And Everywhere Is War by Fern Capella

and everywhere is war…
what can i save against the drowning of a nation
i got nailed in, from the first crown of my fawn-soft hair
against my mother’s other mouth,
doctor’s tools slicing her open
as my cloud-covered body slipped quietly out,
into hands swollen many times from violence,
what can i defend in being here?

why must i sleep timidly along outside of bed
with baby tucked beside me along the wall,
my resting pose faced out towards
monsters, rapists, murderers, mermaids, all
phantoms of collective disquiet, our dreams
swell thick with violence, murmurs horrid, familiar,
how did i come to find what it is to sit in fear?

what can i save against upheaval of the end,
when i am sure the war is in my own system—
between synapse and sinew, under pulse of poisoned
fluids, the deep draws of death, war is under
everything i stand for, in my smallest girlchild,
mimicking her patterns of abuse, cheeks swollen with violence.
who am i to be quiet when i have been that near to war?

About the Author

Fern Capella is a singer, songwriter, and poet living in Portland, Oregon. Among her publishing credits are Hipmama Magazine, The Essential Hipmama, Fictions of Mass Destruction, and many others. Fern is a graduate of New College of California’s Experimental Performance Institute.

Games by Dana Y.T. Lin

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games
fiction by dana y.t. lin

Wen-yi woke to the smell of rice porridge simmering over an open flame. She peered out the window to the backyard. The cloudy sky made for a cool, dull morning. Big brother, Gia, hovered over a clay pot with a large wooden spoon in hand. Next to him a toddler boy played in a pile of dried leaves. Little sister, Mei-yi, squatted nearby fidgeting with a spool of red thread. Mei-yi caught sight of her sister.

“Wen-wen!” called Mei-yi. Her eyes brightened, her cheeks red from the morning’s cold. The little girl wore short braids, a brown sweater, loose trousers and sandals too wide for her feet. She waved the spool in the air and gestured for Wen-yi to come outside.

“Hurry!” Mei-yi called again. “Mama won’t let me start the game without you.”

Wen-yi let her thin cotton blanket slip off her shoulders and hopped out of bed. Wearing a nightshirt, she pulled on an oversized sweater to hide her growing chest. She slipped into wooden sandals, ran out the room, down the hall, then left through the oak door into the backyard. She slowed once her shoes hit the slippery stone ground covered in dew.

“Take the needles,” came a voice from the house.

“Mama,” said Wen-yi.

A thin lady hobbled to meet her. Her brown cotton dress frazzled at the hems bore black patches stitched on its sleeves. Braided black hair streaked with grey on the top wound into a bun at the back. A single bloom of white adorned her hair. Her pale, smooth face framed dark, glossy eyes. Her hand held a balled up sock with two silver needles stuck in it.

“Thank you, mama.” Wen-yi carefully pulled out the needles.

“You better go before the sun is fully out. By then, the sunlight would have dried the leaves.”

“I know, mama. We’ll hurry.” Wen-yi stuck the needles into her braids. “Do you want me to walk you inside?”

“No, no. I’ll have Gia take me when he’s done with breakfast.”

“Mama!” cried Mei-yi. She ran up, wrapped her arms around her mother. “I wish you’d come, too. It’s so much fun.”

“Ah, mama isn’t so lucky. I have bound feet, see?” said the mother. She wiggled a foot. Her feet were a pair of stubs the size of oranges.

“I know, mama.” Mei-yi lowered her head then glanced up suddenly. “Can papa come? Can I get him?”

“No.” The mother stroked her daughter’s cheek. “Papa has to work in town. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Let’s go,” said Wen-yi. She pulled her sister away from their mother. “The faster we get back, the sooner we can have porridge.”

“Bye, mama.” Mei-yi followed Wen-yi through the bamboo gate towards the fields beyond their home. “See you, Gia! Little Brother!”

Gia, without turning around, waved his spoon in the air. Little Brother tossed a handful of leaves in the air and laughed, his cheeks just as red and round as Mei-yi’s.

“The one who brings in the heaviest batch will win!” the mother called after them.

The girls giggled all the way down the dirt path to the grove of fruit trees a couple miles from their backyard. Autumn leaves in all shades of orange and green coated the ground.

“Here.” Mei-yi handed the spool she had in her pocket to Wen-yi. “Can I have a head start today?”

“Sure.” Wen-yi picked out a short twig on the ground and tied it with one end of the string. She pulled a needle from her braid and threaded it with the other end. “I’ll still win.”

Mei-yi took the needle and ran off to the thickest area of leaves.

“Remember the rules?” asked Wen-yi. She threaded the second needle. “If we hear papa’s flute where do we go?”

“We play hide-and-seek!” answered Mei-yi. She dropped on all fours, stabbing the leaves one by one with the needle. Once she had five leaves, she’d push them all the way to the twig end of the thread. She repeated this with speed and giggles, only stopping to have Wen-yi tie up her full string of leaves then start again with another string.

Wen-yi employed a different technique. Instead of crawling everywhere like her little sister, she would kneel and gather the leaves into a big pile. Before long, Wen-yi’s heap was significantly larger than Mei-yi’s.

Both sisters worked fast. The warmer the day got, the drier the leaves. The drier the leaves, the more brittle and more difficult to poke with a needle.

“I don’t want to play anymore.” Mei-yi handed another full string of leaves to her sister. “I’m hungry,” she said.

Wen-yi stopped and sat on the ground. She motioned for her sister to sit on her lap.

“We’re almost done,” said Wen-yi. “Just a little more.”

“But I’m tired.” Mei-yi rubbed her knees, her trousers soiled at the knees. “Besides, there’s no way I’ll catch up. You always win.”

“What if I give you my prize?”

“You always do that, too.” Mei-yi covered her mouth, yawned. “For once, I want to win fair so I can share my piece of salted egg with you and Little Brother.”

“What about Gia?”

“Big Brother is big enough to win his own prizes!”

Wen-yi laughed. She gave her sister a hug. “Well, I think we’ve got enough.“

A soft wind breezed through the trees carrying with it a gentle melody. After a few notes, it stopped.

“Do you hear that?” asked Wen-yi. She smiled, but her eyes betrayed fear. “It’s papa.”

“Yes! Another game!” Mei-yi leaped from her sister’s lap, jumped up and down, her braids flopping in the air.

“You can’t hide without these.” Wen-yi quickly tied up the ends of the strings, draped several over Mei-yi’s neck. The rest she put around her own neck and arms.

“Follow me!” she ordered.

The sisters ran away from the grove toward where the music came. Their wooden sandals clunked on the ground and their strings of leaves rustled up and down their shoulders. After a short distance of running on damp grass, Mei-yi stopped and clutched her stomach. Hungry and out of breath, she released a sharp wail. Wen-yi was several paces ahead.

“Wen-yi!” cried the little girl. She sat down on the grass, hunched over. “Where are we going? We could have hid behind the trees where we were, or climbed up them.”

Wen-yi looked over her shoulder of leaves and stopped. She dragged a hand across her forehead, panted for air.

“But Gia knows we were at the grove. It’ll be too easy for him to find us.”

“I don’t care.” Mei-yi’s eyes teared up. She rubbed her legs. “They hurt, my stomach, too.”

“I’ll carry you.” Wen-yi hoisted her sister up her back. “Hold on tight.”

“But it’s not fair.” Mei-yi sniffled. “With me on your back, you’ll run too slow. Gia will catch up.”

“No he won’t.” Wen-yi adjusted the leaves, scratched her neck.

She hooked each arm under each of her sister’s legs. Once she secured Mei-yi to her back, Wen-yi ran as fast as her legs would go. She stopped when they reached a gated area.

“Are we there?” asked Mei-yi as she slid off.

“Shh.” Wen-yi stifled a cough, caught her breath. “We don’t want Gia to hear us.”

Wen-yi pushed open the wooden gate and led Mei-yi inside. They walked past rows and rows of large stone tablets standing in the grass. The rustling of the stringed leaves echoed sharply against the dullness around. When they reached the end of the field, a couple rows of freshly dug, rectangular holes came to view. Some were filled with loose dirt and some covered by planks or large canvas.

Wen-yi whistled.

“Can you teach me how to—“

Wen-yi held a finger to her lips.

“Wen-yi,” came a hushed voice from one of the holes. A hand reached up and pushed the plank aside. A man climbed out.

“Papa!” Mei-yi ran to her father and leaped into his welcoming arms.

“Shh.” The father, hair prematurely grey, dressed in farmer’s trousers and barefoot, held her close, pressed her face to his chest to quiet her. “Not so loud.”

Wen-yi went over and peered inside the pit. About six feet deep, Gia sat in a corner with a mound of clay pots with folded blankets underneath them. Little Brother slept on his shoulders. Next to him crouched a neighbor with his wife and three young children and two babies. The children appeared between three and eight years old. The wife had one baby in a sling on her back, and one in her arms.

“Get in.” Papa handed Mei-yi to Gia then extended his hand to Wen-yi.

“Mama?” Wen-yi stared into her father’s dark eyes.

“Take my hand.”

“Where’s—“

He looked away. “Jump in, Wen-yi.”

Wen-yi obeyed. She sat at the edge and slid into the pit. She found a spot next to Gia.

Gia leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Papa wanted to put her on his back. I had to bring Little Brother so papa could carry the food. Mama said she was too heavy, would slow us down, she insisted we leave without her.”

Papa carefully placed the planks over the hole, leaving himself enough room to slide down. Once inside, the neighbor grabbed a blanket and stuffed up the spot where papa entered. The neighbor wiggled the blanket until it covered the opening completely, making the inside of the pit very dark.

“Now, children,” whispered Papa, “the game begins.”

“Yes,” came the low voice of the neighbor. “Very quietly, who wants to get a piece of salted pork when we get back? Very quietly now.”

Mei-yi and the neighbor’s children all muttered, “Me!”

“Good,” said papa. “Starting from now we must remain very quiet.”

“No noise,” added the neighbor, “no talking, no laughing, no sneezing. Get it?”

“Yes,” the children mumbled.

“No matter what you hear outside,” Papa said. “It might get loud. The ground may shake. But no noise. Understand?”

No one answered.

That night thunder roared above and earth rumbled below. The distant sound of marching footsteps came from beyond the gate. With the sun now set, the pit became pitch black. The babies were kept quiet in the comfort of their mother’s breasts. The younger children hid under blankets. The adults had stuffed rags into their mouths so when they cried, they would not be heard. Their pants were drenched in their own tears.

Rain slipped between the wooden planks and wet the ground. Papa tapped Wen-yi’s shoulder for help. Wen-yi removed the leaf necklaces around her neck and began spreading the leaves on the floor for bedding. When she reached for her sister’s, Mei-yi refused.

“But the leaves are for the fire to cook.” Mei-yi held on to her strings. “Mama will ask me about it.”

“The ground has too much moisture.” Wen-yi patted the earth. “If we don’t put the leaves down, the blankets will get very wet.”

“Papa,” came Gia’s voice. “Little Brother feels hot.”

“Let me hold him,” Wen-yi offered.

“I have to pee,” came the voice of the neighbor’s little boy.

“Here,” said the neighbor’s wife. There was the sound of a clay pot being dragged on the dirt. “This one is empty.”

The next night, more rumblings and quaking, but the footsteps sounded closer and the thunder sounded like firecrackers.

“Ouch!” cried one of the neighbor’s children.

“Shh!” his father rebuked.

“But my rice bit me,” he whispered back.

Wen-yi let Little Brother eat off her hands. His lips felt burning hot on her fingers. He was very quiet.

“Mine bit me, too,” Mei-yi said.

“Shh,” crooned Wen-Yi. In the dark, she reached for Mei-yi’s hand. “Didn’t mama tell you? Ants will give you magic powers.”

“Where is mama?”

By day three, the stench from the pots became unbearable.

“How much longer?” Mei-yi tugged on Wen-yi’s sleeve.

“When the storm passes,” Wen-yi replies. She held Little Brother closer.

Little Brother hadn’t made a noise since morning.

By the fourth day, Papa finally pushed away the planks that covered the hole. It was dark outside, nighttime. Papa climbed up first, followed by the neighbor.

“Stay,” Papa ordered.

They covered the hole with planks again. Their footsteps headed toward the gate. After a few hours, they came back.

“Haven’t heard a bomb or a rifle in a whole day,” the neighbor said. “They’re probably on to the next village.”

“Let’s hope they’re gone for good.”

The planks were hauled to the side. The wife gathered her children around her and handed them one by one to her husband. Papa helped the neighbor pull his family out of the pit first.

“Are we going to see mama now?” Mei-yi asked her sister.

Wen-yi looked to her father, but he didn’t answer. She lifted the limp body of Little Brother to him. Gia then hoisted her up. A faint hint of ashes and sulfur hung in the air.

They walked in silence for miles, using the light of the moon to find their way. The neighbor and his family reached their home first. After another mile, Wen-yi and her family arrived home.

“Go find a candle,” Papa told Gia.

After Gia lighted an oil lamp, they walked through the ruins of their ancestral home. The doors appeared kicked off its hinges, the floors filled with ashes and debris, the walls black from flames.

“This is messy.” Mei-yi observed, blinking back tears. “I hate storms.”

Papa placed Little Brother in his bed when they got to the boys’ room. The boy appeared blue and rigid.

“Papa?” Mei-yi wiped her eyes, walked up to the crib and peered inside. “I think Little Brother won, don’t you?”

Her father didn’t answer.

“He stayed the most quiet,” Mei-yi explained. She tugged on her sister’s sleeves. “Didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Wen-yi whispered, barely able to speak. She went over and tucked a blanket under her little brother’s chin. As she smoothed the blanket her fingers stopped at the embroidery on the bottom. A pair of green and gold bamboo, a symbol of their family name, now tattered, was stitched by her mother.

“I think he deserves the salted pork, doesn’t he?” Mei-yi turned around and headed out the door. “Let’s go tell mama.”

About the Author

Ms. Lin based ‘Games’ on her mother’s childhood in Canton, China during the early years of World War 2. Though writing mostly humor, she is often inspired by her parents’ bedtime stories from her childhood. She currently resides in Southern California with her husband and children. For further information, visit Dana online at www.danaytlin.com.

Village by Wanda Waterman St. Louis

Hello, there. You don’t know me,
Although you know my name I think
And can at times
Connect it to a face.
I’ve struggled to extend to you
Regard you have not thought to grant to me
But I have failed.

I’ve tried to think of all of you as real
To imagine that like me you love the soil,
Would die for your children,
That at night with your love your heart lifts up
Great wings and soars o’er
Worlds that welcome it
But I have failed.

And you have heard the funeral march,
The portly tuba’s oom-pah-pah,
The trumpet’s dirge, the flute’s alarm,
You too have heard him cry, Allah!
Allah! Allah! Allah! Allah!
The Afghan boy with the severed arm.
You’ve heard and gone on harming.
I’ve tried to understand
But I have failed.

I’ve tried to contact you,
To meet with you, to get a chance to
Share my fears with you,
To hear your fears,
To work together for good,
To give you one more chance to put things right,
To not shore up your crimes with my resistance hey
I failed.

Yet somehow I believe that you are good,
That stubborn in your hearts lives on
A longing for a village
On a hillside, in a valley, by an ocean,
A village in the raw salt wind,
Beside a forest,
Flanked with streams and trees,
A place of mud and meadows,
A place that smells of leather, hay, green wood,
Fresh bread, strong beasts, and soup,
A place where one must work at times
(And too, at times, must not),
A village full of friends and only good ones,
Where no one knows a blow,
Or slights the blessed air wherein she lives.

The sweetness of your yearning
Is your curse.
You blast it with coins and shells.
See both now lying spent and sinking fast
Into your largest captive’s wounded flesh.

Your fathers dreamed this village before you
While living at the feet of manic giants
(Giants who burned villages).
In new lands you found villages of friends
And with infected breath
Destroyed them all.
And later on, in Cameroon, Chiapas, East Timor such villages,
Those ancient royal sites which you unselved!

There will be many villages again,
In crook of bended knee and folded arm
Of the bones of that behemoth once hailed great.

Be silent now, be derring-do.
Be fearless, boys,
And dream your village true.

About the Author

Wanda Waterman St. Louis was born on a couch on Swan’s Island, off the coast of Maine, after a stormy ferry crossing. Ever since she’s felt as if her boat were tossed about and yet there is always some kind of new birth once ashore. She came to Nova Scotia with her family when she was four and has never moved away.

Wanda studied English literature at Dalhousie University and psychology at Athabasca. Her poetry has been published in Tigertail, Utmost Christian Writers, Mythic Delirium, ChiZine, Our Times, Descant, Skylight, Pottersfield Portfolio, and The Talking Leaves. In 1999 she won the George Elliott Clarke prize for drama for her stage play . A television series she created with film producer Daniel Matmor and actor Heidi Von Palleske (The Deadly Wake, Dead Ringers) has recently been optioned by Cirrus Productions. She was instrumental in unionising a workplace, for which she produced a monthly newsletter, The Union Maid. She produces a comic strip called Chronicles of Cruiscin Lan for Athabasca University’s webzine The Voice.

She is now a a singer of traditional Gaelic songs, a banjo player in an amateur dixieland band, and a freelance writer. She lives in a log cabin in the woods with her husband and two black labs.

Her Time by Anja Leigh

Her house is empty now.
Only the tailless tabby, Joy,
prowls the staircase.

She walks to the corner store,
buys one red apple, then exchanges it for green.
A gilded mirror frame
catches her eye in the window
at the antique store

the owner flirts with her.

She is content not to flirt back
but to carry her apple home
sit in the garden of her making
eat the fruit one bite
at a time reading
as the afternoon breeze
brushes her thinning hair.

Perhaps she will doze
carrying her memories with her
like the trail of Shasta daisies
carefully cultivated
next to the stone walkway
wandering down to the ocean
that resounds into her dream.

She will remember nothing harmful.
She will seek no sorrow,
a houseguest
against her will.

The wind will scatter her blossoms
where all possibilities exist
along the edge of grass-covered railroad tracks,
unused at the outskirts of town, fading.

About the Author

Anja Leigh recently received her MA in Creative Writing at the age of 62. Her poems tell stories of women exploring their sexuality, gaining independence, overcoming oppression, experiencing loss and sorrow, and accepting both the chaos and adventure of contemporary life. As a contemporary senior citizen, her words testify to a quality of truth that is at once candid and universal. She has been published in The Northridge Review, CSPS Poetry Letter & Literary Review (contest winner), California Quarterly, Diner, WordWrights, Luhith, Painted Moon Review, ROAR, BorderSenses, Earth’s Daughters, Poets Against the War, Women’s Voices, and Quoin, and she has read her poetry at various locations throughout the United States.

Interview: Nahid Rachlin

Persian Girls is the memoir of Iranian-American author Nahid Rachlin. Bestowed upon her widowed and childless aunt as a gift at birth, Nahid enjoyed a simple and loving home free from many of the restrictions that pervade a young Iranian girl’s life. But when her father demands Nahid’s return to his home at age nine, everything changes. Suddenly decisions about her life are being made for her, and Nahid's independence is challenged at every turn. Her only comfort is the bond developed with her older sister, Pari. Persian Girls is the story of that bond, and about the price of personal independence and freedom.

Editor M.K. Ericson spoke with the author about this very personal work. Here is what she had to say.

Q: All of the women we meet in Persian Girls live with personal, familial, and cultural expectations for their future. More often than not, these forces are at odds with each other, resulting in strained relationships and personal sacrifice. The focus of Persian Girls is largely on your relationship with your sister, Pari, and your shared desire for a life of your choosing. Your own pursuit of higher education and writing, and Pari’s love of acting were equally frowned upon by family and society, yet you both persevered. Where do you think your resilience and independence in the face such opposition came from?

A: I think the fact that I had my aunt as a mother when I was a child helped me a great deal. It gave me strength and self-confidence because of all the love and praise she lavished on me. Pari had to share our birth mother with all the siblings.

Q: You and Pari also shared a fascination with all things American. From skipping school in afternoons to see the latest film, to your careful observation of the interactions among American children living nearby, you were consumed. What did America symbolize to a young girl in 1960s Iran?

A: Freedom, variety of opportunities, excitement.

Q: This fascination was deepened when your brothers were allowed to travel to the United States to pursue their education. You worked hard to become first in your class, and your father developed a small sense of pride in your own academic achievement. Yet, despite your hopes that he would also allow you to study in America, his initial response was that you expected too much. How did that make you feel?

A: I always felt it was unfair that my father, as with a majority of fathers, thought education was for their sons only, and that their daughters should settle for a life of domesticity with husbands they chose for them. I struggled to get out of that.

Q: Your father did allow you to study in America following the outbreak of the revolution, but when you arrived things were not as you had hoped. What did this experience teach you about your own expectations? Did you ever start to believe that maybe your father was right?

A: The disappointment I felt in the college I went to, with the narrowness of attitudes among the staff and students, didn’t make me disillusioned with my own dreams of pursuing education and independence. It just made me feel I was in the wrong college, not of my own choice, because that was where my father insisted I should go. He wanted me to be in a women’s college, near one of my brothers who had come here before me, and so I had no choice but that one college near him. I knew America was larger than that college.

Q: Sadly, Pari was not allowed to achieve the same level of personal independence that you did. In the years following her arranged marriage she once told you that it was because you were stronger than she was. Do you think that was a fair assessment on her part, or do you feel it had more to do with the circumstances of her being the first daughter, and thus the first in line for marriage?

A: I think her assessment was probably correct. Because she had never known another mother like I had, she was more ambivalent about totally rejecting our parents’ ideals for us and she wasn’t strong enough to fight as I did.

Q: Throughout the book we see your parents consumed with concerns about your actions bringing shame upon the family. What kind of pressure was there on a family raising a daughter in Iran during this time? Has anything changed?

A: My father was afraid that, with all my struggle for independence, my outspokenness, under the oppressive political situation in Iran, would get him into trouble. The SAVAK, the Shah’s secret police, was always on the look out for anyone who might write or read something that was against the censorship. Oddly things are similar now, only the censorship is based on different sensitivities, the “moral police” taking the place of the SAVAK.

Q: The bonds of sisterhood play an important role in this story, where you explore not only the relationship shared by you and Pari, but also that with your other sister, Manijeh, and that of your birth mother, Mohtaram, and her sister, Maryam, who raised you. How would you characterize sisterhood in Iranian society? Are the pressures of accepted public behaviors, and the effect of one sister upon another, often a source of consternation as they were with Manijeh? Can the need to attract a suitable marriage partner breed jealousy? Or are most relationships supportive and nurturing like the one between you and Pari?

A: On the whole sisters are close, as members of the same sex generally are in Iran. Because interaction between girls and boys (unless they are blood related) is forbidden, the members of the same sex grow close. Pari’s and my anger at Manijeh mainly stemmed from the fact that, for some mysterious reasons, our mother favored her over all her children. There was little competition over suitors as we had no choice in the matter. The men’s families selected the girls and the girls’ families decided if the men were suitable.

Q: Censorship also plays an important role in this book. Censorship of family, feeling, and ultimately of the self, all emanating from pressures exerted by customs of time and place. How has your experience of growing up in a female-oppressed society affected your approach to raising your own daughter? Do you feel that she is aware of the freedoms afforded her as a woman in America?

A: Yes, my daughter is quite aware that she has a freedom that I never experienced in Iran. I am happy that she is able to exert her own desires the way I wasn’t. I encourage her to think independently.

Q: During your visits back to Iran you witnessed women demonstrating in the streets. Did you ever think “that could be me?” Was there a moment when you regretted your choice or considered returning?

A: I have never really regretted my choice to come to America, pursue my own goals. But I am always aware of a loss, a price to pay for the independence I have gained. I don’t have easy access and closeness to people I love, because of all the distance between us. I envy people who can just get in the car or airplane and go and see their loved ones. For me going back to Iran has always been problematic, not just because of the geographical distance, but for political reasons too that make traveling back and forth difficult. So I have returned only every few years, and I am always longing for more contact with people I have left there.

Q: You speak often of the biographical foundations of many of your earlier fictional works. Given this, was the experience of writing a non-fictional memoir an easy transition for you? How did the experience differ?

A: It wasn’t an easy transition from fiction to memoir, mainly because I was afraid of the reaction I would receive from my family members who can read English. I was exposing so much about my family and I didn’t know how that would strike them. But luckily those family members who have read it have not been offended.

Q: The loss of your sister, Pari, was obviously a painful and emotional experience. How long did it take you to be able to write about her? Has telling her story and paying tribute to her spirit eased the pain of her untimely death?

A: It took me more than a decade to be able to write about it. Telling her story has eased the pain only to some extent, in that she is more alive for me through the book and for those who read it.

Q: In closing the book, you write that your independence came at a price. In retrospect, was the price you paid too high?

A: It is hard to evaluate how high the price has been. I am certainly always divided inside, wishing I could combine my past and present more easily.

Q: You start and end the book with Maryam’s words on destiny, though you suggest that you don’t believe in predetermination. Why bring such prominence to this idea, then? Does the thought of destiny bring you any comfort?

A: The idea of predestination is always on my mind, not in the religious sense that Maryam believed in but in a different way. Though at some level I believe it was my own strength and determination that enabled me to strike out against traditional roles that trapped my sisters and many of my friends, I also believe that some things are determined for us: for instance how we look, the temperament we are born with, all sorts of coincidences, play parts in our future.

Q: What is the most important thing you would like your readers to take away from reading this memoir?

A: In this political climate, when Iran is the target of attack and Iranians are often portrayed as stereotypes, I hope this book enables readers to see Iran and its people with all their diversity and complexities, make them aware that important human emotions, such as love, sorrow, and loss are universal.

Nahid Rachlin was born and raised in Iran, but attended college in the United States, where she has resided since her graduation. In additon to her memoir, she is the author of four novels, Jumping Over Fire (City Lights), Foreigner (W.W. Norton), Married to a Stranger (E.P. Dutton), and The Heart’s Desire (City Lights) as well as the short story collection City Lights. For further information, you may visit her online at www.nahidrachlin.com.

Myth and Transformation

The primary focus of my art practice has been to address gender-related issues and represent the experiences of women. Inspired by the second wave feminists, who coined the phrase ‘the personal is political’, my work reflects my personal experiences filtered through the lens of art history, mythology and popular culture. Many of the female figures that appear throughout my work are, in fact, self-portraits. I have observed that large numbers of women artists have embraced the self-portrait as a means of representing their own histories and experiences as being distinct from those of men. While I cannot claim to be an art history or feminist philosophy scholar and therefore can’t verify that this is a practice seen more often in the work of women artists, informally it does appear to be the case. It is unquestionably a feature of my own work.

My earliest work, however, did not involve the use of self-portraits but rather drew on images appropriated from outside sources such as anatomy textbooks. This work was monochromatic and very minimalist in approach. During this time period ( 1992 – 98 ) I created “The Three Graces” and the “Objects of Desire” series. This work would be best described as highly academic in nature, as it was greatly informed and influenced by the anti-pornography writings of such 80s feminist luminaries as Andrea Dworkin and Catharine MacKinnon. These were the years immediately following my graduation from university when I was still fuelled by the political radicalism of youth. While I still self-identify as a feminist, at present I would describe myself as more of a liberal feminist than a radical one.

In the interest of clarification, I would like to briefly outline the difference between liberal and radical feminism. A liberal feminist seeks to abolish gender inequality through the use of legislation and societal reforms. In essence, they chose to work within “the system” in order to change the system. Radical feminists, however, view this same “system” as the problem. Radical feminist theory views most societies as based on patriarchy—a societal construct that privileges men over women. Gender equality, they argue, is impossible within the framework of such a society and therefore the society must be fundamentally altered. The writings of Andrea Dworkin and Catharine MacKinnon were instrumental to the development of radical feminist theory, and in particular their criticism of pornography which they linked with rape and other forms of violence against women. The anti-pornography writings of Dworkin and MacKinnon were core reading in the Feminist Philosophy class I attended while an undergraduate student at university and as such held a great deal of influence in the formation of my feminist views.

Over the course of my early art practice, however, I experienced a conflict between the anti-pornography view of radical feminism and the strong anti-censorship beliefs I held as an artist. While I did perceive a causal link between certain types of pornography and the subjugation of women, I was not—nor am not—against pornographic images as a whole. Sexually explicit imagery belongs to the spectrum of human experience that an artist may chose to depict, and this depiction should be free from the limits of censorship.

Additionally, I observed that on certain key issues—pornography and the legalization of prostitution being two of these—that the radical feminist left and the socially conservative right were often in agreement, and this was an alliance with which I was greatly uncomfortable. Therefore, over the years my feminist beliefs have adopted a more liberal leaning and include what is now termed “sex-positive feminism,” meaning that I oppose legal or social efforts to control sexual activities between consenting adults.

While my early work was inspired by feminist influences, it also quoted from the classical texts. For instance, the triptych entitled “The Three Graces” took it’s name after the famous art historical grouping of three female nudes that stems from classical mythology. Artists of no less stature than Raphael created their own versions of the Three Graces, mainly as an excuse to render the female nude threefold in one composition. In my version of this subject, I appropriated images of naked women from anatomy textbooks and imposed a “black-bar” of text across their eyes, the type of black bar one used to see across the eyes of women in pornographic material. The thought behind this action was to make explicit the essentially pornographic exchange between the nude female subjects and the imagined viewer.

My work frequently uses self-portraiture as a creative point-of-departure. I often adopt the role of characters from classical or biblical texts in these self-portraits. The process of inserting myself into the role of a character creates a level of displacement from what is often psychologically challenging subject matter. In the case of “The Bitter Seed”

In the Name of Joan: An Alter Ego Fights Back

by Cynthia Bellerose

In 2002, at the age of 39, I began a year long process of preparing for my grand entrance into midlife, my forties. I called my year long preparation the year of Wrap-Up. It was time to face my sorrows of the past and address my pain and fears; to wrap up all my scattered & shattered emotions as I sought order and a new focus for my life.

I was determined to turn 40 with a new attitude and strength but I had to take charge and begin to make sense of the bad situations and toxic relationships of the past, like the high school sweetheart who got my best friend knocked up. And yes, it was while I was still going steady with him. Then there was the college relationship with a poor, drug using, ex-Jehovah Witness-gone-bad who physically harmed me and stalked me for a year after the split up. The home invasion when my life was threatened by an armed robber while my children witnessed the ugly scene. These were a few of the disturbing memories that had to be wrapped up but the toughest challenge to face was emotionally healing from the betrayal and abuse in my failed marriage.

I will always remember 2002. It was the year I found my inner-strength while rediscovering the painter within. Between juggling my commercial art jobs and teaching, while my children were at school, I began my year of wrap up by writing in my journal. I spilled and spewed anything and everything without being told to shut up or fearing something being smashed and broken against a wall out of a fit of rage. Expressing myself on paper empowered me. I was slowly finding my voice again, the voice that had been stifled for too many years by overpowering men filled with anger and deceit.

Before long, my writings turned into editorial doodles and my doodles evolved into sketches and soon after, painting began.

It was 2:00 in the morning, kids were sound asleep and after stirring up emotions by writing and doodling out all the thoughts swirling in my head at the time, I couldn*#039t fall asleep due to my over stimulated mind and the dreaded fear of having another nightmare. It was time to pull out the paint and brushes and get whatever it was out of me. Not having planned to begin painting again after 13 years of putting off stretching that canvas, I didn’t have a proper surface to paint on until I found a perfectly square piece of corrugated board tucked behind my flat files.

With open jars of primary and secondary colors of acrylic left over from one of my commercial jobs, and a less than perfect surface to use, I simply started to slap paint onto my cardboard. Not knowing what I was going to paint, I just enjoyed the process, the feeling of paint filled brushes sliding across the surface. It felt good; I didn’t want it to stop. I stayed up all night applying random strokes of pigment, creating a bright image that had transformed into two figures, two figures that eerily resembled a married couple I once knew…myself and my ex-husband.

Gazing at my paint covered cardboard; a chill went down my spine as tears trickled from my eyes. My crudely painted art therapy piece was a success; it brought something out of me that forced a closer examination of my state of mind. The image of a very sad woman being verbally scolded by an overpowering man made me realize that I was still haunted by past events. My soul created this piece and my soul was telling me that I was still frightened and very sad.

In an attempt to shelter my children from the ugly truths about their father and mother, I would only allow myself sneak peaks of the painting when public eyes were not around. Finally, after several weeks of viewing and digesting my visual thoughts, I realized that I was still being controlled. I wasn’t controlled directly by another human being but by my very own emotions. This realization was a break through. It was a major turning point for me as I finally left the pity party I was throwing for myself and became enraged with anger…anger that would become my new emotion in need of attention. I was angry at the two-timing high school sweetheart, the now imprisoned ex-Jehovah Witness, the robber in the middle of the night and the ex-husband. But most of all, I was angry with myself for falling victim to their dishonest, controlling ways.

Emotion by emotion, I worked through my issues like one would experience the stages of death. Perhaps my stages weren’t in the usual order but I had experienced them all; denial, anger, guilt, and sadness, resulting into acceptance.

Joan Emerges
As I finally accepted the fact that I had been abused, my alter ego “Joan” emerged. Joan became the subject of my work as it was easier to express my emotions through her than to tell my tales in first person. It was a safe yet powerful way to let it all out. As my subject developed I would often think…WWJD…What would Joan do?

Well, the first thing Joan did was find her strength. With imagining Joan as a suppressed housewife from the 1960′s, I pictured her marveling at the many uses baking soda provided. It was a common ingredient in all her baked goods, an excellent tooth whitener for her dazzling smile, and best of all, it was the product of choice for cleaning and deodorizing all those nasty little messes in the home. Joan saw her box of baking soda and thought, “this is powerful stuff!”

Using Joan’s point of view, I painted my first piece, “Arm & Finger Bitching Soda”, just days before my grand entrance into midlife…my 40th birthday. It was a marvelous feeling. My year of Wrap Up paid off. I was on the road to recovery with Joan by my side as I found my new focus; painting to fearlessly express myself, using wicked humor as a coping mechanism which in time has become an invitation welcoming open dialog with others who have fell victim to abuse.

Soon after my birthday celebration the paints were pulled out again as I began my second painting of Joan’s famous Bitching Soda but this time it had to reveal its secret ingredients. By shifting the box to a view, I created a larger A and F box, and with Joan in mind, the Nutritional Facts listed on the side panel became the Neurotic Facts…

Active Ingredient:
FU Attitude
Purpose:
Eliminates Dawgs, Ass Holes and Inhibitions.

Then of coarse, the “% Daily Value*”. Rather than listing Total Fat, Sodium, Total Carbohydrates, and Protein, Joan’s box of strength lists…

Total FU’s —————————– 100%
Sadistic ——————————- 100%
Total Crapbackatya ————– 100%
ProWoman —————————- 100%

* Percent Daily Values based on active passive aggressive behavior

After completing the box and the vintage tablecloth it sits upon, I just had to add one more thing to the surface…a knife, but not just any knife. I had to hand over the knife from my nightmares that had haunted me for so long. It had to be put to good use. In my mind, I felt that Joan could use the knife more than my night terrors could. It was important that I add the very same knife I desperately reached for 18 months prior as I attempted to defend myself from being strangled at 3ᚨ AM Mother’s Day morning. The same knife that I was unable to reach before the last act of domestic violence crushed my world into pieces. Adding my kitchen knife to the piece finalized the painting and surprisingly enough, finalized the reoccurring nightmares.

Although the painting was finished the entire piece was not complete. Gathering power tools, lights, electrical cord and glitter; I created a pink and purple sparkling light box, illuminating the tear tab opening of Joan’s 4 foot tall box of strength. After plugging it in and smiling at the glistening glitter, I titled the piece, “If ya gotta box, ya got the power”.

Now that Joan’s inner strength had been established, it was time to find that one moment that forced her to use her newly found box of Bitching Soda for the first time. I didn’t want to depict Joan as a battered woman looking for her box of power too late. Joan needed to be depicted standing up for herself before being physically harmed. Reflecting back on my own life I recalled the warning signs of abuse. Those red flags I chose not to acknowledge at the time, either out of fear or perhaps foolish hope. I remembered the belittling. And the worst type was the public humiliation.

A bitter sweet excitement rushed through me as I envisioned my next piece, a diptych titled: “Joan Finds Her Box”. Using paint, glitter, and a subtle application of double edged razor blades along with collaged pieces of images pulled from my previous painting, Joan’s first moment of retaliation emerged.

There was Joan, in the midst of intoxicated businessmen at the hubby’s office party, being introduced by Dick (the perfect name for Joan’s husband) as nothing more than a pretty little ornament. The businessman chuckles grew louder and louder as crude slurs were shared about her. Joan felt herself rapidly shrinking throughout the evening as the herd of suits continued with their beer drenched comments. As Joan’s esteem dropped, Dick’s pride grew larger with every jab poked at his pretty little dumb blonde.

A turn of events took place upon returning home. Joan found her box! Hovering over shrinking Dick, Joan expressed herself as everything inside freely poured. With glitter and razor blades spilling out of the collaged box of Bitching Soda, a visual statement of a woman standing up for herself as she recognizes her self-worth is conveyed.

Being quite pleased with my first figurative piece of “The Joan Series”, my head filled with more ideas while my own self-esteem became healthier. Every piece created gave me an increasing sense of empowerment. I felt in control…something I hadn’t felt prior to painting. The self-hate and anger I had carried slowly disappeared.

Joan Advertises Her Thoughts
Having a background in advertising I grew to love and hate the strategies used to promote commercialism throughout the years. The psychology behind a great ad campaign fascinates me as it influences consumers to believe they must have what everyone else has in order to fit into society. Advertising molds trends and social beliefs, and controls the weak, less educated consumer. I find the advertisements of the 1950′s & 60′s to be most fascinating as housewives were portrayed as happy-go-luck women cleaning their homes in high heels, pretty dresses and always wearing a smile on their face. Promoters advertised everything a woman desired; vacuum cleaners, laundry detergents, washers & dryers, big cars, even the Vibrusage which was often recommended by doctors to remedy women suffering from hysteria. Of coarse women were diagnosed with hysteria. Do you really think they were being represented accurately through the advertisements they read every day? There was societal pressure to be the perfect housewife and if you weren’t, you just needed to strive to be more like the models in the advertisements.

Influenced by vintage advertisements of the 1960′s, I developed the rest of “The Joan Series” depicting Joan as an ad model of the times. She shares her thoughts and fantasies through visuals and typography while always flashing her fake smile. The same fake smile I often wore to create illusions of happiness and to hide the abuse that lurked behind closed doors.

Joan’s advertisements began as paintings, later evolving into painted and collaged suitcases, forming a body of work titled “Joan Moves On”. Both forms of work tackle issues I have had to face, including betrayal, control issues, and emotional, verbal and physical abuse.

Joan Addresses Betrayal
The topic of betrayal is strongly addressed in “Joan Needs to Mend”. Displaying her sewing box equipped with her handmade, groin pierced voodoo doll of Dick, Joan proudly shows off her seamstress skills. With crude stitch work closing the crotch of real boxers collaged to the piece, Joan smiles with excitement as her box of Bitching Soda glows in the background. In “Confused Dick”, the message is more subtle when Dick finds a knife and a box of Joan’s Bitching Soda in his boxers.

Betrayal is also addressed on vintage suitcases. “Joan’s Old Baggage: Cheater”, literally spells out how Joan feels as she types a special message to Dick.

And in “Joan’s Old Baggage: STD”, betrayal resulting in the contraction of a sexually transmitted disease is expressed, using the term “The Jack” from the AC-DC song, “She’s Got The Jack”. After a quick fling with a whore, Dick brings home the “gift” that keeps on giving and poor Joan is left with a STD for the rest of life.

Joan Addresses Control & Abuse
Breaking free from Dick’s control, Joan portrays herself as a twisted version of Rosie the Riveter in the painting titled, “Joannie the Riveting”. Fashioning a yellow Latex glove, Joan sends a visual message with the classic caption, “WE CAN DO IT!”, above her head. Not only is she sending Dick a message, she is also sending a message to all women who need to break away from those who control them.

“Joan’s Killer Smile” shows Joan anticipating a clean break from her dreadful situation. Sick and tired of being controlled, she starts her day with a confident smirk rather than a fake smile as she realizes she has the strength within to seek freedom from the madness.

Then with celebrity puppets at her side, Joan turns things around by becoming the puppet master forcing Dick to his knees while being strangled by his own neck tie. In “Kukla, Joan & Ollie”, the puppets offer a helping hand as Joan takes control and dishes out a little of her own abusive revenge for viewing audiences to witness…one of Joan’s most grand fantasies.

Another celebrity puppet is included in a Joan fantasy, this time the puppet is a dummy representing Dick and all the nonsense he spoke when verbally abusing his wife. “Joan’s Old Baggage: Shut Up” creates the illusion that Dick was gagged with duct tape and by using the same bandanna fabric collaged around the dummy’s neck, a hint of it peeks out of the suitcase to suggest that Dick the Dummy is inside.

Finally, as a way to keep her sanity, Joan developed her own brand of coping solutions. Due to years of being controlled she searched for simple pleasures to distract her from reality. She calls these vices, “Joan’s Preservatives” using 2 dozen antique mason jars; I created an assortment of vices ranging from Evil Thoughts, Faux Serenity, Snooping, Self Pleasure to Binge Eating. To carry her preservatives, a large vintage suitcase is used to represent a traveling salesman’s case. “Joan’s Old Baggage: Preservatives” reveals Joan before using her preservatives, as a controlled woman loosing her head by the mystic evil powers of her controller. On the other side of the case, looking proud and confident, like a survivor should look, Joan is portrayed as part of a logo for “Joan’s Preservatives”.

Reaching Out To Help Others
I consider my Joan Series to be an on-going body of work reflecting not only my own journey through life but also the journeys of many women. Since revealing Joan to the public, I have had many candid conversations with friends, family and even complete strangers about abuse and suppression. Joan seems to encourage dialogue about a topic that is too often considered unmentionable. Domestic violence and emotional abuse are those dirty little secrets nobody wants to talk about, especially the victims. And the victimizers, well…they just don’t see it as abuse and tend to be in denial.

Although much of my work appears whimsical at first glance, the root of it has a wicked message. This is my way of drawing the viewer in to examine pieces more deeply and hopefully raise questions within themselves about there own life experiences. Abuse victims get it right away and others appreciate it because they know that friend of a friend of a friend who had been abused or betrayed by someone they trusted.

My hope is to continue creating my Joan pieces and encourage honest discussions about domestic abuse, the recovery process and the secret desires women share in our society. I believe, with public awareness, tough issues will someday become an easier thing to expose, so victims can feel safe to find the support they need and begin the quest of finding their inner-strength, inner-peace and the beautiful woman within…my beautiful woman is named Joan.

Artist Statement

Born an artist in 1963, Cyndi Bellerose-McAfee has excelled in many art related fields, both during her time studying at The Columbus College of Art & Design and after graduating with a BFA in Illustration in 1985. While attending college, her work was annually exhibited in student galleries throughout the school, and in the summer months she could be found drawing caricatures at Cedar Point Amusement Park, painting signs at The Ohio State Fair, or participating in community theater productions. Bellerose-McAfee landed her first professional job at Trott & Bean Architectural Firm as a graphic designer, later becoming an art director. After satisfying her desire to learn more about architectural design, she left the firm to pursue her growing freelance business, Studio 49. For over 20 years, under the direction of Bellerose-McAfee, Studio 49 has produced a wide variety of art ranging from illustration and graphic design to atmosphere design, which involves the design and construction of thematic spaces. Always seeking creative outlets, Bellerose-McAfee co-produced the award winning “Music, Oh My!” educational program consisting of musical CD’s and tapes along with children’s books to help Preschoolers better prepare for Kindergarten. For over 10 years, this active artist has also been an educator, instructing family art workshops throughout Central Ohio and teaching art part-time at Saint Mary Elementary School and The Wellington School, both located in Columbus. Although Studio 49 and teaching keeps Bellerose-McAfee busy, she still makes time to create fine art, including her work on The Joan Series. Since 2002, she has been producing an ever-growing body of work and has exhibited in Columbus, Ohio at Waldo’s on High, The Ohio Art League, and Sean-Christopher Gallery. Part of the Joan Series has also been exhibited at A.I.R. Gallery in New York City. Samples of Bellerose-McAfee’s commercial art and find art can be viewed at www.coroflot.com/cyndioh.

Winter 2007

End of the Day by Muna Kazi Pathan

Sitting here on this hill, I watch the ghosts of burning wood rise from behind the low mud walls of huts that cluster the foothills. In each of them, a woman, perhaps helped by her daughter is fanning a fire, rolling out rotis and blistering them on red flames.

All the little children must be playing in the narrow lanes, slipping in the ooze of drain water. They are laughing, their voices trickling through the cracked walls. A sick old man lying on a charpoy complains of the noise between coughs of discontent exchanged with is wife.

Their son trudges home from grimy hours spent with steely machines: talking all the time—clicked-clack…clickety-clack…

At home it must be quiet.

He passes the playing children; mosquitoes dive about their heads and dirt crawls beneath their nails.

He and his wife have a baby.

His wife squats before a mud stove. The flames redden her pale cheeks and her partially covered hair is hennaed in their glow. Her hands become a blur as she fans the red, hot coals into tongues of fire. The clink of her bangles echoes tirelessly. It is the sound of coming home. She is so beautiful, he thinks, as he eyes her from the door.

She steals a glance at him, firelight catching her upturned eyes. He is tired. She must quickly, quickly brew the tea. And please, don’t let the baby cry all night again.

The water trickles apologetically from the dented tin jug as he washes the grease from his hands.

He sits at the edge of the charpoy and massages his father’s legs. The splintered wood and the coiled rope dig into his thighs. They talk about selling their land in the country. Nothing will grow on it. But it is security. No, it is a liability. Again, there is an argument. Clickety-clack…clickety.

The familiar hands of his wife place the steaming tea before him. The roti is slightly burnt. How thin her hands have become! He looks up at her, but her head is bent. Black lashes fringe her pale cheeks. He must take her to the Hakim. He will talk to her about it when they are alone.

They have not been alone since before they were married. Perhaps they met on this very hill, on an evening just like this one.

At night, lying in the dark, listening to the coughs of the old man and the whimpering breath of their baby is the closest they get to being alone; touch, their only conversation—whispered.

I watch the fingers of twilight caress the graying sky as the last of the birds fly across like beads scattered from a broken necklace. Black lashes on pale cheeks.

About the Author

Muna Kazi Pathan lives and works in Karachi, Pakistan. Her work has appeared in local newspapers and the poetry journal My Legacy.

Thoughts on Becoming a Crone by Elizabeth Glixman

There are variegated color hairs on my head,
Yarn all fuzzy and wild
One inch from my scalp there is red
Lush auburn youth.
Below the white
Threads winked with gray waving,
Roots visible like tree arms against the sky.

Crone means old ewe,
An old you
That you do not recognize.
Do old ewes have gray hair graze on grass?
Are they sent to float on arctic ice flows
While families plant corn?

I look close
Seeing if my hair is wiry enough
To be woven—
A blanket to warm old knees or hoofs—
Two toned auburn gray
Auburn blond gray
Light brown crone blanket for sale.

None of us start life as crones
I started as a thought,
Then graduated to being an egg
Then a soft spoken shape that cried.
Yesterday I saw an angioma on my arm
Red like a berry
Blooming on my skin that hasn’t felt like silk for years.
I talc myself
My crotch is raspy.
When this happens we crones
know who we are underneath
our colored hair and lifted chins
Double folds speared like fishes in the sea
Devoured by hunters looking for sustenance
And a buck.
They can’t leave flesh alone too long,
It gets unruly.

We crones know who we are
When our fingers glow from touching
Words that slip bridges in our mouth
Longer than the Great Wall of China
Take heart, it is the demise of fertility that makes
Minds bright.

*

Being friends with your inner Crone is not easy.
I look in the mirror
Wonder who it is I am watching.
My Great Aunt Julia stares back
From the supermarket parking lot years ago.
Aunt Julia with dark eyebrows that needed tweezing
And white hair going yellow
And arms that asked for help.
Walking with rocks in each orthopedic shoe
Asking strangers to carry the weight of milk cartons,
Or open a jar or tell her how to get home.

I could deny growth
Never look in the mirror again
Never ask how to get home.
Like the female crone strippers on Sunday TV
I might wiggle my behind
Swing tassels and shake hips
And take off my clothes
wearing only fluffy feathery boas
Hiding nothing old in the Las Vegas dessert
where Georgia O’Keefe saw the beauty of bones.

About the Author

Elizabeth P. Glixman’s fiction and poetry have appeared online and in print in publications including In Posse Review, Wicked Alice Poetry Journal, Subtle Tea, 3 A.M. Magazine, Tough Times Companion, a publication of The Virginia Foundation for the Humanities, and Frigg.

Elizabeth’s author interviews, articles, book reviews, and creative non-fiction pieces have appeared in a variety of publications including Eclectica, The Pedestal Magazine, Whole Life Times, Spirit of Change, Hadassah Magazine, and the anthologies, Chocolate for A Woman’s Soul II and Cup of Comfort For Women.

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