“Then a police van crashed into four bicyclists late Friday night, generating new outrage against the Government. One cyclist was killed instantly, and two died in the hospital Saturday, while the fourth seemed less seriously hurt…”

Knife blades clink-clunk lyrically off the side as the knife man methodically push his bicycle through the serpentine hutong. The modesty of late spring lingers still in the June-day morning vapors, but he knows by noon his white headscarf would be soaked. He swings the spare towel over his shoulders and hollers again.

“mooooo jiannz leeeeeeeee,” she catches the last part of his tune through the window still covered in newspaper from the winter.

“Ahy!” She yells as her feet slip into the cotton shoes with thicker soles. Her new-fashioned son has snickered at her footwear habit many a times. New woman of the new Age embrace liberty, democracy, imported sneakers.

At the branch two houses down the clinking stops. “Hereeee!” The clink-clunk resumes.

He has already set up shop on the streetside when she marches out with their machete. Sugar cane season still an entire summer away, but she needed a reason to get some talk.

“Yo-hei! This big fellow! I’ve seen it since your father’s time. You still using it?”

She kicks the bike lightly and laughs through her nose. “You still riding this junk?”

He smiles, looking down to examine the blade as he shakes his head. “You don’t say, old dingus are actually work pretty well! Can’t find a knife like this now.”

“Yeah, Aiguo brought back this motor bike, fucking excited like he was having a seizure. Neighbors’ kids all came see it. Tututu, tututututu. Louder than mother-fucking firecrackers. Burns more gasoline than a tank! Now this big thing blocks half the street and attracts dust. So much dust!”

He giggled quietly as he begins his task. She grabs a sweeper, collecting loose yellow dirt into a pile. Yee yah from the knife and stone symphony rings on steadily, broken suddenly by baby screams.

“How did you get here? Don’t you live in Chaoyang?”

“Ah, few days back my nephew needed help with his butcher shop. Young men have all gone to the square. After busying for bigger half of the day I was just looking forward to go home for some mutton momo–Yo-hei!–before I made two steps I saw there’s a wall in the street. I got closer–what kind of wall that was?! Just people, standing, children stacking on top of one another. Army marching into the city! Heiyaya a field a green. All afternoon I thought someone was fixing their house, who would’ve thought it’s the boots.”

She continues to sweep the dust. Dried willow leaf waltzes down. She glides it into the pile.

“Where did they get that many soldiers from?”

He doesn’t answer, finishes grinding the machete.

“You don’t think they’re really going to fire?” She turns around to lean the sweeper against the wall. A group of kids run down the stairs from the house behind, kick over her pile of dust.

“Careful!” the knife-sharpener scolds lovingly.

“Do you kids have no eyes?” She joins.

“I’ve got eyes to see big tanks!” One of the kids shouts.

“Sha?”

“Erga says tanks are rolling in. Very big, big enough to hide people!”

“The turning tires can squash a person like I squash an ant!”

“Rumors were less meticulous about detail, and word spread early Saturday morning through the capital that four people had been killed by the police. Tens of thousands of people took to the streets to protest, and immediately found themselves confronting more than 2,000 unarmed troops who were marching toward Tiananmen Square.”

Cui Guozheng, male, 1968-1989, born in Jilin, Manchurian, The Chinese People’s Liberation Army serving officer.

In the small hours of June 4^th, 1989, the army vehicle Cui Guozheng was operating arrives at the intersection between Chongwenmen Dajia and Xidajie. It was blocked by a group of angry citizens fortifying the street with bricks, fruit carts, motorbikes, and their staunch stance.

Cui and several cadets exited the army vehicle to negotiate with obstructers. Two older women kneeled as they demand the army turn around, on account of protecting their children. After escalating quarrels, Cui retrieved his standard deploy handgun and fired into the crowd. At least one man, one woman, and one child were shot.

The crowd began attacking Cui and others with bricks, stick, and fists. Cui originally attempted to shelter inside the vehicle, but tried to escape after the crowd broke the car windows. He was forced onto the tianqiao (“sky bridge”, overhead walkway) by a crowd led by three older women.

A woman about 40 years old poured gasoline upon Cui’s body and a man supplied the match.

“The troops retreated, but that confrontation seemed to set the tone for the massive demonstrations later Saturday and early today.”

Bolded text by Nicholas Kristof for NYTimes (https://www.nytimes.com/1989/06/04/world/crackdown-beijing-troKops-attack-crush-beijing-protest-thousands-fight-back.html)

Notes:

The inspiration/source behind this story comes from my father. One day when we were on a bus, my usually silent father looked out the window agitatedly. He turns my shoulder and points to an overhead walkway–“that’s the bridge on which Beijing dama poured gasoline and burnt soldier on June 4th.”

dama literally means big ma, used to refer to all women around the age of menopause. I see it as the hybrid between the babushka and a South Asian aunty, with derogatory connotations of age, lack of feminity, but also a talent for gossip. This figure is pertinent to thinking feminism as they usually don’t identify as “feminists”, even often against the idea, but enact dignity, character, and pride that I think feminism works toward.

When writing this piece, my own language appalled me occasionally, especially when I tried to edit down the length. There seems to be an inherent arrogance that comes with hindsight. I couldn’t walk the edge between sarcasm and compassion very well like Keene, so I allowed myself more space to flesh out the figure. I also followed Keene’s line of letting the characters speak for themselves, even though I tried to fill the page with as much silence as possible. I don’t wish to construct a heroic figure, and it seems like silence is the most mundane but human aspect of life.

Wikipedia Page on the Rust Belt:

“From 1987 to 1999, the US stock market went into stratospheric rise, and this continued to pull wealthy foreign money into US banks, which biased the exchange rate against manufactured goods. Related issues include the decline of the iron and steel industry, the movement of manufacturing to the southeastern states with their lower labor costs,[9] the layoffs due to the rise of automation in industrial processes, the decreased need for labor in making steel products, new organizational methods such as just-in-time manufacturing which allowed factories to maintain production with fewer workers, the internationalization of American business, and the liberalization of foreign trade policies due to globalization.[10] Cities struggling with these conditions shared several difficulties, including population loss, lack of education, declining tax revenues, high unemployment and crime, drugs, swelling welfare rolls, deficit spending, and poor municipal credit ratings….Francis Fukuyama considers the social and cultural consequences of deindustrialization and manufacturing decline that turned a former thriving Factory Belt into a Rust Belt as a part of a bigger transitional trend that he called the Great Disruption:[35] “People associate the information age with the advent of the Internet in the 1990s, but the shift from the industrial era started more than a generation earlier, with the deindustrialization of the Rust Belt in the United States and comparable movements away from manufacturing in other industrialized countries. … The decline is readily measurable in statistics on crime, fatherless children, broken trust, reduced opportunities for and outcomes from education, and the like”.[36]“

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rust_Belt

A Coal Miner’s Morning.

Some might call my life simple. Fuck me, though, I wouldn’t say that. I wake up, and before I’ve even made my goddamn coffee I’m attacked by questions I got for myself. Do I give Greg the money to fix his trailer? Even when I know damn well he’ll waste it and lose it and ask me again in 3 weeks? He’s family. But handouts don’t do him no good. They don’t do nobody no good. I outta make him come out stripping with me. Stripping land for coal, that is, ladies. Don’t get too excited! Ha.

Aw hell. Little Jaylee is already up. 5:30 AM. That rascal. “What do you want, you cute little monster? You want some of Daddy’s coffee don’t you, you fucking crazy child. ” 

Of course she’s already hanging from my arm like a little monkey. Fucking Simone Biles type little girl really. Her arms are bigger than her 24 year old big brother’s. He ain’t do shit though, since he moved in with Monica. Got weak. His fuckin baby sister pulls more of her own weight.

“Hell Jaylee, look at me. Speak back to your daddy. Do you want some coffee little one? Some breakfast? Go wake up your mama.”

Damn kid’ll run away and won’t come back till it’s 11 AM and she’s screaming and crying for some goddamn cocoa puffs. Kid knows what she wants. Can’t fucking talk. 5 years old, can’t fucking talk but she knows what she wants and she gets it still. Little rascal. 

“Well well well, if it isn’t the sexiest women I’ve ever seen. Come here mama give me a kiss. I think Jaylee wants some breakfast. Don’t know why that kid won’t ever fucking sleep.”

“Gracie needs a leotard or some shit, Cor”

“What the hell do you mean a leotard? Like a onesie? Fucking get her one then I guess. This is for that dance shit at church?” 

“Yea and she says she need’m today for practice, babe. Otherwise she can’t go and she’ll be breaking your heart again crying. I gotta go to Walmart. Do you think your sister could cover my shift at the diner?” 

“Hell Stayce, you can’t just be asking Sandra to do this. She got her own job selling that makeup shit and she don’t owe us nothing. Nobody got time to drive an hour to fucking Walmart for a fucking leotard. Go up to Papa’s cabin and see if he got some shit or something in the attic. Hell if I know just don’t go to fucking Altoona for a fucking 6 year old’s dance shit”  

“Babe please. I just wanna give my little girl something. She’s so sad. All the fucking time. ”

“Hell Stayce I know you’re gunna do what you fucking want. Just go. Here’s some cash. Have the truck back when I’m done working. Pick up some of that sauce shit too. Tim and I are hunting this weekend and he wants to make Jerky for little Jimbo’s birthday party. Kid fucking loves deer jerky.” 

Fuckin Stayce. She ain’t gunna come back with no leotard. Cash’ll be gone though. Fuckin handouts. Don’t do nobody no good. 

Process Notes

I wrote this piece in the voice of my uncle. He’s a coal miner in Western Pennsylvania—a place most deem part of the “Rust Belt”—and an avid Trump supporter, as are the rest of my relatives there. I wanted to capture some of the everyday things he thinks about and the ways in which he is a caring and good father, as well as the motivation for some of his (very strongly held) political beliefs. I was worried the tone might seem exaggerated, but I really tried to write everything exactly as he’d say it. I definitely read it in his voice when I go through it. I wanted to capture the sound of his accent (which to me sounds almost southern), in the way that Keene’s had captured Carmel’s voice by writing out her journal entries. It was not hard to write this counter-history as I was essentially writing around the gossip and drama my mom tells me about her siblings. It was an interesting exercise to step into his mind, because usually when I talk to friends about him (or about most of my extended family), it comes much more from a place of shame and disgust. I think it could be interesting in an expanded version to somehow include my own voice in this narrative. Maybe I could be telling a friend about the crazy things he says and does, or how stereotypically Pennsylvania he is. 

The readings for this week presented interesting frameworks for writing in the context of historical narratives. The Keene story from Counternarratives was particularly interesting in this regard because it rotated through several different styles of writing within one story. Similar to the thesis of the Hartman piece, I think Keene’s rotation reminded the reader of nuances that are left out when only one type of narrative is expressed. Hartman forces the readers to think about the validity of certain types of investigations, which for various reasons tend to erase actors from history. Keene’s piece was also a commentary on people’s stories not being told because the entire narrative was set up as if it were a very long footnote.

Hartman questions limits of history as a discipline that draws directly from an archive; these narratives are not capable of drawing the whole picture, especially of those who do not exist in the archive. Makkai’s story, while fictional, evokes real feelings in readers that project the tragedies of war perhaps better than a nonfiction piece could. While there is no right or wrong answer for the creative liberties that can and should be taken when discussing historical events, I think that as long as it is clear to the readers what the sources are (whether an archive or the creative liberty of the author) the most important aspect is that a diverse range of important stories are being shared.

Background: The Abigail Adams statue is a part of the Boston Women’s Memorial in Boston’s Back Bay. It has three inscriptions:

On the left:

“If we were to count our

years by the revolutions

we have witnessed

we might number them

with the antediluvians

so rapid have been

the changes: that the mind

tho fleet in it progress,

has been outstripped by them

and we are left like statues

gazing at what we can neither

fathom or comprehend.”

On the right:

“And, by the way, in the

New Code of laws

which I suppose

it will be necessary

for you to make

I desire you would

remember the ladies

and be more generous

and favorable to them

than your ancestors.

Do not put such unlimited

power into the hands

of the husbands.

Remember, all men would

be tyrants if they could.

If particular care and

attention is not paid to the

ladies, we are determined

to foment a rebellion,

and will not hold ourselves

bound by any laws in which

we have no voice

or representation.”

And on the back:

“Abigail Adams

1744 – 1818

Born in Weymouth Massachusetts. She was

the wife of the second President of the

United States and the mother of the sixth.

Her letters establish her as a perceptive

social and political commentator and

a strong voice for women’s advancement.”

Writing Assignment:

            When Abigail Adams née Smith have birth to her first son, she lay panting in bed, holding the red, screaming jewel, awash in virtue. She asked first for her husband and he stooped into the room. A little and somewhat reticent man, he had achieved fame only two years prior for demanding that their local government reject England’s tyrannical Stamp Act. She looked into his deep-set eyes. She would make him great. She handed him the American prince she had borne him. She would make both of them great. And that would make her great.

She called next for her young daughter, nicknamed ‘Nabby’ but named after Abigail; unlike her mother who jabbed her way into history, Nabby was already bound for insignificance. The only interesting thing she would do was in 50 years, when she would get breast cancer and a subsequent mastectomy and then die. But when her mother sat in her bloodstained marriage bed holding her squealing sibling, Nabby was only two. The little girl tottered into the room. She was already like her mother, long in face and somber looking. Like her mother, she would be attractive but never beautiful.

Nabby looked at her mother, her upper body poised and serene sitting atop the carnage at her pelvis. Nabby looked tearful. Abigail looked firmly at her until Nabby’s eyes dried: ever the pragmatist, Abigail needed this moment to teach a lesson to her daughter. She needed Nabby to see her mother after the bloody battle of birth. Abigail needed her to understand that she would never be equal to a man, but she would never be his inferior. As a lady, she would simply be other. And she would do what Abigail did: she would build her husband up, build her children up, build her home up. It is for a woman to create a man’s world – that is how a woman achieves virtue and honor. Abigail knew it was a hard and thankless truth; the life of a lady required a strong spine that could withstand both a life of dutiful creation and a life wearing a whale-bone corset that constricted the torso to 25 inches. She looked at soft Nabby; she wasn’t sure if her daughter could do it.

When Nabby was finally taken out of the room, Abigail handed her son John – named for his mother’s grandfather John, not his father John– to a servant, Hannah. Like everything in her home, she knew every detail about Hannah. She had read to Hannah often so that Abigail could progress her own rudimentary literary skills. She knew Hannah had strong hands, so her baby was safe. Hannah was a woman but not a lady. She would not be remembered.

Finally alone, Abigail lay back against her pillow. She let her face show her pain, the punching, throbbing aches as her hips knit themselves together again. She would face this again. She would deliver 10 more sons and 10 more daughters. She rolled onto her side and pulled out a sheet of paper. She began to write, which was still an alien act for her hand. She had not learned until her late teens and still struggled with certain letters, like B and A. She had to re-try certain words a few times as she wrote to the ages about the birth of her son.

Process Notes:

            I thought this was a really interesting assignment. I think the biggest challenge for me was that I found myself getting too drawn into the character of Abigail Adams that I was creating. I had to remind myself that the key was to balance giving this character a voice while also demonstrating the lack of voice that history gives her. I often had to refer back to Keene’s “Gloss” to take inspiration with how he did this; I think something that really helped me was taking inspiration from how Keene judges character’s, especially women character’s, appearances in the way that they would have been mercilessly judged at the time (and, arguably, still today). Overall, I think this was an assignment that really stretched me as a writer in the best way.

I was struck over and over again through reading Keene’s “Gloss” by his choice to make Carmel mute. I thought it paralleled the point in Hartmann’s essay well, because Carmel is literally silenced, in addition to be silenced in history because her story was not recorded. I also thought it made Keene’s task of narrating Carmel’s story a much more complex endeavor. There were two moments in which Keene departed from traditional narrative style to really express Carmel that particularly struck me.

The first begins on p. 124 when Keene pens Carmel’s diary entries. There are many, little details like abbreviations and words crossed out that give us a sense of her. For me, the overwhelming effect was that it felt like I could hear her voice, which is strange, because at this point in the narrative, she is doesn’t speak. The word that she writes as “Ayiti” really struck me. I remember being taught to say Haïti the proper way in French class as “ah-iy-ti”, and how different it felt to the pronunciation “hay-ti.” I liked how the syllables were much more lyrical. I think the phoneticism that I learned is a little different to the one that Keene gives to Carmel, but for some reason, after reading just that word in the way that Carmel writes it, I had a much stronger sense of Carmel’s inner voice, almost in an audible way.

The second moment was on p.132 when the narrative switches to Carmel in the “I” perspective. The shift was almost subtle, because it occurs after the prose switches back from eh diary entries to the traditional form. I was distracted by the change in form, and it took me a moment to fully absorb the shift to first person. It was incredibly powerful, however, because it opened up whole new worlds inside the character of Carmel. Through the diary entries, we get her “processed” thoughts, but I thought the first-person narration was interesting because it allowed for more of an internal monologue about what she was experiencing. Again, I think that choice in narration, which is emphasized by the shift, is poignant. Keene is writing about a mute character who is also completely silenced in history – I still grapple a little with how I feel about a man in 2015 imagining the thoughts and experiences of a person in her position, but I think he techniques he uses to craft her inner voice create a powerful sense of Carmel.

Feminism: noun. The advocacy of women’s rights on the basis of the equality of the sexes. Equality: noun. The state or quality of being equal. Equal: adjective. Like for each member of a group, class, or society.

Where is the contradiction in this logical progression? I fail to see it, but I often feel alone in that failure. Their voices are always louder — the voices of the people who disagree. “The advocacy of only women’s rights is at odds with our understanding of equality,” he tried to tell me yesterday, as if the focus on the female was somehow offensive. “If you don’t want people to disagree with you or misunderstand what the movement stands for then you should change the name.” But the name does reflect the movement. He watched me choke on my words, and interrupted with: “It’s like… why do we park in a driveway and drive on a parkway? There you have the same problem! Ugh, drives me nuts.” I didn’t know what to say. The attempt to remedy an immeasurably long history of inequality was boiled down to an issue of pure semantics right before my eyes. It was reduced to an item on a list of “Things to Ponder” on funnytab.net, which, just as it sounds, looks like it was graphically designed by a toddler and made to give your computer a virus. “Feminism” was given the weight of a brain teaser, and I didn’t even know what to say. If I’d had the balls- … If I’d had the courage, here is what I would have said:

Women have the right to run for president. The first woman did so in 1872. But the United States is yet to see a female president. Is that equality? Women have the right to hold every position in the workplace. In fact, women make up about half of the workforce. But less than 5% of CEOs at S&P 500 companies are women. Is that equality?

Equal treatment in the way we understand has not and will not bridge these gaps. Achieving equality means advocating for women. Look inside yourself, and you’ll see why. 

Process notes:

Once I settled on pursuing the dictionary definition portion of this prompt, I struggled to pick the right word. After our first object prompt, I knew that I had to choose carefully, and that my decision would set the tone of the piece. I started out with “equality,” and envisioned a character who felt like the definition of the word was an oversimplification that lacked sensitivity for a long history of sexism in our country and the world. I was reminded of the controversy surrounding the label “feminism” and how often it is misinterpreted to mean that women should receive better treatment rather than equal treatment. While I’m not sure if this would be classified as a fictional “story” seeing that my piece is a lot less plot-driven than Keene’s, I still tried to keep tone in mind. I tried to mimic Keene’s seemingly objective perspective by incorporating facts and statistics into my character’s processing to emphasize a similar brutal, irrefutable inferiority. At the same time, I also included the more personal introduction to those facts in order to develop empathy in the reader for the narrator and to emulate the thought process of someone still experiencing these issues today. Without over-narrating, I attempted to use this story to advocate for equity over equality.

Southern Lady Code: a technique by which, if you don’t have something nice to say, you say something not so nice in a nice way

In truth, I’m not sure why I expected to be met with anything different. I agreed to go to the party at the behest of my mother, who had so kindly tolerated the scorpions that my grandmother called her friends the month before. She said that everyone we cared about would be there, even the Gentrys, an older couple who ran the local Cotillion chapter that I had taught during high school. That should have been the first clue that something unpleasant would go down. Mrs. Gentry had always been a bit of a tool, ranging somewhere on the mean girl scale between Regina George and fucking Paris Hilton if the two were old, sour Southern women. I tolerated her for all those years because I was obligated. Now, that obligation was over. I was, however, still tied to my grandmother through blood and jewelry, so I donned my red pantsuit (“very holiday appropriate,” she said) and pearls, girded my loins, and walked into that hotel under the influence of far too much shiraz.

It was the final comment of the evening that got me. I dodged comments about my weight (“your face looks so much slimmer, sweetheart!”), major (“hope you have a good backup plan”), and love life (“I don’t see a ring on your finger yet, darling.”) for a whole hour and a half until my grandma pulled me over to see Mrs. Gentry, who’d been nonchalantly chatting with the new Chamber of Commerce President for much of the evening. After shooting the breeze for a moment or two, she’d asked my grandmother something (I can’t remember what) and, as usual, my grandmother responded. Now, apparently, I’m the “creative type,” whatever the hell that means. Probably a knock at the fact that I refuse to bring home the good ol’ Christian boy of Joyce’s dreams. 

Sometimes I really wish she’d just go out and say what she meant. To hell with all this “Southern Lady Code” bullshit. If she wanted to call me a helplessly ugly lesbian with more mental illnesses than IQ points, she really should have just come out and said it. But no. Of course not. It had to be dainty. Well, “creative” my ass. If that’s what she wants, that’s what she’ll get.

Process Notes:

I acquired the above definition from a book that I came across in the Bookstacks called Southern Lady Code. My original plan was to work out of a copy of Emily Post’s Etiquette, and I may eventually write that story, but the “Southern Lady Code” definition felt very fitting. I wrote this piece from the perspective of a less-than-sober character who resembles myself in many ways. She has an overbearing grandmother and had faked her way into Southern society before leaving for college. When a similar thing happened to me, I didn’t react with the anger of this story’s narrator, but I thought it would be interested to address what would have happened if I did. Originally, I also wrote a dialogue involving this character and another that may very well end up in my final portfolio, but I’m not so sure. Anyway, this piece wasn’t too difficult to write. Honestly, it was kind of fun to isolate one of these moments and blow it up to this proportion. Also, highly recommend the book that inspired this piece! So funny!

These are three definitions of homosexuality, homosexualism, and homosexual provided by a Christian website called Christian Reformed Church (https://www.crcna.org/welcome/beliefs/position-statements/homosexuality).  

Their definitions 

Homosexuality: a condition of personal identity in which a person is sexually oriented toward persons of the same sex.

Homosexualism: explicit and overt homosexual practice.

Homosexual: a person who has erotic attractions for members of the same sex and who may or may not actually engage in homosexualism.

My definitions

Homosexuality: an identity assumed by individuals who are sexually and/or romantically attracted to members of the same sex. 

Explanation: The word “condition” implies that homosexuality can be likened to disease or serious impairment. It also implies that homosexuality can be treated or cured. Additionally, one can use the label of homosexual to describe their romantic attraction to the same sex as well as their sexual one. 

Homosexualism: the practice of homosexuality 

Explanation: I believe that this term is just a less useful synonym for homosexuality, but if it is to be used, nothing about the word homosexualism denotes acts that are “explicit” or “overt.” 

Homosexual: a person who is attracted to members of the same sex and/or gender 

Explanation: I feel as though this definition provided by Christian Reform Church is the least problematic of these definitions as it is fairly neutral and recognizes that one can assume a certain identity without participating in certain acts. However, I believe that this part of the definition was not necessary. Also, I believe that the term “erotic” is quite inappopriate here, as it implies that a homosexual person is a highly sexual being. 

Notes: 

While I believe that these definitions from a Christian website defined homosexuals/homsexuality correctly in some capacity, I believe that whomever wrote these definitions completely left out the identity factor of homosexuality and instead focused on the sexual parts. I believe this is because while the Catholic Church does not prohibit homosexual identity, it does restrict any homosexual acts. Therefore, by attaching sex acts as a necessary component of the definitions, sex acts and identity are inevitably being linked, and perpetuating the sin of homosexuality.

I lie on my back restless in the dark. This is the third night in the last week that I haven’t been able to sleep. I feel Liam breathing peacefully next to me. I don’t want to wake him up. He has to work early in the morning, and honestly, there’s nothing that he can do to help. So, I gently slide out of bed and creep into the living room. Dropping down on the couch, I turn on the TV and try to zone out. If I stare at the bright screen enough, my eyes will begin to get tired and back to bed I can go. Just 3-4 hours of sleep, but still sleep, nonetheless.

Yet, an hour later, I am still flipping back and forward between channels. In a desperate attempt to make some progress toward sleep, I open Twitter. To my delight, I am bombarded with a constant stream of jokes that cause me to muffle my laughter as not to awake Liam.

I’m not exactly sleepy, but at least I’m in a good mood… Suddenly, a tweet towards the bottom of my timeline captures my attention: “A hospital nearly killed Serena Williams because she was a black woman telling the staff what she needed and the nurses and doctors thought they knew better. Tell me how Medicare for all will stop healthcare professionals from discriminating against us and treating us like fools.” Just as it always is when a serious tweet appears in the long stream of light-heartedness that I enjoy seeing on my timeline, my initial reaction is to ignore it. I don’t want to be sad. I don’t want to think right now. I want to sleep. I want a good night’s sleep. With good dreams. So, I do. I keep scrolling. Until I found something else funny.

And it works…until I refresh my timeline. And suddenly, Serena’s name is everywhere. In fact, it’s trending. I can’t ignore it anymore. I scroll through tweet after tweet commenting on Serena’s horrible hospital experience.

As I begin to go further down the rabbit hole, I hear footsteps behind me.

“Can’t sleep again?”

I look up to see Liam staring down at me, a look of concern on his face.

“Yeah. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No, I just turned over and the bed felt empty.” There’s a pause. “You should ask for less hours at the office. You’re overworked.”

“I know. I have a meeting with my boss tomorrow.”

He nods. “Heading back yet?”

“In a minute.”

“What’s wrong?”

I show him the tweet.

He rolls his eyes. “So the doctors made a mistake. It’s not because she’s black. Jesus.” And with an irritated sigh, he heads back into the room.

But I continue to stare at my phone, pleading my eyes to tire.

Writer’s Notes: Instead of focusing directly on the issue of Serena (and other African American women) being ignored by health officials, I wanted to focus on the attempt to ignore this tweet, which indirectly means exploring black women’s voices being ignored by the everyday person. It’s hard for the issue to be represented because anything bringing awareness to the issue is pushed to the side. In this piece, both the main character and Liam are dismissive. In my mind, I imagine the main character as African American, but I thought it would be interesting to explore how minorities can ignore voices from their own people that affects them also. I did find it difficult to resist not going into the issue itself.

Although the events of “Sabrina” are horrific, I found it interesting that there is a sense of “everydayness” that runs throughout the story. This can be seen through the drawing of the characters, the color scheme used, etc. For example, I found that most of the characters did not have very distinct facial features. At first, I found this very jarring because it was hard to tell characters apart. It was as if everyone had the same face with different colored hair. But then, I realized that this could be because Drnaso wanted readers to focus on how the story could happen to anyone. Specifically, there is a focus on becoming desensitized to tragedies because so many occur. It is then very easy for the readers to put themselves in the place of the characters. I think the drawing of the characters aid to this.

Even the background designs and the color scheme are very plain, dull, and not as detailed. It just makes everything feel very normal. I don’t think I’ve seen it done much in any of the graphical novels that I’ve read (which is limited). I find Chloe (M)’s point about the moments in the novel in which the normal color scheme is interrupted to be very interesting also. For example, she talks about how Calvin has a dream about Sabrina’s murderer and it is in black and white (which doesn’t happen for many other scenes) and yet it is not a very accurate description of what happened. I found that the representation of the interpretations of the events of Sabrina’s death was very well done. They all occur through some normal medium (radio, emails, etc) against very normal, dull color schemes/ backgrounds. So, comparing this to Chloe’s point, new information changes our perception of events and this is shown in dreams and everyday settings, but using different stylistic choices.