It wasn’t even a total lie. The more I thought about coming to Quare, at least in the abstract, the more it appealed to me. Lounging in the grass, reading Naomi Klein’s No Logo or Patrick Reinsborough’s Decolonizing the Revolutionary Imagination. Setting tomatoes in a straw basket with a plaid cloth and picnicking on a mountain with my banjo-playing friends. Weaving together prayer flags and knitting afghans. Wearing my cat-eye sunglasses and silk head scarf, striding confidently on a clear trail with the wind at my back, environmental sampling kit in hand, like a regular Rachel Carson.
Needless to say, Quare hasn’t exactly been a picnic, and I haven’t heard from Elijah. This is all to say that I think I’ve made a huge, terrible, massive mistake. I mean, I’m assuming he’s still coming in December, like he said in his text, to take one last Miss Tulip photo, but even that doesn’t exactly help, as it’s still the beginning of September. Please write back and tell me I’m being ridiculous.
Love,
Flora
Flora Goldwasser
Pigeonhole 44
The Quare Academy
2 Quare Road
Main Stream, NY 12497
September 8
Flora,
Okay, Miss Mopey. Last time I checked, nobody was holding a gun to your head, forcing you to go to Quare, so if you’re so unhappy, why don’t you just pack up and come home? (And don’t give me that bullshit about finding your way through the woods with your ineffectual compass, either.)
You and I both know the reason: Elijah. I didn’t trust him last year, and I sure as hell don’t trust him now. I know this sounds harsh, but I’m worried about you—I have been for a while, actually, but to be honest I never thought you’d actually go through with it (Quare, I mean).
Face it, Flora. You wanted this to be some grand romantic gesture, and now you’re upset that there are bugs and sticks and armpit hair (which, by the way, you really shouldn’t shame if you truly call yourself a feminist).
Sorry for the tough love, but I’ve had about as much as I can take of the whining. You chose this. Make the most of it or get the fuck out.
From,
Lael
PS. Harvard is fine. There are some real dweebs, but overall a bunch of cool people. My mouth hurts from smiling so hard. It’s exhausting to be friendly.
India Katz-Rosen
1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C
New York, NY 10028
September 8
Dear India,
I itch. All over. And I’m going to start bitching about the itching.
I’m pretty sure it’s not poison ivy, because there’s no rash or anything. But every inch of my skin itches like hell. I changed my sheets (because I know I’ve been shedding dead skin cells in this weather), but to no avail. I changed my moisturizing regimen to three times a day instead of twice—nada. I even started wearing tights and long sleeves, although it’s still warm out, because I figured maybe there were tiny invisible bugs in the atmosphere that I wasn’t seeing (it’s far-fetched, I know, but believe me, if you were in my place, you would try anything too).
I finally got up the nerve to ask the Oracle of Quare, who doubles as the official spiritual guide of Quare and the maintenance guy (everyone says he and Miriam are hooking up, which, ew, would be superweird because he’s in his twenties and she’s at least forty—an age difference, of course, that society accepts in heterosexual couples when the man is older but shames when the woman is older), to come and check out our hovel to see if it was infested with bedbugs or termites or some other god-awful thing like that. He tore apart my whole bed (and seriously damaged my mattress pad situation) looking, and destroyed Juna’s bed too, but he came back outside a few minutes later and said he hadn’t found anything, “nothing but a serious case of bad vibes.” I guess I was lucky, because in New York a guy would have charged a hundred dollars for that, but the Oracle just hugged me (he smelled terrible, by the way) and danced away into the sunset, ropy arms akimbo.
So I’m left with no explanation—besides my case of bad vibes, of course—as to why I’m so itchy.
This is all to say, please excuse this letter.
The second-years (the ones who aren’t peer mentors like Dean, that is) have descended upon us. They all know each other, of course, so across the dirt road—where their hovels are—came their unbridled shouts of glee and booming laughter.
Also, news flash: Dean is cool. Like, really cool. I’m not even offended anymore that she’s about as interested in me as she is in a random twig on the ground.
The night they arrived was Quare Share, which is part of the orientation activities they do at the beginning of every year. It’s held in the Art Barn, which is very cool: it’s all glass, so when you’re on the outside, you can see everything that’s happening inside, and vice versa. There are huge solar panels on the roof that make it look like something from a science-fiction movie. It’s like a spaceship that randomly landed behind the dining hall.
For Quare Share they moved everything outside, so it was just this massive open space, a glass barn with a wooden floor. I was so itchy that I had so sit with my back against the wall, subtly rubbing it up and down to get the places I couldn’t reach. I’ve turned into a bear, apparently.
Then Dean, who is not only my mentor but also the master player of Guild, Quare’s student-run theater troupe, went onto the “stage,” a slightly raised platform at the front of the room, and everyone went insane. You know those upperclassmen girls at Bowen who were just effortlessly COOL? Well, Dean is one of those, but to the extreme. She’s definitely a hipster, but she’s an intellectual-artistic crossover. It suddenly made sense why I’m scared shitless of her: I’ve always been terrified of people who inspire awe in others.
When Dean assumed the stage, the crowd went wild.
“WELCOME TO QUARE SHARE!” she shouted. She was a rock star, and I stopped itching to watch her perform. She was absolutely hypnotic.
Dean grabbed the microphone and pressed it to her lips. “Now, as many of you know, Quare Share is the first time in the year that the entire campus comes together in the name of performance art. So let’s give it up for one another!”
Again, cheering.
“We’ve got some outstanding acts for you tonight, including some—let’s hear it for them—FIRST-YEARS!” Dean shouted.
When the hoots and hollers died down, Dean explained the rules. There were no drugs or alcohol permitted, obviously, and no acts that glorified violence, but everything else was fair game. We could propose marriage. We could have sex onstage. We could come out of the closet (as though there was anybody still IN the closet). As long as we kept it to two minutes, we could do anything.
Then the performances started. There was no set list, as far as I could tell. People just rose, one after another, and assumed the stage. Dean would sort of mediate between two pieces with a remark that made everyone laugh: a joke about how because she’s a lesbian, she’s friends with all her exes, or about how her Samoan mother had said X, Y, or Z to her over summer break.
I have to admit, I was surprised at how … well, TALENTED, people are here. I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise—Quare is superselective—but some of the performances were scarily good. I was rather fond of the slam poetry, actually. It always starts with some big shocking statement, like, “I was twelve when I discovered I could masturbate with my mom’s construction hammer,” and then the poet proceeds to describe all this hurt and shame with all this flowery language and these motifs that you have to carefully follow. I’ll admit that I got chills once or twice. You know how I appreciate wordplay.
There were some singing performances, too, and a couple of really cool magic tricks. And then there’s the unofficial Quare chant when someone does something unexpected (like when Althea delivered a lecture on invasive species, the topic of the elective she’d be teaching that semester, for her act):
“KEEP QUARE QUIRKY! KEEP QUARE QUIRKY! KEEP QUARE QUIRKY!”
Now that I think about it, maybe the fact that we’re in the sticks is the reason I haven’t gotten any of your letters yet. I’m writing my address one more time here, just on the off chance that you misplaced it (or maybe Blanca threw it out accidentally while cleaning your room?). It’s such a pain that there’s no cell service out here and that we’re not supposed to overload the fragile Internet connection with streaming (good-bye, Skype) or social networking sites (good-bye, Instagram) or even OFF-CAMPUS EMAIL, at least until next year.
I’d better sign off now and tend to these itches. But please, WRITE ME BACK! I’m dying to hear from you.
Love forever,
Flora
By now you’re probably wondering, just like Lael did, why I didn’t just leave. I still am not totally sure why I didn’t call Daddy to come take me home. The only way I can make sense of it, if only a glimmer, is that at Quare, in those early days, I felt Elijah everywhere.
It wasn’t something I could explain, or even something I told Lael, but something about Quare felt infiltrated by him. Even among the annoying hipsters (if Elijah was, in fact, a hipster, he certainly wasn’t annoying, and besides, he was my hipster), I saw him in the dining hall, smiling widely, serving himself sautéed kale sprinkled with sesame seeds, leaning back in his chair during peace studies, pulling absentmindedly on a rake during shared work. I didn’t leave, because I was hanging on to the dogged hope that even though he had yet to show his face, he was here somewhere, just around the corner or behind a bale of hay.
The Song We Sang Before Meals
For the Love of Singing!
[To be chanted slowly, in unison]
Simple is what I want to be
To know I’m enough, and enough is me
Others say I should want money, pow’r, and control
But I ought not be fancy; I just ought to be whole
Amsterdam Dental Group
1243 Amsterdam Avenue
New York, NY 10027
Flora Goldwasser
Pigeonhole 44
The Quare Academy
2 Quare Road
Main Stream, NY 12497
September 8
Dear Flora,
I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell phone, but Lael reminded me that service is somewhat lacking up there.
Mum and I are both stable. She is very much enjoying her apartment in the Flatiron and I am quite happy in Rye. The suburbs suit me, I think. From the bedroom window, I can see the Long Island Sound at the tip of the property.
I know this has all been hard on you, and I want to thank you for your resilience. You’re really a great kid. (Between you and me, I’d have preferred you stayed at Bowen, but I knew arguing against your mother would not have been such a good idea.)
I’m sorry if you felt that you had to run away from home. Is that what going to Quare was about? I know things haven’t been so pleasant for us as a family recently, but now that Mum and I are both settled in our respective places, we’d love to have you home. Rye is just a forty-minute train ride from Grand Central, and obviously Mum’s apartment is just a quick hop on the subway from Bowen and your friends uptown.
If you decide to stay, please let me know if you need anything sent to you on campus, and I will arrange for someone to send it.
Love,
Daddy
Lael Goldwasser
Harvard College
2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center
Cambridge, MA 02138
September 10
Dear Lael,
Just got a letter from Daddy. He thinks I’m here because I wanted to “run away from home,” as though there’s even a home to run away FROM. And he even had the GALL to act like it’s some secret that he disapproves of Quare (because, God forbid, I go to Oberlin or something and not Harvard like him and Mum and you).
I’m lashing out, I know. And I really am trying to be less mopey, like you said. I have no one to blame but myself for my current pickle, especially since, at the rate things are going, Elijah will forget that I ever existed by Thanksgiving.
Besides, how can I be even remotely chipper when we’re going to Mum’s stupid apartment for Thanksgiving? I want to go to New Jersey, like we always do, but just as usual, Mum and Daddy have been completely selfish.
I wonder why they got married in the first place: it’s hard to think of a couple more different from (erratic, spontaneous) Mum and (staid, mild-mannered) Daddy. They’re both doctors and everything, but still—even then, all they share is a fondness for orifices.
I’m really trying to be happy about being here. And fine, maybe you’re right about (((Elijah))) and the whole grandiosity thing. I’m actually starting to wonder if I made him up, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Another part of me wonders if this is what I get for trying to realize my hetero-romantic fantasy at a school called QUARE. But something in me is like, “Stick it out, Flora.” Just to prove to myself that I can do it, or something.
And okay, yeah, maybe I’m holding out for Elijah to come to his senses. I’m just so sure it’ll happen, that’s the thing—I’m positive he’ll show up here at some point and realize that I was perfect for him all along.
But taken all together, these present circumstances have turned me into quite the unhappy camper. My mantra these days is “I would prefer not to.” (Remember when you were reading Bartleby in your junior year, and I read it too?)
I would prefer not to join my entire class of sixteen on an impromptu wilderness hike. I would prefer not to swim in the nasty lake, even though it’s sweltering (the reason being that I would prefer not to ingest an amoeba). I would prefer not to strengthen my connections with students by engaging in circles of nonviolent communication practice.
There was one activity last week during the host of get-to-know-you seminars and icebreaking exercises that I wasn’t given the chance to prefer not to do. Very little at Quare is required, but this certainly was.
Allison Longfield, the Peace on Earth teacher, is friends with the Woodstock-based poet Ellis Sugarman (you probably haven’t heard of him). He’s got all these tufts of bright orange hair exploding from his scalp and a long, scraggly red beard.
Anyway, Ellis coached us through a variety of different exercises to get us to acknowledge our privilege—racial, class, gender, religious, etc.—and process them creatively. First he made us stand in a horizontal line on the soccer field, facing the net or whatever it’s called. He—wearing a tattered piece of fabric and those tan pants with the crotch that sags to the ankles—shouted a bunch of statements, and if they applied to us, we were supposed to take a huge step forward.
“I CAN WALK AROUND MY NEIGHBORHOOD AT NIGHT WITHOUT WORRYING ABOUT BEING HARASSED,” he shouted, and a bunch of kids, mostly the boys, stepped forward, toward the soccer net. “I CAN GO INTO ANY BUILDING AND GET AROUND REGARDLESS OF WHETHER OR NOT THERE’S AN ELEVATOR OR A RAMP.” Almost everyone stepped forward. “I AM NEVER ASKED TO SPEAK ON BEHALF OF ALL PEOPLE OF MY RACIAL GROUP.” The white kids, about half of us, stepped forward.
I stepped forward for most of the statements, actually, and at the end, when he shouted, “NOW, EVERYBODY, RUN TO THE NET!” I was one of the first to touch it, even though I was wearing my oxfords with the slight heel, which are notoriously difficult to run in.
But I’m far from the only one here with copious privilege. There are some really rich people here. Even though they wear shirts with holes in them and haven’t had a professional haircut in years, you can kind of just tell by the way they talk about their families that they’re uncomfortable with how much money they come from. We’re an economically diverse group, though, thanks to the fact that Quare’s rich alumni pledge to pay the full tuition of any student whose family can’t afford to send them here.
Afterward, at Allison’s—the peace studies teacher—house, we had to write poems about the experience. Juna, my roommate, was all, “I am a stranger, I come / from a strange place / from bone, born of the sea,” and got
lots of snaps. Ellis’s beady little black eyes almost popped out of his misshapen head, he was so excited. I wrote something about the idea of ownership (I’m too embarrassed to say more, unfortunately), and pretty much only Ellis was into it—and it was kind of his JOB to be into everything we wrote.
The only poem he wasn’t really into, actually, was by this guy Sam, who’s different in a strange way. He’s really popular, and makes everyone laugh about all the disparaging stuff he says about Quare and Canada, where he’s from, but I can sense that he feels a little bit like an outcast too. His poem was totally off topic in the most hilarious way—it was about being trapped in a shower with a huge spider. Now that I think about it, it was probably a metaphor, but I’m not exactly sure for what.
When the workshop was over—and I’d LIKED the workshop; the privilege stuff was superimportant—Ellis bolted out the door kind of spazzed out in a fit of love. He started twirling and laughing maniacally on the patch of grass outside of Allison’s house. We all watched him from her porch. A laugh bubbled up in my throat—it was just like an SNL skit, Lael—but I swallowed it down once I saw that everyone else was humming and swaying. (Except Sam, whose eye I caught—he started to laugh but looked away.) Ellis zoomed back inside Allison’s house and emerged with a pair of scissors seconds later.
“I WANT YOU ALL TO TAKE THIS BEARD,” he said, handing the scissors to Juna, “TO REMEMBER ME BY. TO REMEMBER THIS SPECTACULAR DAY.”
When Juna hesitated, he guided her hand toward his face. She gingerly snipped off a little piece of beard and held it between two fingers. He closed her fist around it and pressed it to her chest. She looked like she’d swallowed a cucumber.
“Save it forever,” he said. “Promise?”
She nodded.
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