Review: Signal: 02 A Journal of International Political Graphics & Culture edited by Alec Dunn & Josh MacPhee, 2012. Reviewed by A. Iwasa
“SIGNAL is an idea in motion.
“There is no question that art, design, graphics, and culture all play an instrumental role in maintaining gross inequality. They have also been important tools for every social movement that has attempted to challenge the status quo.”
These words start the second issue of Signal, and encapsulate well what this project is about.
It’s a good mix of anarchist, anti-colonial and Left statist. Though I’ve been a long time adherent to the Anarchist People of Color (APOC) tendency, I think too many anarchists are quick to discount what we can learn from other movements that don’t synch up exactly with our theories, including other kinds of anarchists!
From an in depth essay about Mozambican painter, Malangatana Valente Nguenha by Judy Seidman, to a well explained photo essay on revolutionary Portuguese street murals by Phil Mailer, the first two feature pieces go from anti-colonialism to anti-fascist rebellion largely sparked by the Mozambican liberation struggle itself showing the potential interplay and internationalism of revolution. These connections between art and revolution are laid out sharply with images as striking as the words.
“If imperialist domination has the vital need to practice cultural oppression, national liberation is necessarily an act of culture,” said Amilcar Cabral, one of the primary participants in the Mozambican revolution.
Make no mistake, Malangatana paid dearly for his art, spending 18 months in jail along with writers such as Luis Bernardo Honwana, Jose Craveirinha and Rui Nogar. The Portuguese colonial authorities knew the potential power behind radical writing and art. Also, Malangatana’s brother and other family members were murdered by the counter-revolutionary RENAMO, who had been started by white Rhodesians and were later backed by the South African Apartheid regime after the triumph of the Mozambican revolution. Without a doubt, the beauty of his art was matched by how high the stakes were.
These essays are followed by a collection of images of broadsides for Freedom: A Journal of Anarchist Communism, an English publication co-founded by Peter Kropotkin among others. The collection was found at the Kate Sharpley Library, driving home the importance of archives.
This is followed by a deep dive into old school, low end printing technologies by Lincoln Cushing, what Cushing calls “the Volkswagen bugs of the reproduction world.” Printing was my vocational in high school, and I worked in the industry on and off from 1998 to 2022, so this one was particularly fascinating to me.
Though Cushing writes a bit about different kinds of offset and letterset presses, and pre-Xerox copy machines, this is primarily about Gestetner Art. Again, this was especially interesting to me as the San Francisco Diggers were very involved with the Communications Company which had two Gestetners, the only reason I was already familiar with this sort of machine. The essay focuses largely on their break through work in color separation, something most people take for granted today.
Cushing remains largely focused on the San Francisco Bay Area, but goes on to write about various other print projects that used Gestetners. It’s a solid snapshot of an era, but it’s also inspiring as I’ve not only worked in the printing industry but have also volunteered for various print projects over the years.
I don’t think the past stands as a blue print for what we should do now or in the future (I mean, look where it got us!), but I do think we should gather inspiration where it makes sense to try to add to successes from the past and move forward. For many reasons I don’t think you can duplicate proceeding events anyways.
Next is an article by Deborah Caplow that situates the then contemporary Oaxacan street art into the larger context of Mexican Revolutionary art starting in the 1920s.
I was possibly most excited to learn about the Liga de Escritores y Artistas Revolucionarios (LEAR, League of Revolutionary Writers and Artists) since I’ve long been interested in organizations for cultural workers beyond the small scale collectives and what not I’ve been able to participate in.
Though I was also fascinated by what I read about Jose Posada as a longtime fan of his work, but simultaneously unknowledgeable about him as a person.
This is followed by a Manga by Taiji Yamaga, a participant in the early Japanese anarchist movement. It’s introduced by the Center for International Research on Anarchism, Japan. I was dissappoined at first, because when I read Manga, I instantly went to Death Note in my head was hoping to have discovered the Japanese Philip K. Dick or what have you. The Yamaga Manga is essentially just drawings and notes for his memoires, The Twilight Journal. But it’s still cool as a first person account of anarchism in Japan in the early 1900s, especially to me since I’m half Japanese but don’t speak the language.
In closing is an essay about Rode Mor (Red Mother), a Danish collective from 1969-’78 that evolved from a graphic workshop to a band, then a circus split off and ended as a fund artist-activist projects.
The author of the essay, Kasper Opstrup Frederiksen, translated all of the titles and quotes, which to me shows a certain level of expertise on the subject matter the editors seem to do a good job of finding, when they don’t have direct participants’ input.
The article delves into Rode Mor’s philosophy, practice influences, which was largely Socialist Realism. Though Rode Mor stopped cultural production in 1978, that’s when they pivoted to using the profits from their work to fund other Danish Leftist artists until 1987.
What I understand
(Written under the influence of what I saw and some events)
Some recommendations for parents in raising children
1. Being a parent, it is not easy to take responsibility and raise a child. If there is a little neglect, they can get involved in anything. They always think that you should be strict with them. But this does not mean that you should always be strict with the child and always fight. You want to teach the horse the right way until he reaches it. But no matter how much you beat the child, it will never help. Worse, they will be cold towards you. Your respect will disappear.
Respect their decisions;
You should not neglect their goals;
You should give them their freedom without pampering them.
The main thing is to know how to listen to your child!
2. Always pay attention to your child's dream goals and respect their abilities. So-and-so's child knows math. You should also study math, history, and IT!
Unfortunately, in many parents, their child knows this type of piston very well. They say, "You have learned too!". Have you asked your child first about his interest, the field of science he is interested in?
3. Never compare your child with someone else's child!
Every child has his own abilities given by God. Someone is strong in science. Maybe your child is interested in sports, art, IT, why would someone say, "Why can't you do it?!" "should be compared by saying?!
Allow your child to pursue an area of interest. What your child can do may not be possible for the child of the pumper who praises you. The more you compare your child, the more he loses interest in his own identity and begins to fall into depression. Let your child be like HIMSELF, not like SO-and-so's child. And the thoughts that no one understands me and why they compare me to him appear in their minds, and their interest fades. Because every child has his own interests, abilities, self-thinking worldview. If every parent listens to their child's abilities and uses them, they would go in the direction they are interested in. Therefore, no child's field is the same. If his fellow doctor does this, he shouldn't do it either. It can't be like that.
Don't compare your child at all and listen, this is the thing that has the most negative effect on the child. It even makes the parents think that they hate me!
4. Always give your child their freedom without pampering them.
No matter who asks you to do something or what clothes to wear (I can't tell you everything, of course you should consult with your parents), I mean let the child make decisions that he can make without fear. That's it. What do you mean, parents, don't be afraid. Let them make their own personal decisions freely. Therefore, you should give them such freedom and strong confidence, say the words "I believe in you", "I respect their decisions", and only then have a child. He starts to try to justify the trust given to him, but many people say that if he doesn't have to take it hard, he will do as he knows how. No! this is a big mistake!
Give them confidence, motivation, and then a child
My parents and me
He tries harder because he respects my decisions and interests. He is also afraid of abusing the trust given to him. Can he act? under depression?!
He does it only because he is afraid.
TODAY AND TOMORROW
Do you struggle to get up in the morning?
Remember when you had an important job and overslept on the day of your exam?
No, because you know why you need to wake up.
When you wake up in the morning, look out the window,
spring is around, if you look around when it's late after spending the day, autumn has come
This morning, another door of opportunities was opened for us to change our lives. A new day was given. Draw a conclusion from your mistakes, don't repeat those mistakes this morning!!!
Our first task in this life is to make ourselves happy. To be able to set goals for our own life, to live by ourselves. To think about our future at least a little, to think about who we are now. and we have to start by realizing who we will be in the future!!! First of all, the first principle of human life begins with self-acceptance. Accept yourself. The people around you are like a mirror to you. Be able to see your mistakes and shortcomings. Keep negative people away from you.
Don't pay attention to the people who laugh at you saying "You can't do it" and keep silent! Be committed to your goals. Don't give up on trivial excuses and don't be weak! The world is not all rainbows and shining sun. The world is very cruel and only the strong can endure. You and I or no one can hit as hard as life hits. It's not about how much life can or can't hit you. No matter how hard it hits you. It's not about how many hits you can take.
Don't point the finger at others saying that it happened because of him when you've taken the blows. This is an act of absolute cowards, and you should separate yourself from them.
For people in this life, it doesn't matter how much you are struggling and you are giving all your strength to it. What is important for people is the RESULT you have achieved. 'changing result. If you say that one day you will not be a slave to people who have a purpose, act today. It's okay if you have fallen a thousand times, don't stop! Get up, it might be the same this time. Search, develop, grow, work more on yourself! Don't give up hope every day you are given an opportunity. Don't look for excuses.... Never... don't look for excuses..
Are you not getting enough sleep at night? Are you out of strength?...If you work harder than today, someday people will work for you.
Stay away from people who have a bad opinion about you. Be purposeful with a plan! Link your life to goals. Try to find your own solution to the problems that arise. If you don't fight to find the solution to those problems, it will never end..Make time count...Every minute..Every hour seconds. Those SECONDS can bring success to your ascension. You may have made mistakes in the past. Don't dwell on those mistakes for too long. Draw conclusions from them! Draw conclusions from what those mistakes gave you and what they took away from you. Make a new decision! Make a plan for your life. If you dwell on the past for too long, you may miss the opportunities that have been given to you in your present life. Don't torture yourself with the past. Live only with the future. Be able to see your achievements in it. Action! Action and only Action! .,WITHOUT ACTION nothing can be achieved. Believe in your own strength and knowledge.
Everything in this life will end. However, knowledge is an exception. No matter how much it is spent, it will not end. And its zakat is to give to others. If you say that you can act, hundreds of thousands of dying cells in your brain will be activated. You only and just believe in yourself. Put the "I must do it" thing in front. Test yourself every minute and second!
Author Bakhora Bakhtiyorova Asliddin's daughter was born 2006 21-March in the Republic of Uzbekistan. She is an international journalist and a monologist.
the old sea was wild and wavy, and the morning birds loquacious where the buildings ended, where infrastructures ceased and the sand and salt water began. but we didn’t go to the lighthouse north, only to the pier south. what a regret. what is that place like and is it still there? a big truck would go sometimes along the sand and somehow gather the seaweed. if I hold a shell for luck and providence and fortune, or just for aesthetic, the people laugh and snicker. such is the way. nothing can be done about it. but I would wash the shell in the waves lapping, and sometimes keep it. yea there was the world of buildings and roads and regular things in the millions inland. but, out there was the sea and horizon and moon and gulls,- a million feral things. cargo ships far and far seemingly slow,- like slow ghosts-traversing the horizon line. they looked rusted, red and brown and unappealing to most,- completely utilitarian and somehow altruistic. what does the life of a cargo ship mean after its days are done? do they bury it somewhere? does it become recycled, and thus reincarnated? do they ever have names like other vessels do? don’t they deserve a name? in the middle of two worlds on the sand you can see and sense both, the city and the sea,- their relationship that had been going on longer than any human one.
the snow and how it was then
once we went to the far and far lands and it was November and I remember that the sky became full of heaviness and by the tall summit where the sumac lives and always stays red it suddenly began to snow. we stood for a bit and watched it fall being swept with a great force when it descended near the evergreens by a winter wind new that had been waiting and slumbering and ready and then strong as anything. one of my old friends is gone now but we had that moment and nothing will ever take it away. soon we also descended but slowly down the hill and went further into feral and beautiful and rugged rustic worlds, all like a mystical meadow meandering dream but in real life.
the three square fields
the three square fields, bordered in one side my other, private fields and then open public valley, unthreaded and mysterious,- one million branches and some crackle and sound in the wind like spirits talking. then the other end, secret paths and chaga mushroom on birch unknown, where past all that it turns up to a hill where everything can be seen. how the evergreens have grown and I remember the hidden low marsh where the buttercups grew out from the mud dazzling yellow like some bright enlightenment.
the stories the leaves tell
the narrow path and beyond
the entry to the forest world was skinny, narrowly contrived by human and or nature. it was steady and level even if just five or seven feet wide. as the leaves at for the most part left the branches, it being November, a soul could see further than in say summer, where the verdant world seemed to hold more secrets and mysteries. but- nature being nature- the sparse-becoming places w/branches plain, seemed to hold against reason and logic another type of mystery. difficult to name but there above the lands- in air by the farmer’s loam at the purlieu, down ‘round the long autumnal and winter marsh, and in the middle of it all, saturated and thick about the thousands of trees that waited and only slightly wavered in the season’s Sunday afternoon wind, the leaves still affixed to trees perhaps speaking about their own story, yes, telling their own non-words, words. for how else could it all be?
path travellers, and the autumnal songs of prayer and gratitude
the paths, sometimes going past a marsh where birds wait and watch, other times into valleys wonderfully strange and quiet, and way in the distance a sound of squirrel or something. the paths, and there is a series of smaller paths that lead to a long and straight one, thousands of leaves from early autumn blanketing the ground and the summer is over they say. in the distance again, an impossibly large group of birds begins to ascend from the ground of the forest. they are like a dream, like a vision, but real. this thing a sign of hope, completely auspicious and wondrous at once, like a classical music movement, a gift to see from God, a universal truth alive and agile. the path, where in parts old trees creak and sway, and what do they say? they talk perhaps about the winter waiting in the wings, the winter with its snow and wind, it’s newness and clarity, an old dreamer awakened again.
Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet, writer, and photographer. Work appears at Fiction International and The Notre Dame Review. The prose poem and landscape photography collection, Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through, is forthcoming from Dark Winter Press in the fall of 2024.
Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, theatremaker and poet. He has 6 books published and his poems and stories have been published internationally online and as hard copy. He was the 2004 recipient of the Manitoba Arts Council’s Award of Distinction and the 2015 Winnipeg Arts Council’s Making A Difference Reward. His work has been performed/exhibited in Canada, the USA, Brazil, France, Spain and Italy.
Faleeha is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq.
She received her master’s degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian. She is a Pulitzer Prize nominee for 2018 and a Pushcart Prize Nominee for 2019.
She is a member of the International Writers and Artists Association, the Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, the winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021), one of the Women of Excellence selection committee members, 2023, the winner of Women In The Arts award 2023, a member of Who’s Who in America 2023, on the SAHITTO AWARD, JUDGING PANEL 2023, and a Cultural Ambassador – Iraq, USA.
Molly softly shut the door to her bedroom, in pursuit of elusive but precious privacy. She didn’t like her stepbrothers just barging in on her. Butch was mostly okay, but the other one was — dangerous. Mostly he was just ignorant, and plainly didn’t know how to live with civilized folks. She plopped down on her bed, took out her yearbook and glanced through the photos of fellow students from her sophomore class last year. So immersed was she in her reverie that she didn’t hear the knob turn and the door open silently. She didn’t see the shadow fall across her prone form and she didn’t understand what was happening, as she was seized from behind by strong, brutal hands. Her dress was forced up her body and she was soon naked from the waist down; then her assailant penetrated her. She opened he mouth to scream in pain, but rough hands clamped around her lips to silence her.
. . . . .
When Sergeant Mike Dudley glanced out into the waiting room of the police station, at first he didn’t spot the child. But then, there she was, standing quietly before the window. Dudley frowned, looked beyond the girl and sought out an adult who must be accompanying her. There was no one. He peered over the small ledge abutting the window.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked.
She spoke right up. “I have been raped,” she said.
Dudley frowned more deeply, then he went to the door and invited the girl to enter. “Follow me,” he said, and she fell into his wake. He took her to an interview room, sat her down, and then introduced himself. “What’s your name?” he asked softly. She gave it to him. “How old are you, Molly?” he asked next.
“Sixteen and a half,” she said bleakly.
Dudley went on to ask Molly her address, telephone number (her family had no phone), her parents’ names, who else lived with her and her parents, and the garden salad variety of questions that the police asked everyone who passed through their portal. Finally, he got down to brass tacks. But for her brief answers, she was remarkably subdued.
“Who assaulted you, Molly?”
Molly looked down at her shoes. “I can’t tell you,” she replied quietly, peeping out of a well of shame and self-rebuke.
“Why can’t you tell?” Dudley inquired.
“Well, I want to know what would happen, if they got arrested. Would they have to go to jail? Can’t we discuss it like a ‘what if’?” She asked. Dudley blinked at her, but relented, and gathered the speculative particulars of the incident. Gently, he extracted the 16-year-old’s horrific account of the ordeal. Had the rapist beaten her? No. Had he threatened her with harm? Not really. Had he overpowered her? Yes, he was very strong.
After conducting the interview for some little time, Sergeant Dudley excused himself to Molly to consult with the watch commander. He leaned in through the commander’s open door.
“Captain Davis,” said Dudley, “I’ve got a teen out here, a Molly Devereaux, said she was raped by someone she refuses to name.”
The commander regarded his Sergeant incuriously. “What does she want us to do about it?” he asked bluntly. “It’s already happened, can’t take it back. Besides, think of what pressing charges would do to whoever did it. Probably another randy teenager.” He shook his head dismissively. “In this state, they’re talking about introducing ‘sex education’ in high schools.” He chuckled. “Tell her to consider this her advanced placement.” Dudley didn’t smile, but stood there and stared at his superior. Davis went on thoughtfully, “I guess sixteen is old enough to get knocked up…”
“She said he used a rubber,” Dudley spoke up.
“And now she wants to claim rape?” asked the watch commander incredulously. “What did she do, help him slip it on?” He snorted “She was complicit, you ask me.”
“So what do you want me to do? How should I handle it?”
“The parents, they got a phone?” the other man asked. Dudley shook his head no. The commander rolled his eyes. Still, Dudley stood there expectantly, waiting. “I tell you what, Mike,” said Davis. “Blow it off. Tell her to keep it under her hat, that she can get into serious trouble spreading lies. She only wants attention. But, that’s no reason to take it out on everyone else. How was she dressed?” he asked. Mike shrugged. “It’s a mare’s nest; just sit on it, Mike.”
“No police report?”
“Hell no!”
Mike nodded and exited the watch commander’s office. Returning to the desk where he’d left Molly, he observed the teen earnestly watching him approach. She looked awfully small and vulnerable, he thought. Pretty young girl, no wonder she got raped. It’s asking a lot of a healthy young man to resist a normal temptation, he reflected, recounting his own youth.
“I talked to my captain, Molly,” began Mike. She looked up attentively, but peering closely, he could see she was trembling slightly. “And he said you should just try to forget about it. The boy probably didn’t mean any harm. He didn’t actually hurt you, right?” He peered into her beautiful but troubled green eyes.
She took a great breath and released it. “No, sir,” she murmured softly. “He didn’t hurt me. But, I’m scared of him now. Now he can do it again, anytime he wants. That’s why I reported it,” she explained. “I was reading this book…”
“No, Molly, I don’t think he’ll ever do it again. Boys are like that, they experiment, take dares, act out, you know. He probably only wanted to show off for his friends.” He smiled kindly. Without another word, Molly climbed to her feet.
Mike stared at her as she walked away, buttoned her jacket, and swiftly departed the room. He heard her footsteps echo as she walked across the tile station floor and out the door.
“What,” thought Mike tiredly, “could I have done?” After a moment, his interest in the girl faded and he proceeded onto important police business: he had to monitor the Deale Street parking meters this afternoon, he remembered.
2
“Get to bed, Molly; it’s near midnight,” said her mother Debra from the doorway of her daughter’s bedroom. Molly rolled her eyes impatiently, but rose from behind the deak, closed her textbook with a snap, and prepared to comply. “Come give us a kiss, babe,” said Mom. Molly walked into the living room and bussed her mother’s cheek.
“How ‘bout one for dad?” asked Don, her stepfather, sitting at the end of the dining room table, smoking a cigarette. Molly visibly hesitated for an instant, but once more, complied. Don patted her rump and Molly stiffened for an instant, then danced off to her bedroom, glad to be alone again.
. . . . .
At practice on Thursday afternoon, Lucy noticed that her best friend just wasn’t with it. In fact, the cheerleading coach upbraided her for inattention and lack of concentration. “This is the game of the season, ladies, and we want to do our seniors proud,” crowed Mrs. Buchanon. They went through their routine yet again.
Afterwards, in the girls’ gym dressing room, as they changed out of their costumes, Lucy asked her friend, “Mol. what’s eating you?”
Molly looked up from tying her laces and shrugged. “Dunno. Just not into it today, I guess.”
“Trouble with Bobby?” she asked with a malicious twinkle.
Molly smiled wryly and shook her head. Bobby was the fullback on the football team and their best player. “My life is a mess,” she admitted, but Bobby is my rock. Nothing would count without him.” She could never let Lucy believe there was anything wrong between Molly and Bobby; she would grab him in a hot minute. Bobby was all Molly’s!
“Brothers?” inquired Lucy with an arched brow. “Again?
With a frown, Molly nodded. “Before Mom and Don got married, we only got together for like, dinners and stuff, but since the wedding they’re always in the way, you know?”
“Yeah,” agreed Lucy. “Butch is sort of a terror, but I think that Tod is pretty cute.” Molly froze, and took shallow breaths as Lucy went on about Tod’s sculpted arms and shoulders, from all the weightlifing he did.
“You wouldn’t think so, if you had to live with him,” she remarked, finishing tying her sneakers and springing to her feet. It felt good, just to talk about it, if only superficially. She couldn’t tell the whole truth, not even to Lucy.
. . . . .
At the football game that Friday night, Molly was clearly distracted, and it showed. The next morning, Mrs. Buchanon suspended her from the cheerleading squad for one game, unheard of discipline that the coach hoped would jolt her awake.
“You can’t take me off the squad, Mrs. B,” pled Molly, tears welling in her eyes. “Cheerleading is the only thing I have going for me right now,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Molly, I’ve got counseling to do right now; we’ll talk this afternoon,” and she picked up a tote bag filled with files and left the office.
. . . . .
“They scrubbed you off the cheerleader squad?” exploded Bobby, wiping sweat from his brow. They were meeting at the practice field, where he was working out. “What kind of shit is that?”
“Mrs. B thinks my mind isn’t on my workouts,” she explained. “She suspended me for a game.” She shrugged helplessly. “She thinks maybe I’ve got too much on my mind.”
“Bogus,” snarled Bobby, then approached Molly and encased her in his strong fullback’s arms. She nested her head against his chest. “I mean, what could possibly be on that pretty mind of yours? You want, I can tell Coach to talk to her. He got her the job.”
She pulled back from his chest. “He did?” she asked, surprised.
“Yeah, they had a thing going, back in the day, and he recommended her,” replied the student athlete. And Coach was on the team with the Superintendant, like a thousand years ago. They go way back. That’s the only way you get anywhere,” he said ponderously, tipping up Molly’s chin with his finger. “It’s not what you know, but who you know,” he declared knowingly.
“But I don’t know anyone,” she lamented. My dad is the garbage man.”
Bobby chuckled and said, “You know me. And I take care of what is mine. You’ll be back on the squad by tomorrow, I guarantee it. By the way,” he said winsomely, “I love you, Molly Devereaux.” Molly gazed into the distance and frowned thoughtfully.
. . . . .
“Molly, I love you; I love all my girls and I want to help you to be the best you can be. Cheerleading is the highest crest that a girl can reach, and I want you to appreciate the opportunity — and bear the responsibility — you hold as a student leader.” So said Mrs. Buchanon later that afternoon.
Molly stood in the girls’ athletic office, quietly sobbing. Mrs. Buchanon spoke again, in a kinder voice, “Tell me, Molly. I know something serious is bothering you. Are you doing alright in your classes?” Molly nodded. “Then,” said Mrs B, “are you having problems outside of school?” Molly said nothing. “Talk to me girl,” she coaxed. And so she did. Mrs. Buchanon was probably the only person she could trust. So Molly opened up. The last thing she said was that “he’s done it twice, so far. Once in my bedroom and once in his.” Mrs. Buchanon grew quiet as stone and pondered.
3
Molly lay flat on her stomach across her bed, reading the Maya Angelou book that she’d found in the school library. This new writer was really good. She paused suddenly in her reading and froze. Turning back a page, she read and read again. She had stopped breathing. Suddenly a weight fell heavily across her body and she shouted in alarm.
“What’re you screaming at?” asked Tod, grabbing her hands and playfully holding them behind her back. As she struggled, he laughed hoarsely. Into the room burst her stepfather Don, who made Tod release his stepsister at once.
“What the hell?” Don demanded.
Tod was still laughing. “We’re just roughhousing,” he explained, getting up off the bed and sauntering blithely out of the room.
Molly lay there shivering. “You alright, Mol,” he asked tentatively. But she wouldn’t speak and she wouldn’t look at him.
. . . . .
“Mom,” began Molly, catching her mother alone in the kitchen, “did you think about what I asked you?” Her mom was peeling carrots, holding them under the water, and then dropping them into a steaming kettle of water.
“I did, Molly,” she replied. “Don and I discussed it and he feels that putting a lock on your door would be a mistake.”
“But why?” she inquired, frustrated.
“He said that when he was growing up, he never had locks on his doors, and he just doesn’t think it’s a good idea. He thinks it would be — unfriendly.”
“But, he grew up with four brothers.”
Mom shook her head. “I’m sorry, Molly, I talked to your father like I told you I would, and he said no. And he’s the man of the house, so he’s the boss.”
“He’s not my real father,” she mumbled crossly.
“Molly Devereaux!” admonished her mother. “You know Don tries, and so do the boys. You just need to loosen up, let them love you. They do love you, you know!”
Molly could only shake her head. “Thanks for asking, Mom,” she said in defeat, and picked up a carrot and began peeling it.
4
“Molly,” said Mom, stepping boldly into her daughter’s bedroom. Molly jumped, then gulped some air. “What’s wrong with you?” asked her mother sharply. “You’re on pins and needles.”
“Nothing, why? You just surprised me is all.”
“Something’s going on,” accused Debra. “Mrs. Buchanon, your guidance counselor, called today. Molly thought for a moment. Mrs. Buchanon was also her cheerleading coach. “She said that your chemistry teacher told her that you’re failing her class.” Molly looked annoyed. “Science is your best subject, Molly, and now your bottoming out in a basic science course. You wanted to be a doctor.”
“You wanted me to be a doctor,” Molly corrected her.
Debra frowned. “And you’ll be bumped off the cheerleading team too, if you fail a course. And,” she added sternly, “there’ll be no more Bobby.”
At this, Molly’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “Not Bobby,” she fairly squealed. “He’s the only reason I can go on,” she cried. “He’s the most popular boy in the school and he’s the best football player, and he’s so gentle…”
“Maybe you’re seeing too much of that boy,” Debra suggested. You spend every weekend with him, when you need to be studying chemistry.”
“You don’t understand the pressures I’m under, Mom,” she said wretchedly, as tears welled up once again.
“Then explain them to me,” she said. Molly said nothing. “Well,” said Debra, I’m having a parents/teacher conference with your guidance counselor tomorrow.” Molly’s face fell. “I’ll ask her what to do,” said Mom.
“You’ll be seventeen years old in three months and in a year you’ll be going off to college.”
“I don’t want to go to college anymore,” said Molly peevishly. “I want to drop out of school and get married.”
“Oh no you don’t,” snapped Debra. “That was my plan too, and look at me, scrubbing tight-fisted women’s filthy floors for $2 an hour. No, Molly Devereaux, I demand so much more for you, because you’re smart. Not like me.” Molly’s heart melted. “Don feels the same way about the boys; he doesn’t want them to grow up to be a garbage man like him! That’s why I’ve always been so hard on you. I will have more for you! We’ll talk again tomorrow night.” She paused in the doorway for a moment and murmured, “I love you, Molly.” Clutching her dish rag, she walked out of the bedroom.
Would the B tell Mom what had happened? What they had talked about was confidential; she couldn’t tell!
5
Debra appeared as if by magic at Molly’s door, before supper the next evening. She stood in the doorway for some time before Molly looked up from Maya Angelou. Molly jumped in surprise. “Mom,” she began, did you and the…Mrs. Buchanon talk?”
Debra said nothing, but entered the room and sat next to Molly on her bed. To Molly, this felt heavy. Then Debra spoke. “Molly,” she said, “I’m really disappointed in you.”
“Why, what do you mean?” she asked.
“Mrs. Buchanon told me what was happening with you and Bobby,” she replied.
“Mom,” she interrupted, “I wanted to tell you, but….”
“You didn’t think I could understand?” conjectured Debra.
“No, I knew you’d understand.”
“Molly, are we talking about the same thing?”
“You love Don,” said Molly. “And I know that he forces you to have sex with him at night, after you’ve both been drinking.”
Debra’s face grew dark as a thundercloud. “Stop it! Shut up! Don’t you dare talk about your father like that!”
Now Molly was confused. “But, I’ve heard it before,” she said plaintively. “IThe sounds, the voices, coming from your bedroom. I just thought that’s what married people did. People who loved each other. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t feel right to me.”
“We’re not talking about the same thing,” said Debra.
“Well, what did Mrs. B and you talk about, then?” asked Molly.
She told me she talked to you, and you confessed that you were trying to get yourself pregnant by Bobby, so he would drop out of school and miss college, to marry you and raise up some bastard.” Molly could only stare at her mother, aghast. Debra went on, “You may decide you have no future, but that boy will amount to something. He’s signed a letter of intent to play football for an Ivy League college next fall, and we’ll be damned if we let you get away with it. Mrs. Buchanon also got a call from a Captain Davis, with the police department, and he said you filed a bogus rape charge against poor some unnamed student. He wanted to know if there was anything to it. She told him there wasn’t.”
“I filed the complaint after I read this book,” said Molly, holding up “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”
Debra huffed. “And there’ll be no more of this nonsense,” she said, seizing the book and confiscating it. “You’ll not get away with this, girl. There’s a penalty for lying!”
gets you. They think you are normal, you’re not. You are splitting apart on the inside.
as you sink more and more into aloneness,
they pass judgement on your actions.
they say insensitive things
like; chill out, take a pill, see a
shrink or they distance themselves.
they think you’re out of character,
they don’t know there is a struggle
going on inside of you, a real struggle
where tears flow and make puddles in
your soul… and nothing works; no Hail Marys,
no affirmations, no nothing.
you wait for an episode
to pass to get relief, that’s if you are
lucky, cuz for some, relief doesn’t come.
you see the severely affected on the streets
far gone, listening to the voices in their heads,
sometimes succumbing to them. It’s a
daily struggle that only those feeling the ache knows. Give a care.
Sheila’s writing style can best be categorized as Visual Poetry, blending emotion and vision into a poem or story of color. Her poems and short stories are featured at Spillwords Publications, Literary Yard, Cafe Lit magazine.uk, Imspired Magazine and Clarendon House Publications Poetica 2 and 3. She is a featured poet at PoetrySoup. Her work is also featured in several anthologies and in the youtube series Poetica 2. She was Author of the Month at Spillwords.
