Three Very Sad Homos by Shastri Akella
My Favorite Elvis The boy and the dog were both named Elvis. Whenever Daddy hollered “Elvis” they both came to him. Even when it was one of them he wanted: the boy for a chore, the dog for a…
My Favorite Elvis The boy and the dog were both named Elvis. Whenever Daddy hollered “Elvis” they both came to him. Even when it was one of them he wanted: the boy for a chore, the dog for a…
CRAFT is thrilled to welcome Alan Heathcock as guest judge for our 2022 Short Fiction Prize. Heathcock is the author of Volt, a collection of short stories from 2011, and 40, a debut novel that publishes on August 2,…
Content Warnings—cesarean section, traumatic birth I could not milk. Was it due to upset levels of oxytocin, prolactin, beta-endorphin? May have been the morphine pump I kept firing like a trigger from my hospital bed in the postlabor/delivery room.…
We had gone to bed late, on usual terms: “Let’s just talk about this in the morning.” That night we did what we called “No Touch Sleep,” a nickname for exactly what it sounds like, lying next to each…
January Two old men used to live next to each other. One is dead and the other is dying. The one that is dead planted a garden. The one that is dying is my father. My father sits in…
Riding the night streets wrapped in our tight young skin, brave-stupid and untamed, magic bursting from our pores like new stars. We met under the sign of the flying horse, the vacant shell of an old gas station, our…
The blocks of the Westside development whipped by us. All the houses bled into one another, a single stroke of adobe beige. No veterinarian had settled into this part of Albuquerque—it was too new, plastic, hollow. If one had…
The monsoon our mother delivers a boy, we’re saved from our father’s anger. Our hands are raw, unrecognizable, carrying hot water, tugging clean sheets beneath our mother’s heels, taut like our names. The baby looks whittled out of a…
We can’t take Mam’s new baby to school, the boys guess as much from my silence and nobody wants Mam to wake and make Baby cry, so when I put him to feed there’s quiet, just suckling sounds and…
Moores lived next door. He worked construction; she stayed home. I don’t know how old he was, but I remember that on her birthday, she turned twenty-two. It seemed old. I was twelve. Moores had a baby, Sidney. Their…
This incident haunted me for decades. One day when I was working on another writing project, the first lines presented themselves. I wrote them down to get them out of my head but didn’t develop the essay right away. It was such a dark little memory that I didn’t want to go there, but it kept knocking—wanting to be written.
I like memoir written from the perspective of childhood. I think children are still trying to articulate raw experience, unencumbered by adult language, so their perceptions can offer insight into what is otherwise unsayable. The trick is to get out of the way and let the childhood voice emerge on its own terms. If you’re writing about something that happened when you were twelve, it’s important to let the diction be that of a twelve-year-old. For example, I would not have said “domestic violence” because I had never heard that term. A Google search tells me that the phrase wasn’t even around yet, but even if it had been, using it would have taken away from the twelve-year-old’s perceptions.
I also like metaphors and have noticed that they have a way of arising organically in memoir. Our memories give us the details we need to give a story meaning. An object can be both literal and metaphoric, which I find fascinating. The bookless bookshelf, the scent of the diaper pail, the teddy bear safety pins, the ice, and the cake function as metaphors, I realize now, but I didn’t think about that when I was writing.
It was in revising that the word “kept” became more meaningful. In my childhood it was a synonym for babysitting, but of course it also refers to women’s economic powerlessness. When I started trying to reflect on what this experience meant to me, the word (as “keep”) emerged again in the long paragraph near the end. (Thank you, subconscious!)
Finally, I like the idea that we writers are multiple selves—the ordinary self, the writer self, the narrator self, the character self. In my case, this morning, my ordinary self feeds the cat and runs the vacuum, while my writer self makes sure the printer has paper, my narrator self directs the story as it unfolds, and my character self emerges on the page. While writing this note, my ordinary self was curious about that house. The Zillow real estate website showed me interior photos, and I spent some time admiring vintage details—gorgeous hardwood floors, kitchen cabinets we would now call retro, and of course, that built-in bookshelf. Wow, I could live there, I thought. But then I remembered that for character-me, that house would always be haunted.
JANE MARCELLUS’s work includes literary nonfiction, critical analysis, and journalism. Her essays have appeared in journals including Gettysburg Review, New Ohio Review, and Sycamore Review and were listed as “Notable” in Best American Essays 2018, 2019, and 2020. She can be found on Twitter @janemarcellus.