A little more than fiction (a.k.a. This is non-fiction.)

Chris Sparks

Creative Nonfiction

11 October 2011

A Matter of Misconception

One could say that Denene Millner’s career is a story of misconceptions. From her childhood to her more recent publications, Denene’s work had been questioned, misunderstood, and disregarded with or without proper evidence. She writes to destroy the misinterpretations of Black life, love and family, but often must defend her works from those who misunderstand them. Her books, while not always the token tales of good deeds and lessons learned, are her attempts to speak to the world on a larger scale.

One of her more well-known works, though its writing is not always attributed to her, is Act Like a Lady, Think Like A Man which has received much criticism for its supposedly anti-feminist views. Millner recalls more than one occasion in which such critics have railed against the principles of the book without even the slightest idea of what lies within its pages. For these people she has, “choice words,” though she hopes that they will come to see that the book offers a “valid and powerful perspective from the man’s point of view.” For Millner and Harvey, the publication’s intention was to give voice to an experience not often discussed. Relationships as a man experiences them. Even in Harvey’s voice, however, she was deliberate in working towards building women and equipping them for what she feels they need to win the relationship game without taking on a demeaning tone. “There was no way I would sit there and let any word of mine disrespect women,” she said. This is her creed in all of her books. To show that women are multifaceted, able and intelligent while destroying the low expectations that others and, in some cases, women themselves have set. Millner hopes her characters proclaim that, as Black women, “our backgrounds and our experiences and our thought processes are just as diverse as anyone else’s.”

Her Hotlanta series, three youth fiction books published from 2008 to 2009, creates a sort of character young Black girls almost never get to see in the books they read. Though Hotlanta was commissioned by Alloy Media, Millner and her co-author, Mitzi Miller, set out to use the opportunity to speak “to the livelihood of girls who didn’t necessarily fall into the stereotypes of what everybody thought a young black teenage girl was like.” The characters, hailing from both Buckhead, an upper-middle class area, and the less prosperous West End, serve to combat other perceptions commonly associated with both. The idea that black people are resigned to single-parent homes in the inner city, struggling to pay for school and anything else in life, is meant to be disproved. Sydney and Lauren, the main characters, attend private school, come from an affluent family and have the same hopes and goals as any, far beyond longing for just another meal. Beyond this point, however, the co-authors saw another need.  “Fourteen and fifteen year olds, because they couldn’t find images of themselves . . . were reading books that were wholly inappropriate for them . . . books that are sexual and salacious and way above their pay grade.” So, to provide a safer alternative and a positive image for young black women, they created these three books with all the same elements of other books, such as Gossip Girl, but with a new audience in mind.

Denene Millner has drawn from past experiences and her passions to cross between fiction and nonfiction, dancing from the topics of Black love, family life, parenting and even childhood. She strives to give a voice to those who had none before, to give role models to those growing up with none, and to lend her advice to those in need of it. Whether or not she succeeded in her aims, and how well the task was accomplished, however, is merely a matter of perspective.

A Few Beginnings

From birth, she had been destined to die. The sweet slumber of death by old age was never in her fate. On the contrary, the universe had designed for her such a painful and disastrous end that her story would be told for ages to come. Worse than such a fate, was that even in her fame, her identity would forever be lost.

Adriele was a witch, in simplest terms. Her craft was wielding the magic of old, mastering the elements and serving those who lived under her care. Witches have long been known for their evil acts and black hearts, but few were aware that all witches were not so. Those of the Moonshadow order swore themselves to the protection of human kind and the natural balance of the world. They lived and died by this creed, though few would ever know of their deeds.

Perhaps you recall the evil witch from the tale of Hansel and Gretel?  The awful woman, sick in mind, who would lure innocents to her home only to devour them. She was a sister of the Moonshadow order. The part of the tale that is never told is that only magical creatures with evil intent were able to find her home. The so-called beloved children were no less than demons, wearing the convenient guise of innocent children. They managed to overpower her and by the time we responded to her call for help, there was little left of her. And now, humans have told the tale again and again of the evil, child eating witch.

It was to such a life that Adriele had been called. From birth she had been molded and trained, taught and tested until she was deemed ready to accept her assignment. A castle nestled in the heights of a mountain would become her new home. Her charge, a wild demoness, a child of the Dracula. The creature had been born and placed in the home of a king, and was destined to become the ruler of a nation, and would have grown to do so had the order not stepped in. She had been magicked by the prick of her finger and sent into a deep sleep. Now, Adriele was to prevent her escape while simultaneously warding of the advances of adventurous knights looking to make for themselves a name and a wife.

The task would not be easy, but it was hers nonetheless.

_____________________________________

“Death! Death! Death! Death!”

The roar of the crowd shook the stage, making the silver blade vibrate in time against its victim’s neck. Black eyes traced a long, slim, marble column up and up until they rested upon the leather-clad figure of a young man. He nodded. The sword flashed. A head, newly separated from its body, rolled across the stage, staining its whiteness like a gory finger painting.

The stadium shook as the fans stomped their feet in terrifying accord, marking the overwhelming approval of the execution. For that was what it had been. Everyone knew the fight would be uneven. Cercaida and her Mover, Hinrik, were undefeated. But the crowd wanted blood, and so it would be.

The sport of Moving had become a planet wide phenomenon over the last forty years. There was the Mover, often young men and women of noble birth who demonstrated superior physical ability, and the Surros. The surros, short for surrogate body, often possessed tremendous athleticism, but they had descended from the Insignificants. To be chosen as a Surro was a great honor, and provided one of the few opportunities to escape from the living death in which the Insignificants dwelled. Once selected, they were cultivated with supplements, enhancements and all manner of experimental procedures until they were a nearly unstoppable force. Of course, to leave such a force untamed would lead to the downfall of society. And so they were mentally linked with their Mover. In the tournaments, the two would work in sync. A deadly combination of puppet and master, working in dance-like combat to destroy their opponent.  Hinrik and his Surro were prime examples of a team at the height of their performance.

Five men in heavy armor moved out onto the stage. One broke off to take care of the still twitching remains of the defeated Surro. The other four advanced slowly towards Cercaida, who stood like a stone monument, unwilling and unable to move without her Mover’s command. The four men surrounded her, too experienced to drop their guard when a Surro may turn renegade at any moment. Once the men were within reach, one gloved hand stretched out a brushed a tattoo that adorned the base of her neck. Instantly, her body folded in on itself as though she had been filled with little more than air. She blinked, in blank acceptance, until the world around her faded into nothing.

A Taste of the Dark Side

For the none of you that read this page, I figured I'd give you a taste of some of my darker pieces. Below, I'm going to place two or three of my dark fiction pieces. Have fun!

----
Purple Silk

Purple silk. The woman wore purple silk like skin and wielded it like a weapon. Her hips swayed to a beat that entranced any who allowed themselves up to be caught up in the movement. With arms held above her head, fluidly winding and twisting while occasionally falling to caress some body part, she danced. Thin strings of jewelry shrouded the woman like a spider's web, silver threads catching the avid watcher's eye. Here and there the tingling of a bell announced the twitch of a hip, the flick of a wrist, or the gentle lifting and dipping of a delicate ankle. She was exquisite.

The man before her, spellbound by the vision of perfectly proportioned beauty, was inclined to agree. His eyes held the beginnings of a lusty haze as he stared, voraciously devouring the visual feast laid out before him. His breathing was still slow and easy, though any sudden movement by the gyrating female would inspire a momentary hitch in his respiration. His expression was a blend of wolf-like hunger and devoted appreciation. Yes, he knew her. Quite well, in fact. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought she could or would do what he was witnessing, but he certainly wasn't complaining about the change of heart. The woman bent backward, slowly tipping her head back to the ground while simultaneously revealing a beautiful strip of toned, caramel brown skin. If that wasn't enough to break his train of thought, the wink of amethyst in her belly button was. He shifted, just slightly, in his seat and continued to watch.

His eyes were not the only one to appraise the dancing woman. Another's eyes followed the trail of thin, gauzy fabric that fluttered in the air, following the wrist to which it was attached. With every gesture, the cloth swayed and dipped, graceful and mesmerizing in its own right. It made the girl feel even more sick. In another room, behind a thick, one sided mirror, the dancer's less perfect doppelganger withered in the shadows. That's right. The two women were one and the same, and yet completely different.

One danced and undulated with the practiced ease of an athlete, the other was slow and lumpy, confined to the thick chains embedded in the wall behind her. One commanded attention with every breath she took, the other was invisible to even the most astute observer, not that anyone wanted to look at her anyway. In vain, she had spent the last hour trying to push those thoughts from her mind, but every playful giggle and flirty touch the two people before her exchanged brought an acidic bile to the top of her throat and burned in the pit of her stomach.

He had been her friend. More than that, for he had long since gone above and beyond the call of duty for any mere friend. They had shared everything, or as close as two people could come to it, so when she awoke to see the imposter clinging to his arm it nearly broke her. Sure, confusion had come first. Why was she in this room, locked to a wall with chains so thick she had no hope of escape? Who was that woman? Why were they so close? It hadn't taken more than a minute to realize they were on a date, and not much longer than that to see that her friend was enjoying himself. She didn't mind that, but something was still wrong. It wasn't until she caught a snippet of the conversation that she realized who her friend believed the woman to be. From there, her insecurities had done their work thoroughly. Every doubt, every vice, every issue with self image she had ever had was pulled to the surface when faced with the harsh reality of the woman her friend deserved. A woman she could never be.

Turning her head to the side, she clenched her eyes shut, trying to ignore the scene before her. The woman had been taking small, but deliberate steps forward, inching closer and closer to her prey. The smaller the distance, the smoother and more sensuous her movement became. Her dance spoke for itself, and it spoke thunderously.

The man's eyes flickered, checking to see if he was reading the signals correctly. She seemed so completely different, so unhindered and completely out of character. Again, to say he detested the changes would be a straight lie, but sharp and completely unforeseen transformation did raise a few alarms. Gentle hands caressing his face, running through his hair, then sliding up and down the woman's side silenced the alarms promptly. His thoughts shattered and scattered throughout his brain and, with her so close now, he did not care enough to collect them.

That seething bile bubbled in her stomach again. A whole slew of feelings she knew far too well assaulted her on far greater levels. Some part was jealousy, and she knew it. She could never be so bold or so beautiful. She'd never have the courage, or the assets to pull off such a feat. This feeling...was quite like being kicked in the stomach, including the subsequent gasping for air and tearing in the eyes. A small voice, growing steadily louder whispered everything she'd ever hated about herself into her ear. Again and again, she was measured, the slim beauty as her ruler, and endlessly, she was found wanting.

Her breath quickened with the weight of her failures just as the proximity of the warm, voluptuous body quickened his. They were only inches apart, her hand had stilled at the back of his neck and her gyrating had slowed to a barely imperceptible movement centimeters away from his body. The girl in the room was only inches from unconsciousness. Her breaths were too short, too shallow, too useless to keep her awake.

Soft, thick, moist lips make contact with the man's just as the world went dark and the girl in chains hit the floor.

______

Hold Your Breath

He watched her struggle with a queer sort of fascination as her plump little body writhed helplessly on the bed. She clawed uselessly at her throat, trying to loosen a noose that wasn't there. Of course, she didn't know that. The flash of a camera blinded and dazed her for a moment, and he couldn't help but smile at her pained and bewildered expression. Her eyes were unfocused, darting everywhere, flicking from one spot to another to the tempo of her weakening gasps.

Every pitiful sound she uttered sent an almost arousing shudder through her spectator. Succinylcholine had been an excellent choice, he thought. It was so simple, so sneaky, so perfect for the whore. It was a nifty little muscle relaxant he'd found in the internet. Made the muscles in the throat so relaxed and weak that the victim couldn't even breathe. Well, that's not what it was made for, of course. It was supposed to help with respiratory surgeries and the like, but its effect was too beautiful to pass up. And the sweet hallucinogen he'd added into the mix only made the experience more enticing. What better way to watch her die than to see her night gown creep up her body as she struggled to catch a breath? Every movement pulled the fabric higher, gradually exposing new and delicious patches of skin to her observer's eye. The long line of her legs, muscles taut with strain, seemed like the work of a master artist. 

Unable to restrain himself, he approached her on the bed. She had settled now as her body sank into unconsciousness. It wouldn't take long, but he wouldn't need a lot of time to enjoy her while she was still alive.  He only needed her breathing for the foreplay. 

Gently, he peeled the plastic glove off his hand and wiped it on the rough denim of his jeans. His excitement made his hands turn clammy and moist in the glove, and that was no way for them to be the first time she felt his touch. So he cleaned it briefly before placing his hand on her calf, which twitched gently beneath his fingers. His breath stuttered and his eyes fluttered closed as another rush of lust rippled through him, setting off that glorious humming in his mind. His attention returned to her and he began to slide his trembling hand farther up her leg, over her knee and onto her juicy thigh. With relish, he began to knead the warm flesh as his eyes scraped up her body, over her barely undulating chest and up to her face.

Her hands had fallen away from her neck, leaving her head in a halo of black-brown hair, spread from her earlier ministrations. Her eyes had closed when she fainted and the only sign of consciousness now was the occasional tremble of her barely parted lips. Thick, plump, purpling lips. That would be his prize, but to get there, he must traverse the many hills of her body.

A knife, pulled from a pocket, sliced through her thin gown like wind might cut through a clear sky. The whisper of cloth on metal only served to heighten the dramatic moment when her near nakedness was revealed to him after he'd thrown the ripped clothing open. He could feel the wetness of his hunger pooling in his mouth, and in other places, as he stared at her.

Immediately, his hands dove into the rolls that formed hills around her stomach. Some people did not understand why he preferred the plump ones. They were always so colorful during the chase. Some were insecure and so willing to trust anyone who showed interest. Others had learned to be strong, to be independent. They'd realized they didn't have the figure to get big breaks for being a woman, so they learned to be tough and rely on no one else. Those were the ones that required finesse, a challenge all too welcome. All that was necessary was persistence and a little attention to detail. Take the time to prove you're the white knight they hadn't dared to hope for, and suddenly they're more soft and vulnerable than they'd ever been.

But that wasn't all. Oh no. The best part comes when his hands sink into her flesh and are surrounded by its soft warmth. The skin, so smooth, slides under hard hands like silk until they reach the breasts, and bliss. That was another thing. The breasts were almost always better. Juicy and large, they sit like twin jewels on her chest, waiting for him to ravish them. And that he did. There was no need to rush now. She would be gone soon, if she wasn't already, but her body would remain warm for several hours to come. He was almost done anyway.

Straightening, he let his eyes rake over her body once more as he took slow, careful steps away from the body. She looked just as beautiful through the camera lens, so he took care to frame the scene so the light just barely poured over her nakedness. Again, his passion overwhelmed him and his body begged for his attentions. He could deny his urges no more, so he let the camera fall into the open bag on the floor, even as he began to loosen his belt. Hungry eyes could not tear themselves from the feast before them, the sight calling to his sensibilities like a siren song. The heady intoxication of the moment put him into a haze, robbing all thoughts else from his mind as soon as the door clicked shut.
______

Execution of a Sinner


They were not very quiet. Though, they didn't really need to be. If anyone heard them, no one would care to stop them from carrying out their task. In fact, Lorna would not doubt that some of the villagers would be willing to assist the night intruders. So, she ignored the whispers, footsteps and miscellaneous noises that slipped through the openings in her windows. Instead, she continued scribbling her most immediate thoughts in the small, leather-bound journal she reserved for sleepless nights such as this one.

She did not stop writing until the splintering of wood, probably the front door to her home, interrupted her thoughts. With a sigh, she brought the latest entry to a close, signed and dated it, then closed the little notebook and slipped it into a desk drawer. Ignoring the crash of plates and the rip of cloth coming from outside her bedroom, she sat patiently, humming to herself. A quiet knock quickly crescendo-ed into a ruckus she felt not even her self-absorbed neighbors would miss. Again, she heard the wood of a door crack, grate against the frame that held it in place, then splinter inwards, though this time the process was accompanied by the vibrations that resulted from the steady pounding and the uncomfortable sensation of wood splinters pattering against her back with the breaking of the door.

The group burst into the room, huffing and mumbling to themselves. Still, she kept her back to them, even going so far as to close her eyes and focus on taking deep and slow breaths to calm the heart that would not obey her mind's orders. She clung to silence, even as one man fisted his hand in the thick darkness of her hair and yanked her from her seat, throwing her on the floor into the circle of black clad figures. Lorna drew her focus to a dark knob in the floorboard, fastening her concentration on the small disfigurement to pull her attentions away from the pain that bloomed in her stomach, her arms and her legs with the slam of each boot toe and heel.

They spat names at her, the kindest of which was "whoring witch." She said nothing, and though her body would not let her fully contain the yelps and groans that the pummeling pulled from her, no one could say she did not make a mighty effort to do otherwise. Naturally, this angered her assailants all the more, until one (it's difficult to determine identity in the midst of a beating) once again utilized her thick hair to heave her face into a meaty hand, propelled with significant force by a hatred that extended far beyond words.

Rape was an option, but none wished for the poison the cursed creature would surely bring with the act, not that she was worthy of that sort of violation in the first place. Of course, this meant they soon grew tired of their bludgeoning ministrations, and were forced to progress from fisticuffs to armed retaliation. Granted, retaliation is hardly a fitting term when one opponent refused to fight back, but not one of the midnight intruders believed they were doing anything less than noble. Staring down at the woman, if she should even be called that, one man spit on her, then drew a blade from his side, only glancing up briefly to see his brothers in arms do the same.

To kill her quickly would have been more of a blessing than the monster deserved. So they gave her more than her due, cutting at every accessible piece of flesh until wounded skin could not be told apart from unwounded, as all was hidden beneath the blanket of blood that had spread over her skin like a sickening paint. If they were to be honest, the garish, red hue was a surprise to the lot of them, as any sign of humanity on their target could not be believed. She was a monster, a witch, a perilous threat to them all. Ridding the world of her was not only a duty, but a pleasure. So, they ignored the cries that sprung from her raw throat, merely avoided the pained thrashing of bleeding and broken limbs, and carried on with their work until all had had their fill.

Lorna was lost in the pain and the hurt, though she asked no questions of her punishment. She knew as well as they that it was what she deserved, that she was what they said, possibly more. Surely she had done something to deserve this hateful treatment. She repeated this in her mind, the voices of the villagers rising as a dreadful chorus to condemn her, though none had ever seen fit to name her crime. Even so, the woman tried to bare it as quietly and compliantly as possible, but somewhere she had lost touch with her control and could do more than thrash uselessly and react violently to every slice, kick and burst of hellish pain that struck her.

Breathing hard, sweat streaking the spots of blood that speckled the men's faces, they stopped their gruesome work one by one until all were still. As one, they watched the woman jerk and thrash in the bloody puddle until she was still, save for the shaking of her chest as she sobbed to herself. Then, again as one, they stabbed, cutting deep. One in the heart. One in the stomach. One on her back. One after another until she was still, silent, dead.

Teacakes and Shakespeare (Spring 2010)

This is an older piece I wrote and try to look at every now and again. I haven't gone back to it recently, so it should be interesting to compare the progress of my writing.

-----------------

I stood there, watching them eat their fried chicken and gulp down glass after glass of Kool-Aid, and I just couldn’t understand. Why are there no tissue boxes? Shouldn’t someone be crying? Shouldn’t we all be weeping? Where are the eyes sagging from exhaustion and sorrow? Where are the heads, bowed solemnly and reverently in respect? Why are there no hushed tones, no shuffling feet to break the sound of quiet mourning? There was talking, laughter, cheer and smiling, and I couldn’t stand it.

I didn’t know these people, though, one after another they came up and told me how long it had been since they had last seen me or how they were related to me. With hands held at knee or hip height they exclaimed, “oh baby, I haven’t seen you since you were this big!” Every last one of them had claimed to know my great grandmother, though not one seemed too broken up about the fact that we had buried her only an hour earlier. Such is the way of those “a little more than kin, and less than kind” or so I had labeled them all. It made me sick. It didn’t make me sick enough to turn down the chicken, cornbread and Kool-Aid when it was offered to me, but I was careful not to enjoy the feast too much. I sipped slower, trying to remember the taste as if it could somehow assure that I would never forget the day. Though the chicken was the best I had had in a while, I limited my pleasure to a polite “thank you” and a few comments about how good it tasted. All I had to do was remind myself of my Great Grandmother’s classic teacakes, and the delicacies before me would turn to soggy ash on my tongue. I left my brothers alone, not in the mood to fight and play as we usually did. I was nice, sweet, well behaved and all the other things the great granddaughter of such an amazing woman was supposed to be. All the while, the laughter and joy continued. It had taken Hamlet’s mother longer to marry after her first husband’s death than it had taken for them to forget their mourning.

An hour ago, maybe two, we had been standing on grass, all dressed in black and in sad little rows, though I could not seem to recall anything more specific. The final comments as they lowered her, reduced to static humming in my memory. I could not remember if the grass was wet, if it was raining, who was there or what people said to me as we left. All I remember is the feeling. The feeling that it should be raining, that there should have been lightning and thunder, that all the world should be crying its grief at the loss of such a one. Even as I write this, I can do little more than clutch at fragmented memories. I was unhappy I had to wear a skirt and sit in the front row. I was confused because they were singing songs I did not know. I was miserable because the sorrow seemed so thick I could hardly breathe, and as much as I tried to fight it, my eyes wanted to cry with them. I remember my aunt spoke. I remember my mother sitting next to me, reminding me to cross my legs. I remember red carpet and a white podium, but not much else. I suppose I figured that I could save her memory if I focused on what I was feeling, and not what I was seeing. If I could trap the feelings born from listening to my aunt struggle to speak as the words curled up in her throat and choked her to tears. If I could recall the shaky warmth of my mother’s hand as she squeezed my own, or the steady rhythm in which she rubbed my back, though I believed it more a comfort to her than to myself.  If I could remember the weight of the air on my lungs, the gravity of the moment on my shoulders, then I could also preserve the memories of my great grandmother.

I tried to talk less, thinking instead about everything I could remember about her: the velvety green chair, a white knit blanket draped over the top, placed directly across from her doorway so that she could see every part of her home. The glass candy jar, a grandmotherly staple, filled with orange slices and Werther’s Original Caramel Candies. Her teacakes, a Dee Dee special that no one else would ever be able to match, were ever present on a special plate on the table, waiting to be shoveled into little mouths by eager hands. They were the best cookies in the world- thick like cake, buttery and sweet, filled with sunshine and hugs.

 Anyone can mix baking powder, flour, baking soda and sugar in a bowl. Anybody can add eggs, buttermilk, sugar and melted butter, but no one can bake teacakes like DeeDee. My great grandmother never used fancy recipes or exact measurements. She always used “enough.”A dash of this, a few cups of that, lots of sugar and enough of that. That was how she worked, and every batch was heavenly perfection. She always claimed to “just know” how much she needed to add. DeeDee had a way of just knowing a lot of things. She knew that the best way to kill a snake in a vegetable garden, is to pick it up and snap its neck. She knows that the best way to send us home with a smile is to pack up a container full of cookies for the ride home. She definitely knew that three children were not always willing to sit still and listen to elderly wisdom after several hours of vehicular travel in a cramped car, but she loved on us, taught us, and fed us anyway.

Reading Shakespeare in eighth grade English, I found the story of my great grandmother’s death strewn across every page. Bittersweet memories filled my moments of silent contemplation, but the rest of the world did not feel inclined to join me in my solemnity, instead it carried on as it had every day before. Few bothered to ask why I was quiet, and if I told them I scarcely received a worthwhile response. All this made me even angrier. Hamlet’s rage rang in my ears like thunder and all I could see was the atrocity of an ignorant existence when one so great had passed away. No one paused, no one stopped, and no one cared, as if death carried no more weight than a hiccup, an inconvenience that lasted only a second.

Hamlet, again and again came to mind, though my great-grandmother had not been murdered, I could not help but feel they scorned and mocked her memory with their apathy. He stood as my reflection, a brother by suffering, though our backdrops differed. We stood together, watching the remnants of merrymaking and celebration soil the places that housed the sacred memories left from a loved one’s death. Our heartbreak was mutual, our anger justified, our silence shared. With Shakespeare as the bridge between us, I found a way to step back and see myself. My thoughts stained the pages of the play in the form of honest lines and soliloquies, and in it, I found my heart and my feelings.

“ I have of late- but wherefore I know not- lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the 
air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire- why, it appeareth no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me”

Nothing made sense to me and day after day I went home as dramatic and emotional an adolescent as ever. I could not find comfort in people, so I sought solace in my books.  I lost myself in them. He gave my jumbled and indecisive feelings an eloquent voice, and put my darker thoughts into action. Hamlet, so consumed by the pain, anger and betrayal he felt, was able to see nothing beyond his revenge. I didn’t want to go that route. I didn’t want to see myself become what Shakespeare predicted to be the fate of those obsessed with retribution. Just as Hamlet had, I watched people I once thought to be my friends turn traitor. I lost interest in the things that might steal my thoughts from my grandmother’s memory.  That which once brought me happiness became little more than a perfunctory task. In the midst of my descent into apathy, I found myself burrowing deeper into the worlds Shakespeare created. I stumbled on one that I had not yet read, Twelfth Night, one that would soon become my favorite. Between the characters marching across those pages, I found not only a commonality, but an epiphany.

“Feste: Good madonna, why mournest thou?

Olivia: Good fool, for my brother's death.

Feste: I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

Olivia: I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Feste: The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's
soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.”

These words, simple enough and humorously delivered, were what I needed to realize my won truth. What sense does it make to mourn over the ascension of a loved one to a better place? The wheels of my mind, once clumsily slipping past one another in fruitless toil, finally interlocked to settle upon this thought. To spend weeks mourning her passing is an affront to both her memory, and what I claimed to believe. What I saw at the reception after her burial was not a gross display of disrespect, but a collection of people remembering one they loved. Laughter filled the room because my great grandmother’s joy had once done the same. DeeDee had never been one for endless weeping or shuffling feet, but she loved dancing and singing, jokes and stories. I did not change overnight, but with time I came to really internalize my little epiphany. My family still makes teacakes to remember my great grandmother, but every bite is a joy and not a burden.  We spend the time enjoying each other, not wallowing in the past. We make memories that thick with butter and sugar, but I have to admit, they’ll never be as good as DeeDee’s teacakes.

Okay, for real this time.

So, I haven't been here in forever. It was a good idea, but those are worthless if they never come to fruition. Anyways, I think the place to begin is to collect some of my better pieces in this space. Starting with this one. It was written for my Creative Nonfiction class about my first Anime Convention.

------

There are many reasons why one might lose themselves in uncontrolled bodily spasms in the middle of a parking lot. Heart attacks, strokes, being tickled, being tazed, and more. My reason was a cosplay[1] sighting, the first signs of the Anime[2] Weekend Atlanta[3]. One figure, wrapped in a black Akatsuki cloak, adorned with red clouds outlined in white, strolled lazily away from the pedestrian bridge over Cobb Parkway and towards the mall, completely unaware that he was the harbinger of my momentary euphoria. Nearly an hour and a half of travel, not accounting for the time I'd spent being lost after I overshot both my train and bus stop, had finally brought me to the promised land. I drew nearer and began to see bits of paradise grow into clusters. Paper signs blossomed into colorful posters guiding me towards my destination. Plain hallways morphed into a single lane of convention promotions, food tents and anime fans. There were only a few people there at the moment, but the wandering characters were enough to make me skip with joy.

A few moments and four turns later, I found myself facing one of the longest, most exuberantly colorful lines I had ever seen, and I had arrived half an hour before registration even opened! Red, blue, yellow and green hair punctuated the string of bodies that wound back and forth through predetermined aisles. So lost was I in admiring the menagerie of weapons, costumes, talking and laughter, that I couldn’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that I had actually arrived. Then it became frightening. I’m in the big leagues now, I thought. My limited knowledge of a few obscure manga and anime, and my even more infinitesimal grasp on mainstream anime, was suddenly so apparent I felt it was a wonder they did not all shun me simply because I looked like I didn't belong. My clothes were frightfully average, simple and plain as jeans and a t-shirt could be. I clutched a folder with a schedule, directions, personal notes and the agenda I had printed out the night before. My shoulders hunched slightly, waiting for the eviction I felt my ignorance would bring upon me, and I couldn't seem to make my jaw move from its state of suspended awe.

I don’t remember my first exposure to anime. Some do and are able to list name, year and significance as easily as they might say their own name. It seemed like it had just gradually bled into my life until it became a defined interest. Somehow, I had managed to grow from someone who would casually tolerate my brothers watching Pokémon and Dragon Ball Z incessantly, to one who would seek out my own favorites on the internet, swap jokes with other fans and even seek to find new material in every potential store. Hours, days, entire weekends had been devoted to anime and manga binges. I’d sit in my dorm room, hunkered over a container of take-out while eagerly staring at the images that flashed before my eyes on the glowing computer screen. My breath caught, my heart raced, and the stability of the universe depended on whether or not I could find the next episode or chapter online. One-Shots[4] and obscure manga made by less well known artists were my specialty. Even with all my zeal, conventions seemed to be far beyond my reach. A dream, not a possibility. Who would I go with? All my friends were normal. What would I do when I was there? As dedicated as I was, I was certainly no guru.

I probably would have stood there several more moments had my musings not been interrupted by a tall gentleman with dirty blonde hair so regular I almost couldn’t process his words. Mute, I scuffled out of his way and to the end of the line. The people, even in their outlandish garb, seem normal. Well, as normal as one can be given the situation, but they are not aliens. There seemed to be a distinct lack of pimple popping nerds with those thick-rimmed glasses only hipsters[5] could find attractive. A healthy mixture of ethnicity makes up this particular crowd and, much to my relief, I was not the only one content to wear regular clothes. The girl in front of me in line turned suddenly and murmured a request for a registration sheet on the table behind me. Struck by the bold display of her stomach, an expanse of pale white skin framed by a breast band that seemed to be made of strips of cloth and black pants, I was slow to react and forced her to repeat her question. I could feel my brain digging through the little I knew, trying to place her. White hair that tickled her shoulders and a black and white cape. A few moments of deliberation led me to the grand conclusion that I had no idea who that character was.

I feared moments such as this one would plague my venture into this new world. What could be worse than setting out for adventure, only to find yourself grossly inadequate as a direct result of your own ignorance? A kindly Pikachu[6] dressed in bright yellow footie pajamas turned costume, his sister and the aforementioned white haired warrior girl filled me in on some basic rules of the con (always con, never convention).

1)      Always, always, always operate with respect for your fellow con attendees

2)      Pictures, hugs and mock fights are perfectly acceptable as long as you ask permission first.

3)      Expect a plethora of inside jokes and memes[7].

4)      Cross dressing is not only permissible, but common.

5)      Be wary of furries[8].

6)      If you are going to creep on someone, do it well.

7)      Bathing, though optional, is preferred.

While it was an odd collection of guidelines, to say the least, I was surprised by the amount of stress put upon the general regard for others. “When people think of anime conventions, they think of creepers in fur suits,” said the girl in the white wig. It’s true, the idea of an anime convention is as silly and strange as many could ever imagine. A bunch of dorks meeting to sit around and talk about cartoons. Crazy sex offenders searching for some young and naïve prey. A collection of every socially inept individual with a penchant for watching children’s shows. The phrase, “anime convention” is enough to inspire screwed faces and immediate conversational dismissal, but there is a level of complexity to the culture that so many never see. An anime con is many things, but it is not a joke. It is made of more than awkward tweenies searching for friendship and an Asian girlfriend. There is a community here.

I quickly adjusted to shouts of “Pasta!” (an exclamation common for Hetalia[9] fans), “over 9000!!!!” (Yes, the extra exclamation marks are necessary), and the elated cries of “Nyan cat!” at the sight of a pop tart encased cat farting a rainbow (there really isn’t a better way to describe it). By the time my new companions and I had made it through the line, the blend of colors and weaponry was no longer so jarring and I felt almost confident enough to wander the hallways of the convention center alone. But, not quite.  The Pikachu, yellow and brown ears flopping happily against the hood of his costume, and his sister, on their way to play a few rounds of Guitar Hero, guided me through the maze of the convention center and dropped me off at my first stop. From there, I was on my own.

I never knew what to expect from this con, but from the beginning it was a blur of fact, figures and trivia. To start, I figured I should to get some background information on Japanese anime, from the first confirmed record of Japanese animation in 1917 to the cornucopia of modern day cartoons, the Anime 101 panel covered anime’s long and intriguing history. The past of anime weaved in and out of social movements, propaganda, world wars, education and all forms of entertainment. This overture into the culture and history of anime had done much to illuminate for me the influence this collection of “kids’ shows” had over American and Japanese lifestyle.

After the first hour, I was certain my head would be so full of facts that I’d be reduced to a mindless fountain of anime trivia. Deliverance came in the form of another panel and I was free, only to be reintroduced to the magnitude of the con. There were explosions of everything, everywhere. Colors stacked upon colors, people dressed to fit manga[10], anime, video games and more. A rush of giddy excitement propelled my body into a flurry of jumping and gesturing every time I recognized someone, something. Boba Fett[11] strolls with a nameless swordsman, Lieutenant Yarr[12] searches the food court for a familiar face, a gaggle of teens, adorned in the steampunk [13]style, cluster around a schedule and decide where to go next. Starfire pulls Prince Zuko down the hall, a zombie sits with an assassin friend and, strangest of all, a nerd shares a meal with his girlfriend.

The con was characterized, not only by the wealth of diverse representations of snapshots from the anime universe and the world at large, but also by the ingenuity employed to create each and every costume. There is a little bit of everything here. Metal suits of armor, stealth goggles and headbands marking the shinobi[14] and the village they represent are sprinkled into the crowd. A lone piece of bacon can hardly make his way down the promenade because he is stopped for pictures every few steps. Spiderman mingles with a sorceress while Sailor Moon gently skirts around a yipping furry. The creativity does not stop at capes and armor, but extends to the props these characters chose to tote from session to session. There were enough keyblades[15], great swords, magic staffs and katanas to finally convince me that the weapons policy I had dismissed before was necessary.

                         

            It seems silly, at first. Who wouldn’t laugh (or maybe gag) at the sight of a full-grown man wearing the uniform of a middle school Asian girl? But, the mockery that typically follows is conspicuously absent. Why on earth wouldn’t someone gasp at a costume carrying the hefty price tag of $35,000? Who knows, but someone bought it, and instead of scoffing, the Cosplay Museum attendees nearby commented on the craftsmanship, the price of materials and the time invested in such a piece of art. The soul of anime is very much quirky and outlandish and its fans have caught the spirit. With one word I can make twelve friends. At one con, I can make connections to last me several years. People greet companions met at cons long past with wild waving and warm hugs. Old hands at the convention game tell the young ones how to do it right, and everyone is willing to help the hapless newb that stumbles haphazardly down the aisles of the dealer’s room. So much so that I find myself leaving with a black and red wig that hangs freely below my shoulders, and another one tucked securely in my bag.

             

            Even with all these other merits, the exchange of knowledge is by far the most interesting to witness. Experts who have studied the language, the culture and the art engage in conversation with those who have spent more hours watching a show than they should be willing to admit in public. I waited in line for the Rurouni Kenshin[16] panel, excited to learn more and meet with people who were also fans of the wandering swordsman. The line was long. The fans were buzzing with impatient energy, already swapping facts and fictions with one another. Those anticipating the workshop that would take place next door debated the pros and cons of preferred inking methods and made suggestions about where to purchase brushes and other tools.

Once inside the small room, the general excitement had calmed little. The discussion was lively and interactive, switching between clips from the show to panelist opinions and comments from the audience. One audience member spewed trivia like breath, and another spoke up to politely correct his mistakes. Another man shared the biographies of the warriors on whom the characters of Rurouni Kenshin are based, which sparks a discussion on the role of female warriors in the time period. Again, insecurity crept into my mind. There was so much I didn’t know. The sum of my knowledge of the show was only a portion of the summary the panel shared, “just for review.” Everything else was new and unexpected, shaming my fandom as though I had only been a child at play.

            A little discouraged and thoroughly worn out by the fast pace of the entire experience, I found a relatively secluded bench and sat to just process and observe. I watched the thin, but steady stream of attendants stroll through the passageway that connected the convention center with the nearby hotel. They all seemed to know what they were doing, know where they were going, know everything about this hobby, or fascination, or lifestyle. I didn’t even know what it was to them. I looked up from the thoughts I had scrawled in the notebook I’d brought for the day, just in time to see two furries, the nefarious creatures about which I had been warned, making their way down the hall. A woman dressed in Gothic Lolita[17] style wrinkled her nose and floated to the other side of the hallway to avoid the two. Meanwhile, a group of girls stopped the friendly looking fox and wolf pair to ask for a picture. I watched, waiting to see exactly why I had been warned away from this particular crowd. They hugged the girls excitedly, struck a fun pose, shook hands and were on their way. They waved at those who greeted them and committed none of the evil I had feared. As they approached my bench, they slowed and smiled at me. For a fearful instant, I was sure I had done something wrong. Instead, they began squeaking excitedly (apparently, they don’t talk) and gesturing for a hug. I stood slowly, bumbling awkwardly when I nearly drop the notebook on my lap, and hugged them both. They leave me then, a little confused about the encounter in general, as well as the stigma they are supposed to carry. As they turn the corner I wave goodbye and wish that I’d taken a picture.

The diversity of the event also strikes me as fascinating, and I cannot help but notice the nearly comical juxtapositions that cross my path. An old woman, trussed up in a full black, Victorian style dress, a curtain of gauze shrouding a head that comes to its zenith in a suitably sophisticated hat, was pushed around in a wheelchair by a green haired young woman, probably in her twenties. A not-so-secret mermaid tail, flashing in all its sequined glory, that stemmed like a growth from the bottom of a shirt, followed a little girl, sporting bright turquoise tights and a long-sleeved shirt of the same color. Her father trailed two steps behind with a watching eye. A mixed couple chattered away, spontaneously dropping Japanese phrases into their conversation, while eating cheap Chinese food from the food court below. A young man from Decatur excitedly greeted his Washington friends and was more than willing to give me the history of their friendship.

People attend the convention because it’s what they like, and that is enough to make a bond. Whether we know each other or not, we all like anime, and that is enough. I don’t need to know the name of every anime that has come out in the last two years. I don’t have to know the difference between manga[18], manhwa[19] and manhua[20] on sight. I like these things enough to wake up at 5:22 AM, get lost in the MARTA system for three hours, and wait in line for half an hour to pay thirty dollars to attend the convention for one day. Others love it enough to drive from California, Washington, Arkansas and Utah. Some cannot afford a hotel, so they sleep in a tunnel that connects to the convention center.

Even I had managed to attach myself to an experienced con attendee, so when we snuck into the “Cosplay On A Dime” panel nearly fifteen minutes late, he was willing to fill me in on the basics of the trade and regaled me with tales of his costume successes and blunders. A panel member shared stories of injustices she’d experienced on the internet while commissioning a costume, and the whole room expressed their sympathy in an oddly synchronized, collective gasp. Another gave tips on materials, stores and books that will help with creating a costume for the less than rich cosplayer. There is very little that is haphazard about the culture. The otakus[21], and the slightly less obsessive fans, take their world seriously. They remember the first anime they ever saw, can discuss, intelligently, the progression of the artistic style of the show, and are able to comment on the different ways in which it the underlying themes have impacted their personal lives.

            When I look at the anime universe, I see more than people in weird costumes, more than socially inept geeks. I see people with a collective interest in something they consider an art and more than just a fun hobby. Some are more dedicated to the culture than others, but all are welcome to join. They are willing to learn about a culture so different from their own. They are festive and artistic, dedicated and proud of who and what they are. While every once in a while, one may stumble upon a bad apple, I cannot help but feel that the stigma associated with the group is founded on assumptions made by those who have never attempted to enter that world. It is a concentrated sphere of activity and exchange, a collision of new experiences and old, an overlap between history and the future. It takes all types to make up such a picture. Perhaps you should see where you fit in?

---

[1]Short for costume play, cosplay is the act of dressing up as a character from a manga, anime or popular cartoon or as a generic representation of a character type.

[2] Anime, in North American culture, refers to cartoons which were originally produce in Japan, though the word is often misused to describe cartoons that appear to have similar artistic styles.

[3] A Japanese anime and manga annual convention that has taken place every year in Atlanta, Georgia since 1995

[4] Manga (comics) that are only one chapter long. The can range from a few pages to longer pieces of work, but they are defined by the fact that the entire story is contained in a chapter.

[5] A subculture focused on defying popular culture by directing musical, artistic and fashionable interests to less well known, or underground, styles.

[6] From the popular anime, manga and game series Pokémon on which Pikachu, a yellow, mouse-like creature, is a central character and

[7] Ideas, symbols, pictures or phrases that spread quickly from person to person. In this case, it might either be a popular internet trend or joke, or a catchphrase from a popular anime.

[8] Anthropomorphic creatures with human habits and characteristics. Think of a fox walking on two legs with human gestures and expressions.

[9] Another popular anime that attempts to recreate the world wars through comedic representations of the Ally and Axis powers as cute boys.

[10] Manga, literally translated, is simply a comic book. However, much like anime in American culture, it has come to refer specifically to comic books produced in Japan.

[11] A bounty hunter in Star Wars

[12] A character from Star Trek: The Next Generation

[13] A subculture that blends Victorian Era fashion and culture with steam-based, futuristic technology.

[14] Another word for ninja.

[15] A key shaped weapon from the popular video game Kingdom Hearts

[16] An anime about a wandering swordsman who has vowed never to kill again in post revolution Japan.

[17] A blend of gothic style (dark eyeliner, smoky eyes and dark clothing) blended with the Victorian based Lolita trend popular in Japan. Typical attire includes petticoats, corsets, knee length skirts, knee high socks or stockings and more.

[18] Refers to comic books produced in Japan. These comic books are longer than what most Americans would consider a comic book, and are typically produced in volumes about the size of a novel.

[19] Comic books produced in Korea.

[20] Comic books produced in China.

[21] A word used in Japanese culture to describe an obsessive fan, often of anime, manga or video games. The closest equivalent might be the term “super geek”