Side B Issue 5

W i l l i a m H en d er s o n ata r H a da r i sus a n da l e Co o p l ee G r e G o ry Gu n n K el ly m o r se d o C su d s Z aCH a ry m ed l i n J oa n n e yo u n G CH a n Gm i n G yau n ran Xia m i CH a el K eel se a n l otm a n & Ce C a r d i f f
THE p OSTCOLO NI ALISM ISSUE
Issue 05 / sprIng 2012 sidebmag.com facebook.com/sidebmag twitter.com/sidebmag sidebstaff@gmail.com edItor-In- ChIef Nidya Sarria MAnAgIng edItor Danielle Bukowski M ArketIng dIreCtor Tatiana Christian edItors Katya Sarria Becca Pollock Laura Hallman Emily ONeill desIgn dIreCtor Brittney Brown on the CoVer Sean Lotman CoLuMnIsts Tia Mansouri Alice Zheng James Kennedy Stefan Cartlidge
our mission
Side B Magazine is a print magazine devoted to publishing unknown and underrepresented voices in the contemporary arts world. We believe that all people have the right to read, see, and hear voices that affirm their identity.
f e at u r e s
30| America, the multiculti Frontier: Beinvenido santos the scent of Apples
by CE Cardiff New School graduate Cheryl Cardiffs MFA Writing thesis, exploring identity and the cultural divide in literature.
Prose
10| status update
William Henderson
18| egypt
Atar Hadari
art
&
PhotograPhy
15| michael Keel 26| sean Lotman 38| ran Xia
co ntents
Poetry
06| Post-Grad Harmonix
Coop Lee
08| shedding Light on subjects

Gregory Gunn
09| romanies
Gregory Gunn
16| How to Drink the Beer in saigon

Kelly Morse
17| natural Language

Kelly Morse
24| the Girls

Coop Lee
28| Gros michel

Doc Suds
29| the Great Genghis Khan

Doc Suds
36| ode to the Wave Pool

Zachary Medlin
37| origami With scissors

Zachary Medlin
39| Hegemonized
Joanne Young
40| mahjong marching

Changming Yaun
41| iraq
Susan Dale
Post-Grad Harmonix
Coop Lee
When I graduate, I can do as follows: move to no-mans-land L.A.: HELL.A.; Los Angelees; and swallow glitter; pull my pants off; and get paid to make people lean in and watch; money money. or move to Portland: stall existence into a slow-motion montage of leaves and humping and hipster girls with larger than life eyes, larger than life mittens; larger than life blog rants. or move to Eugene: sell weed; make-out with sweaty volleyball girls; and grow hydroponic tomatoes; or tomottos; write bad poetry. or move to Baja: sleep in a hammock; open beer bottles in a cabana for yuppie-sheckles; and frequent the cock-fights; write great poetry. or move to Modesto: sing in a shitty indie rock band; drink beer in garages and become less of a shitty indie rock band; in our heads; death by synthesizer. or move to Moab: breathe red rock; mountain bike until my legs go numby; chug aqua; and soulfully eat seasoned scorpions on Sundays. or move to Vancouver: work on low-budget sci-fi/horror films; make love one night to the makeup girl; maybe marry her months later; for the babys sake. or move to Coeur dAlene: witness a behanding; or this Spokane?; where am I?; ok; now I know; amidst lemonade hallucinations; I burn down a house; eat a mighty plate of pancakes; and go boating in the dusktime hours. or move to Cocoa Beach: begin skin cancer; fall in love with a blonde; save turtles; surf; surf; surf; and die. or move to Jamaica: pretend this is to me what Cuba was to Hemingway, or Puerto Rico was to Thompson; the formation ground; the drunken caterpillar in the sand days; Caribbeana. or move to Seoul: teach waves of bobbling bodies the tongues and tones of English Language Exquisitry; and by night slurp tasty noodles and watch American-TV shows dubbed into Korean Language Exquisitry. or move to the Sudan: haul bags of grain from truck to truck; get so sick from drinking snakes blood; hey, they said it would get me high; and it gets me high; like sickly fucking high; like a hefty heaven and hell kind of thing; this place; these horrors; and I know nothing. or move to the Congo: formally Zaire: study the Bonobo primates with Japanese scientists in the wild; the walking, chirping, humpin bonobos; one will steal my machete and use it to carve art in the bark of trees. or move to Tokyo: film skateboarders; live in a tiny apartment; eat sushi; get sick from sushi; eat pussy; get sick from pussy; dye my hair brite orange and cry in a corner.
6 | Side B Magazine tHe pOStCOLOniaLiSM iSSUe
or move to Seattle: work in a caf selling pies from the glass encasement; pour coffee into cups; get lonely; get sad; smoke clove cigarettes all alone in the nighttime hours. or move to Morocco: coup dtat a local bread shop with enough money, and butter knives as is necessary; spend nights swaying and playing harmonica to end up shot simply by my wife; in the garden. or move to Missoula: take up a job as an eighth-grade English teacher; like Im cool by showing literature related movies to the class on Fridays; but most kids just yawn or text or who cares?; really, who cares?; I marry a local babe who grows vegetables. or move to Denver: brew beer in my basement; take out a loan; start a microbrewery; become notorious; or legend; for our marijuana-infused flavors; thee, thy, the: Cannabrew. or move to Tulsa: shoot super-low-budget porno films in the basement of Alejandros house; his wife brings down trays of chicken nuggets every once and a while; b.t.w. 89% of our VHS tapes are sold to Kazakhstan alone. or move to Miami: learn to speak Spanish immediately; love the beach; lay in the beach; chase girls on the beach; get drunk and sleep on that beach only to have some cops wake me up with flashlight flickers and kicks of sand to my face. or move to Atlanta: die suddenly. or move to Austin: fall in with a group of degenerates and gamblers; build up ungodly debt; like shylocks kicking-my-door-down-debt; build a homemade flamethrower; kick down their doors instead. or move to Amsterdam: hole up and hash out three screenplays in a matter of 10 months; only to return bearded and destined for a good old fashioned American life in alcoholism. or move to San Francisco: study dendrochronology; the ancient rings of ancient trees; patterned with the residue of life; drink wine; drink love; sleep comfy. or move to Antarctica: study the oscillating seals beneath the ice; watch the penguins like bobble about; get drunk at the one and only bar in town; every night; write home like a doggd soldier; lost on the moon. or move to the rhythms of the Highway: buy an orange van; strap my bike to it; and travel the asphalt of Americana backwash; like a true hot-footed wayfarer; nothing like Pops ever thought I could be. or stay in Boise; and endure dreaming.
Side B Magazine tHe pOStCOLOniaLiSM iSSUe | 7
Shedding Light On Subjects

Gregory Gunn
In regards to examining light, Im able to posit the manner in which it reflects, exposes, how things arent sentient about themselves: the potted asters upon the mantle, opening, the iron stairs & banister, which in the end lead us nowhere but delay dopily; the material realm is frequently like that on any given day indoors, partially lit shapes & forms propose not only the doing but the descending into it. Oh look! It has occurred finally, the asters, alone in their own dimension, simplify substantialism.
Romanies
Gregory Gunn
One evening we canoed deep into the inlet where boreal and austral breakers converge, the ocean so temperate the sea bass spawn en masse. Such safe remedial measure from the earths advancing and withdrawing. Whenever we drew shoreward you pulled out the camping cookware. I searched for kindling. It was evident why I selected you. I witnessed a nomadic quality in you. Not just the Bohemian nature everyones capable of that. Its being aware wherever we venture, we have everything the two of us necessitate.
Status Update
William Henderson
Status Update: Ive been invited to Maxs suicide, via Facebook: to kill myself: an event to mark on a calendar. Max is going to kill himself in his closet sometime between 9 p.m. and 12 a.m. Event description: I will get wasted and blow my head off with my shotgun tonite.
I didnt know he had a shotgun. Twice Ive been to his house, and twice Ive been in his room, and twice Ive been in his bed, on top of him, under him, and never has he said that somewhere in his house, or in his room, was a shotgun he would use to one day kill himself. Had he told me a shotgun he would use to one day kill himself was in his house or in his room, I would have asked to see it, because I have never seen a shotgun, and I may have asked to hold it, because I have never held a shotgun. Was is he kidding? Could be. The four times Ive hung out with him, hes made me laugh. Sarcastic and witty
and slightly caustic just the way I like them, these men who invite me to bedrooms and houses and suicide parties. Actually, Ive never been invited to someones suicide party. Do you bring a gift? Doubtful. Not like he plans to use anything after. I consider going, and I know how my considering going makes me seem, and I dont want to seem like someone who would consider going to someones suicide party, but Ive never heard a gunshot, and Ive never seen someone die, and Ive never been invited so publically to something so personal. Three of Maxs Facebook friends have confirmed attendance; one is maybe attending; 20 are not attending; and 179 have not responded. And some have responded, just not with yes, no, or maybe (like those notes wed pass in grade school: Do you like me? Yes, no, maybe. Same principles apply here.) I dont know what your problems are mate, but Ive been in this position myself in the past. I was very fortunate to survive, considering the injuries I sustained, but now I cant understand why I wanted to do it. Heres a suicide prevention number.
And This doesnt cry medical attention at all. And A shotgun is too fast. Turn on a chainsaw and then fall on it. And This is disturbing, and you need help. Professional help. Please get it. Max replies, about an hour after he sent the invitation, and four hours before his to kill myself party was slated to begin: I have no life. Or, replied. The comments from his friends, his replies, all of it has happened. My fault for not checking Facebook sooner. But the way Facebook presents everything, the conversations seem to be happening, always happening, your status remains, until you update it. I am one of Maxs friends because he asked me after, during the first night, if I wanted to be his Facebook friend, and as I had just had sex with him, I didnt want to say no, even though I didnt want to be his Facebook friend and hadnt decided if I wanted to have sex with him again. Status Update: Confused. Not sure I can do anything here. David!: dude are serious? Dont say that. 6 hours ago - Like Max: Im dead serius, and I will do it tonight I just have sum unfinished business 1st 6 hours ago - Like David!: Why? Life is a precious gift, I guess you must be going through a rough time now but it can never be that bad 6 hours ago - Like Max: You have no idea. 6 hours ago - Like David!: what ever is it will pass, youre a young guy u stil have your whole life ahead of u 6 hours ago - Like Max: you mean a few hours? 6 hours ago - Like Mergirl: think of all the things youll miss..think about it committing suicide is a cowards way out 6 hours ago - Like
Max: well if I kill myself my parents will have money we dont even have water at my house right now 6 hours ago - Like At least no one liked any of the comments made to or by Max. Max asked to be my Facebook friend, and I gave him my Facebook name (as I have a fairly common name and, if you search for me, you will find 9,450 versions of me, each with lives and friends and someone named Dave saying that we have to fight, for our right, to PARTAY!!! I should block Dave and his reminders about the PARTAY!!! I havent been in a PARTAY!!! mood since 2007, when I turned 30, and realized that I have not accomplished the things I wanted to accomplish by my thirtieth birthday. I flew to Paris. Last minute. Went alone. 96 hours in the City of Love. Paris is not romantic when you are in Paris alone. The Seine looks dirty and la tour Eiffel looks boring and croissants do not taste like croissants and the coffee tastes August-hot, and buying coffee at Starbucks seems sacrilegious because you are in Paris. But you go into Starbucks for coffee anyway because you are in Paris and you are used to morning coffee and you will not get used to August-hot coffee, no matter how long you stay in Paris. Since a few minutes ago, 11 people confirmed attendance, and four declined the invite. 165 people friends, Facebook friends remained undecided, or had not received the invite, or would check their Facebook account tomorrow, or two Tuesdays from now, or in a month, and Maxs invite will be there, waiting, and the party (PARTAY!!!) will have happened, and Max will be dead. Or not. He wasnt all doom-and-gloom the night I met him at a bar. I had been with friends. He had been with friends. One of my friends approached one of his friends. Max and I ended up talking, then dancing, and then Max gave me his phone number and I kissed Max and I called him the next day, and he called me three days later, and we started texting, and six days after meeting, he and I met for sushi and drinks, and then we held hands walking to my car, and then he asked if I wanted to come over, and I wanted to go over because who wouldnt want to go over after a fairly successful (read: not boring) date with a cute guy, but I also wasnt sure if he was someone I wanted to see again, or just someone I wanted to see naked. he said. Next time, I told Max. Max smiled. Next time is fine, He texted, that night: You know, chopsticks only
work when youve split them apart. And I liked him enough to know I wanted to see him naked, and I was almost sure that I wanted to see more of him than just his ass. So when he asked if I wanted to be Facebook friends different from friend friends, you know I said yes, and I warned him that I use Facebook primarily for people with whom I went to high school and random people who have disappeared from my life. I am almost embarrassed by how few Facebook friends I have. Almost. I tell people I have few Facebook friends because I grew up pre-Facebook, and pre-status updates, and pre-everything that todays generation (Im becoming my parents, damnit) takes for granted, and of course I have friends, and I mostly text these friends, and they are on Facebook, but I am too busy to check for updates and games and updates about games. I post pictures to Facebook, and I comment when I have nothing better to do than to check Facebook and see what my friends my Facebook friends are doing. But who the hell cares where you are and with how many people and that youre the mayor or the governor or the fucking president. I doubt the fucking president updates his status on Facebook: On the phone with Russia. Thinking about post-hurricane flooding. The chef is using something spicy that doesnt agree with my stomach. Fuck. David!: have you thought about the suffering youll put your parents through? 4 hours ago - Like Wanda: Seriously. You fucked in the head. 4 hours ago - Like Max: They know Im doing it. Their the ones who talked me into it 4 hours ago - Like David!: I dont believe it, but if its true, dont believe them. 4 hours ago - Like Mergirl: You need to call me. Still have my number? 4 hours ago - Like Max: If I die, they get $750,000 4 hours ago - Like
David!: Do you think thats what youre worth? 4 hours ago - Like Max: I guess. 4 hours ago - Like I kind of hate Max for asking me to be his Facebook friend and then inviting me to his suicide party. I mean, I fucked him three times, and we made out a lot, and we held hands a couple of times, and we split the bill for two dinners and a lunch, and he made me breakfast twice, and we exchanged 214 text messages, and he loaned me a T-shirt the morning after the first night I slept over, and I accepted his friend request and returned the favor, and I knew after the second night that I really only liked seeing him naked and that he liked seeing me naked and not naked, as in, he wanted a boyfriend and I didnt want a boyfriend, so I gently I promise, gently; this suicide party is not because of anything I said or didnt say told him I wasnt in the same place he was and he told me that it was all good and I believed him when he told me it was all good because who doesnt want to believe someone when he or she says that your choosing not to see them again is all good. OK. So I texted him that I didnt want to see him again. And I ignored his seven texts and two voicemails asking if we could talk about things. And I told my friends I couldnt go out with them for a while, because I knew the night I did, Id run into Max, and Id have to talk to Max, because while I can ignore someone by phone; I cannot ignore someone who is standing there asking how things are going, especially not someone with whom Ive had sex. Three times. Status Update: Getting kind of hard thinking about Max. Maybe I should have agreed to a third date. David!: youre just playing with us right? 2 hours ago - Like Wanda: Who cares. He just wants attention. 2 hours ago - Like David!: Dont say that. I think hes going to do it. 2 hours ago - Like Mergirl: No hes not. Do you really think hes going to shoot himself? 2 hours ago - Like
Ray: Most people who want to die dont tell anyone in advance. 2 hours ago - Like David!: Maybe he needs someone to talk him out of it. 2 hours ago - Like Mergirl: I agree with Wanda. He wants attention. 2 hours ago - Like David!: And if he does itwill you be able to look at yourself in the morning? 2 hours ago - Like Wanda: Yes. Not my life. 2 hours ago - Like David!: But youre his friend. 2 hours ago - Like Wanda: Barely know the dude. 2 hours ago - Like Mergirl: I went to high school with him. He was kind of a freak. Video games and comic books. If he had worn a black trenchcoat to school, I dont think anyone would have liked him. 2 hours ago - Like David!: Thats fucked up. 2 hours ago - Like Mergirl: Were entitled to our opinions. 2 hours ago - Like Maybe if I hadnt been to Maxs house, I wouldnt feel like I could do something. 8:30 p.m. Forty-seven attendees. Forget the maybes and the nos. Forty-seven fucking attendees. Would one of them stop Max? Or is it going to be popcorn and wine and a front-row seat for a shot that shouldnt be taken? Like one of those memes (is that the right word?) passed around by Facebook friends. you go? If you are invited to a friends suicide party, would
If you are invited to a friends suicide party, would you try to talk your friend out of committing suicide? Would you throw yourself a suicide party? How many of your friends would you invite? And how many of your friends would you expect to show? I hate these goddamn quizzes and memes. Hate them. Never answer them. Never forward them or like them. Stupid fucking quizzes and memes. Who has time for quizzes and memes? Who has time for Facebook, really? I fall in love with bodies. Lips and legs, knees and elbows, and I fell in love with Maxs widows peak, mostly because he was self-conscious of his widows peak, and I fall in love with self-conscious men. And I fall in love with miserable writers and drunken painters, and raisin-hearted strippers, polymaths, glottal stoppers, theoretical anesthetists, talented composers, distinction, the kindred, beer buddies, big brothers, sounding boards, riots of beard and herringbone, the roaming, nelly butches men with a surplus of character. I fell in love with Max until I no longer fell in love with Max, and I think I could have tried harder to be in love with Max, despite my misgivings and the mediocre sex and the shotgun Max must have, despite his never telling me about the shotgun he must have. Facebook is kind of voyeuristic. Max asked if I wanted him to film us having sex, and I considered his filming us having sex, and I almost said, yes, please film us having sex, but instead I kissed him and he kissed me and I reached for the bottom of his T-shirt and he didnt ask again about filming us having sex and I didnt say, yes, please film us having sex. Status Update: Im glad I didnt ask Max to film us having sex. No one else comments about the event, and no one else RSVPs yes, no, or maybe. All those invites unread. Its Maxs party, and hell cry if he wants to. Cry if he wants to. Cry if he wants to. Then boom. Gallows humor. Maybe if I hadnt been to Maxs house, I wouldnt feel like I could do something. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the
If you were invited to a friends suicide party, and it is a costume party, what costume would you wear?
screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. I refresh the screen. No comments. Nine comes and goes as does 10 as does 11. Midnight soon. I have eaten dinner (whole-wheat pasta, no sauce) and I have had a glass of wine (Riesling, though a red would have been better) and I have showered (hot) and I have avoided my computer until I can no longer avoid my computer. I refresh the screen. The Web page goes white, and then is replaced by a new page: The page you requested was not found. You may have clicked an expired link or mistyped the address. Some web addresses are case sensitive. Return home Go back to previous page
I refresh the screen again. And again: The page you requested was not found. You may have clicked an expired link or mistyped the address. Some web addresses are case sensitive. Return home Go back to previous page
And again: The page you requested was not found. You may have clicked an expired link or mistyped the address. Some web addresses are case sensitive. Return home Go back to previous page
Michael Keel
Pieces of Wayfaring
How to Drink the Beer in Saigon

Kelly Morse
With ice. Slabs arrive at the bar wrapped in canvas bungeed to the back of a motorbike, or jammed between the drivers knees. At dawn by the dock, shirtless men pry chunks off refrigerator-sized pieces only cool space this side of Tibet a wet warehouse sidewalk in an orange breeze slap squares onto racks, weave through garbage women, chickens, Lenin statues where pregnant girls in formless shifts drink tea. At the bar, hands that count money roll the blocks onto towels still dark from last night, bartenders machete corner shards into scabbed plastic cups bucket-rinsed with hundreds of others then the ice and your cup and your beer with the rusty opener that flecks the gold foil into the bottles mouth all come to the table. This is where, if you are new, the trouble comes. Cram melting hunks into the cup, the warm beer a foaming Niagra over sharp clots you wait to disperse to bergs to surprise the lips, until the beers a third water. Instead of worrying about bacteria (ice is always made from boiled water) you should be thinking about formaldehyde used to clarify the beers color. Add enough ice and you wont get sick.
Natural Language
Kelly Morse
In the Philippines people play a game at parties Who can speak in Tagalog the longest before collapsing back into nubby precise English A context of herehere thisthis does not need so many words if everyone at the table sees the same bird the colors tell themselves Greenblue is black on the page which is not the tree Island which really means village old house tendon of market and the family cats unnamed they receive the same gesture from the pointing people as the sea world what does this signify
Egypt
Atar Hadari
You have not lived until youve seen fifty religious Zionist girls all dancing to faith music, every one of them in long sleeves and long skirts, every one with long hair swept up and thrown through the air into the music blaring from the kibbutz sound system. Moving back and forth like a wholesome demand for longing you couldnt really think of laying one of those girls down on the criss-crossed parquet floor, but you cant help wanting to grab one in your arms as they careen about all in one beat, step forward, step back, hair flying, and the form hugging blouse with the sleeves at half mast on their arms after a while it is much more provocative than bare necks, bare collarbones. One step forward, two back, sway, I believe, I believe, with the faith of one God and the girls pull back as if one tide and Hani was always in the front rank and throwing her hair, only she wasnt Jewish. She was Jewish enough to be spat at in the Caucasus as a Yid and Jewish enough to be offered mass conversion (all go dip in the sea) when she got off the plane with her Jewish father the house painter. But he wouldnt hear of it, so here she was, after the army, wanting to be a Jew and dancing with all the seminary girls, Messiah, messiah, messiah. When we first came to kibbutz, Hani talked, the first night we all sat together at the dining hall table, me, my wife and the assorted Russian boys and girls on the course for would-be Jews. She said she had a boyfriend, from the neighbourhood where she lived with an adoptive family when the housepainter ran off. Hes not pretty, so the first night he took me out I
put my glad rags on. If hes not pretty, I should at least be pretty, right? And we sat, talked, the whole night, in his car. Just sat there, didnt do nothing. We were together after that. Where is he now? somebody asked. I dont see him anymore. Its better. Dont want to wonder who hes seeing, while Im here. Hani was the one who, before winter, wandered around in her army issue Golan heights one piece coat with a fur collar. It was only when a new immigrant French Jew asked if she had the right to wear that coat that I heard her say, sheepishly, I didnt give it back after the army. Only then did I click she was walking around in a bill-board saying, Im Jewish. Only no-one was buying. And that French Jew, irritated because he had no right to wear it himself, not having served in the army also wasnt buying. But when the Russian girls lay on the grass outside the tiny school hut between lessons, smoking Pall Malls, Hani was always lying there in her shapeless green lump, as if the army were a spiritual armour to save her from the lions. Hani was always first, when talk came up about the territories, what was conquered, whether by Judah Maccabee or in 67, always the first to say, Is that what we conquered? This drove my wife up the wall, since she felt herself on the other side of the fence Hani was claiming to be inside of. I tended to laugh and say, Were you here in 67? I was here in 67, but I was mainly drooling. I dont remember conquering anything in 67 But then I was on this side of the fence. But Hani talked to us, perhaps because we were not part of
the two little huts she had to share with the Russian girls. We were on our own in a little family flat, a hundred yards off and that much nearer to the synagogue. Off the winding path and on the gravel was a little steel bench that I declared my office and there I sat with my notebook and Hani talked to me, stopping by on her way back from work in the kitchen. Are you kidding me? Ill keep it, but in my own way. Im not going to go crazy. But here Ill tell them what they want. That Devorah, I mean, what does she know? Shes like a kid all day long, running in and out your legs, but if you need something? Where is she? Im going to be like her? I dont think so. Ill keep things, but reasonable. Hani had an adoptive family up north, which set her apart from the Russians. She knew some songs, knew how to light candles at Chanukah, maybe cover her hair if she got married but what she knew was second hand, observed in a tradition keeping family, not a religious one. Then again, she had a family, which was more than the rest of them did, on Passover, and thats what it all came to a head about. Are you going, for Passover? Where? Are you staying here? Hanis face across the bench was sour. My family are going to have everyone there. They need me to help the kids. I cant stay here. They wont let you go? Ill talk to Uzi, she said, her face setting a little, then resuming its usual softness.
Uzi talked over every possible surface of a subject. And Hani liked to listen, and interject a running commentary about our conquests. If Devorah was the head of the conversion course, the maker of decisions Uzi was the deputy, but as we soon realized, Uzi was the air you breathed if you sat in that room for seven months. Uzi was who you heard, day in day out, talking and talking and talking. Uzi was the voice of God, through a tin whistle, tooting from a distant barrack wall. Only here the whistle was close, this close, against your ear, and my wife, for one, despised the very air he breathed since God and he, in her opinion, were not built on the same scale. One day Uzi was teaching a class about the expulsion from Spain, while supposedly working his way through the daily prayers, when he sparked this exchange. A lot of the great prayers are from Spain, because thats where the golden age was for Jews. Then of course, the Jews were expelled, the Catholic Kings fought the Muslims and it all ended. The Christians beat the Muslims? Hanis little face lit up. Yes, they beat the Muslims, Uzi replied, trying to focus once again on the passage of Yehuda HaLevi in front of him. Yay, Hani turned to the class, as if to share a winning goal. I dont believe you, my wife was suddenly on her feet and screaming at the top of her lungs. You think the Catholic Church chasing the Muslims out of Spain is good for
us? You think you would have had it good if youd been one of us in Spain? We were burned and the Muslims let Jews write poetry, that was the golden age. I tried to hush her. She beat my hand away. I will not be quiet, every time you say something stupid like that it shows you understand nothing about it and are just racist about every single person outside that fence She threw the photocopied notes of the festivals across the table and stalked out. Hani turned to Uzi as if to ask what on earth Im not racist, she said, I just think the Arabs getting beat is good. That makes me racist? Not in my neighborhood. When the intifada started, first time, she told me later on the bench, the Arabs rioted round where we live. The next day every single Arab shop had its front broken, the doors kicked in. They didnt riot again. Thats how it is, where I live. My wife came back, after the break. I sat next to her and kept my mouth shut. Uzi had said, when we first came to visit the kibbutz for an interview, Sit in the class with her for a month, help her with the Hebrew. Then you can go up the hill to the yeshiva. The first month passed and I stayed, not to help with Hebrew. Hebrew was not the problem. The problem was holding her down till the seven months passed and we could go in front of judges whod say she was Jewish. I didnt want to go up the mountain and come back to find out shed punched out the rabbi. over. She didnt speak to Hani again until it came to Pass-
Then Uzi came, and watched me working. I was in my own clothes and my own shoes. Nothing was getting dirty except my hands.
We have an invitation for Passover, I said, A family in Safed. Theyd like us to come for Seder. You dont want to spend Passover on kibbutz? she said. What about your host family? Wont they be disappointed? Ive talked to them, I said. I hadnt, but did not think it would be a problem. Things had cooled somewhat after the initial getting to know you stage of invitations every Sabbath evening and I felt there wouldnt be weeping and gnashing of teeth on Seder night if we werent there asking four questions and being embarrassing. Let me think about it, she said, still smiling pleasantly. By the way, she said, I understand youre not working Fridays? Devorah fixed us all up with work, mine was teaching English to the children after school hours. Since there were no after school hours on Friday morning, I spent the time doing a little translation on the side in our little flat. That was how we could afford to stay on kibbutz without earning anything that winter. Ive put you on the rota for tomorrow, she said. Youll work in ground maintenance with the other boys. What will I do for clothes? I said. Theyve got clothes just for you. The next day, I went along to the shed the Russian boys go to. Two men inside were sitting and drinking coffee, discussing last nights TV. Nobody from kibbutz worked on maintenance. One or two, in supervisory positions, were kibbutz members. These two in the shed were Bet Shean guys, dark skin, curly hair, quoting a local version of Saturday Night Live to each other. I waited for the slightly fatter ones rendition of a sketch to reach a natural break and asked, Are there clothes for me? Are you here today? the skinnier one asked. He was the boss. The other one was telling him stories. They said I was on the rota.
I went to talk to Devorah, caught her outside the dining hall, picking up her mail from the pigeon holes. We got our mail in a little box labelled Conversion Course and all our mail came in that one little box. If you didnt pick your mail up somebody would tell you, You got mail. Like it wasnt enough to share a room the size of a toilet with them five hours a day. Like you wanted them to know who in the outside world thought you were worth a stamp. Devorah, I said. Yes? she turned on the step where she stood, smiled, apprehensively, but smiled. She didnt like me asking tricky questions. She looked as if I was about to ask something embarrassing about the Maccabees.
If youre on the rota, youre on the rota. Listen, you remember this one? the fat guy said. Are there shoes for me? I said. What you need shoes for? the skinny guy said. You going hiking? Thats funny, the fat guy said. I thought I had to do gardening. The others went out in the truck to do gardening. Tell you what, he got up and took a black plastic sack out of the drawer. He unpeeled it from a pack of them and opened it like he was laying a matadors cape in front of me. Take this, pick up all the leaves in front of the dining hall. Thats what we have to do today. Before Sabbath. You dont need shoes for that. Thats funny, the fat guy said. I went and stood at one end of the square outside the dining hall. There are trees on the grass verge overlooking it, and a grocery store with bikes next to it, a long wall, and at the end of it the dining hall and the mail boxes. Not quite a playing field, but a decent space where people dance, a band plays wedding music, many tables are spread with food, people come and go dropping crumbs. Its doing a job like that that makes you realize the kibbutz is a fiction. If you come from outside, they tell you, your first year is spent doing manual jobs. Great, you think, thats great. Everybody starts on the ground. Only it aint like that. Because its not what you do the first year that matters. Its what you choose to spend your life doing later that counts. And how you look at the schmuck clearing leaves off the yard. How you look at him is how you feel about tilling that ground. An English woman working in computers on kibbutz went by on her way into the dining hall and looked nonplussed. Oh, they have you doing that? she said. She smiled and walked on by to get her mail. Then Uzi came, and watched me working. I was in my own clothes and my own shoes. Nothing was getting dirty except my hands. A little dust maybe, but it was mainly bending down all the time that was getting tiring. Watch your back, Daniel, he said. I used to work, in the fish ponds and the fields, before I ruined my back. Most interesting work I ever did on kibbutz was the fish-ponds. Always something different to do, every morning. Now I teach because I ruined my back. You take a rest, he said, then went
in to get his mail. Finally another teacher on the course, a jolly man the size of a double fridge, with sad eyes but a deep singing voice, Ubi, came by. Theyve got a leaf blower for that, he said. Didnt they give it to you? This isnt Egypt, he said. I said, Im nearly finished. I dont need the leaf blower now. I wouldnt work like that, he said. And he went in to get his mail. I hadnt filled the sack when the skinny guy came on the truck and said I should break for lunch. I said, I havent finished. He said, Its clean enough. There were still leaves near the path, outside the dining hall. I looked at them, then threw the sack of leaves in the back of the truck and went to shower. I saw Devorah on her way to get the mail. I nodded wearily and walked past. Oh Daniel, she stopped me. I went back. You can go away for Seder. I asked your family. We smiled and I walked away to tell my wife we could be somewhere real for the festival. Hani ran into me as I was walking up the path. Were out of here for Seder, I told her, I couldnt contain myself. It was like leaving on an aeroplane, not taking a bus north for a day out. Uzi hasnt said anything, she said. Just go, I said. I cant, she said, I got thrown out of one course already. This place is my last chance. Its Seder, I said. Youve got a family to go to. I know, she said. She was actually near tears, but kept on smiling, smiling sourly. Uzi said I could go, but Devorah minded. I hope hell let me. Whatll you do if he wont? I cant stand it, she said. I have a real family. I have to be with them. Will you take me with you? Hani and my wife were still not speaking at the time. I mean, one wasnt exactly able to avoid the other, in a room the size of two desks laid end to end, but things werent
exactly cocktail party cordial. The thought of them sitting in silence in the back of a car all the way up north did not appeal. Then again, Hani did have a car. That would make things rather faster than waiting for a bus up north, if they let her go. Her adoptive brother was meant to let her have his wheels, if they were fixed. Everything depended on somebody else in Israel, even if you werent adopted, converted, somebodys responsibility. Something always depended on somebody else, nothing ever just came.
place. We sat outside the kebab place and had a plate of meat and fries, bottle of malt beer, some hummus. This was small change in English money and even if we werent earning on kibbutz, the translation paid for it. But one night we were in the mall, the week before Seder, and were just going outside to have our kebab when we ran into Hani. Hi, she said. Hi Hani, my wife said. I got the car, Hani said to me. Did I tell you?
Thats great, I said. I saw my wife throwing wet clothes out of the front door of our apartment. That was the routine, she came home But I cant go, she said. The face like she was eating from the dairy and took off the manure drenched clothes to lemons. get in the shower, then slipped them out the door. It was not Uzi said no? my wife said. unusual to see a small naked arm slipping out past the door Its not even him! Hani wailed. Its Devorah! Uzid dropping a huge pair of cow pat caked trousers, then slipping in again to come out with a sodden tee-shirt, maybe a let me go. little smelly baseball cap she used to cover her hair. Then Id We didnt know what to say. come in and find a small, soapy nude woman in the shower, He says hell talk to her, but he wont. I know he singing and going Haloo over the running water. Then Id wont. She looked chivvy her out and like she wanted someask what happened Everybody starts on the ground. Only it aint like thing to hit. But it had in the dairy. Usually been moved out of her I didnt have much that. Because its not what you do the first year grasp. Anyway, she gossip myself, on a that matters. Its what you choose to spend your said, sounding like Friday, translation beshe would cry if she life doing later that counts. ing considerably less had a place to do it eventful than cows, in private, I cant go even if the language was alive, not as it had been until reeven if he lets me. Ive got nothing to wear. cently, peacefully comatose. I wanted to laugh, but she looked serious. Were going, I said, through the shower door. Its your family isnt it? Does it matter? Yahay, came the cry over the sound of the water. Everybody wears clothes, she said, Good stuff. Its Can you stand to share a car with Hani? special. What do I have here? Look at that dress over there. Only if she takes Arab hitchhikers. Does she have a We went and looked at the dress. It had no sleeves car? she said, emerging in a towel. and was low cut. You couldnt possibly wear it on a religious If she can get a car, you find the Arab hitch-hikers, kibbutz, but then, that was possibly the point. I said. Its a hundred shekels, I said. Let her find Arab hitch-hikers, she said, Shes the Yes but she doesnt have a hundred shekels, my one who wants to be a Maccabee. wife said impatiently. Occasionally, we would go out on a week night. You couldnt go out on Friday nights, because of the Sabbath, and Saturday nights, unless you had a car, were a pain to get anywhere. But wed go occasionally, for our sanity, into Bet Shean, to the market to buy a few sweets, maybe out to the tiny mall at the edge of the desert, where there was a kebab Do you want me to buy it? I said to Hani. Could you do that? She sounded incredulous. None of the boys and girls on the course seemed to have money. I guess they were younger, and Jewish parents that provided security were not part of their armoury, or why would they be there. I can give you the money next week. My brother
owes me. What if Uzi doesnt let you go? I said. You buy the dress, my wife said. We skipped beer and kebabs. We walked past the kebab place as we went out of the mall with Hani. She was beaming with her little bagged dress under her arm. You going to eat? she said. No, my wife said, I had sweets. Yeah, I said, We had something. You going to wait for a ride? No, well walk through the fields, my wife said, Tithadshi, she added. dont I? Its lovely isnt it? Hani beamed. I have to go now,
You cant get back before festival, he said slowly, But you have to work tomorrow. You cant stay up there. Get back to kibbutz tomorrow morning. Early. Be here in time for work. Devorah is very angry. He hung up. Devorah just found out? I said. Hani pressed down the accelerator and laughed. We spent the festival with the family of my wifes first Jewish friend in London. Yehoshua led his Seder service decked out head to toe in a caftan and Turkish fez, tassle dangling down his back. Why? To provoke the children to ask questions, he boomed, That is the central commandment of the festival. Otherwise you could eat your bitter herbs quietly and not make such a fuss about some trivial insurrection by a bunch of possibly not Jewish slaves somewhere in the middle East. No questions, no festival. Pass the hard boiled egg. There were seventeen family members around two tables, and no one mentioned the word conversion the two days we were there. When we got back and bounced into the dining room to check the mail we ran straight into Hani. Theyre not talking to me, she whispered. Who? The Russians. Why? I got away. We got away too. They think Im bad, but I dont care, she smiled again, They can not talk to me until were Jewish for all I care. I can take anything now, and she walked away, back to the kitchen, where she was always asked to clean the toilets, no matter whose turn it was. She turned, took a hundred shekels from her pocket, slid it in the converts mailbox, and ran.
Its Seder, I said, In my family its the only thing we kept. In my family its huge, Hani said. We said goodbye. When we walked in the field my wife said, Theyre all her family. How do you mean? The lights of Bet Shean were behind us and we were picking our way over the ploughed furrows. Cars whizzed past on our right every few minutes, along the highway. Shes going to join something. And youre not? Itll be nice doing Seder, she said quietly. Tell me itll be nice. Itll be nice, I said. We were in Hanis car headed north on the morning of Seder when her phone rang. Dont answer it, I said. She looked at the dial. Its Uzi, she said. She pressed the button and the voice came over the speaker. It was as if kibbutz had followed us, up the highway. Where are you? Uzi asked. Im nearly in Safed, she said. We were nowhere near, but we had left a while ago and he wouldnt know when.
The Girls
Coop Lee
we hump wearing gasmasks. like trenched warriors; our smoke; our eyes; our one-on-one genitals rubbing in ruckus. we drink and drink, and run on luck. huckleberry girl; you & i hibernating just long enough to know eachothers bittersweet secrets. i work fast-food to fund my flavors. drink. write. fuck. i dream of all the girls ive ever loved; or still love. i guess you never stop. the one who snuggles shiny-shiny objects and gargles dick contently; she has a beautiful heart wholly imbalanced: libra. the one who sets the room on fire and laughs while standing in that same fire; she does nothing but spurt passion upon the moments: aries. the one who thinks on life so heavy and weighs you for only your imperfections; she digs her hands and arms into the sand capturing feeling: virgo. the one who knows you best and knows even better shes far beyond your league; she has deafening dreams that drive her further: sagittarius. the one who fucks you fiercest but displays sudden and crippling bouts of madness; surely she means no harm: gemini. their shoes; their dresses; their cars juicing music; their x-boyfriends wriggling from out of woodwork and moving fists in my general direction. worse so; cold relentless words. then come the young blondes with tight pussies. their cameras following light. truth was; i awoke in the hospital; alone. no visitors; no girls; no one even knowing. so i imagine her beside my bed ::: her warming hands gently to my face. cantelope-cut drinking vessels; the brilliance of just one person as she makes warmth within us. our barefeet on the bedtop. we stare at the ceiling; i stare at ceilings; different ceilings; different bedtops. your rosy buttocks as you move across the floor toward mandarins in the kitchen. you laugh like so easy and take photos of it all; the world in motion; instilled; the day; spent with my arms and eyes eating you closer; and closer; so close.
i rarely give my best sexual performances in one-time sittings; but thats all ill allow, to spare my heart the trouble. the seasons inform us; and the girls into women. women with their diverse kissing lips; kiwi kissing lips as we sit atop our bicycles. and if i give it to her strong; she will be woman. into the dark hard; and make love harder. she will be woman. we shower together. i soap up and along her breasts; up the backs of her legs; her ass. her face so peaceful as we dry eachother with just one towel. our hair; that sexed wet. and she grips my balls; throttles atop::: right there in the pink fog. half-asleep stumbling home from work; the morning blue frosted streets. i think of only one; but she/you lay tucked in a faraway bed; coin-op man-child, his clement body beside you. the bar siphons at my so-bleedy need for contact; and touch; and legs, man. my hands grip mostly ass; but the legs; they will always lead. her raspberry bloomed gash; wet; and my shape shift; purple wap. as young cannibals; we feast in festivus. and then::: theres this other girl who writes you poems. she comes from out of nowhere; from out of mossen remains. and flatters you with spatters you; of ink; of idea. she gleams and speaks in holy bang electric. the musky smells of you two morphs solving your mammalian hunger; and you bolster in strategic love games just to stay afloat; you hold back as primates so rarely do; as the galactics had hoped; and they penny your patience with glimmering-life-survived. and her; the girl. the girl who writes poems on your skin as beautiful and as fleeting as birds coiled in the downing light. the stunner that is ::: life. and life was so easily ignored before you into i & her into you gripped our bodies so close. our hearts; closer. years from now ill be a confused old man driving around in the rain; remembering to my best these girls; these women; these moments that made my life.
Sean Lotman
Gros Michel
Doc Suds
Imagine a new color. One ignored by the artists pallet and childs pinwheel. A tint lost in the chambers of a prism. Fallen off the underside of a rainbow. Now imagine a new banana. One the same yellow youre used to. Same waxy skin curving stiff over soft fruit. Same Chiquita sticker clinging its body. Same bright bundle. Same, same but different. A banana with taste slightly askew. Sweeter. Stronger. Such a banana once grew. Ask your grandpa. Every Sunday he bought the scimitar-shaped sunbeams for 16 cents a bunch at the Piggly Wiggly. This was before the Panama Disease. A fungus that launches its invasion in reverse. Up roots. Tricks the tree into oozing gummy gels that gunk up guts. Leaves wilt. Wither under a lambasting sun. Scorched body and burned fruit, an entire species extinct. Lost from the groves and grocery isles. Before your bright yellow jelly-beans and popsicles, your grandpa painted his tongue a shade of banana you cant imagine.
The Great Genghis Kahn

Doc Suds
I raid dumpsters. A loofah abandoned. Folding petals of soft lather. Why not bring it home? Rising out a mountain streams icy tug, mud and grit grip the great Kahns toes. The empires finest robes fail to calm his shivers. In the garbage, soft cotton socks wadded atop a tube of Crest Cavity Protection. Disease on his breath, Genghis Kahn has no minty splash to soothe the taste. Blisters sting his thighs raw after riding bareback across a bland expanse of silence. No guitar chatter or talk radio for the journey home. An animal-skin tent stinking from trapped smoke. I breathe deep. The clean waft of fresh linens from the Laundromat on 9th. I rest my head against a sagging couch cushion. In a time before pillows or chairs, the worlds greatest conqueror crouches for his nightly feast. A dull boil of potatoes. Horse gristle and mutton tatters. Burn of thistle alcohol clumped with goat milk. I uncover a crumpled bag of Blazing Hot Nacho BBQ chips and tip a corner to my face. The crumbs, crisp and salty and wonderful, drop into my mouth. A scatter of fallen villages.
AMERICA,
By Ce Cardiff
The Multiculti Frontier:
Bienvenido Santos The Scent of Apples

It can be said that the story of America is, on the one hand, the story of European interest in expanding its territorial holdings, and, on the other, the story of immigrant people. It begins with its discovery under the auspices of Spanish interest, expands with the subsequent settlements of the territory by people from all walks of life, and continues, with no seeming end, with each new immigrant body that enters its premises. With such a diversity of faces and backgrounds, it seems natural then that the questionWhere are you from (originally)?should eventually come up during encounters with people so outwardly different from ourselves. But in a pluralist nation where so many just want to belong, the question of wherefrom becomes an indication of ones separateness.
Where are you from (originally)? This to me has never been an innocent question simply because it is born of the awareness of one of us being culturally or ethnically differentand at particular points in American history, of one us being Un-American. It anticipates a distancing by the one who queries and creates a space that the one being queried is expected to address. And since no cultural enterprise of this nature is ever really that innocent (it cant be anymore at that point), it is imbued not only with a kind of ready knowledge of the materiality of others presumably different from oneself, but also with the more nettled layer of awareness that each party doesnt just carry these inherited perceptions and assumptionsbut that each knows the other knows they carry them. This kind of consciousness about what possibly the reader assumes and expects is attendant in Achebes writings. Not to mediate the goings-on of the Igbo clan with anthropological expositions is one example of the way the author subverts these. Also, Achebes work must be situated in his commitment to restore African literature, that is, to write an Africa that is coming from within and so would be different from the construct (as a continent so primitive that it has no sense of chronology and history) established by Western-European literary tradition. But what of the United States with its body of diverse narratives from authors who have experienced this distancing? Its own literary productions intuit too a reader who carries certain perceptions and assumptions of people different from himself. Situating this initial enterprise of asking that questionWhere are you from (originally)?in the practices and traditions of writing fiction, of now seeing that space as a creative space within which a world will present itself by way of language, the question arises as to how these authors, writing from the perspective of the one deemed culturally and ethnically different, have addressed this question of wherefrom and how they have negotiated outsider perceptions and assumptions in their narratives. Here, Id like to situate this question of wherefrom in stories that have immigrants as characters. Im interested in how such characters are drawn and in what way authors use them to define that space that query creates. Bienvenido Santos (1911-1996) was born in the Philippines, at a time when the archipelago was under U.S. colonial rule. His birth falls almost 10 years after the end of the Filipino-American War (1899-1902) and 24 years before the Commonwealth Period (1935-1956). The languages that encompass his background were the compulsory English taught at schools and universities, his mothers Pampangan language, and the national language of Tagalog. In 1932, he graduated from the University of the Philippines and left for
the States in 1941, as a scholar in pursuit of a Masters in English at the University of Illinois. The events of World War II, the subsequent exile from his wife and daughters he had left behind in order to study, is a critical period for Santos and informs his writings. He would follow through his studies at the universities of Columbia (in 1942, with Whit Burnett, who would publish Santoss first writings), Harvard (1946, when the Philippines became independent of the U.S.), and much later Iowa (1956, as a Rockefeller Foundation fellow), where he enrolled in the Writers Workshop. By the time he wrote his short story, The Scent of Apples, in 1979, Santos was already a published writer of three novels (two in 1965 in the Philippines; a third in 1977 titled The Praying Man was banned for publication by the Marcos government under Martial Law). He was also an American citizen of three years. The short story appears as part of a larger, similarly titled collection of stories, which is the only known work by Santos that was published in the United States at the time (in 1980 by the University of Washington Press). No sense of complexity can be gotten out of his story unless it is understood within the time it is taking place sometime after the United States has entered the Second World War, when troops were being sent out to the Pacific and when many Filipinos found themselves on an enforced stay in the Statesas well as the historical framework of Filipino-American experiences in the United States and the particular events to which Santoss writing responds. This framework has been defined in the works of Fred Cordova (Filipinos: Forgotten Asian Americans) and others as waves of Filipinos entering the United States: The first is loosely marked at the turn of the 19th century, when people of the Philippines, the site of the splendid little war and a newly acquired territory for the U.S., arrived as plantation and farm workers, and through early 1900s, when in addition to these workers, students were recruited by the U.S. interested in providing their little brown brother an American education and a more civilized way of life. The late 1940s marks the second wave, when U.S. recruitment of soldiers of the Philippine military to serve in the American military, on the promise of citizenship and benefits, somewhat mitigated American attitudes toward Filipinos as an economic threat, and therefore, a social problem. Later, these soldiers found themselves ineligible under the Rescision Act of 1946, the year also when the Philippines voted for independent status from the U.S. The third wave occurs when the restrictive national origins quota system of the 1930s was lifted by the Hart-Celler Act of 1965 and when U.S. job market demand for professionals such as doctors and engineers allowed Philippine-educated and college degree-bearing applicants into the country in
greater numbers. Sam Chan (Families with Pilipino Roots) points to a fourth wave comprised of political exiles entering the U.S. in the years comprising Ferdinand Marcoss reign and the decade even after his overthrow in 1986. Indios and so-called Cajun Filipinos precede all of these waves, with the first group settling in 16th century Morro Bay, California, and the later group in 18th century Louisiana, after having jumped ship from Spanish galleons. The history of Filipino diaspora includes men and women, the underclass and the privileged, the illiterate and the formally educated. Over the course of the 20th century, they arrived stateside either as U.S. nationals or as Filipino citizens. They experienced racism. They experienced violence. Miscegenation laws applied to them. The Scent of Apples can be interpreted as a series of encounters within encounters (between reader and work, between the recently naturalized American author and American readers, between countries and cultures, between first and second wave Filipinos), a series of movements, working around and maintaining the same definite space or divide within the story. The space has two functions. It regulates the narrative structure and works as a presence symbolic of the distance between people, countries, cultures, and classes. It is a divide that, though addressed, we know can never be solved away for good, even with the best of intentions. The common thread of these encounters is a narrator who contributes spare details of his own life (we know that hes educated, a figure of some renown that he gets written up in newspapers, a first class Filipino), whose character, in both sense of the word, becomes an archetypal projection that subverts notions of Filipinos as poor and uneducated that was conceived by the presence of the first wave of Filipinos (mostly men). The story is written in a nostalgic past tense, first-person narrative and takes place in the Midwest in October. A man (the narrator himself) on a usual speaking engagement encounters in his (we assume, white) audience of American friendsreally studentsat a college in Kalamazoo another like himself (brown): a Filipino. The encounter, however, doesnt come from without but from talks about what the Philippines is like and what Filipinos are like, particularly the women. It appeared that they wanted me to talk about my country; they wanted me to tell them things about it because my country had become a lost country. Everywhere in the land the enemy stalked. Over it a great silence hung; and their boys were there, unheard from, or they were on their way to some little known island on the Pacific, young boys all, hardly
men, thinking of harvest moons and smell of forest fire. It was not hard talking about our own people. I knew them well and loved them. And they seemed so far away during those terrible years that I must have spoken of them with a little fervor, a little nostalgia. In the open forum that followed, the audience wanted to know whether there was much difference between our women and the American women. I tried to answer the question as best as I could, saying, among other things, that I did not know much about American women, except that they looked friendly, but differences or similarities in inner qualities such as naturally belonged to the heart or to the mind, I could only speak about with vagueness. While I was trying to explain away the fact that it was not easy to make comparisons, a man rose from the rear of the hall, wanting to say something. In the distance, he looked slight and old and very brown. Even before he spoke, I knew that he was, like me, a Filipino. Im a Filipino, he began, loud and clear, in a voice that seemed used to wide open spaces, Im just a Filipino farmer out in the country. He waved his hand towards the door. I left the Philippines more than twenty years ago and have never been back. Never will perhaps. I want to find out, sir, are our Filipino women the same like they were twenty years ago? Striking to me is how Santos structures subtle tensions, maintains distance, on the simple premise of a question-and-answer session: The feeling of loss for American soldiers generated by the geographical distancenot to mention the lack of press that further elaborates upon this sense of lossmotivates the audience to want the narrator to speak about the Philippines and its people. The narrator addresses the audiences desire readily (It was not hard talking about our own people). However, what he says about Filipinos, the kind of people they are, we never receive as readers of the story. We are to understand that what description he gives of Filipinos as a people must have been in line with the narrators love for them and enough of an answer to assuage the audiences concerns, anchor their perceptions that the Islands is a very real place and that their boys who are out there are not lost. That is what is happening on the surface of things in the world of the story. What may not be so apparent to the audience that is made apparent to the reader is that the image of Filipinos the narrator provides isnt one
pologists, and writers. I am interested in the idea of necessity or desire or appetite here, of how such projections/language come out of these feelings. I am further interested in what these constructs inevitably reveal about the speakers/projectors, as opposed to their subjects. The narrators conciliatory manner regarding the image of Filipino women comes out of a kind of necessity or desire, but not, however, appetite. First, the narrators conciliatory act toward his audience must be understood as coming from a shared feeling of loss and distance generated by the events of the global war at the time the story is taking place. The narrators second act of How Santos then builds upon these projections occonciliation (toward Fabio) must be understood as coming curs at a turn in the discussion when the narrator is asked from his recognition of Fabios own situation of expatriation, to say something about the differences and similarities behis sensitivity to Fabios loss and distance that is peculiar to tween American women (who are present in the story) and his even older state of exile. And here, too, a further refineFilipino women (who are absent). And again, we are only told ment of this act of conciliation, which Santos encodes symby the narrator how he tried his best to answer this question bolically in the narrative: what act of conciliation the narand he gives us an indication of what he had said by what rator pays to Fabio is symbolic of the kind that is steeped in little he recalls: American women seemed to him friendly, Filipino tradition of the Mano (literally, hand in Spanish) which understandably is the safest answer to give if you that one pays to ones elders and the experiences they have dont really know. As he wends his way toward explaining carried regardless of the divisions of class, gender, regional the difficulties of language, polimaking rote comparisons between It appeared that they wanted me to talk about my tics, educational background, and American and FilSancountry; they wanted me to tell them things about religion. ipino women that tos symbolically he feels is being it because my country had become a lost country. places this symexpected of him bolic gesture and Everywhere in the land the enemy stalked. by his audience, a the divisions it further shift into transcends in line the discussion ocwith the egalitarian notions of American democracy that curs, in the appearance of the character, Celestino Fabia, a the American soldiers, for example, are trying to protect from poor apple farmer. Fabia asks his question to which the narJapanese Occupation of the Islands. This symbolic aspect of rator finds himself consciously, heavily weighing what he the conciliation the narrator pays to Fabio is important, and needs to say: [A]s I look toward my countryman, I must give Santos weighs this against notions of class consciousness him an answer that would not make him so unhappy. Sureexhibited in the story (by way of Fabios open claims that he ly, all these years, he must have held on to certain ideals, ceris poor, his recognition of the narrators education, and his tain beliefs, even illusions peculiar to the exile. The way the description of the narrator to his disbelieving American wife narrator manufactures an answer for Fabia is by first asking as a first class Filipino; by way of the narrators observahim what he remembers of Filipino women twenty years tions of the countryside that surrounds Fabios home and his ago. Only after finding out what this mental image has been internal comments of the wifes hands as coarse and ugly). for the old man is the narrator thus able to answer his quesIn light of these ideas at work, it wouldnt make sense for the tion without disappointing him (changed on the outside but narrator to refuse what he believes the elder Fabio wants to still god-fearing, faithful, modest, nice). hear him say. The narrators answer can be seen as coming I want to focus on the notion of conciliation and out of those necessities. He provides it out of Fabios recognizhow thats particularly drawn in this work, pitting it against able need to hear that things havent so drastically changed critical notions of this loaded term. As Said and Achebe each in the Philippines in the past twenty years that it has forgothave noted, projections of the Other is part of a language ten him and surpassed hima further elaboration of those mediated by an interested colonializing body of rulers, gov- feelings of loss and distance that is palpable in the audierning officials, missionaries, academics, historians, anthro- ences concerns for their sons and husbands out in the Pacific that is created out of mere conciliation. Rather, it is itself an answer tempered by the narrators own fervor and nostalgia. He may know and love his people well, yesbut this is his legitimating statement if he is to provide answers as to what Filipinos as a people are like, a unified body who cant speak for themselves to the unified body of Americans the narrator is addressingbut what the narrative drives at is that he is providing a projection of Filipinos born of his own sense of distance from his countrymen out there in the Islands where the American soldiers are as well.
War II, the distances between loved ones that the events have enforced, the sense of helplessness and longing that comes out of that, is evocative of the situation of exile that There is a question now as to who the author anFilipinos in the U.S. experience. Theres also something else ticipated his readers to be: Americans in generalboth by thats working in this story: the fact that this is also taking birth and naturalizedexiled Filipinos like himself who place at a time when the Philippines was a part of the United were still waiting to get home, exiled Filipinos like himself States, when Americans were just newly finding out about who at some point had to necessarily decide that they would other U.S. territories beyond the mainland. Hence, when the never get home (and by extension, possibly not die and be narrator speaks to his audience, he is an American speaking buried at homea critical aspect to Filipino identity). What to Americansa situation that echoes the relationship that feelings of loss Santos may have felt that informs the story will occur between author and reader through this story. That Where are you from (originally)? Within the context of the narrator is drawn and treated this question, Santos shows by way of this story that as a seeming outsider within this American community seems to the one who queries and the one being queried are in me evocative of the distance I described that is created at the outfact coming from the same, albeit expansive, place. set of consciousness of one of us being ethnically and culturally different and the inevitable question that concretizes this also could have been exacerbated by the relative newness of perception. Where are you from (originally)? Within the conhis citizenship. In a preface to the collection, dated April 1979, text of this question, Santos shows by way of this story that Santos wrote of his realizations: the one who queries and the one being queried are in fact Indeed, I seem to be drawing into this exile othcoming from the same, albeit expansive, place. What space is ers close to me who, right now, are ready to come any created between the two is here treated as a kind of creative, time they can, just when my wife and I are thinkfraternal, utopian space out of which a language is necessaring of going home. Oh, yes, for good, why not? All ily communicated if only to dispel the sense of helplessness exiles want to go home. Many of the Filipinos in the and loss each party is feeling, even if momentarily. United States, as in these stories, never return, but The fraternal sense of unity that is so important to in their imagination they make the journey a thouthe storys perspective has its consequences: the projections sand times, taking the slowest boats because in their of Filipino women as god-fearing, faithful, modest, and nice, dreamworld time is not as urgent as actual time their projected similarity with American women based on passing, quicker than arrows, kneading their flesh, these traits, are as much devices that service the fraternal orcrying on their bones. Some fool themselves into der that Santos constructs. And this would have been satisthinking that theirs is a voluntary exile, but it is not. factory if Santos just had made a choice of either eliminating The one who stay here to die know this best. Their last the character of Ruth (Fabios wife) altogether or doing somethoughts are of childhood friends, of parents long thing more with her or even just allowing her to say somedead, old loves, of familiar songs and dances, odors thing. But the most that she is made to say comes through of home like sweat and sun on brown skin or scent of her husband: Oh Ruth cant believe it. She cant believe it, calamondin fruit and fresh papaya blossoms. he kept repeating [] I say to her Im bringing you a first class Still, there was no doubt that Santos accepted the Filipino, and she says, aw, quit kidding, theres no such thing United States as his home and certainly, he did describe him- as first class Filipino. Ruth gets her comeuppance for havself as a writer who wrote American stories about Filipinos ing made that remark. When the narrator sees her, she is in America (I belong to the literature of two great countries, described as a fat, not very young anymore, blond woman he would write to his wife, Beatriz). whose smile is pathetic and whose hands have grown coarse Whats striking about The Scent of Apples is not from labor (though granted, he feels bad that he should note that it is haphazardly negotiating all of these unwieldy feel- this). All Ruth does at that point is wordlessly stand by as the ings, but that it is attempting to strike a unified note with men eat and serve them dinner (I got the impression that the encounters that happen in the story. The events of World she was like Harpo Marx with his magic trench coat, comand in the narrators private concerns as to the destinies of his countrymen.
ing in and out of an invisible kitchen in their ramshackle of a house, bearing unending supplies of things to eat. Ruth brings drinks, fried chicken, rice, green peas, and corn. She remains standing as the men eat. She goes back and forth between table and kitchen with even more food). In this sense, she becomes like Flauberts Kuchuk Hanem, a flexible, fantastical device: Shes there, individually and separately from the American audience to whom the narrator has spoken, to represent the single American voices who dont believe that there may be other kinds of Filipinos beyond the kind that Fabio represents. As a member of the underclass, her comments may be representative of the prejudices that communities on the poverty line exhibited against migrant workers encroaching on already meager job opportunities. Or she may be there to offset perceptions of Americans (blond women especially) as rich, privileged, eternally young and beautiful people by Santoss readership in the Philippines. Even as Santos attempts her redemption as a full characterby way of Fabios climactic account of Ruths dedication to him that he imparts with the narratorScent of Apples swerves away from treating Fabios recall of the topic of Filipino and American women and the potentially uncomfortable issues it anticipates. The two reach their destinationback at the narrators hoteland the story ends (though not without the narrator bidding Fabio to tell his wife and son that he loves them). As it is, Ruth remains an enigma: a kind of hefty Eve and Lilith figure in a shanty apple orchard thrown up against the ethereal, Madonna-like images of Filipino women. Her presence in the fictionalized fraternal world order serves as an awkward reminder of why she necessarily cant be made a full-fledged character. I have to think that Ruths presence must strike a really uncomfortable equation that American women are just like the Filipino women back home (Ruths a nice girl, said Fabia, like our own Filipino women). It has to be an uncomfortable notion that the mostly male migrant workers who came to the United States from the Philippines to earn money for families back home dont just strike relationships with white women but also marry them. Resigning themselves to the realization that maybe never getting home, they even may have built lives and families separate of the ones they may already had back home. (Away from home, with no Filipino women in sight, these were the circumstances that migrant workers encountered.) So theres another aspect to history thats being blotted out: Ruths lack of complexity points to a cutting short of the implication of similar relationships occurring between American men and Filipino women in the Philippines at the same period of time that Fabio has been in the United States. And this cuts short
the deeper implication of similar relationships happening contemporaneous to the encounter between the narrator and Fabia: interracial relationships with colonialist underpinningsits something that American and Filipino readers alike may not have been ready just yet to acknowledge.
Ode to the Wave Pool

Zachary Medlin
O aqueous simulacrum! How regular your roil beneath Georgias thrashing sun, beneath the wind-whip lashing six rippled flags. Your time-tabled tides surge between safetys warbling whistles, our watery well-being so impregnable under the sun-glassed gaze of teenage future melanoma patients, who sit in the cusp of umbrella-chair shade. Your swell, the convergence between hubris and convenience, chlorinated chaos emulator bounded by institutional tile grouts hegemonic architecture. How gloriously we lose our experience to your blue innocence, how we drink in the chemical tinged volume of your body and its systematic churn, how we rip our feet, swollen and wizened from trudging the sandpaper chop equivocating your continental shelf. O sea of America! Crash against my body, drag me into your gyre and hold me just once act like you really mean it.
Origami with Scissors

Zachary Medlin
Lines of clothes like clans of paper dolls fall against the ripple kiss of breeze heaving chests of shirts in a ballet played as prophecy, curving the dresses caressed by lapping prairie tongues, plunging necklines arrow toward earth, where first we learned the arcane equation, conjugating singular form from plural a girl and a boy clothed only in each inch of each other, sweat-sheened as a preened and ecstatic revival-tent preacher spent and buckled from laying splayed hands upon ardent bodies whose eyes fever and spool from urges surging a prayer for touching divine.
Ran Xia
Soldier Boys, and their Strength from Elsewhere
Hegemonized
Joanne Young
Ive never cried while fucking. Ill hover on the cusp, writhe against the rigid planes and wait hanging between frag-mented phrases-sigh between diaspora-while the hemisphere gathers between my still thighs and becomes port pooled in the sallow alcoves beneath my yolkd neck, from which he takes like a leering sailor, looking for his quick Geishan fix from dock to pier, because my skin becomes sand against thick fingers, while his purple mouth excavates for oil, erases my slanted face, my name refracted in his dis-Oriented eyes. You see, I cant afford to cry while fucking.
Mahjong Marching
Changming Yaun
When a crow chats with another crow intimately, or a dog writes poetry on my frosted lawn, can we still see ourselves as humans capable of modern behaviour? hongzhong (Red Middle) While my mind tries to find a way Out of the labyrinth Walled with thick wishes My body is left behind, wandering Like a headless fly flying around In a vast desert, another labyrinth, unwalled facai (Prosperity) As the whole world keeps running amuck in its thin and pale dreams drifting like mists I stand still, watching in dark stillness Afraid to awake and shock All the dreamers at midnight To a shameful death baiban (Whilte Board) Since my parents hurriedly Put this yellowish ticket into my hand I have been trying, trying really hard To catch the right bus Running fast somewhere Before it expires shortly
Iraq
Susan Dale
Clouds lying flat over frowsy treetops Waving in primeval prophesies And the priestess of death On exodus to a crescent moon Carrying her shadows as she floats Among half-length apparitions holding Sacrificial lambs Christians and Muslims bow to the east And murmur invocations to a sun god Wearing a dark mask Listening to black birds with sword tongues Crowing dirges To the ghostly steed from Revelations Stamping across The hollow backbone of earth Leaving in his wake Trails of terror And bones seeping with the black blood of oil
contriButors
Susan Dale writes regularly for print magazine, WestWard Quarterly, Pegasus and Hudson View. Online she has poems and fiction on Ken * Again, Smoking Poet, Eastown Fiction, and Jerry Jazz Musician, Tryst 3, Word Salad, and Pens On Fire to name a few. Gregory Gunn was born in Windsor, Ontario in 1960. He grew up in four small towns throughout Ontario before moving to London in 1970. An electronics technician graduate of Fanshawe College in 1982, Gregory began writing extensively and has done so for over thirty years: he is most passionate about poetry. Other interests include music, astronomy, philosophy, photography, foreign languages, and gardening. Recently, Gregory has had or will have poems published in Inscribed Magazine, Exercise Bowler, 20 X 20 Magazine, Lines and Stars, Shangri-La Shack, The Toronto Quarterly, Ascent Aspirations, The Light Ekphrastic, Carcinogenic, Steel Toe Review, Blue Lake Review, Corium, Burning Wood, Cyclamens and Swords, and Cartys Web. Atar Hadari was born in Israel, raised in England and won a scholarship to study poetry and playwrighting with Derek Walcott at Boston University. His poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Partisan Review, First Things, Poetry East, The Daily Express, The Times Literary Supplement and The Poetry Societys Poetry Review, which awarded him a New Poets feature. William Henderson lives in Boston where he takes care of his children, blogs about love (hendersonhouseofcards.com), and rarely reads directions. Michael Keel is a 34-year-old freelance travel writer/photographer. He has been writing and making photos since he was 13 years old and currently freelances for magazines such as WHOA, North Bay Biz and a few others. Currently he is working on an autobiographical book loosely titled Pieces of Wayfaring which will contain photos of his travels in the past connected with short poems and stories. michael-keel.com Coop Lee Sean Lotmans writing and photography have appeared or is forthcoming in Grey Sparrow Press, Fogged Clarity, WOOF Magazine, among others. A native Angelino, he lives in Japan. Zachary Medlin was born and raised in Greenville, SC, where he grew into a promising software developer. He was, much like Judge Reinhold in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, a single, successful guy. Then he quit and ran away. He currently resides in Alaska where he is a MFA student at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. He lives with his dog in a one room cabin with no running water, and he couldnt be happier about it.
Kelly Morse grew up in the high mountain desert towns of the Pacific Northwest, but has since drifted as far as the East Coast, where she is an MFA poetry student at Boston University. Her work has appeared in PoetsArtists, Gumball Poetry, Strange Roots: Views of Hanoi and elsewhere. Kelly is currently working on a series that explores linguistic and world-view gaps between Eastern and Western cultures after teaching for two years in Vietnam. Doc Suds is all sip, no slur. He travels with pocket notebook and Wisconsin accent. Ran Xia has always been enthusiastic about colors and intricate patterns. She started doing illustrations inspired by stage performances during these F1 years in NYC. rhinoriddler-art.tumble.com Joanne Young is an attorney by day and an aspiring writer during those hours shes not sleeping, eating, working or reading. Changming Yuan, author of Chansons of a Chinaman and 4-time Pushcart nominee who published several monographs before moving out of China, currently teaches in Vancouver and has had poetry appearing in over 400 literary publications worldwide, including Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Exquisite Corpse and RHINO.

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W i l l i a m H en d er s o n ata r H a da r i sus a n da l e Co o p l ee G r e G o ry Gu n n K el ly m o r se d o C su d s Z aCH a ry m ed l i n J oa n n e yo u n G CH a n Gm i n G yau n ran Xia m i CH a el K eel se a n l otm a n & Ce C a r d i f f

THE p OSTCOLO NI ALISM ISSUE

15| michael Keel 26| sean Lotman 38| ran Xia

08| shedding Light on subjects

16| How to Drink the Beer in saigon

17| natural Language

24| the Girls

28| Gros michel

29| the Great Genghis Khan

36| ode to the Wave Pool

37| origami With scissors

40| mahjong marching

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Shedding Light On Subjects

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How to Drink the Beer in Saigon

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The Great Genghis Kahn

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The Multiculti Frontier:

Bienvenido Santos The Scent of Apples

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Ode to the Wave Pool

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Origami with Scissors

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Soldier Boys, and their Strength from Elsewhere

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