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THE DAY AFTER
The day after the election, as I was walking to work through the clench of despair so many of us felt, I realized I was afraid to look passers-by in the face. I live just a few blocks from campus, in a shiny bubble of curious, smart people, in a city that once elected 3 Socialist mayors. And yet I braced myself before each person I passed, wondering, "Was it you? Was it you? Did you not vote at all? Or did you not mind what this man has said of us?" My state was one of those taken for granted and surprisingly flipped. What I dreaded most of all was facing my writing students, knowing that at least some of them voted for Trump or didn't vote at all -- these beautiful young people who have impressed me so much in other ways. I kept ducking my head, afraid to look into the faces I passed, afraid I might overhear them saying something hateful or ignorant; afraid they might reveal openly, as some had done privately in their voting the day before, that the world is crueler, more baffling, more insensible, than I could stand to believe. And I realized that I recognized this instinct to cower, this feeling that I'd better lock myself in tight and maintain a safe distance from these unfathomable people, because I might disintegrate at the slightest touch. It was the feeling I’d lived with every day of my adolescence, when I was a depressed and anxious, "hypersensitive" kid, raised by a father who enjoyed bating me at the dinner table by saying the same bigoted, misogynist things he had heard his friends and elders say, and a good, strong Catholic mother who wouldn't dare cross him to defend us. It was the frustration of being taught the beautiful belief that "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God," and then being told, over and over again, "He's just kidding. He doesn't really mean that. It's only words." These were the Reagan years in a red town that was rapidly losing its industrial jobs, a town filling with decay and anxiety, a town where many of my friends' fathers were getting laid off and demoralized and angry. Racism and misogyny were open facts of life. We were hobbled and divided by fear then, too -- bracing ourselves for a nuclear attack -- and I had nightmares all the time that the sky would turn orange, as in The Day After, and that Soviet soldiers would somehow come rushing down the stairs to my basement bedroom. Such fears have seemed laughable for a long time now, and that's good. Our country survived those times, at considerable cost. My sisters and I grew up strong and capable, with the toughness we learned from our mother's restraint. Only one in four of us voted for Trump. I managed to get out of that town and that mindset, to build a life devoted to words and to helping other fragile, searching young people find ways to make their voices heard. When I got to class, I could barely lift my eyes to look at my students. The most pointed thing I could bear to say about the election was to ask, with a face I hoped shone with compassion for the most vulnerable and scared among us: “How are you doing?” “Terrific!” said one student in the back corner. A cop, a nice guy, a good student, a decent writer. Stupefied, I said, “What?” and he said again, “Terrific!” His smile was huge. The rest of us cowered. I should have said something, but what? It has been so long since I felt that old helpless despair and smallness that I'm shaking as I type this. I have come far enough that I almost forgot it. But I'm grateful I felt it back then and lived through it, because it shows me I – and, I hope, we -- can live through this moment too. I know I should be stronger, fight harder, be fierce. I know. But the bone-deep sadness I felt that day was not just for the girl I once was, and others who’ve had it much harder than her, but also for the millions of people who felt so small and unheard and lost that they were willing to vote for a man like this, or not vote at all, and for the other millions who receive and perpetuate, unquestioned, the bigotry, hatred, and ignorance of their elders, and for the other millions who forget, at our peril, that we are a nation built on nothing but words, on truths that are indeed self-evident -- among them, that all are created equal. – Valerie Laken Valerie Laken teaches creative writing at the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee. She is the author of the novel, Dream House, and the story collection, Separate Kingdoms. She can be reached at www.valerielaken.com.
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It’s been difficult sleeping with the images. Strung out on both sides of the bed, of myself, or my family being lynched by passersby. Where non-black friends are held back, held down and forced to witness my stringing up while I struggle and grasp for breath through tears and hiccups, unable to scream, unable to do anything as chuckling hoards heave-ho on the rope. I hear scratching at dirt, and clawing at fabric, and bursts of “no, No, NO” as my feet leave the ground and I see God in a manner of which I am ashamed.
[Although brief, this statement is the sum of my worst fears that came to light in the days following November 8th. It took a while for me to figure out how to put it in words.] – JC Walton JC Walton is a full-time writer/editor at public affairs agency Subject Matter, based in Washington, D.C. Born and raised in Cincinnati, O.H., she holds a degree in Writing Seminars with a concentration in Fiction from the Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, M.D.
SLEEPWALKING
red colors me left here, alone that's how it feels I'm lost, guide me tell me I'm sleepwalking tell me I'm dreaming all of this tell me I've got to wake up soon what have you done? I'm down on my knees broken hearts cry with me but, I can't wash your hands clean tell me I'm sleepwalking tell me I'm dreaming all of this tell me I've got to wake up soon tell me it was just a nightmare tell me it was all a big mistake tell me I've got to wake up soon Thalia Speksnijder is a singer-songwriter based in West Chester, PA. AN OPEN LETTER TO DONALD TRUMP
Dear Donald, I want to congratulate you for winning the 2016 election. According to my calculations, from numbers I could find on the internet which, as you have said, may not be all that reliable, you won approximately 61,864,015 popular votes. That means you have the full support of about 19% of the US population of 325,046,461. That is almost one in five people who live in the U.S! You have impressively unleashed America’s silent majority, or at least America’s silent 19%. I’m not sure what portion of those people say theirs wasn’t a vote in favor of hate but in favor of a change in the Washington establishment, but I know there are some, and some portion of those didn’t like you or Hilary, and if we count some portion of those who are growing increasingly uncomfortable by the spike in hate crimes and the boldness of your neo-nazi supporters, even with all that I think you solidly have the support of at least 5% of the US population. Don’t be disheartened by the number of protests, marches, candlelight vigils, prayer meetings, petitions, articles, student walk-outs, songs, poems, and letters of condolences from foreign countries against you. Every despot in the history of the world has stood exactly where you stand, looking down on his subjects and wondering where the love is. Why does hate speech beget so much hatred? I’ve always wondered. Anyway, it is going to take a lot of determination to build that wall, deport the Muslims, build concentration camps, deregulate the environment, replace immigrant labor, get women back in the kitchen, prepare for the rising sea levels, turn away the climate refugees, and all the other things presidents do. I wish you luck. And if you win and no one is left but that 19%, all I can say is you won fair and square. The spoils of the earth will be yours to keep. Sincerely, Chaitali Sen Chaitali Sen is the author of The Pathless Sky, Europa Editions, 2015 https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25065639-the-pathless-sky www.chaitalisen.com LITTLE FIRE
It was only a little fire meant, perhaps, merely to singe the edges of the written page or spark a torch to pierce the forest gloom. There was smoke on the horizon and it grew closer until our lungs were choked, our eyes weeping, red without end. Preserve us from the slumber of the just and let the rains rain down. Let sleepless nights become our sacrament. The palace is burning. Strike the calendar from the wall and let us arise and go. Across the way the sugar maple blazes under the bluest sky. Imagine that winter will pass. Imagine that a year from now the maple will still be standing. – W. Luther Jett W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland, whose poetry has been published in numerous journals, including: The GW Review, Poetica, Syncopated City, Synæsthesia, ABRAXAS, Scribble, Beltway, Innisfree, Xanadu, Haiku Journal, Steam Ticket, Potomac Review, and Main Street Rag. His poetry performance piece, Flying to America, debuted at the 2009 Capital Fringe Festival. He has been a featured reader at many local venues, including The Nora School, the Summer 2009 Joaquin Miller Cabin Series, Zed Cafe, the Kensington Row Bookshop series & Aah Coffee. His chapbook, “Not Quite” has recently been published by Finishing Line Press. RESTING PULSE
I just experienced a trigger moment on Face Book. Someone posted a story about an Asian woman in a quiet California suburb who got hit with raw eggs and told to go back to her homeland. This is her homeland. My immediate thought is: so, she got hit with a raw egg, so what? At least she's safe and there was no bloodshed. But then. My next thought is a memory. It is 1978 in Queens, NY. Carter is President. I am thirteen and walking home from school on Halloween. I carry a flute in its case from band class. I am twenty feet from my house. Suddenly my case is hit with a raw egg. Then my face. When I look up, I hear shouts of Hindu! Go back to your own damn country! At least I was safe and there was no bloodshed, right? Not quite. Those words and that memory have shaped my outlook and my life. I am a woman of South Asian descent, having immigrated with my parents at the age of three, after the 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act removed quotas and allowed highly skilled immigration for professionals and students from India. I allowed those words, and others over the years, to sink in to my psyche, where a tape replayed them and I spiraled down into low self esteem, anxiety and paralyzing self consciousness. My resting pulse in my young adulthood, so my husband says, was 120. I became afraid. This fear took decades to overcome. I eventually went to medical school, became a physician, discovered my love of literature and writing, and with a lot of soul searching and hard work, overcame my negative thoughts and my race-based fears. Words hurt. Words do more damage than we think. Words can cause impressionable minds to cling to misguided ideas about themselves and the world and can take a long time to overcome. It is post election. Old wounds are opening. Memories are emerging linked to a sense of being invisible. Is this the new normal? – Vimi Bajaj |
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