An editorial note from one of our writers, Jessica Fenlon: "This piece touches the reality of our sometimes-fragmentary healing process, even in the how it is written." She expressed something I could not quite find the words for, but it does speak to the technical strength of this creative writing.
_______________________________________
_______________________________________
I easily identify with this piece by Tasha Raella Chemel. It is both fragmented and fluid. It touches on the real and the unreal, those side-by-side sensations that accompany loss. It breaks the boundaries between past and future, artificial boundaries, after all. It's like a long Haiku; it reveals because it depicts, not because it explains. Best of all, there is healing in it, if you read it well.
____________________________________________
.jpg) |
| Throat Chakra, Visshuda, by RebelBam |
the
solidarity of the vulnerable
by Tasha Raella Chemel
1. My throat has been
restless all week. Apparently, through some sort of mechanical mix-up, its
chakra
has become enmeshed with unacknowledged grief. Lately, I've become
disenamored with new-age platitudes, but the shell of this one does not give
way under my fingertips.
has become enmeshed with unacknowledged grief. Lately, I've become
disenamored with new-age platitudes, but the shell of this one does not give
way under my fingertips.
2. It’s Monday, or
maybe Tuesday. I can't tell. I'm talking to my dad on the phone. By this point,
he isn't saying much. He's got his oxygen mask on. He sounds freakish, like a
parody of a beloved cartoon character, and I just want to end the call as soon
as I can. If he isn't going to be the dad I knew, then I don't want to speak to
him. I tell him about my latest computer problem, an ominous clicking coming
from the hard drive that I don't want to identify with too closely. I don't ask
how he's feeling. My brain isn't flexible enough yet to bend around that
particular question. I think he says he loves me. I know he doesn't say
goodbye.
problem, an ominous clicking coming
from the hard drive that I don't want to identify with too closely. I don't ask
how he's feeling. My brain isn't flexible enough yet to bend around that
particular question. I think he says he loves me. I know he doesn't say
goodbye.
3. My feelings for you
are knotted; the kind of fiendish snarl that inevitably results when too many
personal electronics are crammed into a tiny space. It is unfortunate that all
the cords are the same thickness and color. You spend hours watching me trying
to untangle my hope from your hurt from my limerence from your loss, from our
mutual desire to be seen, until the time comes when I can no longer speak and
you can no longer listen.
4. My mom is at the
hospital. There had been a conversation about whether I should be there too,
but I don't want to go. Or maybe my mom doesn't want me to go. I like the glide
of that story better. Blame is definite. The phone rings. It's my mom calling.
I ask her if my dad is going to die. She says she doesn't know, and that she
wants to speak to my aunt. She's aggravated, as if I've done something
teenagery and stupid, like leaving my math homework on the kitchen table.
5. It’s been two years
since I left. My throat wants me to write to you. I tell you how San Francisco
summers begin and end in May. I ask you about the secret language of graduate
school. You reply to my first letter, but not the second. I refuse to see you
as a person who is capable of thoughtlessness. I am safe.
6. My memories of my
father are neatly separated into two collections. The first I keep on the top
shelf of my closet, in a cardboard box. Most of the time, I look through it
dutifully, when we're watching videos of our family vacations. Everybody is too
busy smiling. My father is too busy being happy and privileged and immortal.
Occasionally, right about this time of year, when the first three notes of
springtime get stuck in my head, and I breathe in a lungful of perfumed air
from an open classroom window, I'll run home and I'll take down that box of my
own volition. But I will always prefer my second collection, which I've
artfully arranged on the top of my dresser, like glass animals that will never
break. My animals are a therapist's worst nightmare. He can try to rationalize
them away, but they will keep shining at him, obliviously, and sometimes I
think that shine is the brightest thing I own, so bright that even my
perforated retinas can take their pleasure.
. Most of the time, I look through it
dutifully, when we're watching videos of our family vacations. Everybody is too
busy smiling. My father is too busy being happy and privileged and immortal.
Occasionally, right about this time of year, when the first three notes of
springtime get stuck in my head, and I breathe in a lungful of perfumed air
from an open classroom window, I'll run home and I'll take down that box of my
own volition. But I will always prefer my second collection, which I've
artfully arranged on the top of my dresser, like glass animals that will never
break. My animals are a therapist's worst nightmare. He can try to rationalize
them away, but they will keep shining at him, obliviously, and sometimes I
think that shine is the brightest thing I own, so bright that even my
perforated retinas can take their pleasure.
A.
"Never tell me to shut up again. If I said that to my father, he'd give me
a hiding."
B.
"You're selfish. You're always moving onto the next thing."
C.
"You're spoiled. Do you know that? I'm already paying
for your therapy and personal trainer, and now you want a new mattress as
well?"
D.
"Your breath is toxic. I'm not helping you until you brush your teeth.
Your teeth are going to rot away, if you don’t' take better care of them."
E.
"I'm done helping you if you're going to talk to me like that."
F.
"Now I know you never can keep a secret."
Look
at how paltry these things are, just sitting here on the page. Any parent could
lay claim to them. But my dad said them to me. They are mine.
to them. But my dad said them to me. They are mine.
7. My memories of you
are spliced and jumbled. It’s St. Patrick’s Day, briefly. We are hunched over
my computer screen, as we ride the train from Providence to Virginia. Your love
is indelible when you are reading aloud, when your alchemist’s lips are weaving
the written into the spoken. Then it’s May, and the law of entropy demands its
due. The last few days of college are collapsing in on themselves. You read to
me, more than ever, but you are leaving for China in August, and the rhythms of
that country have already crept into your speech.
screen, as we ride the train from Providence to Virginia. Your love
is indelible when you are reading aloud, when your alchemist’s lips are weaving
the written into the spoken. Then it’s May, and the law of entropy demands its
due. The last few days of college are collapsing in on themselves. You read to
me, more than ever, but you are leaving for China in August, and the rhythms of
that country have already crept into your speech.
8. It's Friday morning.
My mom sits on the edge of my bed. "He's gone," she says. There’s a
draft in this sheltered, but poorly insulated place, a gap between two worlds
where possibilities can still play. "Gone" doesn't always mean
"dead."
9. It’s a Wednesday at
the cusp of December. I write to you again, to tell you that I will be in town
for the holidays. I ask if you would like to have coffee. Your polite
acceptance comes in the middle of my pottery class. The teacher comments on the
prettiness of my rim. My hands are still shaking.
10. It's Sunday, or
maybe Monday. It doesn’t matter which. I say that I don't want to go to the
funeral. "Of course you're going," my mother says. We have to leave
in ten minutes. She tells me to try to "pull myself together." I
still don't know what that means. I had a dream last night about a stretched
audiotape that wouldn't play. I took it out of the machine, and I knew it was
working against me. The faster I tried to wind the tape back up, the faster it
spooled itself out of its casing. Why is it so unwilling to submit?
11. It’s the afternoon
of New Year’s Eve in New York. The waitress is peevish because we have come
five minutes before the restaurant has opened. I order a silly salad that I
know I can't eat. I apologize for leaving, for taking what did not belong to
me. You say that I had no ill intentions, that I did nothing wrong. Your
reassurance scalds the tip of my tongue, but it is mother-warm when it reaches
my ribs. You ask innocuous questions, and I hear my own recorded voice
answering them. Once, I cut myself off in mid-sentence. I am caught by the
decadence of your laugh, and for a moment, I almost remember what it is to be
your friend.
Much
later, when I am alone, I choose the ugliest of my glass animals, a demented
rabbit, and I hurl it against the wall as hard as I can. Its right foreleg
breaks off and splits in two, but it is otherwise unharmed. I cradle the two
halves in my palm, wishing, absurdly, for the power to knit them back together.
There's a drop of blood at the center of my left pointer finger, but I don't
mind. The wounded rabbit goes back on the dresser with the others. The chips of
pain in its eyes remind me that I am not quite ready to yield to the weight of
your forgiveness.
______________________________________________________________________
Tasha Raella Chemel is currently a master's candidate in Arts In Education at Harvard University. She enjoys reading critical theory, seeking out the perfect chai latte, and over-analyzing pop culture. She lives in Massachusetts.
Copyright, Tasha Raella Chemel, all rights reserved.
Illustration by RebelBam. See more of her work here: Baruška Anita Michalčíková.
Description of illustration for the visually impaired:
The illustration shows a silhouette of a woman with a pony tail and bangs. Her mouth is open slightly as though she is about to speak. One arm is by her side; the other is bent at the elbow and its hand points upward. A blue circle hovers in front of her throat. The circle looks three dimensional, as though it were a globe floating.
The globe contains shades of teal, turquoise and sky blue. Emanating from the woman's figure are 12 ondulating patterns of many, varying blues. Their colors vary from indigo to turquoise. Surrounding and encircling all of these ondulations is a pattern of diamond shapes in teal and navy blue.
of
your forgiveness.______________________________________________________________________
Tasha Raella Chemel is currently a master's candidate in Arts In Education at Harvard University. She enjoys reading critical theory, seeking out the perfect chai latte, and over-analyzing pop culture. She lives in Massachusetts.
Copyright, Tasha Raella Chemel, all rights reserved.
Illustration by RebelBam. See more of her work here: Baruška Anita Michalčíková.
Description of illustration for the visually impaired:
The illustration shows a silhouette of a woman with a pony tail and bangs. Her mouth is open slightly as though she is about to speak. One arm is by her side; the other is bent at the elbow and its hand points upward. A blue circle hovers in front of her throat. The circle looks three dimensional, as though it were a globe floating.
The globe contains shades of teal, turquoise and sky blue. Emanating from the woman's figure are 12 ondulating patterns of many, varying blues. Their colors vary from indigo to turquoise. Surrounding and encircling all of these ondulations is a pattern of diamond shapes in teal and navy blue.
