Everything Must Go
Page 18
From: Juna Díaz
Subject: new moon women’s circle
January 22, 4:42 p.m.
Dear everyone,
As we are sure the recent events in today’s Quare Times upset everyone, we welcome all female-identifying people to partake in a new moon women’s circle to debrief and support members of our community who are hurting. For those of you who aren’t aware, for generations circles of women have met on or around the new moon to hold space to discuss and revel in one another’s wishes, dreams, and intentions. This is a practice familiar to people of many cultural backgrounds. If you would like to join, please be in the Art Barn at eight p.m. tomorrow night.
Sincerely,
The Feminist Underground (Juna Díaz, Shy Lenore, Althea Long, and Heidi Norman-Lester)
To: All-staff
From: Miriam Row
Subject: SENSITIVE MATERIAL
January 22, 4:59 a.m.
Dear all,
I’m writing to update you about a sensitive situation involving Flora Goldwasser.
As you all know, Sam Chabot’s column in the welcome-back issue of Quare Times suggested that Flora had been sexually active, possibly in an emotionally destructive way, with Elijah Huck on campus this past December. Yesterday I met with Flora and Sam, both separately and together.
Sam expressed remorse at his impulsive decision to write the column, which, though it declined to go into specifics, certainly suggested that there had been nefarious behavior on Elijah Huck’s part. Sam apologized to Flora, but she—perhaps understandably—refused to meet his eye. I used my nonviolent communication training to coach the pair through identifying feelings and needs. Both were somewhat resistant to the process. When I dismissed Sam, I asked Flora about the validity of his words. She was quite resolute that things are fine between her and Elijah. Her body language, however, seemed to suggest that the opposite is true.
Please keep all this in mind in the coming weeks. I let Flora know that all she had to do was ask for an extension or an exemption, and it would be granted without issue.
Finally, in light of the nature of the published commentary, I have decided to step in and overrule the current process of publication for Quare Times, which as you know is completely student-run and edited horizontally, with no editorial board. From now on, however, I will require that the final copy be reviewed by Allison Longfield, interim adviser, prior to publication in order for the newsletter to continue to receive funding. Moreover, Sam Chabot will be meeting with me and the entire nonviolent communication team every week for the next month for intensive sessions.
Do not hesitate to get in touch with me if you would like to discuss this further.
Blessings,
Miriam
Minutes
New Moon Women’s Circle
JANUARY 24
Benna Williams, Secretary, Feminist Underground
8:00 p.m.: People slowly arrive in the Art Barn. We have turned out the lights and laid blankets on the floor. The moon is visible through the glass roof.
8:05 p.m.: People continue to arrive. Fifteen or so are present.
8:07 p.m.: Juna Díaz begins a soft rendition of “Where There is Light in the Soul.” Women join hands and sing together.
8:10 p.m.: Lucy Williams asks if we should begin. Juna replies that we are waiting for one more person.
8:12 p.m.: Juna excuses herself. Althea leads the group in a soft rendition of “This Little Light of Mine.”
8:17 p.m.: Juna is still not back. Benna, Lucy, and Shy consult in the corner. Counted seventeen present.
8:23 p.m.: Door opens. Juna walks in with Flora in tow. She is covering her mouth with the sleeve of her cream-colored cable-knit sweater.
8:23 p.m.: Juna guides Flora to a spot on the floor. Flora sits. She takes a candle and holds it in her hands. She stares into the candle.
8:25 p.m.: Juna begins to speak. She explains that we are all here to heal from recent events and asks the group to do a check-in. She clarifies that we are not here for any reason in particular—just to start the semester in an intentional way.
8:26 p.m.: Check-in begins. Women share feelings of hurt, fear, and empathy. It is clear that these comments are directed at Flora what Sam published in the Quare Times earlier this week about Elijah’s having “fucked and ducked” on Flora. Nobody knows what to make of this statement.
8:32 p.m.: It is Flora’s turn. She chooses not to speak.
8:45 p.m.: Flora still looking into candle.
8:46 p.m.: Juna asks Flora if there is anything she would like to express. “It’s a safe space.”
8:47 p.m.: Flora: “Sam shouldn’t have done that.”
8:47 p.m.: Lucy: “Is that all?”
8:48 p.m.: Juna gently asks Lucy to give Flora her space.
8:48 p.m.: Lucy: “It was so wrong of Sam to do what he did, but now that everyone knows what happened, we can support you. Look at it that way.” Lucy goes on to say that even though many of the assembled women have had strong feelings of admiration for Elijah in the past, they accept their primary duty—as feminists—to support Flora. Lucy says that even though the encounter was consensual, Flora is still completely entitled to feelings that range from rage to depression.
8:48 p.m.: Juna changes the topic, asks how the Feminist Underground can better support all women at Quare in the coming semester, particularly those who are most marginalized (queer and trans women, women of color, immigrant women, survivors of sexual assault, poor women).
8:50 p.m.: Heidi suggests a revamped Feminist Underground support network that stands with survivors of sexual assault informally rather than involving the administration, which can be an intimidating process.
8:52 p.m.: Juna agrees, asks how that would be possible. What about any sexual experience, positive or negative? How can we be more open about those? Support all women in their experiences?
8:53 p.m.: Benna answers that maybe the key is to normalize discussions about safe sex and consent.
8:54 p.m.: Juna asks if anyone in the room has experiences with emotionally charged sexual experiences that he or she wants to share.
8:55 p.m.: Lucy says she is going to “name it.” “Flora, are you comfortable sharing your experiences?”
8:56 p.m.: Flora says no, not right now.
8:57 p.m.: Final refrain of “Where There Is Light in the Soul.”
Email from Dean to Elijah, published here with Dean’s permission
To: Elijah Huck
From: Dean Elliot
Subject: WTF???
January 25, 3:42 p.m.
E,
What the fuck is going on? What the fuck happened between you and Flora last semester? You need to provide some clarity, because I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.
D
Flora Goldwasser
Race in Writing
January 28
In-Class Reflection
PROMPT: In Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, what do Celie’s messages to God reveal or illustrate about her relationship to the divine?
In The Color Purple, Celie tells her story in missives to God; her life, which she lays before us, is both a confession and a prayer. Alice Walker places this prayer in stark opposition to sex: although prayer allows Celie to author her own narrative, sex is not so much a choice as it is a transaction that involves Celie and her husband, Albert. Despite her unfair treatment by Albert, who by any account is an abusive husband, Celie, socialized to not only accept but also expect his abuse, remarks only that he “do his business … [and] go to sleep.” This economic relationship that Celie has with sex, located in her use of the word “business,” makes sex into a transactional rather than a spiritual experience and disables any sense of autonomy awarded to her through her frequent prayer.
COMMENTS
Thoroughly engaging work, Flora. You seem to be suggesting that for Celie and Albert, sex
is more of a transaction—you call it an “economic relationship [to] sex”—and less a space of true connection. Sex becomes about giving and taking (what Celie must provide; what Albert can acquire) rather than sharing. Astute observation! How does society provide a framework for such an understanding of sex? —Pearl
To: Flora Goldwasser
From: Sam Chabot
Subject: sorry
January 28, 5:20 p.m.
Flora,
I know you’re not talking to me right now, and I get it. I’m feeling a lot of guilt about what I did, and I think we should talk one-on-one (without Miriam) about it.
I’m so sorry. I meant to hurt Elijah, not you. I wanted to ruin his reputation, not compromise your privacy. I see now that I was stupid. I feel like such an idiot. It was impulsive. I’m honestly at a loss.
But I know I’ve put you in a horrible position, and all I want is to talk to you about it.
Write back if you ever feel like it.
Sam
Journal entry, night of January 28
I feel sometimes like I’m still in that stage, that half of a second between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain, which is almost worse than feeling the pain because the anticipation of the thing is sometimes way more profound than the thing itself.
But then other times it comes rushing in so fast that I have to sit down wherever I am, sometimes directly on top of a snowbank, and even when the cold makes my derrière go numb, I can’t get up, because getting up means moving forward through a new space and time where this new reality exists.
And then there’s all this anger. God, it’s RAGE. I will never forgive him. I feel gutted, and then I feel like I’m stuffed with so much ANGER that I’m not even hungry. And you know what? Maybe anger is healthy. Maybe anger is okay. Maybe my anger will be strong enough to catapult me all the way back home.
As you can see, I was a melodramatic little mess. But really, can you blame me?
Cora Shimizu-Stein
95 Wall Street, Apt. 33A
New York, NY 10005
January 28
Cora!
I’m so sorry I’ve been absent. Mea culpa!
A quick update: I almost didn’t recognize Juna when I got to campus. Gone are the colorful woven tops and flowing prairie skirts. She now has a cropped haircut, thick-framed glasses, and a pair of corduroy trousers. She looks like a teenaged communist circa 1960.
I asked her why she decided to cut her hair.
“I’m a budding Marxist,” Juna explained breezily.
Do all Marxists have short hair?
“That’s interesting,” I said.
She hasn’t abandoned all her flowing things, but there are a good number of shapeless black smocks and grim trousers now in the mix.
To make matters worse, she won’t stop trying to talk to me about this and that—it’s almost creepy, like she’s trying to get dirt on me, or something. Like she’s on assignment for the FBI.
There’s also a new girl, Sinclaire. She has an Irish accent and lots of long, long black hair and pink rain boots. I don’t think I’ve heard her say ten words yet, but she’s pretty intriguing, in a Wiccan sort of way.
Would you mind scanning and sending me copies of all the letters I wrote to you guys last semester? I’m doing a project and need to piece together some details I think I forgot.
Thanks, and I’ll keep you posted!
Oh yeah, I’m sorry I was so weird about the whole Elijah thing over break. It still feels super weird, and it’s hard to talk about the way it ended, even with you … and you wouldn’t believe how people here are carrying on about it (it’s a long story, and I have to run!).
Love,
Flora
To: Dean Elliot
From: Elijah Huck
Subject: Re: WTF???
January 29, 1:15 a.m.
What the fuck? How do you know about me and Flora?
To: Elijah Huck
From: Dean Elliot
Subject: Re: WTF???
January 29, 1:17 a.m.
It’s all over school. Here’s a photo of what was published in the Quare Times last week.
To: Dean Elliot
From: Elijah Huck
Subject: Re: WTF???
January 29, 1:22 a.m.
Who the fuck is Sam Chabot?
To: Elijah Huck
From: Dean Elliot
Subject: Re: WTF???
January 29, 1:24 a.m.
First-year. Flora’s friend. Everyone on campus is talking about it. Flora’s a complete fucking mess.
To: Dean Elliot
From: Elijah Huck
Subject: Re: WTF???
January 29, 1:25 a.m.
It’s complicated between Flora and me.
To: Elijah Huck
From: Dean Elliot
Subject: Re: WTF???
January 29, 1:28 a.m.
Yeah, it really does look that way, doesn’t it? She’s seventeen, Elijah.
To: Dean Elliot
From: Elijah Huck
Subject: Re: WTF???
January 29, 1:30 a.m.
I know. I know. I really didn’t mean to hurt her. It’s just hard.
To: Elijah Huck
From: Dean Elliot
Subject: Re: WTF???
January 29, 1:33 a.m.
Whatever, dude.
Lael Goldwasser
Harvard College
2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center
Cambridge, MA 02138
January 29
Lael,
It was all a lie. Everything. Elijah. Our connection. Miss Tulip.
I don’t think I’ve eaten solid food since coming back from winter break, so forgive me if I seem a little bit out of it. I am a bit out of it, to tell you the truth. I just keep thinking about Elijah. Obsessively. And now about what everybody is saying happened between us, and how that isn’t what happened at all—it’s different and horrible in its own way. “Fucked and ducked”is how Sam put it, but it’s just so reductive, and I feel like I’m never going to be able to look Sam in the eye again. Because I AM SO FUCKING MAD AT HIM. And I told him EVERYTHING the night before, too. In the Art Barn after Dean’s play. And for him to do that—I just can’t. I can’t even write about it. It makes me too upset. I’m literally shaking with rage. Maybe I’ll take up running, or something. God, I HATE him. I HATE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH. I feel like Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre. Next thing you know, I’ll be setting his bed on fire and haunting him every night.
And sure, he says that his goal was to get back at Elijah and ruin his reputation, not mine, but my God, how fucking dumb can a person be? Everyone knew that Elijah had come to see me. Everyone could clearly tell that I was the unsuspecting, innocent little FUCKING first-year.
The night the article was published, I went to the computer lab when everyone had gone to sleep and searched on YouTube for the embarrassing performance Sam gave after his dad died—the one that made him the object of ridicule at his high school. And it really was bad, Lael. He’s wearing a tuxedo that’s too big for him, for one. And he tries to do an Annie Hall impression in the middle of it. I’m waiting for the right time to disseminate the video to the entire school to exact revenge. I was going to do it that night, actually, but after I drafted the email and linked to the video, I just couldn’t bring myself to press send.
I’m just too fucking classy for this shit.
And I know that over break I told you the outline of what happened between Elijah and me, but I feel like I’m still trying to swallow it down, if that makes sense.
Love,
&nb
sp; Flora
Journal entry, night of January 29
The worst thing is that I can’t stop replaying it. I didn’t black out or have an out-of-body experience. I REMEMBER what happened, and I can’t stop remembering it.
I remember his coming to stand beside me when we circled up for dinner, and I remember him laughing gently into my ear when we started to chant the simplicity song. And I couldn’t believe it, that he was really here to see me after all and take the last picture in the Miss Tulip series. I didn’t want to seem too eager, or anything—I was Quare now, I was cool—so I didn’t mention the picture; I figured that would happen the next day.
I remember how he tweaked my victory roll hairstyle and shook his head like he couldn’t believe it either, even though he was the one who’d come to surprise me—that’s what he said. He’d come to SURPRISE me. He’d come in December, just like he’d mentioned he might, and he was seeing me at Quare, and everything was going according to the plan.
I remember how he whispered in my ear to come to his guest cabin after my roommate had gone to sleep, and how, with a pounding heart, I gathered everything I wanted to wear into a bundle and crept into the communal bathroom at midnight, and how when I pulled on my lace underwear, my legs were shaking and my toes were ice.
I remember putting on a coat and slipping into my clogs because it’s a long walk to the guest cabin and the night was frigid and still.
I remember arriving and pausing at the door, knowing that once I knocked, once I crossed the threshold and crept into the warmth (he had a strong fire going, as I knew he would), I was starting and ending and entering and leaving all at once.
I remember leaving my shoes by the door.
I remember the slight smile on his face when I took off my coat.
I remember him patting his bed, covered in one of Miriam’s guest quilts, and I remember sliding onto it, careful not to let my nightgown ride up. I remember hoping he couldn’t see the eyeliner I’d smudged around my eyes, because I suddenly felt embarrassed about showing up to him like this—a painted woman.