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March 1, 2002

I wonder why she stutters when she speaks. She has no impediment, no extenuating condition. The speech pathologist says that her only worrisome quality—and I have known this from infancy—is her quietness. The doctor has hinted at Autism, a learning disability, or even hesitation, but until she grows older we cannot know, definitively.

Mia, my daughter does not speak much. When spoken to, she replies in monosyllables. Downcast, her eyes bode a certain grey cowardice like mine, but are heavy and unyielding. The first time she even uttered a word was the day after her fourth birthday. 

The word was “Dad.”

It was a Saturday and she sat on the swing set, as contemplative as a toddler could be, simply humming. In her left hand was a branch she had nicknamed Wand. Wand prodded the anthills, and angered the occupants. It whooshed through the air ostentatiously, as a symphonic conductor does. And it fell. Then came the word. It came most effortlessly, especially for one who had never spoken and it hit me like an arid heat. So, I choked. 

D-dad, Daddy, Daddy-o. She mouthed the words at first, then chimed them in falsetto. And she went on like that in a superfluous, singsong sort of way. 

Who is Daddy? I do not know. I choose not to think of him as an aggressor, as that is begrudging of me. Rather, I see an illustrious painting wrought from the far-reaching tendrils of my consciousness, painted with mental watercolor. 

Dad is a Harlem boy. He is ageless, fatherless, a dropout, working per diem, and owing child support. He lives under the rigid dominion of concrete streets, the penumbra of the law, and he is young. He reminds me too much of my students: where they are from and where they have gone. I could paint him as a masochist, a voodoo doll stitched of sackcloth. I could weave a man with insidious intent, but doing so would corrupt this picture, even dilute it. His ferocity will not denounce me to the muck and mire. For I am a woman of many colors, and blackness does not frighten me. 

Mia, does not know her father. She does not need to know that it was I who had spent an hour in his presence, thrashing and scratching and most probably pissing on myself. I, her heroine, who had nearly lost her conviction. It is strange, that I possess a piece of mind from an ignorance of him. Had I looked at his face—briefly under the bridge in the night, my strength would have been sapped.  I kept quiet, and didn’t cry out. I didn’t tell anybody. The world could only sympathize, and I did not need its pity. So I kept my eyes closed, and imagined my painting.

My daughter says that I am kind, that I have a good heart. My students call me fair and honest. But one cannot be honest in all things, and this secret she must not know. It must be concealed until it is ready for an appropriate season, as was my plight in coming here. 

I came to Brooklyn six years ago, studying film. Prompted by a desire to move from out of a foster home in Cincinnati, I giddily studied in New York– my dream actualized. Forsaking all else, I studied and received my Bachelor’s in Education and Cinematic Studies. Film, I soon abandoned as I had no ambition of becoming a screenwriter or director. Instead, I turned to English education, behind the veil of the classroom.

What many true teachers feel and don’t say is that our fulfillment does not come from the time spent grading papers, or writing tests. If we heralded our jobs for the sake of income, we’d be laughed at. Sometimes, when we are in the foolish presence of our peers, or in group conversation at parties we steer the conversation from the Topic of Occupation. We stifle our speech for fear that our passions for the Humanities did not enrich us, as did the engineers, or the businessmen, or the nurses. We bite our tongues until we speak of Fulfillment and that is when the ball is in play. Then, when we speak of our students, the room falls silent.  

March 13, 2002

I cannot remember when I had my first anxiety attack. If I had a guess, I’d say after I knew I was pregnant, but they’d started long before then. My most recent was at the beginning of last month when I stood at the lectern, reading. Then they ensued with sudden frequency: before I picked up Mia from daycare; on those long walks between the parking lot and the campus, the place where the elms recede. The worst was at a staff picnic. Sasha and Dean called after to check up, but I haven’t answered them yet. I’ve been on sick leave for a week now, and being pent up resting doesn’t seem to help. 

——

A man stopped by today.

After he’d knocked twice, rasping at the door most insistently, I obliged to open it. The man was formidable and large: his girth took up the door frame. He wore a suit and tie, (with a stickpin) like a Jehovah’s Witness, and a beret. In his hand was a King James Bible, with yellowing pages. 

I’m not much of a churchgoer, I say, and have never been–not after I left the foster home. The Bible, I’ve read once through for leisure but it seems incompatible, an incongruity of floating pieces, like a bad lover. He handed me the pamphlets, so I accepted them with acquiescence. 

——

The pamphlets, I toss in the fireplace. I imagine them shriveling, letters charring in the cinders. A conflagration in a forge. But there is no fire to envelop them; no wood to light. The thermostat reads fifty, but I stand in my nightgown shivering. 

I turn to my painting. 

It stands on the aisle. Blank, it petitions for anything: a brush stroke, a sketch. The blankness, I tell myself, is only a phase of creation. The oil pastels I’ve bought, are lined in spectra. Each paint tube is splayed on the hardwood floor like a giant color wheel. I spin in the center, to see them all revolve.

Once, when the world was new I spun in a lilac-ridden field. That was long before I’d heard of Jesus, Mother Theresa, Bill DiMaggio, or Bob Dylan. Before I’d heard of any sainthood or prophet, my divinity was life and an abundance of it. 

That was my primary cure. 

The second cure was to imagine. I emote through this journal detailing my comings and goings–where I abscond to mentally. 

So today, I am attending a Writer’s Workshop in New Jersey. 

It’s free, thank God. 

Though reputable, the event is run like one of those pyramid-scheme seminars, with a guru on stage who surveys the topography of the audience. The auditorium corrals us, and we wait for our speaker. To the envy of everyone there, the instructor is a Pulitzer-Prize-winning novelist. He says that dreams hold merit like a vessel and that they are are provocative and literary. For our first exercise, we are told to write down our dreams. Upon the dais, he says:

 “Think back to a recurrent dream. Think of all its eccentricities, its ornateness. Even think of its bias, and immerse yourself within that sea.” 

But before we write en masse, he tells us to relay our stories aloud, subjecting them to criticism before pen and paper. Our aspiring contemporaries, he says, are also our companions. As peers, they are told to challenge us, to question: What makes this dream special to you? Are these events autobiographical?  What point of view did your dream take? First or third person? Collective? What convoluted context do the succession of these events represent?

After we finish this, the speaker addresses us again. 

He says, “After you’ve plunged into that murky sea, rise to the surface. Take a breath. Look around. Use your faculties. Now, you’ve been christened.”

That was our cue to write, so I did: 

Usually, the lights go out. Then, it begins with the water.

The water is patterned. It trickles at first in a lattice, usurping the furniture. It slopes down the yellowing mascarpone walls, upon the windowsills and the picture frames. A cataract, it rushes out through the outlets, the switches, the sprinklers and the faucets. The toilet overfills. Sometimes snow peppers the bed, coating the headboard. Like crystal, icicles grow from the ceiling at an exponential rate. The green fibers are damp and the mass sloshes, unleashing the scented lives of the previous tenants: the spirited, musky odors of pot, dogs, and sex.

Then, soon everything is slick and wet and buoyant: the television, the clock, the kitchen knives, the food stamps, the essays and the WIC checks. They are all drowning, spinning feverishly. Wind beats the building, expiring into the windows, as mist kindles. Lightening hits, boring a browned hole on the counter. As static buzzes, my hair frays on end. Auroras of light play in my peripheral vision.

Mia wades. She treads the water. I can see that she is cold. Despite this I am distracted, because the painting bobs up and down. 

The windows shatter, like the defenestration in Westerns. All is lost. 

March 14, 2002

I’m back.

My students are perplexed, after I’ve been subbed by a woman who looks like Mrs. Hannigan. 

“Alice,” they say, “Where have you been?” I tell my students to address me by Alice, not Ms. Hanson.

“Oh,” I tell them, “I’ve been sick with a bout of pneumonia. But I’m good now.” (This is the same story I tell Sasha and Dean in the teacher’s lounge)

The students smile. They’re glad I’m back. We go in rounds this time, reading a paragraph each from The Grapes of Wrath. 

October 2, 2002

At the grocery store I buy apple sauce and oatmeal. At Mia’s request, I also get Lucky Charms and Vanilla Wafers, all generics of course. The food is enough for the week, and mostly for her. I can skip a meal or two. She’s speaking more now, saying words like “crayon” and “Elmo,” but she still hasn’t said “Mommy” yet. Instead she uses “Mother,” detachedly. 

I have noticed though, that before she speaks, she ponders in rumination for several seconds. When she has caught the thought from off the coast of her imagination, her eyes brighten. 

“Where is Daddy?”

My breath catches. Then, I creep a fake smile.

“Daddy left. A long time ago.”

Mia shakes her head. I have tressed her hair and threaded colorful beads in the extensions. They rattle.

“But why?” She stomps her foot. Her plea is fervent and unassuaged. “Dads don’t just leave!”

“They shouldn’t, but they do. Sometimes.”

Her eyes search me. The truth has satisfied her tantrum for now. I know though, that it has whetted her appetite for more answers.

Mia’s curiosity is like mine, though physically we differ. She possesses warm, chocolate skin. Mine is pallid and freckled. My hair reddens at the ends. It is straight. Hers, if allowed to grow would fall into terse locks, the kind that Shirley Temple had.

 We both possess that same quality of introversion. Though with this crutch is an aptitude for reading and writing. 

Mia prefers that I read to her what she calls “adult-books,” namely, the books I teach with. I try not to let the toddler have free reign, so I try to be selective. We have read To Kill A Mockingbird and Tom Sawyer. She relates with Scout best; Tom she likes. 

I try not to think of this, or even let the thought fester, but I cannot help but wonder. If I do not put The Thought on paper, it will wreak havoc—through lucrative means, throwing my conscience off kilter. And that thought is a question. I am honest and there is dissonance in the life I live, with what could be. 

What would life be like without Mia? Would it be happier? Easier? Undoubtedly, my painting would have changed. That is true. The aisle would be enlivened water colors; it would be replaced: emboldened with confident brush strokes of oil pastel. The ink, I am sure, would never fade hanging in a garnished frame above ivory upholstery.

October 3, 2002

The school social worker came by. His name is Dean Humphrey. Undeniably, he is attractive. We’ve been on only two dates, both to open air delis, but I’ve decided I like him– more as a friend. Divorced at thirty five, the wrinkles have not yet etched deep enough into flesh. Yes, there are crowfeet, but they are as fine as his auburn hair. At 5’8, Dean possesses a lucid expression. He is my height and dons a Mr. Rogers sweater vest with a half-zip, high collar. 

“How’s the rabbit hole?” he says.

“Good, except for a few Jabberwockies.”

“It’s alright. We’re in Wonderland after all.”

*

He tells me the story of his most recent client, a manic depressive hoarder who fenced her kids in with barbed wire and fed them a staple of chicken feed. The preschool teacher, tipped off the authorities, after the kids exhibited signs of malnutrition and ultimately kwashiokor.

 The story amuses me and scares me at the same time. 

“Some clients I’ve had are really messed up,” says Dean. He is animated like a marionette, finicky. “There’s the run of the mill issues with neglect and caretaker absence, but the worst is when I’ve had to subpoena for single mothers smothering their kids with pillows, or drowning them. Fucked up shit like that.”

“Jesus. Aren’t you overstepping patient confidentiality?”

“And a slew of other HIPAA regulations? Yes I am, but fuck it. I want to trust you,” He looks me in the eye. “ How’s the dream?”

“Happens every night. More so with the Prozac. It’s not just a dream, it’s like one of those lucid dreams in the horoscope section of the paper.” I look at him for acknowledgment. He nods, so I continue.

“It’s more tangible than it is immaterial,” I say, “Are you shrinking me? This better be off the books.”

“Of course not, and yes it is.”

“I’m not crazy, Dean.”

“I know that. So you’re drowning?”

“Yes–well– Mia is drowning.”

“And like any good mother you rush to save her? Right?”

I pause.

Dean reiterates. “In this apartment–practically everything is swimming around like a primordial soup. Do you rescue her?”

“I don’t.”

“You can’t?”

“No, I don’t. I see her there. She’s shivering, and stuttering, and cold, but then this painting floats by, bobbing and it catches my attention, so I fixate on it. I get distracted.”

“You mean that painting?” Dean gestures toward the blank painting in the living room. I nod. There is a brief silence between us.

“How’s Mia? The stuttering?” Dean says.

“Good. She’s stuttering less. She’s so smart. Curious, I’d say.  She’s a real actress though,” I laugh.“She plays off like she doesn’t know.”

“But you’re thinking it’s time?”

“Soon.”

He rises from the recliner, and sits next to me. Dean touches my hand and tenderly, he kisses me. “Alice,” he says, “I’m obliged to make routine visits, professionally. But if you need anything else please don’t hesitate to call.”

“I don’t,” I say, and he leaves. 

October 8, 2002

In the morning, as an exercise I write down my dream, its continuation: 

Like an extinguished flame, the water is gone. The floodgate subsides.

Bleach. That is the smell of the place. Like a respiratory system, the building breathes. If you listen hard, above the throbbing in your temples, you will know.  Orderlies march out of the wing, past the grieving families. Their walk is stunted, breath bated. The corridors hiss, like the bronchi of an asthmatic or the first gasp of a newborn.

I, of course, know why I am here. I knew long before the EMTs swarmed the apartment or the neighbors dial 9-1-1. This was before the lightning storm, or the water; even before Mia shivers, and her teeth chatter. Before she was cold, I knew she would drown.

My clothes are wet, still. 

I ask an orderly, where the restroom is. Second floor, to the right of the lobbyists, the debates on climate change,  and passed the infirmed children.

Once there, I gaze at the silver. 

I am the woman in the mirror, her face and hair matted with paint. Her fingers stick together. Her tie-dye garments have shrunk, and her flesh is colored: a flourish of orange here between the eyebrows. A stride of blue on the lips. Red and yellow dabs on the eyelids. Fresh straw, matted upon the head–the consistency, and drab texture of wool. A single red dot rests upon my forehead like a third eye. Were this window open it would burn the tongues of liars, and profiteers. It would mend the beseeching hearts, and set coals upon the heads of the guilty with the ire of millions.

But for now, this eye is closed.

Then, I laugh for I am a living canvas. 

October 9, 2002

I’m not crazy. Not like that bitch Aileen Wuornos. She died today.

On the subject of lunacy, I recall a time long before I watched the news. In Sunday school, when I was ten or so, I remember learning the Bible story of the Mad King, Nebuchadnezzar. Through apocalyptic denunciations The prophet Daniel interpreted the King’s dreams. He also prophesied that the King would lose his marbles for seven years: grazing on grass like a bull; that his nails would resemble talons and his hair would grow as long as an eagle’s feathers. When I came back home–that is to the foster home– I tried to imagine myself in poor Neb’s shoes.

I sat in the courtyard, tasting the milkweed that grew on either side of the threshold. I wondered what seven years of insanity would do to you. For one, I was sure that the first thing to go, after your mind, would be your continence: shitting on yourself, like those vegetables on TV. Second, would come fear since that’s instinctive. Then, I wondered what Neb’s first thought was when he came to. Was he happy? Embarrassed? Humbled? That’s what my Sunday school teacher taught us, but now I’m not so sure. I’m sure that after clarity, I’d have felt ashamed of a number of things: My nudity. My recklessness. My ambition (or lack thereof). My life. Myself.

 Neb then praised God in a succession of hallelujahs. He was happy despite his nudity and his recklessness. His ambition returned to him, he sat upon the throne of Babylon–humbled as his life story was scrupulously written upon cuneiform tablets for subsequent archaeologists, and the world to read. 

Unlike Neb, my story is not for the world to read. Mine is sheltered–pent up in a stupidly colored house, with yellow walls comprised of yellow bricks. It is not inscribed on stone–or even paper– and nobody knows of it; though it lives and breathes vehemently. It kicks even, like Mia did when I read to her before she was born. 

August 31, 2003

There is no other calamity like the first day of class. The psyche of the teacher is this: that she must peruse through all the prior year’s acquired knowledge; recalling it to memory. Along with this burden are the jitters, for what will the day hold? Will it be one of those silent days, where we go in little rounds (reminiscent of preschool) and tell our names? Our stories? What will be the lesson plan, and having acquired it, is it in line with the curriculum? One welcomes the board of sniveling parents, who rise to complain about the performance of their children. Or the pervasive complaint, that English is a language the world knows, so then why are we studying it? In addressing these qualms, planning is essential. But in these areas, since nothing is certain, I hate to do so. I’ll just wing it. 

The one thing I welcome, far more than the anxiety, is the same faculty of individuals. The principle, Sasha Mavis. Dean Humphrey, the school social worker. There are several in my department that I regard with distaste, but these are few and far between. For the most part they are kind, and honest–and it is these qualities I admire. 

Of course, my favorite are the students. Each year has its debutantes and its narcissists. But teaching Freshmen in high school is like that. But the best students, I see as a reflection of myself: the ones who are keen to learn; who supplicate but are without these proper instruments. Often, they are poor. They speak only when called upon. I put my focus on these students. They are the tardy ones, or the dirty ones. But when they speak they tell their story, and the world listens.

In college, while the same world read the twentieth century modernists, I settled upon contemporary literature. To this day my favorite author is Sylvia Plath. Any fledgling reader of her work, no matter if it is her prose or poems would soon discover the relatable nature of her stories, how she can empathize. Her genius, along with Ted Hughes’s, is their ability to project the duality of covetousness and  sheer unattainableness clearly, presenting the dire antithesis of each. There is a constant striving, a spirit that we all have. Like cutlery, these can either tarnish or shine, based upon the realm of experience, but for Women this can rust.

It is fitting then, that the second book in class that we will read is the Bell Jar. I read the novel when I was nineteen, still in high school and it struck me, placidly. 

March 1, 2003

When I open the door, a cop stands with a warrant. Lieutenant Lloyd Brown, as his badge reads, stands on the threshold, but he is offish, as if present in another plane. Three others accompany him. He commands and they obey like dogs. They shuffle through the corridors, make a mess of the dining room, upturn the furniture, and peal back the linoleum. The WIC checks, they scatter. 

“We’d like to bring you in, for questioning,” Brown, the automaton, says.“Will we be needing these?” He dangles the handcuffs from a fat finger.

“No, don’t detain me. I’ll go. What do you need answered?” But his answer is lost. 

Looking out the window, I catch a glimpse of Dean.

*

I am calm. 

In the cop car, the world flourishes. Incendiary, the lights gleam one after the next like a garish funeral procession. I begin to appreciate my immersion in space, like I am submerged–tumbling with infinite inertia. All is viscous. 

The vehicle is a cage that sheathes me. It is a cacophonous cocoon, from which to see the world of passive men and women: some who glare at the ferocity of the beast as it passes. 

We stop at a light. Under the bridge, the rain is obstructed, ceasing to fall. I see Mia in the other car. Her face petitions through the glass, like a doll on the other side of a store window. 

She knows. 

Before the rains fall again, she shivers. I can see her mouth the word, coldly.

 Mommy. 

I look around. 

On the adjacent block, I see the preacher. He is the Harlem boy, alone, and working per diem–imploring of penance under the concrete dominion of the streets. He is the man working nine to five with a surrogate family. He brings his daughters to Mass, prays with them in the dark of the night.

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A short story

by

Eric Momou

They landed in the heart of the Massif Central, near the French department of Dordogne, at forty-five degrees North latitude and five degrees East longitude. Oblong, the construct which carried them was recognizably avian in form: it spanned thirty metres, from nose to tail. Comprised of aluminum the hull and fuselage shone silver with iridescent impurities of olivine. Though shabby, the shuttle flew aloft, attesting to the acquired metallurgy of a lunar forge.

Men had left the moon to live on Earth again.

In her sanctity, the Earth smote and rent their lofty vehicle, sullying their plumage so that they returned tarred with dust. Her intent was simple: to mar them again, for another season. For the settlers, these specters stood in recent memory. Their passive thought lived, as if it could respire. It swam in elated minds, laying dormant to oxidizing consciences.

Fleeting, it gave way to rumination and this in turn to fear, which did well to inspirit the Men of the Company. They numbered seven.

For two days the Men witnessed the gray of the moorland. Now the land gave way, plain as an offering, to a patch of alpine forest. Vegetation died and the hedges dwindled, but the trickle of the rivulet stayed, and to this fact the Men held fast. A gradual incline uphill, the march had been long and strenuous. To this extent, the land claimed them, forcing them into recompense until it bore their bones.

At one time there were twelve. The Last died from a common cold; his successor perished from the flu. Those following grew weary and collapsed; one drowned. The remnant Men grew hardened at the passing of their comrades. Several, on the cusp of madness, saw the futility of the matter. As to this revelation, they kept to themselves for none were as brazen so as to speak to the First Man at the head of the company.

Conversely, the First Man was amongst the last of prolific Men to have fled Earth. He was a scientist, the kind that thought long and logistically about things, past the ethics and into their plain natures. The rest were born, or more so intubated, upon the Moon. They had never walked the terrestrial landscape, or tasted of the cool waters from the mountain streams. Water that rose from the lunar core was frozen and poisonous, full of syndicates and had to be thoroughly purified.

On earth, the richness of minerals and the presence of eukaryotic organisms, such as protists deemed the water unsafe— even deadly.

As they continued the rivulet grew into a river, roaring like palpation in their ears. Soon the surge was deafening, the sound cutting off conversation.

“Water.” said the First Man. And the Men listened. “Is it safe to drink?” said the Second. He wore his face pale and downtrodden, but his eyes bore steel. The First knelt. He placed a Geiger counter near the water and waited a long time. He took other readings, this time with a refractometer, and then with a litmus strip.

“By god,” said the First in undertone. Then he smiled and turned to the others.

“Yeah. It’s safe. But use your purifiers, just in case.” Relieved, he washed his face, cleansing it of soot. Then, he walked into the creek, wading barefoot. The Men followed him. They drank, but kept their heads elevated, always searching through the pine.

After drinking, their strength returned to them. The First pointed westward, towards a ridge.

“We will go a little further now, up the summit. There we can camp. Build a fire.”

Away from the disarray of wilderness, the ridge provided respite. Light kindled towards the forest’s Western edge, so that in the East its warmth forsook them.

At this portent, the First Man stoked a fire: greatly and hot, as he had done on the hearth in his crooked house a long time ago. The others gathered, amazed.

The First Man began his story of the folly of his predecessors, and their irrevocable natures. He spoke of the East and West and their affiliated feuds that all Men had forgotten. And the Men believed him for it was he who had kept the Company alive, until now.

In the morning, light splayed upon them, and their backs hurt from the rigid ground beneath, wrought of permafrost. Although snow had not yet fallen, the season was early winter. The wind grew most bitter at the timberline, as rime frost accumulated on the tents and trees.

They found the girl due north, sleeping in a cave of bedrock, near the river. When they had found her, a psychosis had already set in her feral eyes, and she was combative. She had remedied an affliction of parasitic helminths with stick rolling: reeling the worms around a twig at the base of her heel. When the worm had reared its head through the callused limb, she would tug at it (and her flesh stretched with it). In the span of several weeks the entire body would emerge, in full length, a dried vermiform body like a spirochete around the branch. Were she to cease this process or sever the worm, it would propagate and she would be obliged to start the process again.

“She’s delirious. Lifeless.” said the Third Man, who was a medic. “Imperceptive of stimuli.” With a hideous strength, she resisted any attempt to free her. She spat and muttered incongruent words, from which the linguist of their number discerned as an old tongue, Gaelic.

“Leave her,” said the Fourth, a Man of reason. The rest kept silent “Any further attempt would risk puncture to our suits, perhaps depressurizing them.”

She was blinded and fettered, with a thick twine fashioned from coarse, thorned flora. This heinous construct had caused her skin to bleed, the blood septic. The Fourth, being the horticulturist had administered anodyne, intravenously. The plant that twined about her extremities, was a variant of coniferous fern that had been inscribed in taxonomy books long ago. By analysis, the sap was toxic not in chemical composition but by its biological complex with a surge of virulent mycobacteria.

Pinaceia mortus, the horticulturist named it.

The Men camped within the cave. “Do not light a fire,” He told them. “When I return, we will hunt.” When night came, The First did not sleep. Rather, he assigned the Second as sentry, standing vigil at the cave entrance. Meanwhile, the First took this opportunity, as a time to explore. He carried a flashlight.

The complex was comprised of several antechambers, all of which had drawings that lined the walls: great works of abstractionism that ancient museum curators would gloat at.

There were the paintings at Lascaux, but monoliths also: tools of steel and canopic jars. In several chambers, where the previous occupants inhabited, was evidence of irrigation and riverside plumbing. Termite mounds grew from their bases, extending to the ceilings.

Like the fabled Mesopotamian city of Ur, this one stood in the midst of a vale— with access to fertile plain and hunting ground. It made him curious, however that the people did not grow their crop of corn and barley outside the antechambers. Instead, they planted within the main vestibule. This, was incredibly high— thirty fathoms at least. It tapered like a rotunda lined with an assortment of toothy stalactites. At the top of the vestibule was the source of cultivation, a sky light. Livestock lived in the chambers, grazed even on the edge of crop. The civilization gleaned, whenever there was famine.

They plant inside because of the fallout, thought the First Man. Already, he had prospects of rebuilding, of colonizing. Like a visionary, he saw many encampments, fashioned in the form of these caves speckling the horizon.

We can send ambassadors, build a country.

Of course, if the politics played out, they could trade-even reconstruct the main infrastructure for the current inhabitants, a symbiosis efforts.

He wondered what the air smelled like. Surely, it was pristine in such a place— an area where plants proliferated and animals lived mundane lives. Yet, the organisms might well have adapted to a nitrogen rich environment. He tested his luck, and removed his rebreather.

He had forgotten the smell of soil; the taste of water free of particulates.

Just maybe Men could re-populate. Maybe they could find the xylem, or the very moral fiber to reseed. But, Earth was not like home.

At twilight, The First made his way towards the cave entrance. Excitement had taken root like soil in his veins, enriching him. With stronger still. them:

With each step, the palpitation of his heart grew As he ran, he mouthed the words, recited.

Come! See that my stories are true.

And he ran harder, almost taking flight. When he did arrive, his Men had gone. Remnant kindle and cinders smoldered. In his absence, The Second had annulled his command. As he trod in the darkness, he almost fell on a carcass that lay on the floor, skewered on a pit. The beast, he did not recognize. Rather, whatever miasma possessed him, turned to a sullen anger. Were they to return, from some unknown excursion, he did not have the spirit to wait and greet them. Instead, he slept.

It was not until afternoon, that it occurred to him, the Men had been ousted. When the grey of morning settled and the sun had nearly reached its apogee, he saw the carcass. In the light, the body of the Second was mauled: mutilated like a mass of meat, extremities torn. The only limb that remained was the left leg. Dependent lividity shown in the torso.

His instinct told him to run. He made his way to fissured rim of the vale.

Down in the basin, the Men numbered six. All stood in a line parallel to the river, clad in the white of their space suits. Each Man knelt in a state of genuflection, bound about their ankles with thick twine. Another paced, separate from the Men. Dressed in the garb of the cave dwellers He wore feathers, like some avian mediator, and carried a sword of steel. He spoke: an orator of orators.

“Our forefathers taught their sons these things, so that we may know what went and came. This was after the Dreaming, but the world continues sleeping still and through all else we have kept it so. The story has been told. We are of the good people. As for you, the Earth is not your inheritance. You rejected it and you abandoned it. Because of this, it does not receive you.”

The First Man gazed onward, out past the river to the mountain and the cradle of valley beyond it. And for the second time the First Man imagined.

East, out past the vale he saw juniper trees. Cedars too, lined the horizon— the like of which grew in Lebanon; a place he had only read about. At the memorial scent of figs, his mouth watered. The sweet smell of wind wafted to the back of his throat, only to be caught by the saline scent of blood. And as he ingested it, the iron made his stomach turn.

Further, he witnessed the generations of Men who would inhabit the vale, even their children. He saw their abodes: cabins and houses-all strong, even resilient. Unlike the laborious tilling of the moon, fine crop grew each season, and the collection for the harvest was plentiful. Seeds germinated, the moon waxed and waned, the sun tumbled and rose, and the stars sifted through the celestial murk. Orion’s belt quivered on high, out past the assortment of nebulous clouds, and the fractal limits of his own reckoning.

These thoughts contented him. But as this madness overtook reason, the First Man unbridled himself from instinct. He very nearly plummeted into the vale, that slaughtering place. He met the eyes of the Men with the elderly spark of resilience. In the current, The First Man saw the blood of his comrades. Flecks of red settled down in the river silt, swirling around his knees. Above all, he heard their cries: one after the other as their throats were slit. None were louder than the rushing of the river.

After he collected himself, The First Man prostrated. Then, he set his face to the wet soil.

Eric Momou

MISOGYNY AS A POST-FALL MILTONIAN CONSTRUCT

From the seventeenth-century onward, scholars have disputed the nature of the sexes, hierarchy, and patriarchy in Paradise Lost. To gain a better understanding of this issue in our analysis of Milton’s work, we must create a dichotomy between the two main functions of meaning as they pervade to the topic of gender. This is the originalist meaning of gender, as Milton himself, would have been accustomed to using it with Lenhof’s white, masculine archetype. Second, there is our modern definition that includes the social structure, and political foundations of the 21st century. With a further consideration of the latter, we will further contextualize our sense of fallen meanings, and recontextualize them within the parameter of Paradise Lost. This reevaluation will shed light on how the duality of meaning gives birth to the  post-fall construct, as we know it. Looking at the relativity of exegesis, and eisegesis will give a better understanding of both the unconscious, and conscious nature of this construct. In so doing, we will call forth such scholars as Rosanna Cox, Elisabeth Liebert, Shannon Miller as well as the modern intersex activist, and clinical psychologist Tiger Devore. 

First, we must decipher Milton’s work on gender based off of its original meaning. Milton’s originalist perspective certainly has garnered criticism in regards to gender. For one, scholar Kent R. Lenhof  asserts Milton’s work is often attributed to in terms of sex, being confined to the white, English patriarchy of his era. However, his perspective shines light on both the political and social structure during this period. As Lenhof relates in Performing Masculinity in Paradise Lost, Milton’s notion of gender in Paradise Lost was a function of his time during the Commonwealth of English antiquity. This would have been, strictly speaking “a white male” patriarchy with its affiliated “body and its effects” (Lenhof, 64). The roles, on Milton’s account pervade to a “seventeenth-century political theory” which organized the “domestic and public spheres” (Miller, 152). Gender typically, in Paradise Lost typically refers to the interplay of the sexes: male and female. To think of gender with a modern day definition is indicative of a non-original, and modern day interpretation of the text. It is this modern day understanding that I seek to address in the following paragraphs. 

In her article, Gender, Miller makes several points from other notable scholars including Ester Sowernam, who pairs the unbalanced nature of Adam and Eve’s creation with their primacy, or times of creation. Sowernam asserts against the notion of the patriarchal firstborn for divine providence, mentioning that the creation of woman was “from Man himself,” therefore being heaven’s final gift (Miller, 153). In so doing, Sowernam lends a precedent towards the sole, perfect, and unique gift of Woman, as she is manifest in the garden of Eden. This places Sowarnam’s sanctitude of power, without hierarchy, in another territory. It speaks towards the nature of hierarchy itself as a patriarchal construct, and against the countless permutations of misogynistically driven regimes throughout the ages. The fact is, she and Miller see the construct of gender for what it is: an amalgamation of male-driven order that must be challenged in order to prevent marginalization, and oppression for those who do not fit beneath its paradigm of elitism. Only through its questioning, can it be surmised. 

Sowernam’s argument speaks accordingly to the issue of normalizing hierarchy. This latent creation of Eve is a testament against the male privilege of rulership. Her argument poses into question the condition of one’s birth, and whether or not they are fit to rule. As poignant as this point is, the procession of divinely appointed sovereignty does not equalize the gender claim. 

To counter example this argument, it must be discerned how much we wish to identify as fallen readers. We may read Milton’s words within the confines of the text, as a rendition of Milton’s biblical exegesis from its original intent. That is, choosing to identify with Adam and Eve as a fallen reader, one may look at the parameters within the poem itself. This is indicative of exegesis. Second, we can choose to look at it through an eisegesis lens. ascribe to and relate with the nature of Adam and Eve’s fall with modern scholars in mind. The brilliance of Milton rests on our current understanding of his characters through time. Whether they exist within or outside the Bible, they serve as fervent contrasts of moral virtue. 

It must be noted that there is a stark difference between what scholars consider textual, as opposed to secular renditions of Mitlons work; that there is a stark difference between exegesis, and eisegesis. Exegesis is the “critical explanation or interpretation of a text, especially of scripture” (Oxford Dictionary). Eisegesis, rather is the  interpretation of a text (as of the Bible) by reading into it one’s own ideas (Merriam-Webster Dictionary). As modern day readers of the text, it is vital to look at both exegesis and eisegesis. The reason is not simply to discern truth from fiction for the sake of armament, but rather to understand the Bibicular from the extra-biblical. The fact that notions of gender can exist as a product of our time, and not within the confines of Paradise lost is a point worth mentioning. A possible reason for this is our nature of discernment on the psychological front. 

A point of extribibicular contention rests in the psycho-social make ups of Milton’s Adam and Eve. In Cox’s paper Milton, Marriage, and the Politics of Gender, she discusses the differences in Adam and Eve’s psychological makeup. To note, Adam and Eve serve as occupying separate components. Scholars, such as Ariela Pelaia, have mentioned the Yahwinistic account of Adam’s creation differing from its “first account in Genesis 1”  (Pelaia, 1). Other scholars have amalgamated this discrepancy into the being of one person (Baskin, 1). 

Interestingly enough Man is the only creature described as not possessing a male or female binary before the first account. This has put into question the nature of the Jungian Anima in relation to the androgyne archetype (Von Franz, 205). This puts into question one notable point: how much of each masculine or female essence comprise the Other? 

This puts into consideration the nature of masculinity in Paradise Lost, as proposed by Lenhof. Unlike human beings, spirits “can either sex assume” (PL 1.424). 

This has led some scholars to believe in an androgyne essence to Adam, and that after his creation he was considered as a wholesome Man, but undivided from the essence of Woman.   In so doing, being replete, having the power of procreation within himself (Pelaia, 1). This essence to man is what must be questioned with the current gender binaries. That, as matter and energy are a spectrum so too could be gender. 

With matter as a spectrum of affiliate energy, it would make sense to have a spectrum of gender and sex. A person who knows this spectrum of gender and sex well is Dr. Tiger Devore. Devore has appeared on several talk shows, including The Oprah Winfrey Show, and KRON 4.  Dr. Tiger Devore is a proponent against infant genital mutilation. As a clinical psychologist his work lies in the public sector. Having appeared on several forums, he is an advocate for personal choice in regards to intersex-born individuals. The beauty of Dr. Devore’s work rests in the logos of his claim, as he himself is an intersex-born, licensed, medical professional. 

At his birth, he was not given the choice to choose his biological sex. His experience represents the state of 1 in every 1000 births throughout the world (Intersex Society of North of America). It must be noted however, that the terms intersex and hermophrodite are not exchangeable. As hermaphroditism is not physiologically possible, due to the completeness of gametes in either biological sexual chromosome, this is a misnomer. However, as gender and sex serve as both a spectrum and social construct in the modern day, this function cannot be ignored. 

However, as Pelaia was not a contemporary of Milton it is not likely that Milton would have shared this particular sentiment. In all likelihood with the decline of Oliver Cromwell, in the seventeenth-Century, his stance was better described in the Doctrine of Discipline of Divorce, aligned with the traditional doctrine of the church at his time. This separateness of church body, and marriage equates to unequal components. It was this misappropriation of separation that is better exemplified in the Doctrine of Divorce. Thus, the  belief in Adam and Eve as physically separate individuals would have been a rampant idea readily accepted, lending to a psychological bias of inequality. Divorce being seen as immoral, would have been considered a product of moral ineptitude, or a sacrilegious breaking of the divine contract.  

If this idea was one shared by Milton, it would make sense that the formative nature of the first pair, being both their masculine and female essence to have been equal counterparts of the other: equal in thought, equal in mind, of truly one flesh. Thus, Adam and Eve served as “co-equal” complements to each other, in relation to the whole of God. 

How then does the psychological impact of gender effect the state of misogyny in the poem? 

Thus, given this question arises in terms of equivocality of the sexes: in physical form, spiritual posterity, but in mental disposition. 

The value I stress upon this notion is the idea of completeness of “one flesh,” that is a rudimentary foundation of Christian marriage. The complex this poses is the egalitarian nature of human beings. What must be discussed however is how Milton’s rendition of gender, must be reevaluated with the 21st century in mind, perhaps with the notion of an androgyne Adam. It must be held under the microscope of the modern audience, one keen to the matrimonial effects of a totalitarian establishment and the oppression it proliferates. Also, given the definition of gender, we must reevaluate the meaning of misogyny. 

Gender, defined in the Oxford Library has several meanings that differ markedly from the modern meaning. In the 15th century gender expanded from its use as a term for a grammatical subclass to join sex in referring to either of the two primary biological forms of a species, a meaning sex has had since the 14th century; phrases like “the male sex” and “the female gender” (Merriam-Webster Dictionary).

While this doctrinal idea of man serving as the godhead over woman is not specific to Christianity, it is topic worthy of discussing — especially within the context of misogyny. This is exemplified in the work itself, as Adam is considered to have an original role, of assigning names to the animals overshadowing Eve’s naming of plants. Yet, even so despite her plight as the only woman at the start of creation, Milton still refers to her at PL V 288-299 as “Godlike erect,” with “Majestie” as one of the “Lords” of creation. 

For one, we can choose to see Adam’s rebuke against Eve as a reclamation of his divinely appointed masculine role. Or, we can choose to see it as the first example of verbal abuse.  From Michael’s description of Adam’s “effeminate slackness” (PL11.634) it appears that the failure to withstand was his own, and that his exclamation of “_” was an attempt to psychologically satiate his conscience. 

We must define the term “misogyny,” as it appears in the Oxford dictionary. Misogyny, defined by the Oxford dictionary, is  Hatred or dislike of, or prejudice against women. We must examine whether any hatred, dislike, or prejudice against women is evident in the nature of the poem. 

I will assert that misogyny is in fact evident in the poem: perhaps not through utmost hatred, but through dislike and disdain on the part of Adam to Eve after the Fall. In displacing the anger of his own error upon Eve, Adam fails to internalize the fact that his acceptance of the fruit is a symbol of his failure to have withstood temptation. Instead, his masculine essence is “fondly overcome with Femal Charm” (PL 9.999). This evident lack of masculinity, characterized by Michael’s description of “effeminate slackness,” is counsel he fails to psychologically accept (PL11.634). Instead, he supplants this internal discontentment of himself on Eve — who simply acts according to her nature. 

The adulation given to Eve attests to an idolatry of this female image, beset by an infatuation and an inability to assume his divine appointment as leader. According to Lenhof, this realization is made most evident through Michael’s speech to Adam, where he says, “Was she thy God…Thou didst resign thy Manhood, and the Place” (PL 10.145-51).

However, it must be noted that Eve’s subsequent guile does not rest upon a purposeful seduction, as a femme fatale. Her disposition contrasts to that of Lillith as a succubus. Rather, Adam’s misplacement of godhood onto Eve, rendering her as an Aphrodite of sorts above divinity results in his fall. Upon that realization, rather than accept it, he rebukes her [Milton source]. After that subsequent folly, his reprimand holds little weight, as he is guilty of misogyny onto Eve. The pride of his inability to accept his own vanity makes him the first fallen misogynist. Therefore, the fault of misogyny undoubtedly rests upon Adam’s shoulders. 

This nature of the fall opposes Tertullian’s, who described the nature of Eve’s lot as a yoke all women should bear. In asserting Man’s dominion over Woman, On the Apparel of Women fails to address the duality of Adam’s character in relation to his inaction in opposing temptation. Tertullian’s scathing denunciation only serves to exacerbate Adam’s hypocritical claim. Thus, this intergenerational trauma is a false accusation of man’s ineptitude, being blamed upon women.  

In essence, the exigent use of power to signify that “might is right,” for its own sake, is where co-equality ends and codependency begins. This unequal distribution of power, as is exemplified with Adam’s condemnation, lends to the deleterious effects of misogyny and misandry. 

It must be noted the divine appointment of Adam over Eve in terms of domestic headship, is not an implication of defined misogyny. Rather, Adam’s over-extension of power in regards to this leadership served to his detriment, and subsequent misogyny. 

The etymology of the word “misogyny,” is derived from the greek word “misos” (meaning hatred), and gynē meaning woman. Thus as this is a human word, derived from the human lexicon it is reasonable to assume that the eisegesis of the meaning of misogyny came into use after Milton’s rendition of the Fall.  Thus, as the word became in use after, it became a post-fall concept, and became a construct of fallen readers. 

However, was misogyny present before the Fall? Therefore with this fallen disambiguation in terms of etymology, I do not believe that humanistic misogyny existed before the fall of Milton’s Paradise Lost. Though, the angelic characters put on the mantle of masculinity, they are not truly the embodiment of Adam’s exclusive human manhood. Instead, they possess a myriad of attributes in one (PL 6. 350-53). Because angels can assume either sex freely, as a result of the spectrum of their material form—the true nature of their humanistic manhood cannot be metriculated with a similar barometer. 

While the concept of patriarchy might well have existed in Paradise Lost before the Fall, considering the predominantly masculine nature of spirit beings, and their embodiment — this does not mean that they possessed a hatred of women, as there were no women present before the creation of man. Rather, the disdain for the celestial patriarchy was evident in the heavenly rebellion, made evident through Satan’s dialogue in Book 1. 

This puts into question the benign nature of hierarchy in heaven without sex. The fact that no true humanistic sex existed before the fall puts into question the nature of the individual. 

In Paradise Lost, Adam serves as a figurehead of human masculinity, divinely appointed . In regards to a broader sense of masculinity, this extends further according to Lenhof impacting as far as spirit beings (Lenhof, 64). Thus, I believe that this heavenly hierarchy of Milton’s is specific to its “breed” of sentient spirit beings, utilizing the mantle of masculinity as translation of humanistic fortitude. 

A final agreement I have with both scholars Rosanna Cox, and Elisabeth Liebert is the nature of this particular equality at PL V 288-299, in which both Adam and Eve are regarded as sharing sovereignty over the entirety of earthly creation. Adam is appointed with naming the creation (PL VII). One point I contest, however, is the limitation of equality in so for as their roles are evident for each other. Like an employer of a corporation, it appears that God in Paradise Lost exists to appoint stewardship over his creation with variable roles. In so doing, with this appointment, each is limited to exercising their own roles without a true understanding of their compliment, or internal Animas. Adam and Eve are equal insofar as their purposes are defined for one another as compliments in mind, and body. However, the spiritual nature of their fall results in their evident awareness of their psychological, and physical differences.  Thus, tt is through the inciting incident of Adam’s rebuke, that renders misogyny, a Post Fall construct in Paradise Lost. 

Bibliography

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 Dreger, Alice Domurat. 1998. Ambiguous Sex—or Ambivalent Medicine? Ethical Issues in the Treatment of Intersexuality. Hastings Center Report, 28, 3: 24-35.

How Common is Intersex? Intersex Society of North of America. https://isna.org/faq/frequency/. Online. 2008.

https://www.tigerdevorephd.com/blog/. Blog. Online. 2016.

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“misogyny.” Merriam-Webster.com. Merriam-Webster, 2011. Web. 8 May 2011. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/misogyny

“Gender.” Oxford Dictionary. 2019. Online. 

Pelaia, Ariela. “Legend of the Androgyne.” Learn Religions, Apr. 17, 2019, learnreligions.com/what-was-the-androgyne-2076659.

Sowernam, Esther, Esther Hath Hang’d Haman: or, An Answer to a lewd Pamphlet (London, 1617).

M.-L. von Franz, “The Process of Individuation” in Carl Jung ed., Man and his Symbols (London 1978) p. 205-6

We Who Feel Differently. The Journal About Ephemera. https://wewhofeeldifferently.info/interview.php?interview=108. Online. 2019.