Month: May 2016

🔊 Play

The Progress of Women in Literature [cont…]

by: Samantha Ceballos

A rule of etiquette for women of the 1800s that has drastically changed reads “Be careful always to speak in a distinct, clear voice; at the same time avoid talking too loudly, there is a happy medium between mumbling and screaming. Strive to attain it” (Hartley 14). Cisneros’ persona embraces the opposite of the given rule presenting the reader with a loud and proud woman. A female should not have to hide herself to please others. Problems faced by women hold just as much importance as the problems of children and men. Speaking of those problems breaks down a barrier that allows for people to cope and get past the “taboo” of women’s issues. The world dictating how we can express ourselves, in a way, tells females our opinions do not matter. Proper etiquette, in Dickinson’s time, meant striving to obtain an appropriate voice, but a new voice has emerged under the persona presented in Cisneros’ poem.

Throughout the piece, a strong female voice claims she makes popes and fathers cry. The patriarchy holds no importance in this poem, she terrifies them. The narrator knows that she has built a bad reputation for herself, but she accepts it as a part of her and what she stands for, showing no regret over what she has created. Out of rebellion, the Chicana/feminist character embraces the title “Loose Woman.”

Cisneros makes mention of a notorious Mexican figure, feminizing the name to “Pancha Villa” (line 36). Francisco Madero, a Mexican reformist, inspired the creation of Pancho Villa, a bandit deemed “Robin Hood,” and together they helped the rise of the rebellion against Mexican dictator Porfirio Diaz (Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia). Personifying woman as a fighter, the narrator goes against the people attempting to oppress women signifying revolution waits on the horizon. By breaking the “natural order” (Line 38) she becomes “La Desperada” (Line 41), a desperate criminal, because she breaks the norms set by society that women previously followed. A transformation occurs from the captive hold of a master in Dickinson’s poem, to a law breaking desperado turned “Robin Hood” in Cisneros’ work

Comparison

Both poems have hints of anger such as the mention of “A loaded gun,” ( Dickinson Line 1) “Vesuvian face” (Dickinson line 11), “I break things”  (Cisneros Line 62), and “toads and serpents” (Cisneros Line 19). Each of these expressions carries anger towards a specific person or event. A loaded gun presents danger and harm to others. Hanging around a person with a Vesuvian face seems a little dangerous when one considers Mount Vesuvius wiped out the city of Pompeii. “Break[ing] thing[s]” in general, especially on purpose, can symbolize acts of rage or revenge. Having toads and serpents flow out of one’s mouth may imply foul language or hurtful words. The anger depicts frustrations felt by women in this world. It has a rightful place and should become a topic of exploration. These two women have accomplished this with these poems. They have established the setting and given us a look into the evolution of a movement still in progress.

Both poems show the protection of what each speaker loves. The gun protects her master’s head in Dickinson’s work, and the narrator protects her thoughts and reputation in Cisneros’ work. A gun can never die and certain political figures, like Pancho Villa, never really fade implying that these two women will not vanish thus joining the ranks of immortality

The connection

When compared with each other, Dickinson gives the perspective of a pre-feminist feeling of ‘I have power but the men still come first,’ while Cisneros brings a whole new perspective on women and how male judgment of her behavior does not matter and will not alter her self-value.

In a study done by the University of Texas Pan America between 1974 and 2004 people of European and Mexican descent answered questions that dealt with gender roles. The survey highlighted the fact that, “Mexican Americans of the third or later generation in the sample show more liberal or egalitarian gender-role attitudes than those of the first or second generation” (774). It also gives proof that European generations assimilated faster than Mexican generations. The differences of cultural ideals taught to growing generations may have an effect. This research helps give perspective to how the two cultures assimilate and at what rate.

Having been here a long time, women of European descent might have better accepted Dickinson’s work because of a willingness to discuss the idea of equality instead of facing those who opposed the equal treatment of women. There existed those, like Florence Hartley, who wanted to keep women prim and proper, but ultimately her handbook for Ladies Etiquette disappeared as new “etiquette” began to circulate.

The placement of old principles upon women creates difficult times for women in society.  When women break through these principles we see progress. For some cultures it takes longer because of their beliefs. Cisneros believes in the power of women of color and as she stated in her interview, a lot must still happen for women of color to reach equality. Mexican culture centers on men. The patriarchy controls the language, as seen by the assignment of gender to nouns. But after enough time a change will occur and women will become stronger. Cisneros does not forget her origins in her poem. She references certain cultural elements that remind us from whence she came and that show her pride in living as a woman of color.

Conclusion

These two women lived in different times, went through different circumstances but the issue that ties them together falls on the need for women’s equality and the importance of being considered equals to their male counterparts. Emily Dickinson embraced the beginning of a new stream of consciousness that led to a revolution for women’s rights. Her mind became one of many who knew the value they held, but this movement had not yet fully blossomed. Sandra Cisneros acts as the continuous push for the rights of women, men, people of low income, and those from different cultures. Women writers today fight for equality while embracing change and breaking down barriers to continue the evolution patriarchy still threatens to destroy.

Work Cited

Anzalduá, Gloria. Borderlands: The New Mestiza = La Frontera. 4th ed. San Francisco,
CA:Aunt Lute, 2012. Print.

Baym, Nina, and Robert S. Levine. “Emily Dickinson 1830-1886.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 8th ed. New York: W.W. Norton, 2012. 1659+. Print.

Cisneros, Sandra. “A House of My Own.” Introduction. The House on Mango Street. New York: Vintage, 1991. XI-XXVII. Print.

Cisneros, Sandra. “Cisneros Interview.” E-mail interview. 21 Mar. 2016.

Cisneros, Sandra. “Loose Woman.” Loose Woman: Poems. New York: Vintage, 1995. 112-15. Print.

“Francisco Villa.” Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia, 6Th Edition (2015): 1. Academic Search Complete. Web. 2 May 2016.

Hernández-Gutiérrez, Manuel De Jesús., and David William. Foster. Literatura Chicana, 1965-1995: An Anthology in Spanish, English, and Caló. New York: Garland Pub., 1997. Print.

Rebolledo, Tey Diana, and Eliana S. Rivero. Infinite Divisions: An Anthology of Chicana Literature. Tucson: U of Arizona, 1993. Print.

“The Manuscripts | Emily Dickinson Museum.” The Manuscripts. Trustees of Amherst College, 2009. Web. 02 May 2016.

Warhol, Robyn R., and Diane Price Herndl. “Discourses of Gender, Ethnicity and Class in Chicano Literature.” Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1997. 1009-022. Print.

—. “La Conciencia De La Mestiza.” Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1997. 765-75. Print.

—. “The “Wild Zone” Thesis As Gloss In Chicana Literary Study.” Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1997. 248-56. Print.

Wollstonecraft, Mary, and Candace Ward. A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 1996. Print.

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🔊 Play

The Progress of Women in Literature
by: Samantha Ceballos

Feminist theory evolved as one way to analyze characters and plots to find the deeper meaning of a work in terms of the portrayal of women. Proto-feminists helped pave the way for modern-day feminists and the feminist movement. One of these proto-feminists, Emily Dickinson–not known for involvement in the feminist first wave—prevailed in expressing her ideas of a woman’s experiences in the nineteenth century. Chicana Feminist, Sandra Cisneros, has fought against unrealistic expectations placed on women by breaking stereotypes and creating her own reality. These two writers came from significantly different backgrounds and time periods, yet their writings both express anger towards the oppression of woman. Two poems, “My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun” by Dickinson and “Loose Woman” by Cisneros, show feminism has come a long way.

The analysis of these two poems demonstrates how women expressed themselves then versus how they express themselves today, answering my question, “What in the writing reveals how life circumstances and acceptance of womanhood have changed between the nineteenth century and the second and third waves of feminism in America?”

Feminist Background

The American Feminist movement has experienced three waves. The Seneca Falls convention of 1848 started the first wave movement.  At this point, “feminism was more concerned about domestic abuse, unequal pay for men and women, women’s lack of property rights, educational opportunities, divorce rights, and voting rights” (Habich, Nawatzki). The first wave fought for the basic rights of women to be able to protect, defend and educate themselves. The women of this movement wanted equality like their male counterparts. Second wave feminism happened in the 1960s and 70s. Alice Walker acted as one of the leading literary activists for this wave of feminism. This wave “addressed many issues of inequality facing American women, such as those in the workplace, law, and reproductive rights” (Gillespie). The second wave held interests in changing the women of society to hold better jobs and the right to decide over issues regarding their bodies. Third wave feminism deals not only with white middle class women but of women of all races, backgrounds.  The third wave began due to a feeling of exclusion. This movement “emerged in the 1990s as a response to the ‘backlash’ against the political and social changes initiated by the women’s movement and the failure [to] incorporate broader definitions of women’s identity” (Moser). Third wave feminism principally focuses on women, but the fight for equality of people from any culture, any status also took precedence. Feminist criticisms centers on the relationship between women and men. It approaches literature through the eyes of women. As the essay “Feminist Criticism” states, “Feminist criticism recovers neglected female tradition and literary history from letter writers, diarists, journalists, poets, playwrights, and fiction writers who have received little scholarly recognition.” This form aims to give recognition to and bring to light the treatment of women and how the female mind and status has changed from male priority to the importance of both sexes. Feminist criticism will evaluate the characters presented in each poem in order to dig deeper into the treatment and relationships seen. This will allow the reader a window into how those relationships have changed from Dickinson’s time to now with Cisneros’.

Dickinson Analysis

Emily Dickinson’s poem, “My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun,” presents many interpretations. By using a feminist lens to analyze this poem, the correlation between Dickinson and Cisneros presents itself.

“My Life Had Stood A Loaded Gun” expresses a metaphor for the parallel structure seen between woman and a man. The poem personifies woman as the gun and the owner/master as the man. Just as the gun waits in the corner for recognition by the owner, a woman in the 19^th century had to wait for her husband or a male figure to acknowledge her presence. The identification and sudden change of surroundings for the gun seems like representation of a marriage between two people.  According to Florence Hartley, author of The Ladies’ book Etiquette and Manual of Politeness,

Man should be the head of the human race, even as woman is its heart; that he           should be its strength, as she is its solace; that he should be its wisdom, as she is           its grace; that he should be its mind, its impetus, and its courage, as she is its           sentiment, its charm, and its consolation. (294)

Security for the gun lies with the owner. The owner holds the “wisdom” in what he must shoot, but through the comfort and “charm” of his gun, man successfully catches his prey. The gun acts as the protector of her owner, thus also becoming another form of comfort to him. This puts in play the relationship between men and women of any time period. Women protect what they value which strengthens the metaphor of the woman as a gun. The fact that a gun holds power only in the hands of a master brings into focus the main point of the poem, male dominance.

The poet emphasizes the notion, the man must live longer than the gun. Assertion of this sentiment shows that men hold greater importance than women.  An excellent argument from “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman” issues a challenge to  Rousseau’s comment, “Educate women like men and the more they resemble our sex the less power will they have over [men]” (63). To which Wollstonecraft responds, “I do not wish [women] to have power over men; but over themselves” (63). “My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun” depicts just how much control a woman does not have over her own life. She must wait for vindication and use because just as the gun, woman cannot ask for attention from her male counterpart for fear of being considered un-lady like.

A well-bred woman will not demand as a right what she may have a claim to expect from the politeness of the other sex, nor show dissatisfaction and resentment if she fancies herself neglected. (Hartley 291)

The expectations of women in this period included, acting as a comfort, providing protection, and servitude for their husbands. A person with control over another human being or animal constitutes a master. Dickinson depicts a master-object relationship. The master of a dog holds ownership just as the master of the slave has ownership of that person or group. A master acts as the oppressor of a people and the conclusion made shows that man acts as the despot of woman. The gun of Dickinson’s poem has a master who controls the action. This action gives motion and purpose to the poem.

Emily Dickinson, an intelligent woman who knew that her poems would fit better in the future, left behind fascicles filled with her poetry for discovery after her death. (The Manuscripts).This poem in particular gives insight into the treatment of women during her time. It presents the struggles and positions held by women. Because of this poem the evolution of women’s status in literature begins to show between the pre feminist and feminist movements.

Q and A with Cisneros

I was fortunate enough to ask Sandra Cisneros a few questions on her experiences and a women she has endured and what she thinks needs changing in order to better the lives of women of color today.

Q: Have you seen any change in the status of women since you began writing?

A: .  Change in status of women?  Well, in my lifetime I’ve seen gains and lately the loss of those gains.  Specifically the rights of women to control their reproductive rights.  Both Church and State, and the pressure as well of family, have ruled. Women’s movement didn’t affect working class women or women of color, or poor women directly, though it did make reproductive healthcare available to them at a cost they could afford, IF, and this is a big IF, if they were willing to defy their family and religion, and if they were informed enough and brave enough to get to a women’s clinic.  See my essay on “Guadalupe the Sex Goddess” in my latest book for more on this.  I think the pendulum has swung to the right and taken us back to the dark ages as far as women’s rights go, and many other hard fought rights as well.

Q: What do you think it means to be a Chicana?

A: .Chicano/a is a person aware of the history of oppression  of mestizo/indigenous people of the americas and who takes up the identity of indigenous/mestizos as an act of resistance.

Q: What is your definition of Feminism?

A: Same as number two, replace “chicano” with “feminist[.]

Q: In your opinion, how do you think proto-feminists helped pave the way for the feminist movement of today?

A: If you don’t know your history, you have to reinvent the wheel[.]

Q: Are there still struggles in the literary world for women that need to be fought?

A: I think we still have a long long way to go for women of color to be published in the world.  Especially in the States.  We are a long way from saying we made it when you look at what is being read and look at what is being taught.

Cisneros Analysis

Cisneros’ poem, “Loose Woman,” presents a character opposite of the lonely waiting gun presented in Dickinson’s poem. This piece shows a person comfortable with her status as a woman. The narrator in this poem holds headstrong tendencies and does not let others’ insolence bother her because she feels empowered. She believes that women must embrace dominance. The derogatory words directed at women bring no shame upon her. Instead the narrator views them as compliments. In the second stanza words that would never describe females in Dickinson’s time cover the page for the world to read.  The narrator claims history without a second thought. The chant “Viva-la-vulva” (Line 8) shows just how much we have become verbal and escaped from the shell of shame which females have forcibly inhabited.

The mob attempting to hush the narrator presents a very real threat felt by women everywhere. Gloria Anzaldúa, a Chicana feminist wrote that, “[women] will develop equal power to you and those who have shamed us” (106).  A warning foreshadows that women will become equal to those who look down upon them. The persona in Cisneros’ poem stops the attacks on her allowing for self-defense making the people “wobble like gin” (line 16), fulfilling a part of Anzaldúa’s quote that women will become equal by proving that they hold as much worth as anyone else.

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Alone by: Linda Gee, Transfer, pen and ink on paper, 2016.

 

Best Friends
by: Crystal Alford

     “Ah shit, man, be careful with that.” I shook out my arm as the ice cold wind sent pricks down my now all too sensitive skin. Roger had been throwing a stick for some stupid stray and caught me square in the elbow; to top it off, now the mutt would not stop following us.

     “Sorry man, you got in the way.” I looked on in disgust as he bent to rub the dog’s belly, seemingly unconcerned about its pus-filled scars or its flea infestation.

     Roger simply shook his head at me. “I swear you hate anything with life beating through its veins. I think that’s why you love winter so much, everything is dead.”

     “That’s not true. You’re fine,” I mocked as I lit up a cigarette.  “Leave that thing alone, you’ll make it follow us to the cave and that mutt will want to stay there day in and day out.”

     Roger did as I asked, shooing the pup away, and with some semblance of luck it hadn’t followed us to the caves. This has been our escape from the world for as long as I can remember, our fortress of solitude. We come here every day after school to escape life. Life at home for Roger is pretty much fine; well, as fine as things get in this town. His stepdad is still a drunk and his mother has never been good at hiding her dirty little secrets, but he does have a roof over his head and more often than not hot meals on his plate. I, however, am lucky to get a pity pack of cigarettes from Mike who owns the corner shop down by the lake.

     “You know I could keep him, maybe name him Spike or something.” Roger was tapping that damn stick on the cave’s wall.

     I couldn’t help my eyes rolling at his absurd remark. “Are you seriously still thinking about that mutt? Where would you keep it? Mark would go crazy if you brought a dog home.”

     He looked out into the thick forest of pines; I knew he was secretly hoping the pup would emerge from its depths. “I could hide it.”  

     That one got a good chuckle out of me. “Please, Mark knows what goes on in every corner of that house. He may be a drunk, but he’s not stupid.”

     Roger slowly stood looking out at the hills. The temperature was steadily dropping and you could see it in the way his red cheeks flamed across his face, his every breath recognized by the heat that escaped his blue lips and mixed with the chilled air. I looked down at my own hands, now numb to the touch. The only thing that sucked about winter was the limited time we could spend here, but the last thing I wanted was to build a fire and let all the hood-rats that go to our school know it exists.   

     “We should be getting back. I want to swing by Mike’s. I’m running low.” Roger silently agreed, dragging his stick behind him.  

     “You know if I don’t take him in he’s gonna die out here in the cold. I mean you sometimes help Mike out for a pack. Maybe I could help him out for a buck or two. If I pay for Spike, Mark can’t say nothin’, right?”

     It was almost pathetic how hopeful his piercing blue eyes looked.  “Look, man, that dog is already on the list for death. It’s not your responsibility.”  Roger nodded a regretful agreement, starting off on the track back home. It took us thirty minutes to reach Mike’s. The sun was already starting to fade and night was quickly descending.  

     “Mike, my man!” I jumped on the counter next to the register twiddling with my last cigarette.

     “No, Sam. I told you I can’t be giving you any more free shit.”  

     “Hey! It’s not free if I work for it.” I gave him my slyest smile hoping to dissuade his efforts of denying me. “Give me the broom and I’ll help you close the place down man.”

     “You know Betty will have my head. She says you need to get yourself off the pack a day. Find a job. You’re sixteen now, you could work at the lumber yard. I hear they’re hiring.”

     “The lumber yard? Damn, that will pay a pretty penny, right? I could pay for Sparky…”

     “Stop with that damn dog Roger! It’s gone anyways. Lord knows if you’ll ever even see it again.” I looked over at him only to find him in the pet aisle looking at a leash. I shook my head but reverted my attention back to Mike. “Look, I can help you close, grab a pack, and then I myself will make it a point to speak with your lovely wife Betty and maybe I can begin to help out more often for the same reasonable price.”

     “Sam, if you worked at the lumber yard you could actually buy food. Good lord knows your momma don’t feed you even when she is in town.”  

     I grunted at the blunt honesty. “Fine, if you don’t want my help I’ll apply at the lumber yard, but for the sake of all that is well in this world give me a pack before I have to hear Roger go on about a damn dog he is never gonna have.”

     “Hey!” Roger began to object. I raised a hand of silence towards him not letting my gaze leave Mike. He was never good with continual rejection.  

     “Fine!” He pulled at his hair and threw a pack at me. “This is the last time! Boy, I swear if I lose my job because you want to become your deadbeat dad, I am going to personally kill you myself.”

     “Ya…ya.” I pulled Roger by the arm leading him out the back.  

     “Hey! I thought you were going to help me close,” Mike yelled from the front of the store.

     “I did not say what day!” I laughed at my twisted game with only a semblance of guilt at how gullible Mike was. If I didn’t make a point to at least ask Betty about the lumber yard he wouldn’t ever give me a pack again.  

     The stars were already filling the night’s sky, casting an eerie glow on the lake.

     Home wasn’t too far from here, but I would never let Roger walk back to his house alone. I never knew if his mom was there or not, and when she wasn’t his stepdad could be a nasty son of a bitch.  

     “Come on, Roger, I’ll walk you to your place.” I turned to see Roger staring out at the center of the lake. “What is it man?”

     “It’s Spike! Spike!” Roger shouted out waving his stick around in the air.

     “That dog doesn’t know some random name you just pinned on him two hours ago.” I grabbed Roger, determined to get out of the cold. “Leave him there and let’s get moving.”

     Roger yanked at his hand, taking a step out onto the lake. “No, I think he’s stuck. He’s not moving, he must be scared.”

     Him and his obsession with the nasty stray were starting to fray my nerves. “Well, that dog got himself on the ice he can get himself off. It’s not thick enough for us to walk on, anyways. Leave him and he’ll find his own way back.”

     “No man, we have to get him! I can’t just leave him there.”

     “Roger, you don’t even know how to swim. What if the ice breaks on you? Then what?”

     Roger ignored my words and continued to yell out a name that held no meaning to the dog. 

     The ice-chilled air was nipping at my skin, my jacket now serving no comfort. Roger seemed ill phased, his determination for the stray clearly not diminishing anytime soon, and as of now my toes were beginning to feel like phantom ants were feasting on them. “Fine. If I go get him will you please stop this nonsense?”

     “If you go get him I will buy you your next pack, but I’m still gonna keep him.”

     I shook my head and mumbled all the cusswords I knew to myself on my slow track to the dog. The ice was steadier than I expected for the beginning of winter. As I leaned in closer I could see what the holdup was. Sometime from us seeing him and now, Spike got a nasty slice of his leg cut up.  “Come here, stupid dog. Come here, you nasty pile of fleas.” Spike let out a low growl and a bark warning me off. I guess he doesn’t like being referred to as a nasty pile of fleas. “Look, Roger wants to take care of the flea problem, but you’re on your own about the stupid part.” Two more loud barks followed by a quick snap at my hands made me take a few quick stumbled steps back. The loud cracks of ice caused by my quick movement were all too real, snapping through the air like a whip.  

     “Roger!” I could feel my stomach jump into my throat as I waited for time to resume. “I can’t get him and the ice is breaking.”

     “Just grab him man you’re right there!”

     “Bastard tried to bite me,” I objected.  

     “Well, quit talking mess and handle it,” he shouted back.  

     A giant smile played across my face at how well Roger knew me. I suppose ten years relationship would do that. I suppose it would also have you find yourself trapped on cracked ice trying to get a mutt you don’t even like just to please your best friend. I took one more step towards Spike, watching as the ice sent tiny cracks splicing out.  

     I took in a deep breath. “Spike, whatever you do don’t move.” I watched as his ears perked up, his tail wagging as he looked Roger’s way.  Roger had taken a few steps out, shouting his name and waving that stick in the air. “No, Roger!” I shouted, but it was too late. Spike took this moment to listen to his name, darting out to meet Roger. The ice split and cracked, giving out beneath me. I cursed myself for leaving my jacket on as the weight of it filling with water pulled me further under, the ice cold depths of the lake taking all the air from my lungs. I fought all I could with my jacket, but it wouldn’t let me escape. I could hear muffled screams from the surface and see a light, but I was trapped. All I could think about was how I was going to lose my life over a damn stray infested with fleas, how God had determined that the infectious mutt had more potential to give the world than me.  

     I felt myself being lifted to the surface, a blanket failing at warming my skin, muffled words and bright lights. “Tired.” I think the words escaped my lips, or maybe just my mind, but I was tired in all aspects and all I wanted was to sleep. Roger shook me, urging me to stay awake. Something about a meaningless dog, but I couldn’t grasp what was being said; I had never felt sleep demand me like this before. It grabbed me with an iron fist commanding I listen, and what more could I do but listen to its warm voice that promised such sweet satisfaction?   

 

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Twins by:Michael Tucker, Ceramic mixed media, 2015.

Renton
by: Miguel Reyes

     Bells and a neon sign that read Welcome greeted me when I walked through the door. There’s no hostess to beam a false smile and ask me “Smoking or non-smoking?” It’s the type of diner where the customers seat themselves wherever they’d like. This restaurant smells like a dirty wash cloth; I can taste the dish water in the air. The floors are sticky with ketchup and maple syrup. Bulbous dim lights above flicker when the local train speeds by, rattling the plates and eating utensils on the tables and bars. This is the kind of place people passing by on road trips stop at just to take a piss. It’s an almost empty restaurant in the middle of nowhere where everyone knows no one. The few people grubbing and drinking old, burned coffee pay no attention to me as I walk myself to a table in the back. No one knows who I am here; I should be safe for a good while.

     I take my seat in a corner booth, the red leather squawks against my jeans. The tables themselves match the encrusted ugliness of the diner. The fake sugar packets are scattered across the crumbs, napkins ripped out of their holders, and there are coffee and creamer stains permanently blemished into the wood. The nastiness from the table nearly made the menu slip through my fingers. My stomach churns and gives me nausea. Deciding to stop and eat at this greasy spoon wasn’t a wise choice.

     “No, it was not.” Renton, my other worst half says as he seats himself in front of me. “Not your wisest choice at all.”

     “Stopping here was your idea.” I reminded him. “I could’ve kept on driving for a few more hours.”

     “Yeah, but you’re hungry. Get yourself some pancakes since we’re here.” Renton snatches the menu from my greasy fingertips and says “What kind do they have anyway?”

     “You mean you were hungry?”

     “You, me, is there a difference anymore?” he drops his fist hard on the table and shouts, “Can we get some fucking service around here? We’ve been sitting here for two minutes! Some water would be nice!”

     “Can you keep it down?”

     Renton’s voice discharges immense pain deep in the crevices of my fragmented brain. His being is a nuisance to my very existence. Everything about him is borrowed. He isn’t true, he is a lie. He’s a copy of copies.

     “Don’t lie, I know you love my voice.” He smiles a very toothy smile.

     “Stay out of my—”

     “What can I get for you today?” the robust waitress with prominent pit stains seeping into her yellow uniform, and with a tag on her breast that says her name is Linda interrupted me. She glares at me with crusty eyes and ample disinterest, pen and ink already touching her notepad.

     “It’s about fucking time.” Renton said. “I’ll have a big stack of blueberry pancakes, eggs sunny side way up, bacon burned to a crisp and a glass of your finest orange juice.”

     “I’ll just have plain pancakes, thanks.” I hand Linda the grease drenched menu.

     “Coming right up.” Linda walks away without having written anything on her notepad.

     “Where are we right now?” Renton asked.

     “A shitty diner.”

     “I meant on the road, asshole.”

     A substantial sigh of pure exhaustion exhales, “I don’t know. The last road sign I remember seeing said Kansas, so maybe we’re in Kansas.”

     “That’s kind of boring; the only things Kansas is known for are tornadoes, the Wizard of Oz, and the song Dust in the Wind”.

     How I came to know Renton is beyond me. I don’t remember how or when we met. It’s as if he just appeared in my life. I don’t even know if I should call him a friend. He’s definitely not family. He isn’t of any importance to me, I’d reach across this table and choke him until he’s black and blue in the face if I could, and he knows that. Renton is no one to me, but he knows everything about me.

     “Damn right I do.” He shuffles in his coat pocket for his pack of Kools and pulls a bent one out. “You were raised on eggs and ketchup,” Renton lights the cigarette as it hangs from the corner of his mouth. “Your dad getting his ass kicked by loan sharks for not paying his dues was normal for your family. Your mother would beat you for feeding your dog the vegetables you wouldn’t eat. You were also that kid who shit his pants that one time in kindergarten.”

     “Here you go.” Linda sets down the plate of a towering stack of pancakes on the table alongside with the maple syrup. “Enjoy.” She said indifferently and walked away.

     “Thanks, Linda.” Renton dragged from his cigarette. “You lost your sanity when you were thirteen. You grew up with dollar store toys, and you lived in a house where roaches crawled all over your food.”

     “I know, I lived it all.” I pour the maple syrup on the leaning tower of pancakes.

     Renton’s Cheshire grin is always an unpleasant sight. “Oh, don’t get all pouty now.”

     The palm of my hand slams on the table, causing every single eye in the diner to turn and gawk at me. “Shut up.” I whisper. “I don’t need to hear anymore of me.”

     “Stop being so fucking scared. Face yourself.” Renton demands. “Look at you. You’re sitting in a diner somewhere along the yellow brick road, miles away from home. You have no more money, no place to live; your car is getting ready to breakdown on you—what the fuck happened?”

     “You happened.”

     Renton’s laugh travels through the diner, but no one is distracted by it. “There you go again, always blaming everyone but yourself.”

     “You are to blame! It’s because of you I can’t go home!”

     Renton locks his fingers together on the table and leans forward to say “No one is keeping you here; you can go home whenever you want.”

     “I’ll go to jail.”

     “And whose fault is that?”

     “Yours!” I yelled. All eyes were on me again. They’re starting to get annoyed. One more outburst and I think I’ll be thrown out.

     “You’re always playing the victim. You blamed your addiction to pain killers on your mother, your shitty grades on your professors, your shitty life on how your parents raised you. You want to know why your life has been so fucking deplorable, why you were never able to succeed in anything . . .  because of you. You’re the problem. Whenever you’re pointing a finger at someone or something, there’s three pointing right back at you.”

     It’s Renton’s fault. It’s his entire fault. It’s his fault I’m on the run. It’s his fault I can’t go back home. It’s Renton’s fault that I’m insane.

     “You were insane before I even came in the picture!” He puts out his cigarette in the maple syrup. “You’re brain damaged. And stop blaming me for what you did; I only gave you a little push. You were scared, and you were already dead set on going through with it. You stole the gun from his locker and you proceeded from there.”

     “Shut up, stay out of my head!” I’m going insane. Renton is making me go insane. He’s the little devil on both of my shoulders, spouting off nonsense and ramblings of a mentally disturbed person.

     “No, you’re mentally disturbed, and what I’m saying isn’t nonsense, it’s the damn truth. You’re just too stubborn to even realize everything that’s happened to you is your fault.” He takes a nine millimeter out of his pocket and sets it in front of me. “This is the gun you used; this is the gun you’ve been using since that night.”

     “It wasn’t me behind the gun that night. I was watching you. You held the gun and you pulled the trigger.” Remember, Renton is a lie. There is nothing true about him. He’s the devil, he’s the little voice in everyone’s head telling them they’re insignificant and should kill themselves.

     “Yet, you were still there watching. Why didn’t you stop me? You could’ve if you were so inclined.” He grabs the gun from the table and checks to see if it’s loaded, cocks it and aims it between my eyes. “Want to try stopping me now?”

     “What are you doing? Put that down. People will see!” I try to grab the gun from across the table, but Renton shoves me into my seat.

     Renton lowers the gun from my face and aims it at his temple. “All it takes is one bullet to kill me and you. Go ahead, try and stop me.”

     “You wouldn’t . . .”

     “No, you wouldn’t,” he laughs. “I would, and you know it.”

     The static image of a news anchor comes on the television hanging above the bar; everyone in the restaurant watches the breaking news bulletin, smoking and shoving pork sausages down their gullets.

     “Looks like you’re famous.” Renton lowers the gun. “Your ugly mug is all over the news.”

     He’s right, my picture hovers next to the news anchor as she reports about my crimes. Her deep southern accent and static from the television makes it difficult to hear what she’s saying, but I already know what’s being reported. I know what I did. I know what Renton did.  

     “The Police are on a manhunt for twenty-two year old Renton Parker, who’s a prime suspect in a series of mass murders in north Texas. The search has been continuing for three days and police are desperate to find Parker in fear of him killing again. Parker’s murders began in his own home when he murdered his own mother and stepfather, he then went on the run driving through north Texas shooting police officers and innocent bystanders in the crossfire. Police still do not know his motives. Parker is considered highly dangerous and should not be confronted. He is believed to have traveled north into Kansas by now, if anyone has any information on the whereabouts of this man, notify the police immediately.”

     All eyes are on me again, the whispers of frightened hicks are loud enough for me to hear. I see a trucker reaching inside his coat—I hope he’s reaching for his wallet.

     “You know for damn sure he’s not reaching for his wallet.” Renton slowly slides me the gun across the table. “Go ahead.”

     I slide the gun back to Renton. “No.”

     “You’re getting soft.” Renton grabs the gun. “Go ahead and blame me for this one.”

     Prison or the electric chair isn’t an option for Renton. Even though I loathe everything about him, he enjoys me. He enjoys the trouble we get into. The pain and suffering he causes me tickles him pink. Renton is a sadistic monster, the irritation of existence. A harbinger of insanity and death. He’s the vilest part about me, and I can’t do anything to stop him. I’m not sure if I want to anymore.

     I’m no longer seated, I’m standing with a gun in my hand, but I have no control of my own being anymore. Renton’s disappeared, but he’s very close. “Very fucking close.” Renton words seeping out of my mouth. “And now for the punchline,” the cold steel rises in the air, aiming at the trucker with his hand still in his coat. “Everybody dies.”

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