A Better Option to Cynicism

We're living through an unsettling time in history, a time we'll talk about to younger generations as we shake our heads and wonder how we ever got through it. We have a White House suspected of treason, an erosion of environmental controls, an increase in hate crimes, formerly well-regarded men accused of sexual misconduct, and, on an average day, 93 Americans killed with guns. Sometimes it feels as though the world has gone crazy.

It's easy to get cynical. But cynicism takes us to a dark place, so when we feel ourselves sinking, we need to find reasons to climb back up. We don't need a miracle to do this. We just need each other.

Community restores our sanity and humanity. In this issue of MU Voices, you'll find a community of writers, photographers, and one artist who give us reasons to shrug off cynicism. Marwah Ayache writes about the tension between her Lebanese and American identities, LeAnne Campbell and Dequonte Maxwell write about the joy of love, and Jillian Law shares a story about a team of unlikely and endearing female superheroes. Daccarette Thomas inspires us with her essay on the liberating power of education, and the poetry of Vicki Khzouz and Patrick Gonsior echoes the sting of loss. Jackie Pruitt shares her grandmother's wisdom.I write about the Writing Center's imaginary take-over of the U.S. government (for our grammarian community). Andre ("Dre") Wilson's artwork honors past idols, and Marian Gonsior's photos of France and Spain remind us that communities can cross borders. Photographs from the Franciscan Day of Service show us how the Madonna community's boundaries keep expanding.

During this holiday season, remember your own communities: your family, your friends, your classmates, your colleagues, your neighbors. They will help you--and you will help them--through this challenging time in our history.  And keep in mind the words of Martin Luther King Jr.: "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

-- Frances FitzGerald

Taking Charge, from Jackie Pruitt

Student Jackie Pruitt shares the following quotation from her grandmother, Mrs. Pruitt:

"Don't let your mind control your body. You control your mind."

Livonia Breeze, by Patrick Gonsior

Crumpled pigeon beneath the pergola

beside the Angela Hospice

behind the Chapel of the Felician Sisters

across the Gunn Branch, across the

interlocking commas carved in concrete on a rotating

planet stood one affixed to a cross. It’s defined as a crucifix,

but I don’t know it as one.

Here knelt Crystal

Here knelt Patrick on a stone hassock

We bowed our heads, crossed our hands

and said together this Catholic prayer:

to the wind

to the wind

that planetary wind

that solar wind

movement of gases

movement of charged particles

to that flow of gases

flow of nitrogen, oxygen

on a large scale

on a rotating planet

to that bulk movement of air

stronger on Neptune

stronger on Saturn

you gust

you squall

you breeze

you gale

you storm

you hurricane

you unborn, unnamed, unconceived child

you Elsie Walters, gray hair, asleep, IV and gurney cradle

How do we classify you

by your spatial scale, by your speed

by the types of forces that cause you

by the regions in which you occur

by your effects— was it the wind that took you Elsie

How do we classify you by that effect

How do we classify that local wind, that prevailing wind

that Mountain breeze

that Valley breeze

that Livonia breeze

where did you have to start

was it the length at which you lasted

was it the eighty-seven years you had

Thunderstorm flows

Heating of land surfaces

Global winds resulting from

the difference in absorption of solar energy

between climate zones on a rotating planet—the differential heating between

the equator and the poles— thermal low circulations

high plateaus can drive our beliefs in abstract nouns

our belief in God.

Livonia breeze

Where did you have to start

to answer our prayers?

Untitled Superhero Story Excerpt: Prologue, by Jillian Law

Narrator: Allison

I’m not really sure how it all started. Joss and I were just sophomores in college, you know? We rarely sleep, and we eat crap that barely qualifies as food. (Prime example: microwavable Velveeta mac and cheese. Never again.) I trip over Joss’s shoes every day without fail, and she complains that I leave dirty mugs everywhere. When we’ve both had enough of school and work and our parents, we open the window of our dinky, little apartment, blast the music we’ve sung at countless sleepover karaoke nights, and dance along. I have anxiety so bad some days that I cannot get out of bed, and Joss is the highest functioning insomniac I’ve ever met. We are not people that were built to be superheroes.

We’re just kids. We were never meant to save the world. We just want to figure out how to live in it. We had a plan, the same plan we’d had since middle school: go to school in the city, live together, and figure the rest out later. I would get my probably useless degree in History, and Joss would conquer the world of computer science. We had a plan. The world, however, had another plan for us. Joss would say that is was never that poetic. She would say that people needed our help, and so we helped them. As simple as that. She is right in a way. Joss has always been good at getting to the point. But I have to think it was more than that because we were the only ones who become vigilantes. We were the only ones who did something.

Joss was right about one thing. There was no single triggering event that told us we had to do this. There was no dramatic murder or trial that signaled that our city needed saving. There was no Joker terrorizing the streets, threatening to blow up buildings. Which is probably a good thing because 1) we are NOT in any way qualified to handle that and 2) Joss has a serious thing for psychopaths. We’ll get to that later. Instead, things just started to change.

I’m not sure if the changes were the result of the election. Maybe this kind of hatred and violence had been brewing in our city all along, and we were just too blind to see it. Maybe we didn’t want to. Maybe the election just made a lot of bad things acceptable to the general public. After all, if the president could demean wide groups of people, wasn’t it okay for everyone to do so? Ban the Muslims. Build a wall. Grab that pussy. It was shocking for us to realize that we read out of Anne Frank’s diary in the eighth grade was wrong. All people were not good at heart. Some people were bad. Some people just wanted to hurt others, and some people would get away with it.

 

The city did not change overnight. Nothing really changes overnight, not even when you are afraid it will. But it did change. It changed slowly and systematically, and we felt powerless to do anything about out. No one seemed to be listening to us. No one seemed to care if our friends were hurt. No one was going to help people that the leader of our city did not even consider people. Our parents started to beg us to commute from home. The city was getting dangerous, after all, and wouldn’t we be more comfortable away from it all? We stayed, and my mom sent me two cans of pepper spray (one for Joss, too) and a Swiss Army knife. Joss laughed and told me I was lucky she hadn’t assigned us an older brother bodyguard.

Moment I Want to Capture in a Bottle, by Jillian Law

My parents dancing.

Swaying together to a Motown song, the dance floor full.

A moment where they like each other again,

A moment where they have fun together.

I can see it here, the people they were once

Before me, before the recession, before the hospitals

Before years and mental illness and bitterness set in

I join them occasionally, but I just like to watch.

They laugh together, his hand on her waist.

I can see them younger, dancing together at a bar

My dad knows all the words, sings softly

My mom wears red lipstick, lights up the room

Now they’re older, more worn

But still dancing, still together

Still here.

After Credits: Parking Lot, by Jillian Law

The best part isn’t the movie.

Half the time, I wouldn’t come if it was just about the movie

(because let’s face it, sometimes we see some junk).

But I do come.

I sit and eat popcorn and watch a screen silently.

I sit and wait for my favorite part.

We never go home right after a movie

Never, not once

We linger in the theater, talking over another

There’s so much to say and not enough time or words to say it

When do you go back to school?

Is that the actress from Shameless?

Show me pictures of your new bunny.

We talk until the credits end and someone notices a guy standing by the exit, waiting for us to leave so he can clean the theater

We leave the theater, but the conversation doesn’t end

We lean against our cars, parked in the same place we always park

Right under the streetlamps

I shiver and suggest we talk inside my car

Rachel gives me a blanket from hers instead

Getting inside the car feels too much like wanting to leave for us tonight

There’s no limit to where these conversations can go

We complain about school and our parents

We talk about the future and our dreams

Where we will be soon and where we want to go

There’s plans to study abroad and take LSATs and MCATs

There are plans to write more and worry less

Fears are shared, stories told

Tonight, we talk about the movie

We talk about our parents and how you don’t always get to choose your family but you do have to stick by them

We decide that it’s easier said than done to cut toxic people out of a person’s life

We agree that people are not black and white, not ever, and that childhood was wrong about that

Sometimes, I feel like we could solve all the world’s problems standing underneath this streetlamp

Somehow, my friends start debating if I’ve ever ate a vegetable in front of them

Gabby doesn’t think I even know where the vegetable section in the grocery store is

They laugh when I pause to think about vegetables I like, and I protest

They decide that corn will count for now and that my ranch to broccoli ratio is maybe too high

I’m still shivering, bouncing back and forth until Irese tells me I’m making her nervous

I start tapping my foot instead and wrap the blanket tighter around me, trying to keep warm

I don’t want to leave

I want to savor this moment, savor them

Bask in these girls, their friendship, their company

The way any conversation seems right with them

How nothing is too scary or too silly to say when we’re leaning against our cars in the parking lot

We keep talking until it gets late

And then Rachel’s little sister is texting her asking when she’s going to be home with her popcorn

And Irese has to work tomorrow

Gabby and I are both tired, and I’m still cold

But none of us quite want to leave

We slowly inch our way towards our cars

Giving at least three goodbye hugs

But we keep talking

Really, we could be here all night

Rachel says to get in our cars on the count of three

One more round of hugs

And then we do

One, two, three

We get in our cars and drive away

We drive away and I think to myself,

I can’t wait for our next movie night

Original artwork by Andre Wilson

I'm Not A Love Poet, by LeAnne Campbell

I was born on July 6th, 1999.

That makes me a cancer.

I don’t know what that means,

But about a week before I met you

I remember seeing a post on Facebook that a Cancer’s significant other is a

Capricorn.

Now, according to google,

“Capricorn and Cancer are opposite signs in astrology;

Compatibility between opposites is often good as they provide a special balance of qualities,

Each offering something the other lacks.

In this case,

Cancer is a deeply emotional and intuitive sign,

Whereas Capricorn is cool, practical and logical.”

What the hell/

Who the hell

Is a Capricorn?

A Capricorn is someone born between December 22^nd--January 19th

When I met you, I didn’t know when your birthday was

But come to find out, It’s December 24th, Christmas Eve.

Damn, you’re a Christmas miracle,

And damn, was google right when it said that Cancers are deeply emotional.

That explains why

I’m writing this poem about you.

That explains why, within a month,

I was the first to say “I love you”

Even when you said you wanted to take things slow.

It’s been a month

And I still say, “I love you” all the time

Even when all you say is,

“I know, I really like you too.”

Damn, I swear I’m not a love poet,

It’s just

You.

Grammar Coup, by Frances FitzGerald

I.

In this era of political unrest and polarization, Florence Farmer’s trusty band of university writing center tutors decided that our nation needed new leadership. They reasoned that fine writers and effective tutors could accomplish far more than the House and Senate had so far.

Armed with nothing more than Writing Center pencils, dictionaries, thesauruses, and an updated Diane Hacker handbook, the Writing Center staff took a bus to Washington, D.C. Upon their arrival, they rounded up Congress, the Senate, the president, and his cabinet.

The university writing center staff challenged the U.S. government to a grammar-off. The winners would run the government. Why the politicians agreed is still a mystery. These literate upstarts must have impressed them with their vocabularies exceeding 75 words and their perfect pronunciation of multi-syllabic words.

One of the tutors, Celia Franklin, a short blonde in the Sign Language Studies program, boldly asked the governing body, “What are the nine parts of speech?”

Both Democrats and Republicans could be heard muttering, “Noun, verb, subject, gerund…” “Is a modifier a part of speech?” “I haven’t diagrammed a sentence since I was in eighth grade,” “Do independent clauses count?” “I don’t even know what a conjunction is,” “Why can’t they ask us math questions?”

Tutor Madhia Abdi was only 4’10”, but her disgust was enormous. She sighed heavily and said, “The parts of speech are verb, noun, adjective, determiner, adverb, pronoun, preposition, conjunction and interjection. Okay, zero points for the government.”  

A round-faced tutor with a curly ponytail—Rose Davis—said, “Here’s your second question: What is a predicate?”

One legislator raised his hand and said excitedly, “It’s a problem there’s no easy solution to.”

“Wrong!” thundered Carl Ledbetter, a tall tutor with red hair and a vast red beard. “You’re thinking of ‘predicament,’ which is what you’ve all put our country in because you care more about your own egos and pocketbooks than the American people!”

A tall, slim brunette, Tutor Rosalyn Schultz, said to the embarrased representative, “I’m sorry, sir, but a predicate is a word group that follows the subject to complete the meaning of sentence or clause.”

Chivonn Johnson, pushing her feed-in braids behind her shoulders, said, “You’ve failed two out of three simple grammar questions. You have one more chance.”

Susan Jakowski, a tutor with long brown hair and a quiet voice, stepped in to ask, “What parts of speech does an adverb modify?”

More murmurs emerged from the legislative body. “What does she mean by ‘modify?’” “What does an adverb do?” “Does it have anything to do with advertising?” “I majored in political science, not English!” “Why don’t they ask about the latest sexual misconduct scandal?” “I majored in criminal justice, not English!”

A nervous representative tentatively raised her hand and said, “An adverb modifies a semi-colon?”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” said a vertically challenged older tutor, Deborah Baker, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Adverbs modify verbs, adjectives, and other adverbs! You lose!”

The tutors watched a lot of faces turn red. The representatives then looked at each other, shrugged, got up, packed up their coats and briefcases, and headed out to their respective cars. “It’s time for a change, anyway,” said Chuck Schumer with a sigh.

After they all left, Tutor Sativa Robbins said—twisting the end of her blond braid—“Does this mean we’re in charge?”

It did.

II.

At first, they did a pretty decent job. This was no small feat, considering that Flo—their so-called leader—appointed herself Secretary of daytime TV. She spent her days lying on a couch in the oval office, inhaling M&Ms, and flipping channels on her 75”-screen television. Carol McCarthy, a highly competent, “mature” staff member who’d worked at the Writing Center for nearly eight years, became the de facto president.

Through their vibrant imaginations, exhaustive research, and flawless teamwork, the writing center staff made great progress, including the following successes:

1.     They reformed our tax system so brilliantly that the poor, the middle-class, the wealthy, and the big corporations all got a tax break while our national deficit shrunk. It’s amazing what a nationwide coupon-clipping movement can accomplish.

2.    They got Vladimir Putin hooked on the video game Call of Duty. He became so addicted that he no longer had time to meddle in foreign elections.

3.     They sent plenty of Valerian, an herbal sedative, to Kim Jong Un. Because he’s still snoozing, North Korea put its nuclear program on hold.

      Since the House and Senate had closed up, the writing center staff used the politicians' salaries for much-needed social programs. They also gave themselves hefty raises, a marked increase from their previous writing center wages. As bald and bearded Tutor Jacob Rabinovitz pointed out, “Grammar is worth more than $8.90 an hour.”

III.

So that first week went swimmingly, and the writing center staff’s approval ratings hovered around 98%. They were featured as “Writing center staff of the year” on the cover of Time Magazine. They appeared on the Late Show with Steven Colbert. There was talk of a group Nobel Peace Prize. Writing center staff action figures and lunch boxes started flying off the shelves.

Then things got weird.

One morning during the second week of their reign, everybody except Flo met around the presidential conference table.

“You know what bothers me?” said Sally Dwyer, another tall tutor with long, wavy blond hair. “Those signs in grocery stores that say ’12 items or less.’ ‘Items’ is a count noun, so they should read, ’12 items or fewer.’”

Tutor Dante Pinkerton concurred, nodding his head so vigorously that his locs trembled. “Yeah, that’s pretty bad. But antecedent-pronoun disagreement is my real pet peeve. Like ‘Everybody has to turn their paper in.’”

Skinny and bespectacled Tutor Cassandra Foderetti mused, “Apostrophe anarchy really irritates me, especially when the writer uses an apostrophe on a plural, not possessive, noun.”

Janet Larson (tutor with the most feminist buttons pinned to her handbag, such as “Feminist Killjoy,” “Well-behaved Women Rarely Make History,” and “The Future is Female”) banged her fist on the table. “What we need are new laws,” she said vehemently. “If we are to be a respected, literate nation, we must enforce gender-neutral pronouns and other sins against the English language!”

Carol McCarthy’s sane and reasonable advice—“Let’s use some common sense here”—was drowned out by a babel of excited voices: “Yes! Fines for subject-verb disagreement!” “Community service for inappropriate tense shifts!” “Prison time for misplaced modifiers!” “Solitary confinement for fused sentences!”

Carol was understandably alarmed at this surging mob dynamic. She found Flo in the Oval Office, sleeping on the couch, traces of chocolate still on her lips. She shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Flo! I think the power of national governance is going to the tutors’ heads! We have to stop them!”

“I’m out of M&Ms,” Flo said sleepily. “And my blood sugar levels have plunged. You deal with it.”

But Carol feared it was already too late.

IV

The public didn’t take these new grammar/punctuation laws very seriously at first. But when Marshall Law was announced, voters everywhere started throwing out their writing center staff action figures. It’s not like they were superheroes, and not one of them wore a cape or wielded a light-up lasso. Also, they were disinvited from The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien. But they weren’t fazed. The writing center staff  (except for wise Carol and sleepy Flo) became arrogant zealots, and this is what happened:

·        * E.L. James, author of Fifty Shades of Grey, faced charges of committing comma splices.

·        * All versions of Star Trek were taken off the air because of its careless “to boldly go” split infinitive.

·        * A former office holder was expunged from the history books for saying, “Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?”

·        * Kozy Kafe owners were forced to shut down until they learned to spell properly.

·        * A successful lawyer was de-barred for writing “it’s” as a possessive instead of “its.”

V.

No one was surprised when the lot of them were impeached in one fell swoop. Once they joined a 12-step grammar addiction program (except for Flo, who faithfully attended her 12-step M&M addiction program), they began to recognize that their behavior had been extreme. Step No. 8—“I will make a list of all persons I have harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all”— was a little tricky. Do you know how many Kozy Kafe owners there are across our great nation? And boy, are they steamed.

The writing center staff finally returned to their university with their heads down. Some of them still wear Groucho Marx masks to hide their identities. Still, they have learned from their mistakes. The biggest lesson is this: Yes, grammar and punctuation errors are unfortunate, but they’re no excuse to act like jerks.