... An Exploration of Latin American Mythology within Magical Realism and the Genres Effects on Gender Expression and Post-Colonial Experiences By Tyrah Chery Honors Project In the Ron and Laura Strain Honors College of THE UNIVERSITY OF INDIANAPOLIS April 20th, 2020 Faculty Advisor: Dr. Sean Robisch, Ph.D. in English & Prof. Daniel Vice, M.F.A. Creative Writing (Fiction) Executive Director of Honors: Dr. James B. Williams, Ph.D. Citation Style: MLA Style Citation Chery 1 Table of Contents An American Way of Death Manuscript 2 Analysis of Texts .. 65 Chery 2 An American Way of Death By Tyrah Chery Chery 3 One Early one morning, deep in March, young Tommy LaVaughn went for a swim. When his mother awoke, her old house broke its silence and whispered news of her sons adventure. The streets slept so soundly that many didnt hear her cries as she walked through the streets, making her way to the station under the waning moonlight. The nights in Hubris were generally lackluster with little disturbance but a misplaced chime of the grandfather clock that lived abandoned against the red bricks on the corner stores eastern face. It took fifteen weak knocks against the oak double doors of the police station before anyone knew of the crying womans presence. Door to door, the police chief and his officers went searching. They made their way along the waking sidewalks, collecting citizens, some joining the search out of worry for Tommy, some just to know his fate. It wasnt until the dawn breeze began to mumble that the police chief and a volunteer, Lila Dennis, found Tommy stuck between two boulders. He lay in a state past sleep, wrapped in stone. As the police chief stepped aside to radio his men that the search was over, the volunteer stared on in pity. She wondered what brought the poor boy here and for an instant wished she could feel the sadness and dread Mrs. LaVaughn felt for her lost boy. Moments later, from deep in the brush, they heard a whimper. Tucked in the orange butterfly weed, the police chief found a baby wrapped in sheer cloth. His first thought was of the small town, devoid of any orphanages and legalities for such an occurrence, as Hubris knew only those born within its borders. Then he thought of three children he had at home and how four would be too much. The volunteer, however, thought of her lonely room, and her restless home with her mother, and her sisters and how well the baby would fit. The town, named Hubris, Chery 4 thought of drought and things to come. The melancholy taste of that March would stay on the tongues of the lilies and tulips until the summer sun brought them new worries. For a time, Hubris slept under the heat of the Illinois summer sun. Some years had passed since the river kissed it awake. So much time that it didnt flinch when Juden Casey arrived in a taxicab at Orvilles corner store. Instead, it slept on. Juden, however, didnt know sleep. For days, he lay awake in his apartment staring at the popcorn ceilings for so long they began to shift into shapes of his childhood. Those were worse than the nightmares that came to him when he closed his eyes. But still, sleep evaded him. Now he sat in the old oak rocking chair on Orvilles front porch, waiting amidst the lingering smoke and anxiety. Each time the rickety door swung open he heard the hums of the old ice cream machine, the pop of the fluorescent lights, and the whispers from inside. Two pounds of lima beans and a pound of rice. The door creaked shut. Whos on the porch, Orville? a muffled voice said. The door wheezed as its hinges twisted open. I wonder what the churchll do now. Juden rocked a little farther back. He couldnt bring himself to travel to the south side of town. He couldnt even bring himself to pick up the phone and call his mother, just to ask how she was. She wouldnt want that anyway, he thought. In the distance against the dried crabgrass, Father Ire moved along the trail like the plague. Juden felt his spine stiffen. He didn't remember many people in Hubris, but he Chery 5 remembered Father Ire. Years ago when sleep had been a friend and visited him often, those short moments were filled with memories of choir practice under Father Ires watchful glass eye. And wherever Ire went, beside him stood his shadow. Judens mother had done her best to explain to him that the holiest of men walked with the Holy Spirit. But Juden knew there was nothing holy about Ires spirit. Youve gone to see it, correct? Father Ire said. No, Juden said. The shadow scoffed as it shifted against the wooden posts along the porch. Theres nothing left. Ive seen many things in my life, boy. But Ive never seen anything disappear so quickly. Ires voice caught itself on the last word. Im sorry, Juden said. I dont need your horse shit condolences, Father Ire said. The voices inside sounded no louder than hums. Everyone knows you havent called your ma, I cant. Juden looked away. Your ma never did anything to you. Im glad you get to decide that. Even though the sun glared down onto the porch, the shadow grew darker. Its edges began to blur and stretch. With every movement it made, Juden began to feel more like a little boy. I need you to figure out what happened here. That useless police chief can barely find time to wipe the dirt off his face, let alone actually find who did this, Father Ire said. You shouldve called the county police. I cant do anything for you. Chery 6 I did. You think they care about us? Youre younger than the drought, boy. Weve made do on our own without the city. Why would they care now? I cant help. Maybe if you did that investigative journalism thing? And brought it back to those folks you work for. Maybe then somethingll happen. Juden rocked the chair back again. Go see your ma, Ire said. Juden flinched. Against the wind, the shadow whispered something to Ire. Juden couldnt make out the words, but he felt a wave of sickness overcome him. Father Ire turned on his heel and as he and his shadow shifted across the pavement, he fumbled through his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Juden pulled himself off the porch and under the glare of the sun, he saw images of the children he once knew playing through the overgrown dandelions and bulbous buttercups in the empty lot across the street. He wrung his hands against his stomach, hoping the sickening feeling would find its way to his fingertips and drip onto the warm concrete. But he knew he wouldnt be that lucky. The burst of yellow reminded him of the stuffed canary above the mantle in his mothers house and the unnervingly bright walls of the old kitchen. Thinking about the details of his old home made his palms sweat and his chest tighten. Father Ires words filled him with a thunderous spite that threatened to crawl past his lips, flop down, and tan itself on the tarmac. Why would he listen to that old man? Why had he listened to that old man and come here in the first place? He knew why. Hope had dug its way under his skin. A hope that things had changed Chery 7 now that he was dead. Maybe it had. Or maybe it hadnt. Juden stood a long time in the empty lot, sweat dripping down his brow and into his eyes. It wasnt until the wind began to change and the dirt shifted beneath his feet that, in an instant of dread, Juden turned towards home. Even after years away from the twisting dirt roads around the town square, Judens feet knew the steps to take up the old trail. His mothers house lay on the outskirts of town, tucked deep inside the canopy of American elm. As the trees sang against the breeze, Juden remembered the afternoons he spent in his makeshift garden of scrap tulip and morning glory seeds Madame Pierre had given him. That summer, one of the hottest Hubris had seen in a long while, she had stopped by to invite his mother to the annual Cathedral Craft Night. Apparently, some ladies down at Orvilles had told her about his mothers affinity for taxidermy. Juden didnt remember exactly what she saw, but he remembered the look on Madame Pierres face when she handed him the seeds. Hed never seen pity before, but somehow, he knew that was what she felt. His mother never went out that night. Instead, she spent hours in the tub as Juden listened to her muffled cries through the door. The old cottage sat on the bank of the river like a beached trout. Weathered, gasping for air, the silvery blue panels had lost their sheen. He remembered the stories his mother told him of her childhood in this house. For years, he would stay up until the witching hour to hear if he could whisper messages to the family members that had died. They didnt whisper back unless he had misinterpreted the squeaks in floorboards as only that. Now, seeing the crooked home a breath away from toppling over, he wondered if any of them were even left. The trees sang loudly, drowning out Judens memories. Were they trying to calm him? Did they know how cold his blood ran now, his hand inches away from the bell? Juden wished Chery 8 the trees of Hubris spoke of other things and not melodies about their leaves. Feeling the time pass by made him queasy, and he didnt think the ballad of pine needles would comfort him. His finger on the doorbell, a chime shook apart the trees song, scattering their words across the grass. Eight years had passed since he saw his mother. When he imagined this encounter, late at night when the only sound in the air was the ticking of his watch, he thought of his mother as he remembered her. Pale-faced, splotchy cheeks and as anxious as a wild animal with a broken leg. Then again, something had always been broken about his mother then. His father made sure of it. But the woman who opened the door wasnt the woman he remembered. She stood solidly in the doorway. Even with her thin frame, she looked like a barricade. Her nose was broken. Bulging and swollen, it looked like a beak. For an awful moment, Juden fought the urge to laugh. Juden, she said flatly. He couldnt read her. Hello, he said. Why are you here? Even with her aura of confidence, Juden could feel her anxiety. I thought it was time for me to visit. She didnt move. Just above her shoulder, Juden could see the glimmer of the kitchen walls. Can I come in? No. What? Chery 9 He didnt want to come here, but now that he was, he knew he had to make her speak to him. Why? he said. Youre not welcome here. Did you forget? Yes, apparently. Juden. What? Dont do this. Let me inside. I wont be long. She looked at him for a while. Her hair was graying from the roots, a field of snow sprinkled against the gray sky. Juden never thought about what his mother would look like when she got old. He never thought hed be around long enough to see it. But here she was. Angry and gray and paper bag wrinkled. You need to go. Really? You made yourself unwelcome here, dont blame me, she said. Dont put that on me. You decided to leave. You dont just get to show up here and magically everything would be fine. Its not fine. Just please. He had walked all the way here under the hum of the leaves and the bluebirds. He had thought of all the reasons why he would let his feet take him down the worn path. None of them made sense, but why would they have? Juden hadnt known how much of a boy he would feel Chery 10 like when he stood in front of his mother, her shaky frame strong in the doorway. Then something snapped inside of him, letting go of the tear it was holding in place along his lashes. A single tear, nothing more, nothing less. His mother watched it trail its way down his cheek and across the bones of his shoulders. The heat of her eyes made him feel sick again, his belly filling with bile and grief. Dont be long, she said. She shifted out of the doorway. Thank you. His mother found an escape in dead things. It had started out with books from the library, ones shed stay up under the porch light on summer days to read. Then, in the one act of kindness Juden had ever seen from his father, the renovation of the shed in the overgrown backyard as her workshop. For a while, she chose squirrels and mice up until the day she found a Northern Cardinal dead on the doorstep. Dead birds werent an uncommon occurrence around the old home. But his mother knew birds and knew those bright golden feathers shouldnt have been around those woods. Juden didnt know his mother could feel love. Hed never seen it before. Yet, the day she brought the small animal back to life, he saw what little love his mother was capable of. Hed stay awake at night hearing his mothers tears through the walls and feel his fathers soft anger radiate through his thin mattress and think about the life the cardinal once had. Sometimes, when the wind blew just right through his windowpane, it would carry him through the sleeping forest. Hed fly over Hubris and feel the town kiss his cheeks, and when the wind carried him high enough that he felt like he could almost touch the stars, hed see the glimmer of his wings under Chery 11 the moonlight. The next morning, hed wake up in his bed, the soft brush of feathers across his forearms fading with the small comfort those nights brought. Years later, Juden stood in front of the tacky stuffed cardinal in a house more foreign than he could ever imagine, with a woman he barely recognized. If I remember correctly, you said you were never coming back, his mother said. That was my plan. Then why are you here? You didnt come back for anything else, so whats so important for you to be here now. Father Ire called me. His mother stood up straighter at the priests name. He had always hated that about her. She had done everything in her power to impress him. The worst times were when she pretended to care about Juden. When she had first started pretending, Juden had actually believed her. She would hold his hand on the walk down to the cathedral or even carry him when his fathers yells shook the house so violently the night before, Juden couldnt keep track of the sheep that found pasture at his bedside. Shed whisper bible verses under her breath as a child would. She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. Proverbs 31:25. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue. Proverbs 31:26. You should be known for the beauty that comes from within, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is so precious to God. 1 Peter 3:4. Judens Sunday school teacher would talk about the power of Biblical affirmations. That if you said something enough, and pray hard enough, you could speak it into existence. He had Chery 12 always been too scared to try it himself, too fearful that one of his bad thoughts would ooze in through the cracks and into his words. But no matter how many times his mother said those things, they refused to plant themselves inside her to blossom into truth. That wasnt their purpose for her. She said the verses every Sunday so that they could cloak her in a disguise. Juden hadnt noticed the first few times, as the summers in Hubris had been filled with other oddities. His eyes trailed the worms dried out on the pavement, frozen in their last moment of panic forever. Or at least until his polished church shoes kicked them into the grass. The distant humdrum of the highway miles and miles away making the smallest pebbles dance the polka from the sidewalk into the street. He hadnt noticed the thin veil that fell over her. Pure, faint gold that wrapped around her fingers and up to his until they faded at his wrists. He hadnt noticed how it braided itself through her hair and left a trail like stardust behind them. Why would he call you? she said. He thought I could help with the cathedral. Thought? Thought. Im leaving, theres nothing happening here, he said. Then why come to this house? To insult me? Tell me how good you have it? What? Im not fighting with you. Juden put his head in his hands, frustrated. I dont know why I came back. Juden reached up to touch the fraying top feathers of the yellow bird. He never had the courage to as a kid. But he wasnt a kid anymore. Everyone was at the funeral, she said. Chery 13 Juden looked around the drab living room until his eyes settled on her. As he watched his mother, Juden could see something behind her eyes change. The angry waters had suddenly gone still. He remembered that look. The blue of her eyes stopped raging, but they were anything but calm. The same look she gave his father every time he told her to stop fighting him. The look of the water becoming complacent to the sway of the wind. He knew he was speaking to her now, somehow. Your father left you some things, she said. Mom, he said. All he did was talk about you in the end. He even wrote you a letter. She stopped testing the waters between them and began to push. Mom, I didnt come-.. He had me write it, but still. He said how sorry he was for all this misunderstanding. Misunderstanding? Thats what you think this was. Juden was getting angrier, but she wasnt listening. All he talked about was how much he missed you. Juden watched her, his eyes slowly taking in the inches that made up her silhouette. Just take it. Dont read it if you dont want to, Ill never know. Judens palms itched inside his pockets as he thought over the request. He could feel the seconds move past them, between them, until they seemed to pause and watch the silent tug-ofwar within him. He reached out towards her. Give it to me. Thank you. I want to see my room. Chery 14 She looked away. We moved him down there when he couldnt keep making the trip upstairs. I havent gotten the chance to move his things out. He hated that room. Not after you left it. It was the only thing we had of you. Why did you two care? After I left, why? You were sixteen, Juden. You could barely get up for school on time, let alone live on your own. Why wouldnt we care? He told me to go and you did nothing. You wanted to leave! We thought you would have your tantrum and come back in your own time. He treated you like a punching bag. Your father never laid a hand on you. Thats not what I said. Your father and I had our differences, Juden, but they werent for you to worry about. You made it when youd sit up at night and cry in the hall. It became my business when no one in this godforsaken town cared enough to help you. They all knew, and they did nothing. Small towns always have the biggest secrets, huh? It was between your father and I; it was never something for them to worry about. So, you just let it keep happening? Let the punches keep coming? But he never laid a hand on you. Juden pressed his palms to his temples. Chery 15 Do you know what its like to grow up with a mom whos never there? To see her, hear her, but never once know what its like to hear her say I love you? he said. Juden. Or what its like to know that every day when you came home thered be crying and screaming and blood? He never put a hand on you. That isnt the point! Judens voice slammed against the ceiling. In the following quiet, he could feel the soft vibrations drizzle down from above, stinging his skin with its venom. A monster had woken up inside him somewhere and he didnt know if he could silence it again. That was never the point, Juden said, his voice shuddering. His mother stared through him, missing his eyes, staring at something beyond. She stood up a little straighter, moved cautiously towards the door and turned the handle. I think you should be on your way. Its getting too late for quarrelling. Chery 16 Two It had quieted outside. He roamed these forests in the days when the river flowed through Hubris. When the water ran through the towns veins, pulsating and pleasant, the town had been alive. In those days, the river had run strong and crisp, smelling sweet of the mammee apples and banana flowers that had fallen along the bank. Sometimes he would pick the honeyed fruit from the tree limbs and bring them home. In the summer, Juden would sit on the front step and tear at the amber flesh. The warm ground and sugary sap brought solace to Juden. His father away at work, too busy on Petersons farm mating cows and shoveling manure to worry about the saccharine smell the apples left behind on Judens overalls. His mother away at the cathedral too occupied with hymns and summer sermons to hear the sound his gluey fingers made as they slipped against the old crystal doorknob. When the planet of seed began to rise up from beneath the apricot fruit, Juden would sweep his feet along the waters edge and place the pit back into the earth. The mammee trees didnt grow now and the river had gone. But the fireflies still danced. His anger had seeped out of him by then and all he felt now was the chill of the dry air against his forearms. Through the canopy of trees, Juden could see brighter, yellower lights in the distance. He thought of what Father Ire said as he walked. Juden hadnt expected to return from the deli next door, the one with the old gray cat with geranium eyes that lived outside on the steps, to find a message on his answering machine asking for his help. Let alone a message from Ire. He had stayed up that night, raking through his memories of Hubris, attempting and failing to convince his curiosity to behave itself. He had packed a small bag, ordered a taxi and made his way down the clamoring highway and the backwoods of Illinois farm country to the small town. Chery 17 He wanted nothing more than to leave and return to the life he had become accustomed to. But as Juden approached the lights, his curiosity stirred itself awake. The cathedral had never lived up to its name. No one knew what its real name was anymore. Ask anyone in town and theyd tell you something different. If you asked anyone who was around before the drought, before the highway, they would call it Freedmans Methodist. To others who knew the days of Lake Dantor, it was Old St. Marys. A few who have been in the town for so long their feet had become rooted to its soil, their boundary of freedom ending with the town line, those made of as much Hubris as the homes and the trees and the sweet wilted air, would even call it Seventh Day Revelation Church on 9th Street. Somewhere down the line, the crisis of identity the church suffered became too much for the people of the town, who knew only lives of routine and consistency. To pinpoint the churchs nomenclature, they began to call it simply the cathedral. No matter who had come to make a religious home out of the weary walls, that was its name. And in the glimmer of the rising moonlight, Juden sat in awe of it. The cathedral sat on the earth like a cracked egg, a yolk of golden light spilling from the charred gray shell. The candles had been lit, their flames licking against the night air, breathing it in. It was a beacon against the growing indigo sky. Juden felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him as he stared. It felt wrong, the exposed religious ephemera as if he should look away and cover his eyes. But all at once, it was magnificent. The prophets preached in the fresh air. So why shouldnt we. Father Ire appeared on the edge of the burnt wood floor, just before the dark hardwood became greenery. Where his shadow manifested against the reflection of the candles was nothing more than a pit. Chery 18 Youre still having services? Juden said. Of course, we fucking are. Gods word has made it through the falls of civilizations. Some fire and a few mosquitos aint gonna stop me, boy. The persistence is admirable. Did you see your ma? A plume of smoke surrounded his shadow, wispy and sheer, almost like it had lit its own cigarette. Yeah. And? Dont be short with me. Honestly, its none of your business, old man. Is that how you speak to your elders. Apparently today it is. And my offer? Juden watched as the moon grew larger in the sky, silently competing with the dancing lights. Juden felt as if he was watching God and Mother Nature have an argument. Each glimmering against the night, beckoning him to watch them, to ignore the other. It was a fight he could watch forever. What happened the last time? Juden asked. Father Ire shoved his hands into his pant pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Happened a while ago. Back when I first came to the cathedral. An old janitor lit the cathedral up after knocking over a candle. So, they say. Father Ire unfolded the paper and handed it to Juden. Chery 19 The church decided to sue, and he couldnt pay. They sent him to jail for a coupla months. The paper was faded, the black ink lightened to a deep cerulean. Through the thinned parchment, the candlelight danced as if trapped between the words. On its face was a picture of a man sitting in Hubris version of a courtroom. When cases of criminal activity were ever scandalous enough to warrant a trial, the sheriff would order the evacuation of the librarians from Humphrey Memorial Library. Nothing of that importance had ever happened when Juden had lived in the town, but he knew the protocol and the expansive columns of aged books in the background reassured him. Who was he? Juden said. The page felt as though it would break apart at the slightest gust of wind. He worked up in the post office most days. He was quiet, but I guess you cant expect much talking from a deaf man. He still lives here? I dont think Ive ever seen him, Juden said. Died in jail. Aneurysm bless his soul. But his crazy old woman still lives here. You know her. That old crone Erzu up on the hill. The wind ruffled Judens hair playfully, stirring up memories. I never knew she was married. That miss she begs everyone so hard to use is useless. I wouldnt be surprised if that hag was older than the river. Shit, I know she is. Juden chaffed at Ires words, slowly growing more uncomfortable with his and his shadows presence. He thought that he should leave and felt his feet begin until he had to stop them. He didnt have anywhere to go. The summer sun had dipped past the horizon and the cool Chery 20 air had begun to sing a midsummer lullaby to the closing flower buds. As if he could read Judens mind, Father Ires shadow inched over his boots and started to tug at his shoelaces, asking him to follow. Ill show you to the room on the other side of the chapel for visiting ministries. Luckily thats still intact. Juden let the silence grow between them. That is, assuming youre gonna keep looking into this. That night, in the cold concrete room in a bed too lavish for the prison it occupied, Juden found new horrors that lived in the night. As every night before, sleep had taken a different path. But his mind opened itself to a new wandering stranger and that night Juden welcomed in waking nightmares. Ms. Erzu was the town medicine woman. Her concoctions never being strong enough to rid one of any ailments, but strong enough to keep any blessing from coming loose. Her garden was one the town told stories about. Tales of milk thistle, damiana, passionflower, and blue skullcaps littered the path up the hill, whispering their uses to any who happened past. When sleep kissed his lashes and dreams, rare, star-filled dreams, caressed his skin and slipped past his fluttering eyelids, he dreamt of this garden. Her small house had been talking to Juden for a few minutes. Shifting, settling, ticking, turning, recounting days when the white kitchen walls had been covered with photos and paintings. Splashes of color that had made the deep winter shade, once described to be a variation of snow plum seem inviting. But thats not how Juden would describe it now. Chery 21 Judens fingers thrummed across the tabletop as the grandfather clock in the hall sang tap-tap-tap in response. Behind him, a whales mouth of a doorway opened into the living room. The reflection of ink blue walls danced across the silver canvas of the old rumbling refrigerator. A scent of vanilla and honeysuckle oozed from the cracked window into the sink and up towards the slanted ceiling. Juden didnt mind any of these things. The silence, the sweet air, the bleached lavender walls all hummed stories of times past. Juden liked stories. But these werent the stories he wanted to hear. Ms. Erzu had sat him in front of the linoleum kitchen table in a pine chair. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that the curiosity sparked from the day before would not be easy to kill. There had been something in Ires story that inspired an interest to nest in the crease of Judens brow. Eske ou grangou? I make lunch right now, Ms. Erzu said. She shuffled out from the stomach of the whale, her house shoes smacking and sliding across the worn wood floors. Her hands held tightly to a basket of produce. Eggplants, carrots, and heads of cabbage poured over the sides and visibly weighed the small woman down. Before Juden felt guilty enough to offer his help, she made her way to the window and placed the basket in the sink. I guess I could eat. She sucked air through her teeth. I guess? she said, Kisa w vle di I guess? I dont know what you mean. Are you hungry or no? Im hungry, but youve done enough already. Seeing me is enough. Chery 22 Hush. I supposed to leave you outside? We know your manman and you dont see, kijan ou di, see eye to eye, Is this common knowledge then? That Juden and his mother dont get along? Non, it is common knowledge that your manman is a scattered woman. You have gone long, ti fi. No one expects you to sleep with a hurricane in the next room. Ive actually been staying at the cathedral. Her frame stilled, the tension rising up her spine and bursting above her head. After a while, she relaxed again. En bien. Juden felt the table begin to shiver under the rhythmic fervor of the pads of his fingers. Ms. Erzu placed a tanned leather hand against the cold tabletop and with the other set a tall mug of coffee down with a clink. What do you do with your time, nowadays? Cant be as many people left in town to have you that busy. Cook, clean, read the bible, listen to radio. She had a colorful spread in front of her, vegetables with the dull yellow light of the overhead lamp glinting off taut skins. She reached around the cutting boards to pull a longsharpened knife from the stand underneath the cabinets. I remember when you worked at the dentist. Ha! She slammed the knife down against the wooden slab. Know something funny? I have wanted to be dentist since when I live en Ayiti. Here, I got to be assistant to dentist. What happened? Whyd you stop? Chery 23 Dan se zo. Judens face warped with confusion and Ms. Erzu answered with the thunderous scream of the knife against a hard surface. How are your daughters? Marie, useless girl. She walk all the way to the store with no money. Ki f sa? She must go back. The eggplants had been sliced vertically and Ms. Erzu patted them dry between waterlogged paper towels. Lila works. The library always needing her. That hasnt changed much. Mm, you live here, you work. Ou, you Marie. This made her chuckle, a deep gruff thing wrapped up in sunshine colored ribbon. Florence? Juden said after a moment. Bl anfm pa vle di lasante. Shed moved onto the cabbage, stripping off the earth kissed outer leaves. She say she fine in that city. That all she say. But I know she eat bad food. She sucked on her teeth again. Judens hand thumbed the handle of his mug. He didnt know what to ask next. Ms. Erzu was a woman he remembered well. Just like Ire, her silhouette had etched itself in the layers of his brain. She was a bubbling pot. Somedays Ms. Erzu would appear in town with a grin plastered across her chin. Somedays she blew through like a lost dust storm. But youd never know what kind of day it was until you started asking her questions. Chery 24 When he was 12, Judens mother got sick. His father reluctantly took her to the hospital in the city and not trusting him alone, left him in the hands of the wise Ms. Erzu. They got along well at first. Her proverbs and parables were lost on him, but they all sounded like the punchline of a joke. Her voice filled rooms, seeping through the floorboards and the mouse holes and out to the yard to shake the trees and make the birds chatter in excitement. He had loved it. Then, after a lunch of rice and chicken spiced with peppers and cabbage, Juden had roamed the halls of the old house. He ran his hands over the painted panels, tapping in rhythm with the grandfather clock. When he reached the cactus room, he paused a moment in the doorway. Of the rooms that made their home in the cottage, this one had been the most alive. Cacti blossomed from clay pots and twist themselves up and up, pushing against the bay windows. They wanted to be outside. Their pins scrapped against the glass every few hours as they followed the sun. He found his way to the center of the quilted rug and sat amongst the thorns. He sat for hours until Ms. Erzu came to collect him. Your manman and papi come soon. And I made bonbon. In the kitchen, fingers holding onto chocolate chip cookies for dear life, Juden had been content. In front of the running tap, Ms. Erzu hummed church hymns under her breath. His mother sang these songs, too. But here Juden felt a warmth ease up his arms when he listened. He had been happy. Ms. Erzu? Juden said. Oui, mon cherie? I wish my mom was like you. She turned off the faucet and pivoted to look at his crumb covered face. Chery 25 Petit, lane pase toujou pi bon." He put the remnants of his cookies back onto his plate. I-I dont know what that means. Kijan ou di, the grass is greener past the other fence. On the other side. Ce sa, greener is the grass on the other side. Other manmans seem sweeter to you than your own. Mais, non. Just as bitter. Then I wish I didnt have a papi, too. Juden had found solace in the cacti before. They held pain between their skin and their soft insides and choose to leave him be. Now, Ms. Erzu prickled over and Juden felt too close to her thorns. Ungrateful. What? Juden felt his stomach twist. Ou ye ungrateful. I didnt mean to be. But you are. Her face contorted into someone Juden couldnt recognize. You have a papi. You speak no ill of that. I didnt think. Im sorry, Ms. Erzu. No, you are not. You say how you feel. You speak freely. Go. Juden watched her for a moment. Go? Go. Leave. Ale. Chery 26 You said my parents were coming. Oui, and you will go sit outside. Not here. Ungrateful garcon do not get bonbon. She ripped the plate off of the table, letting it fall to the floor. The crashing sound brought the tears Juden had been holding back to his eyes. Im sorry. Ale! The walls trembled with Ms. Erzus anger. Juden felt his heart clench under the pressure of her glare. She looked like his father. And when she raised his hand to point again to the doorway, Juden caught his shoulders raising in an instinctual flinch. For a moment, Ms. Erzus eyes softened, seeming to remember he was a child. But just as quickly, Juden could see the realization infuriate her all over again. Timoun dezobeyi! She clutched his wrist with a vice grip, pulled him up off the pine chair, and dragged him to the back door. I say ale and you sit and cry. I say go and you forget Anglais. Disobedient, ungrateful. Never again I watch ou fou timoun. He spent an hour outside. The sun had set, and his father was late and Juden had run out of tears to cry when the fireflies came out to play. Behind him, the floorboards shifted. Juden turned to find himself staring straight into the face of black birch. Her skin was as dark as the river at midnight, reflecting the kitchen light like a pool of inked glass. Along the curve of her cheeks were two thin scars, still glistening under the light as if they were made yesterday. The brown of her eyes reminded Juden of a freshly filled puddle of summer mud mixed with the gasoline that dripped off the sides of rusted tractors. They Chery 27 were the kind of eyes that made him feel like if he stared long enough, something no one had ever experienced before would rise from inside them and say a quaint Hello. Bon matin, Manman, she said. Her voice was apple crisp. Bonjour, ma chere, Ms. Erzu said. May I ask where Marie has run off to? Emilia said shed be running some errands with her today. You know ta soeur. Nothing above but some bats and a pail of water. She went shopping then. She was answered by the quick chop of the knife. And who is this? Juden watched as she turned her attention to him. Panic shot through his feet and up to his knees. Something was emerging from the pools, but Juden was too afraid to keep staring. You remember Sophias boy, non? Sophias boy? Oui. The gears were moving behind her eyes as they raised a platform through the puddles, her realization awakening. Ah. Sophias boy. I thought you had left. I did, Juden said. Apparently you didnt go far enough. Father Ire called me back. Chery 28 She sucked in the air sharply through her teeth, mimicking the agitation Ms. Erzu had shown. Why is Father Ire calling strangers now? Im not a stranger. You. She pointed a willowy finger towards him. Her petal lips were pursed and twisted. are a stranger here. So please, tell me why Father Ire is calling strangers. Look at her. No manners just rudeness through and through. Lila, behave, Ms. Erzu interrupted. Lila crossed her arms across her white linen shirt, the sapphire bangles on her arms tinkling against one another in the move. The more he watched her, the whales mouth open and bright behind her, the more he saw the tree rings in her center. The glow underneath her surface told him that she was younger than his mother, but she was aged, her bark creased and pinched by weathering. Why are you here, Sophias boy? Juden. Why are you here? The cathedral burned down. We know. Unlike you, we live in this town. His palms were sweating. Father Ire wanted me to look into it. He doesnt think the sheriff is doing enough. Sharp air through teeth. Sheriff never does anything except drink beer and smell like sour piss, Ms. Erzu said. Manman, Lila snapped. Chery 29 Se vre. He should leave it alone. You should leave it alone. That place is old and vile, no reason to beat the dead horse. Judens interest blossomed. Vile? Lila never liked that church. We say when she was young, she was touched. Hated that church. Hated that priest. Maybe shes a changeling, Ms. Erzu said. Manman, stop. She turned to Juden. That place has bad juju. And Father Ire isnt a man to confess to. Who does a priest confess to when he himself has sinned, huh? Judens mind began to pace. Would you care to explain? he said. No. Id like to see where my daughters gone off to. What do you mean by vile? Manman, when did they say theyd be back? Have you spoken to Father Ire recently? No. Why would I? Manman, did you at least tell her to make sure to prune the trail? The weeds are sprouting inside the path. What do you mean by vile? Strangers ask too many questions I have no reason to answer. Did Father Ire do something to you? The knife hit the cutting board again and snapped. A large, heavy half fell onto the floor, showering the white tile with a rainbow of produce and as it hit the ground, shattering the linoleum into pieces. Chery 30 Three Manman! the whales mouth screeched. It was a daisy. Her round golden face wide with fear and shock, her arms raised above her head, dark hair wrapped around in a makeshift crown. Emilia, where have you been? Lila said. She rushed over to the girl who couldnt have been older than nineteen. Marie and I went to the store. Leave me be. Manman could be hurt. Emilia said, shrugging off her mothers worried and searching hands. Im fine, ma chere. Ms. Erzu said. She rubbed her hands in the dishrag draped across her waist. Emilias face was bright, golden like chickweed with midnight petals curling over its center. She was blemished, her skin haphazardly splattered with moles and her lips a startling contrast of silt brown and rose petal pink. Yet, whatever intention was had when sculpting the valleys of her face was translated clearly. He was mesmerized. Let me help you clean. Please, she said. Emilia reached for an extra rag strewn across the counter. Lila watched Juden attentively, eyeing him as he sat in awe of the girl. You can leave, she said. What? Juden said. Were finished answering your questions. You can leave, stranger. But Im not finished. It doesnt matter. Chery 31 Be quiet. Ms. Erzus voice cut the tension between them, reverting the two to no more than bickering children. He will not leave. He sleep at the cathedral, I know, in that room they say is fit for guests. Is fit for nothing more than rats and the dead. You stay here. We have bed in the shed. She didnt look up from her cleaning while doling out her commands. Mais, Manman Mais non. This is my house, you do not make commands, Lila. Juden could smell the ozone rising in the air. Emilia, ma chere, show Juden the shed, tanpri, Ms. Erzu said. No. The urgency in Lilas voice shook the house violently, lifting the discarded vegetables into the air in an attitude. Emilia, f vite. Emilia slowly raised herself to her feet and with one stem outstretched, beckoned for Juden to follow. In silence, she led him through the whale and past the wooden doors onto the lawn. Under the late morning sun, the lush garden was showered with beads of gold. Emilia walked through the scattered gravel and brushed her fingers against the herbs and flowers that grabbed at her skirt. With each touch, they sighed and leaned themselves back against the wind in relief. Juden thoughtlessly followed her lead, grazing his fingers against the tea chrysanthemums, feeling them shyly kiss the pads. My mother was right, you know? You are a stranger. To me at least, Emilia said. Chery 32 Juden glanced up from the thicket to find two pits staring back at him. Im Juden. Emilia. I heard. Why are you here? Manman and my mother argue often, but not like this. And most certainly not over a man. I just came to ask some questions. They must be some very important questions for them to be bickering so angrily. Juden didnt respond. He didnt know how. Shes too young to know much, he thought. Younger than him, much younger than the drought, and the cathedral and the answers to the questions that still ran wild through his head. They were about the cathedral, he said. She stopped for a moment. In front of them, an expanse of greenery stretched towards the teal horizon. When he had last cast his eyes on it, the garden hadnt reached more than 100 yards past the house. Now he saw that in the time he had gone, it had grown to encompass an entire acre. Wild, lively plants danced amongst each other, close enough to exchange the sweet morning dew into the waiting palms of the next. Why are you asking about it? Father Ire asked me to. At the mention of his name, Juden could see the electricity run through her hair and into the air. The wind happily carried the currents up into the sky and to the clouds above. Chery 33 Your family doesnt seem to like him very much. Id assume you arent excluded from those emotions. He Her voice trailed off, falling onto the gaggle of lavender below. He, she began again, is an unsettling man, dont you think. He is. His shadow says the most horrible things, you know. Judens steps faltered. In all his years, he had never known what Ires shadow said. As far as Juden was concerned, the only person who knew had been Ire himself. As his days in Hubris grew longer, Juden was realizing he didnt know much of anything, let alone enough to be concerned. What do you mean? I can never remember exactly what it says, but I remember the feel. Like cold aloe sliding down your tongue and sticking to the inside of your throat. Ive heard its different for boys. No less unnerving, but different. Ive never heard it. Lucky you. In the distance, the shed began to appear. It was a small, marvelous thing. Though he could barely make out the door, he could see the vines that had made their homes against the faded orange shackles and the rainbow of florets along with the emerald arabesques. Marie wont be too happy about you staying there. Where? Chery 34 In the shed. Its where she likes to spend her nights. Manman and mother fight often and she doesnt have much stomach for it after Florence left. As if Emilias words had been a call to battle, the rickety door opened, sending the melodic shriek of its hinges cascading across the prairie. Out of it stepped a ghost. Where Lila had been the color of deep, sable winter and Emilia, the incarnation of the lingering morsels of a midsummer twilight, Marie was a bushel of peonies gracing the warmed spring snow. Her hair was stark against the hue of the woodshed, a stripped-bare ochre. Rosy cheeks painted themselves across a tan canvas, washed out over time by the sun. Her eyes the color of pastel blue lavendin. They were staring at Juden in surprise. Emilia pulled the woman in close to kiss her cheeks in greetings. Maries eyes never left Judens. Who is this, Emilia? Her voice was no louder than a hum, her words spoken so quickly Juden could have lost them forever to the wind. Juden Casey, he said. Hes here looking into the fire, Emilia said. Marie wrung her hand on her pale blue skirt and placed it in the air to take Judens. For a moment, he thought she was asking to shake it, but her fingers wrapped around the back of his hand and thrust his palm towards the sun. She took her time looking over it, freshwater puddles dripping their attention onto callused skin. After a time, she let go. Manman and Lila are fighting? Marie said. When arent they, Emilia said. Are you simply escaping, or do you have more to share? Marie said. Chery 35 Manman wants Juden to stay in the shed while hes doing his work. A sigh left Maries lips, gentle and thoughtful, brushing his cheeks. Give me some time to clean. Ive been studying a strain of pansies to plant before the weather turns and it seems Ive made quite the mess. Marie looked again at the two before turning towards the shed and disappearing past the doorway. Come. The gardenias would enjoy our company. When the moon glided against the cerulean curtain of the sky, Juden found himself in the same place he found himself every night. Awake on the small cot of the shed staring at the wood-paneled ceiling wondering what path sleep had taken that night. It took any path that led away from him. Tonight, however, something else came to him. The small frosted window of the woodshed left little barrier between Juden and the crisp evening air, and every so often when the night breeze blew just right, a pair of fireflies would find their way through the cracks and dance their nightly waltz before his eyes. They danced as if every movement was necessary for their survival. And in muted awe, in the faint darkness, Juden watched. What was it to be a firefly dancing in the summer air away from this, the perils of human nature? What was it to be free? But were they truly? Could he say that? They did this dance every night, no matter whether they wanted to or not. This was their only calling. Each and every summer's night, and when the wind blew to different plains far away from here, from Hubris, they would dance themselves to their graves. Is that free? Juden thought. Chery 36 He was still, watching their wings beat in time to music the night played only for them. They pulled each other across the room, their backside lighting the cobwebs and giving a glow to the petals of the pansies. Is this truly freedom? Juden thought. Is anyone truly free? Against his thoughts, he heard a soft knocking on the door. At first, he thought it a waking dream, the ghost of the summer's eve brushing palms against the soft wood. But again, it came. Slowly, Juden raised himself from the cot, breaking the performance of the fireflies and out the corner of his eye, he saw them rush through the frosted window and into the night to waltz their way to death. On the other side of the door was Emilia. Under the moonlight, her skin glowed. Otherworldly. I want to answer your questions, she said. Her hands held onto a small book, her head bowing to the dirt. Do you think thats a good idea? Juden said. He was happy that she had felt him worthy to give an answer to, yet he didnt know if it was right. These werent her stories to tell, her secrets to keep or give away. Juden quarreled with himself. A quarrel hed never known before. But his curiosity was ravenous. He followed her into the night. Past the pastures, under the inky tresses of the sky, dimly lit by the waning moon, he followed her. When they reached the edge of the official town line, he stopped. His head filled with more questions than he could keep pace with. Why here? Why the forest? he thought. Why not tell me before, at the shed? Or somewhere further in the field. Or on the walk. Chery 37 Maybe the smiling flowers had ears and they whispered their tales back to Ms. Erzu. He laughed at the thought. Only half a laugh, nowhere full enough to convince himself of its folly. He followed on. They made their way along the path of tree trunks and gatherings of fairy lights, the fireflies dancing amongst each other. Dancing, spinning, twirling, leaving traces of themselves behind. Juden wished he could take a moment and be entranced. When he was a boy, he had found these gatherings to be pure beauty. They seemed so content moving in circles around one another. Flying upwards towards the sky, just close enough to taste drooping starlight. Then dipping down to the ground, close enough to feel the soft silt brush against their wings. Now there were better things to pay attention to, especially now, that he realized that in the distance, through faint shivers of leaf against leaf, he heard water. Where are you taking me? he said. He was scared. He didnt know why. Im taking you somewhere special. My aunt, Marie and I, have a garden out here. Away from Manman and mother and their arguments. Her voice was soft. So soft that Juden felt it caress his skin. He felt sad. He knew the rumble of arguments through thin paper walls and bedding. He knew the feeling of moments before a storm when the trees filled with anticipation. He saw the somber blue ooze from her skin and into the air around her, clinging to her and it made him melancholic. After a time, they reached a pasture open and drenched in moonlight. Just ahead of them, Juden saw a stream. Fresh, clear stream water flowed and Juden stood aghast. Father Ire had been wrong. Judens early boyhood, though tainted with memories of screams and streaks of crimson, was also filled with this water. Fleeting memories of fruit, trees, Chery 38 and mud between his toes. Memories of days that made up for the nights spent cowering beneath his sheets. He just preferred to keep these instances of natures affection to himself. They were his to keep and carry in ways that he knew no one else could. Only he knew that they could only be handled with great care, that at any moment, they could crumble before your eyes and be replaced with something angrier, much angrier. When he was born, the drought had already begun, sipping up the rivers and the lakes and the small pools that littered the forests brush. But the arteries still flowed, even though the heart of Hubris had gone cold with rock and sand. You just had to know how to find them. Juden had been the only one to find success. The old men in town, the ones who missed the days of waking up to the Sunday sun and packing their bags to go fish in the spring waters. The men who talked of listening to nothing but the nature around them speak to themselves in languages they would never be able to decipher. These men spoke of the streams hidden away somewhere no one could find them. No one but Juden. They had made a ritual of the search, Juden remembered. Every Sunday morning, waking up with the roosters call, packing their bags as if nothing had changed. They journeyed off into the forest in search. Theyd go two, sometimes three hours, just until the breakfast bell rang at whatever house they called home. Theyd return empty-handed, packed away their things, and sit telling stories to the children of Hubris. Stories of lakes and creeks and streams. Stories of the sound of trickling water, against dirt, against the rock. When they told these stories, Juden would think of the taste. The cleanest thang youve ever drank. theyd say. Clean water. Real water, theyd sigh. Theyd lean back in their chairs and close their eyes and as Juden watched, he remembered his little hidden sanctuaries. He remembered what the water tasted like after a lunch Chery 39 of oranges and peach. He remembered the feeling of the small green lizards, the ones that spent their days tanning in the patches of light that slipped past the canopy of leaves, slurping the liquid from his welcoming palms. He remembered where they could do nothing but imagine. Back then, the reality of these things disappearing seemed impossible. But they were possible, and he had lost those moments. He had lost grip of many moments, but very few had truly made him sad. Come, Emilia said. She took his hand. He didnt know what he thought she would feel like, but what he had imagined was nothing like what he actually felt. Her hands had looked soft before, untouched, young. But they werent. They were calloused, gardeners hands. Hands that knew the feeling of dirt, and rot, and death. Hands that were nimble. Hands that knew the difference between weed and flower, that knew just where to trim the rosebud and bush. Hands that were molded from the earth. These hands, her hands, were older than him, wiser than him, knew more about the world than he could ever imagine. And he felt ashamed that he had ever thought otherwise. He was the child, the inexperienced, the ignorant. However, now was his time to learn. Chery 40 Four They sat in the center of the meadow surrounded by blushing hibiscuses. Emilias skirt was covered in mud, fallen petals clinging to the material like paint on a muddied canvas. I hope I didnt wake you, Emilia said. You didnt. I dont sleep most nights. Juden said. He could feel the gentle rumbling of the water vibrating off the wet ground and through his leather soles. Theres nothing like the feeling of missing your dreams, Emilia said I still dream. Just not the way most do, I suppose. Theyre all memories floating just out of reach. Do you miss sleep? I think Id be crazy not to. But its been so long that I dont know if shed even remember who I was. Do you remember much of your time in Hubris? she said. She twisted her hands back and forth across the spine of the journal she held in her lap. The cover was a faded taupe, the edges lined with pale lilac, the pages were tied closed with a thin ribbon of gold. It looked old and though worn, appeared as pristine as a reliquary. Under the full moon, the gold glittered to life, dancing against the wind. Bits and pieces. Manman said theres things about Hubris shed understand if you forgot. Its always nice to be reminded about how hard it is for secrets to hide here. Id almost call it honesty if anyone were willing to point them out. Im sorry. I shouldnt have said anything. Chery 41 No. Its alright. Juden felt his chest twist a little. He wasnt afraid to tell the truth. He was more afraid of it grabbing hold of him and pulling him down into its depths. Somewhere deep, dark, where every one of his fears grew to the size of his father. My father wasnt the best man; which I suppose youve gathered. He didnt care for me, so I didnt get his anger much. My mom, though, was never a very lucky woman. A soft bubbling broke the silence as a trout kissed the surface of the water, reaching towards an illuminated couple dancing too close. Some nights it was alright. Her crying wasnt so loud, and he only broke a bottle or two. And then Id hear them creak into bed and watch the moon on my windowsill. Those were the nights when I slept. Other nights, her screams curdled milk. You wouldnt even hear my father. He was already a shade, stalking her down the hallways. Those nights, Id lie awake until the sun came up. Id listen to the spiders have conversations. Some nights Id even try to mimic the grasshoppers crying. Thats when the insomnia started. He shifted across the grass. The nights just got worse and worse. I guess sleep wasnt a fan of the commotion. Its been so long; I dont remember what she feels like. His nerves began to quake under the weight of his words. She was quiet for a long while, brushing her finger pads across the faces of the blades of grass. Thank you. For telling me. Please dont thank me. Juden watched the stream flow. He wanted to plunge his hands into its icy tresses and cool the bonfire in his belly. But he couldnt. There were things he needed to know. Chery 42 My mother is protective of me, Emilia said. That was pretty obvious. Shes always been that way. Manman said shes always had a tornado in her head, picking up her worries and running wild with them. But she said that when my mother found me it became steady. I guess shed found something to keep her worries tethered to. Manman called me good luck. Last summer, I made a mistake. I trusted a man I knew I shouldnt have. A man my mother warned me about. But I didnt care. Do you ever wonder what its like to be a bird flying through these trees? Free to do whatever you wish. Your mother just knowing when to let you fall and run and fly on your own. Never having to plead to the wind. Juden thought of the fireflies. I suppose you wouldnt have to. You flew away a long time ago, she said. Hubris sighed sleepily as the nights breeze held onto the pair lovingly. Juden felt the hair raise along his exposed arms and reach towards infinity. May I ask who it was? Stern eyes stared back at him. Theres only a few ways to hear what that shadow has to say. Some more unsavory than others, she said. I found out I was pregnant a few months later. I didnt tell anyone. For a little while, it was nice to have a secret. It was a painful one, but to have something that was mine and only mine was nice. Especially something my mother had never experienced. But it didnt last long. I lost it. Chery 43 The moon had shifted in the sky, pushing the Milky Way off-center and signaling to the Earth the suns close appearance. The pain was excruciating. There was blood everywhere. My mother has always had an ear for my pain, always appearing when I scraped my knee or fell too hard. But I dont think anything could have prepared her for what she saw that night on the bathroom floor. She was understanding in the beginning. I think she was trying to comfort me in her own way. When I healed, though, she turned into something else. Someone else. Ever since then, shes kept me as close to her as possible. I only find respite when Im with Marie and in the night when shes asleep. So, I bargained away my dreams to have these small freedoms. Juden watched her face. I want you to figure it out. I have a feeling Ires scorned more people than theyd like to admit. She handed him the journal. Its Manmans. She keeps it hidden in the attic, but she takes it out on grandpapas birthday every year. She thinks no one knows about it, but I saw her bringing it down last year when Marie sent me back for a grocery basket. Juden moved the journal between his hands. It was heavier than it looked, reminding his palm of a sack of river stones. Just dont read them here. With me. I dont want to know whats inside it just yet. she said. I wont. Manman and mother think theyre protecting me by lying. Thats one thing theyve learned to agree on. But all it does is make me want to leave. Runaway from here. Chery 44 I know the feeling. Why did you leave? The flowers had begun to mimic the stream, giggling along with its gargling. The conversation of giddy children. This town is a great place for secrets, you know. They can walk the streets with a plaque and a bright neon sign, and everyone would still pretend it doesnt exist. That it never existed. No one thought my mother needed help, or they didnt care to help. So, they left it be. Im sorry. I learned that most people are like that. Hubris just perfected it in ways others havent. I lived here all my childhood and never knew the cathedral had burned down all those years. Yet, it seems to be common knowledge here. Grandpapa Frank was well-liked when he lived here. No one believed he had done it you know. What? They said Manman had done it. Thats why they call her medicine woman. They would have called her a witch, but they knew better of it. Ire said it was an accident. That doesnt stop rumors. People may ignore the secrets head-on, but that doesnt mean they dont speculate its character. Over the horizon, the Earth gave birth to the dawn. We should head back. Emilia lifted herself off of the grass and reached again for Judens hands. Actually, wait here a minute. Chery 45 She disappeared into the trees. Juden watched the place she had been until she appeared with a bushel of plants on her hands. Passionflower and skullcap should help you sleep. Crush them and mix with a glass of water. Thank you. They parted ways once they reached the garden path. His fingers traced the edges of the glass cup, staring into the swirling contents. The friendly tug of anxiety woke the butterflies in his stomach, their legs scraping against lining. He downed the liquid in a swift gulp and fell back into his pillow. He didnt know how long he stared at the ceiling, disappointment readying itself. He slowly closed his eyes and took in deep breaths. When he opened them, he saw in front of him the cathedral. It was whole, a gloomy structure of gray against a colorless sky. It felt like midday, but as he looked around, he could see the streetlamps on Main Street glow faintly in the distance. It was night and as his senses began to focus, he heard whispers. He followed them. Please, ma chere. Dont do this. Think of the girls, the first voice said. It was gruff, scratching at his ears like mortar against pestle. I do think of them. This is why I am here. Ms. Erzu. Juden didnt feel his feet move, but he made his way around the stone corner. Ms. Erzu stood in front of a tall man. He looked like Marie, pale and long as an orchid. Ms. Erzu was younger than he had ever seen her, and she was angry. Then dont do this. You will not stop me, Frank. Chery 46 There are other ways to punish him. Ways that wont put us at risk. He was staring down at her, blue eyes searching her face, watching her lips. He was waiting to read what came out of them. As what? What ways? Who will punish the beloved priest, eh? The sheriff who know he is married and still comes to pray? The people who pay his bread and his home? Who, Frank? Frank was silent, his eyes moving to the ground. Do it. But you cant take the blame. It has to be me. They wouldnt survive without you. Frank didnt raise his head to see her response. Before Juden could catch her words, the wind picked him up and all he could see was black. He woke with a start. The sun peaked through the cracks in the wooden wall and shone on his face. He rose from the cot, opened the window, and began to thumb through the pages of the journal. It was filled with letters. Written and posted letters, tapped to the insides of the pages. Some pages were filled with paragraphs, others held the envelopes the paragraphs had traveled in. All of them coated in sadness. Frank, I do not know what to do anymore. The girls ask where youve gone but I do not think I am ready to tell them the truth. What do I do? I spend every day blaming myself for this. I havent slept in weeks. The night is filled with ghosts I do not know how to face on my own. I miss you. He came again last night. That priest. Spewing viciousness, Chery 47 saying he knew you did it on purpose. I told the girls to stay away from him. Especially Lila. Stubborn girl doesnt understand the reality of life. All she does is argue and fill with anger. She is nothing like you. Florence has taken time for bed. She does not speak to me anymore. I do not know what to do with her, Frank. What would you say? All Marie does is cry. That one is too much like you. Too sensitive. She say it was her fault you left. I have stopped saying it is not. Always she cries. I have stopped listening. Am I wrong for it? No matter what I say, she cries. All she do is cry. What am I to do, Frank? Please come home. Erzu Ma Chre Erzu, My sweet, have patience. These few months will pass quickly if you hold strong. Stay sweet to Marie, reassure her that she had nothing to do with this, no matter how many times she asks. Lila is too much like you. Approach her with the caution you expect of others. I know the two of you dont see eye to eye, but please, take it a step at a time. Chery 48 Florence has always been this way. You know this. She is a bird built to migrate. She will find her way home in time. I miss you with all my heart, my love. But I know, as should you, that what we did was for the best. I am a peacemaker at home, but what good am I if the waters have calmed with your absence. You are their mother. I wouldnt know what to do with myself. Anyways, I dont think you would have done well in the monotony of imprisonment. You are a tornado, my dear. Confinement was not intended for you. Yours, Frank Juden turned through the letters gingerly, hoping the ink didnt gather the courage to lift off the page and disappear. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him. This was a correspondence not meant for him. The words between the two were filled with such affection, Juden thought it unreal. But it lay in front of him, cupped between his open palms. Frank, I cannot tell them you are gone. That would mean I must admit my mistake. Our mistake. We should not have lied, Frank. I should have taken the responsibility. I burned it. Chery 49 Not you. You took the accusations anyways. And now we are both alone. This could have been avoided if we had done Lila right. What have I done in this world to have a daughter such as this? What did we do, Frank? And that Priest. Ire. He deserves worse than what we have. Worse than what we are living. They have given him the money to rebuild. The town says the fire was only enough to do surface damage. I should have stayed longer. I should have burned every stone to ash. I should have done more. I should have killed him. But instead, he has killed you. Erzu He had been wandering for hours, searching inside for a resolve he didnt think he had. When his eyes focused and the fog had cleared over his mind a little, he saw the door to his mothers home and his finger against the bell. She held the door firmly, keeping him out. I just need to talk about all this. Please. She hesitated for what felt to Juden like a lifetime. She moved out of the way. Juden sat on the chaise and began to collect his thoughts. What was he to say now? Now when he was in the place he had always imagined, telling his mother how he felt. He couldnt find anything inside him to say. Your father always said he loved you, Juden. He was just never the type to say it aloud. Chery 50 This he knew the answer to. You believe that? It was never a question of what she believed. Why wouldnt I? Hes your father, Juden, no matter how much you want to act like he isnt. Youre unbelievable. Honestly, I cant understand why you still make excuses for him. He never showed one ounce of love for me. Excuses? He loved you, Juden. When did he love me? Between the times he was yelling at you. Or maybe when Id have to roll him off his stomach when he was drunk on the floor after beating you senseless? Everyone in this fucking town knew he was a piece of scum. Everyone saw the blood, the bruises, the black eyes. and they did nothing. Except let the bastard keep doing it. She went quiet for a moment. Something inside of him twisted. He wished he had kept his mouth closed because now his anger was bubbling up against the folds of his throat and burning the inside of his cheeks, trying to claw its way past his front teeth. No, you came back to insult your father. Dont speak ill of the dead, Juden. He went through enough. I taught you better than that. Judens vision filled with a field of poppies. You taught me nothing good, he said, You taught me to be weak, to tell lies, to eat up all the shit that waste of air fed me. The quiet was deafening. How dare you? her voice was bare. You taught me how to salvage corpses to make up for your goddamn mistakes. Chery 51 The poppies ripped out of their roots. Juden, please go. No. Youre going to hear this. You ruined me. Both of you. I didnt leave because of a misunderstanding. I left because if I stayed, I wouldve had to watch him parade you around like the puppet you are. And watch everyone in this godforsaken town pretend nothing was happening. You taught me nothing good. Because theres never been anything good inside of you. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the poppies lifted into the air and painted the sky a deep crimson. In that clarity, Juden saw the dull old bird on the mantel. He took note that the journey that had once taken fifteen and a half steps now only took three. He took note of how light the bird was against his palm. He also took note, against the high, shrill scream behind him, of the sickening feeling of wires against feather and the crunching sound of dried skin scraping metal. His shoes were wet. Juden watched as his mother knelt in front of the fireplace, tears running down her cheeks, hands cupping the twice-slain bird. They ran past her eyelids, down her cheeks, and onto the floor in a puddle. They began to soak the mahogany legs of his grandmothers chaise, once out of place in the raggedy home, now drowning in silence. They made their way up the canvas of his shoes. He was little more than a spectator to his mothers anguish. Juden missed the imagined comfort of his bed. He missed the cold sweats and the night terrors and the knowledge that when the gallop of his heart became too much, that he only had to open his eyes to break the spell of his nightmares. But this was real. Leave, his mother said. Her voice was little more than a hiss against the crackle of the fireplace. Chery 52 I didnt mean to, he said. Yes, you did. Youve always been such an awful boy. Mom. Leave. The bird was drowning, waterlogged and silent against her wrinkled palms. He felt his feet move before his mind did. As his fingers twisted the doorknob awake, he heard his mother apologize. But not to him. He knew that, as a wave of deep ache washed over his head and down past his shoulders, that she would never apologize to him. Chery 53 Five Once again, Juden found himself in the faded kitchen, staring at the reflections on the linoleum table. This time, all four women sat before him, watching his muscles twitch under the cotton of his shirt. What is it you have to say, mon fils? Juden placed the journal on the table. The melodic ting-tang of water onto the steel sink was the only sound in the room. Emilia, Ms. Erzu said. Im sorry, Emilia said. She doesnt even know whats in here. Should I tell her, or would you like to? Juden said. It is not yours to tell, ungrateful. Juden could feel the sweat pool in his palms and the butterflies drag their wings against his stomach. What is that? Lila said. Theyre letters. Between your father and your mother, Juden said. Fem. Ms. Erzu said. Her voice was solid, slamming against his chest. He saw stars. Marie had sat quietly opposite of Juden, her eyes fixed on her lap. Now, frozen pools looked accusingly at her mother. You never let us look at them. You said he only talked about work and it was nothing for us to worry ourselves over, Marie said. Give it to me, Lila said. Chery 54 She reached across the table and took the journal in hand. Before Ms. Erzu could object, she flipped through the pages. Therere so many, she said. Let me see, Marie said. Ms. Erzus eyes never left Judens. Theyre all from the Riverside Jailhouse, Lila said. Manman. What are these? Marie said. She was met with silence. Manman, what are these? Marie repeated herself. They are from your father, Ms. Erzu said. Why from the jailhouse? Why are they all from the jailhouse? Lila said. Because that was where he was, ti fi. You lied then. All those years, you just lied to us? Lila said. Emilia still sat in her seat. Her eyes darted back and forth between the three women and Juden could see her trying to make sense of the commotion. Why? Juden said. Ms. Erzu turned her head towards him and peered past his skin. Frank say we should keep to ourselves the truth. He say he did not want you to worry. He say he come back, Ms. Erzu said. So, you told us he went away to work? Lila said. Juden could feel her anger coming off the tiled floor. But you knew the truth, Emilia, Juden said, You knew Frank had gone to jail all those years ago and they didnt? Chery 55 Emilia shifted in her seat. You knew? How did you know? Lila said. Emilia looked down at her hands for a long while before lifting her head. Ire told me. I thought it was one of the things you wanted to protect me from, so I kept it to myself. I didnt know. I thought you wouldve known. Everyone in town knew. It was not for them to tell. It was for me and I did not, Ms. Erzu said. Why? Why lie about this? Lila said. Tears flooded her eyes. Her face matched Maries, red and swollen. Because you would have to know why he go. And we never want to tell you. He was meant to return, ma chere. It was meant to mean nothing, Ms. Erzu said. What the fuck do you mean? Lila said. Ms. Erzu flinched at the remark. I burned cathedral. Many, many years ago. To protect you, Lila. You were little girl, so sweet, no anger yet. And he use your sweetness against you. It was all I know to save you. What are you talking about? Why cant you just be clear? Lila said. You girls never know why I hate that priest. You ate what I serve you. But he hurt you, Lila. He did. Frank took blame for the fire and went to county jail. Three months. His sentence was three months. But he die. He die there, alone. Please stop, Marie said. Her face was streaked with tears, her skin so white each of her veins had begun to glow under the lights. Shut up, Marie. Youve never had the guts to speak up before, dont start now. Lila, this is too much! Arrte! Ms. Erzu said. Chery 56 You have always protected her! And now you blame me for father leaving. For him dying? Why do you hate me? Why have you always hated me? I love you, Lila. We save you. You killed who I could have been. You killed our father. You left us without him and nothing but a bitter woman unhappy with the choices shes made. Silence. The walls of the small house shuddered under the weight of it. Ms. Erzu stood up straighter, her hand still resting against the chair, her head lifted high. You may be true, but your father left to protect you, ma chre. He prey on you, that priest, when you were a girl. Always had his eyes on you. One day, he went too far. Your father say go to the police, but I know he was wrong. They would have done nothing. So, I burn it down. The cathedral. I watch the smoke rise up and hope he burn with it. I did that for you. And your father pay the price. Lila stood mouth gasping for air, for words to express the storm forming behind her eyes. When they say the cathedral had burned again, I know it was you. For Emilia. Frank always say you like me. But I never know you take my mistakes. Lilas face went stark. What? Emilia said. I Lila said. Please, Lila. Do not continue my mistakes, Ms. Erzu said. I think its too late for that, Manman. At this, Ms. Erzu sat back in her seat. She took in a deep, shaky breath and closed her eyes. She held on to the air in her lungs as if she were drowning, her face turning a faint blue. Chery 57 Then, in a simple sigh, released the weight of her secrets into the air. She never opened her eyes again. It was Marie who screamed first. A shrill cry that electrocuted Judens nerves and sent pain to the back of his eyelids. Her banshee wails spoke to the old wallpaper, commanding it to curl out of place and down the length of the kitchen. Lila stood in silence until Emilia made her way over to her grandmother and took her hand into her own. Manman? she whispered. Ms. Erzu was still. Manman? she said again. I think it is time for you to leave, Lila said. She looked at Juden. Juden didnt return her gaze. He walked the town border, retracing his steps until a moat had formed. The butterflies had torn through him, ripping at his insides and leaving nothing behind but open wounds and an empty pit. He had lost track of the path his feet followed; his eyes too glossed with tears. He felt his way through the dark and sat on a brick step after a time. He was home again. The door creaked open and the warm light reflecting off of the bright yellow kitchen walls danced along the grass. Juden? his mother asked from behind. He sobbed. Juden, what is it? Whats wrong? I thought I was doing a good thing. What? I told the truth. I thought I was doing something good for Hubris, for once. Chery 58 She sat beside him and from the corner of his eye he could see the yellow satin robe she had wrapped tightly around her waist. Hubris isnt a place for the truth, sometimes. Why did you let him do it? She was quiet. The crickets leapt into the space, filling the silence with chirps about the moon and the dewdrops on the blades of grass. Juden wished they would stop. Your father was a good man when we met. A kind, good man. He would do anything to help anyone. Thats why I fell in love with him. Right before you were born, when you werent much bigger than a dream inside me, he got in a horrible accident working on the farm. No one really ever told me exactly what happened. Peopleve always said I was too fragile for certain realities. So, he went away for a while, to get better, and I found out I was pregnant with you. Then he came back. Juden wrung his fingers together, straining out the anxiety. I wanted so badly for him to be better that I believed he was. But he was different, Juden. I knew he was bad when he came back, but I couldnt leave. There was you. So, I stayed. It only started with the screaming, then he started drinking. Thats when he started to hit me. I shouldve left then but I didnt know how. Ive only known Hubris. This is my home; this is my house. And you were only a baby, I wouldnt know what to do with you on my own. So, I stayed. After a while, I started believing I was doing the right thing. That I was doing it to protect you. Thats the thing about Hubris. Its not that it refuses the truth. Hubris is a place that doesnt believe in ruining the show. If you believe in something so violently, why would it bother telling you otherwise. Chery 59 Juden felt the cooling air pull at the hairs on his arms. His vision had filled with a mist. But I think I think I became bitter towards you. I love you, Juden. Ive never said it, but I do. I spent so many years thinking I was showing you how much I loved you by staying here with your father, but I wasnt. And your father did love you. He said it often after you left. He never expected you to leave, because I never did. I guess I did teach you something good. I taught you not to be like me. What changed? Why are you telling me this now? After a while of crying over that dead bird I realized it was hollow. It was full of nothing. I realized I was alone. And I dont know if its selfish, but I dont want to be alone with my mistakes anymore. Clumsily, he followed the path Emilia had taken the night before. He didnt stop for the fireflies or the evening toads signing to the moon. He didnt stop for the crickets, the owls, or dance the stars had begun with the trees. He didnt stop when he made it to the pasture. Only the sight of Emilia, alone and weeping into the grass, halted his steps. Why would you come here? she said. I wanted to apologize, Juden said. For destroying everything? I dont think sorry will suffice. If I had known, I would have never helped you. I thought I was doing something good. Chery 60 You know, I thought you were too. Until I realized something. A good person would have left it alone. They would have thought of what this would do to us. But you werent doing this for me. For us. You did this for yourself. To prove something. I had nothing to prove. You did. You had to prove that we were wrong for keeping our secrets. That Hubris was wrong for keeping your secrets. And that may have been true, but who are you to choose for the rest of us. Juden felt exposed under the moonlight, naked as Emilias eyes glared into him. I thought I was doing something good. Maries dead. She left in tears after you did. My mother told me to wait for her. To let her be. So, I did. And now shes dead she said. What? Juden said. I found her, a little bit farther up the river. There were so many rocks in her pockets. She pointed towards the tree line. In one day, you managed to kill my grandmother and my aunt and leave me nothing but a woman so angry at the world she didnt shed a single tear when she saw Manman. Not when we moved her. Not even when we had to clean and dress her. Not once. The evening birds chirped as they hopped from branch to branch, singing love songs to each other. It made Juden even more sick. Can you leave? I need to say goodbye. Alone. This was our place. Her place. I can wait for you. I can wait and bring you home. Youve done enough. Please, just go. Juden looked at her one last time before turning away. Chery 61 The air had become charged with violent electricity. Juden felt it grab hold of his hair and pull them up in attention. The static sent memories surging through his muscles. With each jolt, his legs followed the trail of moments through the woods. Juden didnt know what he was feeling. His head raged with a sea of conflicting emotions, battling each other with such ferocity they seemed almost calm, unmoved. But he knew that the currents were pushing against each other as if their existences depended on it. Then he saw it. The cathedral and its illuminated doorway in the middle of the deep cerulean sky. For once, Juden wasnt afraid. His stomach was still, the butterflies have flown away to a warmer climate. Juden was too cold inside for them now. The trees had joined together in a powerful chorus against the unwelcoming wind. Juden couldnt hear the words, but they were stirring something up inside of him. He was becoming restless. Hey, boy. Father Ire said. Juden stood still. He appeared beside Juden, his shadow shrouding the candlelight in a dark aura. Did you find anything useful? A storm was brewing under Judens skin. Those women have always been off. No wonder they couldnt hold themselves together. Wish it wouldve happened earlier honestly. You have no tact, Juden said. I never said I did. You knew who did this. Aint no evidence in an assumption. Chery 62 Juden could feel his excitement. He could feel the bile fill in his stomach. Whatd you find? I dont have time for this. Nothing. What? The ground shook with his anger. The candlelight faltered for a moment. I didnt find anything, Juden said. Youre a fucking liar. So are you. Unlike you, however, I only have to face myself. Lets say I did find something. Something that would explain two dead women and a burned church. Would you want me to write about it? Fucking course I would. Really? Even if this story included a villain in disguise? A wolf in priests clothing who preys on young girls and hides away in a cave made of stone and satin, thinking no one will ever find him and his pile of corpses? If I found that story, youd want me to write about it. Ire was quiet. The candles had been completely blown out and in the subsequent darkness, Ires shadow had become a giant. The stone walls were engulfed by a pit of obsidian nothingness. The urge to walk towards it pulled at Judens shoelaces and the buttons of his shirt. He felt the temptation palpably, grabbing at his curls and pinching at his skin. Only cowards throw accusations. Ire said. Im okay with being a coward. The question is, are you? Juden turned to look at Ires face. He was stricken white, his eyes cast with a color so deep, Juden didnt think a word had been invented for it yet. For an instant, Juden felt his blood warm enough for his fear to creep up behind his eyes. But only for an instant. Chery 63 Is God? Juden said. In front of him was only darkness. Any recollection of the cathedral had vanished under the blanket Ires shadow had draped over the fixture. Its anger vibrated through Juden and shook the trees as their voices reached a crescendo. Juden took one final look at the cathedral, what little was left of it, and closed his eyes tightly. He let his breath settle in his lungs. When his eyes opened and the air flew past his lips, he saw the paneled ceiling of the shed. Then, he closed his eyes again and fell. He fell into the dark and all he felt was comfort. He lay still, floating in a pit of nothingness. Far away, he heard a door. He wanted to open his eyes and see. But as his mind reached up to peek through the shade of his eyelids, he felt a hand wrap itself around his wrist. Sleep had found him. He woke to the pitter-patter of rain on rooftops. With his eyes still shut, he thought he was dreaming. But the slumber he had was too murky for dreams to float in. He opened his eyes and for the first time in his life, he saw the rain come down on Hubris. Juden stood under the falling curtain. The droplets rolled down his skin, reminding his skin what it felt like to feel tears trail along with them. He felt overwhelmed. Barefoot, he walked the trail. He persisted, though blinded by the rain. He lost his footing and fell against the mud, his knees scraping against dried stems. The flowers were dead. Withered and dry, they bent against the weight of the rain. He ran his hands along the ground. pellets of water ricocheted off the dirt, returning themselves upwards only to return and continue the game. The wind quieted for a moment and behind him, Juden heard weeping. Lila sat in the mud at the top of the hill. She was disheveled, hair falling along her shoulders. She was drowning in tears. Chery 64 Lila, you should get inside, Juden said. Shes gone. Emilia? When? Shes left me. Shell come back. Shes gone. Lila. She left me. Juden sat beside her in the mud. Please, Lila. Shes gone. Between them, water carried the bodies of the fireflies downhill. Chery 65 An Analysis of the Symbols and Motifs within An American Way of Death and its Relationship to Magical Realist Works of Latin America and the United States In August of 2018, I took my first steps into the world of novel writing. Through the Ron and Laura Strain Honors College, I was allowed the opportunity to combine my creative writing background with my interest in historical artistic movements to create an analysis of Haitian cultural mores. Though I had initially intended to write a 150-200-page manuscript, I decided against this. This choice was made because as I wrote and developed my novel, I realized there was much more that I wanted to develop than I had time for. So, under the advice of my original advisor, I focused on establishing the plot of my novel and analysis. I also believe it is important to note that there were several resources in the form of books that I used when creating this piece. With the magnitude of this project, I chose to only focus on two of the texts I used as reference when delving into my analysis. When deciding which of these texts to use when writing my comparison, I decided I wanted to specifically use women of color. In the fall of 2019, I was able to create my Capstone Project with the help of Dr. Leah Milne. Through my work with Dr. Milne, we spoke about specifically use Toni Morrisons Beloved instead of Song of Solomon as the latter novel is one of Morrisons few novels written from the point of view of a male character. Contrastingly, Beloved focuses on a cast of women and their relationships with their pasts, which I believed to be more appropriate to the project at hand. Finally, the three novels I have chosen to write about are significant in that they personify the exact kind of magical realism I am attempting to replicate. Magical Realism, as you will learn later in this analysis, is a genre with many variations on how it can be done properly. When writing a genre piece, not having set rules and expectations on how they are created can be difficult. This fact is Chery 66 why I believe something such as this has never been done at our university. But when approached with an understanding of that reality, I believe more students can and will succeed in something of this nature in the future. In writing An American Way of Death, many portions were deeply influenced by magical realist writers of the 20th century, including Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Morrison, and Alejo Carpentier as well as magical realist artists like Cuban painter Toms Sanchez. In this analysis, I will explain the history of magical realism, common themes associated with magical realist texts and conclude with a comparison of my writing and those of notable authors of the movement. By focusing on the texts of Laura Esquivel, Morrison, and Coates, I will be able to analyze my work, what aspects I have chosen to include that are representative of the magical realist genre, and how these aspects exemplify the sociological and cultural statements I wish to express. In her chapter of A Companion to Magical Realism entitled Swords and Silver Rings: Magical Objects in the Work of Jorge Luis Borges and Gabriel Garca Mrquez, Lois Parkinson Zamora says that the term magical realism was popularized in 1925 by German art critic Franz Roh. Roh had intended the term to describe the Expressionist art movement and separate it from its realist predecessors. The term magical realism had three major surges of popularity in the 20th century with the first being in Europe with writers like Franz Kafka. But magical realism as we have defined it today wasnt popular until the late 1920s and into the 1940s when it was adopted by communities in Latin America and the Caribbean (Zamora). Alejo Carpentier and Venezuelan artist Arturo Uslar-Pietri are attributed to be the first Latin American writers to use the term of magical realism, or as it was translated realismo mgico, in 1927. In his 1943 essay entitled On the Marvelous Real in America, Carpentier notably attempts to set Latin American magical realism apart from the European Surrealist movements. He points out that there is a Chery 67 difference in how the two attempts to distort reality, stating that magical realism was built off of the understanding shared throughout Latin American cultures that the border between reality and the fantastic is easily permeated. Zamora describes magical realism as such and states that: texts accurately referred to as magical-realist do indeed raise questions about the visualizing capacity of language in ways that realistic texts do not. While all works of fiction require that we visualize objects, realism requires of objects that they represent only themselves. They may, of course, have symbolic or psychological or metaphysical content, but their signifying function is nonetheless different from the objects in magical realist texts, which must represent not only themselves but also the potential for some kind of alternative reality, some kind of magic (Zamora 30). Experts who have written on the genre of magical realism often disagree on what aspects characterize a text as magical realist. However, Wendy Faris, professor of English at the University of Texas at Arlington, has identified some widely accepted characteristics that she believes are often found in magical realist narratives. In her writing, Scheherazades Children: Magical Realism and Postmodern Fiction, Faris begins by reiterating the definition given to us by Zamora, stating that [m]agical realism combines realism and the fantastic in such a way that magical elements grow organically out of the reality portrayed (Faris). She then defines 5 primary characteristics of the genre: 1. The text contains an irreducible element of magic, something we cannot explain according to the laws of the universe as we know them. In terms of the text, magical things really do happen (Faris 167). 2. Descriptions detail a strong presence of the phenomenal worldthis is the realism in magic realism, distinguishing it from much fantasy and allegoryRealistic descriptions Chery 68 create a fictional world that resembles the one we live in, in many instances by excessive use of detail (Faris 169). 3. The reader may hesitate (at one point or another) between two contradictory understandings of eventsand hence experiences some unsettling doubts, often hallucination or miracle? (Faris 171). 4. We experience the closeness or near-merging of two realms, two worlds (Faris 172) 5. These fictions question received ideas about time, space, and identity (Faris 173). Faris explanation gives readers a deeper understanding of what would categorize a work of the magical realist genre based on the popular habits of the movement. Some of these characteristics are mentioned in Zamoras work, yet Faris emphasizes the duality created by blurring the line between reality and the mystical. Details and imagery are deeply important to magical realist narratives as they make it harder for the reader to separate reality from phenomena, as excessive uses of detail are characteristic of realist works of the early-mid twentieth century. There is an aspect of magical realist narratives that scholars like Zamora, Faris, Helen Price, and the contributors of A Companion to Magical Realism agree on and that is the relationship magical realism has with postcolonial storytelling. In a paper entitled The Question of the Other: Cultural Critiques of Magical Realism, Faris writes that though not all magical realist novels address the issues of decolonization and history, the genre effectively lends itself to portraying narratives that would have otherwise been hidden and silenced by the literary movements of old, many of which were created with a white, Eurocentric experience in mind. Isabel Allende, a Chilean writer whose work have oftentimes contained variations of magical realism, once said in an interview entitled The Shaman and the Infidel for New Perspectives Quarterly that: Chery 69 [M]agic realism is a literary device or a way of seeing in which there is space for the invisible forces that move the world: dreams, legends, myths, emotion, passion, history. All these forces find a place in the absurd, unexplainable aspects of magic realism... It is the capacity to see and to write about all the dimensions of reality (Allende). Homi Bhabha, a scholar, theorist, and Professor of English and American Literature and Language at Harvard wrote in 1990 Nations and Narrations, a piece that delves deep into the cultural habits of communities experiencing dishevel. In this text, Bhabha explains what sort of importance magical realism as a literary genre may have had in Latin American communities. In Bhabhas work, he attempts to spread light on why Zamora and McKinney both chose to emphasize the importance of the Latin American sect of the genre. In Nations and Narrations, Bhabha writes that 'Magical realism' after the Latin American Boom, becomes the literary language of the emergent post-colonial world (Bhabha). Bhabha explains that countries with extensive histories of turbulence and extreme political situations have a higher likelihood of creating and expressing these histories through unique narratives. Though the terminology of magical realism was not created within Latin America, it attached itself to the literary and artistic community because of the vast history of political and governmental upheaval that the countries within this portion of the global south experienced. Carpentier specifically credits Haiti with inspiring the movement. According to Carpentier: [a]fter having felt the undeniable spell of the lands of Haiti, after having found magical warnings along the red roads of the Central Maseta, after having heard the drums of Petro and the Rada, I was moved to set this recently experienced marvelous reality beside the tiresome pretension of creating the marvelous that has characterized certain European literature over the past thirty years (Carpentier). Chery 70 Carpentier encountered the marvelous real around every corner. Carpentier also expands on Allende's description of magical realism as a device, stating that the movement and its use can be likened to bureaucratic systems, stating [t]he result of willing the marvelous or any other trance is that the dream technicians [writers] become bureaucrats. By invoking traditional formulas, certain paintings are made into a monotonous junkyard of sugar-coated watches (Carpentier). Writers of magical realist texts are technicians, creators of dream narratives deeply connected with the cultural traditions of those connected to them. Magical realism is both a narrative of the oppressed and a narrative inherently connected to my ancestry and culture. By understanding these different aspects of what can make up a magical realist narrative, where it comes from, and why it holds specific importance to Latin America and Haiti, we can move on to comparing An American Way of Death to the works of other known magical realist writers. When writing the novel manuscript, I was influenced by the artworks of Toms Sanchez, a Cuban painter known for his dream-like landscapes. Much of his work depicts natural spaces that are untouched by human interactions. Though he is described heavily as a realist as his works depict the reality of nature, they remain in a dimension where they are unnatural and, in many ways, magical. Sanchezs love for the untouched, fairytale understanding of the world and spaces led me to grasp for that sort of representation in my writing. Magical imagery is an important facet of the magical realist genre and is often used to accurately classify what works fall under this umbrella. Through my research in building my novel and reading works as a reference, Ive learned that many characteristics can be categorized as distinct to the magical realist genre, as the genre encapsulates a myriad of styles, writers, and cultures. Chery 71 Of these many writers, few have perfected the use of magical realism in their work as Laura Esquivel. Esquivels pivotal work, Like Water for Chocolate, follows the story of Tita De La Garza and her mother, Mama Elena. Throughout their tale, detailed to the reader through monthly entries and family recipes, the reader becomes privy to a story of two contradicting forces battling against each other. In her chapter of A Companion to Magical Realism, Helen Price notes that Esquivels work maintains its magical realist status not by subversion of colonial expectations of the women in the text, but through the mundane nature of the magic they create and interact with. Price writes [b]oth book and film do emulate the magical-realist style, in that fantastic occurrences are recounted, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if they were commonplace events. In other words, within the ontological parameters of the text, magical things [really] do happen (Price). From the beginning, the novels narrator establishes the conflict. Tita is forced to abstain from romance to satisfy the long-held family tradition of the youngest daughter remaining unmarried and childless to care for her mother once she becomes old. Mama Elena responds to Titas query of Pedro, her love interest, coming to visit Mama Elena with If he intends to ask for your hand, tell him not to bother. Hell be wasting his time and mine too. You know perfectly well that being the youngest daughter means you have to take care of me until the day I die (Esquivel). Tita is forced to acknowledge the reality of her future and the forbidden nature of love for her. She attempts to fight back against her mother but fails. Esquivels narrator establishes to the reader that Titas conflict is the repression of her emotions at the hands of her mother. To counter this repression, Esquivel allows Tita to express her emotions through the foods she makes and the way she interacts with the ingredients, as Price notes for the recipe for quails on a bed of rose petals [t]he text makes clear that it is the desire and excitement provoked Chery 72 in Tita by the roses that produce this effect, rather as if Tita were subconsciously projecting her passion into the food (Price). Tita has been forced into a family with cultural expectations that force her to obey her mothers wishes and refrain from negative emotional responses to perceived injustices. Esquivel initiates the rebellion from these cultural norms from the introduction of Titas character. Esquivel writes that Tita was literally washed into this world on a great tide of tears that spilled over the edge of the table and flooded across the floor (Esquivel). The flood of tears soon evaporates and becomes salt to be used by Nacha, the familys cook, in seasoning food. The magic of emotions and cooking become inherent symbols of Tita, almost impossible to separate from her character and the arc she is forced to follow throughout the novel. These traits contrast with the will of Mama Elena as she tells Tita You dont have an opinion, and thats all I want to hear about it, (Esquivel). Titas existence in the world of the novel has already established her as this daughter, this breaker of tradition as she is described through her magic. She becomes the patron saint of emotion, opinion, and individual expression. Her domesticity and femininity are not used here to reinforce gender norms, but instead to subvert the narrative of what it means to be independent. The actions associated with what it meant to be a woman during the time of the story are amplified and expounded on to become the ways an oppressed woman can express the love she is forced to smother. When comparing my work to Esquivel, there are similarities between using magical realism to express and oppose sociological preconceptions. In An American Way of Death, the emphasis on the divine feminine is reminiscent of the expression of femininity and expectations of women in Esquivels text. Price brings up Esquivels following of traditional heteronormative binaries and notably has an issue with this as it seemingly goes against the post-colonial narrative of magical realism. Yet, I believe, Esquivels concept of domesticity is used in Like Chery 73 Water for Chocolate to express Titas emotions, which is subversive in the cultural habitat the text takes place, though expressed through a socially acceptable medium. Adhering to the traditional binary does not force a text out of creating post-colonial commentary, especially when it is attached to a story of people not given the privilege of these descriptions in Eurocentric, westernized literature. With this belief, I have written the feminine within my work not only through the prevalence of female characters but also through the imagery of the flora, fauna, and stereotypically coded language. Nature, generally written to be feminine in its characteristics, maintains this femininity within the novel. However, it is used as a powerful descriptor of the emotions and psyche of my characters, especially that of my male lead. When Juden is forced to recount the experiences of his childhood and the emotional abuse he experienced from both of his parents, his first response is to this anger is to reminisce on the plants of his childhood and the comfort they evoked within him. [h]e saw images of the children he once knew playing through the overgrown dandelions and bulbous buttercups in the empty lot across the street (Chery). He had roamed these forests when the river flowed through Hubris. When the water ran through its veins, pulsating and pleasant, the town had been alive. In those days, the river had run strong and crisp, smelling sweetly of the mammee apples and banana flowers that had fallen along the bank. Sometimes he would pick the honeyed fruit from the tree limbs and bring them home (Chery). Juden has witnessed his fathers abuse towards his mother and many of the memories he associates with Hubris that are separate from those acts of violence are associated with nature. What Juden lacked in real parental, specifically maternal, compassion, he gained through the nurturing relationship he held with the environments around him. Juden ultimately becomes a Chery 74 child of nature. This maintains the aura of telling a feminine/ womens story in the presence of a male protagonist, as he has been taught how to emote by an omniscient and motherly nature. The natural world of Hubris is also used within the text to smear the line between the naturally occurring plant life of Illinois and Haiti, the homeland of both magical realism and Ms. Erzu. In the quote, mammee apples and banana flowers are found within the forests of Hubris. These types of vegetation are only found on Hispaniola, the island that is home to Haiti and the Dominican Republic. In their 2012 paper entitled Magic(al) Realism as Postcolonial Device in Toni Morrisons Beloved, Mehdi Razmi and Leyli Jamali writes that Morrison used this interest in culture when writing Beloved, utilizing magical realism in her attempt to write outside of the Euro-centric literature model. They state that: Black lore, the myths and rituals of black culture are the most prominent elements in Beloved. Morrison feels a strong connection to ancestors because they were the culture holders. She applies magical realism in order to be able to use black folklore instead of authorized beliefs of Western world. Her magical character Beloved might have been formed after a mixture of abiku, bakalu and orisha, Oshun of West African Yoruba mythology. The mysticism of Haitian folklore bleeds through every crevice of the novel. The storys plot has been modeled after the vodou loa, Erzulie Dantor. Within Haitian mystical beliefs, Erzulie Dantor is a deity of revenge, motherhood and the protector of children. When she leaved a ceremony, she leaves in tears. The driving conflict within the novel all follows these characteristics. To protect her children, Ms. Erzu makes the decision to burn down the cathedral and the livelihood of Father Ire. Lila, though ignorant to her mothers past choices, follows in her Chery 75 footsteps years later. The cultural importance of religion and mysticism is passed down through Haitian families over generations, with all Haitians knowing the importance of vodou in gaining our independence. Familial histories are ingrained, and trauma is believed to be passed down through ancestry. These Haitian cultural truths litter An American Way of Death. Esquivels work is also heavily dependent on the understanding culture, notably Mexican culture, and the expectations attached to these sorts of existences. The use of recipes to exude emotion is also connected to the cultural understanding of Like Water For Chocolate as many of the recipes are unique to the surroundings of Tita and her family on the ranch. This cultural connection between the tradition Tita is forced to adhere to, the relationship she has with her mother, and the acceptance of these norms is important to know why Tita chooses to maintain the conflict of the story and keep her emotions hidden in the sense of refusing to openly state them. Magical realism here is used by Esquivel to make the beliefs held by society of women and how women express themselves into a powerful reality that places Tita above these perceptions. She is overly emotional and driven by these emotions, but she is also powerful enough to create empathic links with those around her. Her emotions are not her own, they are connected to the world she lives in. She was born to oppose her reality just as magical realism was created to oppose the mundane. Much of what people consider as magical realism in literature is associated with Latin America, yet post-colonialism is not solely a movement found in the global south. Toni Morrisons work embodies many of the commonly accepted characteristics of magical realism, specifically with her novel Beloved. Beloved tells the story of Sethe and her relationship with the traumatic experiences she was forced to endure during her time as a slave on a Kentuckian plantation known as Sweet Home. To escape with her three children and a fourth growing inside Chery 76 her, Sethe decides it is better to kill her children than to see them enslaved under a man like schoolteacher ever again. With these events in mind, the overarching plot of the novel deals with the repercussions of these decisions, the specter, and ultimate human possession of the reality of the violence committed by Sethe. From the beginning, Morrison forces her readers to acknowledge the violence of Sethes reality, and in turn the realities of sixty million and more, as stated in the acknowledgments of the novel (Morrison). This phrase sixty million and more refers to the undocumented number of African diasporas forced to endure the horrors of slavery in the Americas. This acknowledgment is to be noted as Sethes experience, though seemingly unique with its supernatural elements and ghost story likeness, is not as unique as we would like to think. To understand Beloved, a story of a ghost and its wrath, one must understand the true story it is based on. According to an archived article from the Cincinnati Museum Center, Margaret Garner was a slave born on a plantation in Boone County, Kentucky (Cincinnati). After escaping with her husband and several other slaves, they were apprehended and instead of return to slavery, Margaret Garner decided that she would rather take the lives of her children. Garner only succeeded in killing her two-year-old daughter, wounding herself and her other children. All features of this narrative relate to Faris and the characteristics of magical realist texts. A repetitive feature noted by all sources mentioned previously is the prevalence of myth in the genre. In The Question of the Other, Faris states that: Because magical realism often gives voice in the thematic domain to indigenous or ancient myths, legends, and cultural practices, and in the domain of narrative technique to the literary traditions that express them with the use of non-realistic events and images, it can be seen as a kind of narrative primitivism (Faris 103). Chery 77 Within Beloved, Morrison uses this sense of myth to express the realities of slavery and the African American experience. Myths are the stories that communities and kinfolk pass between themselves. Oftentimes African Americans arent described to be the colonized as they still maintain themselves on taken Indigenous land. However, just as those we would generally consider as a colonized community, they are deeply affected by the supremacist views of Western imperialism and colonial rule. The history of ancestral erasure, erasure of African-ness, and assimilation to the realities of white supremacist views and beliefs towards ones skin color mean that the myths of this community hold onto the events of slavery as their legends and ancient practices. Razmi and write that The source of this transgressive and subversive aspect of magical realist narrative in Beloved lies in the fact that, once the reader finds that the category of the real is not definite then all assumptions of truth becomes vague. Because the setting of Beloved is realistic, when the category of the real is questioned within the fiction, the world outside the fiction is made less certain as well (Razmi). Morrisons use of the story of Margaret Garner establishes this belief. Margaret Garners story is a reality, documented in papers during the 1800s. But the unimaginable choice placed on Garners shoulders from the truth of slavery in America is unimaginable to the reader of Morrisons novel. It is here in this dissonance between the reader and the text that Morrison bridges the gap with magical realist elements. Where Beloved blatantly addresses the mythology surrounding the history of slavery, An American Way of Death attempts to talk about the issue of generational trauma in subdued conversation. All characters and their stories are connected to the main conflict of the story. The trauma created by traditions passed down through generations in multi-faceted ways, a monster with many hands. Returning to the death of Ms. Erzu, she dies with a sigh. The repercussions of Chery 78 her life and the nature of her death reverberates through the very beings of each of my characters as they must come to terms with these secrets coming to light. Both An American Way of Death and Beloved utilizes the genre of magical realism as a device that reflects, mirrors, the essence of the conflict they hold at their center. Morrison introduces the reader to the violence and magical realist elements of her novel from the first line. Morrison writes 124 was spiteful. Full of a babys venom on page 1. The house is personified from the start, forcing the reader out of a realistic understanding of what the purpose of the structure is. It is described as vengeful and most notably, a space only occupied with those who are in some way understanding of the violence that they are forced to experience. The character of Beloved, conversely, is violence. Though it is believed by Sethe and Denver that Beloved is the embodiment of the infant daughter killed, Beloved becomes representative of much more. With her inability to formulate expansive thoughts and her childlike cadence, Beloveds statements on her otherness can be read and understood in a multitude of ways. After Beloveds introduction, Denver asks her about the other side. Morrison writes: Beloved closed her eyes. In the dark my name is Beloved. Denver scooted a little closer. What's it like over there, where you were before? Can you tell me? Dark, said Beloved. I'm small in that place. I'm like this here. She raised her head off the bed, lay down on her side and curled up. Denver covered her lips with her fingers. Were you cold? Beloved curled tighter and shook her head. Hot. Nothing to breathe down there and no room to move in. You see anybody? Chery 79 Heaps. A lot of people is down there. Some is dead. [] Tell me, how did you get here? I wait; then I got on the bridge. I stay there in the dark, in the daytime, in the dark, in the daytime. It was a long time. All this time you were on a bridge? No. After. When I got out (Morrison). Beloved is not simply referring to death, the other-worldly space that she was forced to inhabit all those years as a ghost. She is also referring to the Middle Passage of the slaves brought over in the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. Her inability to detail the specifics of her experience allows her and Morrison to connect the death and trauma that she experienced to be inseparable from the past and history of slavery within America. In her Masters thesis Functions of Magic Realism in Toni Morrison's Beloved, Justina Kembryt writes The novel could be considered as a dedication for the history of America due to the truthfulness of the facts Toni Morrison describes by using magical elements (Kembryt 38). Beloveds death was a product of her mothers situation, trapped and cornered, with much understanding of the violence attached to the existence of slaves in the Americas. And due to this, Beloved is not solely a product of her killing, but the killings and degradation of sixty million and more (Kembryt). Beloved states that she is small in that place, alluding not only to the fact that she was a child when she died but also the fact that slaves were forced into the ships and made small. In documentation given by historical societies that keep and maintain the records of the slave ships, many images created and produced to express the best way to transport multitudes of slaves at once depict men, women, and children packed into the vessels like sardines. They are made small and compact in the name of higher probabilities of profit. This is expanded when Beloved also states here that Chery 80 she saw heaps of people. This subversion of the expectations of what is experienced when one dies and correlating it to the experience of slaves in the Middle Passage leads to the understanding of generational trauma and how racism and white supremacy affect communities of color or more specifically in this instance, the black community. Even after death, the past attaches itself to the present. Morrison reiterates this in the novels ending, where when Denver returns to the home with an army of women intending to exorcise the specter of Beloved, she appears nude and pregnant on the porch. Many scholars speculate exactly what this is intended to mean, however by understanding the lineage of racial trauma it can be assumed that Beloved is pregnant with grief. Beloved, both the embodied experience of Sethe and the experiences of the sixty million and more is depicted pregnant and nude, bare in the face of the community with the trauma that has been passed down through her family, only to be broken by Denver and her insistence of casting her out. Similarly, In An American Way of Death, Emilia ultimately leaves Hubris and in turn breaks the cycle started by her grandmother and continued by her mother. Potentially the most pivotal example of violence and the magical realist narrative in Beloved is that of Sethes murder of her daughter. Though it is deeply implied and told to the reader at the beginning of the novel, when Sethe finally explains to Paul D. exactly what happened that night so many years ago, Morrison chooses to mask it in heavy detail and imagery. Possibly the most violent act in the entire novel and Morrison, rather than bask in the grotesque nature of the decision, takes us into the mind of Sethe and describes to us in detail, the feeling of the action. Morrison writes: Sethe knew that the circle she was making around the room, him, the subject, would remain one. That she could never close in, pin it down for anybody who had to ask. If they didnt get it right off she could never explain. Because the truth is simple, not a Chery 81 long-drawn-out record of flowered shifts, tree cages, selfishness, ankle ropes, and wells. Simple: she was squatting in the garden and when she saw them coming and recognized schoolteachers hat, she heard wings. Little hummingbirds stuck their needle beaks right through her headcloth into her hair and beat their wings. And if she thought anything, it was No. No. Nono. Nonono. Simple. She just flew. Collected every bit of life she had made, all the parts of her that were precious and fine and beautiful, and carried, pushed, dragged them through the veil, out, away over there where no one could hurt them. Over there. Outside this place, where they could be safe (Morrison). In Faris characteristics of magical realism, she details approximately 8 secondary characteristics to magical realist narratives and texts. Though she acknowledges that these characteristics are not required of these types of narratives, she says that they are commonly found within them. Of these 8 secondary characteristics, Faris states that [t]he reader may experience a particular kind of verbal magica closing of the gap between words and the world. This is the belief that metaphors are made real. In this excerpt of Beloved, Sethes avoidance of the reality of her decision is made real through the metaphor and motif of hummingbirds. With great attention to detail, Morrison uses magical realist motifs to allow her reader into the psyche of Sethe and breaks away from the reality of the horror she has experienced throughout her short life. Sethe is in a world of her own in this piece of writing. Her thoughts become hummingbirds as she thinks back to that day. What Paul D. learns of the experience is bare bones, the tragedy, the death, and of course, the violence. The reader, however, learns the emotions Sethe experiences at this moment. She dissociates in a way tangible to the reader. As they witness the scene and Sethe recounts the setting as she was squatting in the garden and when she saw them coming and recognized schoolteachers hat, she heard wings. The gravity of the situation, the gravity of the Chery 82 death of a child at the hands of their mother becomes nothing more than the word simple. Magical realism, according to Faris, is heavily dependent on the juxtaposition between reality and fantasy disappearing. Faris states that [t]he reader may hesitate (at one point or another) between two contradictory understandings of eventsand hence experiences some unsettling doubts, often hallucination or miracle?. Comparatively, with An American Way of Death, fireflies and birds are used to break through the boundary between real and imaginary. The use of these natural images, the world as we understand it, is a common way for magical realist authors to signal to the reader the destruction of these lines. Morrisons depiction of the events, especially in comparison to what they are, conflict with each other. It is a serene depiction of hummingbirds caressing Sethes hair wrap, beating their wings against her head and the fabric and creating a comforting image of flora and fauna interacting with humanity. But the reader must remember that Sethe is slitting the throat of her infant daughter, all while these images are being fed back to them. Juden experiences this when he argues with his mother after returning home. In An American Way of Death, Juden recalls: Judens vision filled with a field of poppies (Chery). The poppies ripped out of their roots (Chery). Tears streamed down her cheeks as the poppies lifted into the air and painted the sky a deep crimson (Chery). While many characters would understand their anger in more violent, negative ways, Juden turns to flowers. His anger is deconstructed and expressed through an experience separate from one of violence and rage, yet the image still holds the severity of his emotions. This mirrors how Juden is understanding his anger. Similarly, instead of downplaying the severity of Sethes situation, Morrisons use of magical detail against the backdrop of the unthinkable actions intensifies how Chery 83 inconceivable Sethes choice was, and in turn, allows those separated from the events that led her here to have some form of understanding as to why she did what she did. The final novel I will write about is The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehisi Coates, published in 2019. When researching this project, much of what I chose to focus on were works that have established themselves in the magical realist genre. Yet, this leaves us to wonder what path the genre took in the years since the publication of these novels. In The Water Dancer, Coates borrows from Morrisons Beloved and writes another narrative on the importance of memory and ancestry within black communities. The novel depicts the story of a mixed slave in Virginia named Hiram, nicknamed Hi, and his journey to freedom and spiritual awakening. Hi is born to an enslaved woman and the plantation master. He possesses a photogenic memory that allows him to remember everything he has experienced, yet even with this ability, he is unable to recall anything about his mother who was sold to another plantation when he was nine. This novel, drenched in religious and historical imagery, is a perfect example of Faris expectations of magical realist narratives. After a tragedy catapults Hi into his awakening, he becomes an agent of the Underground Railroad. He gains a new ability called conducting which allows him to help other enslaved people to freedom. Though the addition of a superpower can oftentimes take away from the reality of a novel, Coates uses this superpower as both a true aspect of his story and a metaphor of our historical reality. Coates writes But we must tell our stories, and not be ensnared by them (Coates). Throughout American history, African-American people in America have been subject to manipulation and erasure of their history. The ancestral psychological trauma of racism is a topic too often written about in post-colonial literary works as so little information has been gathered about it as an epidemic. The power Hi possesses acts as Chery 84 both a gift and a curse as he must use it to change the lives of many, but must also deal with the weight of the horrific truths of Black history. Though my novel comparisons did not include Coates work, it remains a powerful example of why I chose the themes I use for my novel. Generational and ancestral trauma is a conversation being had by all formerly colonized people on the Earth. Expressing the effects oppression has had on our interpersonal relationships is a part of decolonizing the mind. This concept of decolonizing the way people of color interpret the world they live in is what magical realism is attempting to achieve. Through the analysis and research done with this project, I have gained the confidence to grow my work into the full 200-page manuscript. The information I found all point to the importance of post-colonial literary movements being analyzed in their entirety. Much of English coursework revolves around a white, Euro-centric understanding of the world. By taking the time to understand this literary movement, I have learned the importance of breaking away from this norm and completely restructuring the way that literature is taught. Without this project, I would not have known about this genre, and that is a fact that both saddens and angers me as a person of color. Magical realism is a genre that is consistently under debate from scholars and literary critics. It is a genre that is dominated by people of color, not created by them nor was it created for them. But it is a genre that lends itself well to the cultural practices of the oppressed. Mysticism is oftentimes lost in Western literature as much of societal functions are built on logic, reasoning, and understanding of why humans react to their environments in the ways they do. Magical realism rejects this belief and because of this, it is allowed to flourish in communities Chery 85 built off of superstitions, religious traditions, and cultural mores with a foundation in the unknown. By using magical realism within their works, Laura Esquivel and Toni Morrison are able to amplify the realities of coded female life experiences and the gruesome history of slavery in America, respectively, to a level that allows these works to be easily understood by those who know little of the emotions and histories attached. The relationship the characters in these novels have with their setting is deeply reminiscent of Faris beliefs of what characterizes magical realism. Magical things do happen on Mama Elenas ranch, at the house known as 124, and their inhabitants understand this. Throughout Like Water For Chocolate and Beloved, Esquivel and Morrison express traumas and expectations through these elements. Titas emotions are powerful enough to move and imprint themselves on the lives of others. Her emotions are enough to change the course of her destiny. In Esquivels work, magical realism makes the realities of womanhood and love more powerful than sheer violence. The introduction of Beloved as a character is the introduction of the past and its relationship with the present, personifying the terror created by racism and white supremacy. Beloved gives birth to the grief that Sethe and those of Sweet Home have worked so hard to run from. And when she disappears, the memories of these experiences disappear with her. Morrison's coupling of trauma and magical realism is not a coupling of doom. This is not the story of tragic lovers whose inherent forces work against each other to contradict. Morrisons coupling is instead a story of hope. Magical realist narratives are stories of the evolution of past pains, past beliefs, and healing from the situations they create. To begin this process, one must acknowledge this pain. And sometimes, to truly acknowledge a concept so inconceivable, one must expand past their known realities. This is what An American Way of Death does. Chery 86 Works Cited Allende, Isabel. The Shaman and the Infidel (interview). New Perspectives Quarterly 8.1, 1991. 54-58. Bhabha, Homi. Introduction, Nation and Narration (London: Routledge, 2008) Carpentier, Alejo. On the Marvelous Real in America (1949). Magical Realism, 1995, pp. 75 88., doi:10.1215/9780822397212-004. Cincinnati Museum Center. Margaret Garner: African American Resources: Cincinnati History Library and Archives. Margaret Garner | African American Resources | Cincinnati History Library and Archives, 2004, library.cincymuseum.org/aag/bio/garner.html. Coates, Ta-Nehisi. The Water Dancer. Penguin, 2020. Esquivel, Laura. Like Water for Chocolate. National Library for the Blind, 2001. Faris, Wendy. Scheherazades Children: Magical Realism and Postmodern Fiction. Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community. Ed. L. Parkinson and W. Faris. Durham: Duke UP,1995. 163-190. Print. Faris, Wendy B. The Question of the Other: Cultural Critiques of Magical Realism. Janus Head 5, 2002. 101-118. Print Kembryt, Justina. Functions of Magic Realism in Toni Morrison's Beloved . Lithuanian University of Educational Sciences, Lithuanian University of Educational Sciences, 2018, pp. 170. Morrison, Toni. Beloved. Vintage, 2016. Razmi, Mehri & Jamali, Leyli. Magic(al) Realism as Postcolonial Device in Toni Morrison's Beloved. International Journal of Humanities and Social Science. 2012. Chery 87 Price, Helen. Unsavoury Representations in Laura Esquivels Like Water for Chocolate. Companion to Magical Realism, by Stephen M. Hart, Boydell & Brewer, 2005, pp. 181 190. Zamora, Lois Parkinson. 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