#your art is so good and has so much personhood and beautiful communication in it its really inspiring and i am eating it as i speak
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Week 3: Mana Tangata
I read the reading by Emily Rakete, have not done enough work so far to feel like my understanding is going to be properly informed, but what she wrote was very interesting. I understand whakapapa as your connection - to your family, close and distant, to your environment. Rakete gives the environment around us personhood/political agency and connects it to us.
UPDATE: I finished the reading from last week's independent - this piece recommended for us to read is still my favourite thing I've looked at so far. It's reaffirmed my understanding of whakapapa, provides some interesting analysis, and is overall just a beautiful piece of writing.
Rakete, Emily. ‘In Human: Parasites, Posthumanism, and Papatūānuku’. Artspace, https://artspace-aotearoa.nz/reading-room/in-human-parasites-posthumanism-and-papatuanuku.
This comment by Catherine, about the whakapapa and g.m.o reading also ties into Rakete's piece.
DISCUSS: Michael Parekowhai, The Lighthouse, 2017, installation.
Above - a list of ways to observe. Makes a point about perspective and different ways to look at something - useful to keep in mind while I look at art and design!
DISCUSS:
I'm going to do an initial no research discussion, then look at a reading or two later.
(PLEASE READ HANDWRITTEN NOTES AS WELL)
Italics indicate notes with context from the Anthony Byrt reading.
What might the work/s be about?
Parekowhai's 'The Lighthouse' could be related to world perspective: maybe how James Cook viewed the world as an explorer who follow the Doctrine of Discovery? The world is reflected inside of a small maybe colonial-style home docked at the Auckland harbour. He is larger than life and reflects his surroundings: a star map, the English channel, etc. His reflective nature makes him seem more pensive, especially since he is posed thoughtfully, maybe because his placement in the work is more metaphorical? He could be a reflection of the world as we've come to see it from a colonial perspective. Keeping in mind, I know very little and I'm definitely biased here.
It's a literal lighthouse - a house filled with lights. Not sure what the association here means.
How did you come to this reading of the work/s?
I'm not very good at recalling historical facts, so much as mechanisms and impacts. Off the top of my head, what I've learned in this class, from talking with others, from my debating experiences, and in history scholarship class later in high school, is that the impact James Cook had on New Zealand has been net negative, he was a coloniser using the Doctrine of Discovery and he was a catalyst for what came.
At the same time, I worry my interpretation is a bit damning since the piece seems very neutral. I think if I knew more, I could be more certain about this.
I'm also thinking back to semester one's communication for makers class where we looked at how most New Zealand urban design today excludes tikanga values, and it has reframed how I look at a lot of New Zealand suburbia in particular. A lot of the houses still standing were built pre-1970s, especially in my hometown Whanganui, and remind me of the bach colonial home style The Lighthouse uses.
How does the work/s relate to the concepts of Mana tangata, and whakapapa?
The size of Cook in relation to 'the world' presented in the piece could be implying he is placed above it, or places himself above it - in that, those with a colonial perspective may do so as well. His mana in relation to the world can from that lens be interpreted as having more weight - more value.
This goes against the tikanga behind whakapapa, which recognises the mana and spiritual value and interdependent connection everything in this world has. Viewing yourself as above others removes this agency and ignores the tikanga.
It may also be a nod to the narrative of his capability and mana as a discoverer - his thoughtfulness in relation to traveling via astrological knowledge maybe? I don't know if this is true but this is another way I can interpret it.
What other recent events, concepts or contexts can you connect them to?
Looking back to the house design idea I brought up earlier and its presence in modern day NZ.
Reminds me of the James Webb telescope discussion we had a while back about whether we should memorialise him due to his discriminatory nature when he was alive. I feel like if this piece lacks critical analysis of Cook, it needs to be by the public. However, The Lighthouse is obviously meant to be more than a memorial piece and it's hard to know with little context what the exact underlying message is. It's very different to the John Ballance statue that exists in my hometown Whanganui. Ballance's statue has been beheaded multiple times and graffitied in many ways. He was responsible for a lot of harm to local Māori, such as sending poisoned flour and sugar to Māori up the river during land wars (or so I have been told).
If I were looking at the Doctrine of Discovery for my assignment, I would probably observe this work.
It is a reference to the current housing crisis (state home design) and struggle to reclaim land linked to historical land struggles and colonisation. "Modelled on the idealised English Cottage' - colonial design.
"it’s about reclaiming what little of your land you can, then making the people who took it in the first place look at you, and confront what they’ve done." (Byrt) I was right!
Byrt, Anthony (Pākehā). "State house rules: Michael Parekōwhai's sculpture is Auckland's new best thing". Metro, 7 February 2017.
Assignment preparation: Share the examples of design/art you found for your own assignment for independent study.
Hardly anybody in class did this - I didn't really so we went away and chose pieces in groups that be relevant.
Johnson Witehira came to Whanganui and did a talk to highschool arts students when I was in year twelve. I remember finding his digital billboard for times square really cool. In class we were instructed to find a piece that could represent NZ - I think given all the clashing perspectives and narratives in NZ today that's a bit difficult, but this works really well as it was made to represent.
Independent Study
TASK 1: Reflect
Like I discussed earlier, reading Rakete's piece deepened my understanding of whakapapa and holism. My understanding was emphasised also ,by looking at The Lighthouse, of the value and respect for mana tangata, and how that can be represented (Parekowhai's piece reclaiming land) as well as disrespected (colonial attitudes, placing one's mana above others and not acknowledging others mana and rights).
TASK 2: Read: Ataria James et al. "From tapu to noa: Māori cultural values on human biowaste management: A focus on biosolids"
I love this reading! Definitely considering tikanga for my essay topic after looking at this.
I'm struggling to think of an example that differs much from biowaste, after discussing in class mostly all I can think about is the covid restrictions on funerals during lockdowns, and how that affected various communities. From personal experience, I know that being unable to engage with tikanga surrounding grief during covid times affected me and many others, as well as the way tapu and noa were engaged with throughout the whole process.
Additionally, the contemporary Maori art exhibition that I saw at the city gallery (TW: Suicide Mention.) 'We can travel only a short way together' was a series of photographs with dreamy pink sunset hues and idyllic scenes, but each location has suicides with it.
After leaving the exhibition, there is a bowl of water . Splashing water on yourself after being in the presence of the dead cleanses you of tapu and makes you noa (Te wiki o te Reo). I've learned this over the years from friends and family, but it became clearer to me when visiting this exhibit knowing what I've learned in class so far. My friend with me at the time also told me to splash myself - previously I'd been unsure if cleansing was something I should do, whether it was my right to engage with that part of Maori culture. However, I think from now on I will, as a sign of respect and acknowledgment of atua present.
The Gallipoli exhibit at Te Papa also has a bowl of water.
Taranaki, Aotea Utanganui Museum of South. ‘Te Wiki o Te Reo – Wairua Bowl’. Aotea Utanganui, 2 July 2013, https://museumofsouthtaranaki.wordpress.com/2013/07/03/te-wiki-o-te-reo-wairua-bowl/.
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Let’s Watch - My Roommate Is A Detective Episode One
There's this interesting thing about discovering cdramas where you watch shows from the last twenty years interchangeably and as a result I had no idea that My Roommate is a Detective came out in 2020 until I pulled it up on iQiyi. I usually watch on youtube for no other reason than it's easy, but the youtube version doesn't have the intro and I really love the intro.
In my experience, intros in cdramas either spoil the whole show, are a feels reel, or are artistic - in the West there are any number of title sequences that try to be artistic but miss the mark because they're so highbrow they don't really mean or do anything. These intros in cdramas however stay anchored with object, characters, and scenes that actually have an impact on the story - they just make them beautiful.
On another note, a lot can and has been said about whether or not BBC Sherlock's legacy in the West in constructive or destructive in the way that it inspired drama and mystery shows. In China however there are a number of mystery dramas which take very obvious stylish cues from BBC Sherlock, but don't fall victim to its foibles. My Roommate is a Detective is one of them, it embraces visual elements and framing, but with a much warmer palette and the titular character never looses his charm to fall into viciousness nor does he overstep anyone else's personhood - for all that he is childish.
These dramas are sleek and saturated with rich colours, every object feels polished and arranged by the art department, and the sets are gorgeous. The show feels beautiful and young, like the inside of an old fashioned adventure novel with all the hate trimmed out and tossed away. It's short, fun and a delight I'm excited to write about.
- The intro song is also - as the kids say - a banger. It's young and energetic and it's just a fun song
- I always get distracted at the beginning of these watchthroughs. I'm very easy to distract. Spoilers below!
- The way they handle the lighting and the characters alternates between making them part of the environment which makes them feel very big and doll like which makes them feel very small which given the themes of the show is very appropriate.
- I've watched almost all of these series before if you can't tell.
- The visual gag of what is ringing is a great way to show us the set and the characters personality, as well as a funny joke.
- (The blue robe and running music already has BBC Sherlock vibes if you want examples, this isn't a compare and contrast though, so this is the last mention of it.)
- The fact he's just running from the cops is great.
- So is that framing in the arches. Can I take take a moment to cry for this great shot?
- So is that little whistle XD
- One thing I really like about the show is the little details they add. The extras actually have acting direction and respond to the situation instead of just Walking Past. It makes the actors seem more outrageous and funny and makes the world seem more alive. Most directors avoid it because it takes extra time and effort.
- Fun fact! The director - Zhang Wei Ke - mostly does movies including The Mutant Python 2 which is exactly what you would expect, but exactly what you would expect framed and filmed well. That's the way to do it; no matter what you do, do it well.
- Even small things like hearing the police whistle, seeing Lu Yao's face, and then seeing the police. It's small things like that which lead to the emotional buildup for funny scenes.
- Also, honey no, what is that weird snake thing, I cannot watch ;-;
- Lu Yao is a goof and makes no secret of it.
- Also "deacon of UK's freemasonry" is an amusing thing to add for a lot of reasons
- The Mystery Begins!
- Some lines for the Common Lines Drinking Game
- This show moves so fast it's hard to write for ;-;
- Lu Yao is definitely a big goof he also uses that goofiness as a smokescreen for all the nonsense he gets up to, but it's real a lot of the time
- The First Clue
- Also, if they're rude to their staff they probably deserve the murder
- I love this bathroom, it's an artpiece and it's glam
- The Murder has arrived!
- Also the face work on these three is lovely
- The quick shots are great because they both show you everything you need to see and their speed distract you from thinking they're too important
- The scene of him vandalizing the car is so good, including the first try of bouncing the rock off the window, and the reveal of the night watchman
- Ah! Bai Youning is amazing and I love her.
- When you fun away from home and you go bother your friend at work
- The emphasis made on the blood like >_>
- The way the information was communicated about the murder is so smart on the part of the murderer
- Lu Yao pulling out his detecting skill, all his reasoning works particularly well because he uses multiple clues to come to a conclusion instead of just, there's ink on your sleeve, you went to Paris last summer
- Qiao Chusheng is so nice and patient with Bai Youning, he's a man who establishes himself quickly as being morally upright (considering his past) and someone who has filial piety
- Also, like, I get who Bai Qili is, I just love him and his birds and all the interactions between him and Qiao Chusheng
- Bai Qili also just has a lot of faith and fondness in Qiao Chusheng it's a really sweet relationship
- Uh oh Qiao Chusheng, you're about to bite off more than you can chew
- He thinking, he considering
- It's not easy to switch back and forth between being a bit silly and being a serious type police man
- And I do feel bad for not having more commentary, this show moves fast
- Lu Yao accidentally found another clue in the autopsy report
- Lu Yao's little face as he found a clue but doesn't want to give away the game
- As goofy as Lu Yao is, he does have moments where you can see a lot is going on below the surface
- Oof! The facework! The way Qiao Chusheng's eyes moved!
- It's smart for Lu Yao to play it so close to the vest, he doesn't know much about Qiao Chusheng's personal character yet and too much information too soon is like building a castle on sand
- Qiao Chusheng plays it so cool like he knew all along.
- He gets this little smile, it's great
- And that's it! Thank you for joining!
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1. The M.O.
Why did I start this blog? I have no plain and straightforward answer to offer; it’s a coalescence of several factors—some tangible; some I’ve yet to identify; and some rustling around in the pit of my stomach, for which I lack the words to will into coherence. But I will try my best to explain:
2019—my 25th year of existence—I will always reflect on and refer to as “The Crumbling.” It was the year when I lost myself to a number of competing forces: work, love, extraordinary circumstances, and the cyclical churn of life. Those who’ve known me for a long time would characterize me as incredibly stable; risk-averse; always planning for the long-term; cripplingly self-aware; and always doggedly marching uphill towards a set of well-defined, high flying goals. My tunnel vision was impressive. My modus operandi clearly articulated. My drive unflappable.
The inertia behind it all was guilt. I had guilt about a lot of things:
Firstly, I had access to the full gamut of opportunities that were ripped away from my parents by war and displacement. I had to make up for this as their only child. Fuck selfish millennial self-realization. I had to live for three.
Secondly, my birth-given liminality. That I, as a second-generation immigrant/migrant/refugee (whatever legal or sociocultural label you deign to ascribe to my personhood), stand at the boundary between homeland and foreign land (cum new “home”), Vietnam and America, past and present. It is difficult to occupy two spaces; oftentimes, I feel that I am in neither, and that the only comfortable place to inhabit is the hyphen that tenuously connects “Vietnamese” and “American.” To straddle two identities is to be constantly uncomfortable. It requires a lot of shifting, recalibration, and a lot of stumbling. I was never Vietnamese enough, and so others shamed my parents for not doing a good job in raising me. I was never American enough, and so I shamed myself into invisibility.
Third, being a Vietnamese woman. The consequences of veering off-course extend far beyond you. The stories uttered in hushed tones about one’s paternal second cousin twice removed from Cleveland or what have you: She had such promise. She had the potential to become an engineer or doctor—to elevate her family’s social status. But she just had to succumb to the vices of the typical Vietnamese woman: boys, hard substances, and the cold, hard draw of under-the-table cash from working in auntie’s nail salon. And so my existence as a young, OK-looking, Vietnamese-American woman in a foreign land with many foreign ideas inherently made me a flight risk. And so be it. And so it is.
Turns out, guilt is a great motivator. It led me to unbelievable achievements at a very tender age: becoming valedictorian of my high school class; being the first of my family’s generation to go to college; graduating summa cum laude from an Ivy League institution; becoming a Rhodes Scholarship finalist in one of the most competitive districts in the U.S., winning a full scholarship for a master’s program in the United Kingdom; graduating with high marks from the world’s best refugee and migration studies course at the University of Oxford; landing my first real job working for USAID; and having the privilege of serving as a Program Officer for the Syria humanitarian crisis during some of the most tumultuous times in the war’s history.
But what is the point of great material achievement when it comes at the expense of other, more important aspects of your life?
For most of my adult life thus far, I have foregone love, social engagements, precious time spent with family, and beloved hobbies in the ruthless pursuit of achievement. I let go of art, music, good men, and good times. I was constantly hunched over my laptop, producing—worrying my friends and family sick in my permanently crooked state. And I kept going, motivated by a dangerous cocktail of excitement over how much I was gaining and the eternal damnation of imposter syndrome. I thought that I can rest only when I become successful, with no clearly identifiable marker or metrics for success.
I get easily carried away, but I am not stupid. I knew the bubble had to burst at some point.
I just didn’t know how violently it could.
///
“The Crumbling” was a sudden conflagration with a long kindling period. The first match was struck at Oxford, when my lack of romantic savvy led to my falling in lust/infatuation with a narcissistic, well-networked man who offered me manufactured kindness during a very confusing time in my life. To put things colloquially, I was “lost in the sauce.” I was fixated on how much I didn’t belong at my graduate institution and felt so sorry for myself. I craved validation and understanding; it was the soporific I needed for my weeks’ long insomnia, the Xanax for my constant worries, and the energy boost I needed to wake me from my malaise. I was emotionally hemorrhaging. And smelling blood, he barreled towards me.
He raped me when I was drunk in my own bedroom. He weaponized the insecurities I shared with him against me. He further emptied me of whom I was, spun a narrative of how I was a pitiful, love-drunk woman who deserved what he done to her; and made my home away from home a fundamentally unsafe place. And the only coping mechanism I knew was to dive head-first into work—to fill my empty spaces through the only way I knew: producing.
It was the wrong answer. But I managed to see myself through to the end of my master’s with it, albeit with a few sacrifices: Never attending my own graduation out of fear of seeing my rapist again. A bitter distaste for life. An inherent fear of men and relationships (and of my own shadow) that went long unresolved. Strained communication with my parents. And a further shattered sense of self-worth.
///
Things were fine for a year or so when I was caught up in a flurry of new beginnings: moving to a new city, starting a dream job in a dream organization, and making my first furtive steps into adulthood. I was occupied with finding my identify as a young professional and invested my heart and soul into my new career. And on a fateful afternoon in September 2018, I was tapped for my first humanitarian deployment to Adana, Turkey—a three-month commitment that doubled just a month into my stay.
It was thrilling. It was exhilarating. It was empowering to be the face of U.S. humanitarian assistance in northern Syria at 24. But as exciting as it was, it was also overwhelmingly terrifying to sit at the helm of a humanitarian juggernaut as the trajectory of American foreign policy changed overnight. From December onward, Turkey was an amalgam of mild PTSD, living in hotels, unpacking and re-packing, armored vehicles, Jack Daniels, furtive puffs of Marlboro Milds, military men, street cats, insecurity, getting rowdy, hardened alternative trailer systems, over-caffeination, and exhaustion.
I traveled to beautiful places. I broke hearts, and I encountered love. I was where the action was. I was living out my wildest dreams. I had purpose. I felt alive, and maybe for the first time. I sincerely believed that I would always look back at Turkey as my golden era.
/// Wheels down ADA-FRA-IAD. Enter “The Crumbling” in full force. ///
What does it mean when the “golden era” of your life—the moment when you most felt alive—was wholly illusory?
When you look back several months later, scratch through the vermeil, and find nothing but the shaky foundations underpinning your drawn-out, whisky- and cardamom-scented daydream?
When the person you fell in love with—the first after being raped, the one who earnestly listened to you recounting your survivor story—ended up emotionally using and abusing you, as well?
When, despite putting in blood, sweat, and tears into your work (quantified at approximately 10-12 hours a day, inclusive of weekends), your supervisor tells you to reconsider whether humanitarian work is right for you?
When deployment is no longer an option for you because of that, and you come face-to-face with the crushing reality that you never built a life in your home base. (Rephrased: When there is no escape from the void.)
When the wounds finally start to seal up, and then your grandfather passes away. And suddenly you’re shoulder-to-shoulder at his altar with the extended family who narcissistically abused you during your youth? (Re: The past rears its ugly head again.)
The symptoms of all of this occurring within a 3-month timespan were:
Losing 20 pounds;
Vacillating between sleeping constantly and not at all;
Your loved ones remarking that the light in your eyes has completely vanished;
Hours and hours of self-help podcasts;
A lot of consolatory chocolate from coworkers who’ve noticed that something is terribly amiss with you;
Near-constant mental haze;
Ostinatos of teary-eyed apologies to your friends, whom you’re convinced you’ve burdened;
Manic consumerism;
Trying to harvest endorphins through prolonged cardio sessions;
Taking a lot of strange vitamins and supplements that didn’t do anything, other than make you dehydrated;
Frequent panic attacks; and
Desperate forays into various branches of spirituality (inclusive of a cheap [actually not cheap at all] psychic who tells you that you’re the victim of both black karma and an inter-generational love curse [!]…but at least she had an adorable cat.).
Tl;dr: It’s depression. Horrendous, soul-crushing depression, and constant anxiety over the other shoe dropping. It’s coming to terms with the daunting reality that the only way out is to roll your sleeves up and start laying the foundations of your identity brick-by-brick. It’s coming to grips with the fact that you have no sense of self outside of what you do. What is the point of accumulating achievements when you never pause to appreciate them?
What is the point of working tirelessly for others, when you make no time to sit with them and to enjoy all of the abundance together? What is the point of life when it is all prospective?
Do you truly have a sense of self when you have relied on others to give you meaning your entire life?
///
As the thick haze of “The Crumbling” dissipated, I arrived at a bit of clarity: That what had passed had not happened to me, but for me. That the shaky foundations on which I rested my already fragile sense of self needed to collapse—that I needed to collapse—in order to build something that was truly steady and purposeful.
All is not lost. On the contrary, the ashes borne from the waves of trauma that I endured over these past several months are but the rich inputs for a more fortified way of being.
I would be remiss to not document the process along the way. A process I will affectionately refer to as “The Awakening.”
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To Toptal Reader(s) and other visionaries...
Part I: Drives and Dreams
On 22 May 2019, I will graduate from Barnard College of Columbia University with a Bachelor’s of Arts in Anthropology and concentration in Archaeology. Through diverse coursework at “Barnumbia,” I have developed an immense appreciation for the entanglements of working with the dead... not to mention their many material remnants.
While the archaeological questions we can explore are limitless, I am most captivated by the mysteries of the Middle to Upper Paleolithic transition in Western Eurasia. Within this diverse field, I am most drawn to the amorphic figures we call “Neandertals” and to questions of their coexistence with modern human populations. Alongside the timeless and noble savage, the figure of the caveman is crystallized in our consciousness in childhood; nevertheless, I am shocked by narratives of our maligned “cousins” as brute quasi-humans, predestined for a swift demise at the onslaught of “modernity”.
Neandertals have gone by many names. Our image of them continues to mutate in academia as well as popular culture, but what does current archaeological evidence indicate of their livelihood? of their treatment in death? How can archaeological findings speak to their figurings of the cosmos? to their ontologies? What of their contemporaneity with modern human populations? What of art? At a more metaphysical level, how do our epistemologies influence our interpretations? How do media interact to craft particular (pre)historic narratives? How should we convey archaeological findings to a wider public, with a semblance of disciplinary accord, nuance and authenticity?
These questions are far from simple. This fall, I will develop the intellectual frameworks and practical skills through which I explore such questions through a Masters of Science in Archaeological Science at the University of Oxford. After receiving this degree, I hope to apply my newfound skills in chronometry, biomolecular studies, and materials analysis in doctoral work on the Middle and Upper Paleolithic of Eurasia. At a theoretical level, I will continue to grapple with concepts of personhood, gender, sexuality, marginality and symbolism.
Though the prospects of a tenured university professorship appear slim, I see my future in academic archaeology. Nevertheless, I will descend the ivory tower to spark and engage in wider public discourse on our shared human history. As I am enthralled by visual portrayals of Neandertals, I will also pursue work in paleoart (e.g. sculptural dermoplasty, experimental reconstruction). One day, I aspire to write a re-imagined Clan of the Cave Bear series (à la Jean Auel), grounded in current archaeological research. While these goals are admittedly idealistic, their realization starts with feet on the ground, an open mind, and a willing attitude. Financial security is also an important ingredient for success, and as a first generation American dependent on a single mother, a Toptal Scholarship would greatly aid this cause.
Beings of the deep past dwell in alterity, in the shadows of our evolutionary tree and the fringe of cultural consciousness. In an era of increasing nationalism, xenophobia, racism and sexism, inclusive archaeologies offer the potential to reflect our shared origins and inspire a more tolerant present. Neandertals are a maligned population construed as an evolutionary dead end or scapegoat for genetic inheritances; but rather than indulge satire of the caveman, or the far more malicious trope of indigenous savagery, why not explore their sophisticated survivorship and contributions to humanity and the earth? Why not try to learn from inter-(sub)species interactions?
I see a future where human superiority is destabilized; where people respect one another, no matter their nationality or religion or gender; where we care for our selves and our planet. While archaeology is an unconventional lens to enact this future, it is the discipline that inspires me each and every day. If I can share the inspiration I draw from the deep past with others, and mobilize a more tolerant and inclusive present, I will change the world one mind at a time. I would be inexpressibly grateful to Toptal for mentorship in accessing non-academic publics and increasing the visibility of my work-- be it literary, scientific, or artistic. Archaeology is a discipline reliant on networks, and unfortunately mine are slim.
At Barnard, I have learned to empower and be empowered by bold women. As I enter a discipline dominated by white men, I will emanate the strength I have built here wherever I go. With support from the Toptal Scholarship, I can travel to Oxford unburdened by fears of ever-increasing financial debt. I can ease the financial strain placed on my mother from my undergraduate education, and launch my own path of independence. It is time to begin my professional career as an empowered female archaeologist. In this constellation of drives and dreams, I am ready to take the next step - onto the stage at Columbia University’s commencement ceremony, into the School of Archaeology at Oxford, and then, well, I suppose time will tell?
Part II: Humble Roots
Education is expensive, especially abroad. I was raised terribly aware of this fact, thanks to my mother’s tales of her early life in the United States. At the ripe age of eighteen, she emigrated from Hungary to attend UC: Berkeley while learning English and painting houses to pay her way through school. She went on to obtain a PhD in Neuroscience and complete postdoctoral work at Stanford University; yet her success was painfully juxtaposed with the sorrow of her (now, late) sister. Jacinta eloped at eighteen, with a young lover turned abusive spouse. She was ultimately stuck in an abusive marriage and in their childhood home, never to travel beyond Hungary’s borders. My first view of Jacinta was her hunched back as she hobbled down the sole paved street in Alsónemesapáti, letters in hand. She worked for the town’s postal service, delivering mail on foot.
I am humbled by my family’s roots, not to mention the courage of my mother—who not only fled Soviet control, but also transitioned to single parenthood whilst battling cancer. As I meditate on Jacinta’s hardships and the alternate realities that could have played out in the Hungarian countryside, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for my mother and for the upbringing she sought to provide us. I can never hope to repay her for her sacrifices, or for the hard choices she made to give her children lives of opportunity. I recognize my privilege, and my responsibility to use it for good. I recognize the obstacles—seen and unseen—that lurk in my path. Lastly, I recognize the impact of a Toptal Scholarship on my quest for knowledge and independence.
With a Toptal award, I can cross the ocean to join the university with the strongest archaeology department in the world. Without the stress of loans and debt, I can apply myself whole-heartedly (or rather, whole-mindedly) to my studies. I can do so in an environment of academic rigor that fosters community and originality. Unfortunately, the financial strain of my time at Barnard College continues to burden my mother and I. In fact, the anticipated pressure inspired me to apply credits earned in high school and graduate a year early. A $10,000 Toptal award could be applied directly to my future tuition, or cover my housing and living expenses during my masters.
In sum, a Toptal Scholarship would position me that much closer to academic success and financial independence, whilst releasing my mother from the title’s economic grip. She has spent far too long focusing on others to the negligence of herself. Why prolong her duress, when I can progress? It is time I journey abroad in the pursuit of higher education and the responsibilities and freedoms of adulthood—in a beautiful and ironic iteration of my mother’s own tale. With your goodwill and my steadfast commitment, these reveries can become a reality. Thank you kindly for considering my application.
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No Need
FREE WRITE AT DAWN IMAGINE A TWITTER PAGE KEPT BY GOD
THERE IS NO NEEED
God is without the kind of communication
that requires it. God’s voice is automatic and omnipresent it is rich truth below the other waves of sound. my gratitude is true. My aim is true and my high power is leading me where I am meant to go. I have known the difficulty of stringing words together.
How screenshots tell stories
How I search for TRAUMA
seek to define PORTENT
How the Lord is my light and my help, so whom shall I fear? How I get up and say “I’m ready”
I find proof and reminders of gratitude. I find encouragement humble and stoned. I find typos in wedding vows. Is this interesting content? Yes, Tess yes yes it is very interesting.
You are so beautiful.
HE WANTS ME TO SAY IT remember the sun inside of me in Danville
I will have that sun again flowing up my vagina, that orgasm. The cellulite kissing dawn I saw the sun rise once and I lived to tell the tale At the tail end is this exquisite dropping in,
how cool
the internet, how lucky, the living!
How blessed is my maker whom Phaedra prays for, too. The extent of my freedom is the extent to which I am willing to be not understood
Not understood when I am not legible what happens?
This wrenching this wretched second-guessing and third helpings; I have
belabored the metaphors of grief buffets
pretty sure I coined the term
grief buffet
is it a term of art?
a new business franchise?
People are ready for that kind of honesty, honestly, they are, even if they do not know it intellectually yet…. it’s all Grace, but especially the unbecoming
Am I doing this right? Yes. Less less less less more more more more more gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme some of that green sugar stuff it in there mmm mmmm ooohhh ohhhh deeper harder faster slower oh yeah just like that that’s right deeper this orgasm will save humanity this orgasm will right all of the wrongs mmmmm uhhhuh that’s the spot the redemption of all human kind right there, yup yeah yum yes that
In truth, the disgust is close to the surface. I am proud of who I am. Voice quaking like Tracy Chapman’s in the live recording of DONT GIVE UP with weird old Peter Gabriel
voice shaking
I think my friends are people. It scares me. I know my friends are human, it terrifies me.
Who are they? I have no idea! Humans as they are, they are foreign all the way. More alien than Foreigner mixed up in my psyche like the Greeks at the crux of breaking all of this up, are we? Once and for all
a free write to end all grief?
no thank you!
I know about waves and wires and tunnels and pummeling pummeling pummeling until I’m clenched in the womb. It doesn’t rhyme, but it’s my pain, it’s my loss, my potential my light to shine BE KIND REWIND in my opinion not such a good film
when I realized ariana was following franky o the path of less resistance all-capsing the names of poems instead of italicizing
interrupting my flow state to call my sibling my unconscious mind wants their approval so bad wants simultaneously to dishonor their identity shout from the rooftops this isn’t about you sis this ain’t about you cuz it’s about me it’s about meeeee meeeee meeeee meeeeeeeee the way i am deep down convinced some nonbinary people are just flexing egos controversy the give and take of corn flakes replete i am afraid of that content i might delete THAT content
for sure deep sea fishing with sharks i’ve never been how imagination is procrastination a rose by any other name etc
My soul is thirsting for the living God; when shall I see him face to face?
a need greater than water a truth deeper than phishing a spam harder than rock He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
i’m afraid of hurt feelings hurting feelings causing pain no you’re not, Tess, you have torn up too much to open Photo Booth now. don’t you dare do it. God
grant me the serenity
Once I tell God I won’t do something, I usually don’t do it. exit clause escape routes
pretty sure I didn’t coin the phrase escape valve and that it is a term of art, like the
wind carrier in tommy boy
i mean the
mail shoot
in tommy boy
the wind that blows his boat in the last scene
or is it the
pen
ultimate
scene
wherein tommy is on the water (shit i am gonna cry ) talking to his dad “I could use a little help”
son of a
that’s gonna leave a mark
i want to leave
a mark we all do
so badly so needily our fingers
pressed in every ink stamp the well has run so dry and then
though, all of these people i want to be are menstruating while i am not how hungry i am for my own blood the manifestation of shakti who drinks from her own blood stream
opens her whole head up
this free write will not ‘save’ the world
this free write may even induce carpal tunnel
but i won’t be alone for it
SIC SIC SIC SIC SIC SIC SIC
we’re all so sick
so sick and so sick of the latest and worst and sick of being sick and tired
la la la
it’s funny, not haha but haha
okay
sure
the way my mind chases its tail around i find myself sitting where i’ve been
cozying up to a mug from SEA WORLD
i have never been
the name elizabeth printed on it
I believe in the Resurrection. i can’t explain it to you and I don’t want to. I believe in the visitation of the angel Gabriel to Mary and I want so badly to be understood by one poet in particular. these minds these minds these minds to whom I want to prostrate myself
SEE ME SEE ME PLEASE
It is enough, it is finished, I see you, Tessa I see you i see you baby i see you i see you you’re brilliant you are making so much sense you are making so much sense you don’t have to worry about publishing truths or falsehoods because that isn’t what you’re talking about here i relieve you this noose | lifted |
this is not about political correctness an invention you hate and this is not about bigotry either because we both know you are not a bigot in any direction by any stretch
stretch
stretch
stretch mark of the imagination
cellulite dream we could be heros just for one day
the need to justify when i said ego flex i meant
how precious our personhood is. when i am high and think only of how, deep down,
my pronouns are
she her he him his
how language is nothing but everything bang bang saxophone solo how your mind reading this does a different thing altogether how i bought a blanket 100% acrylic made in Ecuador how what other people think of me
nun of my business
none of my business that’s why I can’t let the right hand know what the left is doing. When I catch on is when the tail snakes back around
how i
felt like
Jessica was passing the torch of menses to me
how much shedding how much shedding
the baby voice,
sweet blessed infantilization of my poor old soul !!!!
{i mean it, Tess, you are flawed if you’re not free. oops that sunk in wrong i don’t blame you, jenny lewis
cat power I DONT BLAME YOU my ex’s penis is still the sweetest penis that ever played inside my vagina} alone together a hashtag to build a dream on give me a hashtag to build a dream on i miss you God
not for sentimental reasons
but because being ripped from you is too easy to mistake for the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God
in other words, tracing my entrance back to your absence is not the work of my life is not the meat of being but it is easy to make the mistake of seeing the hole as the center when at the center is the Life itself
come on rude boy boy boy is you big enough
come on rude boy boy boy is you big enough
just now already I nearly broke the no Photo Booth promise funny how quickly that happens EH
EH?
canadian bacon is a john candy film i have never seen my adverbs of choice
holy
go
lightly
mmmmmm sweet sweet boredom the fear of ending is about the fear of dying? no, that’s not quite it. about the fear of being alone? yes! that’s it, that’s it. traces back to the fundamental fallacy of Godlessness
of being separate it’s the whole platonic two halves bit
to have and to hold, till death do us part that’s the
traaaa la la laaa laaaaaa
how can i trust myself without hyperlinks?
don’t let me be understood, God. just for today, grant me the serenity. Don’t let this be understood. Yes, I’m your angel. Yes, the reader does not need to know you’re thinking of a yoko ono song, that you’re worried about not attributing due credit to rihanna, that you have not looked at kim kardashian’s instagram since the
“pandemic”
“began” but that she showed up in your dream last night and that your sibling ‘got into’ with her, lightly, casually, cooly, wearing denim — my sibling was leaning in close to kim kardashian
AND SHE WAS
the tail of my mind is snaking back to ordinary complaints like
WHERE THE HECK ARE MY MISSING ALBUMS
1999
and
LITTLE CREATURES
they’re my favorite and they’re gone gone gone
how much of a new revelation
Janet Jackson’s song any time any place is to me
How inconsistency is at the heart of
not giving too many hoots
in certain contexts how meaning is relative how language is everything
nothing
how Jesus spoke in parables and contradictions how I never liked puzzles literal ones but how I walk around like I alone am meant to be solving the deepest puzzle of all
Reconciling myself back to the Source, i mean, to God Godself how a proliferation of healers come out of the woodwork into the email inbox offering discounts during this crisis and
who
am
I to judge?
There is one thing I ask of the Lord,
for this I long,
to live in the house of the Lord,
all the days of my life.
am i his temple? yes, no, maybe so, dawning on me is dish soap sweet like the night inside
like the beginning of doing nothing
remaining alive. remaining human.
DONT JUST DO SOMETHING
SIT THERE
friends, i am still overwhelmed by your humanity. i find it so threatening, i can’t even begin to tell you. i don’t mean your mortality, moreso the fact that you’re just as deep
just as pulsing
just as curious just as in possession of some heart (human or not; shoutout to my girl elena with a porcine pulmonary valve) as i am
what that amounts is not fear of being not unique but rather that the belonging we are called to is such a tall order such a tall order such a tall order drive through window on foot people like memes
the readers in 3408 are like,
what’s a meme?
who can say if they will ‘google’ it?
I doubt the empire will rage that long …. the Empires on adderal the Empire fucking all millennia long on HARDON shoot i am
not even trying
to be funny i can’t think of the name of that erection drug
i swear all that keeps coming up is PROZAC
leave it in the comments below, what’s that ED drug? all my life
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