Category: Lifting Voices

Leo the Mer-Guy! Chapter Five: A Quick Escape

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Once Leo was a block away, he finally let out the breath he was holding, shoulders slumping forward in defeat.

 

He glanced behind him. He couldn’t even see his house anymore. His parents and those girls had vanished.

 

Around him, costumed strangers walked from house to house in duos and trios and larger groups. The autumn evening was peppered with laughs and candy wrappers crinkling and creepy laughter from motion-activated, fancy halloween decorations.

 

And here was Leo, all alone.

 

All alone and looking stupid.

 

It made him angry, eyes burning. He made a bee-line for a park bench nestled in some bushes next to a playground. Shivering and breathing heavily, crouching behind the bench like some kind of creepy weirdo, Leo ripped the pink tule from his princess costume. He bunched it up in his hands and threw it into the trash can, minus a long strand of it that he fashioned into a kind of belt.

 

He ripped the front and back of the skirt portion of the dress, vertically down the middle. He folded the pieces of the fabric together and stuffed them into his socks.

 

He broke the sparkly pink spines off of the tiara until it was a jagged, crappy circlet. He pushed it down onto his forehead, his black hair puffing out around it.

 

He looked down at himself.

 

A princess had transformed into a prince. It was a dubiously Arabian costume, with wide pant legs and a cinched waistline. It could pass for a legitimate costume.

 

Just barely.

 

But it was good enough.

 

Alright. He felt a little more like himself again, the tightness in his chest fading away with each inhale and exhale.

 

He hopped out of the bush, glancing left and right to make sure no one had seen him. Once he was satisfied, he started walking farther into the neighborhood–and farther away from his parents.

 

He got lost pathetically easily, but he didn’t even care. The point was to be away from home long enough to fool his parents into thinking he was having fun. Getting lost was just a side perk.

 

The neighborhood streets curved pleasantly, lined with orange and red-leafed trees. But everything was so… identical, so uniform. The houses all had the same fake brick veneer and exhausted beige siding. The same two car garage with a cost-effective sedan out front.

 

Back home, Leo’s parents had lived in an apartment complex right next to the campus Leo’s mom worked at. Their neighbors had been from all over the world and all had crazy stories to tell about love and school and cities and war. Everyone’s difference brought them together.

 

Looking at all the other kids, Leo had never felt more distant from anyone else.

The Poetry Corner – 9 March 2021

Eli Neumann 1 Comment

[To read an introduction to this column, please see the first paragraph of the previous post here]

 

This week I would like to share a poem I found recently from the Nigerian poet Gbenga Adesina. The following poem I discovered in the Fall 2020 issue of Narrative magazine. It is titled “Across the Sea: A Sequence”:

 

 

 

 

 

                        Across the Sea: A Sequence                       

                        Gbenga Adesina            

 

 

 

1.
Across the Sea

 

The bottom of the sea is cruel. — Hart Crane.

 

i
On the sea, your prayer is not to the whorl scarf
of waves. Your prayer is to the fitful sleep of the dead.
Look at them, their bodies curve darkly without intention
and arrow down into the water. What do you call a body
of water made of death and silence? The sea murmurs
on the pages of this book. There are bones buried in the water
under these lines. Do you hear them, do you smell them?

 

ii
In the panic of drowning, there are hands lifting babies
up in the air, out of the water, for breath. A chorus
of still pictures brought this news to me, to us. Because we do
not see the bodies sinking, because we do not see their mouths
already touching water, the hands lifting up the babies look almost
ordinary. Like the Greeks lifting their newborns unto the sky.
What is the failure of dead? That they sink?
Or that they sink with what is in their hands?

 

The children of God are upon frightened waters,
And God being hunger, God being the secret grief of salt
moves among his people and does not spare them.
The children of God are upon frightened waters.

 

iii
There is a child whose protest is of eyes.
She has crossed the water with her mother,
they are shivering, waiting for her father, two days now, they are
waiting,
shivering for a father the mother knows would never arrive.
The mother holds the child, she says to her, gently:
“It’s a brief death. Your father has gone on a brief death.
He’ll soon be back.”

 

v
A man is bent on his knees, wailing at the waters.
He slaps his hand on the wet sand and rough-cut stones
the way one might fight a brother.
He grabs the shirt of the sand as though they are in a tussle.
The stones here carry the island’s low cry inside them.
A landlocked grief. They say the man was a newlywed.
Now his vows are inside the water.
He claws at the sand. He wails: “Ocean,
you owe me a body. Ocean, give me back my lover.”

 

vi
Think of the boats. The timber comes from Egypt.
They are cut into diagonals and made pretty. They
are polished by hands. Their saplings are watered by the Nile.
The White Nile flows through Khartoum
before it puts its teeth into the Mediterranean.
The waters and the trees eat bodies.

 

The children of God are upon frightened waters,
And God being hunger, God being the secret grief of salt
moves among his people and does not spare them.
The children of God are upon frightened waters.

 

2.
Coma

The silence is a prairie country. The silence
is the silence of hospital sheets.
The silence is of IV tubes, veins, quiet siren of ghosts.
The silence is the silence of what
is dappled invisibly by a body
that is no longer human but not yet a ghost. The silence in your
body has lodged in my throat.
Silence, can you hear me? The silence is of lime,
and kraal stones. The silence is not shadow
but the light of a body buried under a mound of rough stones.
The silence is the silence
of hands. Hands, wire-vine hands, can you hear me?
The silence is the silence of broken ribs.
The silence is the silence of the head,
shorn and shaven. The silence is silence of a bandage wrapped
tight around what is sunken, what is fallen in the gait of the head.
Head,
can you hear me?
The silence is silence of blood,
seething through filament of bandage.
Blood, can you hear me?
Father, blood, Father can you hear me?

 

 

 

 

 

I have read this poem multiple times and every time I discover something new about it. Each section is a separate scene, but they are all connected by themes of water, death, and the struggle for connection and survival. The language, images, rhythm, line breaks, and everything is so striking to me, by the end I’m left speechless. What do you see in it? I would love to read your thoughts in the comments below!

Leo the Mer-Guy! Chapter Four: Unmitigated Disaster

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The Spice Girls looked up at Leo, their expressions unreadable beneath their butterfly hair clips and sparkly outfits.

 

“Hi?” Posh Spice said.

 

Leo shifted from foot to foot, feeling like bees had buzzed up into his costume. “I just moved in. Down the street,” he offered.

 

Sporty Spice perked up. “Oh! Where?”

 

Leo jerked a thumb behind him. His house sat on the spot where the coul-de-sac turned into a proper street. The yard was empty, but he knew his dad would work his green thumb soon.

 

All five of them glanced at the house. Something passed between them. Someone snickered.

 

At Leo’s confused look, Baby Spice took pity. “You live in the Parker house.”

 

“What’s the Parker house?”

 

“It’s where Genevieve Parker lived,” Ginger Spice gushed. “Now that was a crusty old bitch.”

 

They all laughed at Ginger Spice’s insult.

 

Leo didn’t know what to say. “Um. Cool.”

 

Silence again. Leo was drowning in it. Coming up for air, he spoke again. “Uh, my mom wanted me to introduce myself and hand out candy with you guys.”

 

None of them looked very enthusiastic about it, or at least, Leo thought so. “What’s your name?” Posh Spice asked.

 

Leo swallowed. Well. There that question was. “Leo,” he said.

 

“Oh. Cool,” Posh Spice said. “I’m Andy.”

 

“Bella.” Sporty Spice.

 

“Erin.” Ginger Spice.

 

“Opal.” Scary Spice. Her expression was particularly haughty.

 

“Sun Woo, but people just call me Sunny,” Baby Spice offered.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Leo said.

 

“Well, Leo, we don’t really have a sixth chair,” Posh Andy said. “So, like, sorry.”

 

“Yeah…” Ginger Erin said, trailing off into another awful silence. “Want some candy?”

 

“Sure.” Leo shuffled forward, then realized he didn’t have a pillowcase or plastic pumpkin to put it in. Lowering his eyes, he reached into the closest bowl and grabbed a handful of Reese’s Cups. He reached under his dress, putting them in his jeans pockets. They bulged ridiculously, crinkling as he moved around.

 

Leo was at a crossroads. The Spice Girls were all still staring at him. Should he stay? Should he go? What would his parents say if he came home just a few minutes later with his tail between his legs?

 

“So, I, uh–“

 

“Trick or treat!!”

 

A trio of particularly adorable elementary school-aged kids had approached the table while Leo was having his internal crisis. They were dressed up as the three blind mice.

 

“Oh my gosh!!” Ginger Erin exclaimed. “Aren’t you the cutest?”

 

All attention moved to the cute kids, and their pillowcases, which were immediately loaded with piles and piles of candy, much to their delight.

 

While the Spice Girls cooed and giggled at the Blind Mice, Leo shuffled away, slinking over to the next street corner and out of sight.

The Poetry Corner – 2 March 2021

Eli Neumann 1 Comment

My vision for this column is for it to showcase poetry from around the world to let people see the beautiful and important work poets are doing in our time. This means I will mostly show contemporary poetry, but there may also be poems from the past if I find them particularly relevant or beneficial to show at a certain time. Being an arts column in English, all the poems I show will be in English, but some may have been translated from other languages. I will try to show originals alongside the translations if possible. As English speakers I find that we so often forget about or ignore literature in other languages. To counter this, I hope to show that beautiful work is being done in other languages and that by reading that work we can gain deeper insight into our common humanity.

 

For my first post, I want to show you one of my absolute favorite poems from one of my absolute favorite poets, Ocean Vuong. This poem is titled “Seventh Circle of Earth.” Read it below:

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Leo the Mer-Guy! Chapter Three: The Spice Girls

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His parents were looking at him with hopeful expectations. Unable to let the silence continue any longer, Leo took the dress from his dad with a forced smile. “Thanks.”

 

His dad clapped him on the back. “Go out there and have fun,” he said.

 

“I just talked to the woman across the street, with the beautiful Elm tree,” Leo’s mom added. Her daughter and her friends are handing out candy to the kids at the end of the cul-de-sac!”

 

The enthusiasm practically vibrating through Leo’s mom was an order. If Leo didn’t go ham it up with those girls, he would crush his mom.

 

Leo gave them both a curt nod before slinking back up the stairs. In his sweaty palm, the cheap material of the gown itched.

 

It was like a horrible homework assignment worth a quarter of your grade. Leo changed clothes and put on the dress with a mechanical slowness, face devoid of expression. 

 

His parents tearfully bid him goodbye like it was prom night. No, that eventual nightmare wasn’t for another few months, thank god.

 

Once outside, the cold bit into Leo through the princess outfit. The tiara scratched at his scalp. More kids were out now, and Leo bristled whenever they looked his way.

 

Steeling himself, Leo squared his shoulders, stood up straight, and marched toward the gathering at the end of the coul-de-sac.

 

There was a folding table set out on the asphalt. It was covered in a table cloth with an orange and black spooky theme. On top of it, a few big baking bowls full of the best candy sat.

 

And, behind the table, in folding chairs, sat five teenage girls.

 

As Leo approached, his heart sank further. Their costumes were immaculate, and, worst of all, they matched.

 

Each of the five girls was a different Spice Girl. From left to right, there sat Ginger Spice, Posh Spice, Scary Spice, Sporty Spice, and Baby Spice. They were all white, except for Baby Spice, who was Asian.

 

Leo thought back to his parents’ hopeful expressions. Leo was a mixed kid to two hard working parents who’d faced income problems and even people having a problem with their interracial relationship. In the year 2004.

 

This neighborhood did not feel like home, and Leo didn’t think it ever would.

 

Still, Leo approached the table. As he walked up, all five of the girls looked up, their energetic conversation dwindling away.

 

Leo stopped a few feet away. Everything was silent, save for the breeze rustling the autumn trees and the occasional cry of “trick or treat!”

 

“Uh.” Leo swallowed. “Hi.”

A New Type of Rom-Com: The Half of It

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Like many other queer young adults, I was exalted upon learning of last spring’s Netflix film, The Half of It. The titular phrase, “the half of it” is derived from the Platonic myth of soulmates that proposes that each person is half of a whole soul, and the two halves search through life for their counterpart. Director Alice Wu (known for Saving Face) presents a refreshing take on the teen rom-com–this time, with a queer Asian female lead. Perhaps this is old news to some, but I couldn’t resist writing about this film. It’s the type of movie with substantial representation I wish existed when I was a teen.

The plot follows Ellie Chu, a bookish teen living with her widowed father in a small town in Washington. Ellie, a gifted writer who takes on her peer’s coursework for payment, starts writing romantic letters to a girl named Aster, posing as the goofy jock Paul. As Ellie and Paul’s friendship blossoms, so does Ellie’s romantic feelings for Aster.the loyal and playful Paul develops a strong bond with Ellie, an unexpected but delightful pairing who support each other in an honest way. Meanwhile, Ellie’s snail mail and text correspondences with Aster show Ellie’s witty, romantic nature–drawing upon book and film references and deep thoughts. I won’t spoil the ending in case you haven’t watched it yet, but I will say that the writing, although rushed at the end, isn’t demeaning or tokenizing, but portrays its characters in a realistic and nuanced way.

I admire this film not only for its complex writing and characters, but for its representation as well. As a queer woman of color, I was so excited to see representation that I could somewhat relate to. Viewers see scenes of Ellie and her immigrant father enjoying dinner together and watching classic movies, a part of the story that is surprisingly touching. Furthermore, Wu handles themes of race, sexuality, and religion in a thoughtful but not overbearing way.

The Half of It’s cinematography is beautiful as well, with tranquil shots of small-town life and semi-nostalgic high school drama. It’s warm and feel-good. Overall, it’s a brief but pleasant look at young adulthood, full of awkwardness and tension but also true friendship. Wu argues that romantic love isn’t everything in life, but perhaps only the half of it.