Academic journal article Chicago Review


Academic journal article Chicago Review


Article excerpt

We have moved to a remote yet populated space.

On this space things are different. The space is known for its romantic associations, its rich land, its beauty, its scarce and unique resources, its ability to grow things. Here things grow around and into each other.

What this space feels like is that it is the middle of the night and we are deep asleep in our beds, dreaming. Our we, our spouse, our mother, our father, our caretaker, comes into the room and turns on the light, flooding our eyes, our minds, blinding us, leaving us confused, lost wondering where the dream, which feels more solid and real than our story, went.

This growing around and into each other and the anger and the aloha of this growing together and around each other confuses.

In the midst of this unsureness, we are trying to tell a personal story.

This story, the story of we, is of our loss and our loving.

It is the story between deeply sleeping, dreaming, and waking.

It is the story of what is crooked and loving that crooked.

The story goes like this: the light is turned on and the light enters the room and catches on the prism and the prism fractures this light all over the room. The prism takes the light and refracts it. It takes the light and plays it over and over. We are bathed in the light of the prism, all over the room. We are bathed in the light of waking up. This is awareness. This light bathes we who are concerned because we have to make room for we who are lost or leaving other places, we who claim land, we who came from somewhere else, we who are famous and followed and thus can live anywhere we want and we want to live here, we who are large with food and enjoy eating, we who scribble in notebooks and type words, we who cook and clean, we who debate the records and histories and offer our input and retellings to make the swirl, we who do elaborate dances in certain rigorously defined styles of costumes that are many colors and textures, we who talk late at night in bars and consider this our cultural input, we who together wear similar shirts on a certain day of the week that define us as together, as unique, as against a they, we who welcome the we into our bed at night in an attempt to cut the confusion, we who don't want to be grouped together and so loudly and determinedly give speeches denying the we, we who are I, we who want to claim an independence and superiority of our we, we who live in a certain place in a certain time and are confused about history, we who get married and married and married, we who rigorously learn a certain set of behaviors in an attempt to join something that sets us apart from those with whom we ride on the bus, we who proclaim, we who proclaim our values as culture and thus argue that these values should not be tarnished with we, we who say that is the way that it is when it might not really be that way, we who love, we who get diseases, we who get lost in the confusion, we who break down and break up, we who take drugs and drop out and this is good, we who are sick and wasting away on hospital beds with tired loved ones beside us late at night who are wondering what we will do when the end comes, even we who are hugged by our parents who are drunk and smothering us, we who are embraced in the doorway by a lover that we never really loved and whose body embarrasses us, even we who feel the we as a part of us that makes us too big for the space we are allowed and that want to shrug off this we like an oversized parka. …

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