Bacon Watercolors: Painting

Crabbing

Equipped with our net, bucket, raw chicken and roll of string, we trekked from the ragged graveled patch where we had parked the van. Glassy-skinned frogs hidden in the thick marsh grass croaked in a languid manner; they paused when we were near and resumed their song after we passed. All was still dark when we reached the water. My sleepy body stumbled onto the nondescript, wobbly wooden dock to which a handful of simple rowboats were moored, bobbing and pulling with the current like willful creatures. Our flashlights lit the way to the water, but they could not cut through the layer of mist over the bay’s surface. Our family split up into two boats. While appointed rowers quietly transported, others tied up chicken legs with string. Once the dock became the size of my hand, we carefully but powerfully threw out the legs and listened to the distant thunks as they struck the water. Then we sat and waited, dark stones rocking back and forth, without a word or move lest we frightened off the easily spooked crustaceans with the echo of our voices or a knock against the wood.

Women pulled down on their skirts, men examined the leather on their shoes. Nowhere was it as bright as it was in there, during that time of repentance and prayer.

My maternal grandmother lived in Seabrook, Maryland, a town I fondly remember by the fishy smell and icy climate of a Korean grocery store where we ate red bean popsicles, the low metal fences bordering each house and the sidewalks that were so deeply and widely cracked we had to keep our heads down and watch our feet while walking. My mom never talked warmly about that town; there were too many robberies and assaults. She deplored the shabby character of the neighborhood, but my brother and I loved that place growing up. We watched rated R videos from our uncle’s VHS collection, attended jesa for our maternal grandfather and played with the sprinkler in the backyard where our grandmother diligently grew tongue-tickling kkaenip and brow-sweating gochu. We especially looked forward to the pre-dawn crabbing trips out on the Chesapeake Bay. Around three o’clock on a Saturday morning, my mom would shake my brother and me out of bed. Still mostly asleep, we dressed, brushed our teeth and crammed into an old caravan with our parents, grandmother, two aunts and two uncles. Being awake at such an early hour and squeezed into the back of a van, with heat building from mashed bodies and omnipresent humidity, induced wave after wave of nausea. I would sit, hunched over the large white bucket meant to hold caught crabs, dry heaving and tracking little starbursts in my periphery. It was impossible to try and catch some more sleep during the ride. My uncles and aunts were raucous, joking and drinking hot coffee from 7-11. The van would bump up and down as we made our way to the bay.

*     *     *

I recently attended Sunday service at the church I grew up in, after decades of exodus. Because of the growing number of congregants over the years, the church had built a brand-new campus half an hour away from the original sanctuary. The new campus was massive and modern, complete with enormous hundred-foot bay windows, tasteful stone exteriors and sparkling linoleum floors. Similar in ambience to a shopping mall or airport, the cavernous complex comfortably accommodated its three thousand churchgoers. There were separate sanctuaries for English speaking ministries and Korean speaking ministries, TVs broadcasting sermons in the lobbies for parents cradling crying infants, a stylish cafeteria selling espresso and kimbap, an enormous gym for kids playing volleyball and basketball and a fully staffed day care center. I attended service in the sanctuary for young English-speaking adults. The back wall of the sanctuary was a brilliant, Crest whitening strip shade of white and textured with small, undulating waves that gave the sense one was on a boat out at sea, or high up on a plane among the clouds. The space was beautiful. It was also discomforting. The overhead LED lighting shined down on us with an interrogating radiance, exposing every crease on every face, every grain in the wood of the smooth pews. Women pulled down on their skirts, men examined the leather on their shoes. Nowhere was it as bright as it was in there, during that time of repentance and prayer.

The church of my childhood was a small, white-brick building. The top floor held the single sanctuary and the dingy cafeteria-cum-gym was underneath. I grew up crawling under the pews, kicking up dust from the plum-colored carpeted floor. Every Sunday we sat with our parents as the reverend proclaimed the gospel to a packed house of recently arrived Koreans. The sermons, which tranquilized us children with their tedious and repetitive verses in a language we only half understood, nourished our parents not only with its message of salvation, but with its plodding and familiar mother tongue. The occasional Amens en masse punctuated the tonal rise and fall of the reverend’s preaching. My mom would pinch my father’s side whenever he began to nod off.

A large, plain wooden cross hung on the wall behind the reverend. The reverend was an older, soft-spoken man with wavy black hair and small, delicate features. His slightly stooped back and slow pace of speaking reminded me of a tortoise. When I saw him recently at a relative’s funeral, for the first time in twenty years, he softly took my hand and greeted me by my full Korean name and English name, telling me in his same slow manner that he was still praying for me.

As kids, my friends and I would sneak into the sanctuary after service to play tag and hide-and-seek in the dark. The thick, drawn curtains blocked out most of the sun, but thin slices of light would peek through gaps here and there and reflect off the polished brass candle holders behind the podium. The reflected light would blind us at random moments as we ran away from each other. Although we could have run around in the gym downstairs, we always preferred the dark, stale sanctuary. The quiet, drawn-in atmosphere of the room was alluring, mysterious. The smell of our parents lingered there; dust motes floated listlessly in the lines of light. The man named “yeh-su” hung in wooden agony as one of us counted to ten. The way the room both muffled and echoed our stomping feet and laughter afforded the illusion of absolute separateness from the rest of the world—from overworked, distant parents or abusive ones—and from the perpetually fragmenting self-awareness we were scraping together as not-quite-Koreans and not-quite-Americans.

*     *     *

This was before girls I knew would vomit in the car after an abortion, the shame refusing to come up in the heaving; before girls I knew brusquely narrated stories of assault and rape between sips of coffee; before misogyny became routine and mundane as toast in all of our lives.

One minute we were inside of the van rocking with thick laughter and heat and the next minute out on the water, where we were induced to silence and stillness. This was my favorite part of the trip: settling in with my family under a blanket of cold mist, unified for once in our anticipation of the catch. We were almost meditative: our breathing slowed, our postures straightened and our eyes focused on the little waves running in from the horizon. Crabs were sensitive, skittish. The chance to catch a crab demanded all of you. Although my brother and I were young, we never once felt the urge to fidget—the world conspired with us, in its pull to still us for the greater reward. We all sat and looked out across the gray expanse, the rowdy and boisterous behavior from before diminished into faint memory. Blue herons flew just above the water and fish broke the surface with their open-shut-open-shut maws. My grandmother would always pick up on the nibbling first. She would feel the tug in her hand and somehow she would always know that that tug was the right one, and not one from a stray fish or current. She continued to hold the string between thumb and pointer with such caution and delicacy; the string was a baby bird’s neck, a keen open blade, a precious life. Her eyes skimmed out to a spot on the water. And then, ever so slowly, and only when she was ready, she began to reel in the string in excruciatingly smooth segments. And here was when the stretches of time became delicious—because of the unknown events occurring beneath the salty brown. Because I could have waited for eternity. At first, the opaque water was dark and fungal, but in the next moment, a phantom appeared—a mere shape that seemed only imagined. While your brain attempted to catch up to your eyes, it was and was becoming. Then suddenly there it was, as real as the wood we were floating in: a crusty brown alien latched to a chicken leg that was softened and disintegrating in the saltwater. The possibilities of what the water held and offered was something to be relished, cherished. While my grandmother eased the crab closer to the boat, my aunt or uncle quietly took hold of the large green net. As the crab continued to attend to the abundance in front of him, the net became merely a hanging bough of a tree for a suspended moment. We held our breaths in unison, our world hushed and sealed off from any other existence. Then in one quick exhalation, the bough transformed into a predatory bird, broke the surface of the water and scooped the crab and chicken into its gullet. Salty droplets freckled my face and arms, some landing on my lips so I would taste the same salt as the crab had. The disoriented crab instinctively gripped onto the green net and its tiny mouth emitted small bubbles of air, creating a mask of froth. We tossed our haul into the same big white bucket my head was hovering over just a moment ago. His chepelids tapped against the bucket and from his foaming mouth came a hissing sibilance.

*     *     *

In eighth grade I walked out of Sunday service for the first time. Reverend Lee was our youth group’s new leader. He had a pale, hairless face, wire-rimmed glasses and a perfect, straight part down the center of his hair. He would pace restlessly from end to end of the stage with his microphone, the serpentine cord never once entangling his feet. Like everyone else, I submerged into daydreams during his sermons. After innumerable days of hide-and-seek, after thousands of verses and prayers and Amens, all sermons melded into one sermon, so worn that no deeper mark could be made. We now fidgeted in our seats more than ever before since pubescence was budding in bodies that were no longer familiar. It was not home anymore. Looks were hooded; laughter was crafted. We were now painfully conscious of acting out a script of which we knew very little. But we knew it existed all the same. We knew with certainty that we had to play it out. During that particular service, I wore a sleeveless knee-length black dress with tiny periwinkle blue flowers. I remember picking at the stitched buds on the skirt hem when my ears caught something from the podium. I don’t remember what first caught my attention, but as I broke through my reverie and attuned my ears to his speech, I heard Reverend Lee talk about something I had never heard anyone talk about up on that stage before. I thought I had misheard. He was yelling about how we women must remain vigilant and steadfast—that if we went down the path of sexual immorality we would be faced with pregnancy and the sin of abortion, the path to assured damnation. I looked around, discreetly at first, seeing if anyone else was splintering like I was. Everyone I saw was facing forward, motionless—you could barely tell they were breathing. The story Reverend Lee was fingering on us, while his spittle landed on the first row, bled through my brain and out my nostrils. If I didn’t leave the room soon, I was going to rip my dress and scream so hard my mouth would split open. I could not articulate why my body shook so. This was before girls I knew would vomit in the car after an abortion, the shame refusing to come up in the heaving; before girls I knew brusquely narrated stories of assault and rape between sips of coffee; before misogyny became routine and mundane as toast in all of our lives. That Sunday, a hand from the depths simply tugged an unnamable, soft bit of me and drew out salted blood.

I got up, walked to the back of the room and turned around at the entrance, yearning to spot just a hint of opposition, any lick of discomfort, a slight cough or questioning tilt of the head. I waited with my hands at my sides, holding my breath and praying for something—anything—to break the surface. But nothing came forth; the lake of bodies remained still and silent and unresistant. I hurried to the bathroom and looked at my pale, hairless face. No one else was in the bathroom hunched and seething in front of the mirror, trying to make themselves clean and whole again. No one was stifling a jaw-breaking scream. Everyone was dead and burning in their seats.

*     *     *

When we brought the catch back to my grandmother’s house, my youngest uncle placed a cutting board on the kitchen counter right next to the stove. A large, dark blue pot rested above the stove light. The white bucket was on the floor next to his feet. He swiftly selected a crab, laid it on its back on the cutting board and stabbed it right in the center of its stomach, above the apron. The blade was small but very sharp. He was precise. As I watched, some stopped moving almost immediately, while others continued to slowly wave their claws. I imagined if I leaned down close enough to their mouths, I could hear their faint, salty gasps. My uncle then tossed the crab into the pot. I stood very still at the kitchen’s entrance behind him, my back to the raspy newspaper being laid out on the dinner table like new linen. My face, colored by the dim yellow of the kitchen light, observed the killing without expression. Once they were all in the pot, my uncle turned the heat all the way up and left the kitchen. Did I continue to hear the tiny clinking of claws against the sides of the pot? I strained to hear it. I hovered over the pot, wanting to lift the lid, wanting not to lift the lid. I would relent every time, lifting the pot by its handle just a bit and peering into the darkness and heat to try and see if there were any signs of struggling persistence, any waving or skittering, any bubbles frothing from orifices.

When the crabs were done, they were piled into a red orange heap at the center of the newspaper-covered table. Nutcrackers, little steel forks and wooden mallets were scattered about for shared use. My brother and I watched and replicated how to open up a crab correctly. My grandmother and mother always got the most meat from the bodies as they had the nimblest fingers and quietest hands. I flipped the crab on its back and opened and removed the apron; then with thumb and pointer, I pried the shell off the rest of the body, uncovering the meat and organs. I used the utensils to crack open the legs and claws and either pulled or sucked out the meat. Our fingers were marred by cuts made from the sharp bits of broken shell. We sprinkled Old Bay seasoning over the precious white clumps, sucking our teeth and then ignoring the stinging when the Old Bay made contact with the open wounds on our hands. My lips would swell and sting too. The only sounds during the meal were the splintering of shell and the slurping of flesh. None of the darkness that had held me during the crabs’ slow death in heat remained over the breaking of fast.

 

Helen Park’s work appears in The Flexible Persona, Sleet Magazine, Inertia Magazine, Cleaver Magazine, Cactus Heart Press, Hamilton Stone Review, Eclectica Magazine, Visitant Lit, the Asian American Female Anthology, Yellow as Turmeric; Fragrant as Cloves (Deep Bowl Press, 2008), and others. Read more about her work at https://helenparkprose.wordpress.com/

I Am a Magic Carpet: Mixed Media

Human.Male.Black.: Acrylic Paintings

Area of Concern

As Dr. Christine Blasey Ford testifies before the Senate Judiciary Committee, I’m hugging a mammogram machine. “Okay, we’ll take four pictures on the right, and two on the left,” says the bubbly tech with the blond bangs. “Oops! I mean, four on the left, two on the right. Sorry! Haven’t had my coffee yet.” It’s odd to hear a medical professional apologize to you as she maneuvers a beige device the size of a small car.

“Then, an ultrasound,” she informs me. “Standard procedure, whenever you have a spot.” I instinctively pat the lump where I’d placed the small metal sticker she’d given me to better highlight the area of concern on the x-ray.

*     *     *

I’ve had this spot checked twice before. First, seven or eight years ago, when a duct in my left breast started leaking a substance that looked terrifyingly like milk. Then again, about two years ago, when I was lactating for real, and that duct had hardened into a painful lump that wouldn’t go away. The previous tests indicated no cause for alarm. It’s gone down, but it’s always there, as much a part of me as the scar on my knee from falling off my bike in fourth grade. Or was it fifth—or sixth? The memory of picking gravel from my bloody skin is no less vivid because I can’t pinpoint the year.

This time, the spot on my breast feels different, and leaks again for no apparent reason. It’s worrisome enough to stop unpacking from our recent move for a diagnostic mammogram, on the advice of my new ob/gyn. Thankfully, I find a place that can fit me in before the annual rush in October, though I forget to schedule around the news cycle.

I call my new insurance company, but I can’t determine whether this facility is in network, or that I’m covered at all. After forty-five minutes on the phone, I’m so angry that I politely decline the request to complete a brief one-question survey about the experience.

*     *     *

I slip my right shoulder out of the robe first. The tech guides my breast into the machine that seems to have been designed for someone a foot taller and molds my skin like clay with her cold hands, for which she again apologizes. She follows the diagrams and numbers printed on the clear plastic plate that are comprehensible only to her. The machine whirrs, and the plate tightens, pressing and pressing and pressing my flesh, not just my breast, but parts of my shoulder, my ribs, my armpit, until it cannot possibly go any further, then one smidge more. “Take a deep breath in, and… hold it,” the tech says as she captures the image. Briefly, I’m free. She asks me to hug the machine another way, and another, for scans at different angles: 37 degrees, 90, two 180’s.

Part of being a woman: having your story fact-checked against a man’s. Either way, you lose.

Then, mercifully, it’s over. In the waiting room—design concept: spa on a budget—I chat with my mom, braless in public for the first time since my last mammogram. The rough threads of the starched robe scratch against my nipples. I sip a diet cranberry juice box, the least worst of the all-diet beverage options available. We gab like we’re getting manicures or something, like we’re anywhere but a waiting room. I pull out my phone and check every app except for Twitter, whose quick dopamine hits seem lately to have been spiked with something more toxic than usual.

*     *     *

The documents released before the hearings catapulted me back to my small, private high school. Nestled on a tree-lined campus in a rural area of a red state, it occupied its own quirky orbit, far removed from the elite schools of the country’s power centers. Instead of a football team, we had laid-back Episcopalian chapel services in which we sang “Drop-Kick Me, Jesus” and the “Cheers” theme song. Still, the demographics were similar. In the student parking lot, I’d navigate my old station wagon with its ripped seats and broken air conditioner around hand-me-down Beemers and brand-new Range Rovers. Every year, a handful of graduates moved up to the Ivy League. The doctors’ and lawyers’ children who were my classmates are now the next generation of doctors and lawyers.

Seeing that page scanned from private-school yearbooks reminded me we’d had those, too. Dot-dots, we’d called them. Each of the fifty-two seniors in my graduating class got a half-page to say whatever we wanted—to fill up space, I suppose. My dot-dots included a quotation from an obscure Beck interview and a handful of inside jokes with my girlfriends that mostly originated while tipsy on hard lemonade at sleepovers.

At least, I think that’s what’s there. I haven’t read mine, or anyone else’s, in seventeen years. I’m sure they’re in a box, somewhere, in our new house, where all of our belongings are together for the first time in months. But I don’t look for them. I’m afraid of what I’d find in certain entries, like the boy who gave me my first kiss at a party before disclosing he’d been dared to. Or the boys who teased me incessantly about my height, using my shoulders as armrests; the boys who knew the best places to park so we could steam up the windows for a while before my curfew; the boys with legendary alcohol tolerances who ended up in rehab; the boys who, when asked to give a persuasive speech on any topic, argued they should be allowed to, as eighteen-year-old seniors, take eighth-grade girls to prom.

*     *     *

Before I can help myself to a second diet cranberry juice, my results are ready. Despite my unusual symptoms, there is, thankfully, nothing wrong. The radiologist tells me, “Like many women, you have an abundance of breast tissue that is very responsive to change.”

They’re not fat cells, though I have plenty of those, too. But fat doesn’t care when you’re stressed, say, or when you’ve just moved with your family across the country, or when you spent too many weeks in a short-term rental with a painted toilet seat your son started calling the psychedelic potty, or when you reward yourself for unpacking all your dishes by compulsively reloading an app with the latest iterations of collective trauma. Everyone is talking about the woman who’s preparing to testify on a national stage against a man who seems with each new anecdote like someone who, if you’d gone to school together, would have made fun of you, or worse. This kind of tissue soaks up hormones—stress and otherwise—like a sponge.

The radiologist performs a cursory ultrasound. She apologizes for the cold jelly, then confirms that what I’ve experienced is normal. “All part of being a woman,” she says, as she snaps off her gloves. I feel like I’ve wasted her time.

*     *     *

Part of being a woman: being one, or zero, degrees away from someone who’s experienced sexual trauma. These are the only two numbers available.

Part of being a woman: feeling the impossibility of writing about such topics without detailing your own traumas—as though without such validation, no one would believe you.

Part of being a woman: feeling like your rage has swelled out of proportion to what you’ve experienced personally.

Part of being a woman: feeling like you should probably apologize to someone for something, but you’re not sure what.

*     *     *

In the hospital atrium, my mom and I hug, then dodge plump drops as we sprint to our separate cars. On my local NPR station, the hearing’s still underway, but on a break. The commentators fill the downtime by replaying earlier highlights. When I hear the clip, “Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter,” I start to cry. The tears sting as I compare my pain to hers. What I endured was nothing. My morning experience was a momentary, private discomfort that ended in good news. Her morning is a waking nightmare. She’s received death threats. She can speak her truth in a such a way that no one will believe her, or they’ll believe her and yet not care. What good, if any, can come of her bravery?

Rain falls on my windshield in sheets.

Later, the man testifies as I drive to preschool pick-up. At a red light, I smack the steering wheel with my palm and scream as he plays coy about those old yearbook passages. He portrays himself as a good boy, an all-American jock who loves God, his country, and beer. As though a man whose colleagues insist he’s super nice cannot possibly have a dark side.

Continuing to listen, no matter how historic the proceedings, feels like picking at a scab. I turn the radio off and retreat into my Spotify playlist of high-school angst, one of this week’s only comforts.

Listening to Tori Amos’ “Precious Things” for the first time in years feels like trying on an old, well-loved sweater and discovering it still fits.

He said you’re really an ugly girl
But I like the way you play
And I died
But I thanked him

During college, I stopped listening to Tori. Her total lack of irony made her deeply uncool. She needed to get a grip, have a sense of humor about it all. Sometime senior year, a cute boy told me he was forming a metal band. “We’re calling ourselves Torn Anus,” he said. “You know, like Tori Amos, but…not.”

“That’s hilarious,” I remember telling him. He was a nice guy and, later, a good boyfriend. We occasionally like each other’s Instagram photos. But I no longer find his wordplay hilarious.

*     *     *

Part of being a woman: having your story fact-checked against a man’s. Either way, you lose.

Part of being a woman: convincing yourself what happened was nothing at all.

Part of being a woman: considering yourself to be one of the lucky ones and looking back with fury anyway.

*     *     *

As I drive home with my kid in the backseat, the remainder of Little Earthquakes now playing at an imperceptible volume, I think of the two young men who stood at a lectern, picked at the crotches of their uniform khakis, and bragged about wanting to ask tweens to prom. Even then, I knew it was awful and walked out of class in protest.

Other events take years to reveal their shadiness, like the fact that the person who bought us all those hard lemonades at our sleepovers was usually my friend’s older brother, who was in his early twenties. Only as an adult do I wonder why a grown man would want to purchase alcohol for a bunch of teenage girls, though, as far as I can remember, nothing bad ever happened. But looking back makes me question everything.

I’d forgotten that the aspiring eighth-grade paramours were both part of a crew of dudes who’d use our free period to bench press in the gym’s weight room during freshman, or maybe sophomore, year. Then they’d come outside, where us girls were chatting, or finishing our geometry homework on a picnic bench, and find us.

Part of being a woman: convincing yourself what happened was nothing at all.

Not all of us—just the more petite girls, or the ones who, in some subtle way, seemed to be asking for it. Anything that made it easier for the boys to stick their hands under our armpits and lift us up in the air, without warning. They particularly liked to place our small bodies in one of the cylindrical black plastic trash cans that dotted our campus. We’d yelp and kick in protest, with no teachers in sight to rescue us, but we didn’t fight that hard. It was male attention.

I enjoyed my share of it, especially from one broad-shouldered boy already north of six feet tall. He could have been a linebacker if our school had fielded a team. I’d have preferred that he ask me out instead of hoisting me into garbage, but still, there was that feeling of weightlessness, of helplessness, the sense of my body as an object that someone stronger could pick up and put down at any time. Without question, I accepted that being female meant tolerating lowkey degradation.

It’s okay, I remember rationalizing. They always make sure the trash can is empty first. Later, it would become the punchline to a story I’d tell about something funny that used to happen to me in high school. I don’t think it’s funny anymore.

*     *     *

Part of being a woman: wondering whether these stories will suffice for you.

Part of being a woman: intuiting how wide I need to open the vein for you to care.

On a scale from one to five, where 1 = completely dissatisfied and 5 = completely satisfied, please rate your satisfaction with the information presented here. We’d like to know how to make this topic more appealing for you. If something more explicit would better suit your needs, please don’t hesitate to let us know.

*     *     *

Part of being a woman: cells at the ready to absorb what life slings your way.

Part of being a woman: carrying it around in your body, long after it’s over.

*     *     *

Predictably, Kavanaugh is confirmed. Life moves on, but it’s difficult to accept that I can’t walk around every day quietly seething, as I did in high school. My new therapist encourages me to work on putting those old books, metaphorically speaking, back on the shelf where they belong. “Or I could just keep them in moving boxes for months,” I offer. I thought that was a good solution.

These precious things
Let them bleed
Let them wash away

Like every other woman who grew up in America, I spent my formative years marinating in a culture that empowers and excuses the actions of a privileged class of young men. It’s okay to be angry if you experienced something like what Dr. Blasey Ford went through. It’s okay to be angry if you didn’t. We should all be angry about what recent events remind us about the worth of women in this country. We should channel our rage into action, and fight to transform our culture.

When it happens, I know where I’ll feel it. I’ve been told it’s very responsive to change.

 

Colleen Rothman is a writer based in New Orleans. Her essays have been featured in The Atlantic and Mutha Magazine, and her short fiction has appeared in Jellyfish Review, Okay Donkey, and Chicago Literati, among other journals. You can find her on Twitter @colleenrothman or colleenrothman.com

Photo Credit: Jacob Rothman

Floating in the Upmost Corner: Photography

The Right of Way

At the intersection of the six-lane highway I live on in Washington, DC, I waited for the light to turn green and for the little white man to appear above the numbers—starting at twenty-six—counting down how long I had to cross the street. I looked carefully to make sure no cars were going to make a right turn; vehicles infamously whip around the corner as if it’s a race track with right turns instead of left. No cars were coming. I stepped out into the street.

After that, my memory slows down each second, moment by moment.

*     *     *

I first learned that anger is synonymous with evil from my father. It was his life’s goal to become a preacher and, by the time he did, my mother had left him, partly because of his horrible temper. The memories of my childhood that feature my father most prominently are ones in which he is angry: his voice booming so hard I swore I felt the walls shake; his eyes bugging out, determining who would be the target of his wrath; his veins swelling from his arms so I thought they would jump out of his skin; his hands reaching for one of my sisters, to throw her against the wall.

My mom struggled with clinical depression for years during and after her marriage to my father. With therapy and medication, she began to feel like herself again, the self who could smile and laugh, not just stare blankly at the walls. When I showed signs of sadness or anger, my mother was on guard. She didn’t want me to be depressed, so she ensured that I always displayed happiness. Emotions other than joyful ones were looked at with suspicion. If I became angry, I could behave like my father, losing control and physically lashing out.

When I was ten, my cousin pushed me and I scraped my knee on the curb. So, I pushed her into the dirt, ruining her all-white outfit.

“Vonetta, why did you do that? You know not to do that!” My mom chided me as if I’d killed the girl, using the same tone she used when my father hit my sisters. Her equating my behavior with his frightened me.

Despite him physically abusing them, my father was hopelessly devoted to my sisters. The children from his first marriage, they occupied a different space in his mind and heart than me. He loved them obsessively. He refused to let them get their driver’s licenses until after they had graduated from high school, so he was the only way they could get around. He defended them against his wives’ complaints about their disrespectful behavior.

My sisters often didn’t speak to me even when we lived in the same house. As an eight-year-old, when I wanted to laugh with them, watching television, they stopped laughing the moment a sound came out of my mouth. They left the room when I entered. They rolled their eyes at me when no one was looking. My sisters were angry that I even existed.

I didn’t know what I’d done to make them so mad that they treated me with such contempt. Years later, I learned that our dad was still married to their mom when I was born. Their mother decided that she hated me. In a way, I couldn’t blame her, what with my being walking evidence of my father’s infidelity. But she groomed my sisters to hate me, too. I guessed they never thought to question why they pointed their ire at me; I hadn’t chosen to be born.

 

Sometimes, when I was at home by myself, I cried silently, my body seeking even just the smallest bit of release. But then I swallowed it all again, immediately put my face back on, and marched back into line.

After my mother left him, Dad didn’t try to stay in touch with me. My mom pressured me to call him periodically, and each time I spoke with him I became more and more aware of how much he didn’t think about me.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said in a voice that sounded so close to genuine.

“Thank you,” I squeaked, trying not to let on that I was moments away from bursting into tears. I knew he was lying.

Subconsciously wanting my father to love me, or at least to make him look like a fool for abandoning me, I decided that I would make good grades and follow all the rules. I was a quiet, shy kid who liked to laugh, so I took all of the anger I felt toward my dad and sisters and let it fester at the base of my belly.

*     *     *

I saw that cars were waiting to turn left. I made eye contact with the driver of the first car, a black SUV. I saw him, so I figured he saw me. I thought he was slowing down.

But then, I realized that he wasn’t slowing down. In fact, he appeared to be speeding up. Since facts from my high school honors physics class were permanently burned into my brain, I knew that he was going too fast for me to continue without contact and that I did not have time to jump backward, out of the way.

*     *     *

When I was in eleventh grade, one of my classmates took to bullying me. He was a big dude, a star of the varsity football team. I usually brushed him off, ignoring his taunting about my glasses and crooked teeth because I didn’t want to dignify any of it with a response. Until one day.

I can’t remember what exactly he said, but it enraged me. It was as if I stepped outside of my body and was replaced by a sensationally bold girl who looked exactly like me. Very calmly, but very quickly, she picked up a ballpoint pen with the cap on, and poked the guy—hard—in the back. She didn’t want to hurt him, just for him to leave her alone. How much damage could a capped pen do?

He immediately took off his shirt. The pen had ruptured a small hole in his flesh, the size of the pen head. It had gone through the plastic cap and into his skin. A dot of ink spotted where blood should have been.

My eyes shot open as I dropped the pen, the plastic skittering across the floor for a second.

“I am so sorry,” I said, immediately panicking as I anticipated his retribution. He could literally crush me, and I was sure he was going to at some point.

He was speechless as he left the classroom to go to the bathroom. I followed him out the door and down the hall, almost going into the boys’ bathroom, repeating, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

When I told my mom what happened, she looked at me through squinting eyes. “Maybe we should get you in to see a counselor,” she said.

She knew I’d decided to stop speaking to my father and quickly made the connection between the two situations.

“I know the boy probably made you mad,” she continued, “but you can’t go around hitting people. You know what the Bible says about being angry.”

The Bible said that one should not sleep on one’s anger, implying that anger rotted your insides during your slumber. I always assumed that it meant that being angry was a sin: totally wrong, a moral failing against God. My outburst confirmed this for me.

My mom never followed up on therapy, so I went along suppressing my feelings.

My bully never hit me back. Instead, he made me do his vocabulary homework for the rest of the year. I intentionally put down some wrong answers, so the teacher wouldn’t suspect someone else was doing it. I learned the words “surreptitious” and “diatribe,” among others, and as a result, I did remarkably well on the verbal portion of the SAT.

I decided that I would never be angry again. I wanted to be righteous, and there was no room for failure.

*     *     *

As the SUV hit me in the left knee, I screamed. His tires screeched, striking up the smell of fresh asphalt. Both of my knees buckled, sending me onto the ground. My sunglasses fell off my face and skidded a few inches away. I caught myself on all fours, my knees scraping the ground.

My jeans better not be torn, I thought. They were my favorite: straight, dark Lucky Brand jeans it took me months to find.

*     *     *

For college, I went to Georgetown. Just being around so many rich white kids produced an annoying amount of jealousy in me. But the insistence that their opinions were more meaningful than mine was most infuriating.

Once, in a leadership class, a white guy insisted that Black people just hadn’t worked hard enough to gain economic equality to whites.

“You’re ignoring the existence of institutional racism,” I said, trying to be kind and explain the issue in objective terms to help convert him to common sense. “Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how hard you work; you just don’t gain as much if you’re Black.”

“You need to look up Robert Johnson,” he replied, assuming I was unfamiliar with the owner of the then Charlotte Bobcats and his inspiring—though highly uncommon—rags to riches story.

My heart started to beat faster and my cheeks began to flush. “I’m from Charlotte!” I said, not quite yelling, but making sure he could hear me.

His eyes widened and his jaw clenched, but the conversation was over. After class, we apologized for getting so heated with each other. I knew I’d done the right thing, but I was ashamed, convinced that he would have listened to me if I had not gotten angry.

*     *     *

On my hands and knees on the pavement, I felt no pops or snaps. No sounds of shattered bones. No rushing sensation of torn muscles or ligaments. My books were on the ground. My purse was on the ground, dangling from my shoulder. I picked up the books, adjusted my bag, then stood upright.

At the same moment I realized I was okay, I realized that I had been hit by a car while walking in the crosswalk, with the right of way.

*     *     *

In my early 20s, I dated a guy who prided himself on his extreme liberalism. Even though I disagreed with nearly everything he believed, I asked him questions and listened earnestly to his reasoning because I liked him and that’s what you’re supposed to do with someone you like. He said he liked me, too, but he didn’t bother asking me any questions about how and why I came to the conclusions I’d come to.

After a couple of months, he texted to tell me that he hated my conservative-leaning centrism so much that he couldn’t be with me any longer. He followed up with a pages-long email detailing everything he thought was wrong with me, mostly that I was an impostor, in his opinion. He appreciated my respect for his views, though.

Standing on a friend’s deck outside of a raging house party, unable to choke back tears, I lamented on the phone to a friend, “I accepted him. Why couldn’t he do the same for me?”

*     *     *

When I went to business school, I was one of few women and the only Black person actively participating in the student investment fund. During my stock pitch, a few of the guys asked for information about the inventory levels of the company I was presenting. I hadn’t looked at the balance sheet that closely, because no one ever looked at it that closely.

When I said I didn’t know, one guy said that a few of them just met with that company’s CEO a few days ago, a meeting to which I was not invited. The CEO had confessed that inventory was problematically high.

I blinked, wondering why he would ask me a question whose answer he already knew, why he would embarrass me in front of the whole club.

My ears and eyes grew hot, but I exhaled, cooling them.

*     *     *

Standing in the middle of the street, I inhaled, my lungs filling with a sharp gust of wind that I could not stop from making its way out of my mouth.

*     *     *

During my job after business school, my Latina coworker and I met with the “HR” partner at our firm to report some racist things our bosses had said to us. She scribbled down notes and made her face look distraught.

“I’m sorry, girls,” she said, shaking her head. “But don’t worry, we’ll look into it. And don’t be afraid of retribution because there will not be any.”

My coworker and I gave each other grateful, relieved looks.

 

Forgiveness starts peace, but an apology completes it. The acknowledgment of an offense, and remorse for it, rounds out the sharp edges of wrongdoing. It doesn’t make the bad action disappear, but it helps it to fade.

 

Over the course of the next year, my coworker was given poor performance reviews and I was not given any new projects, even after begging for work. During my year-end review, the company president told me, “You’re not as engaged—we need you to be engaged.”

My ears set on fire. My jaw clenched. I balled up my fists under the table. I released my fingers and pinched my thigh through my dress pants. I was not going to be an Angry Black Woman. I was not going to lose control.

Sometimes, when I was at home by myself, I cried silently, my body seeking even just the smallest bit of release. But then I swallowed it all again, immediately put my face back on, and marched back into line.

*     *     *

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? DIDN’T YOU SEE ME? I HAD THE LIGHT AND EVERYTHING!”

I pointed to the walk signal, where the little white man still stood over the countdown, which had gone down to ten. The white man turned into a red hand and the numbers flashed: nine, eight.

“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING?”

My knees were throbbing, my hands were shaking, my heart was blasting, and my voice was raw. I screamed every word from the deepest depths of myself.

It was as if I was screaming at every person who had ever hurt me.

*     *     *

I wanted to know why they had hurt me. I had followed the rules, done what I was supposed to do—be born, be smart, be a team player, be accepting, stay in the crosswalk and walk only when the white man is there—and they hurt me. I was holding up my end of the bargain, bringing my contents to the table, but they had all chosen to turn the table over and discard my contribution. Righteousness never mattered—people would hurt if they wanted to hurt, if they held themselves in higher regard than me.

*     *     *

Just like after I pen-stabbed my eleventh-grade bully, my heart nearly stopped. I had just screamed at a person. I wasn’t supposed to scream at anyone.

The driver had stopped, and the passengers in a few of the cars on the other side of the street looked on. At the sound of my bellowing, the driver got out of his car, in the middle of the lane. He was an older Black man. He wore a tan three-piece suit, a straw trilby, and brown rimless sunglasses that kept me from really seeing his face.

“I’m sorry, sis.” He shook his head faintly.

I am not your sister, I thought.

I considered apologizing for screaming at him, but I quickly reasoned that I was not wrong here. And the way the man shook his head and looked down told me that I was safe. He looked nothing like my father; he was an age my father would never reach. And unlike my dad, this man wasn’t going to attack me if I said the wrong thing. So I continued to let it out.

“WHAT WERE YOU DOING? I HAD THE RIGHT OF WAY!”

“I had the right of the way, too,” he said, holding his sun-spotted hands out.

“NO, YOU DIDN’T! YOU DIDN’T!” I started to add, “I’M MARRIED TO A LAWYER, I KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT.”

But before I could, he said, “Yeah, I know. Pedestrians have the right of the way.”

“You scared me, too!” He continued, his hands trembling.

I looked at him as if he’d just called my mother stupid. I’d never said that he had scared me. Sure, I had screamed—because that’s the appropriate reaction when an SUV rams into your knee. But he had not frightened me at all.

“Do you want my insurance information?” The driver asked.

Insurance information seemed irrelevant. What was relevant was why he had chosen not to follow the rules. I had been following the rules and he violated them. His lack of regard for these boundaries resulted in my being harmed. Rules keep us from hurting each other because we are capable of causing so much pain.

On the sidewalk, an old Black lady yelled, “You ain’t supposed to get up! You ‘sposed to stay down on the ground until the police come! You know better than to get up when you get hit by a car!”

I realized then that we were in the middle of a highway at almost five o’clock in the evening. Traffic stretched out behind us for what looked like miles, but, miraculously, no one was honking. It seemed that they knew what had transpired and were going to wait for us to figure things out, but not for much longer. I was in the way, and I hate being in the way because I hate when people are in my way, and you do unto others as you would like to be done unto.

I asked him for his business card. He said he didn’t have any on him, but he wrote down his phone numbers and asked me for mine. I hesitated to give him my number, but then I thought he might want to check on me later, to see how badly he’d hurt me and to try to make recompense.

“Where do you go to school?” He asked as he scribbled.

“I’M NOT A STUDENT. I’M A REGULAR ADULT.”

My hair was in a ponytail, so perhaps that made me look younger than thirty-two. If he was trying to flatter me, it wasn’t going to work—I was not going to let him subvert my power by delegitimizing me because of my youthful appearance.

“Miss Young,” he said, peering at me through his sunglasses. “I am truly sorry.” He took the paper and offered his other hand. “I am truly sorry.”

Still infuriated, I looked at his hand.

Something deep inside, below my belly, below all the crevices where I’d stored all that anger, whispered to me, “Forgive.”

*     *     *

The best explanation of the difference between forgiveness and bitterness was told to me by the anti-trafficking activist Christine Caine: “Bitterness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

Forgiveness liberates you, not the perpetrator.

I couldn’t say that word in the moment. If I forgave him, I would have no recourse to funds if something did actually go wrong with my body. People always said they felt worse after an accident the next day. I felt fine in that moment, aside from the trembling hands, scraped knees, and inability to speak with an inside voice. The word “forgive” seemed too potent for what had just happened and what could happen if my body happened to fall completely apart in the near future.

But that thing inside, over the course of only a second or two, told me that it was the right thing to do.

*     *     *

“I accept your apology,” I finally said, in my normal voice, at my normal volume. I shook his hand firmly and looked in his eyes, which I still couldn’t really see.

“Thank you, sis,” he said.

He got back in his car and I huffed, then crossed the street with the red hand and numbers flashing nine, eight anew.

The old lady yelled at me again as I walked away. I shook my head, wondering if she really would have blocked traffic on a busy road during rush hour. By the stoop in her shoulders, I was certain she would have. But I didn’t need the man’s money. The only thing he owed me was an apology, which he gave me, multiple times.

*     *     *

My therapist once asked what I wanted from my old bosses.

“The same thing I wanted from my dad and my sisters,” I said. “An apology that I will never get.”

Forgiveness starts peace, but an apology completes it. The acknowledgment of an offense, and remorse for it, rounds out the sharp edges of wrongdoing. It doesn’t make the bad action disappear, but it helps it to fade.

*     *     *

As I walked toward the library, I noticed that my breathing pattern had changed. The air went deeper into my body and came out fuller, more completely.

It was relief.

It was like I’d been carrying a boulder for miles and had finally dropped it.

I had been angry, but I hadn’t lost control.

It took being hit by an SUV to create a safe space for me to feel this emotion and dispel almost thirty-three years of pent up anger, guilt-free.

Everyone told me that I’d feel worse the next day, and I did, a little. My knee was sore, and my hip felt a little gimpy. Yet I felt the strongest sense of peace, almost like sitting in the relaxation room of a spa after a massage.

The driver never called to see if I was okay like I’d fantasized about him doing, being what I felt a good man would be. I decided to let God handle the justice angle, if there was one. I’d done my job: learned that anger isn’t evil when it’s done the right way.

 

Vonetta Young is a writer living in Washington, DC. Her essays have been published in/by Catapult, Past Ten, Blavity, BREVITY’s Nonfiction Blog, Levo League, and The Billfold, among others. She is currently writing a memoir about growing up with an absent father who was a preacher with a black belt. Follow her on Twitter at @VonettaWrites.

Natural and Organic: Oil Paintings

Wulf & Eadwacer

Gabo Finalist Winter/Spring 2019

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Translator’s Note:

We know the Old English poem “Wulf ond Eadwacer” due only to its survival in the Exeter Codex, the largest existing anthology of Anglo-Saxon poetry, which dates back to the 10th century. Since no original manuscript for the poem exists, the date of its composition, its provenance, and even the identity of its composer are all unknown.

Even within the poem itself, ambiguities abound: the identity of the speaker is unknown, while the relationship of the speaker to both Eadwacer and Wulf, the poem’s setting, and its narrative content are all subject to conflicting interpretations. The prevailing interpretation of the poem’s narrative is as a love triangle in which the unnamed speaker (who is represented as “&” in my translation) is separated from her lover, Wulf, by threat of violence from Eadwacer, who is commonly viewed as either her husband and/or captor. It is also ambiguous in this interpretation if the “cub” to which the speaker refers is her and Wulf’s lovechild or her and Eadwacer’s legitimate son. However, the poem has also been interpreted as a riddle, a ballad, a wen charm, an elegy, and a beast fable. As Peter S. Baker notes in “The Ambiguity of Wulf and Eadwacer,” half of the poem’s nineteen lines “pose lexical, syntactical, or interpretive problems.” [1]

But the challenge of interpreting the poem is only part of what makes “Wulf ond Eadwacer” an anomaly. The poem is also formally radical, both for its departures from Anglo-Saxon prosody, and for its inclusion of elements like repetition, and refrain, which were uncommon in Old English poetry. For this, and other reasons, some scholars even believe that this compellingly mysterious lyric poem might itself be a translation from the Old Norse [2] .

As the act of translation cannot be divorced from interpretation, the highly enigmatic nature of “Wulf ond Eadwacer” would seem to begird the translator, to restrict the approaches, the strategies, and the outcomes available to her. Indeed, it seems sensible to decide what a thing is and what kind of effect it should have on the reader before translating it. But the reader should not have to pay for the translator’s convenience, and perhaps the least faithful translation of this enigmatic, polyvalent anomaly of an Old English poem that might have been born Scandinavian in the first place would be to present it in the absence of its complexity, to pin the poem down to a singular, definitive interpretation, to lock it into a linear narrative that it never loved.

The translation at hand aims to release the poem back into its radical complexity—to restore the lacunae, the indeterminacy, and the strangeness that makes the Anglo Saxon version of “Wulf ond Eadwacer” so haunting. Wulf & Eadwacer uses fragments of the original Old English both to re-acquaint the reader with her etymological roots and to make her a bit of a stranger in her own language. Code-switching between Old English and Modern English, Wulf & Eadwacer embraces the proto-feminist, disjunctive voice of the original poem so that its enigmatic nature and plurality can fully be explored for the first time.

 

[1] Baker, Peter S. “The ambiguity of ‘Wulf and Eadwacer.’” Studies in Philology, Vol. 78, No. 5, Texts and Studies, 1981. “Eight Anglo-Saxon Studies.” University of North Carolina Press.

[2] Danielli, Sonja. “Wulf, Min Wulf: An Eclectic Analysis of Wolf-Man.” Neophilologus, Vol. 91, Spring 2007: 505-524.

 

M.L. Martin is a prize-winning poet and translator whose experimental translations of Old English can be found in ANMLY (f.k.a. Drunken Boat), Arkansas International, Brooklyn Rail In Translation, The Literary Review, and Waxwing. Her poetry has appeared in Denver Quarterly, DIAGRAM, EVENT: poetry & prose, The Fiddlehead, The Massachusetts Review, PRISM international, and many other Canadian and American literary journals. She is the recipient of the Theresa A. Wilhoit Fellowship, the Bread Loaf Translators’ Fellowship, and the Inprint Verlaine Prize in Poetry. She currently lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where she is a Tulsa Artist Fellow. Find more of her work at www.M-L-martin.com.

An Anonymous pre-10th c. Anglo-Saxon Feminist

What we know of the poet who composed the Anglo-Saxon text commonly referred to as “Wulf ond Eadwacer” is very limited. Though unnamed in the poem, we can discern from the feminine inflection on the words “rēotugu” and “sēoce” that the speaker is a woman. It is possible, though perhaps implausible, that the poet is male, but even so, because the poem describes and laments a forbidding set of circumstances foisted onto the female speaker by a patriarchal Anglo-Saxon culture, the poet—who may have been Scandinavian or Anglo-Saxon and lived some time before the 10th c.—was undoubtedly a feminist, an outsider, and a radical poet, who mixed forms from both Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian, subverting the literary conventions of each language culture in sophisticated and surprising ways.