Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 38, July 2020

AN URBAN STORY

by Douglas Canter

Margo Price played softly on the radio as what she had fantasized. Shania Twain now
Da’Shana and Carol talked about their sang “Black Eyes, Blue Tears” in the back-
weeks. “Another glass of Chardonnay?” ground. The sweet melody seemed incon-
Carol asked, her blue green eyes widening, gruous with the sour fear and anger that
her voice carrying the “a” sound in that surged through Da’Shana. Carol leaned over
Georgia drawl that warmed Da’Shana. and kissed Da’Shana softly on the lips.

“Please,” Da’Shana said softly, nodding. “No,” Da’Shana said firmly and flatly. “I
Carol’s left hand brushed Da’Shana’s black can’t.”
hair away from her face in the shadow of
the dim light, and Da’Shana cringed. Carol looked disappointed. “I can’t,”
Da’Shana repeated, more to herself than
“You’re a tease,” Carol said. But Da’Shana Carol. She couldn’t have a female lover.
barely heard her. The image of her ex-hus- There were a million reasons. But recently,
band’s square jaw with the jagged scar vivid images of imaginary sex with women
from an old bullet wound crossed her mind. had replaced those with her ex-husband.
Smooth-talking Rever, whose wide grin used
to fill her up, might be driving the streets “You can’t or you don’t want to?” Carol
of North Avenue or establishing a presence asked gruffly, tossing back a blond curl in
on some East Baltimore Street in the hope her slightly sloping bangs.
that it would discourage Friday night crime.
She had only made love once since she had “Let’s go out for dinner,” Da’Shana finally
left Rever two years ago, and that short ro- said after an awkward silence, giving Car-
mance had ended acrimoniously after her ol’s hand a soft rub. Da’Shana rose from the
temporary lover had added himself to her blue angel chair, and Carol started to call for
Netflix and Spotify accounts. reservations. “Dam, my cell phone is dead,”
she said, looking at the blank screen.
“Where are you?” Carol asked, again
touching the smooth skin of Da’Shana’s “Use OpenTable. My laptop is on the
cheek. kitchen table.” Da’Shana pointed toward
the kitchen.
“With you,” Da’Shana said wistfully,
smiling and taking another sip of the Ice- “Samika,” Da’Shana yelled into the shad-
land wine. With you, she said again to her- ow-filled upstairs hall as Carol walked into
self wondering if she could do in real life the kitchen. “Get ready. We’re going out
for food.” The three ate pepperoni pizza

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

and drank cokes at O’Brien’s Pub on nearby did not make this request, please notify us
Charles Street, which occupied a corner lot by mail immediately.”
that had seen many changes at the Uni-
versity of Baltimore. Five-foot six Samika “Congratulations on your new Lowe’s ac-
bit off large bites of the greasy bread and count,” another read.
cheese. The muscular boy who had twisted
and teased his curly hair into dreads be- Lil Wayne’s “No Love” blared through
fore dinner kept his eyes on the television the dark wood door to Samika’s bedroom
behind the bar. Carol curled her nose, and door. Mid-song, Samika turned the music
Da’Shana guessed it was a reaction to Sami- off. Still holding her phone, Da’Shana sipped
ka’s socks, which he had worn since football the remaining white Panda from earlier in
practice. The boy, although quiet, seemed the evening alone in the kitchen. She had
troubled. He refused to look Da’Shana or had a pleasant evening with Carol although
Carol directly in the eyes. Da’Shana knew Carol had wanted to spend
the night. Da’Shana shook her head as she
The dark-paneled wood and cold ale of recalled Carol’s kiss. What would her Meth-
O’Brien’s reminded Da’Shana of her ex-hus- odist parents say? She knew the answer
band. “Deals are made here,” he told her and wondered if the intense desire she felt
as they split a cheeseburger and drank under the covers of her bed and anony-
Guinness Ale on a Friday night much like mous safety of her mind was real or some
this one several years earlier. She needed manifestation of the stress from school.
Rever’s help with Samika. He had shown
some influence over the boy before the di- She called Lowe’s, spent twenty minutes
vorce. Samika had loved looking at Rever’s navigating the prompts, was switched to
gun collection during half-time breaks in Ra- Synchrony Bank, the lender which financed
ven’s games on Da’Shana’s sister’s Sunday the account, and tried a handful of push op-
after-church visits. tions before getting an after-hours message.
Although hesitant to call Rever, she had no
An e-mail ping interrupted Da’Shana’s one else. Rever had been a selfish husband,
sigh, and she glanced at the message from an awful friend, and a less than adequate
Home Depot. She had not bought anything lover, but he had worked the fraud unit for
there since she and Rever had purchased a a year.
Reel push lawn mower two summers ago. It
wasn’t until Carol left and Samika went up “Call Experian,” he said in his typical bari-
to his room that she opened it. tone, which created the image of a black
man much taller and stronger than he
“Congratulations on your new Home appeared in person. “Tomorrow, call Syn-
Depot account,” it read. “You should get chrony Bank again, but file a police report
a written confirmation in the mail within first.” Rever gave Da’Shana the direct dial
eight to ten days.” number to the Department’s cyber fraud
unit. “You may also want to file a complaint
Confused, Da’Shana started preparing her with the Federal Trade Commission,” he
Tuesday lesson plan. Twenty minutes and five added.
pings later, she checked her e-mail again.
She scribbled the information on a sheet
“Your change of address has been made,” of notebook paper. “Who could have done
one read from Baltimore First Bank. “If you this?”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“Shit, it could happen a number of ways.” about the tone that heightened Da’Shana’s
anger.
Da’Shana walked upstairs to Samika’s
bedroom and peeked through the dark “Give me a fucking agent!” Da’Shana
crack as he slept. T-shirts and dirty towels screamed and then pressed zero, placing a
lay in cluttered piles. As she started to close dirty plate into the sink.
the door, a shiny glimmer from a metal
object shimmered briefly in the sliver of “Da’Shana,” Samika called from upstairs.
hallway light that penetrated the room’s
darkness. “I’m on the phone,” she yelled. “In the
kitchen.” Da’Shana put the notes from her
* conversation with Rever on the granite
countertop as she heard the approach of
Saturday morning, Da’Shana ushered De- Samika’s impatient stomping.
tective Crumple into the small crowded
kitchen at the back of her rowhouse. Sa- “Da’Shana, you got five dollars you can
mika slept. The smell of cooked pancakes lend me?” Samika wore a faded jean jacket.
lingered, and Da’Shana sought to control A gold chain Da’Shana had never seen
her fear as the memory of Carol’s kiss still before hung around his neck under long
burned. The Detective, a pleasant white dreadlocks.
middle-aged man with a thin smile and
receding gray hairline, had invited her to “For what, Samika?” She pressed zero
keep him apprised of developments as five times as she spoke to the fourteen-year
she accumulated more information but old, trying to disregard the recorded sym-
seemed pessimistic about any real chance phony music she heard on the call.
of catching the cybercrook. He told her the
police report provided a case number for “I owe that nigga up the street five dol-
any future legal proceedings in which she lars.”
may need to prove she had not opened or
used the fraudulent accounts. The whole “Don’t speak to me with that ghetto talk.
process with the detective only took about I’m your aunt, not your friend.”
twenty minutes. Then, she called the bank
again. “You’re doing too much. I knew you
wouldn’t help me. I’m going to Tailor Av-
“Thank you for using Synchrony Bank,” enue.” He said and turned suddenly like a
the first message said. “Please enter your rabbit.
account number.”
“Maybe, if you asked me…” Da’Shana’s
“I don’t have an account number,” Da’Shana stern voice trailed off as her nephew dis-
shouted into the phone. “Please give me an appeared through the faded, cracked front
agent.” door onto St. Paul Street. Samika’s sadness
and frustration bit into Da’Shana’s gut.
“I am sorry. We did not understand that.
Please enter your account number so we “This is Theresa, thank you for using Syn-
may serve you better.” The woman’s voice chrony Bank,” the voice over the phone said
providing the message was even and un- suddenly.
emotional. There was something foreign
“I don’t have an account number…”

“I need an account or social security
number,” the faceless agent told Da’Shana.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Although worried about Samika, Then, something Rever had said popped
Da’Shana tried to focus. It had only been into her head. “That young woman I saw you
a month since Da’Shana’s sister had died. with, the one with the short, wavy blond
But Samika’s initial composure had broken hair, how well do you know her?” At the time,
badly. Da’Shana had learned not to permit Da’Shana had laughed at the irony of Rever
defiance and disrespect in her classroom. talking about trust. But she now remembered
She needed to take some action with the that she had recently allowed Carol to use
teenager. her computer, and Carol was from Georgia.

“Da’Shana Skyson. My social is 098-66- An hour later, amidst intruding memo-
3245,” she said into the receiver. “I’m the ries of Carol’s fragrance, Da’Shana jotted
victim of identity theft. I don’t have a Syn- notes to record her conversation with Annie
chrony Bank or Lowe’s account number.” As in Synchrony Bank’s commercial fraud de-
she spoke, Samika’s words from breakfast, partment. In a kind voice, Annie had told
“You’re not my mother,” floated into her Da’Shana that Annie herself had been the
consciousness. She made a fist with her left victim of identity theft by someone who
hand in an effort to stop it from trembling. stole her medical information shortly after
Annie had given birth to her second child.
“I don’t see any account with that social Annie collected Da’Shana’s personal infor-
security number,” Theresa said. mation, including her address, telephone
number, and social security number. Annie
“Well, I don’t know how that’s possible. advised Da’Shana to contact the credit
I’ve received notices about a fraudulent agencies to correct any inaccurate informa-
Lowe’s account and Synchrony Bank is identi- tion, but she also asked Da’Shana to provide
fied as the lender on my credit report.” Salty a copy of a utility bill and the police report.
tears slid from the corners of her bloodshot Da’Shana explained she had no easy access
eyes. A hundred dollars. That’s what she saw. to a fax machine or scanner but would send
The number one hundred in the balance them by certified mail.
column of her checkbook. She didn’t have
the time or money to deal with more debt, Now, after 2:00 p.m., Da’Shana drove
let alone fraudulent debt. “I’m sorry ma’am,” to the Dunkin Donut’s near University
Theresa said. “Without an account number of Baltimore for an ice latte and glazed
or a social security number that matches the doughnut. She powered her phone off after
account, I won’t be able to help.” seeing three e-mails from Home Depot
and a voice message from Carol. Sitting at
Da’Shana disregarded the agent’s sug- the white table waiting for her Saturday
gestion that Da’Shana call Lowe’s again and coffee, Da’Shana wiped muffin crumbs off
asked for a supervisor. Ten minutes later, the plastic surface and wondered where
after a conversation with Theresa’s super- Samika had gone. She had not seen him in
visor, Da’Shana was switched to the bank’s four hours and a strange ominous feeling
commercial fraud department and discov- crept over her, like the one she had had be-
ered that a person had used her name, so- fore discovering Rever in their bed with his
cial security number, and a fake Georgia white female bitch cop partner.
driver’s license to open a business line
of credit in person at two Lowe’s Georgia But feelings could be wrong. After all,
stores near Atlanta. she had trusted Carol.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

* “You’re the only one who has had access
to my computer.”
That night, Carol came over unannounced.
“Do you want company?” Carol asked from Just then, the phone rang. Da’Shana an-
the front stoop in the deep shadow of swered it instinctively. Carol shook her head
streetlight under a moonless sky. Her red in disgust and pulled the door open, letting
cloth blouse and ripped blue jeans clung a burst of street noise and garbage smell
tightly to her petite, athletic body. Smiling, invade the living room.
she shook her hair back and took a step to-
ward the threshold. “Don’t leave. I need…We need…”
Da’Shana said, holding the phone to her
“If I lied and said no, would you leave chest. She motioned to Carol to sit as she
anyway?” Da’Shana asked, motioning with replaced the phone to her ear.”
her left hand for Carol to enter. Da’Shana
had intended on calling Carol anyway. She Da’Shana’s eyes widened. “What?
needed to confront her. When?” She said into the receiver.

Carol walked into the plain living room Carol looked at Da’Shana questioningly.
where faded oak steps led to the second
floor. “Sit.” Da’Shana commanded and gave After a few minutes of listening intently,
the faded blue couch cushion next to her a Da’Shana said, “I don’t understand. Is he
hard pat. Carol stared into Da’Shana’s scru- being charged?”
tiny.
“Thank you Rever. No, I’ll come over and
“Honey, you look like you’ve had a bad….” get him,” Da’Shana said several seconds
later.
“Don’t.” Da’Shana interrupted harshly.
“Don’t patronize me. Just tell me why me. “What happened?” Carol asked.
Did you think I’d be an easy mark?” Rever
had told Da’Shana how cyber crooks often “Samika was picked up by the police. But
select vulnerable victims. I really don’t know much.”

“The overworked, busy tenth grade gov- Carol tilted her head. “For what?” Car-
ernment teacher with her sister’s delinquent ol’s understanding demeaner impressed
son...” Da’Shana continued, but she now Da’Shana given that Carol was twenty four
barked sounds in a guttural shriek like a near- years younger and had no children of her
dead animal. “Tell me why. Tell me how?” own.

Carol just sat there, listening. Then, after “Resisting arrest. I don’t know. He has
a full two minutes of silence she put her had some real trauma recently,” Da’Shana
Dasani bottle in her purse and walked to added. “His mother, who had been his pri-
the hall closet to get her jacket. “I have no mary caretaker, died of a brain aneurysm.”
idea what you’re talking about you fucking
paranoid bitch. We met at the library. You “Oh God, I’m so sorry, sweetie.” Carol
remember. It was a chance encounter. Until placed her left hand softly on Da’Shana’s
now, I thought it was a lucky one. What ex- arm. “Was it expected?” Carol asked.
actly do you think I’ve done?” She asked, as
she pulled the jacket over her shoulders. “No, very much unexpected. It happened
after a car accident.” She did not volunteer
the subsequent medical complications or
the Hopkin’s ER doctor’s negligence.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Da’Shana also did not volunteer that Sa- But later that night, while washing Samika’s
mika her half-white, half African American clothes, she found a crumpled napkin with
nephew still considered his mother’s death “O’Brien’s Pub” and “Thanks Samika. Glad
a murder. An eighteen-year old University it went well” scrawled on the faded paper.
of Baltimore college student from Frost- The dollar amount “$1,000” and a smiley
burg, Maryland had run a red light and rear- face appeared below the barely legible note.
ended Samika’s mother’s old black Cadillac. She stuffed the napkin in her pocket. Like
The emergency room at Johns Hopkins Hos- a cat, she crept quietly into Samika’s bed-
pital, the renowned and competent Johns room. Notwithstanding the clutter, it didn’t
Hopkins, had released her, notwithstanding take Da’Shana long to discover the partially
the small crack in the back of her cranium. covered crucifix in the glint of the night light.
A day later, a Saturday morning, after Sami- She would continue searching for the dia-
ka’s mother’s headaches had become more mond earing after picking up Samika.
intense and more frequent, the emergency
room advised her during her follow-up visit Still thinking of Sha’nea, Da’Shana re-
to take Tylenol and see her primary care called Rever once saying, “She is a fucking
doctor. The next day, Sunday, October 10, clean cop.” At the time, Da’Shana had
2018, Sha’nea Brown, ten-year veteran of struggled to understand the slight anger
the Baltimore City Police Department, col- in his inflection, ultimately attributing it to
lapsed in her one-bedroom apartment. She his frustration over Sha’nea’s cooperation
died an hour later, shortly after arriving at with Internal Affairs about reports of his
Maryland General Hospital by ambulance. gambling.

Da’Shana slipped the cell phone into During the fifteen minute drive to Rev-
her tight black jeans and looked up at Carol. er’s recently purchased Federal Hill row-
Before Da’Shana could say anything, Carol house, Da’Shana wondered why everything
said, “I know you’ve got other things to she touched seemed to turn into shit. Her
worry about right now, but about those fifteen year marriage had ended abruptly.
false credit card charges, maybe you should Her high school teaching job now felt over-
look closer to home.” whelming and frustrating. Her sister lay
dead. Da’Shana had no money. Now, her
“What’s that supposed to mean?” sister’s son was acting out, and Da’Shana
Da’Shana snapped. A waft of cigarette was the victim of identity theft. She felt a
smoke and urine penetrated the small en- familiar, stifling sense of low self-worth suf-
tryway as Carol reopened the front door. focate her.

“For starters, maybe you should ask Sa- The fifty-two year old tried to organize
mika where he got the gold chain with the her thoughts as she walked up to Rever’s
crucifix and diamond earring. How does row house. She wanted to be clear about
a fourteen-year-old without a job afford the expectations she had for Samika. At the
those things?” same time, she knew how easy it was for a
black boy to get arrested even if he hadn’t
Carol left frowning and hurriedly, and done anything wrong. As she tried to mea-
Da’Shana walked upstairs to Samika’s room sure and select the words she wanted to say,
feeling like someone had just punched her she stepped inside and took a gasp. “Wow,
in the stomach. She saw nothing unusual. new furniture.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Rever smiled. Samika sat on a new blue “Did you act smart? What did you say?”
sofa in front of a six by eight foot flat screen Da’Shana felt exasperated.
television.
“Nothing.”
“Is this oak?” Da’Shana asked, pointing
toward the wood floor. “Samika.” Rever said deliberately in a low
tone, slowly emphasizing each syllable of
“Just refurbished,” Rever said. Samika’s name.

“I love this, Rever.” Da’Shana sat on the “I didn’t say nothing. I just asked what
sofa next to Samika and put her arm gently the cop was doing,” Samika said, raising his
on his back. Samika’s tall body jerked away voice. After a moment of silence, Samika
instantly. “Why don’t you tell me what hap- added, “I also said you can’t just arrest him
pened.” for eating chicken.”

Rever nodded toward Samika. This indi- Da’Shana looked at Rever. “How did you
cation of control irritated Da’Shana. find out about this?”

“We was buying food at Royal Farm near “I just happened to be in the station. Your
Frederick Douglass where Dat lives.” nephew said his uncle was a policeman.
When he told the station sergeant on duty,
“Dat?” they paged me.”

“You don’t know him. We used to play When she turned back to speak to Sa-
ball together before his family moved to mika, Da’Shana noticed the diamond earing.
Edmondson Village.” “Let’s go home,” she said to Samika abruptly.
“We will talk about this further,” she said. As
“Dat was laughing loud at some girls he Da’Shana got up to leave, she remembered
knew and eating his chicken basket sitting the napkin from O’Brien’s. “What’s this?”
on the curb, not doing nothing you know, She asked Samika, pulling the torn paper
and this police come up out a nowhere.” from her jeans. Samika’s eyes widened, and
he looked towards Rever’s ashen face.
“The cop asked his name. Dat answered
him. But the cop was just pressed. Dat Samika shrugged, and Rever looked
hadn’t been a wise guy or nothing, and the down at his expensive new floor.
cop threw him against the pavement and
told him to shut up.” “Don’t play games with me, young man,”
Da’Shana said to Samika in a scolding tone,
“Where were you?” Da’Shana asked. pointing her index finger at him.
Rever walked from the railing near the steps
to the kitchen. “It’s a napkin,” Samika said with a dis-
respectful laugh. Da’Shana recognized the
“I was coming out of the store door.” rebellious tone.

“What did you do?” “Why does it say a thousand dollars on
it?” Da’Shana asked.
“Nothing. The pig just threw me against
the car, told me to put my hands behind my “Bust that bitch,” Samika said in a low
back, and cuffed me.” voice under his breath.

Rever returned with bottles of cold “What did you say,” Da’Shana yelled in-
water for Samika and Da’Shana. credulously.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“I didn’t say nothing,” the teenager re- agree to come back to talk. Da’Shana met
plied with a straight face. Carol on the front stoop. They stood for a
moment in the drizzling rain. Then, walk-
“Da’Shana, give the boy some slack here. ing inside hand-in-hand, the two women
He’s had a rough night.” shared feelings for several hours. They
woke together in Da’Shana’s queen-sized
Da’Shana stared at Rever in disbelief. bed wrapped warmly in a black and white
She hated that condescending attitude, checkered comforter Rever’s mother had
which reminded her of why she and Rever given Da’Shana.
no longer were married. “Let’s go,” she said
to her nephew calmly, but sternly. “Let’s play this morning,” Carol said with
a mischievous grin.
“Have a good night. Let me know if you
need help,” Rever said, trying to recover the “I’ve got errands, honey,” Da’Shana said,
cordiality he and Da’Shana had shared ear- wondering if Carol, meant play in bed or
lier as he walked his ex-wife and Samika to something else. Da’Shana also was starting
the door. Da’Shana thanked him coldly, and to feel pressure to finish her lesson plans for
as she did so she noticed for the first time a the week. Then, she heard Samika down-
diamond earing in his left ear. stairs. She jumped out of bed and into the
hallway. “Samika,” she yelled.
*
“I’m going for wings,” he barked back.
“I’m sorry Carol,” Da’Shana said apologeti-
cally into her phone later that evening as “Samika, we need to talk….,” Da’Shana
she leaned against the refrigerator after screamed, before hearing the door slam.
Samika went up to his room for the night. She ran to the window in Samika’s room,
She could hear “Toes” by DaBaby playing looked out onto St. Paul street, and saw the
on Alexa behind Samika’s closed door. Af- boy’s black durag disappear as he stepped
ter telling Carol what she discovered, Carol into Rever’s mud cached new black Mustang.

About the Author

Doug Canter, a retired attorney, teaches World Literature
at Western High School in Baltimore City. His writing has
appeared in Hedge Apple Magazine, Evansville Review,
Talking Writing, 20-Something Magazine, and Public
Utilities Fortnightly, among others, as well as on Solstice
Magazine’s Feature Blog. Doug received a Master of Arts
in Non-Fiction Writing from Johns Hopkins University
in Washington, D.C. When he is not teaching English or
writing, Doug is walking the local trails on the C&O Canal
near the Potomac River.

56

DESI DINNER PARTY

by Mariya Khan

When your mom says you’re spending Sat- to every Desi event. And now you must do
urday night at Sunnah Auntie’s house, you the same. Otherwise, you’re pushing part of
groan and try to convince her otherwise. your life away.
Your mom instructs you to pick out a Paki-
stani outfit. There’s no use in arguing with You push away the dresses, shirts, and
your mom, who has already laid her clothes cardigans in your closet until you reach the
on the bed. For this dinner party she picked Pakistani outfits tucked away in the back.
a black salwar kameez with white embroi- Your fingers touch the silk and cotton fabrics
dery and white pants. It’s the dress she as you search for the perfect outfit. There’s
bought last week from an auntie’s base- that yellow one with purple beading and
ment shop, so she would have a newer out- pants, but you wore that two weeks ago
fit for casual parties like this. Otherwise, all at another party. The biggest rule of Desi
of the aunties would think she’s too poor to dinner parties: never wear the same outfit
buy clothes every three months. twice. The aunties will recognize it. They
may not say anything, but you know their
You always fight over these Desi dinner shifting eyes remember the outfit as if you
parties. None of the other Desi girls that wore it four hours ago. If you want to wear
you see wear Pakistani clothes. You always one again, you must wait at least six months.
see them in skinny jeans, with a plaid or
loose-fitting shirt, as if they’re trying to After an eternity, you decide on a rose-
prove that they can still seem “American” pink kurta with chocolate brown leggings.
but conservative. It’s not fair that you have To your American friends, kurtas look like
to wear clothes that’ll cause stares when exotic knee-length dresses worn with
you stop by a supermarket to grab dessert skinny jeans or colored leggings. They hav-
for the dinner. None of the other Desi girls en’t seen you wearing kurtas, so they only
endure those glares that make your face have conjured images of women in articles
burning red. and shows about India and Pakistan to go
on. Perhaps someday you’ll garner the con-
Your mom thinks you should feel proud fidence to exhibit one of your kurtas for
of your Pakistani clothes. These ornamental them, so they can see their true intricacies.
displays allow you to clasp onto South Asian
culture while living in this American suburb. To you, Pakistani kurtas with American
When your mom was a child in Ohio, her par- leggings serve as a silent act of rebellion.
ents made her and her siblings wear them You aren’t Pakistani enough to wear salwar

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

kameez and their wide-legged pants, but hangs over you as you navigate your life the
also not American enough to wear jeans way others want. You sigh and put on some
and a t-shirt. It’s a compromise that your makeup, since that will make the aunties
mom never seems to fight over. Perhaps she praise how beautiful and grown-up you look
compromised when she was younger, when and how you’re one step closer to marriage.
she didn’t have a chance to complain to her That’ll put a positive dent in your reputation.
parents about her Pakistani clothes.
Hurry up, Bushra! We’re going to be late
Since your mom is showering, you’re to Sunnah Auntie’s!
tasked with ironing all the clothes for to-
night. Thankfully, your family isn’t preparing You don’t know why you always call
for a Desi wedding, where you spend an these people aunties and uncles. Your
extra hour flipping clothes inside out and American friends get confused when you
under layers to iron them completely. You can’t sleep over because you’re going to a
have to be careful not to iron off the deli- neighborhood auntie’s dinner party. If you
cate beading or burn the fabric. If you don’t had to define an auntie, you’d categorize
iron out all the wrinkles, the aunties will her as a married woman who thinks she
think you are sloppy. And according to the knows what’s best for every Desi child. She
aunties, if you can’t keep yourself present- holds the key to your culture, sees herself
able, how can you manage a home once you as the sole preserver of traditions that you
marry? will inevitably forget while living in America.
She gives the unsolicited advice you always
You return to your bedroom to put knew you never needed, inflicting harsh
on clothes still warm from the iron. You judgment with a swift flick of the wrist.
smooth the fabric over the mini belly that You aren’t even related to them. The only
pokes out of the kurta while staring in the thing that binds you all together is the place
mirror. Since you haven’t eaten all day, your where your families come from – a foreign
stomach growls, knowing that you’ll stuff it land you’ve never visited but always feel
with heavy Desi food later that night. That connected to. You don’t know if you will
meal alone counts as your calories for the ever go there in your lifetime, but your par-
day. Lately, your mom’s been pushing you ents have done all they can to make sure
to lose weight because you’ve grown from you experience as much of its culture as
a size two to four in the past year. Your body possible.
always bounces in sizes, and Pakistani food,
with its rivers of oil, is one reason why. You Don’t lose touch of who you are, of
have to detox when you eat tons of Paki- where you came from. You can’t forget your
stani food in a week. Usually, that detox roots. No matter what, don’t forget.
consists of going longer between meals or
using a tiny plate that’ll barely hold your *
food. Sometimes, you skip dinner, or treat
your lunch as one. Your family is 30 minutes late, but half the
guests haven’t even arrived yet. In reality,
If you don’t look “acceptable,” the aun- 30 minutes late means early or right on time.
ties will say things that will further damage Shoes that belong to children, teenagers,
the reputation you’ve always heard about and uncles crowd the inside entrance. Your
but never quite grasped. It’s a shadow that mom, however, doesn’t remove her heels.
Aunties never take off their shoes. The host

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family, whose grins fill their whole faces, masala squished beside it. Snag two potato
never break character as they welcome and samosas and place them next to the goat
usher you into the house. While your dad curry and tandoori naan on your plate. Your
joins the rest of the uncles, you follow your murmuring stomach reminds you that you’ll
mom to where the ladies sit. It’d be better regret all this later, but you know others will
to rush down into the basement where the comment that you have nothing on your
other kids are, but your mom says it’s insult- plate. According to your calorie count, this
ing to ignore the aunties. So stand next to is plenty for the rest of the night.
her as she goes around saying hello. When
necessary, engage in brief conversation Luckily, you can escape the aunties and
with them. A quick hello, a self-conscious retreat into the basement, into a world that
smile, as they ask about your life plans. your mom has lost touch with. She, on the
other hand, must remain with the aunties
Saalam, Auntie. Yes, I’m doing well. Oh, as they talk about their weekly dinners, ex-
yes, I’m studying really hard for the SAT. No, tended vacations and trips, and traditional
I’m not doing medicine. Law actually. Yes, clothes they buy every week $400-$600
well, Inshallah I’ll go Harvard Law. Yes, I’ll each. Since your family doesn’t indulge in
go get some food. Oh, you brought the tan- the same expensive practices, your mom
doori chicken? I’ll make sure to grab some just smiles and nods. Why does she insist
then. Bye, Auntie. your family attend these Desi dinner par-
ties? None of you feel included enough
Unlike the other girls in the community, to enjoy them. Your family is always in-
you don’t speak fluent Urdu like you’ve vited, though, so how can she say no? In
been plucked fresh from a different country her opinion, they are inclusive enough by
and placed into this American world. You asking.
speak slowly, saying the simplest phrases in
an “American accent” that resemble more The girls in the basement all huddle to-
of a foreigner visiting Pakistan. When you gether on the couches like a school cafe-
speak broken Urdu, you can see the judg- teria. None of them wear traditional clothes
ment in the aunties’ eyes. or comment on yours. They probably think
your mom is strict for making you wear
What a stupid girl, only speaking simple them. Their moms don’t know that they do
phrases. She can’t even use the right things like drink at house parties or sneak
grammar. What is her mom teaching her? out and smoke weed at wild concerts. But
Shame on her for not speaking Urdu at these girls can speak Urdu perfectly, wear
home. Well, the mom can’t even speak it makeup and perfectly ironed clothes like
right. She speaks it like an American, and model Pakistani daughters.
her daughter is worse. How is she going to
be a good Pakistani girl if she doesn’t speak Sometimes, you actually know almost
Urdu like a good Pakistani girl? everyone and spend your entire time chat-
ting and playing animated games of ping
Get out of there as soon as you can. Get pong or fooze ball. You never get a sense
away from the weighty stares and go to the that you don’t belong. Those dinner parties
food. Take a paper plate from the corner never feel like a timed obligation. Some-
and start piling everything on there – the times, you’re even reluctant to leave. You
sauce of the chicken tikka masala drizzling don’t really see these friends outside Desi
off the pile of golden chicken biryani, chaana

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dinner parties, so you’re unsure when you’ll the sharp spices that sting the back of your
see the group again. Then it’s back to loneli- throat or your kurta fabric squeezing and
ness. When you don’t know a single person, riding into your armpits. No one to make
they don’t usually want to know you. To you smile and look fun and approachable.
them, you represent another Desi kid that
their parents will always compare them to. Did you get the read that new book in
the series? No? But it’s fucking amazing!
Today, no familiar face greets you in the They finally get together, and my god, it’s
basement. So go sit in the corner alone. soo worth the wait! You have to!
When feeling insecure or unsure of what
to do, eat the food on your plate. Food oc- Fatima grimaces at the bitter piece of
cupies your mind and distracts you from cardamom that she accidently bit into.
the gossipy girls who will someday be-
come gossipy moms. Chew on the tandoori Ugh, that’s so fucking gross. I feel like I
naan. Suck in a breath because of the over- have to throw up. Don’t any of those aun-
whelming amount of cumin, curry powder, tie’s know how to dial back on the masala,
and turmeric that’s rushed into your nos- or take these goddamn things out?!
trils. Allow your teeth to consume the salty
chaana masala. Crunch on that cold potato You laugh and hand Fatima a napkin that
samosa. In situations like these, food equals isn’t stained with masala and oil. Anam
as your best friend. Food never discrim- scrolls through her phone and shows you fan
inates you at a dinner party. It keeps you art of the book they were insisting you read.
comfortable and busy, especially when no It’s almost like you’re sitting in the school
one wants to talk to you. cafeteria with your friends. Almost like you
belong to a community different from the
* South Asian one your parents pull you into.
Is there a way for you to bring them together,
An hour into the dinner party, two sisters a way for you to fully belong in both?
come down with their plates. You’ve met
them at a couple of dinner parties last After rating the eighth picture you guys
month. Those times, they wore kurtas discovered, your phone lights up. Your dad
and skinny jeans and you all bonded over has finally sent that text, that holy signal to
a shared love for YA fantasy books. Anam leave the premises. At this point, you don’t
and Fatima excitedly wave and sit cross- really want to leave. Anam and Fatima are
legged on the floor with you. They don’t rare gems that you don’t know if you’ll find
acknowledge the other girls on the couch again. Who knows when you guys will cross
with a hello. Like you, they don’t know any- paths at another Desi dinner party? Anam
one else. Maybe if you weren’t there, then and Fatima pout when you insist it’s time for
they’d also be alone in the corner, on their you to head out.
phones and talking amongst themselves.
Well, at least Anam and Fatima have each No, you can’t leave now! Stay for longer –
other. They don’t have to spend their time they’re going to take an hour to say goodbye
eating and moving the food on their plates. anyway! Okay, fine, bring that 1,001 Nights
You don’t have anyone to share the expe- retelling and we’ll bring that new book we
rience with. No one to distract you from were talking about.

Even though you talk to them about
your favorite characters and books for

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hours, none of you ever exchange books Tune out your parents as your painted
like you always promise. Anam and Fatima toes rest on the heels you threw off and
just took your phone number down, even shoved under the passenger seat. You can
though you’ve met before. They probably already see the swelling start to form on
won’t ever call you back. They included you your feet. You’ll have to drink two glasses
just enough, so you don’t feel totally un- of water and elevate your feet before you
welcome. Maybe if you weren’t there, they fall asleep. Slowly, the rhythm of the bumpy
would sit with the other girls on the couch, roads coaxes you to close your eyes. Your
absorbing themselves in the world you’re stomach rumbles from the Pakistani food
never a part of. At least they would have as your mind groggily focuses on the cool
each other if things went south. leather.

Glance at the girls huddled at the couch Your phone buzzes on the seat as it
and rush upstairs without saying goodbye. It lights up. With one eye open, you lift the
will take a while for your family to actually phone and see a message from an unknown
leave. Don’t worry, it will happen eventu- number.
ally. Don’t stress and pull them along. It will
look rude to sneak out the front door with Don’t forget the 1,001 Nights retelling!
one small goodbye. Your mom has to say Are you going to Yassin’s grad party next
goodbye to every present auntie, going off week?
on a tangent to some other conversation
that wastes more time. The host needs to It’s unclear whether Anam or Fatima are
feel special for arranging such a spectacular texting, but that doesn’t matter. You smile
dinner party. Pleasantly smile at her as you and text back.
hug her goodbye. Tell her the food was de-
licious and that you had the best time with I think so! My parents were just talking
the other girls. Eventually, after what feels about it. Don’t forget that book 
like two hours after the first goodbye, you’ll
leave the dinner party. Maybe this Desi dinner party isn’t as bad
as you thought it’d be. It wasn’t anything like
In the car, you rest your head against the the parties where you actually know most
window as you watch the suburban trees of the people, but it was close. You feel hes-
filter into highway trees. Your parents are itant in getting comfortable with Anam and
discussing a gift for a Desi graduation party Fatima. They definitely won’t be around for
next weekend. At least with this party you long. You might see them at more parties in
can sit at a table on your phone and seem the future, but what will happen when col-
uninterested. You even hear your parents lege comes around? If your college has any
debate when you can host your own dinner South Asians on campus, will you connect
party. At least then you can spend your with them? Or will you get shunned again?
night acting like a kitchen servant. You can Maybe, though, maybe it takes a new place,
distract yourself by making sure there’s a new home, for you to find pride in this
enough cutlery and plates at the table and part of you. Maybe you’ll be able to come
that the food is hot and that the ice is re- back home and feel content at a Desi dinner
filled in the pitcher. party no matter who is there. You sigh as
you unbuckle your seatbelt and watch the
car drive into the open garage.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Mariya Khan is a South Asian and Muslim American writer from Washington, DC. She is a
graduate of The George Washington University and Summer Institute at the University of
Iowa International Writing Program. Her work has appeared in 50 Word Stories, Writing in
a Woman’s Voice, Asians in America, Constellate Literary Journal, and Scarlet Leaf Review,
among others. When Mariya is not writing, she’s trying new recipes and watching crime
dramas.

62

THE FIREPLACE

by Foster Trecost

I recall that morning with clarity rarely pres- something: “Forget your lunch?” The words
ent in my memories. Fallen leaves chased came coarse, like they’d been pulled over
across frosted grass, their paths directed sandpaper, and I didn’t recognize the voice.
by an unseen force. Church bells cracked I turned to see the super.
the frozen air, marking the time I’d turn
towards work, but I turned towards home “I lost my job,” I said.
instead.
“This morning, already?”
My building sat mid-block and had been
divided into tiny apartments that housed “No, on Friday.”
just one tenant each. The super presented
the only exception, but when his wife “Habits,” he said.
passed, he joined the solitary ranks of ev-
eryone else. It seemed he had lived in the In his eyes I found familiar ground. He
basement apartment since the building was held me in his stare and asked if I wanted to
built. We saw him as a fixture, something talk about it. Not one to swim the currents
always there, not unlike the chandelier of conversation, I surprised myself and said
hanging in the entrance. I did.

My flat took the top floor, three flights up. And he listened.
It came with a fireplace, but the lease listed
eviction if I used it, a clause I questioned, but I rambled on, spoke of unseen forces,
never tested. Instead, I stacked the space and finished with a desperate question:
with old magazines, except the winter I fash- “What do I do now?”
ioned it one match from fire. This proved to
be a difficult temptation, so I replaced the His answer contained an outlandish plan
logs with candles before switching to the less that, though dismissed when heard, I’d
decorative, but far more functional, storage soon embrace, and soon after that, carry
for already-read magazines. out. “You should take a trip.”

I entered the building just as Ms. Lunden- I told him my time might be better spent
berg was walking out. We said good morning, looking for a job. “Rent’s due in ten days,” I
but not much more, and I started up the said, and he countered by saying I shouldn’t
stairs. After only a few steps, someone said worry about such things. If I’d known it was
to be our last conversation, I would’ve said
more, but as it happened, I continued up
the stairs.

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I spent the rest of the week hidden be- After a moment, he appeared. “Thanks
tween closed door and open window. Take for coming down,” he said. “This way, please.”
a trip, he said, so I did. On Friday I packed
a satchel and left. I drove until my gas light We walked to his office, and I asked
came on, rented a room for a few days, then again what I’d done.
drove back. It was an uncomplicated excur-
sion, but it cleared my head, so in that sense “Relax. You’ve done nothing, but I have
it was worth every mile. difficult news.” I braced myself. “Mr. Keysan…
the maintenance man…passed away. It hap-
In my building I rapped at the super’s pened two days ago.”
door, but no one answered. I walked up
stairs and found my apartment as I’d left Sandpaper voice. I knew he was sick.
it, but before long I sensed something dif-
ferent. I scanned the small space and my Ed Crawford continued. “He’s been with
eyes settled on the fireplace, again made us since the early days. He liked the lack
with kindling and logs, neatly stacked and of pretention found in most firms. Said he
ready for fire. A cryptic note on the mantle could tell our offices were for practicing law,
instructed I use it as intended, that there not impressing clients, and he’s been one
was nothing to stop me. It was unsigned. ever since.”
Then something else caught my eye: the
answering machine. The light was blinking. I asked why he needed a lawyer. I
thought it was a fair question.
“This is Ed Crawford,” cracked a recorded
voice. “Call me when you get this message.” “When he came to this country, it wasn’t
He went on to say it was urgent and ended easy for immigrants. He feared the system
with his number. I listened again and then and retained us to protect his interests.”
once more. I’d never heard of Ed Crawford
and had no clue what he wanted. An hour I asked what interests. I thought this was
later I called to find out. a fair question, too.

“My name’s Joe Henley and I’m-” “I’m going tell you a secret. Mr. Keysan
was more than your maintenance man. He
“-Just a moment, Mr. Henley.” She cut me was also your landlord.”
off before I could finish. “I’ll transfer you to
Mr. Crawford. He’s expecting your call.” “He owned the building?”

The phone fell silent and I thought we’d “Yours, and two others. He and his wife
been disconnected, but then the connec- never had children, so when she died, he
tion revived. “Hi Joe, Ed Crawford,” he said. had no heirs.” Ed produced a legal-looking
“I’m an attorney.” document and placed it on the table. “And
according to his will, the buildings now be-
This much I knew. It’s what I didn’t know long to you.”
that worried me. I wondered what I’d done,
so I asked, but wasn’t answered. Instead, he My mouth opened but failed to say any-
requested I come by so we could speak in thing.
person. I agreed and not long later, intro-
duced myself to the receptionist, who noti- “About a year ago, he made his inten-
fied Ed of my arrival. tions clear. I amended his will and we never
spoke of it again. His tenants never knew
who owned the buildings. I think he’d like it
if you kept it that way.”

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I took my time walking home, and I said I had, that I’d just found out, and
though the sunless air was colder, I lin- in that moment, clarity again cleared the
gered out front. I looked at the building, my path. I recalled my last conversation with
building, so quiet I wondered if anyone lived the super, the things he said, the way he
there. Then Mrs. Lundenberg came through said them. Ms. Lundenberg didn’t know
the front door. She descended the steps who owned the building, and it would stay
and walked in my direction. As she neared, that way. I held her with my stare and asked
I could see she was crying. She walked up, if she wanted to talk about it.
unable to speak, and hugged me instead.
She said she did.
“Have you heard?” she asked.
And I listened.

About the Author

Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend
to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very
short. Recent work appears in Spelk, Right Hand Pointing, and
The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts. He lives near New
Orleans with his wife and dog.

65

THE SERPENT
QUEEN

by Christina Holbrook

“Holy Crap!” Caroline screamed, and scram- flooded the poor guy’s den. You might want
bled back into the air-conditioned house, to keep that patio door shut so the slippery
slamming shut the sliding glass door to fella doesn’t decide to come into the house.”
the patio. She should have softened her
blasphemy to, say, “Crap!” But in her ter- Come into the house!? “You need to
rible fright, she had not had the presence send someone out here immediately to get
of mind. For there—right on her new out- rid of it!”
door couch, sheltered from the rain by the
cheerful turquoise-striped awning—lay the “Sorry, ma’am, but 911 doesn’t handle
glossy, muscular coils of an enormous red animal pests. Have a nice day!”
snake.
Caroline slammed the phone down and
The Homeowners’ Association did not stamped her foot, which was futile and
respond to Caroline’s frantic phone calls for childish. But a large red snake on her patio
help. couch was intolerable. Someone had to get
rid of this creature!
She dialed 911.
She could call Jim, but he wouldn’t ap-
“Could you describe the snake, ma’am?” preciate being disturbed in the middle of his
the operator asked. bible conference in Orlando. And anyway,
what could he do from there?
Caroline peeked outside. The reptile
gazed placidly across the yard. “It’s red, and Jim was executive pastor at the You De-
… it’s ... huge! It’s at least ten feet long!” Ten serve Your Reward Church in New Life, Florida,
might have been an exaggeration. But she just west of Palm Beach. Every Sunday
wanted them to understand: this was an morning, Jim propelled himself onto the altar
emergency! of the cavernous YDYR church—a former
Target Superstore—inspiring hundreds of the
“Most likely a rat snake, ma’am. They’re faithful with his impassioned sermons.
harmless. They live in holes in gardens
and eat mice, toads. All this rain probably Coincidentally, the previous Sunday, he’d
preached the story of Adam and Eve and

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Revista Literária Adelaide

the Temptation of the Serpent. And for no neighborhood association takes care of that
reason she could think of, Caroline had be- with weekly pesticide spraying.”
come annoyed and walked out of church
early. Yes, she understood that the biblical In fact, aside from the occasional darting
passage about the serpent was meant to lizard, Caroline had never seen signs of an-
illustrate the importance of obedience to other living creature. Until this big red snake
God. Still, she resented the idea that be- showed up.
cause Eve—a wife—had dared to ask ques-
tions, express curiosity, she’d become the Unexpectedly, the snake twisted its neck
villain of the story. around and gazed up at Caroline with eyes
like jewels. A delicate, ribbon-thin tongue
What if it had been Adam who’d decided flicked in and out of its serpent mouth,
to try something scary and new? Just think which seemed almost to be turned up in a
of it: a man taking the initiative to eat a fruit sly smile.
or vegetable he had never tried before!
He’d probably be considered a hero, she Intrigued, Caroline cautiously slid open
grumbled to herself. the glass door and stepped outside.

Maybe her unpleasant serpentine vis- “Who you believe you are now is an illu-
itor just wanted to get out of the rain, Car- sion.”
oline considered, as she watched it curled
up quietly on the couch. It certainly didn’t What? That strange thought, uncon-
seem particularly ... diabolical. Or inclined nected to anything, unfurled like a flower
to slither off of the cushions and into her in her mind.
living room. It was just so shocking, really,
to be confronted with a large, animate, non- Caroline felt as if she were hallucinating.
human presence. Something actually lives Or entering a dream, in which she observed
out there, she mused. herself from a distance. And in this dream,
the Caroline she saw appeared two-dimen-
Jim and Caroline, and their two kids, sional, like a character on the big flat-screen
had moved from dreary Michigan ten years TV in their living room. Tears filled her eyes.
earlier, to Palazzo Splendido in New Life, How small and pathetic this version of
Florida. Caroline could still remember how herself seemed! An anxious, insignificant
her heart had raced at the grandeur and person who spent her days in shopping
perfection of the gated community. Every- malls, exercise class, and trying with limited
thing made her feel special, chosen: the success to satisfy the demands of her hus-
gleaming countertops and appliances; the band and children.
pristine painted rooms that had never been
occupied, and so held no traces of another Suddenly, the unhappy picture in her
family’s quarrels, tantrums, or failures. head blurred. No—that wasn’t it. The pic-
ture was clear, but inside this vision small,
She wasn’t sure when it had occurred to pathetic Caroline was blurred and rumpled.
her that there were no birds. And more astonishingly, she actually began
to split open, like an old, worn, faded skin.
“What would they eat?” a neighbor had And what emerged from this husk was an-
pointed out when Caroline mentioned other creature altogether.
it. “There are no insects, thank god. The
This new creature was still Caroline, but
almost unrecognizable to herself: younger,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

glowing with strength and hope; but also altered and enhanced photos of one an-
older, larger, and more powerful, with none other.
of her usual uncertainties or need to please.
A frightening but thrilling energy seemed She turned south onto Highway 441—a
to emanate from this Caroline. Like sex— shimmering asphalt dividing line between
though not sex as she had ever experienced the manmade wonders of Palazzo Splen-
it, but rapturous and potent. Could this Car- dido and the unruly landscape that led
oline really be her? eventually to the Florida Everglades. Rough,
sunburnt men and women wearing faded
She began to see through the eyes of t-shirts and rumpled jeans parked by the
this new Caroline, and everything around side of the road and sold things from their
her glittered with light and flashed with bril- pick-up trucks—watermelons, strawberries,
liant, intense color. In her mind, she could flowers. Caroline pulled onto the shoulder
feel the texture of grass, the bark of trees, beside a truck with the word Orchids
the soft moist petals of flowers; she inhaled painted along its side.
and perceived the thick luscious scents that
roiled the air. And the sensory smorgasbord “I’ll just be a minute,” she said.
filled her with ecstasy.
“Leave the a/c on,” Zach said, his eyes
Inside this awe-filled dream she heard never leaving his phone.
the snake say:
The wet heat enveloped Caroline as she
“You could be my queen ...” emerged from the car, and her eyes met
those of a wrinkled old woman who sat in a
As quickly and unexpectedly as it had folding chair. Beside the old woman, a plank
entered her mind, the vision disappeared. tabletop held a lush array of orchids.
Caroline slumped, holding onto the door-
frame for support. The old woman gestured toward the
table.
On the patio couch, the snake coiled it-
self loosely and watched her. Caroline had little interest in plants or
flowers, except as hedges delineating their
“Mom, why are we stopping? Tyler and property from their neighbors’. But … there
Lexington are coming over to play Com- was something about orchids. Their blos-
mando on Xbox. I told them I’d be home at soms were so unique and expressive, some
four.” even like the faces of small elves, while
others provoked and excited Caroline’s
Caroline glanced in the rearview mirror senses in a strange way.
of her large minivan at the completely blank
face of her teenage son as he stared at his As she bent over the plants, her atten-
cell phone. His thumbs twitched mechani- tion was drawn to one with a frilly cascade
cally as he played an electronic game. Be- of purple blossoms and thick, moist petals.
side him in the back seat, Caroline’s older
daughter Madyson looked unhappy as she “You like?” the old woman asked.
studied her own phone in its pink case.
Her daughter rarely got together with her “No. Well, yes … it’s a little too purple,”
friends, to do things. Instead, they texted she said. It was luscious and embarrass-
brief emoji-filled messages and compared ingly extravagant. Jim would probably hate
it. “But, yes ... I’ll take it.”

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“There are many more, where I live,” the the potted plant Caroline was placing on
old woman said. “In my garden.” She held a the seat next to her.
card, worn at the edges. The words Lunar-
ia’s Garden in purple ink twined around the “A flower.”
design of a flower.
“Whatever,” said Zach. “Can we go now?”
The old woman’s hands felt soft and cool
as she placed the card in Caroline’s palm. Two days later, on another rainy af-
“You are welcome to come.” ternoon, Lunaria’s truck pulled into her
driveway. Caroline had just ventured out
As she was about to slip the card into her of the controlled coolness of her air-condi-
purse, Caroline noticed the printing on the tioned house to gather the mail.
reverse side: “Wild Animal Sanctuary.”
“Oh—hello!” she said as Lunaria climbed
“I have a snake … in my backyard …” Car- out of the truck and mounted the front
oline began. steps ahead of her. “Please … come in,” she
managed, surprised at the old woman’s un-
Lunaria’s eyes widened with interest. expected vigor.

“A, um, serpiente? It doesn’t belong there. Since the day it had first appeared on
Where I live is … well, it’s definitely not a Caroline’s patio, the snake had made a reg-
good place for snakes. For any wild animals. ular habit of arriving in the mid-morning
But I can’t get anyone to help me get rid of and undulating its considerable length up
it. Do you … have a service or something … onto the couch. At first, each of its visits had
someone who could remove the snake? I’m terrified Caroline; then they had just come
sure he—it—the snake I mean—would be to annoy her. The scaly thing had comman-
much happier in a wild animal sanctuary.” deered her own favorite spot, where she
liked to relax with a cup of coffee once the
“I will come,” the old woman said. “One kids were at school, Jim at work, and she
day this week.” had the house to herself.

Caroline exhaled with relief. “Did you bring a cage or a net or some-
thing?” Caroline asked Lunaria as she slid
“My grandson is a gardener, in that place open the glass door to the backyard patio.
where you live. He will find your house. The two women stepped out and regarded
He will know your car.” She pointed at the the thick red loops of the snake, upon which
eight-seater, baby-blue minivan with TVs in rested its oblong head. Its eyes were closed.
the headrests, which did stand out, Caroline
had to admit, even among the many SUVs “I use my own method. Better.”
in Palazzo Splendido. The extra row of seats
ensured that the vehicle took up at least Does she plan to kill it? Caroline won-
two normal parking spaces. dered with a shiver of alarm. She hoped
not—but she stayed quiet. Maybe it was
“OK, well … thank you.” With a small best not to ask too many questions.
wave that was met only with a myste-
rious smile from the old woman, Caroline The old woman stood still for a moment,
climbed back into her vehicle. Zach and as if listening to something. Then, she sat
Madyson glanced up from their phones. down beside the snake.
“What’s that?” Madyson asked, pointing at

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Lazily, the snake blinked open topaz eyes Gradually, her humming became a little
and lifted its head, its coils loosening as it bolder, more melodic. She allowed herself
gazed at Lunaria. For what seemed a very to slip into a happy daydream, singing and
long time, the two stared at each other. singing phrases from songs that came into
her mind.
“You must complete three tasks,” said Lu-
naria, at last. A peculiar sensation shook her with a
start. To her horror, the snake had silently
“What … tasks?” unwound some of his length, slid towards
her, and laid his head in her lap!
“First, you must sing to him.”
She froze as the snake lifted his head and
“Him? The snake is a ‘he’?” gazed up at her. As a child, Caroline hadn’t
been afraid of much—certainly not snakes.
“Next, you must dance—like this.” The She could even remember holding one once,
old woman stood and undulated her ample at a nature center. Its skin had been smooth
lower body. Caroline had to stop herself to the touch, its body muscular. Stroking it,
from laughing at the absurdity of it. she’d felt fearless.

“And third,” continued Lunaria, “you Perhaps the memory of brave, unself-
must sleep beside him.” conscious childhood is what inspired Car-
oline to slide out from under the creature,
“I am definitely NOT doing that.” stand, and begin dancing for the snake. Her
tentative little-girl movements soon gave
“This is my advice to you,” Lunaria said way to slow, arching undulations.
with finality, moving towards the sliding
door. “It is the best method to make him With a preternatural majesty, his eyes
go. Good luck.” never leaving hers, the big snake arched up
his head and body. He began to move with
“Wait … I thought you were going to—” Caroline, mirroring her slow, winding ges-
tures until serpent and woman curved and
But the old woman had vanished. twisted in a harmonious, silent dance.

After locking the front door, Caroline A breeze moved through the leaves of
walked back to the patio, where the snake the palm trees. Caroline’s imagination trav-
still lay. She stared at the unperturbed rep- eled off to the west, where silver dolphins
tile. “Damn you,” she muttered. Then, “Oh … swam in the sapphire waterways of the Ev-
what the heck.” She perched gingerly at the erglades, she knew, and golden butterflies
far end of the couch. dipped in and out of the shadows. A flock of
egrets, luminescent as opals, passed over-
The snake didn’t move. head on their way to the sea. As the ruby
coils of the serpent rose and sank, twisted
Self-consciously at first, quietly, Caroline and turned, Caroline’s mind was filled with
began to hum. As a little girl, she had liked the beauty of the living, breathing earth.
to sing made-up songs, as if the simple joy
of being alive had to find a way to express “See? You haven’t forgotten how beau-
itself. How different it felt to be an adult. tiful it is.”
Adult life—or hers, anyway—was rigid,
anxiety provoking and joyless, despite her
beautiful house and all the beautiful, new
things she’d filled it with.

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Yes. She remembered now. open the slider on the off chance that the
snake might be in his spot on the couch. She
The sun rose in the sky. Noon came and imagined sitting beside him companionably,
went. with her glass of wine. But the cushion was
unoccupied and the rain showed no sign of
It was time to pick up the kids from letting up.
school.
At bedtime, Caroline slid beneath the
“We thank you for this bountiful feast covers next to Jim without her nightgown
which we, your unworthy children, are on. He’d brought his laptop to bed and his
about to enjoy. Ah-men.” face glowed blue in the reflection of the
screen as he scrolled through emails.
Jim had returned from his trip to Or-
lando and the family sat at the dinner table, “Oh,” he said, feeling her next to him.
eyes closed, as he led them in grace. Rain “Hmmm. That’s nice.” Then, as if hesitant or
pelleted the windows and sliding glass unwilling to respond further to her warm
door. Zach and Madyson were silent and body, he pointed to the nightstand. “New
withdrawn. The “no phones at the dinner plant?” he asked.
table” rule was supposed to have encour-
aged family conversation. In reality it simply “It’s an orchid,” she said. Its luxuriant
prompted the kids to eat at breakneck purple flowers seemed to pulse with
speed so they could vanish upstairs to their her own sudden and inexplicable sexual
rooms where their devices awaited them. yearning.

Caroline and Jim sat in awkward silence. “It looks a little ghoulish, doesn’t it?” said
Jim seemed as anxious as the kids to get up Jim. “Honestly, I think those silk flowers you
from the table. “It was quite a busy week,” have around the house are prettier. Easier
he said, “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” to take care of, too.”

She understood this to be his usual He went back to scrolling, clicking, filing,
prelude to slipping off into his den to sit deleting. “I didn’t have much time to work
down in front of his email and catch his on my sermon during the conference,” he
favorite online news segments in which said. “You know, with the biblical work-
people shouted self-righteously at each shops and networking.”
other. She didn’t try to stop him. In fact,
she felt strangely detached, removing the “Why don’t you put that thing away
rest of the dishes from the table and filling now,” she whispered. An itchy, sexy feeling
the dishwasher. Instead of replaying their had taken hold of her, banishing her usual
conversation and wondering if she had said feeling of being too tired, or fat. She kissed
something wrong, she poured herself a her husband’s cheek and snuggled against
glass of wine. him, but he didn’t respond. At last, Caroline
fell asleep to the sound of his fingers still
For once, she found herself uninter- tapping away at the keyboard.
ested in figuring out her husband’s moods
or nagging the kids about their sullen be- In the middle of the night, she found
havior. So what if they all insisted on hun- herself wide awake. Jim, unconscious and
kering down in their respective rooms with snoring, was slumped over the laptop,
their respective electronics? Caroline pulled which had gone dark. She wrapped herself

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in her fluffy, pink bathrobe, then crossed that you would feel new, too. Things that
the bedroom in her bare feet, stopping clicked and whirred irresistibly.
for a moment outside the closed doors of
each of her children’s rooms. She hesitated, It was a temptation they had created—
imagining her children’s faces, their soft and fallen for—all by themselves.
breathing.
“CAROLINE! OH, MY GOD!”
Quietly, she crept down the stairs and
out onto the back patio. The rain had ta- She sat bolt upright, disoriented and
pered off and a few stars twinkled in the shaken at the sound of Jim’s voice. A light
night sky; even the moon was visible, de- drizzle fell from a pale gray sky. It was not
spite the glow of the development and the yet morning.
nearby mall. Once, she’d found it comforting
to know that there were lots of people out “What, Jim? What is it?”
there, all around her. But now she missed
the darkness. It had been so long since “Do not move a muscle, do you hear me,
she’d experienced night as it was meant to Caroline? I’ll be right back.”
be, lit only by the moon and stars.
Caroline blinked, and then she realized
Even just a few days ago, Caroline would what had caused his alarm. Beside her on
have said she preferred to be inside, where the couch lay the snake, gazing at her with
environmental conditions were steady sleepy eyes, and oddly, she felt no fear of
and controlled. But tonight, the air in the him. The snake felt smooth and warm be-
yard felt pleasant, almost liquid, as if she’d neath her fingers as she reached out to
slipped into a pool or lagoon. How nice it stoke his long, scaled body. Why did Jim
might be to sleep outside, she thought, as have to make such a fuss?
she curled sideways on the couch and then
stretched out across the cushions. Jim returned to the patio with a rifle.
Zach and Madyson pushed through the
“Come with me. Leave all this and be slider behind him, rubbing sleep from their
mine ... “. eyes. Though he was a man of God, Jim
knew his Second Amendment rights, and
In her dream the serpent had returned the fact that a homeowner facing an in-
and was lying beside her on the couch. She truder had every right to shoot first and ask
knew she was dreaming because there is questions later.
no way, in real life, she would be sleeping
with a snake. Her mind drifted to something “Jim! Oh my god, Jim—are you insane?”
she had wanted to tell Jim: he had gotten it shouted Caroline.
wrong—they both had.
“Get out of the way, Caroline!” Jim or-
She understood now, and wanted to tell dered, leveling the .22.
him, that it was not the serpent who had
led them out of the garden. The temptation “Disgusting!” cried Madyson. “We have
they’d succumbed to was from all the beau- GOT to move out of this place!”
tiful, shiny things to look at and to buy that
in the end never seemed to satisfy. New “Shoot it, Dad!” Zach yelled, squeezing
things that promised, if you bought them, behind his father and aiming his phone
camera at the couch. “Kill it!”

“Your father will do no such thing! Jim—
put the gun down.”

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In all the commotion, the snake slid When she glanced in the rear view mirror, it
soundlessly off the couch and toward the seemed as if the jungle had closed in behind
shelter of the backyard shrubs. Seeing that her, severing her from the world she knew.
the snake was out of range of his wife, Jim
aimed and took his shot. The last pale sliver of the crescent moon
hung low in the brightening dawn sky. Be-
The impact threw the snake up into the neath it, a small cottage came into view.
air. The wounded animal landed with a Caroline rolled down her window and called,
sickly thud. “Help! I need help!”

“JIM! What have you done?!” Caroline A light went on in the front window and
cried. a young man emerged from the cottage.
“What do you want here, lady?” he asked.
Caroline ran to the still body of the snake
and fell to her knees beside him. The shot “Your grandmother, is she here? I need
had hit squarely, nearly severing a foot of her help. I have an injured animal. A snake.”
length from the snake’s tail end. She laid her Caroline got out of the car and ran around
hands on the snake’s body and the animal to the passenger side, where the young
shuddered. His beautiful eyes had already man joined her. His face darkened when
begun to cloud over. Caroline thought her she opened the passenger door. Gently, he
heart would break. lifted and cradled the limp, smooth crea-
ture.
She knew what she had to do. She gath-
ered the limp and heavy creature in her arms “Is he…is he still alive?” stammered Car-
and stumbled past her astonished family. oline.
Still in her pink bathrobe, she grabbed her
purse and keys and headed for the minivan, “We will see,” said the boy. “Follow me.”
where she gently laid the bloody snake on He carried the snake into the house as Car-
the passenger seat. She floored the gas oline stumbled after him, tears streaming
pedal and tore off out of the cul-de-sac, down her face.
sending torrents of rainwater onto the curb.
“La serpiente está herida!” shouted the
Caroline sped up 441 to Okeechobee young man.
Boulevard, then turned west past miles of
chain restaurants and big-box superstores. Seated in front of a small wood-burning
The landscape became more rural and wild. stove, the old woman looked up from the
She slowed the car and fumbled in her glowing embers. “Just as I expected,” she
purse for the old woman’s card, but before muttered, “trouble. Sabía que se metería
she could put her hands on it, she saw a en problemas.” Caroline followed the old
sign at the side of the road with an arrow woman and the young man carrying the
pointing at a narrow dirt track cut through snake, out through the rear of the house to
dense undergrowth: Lunaria’s Garden. the back garden.

She swerved onto the track and maneu- There she stopped, gaping in wonder. The
vered her large vehicle through the tangle morning light spilled into the small clearing,
of smooth branches and palm fronds. Oak illuminating the ancient, many-limbed trees,
trees hung with moss towered over her. hundreds of which seemed to extend far
back into the shadows. Flowers were every-
where: in pots and baskets, tucked into the

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limbs of trees. Birds were flitting through the She began to weep for the loss of her illu-
trees, so many birds. As she stood quietly, sions … her plans, and her certainties about
she thought she could feel the whole garden everything—including herself. What kind
breathing—the trees, plants, darting lizards, of a wife would leave her husband? What
even the rocks and the small stream that kind of a mother would leave her children?
trickled along the pathway were all softly in- But even as one part of her heart revolted,
haling, then exhaling a healing perfume. another part was already separating itself
from all she’d held close. Jim would be con-
Blood oozed from the snake’s wound. tent without her, in time, like a frog in his
Setting the snake on a low, stone table the little pond, surrounded by his followers. Her
old woman pulled out a sharp knife and children, who were already moving away
sliced off the bloodied portion of the crea- from her, would continue forward into the
ture’s tail with a swift stroke. From a pocket clamor of their adult lives and experiences.
of her dress, she extracted some fine black
thread and a needle, and quickly sewed up “Dream about it,” said Lunaria. She
the wound. Not sure how she could help, placed the wounded snake beside Caroline
Caroline moved out of the way and settled in the hammock, and disappeared.
into a hammock strung between two thick
palm trunks. The serpent stirred, undulating beneath
Caroline’s bathrobe to gather her warmth.
“He is weak but alive,” said Lunaria. “Now, She trembled but forced herself to remain
he needs warmth.” Carefully, she lifted the still. The big serpent wound his body around
heavy creature into her arms. “He has many hers, up and up her torso and around her
talents, this serpent, as I think you know by neck. When she felt the swooning delight of
now. But he cannot make his own warmth.” the serpent’s tongue across her face, her lips—
love’s first kiss—every memory of houses and
“My husband saw him on the couch next clothes and shopping malls dissolved and all
to me and—before I could stop him—he got that existed was the living breathing forest,
his gun and …” Caroline buried her face in her, and the animal beside her.
her hands. “It’s all my fault really,” she said
in a hoarse whisper. “See?”

“There is no use crying about the past. She did see. She saw how beautiful the
There is only now. You must decide what light was as it played through the trees,
you want to do.” how elegant and perfect the hummingbird
darting among the dark leaves and bright
“What … do you mean?” flowers. She heard the music of flowing
water; the soft whispering of creatures
“You can save the serpent, but it will not moving through the shadows. There was
be easy.” living, and dying too, she understood, as
each individual sprung forth, blossomed,
“What must I do?” then faded and merged into the greater
harmony of all beings. Above all, she felt a
“You must give up your old life: your hus- vast contentment.
band and children, your house … even this
body. Everything.” The great tenderness of the serpent con-
sumed Caroline and she was transformed,
It was crazy. Unthinkable. But, somehow
… Caroline understood it to be what she de-
sired.

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becoming long and smooth herself, glowing big, shiny machines belong. Someday, Lu-
with strength and vitality. Everything she naria said, maybe soon, all of the houses,
could see and feel—the plants, animals, the stores, restaurants—everything made by
breeze against her skin, the scent of damp man—would wash away. The slow, pulsing
earth—it had always been here, all around movement of water through the Everglades
her. But she had been as dull as a block of would return, and the deep flowing river of
concrete, as remote from an actual living grass would flourish again.
being as an image on a computer screen.
She’d been unable to perceive any of it. In the meantime, Lunaria would tend her
Until now. garden, with its exuberant flowers and
shadowy creatures. The old woman felt it
“I’ve chosen,” she said, entwining her was only right to congratulate herself: not
long sinuous length with that of the serpent only had she succeeded in retrieving the
king. obstinate snake from Palazzo Splendido—
removing him, as she’d promised—but she
In the days that followed, the rain had added a new creature to her garden.
continued, making many of the streets Where there had once been only one ser-
impassable. Lunaria’s grandson took the pent, now there were two … though one of
minivan back to Palazzo Splendido, where them had a tail that was just a foot shorter.

About the Author

A New Yorker who briefly detoured south to Florida,
Christina Holbrook now lives in the Rocky Mountains. In
her writing, she is drawn to explore the themes of love,
the influence of the past, and how humans connect to the
natural world. She writes a column for her local newspaper
and has just completed her debut novel, All the Flowers of
the Mountain.

75



NONFICTION



A SISTA SURVIVOR’S
JOURNEY: THRIVING
AMIDST THE LIGHT

AND CHAOS

by Claire Jones

“Where I was born and how I have lived is unimportant. It is what I have done
with where I have been that should be of interest.”

—Georgia O’Keefe

Many years ago, a reporter in my home West Indies. Still, the beauty of my external
country of Barbados called me a “Sister surroundings only served as a temporary
Survivor.” She was referencing my journey, lull. Nevertheless, my surroundings often
from a life of domestic violence and as a allowed me to escape from a life that was
high school dropout, to scholarship in the repressed by challenge and obstacle at
USA, against incredible odds. Today in my every turn.
mid-fifties, a Permanent Resident of the
USA, I stand on the precipice of a new be- On that particular night, way back in my
ginning. Nowadays, I regularly spend time early childhood, loud voices and screams
reflecting on how I made it this far when shattered the velvety quiet to blast through
every indicator in my life suggested other- the windows of a room illuminated by a
wise. single, dancing, yellow flame of a slender,
white candle. My sleep-filled eyes trained
My first memory was at age four. It was themselves upon that lonely, beckoning
late at night. I lived and grew up on the light in the middle of an otherwise pitch-
stunningly beautiful island of Barbados, blue-black room. Oddly, I found the warm,

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yellowish glow soothing and comforting A few years ago, after a devastating
to observe. In my memory, it communi- health diagnosis shook my world, I used
cated a sense of warmth and well-being the seven stages of grief to reinvigorate
even as a chill descended sharply down and shake up my life. After I was diagnosed
my four-year-old body. This enduring im- with monoclonal gammopathy, a health
age-memory and the accompanying aware- condition that can lead to multiple my-
ness of its inescapable juncture remained eloma, I had to create a new reality. MM
with me throughout my life.  is cancer, which is produced by malignant
plasma cells. It can wreak havoc upon one’s
I immediately knew those voices outside immune system, causing damage to kidneys,
in the pitch, blue blackness of that Carib- bones, and red blood cell count. Instead
bean night belonged to my parents. My of allowing my life to remain stunted by,
parents were tethered together in domestic what I perceived as a symptom of a deeper
violence drama that traumatically shaped problem, I chose to confront the crisis by
my life from that moment until now. This taking responsibility and challenging all
point in time came to encapsulate the story my dysfunctional behaviors one by one. In
of my life because it demonstrated that doing so, I found a sure-fire way to continue
light and chaos were inextricable from my healing while helping others to do the same. 
life experience. These two actualities were
a profoundly significant aspect of my exis- The Chaos and the Light
tence and meant to be my lifelong travel
companions. To survive, live, and eventually Seared in my memory is the image of my
thrive, I learned to navigate these realities, little four-year-old-self waking up the next
ultimately finding a way to meld them to- morning, anxious and agitated from a night
gether successfully. Hence, I believe my goal of restless sleep, and the slender white
to accomplish my purpose, which is to heal candle sitting in a malformed puddle of wax
and help other girls/women on their jour- with the scent of mosquito coil lingering in
neys to healing by sharing my revolutionary the air. It was the only visual reference left
life story and vision of reclamation, is finally of occurrences from the night before. Un-
within reach. expectedly, my mother informed us that we
were going back home to my father’s house,
Maintaining a regular, disciplined, and and the distressing saga-cycle commenced
consistent spiritual practice and expressing again. However, my newly awakened spir-
myself creatively through the arts became it never forgot my mother’s anguished
my gateway and saving grace. For this screams from the beatings of the night be-
reason, at age 57, I am healing and surviving fore. We returned home to chaos and crisis,
while learning to thrive and live a healthy, but I was no longer alone: I carried residues
whole life amidst the light and chaos. To of the soft, flickering flame of the candle-
do so, I have found a steadfast practice of light, from the night before, deep within
awareness, clarity, presence, acceptance, me. There were no words to express this
and gratitude. Accessing these regenerative image or the feeling it evoked within, so I
principles, through my daily Buddhist tradi- continued with my life.
tion, is the only answer to stay grounded
and balanced in these chaotic and tumul- The chaos reached an epic level after
tuous times. my younger brother, and I spray painted a

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black stripe on a neighbor’s white car, which and love. Sadly, this conflict created within
caused a significant problem for my par- me meant that, as I matured, I continued to
ents. Incensed, my father stripped us of our seek out male figures who only mirrored his
clothes, beating us with a broad, dark leather actions. As a result, I desperately attracted
belt until we were covered in painful welts. those who were unavailable and emotion-
When the blows finally ceased, he bathed ally inept and abusive.
us in water whitened with disinfectant. The
pain of this torture is still seared deep in my It took many years to accept my moth-
memory. This earthshattering moment was er’s love and release the fantasy, father/
when I came to fear my father. There were daughter relationship I longed to have with
momentary lulls in the violence where I saw him. The feeling of unworthiness carried
his humanity, but he continuously reverted through every aspect of my life as I aged,
to abuse and violence when crossed. Yet, I causing major problems in all areas. Never-
still loved him because he was the picture of theless, life trudged on as I silently brought
strength and power, and I felt safe when he the chaos-luggage wherever I went while
was around. This dichotomy fostered a type holding on to the light. Over the years, I
of Stockholm Syndrome-like condition that have learned to survive, live and thrive
impacted my life for years to come.  against incredible odds by holding on to
the tiny, life-saving light from my childhood
As the years drifted by and trauma, build memory: it is embedded like a well-worn,
upon trauma, creating dysfunctional and protective shield deep within my psyche.
toxic conditions, the problem created by
his actions fashioned a deepening conflict The Beginning of a Survivor’s Mindset
within me. I learned not to look for him
when a young female cousin molested me at “Call this number for a good time!” This
age five; I learned not to look for him when tawdry note, written in a phone booth
molested in an all-girls school at seven; I not far from my house, featured my name
learned not to seek his support when at next to it when I was in my early teens. The
age 15 a male teacher sexually violated me. appellation printed next to the tasteless
By the time I was in my early twenties and scribe was mine. How did it come to this?
on the other side of two attempted rapes, Accordingly, my life up to this point of
I knew he was never going to come to my teenagerhood was a show-stopper. Sadly,
rescue, so I made up my mind to fend for I silently dealt with sexual harassment and
myself at all costs.  sexual violations countless times. Ignorant
of my internal angst, my parents consistently
Consequently, my mother was a consis- had all-out brawls whenever my father was
tent figure in my life, but I never told her around. 
of my troubles until many years later, when
I became a mother. She showed and gave The beatings from my dad continued at
love and care in the only way she knew how random times, while my younger brother
by fighting to keep a roof over our heads was, we found out later, playing truant
and food on the table amidst the most diffi- from school daily. Although I fought back
cult challenges. Yet, her love and care were physically and in all other ways against my
not enough for me. Despite my father’s ob- father’s domination, I felt deep shame and
noxious behavior, I needed his validation guilt, which caused my self-confidence and

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

self-esteem to suffer. Henceforth, I struggled scared, and insecure, I sought human touch
to maintain a sense of individualism while and contact to alleviate my pain. 
still trying to fit in with the traditions of my
culture and environment. This internal dis- As a result, I felt like I was living on a
cord set up a push and pull paradox for my ship on land made liquid by ongoing crisis
young spirit, causing me to feel torn about day in and day out. There was nowhere to
who I was at every turn. Yet, the glow of rest, nowhere to turn to; nowhere to seek
that tiny light within still burned, allowing solace except deep within my fragile spirit,
me to dream and hope even under ongoing, in nature and my stories and drawings. As
prolonged despair and desperation.  the years went on and my unworthiness
magnified, I decided to go with the flow
Since I looked much older for my age, I becoming recklessly adventurous, overly
was in my early teens by then, both older promiscuous, doing drugs, drinking alcohol,
boys and grown men were always throwing creating a self-fulfilling outcome. By the
lascivious stares my way. I was a friendly time my family violently tore apart, due to
and outgoing girl on the surface, but no my brother’s involvement in the Rastafarian
one knew of the inner anguish I fought daily. movement at age twelve, I surrendered to
The chaos in my life was at a high level, and the expectations of the village gossips re-
I absorbed it at every juncture. My every garding my life. 
breath resonated with a kinetic energy that
was overwhelming and charged with neg- In due course, I dropped out of school
ative ions. There was even a high-pitched at 15, figuring I could navigate life inde-
noise, which foreshadowed the arrival of pendently. This delusion was soon tested
violence each time. and put to rest by failure at every stage.
However, thankfully, I was reliably cared for
I subsequently learned to survive by by my mother, who consistently managed
delving into romance novels, writing, and to provide for us making sure there was
art while finding a deep connection to shelter, food, and clothing. My mother be-
the incredible rawness of nature that lieved we were protected and helped by an
exploded from every nook and cranny unseen hand. She often said she never un-
of my external environment in Barbados. derstood why money inevitably manifested
Due to my ongoing sufferings, I fantasized when she was down to her last penny or
about a ‹white› knight from one of my down to her last loaf of bread. Many years
romance novels, spiriting me away from the later, I realized this was the power of the
continuing chaos and disruption that was light within that was guiding and protecting
my life. While at the same time, I wondered us.
why no images were representing me
between the fantastical pages. On the other hand, my younger brother
never made it back to our family in a healthy
Under those circumstances, I felt help- way. He succumbed to drugs from age 12,
less, distraught, and alone, reaching out for street culture, and AIDS. He died in his early
love in all the places I should not. In this thirties. Yes, I realize now we were all survi-
way, I garnered a reputation of a ‘loose vors. Sadly, misfortune tore my brother and
girl’ who was willing to ‘give out for a good me asunder, leaving only a few old child-
time.’ However, nothing was further from hood memories. Losing him devastated
the truth: because I felt traumatized, fearful, me tremendously. Disconsolately, his loss

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presaged the beginning of this protracted myself. Her uttered words hurt to the core
journey to self-actualization. because deep down inside, I knew them
as truth. It was a clarifying moment that
The door to Freedom Finally Comes Ajar forced me to face myself and my survivor’s
mindset. By the time I diagnosed with the
Fast forward five decades later, I live in the potential to contract multiple myeloma, a
USA, and the chaos continues to dominate rare blood disorder, I was finally forced to
my reality.  fully embrace the light by utilizing a practice
of clarity, awareness, presence, acceptance,
“You are a loser!”  Those four words and gratitude. Rooted in my daily Buddhism
rocked my world like no other when uttered tradition, I used these positive principles as
by a person I once called ‹friend› in the my armor, shield, and sword to combat the
middle of the 2014 Christmas holiday. It was chaos once and for all. 
the beginning of a spiral that kept going for
years. Fortunately, the light is persistently Surviving the Chaos, the Seven Stages of
present in my assiduously cultivated Grief and Creating a New Life in the Light
spiritual practice, but chaos is addictive, so
I habitually welcome it like a caring relative. This entire process made me realize that
Unbelievably, the time has allowed me to devastating, life-changing news can make
overcome and rise above many challenges, or break us. During a time of loss, chaos,
but life continues to throw curveballs from and crisis, it is easy to spiral out of control,
every angle. At last, a college graduate, I am losing all perspectives. However, consider-
married and own a home with my husband, ing these harsh realities, there lies a great
we have a daughter who is intelligent and opportunity to recharge one’s life. Hence,
talented, but the chaos and light are even after my traumatic health scare, the sev-
now erupting in and disrupting her life.  en stages of grief became the conduit for
the light to entrench itself deeply into my
Born into Buddhism, she, too, is showing thought process. Through my Buddhist
signs of a connection to the light as she practice, I finally hitched my life to the pos-
struggles to overcome trauma and illness itive influences of the light while facing and
caused by the stress of middle school bul- combating the darkness of the chaos head-
lying and racism. We have fought through on. Thus, the disciplined practice of aware-
every kind of calamity together as a family, ness, clarity, presence, acceptance, and
but because we practice Buddhism at gratitude adhered to the center of my life.
varying levels, the protection is contin-
uously present. Wretchedly, my lack of The last four years went by in a blur. My
self-worth, feelings of illegitimacy, and a body was on the precipice of imploding,
plethora of festering resentments dating and I was in a race against time and myself.
back to my past life have continued to hold
me hostage. At first, I was in shock and could not be-
lieve what was happening to me. Soon the
Realizing that a person I thought of as other stages of grief set in, and I reeled mind-
a friend for many years harbored those lessly amongst denial, anger, bargaining,
thoughts about me was an unwelcome sur- guilt, and depression. Finally, after weeks
prise. However, the more astounding out- of living in a type of suspended animation, I
come of this event was I felt this way about

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shifted into the last stages, which are accep- entire journey. No one knows your body like
tance and hope. In hindsight, these stages you, and you are your best advocate. Of course,
were instrumental in my recovery. I asked numerous questions as I watched my
mercurial mind wildly meander, but to this
In a crisis such as this, it is natural to day, I am not sure what those questions were.
plunge downward, but I quickly flipped As time flew by, I slowly reintegrated all parts
the momentum from that downward tra- of myself to deal with the unfolding traumas
jectory and adroitly propelled myself back that were ricocheting throughout my being.
up. When a crisis hits, it is an extraordinary Naturally, a loving family and friends’ support
opportunity to learn about oneself. This is helpful, but the hard work needs to take
approach is key to why I have survived and place deep inside. Like, a baby learning to
thrived amidst the most challenging and walk, I took tiny steps forward as each new
paralyzing circumstances: like a lotus in the day dawned in my strange, new world, but
mud, I am growing and thriving within the fear and anxiety eclipsed every action I took.
most stubborn situations. Below are a few In the long run, I learned you must reach deep
of the methods I used to maneuver back up within yourself when a crisis hits and work
to a better and healthier self. I hope my use outwards from there.
of the seven stages of grief to recover will
help those going through difficult situations. Finally, I settled into focused medita-
tion and daily chanting, realizing that no
Shock: In a Crisis Take Responsibility one would take responsibility for my life.
and Find Your Footing In doing so, I finally gathered the disparate
threads of a life gone awry from chaos and
When you are in the middle of a chal- stress by slowly invoking clarity, awareness,
lenging situation, it is best to find your presence, acceptance, and gratitude daily.
center and slowly advance. The news that In doing so, I meticulously knitted each
a potential condition such as multiple my- strand of my life back together again, cre-
eloma was morphing inside my system blew ating a new and clear path into the light.
my mind. Where did this convoluted condi-
tion/situation come from? Denial: Acknowledge the Problem
Even If You Don’t Want to
During my first visit to her office, the
Oncologist spoke in an unemotional and Often, just deciding that something is not
matter-of-fact tone. As she spoke, my phys- happening is not enough for it to leave. In
ical body sat on top of the examining table, any challenging situation, it is preferable
while I felt strange energy floating high to be courageous; to acknowledge what is
above. To this day, I believe I had an out- happening and name it.
of-body experience as she spoke. Looking
back, I have no idea what she was talking Despondent, I returned home after my
about since my mind was busily absorbing first appointment on a cloud of denial, re-
the meaning of this new reality. fusing to study online lab results since the
numbers caused my stress levels to soar
Over the years, I came to believe the re- higher. As a result, I gagged the first time
sponsibility for our health lies with us as in- I perused the labs when a preponderance
dividuals, and it is best to embrace this fact of the figures was outside of the normal
sooner than later since it sets the tone for the

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range for my age. After a while, the digits continued as I prepared for a skeletal bone
disappeared in the fog, making it a pointless scan and other vital tests to determine if
exercise. Perhaps those doctors don’t know the disease reached my bones.
what they are talking about, I muttered
to myself. I feel wonderful! What could be During unpredictable and chaotic times,
wrong since I feel so energized!? Nonethe- use resources that are positive and up-
less, in the back of my mind, another contra- lifting. Fortunately, there is an overabun-
dictory, minuscule voice begged to disagree. dance of information available on and off
social media, which can keep one’s spirit
Usually, time is of the essence when grounded in light. It is crucial to obtain
dealing with health situations, which create these accessible resources to learn about
significant instability, chaos, and stress. Al- your situation. Critical to one’s healing and
though extremely difficult, it is best to face recovery is a dependable support system.
reality and push fear aside to go deeper. Searching for backing from reliable sources
During times such as these, a mind-fo- should be a priority. Thankfully, I found a
cusing practice like meditation can benefit cache of videos and books by Dr. Wayne
one by creating internal calm and distance Dyer, Louise Hay, Tony Robbins, Les Brown,
from the chaos. While walking in nature is a Jim Rhon, Eckhart Tolle, Marianne Wil-
helpful, constructive activity that keeps one liamson, amongst others. Eventually, these
connected to the light, it is vital to do mind- efforts helped calm the constant, internal
fulness activities such as reading, collecting noise, and I progressed to the next stage,
positive quotes, taking soothing baths, yoga, which was bargaining.
tai chi, writing, and creating art. Anything
that calms the mind and brings you back to Bargaining: I Promise to do Better
the present is a plus. I incorporated all the if I Get Through This
above and more into my daily routine and
found my footing in a short space of time. Regardless, by this stage, you realize the
situation is real. Nonetheless, it is difficult
Anger: To Hell with this and Wash. to accept. Desperate, old survival strategies
Rinse. Repeat. emerge to aid in wiggling out of the prob-
lem, including a mournful plea to a higher
Generally, anger and resentment are a part power: I know I can improve if given the op-
of the process, but a fundamental part of portunity.  Please give me another chance.
healing is releasing these emotions. Lamen- Notwithstanding, the facts are clear, yet
tably, if you carry around negative feelings, you hope a little whining to the higher pow-
you will have difficulty moving forward and er will stop the annoying crisis. Regrettably,
healing from deep within. Why did this dis- when I arrived at this point, I was in a state
ease choose me? What did I do so wrong? of total dejection.
I am a positive person, so why do horren-
dous circumstances happen to people Strangely enough, it did not take long to
like me? Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Repetitive arrive at this cul-de-sac. Miraculously, I es-
thoughts such as these regurgitated caped a myriad of hair-raising situations in
themselves on a loop during those early my previous life, so what was different this
days and weeks. Seriously, what exactly time? Inopportunely, the avalanche of com-
was this? Unabated, my inner diatribe plaints continued for days accompanied by

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deep, gut-wrenching sobs, which rattled face with my mortality. Thus, I spent long
and shook my body for an indeterminate hours drinking in my loved ones’ faces, won-
amount of time. During periods of this sort, dering if they could manage without me. In
it is best to let it all come out: it is an essen- due course, the urge to bring about amends
tial part of the grieving process. By trial and with everyone became a motivating force. I
error, I learned it is pointless to fight back wrote letters of apology to family members
and forth. In reality, the best one can do left behind long ago, letting them know how
to let one’s body and mind prepare for all much I appreciated all they did to help my
outcomes and pick up the pieces later. Thus, growth. Sorrowfully, the guilt and regret
the journey to releasing guilt, rising out of weighed heavily on my heart.
depression, and cementing acceptance in
my life commenced. Depression: Hitting Rock Bottom

Guilt: Where Did I Go Wrong? It’s important to realize one will face the
How Can I Fix This? darkest and most desperate moments
in life when you hit rock bottom. Usually,
In effect, the best way to deal with this when there is no room to ascend, a person
stage is to venture where it flows, never- sees who they are and their capacity to un-
theless, after spending a bit of time in bar- dergo challenging situations. Therefore, by
gaining guilt set in. Where did I go wrong? this stage I panicked. Maniacally, I closed all
What could I have done to avoid this? Te- external communication with those who in-
diously, day after day, I combed through my fluenced my decisions. In consideration of
memory-vault, trying to figure out how I my new reality, it was necessary to hear my
became susceptible to such a disease. Until voice without filters---only my immediate
I became ill, I had lived a lifetime at just 53, family gained access.
the trail I blazed was of someone who lived
several years beyond my current age. My Pledging to remain upbeat and focused, I
silver covered head is a testament to my faced my darkest moments, scrambling day-
agonizing journey. to-day to scrape myself from the bottom of
a self-made pit. Every day, I took long walks
As a result, the days, weeks, and months alone, no matter the weather outside or
merged into one, there were copious tears my internal life-condition. Subsequently,
of regret, but after realizing my efforts were my observation skills became so acutely
leading to nowhere, I released all to the attuned it was as if nature spoke through
higher power. Significantly, one of the ut- me. Throughout this challenging stage, one
most vital lessons I learned during this on- might tend to break out in tears. Occasion-
going journey is how little control we have ally, I found it best to release everything by
over our lives. We may struggle to direct having a much-needed gut-wrenching cry.
our life’s steering wheel through numerous
attempts, guiding our lives in the direction Amid the ongoing internal struggles,
we intend it to go, but inevitably, mercurial frequent thoughts about my mortality con-
life veers and creates its single-minded path. tinued to flit through my mind as I grappled
with a situation over which I had no con-
Amazingly, the internal focus during this trol. Regrettably, those become the longest
stage clarified my mind, and I came face to days of the journey when one is grieving.

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Nevertheless, as time flies by, the heaviness and heart daily even as they inspire others.
eases, and a new ‘normal’ descends. Fortuitously, the sun became my model and
muse, while on those daily nature walks.
Acceptance and Hope Taking photos of the sun and nature pro-
vided limitless material for inspiration and
After passing through depression, the stage motivation, reconnecting me to the artist
of acceptance is a blessing. By the time I within. Today, I am a better person because
arrived here, I felt calmer. After numerous of this unpredictable journey.
marathons of meditation/chanting ses-
sions, countless internal conversations, and To overcome deep internalized suffering,
in-depth talks with my family, I finally took one must re-examine the inner self from all
full responsibility and released all vestig- angles. It is best to face a situation like this
es of resistance. At last, I faced the inter- courageously and fully to strengthen and
nalized chaos calcified by years of trauma marshal all aspects of your spirit. Your pri-
coming out with an upper hand.  orities will shift and change as you find new
and healthier ways to live your life. Funda-
Nowadays, I often give thanks for the mentally, things you thought to be universal
onset of this health issue. If this situation are dissected and re-examined: people you
had not occurred, I would have never found thought understood or cared for you disap-
the courage to fully embrace the light inside pear. Everything old and illusionary is
by going deep within my being to under- ground to dust, and a new you emerges.
stand the true meaning and purpose of my You become clear, and you arrive at a place
life. I would have never found the courage of peace, centeredness, and balance. You
to fully embrace a consistent practice of have tapped into universal, inner truth that
clarity, awareness, presence, acceptance, is leading to your self-actualization. Life will
and gratitude inspired by my Buddhist never be the same. By this time, there is no
practice. As a result of this health crisis, I going back, and you only look at your past
created @clarityisjustsohip, an Instagram for reference, not for absolution. Finally,
page with a fantastic body of manipulated emerging is the Beginning of a brand-new
photo-paintings that help to calm my mind life and a brand-new you.

About the Author
Claire Jones is a 57-year-old female creative. Her mission
is to spread clarity, love and light through her art.

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RESOURCE

by John Bonanni

No social philosophy, economic strategy are concerned. Inherited prejudice is still
or cultural perspective can guarantee our prejudice, just new and improved, and
well-being without the truth. its elimination takes introspection and
response. It does not mean owning and
Possession is hawked by capitalists gone driving the solution under the comfortable
wild on one end of the spectrum while en- guise of reform. Malcolm X’s claim that
titlement is claimed by socialists gone cata- white people can only help by getting out
tonic on the other. Whether the tools are of the way does not comply with Martin
mergers and acquisitions or endowments Luther King’s plea for reconciliation. But
and appropriations, we circle back to the the former addresses a founding principle
conceit of our self-centered consciousness. of being American-the right to own one’s
We reveal our immorality in managing our self determination without disclaimer,
human nature. without approval by cultural control of
any color.
We wield power through the theft and
abuse of resource. Reactionary overtures to appease do
nothing but make the politician on the spot
In this binary operative, choice is limited look good. Taking a knee is a just a photo
to complicity or revolution. We are done op unless the act initiates pro-active ac-
with listening. The fact is Black anger is not knowledgement and elimination of that
a new scary militant insurgency. It is centu- centuries old, disgraceful denial of human
ries-old scream. It is a plea for resource. I dignity. Reform assumes the bath water is
witnessed the discrepancy in grade school the only issue with the baby. Reparations
with Samuel Burwell, on the bus in high are a buyout, a no contest admittance of
school with Peter Sylvester. As an adult I re- the flaw in our national conscience. It does
member Lloyd Price, famous for his R&R hits not have any transformative value. These
of the 60’s, being forced to use the service proposals address our civic character. They
entrance of the hotel where he was head- do not repair the damage to our sense of
lining. These memories are my fellow Amer- human dignity. We will not solve our mal-
icans’ realities. While I comfortably reflect aise unless we admit that resource is at the
with dismay, they burn with resentment em- center of our conflict and our schemes to
bedded throughout a lifetime of dismissal. keep as much of it for ourselves is the sin
that destroys us.
White kids grappling with their privilege
is not the fight with which people of color

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It is the moral imperative of sharing that address. Our importance is based on con-
is our hope. Its application lies in access, not jecture. When we spill our trash, we di-
distribution. minish the earth’s pristine wilderness, but
in the long run we merely inconvenience
Laws merely band-aid a wound for a ourselves. The earth has a better recycling
while until the next cut appears. We add an- program than we could ever create. It in-
other gauze wrap until we can comfortably cludes our demise unless we make it clean
disclaim the culpability that stems from the and fresh again. The only way we survive in
defective underpinning of our social order. our own short-lived time is whether we
choose to love, to deceive, to honor or to
The earth, the home of our resource, is destroy each other in the stewardship of
wiser than we are. We are here by accident; our resource. A good place to start is to
recipients, perhaps, of an invitation by a clean up our conscience.
higher order delivered to the wrong

About the Author

John Bonanni spent a career in the theatre as a stage manager
and producer at Radio City Music Hall, on Broadway, and on tour.
His articles have appeared in Adelaide Magazine, Poor Yorick
Journal, the San Antonio Review, and the Raven’s Perch. His
backstage memoir, Just Off, Stage Right, is scheduled for release
next year under Adelaide Books. He holds an MFA in Creative and
Professional Writing from Western Connecticut State University.

89

JOHN KEATS AND
OUR DAYS OF

UNCERTAINTIES

by Mike Dillon

On a mid-May Saturday morning in 1958, When a bird caroled from high up in the
my big brother let me tag along with him cedar — a beautiful song, sweet and liquid
and his friends as they explored the woods — I stared up into broken sunlight but saw
near our house. no bird. I’ll never know what braved my shy
tongue to speak.
I was eight. Times were more innocent
then. “What kind of bird is that?”

We stopped in a small clearing where And I’ll never know what made the
splintered sun fell through the dark heights oldest of my brother’s friends, Ray, turn his
of a tall cedar. The effect reminded me of attention to me and answer: “Nightingale.”
my first communion the week before, how
the sun drifted through the clerestory win- Ray came from what was called, in
dows to touch the shadowed altar and its those days, a “dirt-poor” family of eight
wooden crucifix. And then the old priest’s or nine kids. Most people on Bainbridge
nicotine-scented fingers delivered the im- Island, west of Seattle, were not rich then,
maculate white host to my tongue, a whiff but Ray’s family was left far behind in the
of the actual world waiting outside the post-War, upward-mobility steeple-chase.
church door.
He was probably fourteen: Handsome,
My brother and his friends, five or six soft-spoken, with the kindly presence of a
years older than I, started talking about warm spring rain. What magic casement
movies. Preternaturally shy, I sat on a patch inside him, thousands of miles from the
of moss, almost invisible, and gazed upon the nearest nightingale, opened to the wide
angelic precision of their pubescent faces. world to allow him to answer the way he
did?

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I don’t know what became of Ray, but I the computer to check on the news with
do know the bird that stirred me was surely a sense of trepidation. Who knows what’s
an American robin. around the corner?

In 1975, as a back-packing, American For Keats the state of “being in uncer-
set-piece in Europe, I stood in the Protes- tainties,” was not a dodge into mystical
tant cemetery in Rome before John Keats’s mistiness or passivity, but the starting place
white tombstone inscribed with his chosen for an intense quest to know, to do, and to
epitaph: “Here lies one whose name was expand the circumference of the possible.
writ in water.” I was twenty-five, the same Echoing a phrase from Wordsworth, Keats
age as the poet when he died. squared up and assumed the “Burden of
the Mystery.”
I was struggling to write poetry, and
searching for certainties in life that would “I must choose between despair and en-
prop me up. And there, on that hot July ergy,” he wrote a friend. “I choose the latter.”
afternoon in Rome, somewhere in that
peaceful cemetery of pine trees and rotting Like the happy accident of an early class-
tombstones, a place of sunlight and shade mate who remains a lifelong friend, Keats is
— a nightingale sang. the first poet who got to me.

By then, Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale” The Poem as a Remembrance
was my most treasured poem. It still is.
In the spring of 1968, in my college prep En-
Pandemic Days glish class, I was introduced to the poetry of
John Keats. When we turned to “Ode to a
As I write this in the dreamlike, pandemic Nightingale, with its eight rhymed, ten-line
days of social and political angst, I find my- stanzas, that moment with Ray and the oth-
self thinking of John Keats. ers in the woods ten years earlier returned
to me. I’d grown to love the robin’s spring
February 23, 2021 will mark 200th anni- and summer carol — robins are as common
versary of the English poet’s death of con- as rain in the Pacific Northwest.
sumption. Had Shakespeare died at twen-
ty-five, he’d be remembered for a couple I confronted Keats’s poem on the page
of light comedies. Chaucer, not at all. John with full attention. And the first three,
Keats stopped writing well over a year be- strongly accented syllables, “My heart
fore he died. aches,” followed by the paradoxical, “and a
drowsy numbness pains my sense,” pulled
In one of his many extraordinary letters, me into a universe of strange diction and
Keats, explaining his stance towards poetry new sensations that, inexplicably, seemed
and life, wrote that one must be “capable “almost a remembrance,” as Keats said the
of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, best poetry should be.
without any irritable reaching after fact &
reason.” As I entered deeper into the poem, the
poem entered me.
Capable or not, that’s where I find myself
as the days, the weeks, the months wear on. I wandered through “verdurous glooms
Each morning I take my bowl of cereal to and winding mossy ways;” stood before
“mid-May’s eldest child, the coming musk

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rose” and looked up to where “tender is Friends noted Keats’s Greek-like beauty
the night, /And haply the Queen Moon is and treasured his brio and bonhomie,
on her throne.” which made him the ideal companion for
a country weekend. Countless passages in
Most poems merely bear witness to an Keats’s letters show why: “Give me books,
experience. “Ode to a Nightingale” consti- French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little
tuted experience itself. It was and remains music played out of doors by somebody I
a place where I could “leave the world un- do not know.”
seen” and, like the nightingale, “fade away
into the forest dim.” And yet tragedy pressed its foot on the
pedal point of his short life.
“I do not understand this”
Both his parents were dead before he
Keats wrote some 150 poems; three of his was fifteen, shattering a humble, tight-knit
books were published while he was alive. London family. Keats’s young sister lived
His “living year,” as biographer Robert Git- with her guardian and his wife in a Dicken-
tings called it, began in autumn 1818 and sian caricature play of quasi-house arrest.
closed in autumn 1819, a span generally Brother George and his wife emigrated
considered by critics to be the most bril- to America in 1818; adored brother Tom,
liant twelve-month performance in the nursed by Keats until the end, died of con-
history of English poetry. In an astonishing sumption the same year.
rush came most of the poems we remem-
ber him by: Hyperion, The Eve of St. Agnes, His own tuberculosis cut off Keats’s en-
La Belle Dame Sans Merci, Ode to Psyche, gagement to Fanny Brawne. Savaged by the
Ode to a Nightingale, Ode on a Grecian Urn, critics (“vulgar Cockney poetaster”), forced
To Autumn, Lamia, The Fall of Hyperion. to abandon England for the warmer cli-
mate of Rome while knowing, as an artist,
Victorian mythology viewed Keats as he might have given Shakespeare a run for
a poetic snowflake killed off by the Tory his money, Keats had a surfeit time in that
reviewers. Others, closer to Keats, knew “coffin of a room” above the Spanish Steps
better. A friend from their early school to reflect on the iron-clad absurdity of it all.
days remembered a brawler and his “ter-
rier courage” in the face of playground Decades would pass before the world,
injustice. Short and stocky, the poet hiked beyond a coterie of admirers back in En-
through Northern England and Scotland gland, knew what it had lost.
and a small part of Ireland with his friend
Charles Brown for six weeks, covering more “I do not understand this,” he told Severn
than 600 miles while suffering bad food from his sick bed.
and awful weather. The sore throat that
cut Keats’s trip short presaged his doom, “In a sense, he had been trying to under-
but not before he and Brown made the stand from the beginning,” W. Jackson Bate,
grueling trek to the summit of Ben Nevis, one of Keats’s great biographers, wrote.
Great Britain’s highest mountain at 4,413
feet. Every year people die up there doing Just like the rest of us.
the same.
“Ode to a Nightingale” was written in
1819, likely on the last day of April or in
early May at Hampstead Heath, in those
days outside of London, where Keats shared

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a house with Brown. A nightingale had a wave that could carry him to the White
taken up residence in the neighborhood. House.
Years later Brown remembered (or possibly
misremembered) the occasion. On the Republican side, Nelson Rocke-
feller represented a plausible obstacle to
“Keats felt a tranquil and continued joy in Richard Nixon’s march to the Republican
her song,” Brown wrote, “and one morning nomination. In Paris a student uprising
he took his chair from the breakfast-table to rocked France. Behind the Iron Curtain the
the grass-plot under a plum tree, where he “Prague Spring” liberalization movement
sat for two or three hours. When he came proved anything might be possible. It was
into the house, I perceived he had some a spring when nothing seemed to stand be-
scraps of paper in his hand, and these he tween the dreamer and the dream.
was quietly thrusting behind the books.”
Brown, who apparently didn’t know the By autumn it was all over. Robert Ken-
male of the species is the songster, later nedy had been murdered in early June. In
claimed he helped re-arrange the scraps France, the Gaullist’s strengthened their
into the final poem. hand at the ballot box. Soviet tanks rolled
into Prague in August. And Richard Nixon
The nightingale, which winters in and Hubert Humphrey, two artifacts from
western Africa and summers in Europe, is the ancien regime, battled for the Pres-
about six inches long, drab brown with a idency. Nixon barely won in that drizzly
lighter underside, and sports a rufous tail. November of the soul. The war in Vietnam
The bird’s plainness is a visual let-down, but would grind on another seven years.
its song is beautiful and rich — a series of
melancholy crescendos that has launched And I was a freshman in college — dis-
operas, plays, books, and moved poets from oriented, confused, depressed. I looked
Ovid and Sappho to W.S. Merwin. back on the lost paradise of my college
prep English class and recognized, in a way
And, of course, Keats. I couldn’t have in the spring, that “Ode to a
Nightingale” represented a tug-of-war be-
As biographer Bate wrote: “We are free tween the human desire for transcendence
to doubt whether any poem in English of and earth’s gravity.
comparable length and quality has been
composed so quickly.” Gravity had won. And hell yes, my heart
ached.

A November of the Soul No Small Thought in Parlous Times

As I neared high school graduation in spring I live in a small, mainland town on Puget
1968, having entered poetry through Keats, Sound about a dozen miles northwest of Se-
the world seemed on the edge of some- attle, a short bridge and a 25-minute drive
thing better. The assassination of Martin from where I grew up on Bainbridge Island.
Luther King Jr. in early April cast a brutal
shadow over that season of millenarian After raising our two boys, my wife and I
hope, yet Robert Kennedy, who promised remain in our swayback cottage after nearly
to end the war in Vietnam and fight for ra- 40 years. We’re surrounded by foliage, firs
cial justice at home, seemed to be riding and cedars. Out back a thick maple grove

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almost hides a declivity pleached with Above all, as he repeatedly demon-
shadow and sunlight where a creek runs strated in his letters, Keats believed life is
through the woods on its way to the shore- an intense process of discovery, not confir-
line a few hundred yards away. mation. We work our way through adversity
towards “the holiness of the heart’s affec-
To borrow from “Ode to a Nightingale,” tions.”
we live “in a melodious plot of beechen
green” (Keats meant plot to be read two This is no small thought in our parlous
ways). In the spring come the “pastoral times.
eglantine and white hawthorn.” We tread
“winding mossy ways” year-round. Each The late poet Stanley Kunitz observed:
spring, the robin, like the nightingale, be- “Modern readers do not need to be told to
gins “pouring forth thy soul abroad/in such admire John Keats: whether they know it or
an ecstasy.” not, he has already entered their dreams,
he is a portion of their hopes, he lives in
I’m 70. I’ve lived long enough to have their desires.”
learned what Keats knew to the marrow in
his early twenties — that life is a “vale of This year I have found myself taking the
Soul-making” and despair is not an option. time to watch and listen to the birds more
The capability to live in uncertainties checks often than in the past. A robin’s carol almost
the ego at the door, allowing the world to always stops me. Usually, the bird is unseen.
shine in its “suchness,” to use the Buddhist I simply listen, as Keats listened to the un-
term. The same capability also reinforces seen nightingale that spring in Hampstead.
empathy for others.
And sometimes I wonder about Ray.

About the Author

Mike Dillon lives in Indianola, Washington, a small town
on Puget Sound northwest of Seattle. He is the author of
four books of poetry and three books of haiku. Several
of his haiku were included in “Haiku in English: The First
Hundred Years,” from W.W. Norton (2013). His most recent
book, “Departures: Poetry and Prose on the Removal of
Bainbridge Island’s Japanese Americans after Pearl Harbor”
was published by Unsolicited Press in April 2019. “The
Return,” a poetry chapbook, is forthcoming from Finishing
Line Press. He is a previous contributor to Adelaide.

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SKIPPING CHURCH

by Linda Schifino

Pamela was my best friend in second and “Be sure to look both ways when you
third grade at Larimer School. She was the cross Joseph Street,” Mom instructed, “and
first to smile at me when I entered my new be especially careful crossing Shetland be-
second grade classroom. The school prin- cause it’s busier. And come right home after
cipal and my parents had made the deci- mass. Here’s the envelope to put in the col-
sion to move me from first to second grade lection basket, so don’t forget it, and…..”
halfway through the year, so I returned
from Christmas break to a new teacher and “Mom” I interrupted. “I’m eight. I know
classmates that were a year older and who how to go to church.”
I didn’t know. Pamela made that first day
easier and we became fast friends. I walked up Larimer Avenue heading to
Our Lady Help of Christians on Meadow
Pamela had kind brown eyes and a Street, and I was just in front of the school
wide smile, and she had dark braided hair when I saw Pamela walking towards me.
like mine, except that she had a few short Like me, she was dressed in her Sunday
braids while I had two long ones. Pamela clothes – a pretty powder blue dress with
lived with her mother and older brother a ruffle on the bottom and a pair of black
in a second floor apartment over Larimer ballet flats. I knew Pamela didn’t go to my
Pharmacy in the same block as our school. I church and I assumed that she was on her
had never been to Pamela’s apartment, and way to one of the Baptist churches nearby.
she’d never been to mine. While we were
best friends in school and always played to- Pamela and I had played together only
gether in the schoolyard during recess, we a few times over that summer, meeting in
didn’t visit each other at home. My friend- the school yard on those days when the city
ship with Pamela was somehow different. I employed a teenager to run a day camp for
didn’t question this reality. It just was. neighborhood kids. We’d draw squares with
white chalk on the sidewalk to play hop-
On a Sunday morning in the summer scotch, and we’d jump rope singing “A, my
of 1955 when I was eight, I was walking name is Alice and my husband’s name is Al;
to church alone. My mom wasn’t feeling we come from Alabama and we sell apples”.
well and I pleaded with her to let me go to Then, breathless and sweaty from jumping,
church by myself. After several minutes of we’d sit on the school steps and play board
begging, she finally agreed. games. The little kids liked Candy Land, but
Pamela and I preferred Clue.

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As we got closer, Pamela and I waved and “What have we here?” he asked, seeming
called out, beaming, delighted to see each amused.
other. We stood for a few minutes talking,
giggling, and wondering what fourth grade “We’d like two Cherry Cokes please,” Pa-
will be like. Then Pamela had an idea. “Let’s mela said with confidence.
skip church,” she said. For me, this was ex-
citing and scary at the same time. I feared “Two Cherry Cokes coming up,” he re-
that my mother might find out, then quickly plied.
dismissed my concern in favor of an adven-
ture. Pamela and I thought about what we Then Pamela turned to me. “Oh, no. We
might do. don’t have money!”

“We could stay and play here in the I remembered my church envelope and
school playground,” I suggested. pulled it out of my dress pocket. “I have
money,” I said proudly, glad that I could
“We’ll ruin our church clothes,” Pamela contribute to our adventure. I tore open the
said. “Besides, we don’t have any games envelope and two quarters tumbled out. “Is
or toys.” We thought a bit more. Then Pa- this enough?” I asked the man behind the
mela, who was always resourceful, came up counter.
with a plan. “Let’s get a Cherry Coke!” This
sounded like a great idea, and I mentioned “It’s more than enough.” He smiled at me
that Conte’s Drug Store my house had a warmly, took just one quarter, and gave me
soda fountain. Pamela seemed uncomfort- ten cents change.
able with my suggestion and said that she
preferred another soda fountain that she Pamela and I watched as the man
knew on Shetland Avenue. scooped ice from a chest just below the
counter and emptied it into two glasses.
I didn’t usually walk down this end of Shet- He used a nozzle at the end of a hose to
land, but Pamela seemed to know where she pour Coke into each glass, then he pulled a
was going. We walked a few blocks, passing bottle from a shelf behind the counter and
small brick houses with neatly trimmed front carefully poured in a small amount of thick
yards, and we stopped at a corner drug store red liquid. He added a straw and gave it a
that was unfamiliar to me. The door was set couple of swirls as he placed the glasses in
on an angle at the corner of the building and front of Pamela and me. “There you are,” he
a red and white stripped canvas awning hung announced.
over the doorway. Pamela opened the glass
door and a bell chimed overhead. We went We talked and sipped the sweet tasting
inside and sat at the counter on high swivel Cherry Cokes until we downed the last
stools covered in red vinyl. We were the only bit so that our straws made that slurping
customers. sound. Then we pushed our glasses away
and slid off the stools. We said goodbye to
A tall Black man wearing a white jacket the man behind the counter, and he waved
was polishing the counter, and he looked to us as we walked outside into the hot sun.
up when we came in. A smile crossed his
face, and his eyes had a quizzical look as he I was thinking how I wanted to continue
approached us. our Sunday morning antics just when Pa-
mela wondered aloud if it wasn’t time to go
home. We suddenly realized that we didn’t
know how long to stay away from home.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

We pondered the question for a while as had lived next door, were Black. The Wades,
we slowly strolled back up Shetland toward whose back yard met my grandmother’s
Larimer Avenue. We thought about walking back yard, were Black. Lots of kids in my
toward Meadow Street to see if people school were Black. We had played together,
dressed in church clothes were returning noticing the difference in our skin color but
from mass, but I feared that I might be some of us trusting that it didn’t matter.
seen by one of my mother’s friends. I sug-
gested that we go back to the drug store I didn’t think much of it at the time but in
and ask the man behind the counter how hindsight I realize that Pamela understood
long church lasted, but Pamela thought that that our neighborhood was segregated. She
was silly. We decided to go home and take knew the drug store where she would or
our chances. wouldn’t be welcome. She had had to know
to survive. My own lack of awareness itself
We said our goodbyes and separated, a sign of my privilege. I didn’t need to know.
walking in opposite directions on Larimer
Avenue. I remember thinking how happy I It’s taken me the better part of a lifetime
was that I ran into Pamela that morning. I to understand a bit of what Pamela knew
missed seeing her over the summer. I turned when she was just a kid. The eventual re-
around to watch her walk away just as Pa- alization that my beloved Larimer Avenue
mela turned to wave at me. As I walked the was segregated disrupted the nostalgic illu-
three blocks to my building, I turned back sion that I had created of good and decent
a few times but lost sight of Pamela as her people living together without regard for
figure got smaller and finally disappeared. their color. I wondered if many of the Ital-
ian-Americans that held a loving place in my
When I got home and opened the door heart were likely racist. They weren’t awful
to our apartment, my mother was in the people, I reasoned to myself, but a product
kitchen standing in front of the stove. “How of their time. Like fish swimming in a bowl,
was church?” she asked. getting wet from the cultural racism that
surrounded them. The truth stung, though,
“It was ok,” I mumbled without making and the image of my old neighborhood be-
eye contact. came flawed like a crack in one of my moth-
er’s porcelain tea cups.
“Go in and change your clothes and we’ll
have lunch.” Thinking back on that Sunday in 1955, I
realize that I could have learned more about
I went into the bedroom that I shared with social justice the day that I skipped church
my parents. I took off my pink cotton church than had I gone to mass. Yet, it would
dress and laid it carefully on the cot where I take decades for that lesson to take. I did
slept. I knelt on the worn carpet in front of learn about friendship that day. Pamela
my mother’s dresser and opened the bottom and I shared our own communion of sorts,
drawer where I kept my clothes. An unex- spending a bit of our Sunday together, sip-
plainable feeling of sorrow came over me. I ping Cherry Cokes, blessed by the warmth
sat on the floor in my underwear and cried. of each other’s company.

For many years, I looked back on my The next summer, we moved from Lar-
childhood neighborhood still believing that imer Avenue and I never saw Pamela again.
it was integrated. The Thompsons, who

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Linda Schifino is Professor Emerita of Communication at Carlow University where she is
also working towards an MFA in Creative Nonfiction. Linda is currently writing a collection of
essays describing growing up in an Italian-American enclave in Pittsburgh in the 1950s. She
has had essays published in Voices from the Attic Vol XXIV and XXV and in DoveTales Literary
Journal.

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