Greetings all:
This month, we're honored to feature Emily January Peterson. We are sure that you will appreciate her artistry as much as we do.
Happy reading.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Betty
By Emily January Peterson
She felt as if her life were over. The numbness in her legs, which most likely had been caused by the amount of time she had spent sitting on the couch in front of the television, had crept up into her chest and arms.
That’s funny, she thought. My heart still hurts.
In the weeks since her husband had died, the pain in her heart had not subsided. Mary, her daughter, insisted that it would just take time to adjust to being a widow, but Betty knew that time did not heal all wounds. In fact, Dr. Phil had said so on national television just last week.
She grabbed at her chest, willing the physical hurt to cease. Now she knew why people sometimes referred to emotional pain as a “broken heart.” The suffocating daggers of grief seemed to emanate from her heart, though she knew full well that the organ functioned perfectly.
Bart’s heart, on the other hand, had failed him, and her, and Mary. “Bart’s heart,” she said aloud, hoping the rhyme would cheer her spirits. Then she began to sob. She turned off the latest season of Survivor, a show she usually never missed, and cried until she fell asleep.
The next morning, she awoke tabula rasa. Her head felt clear and her heart felt happy. She began to rise with vigor, knowing that this would be a great day. She heard a lawn mower going outside, and thought that Bart must already be getting his Saturday chores done. She sat up on the couch and pulled free the Kleenex stuck to her cheek. Then the memory of the last month hit her like a terrible flood. Bart had died of a heart attack. She was alone. Her heart began to hurt again.
After taking the latest shower she’d ever taken (it was well past 2:00 p.m.) and the longest shower probably to occur in the history of shower-taking, Betty sat at the kitchen table willing herself to eat the tuna sandwich she’d made. The sandwich making had taken all of her strength. Each precise cut of the pickles and celery had been done with purpose. Betty had focused on the juiciness of the pickles between her fingers and the bumpy lines on the celery. She had hoped this would make her forget her troubles and work up her appetite.
She took a bite, trying to savor the wet mayonnaise and the crunchy sounds her mouth made with every chew. She looked out the window at the leaves on the oak tree, now turning red and gold, ready to fall to the ground. This reminded her of death, and that reminded her of Bart. She swallowed the lump of tuna mush and went back to the couch. She turned on the television and watched an infomercial on the greatest hits of the ‘50s hosted by Regis Philbin.
Regis is a good-looking man, she thought. Maybe he’ll leave Joy and marry me.
After imagining a life of celebrity on the arm of Regis, the program ended. She watched several commercials, all without much interest. She was still imagining the feel of the fur against her neck as she strolled down the red carpet with Regis.
She snapped out of her reverie when she saw Regis again, this time on a commercial surrounded by hoards of beautiful young women. Betty then realized Regis would never be seen with her. She had never been a pretty girl, and despite assurance from her mother that she was an “ugly duckling” who would one day become a swan, that had never happened. Betty knew nothing about makeup or clothes. The curl in her now-graying hair was dependent upon a perm every six months. And after she left the salon, the curls never quite looked as good as the hairdresser had styled them.
“Join me, tonight, to see which of these beauties will become our next Miss America!” Regis was saying.
That sounded like an invitation for a date, or the best one she’d get from Regis. So, she accepted.
Mary called at 7:53 p.m., just before the pageant was to start. Betty had assembled a notebook and a pen to keep track of her favorite contestants. Guessing the winner would make her somehow feel beautiful, as if being able to judge the winner would also make her a winner.
“Mother, are you okay? You sound out of breath,” Mary said.
“Yes. I’m fine. What do you need?”
“I don’t need anything. I just called to see if you’d like Dan and I to bring the kids over. We have popcorn and a movie!”
Mary seemed to be treating her like a child, or worse, Betty thought, an animal. She was dangling a carrot in front of her snout, teasing her with food and entertainment.
“No, thanks. I’m busy,” Betty responded. She found her place on the couch and turned up the volume. She did not want to miss a minute of her date with Regis.
“What?” Mary sounded surprised. “You’re busy? Mother, I know you aren’t busy. You need company.”
“I have company, thank you very much!” Betty announced. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to him.” She pushed the off button on the phone with deliberation and smiled. She could imagine Mary’s mouth open, wondering why her recently widowed mother would have a man at the house so soon after her father’s death.
The phone rang. Betty ignored it and took a bite of the popcorn she had made for herself. The pageant had begun.
The answering machine picked up the call. “Mother! Pick up! I know you’re there.”
Betty giggled and ate some more popcorn.
“Mother! For heaven’s sakes . . . mother?”
Mary hung up. The phone rang again.
“Yes?” Betty said with the receiver to her ear.
“Mother, what are you doing? Nobody is over there, right?” Doubt began to creep into Mary’s voice.
“Why yes. I’ve hired a nice young man to come over and . . .” Betty wanted her story to be as shocking as possible. “Entertain me!” As she giggled, she covered the mouthpiece on the phone.
“What! You’ve hired a stripper!” Mary’s voice was much higher and louder than usual.
“Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.”
“Oh, this beats all!” Mary said to her. Then to her husband, “Dan, my mother has gone crazy. We’ve got to go over there.”
“Mary! Don’t you come over. I’m fine. I was just joking about the man. Oh, my show is starting. I must go! Ta ta!”
She hung up again. The patriotic music had begun and Miss Alabama was introducing herself. The girl spoke with confidence, announcing her platform for keeping the arts in schools. Her shiny hair, perfectly coiffed, caught Betty’s attention. Betty began to write Miss Alabama on her list of possible winners; however, a slightly crooked front tooth offended her, so she crossed off what she had written.
The phone rang again.
“Mary, I’m fine!” Betty announced.
“I don’t know about that. You seem so . . . giddy.”
“What’s wrong with me having a good time. That doesn’t mean I’m crazy. I hope you tell Dan that I’m not really crazy.”
“I will recant my assertion of your insanity if you tell me what you are doing,” Mary demanded.
“Are you my mother now?” Betty said, knowing this would irk her overly concerned daughter.
“Mother, just tell me what you are doing.”
“I’m watching television.”
“You always watch TV. Why is it so important this time?”
“Well, if you must know I’m watching the Miss America pageant. Now will you leave me alone.”
Mary let out a sigh of relief. “Yes, but can we come see you tomorrow?”
“Sure. We’ll have a Sunday brunch, okay?” Betty hoped this would appease the god that was her daughter.
“Sounds good. I’ll bring the food.”
“Okay. Bye now!” Betty hung up before Mary could answer. She had already missed all of the contestants between Alabama and Florida.
Betty felt as if she had ruined the whole night, missing those contestants. However, she was unable to write down anybody in her notebook until Miss Mississippi appeared. Her teeth were white, square, and straight, a definite plus. She also had platinum blonde hair styled smoothly. Betty preferred curly hair to straight, but also understood the styles these days.
She sighed as she penciled in Miss Mississippi, remembering the days when curls were popular. That was a long time ago. She and Bart had met in high school, and he had always loved to finger her curls. He had made her feel pretty, although she knew deep down that would never be true.
Betty noticed another contestant, Miss Pennsylvania, because of her height. Her skin shone under the lights of the camera. It was a milk chocolate color. Miss Pennsylvania’s hair was also very straight. Betty wrote her on the list. She’s only twenty years old, Betty thought, but she seems mature. She’ll hold her own. Betty also appreciated Miss Pennsylvania’s height. Betty’s height had always made her the butt of jokes in school, but Bart had always loved that she was tall. Betty wished that she had been skinny too, but alas, no. Her figure was not curvaceous or slight, it was just horsey. Betty had always been a solid woman, one that would have made the female wrestlers on television tremble in fear. Betty once joked to Bart that she should become a wrestler and make loads of money. Bart had responded that those women were too mean and rough for his delicate wife to associate with. Betty knew he was lying. Well, maybe he wasn’t. In Bart’s reality, I probably was his beautiful, delicate wife, Betty thought. He must’ve been blind! This made her laugh.
The contestants finished their introductions. Betty had been tempted to write Miss Utah on her list, as this was her home state, but the poor girl was nothing compared to the specimen of Miss Pennsylvania.
Maybe next year! This thought cheered Betty even more. I can make this pageant a yearly ritual.
After a few entertaining numbers and the introduction of the judges, all of whom seemed to be extremely snobby and out of touch with reality, the top ten contestants were announced. Betty held her list in her lap, waiting to see how she’d done in her judgments. At the end of the announcements, each one of which resulted in the audience exploding with excitement, Betty discovered that she had only picked out one of the top ten contestants, Miss Pennsylvania.
Hmmm. This is going to take some practice. She felt disappointed, but reassured herself that her guesses had been a good first try. She had never seen a pageant before, and especially had never participated in one, so how could she expect to do any better. Practice makes perfect, she chirped to herself.
During the swimsuit competition, or as Regis announced it, the “physical fitness” portion, Betty began to feel physically ill. She imagined herself stranded in the desert without food or water. These girls are so skinny! How can they live? With each contestant’s entrance, Betty found herself cringing and becoming hungrier and hungrier. Her popcorn disappeared at an alarming rate.
Relief consumed her once the girls were properly clad. However, Miss California’s evening gown was a little low cut. Betty ‘s stomach felt a bit more full than she would’ve liked, but the popcorn was gone now, so she wouldn’t need to worry about eating any more of it.
Regis began to announce the top five contestants. “What! They competed in one lousy swimsuit competition and you can already narrow it down!” Betty shouted at her television. She couldn’t believe how flippant the judges could be about choosing a Miss America.
She almost decided to change the channel or call Mary and ask her to come over, but then Regis explained how the girls had been competing all week and that their scores from preliminary competitions were being factored into tonight’s scores. This made Betty feel better, so she put down the remote control and the phone and watched as a montage of footage from the contestants’ week of fun was played against the most corny song about friendship she’d ever heard.
She eagerly watched, hoping to catch glimpses of her favorite contestant, Miss Pennsylvania, who had made it to the top five and was now Betty’s pick to be the next Miss America.
The evening gown portion came next. Betty enjoyed seeing all of the lovely dresses, but she could not figure out how to judge this sort of a competition. All of the young women were smiling and looked pretty in their dresses. She felt that whoever won this part of the pageant had nothing to be proud of and that it was just an excuse for the “queen” to wear an expensive dress.
“It doesn’t take any skill to walk around looking pretty,” she said aloud. The statement seemed stupid now that she’d said it aloud. She thought about high heels, and how she’d never been able to walk in them. Seeing Miss Washington’s heels, Betty immediately felt dizzy. They must be at least eight inches high! Then, she thought of all the times she’d gone to a church party with Bart, feeling like a bug smashed on the floor, despite her best efforts at makeup and hairstyling.
“Okay, girlies,” she said to the television. “I guess it does take some skill to look good, but there’s more to life than that!”
The clock teetered at 8:59 and Betty felt her eyes grow heavy. She kept them open through the next commercial, expecting a winner to be announced any moment.
Regis let her down, however. This date was not over yet. The talent competition was next. Betty’s eyes widened and she no longer felt as tired. She had no idea that these mannequin-like women also performed talents. The pageant seemed to become more and more complicated, causing Betty to feel more drawn to it and excited about watching. During the swimsuits, she had almost given up on the idea of watching every year, but now it seemed plausible. She’d always enjoyed American Idol, so watching these girls perform would probably be similar.
Miss Pennsylvania did not let Betty down. The beautiful girl played classical piano, and very well as far as Betty could tell. She had enjoyed the performance, but also found Miss California’s singing to be extremely entertaining, despite the shortness of her dress. Betty decided that she did not like Miss California and her loosy-goosy ways. Miss Pennsylvania had been a class act during the entire ordeal. She would have to wait for the on-stage interviews to make up her mind, though.
Regis asked the girls questions, which Betty found to be silly.
“If you could be president, what would you change about our country?”
“Nothing!” Betty shouted. “Our country is perfect!” Betty had always been patriotic, some would say to a fault.
“Your platform is reading to children. Why is this important to you?” Regis asked Miss Pennsylvania.
“Platform? What’s a platform?” Betty asked nobody in particular. Her eyes were glued to the television, willing Miss Pennsylvania to answer well and to just plain answer. Betty’s curiosity had been peaked by the mention of a platform.
“My platform is Improving Literacy Among Our Nation’s Youth. I have always loved to read, so this issue is important to me because I’d like to share that passion with others. However, this issue is most dear to my heart because my own father was illiterate. He never knew how to read and hid this from me and my siblings. He recently died, and that is when I found out his secret. I don’t want any other person to feel so embarrassed by illiteracy that he or she has to hide this from their children. It is a handicap that can be overcome, and I intend to help people overcome it.”
A chime sounded, signaling that Miss Pennsylvania’s time had run out. Betty cocked her head to the side, trying to decide if her favorite contestant had answered well.
Before the commercial break, Regis promised that the winner would be announced when they came back, so Betty rubbed her eyes and stretched. She did not intend to miss the announcement of the winner, especially since she now felt she’d invested so much time in the pageant.
At the stroke of midnight, the clock Betty had long ago hung over the fireplace chimed, waking her suddenly. The television glowed blue, as nothing was programmed to run in the middle of the night on a weekend. She sat up, wondering where she was.
Then she remembered. She’d missed the end of the pageant.
Bio: Emily January Petersen holds a B.A. from Brigham Young University and an M.A. from Weber State University in English. She has worked as an editor but currently teaches English composition courses at Weber State University.
She felt as if her life were over. The numbness in her legs, which most likely had been caused by the amount of time she had spent sitting on the couch in front of the television, had crept up into her chest and arms.
That’s funny, she thought. My heart still hurts.
In the weeks since her husband had died, the pain in her heart had not subsided. Mary, her daughter, insisted that it would just take time to adjust to being a widow, but Betty knew that time did not heal all wounds. In fact, Dr. Phil had said so on national television just last week.
She grabbed at her chest, willing the physical hurt to cease. Now she knew why people sometimes referred to emotional pain as a “broken heart.” The suffocating daggers of grief seemed to emanate from her heart, though she knew full well that the organ functioned perfectly.
Bart’s heart, on the other hand, had failed him, and her, and Mary. “Bart’s heart,” she said aloud, hoping the rhyme would cheer her spirits. Then she began to sob. She turned off the latest season of Survivor, a show she usually never missed, and cried until she fell asleep.
The next morning, she awoke tabula rasa. Her head felt clear and her heart felt happy. She began to rise with vigor, knowing that this would be a great day. She heard a lawn mower going outside, and thought that Bart must already be getting his Saturday chores done. She sat up on the couch and pulled free the Kleenex stuck to her cheek. Then the memory of the last month hit her like a terrible flood. Bart had died of a heart attack. She was alone. Her heart began to hurt again.
After taking the latest shower she’d ever taken (it was well past 2:00 p.m.) and the longest shower probably to occur in the history of shower-taking, Betty sat at the kitchen table willing herself to eat the tuna sandwich she’d made. The sandwich making had taken all of her strength. Each precise cut of the pickles and celery had been done with purpose. Betty had focused on the juiciness of the pickles between her fingers and the bumpy lines on the celery. She had hoped this would make her forget her troubles and work up her appetite.
She took a bite, trying to savor the wet mayonnaise and the crunchy sounds her mouth made with every chew. She looked out the window at the leaves on the oak tree, now turning red and gold, ready to fall to the ground. This reminded her of death, and that reminded her of Bart. She swallowed the lump of tuna mush and went back to the couch. She turned on the television and watched an infomercial on the greatest hits of the ‘50s hosted by Regis Philbin.
Regis is a good-looking man, she thought. Maybe he’ll leave Joy and marry me.
After imagining a life of celebrity on the arm of Regis, the program ended. She watched several commercials, all without much interest. She was still imagining the feel of the fur against her neck as she strolled down the red carpet with Regis.
She snapped out of her reverie when she saw Regis again, this time on a commercial surrounded by hoards of beautiful young women. Betty then realized Regis would never be seen with her. She had never been a pretty girl, and despite assurance from her mother that she was an “ugly duckling” who would one day become a swan, that had never happened. Betty knew nothing about makeup or clothes. The curl in her now-graying hair was dependent upon a perm every six months. And after she left the salon, the curls never quite looked as good as the hairdresser had styled them.
“Join me, tonight, to see which of these beauties will become our next Miss America!” Regis was saying.
That sounded like an invitation for a date, or the best one she’d get from Regis. So, she accepted.
Mary called at 7:53 p.m., just before the pageant was to start. Betty had assembled a notebook and a pen to keep track of her favorite contestants. Guessing the winner would make her somehow feel beautiful, as if being able to judge the winner would also make her a winner.
“Mother, are you okay? You sound out of breath,” Mary said.
“Yes. I’m fine. What do you need?”
“I don’t need anything. I just called to see if you’d like Dan and I to bring the kids over. We have popcorn and a movie!”
Mary seemed to be treating her like a child, or worse, Betty thought, an animal. She was dangling a carrot in front of her snout, teasing her with food and entertainment.
“No, thanks. I’m busy,” Betty responded. She found her place on the couch and turned up the volume. She did not want to miss a minute of her date with Regis.
“What?” Mary sounded surprised. “You’re busy? Mother, I know you aren’t busy. You need company.”
“I have company, thank you very much!” Betty announced. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to him.” She pushed the off button on the phone with deliberation and smiled. She could imagine Mary’s mouth open, wondering why her recently widowed mother would have a man at the house so soon after her father’s death.
The phone rang. Betty ignored it and took a bite of the popcorn she had made for herself. The pageant had begun.
The answering machine picked up the call. “Mother! Pick up! I know you’re there.”
Betty giggled and ate some more popcorn.
“Mother! For heaven’s sakes . . . mother?”
Mary hung up. The phone rang again.
“Yes?” Betty said with the receiver to her ear.
“Mother, what are you doing? Nobody is over there, right?” Doubt began to creep into Mary’s voice.
“Why yes. I’ve hired a nice young man to come over and . . .” Betty wanted her story to be as shocking as possible. “Entertain me!” As she giggled, she covered the mouthpiece on the phone.
“What! You’ve hired a stripper!” Mary’s voice was much higher and louder than usual.
“Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.”
“Oh, this beats all!” Mary said to her. Then to her husband, “Dan, my mother has gone crazy. We’ve got to go over there.”
“Mary! Don’t you come over. I’m fine. I was just joking about the man. Oh, my show is starting. I must go! Ta ta!”
She hung up again. The patriotic music had begun and Miss Alabama was introducing herself. The girl spoke with confidence, announcing her platform for keeping the arts in schools. Her shiny hair, perfectly coiffed, caught Betty’s attention. Betty began to write Miss Alabama on her list of possible winners; however, a slightly crooked front tooth offended her, so she crossed off what she had written.
The phone rang again.
“Mary, I’m fine!” Betty announced.
“I don’t know about that. You seem so . . . giddy.”
“What’s wrong with me having a good time. That doesn’t mean I’m crazy. I hope you tell Dan that I’m not really crazy.”
“I will recant my assertion of your insanity if you tell me what you are doing,” Mary demanded.
“Are you my mother now?” Betty said, knowing this would irk her overly concerned daughter.
“Mother, just tell me what you are doing.”
“I’m watching television.”
“You always watch TV. Why is it so important this time?”
“Well, if you must know I’m watching the Miss America pageant. Now will you leave me alone.”
Mary let out a sigh of relief. “Yes, but can we come see you tomorrow?”
“Sure. We’ll have a Sunday brunch, okay?” Betty hoped this would appease the god that was her daughter.
“Sounds good. I’ll bring the food.”
“Okay. Bye now!” Betty hung up before Mary could answer. She had already missed all of the contestants between Alabama and Florida.
Betty felt as if she had ruined the whole night, missing those contestants. However, she was unable to write down anybody in her notebook until Miss Mississippi appeared. Her teeth were white, square, and straight, a definite plus. She also had platinum blonde hair styled smoothly. Betty preferred curly hair to straight, but also understood the styles these days.
She sighed as she penciled in Miss Mississippi, remembering the days when curls were popular. That was a long time ago. She and Bart had met in high school, and he had always loved to finger her curls. He had made her feel pretty, although she knew deep down that would never be true.
Betty noticed another contestant, Miss Pennsylvania, because of her height. Her skin shone under the lights of the camera. It was a milk chocolate color. Miss Pennsylvania’s hair was also very straight. Betty wrote her on the list. She’s only twenty years old, Betty thought, but she seems mature. She’ll hold her own. Betty also appreciated Miss Pennsylvania’s height. Betty’s height had always made her the butt of jokes in school, but Bart had always loved that she was tall. Betty wished that she had been skinny too, but alas, no. Her figure was not curvaceous or slight, it was just horsey. Betty had always been a solid woman, one that would have made the female wrestlers on television tremble in fear. Betty once joked to Bart that she should become a wrestler and make loads of money. Bart had responded that those women were too mean and rough for his delicate wife to associate with. Betty knew he was lying. Well, maybe he wasn’t. In Bart’s reality, I probably was his beautiful, delicate wife, Betty thought. He must’ve been blind! This made her laugh.
The contestants finished their introductions. Betty had been tempted to write Miss Utah on her list, as this was her home state, but the poor girl was nothing compared to the specimen of Miss Pennsylvania.
Maybe next year! This thought cheered Betty even more. I can make this pageant a yearly ritual.
After a few entertaining numbers and the introduction of the judges, all of whom seemed to be extremely snobby and out of touch with reality, the top ten contestants were announced. Betty held her list in her lap, waiting to see how she’d done in her judgments. At the end of the announcements, each one of which resulted in the audience exploding with excitement, Betty discovered that she had only picked out one of the top ten contestants, Miss Pennsylvania.
Hmmm. This is going to take some practice. She felt disappointed, but reassured herself that her guesses had been a good first try. She had never seen a pageant before, and especially had never participated in one, so how could she expect to do any better. Practice makes perfect, she chirped to herself.
During the swimsuit competition, or as Regis announced it, the “physical fitness” portion, Betty began to feel physically ill. She imagined herself stranded in the desert without food or water. These girls are so skinny! How can they live? With each contestant’s entrance, Betty found herself cringing and becoming hungrier and hungrier. Her popcorn disappeared at an alarming rate.
Relief consumed her once the girls were properly clad. However, Miss California’s evening gown was a little low cut. Betty ‘s stomach felt a bit more full than she would’ve liked, but the popcorn was gone now, so she wouldn’t need to worry about eating any more of it.
Regis began to announce the top five contestants. “What! They competed in one lousy swimsuit competition and you can already narrow it down!” Betty shouted at her television. She couldn’t believe how flippant the judges could be about choosing a Miss America.
She almost decided to change the channel or call Mary and ask her to come over, but then Regis explained how the girls had been competing all week and that their scores from preliminary competitions were being factored into tonight’s scores. This made Betty feel better, so she put down the remote control and the phone and watched as a montage of footage from the contestants’ week of fun was played against the most corny song about friendship she’d ever heard.
She eagerly watched, hoping to catch glimpses of her favorite contestant, Miss Pennsylvania, who had made it to the top five and was now Betty’s pick to be the next Miss America.
The evening gown portion came next. Betty enjoyed seeing all of the lovely dresses, but she could not figure out how to judge this sort of a competition. All of the young women were smiling and looked pretty in their dresses. She felt that whoever won this part of the pageant had nothing to be proud of and that it was just an excuse for the “queen” to wear an expensive dress.
“It doesn’t take any skill to walk around looking pretty,” she said aloud. The statement seemed stupid now that she’d said it aloud. She thought about high heels, and how she’d never been able to walk in them. Seeing Miss Washington’s heels, Betty immediately felt dizzy. They must be at least eight inches high! Then, she thought of all the times she’d gone to a church party with Bart, feeling like a bug smashed on the floor, despite her best efforts at makeup and hairstyling.
“Okay, girlies,” she said to the television. “I guess it does take some skill to look good, but there’s more to life than that!”
The clock teetered at 8:59 and Betty felt her eyes grow heavy. She kept them open through the next commercial, expecting a winner to be announced any moment.
Regis let her down, however. This date was not over yet. The talent competition was next. Betty’s eyes widened and she no longer felt as tired. She had no idea that these mannequin-like women also performed talents. The pageant seemed to become more and more complicated, causing Betty to feel more drawn to it and excited about watching. During the swimsuits, she had almost given up on the idea of watching every year, but now it seemed plausible. She’d always enjoyed American Idol, so watching these girls perform would probably be similar.
Miss Pennsylvania did not let Betty down. The beautiful girl played classical piano, and very well as far as Betty could tell. She had enjoyed the performance, but also found Miss California’s singing to be extremely entertaining, despite the shortness of her dress. Betty decided that she did not like Miss California and her loosy-goosy ways. Miss Pennsylvania had been a class act during the entire ordeal. She would have to wait for the on-stage interviews to make up her mind, though.
Regis asked the girls questions, which Betty found to be silly.
“If you could be president, what would you change about our country?”
“Nothing!” Betty shouted. “Our country is perfect!” Betty had always been patriotic, some would say to a fault.
“Your platform is reading to children. Why is this important to you?” Regis asked Miss Pennsylvania.
“Platform? What’s a platform?” Betty asked nobody in particular. Her eyes were glued to the television, willing Miss Pennsylvania to answer well and to just plain answer. Betty’s curiosity had been peaked by the mention of a platform.
“My platform is Improving Literacy Among Our Nation’s Youth. I have always loved to read, so this issue is important to me because I’d like to share that passion with others. However, this issue is most dear to my heart because my own father was illiterate. He never knew how to read and hid this from me and my siblings. He recently died, and that is when I found out his secret. I don’t want any other person to feel so embarrassed by illiteracy that he or she has to hide this from their children. It is a handicap that can be overcome, and I intend to help people overcome it.”
A chime sounded, signaling that Miss Pennsylvania’s time had run out. Betty cocked her head to the side, trying to decide if her favorite contestant had answered well.
Before the commercial break, Regis promised that the winner would be announced when they came back, so Betty rubbed her eyes and stretched. She did not intend to miss the announcement of the winner, especially since she now felt she’d invested so much time in the pageant.
At the stroke of midnight, the clock Betty had long ago hung over the fireplace chimed, waking her suddenly. The television glowed blue, as nothing was programmed to run in the middle of the night on a weekend. She sat up, wondering where she was.
Then she remembered. She’d missed the end of the pageant.
Bio: Emily January Petersen holds a B.A. from Brigham Young University and an M.A. from Weber State University in English. She has worked as an editor but currently teaches English composition courses at Weber State University.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
September 2011
Greetings all:
We're stoked to be up and running once again, and we're even more stoked to have such high-quality work to feature.
This month, we bring you a short piece of non-fiction by Prakash Kona and a lovely, enigmatic poem by Birgitta Abimbola Heikka.
If you like what you read (and you will), be sure to drop the writer a note. Kind words are always welcome.
Sincerely,
the Editors
Hando No Kuzushi
hnkuzushi.blogspot.com
We're stoked to be up and running once again, and we're even more stoked to have such high-quality work to feature.
This month, we bring you a short piece of non-fiction by Prakash Kona and a lovely, enigmatic poem by Birgitta Abimbola Heikka.
If you like what you read (and you will), be sure to drop the writer a note. Kind words are always welcome.
Sincerely,
the Editors
Hando No Kuzushi
hnkuzushi.blogspot.com
The Book that Defined my Thirtieth Year
By Prakash Kona
Christ was thirty when he started on his mission of changing the world. Siddhartha Gautama was twenty-nine when he decided to renounce the world and become the Buddha. I was somewhere between my twenty-ninth and thirtieth year when I began reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Imagine a bucket of cold water splashed on your face at 3 A.M in the dead of winter somewhere close to the North Pole. That was the experience I had when I reached the final page of Constance Garnett’s translation of Dostoevsky’s last novel. I thought I was dying. I wasn’t. I was merely coming out of one phase of my life in order to enter another. It’s the caterpillar in the pupa stage fully formed and ready to come out as a butterfly. Such is the lightness with which the book filled my heart.
Only Shakespeare and Dostoevsky can make you feel with every character in their works. You feel with the cruelty of the elder Karamazov, the obsessions of Dmitri the oldest brother, the cold rationality of Ivan that violates the human spirit, the epileptic Smerdyakov who throws bread to a dog with pins in it, the sweet and saintly Alyosha, that embodiment of human goodness Father Zossima, the proud and erratic Grushenka, Ilyusha the child who is dying because he has seen his father humiliated by Dmitri, the story within a story of Jesus coming to the city of Seville and thrown into a prison by the Grand Inquisitor who mocks Christ only to be kissed by him at the end of the narrative, the novel convinces you of what Hamlet says: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
If The Brothers Karamazov defined my thirtieth year it’s because it freed me of the cynicism of early youth. I took too many things seriously until that point including my own self, but how people felt I did not. For the first time I reversed the equation and made an attempt to know people for what they are and not for what I want them to be. The tendency to imagine that you know people is a vain and self-centered one. Interestingly there is something about your own self that you’re destined never to know. The book made me see that “there are more things in heaven and earth” than what I could dream of philosophizing about.
Can we trust human nature or are we to pity and embrace it – this is the question that haunts Dostoevsky. Not to believe in the goodness of humanity would mean you’re condemned never to know the sweetness of living. To believe in such goodness is at the same time madness because you become vulnerable and lend yourself to hurt without any reason at all. “People are not bad. They may be weak sometimes” says the impeccably beautiful protagonist (played by Irene Jacob) in the last movie of Kieslowski’s trilogy Three Colors: Red that celebrates friendship and trust. The line is a strange one because though she has every reason to feel pessimistic about people she refuses to despair. This refusal to despair simply means you live without being hedged by defense mechanisms and love life for what it is.
That’s a very Dostoevskyean stance: to see people as “weak” and not “bad.” You don’t judge people too harshly and you’re freed of the suspicion that comes from a mentality trapped in the past. If Shakespeare sees human beings as performers, Dostoevsky sees them as victims of an almost fatal “weakness” that each one individually has to come to terms with at a moral and spiritual level. To be saved or to be damned is a choice that you make for yourself. The price is what you pay as a person though the outcome of the choice will either benefit or destroy those around you.
Dostoevsky can forgive many things – almost everything, like “Jesus” himself, the hero of his novels. The most reluctant to forgive however and hardest he is on cynics and cynicism which he sees in the rise of western individualism that he’s never tired of ranting against; because, like Tolstoy he views material progress as an evil working contrary to the spiritual emancipation of humanity. Dostoevsky’s heroes are ultimately innocent – their innocence comes from their knowledge of man’s capacity to sin against his neighbor – in failing his neighbor man has failed God; and Dostoevsky’s heroes are out to demonstrate the innocence that knows that in the end it must suffer betrayal by the ones you love the most.
I vaguely recollect a critic who says that Tolstoy was benevolent but Dostoevsky was kind. The distinction is important: benevolence is a conscious desire to be good; kindness is instinctual and spontaneous. The latter pervades Dostoevsky’s writing as a whole. The love and friendship that Alyosha shares with the kids is one of the most spontaneous episodes in the narrative. That strange and questionable phrase “unconditional love” – Dostoevsky is the only writer who can make you want to believe in it. The world is cruel and cynical but Dostoevsky wants you to love it and be filled with generous feelings towards it. People are born to be happy no matter how much they’ve to suffer for it in the process. The deeply moving funeral scene following Ilyusha’s death at the end of the novel celebrates life and friendship in a mystical, transcendental way:
“Karamazov, we love you!” a voice, probably Kartashov’s, cried impulsively.
“We love you, we love you!” they all caught it up. There were tears in the eyes of many of them.
“Hurrah for Karamazov!” Kolya shouted ecstatically.
“And may the dead boy’s memory live for ever!” Alyosha added again with feeling.
“For ever!” the boys chimed in again.
“Karamazov,” cried Kolya, “can it be true what’s taught us in religion, that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each other again, all, Ilusha too?”
“Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other and shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened!” Alyosha answered, half laughing, half enthusiastic.
“Ah, how splendid it will be!” broke from Kolya.
“Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Don’t be put out at our eating pancakes — it’s a very old custom and there’s something nice in that!” laughed Alyosha. “Well, let us go! And now we go hand in hand.”
“And always so, all our lives hand in hand! Hurrah for Karamazov!” Kolya cried once more rapturously, and once more the boys took up his exclamation:
“Hurrah for Karamazov!”
With Tolstoy you’re constantly impressed by his greatness; Anna Karenina and War and Peace are indeed extraordinary works of art. You can’t be impressed with Dostoevsky; you can only love him and his characters. You laugh with them, you weep with them, you share their jealousies and their obsessions just as much as you share their need to love and be loved. They fill you with boundless pity and affection for a sad and a beautiful world that continues to be sadder and more beautiful than ever.
Bio: Prakash Kona is a writer, teacher and researcher working as an Associate Professor at the Department of English Literature, The English and Foreign Languages University (EFLU), Hyderabad, India. He is the author of Nunc Stans (Creative Non-fiction), Pearls of an Unstrung Necklace and Streets that Smell of Dying Roses (experimental fiction) published by Fugue State Press, New York.
Christ was thirty when he started on his mission of changing the world. Siddhartha Gautama was twenty-nine when he decided to renounce the world and become the Buddha. I was somewhere between my twenty-ninth and thirtieth year when I began reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Imagine a bucket of cold water splashed on your face at 3 A.M in the dead of winter somewhere close to the North Pole. That was the experience I had when I reached the final page of Constance Garnett’s translation of Dostoevsky’s last novel. I thought I was dying. I wasn’t. I was merely coming out of one phase of my life in order to enter another. It’s the caterpillar in the pupa stage fully formed and ready to come out as a butterfly. Such is the lightness with which the book filled my heart.
Only Shakespeare and Dostoevsky can make you feel with every character in their works. You feel with the cruelty of the elder Karamazov, the obsessions of Dmitri the oldest brother, the cold rationality of Ivan that violates the human spirit, the epileptic Smerdyakov who throws bread to a dog with pins in it, the sweet and saintly Alyosha, that embodiment of human goodness Father Zossima, the proud and erratic Grushenka, Ilyusha the child who is dying because he has seen his father humiliated by Dmitri, the story within a story of Jesus coming to the city of Seville and thrown into a prison by the Grand Inquisitor who mocks Christ only to be kissed by him at the end of the narrative, the novel convinces you of what Hamlet says: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
If The Brothers Karamazov defined my thirtieth year it’s because it freed me of the cynicism of early youth. I took too many things seriously until that point including my own self, but how people felt I did not. For the first time I reversed the equation and made an attempt to know people for what they are and not for what I want them to be. The tendency to imagine that you know people is a vain and self-centered one. Interestingly there is something about your own self that you’re destined never to know. The book made me see that “there are more things in heaven and earth” than what I could dream of philosophizing about.
Can we trust human nature or are we to pity and embrace it – this is the question that haunts Dostoevsky. Not to believe in the goodness of humanity would mean you’re condemned never to know the sweetness of living. To believe in such goodness is at the same time madness because you become vulnerable and lend yourself to hurt without any reason at all. “People are not bad. They may be weak sometimes” says the impeccably beautiful protagonist (played by Irene Jacob) in the last movie of Kieslowski’s trilogy Three Colors: Red that celebrates friendship and trust. The line is a strange one because though she has every reason to feel pessimistic about people she refuses to despair. This refusal to despair simply means you live without being hedged by defense mechanisms and love life for what it is.
That’s a very Dostoevskyean stance: to see people as “weak” and not “bad.” You don’t judge people too harshly and you’re freed of the suspicion that comes from a mentality trapped in the past. If Shakespeare sees human beings as performers, Dostoevsky sees them as victims of an almost fatal “weakness” that each one individually has to come to terms with at a moral and spiritual level. To be saved or to be damned is a choice that you make for yourself. The price is what you pay as a person though the outcome of the choice will either benefit or destroy those around you.
Dostoevsky can forgive many things – almost everything, like “Jesus” himself, the hero of his novels. The most reluctant to forgive however and hardest he is on cynics and cynicism which he sees in the rise of western individualism that he’s never tired of ranting against; because, like Tolstoy he views material progress as an evil working contrary to the spiritual emancipation of humanity. Dostoevsky’s heroes are ultimately innocent – their innocence comes from their knowledge of man’s capacity to sin against his neighbor – in failing his neighbor man has failed God; and Dostoevsky’s heroes are out to demonstrate the innocence that knows that in the end it must suffer betrayal by the ones you love the most.
I vaguely recollect a critic who says that Tolstoy was benevolent but Dostoevsky was kind. The distinction is important: benevolence is a conscious desire to be good; kindness is instinctual and spontaneous. The latter pervades Dostoevsky’s writing as a whole. The love and friendship that Alyosha shares with the kids is one of the most spontaneous episodes in the narrative. That strange and questionable phrase “unconditional love” – Dostoevsky is the only writer who can make you want to believe in it. The world is cruel and cynical but Dostoevsky wants you to love it and be filled with generous feelings towards it. People are born to be happy no matter how much they’ve to suffer for it in the process. The deeply moving funeral scene following Ilyusha’s death at the end of the novel celebrates life and friendship in a mystical, transcendental way:
“Karamazov, we love you!” a voice, probably Kartashov’s, cried impulsively.
“We love you, we love you!” they all caught it up. There were tears in the eyes of many of them.
“Hurrah for Karamazov!” Kolya shouted ecstatically.
“And may the dead boy’s memory live for ever!” Alyosha added again with feeling.
“For ever!” the boys chimed in again.
“Karamazov,” cried Kolya, “can it be true what’s taught us in religion, that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each other again, all, Ilusha too?”
“Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other and shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened!” Alyosha answered, half laughing, half enthusiastic.
“Ah, how splendid it will be!” broke from Kolya.
“Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Don’t be put out at our eating pancakes — it’s a very old custom and there’s something nice in that!” laughed Alyosha. “Well, let us go! And now we go hand in hand.”
“And always so, all our lives hand in hand! Hurrah for Karamazov!” Kolya cried once more rapturously, and once more the boys took up his exclamation:
“Hurrah for Karamazov!”
With Tolstoy you’re constantly impressed by his greatness; Anna Karenina and War and Peace are indeed extraordinary works of art. You can’t be impressed with Dostoevsky; you can only love him and his characters. You laugh with them, you weep with them, you share their jealousies and their obsessions just as much as you share their need to love and be loved. They fill you with boundless pity and affection for a sad and a beautiful world that continues to be sadder and more beautiful than ever.
Bio: Prakash Kona is a writer, teacher and researcher working as an Associate Professor at the Department of English Literature, The English and Foreign Languages University (EFLU), Hyderabad, India. He is the author of Nunc Stans (Creative Non-fiction), Pearls of an Unstrung Necklace and Streets that Smell of Dying Roses (experimental fiction) published by Fugue State Press, New York.
Le Masquerade
By Birgitta Abimbola Heikka
My childhood memories are filled with images of him
The man who scared and delighted every child on the streets of Lagos
Dressed from head to toe in colorful, heavy brocade
He'd stomp his feet
Making the bangles on his ankles rattle.
A comical and scary figure he was
The Masquerade who made us giddy with laughter
He dances round and round in the middle of the street
Then runs towards us as we form a circle around him
Squealing with rapture, we take to our heels like frightened little hens.
To taunt him mercilessly was our greatest delight
As he turns and struts away,
We creep out from our hiding places singing:
"Egun gun iyo yo, iyo yo, iyo yo"
He pauses in his steps, then turns around and chases after us
We take to our heels once more
And so, the game starts again. And again.
Bio: Birgitta Abimbola Heikka was born to a Swedish father and a Nigerian mother in Lagos, Nigeria. Living in Nigeria as a bi-racial child gave her a unique experience. She moved to the United States in the late 1980s and has two lovely daughters. Her favorite pastime is reading.
My childhood memories are filled with images of him
The man who scared and delighted every child on the streets of Lagos
Dressed from head to toe in colorful, heavy brocade
He'd stomp his feet
Making the bangles on his ankles rattle.
A comical and scary figure he was
The Masquerade who made us giddy with laughter
He dances round and round in the middle of the street
Then runs towards us as we form a circle around him
Squealing with rapture, we take to our heels like frightened little hens.
To taunt him mercilessly was our greatest delight
As he turns and struts away,
We creep out from our hiding places singing:
"Egun gun iyo yo, iyo yo, iyo yo"
He pauses in his steps, then turns around and chases after us
We take to our heels once more
And so, the game starts again. And again.
Bio: Birgitta Abimbola Heikka was born to a Swedish father and a Nigerian mother in Lagos, Nigeria. Living in Nigeria as a bi-racial child gave her a unique experience. She moved to the United States in the late 1980s and has two lovely daughters. Her favorite pastime is reading.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Open to Submissions
Our injuries have been nursed; our wounds healed. We have spent our time away resting our minds and bodies - bracing ourselves for an unknown future.
To help us make sense of the world, we are now open to submissions. Please send us what you got whenever you feel it's ready. Our submission info can be found on the right side of the screen.
We look forward to working with you.
Sincerely,
the Editors
Hando No Kuzushi
hnkuzushi.blogspot.com
To help us make sense of the world, we are now open to submissions. Please send us what you got whenever you feel it's ready. Our submission info can be found on the right side of the screen.
We look forward to working with you.
Sincerely,
the Editors
Hando No Kuzushi
hnkuzushi.blogspot.com
Friday, January 21, 2011
Temporary Closed to Submissions
Greetings all:
Due to life and work obligations, we are temporarily closed to submissions. We will re-open later in the spring when we hope to begin our foray into the world of print. Thanks again to our contributors and followers. We wouldn't have even made it this far without you.
All the best,
the Editors
Hando No Kuzushi
hnkuzushi.blogspot.com
Due to life and work obligations, we are temporarily closed to submissions. We will re-open later in the spring when we hope to begin our foray into the world of print. Thanks again to our contributors and followers. We wouldn't have even made it this far without you.
All the best,
the Editors
Hando No Kuzushi
hnkuzushi.blogspot.com
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Issue # 5
Happy New Year all!
Issue # 5 of Hando No Kuzushi is slim but powerful, comprised solely of five haikus by Michael Frissore. Read them once for the message, again for the structure, and a third time just 'cause. Since many of us are undoubtedly looking to detox and slim down after the holiday season binge, these haikus - in their small form and surface-level accessibility - might just be what the doctor ordered. And if not, enjoy them, anyway. What's one more vice to begin the new year?
Issue # 5 of Hando No Kuzushi is slim but powerful, comprised solely of five haikus by Michael Frissore. Read them once for the message, again for the structure, and a third time just 'cause. Since many of us are undoubtedly looking to detox and slim down after the holiday season binge, these haikus - in their small form and surface-level accessibility - might just be what the doctor ordered. And if not, enjoy them, anyway. What's one more vice to begin the new year?
Five Haikus by Michael Frissore
Haiku # 1
I don’t care what
sushi is
I don’t like it.
Haiku # 2
Why would a man born
Kanji Inoki
call himself Antonio?
Haiku # 3
I read him some haikus
and he nailed me
with a Kendo stick
Haiku # 4
Being sneaky does
not make you a ninja it
makes you annoying.
Haiku #5
I can’t thank a
Japanese man without
adding, “Mr. Roboto.”
Michael Frissore has an adorable lil' chapbook called Poetry is Dead (Coatlism, 2009) and an even adorabler lil' blog called michaelfrissore.blogspot.com. He lives in Arizona with his wife and son.
I don’t care what
sushi is
I don’t like it.
Haiku # 2
Why would a man born
Kanji Inoki
call himself Antonio?
Haiku # 3
I read him some haikus
and he nailed me
with a Kendo stick
Haiku # 4
Being sneaky does
not make you a ninja it
makes you annoying.
Haiku #5
I can’t thank a
Japanese man without
adding, “Mr. Roboto.”
Michael Frissore has an adorable lil' chapbook called Poetry is Dead (Coatlism, 2009) and an even adorabler lil' blog called michaelfrissore.blogspot.com. He lives in Arizona with his wife and son.
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