Someone I Used to Know. fiction by Heather Rath

Heather tansley 3 a (2)

Someone I Used to Know

Bounding with pizzazz across the stage in a tight bikini (or was it a superb body paint job?), she shook her bountiful breasts, wiggled her tight ass. Leaned provocatively over the lusting males in the first row. 

On assignment for a small-town weekly, (you’re a woman. Visit one of those sex shows. Interview one of their stars. Tell me how she got started. Why she’s doing it. Any business angle, too, but y’know, make it titillating), I watched, captivated. ‘Raquel’ strutted her stuff to a wild and crazy Calypso beat as multi-coloured strobe lights flashed around the club’s dim interior. The smell of fried foods: greasy hamburgers, sizzling potatoes in an oil-soaked wire basket intermingled with the stench of stale beer, created an aura of debauchery.

Tossing her tangled platinum blonde mane like an untamed beast, Raquel brazenly showed off her lithe body, with what looked like surgically enhanced breasts, in a jungle- patterned support bra and thong, moulded to her skin like a wet t-shirt.

It was hard to keep my eyes off her.  Besides her stunning dance number, something about the turn of her neck, her face, her hands roaming up and down her curvaceous athletic body, was vaguely familiar. From my vantage point sitting in the back, she reminded me of someone. Fat chance any of my safe, staid friends would lead a double life like this!

As a journalist, my first instinct was to watch the crowd. See whether they were engaged.  Most were men but a sprinkling of women, all ages, studied the performer’s every sensational move. Before throwing away her thong and flinging her bra into the hungry audience, she seduced with her pole dancing prowess. Her height on the gleaming pole led my eyes up, up to the dusty coils of a blackened pipe ceiling dotted with fake twinkling stars. Sliding provocatively back onstage, she locked eyes with a wealthy looking patron in the front row. He was already reaching for his wallet.

I didn’t notice the bar owner, Sweetheart Roxy, when she slipped into the booth beside me.

“Well,” she said, “what d’ya think? She’s our star.” I nodded slowly. Despite the raucous music and fried fatty smells from the back kitchen, I continued concentrating on Raquel. She mesmerized me.

“Let’s go to my office to discuss your article. I’d love the publicity. In fact, I need it!”  Roxy chuckled. I instantly liked her: no pap. She was a slightly overweight former exotic dancer who still had to hold men at bay. ‘Roxy’s Room’ was her business idea to make money when she could no longer collect her bucks on the dance floor.

“So what’s it like to be in the strip business in a lunch bucket town?”

She snorted. Lit a cigarette. “You mean an exotic dancer business, sweetheart,” she corrected. 

I smiled, nodded.

“For starters, sweetheart, this club is a bona fide business. I pay property taxes, employ security, hire fifteen dancers, some from around here. Our suppliers are local. Every product we use we try to buy in this area. A local photographer gets lots of business putting together the girls’ portfolios. A local seamstress gets our business to sew exotic costumes…”  she paused, that chuckle again, “’course, some costumes don’t take much material.” She laughed, deep and hearty. “What else you need to know, sweetheart?”

“Where do the girls learn their craft?”

“From me. Mostly. These are clean green girls, some housewives, some students, who need money, are good looking, good bodies, healthy, willing to work hard during strange hours. Noon to midnight mostly. I warn ‘em about drugs. Can’t use ‘em while they’re with me.  If they do, they’re gone. No dating customers. At least not while I’m around. Do a lot of training cuz the working life of a dancer is very short. Oldest here is twenty-six. Youngest, eighteen.  Feature dancer’s usually from a big city. Others do a short routine on stage but make their money as table dancers. They all own bling-bling costumes, wear five-inch fuck me heels, and know how to strut their stuff. Flamboyant. Confident. Edgy. We give the customer what he wants.”

She inhaled her cigarette, exhaled. Smoke drifted throughout the room. Her messy office reflected a jumbled state of mind: hodge-podge of piled papers in odd places. A computer, cell phone, printer, each competed for attention among the stacks on her desk, on the floor. Stale smoke emanated from an overloaded ash tray. A half bottle of Absolut sat on the lone bookcase that held no books but lots of girlie photos. An out-of-date calendar with exotic dancer paintings hung above the bookcase. The sole window to an exterior alley was dressed in old-fashioned ivory lace curtains. Like grandma used to hang.

“So, there’s still room for this sort of business to thrive,” I said.

“Damn right, sweetheart.  Exotic dancing has been around for centuries.  Provides a service whether or not Suburban Wife thinks so. Get lots of business men in here on lunch hours. Could name a few well-knowners but we’re discreet. Always.”  She dragged on her cigarette again, blew out the smoke. “Even Head of the Cop Shop comes in. Course, he says he’s here on business—our headliner then was accused of stealing money from a regular—but he coincidentally walked in just before her show so’s he could watch.”  She snorted, blowing smoke rings to the ceiling. Winks.

“Would you say your dancers are exploited?”

She coughed, looked me straight in the eye. “They provide a service and are well paid for it. You call that exploitation?”

“I’d like to interview one of your dancers for this article if possible.”

            Sweetheart Roxy lifted her brows. “Well, now, that depends. If the girl comes from around here, then no, you can’t. One of the out-of-towners might take up your offer.”

“Raquel….is she local?”

“Nope. From the east coast. And she won’t be interviewed. Many have asked. None have succeeded.”

“Okay I ask her?”

Sweetheart Roxy looked me up and down. Shrugged. “You can ask but I’ll tell you this.  Raquel is one mysterious lady. She’s experienced. Bin a feature dancer here for a few weeks. Draws in the rich guys. But as soon as she’s finished dancing, she disappears upstairs to her room.  Tried to ask about her background once but she’s silent. Do know she’s had body surgery. Nose and boobs. Somethin’s happened in her past. Don’t go messin’ around in places I don’t belong.  She brings in the customers and I’m happy. She gets paid well, gets left alone, she’s happy.”

I decided a one-time visit to Roxy’s Room wasn’t enough to grasp the complexity of this business, its patrons and clientele. I mean, maybe there’s a place for this kind of entertainment after all. Better an oversexed guy come here than grab a female runner in the woods. Or break into her apartment and rape her. So, I needed to return to digest this hormone-charged atmosphere…explore its heartbeat. Wanted time to think about the direction and format of the story. That was fine with Sweetheart Roxy.

Out in the sultry summer night heading for my car, I mulled over this centuries-old business. Sitting alone behind the steering wheel, my thoughts focused on Raquel, the headline dancer. She reminded me of someone I used to know, someone once very important to me: my first love at a summer camp when I was a teen.  My heart and mind immediately slipped back to Silver Lake.

Never noticed Rachel—or any girl for that matter—until long after we were settled into our cabins and assigned duties as counsellors to young campers. We were hires from different city high schools after successfully completing wilderness training, grateful to land a summer position with the Y. Not working a boring job in the hot city as a salesclerk or fast-food order taker.

Busy during those first days settling our young campers, some homesick, some brats, some scared, others genuinely nice kids, I barely noticed my fellow counsellors. Except Rachel. She immediately grabbed my attention. Was aware of her presence during meetings, camp activities, meals.  Whenever I glanced her way, her eyes met mine. Eyes that captivated me because of their large pupils and unusual colour: violet. Like Elizabeth Taylor, the famous movie star.

Long and lithe in body, Rachel wore her short black hair in a pixie style that framed her oval face and showed off those exquisite violet eyes. Like a Roman Empress. Or Audrey Hepburn.  Rachel—or Rache—as we called her, epitomized beauty and health to woeful ugly duckling me.

Studying her from afar, I couldn’t explain my emotional pull. Maybe because of the intriguing way she waved slender hands and arms when she spoke, the dainty way she ate, the way she laughed: spontaneously. Or the way she played basketball with athletic ease during R&R. Maybe it was the joy of life she shared with her peers. Her every move thrilled—and frightened—because she stirred a deep, forbidden yearning within me. And those violet eyes held me captive.

Finally, I admitted to me that I had a mammoth crush on her. And it was the first time I felt gloriously alive.

One afternoon, with no planned camp activity, she yelled across the open field where we gathered each morning for Wake-Up call: “JEN…round up your cabin. I’ll get mine! Let’s hike!” She couldn’t possibly hear my pounding heart.

Walking next to Rache, herding our charges along the trail: watch out for poison ivy, keep your eyes out for garter snakes…! I was in heaven. Tongue-tied in heaven. 

“What’s your high school?” she asked in her melodic voice. “What’re your plans after graduation? Boyfriend? Family….?”

Gradually over the summer, we got to know and trust each other. Only I was careful not to reveal too much. Was so in awe of this raven-haired beauty with the violet eyes I didn’t want to say anything that might alienate her. 

I’m in love. As simple and as complicated as that. Always on heightened emotions with her. A deep swollen throb in my gut.

Because I thought it wrong to feel such passion for a girl, I controlled my adoration. 

Until one of the last nights….

Near the end of our camp session, following a raucous Skit Night at the Main Lodge, Rache and I remained the only staff members for clean-up. Much later, stepping onto the wrap- around wooden verandah facing Silver Lake, we watched a full moon pop out of the black sky from behind clouds. Like a spotlight, splashing its reflection on the still black water. Magic touched us.

“Let’s go to the dock.”

I nodded, tingling.

On the well-worn grey wooden planks, we sat side by side, four youthful legs dangling in dark lake water. I could smell the sweet golden grass from the field. Inhaled the musty dampness of tall cattails. Heard the deep rumble from nearby bullfrogs on lily pads, a lonely loon call on the lake’s belly. My soul drank in the fluorescent moon reflection rippling on the water.

 Rache dipped her hand in the lake, flung water drops on my thigh. I shivered deliciously.

More water drops on my skin.

Shivered again. Exquisite excitement churned down there.

Then her fingers did the unthinkable. Slowly, deliberately, they walked up my thigh to my crotch. Held my breath. Fire raced through my veins.

“Like that?” she crooned softly, dropping her head on my shoulder.

I purred.

“Guess you do,” she whispered into my ear.

Pounding blood.

Fearfully, hopefully, I turned to face her. Mighty roar of emotions. Her brows arched. Violet eyes searched my blue ones. Closed mine. 

We kissed. Gently. Softly. Innocently. Preciously. Then broke. I ached with desire.

Moving closer, she moaned. 

“Can’t,” I barely said.

“Can,” she corrected.

We did.

Returned to Roxy’s Room a few times, at different hours, over the next weeks. Each time I learned something new from Sweetheart who began welcoming me like an old friend. And she was right about interviewing Raquel who refused to see me.

“Managing a place like this has its pitfalls,” Roxy confessed. “Have to change locks a lot for security reasons. Sometimes the girls have accidents on stage, fall in awkward positions. Need a doc. Dancing on the road takes its toll. Easy to get tired, sloppy with your personal safety.  Sometimes girls are robbed of their savings if they haven’t had time to bank. Sometimes costumes are stolen. Sometimes they get sick. They know they must always look great. Hard when you’re not on top of the world. My girls have problems like everyone else. Some have sick kids somewhere. Not an easy business. So, when a Raquel doesn’t want to talk about her personal self, I’m actually relieved. And not surprised.”

Raquel was about to dance for the first time this evening. Deliberately timed my visit to coincide with her performance. Roxy suggested, “Sit up front. Watch her act up close.” She studied me for a second. “Know what? You must be about her age! Big difference in lifestyles, eh, lady writer? Compare lifestyles! Now that would make a good story!”

Sat at a table in the second row. A noisy crowd surrounded the stage. Mostly men. A few women, too. MC switched on the mic. Frenzied music thumped, bright lights bounced, all eyes riveted on Raquel winding her way to the front from the back in her skimpy, jungle-patterned bikini. Wanted to study more closely this intriguing woman who unwittingly unlocked a buried memory.

Writhing along her path to the stage, stopping along the way, touching a patron here and there on his cheek, sending him into glorious spasms of lust, she passed me. Paused. Turned. Studied my face. Violet eyes seared into my soul.

As if in a dream, action in the bar wound down to slow motion while rock music banged in the background. Cocking her head, her tangled blonde hair cascading down her back, one piece falling over her forehead, her eyes bored a hole into mine. I couldn’t breathe. Feeling that familiar zing.

Approaching, she offered her hand. Her long, red-manicured pointer finger touched my forehead, traced my profile. She looked straight at me. Raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow over a violet eye. Winked.

“Rache?” I whispered absurdly. Leaning forward, frowning. Entranced. Hopeful. Intrigued.

Was that a millisecond flicker of recognition in Raquel’s violet eyes?

She blew me a careless kiss, turned away.

Helplessly—longingly—I watched her tight ass graze the face of an orgasmic guy in front of me as she shimmied her way to the stage.

Return to Journal

An award-winning writer, Heather Rath began her career as a reporter, editor of a weekly newspaper, and a monthly regional business magazine, before heading communications at a multi-national company. Her work has been published widely in various publications. A member of CANSCAIP (Canadian Society of Children’s Authors, Illustrators & Performers), Canadian Authors Association, and an associate member of Crime Writers of Canada, she invites you to visit her at www.heatherrath.net 

RathHeather

@RathHeather

heatherintransit@hotmail.com

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Bulletin:  A Housewife In Scranton, Pennsylvania. fiction by Michael Edwards

MichaelEdwards

Bulletin:  A Housewife In Scranton, Pennsylvania

A housewife in Scranton, Pennsylvania, has reported to local police that she was abducted in broad daylight last month by four-foot, gray-skinned humanoids from outer space.

After taking her onboard their spacecraft, the aliens communicated with the woman telepathically, she claims, explaining to her the following. 

  1. On their planet, an epidemic is causing all the children to die before they reach puberty.  
  2. The epidemic has been caused by a random genetic mutation beyond the ability of their scientists to control.
  3. Their race is dying out. 
  4. The aliens therefore decided they should secretly visit the planet Earth to breed with its women.
  5. They chose to visit Earth because of the beauty, fertility, and lovingkindness of its women—in each category of which, Earth-women surpass all other females in this sector of the universe. 
  6. By reproducing with Earth-women, they hope to create a new hybrid race—more intelligent, rational, and calm than the human; bigger, stronger, and healthier than the alien. 

At that moment in the conversation, according to her, two of the creatures approached the woman and held her by one arm each.  She remembers that they peered at her through enormous, glossy, jet-black eyes, which seemed “to look right through [her],” and that their touch felt dry, soft, and spongy, like that of a mushroom.

Despite the aliens’ repeated attempts to calm the woman by telepathy, she was frightened so badly that she fainted.  When she woke, she was sitting upright in the driver’s seat of her Ford Escort automobile, which was parked in her driveway at home.  She found this particular fact strange because, as she states, the aliens had originally taken her from her kitchen, where she had been standing over the sink, peeling a potato.

There are no witnesses to the abduction.

The woman has undergone psychological testing and has been pronounced sane, though under some stress from a troubled marriage.  (Her husband is a mathematics teacher and assistant football coach at the local high school.)  

The woman has also undergone a gynecological examination and is not pregnant.  However, an unexplainable fresh incision scar, approximately two inches long, was found on her abdomen, to the right of and somewhat below her navel.  

The woman stated that “the only way I have to prove what happened to me is real, is the scar I have on my stomach.  But even that is starting to go away.  Every week it gets whiter and looks fainter.  I can barely see it any more.”

The woman reports that she often dreams about the incident and sometimes awakens in a cold sweat, unable to get back to sleep for hours.  “I don’t know why,” she stated, “but I think they’re coming back to get me.  Something about my menstrual cycle—but I’m not sure what.  And I’m not sure why I think this.”

She believes she is not the only woman who has been approached by the aliens, and in desperation, she urges all Earth-women to quit wearing any make-up, perfume, or eye-catching provocative outfits.  Perhaps then, she argues, the aliens will go elsewhere to mate.  Referring to the Islamic custom of covering women head to toe except the eyes, she said, “Maybe the Arabs have the right idea, after all.”

The woman’s name has been withheld at her request.

Return to Journal

Michael Edwards teaches English at Santa Fe College, in Florida.  His most recent publication is a story titled “The Mountain Pathway,” in The Dillydoun Review.  

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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While Women Rage In Winter. fiction by Rachel J Fenton

Rachel Fenton

While Women Rage In Winter

I don’t want to occupy a place of importance. Knowing other people like to harbour their children’s swim gear safe from spray under the reef-like shelter of this plastic table, I leave one chair between me and it. In essence the seat’s already taken; there’s a small piece of putty or modelling clay, grey-white as a mushroom, moulded to the shape of the inside of a child’s hand, the curved drills of the fingers identifiable by their prints. I sit. The empty pairing now to my left hint at my isolation; I place the four books I’ve borrowed from the library here with my satchel farthest away. A small part of me thinks this shows confidence, an outward symbol of occupancy, and I can move them if I have to.

I’ve had this satchel since I was eleven. And the seats, blue moulded plastic, uncomfortable as they are and too small for my gangling frame, remind me of school. (What’s the weather like up there? peers used to shout). They amplify my aloneness to make me feel strangely small and conspicuous. It’s a peculiar meeting of oppositions. Except for one strip an inch long, thin as a baby’s eyelid, as soft as her earlobe my satchel is cracked, worn, like the soles of my feet. I should take better care of my feet but they’re at the far end of my ‘to do’ list, out of sight, far from mind. They aren’t as tired as those now padding into sight. Supported only by flat flip-flops, jandals they call them here, sun-greyed: an old woman with a small boy. He’s carrying a large holdall. I move my satchel. The woman sits. Thinking her charge might want to sit also, I pick up my books. The woman turns to me, says,

‘You don’t need to move your books, dear. Thank you.’ Her accent is neat, curt like birdsong, it’s specific yet impossible to locate. I say,

‘They’re only books; they haven’t earned their seat, the rest.’

She laughs, humouring me.

‘He doesn’t need to sit; he will be swimming in a few minutes.’

I nod. Smile. My own child is nearing the end of her training session and will be getting out of the pool as the boy gets in.

The boy is small, slightly built though well fed. He glows with health. He drops the holdall to the tiled floor, unzips, rummages inside, pulls out a fin.

‘These are not mine,’ he says. The fin, yellow and blue, is almost as long as his arm. ‘You have brought the wrong things.’

The old woman leans forward, elbows on thighs. One arm goes out to the boy, to his arm.

‘I’m sorry, dear.’

The boy turns over the flipper in his hand as if considering for the first time a dead pet.

‘These are no good,’ he says, and puts the flipper back in the bag.

‘Don’t worry. Felicity will give you some. Go and ask her.’ She’s already on first name terms with the coach.

The boy’s chest puffs up and he hurries. He trips on the strap of the bag. I hear my own intake of breath. He stumbles, regains his balance, and carries on towards the coach without looking back.

‘My grandson,’ the woman says. ‘I’m from Singapore, dear, on holiday. I have brought his brother’s things by mistake.’

It is kind of her to recognise my interest, inform me. She has a kind face. Her hair, though grey and frizzy at the ends is dark and glossy at the roots, so that both sides appear to be a reflection of the same wave flowing out from the centre of her head, crashing into curls with invisible force.

‘I’m Anna, dear.’

I smile. ‘I’m Jenny, from England but you probably already guessed that.’ The way I say it sounds like a confession and I put out my hand half expecting absolution as a substitute greeting.

Anna’s hand feels like a bird wrapped in Kleenex. Her wrist is crackled like my satchel, but unlike my satchel the cracks appear lighter, are smooth. And even though it’s warm inside because of the pool, warm outside for November because this is New Zealand, she’s wearing a thick red cardigan.

‘England?’ She sounds pleased.

I’m embarrassed; there are still people who think being English is impressive in itself, people who can be easily read, who like the books Amazon suggests based on their purchase history: if you enjoyed the Treaty of Waitangi you may also like the English.

Anna goes some way to relieving my colonial guilt.

‘Which part?’

‘Yorkshire.’ I resist being specific, it invariably leads me to an impassioned one-sided debate about Thatcherism, the Miner’s strike, going without; I can’t say I have known hunger to Anna without sounding trite, without sounding more English for all I insist on being less. I identify with fifteen thousand dialect speakers yet find myself lumped in with a whole nation of generic English. Regional and class differences are irrelevant to anyone from overseas.

‘Ah, yes,’ Anna nods, ‘I have family in Bedfordshire.’

I don’t know what to say to this so I smile and nod as my eyes travel an imaginary map of the United Kingdom, and before long I am staring at Anna’s flip-flops.

My father once made flip-flops from an old floor tile for me and a friend. She never called on me after that.

Anna, pulling the holdall between her feet, tucking the carry strap to the back, says,

‘I tell him not to leave his things in the way.’ She pushes the fin, tries to zip it in. ‘Last week, I came here and a boy, Dion was his name, you know that boy?’

I shake my head. There are so many kids who train with the swim club at this leisure centre. They all look the same in togs and swim caps, like safety matches.

‘I only recognise my daughter,’ from the shape her hand makes breaking the surface of the water. She’s a very elegant swimmer, careful in her movements, precise. She makes the rigour of an hour and a half’s exercise appear effortless.

‘Well, Dion came and took this bag, emptied it out, shook everything out onto the floor.’ Anna’s gesticulations bring my focus back to her. ‘I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to say. Then he kicked it all across the wet floor, you see?’

I look at the tiled floor to show I see; I understand what it means to have dry clothes scattered across the chlorine soaked floor.

‘And then he saw it wasn’t his and he kicked it back, kicked it under this chair, and then I said something, I said, “Please, don’t do that, don’t do that to other people’s things, it’s rude.” He looked, ah –’ she puts her hands to her mouth, widens her eyes, ‘he looks shocked, you see, like this,’ and she shakes her head.

I say, ‘They have no manners,’ knowing her understanding negates prefixing ‘kids today’, though I think Dion is a nice sounding name and can’t reconcile how a child with such a small and gentle name could act against it, but then I remember it’s derived from Dionysus, the god of riotous indulgence, who had a man chained and torn apart by horses and drove women mad in Argos.

‘Manners,’ she nods emphatically, ‘always say please, and always thank.’

‘Always be polite,’ I concur.

Her eyes flicker with delight.

A woman I see every week comes in. Her hair is white, bleached that way. It’s slightly more noticeable than when it was grey. I don’t know her name. She’s been power walking, as people who don’t have to walk like to do. I saw her when I arrived, jogging the last few yards to the leisure centre from Lake Pupuke. The lake is really a crater. This tickles me, the fact that she runs a circuit of a volcano. Another thing that tickles me is the fact that there’s a lake right next door to the pool. Then I remember I’m on the volcano and paying for use of the pool too. She wears fluorescent clothing, is well nourished and is difficult to miss. Like lava, she gets everywhere slowly. Now we’re entering summer, she wears shorts and her legs are surprisingly fit though her knees wear their own shroud. They look sad which is ludicrous because they are only knees. She stands by the table looking at the chair with the putty on it. Looking like her knees.

I say, ‘Hello,’ because I am feeling confident, because I am clearly engaging Anna in conversation and this proves I am sociable and worth talking to. I pick up the putty.

She stretches her mouth into an anorexic smile, sits, and turns her back to me. Like lava, she is best avoided. She pulls a bag out from the pile under the table, puts it on top. Over the promontory of her shoulder, I look at her knees now smiling at me as if their tragedy was only an act. Perception is like knees, I think. And friendship is.

I lean over the gap between myself and Anna, whisper, confidentially,

‘People talk to me one week here and ignore me the next.’

‘Act like they don’t know you.’

‘Yes.’

She understands but doesn’t tell me what I suspect, that I would be popular if I had a boat.

‘I have old fashioned values, Jenny.’

Encouraged, I say,

‘Manners cost nothing.’ Then, to test our budding friendship, I tell Anna what I have told every other parent at this swimming club, ‘I’m from a poor family; I had to be polite to get by.’ Here they just brag. I have nothing to boast about, assume this is why nobody speaks to me. People who have never been poor think poverty is a disease. It’s worse than being English.

‘I am from a poor family also; married a lovely man, well educated, a lawyer.’ Her eyes fill up the way condensation gathers on my bathroom mirror.

I look away, not embarrassed by her tears, because she’s remembering her husband and I don’t want to intrude on the memory, because I am polite. Also I’m considering my own life. I glance and see her features soften further. She’s lost. When she appears to be finding her way to the present, I say, ‘I only mention it because a lot of the children around here are spoilt; they have everything they could possibly want, yet complain. They can never be pleased.’ I used to make mental notes, a moral tally of the things they said, here or on school trips, when we first arrived, but I have lived here five years now and have lost count.

‘I am a Christian,’ Anna says, smiling so widely I can see for the first time she does not have her own teeth.

I take a breath in. Hold it there.

‘A Catholic,’ she adds, ‘though that’s no matter to you, all I say is, be grateful for what you have.’ She makes a canoe from her hands, raises it.

I feel my eyebrows rising, roofing my alarm.

Last week an Indian woman died in Ireland because abortion’s illegal there, and I can’t stop feeling angry. Women like me rage in winter on the other side of the world. On this side of the world, my hands are being assailed by a Catholic Indian from Singapore whose eyes mist with devotion. My thoughts swim.

‘Gratitude is important,’ I say, trying not to get caught up on the religious aspect, and sailing past the awkwardness of it all. I imagine my voice detaching from my body, the sound waves floating out, saying I don’t believe in God myself. Then I imagine her face after I’ve said it and I can’t bear to take the happiness away from her, rift her trust; can’t bear to see my thoughts puddled by words.

I have a lot of conversations where the intention is lost in the listening, saying only enough to keep the words flowing from the other person: one-sided conversations. I have over the years developed a skill for cultivating them.

‘My daughter.’ I point to the lane she’s in. It occurs to me some people may think I simply come here to read, poolside each week, that I don’t have a reason to do so other than to sit somewhere indoors after the library’s closed; arriving as I do towards the end of the lesson, an hour after my husband and children, I must appear a disconnect, a vagrant or a weirdo. I dismiss the thoughts and focus on my daughter. I don’t attempt to point her out specifically. ‘She was once at a party,’ I say, ‘when she was small. She’s eleven now. But when she was five, there was a magician at the party.’ I almost break off again to explain details of how the party invite came about but decide against this, preferring instead to let the memory roll like a film clip as I voiceover. ‘And the magician asked her to say the magic words. He was expecting Abracadabra,’ I over explain, fearing she won’t get the punch-line otherwise. ‘And my daughter said, “Please and thank you”.’

Anna has the good manners to laugh. A small laugh but generously given. I’m grateful for it.

‘And sorry is just as important though few people ever say it,’ she says.

I see sorry people clutching tight the tiny visible part of a very large iceberg floating in a cold sea. I’m overthinking. My thinking voice escapes.

‘It is important for our kids to hear us say sorry when we’re wrong.’

‘I have five children, all boys.’ She waits for my surprise to register. I wonder how she found time to read. Perhaps she learned only by listening.

‘Five?’

‘The first, I had no choice. I had him; I just got on with it.’ She wings her hands. ‘The second one: another boy.’ One hand flies up: Peter. ‘The third, I had some choice, another boy. I wanted a girl.’ Her other hand’s flown: Paul. ‘The fourth: boy. I cried.’ Her hands come together over the bridge of her nose, sit there like doves. ‘When I had my fifth son, I lay in the hospital bed and cried some more. The doctor said, “Why are you crying?”’

She looks at me, unblinking through her fingers. I think I can see the bars of the cot: white enamel over iron, peeling off.

Because you wanted a girl to help look after the boys, I want to say. I had to mother my brother, when he was young. I had to bath him and dress him, read him to sleep, take him with me when I went shopping, as well as cook, iron, clean. If he cried, I got spanked. All he was expected to do was grow.

Anna shakes her head: something else.

‘I worked at a police station, taking fingerprints. In nineteen seventy-five, when I was pregnant with my fifth child, the police went on strike. I didn’t get paid. I sat on a chair outside the station worrying how I was going to take care of this child when three little English children walked by. “Lady, are you alright, have you food to eat, somewhere to live? Are you in trouble?” I said, dears, I am alright. Thank you. They pointed to my stomach, and I said I am expecting a child. And the eldest, a beautiful boy said, “What do you hope your child will be like?” I said, dear, I wish for a child like you, and I put my hands on his face, like this.

‘When the doctor told me, “You have a perfect child, a beautiful child,” I didn’t believe it. I looked and I saw him for the first time, how pale his skin; how they all admired him; I took him and tucked him between my knees to keep everyone away from him, protect him, you know?’ She has her hands on the holdall. ‘I realised then what a gift I had. God had gifted me that child. My other four are Indian looking, like me,’ she points to herself in case I hadn’t noticed, ‘but the fifth is as fair as you, dear: a gift from God.’ She rolls her eyes upward, tilts her head like a saint, and I see the salt water rising over brown irises like mist, see the whites are really blue.

I take her arm in my hand – she isn’t afraid – push up her red wool sleeve, and gently rub her skin so that the looseness of it travels up and down with my hand in small waves. There is nothing I want to say.

‘Ah,’ she starts, pausing to think. Expressions flicker through her eyes like sunlight through fast moving cloud seen at great distance. Just as I think she is about to cry, she breaks into a smile.

There was an eclipse earlier in the week. I had forgotten about it. On the day I didn’t know. I thought how cold it got, how the light turned suddenly strange, almost as if my house were a stage; I looked outside half expecting to see the audience peering back at me through the glare. Everything seemed to be bathed in silver, like an old film or photograph. I couldn’t work it out; so bright and dark all at once.

‘Ten of thirteen children,’ Anna repeats.

I haven’t been listening. I was wondering about foxing.

‘My parents were wonderful. They died twenty-eight years ago. They were in their eighties.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and repeat it, meaning it the second time.

I haven’t spoken to my father in twenty years, since my grandmother died.

After the Miner’s Strike my father had no job. What he lacked in wages he compensated with rage. We all dealt with it differently, the poverty, the fear. My brother found comfort in heroin. Mother retreated inside herself. I ran. Someday I’ll stop, catch my breath long enough to talk both ears off a conversation. But I can’t tell Anna my family isn’t wonderful, can’t disappoint her.

‘My husband was a wonderful man, a kind man, he was very good to me; an Anglo-Indian, it took five generations for the white to come out. He died twenty years ago.’

I feel uncomfortable about her infatuation.

‘My husband is up there,’ I say, pointing to the balcony overlooking the pool. ‘My son’s with him.’ I add ‘Chatting,’ just in time to prevent her misunderstanding, redirecting her sympathy.

‘My youngest son is marrying a Japanese woman; my grandchildren will look Japanese. Imagine that,’ Anna says.

Inevitably there is blossom in the picture, pink, from a cherry orchard in misted hills overlooked by mountains. There are volcanoes in Japan. The children wear kimonos and hold hands like paper dolls and are loved. And love is as simple as transfers on pottery. But love like pottery breaks when the temperature changes rapidly. Then I wonder if she thinks my husband is Japanese too. I try to see him through her eyes.

When I first met him, I thought he looked Egyptian like King Tutankhamun in profile. The first night we spent together, I leaned on my elbow and watched him sleep. He slept on his back but didn’t snore despite having had too much to drink. When he woke, he smiled, nothing more, and we looked into each other’s eyes and both saw eternity, if different kinds. After, he told me my tears were the most beautiful things he had ever touched. I hadn’t been aware I was crying.

He has black eyes – black brown that is, not bruised – and still looks boyish, clean shaven, smooth as a golden casket, even with his bald head.

I look at Anna, say,

‘You are taking over the world.’

She is laughing too much to answer.

Calm resumes.

‘Three of my children live in England, one in New Zealand, and one in Canada. I love England, for the transport. In New Zealand I can’t go anywhere on foot. For everything in New Zealand you need a car.’

I miss English trains.

‘Trains.’

And shops.

‘High Streets, so friendly; England was made for people.’

I should talk, these are all things I know about, but Anna intuits my unspoken side of the conversation, the part that can be shared. She reminds me of my grandmother.

She insists I take her address.

‘You can visit me when you come to Singapore. Do you like curry?’

‘I love curry.’

‘You can come and stay with me. I have an apartment. Modest: five rooms, but plenty big enough for you to stay. I’ll cook you a curry.’

I visualise her apartment occupying the fifth floor of a five storey block; but the image in my head is one I’ve seen in my magazine, of Vienna. The building’s front is curved and colourful and every room has a balcony overlooking narrow streets. I try to superimpose tropical trees, palms, soften the whole thing with humidity rising from the hot pavements like laze. I imagine it collecting on the windows like the tears in Anna’s eyes. Then I imagine it shrunken like Lilliput because I am tall and need five rooms. I’d like to see where she lives, where Anna calls home.

‘It might be a while,’ I say, not wanting to explain how broke we are, how unlikely travel anywhere beyond my head is in our current financial circumstances, knowing talk of money trouble is internationally impolite.

‘I am seventy-five.’

I open my satchel. I have printed cards with my name and email address on one side and my artwork on the other. My art depicts a naked me. Anna might think it inappropriate. My grandmother would if she were still alive. In any case it isn’t the image of me I want her to be left with, it’s not the kind of polite I’ve cultivated, so I take out my notebook and leaf through to find a rare empty page. I keep my conversations in waiting in here.

‘Are you sure I can write in here?’

‘Yes.’ I watch her write her name. She has a child’s hand. My grandmother looked like a child the day before she died.

‘Do you want my address too?’

‘Your number’s fine.’ I tear the empty remaining half of page, write my email addresses on there, two, to show I am being encouraging, that I want to give her several options and therefore opportunities to get in touch. A moment later I realise if this were the case I would have given her my phone number also. EyebrightFamily [@] ihug.co.nz (personal); JennyEyebright [@] outlook.com (work); the email addresses are genuine and I would like to keep in touch, I say this: ‘Do keep in touch,’ as if we are old comrades.

She takes the torn slip from me, folds it; closes her hand over it.

We look at the swimmers, at the emptying public lanes. The swim class is moving to the near end, and the aqua-aerobics class is starting in its place. Generously built women jog, make waves, their laughter punctuates the music.

‘You can go on reading your book,’ Anna says.

‘The book can wait,’ I say. Then my face reddens as I realise the conversation’s over. Trying to reignite talk now is to strike a wet match against my head.

My daughter’s waiting for me. She stands over me, dripping water all over the cover of my book. It’s backed with clear plastic so I won’t have to say sorry to the library. I’ll be able to put it in the returns bin and walk away. She puts her fins down beside me. I pick up her kit bag from where she’s dropped it at my feet, and work to fit the equipment back in while she ignores my introduction to Anna and goes to the changing rooms. I pull my cardigan over my fist to wipe where the water has gone on the books, the seat. Someone may want to sit there, closer to Anna to not have to lean across to hear her speak. I gather my books, fasten my satchel. I smile as I get up but I do not look at Anna’s face. I walk over to the changing rooms, then upstairs to my husband and son.

My husband says, ‘You didn’t have to come up; you could have shouted us from downstairs.’ He stutters badly. His tongue protrudes at unexpected moments and he avoids words beginning with the letters P and S for this reason. Most people have to listen carefully, patiently, to understand him like I do.

Together we go back down. I fall behind to let two children pass so that they don’t have to let go of each other’s hand crossing the narrow poolside. My daughter’s kit bag drips water on my leg, soaks my clothes, and the drawstring is tight around my hand. I don’t wave at Anna as I pass to go outside, the tiled floor is very wet, I could fall, get hurt, and she isn’t looking. I step on my husband’s shadow, attempt to hold him. The door swings to in my face.

On the drive through Takapuna, I stare out the window and listen to roosting birds’ song overlaid with my daughter’s complaints about the other children in her swimming group. How rude they are.

‘They never talk to me,’ she says.

I imagine conversations underwater, meaning inferred only through the widening of eyes, the release of air. I understand what she means. A writer I admire wrote “The most significant conversations of our lives occur in silence.” But my daughter isn’t addressing her complaint to me.

‘Awe.’ My husband’s making appropriate noises.

I wonder how old I’ll have to be before someone like me talks to me.

‘But why doesn’t anyone want to be my friend?’ my daughter asks.

They do, they want to be your friend so much.

My daughter hasn’t yet come to terms with human complexities, how we sometimes can’t speak. To her, everything is as simple as putty (I am a thief). How can I tell her that experience can’t be reshaped, made smooth again like the mould of a child’s fear I’ve squashed in my hand? Everything adults say is coloured by their own hurt. It’s difficult to have more than a stock exchange with anyone but ourselves.

I look for the flowering trees; this is my favourite time of year, and my husband driving affords me the luxury to view without responsibility. It is starting to rain. The droplets manage to find each other on the glass leaving blurry tracks like a badly drawn family tree. They gather momentarily at the bottom of the window until the force of the car against the wind sends them away, into spray.

Takapuna means Falling Spring, in Māori. It refers to the water they found here, but I like to think it can also mean the beginning of summer because I’m English and it’s in my nature to corrupt another’s language to suit my own. The English language, for all its antiquity, its borrowed properties, is supple as young wood. But I also like this saying because it combines two seasons in one, like the lemon trees I’m passing now. I have one at home. My home is here.

Sometimes I think of England, but then it doesn’t feel like a country but a room where my grandmother shook me, hard, said ‘Crying doesn’t make a difference.’

I’d run for miles to get there when my brother beat me because he was high, because I talked too much. Life gave me lemons though they don’t grow on trees in Yorkshire, it’s too cold there. Now I grow them in my garden. The scent alone can make me weep. It never fails to awe me; while the lemon blossoms, last year’s fruit ripens on the same branch. I look out to see the green lightening each day.

First published in Short Fiction #7, now out of print. 

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Rachel J Fenton is a working-class writer living in Aotearoa. Winner of the 2022 NZSA Laura Solomon Cuba Press Prize for Between the Flags, her novels have placed second in the Dundee International Book Prize and been listed in the 2022 Mslexia Novel Competition, the 2021 Text Prize, the Micheal Gifkins Unpublished Novel Prize, and the Cinnamon Press Debut Novel Prize. “While Women Rage in Winter” won the University of Plymouth Short Fiction Prize. 

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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The Thunder of Galloping Horses. memoir by Angela Rebrec

Bio Photo Angela Rebrec 2020

The Thunder of Galloping Horses 

         Sometimes a knocking at the door is just the wind. A look through the peephole will confirm this.

         They argue about the blood test, the requisition on the fridge held up for the past six and a half weeks by a magnet that boldly yells ALASKA in multi-coloured all-caps.

          “What’s the point,” she growls at him, “It’s not like I’d do anything about it.” She hops into the car and drives towards the lab at the local strip mall, the creased requisition on the seat beside her like an unwanted passenger.

         Barely a fortnight after fertilization and the heart begins to form. By the fifth week the heart starts to beat and divides into chambers. At six weeks, blood flows inside the body. By ten weeks, when she’s lying on the mid-wife’s couch and the Doppler wand comes to a stop at her belly’s bottom right side, they hear their baby’s own heartbeat.

         A knock at the door can be ignored for only so long. The wind can stand there for days.

         The doctor’s voice from the other end of the telephone reminds her of a pre-recorded message: …quad screen results positive…no need to worry…at this point doesn’t mean anything…because of how far along you are… schedule you in immediately …hospitalamniocentesis.

         The heart rate of a healthy baby in the womb ranges from about 120 to 160 beats per minute. A heartbeat that’s much faster or slower than that may signal a problem. [i]

         On occasion, the wind will let itself in with its own key.

         He leans over to her and exclaims, “These odds don’t look so bad.” The genetic counsellor nods as she preps them with stats, diagrams, outcomes, results.

         A one-eighth chance, she thinks, unwilling to speak it out loud, as though that act alone will make it solid, breathe into it a life all its own. 

         Cells duplicating and splitting and joining up again like starlings in a murmuration, pulsing and then cinching together like a belt at the waist. When chromosomes don’t separate the way they should, sometimes they get stuck together, to travel in threes or to travel all alone. Everyone’s chromosomes are a little bit different; but sometimes, cells get it all wrong.

         The texture of the room sticks to her body like fly paper. Every speck of dust, the pea gravel the children have carried in their shoes from the playground that now lies under the rack, the whites soaking in bleach in the tub, the sun stretching its fingers through the laundry room window, all chafe her like the sound of hornets.

         She sits on the laundry room chair as she answers the call from the doctor.

         The sound of hornets.

         The channel between the pulmonary artery and the aorta in a fetal heart diverts blood away from the lungs as prenatal blood is already oxygenated from the mother. After birth, this channel usually closes on the first day of life. If it does not close, it results in a decreased flow of oxygen into the body.[ii]

         A cool breeze staggers through the room while the door is left gaping.

         He argues: “Isn’t it obvious? It’s the right thing for our family. There isn’t even any question.” It’s an argument she knows she cannot win.

         It’s what mothers are supposed to do.

         In the hospital she asks the doctor. Just in case. In case they got it wrong.

         She almost makes him cry.

         Following the diagnosis of a genetic anomaly, some couples choose to have a legal abortion. However, following later abortions at greater than 20 weeks, the rare but catastrophic occurrence of live births can lead to fractious controversy over neonatal management. To avoid this situation, a fetal intracardiac potassium chloride injection is administered to cause fetal cardiac arrest before induction of labor.[iii]

         The walk to the hospital room. The longest hallway. The framed canvas photos on the wall of wide-awake or sleeping babies. The hallway at its narrowest. Families passing them in the tightest corner of the hallway, squeezing them out with their laughter and mylar balloons. The hallway and its photos. Baby sounds funnelling into the hallway as if from a soundtrack. The photos. The hospital room in the quietest corner of the ward. The longest walk. The noisy ward. The longest walk.

         In their hospital room, the nurse arrives with several painted boxes made by ladies from the auxillary. “You can choose one,” she says. “For keepsakes…footprints, photos…the ladies make them for families…like yours.”

         Not until the nurse shows them the last box does one finally speak to them as an overflowing riverbank: a blanketed baby asleep on a crescent moon, and behind, a blue-black sky filled with stars.

         She tells her husband “Run.” She tells him “Go get the nurse.” She knows childbirth and this is too easy, too soon. She squats over the toilet. The half-dose of Demerol begins to kick-in, and suddenly, she’s alone in the bathroom with her motionless baby.

         Sounds held up to the light. Clouds shuffle past as a procession, peer into the hospital window, witness a bed centred in the room, the chair with its back to the glass, the closed door failing to bar the scarring sounds from the hallway. From the door’s vertical glass panel: flash of purple scrubs, a jean jacket, mylar balloons, flowers cradled in arm. Sounds embrace after pacing in the hallway. Murmurs. Whispers. Hush, hush. Meadow flowers blooming in the hallway. Dappled clouds now peering in through the door’s window, push forward through the hallway’s mist, hold flowers up to the florescence. Teacups rattle on their saucers. Kittens mew at the door. Elbow through the sound. Light and its noise held up so high. Hush.

         She remembers it like a dream. Laughter in the midwife’s office and the fetal Doppler rolling across her belly. Too much laughter. “Quiet,” chuckles the midwife as she turns the volume up on the Doppler’s speaker: the unmistakeable sound of galloping horses. Their thunder rises in the room, joins the laughter already jumping on the ceiling like children tumbling in a carnival bouncy castle.

         The first rule of the door: always look through the peephole for what awaits outside.

         Nurse barges into the room, breaks the ice-quiet like a pick. “She’s so beautiful,” she whispers, as a crocheted-blanketed and flowered-layetted bundle floats across the room. Nurse takes a seat on the bed, and with joy on her face, hands the bundle first to him.

         Not really a bundle: a baseball handful, a kitten, a bouquet of freshly picked dandelions, a teacup and saucer.

         She wonders through the Demerol-half-dose haze: Why so much joy? Were they wrong after all?

         She held her right here, like this. And then she placed her in her palms. Like this.

         He indulges her everything—even the chaplain and the blessing.

         She wants to kiss baby’s feet one last time, but they are covered in knitted booties.

         “While you were asleep I went downstairs,” he confesses. ”What kind of cheap dad would I be if I never bought my daughter anything?”

         From her seat in the far corner of the office she watches rain fall onto cars parked in the lot outside the floor to ceiling window. It’s the third week of August and even the month seems to understand.

         The funeral director explains their policy: “We don’t charge parents anything for our services. You only have to pay for the casket.”

         She sits, trying not to crumble to the floor as a cracked teacup.

         “We’ll take the most expensive one,” he tells the director.

         The emptied room: where friends came and carried the baby’s things away.

         She walks to Safeway because she knows the fresh air will do her good. Moments through the automatic doors and already she is the fine lines of porcelain: the music piped through the store composed in D minor; the aisle with fishy-crackers and arrowroot biscuits; the customer who rifles through the apple bin as her toddler, strapped-in to the buggy’s seat, whines and reaches for a banana bunch.

         It’s all she can do to keep from chipping, piece by piece.

         She grabs a loaf of bread and milk jug by the handle and heads to the checkout.

         As much as you try, some locks cannot be changed.

         There was a knocking at the door.

         She stands at the threshold of the doorway, looks out to the bricked walkway that leads from the front steps of her house towards the sidewalk. In a neighbour’s yard, a tabby attacks an insect under boxwood hedges, misses a robin pulling at a worm on the lawn. Two bicyclists wiz by and soon afterwards a mini-van follows. Petunias wilt like summer butterflies from the patio planter as the garden hose suns itself serpentine underfoot.

         At the threshold of the open doorway, she allows the wind to walk past her and enter, to pace about the rooms of the house, a cold wind that reminds her of galloping horses, a sound that magnifies within the empty upstairs bedroom.

         She whispered, She’s so beautiful. Asleep on a crescent moon.

Notes

[i] Moore, Thomas. “When can I hear my baby’s heartbeat?” Baby Center: Expert Advice. n.d. Web. 22 Sept. 2015.

[ii] “The Heart and Downs Syndrome.” National Downs Syndrome Society. 2012. Web. 22 Sept. 2015.

[iii] Fletcher, John C. PhD., et al. “Fetal Intracardiac Potassium Chloride Injection To Avoid The Hopeless Resuscitation Of An Abnormal Abortus: II, Ethical Issues.” Obstetrics and Gynecology Vol. 80, Issue 2 (August 1992): 296-299. Web. 22 Sept. 20 2015.

This memoir was first published in PRISM International, Summer Issue 2016.

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Angela Rebrec is a multidisciplinary artist whose poetry films have been recognized at the Barcelona International Film Festival, FilmmakerLife Awards, and Phoenix Shorts. Her most recent writing has appeared in Vallum, Prairie Fire, GRAIN, Cathexis Northwest Press, as well as the anthology, Voicing Suicide (Ekstasis Editions, 2020). Angela’s 2020 collaboration with composer Mickie Wadsworth for ART SONG LAB  has been included in NewMusicShelf’s Anthology of New Music for Trans & Nonbinary Voices, vol.1. Her writing has been shortlisted for several awards and contests including PRISM International’s Nonfiction Contest. Angela facilitates writing and expressive arts workshops for kids and adults of all ages She lives in Delta, BC on the unceeded ancestral lands of Musqueam, Kwantlen, Stolo, and Tsawwassen peoples.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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Religious Revanchism in the USA and that Old Antipathy for Women. essay by Olga Stein

olga-stein89

Religious Revanchism in the USA and that Old Antipathy for Women

Anyone committed to educating about or protecting civil rights will see the overturning of Roe v. Wade by the US Supreme Court on June 24 of this year as a severe reversal of decades’ worth of social progress. From the standpoint of legal scholars, it is an alarming trend among conservative members of the Supreme Court toward “new originalism.” They also explain that this particular — and until recently, idiosyncratic — approach to interpreting the Constitution was largely a response to civil rights gains made in the 1960s and 1970s. Originalism of this stripe is a means of pushing back against the changes that have been transforming American society since then. Moreover, as the overturning of Roe v. Wade so acutely demonstrates, the significance of this interpretative strategy is that it constitutes an attack on democracy or the founding “idea” of America, its promise of individual safety, prosperity, and liberty for all citizens.

            A great deal in the way of focused scrutiny of the overturning of Roe v. Wade is called for, certainly. Numerous in-depth critiques on the resurgent alliance between the law and religion in the USA do exist, but outside of feminist writing there’s a paucity of attempts to suss the historical roots of the anti-abortion stance in consti­tu­tional liter­al­ism (or more appropriately, “fundamentalism”). It’s imperative, then, that we acknowledge these roots and pin down some of their salient features: American-Christian patriarchy and its indelible chauvinism. A few readers may be surprised to learn here that legal scholars point to Salem’s witch trials as vital lessons concerning procedural failures to protect basic rights.[i] Yet even these experts don’t do enough to lay bare the connections between American Christian conservatism, classical Christian theology (as it crystallized by the Middle Ages especially), and the ways that the appearance and behaviour of the “second sex” continue to be categorized or typecast. I arrive at something like a historical perspective on the reactionism underlying the bans on abortion below. However, I begin with an rundown — temporally narrower — of what the elimination of a 50-year precedent is and isn’t about at present.

            First and foremost, the Supreme Court’s ruling isn’t about protecting the unborn child. If protecting children was a real concern, as countless researchers, journalists, and politicians in the US have argued, there would be far more effective legislation to limit access to firearms. More importantly, single mothers and working class families would automatically be eligible for a host of protections, including guaranteed housing. Health care would be universally available to children and parents of infants and school-aged children. There would also be legislated provisions shielding mothers from job loss or economic hardship. Broad forms of assistance for children and their parents would no doubt be an encumbrance on public funds, but wouldn’t it be only logical to offer such security (and shouldn’t all children born in the USA be instantly entitled to it?)—that is, if infants’ and children’s well-being were the real purpose of anti-abortion laws? Wouldn’t such measures make eminent sense, especially since a hefty percentage of people who experience unplanned pregnancies come from economically challenged communities, are minors, or have been subject to some form of abuse in their surrounding environments?

            Before I get to the actual aims of America’s anti-abortion laws and their supporters, allow me reiterate a few facts in relation to women’s reproductive reality and how it’s instrumentalized by the six-week abortion ban. Since the length of pregnancy is calculated from the first day of a woman’s last period, six weeks’ duration is attributed as a matter of course to anyone who has missed their period—even if conception has occurred two or three weeks after the onset of the new cycle. Furthermore, since a pregnancy test measuring levels of chorionic gonadatropin (hCG) is unreliable in the very early stages of pregnancy, and because many women have irregular periods and may not suspect that anything is amiss if they’re late one week (or several), a pregnancy may very well go undetected until the six-week window, during which abortion is permitted, is closed.

            There’s a clear and detailed explanation of the problem with the six-week threshold in Scientific American’s article, “The Absurd Pregnancy Math behind the ‘Six-Week’ Abortion Ban.” It’s worth highlighting here the following statement by the article’s author, Michelle Rodrigues: “[I]n reality, the six-week ban limits abortion care to only four weeks after conception, and only one week, realistically, from when a person could find out they are pregnant.” This ban—whether by design or willed ignorance—doesn’t take several crucial aspects of reproductive biology into account. It doesn’t allot sufficient time for pregnancy discovery or confirmation. It also mysteriously overlooks the fact that a foetus isn’t medically defined as such until eight weeks after fertilization, which suggests that from a legal standpoint a 10-week ban would make more sense — that is, if we were to establish from the get-go that any ban should exclude adolescents, or rape victims, or persons afflicted with health issues that would be exacerbated by pregnancy (readers should be aware that a large percentage of people have such concerns; and we should unequivocally count mental health conditions among them).

            I hope that it’s obvious by now that the near-total or six-week bans, or the bans that don’t make exceptions for minors or victims of rape, aren’t laws that are truly intended to protect anyone. They won’t protect infants once they are born to young single mothers, or to families already struggling to provide for other children (these are the people least able to travel out of state for an abortion). How pertinent is it that an article published on August 30 in The New York Times, titled “U.N. Race Panel Sounds the Alarm on Abortion Access in the U.S.,” reported that the “influential” Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (C.E.R.D.), which convened in Geneva in August to discuss world-wide violations of human rights, issued findings that addressed directly the overturning of Roe v. Wade. The findings, backed by a 24-member delegation of American officials that included representatives of multiple federal and state agencies, “highlighted the fraught issue of vanishing abortion access in the United States. The [C.E.R.D] urged the Biden administration to safeguard access for ethnic and racial minorities and low-income people — groups that it said would be disproportionately hit by the Supreme Court’s ruling overturning Roe v. Wade.”   

            These laws are never formulated with the welfare of pregnant persons in mind. On the contrary, they’re meant to foment uncertainty and fear, as well as sanction cruelty among those newly vested with powers to make decisions for people seeking pregnancy-related medical care. Consider recent news addressing nearly 30 cases wherein critical treatment for patients with ectopic pregnancies or a soon-to-be deceased foetus was withheld by doctors who claimed they were afraid of being charged with ‘murder.’ In states like Texas, where a foetus is legally deemed a “person,” even life-saving abortions can’t be performed until care providers obtain a sign-off from an official who is legally empowered to grant it, or until the foetal heart stops beating.[ii] Indeed, the 2014 case of Marlise Munoz underscores precisely this. John Peter Smith Hospital in Fort Worth, where Munoz was being kept without any detectable brain activity, rigged Munoz’s body to life support for two months, heartlessly (and, given the astronomical cost per diem, likely opportunistically) violating the categorical demands of the family, for the sake of a dying fetus. The case was widely considered “macabre” even by Texan standards, and the debates it triggered quickly honed in on the moral and political dimensions of the implementation in Texas of House Bill 2 (H.B. 2) in late 2013.[iii] In her January 2014 article for Al Jazeera, “‘Pro-life’ until birth,” Carolyn Jones wrote: “During the passage of House Bill 2 last summer [which aimed to reduce access to abortions], the Republican-controlled legislature rejected amendments that would have ensured postpartum visits for low-income mothers; provided cash, food and health benefits to members of the woman’s household;…and exempted victims of sexual assault and incest from abortion restrictions.” Is there anything that remains vague about the goals of those whose only objective is to prevent abortions?

            Let us go deeper and try to disentangle this snarl of law and religious ideology — nearly always an iniquitous alliance, especially if we consider the history of lawful enslavement or segregation and the legalistic sophistries girding them. To wit, in May, one month before Roe v. Wade was buried, The Guardian published a piece, “Who will be prosecuted for abortion if fetuses are recognized as people?” The author, Noa Yachot, wrote that the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers stated publicly that on top of the liabilities that already apply to abortion providers there are “thousands of crimes in the federal criminal code that may be used against pregnant people when Roe falls.” Yachot also quoted Dana Sussman, acting executive director of National Advocates for Pregnant Women (NAPW): “We’re in a completely different universe when it comes to our willingness to criminalize people,” Sussman said. “State prosecutors throughout those states can use any law that was intended to apply to the abuse or harm of children to fertilized eggs, embryos and fetuses.” In those states, it stands to reason, a person who experiences a miscarriage will be subject to scrutiny. Instead of concentrating on their emotional and physical recovery, they may find themselves in the distressing predicament of having to prove—unlike anyone standing trial for an actual crime today—that they’re not guilty of having precipitated their own miscarriage. The implications are terrifying. Margaret Atwood is no longer the author of speculative works with merely imagined dystopias.

 

            What needs recognizing is the anti-abortion laws’ full scope, reach, and impact. They’re not just restrictive and widely punitive. They’re designed to reshape American society by curtailing, if not eliminating, the critical opportunities that reproductive autonomy made possible for women. Consider but a few lines from an article written by L. Purdy, published in Journal of medical ethics in 2006: “[Reproductive] autonomy is particularly important for women,…because reproduction still takes place in women’s bodies, and because they are generally expected to take primary responsibility for child rearing…. In 2005, the factors that influence women’s reproductive autonomy most strongly are poverty, and belief systems that devalue such autonomy.” Purdy continues: “Although lack of access to the prerequisites for exercising autonomy is often a result of anti-autonomy belief systems, it can also be a consequence of racism or limitless greed.” Of note is that Purdy identifies three motives for robbing women of reproductive choice, the third of which is profit.

            Pat Brewer wrote an Introduction to Frederick Engels’s The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State, where she explained how the insights gained from Engels conformed with many of the conservative trends she was witnessing: “A campaign is currently being waged by the capitalist class and its governments to reduce real wages.…The job market has been restructured such that full-time work (and its accompanying living wage) is being transformed into part-time and casual employment, predominantly filled by women” (Brewer 8). To be clear, Brewer argued, it’s not that women are currently being pushed out of the workforce; it’s that their contingent status (made more so by the loss of reproductive autonomy) opens them up to increasingly exploitative employment strategies. Casualized employment practices “make women more vulnerable to increased exploitation, by driving down their place in the work force (lower wages, fewer hours, less job security, fewer holidays, more piece work, less safety and less unionisation)” (8).

            One doesn’t have to be a student of Marx and Engels to see the piling evidence backing Brewer’s analysis. It’s available in labour statistics, which indicate that women constitute the largest portion of the contingent workforce, as well as in articles such as “What’s Really Holding Women Back? It’s not what most people think,” published in a spring 2020 issue of the Harvard Business Review. The authors, professors Robin J. Ely and Irene Padavic, scholars of gender inequality in the workplace, begin their article with the following: “Women made remarkable progress accessing positions of power and authority in the 1970s and 1980s, but that progress slowed considerably in the 1990s and has stalled completely in this century.” Ely and Padavic collected interview data and discovered a set of pervasive and damaging suppositions about the preferences of women with children: “Unlike men, they were encouraged to take accommodations, such as going part-time and shifting to internally facing roles, which derailed their careers…[because] firm members attributed distress over work/family conflict primarily to women.” Yet aren’t such assumptions (frequently also made about childless women, as Ely and Padavic determined) a correlate of traditional belief systems? Unsurprisingly, these views just happen to align at once with upper management’s notions regarding women’s ‘primary’ role (which quickly becomes identical with their ‘obligatory’ role) and employers’ preferences for economizing on highly skilled labour.

            What Ely and Padavic don’t make explicit, unfortunately, is that the idea that woman aren’t whole (or wholesome?) if they’re not caring for children — a belief the two scholars found circulating even in corporations where women’s advancement is declared a company mandate — is part of entrenched gender ideology. Furthermore, this set of long-held and interrelated convictions constructs women’s essential purpose — when all other fugacious pursuits are swept aside — as maiden (and virgin), then wife and mother? Virtually the same belief system framed the 19th-century, Victorian-era middle-class home as the natural domain of women, without regard for age, education, and individual aspiration.[iv] Today’s extreme right in the USA would like a return to a version of Victorian society, with a few minor differences: the present-day iteration of these traditional arrangements would make room for working women, but in contingent and lower-level employment so as to capitalize on the labour of poor, racialized, immigrant women, and other marginalized groups, like temporary agricultural workers. This way religious fundamentalism and neoliberalism become bedfellows in an alliance that legitimates and perpetuates both the sexual division of labor and the exploitation and oppression of women.[v]

            How can we doubt, then, that young and working-age people will be made vulnerable by anti-abortion laws in multiple ways. In “What the ‘Roe v. Wade’ Reversal Means for Educators, Schools, and Students,” published in EducationWeek, Sarah Schwartz reports that “many education groups condemned the court’s decision… [since] the decision stands to reshape the contours of the school-age population and the people who work in it.” Not only will the Court’s decision be “putting new demands on schools in a system that some experts argue already fails to support teen parents in academic success and graduation”; it will also affect educators, given that approximately “76 percent of teachers are women, and most don’t have access to paid parental leave or health plans that cover abortion.”

            Of course, this grossly understates the potential impact of anti-abortion laws on careers in general, especially those that require individuals to earn postgraduate or professional degrees. Think of practices such as law, medicine, graduate-level research or teaching. These are but a few examples that instantly come to mind; numerous other professions entail years of intensive study and on-the-job training.

            I often wonder wistfully what my academic career would’ve looked like had I not married in my early 20s and born two children in quick succession. The majority of my current colleagues decided to have children in their late 30s and early 40s, and then — usually — they limited themselves to one child. Ageism and gender bias already conspire against women’s interests in many professions (academe included). The postponement of one’s career even by five years generally means that one is left watching from the sidelines as other colleagues, often jaw-droppingly less accomplished (too often younger and male) are handed coveted positions.

            As for elite sports, it goes without saying that the repercussions of abortion bans in the US will be momentous. Even before the overturning of Roe v. Wade, hundreds of top-ranked athletes, coaches, and players’ unions for two major women’s sports leagues, filed an amicus brief that outlined the devastating effects on athletes if abortion were made illegal. On June 24, the very same day the Supreme Court overruled the decisions in Roe v. Wade (1973) and in Planned Parenthood v. Casey (1992), Time published an interview with former American swimmer, Crissy Perham. The two-time Olympic gold medalist had never before acknowledged publicly that she had an abortion before the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. The abortion enabled her to continue training, win a major competition, and then qualify for the Olympic Games. Her story, one that must mirror those of countless other professional athletes, is punctuated by what “she sees [as] a terrible hypocrisy in the timing of today’s Supreme Court ruling, coming a day after the 50th anniversary of Title IX, the landmark legislation that mandated equal athletic opportunities for women and girls.” “How ridiculous is it that 24 hours ago, they’re praising Title IX,” Perham said. “And literally the next day, they said, ‘By the way, if you get pregnant, you’re gonna have to have a baby.’”

            Consider the willingness of even well-meaning employers in those states where the abortion ban is now in effect to hire or promote employees of child-bearing age. Aren’t they’re more likely to tell themselves now that it will be less problematic to hire men? Think again about the broader long-term social and economic objectives of anti-abortion laws. Better yet, take another look at Brewer’s arguments regarding the mounting offensive to push women back into traditional roles: “The family is the one major sphere of capitalist society in which labour replacement services can be absorbed without payment — women pick up the burden unpaid…. Monetary concessions for the one-wage household have been put into place…. If women [employed part-time or on a contingent basis] have children, their wages barely cover their childcare costs and jeopardise any family allowances paid by the state” (Brewer 8). In other words, mothers with children at home are strongly discouraged from finding work or maintaining the jobs they had before giving birth.

 

            A number of articles and essays have been catching my eye of late because they’re pertinent and offer additional clarity. Some are recent, with authors responding to the June 24 decision. One such piece is by Michael Waldman, president of the Brennan Center for Justice at NYU School of Law. The Brennan Centre for Justice is a “nonpartisan law and policy institute that focuses on improving systems of democracy and justice.” The article, “Originalism Run Amok at the Supreme Court,” published on June 28, gets at some of the manipulations (the plainly specious arguments) that bore the Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization decision. Waldman writes: “Justice Samuel Alito’s use of originalism in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization shows it to be dangerous and reactionary.” Waldman adds: “Dobbs distorts history too. Abortion was legal at the time of the founding (up until quickening), but faced bans later in the 19th century. But here was the heart of Alito’s opinion: ‘The Court finds that the right to abortion is not deeply rooted in the Nation’s history and tradition.’ What that means, in practical terms, is the Court looked to a time when women could not vote or sit on juries, when Black people were slaves, when sexual orientation was a shameful secret….in terms of the Constitution, it would repeal the 20th century.” Please note the other significant upshot of Waldman’s analysis: since the Constitution was ratified in 1788, it’s no longer possible to dissociate current-day law (or, in this case, the “majority opinion” representing the lex terrae in the US) from the societal rules, conventions, and prevailing religious beliefs of the 18th Century.[vi]

            Another recent essay is Dayna Tortorici’s rousing “Your Body, My Choice: The movement to criminalize abortion,” which n+1 Magazine published in its Summer 2022 issue (titled Unreal). Tortorici doesn’t mince words or their meanings. She begins by declaring, “Those who wish to ban legal abortion are not ‘pro-life’; they are pro-criminalization. Those who wish to protect the right to abortion are not “pro-choice”; they are anti-criminalization. Reframing the conflict in these terms clarifies the stakes.” Here you have it then: an unambiguous statement of what anti-abortion is and isn’t about.

            Referencing philosopher Judith Jarvis Thomson, and pointing out the hypocritical neglect of conditions that predispose pregnant workers to miscarriages, as well as the absence of consideration for the precarious circumstances into which children of impoverished parents are born, Tortorici decimates anti-abortion supporters’ arguments on philosophical and empirical grounds.[vii] She follows this up with the question: “What motivates the criminalization of abortion if not an invidiously discriminatory animus against women and people interpellated as women by the Court?” Precisely. The next thing that needs asking is Why? But Tortorici doesn’t supply an answer, or at least not one that digs deep and far enough into the past to explain the “serious gender revanchism” she sees being driven by “white, religious, conservative men who dismiss the evidence put forward by medical professionals that the treatment in question saves lives.” Yet explanations for belief systems that deprive people of reproductive autonomy can be marshalled, especially if one is willing to trample on some of Christianity’s oldest, most cherished articles of faith.

 

To be continued

 

End Notes

[1]In an article, “How the Salem Witch Trials Influenced the American Legal System,” Author Sarah Pruitt quotes Len Niehoff, a professor at the University of Michigan Law School, to demonstrate the Witch Trials’ continuing relevance for today’s legal scholars. Niehoff states: “It is in my view difficult to draw a direct line from the Salem witch trials to a specific existing legal doctrine, but I would argue that they have had an immense influence on how we think about the law….The trials are filled with cautionary tales about how catastrophically bad things can go when legal proceedings fail to offer certain minimum guarantees.” Niehoff goes on to mention that these became a useful reference for attorneys defending accused Americans during the McCarthyist period. For more scholarship on the subject, see Martha M.   Young’s “The Salem Witch Trials 300 Years Later: How Far Has the American Legal System Come? How Much Further Does It Need to Go?”

[1]In 1989, the supreme court upheld a Missouri law that stated in its preamble that “the life of each human being begins at conception,” and that “unborn children have protectable interests in life, health, and wellbeing.” In effect, this served as a precedent for establishing “fetal personhood,” and according rights to a foetus even in the earliest stage of development. See legal scholar Michele Goodwin’s book, Policing the Womb: Invisible Women and the Criminalization of Motherhood. Goodwin refers to Black women as the “canaries in the coal mine.” Yachot supplies the following telltale stats: “A study by the National Advocates for Pregnant Women (NAPW) found that 52% of cases of women targeted for pregnancy outcomes between 1973 and 2005 were Black, despite Black women making up about 14% of people of reproductive age.” Regina McKnight, a Black woman in South Carolina, was the first woman convicted for “homicide by child abuse” for a stillbirth due to drug use. As Goodwin points out, her case “inspired similar prosecutions of other poor black women and then of other women.” McKnight spent seven years in prison before her sentence was overturned.”

[1]See Rachel E. Swindle’s “House Bill 2: The Effect of Reducing Access to Abortion Providers on Educational Attainment in Texas.” Based on her findings, the author asserts “that the effect of H.B. 2 is associated with a decrease in graduation rates of over six percentage points and is significant at the 99.9% level.”

[1]I recommend Anita Ilta Garey’s book Weaving Work and Motherhood. Garey writes, for example: “Parenthood and employment are gendered institutions; that is, the system of social relations embedded in these social institutions are organized differently for men and women and perpetuate gender differences.” Garey argues that certain models that figure women’s ‘orientations’ toward either professional or domestic spheres unnecessarily bifurcate these preferences, tendencies, or aspirations; it’s as if women can’t negotiate the demands of both, or as if one sphere doesn’t enrich or make possible the other.

[1]Nor is the “the rejection of feminist ideas that confront th[is] naturalistic fallacy” confined to the USA, argues Gabriela Arguedas-Ramírez. Latin America became rife with it, particularly after US-led insurrections in the 1970s that overthrew left-wing governments and their then left-leaning Catholic supporters. Associate Professor Arguedas-Ramírez, who is a member of the gender studies department in the London School of Economics, published a piece on the Religion and Global Society blog of the LSE (the piece is part of a larger regional research project on anti-rights and anti-gender politics in Latin America). In “Gender Ideology, religious fundamentalism and the electoral campaign (2017-2018) in Costa Rica,” Arguedas-Ramirez wrote: “For these neoconservative movements, there is a morality of sexual difference defined by nature. The notion of gender as a socio-historical product is incompatible with patriarchal values and traditions, which are structural within religious fundamentalisms. From a neoliberal perspective, the denial of feminist postulates and gender theory has to do with naturalized ways of perpetuating and justifying the sexual division of labor and the constant exploitation of women’s bodies, particularly of impoverished women and women of color (on this, see for instance Revolution at Point Zero: Housework, Reproduction, and Feminist Struggle by Silvia Federici).” In the second footnote to this piece, Arguedas-Ramírez informs readers: “It is crucial to bring to this discussion the historical account of how evangelical missions (and its ramifications) came to Central America and established their operative centers and alliances with right wing political parties and the local oligarchy during the Cold War. The U.S. foreign policy targeted Social and grassroots organizations related to the liberation theology, which was considered a leftist distortion of Catholicism. One of the political and cultural instruments used to halt their expansion was evangelicalism.” See also Michael Cangemi’s “Catholics, Evangelicals, and US Policy in Central America.”

[1]For a Canadian perspective and analysis, see “Roe v. Wade’s fall sets a ‘frightening precedent,’ retired Canadian Supreme Court justice says” by Sean Fine. This piece offers a retired Canadian justice’s reliable analysis how legal precedent was violated by the Dobbs v. Jackson Womens Health Organization decision and the implications for other precedents. Another excellent explanation of the attack on substantive due process that the originalist strategy deployed can be found in “The Attack on Substantive Due Process: Roe v. Wade and Beyond” by Helen Guan, published in Spheres of Influence, a Canadian online publication.

[1]Tortorici is armed with helpful data: “Pro-Crime would have us stay in the realm of the hypothetical forever, as if plain facts were not before us. According to the Turnaway Study conducted by researchers at the University of California San Francisco, people who are denied abortions are almost four times more likely than those who are granted them to wind up in poverty, even if they began on equal economic footing. Sixty percent of people who seek abortions in the US have at least one child (CDC), and almost half are poor: 49 percent live below the federal poverty line. An additional 26 percent are low income (Guttmacher Institute, 2016). The median cost of a first-trimester abortion is $508; a second-trimester abortion, $1,195; and a later-term abortion can cost $3,000 or more (Guttmacher, 2018),…Meanwhile, the average cost of raising a middle-class American child from birth to 17 years of age is $233,610 — $292,051 in 2022 dollars (USDA, 2017).”

References

“Abortion and Catholic thought. The little-known history.” Conscience (Washington, D.C.) vol. 17, 3 (1996): 2-5, https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/12178868/.

Arguedas-Ramirez, Gabriela. “Gender Ideology, religious fundamentalism and the electoral campaign (2017-2018) in Costa Rica.” Religion and Global Society blog, London School of Economics, 2018, https://blogs.lse.ac.uk/religionglobalsociety/2018/12/gender-ideology-religious-fundamentalism-and-the-electoral-campaign-2017-2018-in-costa-rica/.

Birkhäuser, Martin. “Ethical issues in human reproduction: Protestant perspectives in the light of European Protestant and Reformed Churches.” Gynecological endocrinology: the official journal of the International Society of Gynecological Endocrinology vol. 29, no. 11, 2013, pp. 955-9, doi:10.3109/09513590.2013.825716

Cangemi, Michael J. “Catholics, Evangelicals, and US Policy in Central America.” Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Latin American History, 2018, https://www.sciencegate.app/document/10.1093/acrefore/9780199366439.013.636.

Cubitt, Catherine. “Virginity and Misogyny in Tenth- and Eleventh-Century England.” Gender & History, vol. 12, no. 1, 2000, pp. 1–32, https://doi.org/10.1111/1468-0424.00170.

Ely, Robin J., and Irene Padavic. “What’s Really Holding Women Back?” Harvard Business Review, 2020 (March-April), https://hbr.org/2020/03/whats-really-holding-women-back.

Engels, Friedrich. The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State. Introduction by Pat Brewer. Chippendale, N.S.W.: Resistance Books, 2004.

Fine, Sean. “Roe v. Wade’s fall sets a ‘frightening precedent,’ retired Canadian Supreme Court justice says.” The Globe and Mail. 28 June, 2022, https://www.theglobeandmail.com/world/article-roe-v-wade-supreme-court-ruling/.

Garey, Anita Ilta. Weaving Work and Motherhood. Temple University Press, 1999.

Guan, Helen. “The Attack on Substantive Due Process: Roe v. Wade and Beyond.” Spheres of Influence. 2 September, 2022,  https://spheresofinfluence.ca/the-attack-on-substantive-due-process-roe-v-wade-and-beyond/ 

Goodwin, Michele. Policing the Womb : Invisible Women and the Criminal Costs of Motherhood. Cambridge University Press, 2020.

Hofmann, Melissa A. and Felicia Jean Steele. “Virginity and Chastity for Women in Late Antiquity, Anglo-Saxon England, and Late Medieval England: On the Continuity of Ideas.” TCNJ Journal. vol 9, April 2007, pp. 1-10.

Hovey, G. “Abortion: a history.” Planned parenthood review vol. 5, no. 2, 1985, pp. 18-21, https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/12340403/

Jones, Carolyn. “‘Pro-life’ until birth: Muñoz case highlights political tensions in Texas.” Al Jazeera (America). 20 Jan, 2014. http://america.aljazeera.com/articles/2014/1/20/a-pro-life-untilbirthamuaozcasehighlightstexaspoliticaltensions.html.

Ladriere, P. “Religion, morale et politique: le débat sur l’avortement.” Revue française de sociologie, vol. 23, no. 3, 1982, pp. 417–54, https://doi.org/10.2307/3320988.

Méndez, María. “Texas laws say treatments for miscarriages, ectopic pregnancies remain legal but leave lots of space for confusion.” Texas Tribune. 20 July, 2022. https://www.texastribune.org/2022/07/20/texas-abortion-law-miscarriages-ectopic-pregnancies/

Nussbaum, Martha C. “Constructing Love, Desire, and Care.” In Sex and Social Justice. New York: Oxford University Press, Incorporated, 1999. Print.

Purdy, L. “Women’s Reproductive Autonomy: Medicalisation and Beyond.” Journal of Medical Ethics, vol. 32, no. 5, 2006, pp. 287–91, https://doi.org/10.1136/jme.2004.013193.

Pruit, Sarah. “How the Salem Witch Trials Influenced the American Legal System: Those accused lacked basic legal protections, including the premise that one was innocent until proven guilty.” History. 4 Oct, 2021, shorturl.at/dqrTY

Rodrigues, M. “The Absurd Pregnancy Math behind the ‘Six-Week’ Abortion Ban: The law the Supreme Court just failed to block is not just a blow to women; it’s biologically nonsensical.” Scientific American, Reproduction/Opinion section. 4 Sept, 2021, https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-absurd-pregnancy-math-behind-the-lsquo-six-week-rsquo-abortion-ban/.

Schwartz, S. “What the ‘Roe v. Wade’ Reversal Means for Educators, Schools, and Students.” EducationWeek. 24 June, 2022 (Updated: June 27, 2022), https://www.edweek.org/policy-politics/what-the-roe-v-wade-reversal-means-for-educators-schools-and-students/2022/06.

Swindle, Rachel E. House Bill 2: The Effect of Reducing Access to Abortion Providers on Educational Attainment in Texas. ProQuest Dissertations Publishing, 2020, https://repository.library.georgetown.edu/handle/10822/1059644.

“UN Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination publishes findings on Azerbaijan, Benin, Nicaragua, Slovakia, Suriname, United States of America and Zimbabwe.” United Nations Human Rights, Office of the High Commissioner. 30 August, 2022. Geneva. https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2022/08/un-committee-elimination-racial-discrimination-publishes-findings-azerbaijan.

Tortorici, Dayna. “Your Body, My Choice: The movement to criminalize abortion.” n+1 Magazine. Issue 43 (Unreal), Summer 2022, https://www.nplusonemag.com/issue-43/the-intellectual-situation/your-body-my-choice/.

Tumanov, V. “Mary Versus Eve: Paternal Uncertainty and the Christian View of Women.” Neophilologus 95 (2011): 507–521, https://doi.org/10.1007/s11061-011-9253-5

Waldman. Michael. “Originalism Run Amok at the Supreme Court: The constitutional theory is now a threat to modern life.” Brennan Center for Justice. Analysis & Opinion section. 28 June, 2002, https://www.brennancenter.org/our-work/analysis-opinion/originalism-run-amok-supreme-court.

Yacht, N. “Who will be prosecuted for abortion if fetuses are recognized as people?” The Guardian. Law (US). 18 May, 2022, https://www.theguardian.com/law/2022/may/18/abortion-prosecution-fetal-homicide-law.

Young, Martha M. “The Salem Witch Trials 300 Years Later: How Far Has the American Legal System Come? How Much Further Does It Need to Go?” Tulane Law Review, vol. 64, no. 1, 1989, p. 235–.

Continue to Part 2 in WCLJ’s November Issue

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Olga Stein holds a PhD in English, and is a university and college instructor. She has taught writing, communications, modern and contemporary Canadian and American literature. Her research focuses on the sociology of literary prizes. A manuscript of her book, The Scotiabank Giller Prize: How Canadian is now with Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Stein is working on her next book, tentatively titled, Wordly Fiction: Literary Transnationalism in Canada. Before embarking on a PhD, Stein served as the chief editor of the literary review magazine, Books in Canada, and from 2001 to 2008 managed the amazon.com-Books in Canada First Novel Award (now administered by Walrus magazine). Stein herself contributed some 150 reviews, 60 editorials, and numerous author interviews to Books in Canada (the online version is available at http://www.booksincanada.com). A literary editor and academic, Stein has relationships with writers and scholars from diverse communities across Canada, as well as in the US. Stein is interested in World Literature, and authors who address the concerns that are now central to this literary category: the plight of migrants, exiles, and the displaced, and the ‘unbelonging’ of Indigenous peoples and immigrants. More specifically, Stein is interested in literary dissidents, and the voices of dissent, those who challenge the current political, social, and economic status quo. Stein is the editor of the memoir, Playing Under The Gun: An Athlete’s Tale of Survival in 1970s Chile by Hernán E. Humaña.

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Don’t Ask Me Where I’m from during a Gynecological Exam. non-fiction by Domnica Radulescu

picture radulescu

Don’t Ask Me Where I’m from during a Gynecological Exam

In general, don’t ask me where I’m from, all right? Don’t tell me about my accent and how it’s cute and interesting, or that it’s so cool I come from such and such a place and how you know another person from my country or a neighboring country, who is your sister-in-law’s nanny or cleaning woman or dentist. Control yourself. Keep your selfish curiosity about my origins and accent and where I’m from. I haven’t asked you about any of that because truly I don’t give a damn. And neither should you give a damn about where I’m from. Don’t ask just so you can establish your Americanness and my foreignness; just so you can feel good about being interested in other cultures; just so you can tell the next person with an accent that you met another person with an accent; or so you can tell your sister-in-law that you met someone else from the same country as her cleaning lady. Really now. Why would you need to know about my origins and my accent, unless you are a linguistic anthropologist studying accents in the English language, and you are working on some study about the sociopolitical or ethnographic importance of accents.

If you are a linguistic anthropologist, shouldn’t you be savvy and sensitive enough not to be asking such questions in this uncouth manner, or not at all? And if you insist on going ahead, then clearly you haven’t learned a thing about the need for thoughtfulness in all human interactions. You know nothing about the tender spots that us immigrants, refugees, exiles, in these blessed United States (where, by the way, I too am a citizen just like you) carry imprinted deeply in our psyches. Nor do you grasp the duplicities and layers of identity, the landscapes and realities carved in our flesh and hearts! Furthermore, your work on the sociopolitical value of accents is worthless no matter how famous you are and how prestigious the press is that’s publishing this great study of yours. So, when I am in the grocery store and I ask where the aisle for sun-dried tomatoes is, or gluten-free breads, don’t you even think of asking me where I am from and what kind of accent I have! Just tell me where the sun-dried tomatoes and the gluten-free breads are, if you have any.

Most importantly — sun-dried tomatoes and gluten-free bread aside — don’t you even get anywhere close to thinking that you can ask me about where I’m from or mention that my accent is lovely during a gynecological exam. I am lying here with a huge thing, a probe, an instrument inserted inside my vagina. I’m vulnerable and worried, wondering what the result of this examination might be. Yet, as you examine the depths of my reproductive system, the cervical tunnel, the cave of my uterus, the pear shaped balls of my ovaries, and as this wonder of modern medicine, the ultrasound probe, is probing like mad inside the most intimate cavities of my body, you think it’s all right to comment on the loveliness of my accent — as you dig deeper, both literally and figuratively — and ask about the origin of my accent, and then announce how exciting it is for you to find out about people’s origins and accents. 

I have a bottomless bag of insults, swear words for every part of male and female genitalia, and every action performed by those different parts, that I badly want to hurl in your face in the four or five languages I speak. But frankly, I want to keep you on my good side for now because you are the one with the probe inserted in my vagina, and I’m the one lying here vulnerable with my legs on the stirrup, each pointing to a different cardinal point — that is, towards the many universes of my accents, my origins, my homes, and all the parts of me that you so callously just disrespected. So, I go along and tell you about my birthplace and my accent, biting the heavy bitter nauseating bullet of this question about my accent and my origins, which I’ve heard a million times already. Meanwhile, I fantasize about all the ways I should have answered. I promise myself to act on my plans for initiating a form of activism that is a stand against questions about people’s accents and origins. I swallow my tears of rage and even smile as you go on probing my insides and sharing your interest in foreign accents. I have to keep you on my good side. You are the one with the probe and I am the one with the foreign vagina.

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Domnica Radulescu is a Romanian American writer who arrived in the United States in the early eighties as a political refugee.  She settled in Chicago where she obtained a PhD in Romance Languages from the University of Chicago in 1992. Radulescu is the author of three critically acclaimed novels, Train to Trieste (Knopf 2008 &2009), Black Sea Twilight (Transworld 2011 & 2012) and Country of Red Azaleas (Hachette 2016), and of award-winning plays. Train to Trieste has been published in thirteen languages and is the winner of the 2009 Library of Virginia Fiction Award. Radulescu received the 2011 Outstanding Faculty Award from the State Council of Higher Education for Virginia. Radulescu also published fourteen non-fiction books, edited and co-edited collections on topics ranging from the tragic heroine in western literature to feminist comedy, to studies of exile literature and two collections of original plays. Dream in a Suitcase. The Story of an immigrant Life is her first memoir, and it was released in January 2022.  Radulescu is twice a Fulbright scholar and the founding director of the National Symposium of Theater in Academe.

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The End. non-fiction by Susan Glickman

Pastel drawing of Rachel and Toby, 2021, by Susan Glickman

The End

A dear friend had to put her dog down recently, and in commiserating with her I found myself reflecting, not for the first time, about the inconsistency between our society’s attitude to the silent suffering of our pets and that we maintain towards the (not always silent) suffering of our human companions. Too often I’ve watched people I love endure treatments that don’t work until they are ultimately consigned to “palliative care” – which may be, in fact, neither palliative nor caring. For example, a nurse in one such facility explained that she had to ration morphine “because it is addictive,” despite the fact that the patient she refused to give it to was my dying 85-year-old mother, who had insufficient time left in which to become an addict.

Veterinarians advise us when it is time to say goodbye to our pets, confident that they can read their body language. They believe, and we usually agree, that it is truly compassionate to ease animals into a painless death rather than forcing them to carry on until whenever their bodies finally collapse. We hold them and comfort them and tell them we love them, and then we let them go. But doctors do not recommend this for our friends and relations. On the contrary, most physicians will encourage us to try whatever procedures are available to ward off the inevitable.

We have all become victims of aspirational statistics: not just patients, but their families as well. Sometimes those families have to make decisions for patients too ill to choose for themselves and if there is the slightest possibility of even a few more months of life, no matter how pitiable that life’s quality, they feel compelled to take it. The result can be putting people through torture in the hope that they might live just a wee bit longer.

I used the word “torture” advisedly. Not because I think doctors are sadistic or that people are unloving, but because that is how ailing bodies experience many potential cures. This is especially true of the surgery followed by chemotherapy that every dying person in my own cancer-prone family underwent, and that failed to prolong anyone’s life significantly once you subtracted all the time they spent getting and recovering from such procedures from the time those procedures supposedly “added” to their lives. But every single one of them opted for radical intervention.

Why? Because doctors offered it to them.

Doctors cannot help themselves, being professionally compelled by what Abraham Kaplan called “the law of the instrument.” That is, to a person with a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. Deciding to use that hammer may be easier in countries like Canada with socialized medicine, but my American friends and relations don’t seem to hesitate either, whatever the expense. Mexicans may dress up as skeletons to commune with their departed loved ones on the Día de los Muertos, but in the northern parts of this continent we aren’t very good at accepting that death is the natural end of life.

Or we weren’t, until Covid. The pandemic inspired many folks to suddenly make wills and put their houses in order. Everyone was sorting, filing, and purging. Farewell, jacket worn once and held onto for sentimental reasons, shoes that pinched, garish scarves; Au Revoir, Lego bricks belonging to now-adult children, their abandoned teddy bears and jigsaw puzzles; Adios, unconsulted cookbooks and unread novels. Because Goodwill shut its doors and the usual charities were not accepting donations, fearful that the coronavirus might be transmitted on castoffs, anonymous stuff piled up on sidewalks for passersby to forage through or was advertised as “gifts” on Facebook neighbourhood groups.

Not all this discarded gear was broken or tattered. Perfectly good musical instruments, sewing and knitting supplies, exercise equipment, and travel guides were tossed because of their owners’ belated recognition that some possible futures were mere fantasies. As Samuel Johnson remarked, “When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”

Having attended far too many funerals before I was legally an adult and having lost far too many friends subsequently, I myself have always been prepared to depart. I never go on a trip without thoroughly cleaning the house, paying the bills, organizing receipts for the current tax year, and reminding my children where to find important documents, passwords to bank accounts, keys to the safety deposit box, and so forth. I have drawn up a living will as well as instructions for my literary executor about what to do with my unpublished manuscripts and all those bankers’ boxes full of book drafts and literary correspondence.

 Death has always perched on my shoulder like a pet raven.

And yet. And yet. My own beloved dog is almost seventeen years old, and every day I get with him now seems like a gift. If he got ill, would I have the heart to say goodbye a nanosecond earlier than necessary? He cannot talk, so he cannot plead, “Let me go please; it’s time.” He cannot give me absolution in advance, as my grandmother did when I offered to cancel my flight back to England so I could stay with her until the end. “Go, darling,” she said. “There is nothing more for you to do here.” Forty years later, when I was about to travel in the other direction after a visit to a dying friend, my darling Helen simply said, “We shall never see each other again.” I was the one who broke down crying, not her.

When the time to say goodbye arrives, will my dog be able to tell me so?

And will my family let me go, when my time comes?

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Susan Glickman grew up in Montreal and lives in Toronto where she works as a freelance editor and is learning to paint. She is the author of seven books of poetry, most recently What We Carry (2019), four novels for adults, including The Tale-Teller (2012), a trilogy of middle-grade chapter books, a work of literary history, and a selection of essays, Artful Flight (2022).

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Literary Spotlight. Grandmaster in Flash! Michael Loveday in conversation with Sue Burge

Michael-AUTHOR PHOTO 3

GRANDMASTER FLASH! An interview with Michael Loveday.

This month I’m so pleased to be interviewing Michael Loveday, an expert in flash fiction and, in particular, the novella-in-flash.  As a poet, I’ve often wondered if I could transition to prose, and Michael’s journey has given me inspiration and reassurance!

Michael, could you describe the moment when you first thought, “I’m a writer” or “I want to be a writer”?  Was it a gradual revelation or a sudden epiphany?

I remember having to write a book review for a journal, about 10 years after I’d begun writing, and I wasn’t especially looking forward to it. I said to myself: I will sit down for one hour in a café with a pen and a blank page and complete the review within that time. I knuckled down to it, wrote the review in what I felt was a creative way, and left the café elated that I’d completed a kind of creative “assignment” under time pressure. I remember having the thought: “Yes, I’m a writer now!” Which is kind of amusing in hindsight. I’m not sure it was the greatest review, but the feeling within me was clear. And yet it arrived 10 years after I’d first started writing. So I guess it was a very slow, gradual onset that led to a belated awakening.

You started off as a poet, establishing the only magazine in the UK dedicated to the sonnet, 14 Magazine, which is still running under a different editor.  What attracted you to poetry?  Do you still write it?  What aspects of poetry helped you to transition to the world of flash fiction and the novella-in-flash?

My first poem (as an adult, as opposed to the dabbling I’d done in English classes at school) was a response to a canal-side walk I’d undertaken with my father, at a time (back in 2001) when he’d just been through a health scare. I was going through my own health difficulties at the time and our walk really imprinted itself in my mind – both the emotions of the conversation and also the physical setting of the canal. I don’t really understand why I chose to write a poem about it, rather than a short story, or a piece of reflective writing – I wasn’t even reading poetry at the time. So that aspect of the impulse remains a mystery. Anyway, the poem happened, and I got hooked. It was a way of distracting and entertaining myself during my recovery, and then I just kept going.

Michael Loveday - pamphlet photo

In terms of moving into fiction, in 2011 I’d had my first poetry pamphlet published, but also I was itching for something new after 10 years with the form. I’d written some short-short stories and narrative prose poems during my MA (2009-2011), and gradually the fiction seized more and more of my attention, until the poetry more or less fell aside for the next 10 years. Partly because journals seemed to accept my fiction submissions more readily than they accepted my poems, so I didn’t want to keep pushing a boulder uphill. What aspects of poetry helped me make the transition to flash fiction? Maybe the attention to detail – to vivid word choices, to the music of sentences, to concision – is something common to both forms. I think it did help that I’d spent 10 years bashing out bad poems – a sort of apprenticeship in writing.  

I’m sure they weren’t bad poems!  I love that idea of an apprenticeship in writing…Your new book, a collection of short short stories, is coming out soon.  There are so many definitions for this kind of short fiction: mini-sagas, dribbles, drabbles, micro-fiction, flash fiction, short short stories.  What advice would you give to someone who wants to navigate through these forms.  Sometimes it’s down to the word count, but are there any key differences?

I love the term mini-sagas! Hadn’t encountered that one before. I would say that some of these terms are definitely distinct from each other – for example, “dribbles” have 50 words, “drabbles” have 100 words, “micro-fiction” has been generally understood to be stories under 250 words.

From the language of it, a “mini-saga” sounds like it really ought to be a “very condensed epic” – i.e. something short in word length, with a beginning, middle and end in which a set of events are narrated, taking place over an extended period of time. In a similar way, “short-short story” I have always felt is more inclined to have a distinct beginning, middle and end, with actions/events occurring in a given time and place.

Whereas, for me at least, “flash fiction” as a category feels broader and can be much harder to pin down – apart from having an absolute upper limit of 1,000 words in length, “flash fiction” could comprise anything from a stream-of-consciousness monologue of someone’s inner thoughts in a very individualised voice, to an exchange of pure dialogue – without action or description – between two characters, to a very action-driven story that vividly specifies physical detail and setting, to a fable that relies on generic, archetypal figures rather than characterised individuals and settings, to something atmospheric and meditative that feels quite similar to a prose poem while still containing narrative movement, to a “narrative situation” implied by a till receipt (i.e. the story is actually written like a till receipt), and all number of weird and wonderful things in between. And even though flash’s ceiling is set at 1,000 words, it’s probably fair to say that most published flashes do tend to sit somewhere between 250 and 750 words in length. So the 1,000 word limit can feel a bit irrelevant – it’s actually relatively rare to encounter published flash fictions that are 900 to 1,000 words long.

I think “dribbles” might be akin to “mini-sagas” as they also have 50 words.  It was something The Daily Telegraph newspaper innovated.  I think even Salman Rushdie had a go!

Your craft guide, Unlocking the Novella-in-Flash, came out this year. Would you ever tackle a novel or is there something very specific about the novella-in-flash that appeals to you? Is it difficult to market this genre?  It’s still unusual in the UK to find novella-in-flash.  How do you tackle being “niche”?

Unlocking the Novella-in-Flash-web

I would like to tackle a novel, one day, yes. If I have an idea that feels like it could fit the novel form. There is certainly something about the novella-in-flash that really appeals to me – that fusion of compression and expansion. And the potential for the flash fiction writer to act like a novelist. Personally, I don’t see it as difficult to market this form – there are plenty of novellas-in-flash that have sold well in the broader marketplace for literary fiction (for example, Justin Torres’s We the Animals, Sandra Cisneros’s The House on Mango Street, and Max Porter’s Grief is the Thing With Feathers are three well-known works of literary fiction that could be described as novellas-in-flash), as well as plenty of novellas-in-flash that have been very popular within the flash fiction community exclusively.

It’s really hard to answer the last question! If you’re part of the flash fiction community, the novella-in-flash doesn’t really feel “niche”, at least not to me. It feels like an extremely popular form, with a lot of buzz surrounding it. I’d say it’s no more “niche” than the story cycle is for novelists and short story writers – it’s “a niche” that happens to be really quite popular and have an enthusiastic following!

That’s really interesting and makes me reflect on the wide variety of writing communities which are around and the rich opportunities they offer to all writers.  I love your idea of thinking of these communities as “a niche” rather than “niche” – that sits much better! What advice would you give to writers who have tried flash fiction and might be ready to tackle something longer and more sustained?

Immerse in your characters’ lives and spend more time getting to know these people than you would for a one-off flash fiction. Let yourself fall in love with them more. And then be patient and see what unfolds!

As a creative coach you come across all types of practitioners: writers, musicians, artists.  Do you think we all have the same doubts in common?  Is there one golden nugget of advice you would give to creatives to help them sustain their vision/practice?

I suppose some doubts arise from experiences common to most forms of creative practice – fear of embarrassment, the pain of rejection or perceived failure, finding the will and making the time to be persistent and to practice regularly, and so on. And a smaller number of doubts are perhaps very industry-specific, maybe arising from technology or equipment or materials, or environmental constraints, or something technical about craft. But I’d say there are certainly core aspects to being a creative practitioner underlying these experiences, and it’s remarkable how many creative people are thinking and feeling similar things, whether on a fleeting or sustained basis, even if they aren’t telling people out loud.

Something I do tend to recommend to people is to find mutual allies who can support your creative practice over the long term. Plus I recommend keeping a journal – exploring your specific creative projects, the practicalities of your creative process and habits, and your longer-term creative journey. It can be a place for supporting yourself and finding out new things about what you really think and feel and yearn for.

That’s such good advice, I really like the idea of this kind of reflective journal. What’s next for you Michael, are there any new forms you would like to try, or even to invent?!

What’s most immediately next is a chapbook of short-short stories (Do What the Boss Says) due out in November from Bamboo Dart Press, which I’m really looking forward to publishing. It’s a miscellaneous set of stories tied together by the common subjects of family, childhood, and the adult-child dynamic, but with plenty of weird or surreal or fable-like elements arising in the midst of it. Aside from that, what’s next is a poetry manuscript I’m working on. I’ll have to have a think about how it might include new forms – thanks for the suggestion! And thanks, Sue, for your questions. I’ve really enjoyed the process.  

Michael Loveday is a fiction writer and poet, and has been an editor and tutor of creative writing for more than a decade. His publications are: the craft guide Unlocking the Novella-in-Flash: from Blank Page to Finished Manuscript (Ad Hoc Fiction, 2022); the hybrid novella-in-flash Three Men on the Edge (V. Press, 2018); the poetry chapbook He Said / She Said (HappenStance Press, 2001); and, forthcoming in November, a collection of short-short stories called Do What the Boss Says: Stories of Family and Childhood (Bamboo Dart Press, 2022). Michael lives in Bath, England, and mentors novella-in-flash writers through his online programme at www.novella-in-flash.com.

Three Men on the Edge - Book Cover

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Sue Burge is a poet and freelance creative writing and film studies lecturer based in North Norfolk in the UK.  She worked for over twenty years at the University of East Anglia in Norwich teaching English, cultural studies, film and creative writing and was an Associate Lecturer in Creative Writing with the Open University.  Sue is an experienced workshop leader and has facilitated sessions all over the world, working with a wide range of people – international students, academics, retired professionals from all walks of life, recovering addicts, teenagers and refugees. She has travelled extensively for work and pleasure and spent 2016 blogging as The Peripatetic Poet.  She now blogs as Poet by the Sea. In 2016 Sue received an Arts Council (UK) grant which enabled her to write a body of poetry in response to the cinematic and literary legacy of Paris.  This became her debut chapbook, Lumière, published in 2018 by Hedgehog Poetry Press.  Her first full collection, In the Kingdom of Shadows, was published in the same year by Live Canon. Sue’s poems have appeared in a wide range of publications including The North, Mslexia, Magma, French Literary Review, Under the Radar, Strix, Tears in the Fence, The Interpreter’s House, The Ekphrastic Review, Lighthouse and Poetry News.   She has featured in themed anthologies with poems on science fiction, modern Gothic, illness, Britishness, endangered birds, WWI and the current pandemic.  Her latest chapbook, The Saltwater Diaries, was published this Autumn (2020) by Hedgehog Poetry Press and her second collection Confetti Dancers came out in April 2021 with Live Canon.  More information at www.sueburge.uk

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Domnica Radulescu’s Dream in a Suitcase, an extraordinary story of our time, surfing on the geography of exile. a review by Michèle Sarde

Domnica Radulescu’s Dream in a Suitcase, an extraordinary story of our time, surfing on the geography of exile

By Michèle Sarde
Translated from the French by Dana Chirila

Can a dream travel in a small suitcase and eventually become reality?

To answer this question, writer Domnica Radulescu puts on paper a gripping account of her life and her writing. In the 80s, the narrator left her native Romania with a small suitcase containing a few summer things, a first volume of short stories entitled “Yes but life”, and a legal visa for Italy. Later, she will fulfill her destiny as a refugee in America, then as a global citizen of a free country. This novel about exile and the kingdom, about nostalgia for the lost homeland and a fearful, hard-earned access to a new homeland, about loneliness and the sense of exclusion, ends with that form of resilience that is the writing of a book, then its publication—a universal homeland, a planetary homeland made of all the small belongings that constitute our countries of birth and adoption. Only art can unify in an identical nostalgia each of our individual lives that we must live to the full before the Great Departure.

As in a fairy tale, the dream cooped up in the small suitcase that the young Romanian woman carries away from a country where she cannot live freely will lead the reader into a zigzag of adventures, on the roller coaster of the back-and-forth between her native country and her adoptive country, in a frantic odyssey whose Ulysses is a woman in search of an Ithaca constantly within reach, yet just beyond her grasp.

Is it possible to return to a native country more democratic and more livable after the revolution against the Ceausescus? To a first love fractured by history and time? To a model of the female bound by old conventions? Step by step, this book will shed light on why such homecomings, whether geographical, historical, or generic, are literally impossible. And for good reason! But it will also show how these returns and flashbacks allow the character to move forward.

This is the story of a wandering: between the life of a woman, mother, lover, and the life of career, work, creativity. Between two husbands, two children, two languages, and so on. But the metaphysical question or that of identity is not about “who”, but about “where”. Where am I? Where is my real home? Bucharest or Chicago? Brasov or a small town in the Confederate South? The answer is in resilience, in art, in the novel, in the theatre, which make it possible to overcome all these contradictions. The kingdom is in the book.

This book could be called simply “A Life”, like the novel of the same name by Maupassant. Not just any life. The life of a woman of our time, able to take her story to dizzying heights. Maupassant’s book Une Vie is a fiction written by a man about a fully submissive female doomed to disillusionment and self-destruction. In Dream in a Suitcase, the life the heroine dreams of will not lead to boredom, a succession of disenchantments, abandonment, and death. This life will be worth living. She will be tossed away, torn from her roots, carried away by the winds of history, but standing tall like the tree in the yard of the Confederate sheriff’s house that she has made her own.

Dream is simultaneously the memoir of an émigrée, the saga of a refugee in search of the American dream, and testimony to the experience of an increasing number of migrants who cross the planet by land, air, or sea, to achieve a peaceful life for their children and descendants.

It is also a history lesson on totalitarianism in the last century, including the one imposed by the Soviet regime on the satellite countries that emerged from the Second World War, with its incessant surveillance, its privations and the omnipresent shadow of the Securitate, the terrible police that hunted down citizens even in their most intimate actions, even in their most private whispers. Its secret agents haunt and feed this story with an incurable trauma, an open sore on a wound that will nevertheless become the very source of writing. Expatriation in a land of freedom will unleash in the author a sincerity, an honesty, even more exceptional for having grown up in a country of censorship and terror.

First there is Romania, the native country, the magical aura of the Carpathian forests, the hills inhabited by mythical shepherds with their flocks, the landscapes, the smells and flavors of almond and rose jams prepared by maternal hands, the reminiscences of a small street, a mountain path, the taste of a last kiss, the immeasurable pain of separation on a station platform. Everything that could not be named in a country petrified by the gag on speech, and whose true goal of clandestine escape is called freedom of expression.

And then there is America, first an idealized figment of a young girl’s imagining, hungry to build her life, who knows nothing of the obstacles and torments of immigration, even in a country made up of immigrants who must drop off their suitcases when entering and erase the memory of their homeland to become full citizens. That is precisely what the narrator refuses to do, resolved to hold onto her suitcase and to build a new life for herself and her family without renouncing the other one. This she will achieve by blending the Romania of her childhood, youth, and first loves, with the America of her adult life. Gradually, as she puts down roots in a small town in Virginia, she will experience other loves, bear children, gain tenure at the university and win recognition of her talent as a writer. Like so many other women, she is a Mother Courage, who will eventually find her home and her spacious garden with its majestic oak reigning over a “people” of trees dominated by apple trees, a magnolia, and young maples. And make it her home.

From one end of the book to the other, Romania changes. And the American dream vanishes from the little suitcase and traverses all those ups and downs we call disappointments, disenchantments, regrets. But the narrator moves on too. Never mind where! Exile is everywhere to be sure, but the kingdom is within ourselves and others, in love for children, husbands, lovers, friends, and especially in writing, the finest form of sharing between the self and others.

The alternating sense of exclusion of a nomad wandering between two worlds and that of a citizen of the world at home everywhere is the very fabric of this unclassifiable book, and ultimately embodies the diversity of genres.

Its carefully constructed architecture avoids bland chronology and tracks the back and forth, the detours, and the entangled strata of the past, by repeating them, reviving them in other forms, imparting different colors and meanings. Their echoes give this book a lyrical and poetic tone whose keyword, the Romanian word dor, untranslatable, expresses the very essence of that feeling, the blues, declined across many registers. The nostalgia of being at home in the very heart of elsewhere reveals too that it is elsewhere itself that becomes our homeland. Only the dor can evoke with such grace and accuracy the torments of separation and its melancholy, this aspiration, this inexplicable desire, this longing for all that has been lost, all that could have been lost, all that one might have had without having it: “an inexplicable longing and yearning for everything you lost or might have lost or might have had but never got”.

The originality of this theme is that it is viewed through a woman’s eyes. In a world of men, woman is a perpetual exile, forced by millennia of servitude to adapt to a world forged and administered by triumphant virility. The narrator must overcome a host of obstacles to achieve this freedom to be a mother, a teacher, an artist, and even a lover, without returning to square one: submission to a husband or to a system that confines women within a category from which they have never entirely broken free.

Dream tells a simple, universal story, one in which all of the world’s women will recognize themselves. It recounts the difficulty of successfully leading one’s life on all fronts at once—family, children, career, creation, love—within a space of time limited by the fatal biological clock that obliges young women to succeed and achieve everything simultaneously. But this story is further complicated when you come from elsewhere, when you have a foreign accent, habits, a culture and a distinctive mentality, and when you do not know the codes of what has come to be your children’s homeland. The young Romanian woman will discover them little by little and adapt them to her mold, not mold herself to them. She manages to remain Romanian while becoming American in the full sense of the word. This is the strength of a people of émigrées. And literature accompanies this transformation not only as a tool but also as a source of inspiration, because the successful immigrant transforms the host society as much as the latter transforms her, and this is how racism and xenophobia may give way to understanding and sharing.

To wage this war and achieve peace with oneself and with others, with one country and another, with one language and another, this Mother Courage has all the qualities of courage and dignity that such struggles demand. But what strikes the reader in this protracted inner struggle is the love of life that carries her along and keeps her standing, looking to the future with eyes wide open. An example of resilience illustrated by a firm, direct, precise, often lyrical style, infused with a humor that vanquishes anger, a spirit of mild derision, in which many readers will recognize themselves.

The narrator-turned-author will eventually open the little suitcase, worn out by so many round trips, and she will transform it into a trunk where the dream will multiply. And from the contents of the trunk she will make a novel, transforming the dream not into reality, but into fiction. From this duplication will emerge two young women, the author and her character, the girl on the departing train and the girl who watches her into the distance. The first will be material for the fiction of a first novel. The second is the one that tells us the true story in this masterful memoir, which contains them both, author and character, but also the two homes, the two continents, the two languages, the old roots and the new. And the miracle will happen, publication and success. This new adventure, at the very heart of the existence that started as a fantasy sealed like a genie in a bottle, is told with honesty and exceptional simplicity. Certainly, with it comes the dream of celebrity, but the payoff of glory is a bitter potion, a reality that the author turned star evokes as sincerely as she conjures the tomorrows that disappoint and the drawbacks of fame that anchor the ephemeral in the history of literature.

Dream tells the in-between of writing and publishing, succeeding and starting again. A woman who has met life head on, a refugee who has integrated without losing her identity, the very symbol of America’s ability to Americanize all she touches. Between young America and old Europe, migrants are the new pioneers of a citizenship that spans the world, America being its microcosm.

An extraordinary story of our time, surfing on the geography of exile to make it the place where we are everywhere at home, told in a feminine language translatable into all the others.

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MichèleSarde

Michèle Sarde, Professor Emerita at Georgetown University, is a French novelist, essayist and biographer. Her work focuses on women, as well as personal and historical memory. Sarde’s numerous books include Colette: A Biography (Académie française award), Regard sur les Françaises (Perspectives on Frenchwomen, Académie française and Académie des Sciences morales et politiques awards), Vous, Marguerite Yourcenar, Jacques the Frenchman: Memories of the Gulag, Revenir du silence (WIZO award, to appear in English with the title “Returning from Silence: Jenny’s Story”). www.michelesarde.com

YŪKO TSUSHIMA, (2022) Woman Running in the Mountains. a review by Livi Michael

YŪKO TSUSHIMA, (2022) Woman Running in the Mountains, New York Review Books £14.99 trans Geraldine Harcourt, Introduction Lauren Groff.

Woman Running in the Mountains; Yuko Tsushima (New York Review Books: 2022)

This novel, first published in 1980, begins with a section called simply, Midsummer. On the first page, the central character, Takiko Odawa, is woken by labour pains. She sets off alone and on foot from her parent’s house without waking them, to the hospital, where she gives birth to a baby boy.

We learn that her pregnancy is the result of a brief affair with a married man, and is a source of shame to her parents. Her mother has repeatedly suggested that she should have an abortion or give the baby up while her abusive father reacts with violence, regularly beating his daughter. There are telling details of the deprived neighbourhood in which she lives, and Takiko’s refusal to walk with her head down. Thus far, we appear to be in the territory of social realism, or naturalism. Tsushima has a lot to say about attitudes, customs and regulations concerning women and pregnancy in late twentieth century Japan, the socially and legally enforced prejudice against single parenthood.

However interesting this is, it is not all this novel has to offer. In her introduction, Lauren Groff says that the text offers the reader ‘astonishing, glittering moments of wonder’ while never forgetting the darker details of poverty and discrimination. She suggests that ‘the ferocious truth of this book’ is that out of the daily struggle with drudgery ‘greatness arises.’ Takiko, subject to all the constraints of poverty, prejudice and violence, has a visionary sense that responds to nature, to sexuality and motherhood. At first, this takes the form of dreams and reverie, but as it develops, Takiko’s world changes. She moves from a passive acquiescence to men’s overtures to initiating sex firstly with a previous boyfriend and later with Kambayushi, a man she works with, whose own son is disabled. Her feelings for Kambayushi are strongly linked to her feelings for her son ‘to see Kambayushi’s face was to try out her feelings for Akira’. The scene where he talks about his love for his son, who will never mature as other children, is one of the most moving of the book.

Tsushima avoids the easy trajectory of romance. Takiko remains alone with her son. Yet there is a transformation of a different kind, accompanied by some exquisite descriptions of nature. While there is a suggestion of female solidarity throughout the novel, it is Takiko’s connection to the natural world that empowers her. As the narrative unfolds, the boundary between the ‘real’ world and the visionary diminishes until almost imperceptible linguistic shifts suggest that the two have merged. In her chapter in The Short Story in German in the 21st Century, Áine McMurty reflects on Yoko Tawada’s ‘reflexive re-embodiments of linguistic and geographic spaces’. This phrase can usefully be applied to Tsushima’s novel. It slips unobtrusively between the real and the surreal and a visionary sense that originates in Takiko’s body. By the end, Takiko has ‘groped blindly in the intense light of her own body’ towards a different path.

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Livi Michael has published nineteen full-length works of fiction for adults, young adults and children, as well as a number of short stories in magazines including Granta. He has a PhD in Literature and leads the MA in Publishing Programme at Manchester Metropolitan University.

www.livimichael.co.uk

Livi Michael

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