49 ART by Charlie Wardle
The Power Issue | Φ 50 The Power of Protest Songs: The Death of Phil Ochs and the Commodification of Outrage by Joseph Brammer always engaged with the particular. His 1966 hit, Love Me I’m A Liberal, was an astute satire of the abundant contradictions found in the liberal bourgeois of the sixties - many of which still hold true. Throughout the song, Ochs makes reference to contemporary culture to expose the gap between what liberals think and what liberals do. The verses are wonderfully constructed, making it seem as if the liberal themself was singing them. In one such verse, the liberal declares his support for the Civil Rights Movement, adding “I love Puerto Ricans and Negros, As long as they don't move next door!” In another, the liberal laments the assassination of Medgar Evers, a leading non-violent Civil Rights Activist, but admits that Malcom X “got what was coming. He got what he asked for this time!” The piece was a brilliant indictment of a passive liberal class, and whilst the contradictions still hold true, the song’s historically specific content denies the piece the enduring legacy it deserves. What, if anything, can we learn then from this obscure folk troubadour you may ask? Put bluntly, how to use protest songs most effectively is the answer. For Ochs, his music was not performative, it was actionable. Ochs had sung at over 18,344 peace rallies, protest marches, and union parades. In 1964, he participated in the Mississippi Caravan of Music, a part of the broader Freedom Summer movement, in which Ochs and the caravan used political songs as a means to entice non-registered black voters to vote. In Ochs’ eyes, this was the protest genre in its purest form - when the music was indelibly a part of the political process. This was the cries of revolutionaries singing Free America, of slaves covertly planning to flee North with the bellows of Follow the Drinkin’ Gourd, of striking workers arm in arm singing There is Power in the Union. Ochs longed for his genre to be a part of the revolution, not merely decoration to it. The protest song has been an enduring voice throughout our history. It's a unique medium that gives language to the experience of oppression and possesses a rich and long lineage ranging from: Gerrard Winstanely’s Diggers’ Song, Joseph Warren’s Free America, Billie Holiday's Strange Fruit, Nina Simone’s Missippii Goddamn, Bob Dylan’s Masters of War, U2’s Sunday Bloody Sunday, NWA’s Fuck Tha Police - to name but a few. Hidden among this prestigious ancestry, lies the oft-forgotten, though still remarkably pertinent, Phil Ochs. Ochs, a protest singer of the 1960s American folk revival, is now remembered only by two dwindling minorities - those who lived through the folk revival and cherish its memory, and those who have found Ochs through the accidents of the digital age and relish his sound. For a figure so directly involved in the sixties counterculture movement, both at the foreground of the Civil Rights and anti-Vietnam fronts, it is remarkable how little of Ochs’ legacy is preserved in the public consciousness. Remarkable, yes, but not unexplainable. Like many of the greats from the Greenwich Village folk scene, Ochs’ legacy eventually became eclipsed by the towering figures of the era like Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. In part, this can be explained by Ochs’ early death after he tragically took his own life, following a period of mental decline at the age of thirty-five. Yet, the real detriment to Ochs’ legacy was not the longevity of his life, but the longevity of his songs. A constant presence in the political arena, Ochs’ music rarely strayed from topical events. So much so that Dylan (who shared a strained friendship with Ochs throughout his career) once kicked him out of a limousine shouting “You're not a folk singer, you're a journalist!" A title which Ochs’ himself came to proudly flaunt. A journalist by trade, Ochs’ music constantly fused sardonic social commentary with memorable folk melodies. His songs are witty, provoking, insightful, but
51 But by the late sixties, Ochs had become sceptical of this symbiotic relationship between the political and the musical. His doubts were informed by the tragic events of 1968: the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy, the Chicago Police Riots (where he was briefly arrested), and the election of Richard Nixon. All of which shattered Ochs’ wavering belief in the political system and left him disillusioned. Such despair led Ochs to question the extent to which the folk scene and protest songs could change the political realm post-1968. In an interview that year, Ochs was asked if he thought that protest songs could create political change, his response was: “I’m not so sure they can. [...] The songs themselves aren’t enough obviously. The songs are an adjunct to the movement, essentially, which is why the Chicago experience was really interesting for me. Let me explain: there the songs were being used in a totally non-professional, nonshow business, non-paying, non-staged situation. It was an integral part of the movement while things were happening, and therefore the words and music had their greatest possible effect…” Again, we see Ochs’ view of the pure form of the protest song - when the genre is engaged with the political movement, and not making a profit from it. It was this worry, the fear that the protest song would be commercialised, that irked Ochs greatly. Particularly, as by 1968, Ochs knew that folk was on its way out. It was obvious to him that the movement had peaked and that new genres were taking hold across the American (and in turn global) culture: disco, punk rock, and funk. The rise of these genres in turn lead to greater industrialisation and commercialisation to the music industry as a whole. And, as this small excerpt shows, Ochs had the foresight to know that the more music was commodified, the more music lost its political efficacy for change. Phil Ochs at Vietnam protest outside the United Nations in New York, 1967. (Photo by Michael Ochs)
The Power Issue | Φ 52 Ochs, without the intellectual framework of Debord, realised in 1968 that the protest song genre was going through this process of cooption. And, the genre today has thoroughly been co-opted - though faint glimmers remain. Long gone are the days of Ochs and his ilk lambasting the injustices at a rally through the brunt of their songs. Today, the protest song is a form of political entertainment, rarely a tool of political engagement. Take, for instance, Springsteen’s 1984 Born In The U.S.A., a song told from the perspective of a Vietnam War veteran who laments the treatment of his fellow soldiers and his participation in a war he never wished to fight in. Yet, even in 1984 itself, its political message was commandeered by Ronald Reagan, who, during his presidential re-election campaign, stated that America’s future rests in the “songs of hope” of Bruce Springsteen. Even today, the protest message in Born In The U.S.A. falls on deaf ears and is continuously played as a bombastically patriotic American anthem. The examples of co-opted protest songs are plentiful. But the most striking of our times would have to be Mackelmore’s 2011 Wings, an outright critique of commodity fetishism by Mackelmore himself targeted at Nike. Mackelmore even admitted that Wings “is about the pursuit of identity through the means of consumerism.” The song is witty, direct, and offers a thorough commentary on Strangely, it was this political foresight by Ochs that was in tune with a French Marxist theorist across the Atlantic - Guy Debord. Debord, in his 1967 masterpiece The Society of the Spectacle, both diagnosed and predicted many of the ills that late capitalism has plagued - and continues to plague - society with. A central tenet to Debord’s thought is his observations on how capitalism negates subversion. Debord pertinently realised that when an idea or movement threatens capitalism it is: (1) Hijacked by capitalism. (2) Reconfigured for capitalism. (3) Redeployed to reaffirm capitalism itself. Debord named this a process of récupération, though in English, it might better be understood as co-option. Ours is a culture abundant with examples of this process unfolding: Smirnoff making profit by co-opting the LGBTQ+ movement with their production of rainbow vodka bottles; Pepsi co-opting the Black Lives Matter movement with their aborted advert starring Kendall Jenner; Gillette co-opting the #MeToo movement with their We Believe: The Best a Man Can Be commercial; Green Washing, and so much more. In all instances, capitalism ingests an idea that is threatening to the standard power structures of society and then redeploys that exact idea to prolong capitalism itself.
53 the individuals need to conflate their own identity with brands. Yet, in 2013, an alternate version of the song was used for advertisements in the NBA All-Star Game. During these commercials, Mackelmore and a backing choir are filmed all wearing Nike NBA Jerseys, all criticisms levied at Nike in the original Wings are omitted, or taken out of context, rendering the co-opted Wings merely a reaffirmation of Nike and the commodity fetishism Mackelmore had once rebuked against. But co-option can be more subtle. The political content might never be co-opted per se, but the political implications are. Take for instance N.W.A’s Fuck Tha Police, a brillaint polemic against police brutality and racial profiling. The song offered, and continues to offer, a means to engage the public in a political conversation, but it is not directly tied to a specific political movement. Or, better put, the song offers the satisfaction of feeling a part of the political discourse, yet offers no real material change. The music might inspire individuals, prompting them to act - certainly. But it is not a part of a direct movement the way in which older protest songs were. The profits, for instance, from songs like Fuck Tha Police are not redirected back to a movement engineered to mitigate police brutality, instead they trickle back toward the big corporations of Priority Records and Universal Music Group. A similar point could be made with reference to Childish Gambino’s This is America, another astute piece that explores gun violence and racial discrimination. This is America invites conversation - yes - but what if its profits, or a portion of them, were channelled back to the Black Lives Matter movement, would change be more likely rather than just discourse? This commodification of the protest is what both Ochs and Debord both deeply feared. Once outrage becomes a commodity, change becomes stifled. Is all hope lost? Is the protest song destined to be co-opted here on out? No, certainly not. There still exist examples (though few) of the protest song maintaining a direct engagement in the political realm, not merely a veneered one. Stormzy, in his masterful performance at the 2018 Brit Awards, played an instrumental role in securing the 100,000 signatures needed to make the Grenfell public enquiry a parliamentary issue. His vehement attack on May in which he asked “What you thought we just forgot about Grenfell?” was crucial to the movement’s cause, alongside the Tweeting of the petition itself. Elsewhere, one only has to think of Bandaid’s Do They Know It's Christmas? and how instrumental the record was in generating funds to further support the efforts against the Ethiopian famine. Springsteen, even if his political message in Born In The U.S.A. has been co-opted, has still managed to implement the old-style direct protest song. Headlining the annual benefit show Stand Up for Heroes for over a decade, Springsteen has been a pivotal figure in helping the Bob Woodruff Foundation raise over $40 million for veterans’ causes. It is in these instances Phil Ochs might have smiled. Where the musical and the political are inextricably linked to action. Where the music is a supplement to the change, not a commodity by-product out of it. Where is our Phil Ochs today? Our singing journalist? Can we not co-opt the music economy ourselves? If Phil was still alive, one cannot help but think he would have. There is room in our culture to do so. The band Vulfpeck has shown us that. Frustrated with the royalty mechanism of the streaming age, Vulfpeck produced the album Sleepify. An album containing no audible music, just ten songs of silence, as it were. Vulfpeck asked their fans to play Sleepify on repeat on Spotify whilst they slept. In doing so, the royalties gained crowdfunded a free concert tour by the band. Inevitably, Spotify, infuriated by the loop-hole, removed Sleepify, but not before enough had been raised for the free concert. Ultimately, Ochs and Debord realised with a painfully accurate foresight that the profits from protest songs would inevitably go to the corporations and not the movement. That outrage would be commodified - is commodified - and it is time that we, as listeners, realised this. We must consider with greater intensity as to whether our listening to a protest song is a political statement or a political act. Whether we are shouting at the back or marching from the front. Likewise, it is high time the movements of our age listen to Ochs’ and Debord’s wisdom. They have an opportunity to negate the co-option process. To structurally change the musical economy and win back the money from the profiteers of outrage. Ochs may be forgotten, but his wisdom should not. ϕ
The Power Issue | Φ 54 Malcolm sat real straight-backed in black staring at a cinnamon swirl Each bite was precise He told me that night he wanted a serious girl. Malcolm read every week. Malcolm had sharp critique. Loved me decisive and meek like a dog blocks the street. Malcolm mimed piety, kept me a velveteen vessel, fucked for warmth and protection, while he reached his potential; He loved a church pew. A shined shoe. To play-act rigor through God. Malcolm lusted after large mythos belief-spells of hypnosis Craved proximity to awe. I lacked discipline. He lacked faith. Malcolm loved the preacher’s daughter. Shook my left hand. Killed her old man, And followed her into the water. Lord love over me again, Malcolm, and I’ll break your reverent resolve. There is so little power in being a coward Even if you’re cowering from God. Malcolm, Lord and Saviour by Ishita Uppadhayay
55 ART by Charlie Wardle
The Power Issue | Φ 56 “Mr Sylbaris, she’s ready for you.” The clockwork head above Candor’s door illuminated as the words were spoken, before fading into an ornate brass carving. It was an unnerving experience for Sylbaris, who hailed from California, where the omnipresence of a young secretary both stabilised him and reassured him of his status. For a woman like Candor, rejecting the commonplace practice of subservient employees was unusual, but well documented. She was an eccentric and a recluse, and despite holding wealth more than fifty times that of Sylbaris, was rarely seen. However, she was often spoken of, in conversation of dismissal; “well, you’ll never be as rich as Willis Candor” was a common quip returned to those who boasted of their wealth to sharper minds than they. Sylbaris rose from his chair whilst grabbing the luggage bag he had placed between his legs. As if sensing movement, the door guarded by the clockwork head opened automatically, beckoning him into Candor’s office. The room itself was darkly lit, shadowed generously so Candor himself was nothing more than a loose collection of ovals against the wall. Sylbaris wondered if it was an intimidation tactic; he had once had an acquaintance in the oil business who installed a lionfish tank beneath the floor in a pretentious display of masculinity. Applicants would walk, often with hesitation over the glass, and he used such a minute detail to determine their suitability for the role. Candor’s applicant hoped that if this was a similar case, he had not failed already. “Thank you for seeing me.” Sylbaris said. “Your intrigue about Creation drew me. A man of your interest, fascinated in my project, is not to be overlooked.” Sylbaris only felt the slightest acceptance from the flattery but artificially inflated it into shoelicking thanks. His place in Candor’s mastermind utopia, the clockwork city named Creation, was still up in the air, and he had never wanted anything so desperately. “If I may ask Mr Sylbaris, what drew you to Creation in the first place?” Sylbaris hesitated. The question had been overshadowed by Candor’s voice, which he had only just become aware of. It was metallic, as if spoken into a brass instrument, subtly human unlike the ornament above the door. Candor noticed this change in behaviour, and laughed. “My apologies, Mr Sylbaris. I was so enthralled in my work down here I forgot to maintain human conditions in the office. Please allow me.” The confusing words were followed by the sound of ticking, as Candor’s hand rose from below the desk, with slow, lugging precision, before flipping the switch that controlled the lights. What sat in front of Sylbaris was not Candor. It was an automaton, perfectly formed into a woman of gold. The head was featureless, not subject to the motions of eye or mouth, and the latter had been replaced with a large conical speaker. “You were expecting me in person?” remarked Candor. Sylbaris nodded slowly, whilst the automaton gave a rusty laugh. “If only you knew how Creation worked. Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to travel to see you directly.” “How does it work exactly, Miss Candor?” Sylbaris pressed. “I’ve been told gutter rumours and read scraps of your literatures, rare as they are, but am no closer to understanding the true work of your Creation than before I knew of its existence.” The Clockwork Utopia by Alex Alcock
57 “It is simple Mr Sylbaris. It works like utopia.” The explanation was not sufficient, but Sylbaris did not press. Many of his friends from The Gentlemen’s Club, and former colleagues far richer than he, had sung praise for Creation before being accepted into it. You were never allowed to leave, but as far as Sylbaris knew, that was the dream; a free objectivist market, where he could multiply his wealth tenfold and retire in the company of the magnificent. Thinking of those historical remarks caused his desire to join Creation swell. “I am happy to make the necessary sacrifices in this world to join yours, Miss Candor.” The automaton laughed again, with the thin tin rattle of a drainpipe. “Not so fast, Mr Sylbaris. Whilst your wealth allows you to purchase a ticket to Creation, and hold onto far more to invest into my world, there is still the matter of mentality.” Sylbaris nodded. It was well known that Creation’s application process required a screening of ideology. The automaton stared at Sylbaris with carved eyes as the echoes of Candor’s coughing snaked through the speaker. “Are you ready, Mr Sylbaris?” “Yes.” The automaton froze for a moment. Sylbaris guessed that Candor was arranging marking sheets where she could record the applicant’s answers. “A friend’s child rushes to you in excitement, holding a gold rock. He tells you he found it in a small cave down the stream. What do you do?” “Is the material of the rock important to my answer?” “Assume it is of wealthy material. It can be silver if you like, or a stone covered in oil.” Oil, that Sylbaris could relate to. He saw the child in front of him, arms outstretched. His fingertips were black, stained by the small rock he held before you. It shone in the sun lightly eclipsed by the boy’s smile. “I ask to be shown the cave, and pay the boy a small sum for his time.” The automaton paused. “The child’s parents discover how you came upon this cave of wealth. They demand a cut.” These questions were too easy. “I dismiss them, but give them a nominal fee in thanks. The boy held no legal ownership on the land, so it is not theirs to demand.” “Thank you, Mr Sylbaris.” The pair sat in silence as Candor presumably evaluated his response. If Sylbaris listened carefully, he was sure he could hear the sound of a quill scratching. “One final question, Mr Sylbaris, and I can immediately inform you of your success.” Sylbaris nodded again. He didn’t want to jeopardize his chance with a single misplaced word. “The partner you love leaves you for your competitor, a far wealthier man. How do you react?” The question was broad, and didn’t just encompass the textbook beliefs Sylbaris had come prepared with. He considered the factors. “I do nothing. She is not barred from being with who she likes. I will simply find a replacement, and when I become wealthier, it is she who will desire to make amends.” He was unsure how Candor would react. He worried his answer was slightly out of touch as a consequence of his financial excellence, but these thoughts were interrupted by Candor’s automaton. “You passed Mr Sylbaris. Welcome to Creation.” Sylbaris kept it professional but couldn’t keep a partial smile from creeping over his face. “Thank you, Miss Candor. I will return as soon as I can.”
The Power Issue | Φ 58 Candor snorted. “Return? Mr Sylbaris that is not necessary. The journey to Creation can begin immediately. Please, take your luggage and proceed into the room on my left.” The automaton slowly raised an arm to its left, and a door slid open on cue. Slowly entering, Sylbaris found it unusually panelled a clinical white, with a large mechanical object fixed to the ceiling. “Mr Sylbaris, please position yourself on the red circle.” Sylbaris looked down. A portion of red paint, the size of teacup, lay on the ground. Sylbaris considered the request comical, but obeyed regardless. As he balanced onto the small red mark, he spied a thin black line snaking from the red circle to within the white panelling; he was unsure what this was. “You have one last chance to withdraw, Mr Sylbaris. Please be assured, I will think nothing less of you, but you must understand this process is irreversible.” Sylbaris nodded confidently. “I am ready.” Candor gave no reply. Instead, there was a slow hum, before the device on the ceiling glowed a bright violet. Sylbaris shielded his eyes, as it glowed, before withdrawing them as soon as the machine had died down. He frowned. It was suddenly a lot bigger. He became aware of the flooring, which was now red as far as the eye could see. The black snaking cable he had spied upon entering the room was now revealed to be a track; he had been shrunk to near microscopic proportions. The realisations came quickly, and Sylbaris felt compelled to laugh in wonder. “Welcome to Creation, Mr Sylbaris. Please proceed onto the monorail, which will take you to your new home in the Atlas District.” Sylbaris spun in awe whilst slowly retreating towards the tiny black monorail. It was heralded by another machine man, like the one in Candor’s office. As he placed a foot on the vehicle, it shot off down the track, and into the panelling below. The route gradually darkened before being filled with brilliant light; Sylbaris wagered they had entered the borders of Creation. The engineering was inspiring; as the monorail car sped inward, he saw towers of beautiful glass and clockwork contraptions with the intricacy of clocks. This was the world of creators and visionaries; he had made the right decision in shrinking. “Atlas District, Mr Sylbaris. Enjoy your stay.” The car had stopped in a putrid part of the track, surrounded by stacked cuboid buildings. It must have come suddenly, as Sylbaris had noticed no gradual decay in the environment. He stood in shock for a few moments, before rationalising the error a machine could make; there must have been a mistake in the process. Yes, that was it, Sylbaris thought. He must have dropped me off far earlier than intended. He would have to find his way back onto a monorail, though no cars were in sight. Reluctantly, he approached what he assumed to be a local, and pestered him. “Excuse me, Sir. My name is Edgar Sylbaris, and I need to call a monorail car back here. I believe there’s been a mistake in where I was dropped off.” The local raised an eyebrow. His face was familiar to Sylbaris, but he could not place why. “Mr Sylbaris, you’re in the same boat the rest of us once sailed on. This is Atlas District. There’s been no mistake, no error. Welcome to your new home.” Sylbaris scoffed. “I assure you, Sir, there has been a grave error on Miss Candor’s part. I’m the oil chief of Petroleum Magnate, the fifth in a dynasty of millionaires from California.” The local mocked Sylbaris’ reaction, and took off his hat. “And I’m your former competitor, Flagen Wenchall. You’ve fallen into the same pit we have, make no mistake.” “But I don’t understand. I paid close to five million dollars for my ticket. I came here to live in luxury.”
59 “We all did, Mr Sylbaris. Ask yourself two questions. How much do you think the rest of us paid for our tickets, and was that a lot of money to you?” Sylbaris shook his head. “That’s impossible. If everyone paid five million dollars to be in Creation, why are you living in your own filth?” He aggressively pointed to the slums. “Because to some people, like us, that was a lot of money. To others, like them –” Wenchall pointed to the glass towers – “it was pocket change.” Sylbaris’ expression clearly didn’t satisfy Wenchall, so he turned behind him. “Tony! How much is a bowl of soup in here?” “About ten thousand dollars Flagen.” Came an unseen reply. Wenchall raised his eyebrows. “Now you see. You fell into this pit like the rest of us. A society of billionaires will have millionaires cleaning the shoes.” Sylbaris scoffed. “Like hell it will.” He took his suitcase in arm and marched towards his squalid hut. “I’ll earn my way to the top. It’s a doable feat; I already had to work to climb up the oil business.” Wenchall laughed. “But you started off the ground. Good luck even jumping this time.” Sylbaris dismissed the mud-covered fool. His presence in Atlas District meant he had clearly not worked hard enough. ϕ
The Power Issue | Φ 60 on the last walk home, she asked me “say, do you know the plural noun for foxes?” while she had stopped to take pictures of baby lambs. and i said, with an air of disbelief, “do i look like a person who knows the plural noun for foxes?” anyway, it was a “skulk of foxes” and “yes, you do.” as we charted course through the little trail nestled between lancashire hills and a freshly made housing development, i imagined the bushy-tailed fiends hiding in the tall grass, hatching schemes and planning heists while skulking debonair, suave, waiting for their perfect victim. the sunset, particularly bewitching here, had settled lazily below the horizon, declaring staunch ownership as its last rays grazed every inch of the landscape, casting shadows that looked like foxes slow dancing in the dark. it was time to get home, then. we took the path by the canal with the geese back – poor lads, who were they to know this was fox territory now. as we edged closer to the road and the parting to come, i turned to her and said, “why foxes?” and she pointed to the roadside tarmac where a little massacre was splattered. “fox,” she said and my mouth went dry, feet heavier. in the wilting of the daylight i came to see no such thing as fox territory, or geese, or lamb, or sun – only of man, and of shadows lengthened under streetlights. The Foxes by Sarah Nazir
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The Power Issue | Φ 62 ART by Robert Innes
63 This isn’t the start of our trip but this is when I start to write things down: my little cousin arrives from North Carolina. We sit in the yard and watch rabbits hop on the patchy grass. He’s got some at home, and he tells me how to kill them. “There’s this V shaped thing screwed to the wall and you pick up the rabbit and shove the neck in. You have to stay away from their claws and you hold the ears or the scruff of the neck and yank at a 45 degree angle to break their necks.” “Sure they’re cute,” he says, when we ask, “but they’re also delicious.” Another bunny bounds across the lawn. Are they this size when they’re ready? we wonder. “When we butcher them they look a little bigger,” he says. My mom asks if he skins them himself. He nods, and she nods in response, somehow knowingly. “You have to cut around the legs without wasting any meat and go down, down, pull out the legs, cut off the head, cut down, pull out the guts, keep what you want.” “The heart? We stick it in the freezer.” That night we all have dinner out on the porch. I have to get out my phone to take a picture of grandma with her hands in the air, palms up to the heavens. We have pasta and bread, asparagus and steamed artichokes. You had never had an artichoke that didn’t come from a jar before and my mother shows you how to dip it in the mayonnaise. My uncle is right when he says the artichoke is just a vessel for the mayo and I laugh, because I remember his vegan days. I’ve been there. When I’ve cut off all the choke, I’m sick of mayo and I ask if anyone wants my heart. It feels like years ago when we stopped at the gas station with the taxidermy in the outskirts of Quebec City. We’d had a nice time, but I peed on my feet at the top of the long steps separating the two levels of the metropolis on our final night. This was the week you got the job that would eventually lead to us never speaking again. On the drive back home, just minutes after we crossed the border into Vermont we stopped for gas. Lightning had struck the gas station the week before and that is why our card was declined when we tried to buy Combos. Ever since the lightning struck, the card machines haven’t been working the same. This is the happiest summer of my life. I like little weird things I never would have before, like wearing a cap and swimming in brackish water. I don’t feel uncomfortable when seaweed touches my feet, and I think back to the times I went crabbing as a child with a tear of bacon at the cove on the end of my street, a mud larker’s dream, a nursery to the ocean. My grandmother drives you and I to her greatest friend’s house, to a woman who is strong and magical. I call her my fairy godmother, her home bespeckled with Beatrix Potter paraphernalia and antique dolls. She’s a good neighbor to the mother turkeys beyond the fence, a kind tea party host. On Sagamore Ave we drive past a rainbow sign with the words ‘You Are Loved.’ My grandma points it out to us. “You are loved, isn’t that wonderful?” she says. “I stopped at this house the other week to thank them for having these signs. They gave me one and I thought it’s perfect for the nursing home! Perfect for grandpa’s room. I brought one there and the nurses said they are going to hang them up.” I’m barely able to contain my laughter, and I search for your eyes in the backseat of the car. You’re laughing too, and I don’t want to say they are Pride flags, not that grandma would have a problem with that, but I want her to think they are for everyone, for her, for the nursing home, for my straight grandfather. I want my grandma to always feel loved. My sisters, who share no DNA, no ancestral history, no parenting styles, no common denominator other than me, glare at each other on the inner tube they are sharing tied to the back of the boat. They are 9 and 10. I still remember how it felt to hold them. Do You Know How to Find the Aorta of the Heart? by Sophie Howe
The Power Issue | Φ 64 One was sturdier, stronger, one always accidentally threw her head backwards so you had to hold her close to you, two hands on the baby. One of them spit up in my mouth when I tossed her into the air, one of them had the most beautiful eyelashes, so long that I found a tiny spider crawling along them as I carried her. I’ve held other babies and I don’t remember how they felt, but I can still feel the phantom mass of my sisters. My sisters walk together into the kitchen as I’m filling up a glass of water. They stare at me and start to giggle, tenuous, nervous little laughs. Their bodies bend over towards each other. One of them starts to talk and is overtaken again with giggles. I join in, also feeling nervous knowing somehow exactly where this conversation is going. “We were just wondering, well actually I already know the answer so she was wondering,” says one of them, “if, well, I mean I already know the answer, it’s just that she was wondering…are you gay?” You, you who had traveled over 3,000 miles twice in the past year to come visit my family. You who have just spent the past two hours jumping off the dock with them, spent the past week being patient as they braided your hair. “Who do you think she is? Just my roommate?” I ask, laughing. You are downstairs icing your leg after the umbrella swept up in the summer wind fell back down on you, turning your soft pale legs bumpy and purple. “Well see, I know, it’s just we were checking. Because we didn’t want you to feel bad if we were wrong,” they say. I lead them outside because I know this is not the end of the conversation. We sit in a circle on the water, the gentle waves rocking the boat. I ask them if there’s anything else they’re curious about, but they don’t need my encouragement, they are ready to tell me what they know. They laugh when they say the word gay, not like it’s wrong, but like it’s something secret, precious, grown-up, like how I marvelled over the words period, and tampon and bra. My youngest sister tells me one of her friends, a child I’ve known since she was born whose parents have known me since I was born, told my sister at a playdate it was weird that I was gay. I was worried not for the first time that maybe my sisters might see me as something other than lovable and loving, that they might see me as embarrassing, and disappointing. I asked what my sister thought of her friend’s comment. She smiled, a laugh turning into an emphasised scoff. “I was very offended!” After lunch where my sister loses her 13th tooth on a grilled cheese sandwich, I hear the echo of a conversation about clams. “Fresh water clams have gone out of style. There used to be a clam shack at the lake years ago.” The kids dive underwater in their bug-eye goggles, catching 33 lake clams and putting them in a bucket on shore. I’m skeptical about the number, considering the clams were released back to the excavation site, the shallow water to the left of the dock.“I put your tooth in my backpack,” I shout to my sister. She comes up for air, triumphant, another clam. After dinner, my grandmother beckons you and I out to where the woodshed used to be to a secret spot by the trash cans so she can smoke in peace, hidden from the children. I’ve spent hours of my teenage years outside with her in the night, while she smoked and alternated between mugs of coffee and Coke. Her black wide-rimmed glasses are covered by a veil of smoke as she asks us about our studies, always the professor, almost a witch, although she wouldn’t like me to say that. I’ve tried to tell her being a witch is a good thing, it doesn’t mean she’s evil – it means she’s magical. Magic she loves, evil she protects us all from as she prays for us when we back out of the driveway, a short figure all covered in black and silver chains, blessing us in the rearview mirror. Five winters ago I sat in the warm orange living room of my grandparents’ house. My grandma asks me if I know how to find the aorta of the heart, and I want to cry because it is the most beautiful question anyone has ever asked me. The aorta is the main artery that carries blood away from your heart to the rest of your body. It allows other arteries to do their jobs, lets the blood pass through on a cane-shaped curve, like a bend of the spine. It makes sense to me that a grandmother would ask this question. Forget the matriarch, she’s like the aorta of the family. Together us three women walk the five or so minutes home after kissing grandma goodbye. When we sit down at the kitchen table while the children are watching iCarly, we realise we’ve forgotten the wine. None of us are sober enough
65 to drive, and we can’t be bothered to walk back. My mom leaves a voice memo for my best friend Sara who lives down the street asking if she will stop at grandma’s to get the wine, but Sara won’t be out of work for another hour. We call my uncle and ask him to bring us the wine, and a hand rolled cigarette, just tobacco nothing extra added please, and amazingly, he delivers. When Sara arrives we move out to the porch. My mom spots two of our neighbours walking past our house, the only lesbian couple in our neighbourhood. She beckons them over, but only one of them joins. When I was a senior in high school she helped me decide which colleges to apply to when I was thinking of staying in the States. During the summer of 2020, she and I had a two woman club where we only managed to get through The Bluest Eye and Mrs. Dalloway before I moved to London. We get on to the topic of motherhood. My neighbour talks about training her body to breastfeed her adopted children, and my mom nods with a glisten in her eye. She loves talking about breastfeeding. My neighbour tells us about her experience with total clarity and patience. My mom asks seemingly invasive questions and I’m embarrassed for a moment before I remember the dynamic of this neighborhood. Most of the inhabitants have spent more than a decade investing in each other, creating a symbiotic relationship where it’s not really uncommon to walk into a house without knocking, where it’s customary to share flour or extra garden vegetables, a low risk barter network, a functioning ecosystem. My mother brings out mini bottles of champagne we forgot we had, a gift from another neighbour to thank my parents for sticking by her during a zoning board disaster. Maybe I’m happier this summer because I eat more, I drink more, I am really in love. I have somebody who tells me again and again that they will always be here for me. I have somebody, you, whose shirt is always a little damp from my tears falling on their chest. It is the best summer since my childhood. At Boston Logan Airport for some inexplicable reason I have to buy pads at Dunkin Donuts. You play on your phone, I sit beside you and write. I don’t remember more. I remember nothing of our flight back to London. I’m grateful you came home with me. ϕ ART by Wayan Chan
The Power Issue | Φ 66 My people no longer write of all that will happen, all places they will go Instead they write of All that we have not done, all places we will never go And cry “One more day!” Before the sky gets hot “One more day!” Before the trees fall down “One more day!” Before the ground runs dry The majesty is not lost on Us yet we cannot Sit and ponder We do not have the luxury nor the time Calling faintly to the bright stars in clay “One more day!” “One more day!” “One more day!” Extinction by Stephanie Ritzema
67 PHIMAG.ORG
EDITOR IN CHIEF Chiara Zucchelli FICTION David Chandler Victoria Comstock-Kershaw Sara Bernabe Maria Payro NON-FICTION Luca Marsico Julie Uszpolewicz George Williams POETRY Francesca Caselli Laura Empson Antonia Kattos Carlota Salvador Megias SOCIAL MEDIA Wayan Chan