From Schools to Suffering: A Story of Intergenerational Trauma in the Native American Community

Sophia Wessel

ENGL 111 Best Paper Contest Winner, 2020

“Kill the Indian, save the man,” stated Captain Richard H. Pratt in 1892 at George Mason University (Bear 8).  Pratt developed a concept to implant white Christian values into indigenous peoples at the expense of their own culture and values.  He began with an experiment on the Native Americans at an Apache prison where he subjected them to authoritarian militaristic procedures (Lonetree 5).  While some prisoners were traumatized to the point of suicide, most of the prisoners left the prison able to survive in white America.  This experiment became the basis for Native American boarding schools where young children had their families, culture, language, and names stripped away from them.

 Roger D. Herring, a psychologist and well known author, notes the immense diversity of Native Americans encompasses 252 languages and 280 tribes, and with them hundreds of different cultures.  While each Native tribe has their own cultural values, the tribes majorly agree on; coherence with nature and others, current time orientation, narrative and hypothetical instruction, respect, anonymity, and unity (Herring 1).  These values are vastly different from the capitalistic white America values which include: competitiveness, individualism, punctuality, justice, logic, and power (Kohut 14).  These various values clashed with the Native Americans’ cultural values when they began schooling.  Generations of children across various tribes of Native Americans were forced from their homes into the custody of the federal government and their coveted boarding schools.

One former student of the Native American boarding schools, Leo Lajimodiere, shared his story in “A Healing Journey” by Denise Lajimodiere.  Leo Lajimodiere was placed into the care of a fellow tribal family after his mother passed away when he was two.  In his household, where he remained until he was nine years old, he spoke only Cree, his Native language.  While his foster family were able to raise Lagimodiere with the support of rations provided by the government, when the government threatened to take their rations away they were forced to surrender Lajimodiere.

 Lajimodiere was placed onto a train with five other Native American children from his tribe, including his older sister, who he was separated from upon arrival at the school.  When he tried to communicate with his sister on the train he recalls “the white matron traveling with us would slap me, shouting something at me I had no way of understanding” (Lajimodiere 6).  Upon arrival at Chemawa Industrial School, Lajimodiere’s hair was cut deloused with kerosene, a type of gasoline.  His living arrangements included a crowded dorm room where there were two children per bed.  He recounts children dying in their sleep and stated that, “They died of loneliness” (Lajimodiere 6).

Lajimodiere recalled a time he was punished for gossiping that two staff members liked each other.  The gauntlet was determined to be the suitable punishment for his actions.  The gauntlet was a type of whipping where one  fellow student would restrain the offender’s hands while another student would restrain the offender’s feet.  The remaining students would then line up and whip the offender as hard as they could, if they were caught whipping gently they would have to replace the offender and receive the punishment.  Lajidomiere passed out from the pain of the gauntlet punishment and woke up in the school’s infirmary, where he spent two weeks sleeping on his stomach while his back healed. Lajidomiere was fortunate to survive.  He recalls another student who had died from the gauntlet punishment due to his kidneys rupturing.  The commonness of Lajidomiere’s experiences at the Chemawa Industrial School is devastating among the Native American community.

Lagidomiere experienced the purpose of these schools, which was to convert the Native Americans from their “savage” ways into the capitalistic culture of white America.  According to President Ulysses S. Grant’s “Peace Policy” of 1889, sending the Native American children to a boarding school was more economically beneficial than using military force to control them (Pember 25).  The government would force the parents of the children to send them to school with the threat of losing their reparations.  As the government had previously forced the Native Americans off of their land and sentenced them to live in destitute land where there were few animals to hunt and poor soil, they lived off of what the government could provide.  By threatening to take away reparations, they necessitated the Native Americans to surrender their children in order to prevent starvation.  Even through facing possible starvation, the Hopi Indians in Arizona continued to resist sending their children to the boarding school by hiding them.  While multiple tribes chose to hide their children over surrendering them to the boarding schools, most conceded at the mention of starvation, however, the Hopi Indians continued to resist and 19 of their men became imprisoned at Alcatraz (Lonetree 8).  While the government advocated for voluntary enrollment of Native American children, this clearly was not the case.

The Native American children were forced into an unfamiliar culture.  The children were trained in a European American style.  They were combated with learning English, being stipulated into European American gender roles, and learning European American history, religion, and cultural values (Schacht 5).  Not only was their academic knowledge reconstructed upon arrival at the boarding schools, but their upbringing was as well.  The children also were forced to heed to the European American style of child-rearing, which had a significant reliance on punishment (Schacht 5).

When an entire generation of Native children were forced into militaristic boarding schools at ages as young as five years old, the “parenting” these children endured remained as the parenting style these children understood.  There are three separate forms of parenting; authoritarian, authoritative, and permissive.  The authoritarian parenting style values obedience and uses punishment when children do not perform up to the parent’s expectations.  A Japanese study published in 2013 found that, “…Both maternal and paternal authoritarian parenting styles worsened respondents’ later mental health, including symptomatic problems, risk to self and others, life functioning, and psychological well being” (Uji 2).  While authoritarian parenting is common in most cultures, Native Americans traditionally raise their children using praise, which relates more closely to permissive parenting.  When the children would do good things, such as helping with a fire or watching their elders, the children would be praised through stating that their child is a good child because of what they did, encouraging good behavior opposed to punishment for negative behaviors (BigFoot 310).  This dramatic shift in parenting style conflicted with Native American cultural beliefs regarding families, believing that all children have “good seeds” in them, those seeds just need to be nurtured. 

The mindset of fear and authoritarianism carried with the children past their times at the schools.  Historical trauma is a term often used  by scholars when describing the psychological effects on a group of people after a traumatic event attacking their culture but not directly impacting the individual.  Historical trauma, “highlights the idea that the accumulation of collective stressors and trauma that began in the past may contribute to increased risk for negative health and social outcomes,” among descendents of initial trauma survivors (Bombay 2).  Miriam Schacht, an English professor at the University of Wisconsin with a PhD in Native American literature, states “Upon release from the schools, survivors reported a legacy of alcohol and drug abuse problems, feelings of hopelessness, dependency, isolation, low self- esteem, suicide behaviours, prostitution, gambling, homelessness, sexual abuse, and violence” (Schacht 5).

William Wright, a Pattwin Indian and a former student of Stewart Indian school voiced his concerns at the mention of child-rearing.  Wright said in an interview, “You grow up with discipline, but when you grow up and you have families, then what happens? If you’re my daughter and you leave your dress out, I’ll knock you through that wall. Why? Because I’m taught discipline” (Schacht 1).  Wright’s mindset is a common mindset of former students of the Native American boarding schools, and when they continue this mindset towards their children, their children will have a similar mindset and pass it down to their children and their children’s children.

Another source of trauma for the students at the Native American boarding schools was the shame associated with Native American culture.  The curriculum at the schools indoctrinated a subspecies mindset in the Native Americans in comparison to European Americans (Pember 26).  This instilled a sense of shame associated with the Native American culture into the students.  As the students were navigating the European American culture, they were often beaten for displaying any “Indian tendencies” (Pember 25).  This included speaking their Native languages.  If the students were caught speaking anything in Native American tongue, their mouths would be washed out with lyre soap (Pember 25).  While some students retained fluency in their first language at the conclusion of their individual stays at the institutions, the former students continued to associate shame and humiliation with their language and culture, which prevented them from passing the knowledge to their own children resulting in a complete loss of language in many Native American tribes (Schacht 5).

After leaving the boarding schools, many Native Americans brought back with them a memento of their stay at the boarding schools, a number tattoo (Dawley 30).  Upon arrival at the schools, the children were given a new European name and a number was tattooed on their left wrists to assist with identifying the students.  While this helped to keep track of the Native American children who often forgot their European name upon first arrival at the schools, their skin was permanently marked with this identification tool for the rest of their lives.

The Native American schools were different from all other public schools, and the Native Americans were not permitted to go to any other schools.  While the traditional public schools taught “white collar” skills such as arithmetic and grammar, the Native American schools taught “blue collar” skills, such as carpentry and housekeeping (Bear 11-12).  This emphasizes the government’s goal of integrating the Native Americans into society for their own advantages, in order to build a coherent Protestant society while preventing Native Americans from surpassing their white counterparts.

Not only were the lessons in the boarding school constructed to make low level workers or the Native Americans, but the schools were devised to remove any remains of Native American culture from the children.  The children were taken at young ages, some being admitted to the school as young as five years old (Pember 25).  Most children came to the schools knowing little to no English and were forbidden from speaking their native languages, making communication virtually impossible.  If the children were caught speaking in their native language they would be beaten or their mouths would be washed out with lyre, soap, or both (Pember 25).  The schools would take everything from the children, from cultural artifacts such as beading, to cutting their hair, to giving them a new English name and a number opposed to their birth name.  The number given to the children was often tattooed into their wrist to assist with identifying the children (Dawley 30).  The children faced emotional, verbal, physical, and sexual abuse within the boarding schools by both the faculty of the schools and their peers.  Perpetually, the children who faced the sexual abuse would not speak of it for they felt as though they were isolated and as though no other individuals faced similar incidents.  However, all forms of abuse were exceptionally frequent within these institutions.

Along with the abuse the students face, it was not uncommon for them to die while at the schools. In one Native American boarding school, Hampton, one out of every eleven students died in the first 10 years the school was open (Schacht 6). Students frequently passed away from preventable diseases and starvation due to the lack of funding the schools received (Pember 1). While the schools became better funded after the tragedy of many Native American deaths, it does not rectify the lives that were lost.

Children were forced to perform hard labor in order to survive. Most of the Native American schools had dairy farms or agricultural farms that the students were expected to maintain in order to be fed. Even after the introduction of child labor laws in 1938, the children at the Native American schools retained their same duties.

Leo Lagimodiere learned carpentry from the boarding school he attended and used those skills to support himself and his future family. This however, came at no small cost. Upon return from the boarding school, Lagimodiere spoke only English and was accustomed to the rigid schedule of the boarding schools. No longer conforming with the tribe, Lagimodiere was sent back to boarding school, after which he enlisted in World War II. After the trauma that Lagimodiere went through, he drowned his sorrows in alcohol and became an abusive alcoholic. Lagiomodiere would beat his wife and children, of stating “I want to be a man, not a fucking Indian” (Lagimodiere 8). The despair Lagimodiere experienced his entire life was passed onto his children where his daughter, Denise, describes her suffering as “unresolved grieving” (Lagimodiere 1).

The Native American community has been continuously discriminated against since 1492 when Europeans came to America.  Throughout history Europeans have pushed the indeginous people out of their land forcing them to locate further West until they reached the Pacific Ocean. Native Americans were then sentenced to barren land that the European Americans had no use for.  Even after the Native Americans were separated from the European Americans, the European Americans wanted to exploit the Native Americans to enhance their society by forcing them into boarding schools.  Now, Native Americans are discriminated against with higher rates of children placed into the care of Child Protective Services (CPS), higher rates of drug and alcohol abuse, and higher rates of poverty than European Americans as a result of the historical trauma they faced as a culture (Conan 7).

“Parental authority is hardly known or exercised among the Indians in this agency,” stated John S. Ward, a United States Indian Agent, in the Annual Report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs to the Secretary of the Interior in 1886 (Bear 13).  This remains a common view point of some non-Native Americans due to the differences in Native American child rearing. Native Americans tend to believe that a community raises a child and Native Americans often rely on assistance from their tribes to raise their children. 

While sometimes, Native Americans have their children taken from them under claims of neglect, most often the reason for it is due to the small amounts of toys and food Native Americans keep in their households.  Often, for enjoyment and nourishment, Native Americans commune and play together in tribal buildings (Conan 7). Native Americans have the resources to raise their families, they simply do not keep them within their households. Nonetheless, people are not normally taught Native American culture nor about their child-rearing traditions, so social workers, who believe that they are helping the Native American children by removing them from supposed neglectful environments, are harming them by taking them from safe, healthy, loving homes (Graman 1). This mirrors the Native American boarding school. While previously, Native American children would be taken from their homes as a means of “education,” now they are taken from their homes as a means of “safety.” This is not to say that there are no Native American children in neglectful homes, simply that the cultural practices of Native Americans gives the illusion of neglect.

To illustrate the mass numbers of Native Americans in foster care; Native Americans account for 1% of the population of Idaho, yet account for 6.6% of the children in foster care. In Washington, Native Americans make up 2% of the population while 8.4% of the children in foster care are Native American (Graman 1). Due to the correlations between the Native American boarding schools and the American foster care system, legislatures introduced the Indian Welfare Act.

The purpose of the Indian Welfare act was to prevent the government from dismantling the tribe by stating the children who are removed from Native American homes must be placed with a relative or other member of the tribe (Conan 4).  However, a 2005 government accountability report stated that 32 states were failing to abide by the rules of the Indian Welfare act (Conan 2). This is especially common in poorer states, where the Federal government reimburses costs spent on foster care at a higher rateb (Conan 4). Foster care boasts the economy in these less wealthy states as it provides jobs for its citizens, which encourages more children to be taken out of their homes.

While foster care is a troubling issue that Native Americans continue to face, other points of concern include the poverty rates among Native American communities. According to the 2007-2011 American Community Survey (ACS) 14.3% of the U.S. population’s income is below the poverty level while 27.0% of American Indians’ and Alaskan Natives’ incomes are below the poverty level (Macartney 1).  There is a strong correlation between Native Americans who live on the reservations and Native Americans who live in poverty (Asante-Muhammad 2).

Not only are Native Americans more likely to live in poverty, but they are also more likely to commit suicide.  According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), 14.0 people for every 100,000 commit suicide. The suicide rate for female Native Americans was 20.7 people for every 100,000 in 2017, while male Native Americans had a suicide rate of 58.1 for every 100,000 (Curtin 1). The pain and suffering that Native Americans faced as a community carried with their descendants leaving them with a lower quality of life.

The boarding schools, designed to remove Native American culture from Native Americans, were extremely effective. Their intention was to strip Native Americans of their culture and force them to conform to European American society. Now, Native Americans are left without their cultural identity. Burden by the generational trauma passed down from their ancestors, Native Americans struggle with higher rates of suicide, poverty, and abuse compared to Americans as a collective. Native also face discrimination due to cultural biases when in regards to employment, Child Protective Services, and the justice system.

The lack of cultural awareness of United States citizens regarding Native Americans is a shortcoming of the United States education system. It is necessary for secondary level students to be taught the cultural genocide that the United States committed against Native Americans so that future generations of United States citizens understand the devastation that Native Americans continue to face.

Works Cited

“American Indian Boarding Schools Haunt Many.” Morning Edition, narrated by Charla Bear, National Public Radio, 12 May 2008. https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16516865.

Asante-Muhammad, Dedrick, et al. “Racial Wealth Snapshot: American Indians/Native Americans.” National Community Reinvestment Coalition, 18 Nov. 2019. https://ncrc.org/racial-wealth-snapshot-american-indians-native-americans/.

BigFoot, Delores and Beverly Funderburk. “Honoring Children, Making Relatives: The Cultural Translation of Parent-Child Interaction Therapy for American Indian and Alaska Native Families.” Journal of Psychoactive Drugs, vol. 43, no. 4, Informa UK Limited, Oct. 2011, pp. 309–18, doi:10.1080/02791072.2011.628924.

Bombay, Amy, et al. “The Intergenerational Effects of Indian Residential Schools: Implications for the Concept of Historical Trauma.” Transcultural Psychiatry, 24 September 2013, pp. 1-5. Sagepub, doi: 10.1177/1363461513503380.

Curtin, Sally, et al. “Suicide Rates for Females and Males by Race and Ethnicity: United States, 1999 and 2017.” June 2019, National Center for Health Statistics. https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/data/hestat/suicide/rates_1999_2017.html .

Dawley, Martina. “Indian Boarding School Tattoos among Female American Indian Students (1960s -1970s): Phoenix Indian School, Santa Rosa Boarding School, Fort Wingate Boarding School.” 2009. University of Arizona. file:///C:/Users/swessel1/Downloads/Indian%20Tattoo%20article%20(1).pdf

Herring, Roger. “Understanding Native-American Values: Process and Content Concerns For Counselors.” Counseling & Values, vol. 34, no. 2,  January 1990, DOI: 10.1002/j.2161-007X.1990.tb00918.x

“Improving Foster Care for Native American Kids.” Talk of Nation, narrated by Neal Conan, National Public Radio. 31 Oct. 2011. https://go.gale.com/ps/i.do?p=OVIC&u=lom_lsuperiorsu&id=GALE%7CA271911409&v=2.1&it=r.

 Kohut, Andrew, et al. “The American-Western European Values Gap.” Pew Research Center, https://www.pewresearch.org/global/2011/11/17/the-american-western-european-values-gap/

Lagimodiere, Denise. “A Healing Journey.” Wicazo Sa Review, vol. 27, no. 2, fall 2012, pp. 5-19, University of Minnesota Press, https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/wicazosareview.27.2.0005

Lonetree, Amy. American Indian Boarding Schools: An Exploration of Global Ethnic & Cultural Cleansing.  University of California, 2011.  

Macartney, Suzanne, et al. “Poverty Rates for Selected Detailed Race & Hispanic Groups: 2007-2011.” 31 July 2018, US Census Bureau. https://www.census.gov/library/publications/2013/acs/acsbr11-17.html.

Pember, Mary Annette. “A Painful Remembrance.” Diverse, fall 2007, pp. 25-27. Diverse Education, https://diverseeducation.com/?s=a+painful+remembrance.

Schacht, Miriam. “Games of Silence: Indian Boarding Schools in Louise Erdrich’s Novels.” Studies in American Indian Literatures, vol. 27, no. 2, summer 2015, pp. 1-3, https://search.proquest.com/printviewfile?accountid=27857.

Uji, Sakamoto. “The Impact of Authoritative, Authoritarian, and Permissive Parenting Styles on Children’s Later Mental Health in Japan: Focusing on Parent and Child Gender.” Journal of Child and Family Studies, vol. 23, no. 2, Springer Science and Business Media LLC, Feb. 2014, pp. 293–302, doi:10.1007/s10826-013-9740-3.

Things

Mackenzie Dick

Romany people do not collect things. It is not this old blanket that I need to keep, I tell myself as I sit and debate, examining the worn and tattered flowers on the fabric. It is not any of these possessions I’ve so professionally stuffed in every shelf and cupboard of my house. It is neither that old blanket, the train set, the boxes and boxes and boxes of decorations in my  garage, the paintings, the tea set on my shelf, or the old dishes. None of these things can be what I need right now. 

I sit, leaning over a box marked in fat black marker “donate”. I ponder that word, what it means to me. What it used to mean to her. She used to tell me that when I had extra I should build a longer table, not a taller wall. I debate with myself which of these I am doing now. Am I building a longer table by donating these things, these meaningless things, or am I building a wall; protecting myself from the pain now associated with all of these things? Walling the things out of my mind. Forgetting these things. No, not the things, the memories, I remind myself. 

Those cold mornings in the fall and winter that I spent wrapped in this blanket that she gave me on the floor of my mother’s bathroom, soaking up the heat from her shower, because we could not afford to heat the whole house. She always knew how to help without interfering too much, a skill I have not inherited with my family yet.  The train set that never made it out of the box for her classroom, but had to be used in mine.The one thing we had in common, our one shared passion. Our one similarity, the reminder that I may one day be as good a woman as she was. The decorations I helped put up that last christmas before my grandfather died. That cold afternoon spent arguing with my short temper and what I swore was the worst tree stand and the sharpest ornament hooks on planet earth. Her comment that they did things better in the 50’s. The ones that she decided I should take after that with the note on the ornament box from her mother, the last time we were all happy in that house. The half done paintings that hang everywhere, the ones my family said to toss. The ones where time stands still and the work is forever unfinished, the artist’s hand forever stilled. The tea set from her mother, the story she told about her mother’s only selfish act. Another reminder of another great woman I would be lucky to take after. The midnight cereal dates with these bowls with my grandfather when neither of us could sleep. When we would meet  in the dim farmhouse kitchen, trying so hard not to hit the windchime that hung from the kitchen lantern so as not to wake her. The kindness in his gesture when he’d give the leftover milk to the cats. That lantern that isn’t there now. Neither are the windchimes. Nor the cats. I remind myself that that place doesn’t exist anymore, but it does. Like her, it’s not gone yet, just not the same place now. Cancer is nasty like that. 

All of these things that don’t offer me comfort right now that my mother says eventually will. I sit and debate putting each thing in that box, closing them off from my mind entirely, and wonder if my mother’s  “eventually” is the same one that was said when these paintings were put away; that “eventually” never came. Decisions, like this box, plague my mind now. Am I putting these things in the box out of anger that she didn’t make these choices herself? That she left such a mess in my home and my family without actually leaving at all? Am I angry that she didn’t leave yet or that she is leaving at all? Maybe those questions belong in the box instead of these useless things. Maybe that’s how I’m meant to build a longer table for her. 

The Log Slide

Faith Cole

Everyone knows that running down hills is a very foolish thing to do. This hill even had a sign. My sister Vi and I walk up to it. We glance quickly over words — “caution, 300 vertical feet, drop-offs you can’t see” — and my favorite phrase: “going down only takes a few seconds, while coming up may take an hour or more”. We had made it to the Grand Marais Log Slide. 

Just over the next sand dune, we would be able to see where loggers used to slide huge, stripped trees down this perilous drop and into the pristine waters of Lake Superior. (Don’t worry, my youngest sister had thought it was where you slid down the hill in hollowed out logs, too.) Vi and I had fallen behind the rest of the family, and so, following the sign’s directions, we walked through the last little bit of sandy woods to the very peak of the hill. The skyline burst into view without warning. The sand flowed over the edge like a Saharan giant plunging down into an endless oasis. Staring out over the drop, breathless, mouth gaping, fingertips tingling, everything seeming stripped away by the intensity of the view — I looked almost straight down to the line where the sand kissed  the water below. Most of the troupe had already conquered the journey and were  splashing in the water below. They were  willing me down to meet them, even though every instinct told me to stay rooted to the spot. 

The moment of indecision lasts only that, a moment. The only thing to fear is fear itself, right? I started  off just ahead of Vi, waving at her to follow. The hill (at the top) was like a giant sand box. The start was just level enough that, with a little speed, I could jump forward and then let gravity take me down the slope. It felt like walking on the moon — something I, of course, had  a great deal of experience doing. Adrenaline and dopamine started flooding into my brain. Suddenly, the “this is getting really dangerous” hormone (you know, the one teenagers seem to lack almost as much as good social skills) shut off completely. Each leap down the steep slope made me feel more and more like a Marvel superhero bounding across rooftops. I was also vaguely aware that I was experiencing something that inevitably comes with free fall — acceleration. Each leap became more and more thrilling. With an extra burst of exuberance, I jumped down the slope, looking a fraction of a second too late at a large rock now rushing up towards me. I twisted my body in what could only be described as a pure feat of dodge-ball and martial arts muscle memory and rolled over my shoulder into the sand — just past the brutal, potentially bone-shattering obstacle. There was no time for rejoicing however, because once I started rolling, oh baby, there was no stopping me. 

Doing my best impression of a sock in a tumble dryer (a tumble dryer filled with sand and newly discovered baseball sized rocks), I careened down the slide. I realized at about roll number three, when I was just at “protect the face from the rocks” level of grace, that there was a drop coming up, and I couldn’t see how far down it went. But that wasn’t the worst of it. There was a person sitting at the edge of the cliff, back turned to me, right in my path. “AAAHHHHH”, was all I was able to shout out in warning before I flew into the air — just above the unfortunately placed traveler’s head — and over the side of the drop. Just like falling in a dream, that’s what the next few moments were like, before I, no, my open mouth got reacquainted with an ex that it would rather just be done with at this point, the sand. Oh yes, this hill had a few more rolls in store for me. Finally, from a slight leveling on part of the slope and a solid land on my backside, I came to a stop. 

Laughter immediately erupted from my lips. It was more than just nervous laughter to replace reassuring words I couldn’t find for everyone watching at the bottom. It was a hearty, deep-felt expression of joy. I was alive! 

Picking myself up, I finished the last 100 feet or so of the descent with an only somewhat tempered zeal. Plunging into pleasantly chilly Lake Superior washed away both the sand and the residual fluttering of my heart. The others greeted me with recreations of their reactions to my less than graceful plummet down the hill. I laughed at their good-natured teasing. I had done it though. Falling a third of the way still counts, right? Of course it does, nobody ever said you had to go down in a way that didn’t threaten your bodily safety. I don’t know if I actually could have died, but it sure felt like it during that fall. I was oddly alright with that. Enthusiasm comes with a price tag, but what I had just purchased was the thrill of being alive.

For James

London Nightengate

Content Warning: Cancer, Death, Discrimination (Transgender)

One—two—three. One—two—three. One—two—three. Darcy told himself in his mind, counting to the beat of an imaginary metronome. Breathe in for one beat, hold for two, and release for three. In through his nose and out through his mouth. He slowly turned his eyes from the trees to his hand, slowly and shakily lifting it from his stomach. 

His vision blurred as he struggled to keep his breathing calm, the tight grip of panic beginning to close around his chest once more. Blood covered his hands, soaked through his clothes. Applying pressure once more, he tried to get his bearings. He sat outside of a red car that was smashed to bits, the front end crumpled up against a tree, windshield shattered. 

The bleeding was from a large shard of glass during the accident. Taking his phone out of his pocket he tried to see if he had service…the phone was completely crushed. Tears welled in his eyes. “What am I going to do?” He said out loud. He hadn’t been this scared since his 21st birthday, when he came out to his family and friends.

How had he gotten the courage then? How did he overcome his fear? That’s right…he thought, looking back on the memory.

“Happy birthday!” His mother had said, coming around the corner with a cake, everyone gathered around the table. Back then, he wasn’t Darcy, he was Elizabeth. “Anything my darling girl would like to say?” She asked.

He hadn’t told anyone who he was. “Um…yeah…there is, actually,” he told her.

“Go on baby,” she told him.

“Um…I’m…I’m transgender…I identify as a man, not a woman,” he said, heart hammering in his chest. “And my name isn’t Elizabeth, I’d like to be called Darcy from here on out,” he said.

A look of shock crossed over his mother’s face; it was mirrored in a lot of others too. The energy of the room felt hostile, he heard a few people mutter ugly words under their breath, thinking he hadn’t heard them. The shock in his mother’s eyes quickly turned into anger. Darcy could tell where this was going, rising to his feet he left before his mother could say anything hurtful. When he reached the front door, he heard his mother calling out to him as Elizabeth, shouting obscenities. As he began walking down the driveway towards his car in the cold winter air, breath billowing out in plumes he felt someone grab his arm. “Wait!” A familiar voice said. Turning, Darcy saw it was his best friend, James. “Wait, don’t go yet,” he said.

“You too?” Darcy asked.

“No, no, let me speak, please. Darcy, isn’t it? Nice to meet you, I’m James,” he said, extending a hand.

Darcy blinked in surprise, taking James’s hand. “Yeah, Darcy, why are you introducing yourself like this?” He asked.

“Because mate, I get to finally meet the real you. Probably not much different from Elizabeth, but I figure it’s a start,” he said.

“A start for what?” Darcy asked.

“To helping you figure out who you are, Darcy. You need someone, I saw the way they looked at you. If they truly love you they would accept you, not start looking at you like you’re an alien,” he explained. “What do ya say we go out tomorrow, hit the town? Just you an’ I, none of those other blokes,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s do that,” Darcy said, his face becoming bright, a large smile on his lips, blue eyes lighting up. 

The next day James had taken him to a hair salon. “First things first, let’s get ya a haircut,” James told him. “Any kind you want.”

Darcy looked through a catalogue the stylist gave him, asking James on his opinion when he saw one he liked. “That one, it’s perfect,” he said, pointing to one of the styles. Darcy looked at it, he nodded his head, showing it to the stylist. 

After she was done, she turned Darcy towards the mirror, his dark hair all around him on the floor, when he opened his eyes he felt them begin to water. He hadn’t begun his physical transition yet with hormones, but just this change made him feel overjoyed. “I love it!” He exclaimed, James’s mouth beaming into a magnificent smile. 

Afterwards he took him to the mall. “Now to get you a new outfit, I don’t care how expensive it is, if you like it, I’m gettin’ it for ya mate,” he said. “Afterwards, we’ll do some good ol’ fashioned thrifting as well.” 

That day, James had spent hours with Darcy trying on clothes, mixing, and matching. Eventually they walked out with two whole outfits from the mall and quite a few things from various thrift stores. Because of James, Darcy had the courage to begin his hormones, eventually get his surgeries for a full transition. James had given him the courage to be himself and get through any fear or uncertainty. He had been understanding whenever Darcy became upset about his situation, had taken care of him after surgeries, had been there during them. Darcy still remembers the time he awoke from one of his surgeries to find James sitting beside his bed with a balloon that said it’s a boy! A large plush bear in his arms. A look of worry quickly turning to relief. 

If James were here with Darcy currently, he would be telling him to head towards the road, find help. He had crashed his car after it slid on some ice, tumbling down a steep hill and into the forest where it smashed into a tree. Lifting his hand once more, Darcy saw the bleeding from his wound had stopped. Slowly he pushed himself up, his body protesting, bruised with some broken bones most likely. 

Moving in the direction of the road the cold slowly began to creep up on Darcy as time passed. His injuries were slowing him down, his head pounded, and the world dipped and spun around him, blurred. When he came to the hill he collapsed, he couldn’t keep going.

“I’m sorry…” He whispered, tears springing to his eyes, thinking of James again. “I couldn’t keep my promise…”

It had been a few years after he transitioned. James and he had been at a bar, hanging out. Some guys they went to high school with had entered, spotting James and Darcy they approached the counter. “Hey, didn’t recognize ya, Elizabeth,” one of them said. 

“Sorry, it’s Darcy now,” he said.

“She can’t be serious,” the other guy said.

“Hey, Darcy is a he, if you can’t respect that then leave,” James said, turning towards them.

“You sure about that? Last I knew she didn’t have the right equipment,” the guy said.

“That’s none of your business,” Darcy told him. “Come on James, they won’t leave, so we might as well,” he said.

“Don’t leave, I said last we knew,” the guy, Dan said. 

Darcy made for the exit, only for Dan to grope him, James reacted instantly, shoving him away from Darcy. “Keep your hands off of him!” James shouted. 

Dan punched James, and from there the situation turned into a full-on brawl between them. Dan suddenly pulled out a pocketknife, slicing James’s face who clutched his cheek. As Mark left, Dan made a move to try to stab James, Darcy kicked him between the legs, sending him to his knees, James headbutting him. “I suggest you keep your hands off of Darcy,” James told Dan as the barkeep escorted them out.

They headed back to James’s apartment. “You didn’t have to do that, we could have just left,” Darcy told him, cleaning the cut on his cheek. 

“It’s not right for anyone to grab someone like that, you shouldn’t have to put up with harassment just because you’re different,” James said, wincing as the rubbing alcohol burned the cut. 

“You’re lucky I’m an ER nurse, or I’d be taking you to the hospital, and you’d be stuck with paying the bill,” he told him.

“I wouldn’t want anyone else as my nurse,” he said with a smile. “I couldn’t really afford the bill anyway…I’m already paying a lot of medical bills…” he said, his gaze growing distant.

“What do you mean?” Darcy asked, confused.

“I have cancer, Darcy, I was going to tell you tonight, in a much better way,” he said.

“You can’t be serious, how bad is it?” Darcy asked.

“The doctors say that in optimistic outlooks, I have another three years, but the most likely scenario is a year,” he said, voice breaking.

“No, no, you can’t…James…no…” Darcy said, tears welling, beginning to spill over. James reached up and brushed them away, his own eyes looked watery.

“I’m afraid so Darcy, which is why I have to ask something of you,” he said. His voice shook.

“Ask me,” he said.

“Do all the things we said we were going to do together. See the northern lights, climb a mountain, swim in the turquoise waters around Barbados, go to Spain, all of it. I want you to kick life in the balls as hard as you did Dan tonight, suck the marrow from it’s bones for both of us,” he said, the tears had begun falling from James’s dark eyes as he spoke. 

“We still have time, we can do it together, the sky-diving, see a joust, as much as possible,” Darcy said.

“No, we can’t. I can’t, Darcy,” he whispered, his eyes spoke depths about his sadness. 

After only six months James had been hospitalized. Darcy was there night and day. One day, he sat on James’s bed beside him. “Darcy, thank you for being my best friend,” James said, taking his hand in his. Darcy turned towards him, kissing him on the cheek.

“Thank you for helping me find myself, I couldn’t have done any of what I’ve accomplished without you, James,” he said, his breathing was shaky, a lump in his throat as he leaned his forehead against James’s forehead.

“I know, I want you to know, that I’ll be watching over you, your very own guardian angel. Heavens know you need one,” he said with a lopsided grin. “Remember, live your life to the fullest, for me, never give up on yourself,” he said. Darcy nodded his head, staring into James’s eyes as their tears continued to fall.

Not long after the heart monitor flatlined, Darcy sobbed as he kissed James’s forehead, resting his against it again as a sharp pain pierced his heart. Everything after James died had been a blur as nurses rushed in, he found himself eventually at his funeral, and then in his apartment, remembering all the times they had together.

“I won’t give up, I haven’t lived up to my promise yet,” Darcy told himself as he grabbed onto a tree, using it to pull himself up. He made a promise to James, he intended to keep it. Go to Peru, Egypt, China, Chile, travel the world and do everything he could in James’s memory. 

Eventually Darcy reached the road, collapsing as headlights headed towards him. The world faded to black as someone crouched over him. “He’s alive!” She called to someone. “Call an ambulance! Hey, you, stay with me,” she said, resting a hand on his cheek. “I think he has a concussion…” she said. He found his eyes closing, he made it to the road, he was being helped. He could rest, he didn’t have to worry about letting James down.

When he came to again, red lights flashed as he was loaded into an ambulance. All he could think about was that last moment with James. Even in death, it seemed James still gave Darcy the strength he needed to keep pushing on.

He was going to do everything they talked about doing.

He was going to live for them both. For James.

The Apologists

Jennifer Gauvreau

Winner of the 2021 LSSU Short Story Prize

John couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t believe in Option A. He believed in it like he believed in the oxygen passing through his lungs. The belief was a quiet smouldering fire, not calling attention to itself, but remaining alite even in the darkest of times. It was a comfort, and as he grew older, it became more and more important to him. John wasn’t the type of person who would bring up Option A unprovoked, but when the situation arose naturally (and somehow, it often did seem to arise naturally), he was always eager to discuss it. It was hard for him to empathize with folks who believed in anything other than Option A. How did they not see what he saw, and feel what he felt? It was bizarre to him, and even a little upsetting.

Cindy hadn’t given much serious thought to the Options until she was in university. Her family rarely discussed them at all, putting them far off in their minds. On the scattered occasions when they did discuss the Options, it was from the perspective of an outsider, trying to guess at the inner workings without spending the effort required to understand. This laissez faire attitude would have continued to her dying breath, had she not taken the formidable step of furthering her education of her own volition. After countless hours of independent reading, studying, and discussing the Options with her classmates, Cindy was surprised to find that she did in fact believe in Option B. This was a stunning and indelible revelation to her, and significantly changed the course of her life.

Growing up, John’s world revolved around the Options, specifically Option A. His mother had been a teacher who specialized in Option A, traveling and giving impassioned talks on the subject to avid believers and skeptics alike. He admired his mother above all others and wished to one day follow in her footsteps. Unfortunately, John’s academic skills were not nearly as strong as his mother’s and following a brief stint in college, John had no choice but to take up work in a local factory. As he toiled away in his repetitive daily tasks, he spoke to anyone who would listen to him about the unchanging, faithful security of Option A. Eventually this off the cuff teaching turned into a real passion for John, and when the factory closed, he decided it was time to pursue his true ambitions. Being unqualified to teach in any legitimate capacity, John dreamed up a way to teach about Option A on his own terms– he would open a museum. After many months of planning, fund raising, and making important social connections, John was pleasantly surprised to find himself poised to open his museum to Option A within a year of his leaving the factory.

Upon discovering her passion for Option B, Cindy was overcome with an urgent desire to share what she knew with children. She felt that her family and primary schools had done her a great disservice, never pushing her to understand the Options as a younger child, and she wondered how much further along in her studies she would be had she begun that much sooner. Option B was exciting, never remaining exactly the same for long, and beckoning thinkers and mental engineers. Cindy was a captivating entertainer, and loved to make people laugh. It was a natural progression for her to become a travelling performer, delighting audiences of all ages with her knowledge and passion for Option B. Before long, Cindy was a well known woman, and people all around the world connected with her, encouraging her to continue in her work. She was criticized by the followers of Option A, but paid them little mind. To Cindy, they were the spreaders of misinformation. With Option A’ers in charge, the country would surely fall to ruin.

While he expected some pushback from the supporters of Option B, John was fully dedicated to his mission. In his museum he could showcase all of his important research about Option A in such a way that would be compelling to children and also educational for adults. He used his modest knowledge of Option B to set up exhibits and entertaining shows that would cater to the preferences of the believers of Option B, and also to those who had not really taken a stance one way or another. The museum brought John into the public eye, and he was even met with harsh criticism from the very people he had hoped to connect with. This was confusing to John, and he considered what he might do to quell their worries and prove that he was interested in discussion, and not out to attract blind followers. He had proof to support his beliefs, and he simply wanted to be heard.

A few months following the opening of John’s museum, after thoughtfully holding her tongue for a time, Cindy felt it was necessary to offer an opinion about it. She took to social media, penning her concerns in language that would appeal not only to her fans, but also to academics and politicians. In her post, Cindy outlined in no uncertain terms the folly of raising a generation of thinkers in the dogma of Option A. She felt that John’s museum was in fact doing harm to the future leaders of the world, and that the extrapolated fallout would be a society which was weaker as a whole. While this subject was gravely serious to Cindy, her sense of humour and wit gave the broadcast enough levity to resonate with the masses. Much to her delight, Cindy’s brief but pointed commentary quickly went viral.

That same day, John’s phone went berserk with calls, messages, and comments– everyone wanted to know what he thought of the harsh comments Cindy had made. He was determined to respond quickly, passionately, but with a level head. In a vlog posted just days later, John was quick to dispute all of Cindy’s points, and thought he did quite a good job of it. At the close of his video, John extended an invitation to Cindy to participate in a debate about the Options which was to take place at his museum. Not long after his video was posted, the Associated Press picked up the story. He suddenly had the attention of the nation, and vowed to himself that he would not squander it. John did not expect to get a positive response to his invitation, and was surprised when Cindy agreed to debate live on stage at the museum. A date was set, and the apologists had a month to prepare.

Cindy’s preparation for the debate was all-consuming for the entirety of that month. She conferrened with experts from around the globe, who not only bolstered her own belief in Option B, but provided her with additional logical evidence that she could easily explain to any child or layman in the audience. Cindy felt very confident that any thinking man or woman would come away from watching the upcoming debate believing that the only cogent Option was in fact Option B. She did her best to predict the so-called evidence that would be presented by John, and came up with counters for every potential argument she could think of. While she prepared, Cindy was barraged with messages of support from disciples of Option B. Having the support of what was undeniably the vast majority of interested parties was a source of confidence for Cindy. This confidence was of course a mixed blessing, as it mingled with a dangerous pride as well.

John’s preparations were much less involved. He had known that Option A was the only true possibility his entire life, and knew he could rely on his lifetime of study. He felt confident that debating inside his museum would bring legitimacy to his position, and spent much of his preparation time sprucing up the place. He vigorously promoted the upcoming event, and used it as an opportunity to raise awareness of his museum on a national level.  

The night before the debate, Cindy made a guest appearance at the university that was near the museum.  Following her presentation, she asked some students congregated in the library what they thought about the Options, and if they were coming to the debate. Most of the students said that they were not going to attend, and that they were disinterested in the museum. Nearly all of the students she spoke with were believers in Option B, although they did not think about it all that much. They told Cindy that focus on the Options felt like a waste of time when term papers were due, and parties were happening. Cindy fell asleep wondering if she might be wasting her time, but woke up the next morning with fresh purpose. The Options were important, and this debate was going to give her an opportunity to demonstrate that fact. Cindy was increasingly sure that Option A was doing more harm than good, especially to young learners.

John spent the night before the debate practicing feverishly with his wife. She eventually grew irritated and flustered by John’s mental distress and told him that if he wasn’t ready now, he never would be. Left to his own thoughts, John lamented squandering most of his preparation time, and he suddenly felt like he had made a mistake. Why had he invited one of his loudest critics into his home space? His doubt turned to nervous fear as the night grew darker, and as his wife drifted off to sleep he briefly considered calling the whole thing off. It wasn’t that he doubted his position. Option A was clearly, clearly, the true Option. He knew that his arguments were sound, and based on the most credible of sources. Even though he was sure, in his heart of hearts there was in fact a seed of doubt. This doubt was not formed enough to even be put to words, but lingered in the corner of his mind nonetheless. The popular opinion was that he was flat out wrong about the Options, and this constant discouragement was at times difficult to bear. His nerves stayed with him the next morning, but were instantly brushed off the moment he arrived at the museum. As the leader of the institution, he was in the habit of exhibiting confidence at every opportunity, and this habit was a source of strength for him on this important day.

From backstage, Cindy watched the audience slowly filter into the auditorium of the museum. She had taken a guided tour of the place a few hours before, squinting through the flashes of the many cameras following the tour group’s path throughout the establishment. Cindy was quite pleased with the amount of media attention the debate was drawing, but also worried that she was lending her own credibility to John and his misguided Option A associates. As she watched the modestly dressed attendees taking their seats, she realized that while she held the more popular belief worldwide, in this room – John’s room – she was vastly outnumbered. This wasn’t a surprise to Cindy, but the extent to which it rattled her nerves was indeed surprising. She reminded herself that she was armed with the truth, and that this was an opportunity to speak to an audience that had likely never engaged in earnest thought regarding the possibility that Option B might be viable. She hoped to at the very least bring this unusual audience to a place where they might question the origins of their faith in Option A. Cindy reviewed her opening statement as the time to begin drew nearer, but the review wasn’t necessary. She was ready.

John paced backstage as he waited for his cue to walk on stage. His mind was in a thousand places as he worried about the details of hosting, the importance of this discussion, and the points he wanted to make sure he got to in the debate. He felt that the stakes were higher for him than they were for Cindy, and wondered just how many people he could bring into the fold of Option A with this event. This was debate, not dialectic– there would be no winner, and there was little chance that hearts and minds would be changed this night. Was it all for nothing? John’s familiarity with the precepts of Option B brought little comfort, as he knew that his opponent was the better entertainer and speaker. He was going to have to outperform and out-fact her, and this was a daunting task to say the least.

Throughout the debate, Cindy’s assistant was pleased to witness the undeniable success of Cindy’s rhetorical repartee. The talking points they had painstakingly chosen, refined and polished came across clean, professional, and seemed to give a figurative whiff of formalin.  The assistant was not surprised that Cindy kept her cool throughout the debate, never visibly sweating, even under the hot stage lights. This was of course largely attributed to Cindy’s career in show business, and the practice and preparation went a long way. Compared to her opponent, Cindy looked steady as a surgeon– never wavering, faltering, or showing any signs of discomfort in the scrutinous gaze of the audience below. The assistant fleetingly wondered if Cindy was listening to John at all, or if she was simply listening for the key phrases and words they had planned rebuttals for. John was holding his own, but the assistant did not suspect that Cindy was seeing it.

In the audience, a wealthy donor to the museum had a very keen eye on the room at large. The donor had been absolutely nonplussed at the idea that John would hold such a debate in the establishment, and in private conversation had warned him that the event could lead to a decline in attendance in the months to follow. He was pleasantly surprised though, as he sat through the two hour spectacle. The room was quietly, politely, but undeniably energized by the conversation taking place before them. John was decreeing Option A with a brilliant combination of exemplary representation of its tenets and a non-stop entertaining air of persiflage. The balance in John’s performance won over the donor, and he came to believe that the debate had been a good idea after all.

***

At the close of the debate, Cindy was sure that she had done a better job than John had. She had answered every question, proved every point, and even made the somewhat uneasy crowd laugh a few times– each of these were important to Cindy. Immediately after the debate, a throng of media spokesmen were eagerly awaiting comment from Cindy. They were accompanied by a modest collection of protesters representing Options C and D who felt that they had been thoughtlessly and unjustly left out of the conversation altogether. They carried signs and shouted about their protest, but not loud enough to be picked up by the microphones and cameras aimed straight at Cindy. She gave a very brief statement about how she felt she had done quite well – wholly ignoring the protesters – and quickly sought out privacy to collect her thoughts properly. Later in her hotel, she made a conscious decision to neglect the many messages she had received offering congratulations and condemnations, depending on the affiliation of the corresponder. The debate had been exhausting and truly eye-opening. Believers in Option A were absolutely participating in willful ignorance, and it was profoundly disturbing to Cindy. She worried most for the children who were being raised with the Option A worldview, and marveled at just how much this Option had set humanity back in the past, and continued to do so in the present.

Meanwhile, John was equally sure that he had done the better job. He had leaned into his undoubtable familiarity with the facts of Option A, breathing deeply as one does at the scent of old books. The audience had been very receptive to his message, and had asked truly thoughtful questions that led him to demonstrate the awesome power of Option A. His nerves turned to boldness when his opening statement received a raucous round of applause, and he was momentarily misty-eyed at the onset of such support. As he parried and jabbed through the debate, he believed more and more in his cause and in his proof, and so did the audience. It was a cathartic experience for him, and he came out of the debate certain that it had not been a mistake to engage in this discourse, despite his earlier worries. He felt that there was a decent chance that he had reached a good number of people outside of the auditorium through online viewership, and expected to see attendance at his museum to rise in the coming weeks. As he waited inside for Cindy to finish her comments to the press, John looked on at the protesters and wondered if they would have found truth in Option A had they just listened to him.

I Am

Natalie Nowak

I am not
a replacement
for what you had
but lost

I am
not
a copy of your past
meant to please you
in the present

I
am
not
a meal
to pick apart
and throw away
what you don’t like

I am
more
than that

I am
an amalgamation
of my own beliefs
and experiences

I am
an artist
who paints feelings
in a way that
no one else does

I
am
worthy
of my own need
for love
and understanding

Mother Night

Elizabeth Lipscomb

Sphere of fire,
Give way to the moon!
Now gasp in wonder as the night birds croon.
For beauty of dark
Is far softer than light and her features
Richer.
She is Night.

Onyx veil,
Descend on the earth!
Allow a weary day to be rebirthed.
Diurnal creatures
Lay their heads to rest and the nocturnal
Wonders
Leave their nests.

Open arms
Welcome her children.
To a shadow world, new life she’s given!
The Midnight Mistress –
With tender, starry-eyed gaze – looks over,
Joyful.
“Dance my babes!”

They frolic,
Leap, and be merry!
Don’t you see? This hour is not so scary.
So come and cast off
The worries of light and be a child of
Our love,
Mother Night.

Attraction

Faith Cole

The spine of my physics textbook cracks
as I open this cold-blooded companion
that I love to hate. 

The Atomic Structure of Matter 
titles the chapter 
that I have been assigned 
and am now resigned to reading. 

Restless, I try to make myself contented
on the pale pink couch. 
Waves of frustration roll and find voice in deep sighs.
Why do I need to read this? 
What’s the purpose? 

Atoms–
protons, electrons, and neutrons–
make up everything. 
What else do I need to know? 

The stale facts of the obvious 
stick to the roof of my brain, 
sucking out enthusiasm. 

I scan the page, 
my fluorescent highlighter in hand, 
ready to strike 
at anything daring enough to leap out at me.

Zooming out to a high, philosophical viewpoint
leaves me disconcerted and intrigued. 
I know that atoms make up nature but 
do I know the nature of those atoms? 

Conservation of mass dictates that 
atoms are ageless. 
Whatever they actually are 
can never be destroyed, only recycled. 

Something that has existed 
from the very creation 
of the universe 
lives in me. 

Mixing and swirling around, atoms are passed from one use to another. 
The breath that I breathe, 
after a few years, will be evenly blended into the atmosphere 
and what was part of me 
will be part of supplying another’s breath. 

Exhaling, as I read 
that there are as many atoms in that breath as there as breathfuls of air in our world, seems only appropriate. 

As I consider what I thought I knew, I bow my head, humbled 
to realize these building blocks of all I know — of you and me — 
are incomprehensibly small.

Scaling the idea that 
you are as many times larger 
than an atom 
than the average star is larger 
than you 
leaves me breathless and awestruck. 

Smiling, I look up 
and imagine us 
standing 
between the atoms and the stars. 

Source: Hewitt, P. G. (2015). Conceptual physics (12th ed.). Harlow, Essex: Pearson Education Limited.

A Poem Lost

Karalyn Jobe
Winner of the 2021 Stellanova Osborn Poetry Prize

Every poem written is a poem lost.
My joints, a ticking time bomb,
Counting ever closer to their final arch.

I know I’m young, but I ache like I’m ancient.
If I use my hands now, I just know
The arthritis will win before I’m even forty.

In bed, when my other senses are asleep,
My fingers creak and groan with pain
As I ghost-type words a real page will never meet.

I’m aware now, like I never was before
That every single word I write today
Is one I won’t be able to write when I’m older.

It seems like my mobility is waning every day,
So I can’t imagine the pain that I’ll be feeling
When I’m forty five years old and

Twenty five years deep in a career where
Typing is the most important skill I’ll ever have.
What will I do, then, when I have to retire

Fifteen years sooner than I should,
With hardly half the savings a retired person ought to have,
And I can write no longer?

Who will I be when these fragile, crackling fingers
Can’t even hold a pencil anymore?
The written word has always been my identity.

The question that has plagued me every day,
Every waking hour of my life:
Which sad existence is a better fit for me,

To leave stories untold and hidden in my memories
To save my wretched hands, or to write my heart empty knowing
That every poem written is a poem lost?

Lovesick

Savannah Champagne

I want to reach out and cup your face,
Brush my lips against yours,
But there’s a thousand miles between us
Of ocean and fear,
So I’ll stay quiet
And lovesick from afar.

I didn’t even question it,
And maybe that was my first mistake.
Something should have clicked
And told me that this intensity was too much,
But no one ever told me
That falling in love with your friends isn’t supposed to happen.

So I’ll just sit here,
Homesick,
Lovesick,
Wishing-you-were-here-and-I-could-kiss-you-sick,
And maybe one day
I can say this out loud:

I’ve fallen in love
With a storm of a boy,
And all I can do is hope that I don’t drown.
I’ve fallen in love
With a storm of a boy,
And all I can do is hope that one day I can again reach the ground.