Me: “I’m going to a party tomorrow night so I won’t be home ’til late.”
Fourteen-year-old Tara: “And you didn’t invite me?”
Me: “Well, would you like to come to a 60th birthday party?”
Photo by Tara C.L.
Tara: “Only if it’s a Sweet Sixtieth.”
Me: “It is– my friend is very sweet.”
Tara: “I guess I’ll pass this time. But when you turn 60, I’ll throw you a Sweet Sixtieth. We’ll have games and stuff– like Beer Pong. Only instead of beer we’ll use prune juice!”
Me: “Thanks, Tats.”
Photo by Tara C.L.
Open to Interpretation is a juried book competition of photography, poetry and prose. In the words of publisher Clare O’Neill, “A good photograph tells a story. But it tells a slightly different story to every viewer. Open to Interpretation’s publications have launched to great critical acclaim and have provided a venue for photographers and writers from all over the world an opportunity to have their work published in a remarkable collection of images and words.”
Last fall I went online to review the photographs that had been selected for the next book in the series and submitted my responses– a prose piece of less than 300 words, and two poems– to three of the posted images. In February I received a congratulatory email informing me that two out of the three had been selected to appear in Open to Interpretation: Fading Light. “The response to our call for submissions was great,” Claire wrote, “and Judge Jacqueline Kolosov was delighted with the high-quality of the work received.”
My prose submission titled “Stew and Roses,” written in response to a photo by Elizabeth Siegfried (see below), was also given ‘Honorable Mention’ by the judge for the ‘Fading Light’ competition. The theme for the next book by Open to Interpretation is ‘Love + Lust’ with a new call for writing submissions open now until August 6, 2013. For more information on the competition or to order any of the books in the series, visit: http://www.open2interpretation.com.
Photo by Elizabeth Siegfried
Stew and Roses
Back at school I skipped two classes to smoke cigarette after cigarette in the girls’ room and waited to get caught, hoping for a suspension. I got community service instead: a whole Saturday helping you.
I stood in your kitchen with my arms crossed tight; stroking my nipples under the lace bra I got with the money snuck from Ma’s purse. Old as dirt and nearly blind, you didn’t notice. I asked what you had for me to do.
“Fetch the bag from that icebox,” you said, and when I handed it over, you cradled it in the crook of your arm before reaching inside and pulling out a squirrel, fur matted and one leg mangled. “You ever seen a fatter one?”
I tried not to hurl.
“Getting yourself in a fix ain’t hard,” you said, stroking that dead thing like a pet. “Now let’s see if you got enough smarts to skin this critter and make us some stew.”
I had nothing to prove, especially to you, but I took the knife and held my breath, pressing the blade clean through the fur and into the flesh. You got your stew all right—we ate it on chipped plates, sitting together beside three wilted roses in a glass—and I got something I didn’t see coming: a Saturday that tasted real, the way most things these days hardly ever do.
The story above is copyrighted with all rights reserved by Debka Colson.
The photo above, titled “At Ninety-Eight,” is copyrighted with all rights reserved by Elizabeth Siegfried. For more information about Elizabeth’s work, please see her website: www.elizabethsiegfried.com.
Classes with my undergraduate students resumed today. I was so glad to see everyone after our class was cancelled last Friday due to the order issued across Watertown, Boston, Cambridge, Belmont and Somerville to “shelter in place.” Before we turned to our discussion on ‘narrative time in fiction,’ we spent a few minutes talking about the shootout and eventual capture of the younger of the two Boston Marathon bombing suspects. One of the students in my class had attended Cambridge Rindge and Latin High School and confessed he had known Dzhokhar.
“I was in his math class,” he said. “Talk about never being able to truly know someone…” He paused, as if overwhelmed. “On the other hand, I can tell you this: Dzhokhar was terrible at math.”
Like most of us, he was baffled. This is what all of us want to know: Why? A few of my students felt angry. Most were quiet and several looked exhausted. This is the final week of class. Exams take place next week and grades must be turned in by May 6. And then most of these students will head home.
But, I thought, not Lingzi Lu, the Boston University student that was killed a week ago.
Usually after class on Mondays I head to The Writers’ Room to work on my novel but today is my oldest daughter’s birthday and I had promised to bake her a chocolate cake. I bet there are many parents in this city that feel the way I do today: I’m so grateful that my children are safe and that I get to celebrate another birthday.
It was nearly 2:30 by the time I left class. Governor Deval Patrick had called for a moment of silence across the state at 2:50 PM– the exact time of the first explosion one week ago. Ironically, I gave birth to my daughter at 2:55 PM.
I wandered out to the Boston Common and then down Boylston Street and wound up, for the second time in a week, at the memorial. At 2:40 there were already at least 5 rows of people gathered before the cordoned off area located not far from Copley Square. Within five minutes, the crowd had tripled. People talked quietly, some took pictures and then a hush fell and we stood, facing down Boylston toward what had been the finish line.
As a Quaker, I welcomed the silence. I prayed for those that had endured the deafening explosions. I prayed for “no more hurting.” Though I didn’t recognize a single person in the crowd, we were united in both anguish and hope. A bird flew overhead. There was a cool breeze but the afternoon sun caressed my shoulders and I thought about how nature will, in time, fill an empty cup. There will always be more love in the world than hate.
The silence ended with the gradual ringing of church bells, one by one until we were surrounded by the sound. I heard a bell ringing the chorus to Amazing Grace and some in the crowd added a soft accompaniment. I left soon after, and as I walked, I passed other spontaneous memorials– ribbons fluttering, handmade signs, and bouquets of flowers. Like Tibetan prayer flags, each one sending a prayer for peace in every direction, carried by a gentle wind over the finish line and beyond.
The father of the two Boston Marathon bombing suspects immigrated to Cambridge approximately 10 years ago and, according to his brother, recently returned to Russia. His youngest son Dzhokhar, still at large somewhere in Boston, is only 19 years old.
Today the communities of greater Boston are in “lockdown.” Tamerlan, the elder of the two suspects, was declared dead last night of multiple gunshot wounds in the same hospital where eleven victims of the bombings are still receiving treatment. As I listen to the interviews with the suspects’ aunt and uncle, who are clearly in shock that anyone related to them was involved in the tragedy and trauma of the last few days, I can’t help but speculate what the parents of these two young men must be feeling. I can only imagine that they are in another kind of “lockdown” as they wait for news about the apprehension of their child.
Boylston St., a few blocks from the explosions.
It appears that Dzhokhar tweeted this quote from a Jay Z song only a few hours after he allegedly planted one of the two bombs: “Ain’t no love in the heart of the city, stay safe people.” There have been other stories that in the days following the bombings Dzhokhar returned to the University of Massachusetts campus in Dartmouth, where he was a student, spoke with friends and carried on “like a normal kid.”
How does it feel to be a parent of a son or daughter who commits such atrocious acts of hate and violence? Surely they are consumed by horror 
and disbelief as they wonder how their child’s heart and mind could be filled by such an ocean of darkness?
Today, and every day since the Boston Marathon, my thoughts also turn to the parents of the victims. If it is any consolation, the parents of little eight-year-old Martin Richard knew what was in their son’s heart. Just before he died, Martin made a banner with this message: “No more hurting people. Peace.”
I’ve been so busy teaching creative writing to undergraduate students at Emerson College that I haven’t entered this blog in a month.
Seven Emerson students were injured on Monday during the terrible events that took place near the finish line of the 117th Boston Marathon. The campus, located roughly 4 blocks from the explosions, was closed yesterday to provide a day of healing and reflection. Today I returned to class. My students were not among those hurt though the tragedy was not far from anyone’s mind.
When class was over, I walked through the Boston Common to the Public Garden. I watched a little boy run as fast as he could across the grass. I stopped to listen to a trio of street musicians and bought a hot dog from a vendor. I also passed numerous clusters of police and overheard snippets of conversations about the aftermath from the Marathon. A sidewalk artist left these messages along the path in the Garden:
I often take the 39 bus home from Copley Square but there are barricades there now and the bus has been rerouted. Today the area near the Boston Public Library and the Square was eerily quiet but a small crowd was gathered around a memorial spontaneously erected against the metal barricade on 
Boylston Street. A container of markers sat beside a large sheet of paper. I added a message and read those left by the people who had come before me. No one spoke. Some were crying. Like an embrace, the scent from freshly cut flowers filled the air around us.
I’ve always thought being short kinda stank, that I always have to look up at people. But I’m not alone. Flowers have to look up at the sky, feet have to look up at hands. Even a step has to look up to the next step, and the last step has to look up at the ceiling. So although there may not be that many people my age as short as me, at least I’ve got my short inanimate objects.
I’m halfway through my first semester of teaching “Intro to Fiction” to undergraduate students at Emerson College. I love it. And, it’s a lot of work. My classes meet five days a week, and then there are office hours and, of course, prep time. Lots of prep time.
Last week when our mid-term break arrived, I spent the first few days cleaning house, doing laundry, gathering paperwork to file my taxes and, yes, prepping for my next round of classes. And then the annual conference of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) rolled into town. For the last three days I’ve lived in a carnival with approximately 11,000 other writers, attending panels on craft, teaching and literature; on-site and off-site readings; a giant book fair; nightly receptions; and drinking far too many glasses of wine. I loved it.
When I woke up this morning, my back was sore and the grey matter inside my skull felt like a wrung-out sponge. So today, on the very last day of break, I took a day trip with my partner (also a writer and professor) to look at the late winter ocean, eat steamers at the Barnacle restaurant and wander about the historic town of Marblehead, Massachusetts.
We just arrived back home and I thought about doing some reading for tomorrow’s class. My partner is snoring on the couch. He’s been at this teaching thing a lot longer than me. I think he’s sending me a message: even teachers deserve a day of rest.
Writing & Wanderlust
