A long-running literary journal of Fitchburg State University, Route 2 publishes
creative writing (fiction, nonfiction, and poetry) from area writers and in particular
students passionate about sharing their work with the world. This year marks our
seventh year, and the first time it will be organized, designed, and edited wholly by
FSU students, with the support of select faculty.
Route 2 accepts submissions for work electronically. Submission guidelines are
available at http://route2.fitchburgstate.edu/Submissions.html. While you are on
the site, look at our call for submissions and current and past issues. Submissions
should be sent via email to [email protected].
You can follow us as we continue to develop our publication on Twitter
@FSURoute2. New ideas for the journal are percolating!
Copyright © 2013 by Route 2.
Upon publication, all rights revert to the authors
Route 2
English Studies Department
Fitchburg State University
160 Pearl Street
Fitchburg, MA 01420-2697
credits Managing Editor
Mary Darling
Section Editors
John Gerhardt
Valeriy Kolyadych
Erik Nikander
James Paleologopoulos
Jessica Voas
Editorial Board
Sven Anderson
Philip Carmichael
Kristin Fiandaca
Megan Freeman
Samantha McManus
Ariana Viscione
Matthew Walsh
Copy Editors
Kylie Foy
Megan Freeman
Visual Director and Print Designer
Ed Shaughnessy
Photographers
Michael Darcy
Ashley Davis
Kendal Royer
Ed Shaughnessy
Alexander Williams
Illustrator
Justin Koehane
Faculty Advisors
DeMisty Bellinger-Delfeld
Stephen Goldstein
Elise Takehana
editor's note
Mary Darling
Welcome to the winter 2013 issue of Route 2 Literary journal.
So much time and effort has gone into producing the volume that is currently
sitting in your hands. Our hope is that you will brew yourself a cup of coffee,
tea, hot chocolate, or whatever suits your taste as you prepare to journey through
the emotional ups and downs that have become a basis for this compilation of
creative passion.
Our goal is to showcase the different paths life take us on, from dark
and gloomy to high up in the sky with the sun shining. This year we did not
arrange the work by genre, because we want to transport you through experiences
that will awaken various parts of your emotional compass as you take this trip
down the route of your existence. You may take comfort in the familiarity of
street names that will appear through out the section breaks of this volume.
Although you are journeying through the depths of your mind, you are still
grounded in reality.
We can’t make any guarantees as to where you end up, but we can
guarantee that you will make connections and plot points on the map of your
mind, noting the stops you’ve made and the sights you’ve seen.
TABLE OF CONTENTS NORTH 16
18
Z a c hToathreyCoBnsotasnt Season 20
Jonathan Savey
23
Sense of Self 24
26
Kate Domenichella 30
The Counter 35
36
featured photograph 40
42
K e nWd iandlowR o y e r 44
M e l aA nShiaedowOinatkheeSspotlight 45
Melody Lacombe
The Silence of Fall
Katherine Comeau
To the Anorexic:
Hope in the Midst of Contradictions
featured photograph
K e nSdelaf l R o y e r
Mary Darling
Weighing In
Kayla Bernard
Burning
L i n dTsheaCylubP a g e
Roxxanna Kurtz
Lonely Blue Lines
featured illustration
Justin Keohane
“And she’ll ramble in her sleep,
say things she doesn’t mean...”
TABLE OF CONTENTS Sally Moore 46
47
A Poem on Edge
50
Samantha McManus
51
Sonnet to My Love 52
54
PEARL
57
Kayla Reffitt 58
59
Path to Wonderland 60
featured photograph 66
Ashley Davis 69
Light
Ta v a H o a g
A Whisper of Fall
Ian Wilkins
The Leaves of October
featured illustration
Justin Keohane
“The seconds detached and floated away
from me with the leaves of October”
Phillip Carmichael
Overnight Blues
Robert Gosselin
Trinity
Tran Lu
There Once Was Such a Man
MYRTLE
Christin Luna Pereyra
Racial Reconciliation and Healing
featured photograph
M i c hFiangeerls NDo.a1 r c y
Elisabeth Beverage 70
Chases in the Floor 71
72
featured photograph 86
88
Michael Darcy
91
Fingers No. 2 92
Nicholas Vincenzo Barney 93
Philoctetes 94
Nicole Lucia 102
106
Too Much 108
Johnathan Jena
A Change of Seasons
featured photograph
Michael Darcy
Three Trees
S a mTahenInt chreadibMle SchMrinakinnguPsoem
featured photograph
Alexander Williams
Soft Rocks
K a t hUlnefuelfilnledMFaontrasiisessoef Pyower:
The Cruel Chasity of Queen Elizabeth I
HH II GG HH LL AA NN DD
Sophie Leblanc Medeiros
A Yellow Rose
Amy Rufiange
Oh Tiny Vessel
N i c kSnaBpsohiost s e a u
TABLE OF CONTENTS featured photograph 111
112
Kendal Royer
113
Night 114
116
Michael Dion 118
120
Broken
121
featured photograph 122
Ashley Davis 123
Shadows 124
Holly Cormier
Speak
Katie Fratus
Embers From the Flame
Abbie Rosen
Betty-Lou
Johnathan Jena
Luna Eclipsed
featured photograph
Ed Shaughnessy
George’s Island I
Dr. Erin MacNeal Rehrig
Parallel Poetry
featured photograph
Ed Shaughnessy
George’s Island II
Ian Wilkins
The Power of Travel:
The Book of Margery Kempe
Bridget Hannigan 128
129
Losing My Grandma 130
Elisabeth Beverage 131
132
Faces
133
Sarah Comeau 134
136
The Fawn 137
featured photograph 140
142
K e n Qduaielt R o y e r
143
Dr. Erin MacNeal Rehrig
Void
featured photograph
Kendal Royer
I Am
P a t VOoy’aBgerr Ii e n
A l e x5 Dulud e
Mile Poem
Nicole Lucia
Ripening
CEDAR
Hector Rodriguez
A XXXXXXX Poem
Ed Shaughnessy
Deceitful October
featured photograph
Ed Shaughnessy
Angel
TABLE OF CONTENTS Rayna Cormier 144
The Lonely Day 147
148
featured photograph
149
Michael Darcy 150
156
Greenhouses
159
Brianna Dunn 160
164
Untitled
165
featured photograph 166
172
Ed Shaughnessy
Travel On
Ian Wilkins
We Are Animals
Leah Bianchi
Saliva
featured illustration
Justin Keohane
“Never in the sink.
It’s gross to do it in the sink.”
Michael Vanderpool
Uncharted Territory
Lisa Nguyen
Ignition
featured photograph
ED Shaughnessy
George’s Island III
Nicole Lucia
Lips In Summation
Mary Darling
Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby
Aurelia Lyman 176
178
To the New Boy
179
Kristen Levesque 180
182
Watch Your Bite
183
featured photograph 184
188
M i c hFeaete l D a r c y
189
Sarah Comeau
Fade
Kristen Fiandaca
The Other Side
featured photograph
Ed Shaughnessy
Ghost Face
M i c hSoameetlhinDg iGooond
Robert Gosselin
Chapters
featured photograph
Alexander Williams
Landscapes of Shadows
15
ZACHARY
BOS
TO THE C ONSTANT SEASON
Frost on the marsh grass this morning,
and a line of crows flying over.
Time for praising what fills the year
with transitoriness: the cold,
the scarcity of food, changing
in the angle of the sunlight;
for praising the iron cycles
the birds read as Time to move on;
for praising what makes the singing
of the music of the woods of
gladful songbird April nothing
like burnt October birdsong—like
the hink-hawnk of the coughing geese
enlarging and diminishing
as they come in vees and go, gone;
like the sound of the hawks leaving;
like clouds of straw-crowned chaffinches
alighting on branchtips, melting
into the brushwork of the bush
waiting hidden until duskfall
when they flock through the dark, going
to some elsewhere where they’ll be new
for a few days or weeks, passing
over or through, never staying,
never always here, always just
missed. Till… nearly here again.
When the lilacs bud bright again and
the beautiful birds, thank it all,
unmigrate, come back to unwatch
the constant burial of fall,
cover the skytop nakedness
with their numbers in returning.
17
JONATHAN
SAVEY
SENSE OF SELF
Sight.
Vision narrows as a needle slowly invades your arm. For a toddler it’s a
break of trust mixed with fear. Tracking the serum the nurse pushes from the nee-
dle, it slithers through the IV and into the tubing then the arm. Slowly images grow
blurrier. Two familiar faces standing by looking worried but holding it together for
comfort sake. I always felt bad for my parents. They seem to blame themselves. No,
I say. Blame no one. I want need this.
Hearing.
Thunderous roars of the waves, constant high pitch squawks of the gulls,
playful screams of little children, blood rushing to the head and a pounding heart
starts to fill the ears. Faster and faster the heart pumps blaring like a morning alarm
into the ears drowning out the other sounds. “Mom it’s happening!” Running to her
she calls out to a lifeguard. Panting breath, radio chatter and pounding heart louder
and louder. “EMS in bound for cardiac patient at Synica beach. “Hold on honey,
can’t you hear? There almost here. I’m here don’t worry. Shh.” Parris Island, South
Carolina was the farthest I could go after that.
Taste.
Sweet rich milk chocolate-chip pancakes, the sugary tang of maple syrup,
fluffy perfectly whipped eggs, and crunchy salty bacon mmm, yes bacon, a must.
Nothing beats a pre-fasting meal at twelve a.m. Knowing that it might be your
last meal. You’re last meal for another twenty-four hours. Home cooked
food melting on your palate. You’re taste buds absorbing the sweet sug-
ar. Guarding the plate for my life. One more breakfast before turned
into a robot. One more before the pacemaker.
Smell.
Cigar smoke in the nose. Breathing heavily smelling sweat. Ci-
gar smoke to saline salt. Saline in the nose. Smelling salt from an IV, who
would have thought? Plastic, gas fumes, saline, sweat, clean linen, saline,
cigar, saline - saline – saline soon adenosine. Who’s driving this thing?
Less bumps please! Flashes red to blue bounces of the white metal of
the ambulance and into my eyes blindingly. I don’t want to die. “It’s over
200,” she yells. “Sir, what’s your weight?” Shit. My weight? 150? 155?
160? “156, its 156.” She tears out a small bottle. “Hold on Jon. Stay with
me.” God get me out of this and I’ll be a priest. Adenosine in the nose.
Pure darkness and nothingness is death. Heartbeat slows to zero. Fuck I
can’t see. Where are you? “He’s coming back on,” she yells to the driver.
Lord, I don’t want to be a priest, forgive me. Breathing slows. Nostrils
pulsate slowly. Clean linen, the reassuring hospital smell. Safety.
Touch.
“Hurry, get over here. Quick guys get into frame,” we yell to
Eric. “Perfecto.” Wind whips against freezing raw skin. Gravel sinks
between my toes. Sticking to the bottom from the salt water. Strapping a
life preserver to bare skin after diving in glacier water is nuts. It’s barely
big enough to cover my tattoo, back scars and a bit of my chest scar so
it won’t turn me into an icicle. Salt water begins to slowly dry against my
skin. We push off and onto the water bouncing in our kayaks. Hitting
the water from waves our butts and backs smash into the hard plastic.
Beautiful. Can you believe it? My hands tread in the frigid water. Raising
my hand to wipe away salt from my pacemaker scar. My body feels tired
but I press on. Keep on going. Keep on living Jon!
19
KATE
DOMENICHELLA
THE C OUNTER
A steel counter nestled under an alcove holds a different variety of sorts.
It holds two blue baskets, one yellow basket, slips of paper, pens, markers, high-
lighters, non-latex gloves, and individual silverware packets with one napkin, one
packet of salt and one packet of pepper. Car keys, television remotes, lost and
found items in a soufflé cup, unpaid and paid slips, black and white checkerboard
wax paper for trays, plastic sandwich bags, and fan mail are all organized into little
cubbies that surround the register.
Underneath the register under the counter are two doors, the left side
filled with two fish buckets, one containing romaine lettuce and one containing ice-
berg lettuce and spring mix next to containers of sliced tomatoes and cucumbers.
Two more fish buckets contain the house, Caesar, and balsamic vinaigrette dress-
ings in individual soufflé cups. Open the right door and you’ll find sliced sandwich
meats and six extra salads for backup.
You may think that the most important object on that counter is the
cash register- full of ones, fives, tens, twenties, the occasional fifties and hundreds,
pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters- but it’s not. It’s the girl behind the counter.
She wears the standard “uniform”- a work-issued maroon shirt with the writing:
“Athen’s Pizza Central Street” with the logo, black yoga pants, and sneakers. Her
hair is pulled back- usually a messy bun and a headband, a full face of makeup, and
colorful earrings distinguish her from the rest of the staff.
The operation of running a successful business is dependent on her. She
controls that counter. Her charm, her ability to interact with the customers and
take their orders, remember their faces, and bring their food to them makes her a
promising register girl. “Service with a smile”, that’s her motto. She sets 21
the pace of the shift.
If she’s on her A game- no one can steal her spotlight, even on
her worst days she’s still on-point. She knows the menu like the back of
her hand- the prices and each ingredient. This girl knows the questions
she has to ask- any veggies, what kind of cheese, any dressing, spaghetti
or ziti, would you like the sub bread toasted or cold? The ability to re-
member voices over the phone, specific orders, and many customers’
faces comes easy to her.
Pen and paper are her weapons of choice. The memorization
of “restaurant shorthand” comes easily to her and helps her when taking
phone orders. Many customers talk rapidly- never giving her the chance
to ask the necessary questions until after they mentioned the six subs,
three pasta dinners and two large pizzas they need for 6:30. A quick
glance at the clock and she sees the time: 6:05. “Not a problem Eric,”
the girl responds to the customer, “we will see you at 6:30!” She hangs
up the phone, takes out her trusted yellow highlighter and highlights the
time marked on the slip of paper by the pen. She passes it to the pizza
station with a piece of tape on the top. It is understood that at 6:15 the
pizza will be made and put through the 509 degree oven for 8 minutes.
That slip is then folded in half and passed to the sub-station, where the
six subs will be made and the pasta dinners will be prepped and pack-
aged for 6:30. At 6:30, a man named Eric will walk in and ask for his
order. The girl behind the counter will take it down from the shelf, ring
it into the register, take his credit card and swipe it though the machine
giving him a copy to sign for the register and a copy of his own. She
will then tell him to “have a good night” and if he’s polite, he will say,
“thanks you too”.
Behind that counter is not only her, but her right-hand men
and women, her second family. They’re the masterminds behind every
single item of food that leaves the kitchen, the ones that take the orders
on those slips of paper and turn each one into delicious, edible food that
tastes as good as it looks.
She takes all of the necessary goods, as one may call them,
behind the counter and puts them to use throughout her shift. She re-
stocks the dressings from under the counter as the cluster in the basket
for salads grows smaller and smaller. She scans the dining area and gath-
ers loose change, forgotten cell phones, and random hair ties on the
floor and put them into their assigned cubbies. “I need cooked salami,
provolone cheese, and roast beef ” says the woman next to the counter.
The girl opens up the right door under the table where the cash register
is and hands the woman what she asked for. She sees that the individual
silverware packets are no longer fully stocked on the counter and she
takes thirty seconds to run into the backroom where packages are placed
on shelves to replenish her supplies.
On Friday, the most hectic, frantic, chaotic, nights, she is epit-
ome of calm, cool and collected. She deals with the crowd of people at
the counter, the constant ringing of two phones, the customers waiting
for their food, and the responsibility of restocking dressings, lettuce,
vegetables, and other various foods while cleaning the dining room,
making sure orders are right, and staying on top of all the white slips of
paper. On Friday nights she has help at the counter- two other register
girls sharing in her tasks. From 4:30 to 10 pm, there is no rest for the
weary.
Although the girl is more important than the register, she is
as important as the counter. The counter provides the framework for
everything the girl does while she is there. The placement of the counter
offers a place of action.
Kendal Royer
Window
23
MELANIE
OAKES
A SHA D O W IN THE SPOTLIGHT
Yeah, it’s time
To show the world.
That you’re different
Than other girls.
That steady walk,
Talk of the town
Haters determined
To tear you down.
The funny thing is
That they know
That all this swagger
Is just a show.
Achilles tendon
At which they pick
Until you stumble
Fall, fail, panic.
Take pictures, post
In which you smile
Inside you’re judging
All the while.
Thinking you have
It all together
You “feel amazing”
You’re “Never better”.
Playing a fool
A fool of you.
The wool you tug
Over their eyes too.
And even though
You long for help
Beyond plain stubborn
Left by yourself.
Sad but true
Must go alone
No one can put you
In happy zone.
Still makes you wonder
If you will ever
Become alter ego
Not now, maybe never.
25
MELODY
LACOMBE
THE SILEN C E OF FALL
Maybe there is nothing we have done, that hasn’t already been done, by
someone else. And I don’t know if I find that comforting, or devastating.
I lit another cigarette, standing in the eve, just out of the rain. Thinking.
Self-preservation is going to be the death of me.
Everything in the city was gray and black and brown. Even the people. No
color on a day like this. It made the air too thick to breathe.
Self-preservation. I chewed on the words as I walked parallel to the sky
scrapers, ignoring my reflection keeping pace, jumping from window to window. I
could only remember one time when I had used it to protect something good, and
only one time had that something good been myself. Self-preservation meant isola-
tion.
It could be romantic – in a George Clooney, mysterious-aloofness kind of
way. The readers, I imagined, or movie-goers, whoever turned my life into a gloomy
but fascinating story first, would wonder and guess: “Why was he always alone?
Why did he always call things off ? It’s because he’s been so hurt before; because
he’s waiting for that special girl; because of a dark secret; because he’s a psycho-
path” – the last guess would be the most exciting. I would hope for that one too, if
it wasn’t my life.
Alas. Nothing so exciting.
The truth: Just because I loved myself more than I loved anyone else.
What is that? I took a long, final drag on my cigarette. A sociopath or something?
Scenes from American Psycho flashed through my head.
But I didn’t love myself in a psychotic way. Just as much as everyone else
loves themselves. Except, unbeknownst to me until the moment it happens, I am
willing to cut off the head (figuratively) of the ones I love to... preserve 27
myself. My self-interest. My pride.
I lit another cigarette. Fuck, I hate you. My mantra to me.
My first love. I had screamed at her until I couldn’t remember
what we were fighting about. And by then of course, it was far too late
to stop. She was broken, and I had broken her; her eyes were lost in the
room and in her tears but I couldn’t stop. Her emotion enraged me.
Her inability to understand how stupid and selfish she had been about...
whatever it was... engulfed me.
The word “sorry” lost its flavor for both of us. And the only
reason we stayed together for as long as we did is because we were ad-
dicted to it. The whole process. You never would have guessed, two
young white kids from urban America, fit Eminem’s “Love the Way You
Lie” so well. I would laugh at the notion too, if it weren’t so true.
And today. Jessica. We had argued and I had felt it – the self-
preservation instincts that keep my pride in tact as I burn the city to the
ground – burning at the back of my throat. I had felt it in the slope of
the sound of my voice to her, my condescension. And while it was even
happening I remember thinking, I would never talk to her like this if we
weren’t together. I would never dare. I respect her too much. She doesn’t
deserve this. Always, in the midst of the ugliness, in the midst of being
a prideful son of a bitch, the split personality feeling of what-the-fuck-
am-I-doing.
How is it that my self-preservation walks hand in hand with my
self-destruction?
I unfolded like a polluted wave on the beach.
“Why did you bring this up? Where did this come from? It’s
completely left field.” She asked.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and wished I could just hang up.
My buzz felt like trash.
“I felt like fighting.”
My honesty tore a jagged hole in the blimp of our existence.
Here we are, crashing, and the silence of the fall.
“That’s what I thought.”
As simple and nonsensical as algebra.
I passed the apartment. The cold rain was right for thinking.
Being uncomfortable was a part of self-dissection.
My self. Was that all I thought about?
I kept walking, and stopped paying attention to the turns and
streets I took. I had to figure this out. I had to figure out why I was Mr.
Hyde so often.
“Well I’m going to pull a Mason and ask you to figure out why
you do this.” She had said. That’s my name.
Always the social worker. Always the counselor. I smiled at the
thought of her. I loved her. I really did. …Then why did I try to fight
her? Why did I try to… make her hate me?
I felt some part of me resisting, holding back, trying to bury
what I was uncovering. I’m claustrophobic. And that tunnel of thought
seemed too dark to see how tight it would be, and how far it would go
down. No room to turn around. Can’t breathe.
I mindlessly bought coffee although I really wanted something
stronger. I took a too-hot sip and forced myself back to the mouth of
the cave of these newly discovered questions.
Why?
To quickly destroy what is going to fall down anyway.
It came to me so suddenly and succinctly I felt nauseous. Like
something sharp underfoot.
My childhood imagination flipped through its archives to
Sampson between the pillars.
I tried to create a flowchart in my head. Tried not to get over-
whelmed with what I was discovering. Fear>Fighting>Destruction.
Fear of what? Destruction? Of what? Us? Fear of destruction, leads to
destruction?
The rain let up and I thought I smelled smoke. The rain always
stops when we need it.
My legs felt weak but I kept moving. Afraid to stop. As if mov-
ing kept a greater surge of thoughts from catching up to me; the distrac-
tion of not getting killed on those busy city streets.
I felt terribly and universally alone.
Within seconds of each other, I passed a priest and an ortho-
dox Jew, and felt like I was in the middle of a joke.
Was I the atheist?
I passed the coffee from my right hand to my left. My fingers
were getting numb. No, I’m not the atheist. I knew by my mere ability to
feel, that there was a God.
But there might as well not have been, recently. What good is
a God that you never speak to except to beg, occasionally, for the safety
of the ones you love?
My existence depends on a very few sacred people. I thought
often, of how little value I placed on my own life, a few years ago. How
little I thought of death as nothing but something desirable. How I
would unhesitatingly die for anyone, as if it were simply my last card to
play.
And how that had changed. And how I now clung to my life
and would not, for the sake of these sacred ones, willingly endanger it.
And how life had somehow turned into something so painfully beautiful
and precious that death had become everything to me that it is to most
people: terrifying and terrible. So I began to preserve myself again, in-
stead of letting myself die, one day at a time.
I remembered again, the cave. I felt lost, and at a loss, waiting
for something to surface from the void. And while I waited I was power-
less to do anything else but stare at my own reflection.
I would wait for the cold bubbles to come up from the deep
tblack, and burst silver.
I would wait for the reason I am.
29
KATHERINE
COMEAU
TO THE ANORE X I C : HOPE IN THE
M I D ST OF C ONTRA D I C TIONS
“Need to get out! Such a failure. I’m so shameful. Don’t want
to talk to anyone. Don’t want lunch. Don’t want to eat ever. I’m
in prison and no one cares. All trying to make me fat” [July 3,
2007].
For several years of my life, I struggled with anorexia. During that time I
kept a daily journal from which I include entries. Using my own experiences, I ex-
plore anorexia as a performance (Rich and Evans, 2009) and myself as the anorec-
tic seeking to “outdo” cultural expectations (Bordo 1993). The performativity of
anorexia exposes it as “a mode of regulation that employs judgments, comparisons
and displays as means of incentive, control, attrition and change based on rewards
and sanctions” (as cited in Rich and Evans 2009). Anorexia meant more than just
a psychological disorder. Instead, my struggles symbolized “an attempt to embody
certain values, to create a body that will speak for the self in a meaningful and
powerful way” (Bordo 1993:67). In this paper I argue that anorexia became a per-
formance that displayed not only my attempt to communicate internal distress, but
also a reaction to society’s construction of gender norms. I explore how my need
to feel in control and receive attention from others led me to both rebel against and
outdo my interpretation of the ‘real woman’. Through self-starvation and the regu-
lation of my body, I defied the ideal of a strong, rational woman who was always in
control and incapable of being hurt by others.
Detachment from “the woman”
Severe illnesses such as mine do not occur overnight. Rather, anorexia
took several years to develop in my life. At the age of 16, I entered treatment for
the first time. Before entering treatment, I spent several years trying to 31
hide the fear and anxiety I felt. I believed I had to be strong, but strong
meant emotionless and invulnerable. The thought of being an emotional
woman who needed others embodied my interpretation of a “failure”
to achieve success. I could not accept that someone like her would ever
succeed or attain approval from others. I found myself listening to the
lyrics of Quarterflash’s “Harden my Heart” in which she says “I’m gon-
na harden my heart, I’m gonna swallow my tears.” That was the woman
I longed to be.
“That’s what I’m going to do [harden my heart]. I’ll
become a zombie, feeling nothing at all. No one will
ever see me cry again. Feelings only hurt and are no
longer a valid part of my life. They are not to be lis-
tened to” [November 24, 2008].
My experience coincides with Bordo’s argument “that the characteristic
anorexic revulsion toward hips, stomach, and breasts…might be viewed
as expressing rebellion against maternal, domestic femininity” ([1993],
2003). I interpreted the maternal and domestic female as the emotional
woman who lacks authority and power.
Talukdar (2007) also suggests that the Western conception of
the mind/body dualism posits the body as inferior to the mind. The
mind/body dualism also connotes a gendered dichotomy. The rational
mind encompasses the masculine ideal whereas the feminine ideal posits
the female body as a signifier of emotions and irrationality. Masculine
privilege in society implies that rationality occupies a dominant position
above emotions. In order to outperform cultural standards, I had to
completely eradicate emotions (my female body). Bordo adds that “tak-
ing on the accoutrements of the white, male world may be experienced
as empowerment by women themselves, and as their chance to embody
qualities - detachment, self-containment, self-mastery, control – that are
highly valued in our culture” (Bordo [1993], 2003). This analysis indi-
cates why anorexia often begins to emerge in many young women (my-
self included) during puberty when their bodies start to develop breasts
and more curves.
The embodiment of contradictions
Bordo ([1993],2003) argues that anorexia is an embodiment of
instability in a society. In a consumeristic society, we are taught to both
desire the products and restrain our desires in order to create more of
them. We face the same conflicting messages when we decide what to
feed ourselves. On the one hand, we view the denial of food as an act
of mastery. On the other hand, marketers want us to feel free to indulge
ourselves without guilt. Bordo ([1993],2003) claims that women are tar-
geted to buy food products and still feel in control when they consume
them. We buy diet foods because we believe that we can indulge and still
feel a sense of mastery over our bodies. I received these messages too,
but as an anorectic, I had to “outdo” the expectations in order to receive
attention from others. Anorexia represents the ultimate accomplishment
of denying pleasure, but culture cannot tolerate the idea that someone
can refuse to indulge. Thus, I felt proud about my accomplishment,
while at the same time I felt that I needed to hide that accomplishment
from others (Bordo [1993], 2003). I believed my slender body showed
my strength and control over my emotions. At the same time, however,
I wished to disappear and hide my body. The following journal entry
represents my struggle with the conflicting demands of the culture:
“Every time I restrict, I feel both good and bad about
it. Every time I eat, I feel both good and bad about it.
I feel kinda ‘floating’” [August 13, 2007].
The embodiment of contradictions existed in other forms in my life
too. My life in residential and inpatient settings felt both comforting
and anxiety-provoking at the same time. I wanted to escape the “real
world” in which I felt pressure to be a somebody. I believed I could
never achieve the status of becoming a somebody, and I felt desperate
to escape the anxiety. My other option was to become a nobody. If I
achieved that goal, then I could overcome the belief that I had failed
to achieve strength and independence. As a nobody, my position in the
world would be meaningless.
The conflicting desires and pressures produced more anxiety
than I could cope with on my own. Unfortunately, my refusal to admit
vulnerability meant that anorexia continued to be my only resolution.
Thus, I prolonged my physical dependence upon others to take care
of me. I could never completely vacate the real world in those settings
because I continued to interact with people living their “real lives.” Al-
though I believed I could achieve my escape from the real world in in-
patient settings, those settings also kept me from achieving the goal of
becoming a somebody. The following quote captures a small slice of my
desire to escape the pressure of being a somebody.
“I feel like I’m being punished and that I’m such a
failure. No one notices that I don’t generally hang out
in the group room. It’s great since I doubt I say more
than 100 words a day” [July 4, 2008].
Better Body Image?
As the frequency and length of my visits in residential and in-
patient centers increased, it became apparent to me that there was much
more to my disorder than a mere obsession with losing weight. “Curing”
anorexia takes more than just transforming someone’s body image or
fixing the psychology of the individual. Body image was just a surface
issue – a way for me to communicate and at the same time not commu-
nicate the pain I felt inside. But how could I explain it when everyone
kept telling me that I had to improve my body image and just eat?
“I just don’t feel like I can do it. It’s just too hard 33
and no one understands that. I just wish things were
easier. I feel like such a prisoner” [October 13, 2008].
Living in a Western context, we tend to assume that anorexia is a psy-
chopathological response to the pervasive images in the mass media of
the “ideal body”. However, research of anorexia in cross-cultural con-
texts suggests that explanation is insufficient (Rieger et al. 2001; Taluk-
dar 2007). Rather than an obsession with thinness as an ideal of beauty,
Goodsitt (1997) suggests that “attempts to control the shape of one’s
body derive from a terrible sense that one’s body, as an aspect of self-
organization, is out of control” (as cited in Rieger et al. 2001). The sug-
gestion that anorexia results from poor body image represents a form
of “sexism…that women’s foremost worry is about their appearance”
(Thompson 1992:558). If we shift the analysis of anorexia beyond the
focus on white, middle-class, young women then we can see how gender,
class, and race affect one’s experience of eating problems.
The slippery slope of control
During the worst part of my struggles, I spent ten straight
months (December 2008 to October 2009) in two inpatient hospitals.
Living in those places where I felt like others were “making” me eat left
me feeling out of control and desperate to gain it back. It is no wonder
that I felt at my lowest during those times. The control I thought I had
achieved was taken away from me. Others held the key to my future and
they had me locked up. God, I was angry! But what could I do? Appar-
ently, I was just an anorexic patient and all my behaviors and thoughts
were disordered.
In looking through journal entries, I found it curious that I
continuously referred to feeling trapped and in prison. Bordo ([1993],
2003) argues that the philosophies of Plato, Augustine, and Descartes
have affected our understanding of the body. We accept an understand-
ing of the body as an entity that entraps us. Thus, we find freedom only
if we achieve a sense of transcendence of the body. I believed that my
body kept me trapped and subjected to the authority of others. If I
could escape it, I would escape the control of others. I believed that reg-
ulating my body and its natural desires would indicate that no one could
completely take away my ability to control at least one part of my self.
If I could control the one thing that I thought no one else could, then
I would always have proof that I was strong. However, the one thing I
thought I could control in my life – my body – kept me in bondage. The
reality of the physical destruction of self-starvation kept me in a state of
requiring constant treatment. In a sense, I had attained the others’ atten-
tion. I certainly did not desire that attention as I prolonged the length of
time I spent in inpatient settings. I came to a turning point at this time
in my life. I had the choice to continue to prove I had strength in my
anorexic rebellion against the gendered construction of the emotional
woman, or I could prove that I had the strength to recover.
How shall I escape?
I thought it was my body that trapped me. I thought my weak-
nesses were responsible for my position. What did I require to achieve
recovery? Patricia Hill Collins said that “persistence is a fundamental re-
quirement of this journey from silence to language to action” (Collins
1991:112). I agree with her wholeheartedly. Persistence implies believing
in yourself and that there is strength in who you are even if others do
not acknowledge it. No one should weaken his or her strength and de-
stroy opportunities because of an obsession with food and the body. To
recover, I needed to discover that there is a way in which I could say more
than 100 words a day and people will still listen to me. I needed to accept
vulnerability and know that I had strength and acceptance.
We live in a society that values strength and toughness which
I agree are valuable qualities. However, we cannot value those qualities
so highly that we fail to recognize the virtues of sensitivity and humil-
ity to admit that we are not perfect. Nor can we adhere to the gender
construction of white, dominant masculinity as the standard of achieve-
ment. Many people struggle with problems that are a response to various
forms of oppression in our society. Oppression removes an individu-
als’ ability to speak for themselves and therefore they have to find other
means. Eating problems are one way to limit the ability of individuals to
express themselves.
“I want to be able to say that [God] has brought me
through so much. It’s a hard road I’m traveling, but I
see the light. I can be better. I WILL be better. I just
don’t want food to have such control over me. How
great a thing it is to have hope. I feel connected to
myself.” [November 9, 2009]
Kendal Royer
Self
35
MARY
DARLING
W EIGHING IN
Big boned, heavy set, curvy, voluptuous, chubby, chunky; all words mean-
ing fat, but in a “polite” way. Right. No matter how it is said, the fact of the matter
is that I am very overweight, my body mass index leans toward obese and has since
my childhood, so now in my teen years I face all sorts of health risks. Is it the health
risks though or does it want to look like everyone else and to be able to shop where
they shop. I do not mirror any of the girls in the magazines I read or in the ads
I see, unless it is a before picture from one of those weight loss ads. I am pretty
confident still. I do think that I am pretty and that I am funny, but I also think that
I am “fat,” which you learn at a young age is clearly not socially acceptable. Both of
my sisters are tiny and my best friend wears a size 2. I wear a size 17 in jeans. Gasp.
I know that I need to do something, for me, not for anyone else. Even
though I am a “big” girl, I have a lot of friends and I am outgoing. I do theater,
competitive dance, I play softball and volleyball, and I have even tried cheer leading.
I want to get to wear a bikini by senior year. Right now I would not be caught dead
in that or in my tankini skirt-bathing suite.
The YMCA is running a pilot program called “Girls on the Go,” my mom
signs me up for it and I get a free three month membership to the Y. I am given a
pedometer, a binder with weekly modules, and a food/fitness diary. I learn to use
these tools and have weekly meetings with someone who goes over each week’s
lesson and my food/exercise diary. This is really eye opening to me because I know
I eat a lot of shit and drink like 4 glasses of whole milk a day. Because I have to
write everything that I eat down, I start to try harder and I start to make it my goal
to impress myself everyday so that when I read it at the end of the day I can say
“wow I ate super healthy today AND I even worked out for an hour.” One of the
modules that really hits me is this one where my mentor measures out
32 teaspoons of sugar, which is how many are in one can of coke. I stop
drinking soda after that. I begin reading labels and cutting out soda and
other food items and I also start working out and trying new things such
as spin class and racquetball. I lose 30lbs and end up being the “success
story” of this program.
I am pretty content weighing around 180lbs and sometime
passes without me losing or gaining weight. But I do not care because I
am feeling good and I am proud of myself.
I am 15 and I start to care more about what I am doing and eat-
ing, it is the summer before tenth grade and I get a job working outside
at Davis’ Farmland. This job requires a lot of walking from one end of
the park to the other, which is more exercise then I usually do. I stop eat-
ing fast food and eventually become a vegetarian. The weight just keeps
coming off me at a quick pace and I am so surprised. My grandma also is
an online shopping junkie and she gives me this “ab-doer” machine with
videotape. This machine is basically a black chair with this bar behind
the back support, which has handles to grab onto. It is very easy to use. I
laugh when she gives it to me though because it is “as seen on TV” and
I just never take those products seriously. I begin doing that three times
a week and everyone is so surprised that I am losing so much weight and
slimming down my once huge mid-section. I go back to school weighing
around 145lbs. I am still healthy and have been losing weight “the right
way.”
It is easy to get too caught up in losing weight. I had never
thought myself to be an extremist on anything or to have an addictive
personality, or to harm myself in anyway. I cringed at the notion of cut-
ting oneself or attempting suicide or at the notion of vomiting up food.
I am very health conscious. I know the risks.
I start counting calories and eating only 1000 a day and cutting
out pretty much anything with a fat content. I lose weight even faster
and start to look frail according to people. When anyone asks ques-
tions I put on a smile and say that I am fine and I am just working out.
However that is a lie because I am barely working out, I actually spend a
good amount of time napping, which is out of character for me. I start
to become a bit withdrawn. I avoid social eating situations.
So I begin throwing up. I had never been a “binge eater,” but
I do it once, feel terrible, and then find myself hunched over a toilet for
with my fingers down my throat. And this worsens over time. It started
out just a few times a week, but then I have to keep doing it to stay thin.
When I get my wisdom teeth out I could care less about the pain, I am
more worried that I won’t be able to throw up the soft foods I eat during
the two days after. I spend so much time face to face with a toilet. It is a
truly disgusting experience. But it is about the control, like they say. My
right hand knuckle between my pointer and middle finger cuts and scars
37
from hitting against my teeth. There are some days when I throw up too
much and I can’t go to school the next day. I miss a lot of school, but I
have great fucking grades, somehow.
And next thing I know I am 98lbs and I wear a heavy coat all
day in school because I am always shivering. People are worried about
me. I eat around 400 calories a day. You can see my rib cage. I am pretty
much skin and bones, but I cannot see it. I sometimes throw up five
times a day. I am too caught up and I need help.
I am 16. I am in Latin class and someone comes in with a pass
and hands it to Mr. Davis, he looks down reads it then looks up and
says, “Maria (he called me that), you are wanted in the guidance office.” I
freak out immediately; I know what this is about. I do not deal well with
doctors or serious things. I do not need a counselor. I do not need to be
locked away and made to feel better. I make my way there; my heart is
racing worse than it has been lately.
I am greeted by a middle-aged woman who introduces herself
to me and has me take a seat. At first she just asks me basic questions
about myself, but then of course she digs deeper and says people are
worried about me. She asks if I am doing anything to lose weight and I
of course, lie. She then asks me if I know about what is going on in the
world of modeling and I have no idea what she is taking about, she goes
on to explain that they are taking models off the runway if their BMI is
under 18.9 because they are considered anorexic. We talk for a while and
she tries to give me various resources and I keep my composure while
we speak and agree to consider the things she is talking about.
I leave there and think I am having a panic attack. I call my dad
and tell him that he needs to get me right now. He comes and I explain
everything and confirm that I am anorexic and bulimic but that I don’t
want to go away and I need him to make sure I eat every meal and to
make them for me so that I am not cutting things out or starving myself.
He tells me that if I do not follow this, he will take me to a hospital and
I will have to be part of a residential program.
The week before this I had thrown up blood and I thought that
was the wakeup call I needed, so I haven’t thrown up since. I realized I
was killing myself right then and knew I needed help. I was pissed that
people worried and I had to speak to that woman, but if that hadn’t hap-
pened, who know what I would have done. I wasn’t going to seek out
help myself.
I kept with the plan me and my dad had made and I did a lot of
research because I was not ready to have to see a professional. I do not
really believe in that sort of thing and I am very self-sufficient. I watch
a lot of self-help videos, I talked to some mentors, and I started eating
more and keeping a balanced diet. I did eventually speak to a profes-
sional and I also reached a healthy weight and have never fallen back into
that mental state.
I am thankful every day that I was able to pull myself out of
this way of living and become a better person for it. I freed myself of
strict caloric limitations and began to focus on just living every day and
enjoying food and exercise. I struggled so much, but now I lead a normal
life style, I eat what I want, I don’t worry or run to a bathroom after, I
work out on a regular basis, and I am generally happy.
39
KAYLA
BERNARD
BURNING
You took the easy way out
and left before I could remember you
one hold of your child
sufficed a lifetime for you.
And you will never know
how many internally fires
I have tried to put out
because of you.
My heart can no longer tell
if it is alive and beating
or simply left burning
until only ashes remain.
No, I am not all broken.
despite my pain,
there are days when you are the sun
and I am the cloud strong enough
to blur you out.
Despite your absence
You have taught me lessons
I have learned
to be a daughter
is something to regret.
an unearthed mistake
unspoken by this world.
And all on my own
I have become beautiful
I do not need
your embrace
or approval
to validate my self worth.
I have stopped waiting
for you to reach out
and fill the holes
and put out the fires.
And if one day
you choose to come back
you will see
that I don’t need you
to be here
or try and fix me.
41
LINDSAY
PAGE
THE C LU B
Hidden within a sea of trees in the middle of Concord, Massachusetts
lies a large wooden cabin surrounded by a pond that homes a variety of fish,
frogs, snakes, turtles, and bugs. The inside of the complex reveals a room full of
mismatched chairs and a bar that seems endlessly stocked with an array of sodas
and spirits. Inhaling, the scent of the room holds the aroma of nature. The essence
of cedar trees, rain water, fresh dirt, and wild grass comes to mind.
Continuing down a hallway plastered with pictures of different fish, there
is a large kitchen on the left. Either continuing even further through the hall or
cutting across the kitchen will bring you to a large, open room with tables stacked
on the sides. Frighteningly enough, there are stuffed deers, birds, moose heads,
and even a bear sitting at the corners of the room. Even so, the room was never
considered to be one that held death. Instead, for years, it has been a room where
families could come together and talk, laugh, and eat hearty meals created by the
people who called this wooden building something similar to their second home.
Despite being a sportsmanship club for hunting animals and fishing, there
has always been a sense of the importance of family at the Musketaquid club. It is a
place used to escape from the outside world and to simply enjoy nature for awhile,
but it was never an escape from the ones that you loved most. Aside from stalking
deer and casting lines into the middle of the lake, there have been many events to
welcome the family of club members.
In the spring, there would be hiking for what seemed like hours and hours
through the woods. The elderly, adults, teenagers, and children would trot together
through patches of skunk cabbage, forest paths, and grassy openings. Along the
way, children would marvel at deer droppings and horses seen at the
stables towards the edge of the woods, while adults would chatter and
look forward to the great barbecue awaiting them at the end.
When it was summer, there would be fishing derbies where
kids could try their luck at catching a fish. For half a day, children would
be trotting through long pieces of grass with a tiny fishing rod grasped
in their hands. With only one old, wooden bench to sit on, most of these
kids would have patches of dirt covering their knees and bottoms from
sitting in the grass. Parents would, at first, shush their children, saying
that fish were afraid of loud noises. For about five minutes at the start of
the derby, everyone would be silent, their eyes concentrated on the water
as the sun beat down on their heads. Finally, the first flopping fish would
be caught, and everybody would be squealing with delight until sunset.
Once the sun went down, and a blanket of darkness covered
the sky, families could camp out together and spend the night seeing and
listening to the side of nature that many miss. The atmosphere would
be so quiet, that owls, bugs, and toads could be heard making noises
off in the distance. Away from bright buildings, the sky would be filled
with shining stars and the beautiful moon would seem as if it had never
glowed as much as it did during those nights. Even in the summer, the
cold nighttime air would nip at your skin, but it was always a risk that
people took in order to gaze up at the universe.
As summer turned into fall and from fall into winter, the lake
would freeze over. What used to be a forest of green would be hugged
by pure white snow, and the scent of cedar would be replaced with crisp
air. This time of year meant that children could be taught how to ice
skate, and older kids could learn the mechanics of ice fishing. It meant
snowmobiling across the pond and drinking a steaming cup of hot
chocolate after enduring the frosty chill of the winter wonderland.
No matter what time of year it was, once it was time to go
home after a long day with nature and the other families, it was always
somewhat bitter to say goodbye. No more catching jumpy frogs with
tiny nets in the bushes that would always scrape your knees, and no
more digging for turtle shells at a secret bridge hidden by trees. No
more getting dirt under your fingernails after looking for worms, and no
more marveling at the rosy pink and purple colors of a rainbow trout.
Even so, sadness would not linger. You would always know that the club
would promise to never change, as it would hold all those experiences
closely until everyone came back.
43
ROXXANNA
KURTZ
LONELY B LUE LINES
Do not fall in love with a poet.
She will feed you galaxies
until you fall sick in her brown eyes.
Then, she’ll steal the stars from your breaths,
pin them proudly to her chest,
and claim that she’s the night.
And you’ll soon miss blue skies,
and summer highlights in her curls.
And she’ll ramble in her sleep,
say things she doesn’t mean,
and write poems about
how she could never be the right girl.
But, when you think you’ve had enough,
her words will somehow pull you right back.
Because despite her moonlit dreams,
she’s just what you need,
to fill up lonely blue lines
about all the things you lack.
Justin Keohane 45
“And she’ll ramble in her sleep,
say things she doesn’t mean...”
SALLY
MOORE
POE M ON E D GE
For Anne Copeland and Ron Goldman
Sometimes one must push a poem over the edge
so that its words will fall out,
mingling star and stone,
flower and bone.
It may cry out in fright at first,
imagining a sudden end to light,
or the blood and breakage that occur in prose.
But words will hook themselves in rhyme, and time
will stop-
And, being a poem, however disheveled,
it will surely notice the view,
hugely blue and blameless.
The wind on its skin will remind it that
words can be wings, feathery things
that beat like hearts on hope.
And knots in the throat become notes,
and wounds can be willed into willows
which greenly weep and become the breeze.
SAMANTHA
MCMANUS
SONNET TO MY LOVE
Thou art a sweet temptress who calls to me
And entreats me with thy enticing scent
Just a glimpse of you is all I truly need
But I know it’s not for my betterment
I try to resist your come-hither gaze
But I know all my attempts are futile
I now realize this is not just a phase
Thou art what makes this dreary life worthwhile
So yes I love thee through thick and through thin
I will scream it with the full of my voice
Though I may develop a double chin
I will always happily make that choice
You are the one that satisfies my itch
I humbly declare I love thee, sandwich.
47