my mother who holds the key to most of my secrets. I was her good girl, not a sexual being who would be found in those types of situations. In my journals, I remained dumb. In therapy, I skirted the issue.

But as I sat there, holding the secrets of strangers in my hands, I felt the crack of anagnorisis, an understanding of my truth, of what I am and what I stand for.

“I see you,” I said to the anonymous submissions. “And you see me. You never deserved this. You are not wrong. You are not dirty. You are a victim.”

I am not talking about rape culture in America, extremely prevalent though it is. I’m not going to talk about how politics and the media make it difficult for victims to come forward, as was the case in Oklahoma and Brigham Young University. I won’t mention how rape is normalized in television shows such as Game of Thrones or how the porn industry seems to capitalize on male sexual aggression against often unwilling women. Nor will I mention that out of every 100 rapes, only two rapists will go to jail.

This is about finding those men and women who are afraid to view themselves as victims, those who feel alone in their stories of abuse or harassment. You may never hold 150 secrets in your hand, but you now hold mine. What I ask is that you see that unlike the me of three years ago, I now know that I never deserved what was done to me. I also never deserved to hold it within me in silence. I’ve acknowledged that no matter what I was wearing, no matter how I had been conducting myself prior to the incident, I had not given consent. I did not say yes and something that was precious within me was taken and tarnished. I was raped.

You, too, do not need to hold yourself in the shadows.

Whether you suffer from debilitating depression, whether you have experienced rape, sexual harassment, physical or mental abuse, or dependency of any kind, you are not alone. Your secret does not make you any less deserving of love, nor does voicing it admit any weakness. Through using your voice, by putting the words on paper, or sharing your story, you can begin the healing process.

The Aristotlean definition of anagnorisis is often associated with tragedies: King Lear realizes that Cordelia’s love is the truest only after she has died, Nora’s desire for self-knowledge causes her to abandon her husband and children, Bruce Willis discovers he’s dead in The Sixth Sense.

I would like to argue that there can also be a rebirth in the recognition, a happy ending. Only through the dead of winter can we prepare for the blossoming of spring. Only from the gravel can we build a foundation. Only from the ashes can the phoenix be born again. And only through recognizing your truth can we grow, learn, and heal as a whole.

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S.K. Clarke is a writer, adjunct professor, and theatre director in Pennsylvania. She has earned her MA in Text and Performance from London’s Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and her BFA in Acting at Philadelphia’s University of the Arts. Clarke is a writer of poetry, plays, and short stories focusing on the disintegration of small-town America, social and political injustices of minorities, coming-of-age and end-of-life narratives, and stories featuring complicated and strong female characters. She is currently writing her first novel which, she hopes, will touch on all of the aforementioned topics.

Seeking Submissions – Disability, Chronic Illness & Mental Health

BY ALAINA LEARY

As a disabled woman, these kinds of stories and perspectives are so important to me. I grew up thinking my existence was a burden - literally - and that I'd never be employed, that I had a higher chance of homelessness, that I couldn't make it, especially since I'm not only disabled, but also queer and middle class. I want these stories to be told. My parents were/are both mentally ill and disabled too. My mom couldn't drive, was visually impaired and stopped being able to work around the time I was born. But beyond my own family, I didn't know anyone who was disabled or ill. I didn't know it was a thing you could be and still be okay. That's why representation is so important and why I want to help publish some of those voices. 

Submit your work.

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Editors Joanna C. Valente & Alaina Leary will be editing this special issue, so please submit your stories and artwork to them by August 1.