Emerging Voices Welcome Party

Left to right:  Kima Jones, Krisserin Canary (Me! Duh),

Elle Brooks, Tommy Moore, Lilliam Rivera and Terrence Flynn.

Photo by Casey Curry.

January 27, 2013 PEN Center USA threw a party to celebrate the 2013 Emerging Voices Fellows. Thank you so much to everyone who came out. For those of you who weren't able to make it--I've pasted the excerpt I read from "The Incredible Gustafson Women," below. Thank you again to everyone for your love and support. It means everything.

Photo by Casey Curry.

An excerpt from my novel-on-progress, The Incredible Gustafson Women:

"BOOBS!"

Saying the word seemed to form their mouth into the very shape the boob was intended for--pursed, ready to suckle.

"BOOBS!" They said again, pointing.

The three boys, Buddy, Matthew and Ronald, had been her friends since as long as she could remember playing in the fields, but age had brought something between them, it brought Margaret's breasts.

Margaret Gustafson descended from a long line of Danish women, whose colossal bosoms were made to nurse the strongest of Viking men. At 12, what Margaret had developed were only a wink of what was to come, but on seeing the sprouting of those little buds, her mother drove her down to the store and bought her the itchiest, scratchiest bra they had to offer. It was white, cotton with stitched-cups, that fit tight around her chest and pushed what little Margaret had up towards her neck. The edges, trimmed with lace, left red outlines on her chest and underarms. It was a torture device, created to punish the wearer. Margaret was convinced that if Eve had known that this would have been a consequence of the fall of man, she would have changed her mind.

 "What do they feel like?" One of the boys asked.

"They feel like normal," Margaret said. She was sick of her anatomy being the topic of conversation. She wanted to talk about baseball or hidden treasure, but Margaret's developing chest was too new, too exciting. She'd taken to removing her bra and sticking it in the back pocket of her jeans before she went out to play, but its absence only made her breasts more noticeable. They stood up like toothpicks propped underneath her shirt.

Margaret hated the idea that she was turning into something different from the only friends she'd ever had. She didn't want to be like Maude and Mary, her older sisters who were obsessed with boys and bleaching their mustaches. She wanted to be out in the world--running, playing, dancing, and most definitely not growing boobs.

 "I want to cut them off!" She wailed to her mother, after a particularly embarrassing day.

"They're just interested because it's different. They'll give up caring soon enough," her mother said.

The next day the boys were sitting in their usual spot playing cards, in the remains of the old burnt-out barn at the end of Margaret's road. The cards were Matthew's; lifted from a secret box his older brother kept under his bed. They had pictures of naked women, their top halves twisted to show pink nipples, joyfully erect.

Margaret had seen the cards before, and before they never harbored much interest, but now she couldn't help but to look and compare.

"This one's got huge titties. Look!" said Matthew.

He turned to the next card.

"She's my favorite," said Buddy, pointing.

"Why are her nipples brown?" Margaret said.

"What color are your nips, Margaret?" asked Buddy.

"None of your damn business," Margaret said. "I don't know why you guys care so much. They're just boobs. Your mom has them."

"Not like these she don't," said Matthew.

"If it's not such a big deal, why don't you let us see 'em?" said Ronald.

"It's not a big deal!" said Margaret. She didn't want them to think she cared. She didn't want them to think she was different.

"Can we touch them?" said Matthew.

"If I let you, just once, will you leave me alone?"

They unanimously agreed that they would.

So in the dark, cold, burnt-out barn, Margaret Gustafson took off her top; she turned to face the three boys, her childhood friends, bare-chested.

Buddy was the first one to reach out. He put his hand under her right breast and lifted it up.

"They're smaller than I thought," he said.

"They're still growing!" she said.

"They’ll get bigger,” Matthew said. “Have you seen Mrs. Gustafson?” He reached out and poked at her nipple, pushing it down into her chest.

"Careful!" she said.

"Why is one bigger than the other?" Ronald said. He reached out and pinched her left nipple, while Buddy, whose hand hadn't moved from below her right breast, began to slap it lightly back and forth.

"Look! Her nips are getting hard!" Buddy said.

She didn't think that it would have bothered her to have other people touch her there, because until that day they had existed separate from Margaret. They were not a part of her, they just happened to be attached to her, like a tick or a barnacle. A parasite growing larger and larger each day, sucking a little bit more pride away from our girl. But now that they were under attack by the careless hands of these boys, she finally felt that they did belonged to her. The shock of nerves and pumping blood vessels exploded all the way down to her stomach, and she didn't like how it made her feel.

It was a hard pinch from Ronald that finally turned the switch. Margaret reeled back and punched him hard, right in the face, her fist drawing blood from his split cheek. A transference of pain, of hurt.

Margaret ran. She ran out of that barn all the way back to her house, her two hands cupped over her chest to protect herself. She was able to escape upstairs to her room without anyone seeing her, and once alone, she took the opportunity to look in the mirror. She imagined she was going to see bruises or marks where the boys had touched her, but there was no sign left behind.

She felt them. They were sore, and she wondered if it was from the fondling or because they were growing that they hurt; that she hurt. She put on her bra, and her shirt, and she was sad--sad that, despite wanting to run and play and dance and be a kid, her body had decided it was time to grow up.

Not so happy holidays

I loved Christmas growing up. The music, the tree, the presents. It was the time of year I got to cuddle up in warm flannel pajamas, and chase my brothers around the house.

Christmas is magical for children, and as you get older, year-by-year, the magic slowly fades away. Christmas becomes a chore.

As an adult I still want the magical Christmas that I had as a child, but unless you have children of your own there is no real way to reenact what you experienced growing up. Then there are other people who never had magical Christmases, or maybe they had too few. This time of year looms heavy in their heart because they know not to expect anything. Maybe they never celebrated Christmas, and going to school after the holidays meant having to explain that you didn't get any presents, that you didn't get the newest toy or backpack or lunch pail.

Then there are those, like my Mother-in-law, who don't get to have Christmas with their family. And others who are experiencing their first Christmas since losing someone important in their lives. There is a reason that the holiday season brings with it so much pain and sadness -- the memories of our childhood Christmas that haunt us.

Maybe its the fact that I'm unemployed, and I was unable to participate as enthusiastically in the buying and giving this year. Maybe its the fact that I'm seeing the unhappiness of the people around me, or feeling it myself. Maybe its because I've grown up and realized that these holidays are a little too manufactured, a little too forced, but Christmas has lost its magic for me.

This year's Christmas tree. 

I saw a video from Jay Smooth that really echoed how I feel about the holidays, and the pressure and stress it can put on people, and I've come to realize that it isn't healthy building up the expectations of a holiday.

And at the same time I saw my friend Nanette share her daily elf on a shelf pictures, and I know that it is something that her daughter will remember her entire life.

So it's a conundrum. Do you give your children the magical Christmas you had growing up, knowing that there is a large chance of them having seasonal depression as an adult? Or do you try to communicate a more realistic version of the holidays? I think that is the key--finding a way to show them while they are young, that not everyone gets to have a happy holiday. Maybe through volunteering, or donating. I can tell you right now it is not through the exorbitant buying of crappy toys and games.

It's not our parent's faults that they wanted to give us a good holiday. I will always cherish those Christmases past. But maybe it's time to reevaluate how we celebrate these holidays, and find a way forward that doesn't include buying into the industry built around mass consumption and black Fridays and malls being open 24 hours. Because after it is all over Christmas is just a dead tree disposed unceremoniously on the sidewalk, and nothing about us changes except the balance in our bank accounts.

-----------

After reading through the above a couple times I realize how depressing all this sounds. I would like to say that I had a good Christmas, despite everything I said above. I was able to buy thoughtful, inexpensive gifts for my loved-ones. I wrote 43 Christmas cards to friends and family all over the country. I'm extremely grateful, and I guess, I just wanted to acknowledge the same way Jay did that there are others who experience sadness and pain on the holiday season. I wanted to acknowledge them and say it's okay to have a shitty holiday, and that you're not alone.

Being patient in suffering

More thoughts on unemployment.

When you're a child you can't wait to grow up. You want to be able to do whatever you want without your parents correcting or controlling you. But what children don't understand about being an adult and making your own decisions is that liberty means you have to find your own way without a safety net. As an adult, reprimands and punishments no longer come in the form of time outs and groundings--they come as traffic violations, DUIs, pregnancies, illness, jail and death. Uplifting, right?

So in order to protect yourself from life's injustices you get a job. You compromise. You do something that isn't important to you so that you can collect a paycheck, pay rent, buy things. And if feels like you live your day-to-day as an investment in your future. You invest your money for retirement. You plan your children's lives in order to give them a successful life. You live to benefit other people. You live for another time.

I've been in such a hurry for so long--sprinting towards my goals wanting more money, more accomplishments, more of everything. I'm finally coming to realize that the wanting has brought me to a place of dissatisfaction. If I'm always looking ahead to what I don't have, I'm not looking around to appreciate what I do have. 

I have a luxury that many others who are without work do not--I have savings, and a husband with an income that provides us with enough for now. I'm collecting unemployment which also helps. So I'm not going to compromise on my next job. While interviewing I'm going make sure that the company is the right fit for me instead of only thinking about selling myself to them. I'm not worried about finding a job, I know it will come.

So my goal for the remainder of my unemployment, and really something I hope to do going forward is to slow down. I want to take time to do things mindfully, and to let the passion and eagerness and ambition that sparks white-hot inside me settle into a slow, sustaining burn. I'm going to take the time that I so willing shucked away as a child right now. I believe it will make me a better writer. And my hope is that it will also make me a happier person.

This is what unemployment looks like

You wake up at 10:30 or 11 or even 12 and you feel guilty about it. You have a cup of coffee and you look at job postings but there is nothing new from yesterday. You check your email, you check Facebook, you try and IM friends with jobs and get impatient when they don't respond promptly cause they have actual "work" to do. You tell your friends you are bored and they tell you they are jealous and you feel guilty for bothering them at work. You sit down and re-read what you wrote yesterday and you hate it, but you try not to get discouraged. You read "The Savage Detectives" by Roberto Bolano and pretend you can tell why people think he's a genius. You read "The Savage Detectives" by Robert Bolano so you can impress people by saying you're reading Roberto Bolano. Most of your friends have no idea who Roberto Bolano is so it's just a waste of time.

You think about going to a cafe to write but that would include having to buy something to drink or eat. Buying anything makes you feel guilty because your bank account doesn't refresh the way it used to every month. Instead you stay home and eat sandwiches and cheese and you don't eat salad because you are lazy. You feel guilty about not eating salad. You want to exercise but before you exercise you have to get some writing done. So you sit down at your computer and surf through three dates of back-dated posts on On No They Didn't. You feel guilty for wasting time. You open up your writing file and start writing and you write a couple pages and it's all shit.

You have a notification on Facebook. You check the notification. One of your friends is sent you an offer for Southwest airlines. You open the job postings again and you apply to at least three. You find one job posting at a company you really like but they won't even look at your resume because you don't have enough experience. You are in a weird in-between world of over and under qualified. You check your email, Obama is asking for $37 dollars. You delete the email. You feel guilty for deleting the email until you get another one in five minutes. You delete that one, too.

You pet your dog and wonder if she is as bored as you are. You think of taking her to the dog park but you're supposed to be writing so you don't. You laugh when you think back to the times you were in a job you hated, and all you wanted was to quit to stay at home and write. You think about your story again. You love your story but you aren't writing it well. Your thoughts aren't translating down to the page. You're writing a bunch of nonsense and you know you'll eventually edit it all out anyway.

You think about going somewhere, but then you think about how much gas that trip would take and you stay home. You wait for a reasonable time to turn on the TV. You made a rule that you aren't allowed to watch TV until the late afternoon. You turn on the TV at 4pm and wait for your husband to come home. You watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey, The Real Housewives of Atlanta, The Real Housewives of New York and yesterday's episode of Sons of Anarchy. You knit while you watch these shows. Your husband comes home at seven and you have already spent three hours in front of the television. You are almost done with a really ugly orange scarf. You spend the entire rest of the evening in front of the television. You will stay up until 2AM reading "The Savage Detectives" by Roberto Bolano because despite having no idea where the story is going you can't put it down. You decide there might actually be something to this book. You fall asleep. You will do the same thing tomorrow. You will feel guilty about it.

Dear Republican Party,

You asked me a question—whether or not I thought I was better off today than four years ago. I’ve thought about it, and I am finally ready to respond.

I was born three years into President Reagan’s first term of office, so I’m not as familiar with the folksy charm that made him into the Republican God he is today—what I do know of Reagan is “trickle-down” economics. We learned about it in high school. In college I learned that this economic theory didn’t work—and as a UCLA student I saw the evidence of its failings in every homeless veteran wandering outside the gates of the Veteran Center and sleeping in the streets of Westwood.

Four years ago I was hired to work at an Internet start up in Santa Monica. I remember seeing 170 open positions under the Online/New Media category on MediaBistro when I began my job search, where just a year before that number had hovered around 290 (as I write the number has grown to 484). The opportunities were few and the good opportunities—the kind that grow your career and not make you want to give up on the world, renounce all worldly possessions, fall of the grid and live on a commune—were far fewer. This was before LinkedIn became the ultimate source for jobs in the tech industry. The success of LinkedIn—a social network created for the purpose of professional networking—should in itself be an indicator of job growth. I found my new job after some searching, but I found it. This was in July of 2008.

Since then I have had a successful career. My salary has increased 23 percent since 2008, and the startup where I worked went public. I received stocks as part of my yearly reviews and was lucky enough to leave that company with some extra money. My 401K is doing well, I’ve invested it in alternative energy and it continues to grow. I bought a new car, a motorcycle, a new TV. I’m not saying these things to brag, it is shameful consumerism, but I’m saying this because four years ago, I was not able to afford any of these luxuries.

I know that I am extremely lucky. I was able to go to college at a good school, a public university, and my parents are helping me pay for it. I am grateful that I can afford to pay my student loan, which at $40,000 with 7.75% interest costs me $350/month. I am lucky to live in Los Angeles where the job market is large and diverse. I am also young, which means I was able to take the low-paying entry-level jobs with technical requirements that older individuals with more experience would not be considered for, or afford to take. I say this knowing that both of my parents were unemployed for a large period of time during the last four years. My father has since gotten a new job, and my mother is enjoying early retirement—although she complains that her social security checks are small, “33 years of work and this is what it amounts to?” I say this with a brother in Las Vegas who lost his construction job and with another brother who is working as a Real Estate broker in Southern California and doing really well. I know I am also lucky to be married. My husband came to the states when he was 19 because opportunities in Bulgaria are ever shrinking. He came close to being penniless and now has a successful career, and is taking classes at community college so he can go to a 4-year school and study computer science. Last year he became a citizen of the United States and this will be the first time he votes in an election.

Life is easier for us than it is for most people.

So in terms of my career and my income things are indeed better for me than they were four years ago. But there are things that still seem completely out of reach, like owning a home. I don’t know how my husband and I will ever be able to save for a down payment, but we’re trying. We also want to have children someday soon—and the question, “Can we afford it?” is something we have to consider.

I want to close by telling you why I was frustrated with this question in the first place. Asking whether or not people are better off than they were four years ago, is the same thing as saying the economic crisis could have been solved in four years. I studied English Literature in college and openly admit I am not an economist, but I know that repairing and rebuilding economies of scale takes time. People say that anything worth doing takes time. I want to publish a book someday—writing a book, and writing a decently good book takes time. A lot of time. It takes writers years—sometimes decades to write a book, but these are the books that are loved and revered for generations after the author’s passing. Creating a good marriage takes time. Raising a responsible child takes a lot of time and hard work. Fixing a debt crisis that was created not just in the Bush administration, but with the deregulation of banks and the crash of the derivatives market, is going to take time. Asking me if I’m better off than I was four years ago is an appeal to the impatient, impulsive child inside of me that screams, “I want it now!” You are assuming that America is made up of Veruca Salts. I don’t believe that to be true.

I know that there are people who responded to that same question with screams of NO! People who are pulling their hair out, desperate people who can’t feed their families; people that just want to work. So when you ask that question you are also playing on their fears and their will to survive. You ask that question and then propose tax plans that would only make them poorer and you richer. You tell them you are going to reform welfare when you know it’s going to make it harder for people—people like them who are not lazy, and are not freeloading, who want jobs just as badly as they do—to get help. What you are doing, sirs, is playing of the fears and prejudices of the people to gain power, and there’s a word for what that makes you—a demagogue.

I think the question you should be asking, which is the question that Fareed Zakaria brought up last week is—Would I be better off in four years if Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan are in office? I have to say I don’t know much about the specific details of the policies you are proposing—we, the American people are still waiting for you to tell us—but I do know that giving the richest 1% a tax cut isn’t going to help. I know that my reproductive rights would be in jeopardy. I know the people I love won’t be able to marry because it doesn’t fit in within your religious beliefs. I’m worried what will happen when you make it easier for people to buy guns. I wonder if my children will be able to afford to go to college. I fear what would happen if I got cancer—how I would afford radiation and chemotherapy. If your party was in office, I couldn’t.

I think you didn’t ask this question because you know what the answer would be.  

So now I’m asking you—do you think we’ll be better off four years from now if you are in office? Take a moment to think about it. If the honest answer is no then I hope you will reconsider some of your policies. If it is yes, then I guess we’ll have to see if the American people agree.

I hope you ask me again. Ask me. Not the white, Christian, neoconservative audience in Tampa bay, Florida. Ask me, or my mother, or my brothers, or my friends who live in St. Louis and are going to business school. Ask my friend Brandon who is veteran, or my grandfather who is a retired teacher. Ask people who aren’t planning on voting for you and then listen. And when you listen if you can’t find compassion or empathy, then I don’t know what that says about the future of the leadership of the Republican Party. Because I know Republicans, I have family members who are registered and vote republican—they’re not bad people. They’re just like everyone else, and whether you’re a Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, white, black, brown, yellow, gay, straight, transgendered, young, old, rich, poor, homeless, disabled, employed, jobless, insured, uninsured and mentally ill, we are all trying to do the best with what they have. We are all Americans, even if we don’t vote for you. We all hope for a better future. This is why President Obama’s message is so powerful. We all need hope.

Yours sincerely,

Krisserin Canary

Sartorialist Inspiration

She tiptoed through the snow, watched it float around her, down to the grit of the New York City sidewalk, under her shoes. She'd been walking, marching, teetering on the balls of her feet all night and into the morning since Simon gave her the address at the party.

Are you sure? He asked, pressing the card into her palm. I’m sure, she said. She squeezed the thick card stock into a ball, hoping the pointy corners would hurt her—drive the ache to one fixed point of pain.

It had been six months since she learned Maria was alive and living in New York. Six months of looking for her on every street corner and in every cafe window. She wasn’t going to wait a minute longer. 

What would happen once she got there? Would Maria welcome her inside? Pour her a cup of cocoa? Would she allow the hot tears building up in her throat to roll down her cheeks or would she swallow them? 

She wanted her to see the person she’d become. She wanted to say, "Look at me, Mom. I did it without you."