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    Welcome to my portfolio. You will find research papers, short stories, creative non-fiction works, really anything I write will be found here. Cheers, thanks for reading.

  • The Tensions of the Pre and Post Agricultural World

    In Homer’s The Odyssey, he deals with the integral theme of the tension between before and post the Agricultural Revolution. In the Greek world, this tension was huge, as it separated most heroes from their foes. The Greeks saw those who were still in the Stone age as inferiors; they knew that they were not as intelligent, “Then off they went, and I laughed to myself, at how my name, the ‘no man’ maneuver, tricked him” (Wilson pg. 253). Following Odysseus’ journey, many times we see his back against the wall, using his cunning and manipulative nature to come out as the notorious hero. Odysseus is Homer’s figure for the post-Agricultural world, and him being the hero, implies the advancement in technology, healing, and fighting that comes with being in the post-Agricultural world.  Throughout Odysseus’ journey, he meets many different individuals and enemies, ranging from those who may be from either of the two worlds, though the obstacles he faces in this epic are almost primarily those of the pre Agricultural world. So, Homer uses Odysseus as a tool in order to show the conflict between those still in the Pre-Agricultural world and those who have been living through the Agricultural Revolution for some time.

                We see this with the women that Odysseus encounters. Circe and Calypso both live in places that have yet to integrate any sort of agriculture. And this lack of agriculture is what ultimately brings their defeat to Odysseus. However, I think the most implicit example of this tension between the pre and post agricultural world is when Odysseus and his crew come across the Cyclops, Polyphemus, “They put their trust in gods, and do not plant their food from seed, nor plow, and yet the barley, grain, and clustering wine-grapes all flourish there, increased by rain from Zeus” (Wilson pg. 243). Upon Odysseus’ first look on the island its clear that these tensions between the groups are primarily from the lack of agriculture that Polyphemus has. As Odysseus goes on to explain how the Cyclops’ live, it is clear that Odysseus’ and most likely the Greeks, thoughts towards civilization are tied in the act of agriculture and structure. Without it, a group of people is deemed to be on the same spectrum of barbarians or Neanderthals. This central theme is reinforced again when Polyphemus throws a boulder at Odysseus as he brags about how he tricked the Cyclops, “He ripped a rock straight out of the hill and hurled it at us” (Wilson pg. 255). Polyphemus, still being in the Stone Age, has no real weapon to kill Odysseus with. He only has boulders, rocks, and the items the earth produces around him.

                The fight and ultimately the win that Odysseus claims, reinforces the central theme of the tensions between those in a pre and post agricultural world. However, these triumphs of Odysseus’ show that those who have advanced technologically, whether that be with food or weapons, will always win, “So we sailed on, with sorrow in our hearts, glad to survive, but grieving for our friends” (Wilson pg. 258). Time is ceaseless, so I believe that Homer is trying to infer that that advancement of technology will always be an advantage during these mythical times. The tension between those in the pre and post agricultural world are great but this advancement is the reason that Odysseus emerges as a hero time and time again.

  • Friday Night Lies

    When hearing the words Friday night lights, many immediately started recounting their memories associated with such; whether it was playing on the field, watching from the sidelines, or maybe not even caring enough to go, only hearing the score through your classroom’s box TV during the morning announcements on Monday. But for the children growing up in the 2000’s, Friday Night Lights is a staple in our life. From hearing about the book and never actually reading it, to the show that we all indulged in, screaming “Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose” along with the panthers.

             But whatever you may have heard about the fantastical stories of these glorious Friday’s was not at all what I encountered in H.G. Bissinger’s original true story about the Permian Panthers and their 1988 football season. What I did learn was not all smiles, victories, and trophies, but the ugly truth of being the lifeline for a crumbling town.

    I

             When I told my father I had to read this book, he casually threw out that he had lived in Odessa, Texas for about 10 years in the 1970’s, during what was known, as the boom. This caught me off guard, but only for a moment, since my father has tendencies to peal back layers like an onion; still at 20 years old, I am learning things about him that never even crossed my mind. I know he went to Brown and Yale, born and raised a yankee, that he’s never been drunk in his life, loves Marvel comics, and that he works for the government, but that’s about it. That’s the job. That’s the relationship. But this book gave me an opportunity to delve into a part of my father’s past along with the rest of West Texas.

             Bissinger, moving to Texas only to follow this legendary high school’s football season, saw everything for the first time, as did I. As he drove down the roads, and saw the high school, the stadium, the black uniforms, and the peppettes, I was traveling down those roads; envisioning my father’s life on the oil rig, traveling home to what I can only assume was an apartment, or at best, a shotgun house with one room. Bissinger’s easy and fluid prose sucked me into a world that was not like mine at all, but also every bit like it.

             What if my dad had stayed in Texas? What if he had told my mom to move down with him, and start a family in Odessa? Would my life be more intertwined with sports than it already has been? As a girl, would I face any pressure? These questions haunt me, thinking of what could have been if I had been born in raised in the football state.

    II

             When I was a sophomore in high school, I was in the middle of a basketball game. Lined up for a free throw, I started to realize a tingling feeling in my legs, which led to me not feeling them at all. I grabbed on to the opposing player next to me, and looked at her with fear in my eyes, “I can’t feel my legs.” I continued to play somehow, but the fear of that feeling never went away. In the days that followed, every time I stood up it was like I was dying. To begin my eyes would fade black, temporarily making me blind. Then a steady ringing would begin in my ears, getting louder with each beat that it would become unbearable, making me grab my ears in anguish. But the worst part was the loss of control over my body. I would be thrown into walls my knees locking and unlocking, thrusting me up and down. Minutes would go by, and the episode would end.

             Weeks later, I went to the Children’s Heart Association, and was thankfully diagnosed quickly, with an autoimmune disorder called postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome. It’s not like I was going to die, or not like I am going to die, but it does feel like a part of me died.

             Bissinger’s following and fascination of the panther’s tailback, Boobie, reminded me a lot of myself. In a meaningless scrimmage he hurts his knee, and consequently quit the team. Before the injury, he had everything going for him; college offers, dreams of the NFL, and the idea that he would be making millions. The second his knee snapped, so did all those dreams. The second I was diagnosed, all my dreams snapped. I had college dreams of playing soccer, hopefully Division 1, I was competitive and refused to settle for anything less. Same with Boobie. The second that was taken from him, it was over with. Same for me. Bissinger’s portrayal of Boobie resonated with me in ways I never thought it would. I wanted him to try to rehabilitate, to get back to the speedy, fearless hero that the town of Odessa had known him as. I wanted myself to do the same.

             I never want to victimize myself. I am very privileged to be in the position I am; many people travel to my doctor from Pennsylvania, Maryland, Delaware, you name it. The other closest doctor to treat POTS is someone at the Mayo Clinic, halfway across the country. Like I said, I’m not going to die. But my diagnosis changed my life, much like Boobie’s. I experienced the worst “episode” of my life junior year of high school. It lasted months. I only went to half days at school, and people were more surprised to see me actually attending class rather than missing it. I don’t like to dwell on it, but I don’t know if I can have children. I’m in college, and I can’t drink. And according to everything online, there is no cure. It could go away, it could not. And if it does, finally, by some miracle, go away, it’ll be in between my 30’s and 50’s. When I type it out for me to fully comprehend, it’s depressing.

             But like Boobie, and like myself, life keeps going. It keeps moving whether you like it or not. Injuries cause college recruiters to retract their scholarship offers, whether you like it or not.

    III

             It was hard for me to not envision myself in the boys portrayed in the story because of my father’s ties to the town. There were some neighboring towns called Arlington and Richmond. Being from Virginia, we have both an Arlington and Richmond. Odessa, at one point was one of the richest towns in the United States. So was Northern Virginia. Obviously, football was huge at Permian. As it was at my high school, we won states 3 of my four years there, and it continues to be a legacy. Much like Permian was. /

             I can’t deny my identity; I am a white female, probably the most privileged specimen on earth. But in Virginia, where I was raised, is one of the most diverse cities in the world. I grew up without any question of someone’s race, ethnicity, or color of their skin. I never thought of myself as superior or on a pedestal, that just doesn’t exist where I’m from. There was no need to question it, they were human beings.

             The culture shock I encountered reading about Odessa was unlike any kind before. The blatant racism, slinging the n-word without any repercussions, the economic instability.  From at the beginning of the book, where I felt ties with this town and these people, to being sick with the way they objectified black boys and how the town treated the black community in general. I wonder again, what would my life be like if my father had never gotten out of Texas? Would I had grown up with these racist ideals? Would that be the norm?

             Although Odessa and Permian seemed to me like a sense of home, a sense of what could’ve been, that could never be my home. Bissinger’s travels helped me discover a part of my father’s geographical past, but not his social past. The racism displayed towards these young black boys shed light on how football is used as a tool for society. As a tool for white people to use black men as objects.

             Virginia and Texas are the same, but very different. I can’t fathom the prejudice I might have towards someone just because I was born in Odessa rather than Centreville.

             This book gave me insight to the objectification of black boys, the sweat and blood that goes into football, and helped me get through my own victimization by resonating with these boys.

    IV

             Bissinger wanted to capture these boys and high school football in a way no one ever has. He wanted to humanize a generation that was used to keep a town together. But the one thing Bissinger wanted most from these boys, was for them to succeed. And to succeed did not mean the NFL, it meant in any capacity that these boys considered a successful, happy life. Maybe that is not what he originally intended for the book, but it is what came to be. And with Bissinger cheering these boys on, all you can do as the reader, is cheer them on a little harder. The last words in the locker room of the 1988 season are the same I think that Bissinger and myself would want every reader to take from reading this book, “Let each of you discover where your chance for greatness lies. Seize that chance and let no power on earth deter you.”

  • Fiction in a Pandemic: Ulysses Teaches Human Condition and Hope

    Everyone has faced their own trials and tribulations this year. And that is even without a global pandemic. Personally, I have been immunocompromised for over seven years now. I have a form of dysautonomia called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.  I have lived constantly in a state of fear of the world around me. When I was diagnosed, I consumed myself in fictional characters to feel some sort of sanity of a world that no longer made sense to me. But this year, the man who made me love reading, my father, was diagnosed with cancer. Now, in a pandemic that blindsided us all, worrying about my dad and myself, literature has never been more important in understanding the human condition and ourselves. Delving into realities that are different than our own, minds that are different than our own, help us to keep hope in our own world and understand the different perspectives and problems that others are facing.

                Surprisingly, I did not have to read that much Fiction for my classes this semester. Because of this, I really latched on to the ideas brought forth in our reading of James Joyce’s Ulysses. Although the obstacles faced in Ulysses are glaringly different than mine, we have many similarities. The feeling of isolation and loneliness is something I have not been able to shake throughout these past months. That feeling of slipping depression, that is amplified by that loneliness parallels the feelings of both Bloom and Stephen. In Proteus, we get a long stream of consciousness from Stephen, “His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless this till the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds…You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls do you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover, slinging, the more the more” (page 40). I think this passage is important because Stephen is associating goodness with dark rather than the light. During this pandemic, the goodness that we are consuming in every day life is not necessarily light. I am thankful for the time spent with my family, but I despise that this deepening connection came from so much loss and despair. Goodness is subjective in Stephen’s mind it seems, as it has changed in mine as well. Even when lost and grieving, goodness does not need to appear in any specific form, as long as it appears at all. The idea of how literature has helped me in this time is brought forth by Stephen when talking about the role of artists, “Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves” (page 174). Writers have the ability to take the reader from whatever reality they are living, and divulging them in something completely different then their own. In this pandemic, it has been imperative to take myself out of my own reality and put myself in other’s shoes. Though the grief Stephen feels, and the isolation Bloom faces, for a paragraph it made me feel like my problems are not as significant as others. The tribulations I am facing could be much worse, and Fiction has helped me to realize the fortunate position I have truly been placed in. The last quote of the entire book, Molly’s monologue, encompasses not only the real meaning of life and the human condition, but it applies to our current world: “And Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and fist I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes” (pages 643-644). As I take it, Molly’s final monologue is a yes to life. A yes too the world, to love, strength. A yes to the world.

                Through Fiction, specifically through Ulysses, I have learned this year to understand others struggles. I have learned to understand the human condition: people are an evolving species but our moral values and what inherently makes us humans has stayed the same. We all strive for love, family, and a good world. I hope that in the post-pandemic world, that people will continue to strive in their goals but continue to hone the family values that have brought many together. We all wish to give and receive love, and we have seen an outpouring gesture of affection to those who are not usually celebrated. I hope that Fiction will become or continue to be a safe place for those who need to escape their own reality. Fiction helps make this path for the future because of the core fundamentals of humans that are carried without despite the plot of the story: love, life, beauty, strength.

  • First and Final Drafts

    Lizjumped when the phone rang, but as she picked up the receiver a look of good will crossed her face. It was her agent, Priscilla, she had spoken to the publishing house earlier that afternoon. Liz smiled, thinking that she had shown great progress over the course of her professional writing career, with this upcoming fourth book promised to be her best, and she was determined to make it so.

    Priscilla droned on about the logistics of things, something Liz never really understood, so she let her mind wander over the character arc’s she had been working through. She turned to her desk to look over the notes she had made, Lawyer? No, too ambitious. An accountant? Not ambitious enough. She had been struggling with the love interest for her protagonist; usually the character’s fell into her lap, but this one, if it had fell, had missed her lap by about 100 yards.

    Priscilla had been repeating her name for some time on the other line, so Liz turned away from her notes and focused back on Priscilla’s voice. Where there had last been a smile, years of mothering, stress, and the inability to make any best seller’s lists, began to show in the creases that outlined her once beautiful, youthful face. Now, she looked tired. Priscilla relayed the message from the publishing house, this was it. The last shot. Or everything would cease to exist; the contract, the income, and even Priscilla. She thanked her agent, and stifled a sob. It was only after she’d replaced the phone in its cradle that the full impact of what she’d just heard washed over her.

    She decided not to wallow in her pain; the only way to write a great novel was to experience and she couldn’t be locked in her office anymore, her ideas being drowned out by the sounds of her children screaming and playing in the living room. She closed her laptop, careful to save the progress she had made, and turned for the door.

    “Liz, you leave your cave for the night? What’s for dinner?” Mike called out from their bedroom, where he was inevitably watching whatever sports game was currently airing. Liz would ask what sport was on, maybe even who was playing, but it had been years since Mike had asked her how her writing was going, or if she even had any hobbies. The answer though, was that she didn’t. Her life was a never ending cycle of taking care of all of Noah and Lily’s needs and wants, writing, being told she didn’t make any accolade lists, making meals for her man-child husband, and finally, getting drinks with her best, and at this point maybe only, friend Leslie. She had no time for any hobbies. At the very least, she didn’t have time to watch a sports game while someone was supposed to be feeding their children dinner.

    Liz opened the pantry, looking at the ingredients for meals she cooks once, if not twice, a week. There were cans strewn across the floor, shelves overflowing with fruit snacks, other snacks as empty as a Western town, and of course, no one had bothered to put any of the eaten items on the grocery list. She scanned the pantry for something new. She was sick of pasta, and the kids were definitely also sick of pasta. But all she seemed to find was different variations of said dish: spaghetti, rigatoni, ravioli, elbows, angel hair pasta. She sighed and murmured, “Fuck it.” She grabbed her keys from the counter and yelled back to Mike “Order a pizza for you and the kids, I’m going to Leslie’s for a few hours.” She grabbed her jacket, and a bottle of wine on her way out the door, making sure to shoot a text to Leslie for forewarn her she was coming. Though, they had started to do this so often, she half expected Leslie to be waiting for her by the door like a puppy waiting for their owner to return.

              ***

      “I just don’t know what to do. Writing used to feel so easy, like the words I had to say were just exuding from my fingertips with no real control over it. Now I have to try,” Liz and Leslie were two bottles deep at this point, and the conversation had finally come around to Liz’s conversation with Priscilla earlier that night. “I mean, how do you become a great romance novelist if you’re not sure if you know what love feels like?”

                Leslie was about to take another sip of her glass, but stopped when Liz had said that. “What? You’re married with two kids. You had the big white wedding, you have the white picket fence, what could you not love about that?”

                “Mike.” Liz took a gulp of her wine, finishing her glass, and reached for the bottle. Before she could grab the neck however, Leslie grabbed it first out of reach. Leslie gave a look Liz knew all too well. She wasn’t going to get the wine back until she spilled the beans. Liz sighed, “I don’t know. Sometimes I just feel like I have three kids instead of two. And you know we haven’t slept together in 6 months?”

                “No!” Leslie sarcastically gasped, “Not six months!” They laughed, “That’s marriage, some years you hate each other, some years you love each other. It’s getting through those years that you hate each other that counts.”

                “And how would you know? You’ve never been married. You haven’t even told me if you’ve dated in the last year. You don’t even like men,” Liz grabbed the bottle back, “it would be so easy if I just liked women like you.” Leslie dropped her eye contact with Liz, and grew very quiet. “What? What’d I say?”

                Leslie spoke so softly Liz had to lean in to hear her clearly, “How dare you. You know, for being a writer, you’re not very observant. We’ve been doing this for months –” Drinking wine? Being friends? Liz thought she must have been stupid because whatever Leslie was implying was not computing with her. Then she caught Leslie staring at her out of the corner of her eye. There was that look she thought of earlier, she did look like a puppy waiting for their owner to return. Leslie grabbed the bottle from Liz once again, and finished it off, opting not to pour herself a last glass, but instead drank straight from the bottle. “I haven’t dated in over two years, actually, if that’s what the real question was. I haven’t dated because every time I see you my heart swells like the dumb Grinch, but when you leave to tuck your children in for the night and sleep next to that man, who really we could start calling a child, my heart grows so cold and small, that I don’t think any stethoscope would be able to find a heartbeat.” The words Leslie recited were muffled to Liz, her mind was elsewhere. She should have known. The looks. The touches. The long nights where they seemed to talk about everything and nothing, all at once. She would be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t thought about something with Leslie before. She didn’t want to think that she had thought about a relationship or a life with Leslie, that felt like cheating. She still had a family at home. Two children that she loved dearly, and wanted to watch them grow up and be involved in their lives. But, with the family also came Mike. She had never thought so frequently or so much about how unhappy she really was with him. When she looked at him she no longer got the butterflies in her stomach that had carried her through their relationship up to the altar when they said “I do.” She no longer longed for him when his presence was not near. And in that moment, it became clear to her that she was not in love, and maybe never in love at all.

                “I don’t love him.” Liz blurted it out before the thought could complete itself in her head. She smelled the Merlot that fell from Leslie’s mouth when she gaped in shock. The merlot. The smell brought Liz back in a whirling feeling, through all of the nights her and Leslie had shared, the wine bottles that signified their time together, the wrinkles they could not get rid of from laughing so hard. The feeling of complete and utter euphoria and it struck her like a bat. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved him. I think I’ve been in love with the idea of writing love stories so much, that I tried to write my own. But I messed up, I did. That’s why everything I write sucks,” Liz was crying now, she could no longer see Leslie as the tears had blurred her vision but she continued, “Because I’m an idiot who was blinded by a white picket fence.” She sobbed. The air in the room was so still that they were both too afraid to stir it. Until Leslie made the first move.         

                Liz felt Leslie’s arms wrap around her with a warm familiarity. This time was different. It wasn’t just a hug from a friend, there was a depth to it. Leslie was holding her tightly, her right arm slowly caressing Liz’s shoulders and upper-back. While her left arm stayed firmly grasped on Liz’s waist. Leslie whispered, so the room once again, filled with the aroma of Leslie’s merlot breath, “I would never ask you to leave him. I would only ever ask you to love me like you want to.”

    It had been 3 months since Liz’s conversation with Leslie. The leaves on the trees were starting to brown, every gust of wind threatening to knock them from their branches signaling the beginning of winter. She picked her pen tip up from the paper, read through what she’d written, put the cap back on her pen, folded up the letter and put it in an envelope, licked the envelope and smoothed the crease. She had thought about this for some time and was finally ready to pull the trigger. She could no longer live in a marriage that brought her no joy, that stinted her creative mind from being able to flow. She could no longer live in a marriage with no love. She had packed her bags, as the house was in Mike’s name, and she was the one ruining their family, she felt it only right that she was the one who had to start over. She thought over her plan: leave the letter on the kitchen counter where Mike was sure to see it, seek refuge at Leslie’s, and return in a few days to see the children, she wasn’t abandoning them and didn’t want them to feel that way. She was escaping a situation that no longer brought any positives, and that would be hard for Noah and Lily to hear, but one day they would understand. Whether that day was sooner or later, she didn’t know. But she had to do this for herself.

    Liz sighed, and returned to her office one last time to double check she had packed everything she needed to finish her book. She reminisced on the books she had written in this room; the good and the bad, the short and the long. This room, for so long, had served as her creative solace. Now, it felt like a type of creative imprisonment, her own personal hell of writer’s block. Soon, she couldn’t stand to be in there anymore, and Mike would be returning with the children soon. She wanted to be gone before then, to lessen the blow. She placed the envelope on the counter and turned for the door. “There, that’s done,” she thought.

    She packed her bags in the car, and got in the driver’s seat to begin her new life. She searched for her keys in her purse, but she was blinded by the tears that had welled up in her eyes. She knew Leslie made her happy, she knew she was in love, but why did this feel so wrong? She should go back, face Mike in person. “No, you idiot,” Liz called out to no one but herself in the cab of the car. That’s why she wrote a letter, because if she were to face Mike, her mouth would be at a loss for words, when instead her hands have always had too much to say. She took deep breaths. In… Out…. In….Out. This was right. Part of her thought that Mike would expect this. They had barely spoken in the these last 3 months, only to ask what was for dinner or who had to pick up the children from school. Or maybe, that’s how it had always been and she had just started paying attention. She checked herself out in the rear view mirror, clearing the mascara and snot from her face, and turned on the car. This was it. A new life and muse, “Cheers to maybe being able to write something worth a stupid list.” She began to cry again, but this time her sobs were drowned out by her own laughter. This felt good. She pulled out of the driveway and didn’t look back.

    “How would you say this novel has been different from your others, besides the Sapphic trope you seem to have integrated?” The reporter held out her iPhone toward Liz so she could capture her response clearly on her voice recording app. The Barnes and Noble was full of reporters and readers buzzing in excitement. It had been so long since someone from Northern Virginia, specifically Centreville, had made the top 10 best seller list. The town was bustling with excitement. There were school aged girls, angsty teenagers, mothers, single women, even a few men were in attendance. When Liz was asked by Priscilla to do a reading and question and answer, Leslie had to convince her. Part of Liz thought that someone had doctored the bestseller’s list, and no one was actually reading this book, after so many other failed attempts. She was wrong.

    “Well, I don’t think it’s a trope,” Liz awkwardly laughed, “It’s pretty obvious the two main characters are gay. Did you miss the sex scene, or should I read that aloud?” The crowd erupted in laughter. Liz had never felt like this – she commanded the room. She set the tone, and they followed. “But seriously,” and the room grew very quiet, “this past year, I had discovered my muse. Something that I thought I had for years, but really it was infatuation. To write stories of love, I think it’s imperative to have felt it at some point. To have longed to see your person when they’re not near, to wake up each morning with a smile on your face because you know you made the right decision, to instinctually make two cups of coffee in the morning instead of one, even if the French press takes more effort than a Keurig. But heartbreak is also imperative to stories of love too. Without heartbreak or the feeling of being alone, where is the elation in love? There is no love if there is no lonely. And you can’t be lonely if you have never felt love. And I felt both this year. I wrote about both this year. This book is different because it’s not fake, and it’s not trying to fit the mold of some box. It’s just trying to mold itself to be.”

    “Thank you, Ms. Evans,” the reporter sat back down. The crowd began to applaud. The rest of the question and answer was a blur. Liz was lost in pure euphoria. She answered questions thoughtfully, at least she believed she did, but among the euphoria was an incredible waft of feeling like she made it. Liz had tried for so long to prove she could do it; to the publishing house, to Priscilla, to Mike, but most importantly, to herself.

    She signed copies of her book until her hand ached and she was re-thinking the cover. Was it ugly, or had she just seen the cover be flipped so many times in front of her face that the sight now made her motion sick? She thought that every author who went on a tour must have the same feeling, and decided to be happy she was sick of it, there could be no cover, after all.

    Even Mike showed up with their children, she was able to see them every weekend, but it never felt like long enough. There would be no custody hearing, instead, once she was settled in her new house with Leslie, the children would come to stay every other week. And Mike had started dating again, secreting Liz’s thoughts that this was the right choice after all. Everyone was happier.

    When everyone had left that night, it was just Liz, Leslie, and a few of the employees left in the store. Liz’s display was upfront, a whole shelf of just her book. They were close to smacking customers in the face, as soon as they walked in the door. Leslie took pictures of the display, while Liz stared and took it in. All night long she had felt like she had made it. But now with her work in front of her, her muse by her side, and a cramped hand, she knew that she had everything she could ever want. Leslie took her hand, “You know, first drafts are never good. Sometimes you have to write your love story twice to get it right. And I think you did just that.” Liz kissed her lover, and smiled.

    “My first drafts always did suck.”

  • Scout Sailing

    I didn’t know where my scout leader had gone. I couldn’t spot Tony, or Jeremiah, or even the best swimmer in our troop, Peter. Waist deep in the ocean I turned to face the shore before me. No one was waiting for me, no rescue team, not even an animal. Sprawled out before me, I was staring into a scene from a movie.

                An island. Big enough that it would not be swept up by a storm in one night, but small enough that if I stood in the water as I was, I could see the curve of the island. Beyond the curve, ocean. As I walked slowly to the shore, I took in the landscape.

                The foreground consisted of sand and driftwood. The shells were scarce and the waves never seemed to come. Beyond the sand a line of trees. The trees seemed to dictate a clear distinction on the island. The curtain of trees behind the sand blocked the sun. The bushes and trees that swallowed up the land in the forest were so tightly packed I wasn’t sure if I would be able to pass that first line of trees.

                I turned back toward the ocean and sat, defeated. How did this happen? We knew what we were doing, we had studied for years and trained for months.

                                                                            ***

                Turning sixteen was a big deal for the Boy Scouts that resided in South Florida. For my troop, it meant finally going sailing, starting at the keys and working our way back up through the Gulf of Mexico, until finally docking back in Destin, Florida. I had joined the Scouts just for this reason. Before my dad had died he had been a sailor in the Coast Guard. This would be our chance to reconnect. My dad, me, and the love of the water. But since my dad’s death, my mom’s disdain for the Scouts had turned into disgust. She prayed, begged, and nagged for years to not let me ship off.

                “Tom, you do know you’ll be gone for months. That means no video games, no cell phone reception, no hugs from your mom,” my mom’s pale hands turned even more white as her knuckles gripped the steering wheel.

                I sighed before responding, “I know that, Mom. I have known that since the day I signed up to be a Cub Scout. If I didn’t want to sincerely go on this trip, I would’ve quit when I was 8.” As we drove to the dock where we would sail off from, I took in the landscape of my hometown. The rushing strip malls and tourist stores, the acres of suburbs all with perfectly manicured lawns, the bridge that took us to the harbor that squeaked as you drove over it. The sprawling green blue water sparkled in the sunlight. The water’s rhythm brought me a sense of peace before embarking on what would surely be the adventure of my life. Whoosh, whoosh, back and forth, back and forth.

                                                                            ***

                My shoes and socks were so soaked my toes had turned to raisins. I had begun to wring out my clothing. I was wearing my stupid scout button down that was covered in badges and pins. It was impossible to dry without pricking my fingers or getting a good angle to really force the water out. Sitting in the sand, feeling swallowed by the particles of salty air, I scanned the shoreline like I had a hundred times already. I could see no part of our boat, no splashing in the water, no signs of life. I got up and started towards the water, hoping that if I got closer maybe I would see someone. Anyone. Anything.

                I could see where we had crashed, where the swell had taken us. There was no evidence of the wreck. But I knew it had happened. It was engraved in my memory.

                We left the Keys about a month ago. There was two months left on our trip. Until the wreck, all was well. We fished, ate, drank, played cards, and manned the ship. It was exactly as I imagined. It was a real adventure with the boys I had grown up with and a Scout Leader who was like a father to us.

                As we sailed through the night, we knew we had entered the Gulf. The water was a different color than the Keys. It was more…intimidating. The salt water smell forced its way into your nostrils and stamped your pores. I was sitting on the bow, taking in the scent, letting the spray hit my hands as I reached them out over the side of the boat, when Mr. J., the Scout Leader announced, “Do you boys smell that? Look up.” Storm clouds filled the sky. “Shit, the radio said no rain tonight. We would’ve stayed in the Keys if I knew we’d hit rough waters.”

                The other boys and I exchanged glances. We knew how to dock in an emergency, but that was in safe waters, and safe towns. We were in the middle of nowhere. “Tom, Peter, start helping me put the sail back up, we’re going to have to swing east and find somewhere to stay the night.” Peter and I did as we were told. We didn’t talk while putting the sail up, only sharing many of the same glances which said: we are fucked.

                We had just started turning eastward as the waves picked up. It was miraculous. One moment we were wading in the calm waters, the next we were being tossed like victims of Poseidon. There was no gentle sea spray to comfort my hands, if the water came near the tip of the boat, it was coming by the gallons.

                The lightning seemed to be striking in every direction. I shut my eyes to count the seconds between the strikes, just like I learned to do as a little boy. CRACK! One Missi- CRACK! “Oh shit!” On the second crack, before I could even make it to the second Mississippi, the strike forced its way past my tightly scrunched eyes. We were quite literally in the eye of the storm.

                From there my memory becomes more of a blur. I remember hearing screams. I remember the constant strikes of lightning and thunder that seemed to assault us relentlessly. The last visual memory I have is the lightning splitting the boat in two, the mast of the sail coming directly for my head, and the faint noise of Peter yelling at me to jump.

                I came to on a spare piece of plywood. Its yellow color indicated that it was the side of the boat. I sat up on the plank, careful not to lose my balance, and surveyed the scene. No other boat pieces, no other humans, but I saw an island so small it would have never made it on a map. I could barely see it in the distance now, but it broke my heart to think we were so close to shore. I started to use every inch of my strength to make it to shore.

                                                                            ***

                The day turned to night before I could blink. I had failed to set up camp, find food or a water source. This is not what you’d expect from someone who spent many hours researching the wild, but the Scouts never prepared me for being stranded alone. For all I knew, my friends were dead. Mr. J. was probably dead too. Or they could’ve been rescued and I was the one that didn’t make it.

                I started pacing back and forth on the beach, trying to formulate some type of plan. I refused to enter the forest, especially at night. During the day it was dark, but during the night it seemed to have a haunting aura to it that I did not want to disturb. I knew I needed to find water and food.

                But instead, I dropped to my knees and let out a bellowing scream, “HELP ME!” It seemed stupid, but what was I going to do? I had nothing. Not even a knife. At the sound of my voice, a fleet of birds flew from the trees and out over the ocean. I relished their freedom. Who knows how long I would be here.

                I eventually got to work. I piled together all the drift wood in the pile and started using a stick and a rock to start a flame. There was a spark, but no fire produced itself and the night was becoming cold. I found some berries near the tree line. There were only four and their color resembled a tomato. My stomach growled in desperation. So I put two of the berries in my shirt pocket for the morning and whispered, “Bottom’s up,” as I ate the other two. My stomach protested and wanted me to bring the berries back up but I refused. I needed the nutrition, what little there may be.

                I returned to the driftwood to continue trying to make a fire. After five minutes the rock and stick wouldn’t produce a spark. Sweating, I started moving the pieces faster and harder, doing everything to try and create a flame. Finally, a puff of smoke, a hiss of flame, and the driftwood caught on fire. “HA! WOOHOO!” I screamed for all the animals in the forest to hear me. I galloped around the fire, exuding joy grateful that I was not entirely useless. With my berries in my stomach, and the warmth of the flame next to my face, I shrunk into the sand and finally fell asleep.

                                                                            ***

                For what felt like days, it could’ve been weeks, the eyes of the forest stared at me. It was as if it was begging me to take a walk inside, to see if I would find anything useful. Still, I refused. If something in the forest was useful for me, then I was probably prey for something else. But the berries on the trees were starting to become scarce, I was now eating one a day. The lack of fresh water on the shore was starting to show. I was skinnier than ever. My collarbone, elbows, and knee bones practically showed through my skin. You could see the crevices in my ribs and the hollow hole where my gut used to be.

    I felt weaker by the day, and knew that if I didn’t find a way to get real food soon, I would die. I could feel death coming. But death didn’t feel scary as it slowly made its way toward me. But rather, like an old friend coming to say hello.  

    Death told me not to enter the forest. And I knew death was right. There was a reason I had let myself wither away rather than search for nutrition. I do not know if death told me to avoid the forest because something was inside or because I was meant to be on the outside.

    Maybe I wasn’t supposed to survive. Maybe it was my destiny on this adventure. Maybe this, as grave as it was, was the reconnecting with my father. Had he died like this? Had he lost hope on a shore in the middle of the ocean. I gasped for breath, my mind spinning. I kneeled to the ground clutching my chest.

    I knew this is how my father had died now. It was unexplainable, but I felt what he felt. Death whispered in my ear that it was true. I started to lie on the sand, now in a fetal position. I had never felt pain in my stomach like such before. It tore and ripped at my organs. I screamed for my mom but no one came. I started to cry but no tears would form. I laid thinking of my mother, of my father, my friends, and Mr. J.; about life and about death. It was weird, but I felt closer to my father than ever before. I could see him now. He was saying something to me. I yelled, “I can’t hear you! Speak up.”

    Suddenly, he was next to me, “I said it’s okay son, tell Death it’s time.”

    I looked up to see Death staring back and me, an old friend who had finally reached me. A Peter. A Mr. J. Death was ever changing to me but I found comfort in that solace. “Take me,” I mustered through dry lips. Death chuckled as he granted my wish.

  • The Alienation and Identity Crises in Invisible Man

    Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man tells the story of a young black man in a white-powered society. The boy begins at Tuskeegee College in a battle royal for the white towns men’s enjoyment. This invisible man is soon kicked out of school for taking Mr. Norton, one of the college’s trustees, to the gin-mill in hopes to help him. Dr. Beldsoe, who expels him, sends invisible man to New York, telling him to find work, however Dr. Beldsoe makes it impossible for him to find work by telling the employers not to hire invisible man, thus putting him in dangerous situations including working with Lucius Brockaway, the birthing scene, and the union, and eventually joining the Brotherhood. Throughout this entire story, Invisible man is just trying to discover his identity and the shift between identity and invisibility. In this story, the entire time is taken trying to figure out where the narrator really belongs in the world. He doesn’t feel like he has a place in this world yet, and desperately tries to help not only himself, but his people. This internal struggle the narrator has, carries the story as he tries to discover who he is and what he should do once he knows who he is. In finding himself, he also has many problems with facing alienation throughout the story; he faces both racial alienation and self-alienation. In facing these issues of identity and alienation, invisible man goes on an extreme journey to discover himself.

                The story begins with Invisible man, already living in his basement and telling of how he is invisible, “I am an invisible man,” he begins, “I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard distorting glass.” (3). The narrator is prevalent in mentioning in the introduction, that he is only invisible because of society’s refusal to see him, not because he has chosen necessarily to be invisible. Ellison takes hold of the American theme according to William Barrett, “People in older civilizations – say, the Englishman or the Frenchman – have behind them centuries of a settled and defined culture, which serves as a mirror in which they can see their own futures and find their own identity,” contradictory to Americans, specifically African- Americans, “exists in a new, evolving and fluid society that does not offer him any external image of his own individual possibilities and meaning” (23), as African-Americans they are the most discriminated racial group, and because he is so alien from his ancestors, the narrator is in a divided state of being; one between the ancestral past he carries, and the American future he lives. This divide is the initial reason that invisible man feels invisible or alienated, because he does not know where he truly belongs, or if one is the way he should live. His grandfather also brings up this idea of being an alien in this America, “Son, after I’m gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy’s country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction.” assuming he is talking about the racial separation in America and fighting for their people, “Live with your head in the lion’s mouth. I want you to overcome ‘em with yeses, undermine ‘em with grins, agree ‘em to death and destruction, let ‘em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open” (16). These last words unnerve the protagonist and he decides to live them out in spite of himself, despite not really knowing what his grandfather was speaking about. This perspective of his grandfather’s can be seen as a historical view, coinciding with those ideas of the ancestors. Thus, putting invisible man in an even more uncomfortable position throughout his life, listen to his grandfather’s advice, as the historical ancestor’s side, or to live in the America that his grandfather warns him about, the one that will make him an alien forever.

                At the scene of the battle royal, the white men pent up the African-American boys against each other and have them fight, practically to some of their last breath’s. Invisible man only attends this battle because he was invited to give his graduation speech, but when finally given the chance to give the speech, the white leaders of the town essentially mock him, “There was still laughter as I faced them, my mouth dry, my eye throbbing” (29). The entire time the men question the validity of the speech coming from an African-American boy, “Much applause and laughter” (29). This speech at the battle royal is the first time we see the protagonist as an influential speaker, speaking with sincerity. Speaking for something that he wants to be understood in. In H. William Rice’s essay, “The Magic and Mysteries of Word,” he concludes that, “The narrator drops the automatic words for words supplied by the audience, and the narrator recognizes the audience as a group of people in need” (28). This is the first time in which invisible man starts to see the power in speech, in an identity. One could allude this directly to when Brother Jack later asks the protagonist, “How would you like to be the next Booker T. Washington?” (305), invisible man sees an identity in leading others, even if his speeches normally do not have a point. And later, is given that opportunity. Invisible man is also aware of the rejection that is casted by the men. Although they end up applauding his speech, he is invisible in the sense that he is aware of the world around him and how they really treat him, rejected by their white society. The white men at the royal eventually give him a scholarship to school and invisible man takes it.

                School is a short lived fantasy for invisible man, for he is expelled and exiled to New York by Dr. Bledsoe. Invisible man was trusted to chauffeur a college trustee, a white man, Mr. Norton, around town. They end up at the Golden Day, quite a traumatic experience for Mr. Norton, ends up in exile for invisible man. Dr. Blesdoe, furious with invisible man, “’Nigger, this isn’t the time to lie. I’m not white man. Tell me the truth!’ It was as though he’d struck me. I stared across the desk thinking, He called me that…” (139), creating “a prevalent and definite segregation between influential and wealthy whites and subjugated, pathetic and impoverished blacks” (Toker, 26). He is also creating a divide between those African-Americans in power and those who do not hold any power, going on saying, “I don’t care. I wouldn’t raise my finger to stop you. Because I don’t owe anyone a thing, son. Who, Negroes? Negroes don’t control this school or much of anything else – Haven’t you learned that?” He belittles invisible man and makes him feel the guilt of his actions, “This is a power set-up, son, and I’m at the controls. You think about that. When you buck against me, you’re bucking against power, rich white folk’s power, the nation’s power – which means government power!” (142). Invisible man comes face to face with the real issues of America; the prejudice of African-Americans, and the consequences received under white man’s word. Dr. Bledsoe then exiles the protagonist to New York telling him to finished the semester with a job up there. This exile can be seen as the first time invisible man is really aware of the circumstances of being a black man. Though the issues with Mr. Norton was not his fault, it is taken out on him because there has to be someone to blame, and it is not going to be the white man. The oppression of the protagonist in this scene is huge. College is everything for him, to be kicked out strips any identity he had built for himself. He comes to the realization, “Therefore, he gradually started to notice the existing defects within his education and how he was being educated by an establishment which advocated the ideologies of people who were nothing like himself” (Toker, 29). As well as his alienation of his birth place, he also feels alienated from the African-American community, “This narrator’s alienation from the black people and from his native place of birth constitutes a part of a third stage of alienation. In other words, he is self-alienated. He is a detached and segregated person and for him, the elements that make up the Self are incomplete” (Toker, 29). Invisible man feels like he has nothing without the community, and now being shipped to New York, and not having that community, he is without a sense of himself. And without himself, he is alienated.

                The narrator is thwarted by Dr. Bledsoe, and soon understands that Dr. Bledsoe never wanted him to succeed in New York, telling employers to give him a sense of false hope, but never a job. Invisible man eventually finds himself reporting for a job at Liberty Paints. The first thing he sees is a sign with the logo: “Keep America Pure with Liberty Paints” (196). This sign, “ironically blending the word liberty, which is revered in the American myth, with the horrible objective of the Ku Klux Klan to ‘purify’ America” (28). In this chapter there is the clear manifestation of invisible man’s alienation, not from the black community, but from the American community. There is clear allusions to keeping America white and if not, purifying it: “We entered one of the buildings now and started down a pure white hall” (197), the emphasis on pure white keeps this pressure going of alienation of invisible man. In Liberty Paints, invisible man’s first job is mixing black paint into white paint, “The idea is to open each bucket and put in ten drops of [black paint], then you stir it ‘til it disappears.” He checks with invisible man, “’You understand?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ But when I looked into the white graduate I hesitated; the liquid inside was dead black” (200). This idea of mixing the black paint into the white, creating a brighter white symbolizes just what the sign does. The purification of America. When the men go on to check the paint they describe it as, “White! It’s the purest white that can be found. Nobody makes a paint any whiter. This batch right here is heading for a national monument!” (202). One can assume that the ‘purest white’ going to a national monument, can only be a comparison to white individuals ending up in national office, having more power over African-Americans. If this did not make feel invisible man feel alienated enough, the obvious distaste for anything that is not white, he soon finds out about Lucius Brockaway, “It was a deep basement. Three levels underground I pushed upon a heavy metal door marked “danger” and descended into a noisy, dimly light room” (207). This separation of the African-American worker, Lucius, from the white workers exemplifies how African-Americans were to stay separate from the whites, detached from where production was actually happening. He is important to production but it is gone unnoticed. This is a physical form of the alienation of African-Americans from others that invisible man truly is in for the first time. He is sent down to work with Lucius, so he must be alienated with him. Now being discriminated twice, he is falsified of who he really is, his grandfather thought he knew the truth to the world, but now the protagonist begins to understand that the world is much more evil than his grandfather had ever thought. 

                Soon after this, the protagonist rallies the community to fight for an elderly black couple that have been evicted. This speech, like the one at the battle royal, is a time when the protagonist begins to believe in the power of speech. And how speech can give one an identity, a cause, a purpose.  He is soon introduced to Brother Jack, and soon, the Brotherhood. Immediately given a new name, and thus a different identity, he becomes a political speaker for the Brotherhood. “Though he has been thrown into a leadership position in the novel, the narrator has actually not consciously sought to lead politically”, without even knowing it, this identity that the protagonist has been given is working against what he truly wants, “Most of his speaking in Harlem has been on behalf of the Brotherhood, an organization that hopes to use, even sacrifice, the black community to further its own revolutionary agenda” (8). The agenda used by the Brotherhood has sculpted everything about invisible man’s new identity, down to the walk he speaks, and the idea of American success pulls in the narrator to this life. “His commitment to the Brotherhood is motivated by ambition, even greed: ‘I saw no limits, it was the one organization in the whole country in which I could reach the very top and I meant to get there’ (380)”. He wants this American success, however, realizes that he had to be a different person in order to get this goal. This helps him come to the epiphany that it is not worth it, leading to his underground life without any sort of luxury. When understood by the audience when giving speeches, the protagonist’s approach is very different from that of greed or trying to benefit the Brotherhood, “To them he feels committed, not by money or ambition, but by the intrinsic demands of truth” (9). Truth is something that he has been seeking since his grandfather’s last words and in giving speeches, he understands that he must be true to himself and the audience in order to be his own person. In some sense, again, he has an identity. Although it is not his own, it is more than what he began with. Soon noticing, however, that an identity can get one in trouble or unwanted attention. For example, from Ras the Extorter, a rival speaker in Harlem, “accusing the narrator of faithlessness to the black man, seeking to align him with the ultimate father/mother symbol: Africa” (8). Invisible man falls under many leaders throughout his life, and Ras is the last of them, by trying to lead invisible man on another alternate path, thus altering his identity once again. Ras stands for more of the black allegiance whereas the invisible man has not been fight for any allegiance except the for the Brotherhood’s agenda.  When the book comes to it’s climax, the protagonist spearing Ras with a piece of his own outfit, he finally finds a path to the chaos. The protagonist finds his life in losing it. The narrator is changed after this, becoming his own father, “who has shaken off the restraints of a culture that cannot see him, a narrator who has achieved at least some measure of freedom (8).

                At the end of the book, invisible man chooses an identity for himself that would defend him against anyone who tried to make him any different, he would stay invisible forever. This choice to stay invisible by the protagonist is destructive because “it demands the very same space, the space of the disregarded and unseen, one that others had transferred him earlier in order to achieve their own profit” (32). He could see this lifestyle, however, as a redeeming force because his spiritual being and aspirations changed from being individually strong to understanding the absurdity of truth that he is exposed to while in his state of invisibility. “The unstable and wavering nature of identity is associated with the narrator’s self-realization in numerous parts of the novel” (32), he realizes that he was not a man to many of the men he has encountered but, “[He was simply a material, a natural resource to be used (508). Invisible man’s decision to become invisible comes from the alienation faces many, many time throughout his life. He has been separated and exiled from his own community, thrown into other people’s communities that do not have the same aspirations or even close to the same agenda. He is able to break out of this cycle of alienation by finding a path to the chaos. In finding a path, he is able to do what he wants on his own account. “The greatest advantage connected with the Invisible Man’s invisibility is the liberty he experiences from not taking part in the tyrannical hierarchal value systems established by financial status and skin color” (33). Hence, this invisibility chosen by the protagonist lets him live freely in society without the social constraints placed on him. Without these constraints, he is free to be who he wants or to do what he wants; he is no longer held to a specific agenda by any type of leader. At the same time, however, invisibility is still alienating. He is separated from the rest of the world, not necessarily based on skin color, but still separated. He is isolating himself from the entire world, no matter the good or the bad.

                Being able to see a path to the chaos can be attributed to invisible man’s writings and observations mentioned at the end of the book. This path to the chaos “causes him to state that he will surface and live on the ground again” (33), putting an end to his hibernation and his invisibility. Although he says this, he is divided once again between the decision to go above ground or to stay under. The protagonist does choose to stay outside of the limitations placed by society, and his liberty is based on society’s want to contribute to his invisibleness, “Thus identity is both a personal claim and a relational contract based on social assumptions” (33). The identity that he has been worried about the entire story is just made up based on what others think of the protagonist. No matter how he shapes his identity, it will always be shaped and judged by society. We can assume this is why invisible man never tells anyone his real name in the first place, because no matter what, his identity would just be shaped by the society around him and not for who he truly is. The protagonist’s naivety throughout the story alienates him as well. He follows leader after leader, with really no questions asked, hoping that they can lead him somewhere tangible, “His naivety is quite enough to label him as a dejected and desperate alien and include him in the Hall of Fame of the alienated figures in American literature” (34). His alienation also came from his emigration from the South the the North, leaving behind the only identity he has ever known. This is ironic though because the university student identity does not really belong to him nor has the college ever really been like home. “In this sense, a home is like having an identity: something a person makes rather than simply resides” (34). The move from south to north is one where identity is lost, but also where the protagonist understands freedom and how identities are ever changing, they don’t have to be stagnant. Once he understands his naivety throughout his life, he becomes ready for the self-knowledge which he has been search for, “a knowledge he can only find when he is completely isolated contemplating on his culture like a modern version of Henry David Thoreau (34). Ellison argues that the mask put on by many, including invisible man, will be no help to the African-Americans. This masking is seen as unreliable and a rejection of any identity. Ellison argues that “American identity is woven in the presence of blackness as something alien but otherwise invisible, and of the silence that surrounds whiteness. Both serve to make identity something riddled with amnesia and falseness a past yet to be faced” (35). American identity is such an identity that is played and fooled with; no identity as ever as it really seems. Identities are littered with lies and deception.

                Invisible man’s alienation is something he has to overcome throughout the whole novel. He identifies that the racial issues of the American society, and uses these issues in order to give a pattern to the chaos, or to “alter the image of America the founders had in their minds” (35). This novel reflects the identity crisis many African-Americans went through in the 50’s, and to solve this identity crisis, one like invisible man, must realize that understanding life is more important than trying to understand the subconscious of race. As soon as invisible man understands principle and accepts it, it is an epiphany that he can change what he wants to in the world; it doesn’t have to be chosen for him.

    Works Cited

    Barrett, William. “Black and Blue: A Negro Céline.” The Critical Response to Ralph Ellison.

    Edited by Robert J. Butler. 2000.

    Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. Random House, Inc. 1980.

    Rice, H. William. “The Invisible Man in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.” Ralph Ellison and the

    Politics of the Novel. Lexington Books. 2003.

    Rice, H. William. “The Magic and the Mystery of Words.” Ralph Ellison and the Politics of the

    Novel. Lexington Books. 2003.

    Toker, Alpaslan. “The Invisible Man: An Alien in New York Searching for Identity.” Eskisehir

    osmangazi Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Dergisi (2013) Vol. 14 Issue 2, p23-38.

    Warren, Kenneth W. So Black and Blue. University of Chicago Press. 2003.

  • Did I Mention My Father’s a Brown Graduate?

    GRANDPA

    I was 12 years old and soccer practice was coming to a close. “Is your grandpa picking you up?” A girl snickered. I turned to see a man waving in my direction. I grabbed my bag and ran towards him, yelling out, “Hey, Dad!”

    SNIP SNIP

    We fought all the time. Some of these fights were petty arguments and some would be full blown blood baths, our mother pulling apart one from the other. But this fight escalated faster than the usual ones. I don’t remember how it had begun, but I remember wanting to be the one to finish it. She swung in my direction, narrowly missing my face, prompting me to chase her up the stairs. My hands swiped at her ankles, trying to trip her and knock her down. But she was my twin and a very good soccer player, using her quick feet to dodge my advances forcing me to chase her beyond the stairs and come up with another plan.

                Thinking quickly, I cornered Maddie into our room like I was an Australian Shepherd dog. Being so concerned with getting Maddie into our room to finish our fight, I didn’t even register that on her way into the room she had a pair of scissors. Blankie and I had a bond that most young children could relate to, the inanimate object that you cared for like a child, cuddled up with when you were scared, and brought everywhere. And now Maddie held out my Blankie as if she were a hunter who had finally caught some game. She was proud, she had me right where she wanted me. She turned to face me, and upon making eye contact, I knew I had made a grave mistake. Maddie’s eyes lit up as mine dimmed, and she saw the chance to regain power. She declared, “Take one more step and I’m going to snip Blankie.”

                Me, being a smart ass, took one quick step forward and stepped right back before you could even say Blankie. However, Maddie had been known to have good eyesight and she was even better at keeping her word. She looked back into my eyes, smirked, and held my Blankie and the scissors in front of her. “Snip,” she spat, throwing her head to the side in a mocking matter, and cut Blankie clean in half with the scissors. I watched half of my childhood fall to the floor, and looked up the see the other half in Maddie’s clutches.

                I never kept an item after that. I never even cared about either half of Blankie after that. I think my need for dependence was snipped along with that blanket.

    THE TASTE OF BEAUTY

    My parents repeatedly told us, “We’re smoking the turkey. Do not use any power until dinner time.” But what was this the 1700’s? We were going to look good for this family dinner. It was a holiday after all. And that always included heat to the hair, everyone knows that.  So, of course Maddie and I took showers and took turns blow drying each other’s hair.

    When it was my turn to dry Maddie’s hair, I turned on the blow dryer and everything went black. The outlet made a popping noise, the lights in the bathroom shut off, and my Mother shrieked from the kitchen.

    All Maddie and I could do was stare at each other, horrified. We had blown a fuse.

    Dinner was not served until after 9 p.m. that Thanksgiving. My mother never attempted to smoke another turkey.

    TAKE IT FROM ME

    Do not date your drifting best friend’s ex-boyfriend, especially if she throws all the parties in your grade. You will lose your friends, be exiled from all things social, and lose the boy too.

    DID I MENTION MY FATHER’S A BROWN GRADUATE?

    Did I mention he also attended Yale with Meryl Streep? Did I mention he also attended Washington University in St Louis? Or that he has his sky diving and scuba diving license? That he was valedictorian? Maybe that he worked on an oil rig? Or lived in Norway? Did I mention he’s been to the great barrier reef? That he skied in the Alps? Flew a few planes? Did I mention he has three bachelor’s degrees? Or his one master’s degree? Maybe I forgot to mention that he left during his mBA because he was over school? Did I mention he got a job for the government? That I don’t know what he does for the government? That I don’t know his coworkers or his boss? Or maybe that I don’t know where he works? Did I mention that I constantly talk about my father’s past because I know nothing of my father’s present?

    SHOCKED

    • In 2nd grade we were assigned to read 20 pages of a book for an assignment. I went home and finished the book. I then, asked my Dad to buy me the second book too, and went back to school the next day having finished both books. My teacher was shocked.
    • In 6th grade my teacher pulled me aside, “How do you know how to write like this?” I looked at her with wide eyes, confused because I thought I had done the assignment correctly. It was simple: write a story. However, she repeated her question, “Kate, how do you know to write like this? To indent and start a new paragraph when someone new begins speaking?” I thought everyone knew that’s how stories were written, until I saw my classmate’s story, a block of words on a sheet. My teacher was shocked.
    • In 9th grade I slept through English more than I was awake. My teacher thought I was a dumbass until I told her the idea for my story, she was shocked.
    • Freshmen year of college I took a fiction class. I told someone I was 18 and the class erupted in a fury of questions, “Are you lying?” “I thought you were at least 24!” They were shocked.
    • Writing has always just seemed like a thing I had to do. Like it has been the only thing I’ve ever been meant to do. What everyone has always told me I would end up doing. So why was everyone always so shocked?

    BRAIN BLEED

    Billy saw me, grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the party that was ensuing in Maggie’s kitchen. “Did you hear?”

                Knowing Billy was drunk I wasn’t inclined to take him very seriously, “Hear what, Billy?” I figured it would be something about his girlfriend at the time, Quinn. He loved to confide in me about her because he knew Quinn and I were very good friends.

                “Yesterday after Christian’s grad party,” He lowered his voice, moving his head closer to mine making sure no one was listening, “Jack hit his head and went to the hospital or something,” as he was talking Quinn strutted up interrupting.

                “Not even the hospital Billy, he’s in the ICU, at least that’s what I heard.” I felt my heart drop into my stomach and my breathing start to slow. Jack was my ex-boyfriend, I really shouldn’t care, should I? No one had told me, or rushed to reach out so I shouldn’t have cared but a tugging feeling in my gut was tearing me apart. Of course I cared.

                Quinn and Billy began arguing about whether or not Jack was actually in the ICU, “What happened?” I sputtered. In the moment I wanted to know how, I wanted to know if there was anything I could have done differently.

                “He stood on the back of Taylor’s car, fell off, and hit his head. I don’t know, Kate, I only heard it through people. I guess they were on their way to Rehman’s house after the grad party, and they just didn’t have room in the cab.” I felt my breath stop. There was something I could’ve done.

    ***

                Jack and I had not broken up long ago. Actually we did this a lot; went through cycles of dating, talking, breaking up, being mad at each other, making up, blah, blah. At the grad party the kids congregated in the big backyard with lawn chairs, huge jenga, and generic party games. I sat in one of the lawn chairs that happened to be next to one of my good friends, Dylon. Dylon and I had dated, but that was middle school so it really didn’t count. However, it seemed to matter to Jack. I could see him eyeing me from across the party, slowly getting mad watching me talk to Dylon. In an attempt to make him jealous, I scooted my lawn chair closer to Dylon’s. Me plea for his jealousy worked, though it was not in my favor.

                In response, Jack had immediately sauntered towards a younger girl he knew I disliked. She, being younger, was infatuated with him, laughing at all his jokes as if he was the funniest person in the world. He wasn’t. Jack knew what he was doing, as did I, but for some reason that was part of the fun. But it made us furious with each other for weeks at a time, and this was one of those times.

                My friends and I decided we had been at the grad party long enough and it was time to go. On our way out we saw Taylor, Jack, Rehman, and a couple other boys arguing outside of Taylor’s car. We paid no attention because my friends were loyal, if I was mad at Jack we all were, and thus none of us would give him the time of day.

                Getting into my car, Jack waved me down from Taylor’s car, only a few ahead of mine, “Kate, uh, can you give me a ride?” I knew he only needed a ride to Rehman’s right down the road but I looked back at the empty seat in my car and made a choice.

                “No.”

                He looked shocked, like he had expected me to say yes because it was him and when his shock turned to disappointment, I felt a tinge of pride. I was happy to see him surprised I wasn’t just going to do what he asked. He turned back towards the boys, and I started my engine. I looked back in my mirror at the boys, still arguing outside the car, but I kept driving.

    ***

                After what Billy said, I went home from the party, my thoughts consumed by what had happened to Jack. I thought about reaching out for days, scaring myself that he wouldn’t reply or that he was dead, and no one had bothered to tell me.

                Overthinking the situation was just making it worse so I finally decided to text him. He had been in the ICU, but was now moved to a different room and wanted me to visit him.

                Of course I succumbed and went, walking down the white walls I had no idea what to expect. My friend, Abie, had come with me and in order to see Jack, we told the nurses we were his cousins. I don’t know what I had expected when I saw him, but the person before me was someone I didn’t know. Before me was a weak, limp boy, very different than Jack had ever been before. The room kind of smelled, and I realized he probably hadn’t showered in days. My thought was confirmed when I saw his hair; half of it had been shaved but the other half was so greasy it looked like he had drenched himself in olive oil. The shaved half had been wrapped in a bandage that was stained brown by what I could only think was blood. With the turn ofhis head, I could see in his one eye that it pained him, his other eye had been swollen shut. One side of his face had looked like when he had fallen off the car, the pavement caught his fall.

                I learned that was true. They had had no room in Taylor’s car so the boys decided that Jack would stand on the back lift gate and hold onto the roof rack while they drove to Rehman’s. Jack had agreed after I had turned him down for a ride, and as he was holding on to the roof rack he felt his arms staring to grow weak. He yelled at Taylor to slow down, he was losing his grip, but of course the other boys didn’t hear him and he let go. He flew off the back of the car slamming head first into the pavement. A woman had seen the whole incident play out and had called the paramedics. However, she was met with rude remarks from the boys, they were drunk and thought Jack was fine, and eventually waved off the paramedics. They wanted to drink, not be worried with what potentially could be wrong with Jack. They went to Rehman’s, and Jack recalled that he couldn’t keep his eyes open, asking one of the boys to bring him to his house. The friend obliged, but dropped Jack off at his driveway and left for the night. Jack entered his house, collapsed, and woke up to his parent’s faces hours later, as he was covered in throw up and blood. His parents immediately took him to the hospital where they discovered his brain was hemorrhaging and would need to have immediate surgery to fix the ruptured vessel. If he had come to the hospital any later, he would have been dead.

                He would have died, and even though he was my ex-boyfriend, we became close again after the accident. How could I have not? Indirectly, it was my fault that he had fallen off the car. My fault he almost died. All because I glanced at my open seat in my car, and made a choice. A choice that could’ve killed him.

  • The Savage Search For Meaning

    Through the course of the semester, there have been three works that have encapsulated an idea of epiphany in a very different fashion from the other works that were read. These three works are Margaret directed by Kenneth Lonergan, “Break it Down” written by Lydia Davis, and Satin Island written by Tom McCarthy. Each of these works contains a main character that, in some way, tries to insert meaning, and therefore, try to force and cultivate an epiphany from their said insertion of meaning onto, in all of their cases, another person. And in doing so, try to insert some means of epiphany into their life. However, when inserting meaning into these situations or obstacles that each character faces, there is an imperative ethical, moral, and inter-subjective experience, that seems to be lacking from each of these characters; they all insert meaning with only their identity and thoughts at stake; not taking anyone else’s into account. All of these characters see themselves as the main characters in each of their respective stories; which they are, but each character seems to see themselves as the main character in everyone’s stories. So, if each of these characters is actively searching for epiphany via insertion of meaning, there is the question of do they reach epiphany, do they reach the pinnacle that their inserted meaning should have brought to them? Does it not bring epiphany, and instead the sacrifices and meanings amount to nothing? Does the savage search for epiphany bring a sense of bliss or dread? If epiphanies, for so long, were supposed to come to characters, without the character enacting any want of epiphany; what happens to those characters who push the boundaries for searching for that epiphany or want of meaning in their own respective worlds?

                Kenneth Lonergan’s Margaret, really explores this idea of Lisa, the main character, thinking that she is the main character in everyone’s stories, and thus inserting meaning into everyone’s lives. Specifically we see this in how Lisa reacts to the bus crash that she causes which results in the loss of Monica, a pedestrian’s, life. As Monica is bleeding out on the street, Lisa goes to comfort her, Monica reaches out for her daughter saying, “’Could somebody call my daughter?’ ‘Sure, we can call her. What’s her name? Just tell me her name and give me her number.’ ‘It’s Lisa.’ ‘No, no, no, that’s my name, is that your daughter’s name?’ ‘What? What, are you talking about?’” (Margaret 15:33-15:45). At the time, Lisa is confused by Monica’s use of the word Lisa. Though Monica was reaching out for her own daughter, in her time of need, that doesn’t stop Lisa from altering Monica’s words to fit her own narrative.

                Lisa absolves herself criminally from Monica’s case. When asked by the police, she claims the stoplight was green, and Monica was at fault. And though she absolves herself criminally, that is replaced with a feeling of guilt and angst.  These feelings of guilt, angst, and this idea that she is the main character drives her throughout the movie. Because she believes that she is the main character is everyone’s stories, Lisa assumes that every choice and decision she makes are vital and that her life should be meaningful and have meaning. And not only should her choices be vital in her life, but her choices are imperative to shaping other’s lives.

                So, when Monica asked for her daughter, Lisa thought it was meant to be. That there was a reason she was the last person Monica spoke to and of, thereby inserting her own meaning into her life. Lisa goes on to track down Monica’s friends and family and eventually meets Emily. Emily and Lisa have a conversation in which Lisa reveals her feelings and emotions about the moment before Monica’s death. She shows the insertion of meaning she has placed in this moment, and it is very eerie and quite inappropriate after learning that Monica’s daughter Lisa had died, “I’ve had this really strange feelings that in some way for those last five minutes, I kind of was her daughter, you know, in some weird way, this obviously amazing woman got to be with her daughter a few minutes before she died” (Margaret 02:15:30). To Emily, and most likely Monica, it was obvious in Monica’s time of need that she would reach out for her daughter, Lisa. But the main character Lisa essentially disregards that notion in order to force her own meaning into the moment, and further, into Monica’s life. And along with inserting or imbuing this sense of meaning into Monica’s life, she inserts this meaning after Lisa is the one who caused the bus crash. If she did not have this blatant disregard for the world around her, because she sees herself as the main character, maybe she wouldn’t have caused the bus to crash, or need to feel this reason to imbue meaning onto a dying woman.

                In the same scene referenced above, when Emily and Lisa are speaking, Emily finally pulls Lisa out of this meaning she has imbued that is not hers to put meaning into and we come to a climax of both Emily and Lisa’s feelings on the situation, “’And is she still inhabiting your body or did she go back to the spirit world right after? I don’t give a fuck what you believe in. This is not an opera, I said this is not an opera! I think you are very young.’” To which a bewildered Lisa responds, “‘What does that have to do with anything? If anything, it means I care more than someone older because this kind of thing has never happened to me before.’” And Emily sneers back at her,  “‘No, it means you care more easily. There’s a big different, only it’s not you it’s happening to.’” Lisa even continues by retorting, “Yes it is,” (Margaret 02:16:08-02:16:43). Emily essentially pops the bubble of thinking that Lisa has been so prone to.

                Lisa feels so much guilt for the death of Monica that rather than take any natural meaning that could’ve come from her death, any  personal growth or mental growth, is stunted throughout the movie when she savagely searches for and inserts meaning into Monica’s life. And this is shown in the way she treats her friends and family. She seems to ignore the world after she causes Monica’s death and then becomes so infatuated, that she doesn’t realize that it’s not her thing to be infatuated with. And it is not until the scene at the opera in which it seems that Lisa actually finds any sort of meaning or epiphany. And it comes in a moment when she is not actively searching for it.

                She hears the music at the opera and is suddenly overcome with emotion and beings to cry. She tries so hard to find meaning, but it’s when she waits in solace that any meaning ever comes to her. The entire movie, after she absolves herself of criminality, she seems to be searching for meaning in a punishment. Finding a punishment that is ample for the reason that she could live and Monica could not. She was so tied up in finding and inserting meaning into the death of Monica, that she did not realize that by searching so savagely and ruthlessly, she had already done so much of the punishment to herself. She became incredibly self-destructive in ruining relationships in her life, and doing unimaginable things, in order to make sense or a pattern or a meaning of things, when all she was doing was bringing punishment. And in searching so hard for meaning, it’s not until she is not actively searching for it that it comes to her that her inexplicable guilt towards her involvement was enough of a punishment or ultimately, meaning.

                So as a culmination throughout the movie, not only does Lisa insert meaning into many various arrays of her life in order to garner some sense of meaning out of it. However, when she imbues meaning into the life of a woman who is dying and continues to insert and investigative that meaning, there becomes a real ethical issue. How can one person place meaning into something that is not theirs to place meaning into.          

                This brings to mind “Break it Down” written by Lydia Davis. In this short story, the main character is a jilted-lover who spends the entirety of the story trying to quantify his former relationship in order to justify if it is worth it. It begins on the first page with:

                I’m breaking it all down. The ticket was $600 and then

                after that there was more for the hotel and food and so on,

                for just ten days. Say $80 a day, no, more like $100 a day.

                And we made love, say, once a day on the average. That’s

                $100 a shot. And each time it lasted maybe two or three

                hours so that would be anywhere from $33 to $50 an

                hour, which is expensive. (Davis 17)

    The jilted-lover’s quantification of the relationship he had begins with the basics of food and total money spent in the relationship. However, he starts trying to quantify parts of the relationship which to many, would seem impossible to even begin to try and quantify, “She would keep looking at me and every time she looked at me it was worth something” (Davis 17). Like Lisa, the jilted-lover is looking for what seems to be a pattern in their former relationship in order to insert some meaning into it, and therefore see if there is meaning they can take out of it, to justify whether the relationship was worth it to them or not. But in doing so, brings up again, this ethical element.

                How can one person insert or take meaning from something that is not wholly theirs. One cannot justify a relationship or piece of meaning if there is another person to consult in the grand scheme of things. This relationship could mean nothing to the jilted-lover, but everything to the ex-girlfriend, so really, is it fair to only take one side of the meaning brought to the relationship, and dismiss the other half? In this story, I believe that this idea is paramount to the point Lydia Davis is trying to make. That the insertion of wanted meaning, searched meaning, in an array that cannot only be placed by one, cannot bring epiphany. That savage search is what stops epiphany from approaching.

                This jilted-lover is also like Lisa in the sense that both characters, seeing themselves as the main character in both of their stories, and everyone’s stories, hold these narcissistic worldviews in which the thing they are trying to put meaning into becomes the only thing they care about. They both have these obsessive tendencies to keep trying to insert meaning over and over, to see if they can grasp something new from it. And this obsession in wanting to insert meaning, can just turn into an obsession about the person they are trying to insert meaning into. Specifically in the jilted-lover’s case, he is quantifying this relationship in order to justify whether it was worth it or not, but halfway through, he almost becomes obsessive in remembering her, “everything about her has bled into you, her smell her voice, the way her body moves, it’s all inside you, at least for a while after” (Davis 20). In trying so hard to insert meaning, he is obsessed with the want of pulling meaning, just like he was obsessed with her at the time. In this line, it is not necessarily that she consumes him, but that his want for meaning from the relationship is so desperate, that it is all consuming to his thoughts at all times.

                His want to insert meaning into justifying his relationship through quantification brings the jilted-lover to this final conclusion about this justification he has so promptly been dissecting:

                You know the pain is part of the whole thing. And it isn’t

                that you can say afterwards the pleasure was greater than

                the pain and that’s why you would do it again. That has

                nothing to do with it. You can’t measure it, because the

                pain comes after and it lasts longer. So the question really

                is, Why doesn’t that pain make you say, I won’t do it again?

                When the pain is so bad that you have to say that, but you

                don’t. (Davis 24)

    And it’s in this moment, and this paragraph, that brings back to Davis’ point for this piece. That though this main character wants desperately to quantify and justify this past relationship, that it is not possible.  And it is not possible because reality does not work in quantifiable terms. The human experience and connectedness cannot be placed on a scale to be ranked in order from best to worst. The human experience is ever-changing and evolving, and to pride one’s self on trying to insert a justification into it will bring no epiphany, and maybe even an anti- or useless epiphany.

                In trying to quantify someone’s presence and absence, the jilted-lover inserts meaning separate from the meaning that might already be held in that notion by his ex-lover. There is a role to play here in the perspectives of the main characters, and this narcissistic worldview they work with. Both Lisa and the lover are in situations that have overtaken their conscious and have become obsessed in inserting meaning in order to make sense or justify the situation that happened to them. However, both of these characters push that meaning into two separate entities that have no say or jurisdiction in how the events are remembered, or if there is any meaning that has already been inserted, that now the main character is just overriding in search of their own meaning. So if both of these characters are were able to insert meaning but with respect for an experience that is shared with another, given the autonomy of the give and take of meaning from both parties, what does that look like? How can these characters, who have savagely inserted meaning, understand that within these shared experiences there may be a meaning outside of the pattern or system that they have been actively searching within.

                This idea of meaning placed on an object outside the system that it was created and functioned within brings thoughts to Satin Island written by Tom McCarthy. In which the main character, U. is an anthropologist who works in the corporate world and is given instruction by his boss to write an ethnography on the company. U., being an anthropologist, is incline to insert meaning into every facet of his life, “I sometimes allow myself to think that, in fact, things were precisely the other way round: that my job was to put meaning in the world, not take from it” (McCarthy 34), which he does in order to avoid writing his ethnography, that of which he is struggling with the form.

                U. is a lot like Lisa and the jilted-lover because though he is an anthropologist and it is his profession to insert meaning, U. tries to find some form outside of the system he has come to realize he plays in to in order to write his ethnography. However, because he is constantly inserting meaning into things around him, U., much like Lisa and the lover, becomes infatuated with a situation that has little to do with him besides the want to understand the pattern and insert and pull some meaning from someone else’s death. U.’s specific infatuation is with a parachutist that has died, and supposedly was murder by one of his friends, or so U. thinks. Because of his profession, he thinks that the world need to be in the specific pattern, that is within the system in which the world  works, a system by which everything whether living dead, animate, inanimate, abides by. These patterns are what help predict and shape the meaning that anthropologists place upon things:

                To the anthropologist, as I explained before,

                it’s generic episodes and phenomena that stand out as signif-

                cant, not singular ones. To the anthropologist, there’s no such

                thing as a singular episode, a singular phenomenon – only a

                set of variations on generic ones; the more generic, therefore,

                the more pure, the closer to an unvariegated or unscrambled

                archetype. The parachutist story, in the stark, predictable sim-

                plicity of the circumstance that it presented, in the boldness of

                its second-handness, was refreshing: in its unashamed lack of

                originality, it was original. (McCarthy 64-65)

    The parachutist and by extension the parachute because important to U. because he has been taught  to believe that there must be a pattern even in the in the most original of cases because by the systems standards, there is no originality.

                So this un-original, but uniquely original story of the parachutist falling to his death encapsulates U.’s full attention. He creates theory after theory, imbuing newer and stranger meanings to the death of the parachutist, until there are so many inconsistencies that lie within each theory that his own patterned thinking determined by the system begins to change, “The sense of calm, of languidness, grows all the more pronounced when set against the panic of the man hurdling away from it below,” (McCarthy 83), he begins to separate the parachute from the man, instead of seeing the parachutist, he sees the parachute and the man. The system that overarches all has made him a pawn in the system, forcing meaning to look at the whole picture, rather than the pieces that make up the picture and further, the system. He continues, “My point of identification within it and my attendant sympathy, shifting form the diminutive man to his expanded, if detached, paraphernalia. I felt quite happy for the latter, for its liberation to carelessness” (McCarthy 83), and in these few sentences U. has a realization that there is not a pattern for everything, or a pattern that exists in the system for everything. He realizes that the parachute itself is its own being apart from being a landing tool, or a broken thing that plummeted a man to his death, but rather its own being. And with it being its own entity, there is no system, or pattern, or meaning to be placed on the parachute. It is as it will be, simply itself, existing outside of any meaning given or taken meaning.

                This idea of entities existing outside of the system of patterned thinking, that have no need of insertion of meaning, as they have meaning on their own, brings to U.’s slightly, almost, epiphanic moment that occurs while on the way to board the ferry to Staten Island. He almost gets on the ferry, but in the end, chooses not to, “To go to Staten Island – actually go there – would have been profoundly meaningless. What would it, in reality, have solved or resolved” (McCarthy 185-186). In this moment, U. realizes all the systems and patterns in place within the system and chooses to removed himself from inserting his meaning into any of their preconceived ideas of what meaning is and should be. Rather, instead of being a bystander, he actively takes himself out of the system, much like the parachute did when the man and it separated. As civilians continue to feed into the system, to follow the pattern of getting on the ferry to go to the island, U. can’t continue to place meaning into patterns in the system that are only meaningful when meaning is placed on them. Whereas the parachute was able to exist outside any meaning, pattern, or system. Because his idea of meaning and systems has evolved in to so much more, he no longer is yearning to find or place meaning, so in going to the trash island that is Staten Island, there would be no point because he cannot categorize the mess, thus there is no meaning to the mess, and furthermore, there is no point. The true meaning of things and the island are outside the system, but outside the system you cannot place meaning on to them, because they are just being.

                All three characters dealt with have a narcissistic worldview in which their insertion of meaning into things in the world is the meaning that is valid, belongs and, counts. However, each of these characters savagely and ruthlessly search for that when any epiphany does arrive, it seems to be beyond them, or in their search for meaning they had already found epiphany or it never came for them at all. With Lisa, the epiphany at the opera enlightens her to be aware that the search for meaning and absolving herself of guilt and punishment, was meaningful. Meaningful in the sense that she realizes that what she was searching for and inserting into everyone around her was a sense of punishment, and the meaning she tried so hard to insert and instill was never a tangible meaning because she was actively searching so hard for it. Similarly with the jilted-lover from Davis’ story, his desperation to insert alternate meaning than there already was and quantify his former relationship in order to justify it, his vapid want for some type of meaning to emerge, brings the jilted-lover to almost an anti-epiphany. He realizes in the last lines, “You can’t measure it, because the pain comes after and it lasts longer” (Davis 24), that it is impossible to garner an inserted meaning or a quantifiable, tangible amount or exchange for human experience and inter-connectedness. You cannot put a price, number, or sole-meaning into an experience that exists with another person. The jilted-lover’s search for a pattern in money spent as a correlative tie to an inter-related experience between two, brings back to U. and his epiphany. U., like the others, has searched so hard for meaning that is has brought him to a point in which by the time epiphany dawns on him, he has already figured out the meaning long before. Being at Staten Island was not the entire epiphany, the other half was in the resolving of the parachute and the parachutist. U. tries to place meaning into every facet of life, and it is not until he is forced to think about what that meaning is, and if there is still meaning to belong without him implicitly stating so, that he comes to realize the meaning of the parachute on a grand scale. Which is that there is a system that we all exist in. And within that system there are patterns that which a person is then conditioned to place implicit meanings into objects and situations based on their function in the pattern, and by extension, in the system.

                In totality, both Lisa and the jilted-lover struggle in reaching epiphany because of their avid need or want to insert meaning, not just into a specific situation, but into events or experiences that are not entirely theirs. Both characters come to realize that their search for meaning in the way in which they would like to receive it, is impossible. You cannot insert meaning into someone’s else’s life without their jurisdiction or judgment at play in order to create a full formed meaning of the experience with everyone who was involved.

                Both Lisa and the jilted-lover are unable to find meaning or a fully formed epiphany because of their want to insert meaning into people’s lives, without any jurisdiction from the other person. And both characters, when reaching that form of epiphany, realize that in actively searching epiphany can’t come to you, or won’t come to you in the fashion that you’d like. However, if Lisa and the jilted-lover were able to insert meaning in a way that wasn’t wholly selfish and instead paid homage to the experience felt by both people in a situation, that would maybe manifest itself in the same way U.’s epiphany with the parachute did. Both of these characters run into ethical issues when trying to place value on someone else’s life. They’re not necessarily wrong for this, but they are placing meaning based on the system that they live in. So, in order to have real meaning instilled from these situations, they may have to look at their situations and lives like U. does with the parachute.

                Maybe human experiences and the inter-subjective experiences the characters face would be more meaningful if seen like U. sees the parachute. The parachute exists outside any pattern or system and simply just is; it exists as itself, without needing any meaning to be taken or given to it. He realizes that the parachute exists outside any form of meaning-generated pattern. And maybe for Lisa, that is what her epiphany at the opera led her to realize. That she was there for this horrible accident, she caused and witnessed a death, but it really has had nothing to do with her and never will. She selfishly intrudes herself into Monica’s life and further inserts herself into a meaning that is not hers to grasp. So for Lisa, at the opera, she realizes that maybe Monica, like the parachute, exists outside a meaning-generating pattern. It is not only unethical, but impossible to garner or insert meaning from a human being’s life without making that meaning a shared experience between the two parties. Monica, like the parachute, exists outside of the system, and Lisa’s search for meaning only ever brought her further from that meaning; because she was following the system. And the same goes for the jilted-lover: he can’t place meaning on a human being who exists outside of any meaning-generating pattern. Humans are not capable of placing this idea of meaning into others, when they already have meaning themselves just by being.

                All of these characters make their decisions in meaning making almost exclusively via internal thought. All of their thoughts for epiphany are strictly their thoughts and wants only, which is one of the reasons that of these characters, none really reach a true epiphany. Therefore, the epiphanies they do reach are wholly inside their own heads, and their heads do exist within the meaning-generating pattern of the world. However, there is the potential argument that if these characters had stopped searching so savagely and actively for meaning in every facet of their lives, they could have experienced an epiphany like Joyce’s; one wholly external, outside the head. Joyce’s original ideas about epiphany were rooted in the idea of recognizing an object’s whatness. In Joyce’s terms an epiphany comes when a person recognizes that an object is an integral thing, then that that thing is actually a thing by recognizing it is an organized structure, and then the person can recognize the object for what it truly is (Joyce 213). This epiphany happens wholly outside one’s head, as the objects whatness is what drives the meaning of epiphany and gives meaning to the observer. Also in Joyce’s epiphany, one does not actively search for epiphany or meaning but rather the object bestows its whatness upon the beholder, bringing epiphany and meaning to them. All of these characters are so determined to discover meaning, rather than wait for it, that it brings the opposite of what they intended in every story. However, if those ideas were made external and the search for meaning wasn’t so savage, and rather a patient wait for some meaning, Lisa would never have punished herself, the jilted-lover would not spend time calculating his relationship, and U. wouldn’t have either discovered a meaning outside of the system. Epiphanies are meant to be an external, spiritual experience according to Joyce. And throughout time, the characters search for meaning has inhibited them from being able to reach that peak of euphoria or ruination that they all seem to crave. As the idea and fruition of epiphanies has changed over the years, so has how characters experience and reach them — if they do reach them.

                Our three characters reach some form of epiphanic thought that brings their thoughts of meanings and epiphanies to a close, whether it was the answer they wanted or not. But in this active search for meaning, none of these characters really reach that true epiphany in which they were searching for. By inserting meaning, they hinder any true organic meaning that can grow from the shared experiences people have in life. There is the argument that neither Lisa nor the jilted-lover realize that their insertions of meaning do not amount to much; the time spent grueling over these other people bring no real meaning or experience to their lives beyond their active search. Lisa’s sacrifices in finding meaning result in loss of friends, fights with her mom, and becoming unlike herself. The jilted-lover, instead of pulling the already assumed meaning from the relationship, instead starts inserting meanings from the post-break up point of view, so his insertions of meaning will have been jaded. And finally, U.’s sacrifices made in search for meaning really do not amount to much; rather than finding a meaning applicable to the parachutist and the world, he rips himself from his profession and determined way of thinking in order to create a new perspective, free of the system. Each of their wants for meaning do not go as planned and thus, no character who actively searched for meaning will receive their moment of epiphany in return. The search for meaning constantly brings dread, each character unhappier with the state of the world, themselves, and human experience, than they were before. The world is meant for people to search for meaning in human experiences and objects, like each of our characters do, but when that search for meaning crosses the line into a meaning that cannot wholly be placed by one person, it is not possible to reach the peak of euphoria that everyone wishes for from epiphany. All of these characters reach some sort of epiphanic moment in their own time, but the savage search for meaning in order to garner an epiphany rather than let meaning and epiphany fall upon one’s conscious, hinders those from reaching a true epiphanic moment.

  • Day Trip

    I could feel her this way. I could see her in a way I never had before, like every fiber in her being was radiating gold; she was enclosed in a halo of good feelings – the ones that give you the willies starting at the top of your spine sending chills down to your tailbone. I let out an exasperated sigh and reached out to touch her but pulled my hand down at the last second, scared to ruin the moment. “The world is different this way, I miss it. With you, everything seems like it will be okay, even though some days it feels like it won’t.” She looked up at me, her irises swirling in every direction, all different colors, I could no longer distinguish what color they had originally been.

                Green maybe? Like the sea. Not like the sea you are used to – the commercialized, trashy, sea water that seems to have a gray shield over the exterior, full of people’s souvenirs and left over food. No, green like the sea with no land in sight, the only thing being you, the boat, and sea life. When all you can hear is the slight pounding of the front of the boat against the waves and it’s almost as if your heart and all of your surroundings are in sync with the pounding; everything afraid to disturb the peace. This green had to be the color they once were, the sight of which immediately made me feel secure. She made me feel secure.

    ***

                They were watching him through a window where they could see him, but he had no idea they were there; one of those trick mirrors you see on every cop investigation show. The taller of the two sighed and rubbed his temples, “So, what’s the matter with him? Are we just going to stand here and watch?”

                “Head of security said he could be dangerous. No one knows what’s going through his head. His family didn’t even turn him in, he kept asking people if they knew her and someone just walked him right in here.” He checked his watch before looking up at his colleague, “Now listen, Drew, listen. This is just a procedural patient, nothing out of the blue. Stop worrying. Go do your rounds.” He lovingly tapped Drew on the back and grabbed his clipboard from the mirror’s sill, and went to check on his own patients.

                However, Drew didn’t go to do his rounds, not just yet. He waited outside the mirror and watched the man who was enclosed in the room. It seemed like he was talking to someone; his hands flailed like he was telling the most exciting story to date. In an instant, he was screaming.

    ***

                “Don’t leave me! You don’t get to leave me!” I was shouting so loud and with such force it felt like my vocal chords were about to snap. Her irises stopped swirling and she slowly started to fade. The floor’s tile started swirling like a snake; the way it was moving was as if it had somewhere to be. Every time I looked to a different spot on the floor, the direction changed. The route followed one path, to me. “Where are you! I need you! I know that it’s coming!” This was always the worst part. The lights were so bright I felt like I was on an operating table.

                The light was so strong even with my eyes shut, I couldn’t keep out the rays. Just then it hit me, where am I? I thought to myself. I was in an unfamiliar surrounding –I reached to my behind to see what I was lying on. A bed, but this is not mine. A sheer sheet of plastic over the bed. This is a hospital. I screamed out for her as the light started to consume me.

    ***

    Drew walked up to the mirror hours after he had witnessed the patient’s outburst. The doctor that had asked him to come back to the scene approached him carefully, “What you witnessed earlier, we believe, was a crash from an LSD trip.”

                “I’ve seen people on stuff like that before, I mean, I grew up in the 70’s, but I’ve never seen someone act like that before. That was,” he sighed, “traumatic? Looking at the distress he’s in, I can’t imagine being him.” He watched the patient stare intently at the texture of the popcorn ceiling.

                “The 70’s was almost 50 years ago. The drugs your Pops took were nothing like they are now.” The doctor had no more to say it seemed as he watched the patient, studying him. Drew was peculiarly drawn to the state of this patient’s mind. It was no secret to his colleagues that his father had been a recovering addict before he relapsed and passed away. The way he was watching the patient earlier…He was watching him talk to someone, but who? His father used to say the drugs would resurface memories of his mother, like she was in the room with them. He wanted to know.

    Drew’s father had struggled with drug abuse for years, nothing like meth or crack cocaine. However, the drugs he did do were enough to alter the man Drew thought he knew. In their small, one story home, there was no privacy. Drew could smell the weed sneaking in from under the door frame before he even knew what weed was. It didn’t take him long to find out. Growing up in the 70’s, drugs were everywhere. The putrid smell was the first thing Drew woke up to in the morning and the last thing he fell asleep to at night. It was the height of the hippie movement and the height of recreational hallucinogen use, and Drew’s father was no odd-man-out to the consumption.

                Drew thought the drug use was normal; it was the only thing he had been raised to know. When his father’s mind started deteriorating, it was too late for Drew to even begin to save him. Alzheimer’s is a nasty disease. It strips away the parts of you that make you you. The deepest darkest secrets one may have had are no longer secrets — they can’t be if even the holder of their knowledge can’t remember them.

                The drugs mixed with the disease were the worst years. Drew’s father could no longer remember who his own children were. The only thing his father could remember towards the end was the love of his life, Drew’s mother. She passed years before Drew’s his father showed any signs of the disease. His father would blurt out her name at random times, “Susan! Baby!”

                The day his father started weeping because he could no longer remember the feel of her touch, Drew tried to help. He dedicated his life trying to make his father remember the life he once had. Even with the Alzheimer’s, his father’s body depended on the drug use it had been sustaining on for the last 30+ years. No day could successfully start without a tab or a rip of a bong. It hurt Drew to aid his father with the intake, but when his father was in these high state of minds, he could remember what he once could not.

                His father would have strenuous conversations with the wall or the stool before Drew came to the realization his father must be talking to his mother; there was no one else who lit up his face quite like her. They would talk for hours, and even though Drew couldn’t see her he could feel her. It helped his father. He began to remember things he didn’t once before. He would often mutter about the time the family went to the beach or visited his own father’s house.

                The drug consumption may have killed his father before the Alzheimer’s unleashed its total wrath. Drew didn’t care. The drugs helped his father remember, which is all he ever wanted. His father wasn’t the same after his mother died, and the drugs made it so she never left. Drew felt the same pain for this patient as he did his father. Drew didn’t know what he could do, but maybe he could help this patient in ways he could never help his father.

     “Normal trips don’t usually end like that do they? Someone brought him hours ago, he’s crashed, woken up, and still seems to be on something.”

                The doctor cleared his throat, Drew knew an explanation was coming, “Very rarely when people are addicted to hallucinogens they can develop a disorder known as Hallucinogen Persisting Perception Disorder, or HPPD, for short. In nurse language, a permanent acid trip. Everyday he wakes up and lives the cycle over, from coming up on the drug, to the peak, and inevitably, the crash. Who knows what’s going on in there anymore, not me, that’s for sure. He won’t talk to any one of us – says we have a red aura around us.”

                Drew said a silent fuck you to the doctor for his snotty comments, no wonder the man didn’t want him around. This doctor had no compassion for what the patient was going through. Drew knew he could help, maybe. He knew the man had a loss, he knew it. He saw his father in this man, the excited story telling, just like his father.

    ***

                “What are you doing up there?” She was looking down at me from the ceiling. I don’t know how she got up there, I was just glad she was back. Her gold aura made the room feel better, warmer, safer. Even in the lucid light, her presence felt like my favorite summer day with her. We drove 45 minutes to the closest beach upstate. It was a Tuesday so the beach wasn’t crowded, other than the locals going on their afternoon strolls. We set out her favorite beach blanket: it was circular – she claimed the wind had less of a chance of blowing it away in this shape. I wasn’t sure about that but I never wanted to ruin the way her eyes lit up when she thought she was right – and it read “Life’s Good” across the middle with a stick figure, giving us a thumb’s up as if to say, “The sun’s out! The waves are nice! Live your life!” I decided I would take Mr. Stick’s advice. We spent the day tanning and playing in the ocean. There was nothing out of the ordinary, that’s why it was my favorite. When she was around everything felt ordinary, like I was exactly where I should’ve been, all the fate in the world had led me to her and the ordinary feelings she gave me.

                When she died, a piece of me died too. I can never admit it to myself, but she is dead. Even though she’s here, she’s not really here. I speak to her, I look at her, I feel her. But I am not dumb and I’m not crazy, I know she’s not here. I just want to hold on to the piece of her that is. I started taking drugs after she died, a lot of them. It turns out if you take a lot at once, or some in a short amount of time it can really fuck you up. I hear the doctors talk, I know I’m stuck like this. But sometimes I wonder, would that be so bad? I could spend everyday of the rest of my life with her. I would never have to go back to work, shower, iron my clothes, ever again. I could spend every day telling her about my future, dreams, fears. I don’t want to live a life without her and now I don’t have to imagine that day, she’s here forever. Kind of.

                I heard the door swing open and watched as a nurse entered the room. I registered him through my trip goggles – a name I created for my sense of people, their aura’s. It was weird I felt like I had a superpower. I could sense if I liked someone; they immediately entered the room with a color. (If they immediately entered the room with a color I could understand how I would feel towards them.) Gold was the best, obviously. Red was a standout red flag. My brain was telling me “Do not mess with them!” The other colors varied from green to purple but they seemed more like moods to me, not distinguished personalities. Red and gold were clear to me though, they had not given me any reason to think otherwise. My brain registered this nurse had an aura that shrouded him in gold. He looked like a god. I let him enter. I pointed to the bed I had been lying on that currently looked like a race car to me. I wanted to go for a ride, but decided this wasn’t the time.

    ***

    Drew thought the patient would’ve been terrified, but he wasn’t. He was in control of the situation. He motioned for Drew to sit and Drew did as was asked of him. Sitting on the bed with a patient staring up at him felt strange. It was supposed to be the other way around. Drew started talking, unsure of what to say, “I’m Drew, I’m a nurse here -”

    The patient had held a hand up, interrupting him, “Where’s here?”

    “At the hospital.”

    “Where’s the hospital?”

    “Uh, I was asked not to disclose that information just to avoid any more, uh, attacks.” Drew was afraid he had said the wrong thing.

    “Interesting. So, does everyone think I’m crazy? I’m starting to think I am. I know what’s wrong with me.” The patient hung his head low like he was ashamed of what people thought. He popped back up to hear the answer, unable to sit still.

    “I don’t think you’re crazy, I think you’ve suffered a loss.”

    “A loss?” His voice shook ever so slightly. “What do you know about me?”

    “Honestly, I know nothing about you, I didn’t even read your file. You just remind me of my father.”

    He scoffed, “I have a million thoughts per minute going through my mind but I can only express so much.”

    “You don’t have to explain yourself. Who were you talking to yesterday? You don’t have to be afraid, I’m not going to tell on you or alert the mental ward, I’m just a man having a conversation with another.”

    The patient looked at, Drew, bewildered but promptly answered, “My dead girlfriend.”

    “Oh. I’m sorry for your loss. I lost my father a few years ago, I know how you must be feeling. It’s hard to lose someone. Do you talk everyday?”

    “Ever since I’ve been in this state of mind, yeah. She’s here, I can talk to her, it’s like she never left at all.” His voice trailed off. He looked into the corner and smiled.

                “Is she here now?” Drew faced the corner that the patient was looking toward and waved. Although he couldn’t see anything, he knew playing along would allow the patient to feel secure.

                The patient’s eyes grew bigger than they already were, almost the size of baseballs. “Can you see her? I knew you could. You have the same aura as her – gold. You must all be the same, powerful sorts.”

                Drew stuttered not wanting to answer wrong and scare him, “I can’t necessarily see her, but I can feel her. I know she’s here.”

                “Oh, well that’s too bad. She’s really hot.” He grinned so large you could see his molars. “I guess that’s one perk, she’s mine and just mine! Ha-ha…I guess.”

                “Do you know why you’re here, besides her?” Drew gestured to the same corner he had waved to before.

                “I’ve heard the doctor’s talk, but I don’t wake up and remember. I wake up to her and to the walls spinning, and the floor coming after me. I only know if I’m told that day. I come to my senses. If I’m not told, I don’t know. I guess I don’t know. But when I’m told how this happened, I remember more of her. I want to remember. I want to be told everyday of her and our story, I’m afraid I’m going to lose that. If I stay like this, I’m going to see her but not remember her. If I snap out of this, she’ll just be gone.” The patient started to weep.

                “While you’re here, I can help you remember. It will help you cope. I used to read stories to my father about him and my mom. Maybe it will help. I can try.” Drew’s eyes welled, he thought of his father and how Drew would recount stories of his mother for hours just to see his dad’s expression when he started to remember her.

                Drew wanted to help and was going to do everything possible to do so, but he had never seen anyone in this frame of mind. He thought helping this patient remember his girlfriend might be the last thing he remembers.

                Diseases or disorders of any sort are brutal. Drew had dealt with the worst of the worst. It would tear this man apart to forget the one thing that continually reoccurred every day.

                “Every day? Will you? Then maybe one day when I’m out of this head space, I’ll be able to continue. Maybe.”

                “Every day.” Drew got up to shake his hand, confirming the deal between the two. And with that, the patient started to scream. He was crashing.

    ***

                She’s here. So is he, but I don’t mind. He helps me remember her and the part of my life I lost. He tells me that he comes every day, but that’s hard to believe because I never remember him. He’s a stranger, but she tells me he’s safe, so I never mind the company. I’m with her every day, I feel her, see her, talk to her. I remember things about her every day that I once before did not. The sea green eyes. Long, brunette hair. Even longer legs. More comes back to me the longer she is gone.