Critical Storytelling in Urban Education [1 ed.] 9789004415720, 9789004415706

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Critical Storytelling in Urban Education

Critical Storytelling Series Editors Nicholas D. Hartlep (Berea College, Kentucky, USA) Brandon O. Hensley (Wayne State University, Michigan, USA) Editorial Board René Antrop-González (Metropolitan State University, Minnesota, USA) Noelle W. Arnold (Ohio State University, Ohio, USA) Daisy Ball (Roanoke College, Virginia, USA) T. Jameson Brewer (University of North Georgia, Georgia, USA) Cleveland Hayes (Indiana University–Purdue University, Indianapolis, USA) Mohamed Nur-Awaleh (Illinois State University, Illinois, USA) Valerie Pang (San Diego State University, California, USA) David Pérez II (Syracuse University, New York, USA) Peggy Shannon-Baker (Georgia Southern University, Georgia, USA) Christine Sleeter (California State University, California, USA) Suzanne SooHoo (Chapman University, California, USA)

VOLUME 2

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/csto

Critical Storytelling in Urban Education Edited by

Nicholas D. Hartlep and Brandon O. Hensley

අൾංൽൾඇ_ൻඈඌඍඈඇ

All chapters in this book have undergone peer review. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov

ISSN 2590-0099 ISBN 978-90-04-41569-0 (paperback) ISBN 978-90-04-41570-6 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-41572-0 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR CRITICAL STORYTELLING IN URBAN EDUCATION

“This is a book that screams through the stagnant air of our crumbling democracy and through often painful encounters with others and ourselves, offers hope and recovery.” – Peter McLaren, Ph.D., Distinguished Professor in Critical Studies, Attallah College of Educational Studies, Chapman University “With great courage, vulnerability, and hope, the authors invite us to find a safe space and quiet the busyness of our minds, then to open this volume and commit to being present. They ask us to join them first by listening through reading. Almost immediately, especially amidst the poems, I worried with palpable, physical anxiety that I wouldn’t be able to empathically understand the painstakingly written words. Then, I took a couple of deep breaths and remembered that my openness to hearing, seeing, and connecting was the start in this journey of acknowledgement, inclusion, and community-building. This volume reminds us that every college classroom is filled with many stories that if revealed and shared would foster opportunities for transformation and learning beyond our imagination.” – Julie M. Novak, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Communication, Wayne State University “More than ever before, we need teachers who are willing to stand against the injustices that often permeate the educational experiences of marginalized students. This volume speaks directly to this need. This book shares the stories of teachers who display both the will and courage to step up in and lead with conviction and implement a vision for a more equitable system of education for all.” – Cleveland Hayes, Ph.D., Associate Dean, Professor of Education Foundations, Indiana University–Purdue University Indianapolis

For my Metropolitan State University students. You are all so talented. It’s been an honor to work with you. ––NDH *** To the students, friends, colleagues, and heroes who’ve inspired me. And to all who hear the call of critical storytelling. ––BOH

CONTENTS

Notes on Contributors

xi

Introduction Nicholas D. Hartlep and Brandon O. Hensley

xv

Part 1: Poetry 1.

Sleepovers Ian Aufdemberge

3

2.

Internet Death Sentence Victor Shaw

9

3.

Resume Amal Shukr

15

4.

That Place that Feels Like Purgatory Emma Fagan

21

5.

Zenith Renée McKendrick

23

6.

Words Heather Carr

29

7.

Whale Watching Justine Naj

35

8.

Why I Teach in Urban Schools Marvin Peterson

39

9.

Unsolicited Callers Anonymous 1

41

10. Chasing Whiteness Kia Yang

43

11. A Letter to My Black Sons Mark Spurlin

45

12. Woman Side One Cece Trella

47

ix

CONTENTS

13. Final Checkmate Zalika Aniapam

49

Part 2: Stories to Change the World 14. Each One, Teach One Talias Deberry

53

15. Native: On Checking Boxes Avrora Moussorlieva

59

16. My American Dream Itzel Valdez Flores

61

17. Can You Wake Up? Nalee Vang

65

18. No Strings Attached Michael Harris

69

19. Good Touch, Bad Touch Anonymous 2

73

20. Ua Siab Ntev Denise Vang

77

21. Am I a Mother? Jenny Kalvik

81

22. A White Teacher’s Experience with Politics of “Colorblindness” Drayton Cousins

83

23. Boy to Man James A. Malone

87

24. 7KH(൵HFWVRI0DVV0HGLDDQG&RPPXQLFDWLRQ0HWKRGV on the Stigmatization of Individuals with Developmental and Physical Disabilities Allyson Webb 25. :RUOGRI³)DNH1HZV´(൵HFWVRID7ZR:RUG3KUDVH DeJanay Booth

x

89 

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

EDITORS

Nicholas D. Hartlep (Ph.D., University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee) is the Robert Charles Billings Endowed Chair in Education at Berea College where he chairs the Department of Education Studies. Before coming to Berea College Dr. Hartlep Chaired the Department of Early Childhood and Elementary Education at Metropolitan State University, an Asian American and Native American Pacific Islander-Serving Institution (AANAPISI) in St. Paul, Minnesota. While there he also served as the Graduate Program Coordinator. In 2018, the Association of State Colleges and Universities (AASCU) granted Dr. Hartlep the John Saltmarsh Award for Emerging Leaders in Civic Engagement Award. In 2017, Metropolitan State University presented him with both the 2017 Community Engaged Scholarship Award and the President’s Circle of Engagement Award. In 2016, the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee presented him with a Graduate of the Last Decade Award for his prolific writing. In 2015, he received the University Research Initiative Award from Illinois State University and a Distinguished Young Alumni Award from Winona State University. Follow his work on Twitter at @nhartlep or at his website, www.nicholashartlep.com Brandon O. Hensley is a Lecturer and College Assessment Coordinator at Wayne State University in the Department of Communication, where he oversees assessment for the College of Fine, Performing, & Communication Arts, teaches courses in Communication Studies, and continues his research and writing. In 2016, Hensley received his Ph.D. from the Department of Educational Administration and Foundations at Illinois State University. Brandon received his B.A. and M.A. in Communication Studies from Eastern Illinois University. His research interests include bullying, student loan debt, critical communication pedagogy, media criticism, intersectionality social constructs such as masculinity, whiteness, and heteronormativity, and the working conditions of adjunct educators in U.S. colleges and universities. Hensley has authored several book chapters and journal articles on the above topics, has presented dozens of peer-reviewed papers at regional, national, and international conferences, and currently serves on the Associate Council for the Mid-Western Educational Research Association (MWERA). His most recent work is a public speaking textbook titled Building Your Voice: Powerful Public Speaking in the 21st Century (2018, Great River Learning). You can find Brandon’s work at https://wayne.academia.edu/BrandonHensley

xi

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

AUTHORS

Zalika Aniapam is an aspiring fiction writer from Detroit, Michigan. She currently attends Wayne State University as a graduate student studying Communications. She has been passionate about writing since she was in high school and enjoys writing poetry, novels, short fiction and other literary works during her free time. Anonymous 1 is a Graduate Student at Metropolitan State University and is working on her Master’s Thesis. She currently teaches High School Language Arts. She is passionate about educating youth in the power of voice and critical literacy. Anonymous 2 is a senior at Metropolitan State University. Studying early childhood studies to start her own daycare one day. She wants people to know that no matter what happens to you as a child you can do bigger and better things. Ian Aufdemberge is a Wayne State graduate majoring in English. He has a passion for writing that exposes scary truths. Find more of him in the 2018 Wayne Literary Review as well as at ianscatchow on tumblr. DeJanay Booth is a graduate student at Wayne State University in the Department of Communication. Her chapter, “World of Fake News” was presented in the 2019 Michigan Undergraduate and Graduate (MUG) Conference. In 2014, she earned her bachelor’s degree in journalism from Ball State University. DeJanay’s personal experience working as a reporter for a newspaper prompted her to research the relationship between the media and the public when it comes to the concept of “fake news.” Other research she has conducted include a case analysis on the public’s reaction via Twitter to Nike’s 2018 “Just Do It” campaign that featured Colin Kaepernick. Heather Carr is a student at Wayne State University and is double majoring in English and English for Secondary Education. Drayton Cousins is a master’s candidate at Metropolitan State University. He is a public high school English teacher in Minnesota who is committed to empowering student’s voices, building community with classrooms and schools, and the vital work of anti-racism and decolonization. Talias DeBerry is a proud Detroiter and a first generation undergraduate student at Wayne State University, studying Marketing and Information Systems. Emma Fagan is a student at Wayne State University majoring in English and Psychology. She serves as a tutor at the Writing Center and enjoys writing about film, anthropology, and poetry. xii

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Itzel Valdez Flores is a Junior at Metropolitan State University studying Elementary Education with the hopes of becoming the best 1st grade teacher in the Metro area. She wants to share her story in hopes of opening eyes and letting people see her reality. She is a Page Education Foundation Scholar. The Page Education Foundation was founded to support the academic and professional success of youth of color throughout Minnesota. Michael Harris is a junior at Metropolitan State University and is studying to become a High School Social Studies teacher. He is passionate about educating youth and helping shape the next generation of activists. Jenny Kalvik is a Master’s student at Metropolitan State University. She received her undergraduate degree in Spanish from Minnesota State at Mankato and her English Language Arts teaching license from Metropolitan State. She is currently teaching middle school Humanities in South Minneapolis, enjoys gardening, riding her bike and traveling. James A. Malone is a veteran of the United States Navy. He will be doing volunteer work this fall and working on starting a mentorship program. He is involved in the community with the youth around the neighborhood. He is working on his master of science in urban education at Metropolitan State University. Renée McKendrick is a student at Wayne State University, and winner of the Tompkins Award for Nonfiction. Avrora Moussorlieva followed her husband to the United States from Sofia, Bulgaria. She has three grown daughters and two master degrees—one in History and one in Interdisciplinary Studies. She is among the creators and first teachers in the Bulgarian School in Minnesota “Saints Cyril and Methodius.” After graduating from the Urban Education Program of the Metropolitan State University, she hopes to teach the future citizens of the world. Justine Naj is currently a senior at Wayne State University. She is nearing the end of her bachelor studies in English and Spanish, and currently resides in Detroit. Marvin Peterson is a master’s candidate at Metropolitan State University. He received his Bachelors in Social Studies Teaching in the Urban Teacher Program from the same, and is currently a High School Social Studies teacher in the Twin Cities area. He is passionate about empowering students to think critically, as well as to become active and engaged citizens. Victor Shaw is a poet at Wayne State University and prolific consumer of garbage media. For other writings and contact information, please visit www.ihatebirds.com xiii

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Amal Shukr is an English Honors student at Wayne State University. Her work has been featured at the Rushton Conference at Wayne State University, and she contributed to Dividing the Kingdoms: Interdisciplinary Approaches to Teaching King Lear, a project funded on micro-grants from the Folger Shakespeare Library and the National Endowment for Humanities. Mark Spurlin is the in the final stages of obtaining his Master of Science degree through Metropolitan State’s Urban Teacher Program. As a secondary educator, he enjoys the challenging process of teaching and learning the art of building and maintaining relationships with his students. Mark currently resides in North Minneapolis with his amazing wife Megan, their daughter Peyton, and their twin boys Charlie and Harper. Cece Trella is an independent scholar with ties to Wayne State University. She writes poetry both for herself and for diverse audiences. Denise Vang is a student at Metropolitan State University. Nalee Vang received her Bachelor’s in English teaching from Metropolitan State University in Spring 2018 and is planning to teach high school. She wants to help and give students an opportunity to create their own paths. Allyson Webb is a Master’s student in Communication with a concentration in Public Relations and Organizational Communication in the Department of Communication at Wayne State University. She holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Acting from the University of Hartford and has since transitioned into the field of public relations, where she thus far has professional experience in social media and marketing coordination. Allyson’s research interests include the stigmatization of individuals with disabilities and attitudes toward disability in the workplace. These interests stem from and are inspired by her volunteer work with disabled children and young adults and her experience growing up with a physically and cognitively disabled sister. Kia Yang completed his undergraduate studies at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities in Mathematics Education. He is completing his Master of Science in Urban Education Degree at Metropolitan State University. From the refugee camp in Thailand, Kia is living his dream as a high school math teacher at Como Park Senior High. He resides in Saint Paul, Minnesota with the best dog in the world, Skipper.

xiv

NICHOLAS D. HARTLEP AND BRANDON O. HENSLEY

INTRODUCTION

In Japan, broken objects are often repaired with gold. The flaw is seen as a unique piece of the object’s history, which adds to its beauty. Consider this when you feel broken. (Empathy Cards by Emily McDowell Studio) It is what we know already that often prevents us from learning. (Claude Bernard) Nicholas D. Hartlep During the process of editing this book, some of the students in my EDU 203, Multicultural Education course contributed chapters. It was hard to read initial drafts of Chapter 12, “Good Touch, Bad Touch,” by Anonymous 2. Weeks after reading the chapter, on my daughter’s eighth birthday, she was sexually assaulted at a YMCA— the Young Men’s Christian Association. But as DeSalvo (1999) points out in her book Writing As A Way of Healing, writing can help us heal and telling our stories transforms our lives. Brandon can attest that I have delayed writing my prefatory remarks for quite some time, largely because of what happened to my daughter. Critical Storytelling is an anthology of autoethnographies, poetry, research, and critical stories told by undergraduate and graduate students across disciplines. As pre-service teachers or majors in Psychology, Communication Studies, English, Business, Education, Sociology (and more), they are our children’s future educators. What all of the storytellers in this book have in common are that they are written from urban contexts: students at Metropolitan State University in Saint Paul, Minnesota and students at Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan. The two epigraphs above are reminders to me of two truths that I have come to believe in. The first is that there can be beauty in brokenness and tragedy and the second is that in order to learn we must change and challenge our thinking. These two realizations require me to let go of thoughts that hold me back. As an author/ writer/thinker, and co-editor of this book, something I have had to let go of is the notion that I know what “good” writing is. Who says I or anyone else knows what “good” writing is? Who gets to determine whose work gets published and whose work does not? Brandon and I have done our best to support the young and old authors contained in this book. The book is a continuation of a project that we have been working on

xv

N. D. HARTLEP & B. O. HENSLEY

since our times at Illinois State University in DeGarmo Hall, and it is a project that will surely continue as we are now editors of the Critical Storytelling book series with Brill. We hope you enjoy the stories contained in this anthology. We also hope that you read the stories with an open mind and value the pain that some of the stories share. There is beauty in the stories. There is beauty in the pain. Brandon O. Hensley 1990s rock music bounces off high ceilings as I sit at a crowded campus bar in Midtown Detroit, struggling to write about the way I feel these days. Things1 feel the same and yet they don’t. Nostalgic music seems a perfect front, a fitting backdrop when Things are falling apart. It’s a sunny Sunday in October; why so bleak? On the one hand, there’s the perennial “what’s old is new” nature of the times. From fashion to TV show remakes, the cultural zeitgeist of the 90s is trending in late 2018. With a new spin, of course. Nowadays, millennials “brunch so hard” on weekend afternoons, phones out ready to capture life, many of them wearing hairstyles and clothes from a time before they were toddlers. I see a former student from one of my Public Speaking classes wearing faded denim jeans rolled up at the ankles and a shirt with the logo from the Friends TV series. What’s old is new, indeed. At the same time, though, something feels different. Even though another conservative male has been appointed to the Supreme Court despite a cloud of sexual assault allegations (Chira, 2018)—and even amidst the #MeToo movement— the consequences (and stakes) seem higher, and different, than in the 1990s when Clarence Thomas was elevated to the highest court in the U.S. Even though we survived another bitterly divisive presidential election in 2016, that election and the midterm elections in 2018 seem more consequential than any in my life. Another census is approaching in 2020—nothing new—but this one may question citizenship (Wines, 2018), which hasn’t been done since the era of Harry S. Truman 70 years ago. Our current president disagrees with many journalists’ assessments of him. Nothing groundbreaking. But he calls journalists “enemies of the people” and points them out at rallies to heckling mobs, inviting violence upon them. He repeatedly calls peaceful protesters and those who have spoken out against Brett Kavanaugh’s nomination an “angry mob” and “extremely evil people.” Some of these things aren’t new. Some of them are frighteningly uncharted, unparalleled and precedented. When we (Nicholas and I) began our first book, Critical Storytelling in Uncritical Times (2015), Trump’s precipitous rise to the presidency was well underway. We lamented the curiosity that someone as dubious, unscrupulous, and unfit for public service as Donald Trump would in any way be a competitive candidate for any government office, much less the Oval Office. As we saw it, the times weren’t sufficiently critical, or a true “phony” such as Trump would have never made it so far. We had no idea how far he would make it or what was to come in the long hours, days, and weeks since. xvi

INTRODUCTION

Returning from my reverie to the rock music rolling out of the bar jukebox, I find myself participating in today’s millennial fad and borrowing from the 90s, as Goodall (1991) sums up my current feelings well: “I was living in a transition space where the boundaries were unsure” (p. 172). “This is what it feels like, don’t try to make sense of it, let it induce rather than inform you, go with this sentence into whatever lies beyond before you find yourself gone” (p. 196). There is a tension, I believe, in trying to make sense of the world in these stories and simultaneously remaining open to people’s capacity to change and capability to love, to paraphrase a quote from bell hooks (2003) that continues to capture my imagination, and critical storytellers dwell in that tension…and still see above it and beyond it. NOTE 1

Things like brutal polarization in U.S. politics, media, and society under Trump.

REFERENCES Bruner, J. S. (1990). Acts of meaning: Four lectures on mind and culture. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Carmona, J. F., & Luschen, K. V. (Eds.). (2014). Crafting critical stories: Toward pedagogies and methodologies of collaboration, inclusion, and voice. New York, NY: Peter Lang. Chira, S. (2018, September 26). ‘Nothing has changed’: Angela Wright reflects on the Anita Hill-Clarence Thomas hearings. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/26/us/ politics/angela-wright-anita-hill.html Clark, R. P. (2006). Writing tools: 50 essential strategies for every writer. New York, NY: Little, Brown and Company. Daily Struggles. (2017). Paulo Freire and the role of critical pedagogy. Retrieved from http://dailystruggles.tumblr.com/post/18785753110/paulo-freire-and-the-role-of-critical-pedagogy Denzin, N. K., & Giardina, M. D. (Eds.). (2016). Qualitative inquiry through a critical lens. New York, NY: Routledge. DeSalvo, L. (1999). Writing as a way of healing: How telling our stories transforms our lives. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Goodall, H. L. (1991). Living in the rock n roll mystery: Reading context, self, and others as clues. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press. Hartlep, N. D., & Hensley, B. O. (Eds.). (2015). Critical storytelling in uncritical times: Stories disclosed in a cultural foundations of education course. Rotterdam, The Netherlands: Sense Publishers. hooks, b. (2003). Teaching community: A pedagogy of hope. New York: Routledge. Jennings, M. E. (2015). After the love is gone: A coda on the importance of critical storytelling in uncritical times. In N. D. Hartlep & B. O. Hensley (Eds.), Critical storytelling in uncritical times: Stories discloses in a cultural foundations of education course (p. 93–97). Rotterdam, The Netherlands: Sense Publishers. Kramer, M., & Call, W. (Eds.). (2007). Telling true stories. New York, NY: Plume. Postman, N., & Weingartner, C. (1969). Teaching as a subversive activity. New York, NY: Delacorte Press. Schneider, P. (2003). Writing alone and with others. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Silko, L. M. (1977). Ceremony. New York, NY: Viking. Street, C. (2003). Pre-service teachers’ attitudes about writing and learning to teach writing: Implications for teacher educators. Teacher Education Quarterly, 30(3), 33–50. Wines, M. (2018, July 24). New emails show push by Trump officials to add citizenship question to Census. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2018/07/24/us/censuscitizenship-question.htm

xvii

PART 1 POETRY

IAN AUFDEMBERGE

1. SLEEPOVERS

They were going to build a building and there was going to be a restaurant inside now, this was exciting there had never been a building with a restaurant at the end of my street but I was always hungry so this was exciting they had already moved the pallets of lumber to the site in the rain before the delays the chopped waste warping in the petulant weather weathering for good like a grown up but, being a plank, already limited by form sturdy, clean cut, straight but there was going to be a restaurant inside I had heard from my mother that it used to be a bowling alley and before that wheat fields of a farm wisened crabapple shook for the late fall probably razed for business in the 50’s but now it was my street houses and a barber shop that only gave out one kind of haircut and the dry cleaners neither of which were useful to me ever in my life my dad would go to both and even bring me along sometimes but no use for me in all that pressing and cutting it was going to have a restaurant in it I liked to drag my fingers on the brick wall around the lot that would become the new building that was going to have a restaurant in it it would hurt if I turned my knuckles on too hard

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_001

I. AUFDEMBERGE

I went to a sleepover at my friend robbie’s house because that was what you did when you were friends in middle school and he wanted to show off expensive guitar like on guitar hero mahogany flame-top only child and the sweetness of separate mother and father gifts triptych of family father son and mother never sit the playground near the encroaching treeline a blurred panorama of cheer sections at his soccer games almost binoculars in their hands chocolate milk in the fridge and mother’s hand on her heart (dad’s every other weekend) it wasn’t too much to handle it wasn’t, it’s not but she would leave us in the basement to watch tv all the shows I wasn’t allowed at home commercials for dirty talk lines between bits of family guy now I was interested during the breaks with the enticing women in low-cut tops inviting me! being repressed systemically by a network of limbs and electric node foliage gets it up easy painfully in the middle of the night to pee and leads to think of things like I shouldn’t think I shouldn’t, at least safe in a sleeping bag from anyone seeing my shame when robbie asks, “Who do you think the hottest girl in school is?” and this I didn’t know but I was sure he had an answer and he did but I don’t remember he said butter-face at least once and told me alex was too tall that I wouldn’t want to be with her 4

SLEEPOVERS

it would be weird I told him his pick was hot because he was right and knew he was that was the plan I was here to say she was hot and maybe mine were there to be naught maybe they were there to be wrong but I didn’t forget them I just couldn’t look at them the same way even in lit class talking about Hemingway or at her grad party with the hand delivered invitation after the poems and the letters that I didn’t return out of shock I realized not out of the woods yet I went to the kids around the block’s house to play football in their front yard twiggy boys that creaked at the joints almost 14 probably, so old down the street from the embarrassing crippled girl that crushed on me in 3rd grade I made known I didn’t reciprocate but the boys around the block didn’t forget and they pestered asked who I liked (like-liked) and I didn’t know they had both decided theirs already and I couldn’t think of one to even lie about I finally produced a name that I didn’t think would be shaken down and it worked they said “yeah, she’s pretty hot” and it vanished into the leaves they kept saying you have to like somebody you have to I didn’t have to! I knew I didn’t because I didn’t count the rings around the edges or look in the mirror so often for knots I picked someone I never liked at all she made fun of me and was in middle school like me it’s hard to like any middle-schooler

5

I. AUFDEMBERGE

I guess I found a way through the door of some hormones between boughs out of politeness in science class to walk her to her next class but nothing more reachy I was scared and shook the leaves out of my hair write off young boys (being boys) flash lit campfire sticks as ghouls short crawlers almost hunched low to the ground like humanoid stick-bugs with beckoning hands creepers and bandits emissaries leading unamazed strings of human flesh through the woods to the well the well is empty the beam barely reaches the bottom when a penny is dropped in the dark swallows the sound of impact the stick figures watching bent in anticipation or even to grab at their ankles to keep any from falling in the gravity of the void too curious to not reach into pulled over the waist (waste) arcing into the horizon of empty well do you know where we are yet? this devil went down the hole dropped like a sunset or the curvature of planets long since exploded into spheres the candle stars burning down ritually dancing the stick men fires of campers infinitesimally inside ourselves dancing too, as reflections jostled by each movement 6

SLEEPOVERS

of the electrons striking the nuclei of adjacent atoms cryptic lilt of an operatic trailing arms and leading vibrations booming voice to lay rest to the twisted root sons and daughters born in every iteration of this fall (from grace? We shouldn’t be thinking this much. It’s unnatural, man is the bastard, take back the earth for the earth, let her become nameless once more, uttered only by the chirps of the true meek sent to inherit the branches that would not move without the human eyes now hallucinating them and the names they hide between their legs.) this is a daydream in the life of a circle a low fruit tree that grew fingers learned to play piano and never showed anyone thrum of strings beaten by mallets working to be less squeaks and more melody so young and so covered in dust so bloody indistinguishable from any others it looks the same I know it looks the same still bleeds the same even in the shower together even more tan than me on the cold plastic bottom the water off like standing in the wind I don’t know the last time I was naked (fully) or stupid enough to take what gifts had been left in confidence I was not ready to nurture but learned that it still bleeds a little when you prune it correctly it was going to have a restaurant inside on the first floor below the medical suites the bonsai of a municipality it was going to have a surf ‘n’ turf restaurant inside 7

I. AUFDEMBERGE

too hot, too trim for the block with magnificent stained pillars of oak and sheen lacquer holding up the expectative roof of tar and beams in spots and otherwise filled with insulation the lobster hot buttered lobster would have been addicting ripping apart exoskeletons that held up misogyny sucking on the claws ultraviolent a selfish tick clinging to filet mignon fat on blood and sap just a filtration system for dreams that need sorting for the mass and muscles boys raced for but someone has to have them even if they make it hard to tell when being awake feels the same as being asleep and the only good sensation is the part lying down waiting for sleep to come or actually leave the paralysis in the matured in balsa masculine matchsticks still trees just with phosphorus this time standing straight up hoping to catch fire off a passing glance of admiration

8

VICTOR SHAW

2. INTERNET DEATH SENTENCE

INTERNET DEATH SENTENCE I

commenting “9/11 makes me horny” or “lol 9/11” on YouTube 9/11 memorials, multitudinous and explosive like so many jackhammers inside a steel can. same when I would link people to nasty hentai or rick astley, or the time I uploaded strobe light GIFS to the National Epilepsy Forums. the epic ownage, the bright flashes behind my eyelids, white teenage phosphorous in destroying pretense for the worst kind of humor being a dick online made me feel Everything, clobbered. my girlfriend once described how cutting made her feel. being a dick online doesn’t feel like that but they are both manifestations of incomprehensible love. sticky incongruent with anything healthy prone to insular violence in this way on the internet my heart’s ambiguities found form under bridge 1 million likes me 1 million likes me not kinda fucked up that my simulacra gave a TEDx talk on empirically proving the existence of love but I don’t even know how to French kiss…

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_002

V. SHAW

also kind of fucked up that when two soulmates buy each other iPhones, apple deactivates the speakers on one and the camera on the other… idk. but do you think it’s okay to get married anonymously LMAO New chat requests for REAL_lonelyfemale21 (version 1) Hey Hey Doubt it Hi Are you really ooo So am I :/ care to be lonely together? Aww heyy Aww hugs Hey Where’s your man at Lonely how? Hey what’s up Trade pics of my GF for pics of you What’s up I accept your statement and raise you a person to talk to: 3 Why? Hey Why so lonely Aww…Let’s go do something Hello Sick Why’s that? It’s fun;p Hello I’m sorry to hear that. How do you feel about older men? nah you can get laid easily, half these loser guys can’t Meet up! Wanna play a guessing game? Horny? I’m the loneliest Hi I’m pretty lonely to Hi I’m 23/m/USA dark hair and beard hazel eyes some tattoos and piercings and I’m 6’ tall Why so lonely Hey

10

INTERNET DEATH SENTENCE

Hey HEY Do you like jokes? Are you down to smoke, I just got some dank, I’m an older man lol HEY HELLO LET’S TALK New chat requests for REAL_lonelyfemale21 (version 2) 1. Hey 2. Hello 3. Hi 4. Hi I’m pretty lonely to 5. Hii I’m 23/m/USA dark hair and beardhazel eyes some tattoos and piercings and I’m 6’ tall 6. Horny? 7. I’m sorry to hear that. How do you feel about older men? 8. Why’s that? 9. I accept your statement and raise you a person to talk to: 3 10. I’m the loneliest 11. Lonely how? 12. Why so lonely 13. Hey 14. Meet up! 15. Do you like jokes? 16. Are you down to smoke, I just got some dank, I’m an older man lol 17. Hello 18. Wanna play a guessing game? 19. Wanna go see a movie? 20. Wanna trade pics of my GF for pics of you? 21. Why? 22. What’s up 23. Wheres your man at 24. —hugs you— 25. How are you today? 26. I bet you could get laid easily lol

11

V. SHAW

INTERNET DEATH SENTENCE II

I felt vindication from losers on twitch.tv Twirling and curtsying at every breath and nudge of the streamer, hoping to exist themselves. Though divine, it was fleeting. My conceit turned against me always becoming a faceless crowd jeering at me from their own windows in mankind’s tallest building. There would be one dark apartment containing someone I felt capable of knowing. Haruki Murakami when I first read Norwegian Wood. Andrea Gibson after Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns. Chuck Palahniuk Sam Pink Tao Lin Sometimes visual artists thecatamites Molly Soda Keita Takahashi Musicians like vektroid or Daniel Lopatin And even those I thought only conceptually pleasing the curator of an instagram dedicated to cats @horse_ebooks, @internethippo an anti-semitic Magic the Gathering player the PR account for Hamburger Helper I’d throw pebbles or cup my hands and shout. I’d use twitter mostly, Youtube comments and Facebook, an email if one was given (though this always felt forebodingly intimate) I was as intentional as the road to hell was paved obsessed with size and shape desperate to meld an apartment key out of accolades 12

INTERNET DEATH SENTENCE

burglary as a means to an end connection through meaning a slice of that magic that I can detect only at right angles anything if it means you were speaking to me and not your fanbase or focus group. I never received a response from my idols. The twitch.tv losers, I was sure, knew only attention as acknowledgement in place of human warmth. To move in rhythm with the webcam cult of personality. I’m not sure how I expected to be unique, to them, or to the faceless windows. I was a ghost phasing into darkened bedrooms to demand vessels from occupants I had never met. in this way on the internet I learned to stop screaming in courtyards INTERNET DEATH SENTENCE III

sad cartoon frog man forlornly staring downwards stupid shiba inu excited to hype cryptocurrencies smug fucking cat daring the razors edge I learned that you can anthropomorphize yourself with a single emotion for the rest of your life in this way on the internet my hold gave way to a howling meme

13

AMAL SHUKR

3. RESUME

Resume I am the girl who scoffs at the sight of men wearing belts around broad hips and lusty sparks in their eyes. I am the girl who expects nothing less than hydrangeas of blue and golden glares of sun staring back at her from the house she calls her own. the girl who hides in the hives she’s made of books; the girl who rests in the ruins she’s made of men too young, too numb, to notice; the girl who overthinks the use of commas and contemplates causes of chaos encompassing countries elsewhere as if they’re the same thing the one who awakens in the night to the sound of bloodshed— tears on ink-stained sheets, who desires destruction of body and mind but does not mind the flirtations of fumed candle-smoke midair,

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_003

A. SHUKR

who listens to the birds escaping the sullen trees, who yearns for the hands of time to slow their pace and take up knitting and loses herself in the abandoned shadows of people she’s seen in the market shop windows in the stained brick houses. familiar homes. who wants to say no but it’s always yes yes yes Still Sister What I remember is this: Our mother, wilted and split, belly no longer buoyant— Your swollen face crimson with neglect, heart pumping blood no longer on the bed too big for your tiny body Our father, driving, eyes empty, meeting mine in rearview, hands no longer hopeful— I wonder— Would your hair have shined moonlight, dark and withholding like our sister’s, would your eyes have been the almost green that reflects off the lake in summer like our brother’s?

16

RESUME

I wonder— would you have questioned the trench-like depressions on the roof of our home would you have dreamed of those lamplight stars on the bedroom ceiling we would have shared would you have wondered why nobody ever mentions your name? Here’s the truth: your unheard cries still haunt me in Rain. In Womb To see the light of kaleidoscope crystals, the technicolor crests of the brazen mold barricade, or the hanging stalactites within you— In the dark swallowing cave, it lingered: a dream of mine. Iridescent rings covering my fingertips of fleeting size grazed the wired coil between us ever-softly, away from the tufts of transmitters among us— they craved the touch of your soft-spoken lips, for the songs to permeate them at last

17

A. SHUKR

and lead me to a final path: A momentary glimpse of your luminescent face, forever monogrammed in my memory— so familiar yet so foreignly detached from all else— before the blackout, before the blood. Grand-Vendor Vending machines remind me of stillborn hearts forgetting how to resuscitate themselves back to shriveled stars above patio screens during those Lebanon nights, of long walks beside the blazing sand eating kidney beans with lemon wedges— your lips always puckered and prompted me to hold your unsteady hand.

18

RESUME

Vending machines remind me, too of those Thursday morning musicals before I went to school, your mindless murmurs forgetting the words to every song. They remind me of when you forgot the recipe of your favorite fried falafel balls, and the name of my dad, your son. Vending machines remind me of golden bracelets ripped off of wrinkled wrists before four hour kidney operations, of spending dollars just to pass the time before the time struck silent the night your kidneys remembered to forget.

19

A. SHUKR

I still don’t know what to do with that Snickers bar, but I contemplated eating it for the longest time.

20

EMMA FAGAN

4. THAT PLACE THAT FEELS LIKE PURGATORY

Damn sharp beak Looking to seep the horizon dry That venomous way to pop the sun, dribble it free I wonder if there will be maggots You’d think the fog would melt things The rapped edges become Fragile grape skin Mighty cockroaches And immortal monsters Now If your neurons weren’t so fizzy The nurse could foam the forget out of you The sky would rain wriggling things Trickling Gods and kings We had the gentlest of pillow fights I was afraid I made your corner-tucked sanctuary I was afraid I rubbed your feet Tender joints howled and begged I was fear Hollow-cored and shaking The holding is the killing Take us or leave us

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_004

E. FAGAN .

If only it was cold enough in here To freeze Theory of Devolution Cheap-ringed ethanol sting Quarter-socked, Locked hand clutching The last opal of a water breather Survival of the secret gills He grew on his palms The day he started sinking Love-starved frenzy-maker Feeding the fish with organs he doesn’t need A frontal lobe, Eardrums, One lung pouch— Heart-stringed and still fighting for breath Feral-tongued skin-buster With none of the teeth and claws he does need To survive, Hunt, Clutch, And mourn Down, down, down where the light goes out Yellow-eyed, bottom-fed Rabid-mouthed enough For every sea angel to be a toothache And every sunray, A cavity Fish, fish, fish where the boy runs out Silt-hugged, cold-toed Frozen-souled enough For every warmth To melt him

22

RENÉE MCKENDRICK

5. ZENITH

Throughout my childhood and early adolescence, I attended a number of different schools. In many of those schools I met some children who extended a hand towards me and became my friends, but I also often met other children who were not as kind. Some of the aspects of my comic “New Kid” are loosely based on a few of those experiences. However, the comic as a whole is meant to show some of the things (both good and bad) an individual may encounter during their first semester/term at a new school. when i say, i want to take you to the beach, i mean, would you lend me all you have if just for one afternoon of slipping? i want to run my fingertips along your scars, blisters and grooves from burners and knives, where you sacrificed your flesh for someone’s dinner. keep up with me as my fingers trace the smooth pink line indenting your tricep, the tidemark of a surgeon’s blade long since dulled, while you tell me of your childhood fourth of july’s. i want to hear the crisp death-crunch of leaves under your black steel-toed boots, going somewhere new. i know it’s cold here, so i won’t ask you to swim. but if it’s okay with you, i want to catch a chill knowing i can pull you into me because this heat quizzing through me will cool if i can’t share. take me underneath the silt-stroked trenches of litany, and the questions you don’t always hear, tucked into the corners of my waking lips. here in the sand I can plant my boots deep, caked in the sounds you make,

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_005

R. MCKENDRICK

indifferent to even the sun’s abandonment. where i can see our breath, like evidence that i’ve held the heaviest storybook. and maybe you can tell me again about how you prepare each plate with your whole heart, imagining it’s for me. maybe here we don’t need salt-sweat of may showers where you started this fire i can’t control. or june’s hot cruelty, where you need my skin and limbs as your own and then your vowels nearly blowing me to bits and your voice replacing mine in my head. so when i say i want to take you to the beach, grab a light jacket, and don’t resist me. i’d empty my pockets and promise for you let every ruby burn out on lake huron. please ride out these last days of warmth with me, chasing the wake of Those butterflies. The Cellar Your eyes waited on me after the warning, Or watch, the clouds go black almost, though maybe mostly white. But they were jammed and racing fast, headed right for us, right now. You kissed my forehead, a question about where to put our bodies, but I didn’t want To answer any more questions. I just wanted to kiss your mouth and wait it out. The truth is, I didn’t know what to do. My lips added nothing. Branches kept tap-tapping their caution against the reflection of windowpanes, reminding me of what the Earth could do to us, and what the Things we put into this house could do, too. The sucking sounds would not compromise. 24

ZENITH

I was imagining storm chasers riding rain-whipped and hysteric, straight into the green open eye, like feeling-up Mother Nature, nervously laughing into each other, and no one else. I took you to the cellar. I never learned how to protect our bodies, and how to stop the whirring you said you didn’t feel. I just took you down. And I know, I could have curled up and created a nest of this hole in the earth. We could have let the candles burn out to puddles of cooling wax, but on you I only felt heavy. We couldn’t find anything but the shrunken bare mattress on the floor, and a spare freezer you ravaged for bones right away, politely. Through crumbling walls of packed dirt, escaping vines curled into whatever soiled spaces we allowed them to live or die inside. I don’t know how long I laid there watching earthworms starving for heat, settling for violence. Later, someone would say the sky was violet and burning through a riot, or protest, it depends on who you ask. There would be debate over where exactly the vacuum of the storm began. But we were all just guessing, anyway. I don’t remember hearing sirens. After a few hours in the hollowed-out soil, I began to wonder if we’d imagined the entire storm. All I know is I watched your soft brown eyelids close, as I piled my convictions onto your chest and tried to whisper a goodbye into our tangled hair, though it came out as a growl. You didn’t seem to notice the difference. I thought about what could be happening out there. I couldn’t make sense of the persistence of the wood-rotten cellar doors over our heads, held together by waxy brass hinges 25

R. MCKENDRICK

older than our mother’s thimble fingers. I imagined debris hovering above the door; tiny scraps of something funneling, trash, petals, glitter, maybe collecting in the gutter of a studio apartment with emerald walls and golden lamps, or naked drywall, with matches to start. Where there’s enough space for two bodies to uncoil and multiply. I wondered about just what was planted here, while I just laid there, looking up through the cracks, imagining eyes where there are only eyelids. Pet Pet me. Pet me. Pet me. The twin pairs of lime slices beg in the blackness of my stairwell. I’m hooked by the two soft tails curling around my ankles like mangrove roots reaching into a tub of my own porcelain center, asking for the circumference of my kneeling skeleton. They need to know where to leave the bones but they don’t even wait for my answer. Pet me. Pet me. But I’m not in the mood for listening. I am looking for ghosts, I say with no smile into night’s side eye, staring at the silhouette of the poppies outside until I am sure they are splintering into coiling arms. When I can’t get them to come any closer, I am thumbing through voicemails I keep checking if I’m ready to hear. The tabbies still tripping to be seen. But I am responsible for propping up monsoons, while searching for your blues. The green of everything coming too soon. Again. Pet me. But I will only entertain the sweetest of ghosts,

26

ZENITH

which, as it turns out, will not be entertained. The moon shreds all my of my séances, spilling rivers of light across the narrowing seams of my delusions spelled across two circling foreheads, the M and M we shared like sabotage. As a child, I stupidly loved my own middle name, proud to announce it was the same as yours, before you taught me to spell. Murray. Marie. I laugh like a strangle with the white-marbled gods still lurking, gagged with their own velvet hyperboles, nevertheless squatting in the corners of my wildlife. I laugh like a scream and tell the beasts, I’ve been a Bengal before. Begin again to peel my way along the cold metal railing of being too old for this. Or of never being old enough for this. But that’s just the spiders whispering, mostly. You should know that I will always turn up as a renaissance. Even as I’m stalked to my own pillow Pestered for sour indulgence. Monologue for a Snake Death is the python beneath your bedsheets, under every last daisied-cotton and soft green flannel that could ever hug your body like this. It’s so easy to wriggle up into the corner of your own mattress, where you once bit the cotton, alive like stone, before you realize that you will be prey, either way. He barely looks at you. Nestled beside your sleepy head like twisted vanilla in a crumbling cone, On a throne that was once your favorite pillow, And now cools the damp arch of your back, for when the wall in your face isn’t enough.

27

R. MCKENDRICK

Despite the watermark of my morbidity, I’m trying to help. There will be a pale stranger squirming through the cells Of the woman who gave me her face. Squirming through you, too. Braced in the freckles revealed at the zipper pull of a little black bag. Mysteries will dart away from a body still cooling, no matter what you paid for that net. Ask the backseat passenger of my route home, who only listens with skin to the f.m. warning of copperheads birthing by the hundreds. Does this surprise you? Meet his eye in the rearview mirror, and ask what we are all wasting to know: Is it personal? Of course, he only hears your tin pulse wobble, but he is indifferent to you, regardless. Responsible only for the hailing of black tights, black sensible shoes, black dresses, other black shoes, black jeans over an alien armchair, cloaked in indecision either way. He’s still alive, I say, as the wallpaper darkens with the dampness of our carbon.

28

HEATHER CARR

6. WORDS

I could tell you that I love you and you would have to believe me. Maybe because you have conceptualized me as capable of loving you. Maybe because you have sanctioned sanity as someone speaking sentences that have a significance to you, but not to me. Will you carry to the cashier your cart of empty “I’m good, how are you” responses? as if you comprehend her lacked enthusiasm from her negotiated arthritic hands tied to youthful eyes. When I tell you I love you, I am lying because I don’t actually know you. But I did meet you, in our 30-second encounter as I saw you, praying over produce and in bending over green beans I heard you whisper no words, sending only waves in hopes they would not be pawned by large corporations with their many distorted words to wield your wallet— that you do not hear.

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_006

H. CARR

Didn’t you hear me say thank you? When I told you I love you, I meant it. Maybe because you saw rose petals spiraling from my machined mouth, shooting vibrations you could not unhear. Maybe because I know you felt the floral frequencies we use to communicate that always seem to be left malfunctioning our manipulated minds. I want you to repeat the word love ten times aloud. Love Love Love Love Love__ And it has lost meaning. Maybe because there is no action tied to the phoneme just as there is no tie from petal to its flower once the flower has died. A Feeling There are a lot of ways to feel something or anything at all. Like when you refuse nourishment and upon shutting the singular setting of your visional lens, you begin to feel the bright colors, patterns of colors you do not normally notice and you feel your head become the deflating balloon once filled with the air that surrounds us all. The dizziness fills yours eyes with tearsthe restless energy that rejuvenates oceans; and vibrations of ringlets from the floods, effusively flowing from the stars that once made you.

30

WORDS

You become a body, that floats but does not sink, surrounded by silence, reaching for the surface with only one hand. And you wade in your want for something to grip your wrist and pull you aboveBut there is nothing except reflection in your wide eyes of the empty sky, brimming with the existence of stars you cannot find. They watch you from your rotations of resilience, because you have placed useless faith in creeping blindness, asking you to dance with devils disguised as the sun. You are waiting, waiting for willow branches to entwine your arms gracefully winding until nakedly sheltered among the stars that have made your universe. If you arrive, radiate gratitude in every invitation to blindly dance until the feeling of anything becomes nothing at all. Boxes In my box are many mistaken memories. They are silly to you. I can see by the way your body mimics the outline of someone who refuses to to tell the spiders he loves them.

31

H. CARR

You choose to see the lighter. I choose to see the letter, which has since been burned with the insistent clicks of typewriting which I cannot touch anymore. Yet we have both fixated on the pictures, that neither of us have taken. There are only three. 1. A lake that neither of us have seen. 2. A woman that neither of us have met. 3. A spider that you have never loved. I can’t seem to recall your face, but I can remember the lid of perpetual invisibility closing upon me, as I hid in the dark corners of your mistakes. I wish your feet would have fallen long before you faced me, but now, I refuse to wait for the step, so long as you remember me. The Rope She said please, and with ease, they cut her work of art in a single stroke of the scissors And she tied the remains of her youth into a rope a rope filled with tied knots a rope that could stretch farther than infinity.

32

WORDS

She said take, my rope of raked rights and wrongs of fractioned faces from foes and feelings intertwined with the knots that broke through the glass at the ends of the Earth. She wanted to see what he saw as the moon could see rays of stars tethered to birthed supernovas but never such a rope as lovely as hers. She said me, the quiet presence of ambivalent thoughts; the loud existence of a ONE chained to the WHOLE tangled in the mass of elements circulating the same patterns day by night by day. She wanted to feel without air as the moon would feel without her because out of all colors unnoticed by man, she was iridescent. She said with, persistence and curiosity, reverence and invincibility, that she wanted to dance only on broken glass. She said you are the only one I would dance withbut he threw it back, restoring the shattered glass that once surrounded her world. Perspective In the mirror, she traced her features with her finger right hand her index finger manifold from the other nine.

33

H. CARR

Aren’t you in there? she tapped on the mirror. She sees through many colors cones-red, green, blue young, old, pure, stained— manifold shades. Aren’t you in there? she tapped on the reflection. Bees see through many colors cones-ultraviolet, blue, green except red— the color of caution. do NOT touch. Manifold shades not used, new, wrinkled, clean, but every individual flower, a new finger. Through the door, the sound of the bee flourished and landed on my finger right hand my index finger facing my lips facing my eyes. Aren’t you afraid of the stinger? I tapped the bee. It stayed and did not sting. It looked like peace through a pandemonium, with hair gravitated towards the flowers and body levitated towards the sun. Aren’t you fascinating. she tapped on the mirror. It drifted towards the mirror and out of the window. YOU are COLORFUL. Welcome bees through your unhinged door 34

JUSTINE NAJ

7. WHALE WATCHING

My mother’s younger brother was born in Detroit in the late 1970s. He would say it’s quiet like i imagine whale watching to be. the kind of silence that weaves fragments of light into a sneaky, filtered passing. waves splinter the corners of my vision until there is nothing to see. i biked over the interstate during a billowy night, finding that oblivion exists in the echos against concrete, and that each pair of headlights tempts me upwards, into the navy sea. “the cicadas” in the days following my discovery of the hopi indian prophecy, i sat underneath a shade tree convinced of the world’s undoing. i was eleven with a woodchip in my sandal. it was august. looking down at the earth was a kaleidoscope of moving parts, bugs clambering over one another in a tangled knot of frantic purpose. upwards, the sky shattered with silent atmospheric radiance. my eyes picked apart the scene with a lackadaisical glint until spotting the shell of a cicada.

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_007

J. NAJ

unwinding it without touching it, i believed there was something still inside. petroglyphs, perhaps, or maybe a pinpoint heart, still beating. slowly. i thought about everything i perceived to be empty, like the gas tank on the car and the dry streams curling through utah. delicate and shallow, i watched the thing breathe in the stirring air, and the shell became whole to me. somehow, i felt it wise to imagine that all of us are whole as it is and no amount of stolen candy from the cupboard can make us fuller. anything beyond that is just running in loops around a predetermined shape. there is no such thing as having a missing piece— only spaces for worms to burrow. “nap time” on the yellowing linoleum, i see that someone has dropped a single pink smartie, or a pill of ecstasy, or a detonator button. i want to press on it with my big toe to see if the world will blow up, or if a trap door will swing open and lead me down a spiral staircase into a room covered entirely in fuchsia shag carpet. in my most cavernous moments, i would hope that room is filled with the same calm silence of my adolescent bedroom. amniotic fluid bliss of thickly liquid quiet, soft wind rattling the spiders on their gauzy webs, 36

WHALE WATCHING

and the carpet falls away like technicolor leaves outside the window. despite my temptation, i leave the tiny pink disc behind, untouched and left to murmur with the dust bunnies on the yellowing linoleum. i used to get scolded at as a child for scraping candy off the floor of diners and sidewalks and eating it. i don’t regret it. i would have done it again if you weren’t looking. “the rainbow bridge” well, it’s always started with me. my hand curved and shaking around another cup of coffee. the still point of the turning world is the last sausage on my greasy plate. deee-lite clambers through the speakers, hooked up to someone else’s stereo from another dimension. here for our pleasure, always. i see you get up from your seat and remember fondly that all good dogs go to heaven with the girls and their coronary colored fingernails. “bones heal chicks dig scars pain is temporary glory is forever” 37

J. NAJ

being here, now, is like being hung upside down from my brainstem— it’s a broken christmas ornament that’s too busted to hang up, but too sentimental to throw away. nonetheless, it stays the same. always here for our pleasure. always.

38

MARVIN PETERSON

8. WHY I TEACH IN URBAN SCHOOLS

Listen to me Listen to me Listen to me Wait! I didn’t come here to preach I came here to teach. I’m full of passion, Learn it’s not about fashion The economy is crashin’ Bashin’ the women, “the gays” and the non-Whites The streets breakin’ into fights Unequal distribution of rights Trying to turn on the lights. Inequality is not a fallacy it’s a reality let’s drive racism to scarcity I’m ecstatic to share, make people see what’s fair Dare to dream about the endless possibilities Young minds from the trees to the clouds I’m proud to change the educational paradigm I’m looking to serve give kids the nerve To challenge what is now with what could be let me see What students can achieve if they believe Seas of opportunity Resurrection of unity Status quo won’t suffice take my advice roll the dice don’t play nice Even today pedagogy is a mess I don’t think less I think more It’s worth fighting for Young minds set the stage, end the rage, break outta the cage, only when you engage

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_008

M. PETERSON

Think for yourself Find your peace end the lease with hypocrisy in democracy I share my understanding This work is demanding I desire to make social change Creation of strident feminists no pessimists only optimistic realistic looking to end the epidemic systemic failure in education Books about history are dry and that is why I bring life to economics history and politics This world’s been a mess since creation It doesn’t matter if you are Puerto Rican Asian or Haitian We can end the devastation so prevalent in this nation Teach defense of the placeless, faceless, nameless Teach people having a voice is not a choice That’s what I’m all about And I’m out.

40

ANONYMOUS 1

9. UNSOLICITED CALLERS

“Are you trying?” Sure,yeah,ifithappensithappens,wearentinanyrush Smile. Don’t get upset by questions. Jokes. Overly obvious references to what other people want from this situation. Everyone means well. Appear calm. Discuss intimacy with your husband as common table talk. Everyone is excited. “Remember to keep your legs above your head right after.” Pass the pepper please. “Maybe it’s not you, it does take two…” Than why do I feel like it’s all on me? That if this doesn’t happen for us, I’m not fulfilling my role. That if it doesn’t happen, I’m letting my husband down. “Have you tried…” Healthy diet. Check. (Just remember, not too much soy) Exercise. Check. (Just remember, nothing too strenuous) Vices in order. Check. (Just remember, this includes most things you like) Prayers to all Proper Saints. Check. (Just remember, God has a plan) Constant sex. Check. (Just remember, sometimes you have to treat it like a job) “Just don’t think about it.” Am I too old? Why did we wait so long? Was it the wine I drank last week? I knew I should have cut down on caffeine. Breathe. Meditate. Breathe. Run. Breathe. Scream. Breathe.

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_009

KIA YANG

10. CHASING WHITENESS

All my life, I’ve chased Whiteness From my classmates, to my teachers, the people I see on TV I wanted to speak like them, be smart like them, be accepted by them. I remember drawing a self-image in first grade My teacher telling me that the skin color I chose was too light How could I have known what color I am? I just wanted to be like everyone else. Batman, Superman, Spider-Man, they don’t look like me. But those superheroes are made-up Google Lee Lue and you will see a real-life superhero 6 months pilot training Fought in the Secret War Flown over 5,000 successful combat missions in 2 years Guinness World Record holder A Hmong Superhero I can look up to But I didn’t. I didn’t because my education was about the White “heroes” of America White heroes like Christopher Columbus— Heroes who don’t deserve a platform. I’ve been brainwashed to believe that White is better than any other color I thought White teachers, dentists, cashiers were better I fought to be on the same level as my White peers Because they were the standard I gave up chasing Whiteness in 11th grade I realized I can never get there I can never be as good I just want to be successful But why is Whiteness and success synonymous? Why can’t my success be equivalent to your success? Why can’t my Hmong-ness be as great as your Whiteness?

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_010

K. YANG

News flash. It is But you don’t want me to know that Because You are afraid that of my potential You are afraid of my minority You are afraid of my greatness. Dear Whiteness, I am no longer chasing you I am no longer your model minority I am a remodeled minority.

44

MARK SPURLIN

11. A LETTER TO MY BLACK SONS

Dear Charlie and Harper, I’m worried about the both of you. It has nothing to do with anything you’ve done. I love you boys so much. But, something is happening now and you need to know about it. Black boys, unarmed black boys, are getting shot dead by police, and from my perspective I think it will continue. Just in the last 5 years alone, countless stories from around the country have popped up surrounding black boys and black young men getting shot by police. Literally, just yesterday, another headline hit the media, “Unarmed Black Teen Shot, Killed by Pittsburgh Police.” I’ve noticed that headlines like this are followed by a cycle of specific other headlines dealing with protesting, angry and upset family members of the victim, Black Lives Matter, issues with police training, and police accountability. I’m at a point in all of this where we—you two and me—need to have a heartto-heart. I need you to be aware of what’s happening and we need to figure out something we can do about it. Now, I’m not the master of communication (your mother will back me up on that) but I’ve noticed something about these incidents where black boys are getting shot by the police; before the shots are fired, there is a serious breakdown of communication between the boys and the police. The boys are scared of the situation. Some of the boys start running away because they don’t know what else to do. On the other side, police officers are “reading” the situation in a way that makes them believe they are in serious danger. BOTH the boys and the police officers are failing to communicate appropriately and these interactions are ruining the lives of so many people, all because of a breakdown in communication. I’ve taught you before that you can only control you right? I feel like this is one of those situations and I want you to use that idea moving forward. What I’m about to ask you do might sound weird, but I believe this is something you need to practice. If you ever find yourself in a situation where police are showing up, I need you take a deep breath. I need you to slowly stop what you’re doing—don’t you dare run! Calmly put your hands up and allow the officer or officers to arrest you. Resist the urge to resist. Don’t talk back. Let the officer’s guide you to their squad car and take

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_011

M. SPURLIN

you to the police station At your earliest convenience, call me and as soon as I can, I’ll be there to help you. I promise. “Wait, dad, you’re telling me to get arrested?!?” Yes, I know it sounds weird, but your life may depend on it. Please don’t get it twisted though boys. I’m not giving you permission to go off, get into trouble, and get arrested a bunch of times. What I’m trying to say is, I love you both so much that as your father, if I had the choice, I’d rather talk with you faceto-face at a police station, than deal with the pain of talking to you in your coffin. We all have jobs to do in life boys. My job is to work to support you two, your mother, and your sister. I enjoy my job as an educator. There are challenges, but I enjoy it most of the time. You two also have a job. Sure you have to clean your room, help clean up after dinner, and take care of the lawn. You might not know it, but both of you also have the jobs of being kids, having fun, laughing, playing, and learning. I composed this letter to inform you of another job you have to start doing. It is an unfortunate job for boys that look like you. This job too will come with challenges, but I’m here to help you through it. All kids don’t need to know how to navigate through a conversation with police at such a young age, but you do. It’s simply part of your reality. In life we have purpose too. Purpose is much bigger than a job. A job is what we do in life, but a purpose is the reason why we are living. My purpose in life is to help this universe reveal your purpose to you, and to be honest boys, we need more time. 12, 15, 22, 31 years is not enough time for you to discover the reason you’ve blessed your mother and I…your time here is so important, so valuable, to not only me, your mother, and your sister, but to our community. Your stories need to be told boys, they need to be told by you and no one else. Your story needs time and you have to be aware of this. Please, please, please, don’t run from the police boys. It’s like running away from your life, from your story. You are too precious and necessary to this world. We’ll work on how you talk to police very soon, but in the meantime, just try to remember that if you find yourself dealing with the police when I’m not there…listen, be calm, and we’ll talk about it later. Do not resist living your life. Your mother and I love you both so much, and we are looking forward to you sharing all of your stories with us and the world. Your Dad

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CECE TRELLA

12. WOMAN SIDE ONE

Woman Side One I never learned my ABCS. I learned how to scream ‘help’ in every language. I never learned my 123s. I learned how to dial 911. For my fourteenth birthday I got a rape whistle, for my fifteenth I got pepper spray. When your woman you don’t have a childhood, you grow up being the prey. I was taught to avoid dark alleys, parking lots, and down town. But nobody ever told me, to avoid the boy three doors down. Woman Side Two I love being a woman. I love my goddess high cheekbones and home-y hips. No way as shapeless and distasteful as my male counterparts. I love being a girl. I love my natural beauty that I don’t need to try to achieve. I love the sassy glowing aura all girls have shining from their eyes And radiating in their laughs. I love being a female. Capable of nurturing life like no other. Badass. Strong. Beginning with woman and so onFor life after life. Born from the moon and controlled by the tides— Filled with love and purpose. Despite the hardships we face every day, The disrespect, abuse, and overlook— There is nothing I would rather be.

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_012

C. TRELLA

Ode to Joe Our entire residence hall saw you leap— heard the splash felt the alarm saw your phone on the ledge and the ripple of the water fire trucks racing flashlights illuminating the fear the dread the grieving they saw your toothy smile your laughter your style now the flowers the candles the letters the cigarette offerings. I HOPE YOUR LIFE ISN’T REDUCED TO THIS— a bouquet and some words on a bridge. I hope that you’re painting wherever you are— reading type writer stories. I hope your dog sitting in a sweet little apartment, with your charcoal all laid out in front of you. I hope you’re sharing a smoke on the beach. I hope you know how many people you’ve affected.

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ZALIKA ANIAPAM

13. FINAL CHECKMATE

His Turn He is nervous. I can tell. If not by the way his eyes surge along the checkered board, then by the way his hand clasp tightly the edge of our table. His head, slightly tilted, but propped up by a weak hand, swelters under the florescent lightbulb. He mutters to himself nonsensical words stemming from a growing and desperate madness inside. My dear friend is slipping and I am waiting. It is hard to tell how bright-eyed and clean-cut he once was a few hours ago. It reminds me of our first game years before, and the thousands of checkmates to follow. But here in this room, bare, except for this table and the cold chairs we’re sitting on, where the same sole fluorescent lightbulb begins to flicker above our heads, will be the final checkmate between he and I. He is as skilled a player as I, but on these cold chairs, worn and frail from years of use, we will test that. The gun is sitting on the right side of the table as our beloved game lingers—our agreement established beforehand. His eyes narrow to one pawn in particular. His finger grazes the tip before he leans in and pushes it one space over. He lets go. It is a stone-cold look that washes over. He stares soullessly across the table as his demeaner dims further with this room. But within the moment, he comes to terms with his move, comforted by a late-budding confidence. My Turn On the other side of the table, I study the nearly emptied board of chess pieces, thinking and rethinking of a strategy for what may be my last turn. I begin to dream of a way I can save us both, but somewhere within the sweetest part of my mind, dark intentions begin to turn. My focus deepens, shifting to our game. The creaking floorboards fall silent only out of admiration. This darkened room squeezes us in a little bit more. My eyes dart back at the Beretta semi-automatic that still rests on the right side of our table…just until the final checkmate. My own impulse steals my turn and I can barely breathe after that. The pawn is moved. My turn is over. A grim mood sets in as my thoughts swarm to suffocate. The sole fluorescent lightbulb is fading out.

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_013

Z. ANIAPAM

He is a dear friend indeed, one whom I had the very pleasure of sharing a final game with. However, I trust my skills, and whatever comes about after this very moment in the dark, is somehow meant to be… One of us reaches for the gun. The other whispers “I love you.” Checkmate.

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PART 2 STORIES TO CHANGE THE WORLD

TALIAS DEBERRY

14. EACH ONE, TEACH ONE

My mother’s younger brother was born in Detroit in the late 1970s. He would become the only son my grandmother had out of five children. His upbringing was synonymous with the majority of other black males in Detroit in the 80’s. But one thing that was stressed to him, and in later years to me, was church. He attended the church where his grandmother, my great-grandmother, preached. He was told right from wrong, good from evil. He wasn’t born an evil man; to the contrary completely. He was a gifted and intelligent young man, who loved music. He played the drums for the church on Sundays and went on to be part of his high school band. He also committed to a band scholarship at an HBCU University with the assurance that he would complete his last year and a half of high school. But instead of graduating, being granted his scholarship, and moving into a college dorm, he was unable to complete high school, he lost his scholarship, and moved into the first of many prison dorms he would be housed in for the duration of his seven year sentence. *** My grandfather, the great man that he is, has been through a lot in his life. One of those things being drug addiction. And back in the 80’s, that was a common occurrence. The grandchildren never truly got the full story of that situation, but what I do know is that situation set into motion a ripple effect of others. Because he was on drugs, my grandmother kicked him out and assumed his role of being the sole bread winner and support system for five children. The most challenging child to raise was my uncle. Not because he was a bad child, but because he is a “black man.” She did her best, as many strong black women have done before and continue to do, but he needed discipline, masculine energy, and someone who could understand his uninformed adolescent desire to fit into the mold that society has carved out strictly for black men. A mold that shapes a lifestyle consisting of a lack of education, a hatred of your own people, and a sole focus on material affluence often ending in imprisonment and/or death. ***

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_014

T. DEBERRY

Environment is a powerful catalyst. Instead of going to school all day and then punching a clock at a minimum wage job for the night, my uncle began to experiment with street life. He soon realized the money he was making could afford him name brand clothing, the occasional night out with a girl, or anything else a sixteen year old could want. He fully embraced the streets and was welcomed with open arms. My uncle’s lack of a father did him a great disservice. Unknowingly, he began to search for things to fill that void without realizing that nothing could. His connection with the other young men in his small east-side neighborhood, was fostered mainly by their lack of fathers. Staying out late, not respecting the law, and getting into trouble was his way of rebelling and “being his own man.” And with that came the violence. His false sense of manhood, pride, and self-esteem, that was tainted with the drug abuse of my grandfather, the encouragement of illegal activity, and the applauded vicious acts of violence on other black men that were applauded by older black men, who played the role as father figures, was all a product of self-hatred and hate for other black men. Granted, at that time, he was ignorant to that fact and his judgment was clouded with the acquisition of material things and the approval of the guys in his new family. But the animalistic culture, that he was actively engaged in on the streets, was more extreme and concentrated in prison and he became privy to the effects it had on black men like himself while smoking a cigarette his first day in quarantine in Riverside Correctional Facility. *** One day, while smoking cigarettes, my uncle overheard two inmates arguing in general population. He hadn’t been in general population yet, so he was able to “ear hustle” and watch the argument from a safe distance. One of the inmates had his back turned to the other while playing cards. Suddenly, my uncle saw the angry inmate run up to the seated inmate screaming about his “girl.” His “girl” was actually a fellow male inmate who engaged in illegal sexual activity. One thing my uncle recalled was how pitiful, ridiculous, and desperate these “girls” looked when using Kool-Aid packets as makeup and lipstick. Some of those men were taken advantage of for protection and others have been locked down so long that they adopt the lifestyle of the “girls” for companionship, protection, and a distorted feeling of love. These men began to argue over one of these “girls” who was engaging in sexual activity with both of them. The seated inmate tried to deescalate the situation and get back to playing cards. The standing inmate, who started the argument, yelled out, “I’m gon’ fuck you up.” He then walked away and went back into his cell. After a few seconds, he came running towards the seated inmate with a long blade that he shoved through both sides of the seated inmates neck. *** “I never seen no shit like that, nephew. Now, I don’ shot people and got shot at. I don’ hurt people and did things I’m not proud of and I don’ seen a lot, but that was 54

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some different shit. This man literally had a knife sticking through both sides of his neck, nephew. So, as you know, this is my first time in. They sounded the alarms and everybody was getting on floor, even us in quarantine. I remember standing boy this white boy and we both started laughing, because what we saw was so crazy that we really didn’t know what else to do, like damn, let’s at least finish our cigarettes.” “Let me ask you something, unc’. Being so young, what was it that enabled you to hurt people like that? What were you feeling?” “You know nephew, it wasn’t about feelings. When I jumped into the streets, I knew what I signed up for and I was with all the bullshit. Some people are willing to live and die in the streets and go all the way. That’s how I was and it set me back. But once I got locked up, I had to realize that it’s more to life than being a tough guy. That shit don’t get you nowhere for real. So you stay in school and figure it out. Because if you end up in a prison, that’s gon’ be your fault, nephew. And you’ll fall right into the trap they created for people like us. *** After the situation with the inmate getting stabbed in his neck, being privy to multiple assaults on inmates, and being jumped and stabbed himself, my uncle began to understand the dynamics of the violence in prison. He was already an aggressive and explosive person, at that time, so he began to do what he knew best. After being housed at Riverside for about two months, he was shipped to HMTU(Handlon Michigan Training Unit). He said people used to call this place “Gladiator School” because there were young people there who fought and stabbed all the time. He was an eighteen year old gang member who fought all the time. He didn’t respect authority and received tickets often. His philosophy was to hurt anyone who tried to disrespect him because he wanted everyone to know that he wasn’t one to shy away from confrontation. His insubordination and multitude of tickets got him moved to MR(Michigan Reformatory) in Ionia Michigan. He said that the inmates called this place “Baby Jackson,” named after the Michigan State prison in the city of Jackson. He stayed there for a while and began to focus to slow down. He was getting tired of fighting and constantly being shipped around from pace to place. He rarely got to see his family, because they couldn’t afford to travel to each facility he was housed in. He began to focus on educating himself and his pints dropped and shortly after he was moved to a prison in Adrian Michigan. Everything was going better for him, he was focusing on rehabilitating himself and thinking about his future. *** And then, what he calls “the bullshit” happened. As a gang member in prison, he was targeted immediately by rivals. He was a younger inmate and naively felt the need to show that he wasn’t soft. He didn’t want to be taken advantage of or lose his respect he had earned. A correctional officer 55

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began speaking to him a racist and demeaning way. After their conversation, the correctional officer told my uncle to stand up and turn around, so he could restrain him and take him away while he processed his infractions. My uncle refused and began to exhibit, what the officer described as, aggressive behavior. The officer tried to forcefully restrain my uncle unsuccessfully. There were other gang members, standing by my uncle now. My uncle looked at the officer and said, “I’m not going anywhere. And keep playing with me like this and all of us will show you something.” The fifteen to twenty gang members were charged with my uncle’s energy and were expressing their emotions and their will to hurt the officer. After a short time, the cell block was out on lockdown and my uncle was accused of inciting a riot. The superiors were lenient with him and didn’t give him more time to serve, but based off his past fights, gang related attacks, and knife fights, he was sent to the maximum security unit in the Ionia Correctional Facility. *** Getting to the maximum security unit where he was locked down alone for twentythree hours a day changed my uncle forever. He began to go crazy the first couple of days and he had to spend eighteen months there. He recalled being asked would he like to leave his cell to take a shower or to go outside into another cage where he could workout. The animalistic characterization of prison was taken to a different level for him during that period of his life. But during that time of immense sorrow and deprivation of mental stimulation, he began to reflect. This was the first time he was alone long enough to think about his life. He began to forgive his father for the pain he had caused him while being addicted to drugs. He had the revelation that when a person is addicted, they have submitted to the substance or the thing and they lose control. He received his GED in prison and began to read more. Being raised in Christianity, he wanted to discover new religions. The Moorish teachings were one of the most profound things he came across. He began to believe in himself and see himself as a King or a God. He didn’t want to continue down a road of negativity and imprisonment. Thinking about the family of the man he killed, praying for forgiveness, and truly feeling that redemption was possible for him changed his outlook on life. When he was released in 2001, he embarked on a new path. He had done all that he could to fit into the mold that society had carved out strictly for young black men like him. But his new mission was to strive to live a better life, strive to build a relationship with his son that was born soon after he was sent to prison, and never to return to the mental and physical hell that forever changed him. *** My uncle has never tried to preach to me or act like he was a saint. He has always told me what he believes in and has always tried to help me stay on the right track. I don’t see a murderer, criminal, gang member, or deadbeat dad when I see my uncle. 56

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I see a man who made mistakes, accepts responsibility for his mistakes, and strives to make sure my cousins and I don’t make the same mistakes. He has always said, “You can learn from the experiences of others, or you can buy your own ticket into the school of experience.” My uncle didn’t have a father in his home as a young kid and I see him as an example of what America can and has turned young black men into. He didn’t have any examples of what the streets, gang banging, drug use, and a blatant disregard for authority does to young black men and how it places them at the bottom of the American caste system where the “American Dream” is exactly that, a dream. And though I struggle at times to pay for college and life expenses, witness the trans-generational trauma that is constantly affecting my family, and grapple with the stigma, negativity, and anxiety of being a black man in America, I always remember the quote, “Each one, Teach one.” My uncle has taught me things that I can never repay him for and he has detoured me from the streets so many times, and for that, I am forever grateful. And while he has fulfilled his debt to our ancestors by teaching me, I will strive to succeed and make sure to always teach another.

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AVRORA MOUSSORLIEVA

15. NATIVE On Checking Boxes

Could you, dear reader, guess what my ethnicity is, and advise me what box should I check on a survey? With fortunate and tragic periods and numerous turns, my nation has a millennia worth of history. We were almost forgotten a couple hundred years ago and those who still remembered us, believed that we had disappeared. But it was just that we tried to survive by becoming invisible. We are still suspicious of authority and we say that the obedient head is not cut off, so when bad times come we tend to get quiet and endure. There were, however, those who struggled against centuries of foreign occupation and we hold dear their names—the names of our heroes, terrorists and scoundrels for those who ruled us—they are forever imprinted in our hearts. We now have a day to celebrate and honor our teachers and writers, and the creators of our alphabet and our first books; another one to commemorate those who first awoke us for the struggle for national revival, national schools, religion and state; a third day to honor the ones who gave their lives so our nation can still be on this world. When I learn about the struggles of other people for freedom and happiness, I feel that they are my sisters and brothers. That is why I feel profoundly accepted when someone mistakes me for their own—we are all related after all. Some years ago, I would have told you that I am getting to the point in life when I have to be a keeper of our traditions and memories. In my community I am now, one of the elders—not an official position, but a duty. My duty is to teach the young ones who they are, to remember our history and traditions. Moreover, to help them to become good people: to help those who are in need, to respect their fellow humans and our Earth. So, I teach the young people our history and, through a yearly exhibition for the Festival of Nations in Saint Paul, I organize our community to share our beliefs and material culture. When my family goes to our favorite Mexican restaurant we are greeted with a cordial, “Hola amigos!” We answer with the same, and keep going as much as we can, often with creative grammar, until we switch to English. When we started eating there a few times a year the waiters had no doubt that we were another Mexican family and we needed to explain how come we don’t speak Spanish. They had seen our daughters grow and learn: from the timid use of a few Spanish words, to giving an order for the family to having a short conversation in Spanish. In elementary school the girls tried hard to fit and the best match according to their appearance

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_015

A. MOUSSORLIEVA

was the lively quick-talking Spanish language group. My eldest, Rada, had checked the “Hispanic” box on a survey and later explained to me: “Mom, why can’t you understand? I have long strait hair and dark eyes like all the Hispanic girls. What else should I be?” However, with no knowledge of the language and the culture, the outside appearance was not enough to belong. In another case I was amazed how ambiguous skin color could be. Thanks to my husband’s darker complexion, by midsummer, all our children get beautiful brown skin. One summer when Rada was around ten, she and her best friend Ayo, an African American girl, went to buy candy in a nearby grocery. About an hour later, on the verge of a nervous collapse, I was running around the community and asking for a White and a Black girl: “Have you seen them? No? If they come by, please, tell them to go right back home!” The girls actually had some good time playing and chatting, something about the endless shared secrets of friendship. I realized why no one saw them when they finally came home. Now, seated in front of me, they had the same skin color. Not one Black, one White! The two girls had the same skin color that summer but one checked the African American box, the other had learned that the proper one for her is the White one. I have my father’s straight dark hair and my mother’s hazel eyes and often am taken for American Indian. People have asked me if I am Native and if I speak Ojibwe; they have congratulated me with the Native American Day. My interest in Native cultures and history makes the mix-up even more likely. Besides, I feel right in place when I am among American Indians. At a meeting with Sherman Alexie, Rada and I found our tribe; we laughed and cried together with the huge auditorium filled with hundreds of people united by our humanity. Through classes, readings and reflections, I had come to the understanding that despite my relatively recent coming to this country, and the barriers I have to overcome, I too benefit from my Whiteness. Because of it I don’t need to worry about many problems that my sisters and brothers have, I can expect compassionate behavior toward me and I don’t have to be afraid every moment of my life that someone will mistake my children with monsters—I have it much easier. Therefore, I need to help and support those who so often accept me full heartedly even when they find out I was actually part of the dominant race. I am not sure of the best way to do this, but I know I have to learn and as an educator I have the responsibility toward my students to give them the tools to build a happier and more just life. I could be a good ally. But when I get asked again: “Are you native?” I will answer again with a smile: “Yes, but not American. I am Bulgarian!” Through my experience and historical memory of being a Bulgarian, I try to understand the experiences of all my sisters and brothers. I try every day to earn my right to check the only box that matters— human.

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ITZEL VALDEZ FLORES

16. MY AMERICAN DREAM

Everyone who lives outside the Unites States knows America as the place where dreams come true. As the land of opportunity and the home of the brave. I don’t blame them for believing that because it’s partially true, but what happens with the rest that is untold. For a long time, I formed part of the believers. I thought Everything was so simple and easy. But the older I got the more things I began to realize. Reality hit me and everything changed, including me. I was brought to America illegally when I was six years old. I knew exactly what was going on because mom had told me why we were leaving Mexico City. My father was already waiting for us on the other side. I hadn’t seen him in approximately two years. He left first to see if he could settle and have a place. Crossing the border wasn’t easy at all, and if you thought gym class was bad; try walking for days in the middle of a desert. With a hot sun that is burning you and making you pour out gallons of sweat. I have many memories of crossing but I’ll share those some other time. When we finally arrived with My dad I ran into his arms and cried. I never thought the day would come when I would see him and get to hug him. In his arms I thought everything would be fine, and that we would live a normal happy life. We lived in an apartment in Brooklyn park and I attended school at Zanewood Elementary. My little sister was only two years old at the time so she was at home most of the time. My mom took care of my sister and to make extra money she baby sat a couple of kids. I have lived in Minnesota with my family for almost thirteen years and, I can say that up until I was fifteen Everything had been easy. I was your normal fifteen-yearold without a job nor a license. Although most of my friends had both, I just couldn’t get any. The reason is because I am not a U.S citizen, so I have no legal documents that allow me to work here. I started getting upset and wondering what will happen with my life. I asked my parents what I could do. I just wanted to get a job and have a license like my friends. President Obama was in office at the time and had previously announced a program named DACA or Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals. This program was an American immigration policy That allowed specific individuals who entered the country as minors, and had stayed in the country illegally, receive a renewable two-year period of deferred action from deportation. This also made them eligible for a work permit and a social security number. My mom told me it was very likely

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_016

I. V. FLORES

that I would qualify for this program. The only issue was getting a lawyer because our economic situation wasn’t all that great. I contacted a friend named Luis. He was the son of one of my mom’s coworkers. I knew Luis was in a similar situation like mine and I was wondering what he was doing or how he was handling this. Luis told me I should go to a school in Bloomington where lawyers were offering to help file the application for free. I couldn’t believe what he was saying and I remember going to my mom and telling her the great news. All we had to do was pay the filing fee for forms and biometrics. I don’t remember what the cost was exactly but it was around $500. We got informed and started gathering all the documents we needed. I would secretly print them at school because it was free and we didn’t have a printer at home. After we had everything together we made an appointment with this group of lawyers. The lawyer that was assigned to me was named Maria. Maria was very helpful and guided us along this process. After several hours with her we finally signed a check and my documentation was on its way. One thing that really called my attention that day, was how many people were waiting in line. All different ages and backgrounds. People coming out of the shadows and hoping for a better tomorrow. During the waiting process I began to receive letters from the USCIS office. They asked me to go have my fingerprints take, and to send passport pictures. They sent letters of confirmation, and tracking numbers for my documents, they also sent them when they received my paperwork and the other prerequisites. I waited patiently for months and months. On September of 2014 I cried of joy. Joy that was unexplainable. I had finally received my work permit and my own personal social security card. I had never even seen a social security card before since no one in my family has one. Shortly after that I applied and got hired for my very first job at McDonald’s. I took driving classes and when I was 16 I got my driver’s permit. I applied for health insurance and got to go the dentist for the very first time without paying. I also got glasses through my healthcare provider. Having that permit and SSN was like having everything at my reach. I was starting to feel like a normal teenager in high school. I was so fortunate and blessed because well not everyone qualified for this great opportunity. I had to make great use of it. High School graduation day came and I was first generation in my family to do it. I couldn’t be more grateful with God and my parents. I applied to college with my SSN and had been accepted at Augsburg college, Winona state, Mankato state, and Saint cloud state university. Although I had a SSN and a work permit I was not able to get financial aid for college. Many scholarships denied me because I wasn’t a citizen and I suppose they thought I wasn’t worth their investment. I received two scholarships and the dream act which was passed in the state of Minnesota. The dream act grants financial aid to those who are in college under DACA. With this and my parent’s savings I could attend my dream college: Minnesota state University of Mankato. 62

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My American Dream was not just a dream anymore it was a reality. I attended my favorite University away from home. I got the opportunity to live in a dorm and have roommates. I had a license, a car, healthcare, and a work permit. My life was finally complete and if you think about it these are things that no one gets all that excited about. These are norms for everyone in America, yes for everyone but me. Just as I was starting to feel complete and very American, Donald trump was elected as President of The United States of America. That day was very gloomy and upsetting for me on campus. There was so much fear and tension in the air that you could feel it and smell it. I was very upset because during trumps campaigns he degraded so many types of people and my type of people. He spoke badly about Mexicans/Hispanics and talked about ending DACA. He spoke out about massive deportations and building the great wall. I called my father and my mother with tears of fear in my eyes. I asked them if they thought he would take away DACA or even deport them. My father told me something I will never forget. “You and your sister are the only reason I am here. I will fight for you and her, and no matter what happens you will finish school and be a teacher. Even if I have to go back and work to send you money I will do it.” At that moment I was speechless and cried because I felt that the sacrifices my parents and I had made were at stake. I finished my first year of college and headed back home. I submitted paperwork and transferred to Metropolitan State University during the summer. I also renewed my work permit since it would expire in august right when school would start. My permit expired and I still didn’t have my renewed one. I kept calling the USCIS offices and they had no explanation for why I hadn’t received it if I submitted everything on time. I assumed the USCIS office was most likely holding my permit because at the time President Trump was making up his mind on removing DACA. When he finally sent “his grandpa” Attorney General Jeff Sessions, the biggest longtime antiimmigrant advocate in the house, to give everyone the message. DACA had been “rescinded.” Two weeks after this I finally received my work permit which had been renewed for two years but what about everyone else. Many who were at the age to apply for DACA were left with no application. Others were left with a permit just waiting to expire because renewing was not an option. I felt so guilty and unfairly blessed. How could he do such a thing to 880,000 people? People who were innocently brought to America and don’t know another place to call home. Actions were taken and many protests were started. Students walked out of classrooms in LA while others were arrested during the protests. My heart is in a very unsettled place because my husband is under DACA as well. We are known as dreamers which makes sense when you think about it. His permit, just like many others expires next year in August, a few months after our first baby is due. My husband is the sole provider for our little family. He graduated college with honors just last year and recently got a new job. I can’t think of a reason my husband’s permit should be taken away, nor the permits of many hard-working 63

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people and students. Congress has six months to figure out a plan for all 880,000 people under DACA, but for now my dreams are on the verge of extinction. I’m striving to keep working hard in school and get ahead of the game. I want to be a graduate college and peruse my career as a teacher. I want my baby to be an American Citizen. I don’t want my child to have to go through everything I went through just to live a normal life. I want my husband and I to someday buy a beautiful home like I see many white folks do. I want to be able to keep living my American Dream.

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NALEE VANG

17. CAN YOU WAKE UP?

We have heard stories about people who are awake in their sleep, but they cannot move or talk, called sleep paralysis. But there are some who have failed to wake up from their nightmares and died, as known as SUNDS (sudden unexpected/ unexplained nocturnal death syndrome) (Adler, 1994, pp. 23–59). Some have seen or heard someone or something, and cannot differentiate between real or imaginary. People associate an evil presence with sleep paralysis due to the nightmares or physical injuries on them. Many people who died because of SUNDS were young Southeast Asian males who were in perfect health. A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) is a movie about teenagers, who have nightmares of a man named Freddy Krueger, who was badly burned, and wears gloves with razors. One of the teenager, Nancy, tries to fight off Freddy as he kills her friends one by one in their sleep (Craven, 1984). This movie was inspired by the deaths of settling Hmong people in the U.S. in the early 1980’s. Around that time, 35,000 Hmong lived in the U.S., and SUNDS became one of the five leading causes of death for Hmong men, and was accounted for half of all deaths among the Hmong, reported Tom Prendergast, an Orange County Medical Examiner (Bulger, 2015). The Hmong tradition believes in worship of their ancestors and spirts. The ancestors and spirits guard and protects them from being vulnerable to bad/evil spirits or what they call Tsog Tsuam, an evil spirit who comes to the victims at night and makes it hard for them to breathe by sitting or strangling them (Adler, 1991, pp. 54–71). The cause of death was unknown and lead people to find out why they suddenly died when they were in perfectly good health. Some blame the cultural differences that many Hmong people could not adapt to, some said it was because of exhaustion, some said because of the lack or not properly worshipping the ancestors, which left them to be venerable. For Shelley Adler (Madrigal, 2011), a professor at the University of California, San Francisco, concluded: “In a sense, the Hmong were killed by their beliefs in the spirit world, even if the mechanism of their deaths was likely an obscure genetic cardiac arrhythmia that is prevalent in southeast Asia American men in their age group.” I know someone who have experienced sleep paralysis for a half her life, whenever she had a scary dream. Sometimes I would sleep over because she would have nightmares and make small whimpering noises in her sleep. Jaime would always tell me about what happened to her in her nightmares when I wake her up in the middle of the night. She dreamt that she was in her apartment and people were running

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_017

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away from someone or something. She looked out her door and saw a ghost coming down the apartment hallway. Instead of running away with the crowd, she ran back into her room, and into her bathroom. Hoping the ghost would follow the crowd, she attempted to close the bathroom door, but it was too late, the ghost stopped at her door and entered her room. Jaime tried as little as possible to not make any sound, and avoiding any eye contact with the ghost by closing her eyes. Hearing a happy laughter next to her, Jaime turns to her side and sees a little girl next to her. The little girl’s laughter gets louder and louder as Jaime attempts to covers her mouth. Hearing the sound, the ghost came straight for her and she starts screaming in terror. From the outside, she was breathing heavily and made little whimpering noises. Jaime will try to make all kinds of noises when she can’t move her body, therefore causing me to stay up later than her for safety measures. Jaime’s nightmares and sleep paralysis has been going on for half her life, she is in her mid-twenties now and it has gotten a little better for her when she sleeps. She doesn’t have a lot of nightmares and sleep paralysis for a couple of months, but she fears watching horror movies because it might influence her to have nightmares. When she attempts to get my attention, I sometimes hear heavy breathing, a whimper, and different types of screams. Her screams consist of screaming in fear or terror, a loud scream for me to hear or a crying scream. At first, I was shocked when she started screaming out of nowhere, but my past experienced of trying to wakeup someone from their nightmares got me paranoid whenever I hear sounds coming out of one’s mouth when they sleep. I got into the habit of staying up late to make sure she is safe, and it has caused me to be more caring and understanding to her situation. She is scared to sleep alone when there is no one to help her and worries if the nightmare happens, it may cause her to stop breathing, as she mentions someone sitting on top of her, preventing her to breathe. When Jaime wakes up from her nightmares, sometimes she would feel pain on her back because of scratch marks or bruises on her arms or legs. Her sleep paralysis and nightmare were causing her to have insomnia and kept me to stay up late. In her nightmares, she would always dream about trying to save someone and someone chasing her in a narrow pathway. When she was dreaming, she heard a baby crying in a trash bag outside. Her friends told her to leave it and keep walking, but she felt guilty leaving an abandoned baby outside in the rain. Trying to open bag and finding a baby covered with blood, she sees the face of the baby. It had no eyes, nose, but a mouth to cry. The shape of the baby was disform like the baby lost a leg or an arm and the smell was horrible. While she was holding the baby, it came out and attack her in the face. Running for her life, Jaime screams in terror and waking me up. Some believe it’s because of the evil spirits that comes to haunt them, giving them pain and suffering, some believe it’s a warning sign, and the rest is a mystery. There have been records of Hmong men and Southeastern men dying in their sleep. Though their cause of deaths is still unknown, people have been suffering because of SUNDS that took away their loved ones and many feared it would happen to them. The Hmong story about an evil spirit sitting on top of their victims or strangling 66

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them still happens to this day, but not many have experienced it. So, do you believe in an evil spirit that comes and kills you in your sleep? REFERENCES Adler, S. R. (1991). Sudden unexpected nocturnal death syndrome among Hmong immigrants: Examining the role of the “nightmare.” The Journal of American Folklore, 104(1), 54–71. Adler, S. R. (1994). Ethnomedical pathogenesis and Hmong immigrants’ sudden nocturnal deaths. Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry, 18(1), 23–59. Bulger, A. (2015, October). Sudden and unexplained: The sleep deaths that inspired Freddy Krueger. Retrieved from https://vanwinkles.com/sudden-and-unexplained-the-sleep-deaths-that-inspired-freddykrueger Craven, W. (Producer & Director). (1984). A Nightmare on Elm Street [Motion picture]. Los Angeles, CA: New Line Cinema. Madrigal, A. (2011). The dark side of the Placebo Effect: When intense belief kills. The Atlantic. Retrieved from https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2011/09/the-dark-side-of-the-placebo-effect-whenintense-belief-kills/245065/

67

MICHAEL HARRIS

18. NO STRINGS ATTACHED

It was Friday night and Harrison was sitting on his couch alone again half watching the show he had on, half scrolling through guys on Grindr. Harrison had this grand plan of putting on some comfy pants, ordering some Chinese delivery, bingeing his new Netflix obsession, and being content with a Friday night in for a change. But instead, here he was scrolling through the usual list of headless torso profile pics, and offensive headlines. “No fats, No fems.” Pass. “Masculine 4 Masculine” Pass. “No blacks or Asians” Pass. “Gay republican seeks likeminded companion. #MAGA” Ugh, double pass. Then he saw a cute guy with a face picture, no offensive catchphrases, the only thing that gave Harrison a red flag was the term “No Strings Attached.” Harrison preferred to message guys who wanted more than just a hook up, but the pickings were slim tonight and apparently, he would have to settle for Mr. Right Now, instead of Mr. Right. He sent the guy a message and received a reply within a couple minutes, and they decided tonight’s festivities would take place at Harrison’s apartment. “On my way,” The message read. “I’ll be there in 20.” Harrison soared off the couch, pulled off his sweats and hopped into the shower. 20 minutes was not as much time as he had hoped for. His place was a total mess, and not fit for company of any kind. He quickly washed up and dried off, running around his apartment with a towel around his waist, and a toothbrush hanging from his mouth, he grabbed his take-out containers, and laundry and tossed them or hid them. “Parking now,” His phone buzzed. “Should I buzz or are you coming down?” Shit, of course he is early. “You can buzz; I am in apartment 203.” Harrison quickly pulled on a fresh pair of briefs and opted for a nicer pair of sweats instead of his previous ones splattered with orange chicken. Why was he stressing out about cleaning, the guy—he realized he didn’t even know his name yet—said no strings attached. Which wasn’t new to Harrison, in fact it seemed to be the norm with modern gay men. He decided it was still good to keep up appearances. When the apartment buzzer went off, he pushed the door button and unsuccessfully tried to tame his still wet hair. He opened the door and invited his guest inside. “Hey, come in. Don’t mind the mess.” Harrison said awkwardly. His guest came in and removed his shoes, and then there was the awkward silence that usually

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_018

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preluded the hookup. They eventually made it to his room, and they had sex. What came after surprised Harrison, the guy did not immediately get up and leave, instead he kind of relaxed. “This may be out of order, but I realize I didn’t catch your name when we were chatting.” The man chuckled as he said it. “I’m Jamal.” They both laughed, and settled back onto the bed and talked until Harrison slowly fell asleep. The next morning, Harrison got up to find that Jamal had already left. Harrison was certain Jamal had slept over, as he recalled rolling over to him during the night. All in all, not a bad night. He got up, hopped in the shower and got ready for brunch with a couple of his friends. When he got out of the shower he saw that he had a message on Grindr—it was from Jamal. “Hey, thanks for having me last night. Maybe we can do it again sometime?” Harrison finished the message not sure what to think. He had fun, but Jamal’s profile explicitly said no strings attached. Harrison on the other hand was fine with the occasional hookup, but ultimately wanted to find someone. Still, he had fun and it wasn’t like he had any dating prospects knocking down his door. He replied with a simple “I’m down.” He spent the rest of his Saturday with his friends and that helped put Jamal from his mind. Then around 9 o’clock, Harrison got a message from Jamal asking if he wanted company tonight. Harrison decided what the hell, his Netflix shows could wait another night. Jamal came over and they talked briefly, and had sex again. Harrison waited for the exit that never came. Jamal stuck around again and they stayed up eating Harrison’s leftover Chinese food and talking about random things like their favorite movies and music and even ventured into politics. Eventually, Harrison started dozing off, and invited Jamal to sleep over again if he wanted to. He did. The next morning, Harrison woke up to his front door shutting. Jamal was nowhere in the room, but he heard footsteps coming from his kitchen. He got up, put on a pair of trousers, and found Jamal in the kitchen with a bag from the bakery down the street. “Morning, I hope I didn’t wake you!” He said apologetically. “I wanted to get you some breakfast to repay you for treating me to that fine Chinese cuisine last night. I also grabbed your keys, so I could get back in, hope it’s cool.” He was smirking while he lathered a couple bagels in cream cheese. Harrison chuckled but didn’t know what to say. This was not normal behavior for a random hookup, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he ate his bagel and they chatted amicably before Jamal departed for work. Harrison decided to text Lauren, his best friend, to talk about his newfound friend. He sent what felt like an essay to Lauren bringing her up to speed. “What’s the problem boo?” She started. “I do not see a problem, you over here complaining about great sex and bagels?! Like sign me up!” Harrison rolled his eyes. “Girl, you don’t get it. This isn’t normal, usually guys just get up and go. Sometimes they will hit you up again in the dead of night, but its only for a nighter. He said he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” 70

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“Have ya’ll started planning your wedding yet?” She retorted. “Gone apartment hunting yet? Adopted a Frenchie yet? No? You guys are just kickin’ it and having fun. Stop stressing.” She didn’t understand. He thanked her and decided to go to the gym to take his mind off this. It didn’t work, he couldn’t shake the feeling there was something going on, maybe Jamal was homeless? That was the only feasible explanation that he could come to, but how do you just ask someone that. Harrison could empathize with homelessness. His parents had kicked him out when he had come out, and he had spent many nights couch hopping until Lauren’s parents agreed that he could stay there. Maybe he wouldn’t have to bring it up though, maybe he wouldn’t get another message from Jamal. Seven o’clock rolled around and Harrison ended up getting a text from Jamal, asking if he had eaten and if he could come over. Harrison was hesitant because he had worked himself into a stressful mess from overthinking about the whole situation, but he ultimately said yes. A part of the reason was because he wanted to get to the bottom of this, and the other was because he genuinely enjoyed Jamal’s company. Jamal got there at a quarter to eight with a large pizza with Harrison’s favorite toppings, a copy of one of his favorite movies, and an overnight bag. He was genuinely taken aback by what most certainly felt like a date, this did little to calm his nerves. They ate and watched the movie in silence while cuddling on Harrison’s couch. When the movie ended, they cleaned up and ended up in Harrison’s bedroom for the third night. For some reason, Harrison could not bring himself to ask Jamal why he wanted to keep coming over, so they ended up falling asleep. Harrison could hardly sleep that night, so eventually he gave up trying to get a full night’s rest, and he got up. He made them both breakfast, and decided he needed to talk to Jamal about everything. When Jamal got up, they ate breakfast and he chatted like normal. Harrison was having a hard time stringing two coherent sentences together, he finally decided to just go for it. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you something.” Harrison blurted out. Jamal looked at him slightly taken aback but nodded. “Why have you spent the last three nights with me? You said you don’t want anything with strings, but you brought an overnight bag with you last night, and you don’t just get up and leave after we have sex, and I—I don’t know what’s going on.” “I’m sorry if I intruded on your space,” Jamal got up and looked very embarrassed. “I’ll leave, I didn’t mean to overstep.” “No! That’s not what I am saying, sorry.” God, why was he so terrible at talking about this stuff? “That came out wrong, I just do not know what to expect from this. You are fun to hang out with and I like you, but I don’t want to get led on.” Harrison could feel his face going scarlet from embarrassment. He hated talking about his feelings, this was definitely not in his comfort zone. “Or is it something else? Do you not have a place to go or…?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he shouldn’t have said it.

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Obviously taken aback, Jamal looked dumbstruck. “You think I’m using you for a place to crash?” Then he did something unexpected—he laughed. “No, I’ve got my own place. I just got out of a 3-year relationship and I guess—I guess I don’t know how to be alone yet.” Harrison felt shame and relief course through his body. “I’m so sorry I assumed you were homeless, and that I didn’t ask sooner. I feel like a total idiot right now. “Don’t worry about it.” Jamal was smiling at him again. “I should have told you from the get-go why I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I guess not talking about why was easier. Why is it harder for us dudes to talk about shit like this, but we can have sex and sleep together?” They both sat at the breakfast counter again and laughed until it was time for them to start their days. They made their way down to the lobby of the apartment building. “Wanna come over to my place tonight? I can prove to you that I am not living on the streets.” Harrison rolled his eyes as Jamal laughed at him. “I’m down” was all Jamal got before Harrison headed out the front door, smiling.

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ANONYMOUS 2

19. GOOD TOUCH, BAD TOUCH

When I was younger my parents taught me at a young age what a “good touch” was and what a “bad touch” was. As a parent, you never think that your child will ever be affected by a bad touch. At least that’s what my parents thought. Then the whole world was flipped upside down. At the age of four years old I found out first-hand what my parents actually meant by a bad touch. My parents thought it would be safer to have a family member watch me when they would go out. My parents always thought that the safest place for me was with my family. On a cold chilly night in December my parents chose my fifteen-year-old male cousin to watch me that night so they could go out for the night. My cousin and I were playing a game and watching Christmas shows while lying in front of the Christmas tree when all of sudden my cousin was sticking his hands down my pants. Before I could do anything he was sticking his fingers in my vagina. When this happened, I froze and didn’t know what to do. I remember the expression of fear on my face and on his face. He told me not to tell anyone. At this point I was scared and confused. I had nowhere to escape. I acted like I was tired so I could go to bed. The next morning my mother was getting me ready for daycare. I didn’t know if I should tell her or keep quiet, but me being that kid that couldn’t keep a secret I had to tell her. I began by telling her that I didn’t like my cousin anymore. She was very confused and asked why. At first, I was scared to tell her because I didn’t know if she would believe. I told her that “he touched me in my private area.” Initially, she was shocked and confused. She made me repeat what I said and I did. At this point she knew that I wasn’t lying, because what four-year-old girl would know and be able explain that he stuck his fingers in my vagina? At first my mother didn’t know what to do. So, she brought me to daycare and explained to my daycare lady what had happened. My mom told her that she needed to go and figure out what to do. My daycare lady told my mother that she had two hours and if she didn’t hear anything from my mother she would have to report it herself. My mother called the police chief whose son went to the same daycare. She asked him what she should do. He walked her through everything. She was told that she needed to bring me into the hospital to get tests done to verify it indeed happened before we went further in the investigation. My mother showed up to the daycare to get me and bring me in to the children’s hospital. At this point my father was still at work and had no clue what was going

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on. My mother didn’t want to call him and tell him what was going on because she was scared that he would drive his garbage truck through the school and kill my cousin who was in 9th grade. I remember her talking on the phone with my father’s boss. She explained to him what was going on and that she needed him to go get my father out of his truck and bring him to the hospital. He knew it was urgent and he did everything he could. When we got to the hospital I had my parents with me and I knew that everything was going to be okay. Well that’s what I thought. I was put through tests that no four-year-old should have to go through. I was put in a room with grey walls and a really weird smell. I was told to lay down and open my legs. The doctor explained to me what she was going to do but at my age I had no clue what she was saying. What happened next was one of the most uncomfortable things to ever happen to me. They were sticking cameras and tools in my vagina to confirm that something was forced in my vagina. After all the tests were done we waited in my hospital room for the results. I remember sitting there thinking that I did something wrong. I was scared and afraid that I would get in trouble. I remember how quiet it was in the room that I could hear my parents outside talking on the phone. When the doctor entered the room to tell my parents the results I remember seeing my mom’s face as she began to cry. I turned to my father and he went from having no expression to pure anger. The test results came back positive. The next thing I knew I was brought to a room that my parents weren’t allowed to come in with me. There was a table with a camera set up. A woman walked in and started asking me questions like “What were you doing before this happened?” and “Did he say anything hurtful?” The woman then handed me a baby doll and asked, “Can you show me on this doll what he did to you”? I then proceeded to show her by sticking my finger by the baby’s vaginal area. I then proceeded to tell her that he stuck his fingers and then I pointed down to my vaginal area. After the interview and all the results came back from tests my parents had a choice to press charges or to not press charges. As a parent whose child just went through hell and back they wanted to press charges, but in the end they didn’t. It was a very hard choice for my parents. The first thing that made it hard was the person that did this to me was my cousin. You never expect family to something like this but you never know. If my parents pressed charges he would have been marked as pedophile for 20 years and would not have been able to finish high school. These are not the reasons my parents chose against it. If my father had his way, my cousin would not be here, and my father would be in jail. In other words, my father wanted to harm my cousin for what he did to me. The real reason they chose not to press charges was because I would have had to go up on the stand in court and explain what had happened to me that fateful night that I learned what my parents meant by bad touch. My parents couldn’t stand to put their four-year-old daughter up on the stand because they thought about how I would

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react if I saw both sets of grandparents, my aunts and uncles, and most of all, my cousin, in the courtroom. They didn’t want to put me through that. After all of this was over I went through many doctor, counseling, and therapy appointments. My family went from having full family functions to my uncles and cousins only showing up at the end, and then leaving in an hour. The one thing my parents hated the most was hearing that I was going to forgive my cousin right away. Well that wasn’t wrong. I forgave my cousin right away because at that age I did not know any better. If being sexually assaulted would have happened when I was older, the outcome would have been a lot different. My family holidays are back to normal insofar as everyone is there. Yes, it is awkward knowing what my cousin did and when he was in high school and still being able to be in the same room with him. The only people that know about this “bad touch” are my parents, family, and friends. The one thing I find to be odd is that his own wife doesn’t know about it. I do not fully forgive him for what he did, but life has to go on. I can’t sit here and hold a grudge because if I did my life would not be the same. So, when it comes to teaching a child “good touch” and “bad touch,” make sure that they know it can happen by anyone. Just because they are family does not make it okay. Yes, they may not think it’s bad, but they will truly know when it is a bad touch. When you are a parent you never think that the person who did this to your child would be a family member. In most cases it is someone who the child loves and trusts (Stop it Now!, 2007). REFERENCE Stop it Now! (2007). Do children sexually abuse other children? Preventing sexual abuse among children and youth. Brandon, VT: The Safer Society Press. Retrieved from https://www.safersociety.org/ uploads/WP075-DoChildren.pdf

75

DENISE VANG

20. UA SIAB NTEV

My name is Mai. I am a Hmong American woman. My parents came to America to escape from the secret war in Vietnam. As a child I have always heard this saying, “ua siab ntev,” which means, to be patient. This phrase has been said by many people to me. It starts with my grandparents; even my cousins have said it to me. This phrase is used with the whole Hmong community. But how far should this phrase go before acting upon it. Are there any limitations to this phrase and how far should an action go before making your own decisions, is what I think. This is my story on cultural rules and changes that are needed. Alcoholism corrupted my husband turned him into a bad man. He would beat me day in and out. He always made sure my bruises weren’t visible. I worked hard to support our little family, but it wasn’t enough. Every day my husband would waste all the money I earned, by drinking and gambling. Finally, I had enough, I wanted a better life for myself and for my children; he wasn’t my husband anymore, he was a stranger. We went to his parents to discuss about getting a divorce and I was told this “ua siab ntev” over and over again. How long am I supposed to wait? His parents claimed that I must not be a “good wife” because he beat me. They assume I don’t cook and clean and provide him meals. They assume I don’t do my duties as a wife. The duties of a wife should be shared with her husband. My in-laws shouldn’t be assuming things that goes on in my home, that’s unfair. We are no longer in Thailand, where the men farm and hunt all day, while the women stay home to cook and watch the children. I am Hmong, but I am also an American. I was born and raised in the United States. They assume all these negative things about me, yet they do nothing about their own son, they just complain. They don’t know who I truly am and what I do for our family. Knowing that there was no hope in getting a divorce and my in-laws were not siding with me even though they could clearly see the abuse I left. My own home is no longer a safe comfort, but a means to end. Knowing that coming home I could be facing my death. I went home with my husband and faced his anger repeatedly. I could not speak up against my husband. I was too afraid and terrified. I have never been in a situation like this before, so I relied on his family to make the choices for us. I was afraid if I stood up against my husband that he would hurt our children in anger. I loved this man before becoming his wife. Before he was addicted to alcohol. I needed to come to terms with myself instead of deluding myself with hopefulness that he was going to change. Every night

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he would beat me and apologize the next day. Every night he would drown himself in alcohol and gamble our money way and in the morning, he would apologize. He’d say he would find a job, how long should I wait? I know that my children and I deserve better. No matter which relative I talked to, they didn’t take into account about how I felt. All they said was “ua siab ntev.” He will change, things will get better, and I was not trying hard enough. This angered me. I know how hard I have been trying to fix our relationships, our family. I know best and to have other family members be demeaning towards me just showed how little of importance I was. I finally confided in my parents. They were sad and disappointed but mostly angry that I haven’t done anything to help myself and instead relied on other people’s opinions. They didn’t say “ua siab ntev.” That’s what I needed to hear, I’ve done all I could, and I have done my best. I cried my heart out. I have been patient, I told my parents “kuv ua siab ntev,” which means I have been patient. Letting go of all my pain and sorrow allowed me to take the first step in leaving my husband. I had three children with my ex-husband they were the ages 14, 8 and 5. Two sons and one daughter, I can see the toll and pain that my children experience while being with my ex-husband. I believe that my children understand why my husband and I got a divorce. I could see that my children too hoped that their father would change. That they silently prayed every night for the man he used to be. But I couldn’t let my ex-husband put my children and I life on hold anymore we needed to move forward. I decided to choose their future, my children who have so much more in life then suffering daily from his abuse. Currently my children and I are happy, we no longer suffer from abuse physically and emotionally. We can afford to live in a house and not just a 2-bedroom duplex. I’m not worried about being able to provide a meal for my children. I never wanted to put my children in such a position but as a mother I had to choose. They are still young and are currently having difficulty in expressing their emotions about the separation but as I am still their mother I hope to support them every step of the way. My children happiness is my happiness and that is all that I wanted for them, to grow up happy and healthy and live a life full of love. As a Hmong American woman, I love my culture and who we are as Hmong. I do follow traditions but there are some things that needs to be changed so that our community can move on and not be tied down by the past. I am a Hmong American woman who was raised to be independent, to have a different mindset while growing up and to stand up for what I believed in. In life there are always detours. No one ever stays on a straight path but they themselves can choose where they want to walk down. My story is here today to show Hmong woman not to “ua siab ntev,” be patient and take matters in their own hands regardless of the backlash they may face in our community or family. In all, we should come first before anyone, as it is our happiness that is at stake. I wonder how we would have celebrated your first birthday. And then I wonder if I would even be mentally present. I wonder how a person can be so cold as to make 78

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such a drastic decision and not think twice about it. I wonder if you would be afraid of the dark or fear the monster under the bed. I wonder how long it would have taken you to learn to walk, get your first tooth, and talk. By now you would be 4. Would you know your ABCs? Could you count to 10? How many finger paintings and ornaments would I already have saved of yours? Would I brag about everything you touched or would nothing ever be good enough? Did you know I would not even look at the ultrasound when the doctor wanted to show me? I could not even muster up the gall to take a moment to acknowledge a tiny life blossoming inside me. Did you know you would have been born to a coward? How can a coward raise another human being? 5 years ago, almost to the date, I made a decision I can never take back, and I owe you an apology. I apologize to you for never giving you a chance; I am sorry for robbing you of your voice; I apologize to my parents for taking away their grandchild, and I apologize to your father who doesn’t even know you existed. I made a decision I can never take back. To this day I wonder if I made the right decision. You deserved an opportunity to inspire, encourage, and thrive. I know, deep down, you would have concurred with it all. I took that all away from you in a hasty decision. I keep a calm exterior to fool the public, but I hurt and live for you every day. I made that decision; I ended your life, and sometimes I still wonder.

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JENNY KALVIK

21. AM I A MOTHER?

I always feel so conflicted. There are obvious reasons why I am a mother but there are also so many reasons why I am not. I have never met anyone else in my situation. It is extremely rare. I have felt an abundance of joy watching my children grow, similar to most other mothers. I have also felt the devastation from the multiple losses, the absence of unconditional love, and a feeling of failure. I call my femininity into question. My body couldn’t produce as a woman should. My children adopted me when they were 10 and 13. Prior to their arrival into my life I had begged and pleaded to my uncle and grandmother (who have since passed) to send me seeds to nurture and love. Upon arrival, both children had already sprouted into buds filled with potential and beauty. They had weathered damaging storms but still stood strong in search of consistent sources of positive energy, water, and nutrients. They were built to survive and flourish. Turns out, despite how others might interpret the situation, I needed them more than they needed me. We are a balanced work of imperfect art, thriving when others would wilt. Able to withstand harsh climates, we stand together like a scenic view that is abundant with magnificent beauty. We have walked the road less traveled, the one winding with mystery and excitement. With every curve we become more confident, anticipating what lay ahead. Those are my babies. My heart pounds for them, my eyes swell for them, my body pushes forward for them. I never knew what my mind and body would be capable of. Motherhood is a miraculous thing. My instinct is always to protect, guide, celebrate, and cherish them as if we shared the same blood. As if there was never a time we were not a connected as a family. There is a perception among many that there is no other mother besides me. Our bond seems effortless, natural, and undeniable. Then it happens. Something to remind me. I am not their mother. They have a biological mother. They look to her for something I cannot provide. Regardless of the role she plays, she gets the unconditional love, to celebrate Mother’s Day, the title, the memories, the acknowledgement. It is a harsh reminder of what I missed and what I longed for. My plush forest turns into a dry, scarce and barren desert momentarily. It’s then that my seedlings grow a little more, distracting and reviving me. My attention returns to cultivating, promoting and producing when others could not. I wish this cycle could be broken but it is inevitable in life.

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_021

DRAYTON COUSINS

22. A WHITE TEACHER’S EXPERIENCE WITH POLITICS OF “COLORBLINDNESS”

It’s the last all-staff, full-day professional development of the year. There are less than 2 weeks left of school left. I loll at my table, more focused on the bagel in front of me than the discussion around me. My mind fading, thinking more about my students final assessments and wrapping up the end of the year. Then, a white male colleague refers to students’ race and gender as “all that junk” and the room goes quiet, my mind snaps back to the discussion at hand. The 2017–2018 school year was my second as an English teacher and my first at a large and diverse suburban Minnesota high school. I have been impressed in the leadership of the school’s administration and their focus on text-based, growth-centered, equity-centered professional development. The overarching theme and text that my school’s leadership team has been centering our whole staff professional development around is Hammond and Jackson’s (2015) text, Culturally Responsive Teaching and the Brain. We have been doing a variety of different work with reading, responding to, and implementing strategies and ideologies from Hammond and Jackson’s text. However, the English team has studied the data from the last five years of the school’s implementing “culturally responsive teaching strategies” and has found no change in student outcomes. This particular PD day the administration lead the staff in a reframing of our culturally responsive work. Instead of focusing on strategies, they told us, we as a staff need to shift our mindsets around what “culturally responsive teaching” means and looks like. What followed was an interesting, and at times concerning, staff conversation. While the student demographics at the school are diverse (about 40% are free/reduced lunch and students of color), the staff is not. There are 4 licensed staff of color. Many of my colleagues are resistant to change or to adapting their teaching practices and mindsets. So, it should not have come as a surprise, when an older White male math teacher referred to students’ race and gender as “all that junk” when talking about how he approached each student as an individual. In his text Teacher Reflection and Race in Cultural Contexts: History, Meanings, and Methods in Teaching, Milner (2003) posited that many “White teachers have adopted colorblind ideologies…and this thinking could be disadvantageous for learning among students of color” (p. 174). I believe that some older White teachers have approached 21st century social politics in the classroom with a “I-treat-everyone-the-same” type mentality. This is dangerous because Milner notes that “to dismiss a person’s race is to misunderstand who that person is in the world as society often mistreats and misunderstands individuals based on their racial heritage” (p. 175).

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_022

D. COUSINS

I believe that every single one of my colleagues’ approaches students and their work with good intentions where their students are concerned, of that I am certain (or at least it is a belief I must hold or I would go mad with paranoia). I also believe that, like Milner (2003) claims, most teachers are not sure how to approach or think about these issues of race. “How do I attend these issues? Am I racist if I think about race in my courses? Shouldn’t I treat all students equally?” (p. 176). So when my colleague referred to “race and gender and all that junk,” he sees himself treating all his students equally. However, I think it is high time that my colleague does some personal and introspective race reflection “and adapt [his] own work to accommodate these issues among diverse learners.” I believe that my school’s staff is an ideal professional community to practice Milner’s ideas of race reflective journaling and critically engaged racial dialogue. In fact, I have shared his article with a couple of trusted colleagues in hopes of starting this type of engagement. The questions that Milner (2003) poses as options for reflective race journaling are challenging and important. The first question, “How will my race influence my work as a teacher with students of color?” is one that I think about constantly, in one way or another. I identify as a cisgender White male, and make a point of telling my students so early in the year. I set the norm for naming race and gender pronouns, though I don’t ask my students to do the same unless they would like to. I also speak briefly of my cultural heritage, how my father is a mix of German and English, and how my mother is Lebanese and English. I have found, historically, that many students of color gravitate to my Lebanese heritage and have on occasion dismissed my “Whiteness” because of it. Not only does my race undoubtedly affect how all students interact with me (both White and students of color), but the intersectionality of my gender and power as their classroom teacher plays an influence as well. The confluence of my identity markers (perhaps mitigated slightly my relative youth) can make for a potentially tense classroom dynamic. Though I do not see myself as being intimidating, I understand the historical legacy that is associated with certain aspects of my identity and my role as a teacher. Students will come into my classroom often expecting a certain behavior or mode of operating from me, some of which I most likely inevitably deliver in one way or another. I am aware that students of color my perceive me and approach me differently than their white peers and I am also aware that I have my own implicit biases towards students of color. I realize that both within and outside the classroom my voice and presence is rarely ever questioned. I do not have to jostle for space in meetings or in areas of higher ed. My race allows my access that others often do not enjoy. When working with students, I work to hold these ideas and privileges in mind. The second of Milner’s (2003) questions that I am drawn to is “How do I situate and negotiate the students’ knowledge, experiences, expertise, and race with my own?’ In my classes, I prioritize community building and see it as integral for my content of English and to build a safe learning environment for students. Within that intellectual work, I create space for students to be in conversation with themselves and with me through circle practice and other activities. Through these activities, 84

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I have the opportunity to get to students knowledge, experiences, expertise, and identity (race included) in a way that is not explicitly bound to content. Additionally, I prioritize student-driven project based assessments in my class. I design assignments for students to navigate and interpret through their own knowledge and experience. The best assignments merge content (say a unit on identity), form (say an argument essay) and their own voice and passions. Through assignments and lessons designed to create space for dialogue and conversation between myself and students, I am able begin to situate and negotiate students experiences with my own. Just like how I ask my students—I also reflect on my own racial identity development continuously. Travel was an integral part of my racial reflection and forming of a sense of self. I too spent have spent time in South Africa as well as a significant amount of time across Central and South America. My parents prioritized traveling and widening mine and my brother’s perspectives. While in South Africa we visited townships, the Apartheid Museum, and had the opportunity to connect with South Africans through my brother who had studied abroad there. Similarly, I have moved past the lingering feelings of guilt and shame that arose within me when I first started thinking deeply and critically about my own White/ male/cis privilege and other’s oppression and marginalization. I no longer dwell on feelings of “White guilt.” By focusing on guilt and shame, White people often miss the mark that this is not all about them. But not recognizing one’s own race, history, positionality, and privilege (or lack thereof) leads to an unexamined and ignorant life in danger of perpetuating and continuing injustices in our society. Like everyone, I am an amalgamation of my experiences, encounters, books I’ve read, friends and family, identities both chosen and formed. Like everyone, I am racialized in our unique and—dare I say—insidious American racial system. And, like everyone, my racialized identity is one facet of myself. Right now, I am more a teacher than anything else (that aspect of my identity seems to dominate most of my waking actions). But my male gender identity has also been at the forefront of my mind. I think about, and recognize, my male-ness in relation to my female partner, in relation to my co-workers of all genders, and within my circle of friends. Recently, I have been more sensitive to how and when I speak in groups setting, giving space for other voices, and resisting the urge to finish others’ ideas and thoughts. I see how men have traditionally expected and demanded space, and I work in my personal and professional life to cede some of that space back. Maybe that’s the first step, or a next step, for my White cis male coworkers. Acknowledging you position and stepping back. Listening more. Ceding space. At the very least that is my commitment. REFERENCES Hammond, Z., & Jackson, Y. (2015). Culturally responsive teaching and the brain: Promoting authentic engagement and rigor among culturally and linguistically diverse students. Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin. Milner, H. R. (2003). Teacher reflection and race in cultural contexts: History, meanings, and methods in teaching. Theory into Practice, 42(3), 173–180.

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JAMES A. MALONE

23. BOY TO MAN

In September 2002 I decided to join the military. While in the military I was surrounded by every nationality and I never met someone who was Vietnamese, Korean, or from Senegal until I joined the military. In my time in the navy I dealt with racism and white privilege. As an E-3 recruit coming in the navy at the age of 18 turning 19 it was very challenging for me. E-3 was a seaman. As a seaman you basically did whatever job they need you at until you get a rate/job. It was hard having to work different jobs under different leadership. Working with different people in different job areas taught me how to adapt in any situation. I called home every day because I was homesick. I have never been outside my hometown of Hopkins Park, IL a small town right outside of Kankakee, IL. My first duty station was Sasebo, Japan. Sasebo was a naval station base for military personnel and their families. I was excited and shocked at the same time. Japan had all different types of cultural people who were polite and welcoming. The food was delicious and the party life was exciting. It was lots of rules for military far as time restrictions and off limit clubs. This was a big policy for our ship at the time and if you broke the rules it was consequences. My first time riding a plane and my first time leaving my hometown. My hometown was 90% Black population. My high school which was located in St. Anne, IL was 60% black, 30% white and I never dealt with white privilege or racism while attending. Having no father figure, and my oldest brother who was my father figure/role model was proud of the man I was becoming. He taught me everything. He always told me to treat people with the amount of respect as you want no matter the color or position that there in. When I got to my duty station he was the first one I called. I used to tell him all the time I’m not comfortable here, I’m ready to come home. He said if you make it through the storm there will be better days. I took that and ran with it, the next day I started to open up to people on the ship. He passed in 2008, a few months after I got out of the military. I met a lot of people in different races. I knew it will be different personnel that I would have to deal with while in the navy. It was a different scene from me growing up in Illinois moving to Japan. It was not a problem for me being that I’m a people’s person. I adapt very well and never judged a person on their background, or color of their skin. Well racism is very still alive. When you are stationed on a ship or any military duty you have to abide by their rules. We had a rule where if we were in a threat country, we had a strict curfew. I missed curfew one day and had to face

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_023

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the consequences. I was restricted to the ship for 30 days and docked time in a half for one month. I accepted my mistake and moved on. The problem is, a white male had the same related incident and was not restricted and only got a warning. He actually missed ships movement and was left in the country we were visiting, his reasoning was he overslept. He was back to his regular life without restrictions and without docking his pay. Being that his punishment was less than mine for a worse punishment was not right. Another scenario while in the military where I thought was white privileged, is having white superiors and you are black and more qualified and you still have to fall in line under a person who same paygrade as you but not the same race as you. I was more qualified and been there a little longer than him, and I was still put in a position to follow his orders. Rank and time in the military automatically gives you rank over a person. I found this fishy, because they hanged together after work, communicated often, and they both were white. Now as I look back and looking at the world as a society, I believe it was white privilege. I felt I was treated unequally and that was one of my main reasons for getting out of the military with an honorable discharge.

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ALLYSON WEBB

24. THE EFFECTS OF MASS MEDIA AND COMMUNICATION METHODS ON THE STIGMATIZATION OF INDIVIDUALS WITH DEVELOPMENTAL AND PHYSICAL DISABILITIES

INTRODUCTION

We often choose to study what we study because it resonates with us on a personal level. Personal experience plays an even more prominent and powerful role in choosing to study communication and disability, as those who study it often have personal experience as either individuals with disabilities or as a witness to the societal treatment of loved ones with disabilities (Braithwaite & Thompson, 2000, p. 1). This is certainly true in my case. In this chapter I reflect upon my experience growing up with a sister with a disability and analyze the societal stigmatization, stereotyping, and discrimination of individuals with developmental and physical disabilities (hereafter DPD) that I witnessed as she and I grew up together. DISCRIMINATION, STIGMA, AND OTHERING OF DISABLED INDIVIDUALS

My younger sister had cerebral palsy to the left side of her body and a significant developmental and physical disability. Where others saw a girl with a weak hand and a limp, a stutter, and a hindered ability to comprehend meaning and communicate thoughts, I saw a girl who was spunky, smart, full of humor, and unapologetically honest in her sharing of emotions, opinions, and thoughts. The issue, I noticed at an early age, was that many people were unaware that this little girl had such a vibrant personality and, although slower and simpler, the capability to communicate her needs. Because of her outward appearance, her cognitive delay, and her different communication methods, people often avoided communicating with her entirely. As we grew up, I began to observe that others’ avoidance of my sister stemmed from their obvious discomfort around and sometimes, even fear of my sister. I saw it on the faces of young children, teenagers and adults alike. There was no denying the societal gap that existed between my sister and non-disabled people who had what seemed to be little to no experience with disability. This gap was often times startling and, truthfully, difficult to experience. Not only did I notice it, but what was more poignant was that my sister had her own way of telling me that she noticed it, too.

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_024

A. WEBB

I can recall many instances when my sister, upon seeing me spending time with friends, would ask, “Me? To hang out with your friends?” I would respond with, “Do you want to hang out with me and my friends?” Each time, she would respond with an enthusiastic “yes!” As it turns out, everyone—disabled and non-disabled people alike—has one thing in common: the innate need to feel accepted and included. In Wilkenfeld’s (2014) eye-opening study of stigmatization and disability, she comes to the conclusion that individuals with disabilities are aware of their stigmatization and exclusion from society and societal norms and that they “seem to be aware that through breaking down barriers and increasing familiarity with others in society, certain misperceptions and stigma may be battled” (p. 707). Perhaps if more attention were paid to the similarities between disabled and non-disabled people, rather than the dissimilarities, breaking the barrier between the two groups would be, at the very least, marginally simpler. To add, if the faulty communication between the disabled and non-disabled is improved, and successful co-communication between the two is achieved, it will allow for this increase in familiarity and the breaking down of these walls that disabled individuals crave, thus allowing for a decrease in stereotyping, “othering,” and stigmatization of the individuals with DPD. As I recount my personal experiences with the stigmatization of individuals with DPD I begin to make out a pattern: where there is stigmatization, there is almost always a communication gap between the disabled and non-disabled, which often results in fear, discomfort, anxiety, ignorance, and ultimately avoidance. A series of experiments conducted by Kleck, Ono, and Hastorf (1966) revealed that when nondisabled individuals interacted with disabled individuals, the non-disabled participants showed less variability in their behavior, expressed opinions that differed from their actual beliefs, and ended the interaction sooner than if the communicative partner were not disabled (p. 433). The findings concluded that discomfort and uncertainty during face-to-face communication can lead to stereotyping and controlled behavior (Kleck, Ono, & Hastorf, 1966, p. 433). Although this is an older study, the findings unfortunately still hold true today. Last year when I was volunteering in my sister’s former classroom, I was having lunch with the special needs students and their Peer-to-Peer partners (general education students who, as credit for an elective course, spend time during the school day socializing with special education students). One of the special education students was very verbally limited, often relying on facial expressions and varying degrees of verbal sounds to communicate. Her general education partner, rigidly and almost too politely, said hello and asked her how her day was—when the response she received was a high pitched squeal, a head nod, and a squinted smile, confusion instantly swept across her face. She became even more rigid, regressed into her cell phone, and left the table at the first sound of a bell. This interaction (and the many more that were to follow) could have had a much better and less segregated outcome if the general education student had taken the time to learn the special education student’s unique communication needs and then developed her own effective cocommunication methods. As Kleck, Ono, and Hastorf concluded decades ago, the 90

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distancing of individuals with DPD and uncomfortable, ineffective communication work in conjunction to form the societal barrier that separates “us” from “them.” Furthermore, the uncertainty and anxiety that surfaces during conversational encounters with disabled individuals will vanish only if communication barriers are eradicated and the disabled are seen as people, rather than as their disability. This “us versus them” mentality is as outspoken and it is unspoken. Werner, Corrigan, Ditchman, and Sokol (2012) attest that public stigma of the intellectually disabled can take a multitude of forms, including teasing, staring, avoidance, limited employment and choice making opportunities, lack of quality services and discriminatory treatment in hospitals, a lack of community based services, and the perception that they are aggressive (p. 750). The stares my sister received from young children and their mothers in grocery stores, followed by the tentativeness with which they would walk past her down the aisle, have been seared in my memory as the quietest yet most glaring forms of stigmatization. It was as if they saw her as a wild animal, as something to be cautious around for fear of attack. A young adult with DPD whom I worked with as a volunteer was rejected from a janitorial job at a local café because of his disability, even though he had experience performing the same tasks at a local market. Both of these situations are equally unsettling and stigmatizing. Similarly unsettling is Werner, Corrigan, Ditchman, and Sokol’s assessment that some individuals with intellectual disabilities are aware of their stigmatization based on their interactions with non-disabled people; this insinuates that the manner in which the non-disabled treat, interact and communicate with the disabled is significantly different and even discriminatory. UNDERSTANDING COMMUNICATION, CO-CONSTRUCTED MEANING

Just as ineffective communication leads to stigmatization, stigmatization leads to ineffective communication. Philips and Hardy (2002) assert that, “our talk, and what we are, are one in the same” (p. 2). That being said, if a disabled individual’s communication is misunderstood, then the individual is therefore misunderstood, and this misconception triggers stereotyping and stigmatization. Conversely, if a disabled individual is ostracized, then the individual is entirely robbed of the opportunity to be understood. Because of her developmental and cognitive delay, my sister had difficulty verbally communicating complex emotions such as frustration, and instead expressed these feelings by biting her fist. It was not unusual for people to misunderstand this signal of frustration as a sign of aggression, leading to the stereotype that individuals with DPD are violent and aggressive. If these nondisabled individuals had possessed a better understanding of the unique and varying communication methods of individuals with DPD, they would have understood that this signal was anything but an indicator of violent behavior. Along with recognizing and understanding the communication methods used by individuals with DPD, having the ability to assist the individual in constructing meaning when need be is of equal importance. Effective co-constructed 91

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communication involves a combination of the non-disabled individual allowing the person with DPD to take his or her time in formulating and expressing a thought or need, and then “constantly summarizing, checking in, and making sure the meaning is understood and completely fleshed out” (Wilkenfeld, 2014, p. 706). Due to her stutter and use of single words and simple sentences, my family and I always made sure to let her finish the phrase—no matter how long it took—and then repeat the phrase to ensure we understood her correctly. The key here was that we always allowed her to form and communicate her own thoughts and needs on her own before assisting her in clarifying those thoughts and needs. Patience, attentiveness and granting the disabled the independence to form their own thoughts, make their own choices, and express their own needs is crucial in facilitating effective communication with individuals with DPD and encouraging equality. The overarching point in addressing the importance of understanding communication and co-communication is that we as a society need to focus on disabled individuals’ capabilities rather than their inabilities. Instead of assuming their level of competence, non-disabled people must be attentive to disabled persons’ alternative communication methods as well as willing to allow the disabled to demonstrate what they can do and what they think. If communication methods and effective participation in communication is understood, the barrier between the disabled and non-disabled stands a better chance of being broken down, and stereotyping and stigmatization will recede as acceptance and inclusion take reign. MEDIA PORTRAYALS OF DISABLED INDIVIDUALS

Many people experience developmental and/or physical disability as a major part of their life, as I did, lending them a perspective and understanding that will inevitably differ from the many others who have very little experience with disability, if any at all. Holton (2013) infers that in order to comprehend the mystery that is “disabled,” these people “draw on representations presented to them in multiple forms, including popular culture” (p. 47). The media portrayals of individuals with DPD, unfortunately, tend to be negative, thus contributing to their stigmatization. Simply inserting a character with a disability into a film or television show and thinking that will increase the social acceptance of individuals with DPD is not enough. It is the way in which the media depicts disability that is of the utmost importance in educating society on disability and in helping to alter society’s perception of disabled individuals. For instance, I have witnessed people’s surprised reactions to my sister’s ability to walk despite her cerebral palsy, noting they had only ever really seen someone with cerebral palsy portrayed in a movie and confined to a wheelchair. It is for this exact reason that the film industry needs to consider the variability with which it portrays disability. In an examination of 25 Academy Award winning films that depicted people with disabilities, Safran (1998) found that the portrayal of different types of disabilities was unevenly distributed. The results of the study indicated that among the distribution of 92

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characters with differing disabilities, “53.8% were identified as psychiatric, 19.2% physical, 15.4% sensory, 7.7% mental retardation, and 4% autism” (p. 230). The lack of inclusion of varying types of disabilities in major motion pictures limits society’s awareness of disability and creates the false impression that all disabilities must be the same. Because my sister did not have any one specific disability, such as Down syndrome or autism, people would often ask, “Well, what does she have then?” It was as if they were caught unawares that she didn’t have something that could be definitively labeled; the issue was that their knowledge of disability was too limited. With the media limiting the exposure of non-disabled individuals to primarily certain types of disabilities, the risk is that society will remain discriminatory and misunderstanding of disabilities that they are uninformed about. To that end, Braithwaite and Thompson (2000) find that the film industry “has perpetuated or initiated a number of exceptionally durable stereotypes that have inspired pity, awe, humor, fear, or some combination thereof and that reflect a theme of isolation” (p. 292). These stereotypes are typically either an exaggeration or a complete fallacy of individuals with DPD, and are void of any real education about the disabled community. Furthermore, they instigate society’s correlation of disability to humor and oddity. Far too often have I heard the term “retarded” used in reference to a person exhibiting comedic or unusual behavior, the latter always in a stigmatizing tone. Part of my job as the sister of an individual with DPD is to make others aware of the discrimination they are encouraging with certain actions, such as the use of the “R” word. I wonder: if these media-enforced stereotypes were not to exist, would the tendency to equate disability with being an anomaly subside? MOVING FORWARD

Over the years, the people in my community have expressed their gratitude for my disabled sister’s presence in their lives, whether it was that she was a source of immense laughter, a source of genuine love, or a source of learning. My community serves as evidence that stigmatization is not an innate human reaction, but one that is learned, and perhaps even chosen. Thus, if a behavior can be learned, it can also be un-learned. To continue to treat disabled individuals as if they are “less than” human and incapable of leading normal lives is a loss for both the disabled and the non-disabled, and thus an issue that demands the attention of researchers. The purpose of this chapter is to shed valuable light on several factors contributing to the stigmatization of disabled individuals, specifically communication methods and media portrayals. Living in a society that is increasingly sensitized to social issues, now is the time to address the stigmatization of individuals with DPD and work toward a future with more awareness, inclusion, and empowerment of these individuals. If these issues are further studied, methods are applied to improve communication between all of society’s members, and the media works to empower the disabled and portray a more accurate and diverse representation of disability, both disabled and non-disabled members of society will experience nothing but positive repercussions. 93

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REFERENCES Braithwaite, D., & Thompson, T. L. (2000). Handbook of communication and people with disabilities: Research and application. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Holton, A. E. (2013). What’s wrong with Max? Parenthood and the portrayal of autism spectrum disorders. Journal of Communication Inquiry, 37(1), 45–63. doi:10.1177/0196859912472507 Kleck, R., Ono, H., & Hastorf, A. H. (1966). The effects of physical deviance upon face-to-face interaction. Human Relations, 19(4), 425–436. https://doi.org/10.1177/001872676601900406 Safran, S. P. (1998). Disability portrayal in film: Reflecting the past, directing the future. Exceptional Children, 64(2), 227–238. Werner, S., Corrigan, P., Ditchman, N., & Sokol, K. (2012). Stigma and intellectual disability: A review of related measures and future directions. Research in Developmental Disabilities, 33(2), 748–765. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ridd.2011.10.009 Wilkenfeld, B. F. (2014). “Being heard”: Qualitative research conundrums with individuals with developmental disabilities. Research on Social Work Practice, 25(6), 702–710. doi:10.1177/1049731514547768

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DEJANAY BOOTH

25. WORLD OF “FAKE NEWS” Effects of a Two-Word Phrase

My eyes glued to the computer screen as I read an angry Facebook message from a gentleman. His message, sent to the Facebook page of the local newspaper I worked for, featured animosity toward the newsroom for not publishing a story he pitched to us. We had reasons for not writing the article and tried to express those reasons to the man, but our explanation was non-existent to him. He was angry at our reason and lack of responding to his story pitch in a quicker fashion (we spent about day discussing the story pitch as a team before responding to his message). His reaction was to make a Facebook post on his page, criticizing the newspaper and our content selection, alleging that we were refusing to listen to his pitch. That post was met with additional angry people, stabbing at the newsroom and accusing us of only reporting “fake news.” That two-word phrase is just as easy for people to say as it is to breathe air. It seems to be a routine for people to wake up every day and have that phrase already on their lips. We now live in a world labeled as the “era of fake news” (Albright, 2017). Bennett and Livingston (2018) linked the popularity of the phrase to the 2016 presidential election, noting that it was often used by President Donald Trump. A former coworker once told me about a time when she covered one of Trump’s rallies and he pointed to the section where reporters stood (she was in the section) and said, “Look at those reporters over there,” calling them the “enemy of the people.” Cheers erupted, she said, after that statement and she recalled feeling the tension in the building as Trump continued his speech. When she returned to the newsroom, she appeared agitated and her cheeks turned a light shade of pink as she recounted the event coverage. “Fake news” has affected the relationship between the public and news media. Albright (2017) noted, “The use of the ‘fake news’ label to denote organizational untrustworthiness is a related concern, as it portrays media watchdogs as entities that operate to deliberately misinform” (p. 87). As a reporter, I watched people who I came in contact with limit what they said to me (even on days when I’m not working) because they feared I would record them and potentially write fake news, misrepresenting their personal opinion about an issue. The level of trust and credibility is falling to a point which newsrooms are fighting to keep the remaining subscribers, in hopes of gaining new ones, while developing its brand. Today’s

© KONINKLIJKE BRILL NV, LEIDEN, 2019 | DOI: 10.1163/9789004415720_025

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“fake news” phenomenon has led journalists to question whether the freedom of the press is in danger in the United States. Finneman and Thomas (2018) noted that the Longview News-Journal called fake news “a danger to our republic” and “professional journalists strive to report the news fairly—and take responsibility for the accuracy of their work” (p. 350). But how did we get to a point in history which “fake news” was normal to say? What specific effect did it have on the relationship between the media and public? What is the future of journalists? These were primary questions that I had as I researched literature to discuss fake news. Journalism has taught me that my stories have the potential to make a difference, and there will be people in the world who may see fit to discredit it. However, it was our job as the messengers and storytellers to tell the truth and maintain a connection with the public because they were the voices of our stories. Keeping their trust was crucial, although that can change from a single story and accusation. LITERATURE REVIEW

Fake News and News Credibility There is a difference between fake news and “fake news.” One is the concept of verifiable false information that can mislead readers (Allcott & Gentzkow, 2017) and the other is a phrase often used to attack the news media when reports are deemed too critical or negative (Finneman & Thomas, 2018). Bennett and Livingston (2018), who studied the concept of disinformation, suggested that the phrase, “fake news,” should be used with caution when it comes to describing “disinformation,” which they defined as “intentional falsehoods spread as news stories or simulated documentary formats to advance political goals” (p. 124). As a reporter, my experience with the phrase “fake news” and the public combined was whenever a reader did not like what we published or felt that the newsroom was one-sided and only cared about one topic. Brummette, DiStaso, Vafeiadis, and Messner (2018) argued, “the definition of the term ‘fake news’ continued to evolve from being described by journalists as falsified news stories in the election campaign, to ‘information reported in a news outlet that is bogus,’ to a term that ‘has now been co-opted by politicians and commentators to mean anything they disagree with’” (Brummette et al., 2018, p. 499; as cited in Carson, 2017, para. 21; Fallon, 2017, para. 5). Vargo, Guo, and Amazeen (2018) suggest that “When it comes to the interaction between partisan media and fake news, anecdotal evidence suggests that in an extremely polarized political environment, partisan media tend to enable the propagation of fake news” (p. 2032). Bennett and Livingston (2018) noted that Trump has disregarded the media as “fake news” during and after his 2016 presidential campaign. In addition, he created the Fake News Award since the start of his presidency. Bennett and Livingston (2018) added, “Such antics shocked many, 96

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but his supporters seemed to celebrate the disregard for facts, decorum and basic decency as ‘Trump-telling-it-like-it-is.’ The distracting attacks on the mainstream press, paired with supportive but spurious storylines in the alt-right media liberated large numbers of people from the constraints of evidence and reason and fueled public discourses driven by anger, hate, prejudice and lies” (p. 125). It was not the first time a politician attacked the news media. Spiro Agnew, vice president during former President Richard Nixon’s tenure, accused the media of spreading negativism after reports documented his tax evasion conviction (Bennett & Livingston, 2018). Lee (2018) argued that the phrase “fake news” has also affected the credibility of news organizations. According to a poll conducted by Monmouth University Polling Institute (2018), approximately 77 percent of people believed that broadcast news and newspapers reported fake news in 2018, leaving about a quarter of people confident in the reported news. The survey was conducted in March 2018 with 803 participants. Credibility is a measurement of trust the audience in their sources based on honesty and accuracy of the content (Littau & Stewart, 2015). One newspaper reader told me that the only reason he purchased the local newspaper was to see if we published errors and “fake news.” I was shocked because I didn’t think that happened, but as I met more people, I learned that many in that small town, specifically, were more interested in reading the stories for accuracy and grammar than actually reading the content. Lee (2018) noted, “The issue of credibility and trust in news media is especially relevant and timely when politicians accuse the media of reporting ‘fake news’ and threaten to shut down a news organization” (Lee, 2018, p. 23; as cited in Nakamura, 2017). Tandoc Jr., Lim, and Ling (2017) conducted an analysis on 34 academic articles and identified several types of fake news—news satire, news parody, fabrication, manipulation, advertising and propaganda. Littau and Stewart (2015) studied the relationship between satire news and television news, using The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, arguing that news media often are targets in satire news, and previous research suggests that The Daily Show viewing correlates with lower levels of trust in the news media” (Littau & Stewart, 2015, p. 124; as cited in Baumgartner & Morris, 2006). When it comes to fake news and social networking sites, Facebook, for example, has become a major source in collecting news (Allcott & Gentzkow, 2017). Brummette et al. (2018) utilized a content analysis to conclude that politics play a role in discussing “fake news” among Twitter users. It was also concluded that Twitter users who frequently posted about fake news did not indicate their political bio, but identified more as Republican than Democrat, with a majority being men (Brummette et al., 2018, p. 508). Their study (Brummette et al., 2018) argued that many Twitter users who used the phrase demonstrated negative valence in their tweets, displaying a high level of homophily. Publishing news content online was our top priority at the local paper because we wanted to stay current with today’s technology and how people gathered their news. In addition, social media has also presented fake news websites. Because there is a relationship, the audience have 97

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difficulty telling the difference between real news and fake news, often associating fake news websites as fact-based. Silverman (2016) noted that in the last few months of the 2016 U.S. presidential election, fake election news stories generated more viewership and engagement than stories from New York Times, The Washington Post, Huffington Post, NBC News and other major news organizations. “Of the 20 top-performing false election stories identified in the analysis, all but three were overtly pro-Donald Trump or anti-Hillary Clinton” (para. 8). Vargo, Guo, and Amazeen (2018) noted that fake news websites are on a rise and have an “entwined relationship” with fact-based and partisan online news (p. 2028). There is this attitude that “anyone can set up a website propagating conspiracy theories or distribute a fictional story on social media purporting to be real news” (Guo & Vargo, 2018). HOSTILE MEDIA EFFECT

For the last 30 years, the hostile media effect theory has evolved from the time it was studied by Vallone, Ross and Lepper (1985). Researchers have defined the theory as an individual’s belief that the media and its message is bias to their beliefs (Perloff, 2015). When I worked for the local newspaper, I wrote an article about a political figure who had a bench warrant issued for him after he did not appear in court the previous day. After a heated discussion in the newsroom, we agreed that the story needed to be written because the individual held a seat in local politics. Within hours of publishing the story, the local politician and his supporters began to discredit me via social media. One reader even posted a comment, tagging my name in the post, for people to see who I was. Tears streamed down my face as I read the comments about me, attacking my character and painting a picture of a person and reporter they believed I was. A day after the story was published, I received a voicemail from a woman who said, “You need to get a life, lady. You suck.” As a journalist, I was always reminded that some members of the public will disagree with what I write and may even challenge it, but that was the first time I had experienced such animosity. Members of the newsroom reassured me that what I wrote was factual and supported by documentation, which was the important piece of the article. Perloff (2015) argued that hostile media effect is stronger when people are highly involved in a social group or involved in their belief of an issue, and the consequence leads to those people persuading their opinion on others. “People project their opinions onto others, estimating that public opinion matches their own, but they also can presume that aggregate opinions are hostile to their own views” (p. 712). Hartmann and Tanis (2013) conducted two studies on intergroup identification and concluded that people who showed a stronger intergroup identity will exhibit hostile media effect, partially due to their level of investment in the group. Intergroup identification is defined as “the perception of oneness or belonginess to some human aggregate” (Hartmann & Tanis, 2013, p. 537; Ashforth & Mael, 1989, p. 21). 98

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When it comes to fake news, it often becomes a political debate. Lin, Haridakis and Hanson (2016) noted that political groups (Republican vs. Democrats and conservatives vs. liberals) are largely associated with hostile media effect theory. It’s the concept that political candidates may view the media bias to their party and favoring the other. Utilizing a questionnaire for their study. Lin et al. (2016) concluded that those who perceive the news media to have a negative bias on their intergroup, have a positive bias on their own group, in the context of politics. AGENDA SETTING THEORY

McCombs and Shaw (1972) describe agenda-setting theory as the media influencing the public agenda, and the media does not tell the public how to think but what to think about. Since then, the theory has expanded to intermedia agenda setting and attribute agenda setting, or second-level agenda-setting. Intermedia agenda setting suggests that a media agenda may influence another media agenda (Guo & Vargo, 2018), whereas attribute agenda-setting refers to certain characteristics about people or an issue become salient in the media agenda (Littau & Stewart, 2016). The local newsroom I worked for as a reporter followed one of the major news organizations for news because it was under the same company. At times, we pulled stories that were published by the larger outlet because we trusted their accuracy, and it limited our exposure to fake news websites. If there was a website we visited, we had to learn the history of the organization before referencing it in our articles. But that didn’t stop other regional and national fact-based news media from following questionable sites. In a data analysis study and network agenda-setting model, Vargo, Guo, and Amazeen (2018) suggested that while fake news websites did not set the overall media agenda between 2014 and 2016, it did transfer salience on certain topics. With its relationship with partisan news, fake news websites did contribute to the media agenda of eight different topics between 2014 and 2016; however, partisan news predicted the agenda for fake news on 13 different topics in the same time frame—issues that Vargo et al. (2018) noted were heated topics in the 2016 U.S. presidential election. Littau and Stewart (2015) found that satire news, which is more for entertainment, not only affected credibility of television news, but negative attributes from satire news appeared more salient to television news, affecting the public’s perception of journalism credibility. However, researchers (Littau & Stewart, 2015) argued that the shows educated people about the actual role of journalists in regards to public disclosure. Further examining the intermedia agenda-setting between fake news websites and fact-based media, Guo and Vargo (2018) noted, “When sensationalism dominates the media landscape, it would be logical to assume that fake news may attract the attention of some fact-based media, either driven by the pressure not to miss a story, or to generate revenues” (p. 5).

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JOURNALISM FABRICATION

This literature review has addressed fake news spreading among fake websites. But fake news can be published by journalists. This review does not dispute journalists’ contribution to false information. In fact, it acknowledges it. Fake news can be traced far as the late 1800s during the era of yellow journalism, allegedly even farther back in history (Finneman & Thomas, 2018). During the yellow journalism era, sensationalism stories without well-researched news were published to gather an audience. According to Lasorsa and Dai (2007), there are seven types of journalism fabrications—full fabrication, which is total fabrication of a news event; fact fabrication: fabrication of particular elements of a story; dateline fabrication: reporter was not present at the scene they identified as being present; source fabrication: invention of a source; quote fabrication: falsifying a quote; plagiarism: duplication of another author’s work; use of undisclosed bylines: work by others is not accurately attributed (p. 165). When I went to journalism school for my undergraduate, professors often stressed the importance of telling the truth, no matter the responses from the public. One example we were often shown of what not to do, was the article, “Jimmy’s World.” Published in The Washington Post in 1980, former reporter Janet Cooke wrote an article about an 8-year-old boy named “Jimmy” with a drug problem. At the beginning of the article, Cooke (1980) wrote, “Jimmy is 8 years old and a thirdgeneration heroin addict, a precocious little boy with sandy hair, velvety brown eyes and needle marks freckling the baby-smooth skin of his thin brown arms” (para. 1). The story gripped the community and law enforcement, who set out to find the boy and carry him to safety (Green, 1981). The article landed Cooke a Pulitzer Prize. However, the authenticity of the information was eventually questioned, and Cooke admitted to editors at The Washington Post that the story was fabricated. There was not an 8-year-old heroin addict named Jimmy, and Cooke returned the Pulitzer Prize (Green, 1981). At the top of the title of the article today, The Washington Post now has a disclaimer, alerting readers that the article has been flagged for fabrication. Green (1981), who wrote an article examining “Jimmy’s World,” noted the outcome of the article sheds light on responsibilities in the newsroom between editors and reporters. More recently, in 2016, The Guardian published an article about a reporter with online news publication, The Intercept, who was fired after it was revealed that he fabricated quotes and sources in several of his stories (Wong, 2016). Finneman and Thomas (2018) state, “truth-telling is considered sacrosanct to journalism, and journalists are said to possess ‘a greater responsibility to tell the truth than most professions’” (Finneman & Thomas, 2018, p. 352; as cited in Patterson & Wilkins, 2001). I believe that story fabrications will continue in the future, which does not support journalists’ objective of keeping the public’s trust in a time of the “fake news” phenomenon. 100

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DISCUSSION

Collectively, the literature addressed in the review does reiterate what I hypothesized. Politics is major factor in today’s idea of fake news, and I was not surprised to research literature that supported that argument. Although I was aware of journalists fabricating stories, as I learned in my undergraduate, it is alarming there are still reporters today fabricating stories. The literatures shed light on how fake news as a concept and “fake news” as a phrase have evolved since the 2016 presidential election, and even before then. When it comes to the limitations of the subject overall, several studies had a broad sense of media bias and agenda setting. Lin et al. (2016) noted one of their limitations in their study was their focus on mainstream media bias in general and future studies should consider breaking down the subjects to specific programs. Another approach to the public’s perception of fake and today’s news media. Lee and Tandoc (2017) highlight that news organizations have relied on readership and audience feedback to communicate with the audience. In a time, which journalists have concerns about their profession and freedom of the press, I believe that further research on the public’s perception may help journalists find out how to build trust with the audience and address fake news websites. Lee and Tandoc (2017) noted, “In the absence of editors who could discern information quality from information virality, algorithms based solely on audience metrics failed to filter out misinformation” (p. 439). Guo and Vargo (2018) noted that further research on the intermedia agenda-setting between fake news websites and fact-based news should include social media. In addition, Tandoc Jr. et al. (2017) advance that clarification of the concept of fake news would help build theories, adding that “since discourse on fake news also now takes place in the mainstream press, as journalists find themselves having to differentiate, if not defend, their work from fake news, future studies can build on the arguments we presented here to examine contemporary discourse about fake news” (p. 149). CONCLUSION

When I studied journalism, the issue of “fake news” was not a topic of discussion. And that was four years ago. In a short amount of time, the view on journalists and the news media has changed because of a two-word phrase. Although the concept has been studied and reviewed in previous literatures and news articles years ago, the recent U.S. presidential election awoken the assumption that news media organizations provide deliberate falsehood. As a journalist who did coverage on the day of the 2016 election, I cannot speak for every reporter and editor on their perception of fake news. But I believe it is a challenging time to be storyteller. I have experienced my share of animosity and people threatening to walk away as a subscriber because they accused me and other reporters of publishing fake news. 101

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Although a lot of the studies in this literature review does not address how journalists can build trust and credibility among the public, Lasorsa and Dai (2007), who examined deceptive news stories, noted that the lack of communication in newsrooms, personal relationships between editors and reporters, and inappropriate accessibility to certain newsroom resources are some factors that can lead to fabrication and plagiarism. Richardson (2017) said, “What makes this period so dangerous for journalists is that it would not have been possible without the mainstream media struggling to survive the breakdown of its commercial model and the sustained decline in the respect for journalists and the credibility of their work” (p. 2). It’s a time in history which it is crucial for fact-based media to verify news stories before setting their agenda, or risk being influenced by a fake news website, in addition to organizations being concerned of the public accusing it of media bias because content does not cater to a specific group. In the end, it’s beginning to look like journalism against the Internet. We don’t know what is next. REFERENCES Albright, J. (2017). Welcome to the era of fake news. Media and Communication, 5(2), 87–89. doi:10.17645/mac.v5i2.977 Allcott, H., & Gentzkow, M. (2017). Social media and fake news in the 2016 election. Journal of Economic Perspectives, 31(2), 211–236. doi:10.1257/jep.31.2.211 Ashford, B. E., & Mael, F. (1989). Social identity theory and the organization. Academy of Management Review, 14(1), 20–39. doi:10.5465/amr.1989.4278999 Baumgartner, J., & Morris, J. S. (2006). The daily show effect: Candidate evaluation, efficacy, and American youth. American Politics Research, 34(3), 341–367. doi:10.1177/1532673X05280074 Bennett, W. L., & Livingston, S. (2018). The disinformation order: Disruptive communication and the decline of democratic institutions. European Journal of Communication, 33(2), 122–139. doi:10.1177/0267323118760317 Brummette, J., DiStaso, M., Vafeiadis, M., & Messner, M. (2018). Read all about it: The politicization of ‘fake news’ on twitter. Journalism & Mass Communication Quarterly, 95(2), 497–517. doi:10.1177/1077699018769906 Carson, J. (2017). What is fake news? Its origins and how it grew in 2016. The Telegraph. Retrieved from https://grassrootjournalist.org/2017/06/17/what-is-fake-news-its-origins-and-how-it-grew-in-2016/ Cooke, J. (1980, September 28). Jimmy’s World. The Washington Post. Retrieved from https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1980/09/28/jimmys-world/605f237a7330-4a69-8433-b6da4c519120/?utm_term=.bccda18c6aa2 ‘Fake News’ threat to media; editorial decisions, outside actors at fault. (2018, April 2). Monmouth University Polling Institute. Retrieved from https://www.monmouth.edu/polling-institute/reports/ monmouthpoll_us_040218/ Fallon, C. (2017). Where does the term “fake news” come from? The 1890s, apparently. HuffPost. Retrieved from http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/where-does-the-term-fake-news-come-from_ us_58d53c89e4b03692bea518ad Finneman, T., & Thomas, R. J. (2018). A family of falsehoods: Deception, media hoaxes and fake news. Newspaper Research Journal, 39(3), 350–361. doi:10.1177/0739532918796228 Green, B. (1981, April 19). The player: It wasn’t a game. The Washington Post. Retrieved from https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1981/04/19/theplayers-it-wasnt-a-game/545f7157-5228-47b6-8959-fcfcfa8f08eb/?utm_term=.9bc27987e8ff

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