10.10.06

A Call For an Apology


Genre: Personal Essay, Opinion, Editorial
Painting by Andrew Graham

As a teenager I traveled through France with a group of students in the months following 9/11. As we traveled we learned the dangers of being American. Whether it was as small as the jeering of schoolboys on the street or distain from a waitress in a café – we did not feel welcomed as Americans. It did not occur to us to explore the question of why. We did not evaluate ourselves. We did not evaluate our country. We were young, but we knew. We decided from then on to declare ourselves Canadian as we interacted with strangers along the way. In the time after we were welcomed and could quickly forget the hesitance with which we were first greeted. As I look back, I regret the compliant nature of our actions. It was too easy to escape the hostility merely by disassociating ourselves with our country.

I am a still a young person. There are many places I have yet to see. And while there is much I wish to see of this earth, I am reluctant. Essentially, this is because it is uncomfortable for me to know I am hated for being American. It can even be scary, but more than anything – it is because I do not feel very American and therefore do not feel I deserve it. This is a dangerous sentiment – perhaps more so than the Anti-American sentiments I experienced abroad.

Still today, it is easy for me to excuse myself from being part of the America I so quickly abandoned as a teenager in France. Sadly, this notion of not belonging to America is only strengthened in light of current politics. With my age I see myself taking on new identities. When I became of age to take on the role of a voter – my only reward was to exit the voting booth to find that my country does not favor many parts of my identity – and with this my distance grows. Because I did not feel particularly American before the election, I was unaffected when the outcome favored the Republican Party. At the time it was easier to disassociate myself with this current America than to face its negative policies head on.
I stand and witness the great many atrocities this distant America creates. And still, from the Left, I shake my head and return to my separate life. I do not agree with these actions and therefore do not take ownership of them. Consequently, I do not feel the threats of terrorism on America to be threats to me, but to a larger being that refuses to apologize for its errors. And with lack of apology, this America continues to invade, attack, torture, and claim to be greater than. I am young, but I know this is not my America. I am young, but I am separate.

While the events of recent years have been a source of my distance, they are still the source of a great despair. This despair is only amplified when I realize that my own distance and that of many others has led to further atrocities. Like myself, America is young. Acknowledgement of our brief history as a nation and evaluation of the killing caused by our actions has made our immaturity obvious – to all but ourselves.

Because of these great successes so early on in our history, a great American egotism has developed within our infrastructure. This ego has grown from our young country’s many great successes. Our accomplishments in mere formation, in liberation, and in economic independence are immense. They should not go without recognition. However, only those within our iron core, also the core of our ego, own these successes. The rest, many individuals feeling separate from their egotistical core, do not claim these larger victories. I, still seeing myself as separate, do not claim pride or pleasure in remembering the short, studded history of America. Instead I evaluate our many errors. My despair and my distance grow. I am young, but I am aware and concerned for this widespread distance from our core. In evaluating and understanding my developmental process as a born member of my country to one that has matured and distanced myself from my geographical origins and the subsequent history therein – will possibly shed light on my country’s major errors.
Because we, as a country, are young, we are highly malleable. We are influenced not only by our own interior developers, but also by our adversaries. After the events of September 11th, terrorism has become normalized within our political and social sphere. We have accepted it because of its frequency and normalized its severe nature. So far has this normalization stretched that the term itself has become overused. Because of September 11th and the severe and public nature of the attacks on American society, terrorism has become synonymous with Anti-American sentiments. Terrorism is ironically unsuccessful in eliciting terror from me. Again, this is because I have grown to feel separate from my administrators. However, because there are so many unmoved by these distant attacks, those committing them are moved to increase their fatality. It is the only method they have left to gain my attention.

Therein a scale has formed. Each attack against America is measured in comparison to those before. Lesser attacks are ineffective. Greater attacks go to the top of the scale and from there the bar is raised. 9/11 has the unfortunate characteristic of the attack that has gained the most attention – even from those distanced American’s like myself. Currently, the bar is held very high. America’s response to this attack has not lowered this bar in the least. Rather, we have responded with actions that have only spilled more blood and taken the lives of civilians in other countries. Effectively we have accepted the terms of war today and pronounced to our adversaries that these are terms we are willing to fight by. Lowering this bar is nearly impossible. Because America is part of the violence and will continue to be, all sentiments thought to be Anti-American will also be considered linked to terrorism.

The danger in this lays in the vastness of this Anti-American sentiment. It is dangerous and self-detrimental to be threatened by every criticism. My experience in youth was merely to deny acknowledgement of the criticism and adapt a safer identity. Independently, I could do this as I traveled. But the hostilities I encountered were merely by association with my country and my ability to separate myself from my country was easy. America cannot separate itself from its actions. It is impossible now for America to deny our errors. They are on display in the harshest lights of the world stage. As we continue this political dance, we fumble, we blunder and step to on the toes of our partners – our ego is what keeps us dancing. If we stop now we will be deafened by the silence – there will be no applause. Our once innovative steps will be forgotten. Instead we impose upon others our tired routine. We are unable to recognize anything outside of it.

Having established America is young – our formation should not be so distant that we are unable to learn from it. Our formation came from a desire to escape the imposition of British rule. Why now have we imposed upon others what we strove to escape from? Furthermore, why are counter insurgencies considered extreme? Our participation in the Revolutionary War stands as an example of how hard we will fight for our definition of freedom. But it is just that, our definition. Others define freedom differently. Imposing upon them our own definition is to now reverse our role to that of tyrants. We ignore this notion, this hypocritical action – because if acknowledged there will be guilt. Our ego will be bruised. It is confusing to be young. Your mistakes are often placed visibly before you. Your enthusiasm and your unwavering sense of entitlement sometimes do not let you see them. And when you do, there is embarrassment, there is guilt, but there is a moment waiting to be filled by an apology.

I learned in my youth the savior of an apology. In its essence, an apology is merely acknowledgement of one’s errors. An apology is acknowledging you accept your actions as wrong in full. It does not offer defense. In youth I often tried to defend my mistakes. I did not realize that my youth came with an inability to articulate. This inability is inherent to youth as it stems from a mere lack of experience. There is only room to apologize. I am young and I must apologize.

I apologize for separating myself from my country. I apologize for being blind to the freedoms offered to me, which let me do so. I apologize for not taking ownership of the actions my country has taken against terrorism. My indifference to terrorism has allowed them to engage in this exchange of violence. I apologize for only being interested in the news when the killing reaches a new climax. I apologize for being unmoved by all other deaths.

Things He Did

Genre: Fiction

Wearing only a moist white towel, Tobin More ran his fingers down his side, felt the cold ripples of bone beneath skin, breathed deeply, and turned to the side. In his mirror he thought he looked thin, not too thin, but maybe what one would call a naturally thin twenty-something. But he didn’t consider himself this. If he were a naturally thin twenty-something, he wouldn’t be worried about how thin he was. That’s not what naturally thin people do, twenty-anything – they eat hotdogs without shame, they order french-fries just because they’re craving some. Tobin More didn’t do any of those things. Tobin More stood in his mirror and hated those naturally thin people he so longed to be.

After he finished his pinching, his sucking-in, Tobin sat on the bed located in the kitchen of his no-room apartment, pulled on the narrow, piped legs of his dark denim pants, pointed his toes, pulled on his socks as to complete the transaction, and stood starring at a rack of shirts. He had decided long ago to always wear the same pair of jeans as to make dressing only half the effort, but his rack of shirts had only grown since then. Because buying jeans was out, he seemed to pick up new but used shirts at a rate of three a week. He chose a standard plaid, the one he always chose when the others didn’t seem to work, buttoned it to the last button from the top and kicked at the sneakers beneath his bed.

With his laces tied he felt accomplished. Fully dressed, he looked to the coat rack, realizing he was only halfway prepared for the blistering cold of New York in late December and tried to pick a jacket naturally, as though he wasn’t really thinking. He put on a gray nylon jacket, shoved his arms in and zipped it to just below where his shirt was buttoned. He reached for a vest. The brown one, the one with three carefully placed pins on the left breast, and put it over his jacket. Then he returned to his spotlight before the mirror and examined himself once again. He tilted his head, sucked in his cheeks, and thought ‘is this was naturally thin people look like when they bundle up?’ He certainly didn’t feel naturally thin at all, sighed, and chose a scarf and gloves. As he gathered his staples – his wallet, his Ipod, the small satchel which carried whatever book he was currently reading, his cigarettes, a lighter from the kitchen counter, and a handful of change from the bowl on the kitchen table – he ignored the torrid suction from the mirror behind him. It was calling for him, one last glance. No, he was late and had to be at work in 45 minutes. The L train could easily take an hour to cart it’s plain-faced passengers beneath the east river and shuffle them off to their respective jobs in Manhattan.

In his last seconds before reentering the world for yet another wind-blustered day he remembered his cell phone, only prompted by the list he once taped on the inside of his apartment door reading ‘cell phone, keys, wallet.’ He took the keys from the hook beside the door looked back as if too say goodbye to the space, stepped forward and shut the door behind him.

On the train, Tobin opened his satchel, took out his book (a beat memoir) and glanced upward to see who was watching. An older Arab man with thick eyebrows looked as though he was nodding angrily and repetitively at Tobin, but seeing the wires that trickled sneakily from the man’s ears, he realized the man was wearing headphones. Tobin looked down at his book and read for the remainder of his ride from Morgan Avenue to 6th Avenue in Manhattan. As he got off the train, kneading through the eager crowd of those wishing to board, he looked in the direction of the stairs. It was his custom to inspect each staircase as he approached and always find the least crowded of them. The idea of having another’s face so close to his own ass was unnerving to him.

Today it was the very last of the staircases that was most void, but only because by the time he reached it, the platform was nearly empty. He jaunted up the stairs, turned the corner, up the second flight and onto the street. He stood outside of Urban Outfitters, lit a cigarette and stood in the harsh light of 11am and scowled. He wasn’t sure if he should be smoking, but did anyway. Sometimes smoking before work didn’t go over nearly as well as he hoped. Sometimes it went over fabulously, other times, one time – he lost 300 dollars because of it.

As he took a pull from his cigarette, his phone vibrated in his back pocket. He slipped it out of his tight jeans, shifted his bag from his hip, transferred his cigarette to his other hand and cleared his throat.

“Hello,” he said, with some sort of emphasis on the Oh, almost like it was a question.

“Meet me on the corner of 6th Avenue and 13th,” the voice said, “I’ll be there in 5 minutes.”

He hung up, held his phone in his hand, had a slight flash of something between eagerness and fear, took another pull from the cigarette and stayed put. Tobin regretted his cigarette, thought about buying gum, put his phone back in his pocket and crossed his arms, as to imply casual thought to those that passed. He always needed this five minutes, ten would have been better, but five was usually just enough.

After about seven minutes, he walked halfway down the block, stood beneath some scaffolding and looked over at the corner of 13th. ‘Good,’ he thought, ‘I made him wait.’ Like always, he thought about turning around, swallowed at his nicotine-wet throat, and stepped off the curb.

“Hi,” he said, keeping close eye contact and stepping forward. His voice took on the sound it always did for work and the two of them started to walk.

“I live just round the corner,” the man said. He was older, near sixty, or maybe an very worn fifty, and pointed north, the direction Tobin had come from. “The doorman, he knows my wife, so I might talk nonsense when we go in, so he’ll think you’re a student.” The man’s voice was something like that of a British academic, but didn’t sound completely authentic.

Tobin nodded and walked beside him. The man looked at him with an inauthentic smile, as though he wasn’t feeling awkward and asked him to “maybe remove the scarf, a little less flamboyant, just because of the doorman.” Tobin wasn’t offended, only amused that said scarf was so carefully chosen. He removed it as they approached the building and absently shoved it into his satchel.

They passed the doorman, who barely looked up, turned the corner and the man said “the building is full of cameras, otherwise…” ‘Otherwise what?’ Tobin thought. ‘You’d kiss me?’ Again, he was amused and played his smile as though he was coy. They entered the empty elevator, the button was pushed, they stood in silence, and the door opened at the 7th floor.

“Very nice,” he said as he entered the very nice apartment. It was nice, but recognizing it with speech was only something he would say while working. Tobin was generally unimpressed by wealth and rarely validated it for anyone. But he found men who do ‘this sort of thing’ like to feel as though Tobin is silly and young and lived in a cardboard box by the river.

Nearly three words were spoken, the man pointed at the table where 500 in twenties laid, carefully stacked. Then a tongue was in his mouth, tasting faintly of cigar, his pants where being urged at with awkward hands, and firm stubble was abrading his smooth face.

First shoes, then shirts, then pants. He didn’t have to do much, the man was eager but took his time as though an hour was eternity. The man was hairy, with a firm gut, black briefs, and gray argile socks. He led Tobin to the bedroom, removed all the bedding and jumped on the mattress as though he were suddenly twenty-one. He reached for a condom, pulled down his small underwear revealing an average-sized penis and began pulling at it while struggling with the condom with one hand and his teeth.

Tobin put one knee on the mattress and stood, almost looking bored, over the scene. When the condom was out and on the slightly limp dick, Tobin said “Hmm?”

“I want you to ride me like a little pussy bitch,” the man said. “Get over here and get on my cock.” The man’s voice was so obviously unfamiliar with such a direct pattern of speech that Tobin nearly felt embarrassed for him. Nonetheless, he shuffled over the man on his knees, straddled his hairy torso and lowered himself over the penis, which was growing slightly harder in actuality, but more pathetic in Tobin’s mind.

The man entered, made a sounded as though he were relieving himself, and began clenching his buttocks and thrusting upward into Tobin’s unenthused ass. Tobin looked upward, where no one would see his boredom, put his hands on the sweater of chest hair, and began to make sounds. First as though it hurt, then as though he were growing accustom to the pain, then as though it were the most amazing pencil poking into a very excited donut-hole. He couldn’t have been anymore unaroused, but his erection grew almost out of ritual. He put one hand on the back of his neck and thought that it would be nice to be able to perspire out of ritual. In actuality, he wasn’t remotely warm, but acted as though there were a roaring fire beside the bed and a bearskin rug beneath it.

“I want to make you come,” Tobin said when he was sure 45 minutes had passed.

“I need to take the condom off,” the man responded. “Then you can suck it.” Tobin hated sucking and so lifted himself from the hairy torso, removed the condom, and began pulling at the cock with his face resting on the mans stomach. He suspected it wouldn’t take long, and he was right. Within 2 or 3 minutes, before it was demanded he suck, the cock spewed forth a meager three urged lumps of pale cum and the man was quivering and shaking, his torso exhaling short excited huffs.

To add sincerity Tobin planted a limp kiss o n the man’s ribs, lifted himself from the bed, found his clothes, and prepared for the cold.

On the street he counted the twenties, something he really should have done inside, and lit a cigarette. He walked towards the subway, exhaled longer than he usually did, stamped out the barely smoked butt, and trundled down the steps. He was home only an hour and a half after he left. He removed his clothes, took a shower, found his place on the couch, and clipped his toenails. When he was done he stood and looked in the mirror. He hadn’t eaten at all, since yesterday. He thought he was getting closer to naturally thin.

5.10.06

Which One

Genre: Poetry

My fists -

I lost it somehow,
that paragraph of me.
so carefully (kept it in my closed fists, collapsed and clenched)
lost now, so I keep my hands as fists,
as not to lose again. I sleep
‘til five on the first real day of Spring.

On dirty sheets, my elbows my knees.
My heart, ka-thunk-ka-thunking,
and more importantly, my fists are still tight
like a pair of fat and smug pigeons on a windowsill
of one man’s apartment.

And now, my fists (their pecking thumbs)
are asleep.
ignoring the phone buzz.
rolling over,
letting their fingers fall just barely to
knead the pillow like they would
if they wished someone was there. Like
they would
if they were allowed.
to be mere hands – to touch
old clichés – cups of tea, typewriters.

He comes inside and smokes a joint
(the man) whose eyes are the same
colour as mine. The
man, whose hands are hands, not fists
like mine.

My fists, letting him stay to make nest
on the couch, are tired with their clenching.
Muscles and bones – blood and skin.

He, running dry (like wells do), calls me fat.
(my knuckles, my nails) ‘so lazy, so lazy, always self-loathing.’
force me to fly. I dare. tell me to fly. How dare?

I try, but fists are fists – not hands and cannot mimic wings (not
so long as they are fists)
I cry, I squawk. And like animals that grow too tame,
I forget how to provide myself (a pigeon needs and eats).

Now my fists are the hideous ones at the edge of the flock,
with gaps in their feathers – with eyes like beets.

Lament To An Island

Genre: Poetry
And so I climb, at your most southern point, to see your shape.
I stand and take you in – clapboard cupboards stacked high and higher.
And I atop: see your streets are black as boots, ganite heavy heels deeply rooted.

You wake me, Manhattan – you prod at my lids, ask me to listen
to hear you buzz and buzz, pound a flooded drum.
But I will try now –
to be unconvinced by you.

Why, Island, have you allowed just a few narrow
Bridges and tunnels through which to escape?
Is it because they pin you here? – afraid to exit, scared to miss what happens everyday?

Depressed, you are, and growing ever obese,
Expanding in all directions your men know how to build,
You coat yourself thick in tar and slate,
Inviting a tourist to stand and stare at your piles, the messes that you make,
What’s in illumination? Who is proud to never sleep? –


Why have you convinced so many, myself: ever guilty,
That we need you to create, to move, to twitch, to shake.
we pay and pray for you, we protect your very manhood.

And still,

you’ve given yourself away, so easily – a room with a view.
A room with a view.

How is it? That you have yet to sink.
Why have you resisted?
To passed down these filthy rivers
And try, try, try – to launch, to send yourself to sea,
Where only weeds will float and gulls will hover,
Picking at a trail of your refuse –

A Pepsi can, a magazine stand, and me –
a fat and smug pigeon – sending smoke signals
sneering still.