Hafa Adai!

This creative writing workshop has undeniably been my highlight of this past semester.  In no other class was I given the free reign to truly make the class my own. That is exactly why I enjoyed the workshop so much. I have an imagination that I refuse to keep in check, and the creative writing workshop was all about imagination. What situations could we envision? What people could we create? What statements did we have? I enjoyed the challenge imposed on me. But beyond even that, I have always had an admiration for great writers. With ink on paper, people like Twain, or Steinbeck, or Morrison could get readers to form pictures in their mind. And also, they could be entertaining or moving or funny. Best of all, their work could be enjoyed by almost everyone who picked them up.  I was excited to be part of a class that could help get me to where I want to be. I'm not trying to say I'm the next Ernest Hemingway or anything like that, but at the very least, with this class I'm working on getting somewhere, anywhere.

Feed Him For a Lifetime

Just a speck. That’s all the boat was as it ebbed and flowed with the gigantic ocean, yet the young man in the boat did not care about that. His belly was empty, his face was burnt; days had gone by without a decent catch. He spat in contempt.

His bitter tug on the pole revealed only the weightlessness of bait and hook rising to the surface. Again he spat in contempt.

A tug at the other end bent the top of the young man’s pole.

The pole jerked!

The young man’s heart raised tempo. All was not lost after all. He grasped the pole with the spool whirling. Furiously he reeled in and did battle, forcing the spool to swallow yard after yard of line.

In his mind he ridiculed the inferior creature for not being stronger.

Eventually, just beneath the sapphire pane of water near the front of his boat, a shimmering fish, looking like some strange, oblong underwater mirror, wrenched against the hook and line. Was it bonito? Perhaps yellow-fin? Whatever it was, it would surely make a grand meal. Closer and closer, the young man hauled the master of the sea to the boat. Peering down his nose, he smirked, his chest swelled with pomposity, for here was the fish, so easily conquered.

He reached for his gaff, preparing to hook his foe. He had the tuna’s head at the surface when the fish gave a final heave and snapped the line. In dismay, the young man gaped at the place where he was once so sure his next meal was to come. His gut, empty as the end of his fishing line, rumbled.

A Word About Feed Him For a Lifetime

I think it's clear that "Feed Him For a Lifetime" was an early piece. I had not developed my skill sufficiently to create a writing "voice" that was my own (I still have a lot of work to do in that regard, but, especially with this and "The Modern Marianas Home," I didn't know how to be more unique).  Of course I've edited it, but largely it remains unchanged.

The piece was inspired by days I had spent fishing with my father in the waters off of Saipan. Though we always used handlines to fish out of the reef, my father and I also used fishing rods if we stayed in the reef.  I combined elements of both fishing methods for "Feed Him For a Lifetime."  I hope that the title is familiar to everyone; I took it from the saying, "give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, feed him forever."

One major edit is I removed the character's name and changed him from an old man to a young man. I wanted to give a detached feeling to the fable, so removing the character's name helped do that. As for the age change, I figured it more likely that a older, wiser fisherman would have learned the price of arrogance a long time ago.

My characteriztion is a shortfall of this piece. In the fable the fisherman is not a very deep charatcter. He only goes from bitter to cocky to sad in that order. I suppose that for short pieces that is acceptable, however, the lack of character depth is one part of a larger problem this piece has with description.  I think some of my descriptions are generic. For example, "A tug at the other end bent the top of the young man’s pole. The pole jerked!" does not paint an image the way I want it to.  

I'd have to give myself a 75% for this story

The Modern Marianas Home

It was a small house at the edge of a jungle and inside was a wild mess of junk. Oh, it was furnished modestly—carpeted flooring here, dining set there, couches arranged together. However, there was also the electronics. There were the two hand-held game systems, the 3 video game consoles, the blinking wireless internet modem, the various storage devices, the blueray player, the 4 smartphones, the gigantic television, the 5 laptops—one on the kitchen counter, three on the coffee table, and the last on the rug—and the miles and miles of cable. Yet of all these, the sovereign among them was the gleaming computer that sat enshrined in a room of its own. Everyday the children would come home and race to be the first to use it; hair pulled, shins kicked, faces slapped, all for the chance to sit and glare into the abyss of its screen. Often, the youngest child, a girl, could do nothing but sit and cry as her elders always got to the computer first.

One day the girl’s elders were out replacing their cell phones, leaving the young girl alone to peacefully use the computer. She happily browsed for hours over her favorite sites. The sun was mighty that day, shining brightly through the window. The young girl got up to draw the blinds, but paused for a moment in front of the windowpane to view a peculiar sight. All her life she had lived at that small house by the jungle and had grown accustomed to the vegetation.  But on this day, a strange dirt path cut its way through the trees. What’s more, far down at the end of the path she could see an enormous tronkon nunu, its branches waving to her from the darkness. She drew the shades and walked to her father, questioning him as to the origins of the strange dirt path. With a look of bemusement, her father explained there was no dirt path, that the jungle was as it always was. She urged her father to come with her to the window and see for himself, which he gladly did. Her father drew back the shade and looked out, but no dirt path could be found. He chuckled lightly and patted the young girl on the head, waving it off as an innocent child’s prank. Confused, the young girl resumed browsing the internet.

The next day, they young girl was again lucky enough to have the computer all to herself, and she took her time browsing.  As in the day before, the sun was mighty, shining through the window directly on the young girl. She inched towards the window to draw the shade, apprehensively recalling the mysterious dirt path. She peeked out at the jungle once more, and again saw a peculiar sight. A chubby, little koko stood five feet from the window, his head cocked to the side, looking directly at the young girl. After a few seconds of staring at each other, the young girl decided to try to chase the bird away. She put her hand before her and made a shooing sound and motion. To her surprise, the bird bent forward and bobbed his body up and down, mimicking her. She shooed him away harder, but the little koko stayed put, bobbing up and down harder than before. She was about to shut the blinds and turn away from the window, but thought she saw the koko gesture with his mouth; it looked like he was showing tongue at her. Looking again at the bird, he indeed did open his mouth and poke his tongue at her, so she stuck her tongue out in retaliation. This tongue showing competition carried on for a few moments until her confused mother entered the room. The young girl explained the situation, but when they both peered out the window, all that could be seen was the empty yard and the jungle behind it. Brushing it off as a young child’s active imagination, the young girl’s mother smiled and walked off, listening to an mp3 player. Bewildered more than ever, the young girl drew the blinds and went off to her room.

            That night a storm raged outside, winds shook the windows and thunder clapped through the sky. The young girl had trouble sleeping, and tossed around in her bed. The darkness pressed on her heavily. She heard her bedroom door give a long and slow creep. With her heart racing, she got up to close it, the darkness still bearing down on her and the winds threatening to crack the window.  The door of the computer room was ajar, and a faint glow came from behind it. The young girl heard faint noises, too, that at first sounded like a rat tapping its nails on a tin roof. When she got closer though, the young girl undeniably identified the tapping noise as someone typing on the keyboard. She inhaled sharply; everyone in her house was asleep.  A gust of wind threw the door open, revealing the room to be empty, and the computer to be off.  And at that moment a bolt of lighting flashed in the window, tearing along with it a horrendous crash of thunder. The girl ran back to her bedroom but her foot caught on something and she was dragged to the floor. The thing slithered around her whole body, coiling tightly around her neck as she struggled to break free.  The glow from the computer room was back on, but red this time. It illuminated the room enough to let the young girl see that it was electrical lines entangling her.

            The young girl let out a blood-curdling scream and sat up. Strangely she found herself in the safety of her room. It was all just a dream, she convinced herself at length, and nervously shut her eyes to sleep again.

            Days past and things were normal for the girl and her family. The elders always got to the computer first, but this was because the young girl had become tired of fighting over it.  On a day when all her siblings were out replacing their laptops, the little girl was starting towards the computer room when she saw through her open back door the chubby little koko.  He twice jumped in and out of the doorframe then turned abruptly and ran towards the jungle.  The young girl raced after him. She was outside under the powerful sun and remarked at how gracefully the trees danced with the flowing wind. Ahead of her she could see the koko run down the dirt path. She followed after him, giggling as she did. Finally she saw the koko stop in front of the giant tronkon nunu, whose branches still waved at her. The path was not as long as she thought it would be, and the surrounding trees were quite to her liking. Off in the distance she could hear her elders noisily arriving home. Through the computer room window, she watched as they fought to be the first to use the king computer.  They pulled, kicked, and slapped to earn the right to stare into the abyss. The young girl showed her tongue at them quietly and then turned to play with the chubby little koko.

Comments on The Modern Marianas Home

Along with "Feed Him For a Lifetime," "The Modern Marianas Home" really shows what I was like when I started the class. However, because this was the second story I had written, I had listened to comments my classmates had made on other presented works, adapting as needed. Because of this, "The Modern Marianas Home" is more refined than "Feed Him For a Lifetime."

When I was small, I always loved when my mother read stories before bed time. Like I've said elsewhere, I have, and always had, an active imagination. Some of the most imaginative stories my mother read to me were fables. It's no wonder I drew inspiration from them when writing "The Modern Marianas Home."  I hope readers will notice that I gave that quintessential "detached" feel to the piece. Also, I put in elements of repetition to mimic fables we tell children.

Yet, aside from drawing inspiration from fables, I also drew inspiration from my childhood. I grew up in two villages, As Teo and As Lito, that still have dense jungles to this day. I can remember hours spent walking through dense brush, just passing the time. There were also those trips my father, brother, and I would take through the jungle looking for wild hot peppers. This fondness for the jungle shows up in my writing.

This piece could earn an 80%

Tatters

This place is amazing. It's something bad to most people, but something too good to be true to me. With a little bit of money I can turn these walls into paradise. Tonight it’s like I transformed this whole village into heaven.  I’m the only one in here tonight. Just the way I like it. Just me and the angels.

*

Nights like this remind me of Ton. I know you’ve heard all kinds of things about him; he’s always been easy to talk about cuz he’s so strange. When I met him, though, he wasn’t all that over the edge. I mean, yeah, he did walk around with slippers so worn out they should have been thrown in the garbage, but he ain’t the only one on island who holds on to things he ought not to.

I hope you don’t laugh when I say I always paid attention to his clothes and things like that.  Ton’s clothes were way too baggy. In fact, he reminded me of a fat person who dropped weight too quick; his shirt and legs looked like folds of leftover skin. I’ve always regretted not offering him a pair of my old shirts—he coulda fit ‘em. He told me he got all his clothes from the Red Cross and he was their number one customer; I had to hold back my tongue to remind him those were donated clothes. 

He kinda had that way about him in the bar: loud and proud of things no one else considered important. He’d strut in all alone with nothing but those tattered slippers and baggy clothes for company, then plump down on a stool right in front of me and exclaim, “My favorite haole! Ta fan guimen!” But of course I could never give Ton enough beers to get way hammered; he was flat broke like almost everyone else. Plus—and don’t tell anyone about this—Ton was only nineteen when he started hanging around here.

But just cuz he was broke and young didn’t mean he was selfish. After he’d spend his last dollars on a bottle of beer, he’d almost always offer a joint to share between the two of us. And when I’d say no, I’d notice something fade behind those bloodshot eyes of his.

I hear you and other customers make fun of Ton as you look at him through the window. I wish you would stop. You all seem to think its funny he’s missing a finger, or that the drug dealers normally shake him down for money he doesn’t have.  

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to change any opinions of him. If it pleases you to beat down on a man like Ton, then go right ahead. The next time you do wanna make him the butt of the joke though, make sure I’m not in listening distance. Or at the very least, realize things weren’t always this way. Knowing all the things I know about him…jokes like the one you guys make don’t seem funny at all.

Like, what’s that thing Juan always says about Ton? He’s so bad in bed the hookers down the street tell him to keep his money? Something like that, right? Well first off, how the hell is Juan supposed to know what Ton is like in bed? That’s weird. And secondly, that’s about the most ignorant thing anyone could say about Ton—hookers not taking his money, I mean. Ton was always such a sucker for easy women, and the easier he could get a woman to suck, the bigger of a sucker he became.  Once he barged right through that door and sat at his familiar seat and pulled me in close, like he needed to tell a secret.

“Did you know $30 will get you a blowjob from those girls down the street?” he asked, with a huge smile. “I’m one lucky guy.”

Ya I know, I know. B.j.’s aren’t supposed to cost that much—not that I speak from experience or anything. I should have said something, but I figured Ton didn’t have the cash to make a habit out of visiting those girls. I didn’t think he’d ever go back. But then again, like Juan sometimes says, pussy’s one hell of a drug. It can make you do strange things. I’ve seen enough evidence of that to argue against Juan. Hell, I’ve given enough tequila shots to enough half-clothed women from enough fully drunk men to say otherwise. I just wish Juan and his sayings were wrong about Ton and his women.

I never understood Ton in that regard—how he could so eagerly pay for sex. Also I don’t understand the concept of paying for sex in general; enough people give it away for free. Like, look down the bar for example.

No! Don’t turn your head that much.

Stare out the side of your eyes….

There that’s better.

Ok, see what’s-her-name in the black dress with her boobies all ready to say hello to the whole damn bar? Notice how she’s talking to Mr.Actslikeabadass? Notice how she has 5 empty glasses next to her and is hanging all over him? Notice how she’s saying her head is light, and her face is hot, and she needs to get to bed soon cuz she drank too much? Well she’s full of shit. I only put alcohol in one of those drinks.  She just wants someone to spend the night with, looks like…don’t know why she has to put up an act.

There I go rambling and looking at boobies again ……I really need to stop drinking as I tell a story.

Anyhoo. Back to Ton.

I figured Ton didn’t have the money to make a habit out of visiting those girls. Man, was I wrong. I’d see him most nights as I locked up, stumbling out their wood and tin barracks, wallet in hand. Sometimes he wouldn’t leave right away; he’d stare at the light glowing out the window with eyes like a lonely boonie dog about to die. The pain of leaving was a shot of low-end vodka, burning all the way down his chest. He’d let out a sigh as he’d glance at his beat-up wallet, its weightlessness weighing heavy in his heart. Sometimes he’d open the wallet looking for money, but close it right away because he spent it all. He’d open it one more time, just in case his eyes were fooling him. But it’s not drunk eyes that fool a person; it’s a drunk brain and a drunk heart working together that do. So Ton would wander down the road, tattered slippers and all, his head down and his back bent as he made his way past me. Sometimes he’d say goodnight, but most of the time melancholy kept his mouth shut. After that he’d start that lowly jalopy of his and drive home. Ton always headed south; Ton was always heading south.

Is he still funny to you?  

There he goes now, right across the street. I’m surprised he can muster up the courage to walk by that side of the village anymore…Oh, hold on a minute. Juan’s asking for a beer.

*

These girls definitely deserve better.  Mama-sang never lets them go any further than the bar down the road. She really gets mad when the girls don’t convince the sailors and marines to do business. Like sailors and marines are the only guys that have money, or what? Actually, to be honest, I like it when the girls don’t do business with those guys. The girls aren’t tissue paper. You don’t throw them away like that.  

And you know what? Mama-sang doesn’t care about the girls’ feelings either. She’s just a matåpang lady. If she were a dude I’d slap her. She always atan båbas me when I come in the door. I think it has something to do with my slippers or something.  Or maybe it’s just cuz she’s a bitch.

If I could, I’d take all the girls away from her. I’d make ‘em stay in Fiesta. There aren’t cockroaches or rats there. And they’d get to eat real food, not soba or steamed vegetables everyday. Best of all the bedsprings don’t poke into your back at Fiesta. You can take your time and roll around.

            I’d teach them Chamorro too. They could tell me all those jokes they like to crack. They’re always in such joking moods when I’m around, laughing and giggling. Even though I can’t understand their Chinese, I like to think I make them happy.  

But not Mama-sang.

*

Håfa Adai, Tirow Wami, and good evening commonwealth. This is Jane Havisham reporting for KSPN evening news. Our top story: A Chamorro minor was taken to the Commonwealth Health Center after he was assaulted early yesterday morning in Garapan. The victim, whose name has been withheld due to ongoing police investigation of the assault, is believed to have been involved with the drug and prostitution rings that plague the Eastern Garapan area. Mary Phelps has more on the story. Mary.

*           

Thanks Jane. I’m here at the intersection of Bella de Noche Street and Amantes Avenue, where police tell me that a young Chamorro man was recently beat by three men brandishing blunt weapons and brass knuckles. Eyewitness accounts say the young man is a frequenter of a known brothel just down the road from Jimmy’s Bar and Grill. Purportedly, the victim was seen sprinting from the building at around 1:30 a.m. Moments after seeing this, eye-witnesses also report hearing men and women in the tin-structure yelling, before seeing a group of men rushing after the victim. Police say the group of men caught the victim hiding here, in this boonie area behind me, only about 150 yards from the alleged brothel. The group of men is suspected of violently beating the victim unconscious and leaving him there to die.

*

            Where are they? I got to hope they didn’t see me run in here… It’s dark…and I’m not that big…I’ll be ok… I’ll be…Oh man, what the hell was I thinking? Hell, I wasn’t thinking at all—I just reacted. It’s not my fault. Mama-sang went too far this time. I paid for my time godamnit! I paid. Mama-sang ain’t the boss. She just watches the place. She has no business holding anyone’s cash. Who is she to demand that I pay her? It wasn’t her in the bedroom. I can’t believe she went for my wallet like that—straight ripped it out my hand.

           

            But did she deserve to be hit with that pot full of boiling water?

*

            Who were we talking about again? Oh yeah. Ton.

Man… I felt bad when they arrested him for smacking that old lady. Ya, they treated him for his wounds and everything up at CHC, but once he was cleared—wooo—out the window and straight to a holding cell. Judge Cabrera wasn’t going to give him a chance; he was johning in Garapan and splashing boiling water on old women! Of course he’d get jail time—black eyes, broken ribs, and bruised skin notwithstanding.  The news reporters just loved that particular detail.

Hey, did you know that’s the only way I learned his last name? By listening to the news about his case? Ton Guerrero. Juan told me that Guerrero means warrior in Spanish…Ton Warrior.

Oh sorry. That’s the beer rambling again.

Ton ought to come by here one of these days.

Oh don’t get that look on your face. I’d keep him out of your hair. What with the jail time, and the years past, I think I’m long overdue for a “Hey haole! Ta fan guimen!” or whatever he used to barge in here with.

           

*

Nothing —I am nothing.

Who’s ever been my friend? Who’s ever been my family? I’ve never had either. No one can rescue me now; I’m filthier than the mud at my back.a There is no light in me and I have no guts. I’m just hallow and dark; a pig that’s been killed and cleaned. I deserve to be killed and cleaned. I deserve it all.

I deserve it all….

What I tought about Tatters

With Tatters, what I was attempting to do was recreate the way information about an event travels on a small island. Primarily, gossip is low-tech. Word of mouth is still the main way people hear about other people. It’s how we “shoot the breeze” in a small place. However, I threw in the news report section of the story because that’s also another common way people hear about friends or family they have been out of touch with. The title comes from the tattered way different perspectives are sown together to tell the story of one event. This holds true no matter where you are. There are always more than one, two, or even three sides to any story. If that wasn’t already obvious, I wanted to make it clear to the reader. Especially in the case of small locations, gossip can reach pandemic proportions. I don’t think I need to mention how much damage gossip can cause.  I’ll consider “Tatters” a success if anyone reads it and goes, “I’m gonna cut back on talking negatively about others.”

There were two large influences on my writing. At the time I wrote “Tatters” I was also reading Gilman’s “Life in the Iron Mills.” I greatly admired the way she was able to so skillfully blend first, second, and third person perspectives into one narration. In fact, her story was so refined she put third person limited and omniscient point of view in the same work without the story coming off as poorly written. I attempted to accomplish a blending of views with “Tatters.” That is why I have sections of Ton’s first person perspective preceding and following the bar owner’s third person limited perspective. I was trying my best to fill all the roles. However, perhaps I too powerfully break the “fourth wall” with my use of the second person perspective in the bar owner’s pieces. For example, lines 65-68 just felt awkward in short story form. Perhaps they would be more appropriate within the context of a play.

The second influence was Sherman Alexie’s The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. Alexie’s work blew my mind with his use of white space to separate fantasy, reality, and time. With any other writer, white space was useless; with Alexie, white space was a vehicle between perspectives. He took what used to be a piece of paper and turned it into a piece of his story. I’ve never encountered that before and I was stunned when I finally did. I took that idea and ran with it for “Tatters.”

Besides white space, Alexie’s work also encouraged me to attempt to bring my island perspective to life. Alexie used his work to shine light on issues affecting modern Native Americans. I hope I can do the same with works like “Tatters.” In fact, “Tatters” is a springboard for an entire collection of stories I’d like to write about Garapan.
Something that concerns me about "Tatters" is the similarity between the unnamed bar owner and Ton. I feel that they often sound the same. Ton is supposed to be Chamorro, and I've included some Chamorro words in his dialogue, but I still feel his delivery resembles the unnamed bar owner too much. 

The biggest problem I had with “Tatters” is that I didn’t know how to conclude it properly. By the end of the story I’m not sure if readers sufficiently care about Ton's well being. Also, I question how fulfilled my readers are with the final section. My problems in "Tatters" are part of an overall problem I have with tension. I would love to write the kind of heart pumping tension Arthur Miller was capable of in The Crucible, but I still have trouble recognizing tension's building blocks. 

Score: 75%

Senioritis: The Wonder Disease

It’s August. I’m in bed. Class starts in a few minutes, but I just kinda lay there, staring at the ceiling as it scolds me for not getting ready. In my mind’s eye I see the old faces of my professors, and the new faces of strangers to the university. I decide to shut all my eyes and go back to sleep, and when I wake up it’s almost September.

I groan. I stretch. I sit up.

I say fuck it.

I lie back down.

Then it’s really September. I can tell, because outside, the sky is crying. There are two words for crying in Chamorro, “kåti” and “tånges.” Kåti is a baby’s wail, or a child’s tantrum. But tånges is crying with a reason. The kind of crying adults do. The kind of tears I shed when I left home for the first time. When Dad hugged me before I got in the terminal. When Mom kissed me after Dad hugged me. Each time Baby Brother called to say, I wuv u. Tånges, each one of them.

But not only people shed tånges tears.

Tumåtånges i kurason-hu.  

Outside, grey September thunderclouds yell, “Get up! You’ve spent close to three grand for those classes! Leche. You act like you’re rich.”

The heavy blinds leave this place dark. I reach out in front of me, unsure of what lies ahead. There is much chance that I’ll stumble. My room is so messy; my life is messy too.

By some miracle I make it to the bathroom. Brush my teeth, shower, dry my body. Throw on a faded pair of cheap jeans. Throw on a wrinkled, generic white tee. Look for my hat. Leave the bathroom. Enter the living room. Remember that I forgot to do my homework. Remember that I haven’t called home in too long. Cuss, cuss, cuss.

A cockroach scampers across the floor and wishes me good morning. I wanna kill him but he was so polite; he watches as I step over the pile of clothes, brush past the bottles of beer, open the two day old pizza box as if pizza were to magically appear. A lump on the couch shifts his sleeping position. Heading to class? The lump grumbles and says no. How you been bro?

Silence.

I step out the apartment front door, all dressed and smelling good. It’s close to October. I still walk to class because my family can’t help me buy a car. It doesn’t rain as much in October as in September, thank God, but the clouds manage to get grey from time to time.

I worry.

The middle of the semester is slow like my footsteps that drag across the cracked asphalt road. Why is it that all the things around me need repair? The road—the journey—stretches out endlessly; I feel I won’t ever get to where I need to be. The distance between me and my classroom is like the distance between two hearts that once loved each other but have since grown apart. That kind of distance is farther than the Marianas Trench is deep, and twice as cold. Maybe just as dark.

In the middle of my walk, a group of people on the side of the road says, “Hey che’lu, match?”

I have a joint to spare and agree to the match. They bust out their joint too. I smoke, but we don’t match. We smoke, and I turn complete strangers to fake friends.

Mom is calling my phone; I ignore. I blink.

The end of October already? I rush down the road to the university front gate to find it locked.  Good fences make good neighbors, so they say, but bad students still jump good gates anyway.

I hit the ground unprepared for the impact, and November is a shock that runs up my body; how did time sneak up on me like that? November can be a few things. November is sneaky, that’s one thing November can be. But it’s sometimes more. To guys who haven’t done their papers (guys like me), November is the feeling at 11:54 p.m. when your paper is due via email at 11:55 p.m. and your internet is down. November is anxiety, that’s another thing November can be.  I walk across campus in November and I am irony incarnate; in a sea of knowledge I am brain dead. I  traverse these campus walkways, always in movement, never with direction. November is uselessness, that’s another thing November can be.

The end of my wandering brings me to the entrance of the giant stomach that is this university’s lecture hall. It smells funny. I inhale boredom and exhale interest. I’m not surprised to be the only student here at the moment. I am surprised by what I see ahead of me.

A white note pinned to the door glows through the dimness. I pull it from the door and in doing so slash my index. Nasty paper cut. The note has a lecture in store for me. It starts by saying all I do is waste. Every opportunity, every chance I get; waste. You were sent here to do one thing, one simple thing, the note says, and you blew even that. Waste. Tears you cried, nights you staid up, waste. So leave now, you who so eagerly ignored opportunity, leave to the darkness of your room. Leave, and do not return ‘till next semester.

I look out the window; I look back at the note. December.

Note still in hand, I take my phone out of my pocket and call home, looking for Mom, looking for Dad, looking for anyone to talk to. The voice that picks up is a woman’s; a woman I don’t recognize. It is calm and soft. It is sorry. The number I have dialed is out of service. If I would like to try again, I can do so at another time. But for now, I’ll have to make due with all I’ve been given.  

Comments on Senioritis

As an education major I’ve had a lifelong love of school. Even now, as a university student I realize the great benefits school has afforded me. It really is a blessing that I have the finances to pursue a higher education. However, I know that nothing is perfect, and school is no exception. Throughout my life, there have been times when school seemed like the last place I wanted to be. My life seemed too hectic to bother with classes. This theme of life vs. school would be the basis for “Senioritis: The Wonder Disease.”

            An obvious stylistic comment that can be raised about this work is that I clearly was influenced by Sherman Alexie’s The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. First off, I did my best to include elements of poetry in the work. I use metaphor, rhyme, and repetition constantly, much like Alexie uses them in The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. But aside from that, “Senioritis” also has a touch of the surreal; that's another thing I learned from reading Alexie. Time literally passes by in a blink in one section of my story.

            As in, “Gi Gayera” I wrote what was familiar to me. My experience as a homesick college student was a well of inspiration. I know all about loneliness, fake friends, and heartache; these experiences made writing this story a cinch. The motif of time passing by instantaneously is made to evoke the way some semesters pace themselves. There have been many times when I stand amazed at how fast a semester can be.

Like many of my stories, “Senioritis” was written between the hours of 12:00-6:00 in the morning. I find that I need absolute silence to do my best work, and unfortunately for me, my apartment and village don’t get quiet until I should be sleeping.

            In all honesty, I’m not quite sure what category of literature my piece fits into. It features an unnamed narrator with a story that could take place anywhere. This makes it fable like. Yet at the same time, fables are told with a certain detached quality to them. My story seems intimate, and my character has enough idiosyncrasies for people to say this is a short story.Whether or not this ambiguous nature detracts from enjoyment, I don't know. I enjoyed writing it, but perhaps it is too strange for some tastes.


For this piece I'd give myself a 85%

Gi Gayera Guide

Gayera—The gayera (pronounced ga-ze-ra) is a cockfighting arena/pit, or the sport of cockfighting itself.

Gayu—The gayu (pronounced ga-zu) is a fighting rooster. A gayu normally is trained for 2-3 years before its first fight. That training can include sparring sessions and jumping exercises. Often, gayus are pumped full of steroids to make them stronger. When a gayu fights at the gayera, a sharp three-inch spur is tied to its right leg.

I lus Diablo—a Chamorro cuss. I can’t think of an English equivalent. However, it can be said in times of surprise.

Mañelu—Siblings; plural form of the word che’lu

Pugitu—Baby chicken

Hilitai—Monitor Lizard

Totot—Marianas Fruit Dove, the state bird of the Marianas

Få’um—hit with excessive force, wallop, the sound made when someone gets hit with a strong punch or kick.

Put ni laputa—A Chamorro expletive; used in the same manner as “son of a bitch”

Måkpo’—Finish, end, end of the show, it’s over

Låstima—Waste of time

Mañagaha—a small islet popular as a snorkeling site for locals and tourists, situated in the Saipan lagoon

Sakate—Sword grass

Gi Gayera

Thunder.

Put ni la puta par!! Jackpot hao!

Everywhere there’s a thunder.

I lus diablo!

The sound ricochets, echoing off these thin tin walls, making it seem like there’s two, or three, or a million thunderstorms at once. It’s the clamor of a million men storming around Master. It’s the shouting of congratulations, the slamming of drunken fists against the fiberglass windows and wooden tables.

A thunderstorm at the gayera, and I’m in its eye.

How funny. I’m at its eye, and only one of my eyes is healthy. Its partner is swollen shut. I lie in the dirt but not out of choice; I have a cut above one thigh, I think, and it hurts to move. I can’t turn around to check because I’ve definitely been stabbed in the back, multiple times; the pain is thunderbolts shocking my entire frame. I try to stand up, to stretch out—I can’t. The blade attached to my right foot might as well be Master’s pick-up; it’s so heavy. I collapse into the earthen floor, shutting out the noise, trying to sleep.

The sleep these men send me to is a sleep they've never known. This sleep is darker and forever. It stalks like a cat in tall grass, creeping behind a careless pugitu. It creeps like a hilitai on a branch, clawing inch-by-inch to a resting totot. Its bed is the pit where we fight.

This is the sleep Master has trained me to avoid, but I feel its darkness closing in. All those years of pecking, and jumping. All those sparring sessions with my brothers—each session tougher and tougher because we became stronger and stronger—all in training to avoid the Big Sleep. I remember that one session when I få’um my younger brother so hard I knocked the breath out of him. I bit down on his head to make sure he wouldn’t go nowhere, then pounded the boxing glove right into his breastbone.

Pot ni laputa! Måkpo’!

That’s what Master said. 

Låstima, all I want to do right now is Sleep. Forgive me, Master. The sleep has its own lullaby. It invites me to shores that look like Mañagaha. My breath gets shallow. I taste something warm and metallic in my mouth. I see the shore getting closer and closer.

The banging of fist against fiberglass jars me awake. 

The pit spins for a short while.

When they first brought me to the pit I trembled from crown to claw. I wanted to fly away, but a memory stayed my wings; a coward's punishment was death. 

And what about Master? He had spent so much time making me strong, helping me believe I was brave, pushing me to be harder, faster…better.

When I was little, Master would grind up my food so I could eat easier. And when I was a bit older than that he’d give me medicine to keep me from getting sick.

But then the shots came.

Every month with those damn shots! Pricking, poking, puncturing my plumage, making my skin sting where it entered. They irritated me; he irritated me. But the shots did more than irritate. I noticed my body change. Suddenly, I became five times my regular size. I jumped higher than ever, and I kicked with a strength that seemed unimaginable.

I noticed a change within me, too. Master picked me up to get ready for sparring and I felt a heat boil in my stomach. Even as I say them, those words can't truly describe the feeling I'd get on those days. This energy inside made me want to tear Master’s eyes out, or rip my brothers apart. I’d be right next to Master and bite him, or hit him.  I didn’t want to be there, sparring. I didn’t want to be there with anyone. I just wanted to lock myself away and be alone.

Life after the shots was a permanent schedule. Master fed me, picked me up for sparring, dropped me back to sleep, let me rest a few days, then repeated. Jump, kick, stab, jump, kick, stab.

This week, Master broke the pattern. While my brothers kept sparring, I slept in. I watched them from my cage, thinking about what I would do if I were in their shoes. Like, when First Brother hesitated to jump, I would have jumped on his wings to stop him from getting away. Or when Fourth Brother jumped way too high, I counted the seconds I would have waited before trying to kick him as he came down.

I was enjoying my break from fighting when Master took me in the night and put me in the carrying box. We got into his truck and drove here, to the gayera. I could guess it was the gayera because I had been here once before; Master wanted me to fight at an earlier date, but decided not to at the last minute.

Being inside the box is confusing, but the gayera is something you never mistake. There’s the noxious fog of cigarette smoke that greets you, and the sound of lumpia frying in the cantina. But the dead giveaway is the thunder of men screaming out their bets.

Side! Side! Side!

Forty! Forty!

10/7! 10/7!

             

I pushed all the noise away from me. I sat in the box and prepared my mind for the fight.  All the stories of Master’s veteran fighters came to mind, and I pictured myself in their spurs.

Jump, kick, stab, jump, kick, stab, jump, kick, stab. Bite. Kill. Kill, boy, kill.

In my mind’s eye I could already picture my victory; I saw myself releasing a tremendous, victorious yell.

 

What if he’s stronger?

The thought sliced through my mind.

You’ve never fought before. What if you get stabbed and panic?

I felt something cold fall in my stomach. All of a sudden I had a very different vision.

In the place of my victorious battle cry, all I could see were inches of cold steel penetrating my chest.

Death, death, death.

Master opened the door of the carrying box at about that precise thought.  I squinted in the dazzling light. By the time my vision came back to normal, I saw I was already in the pit.

Across from me and Master was something that looked like a monster. He was tall, with thick, solid legs and a stout chest.  His face, permanently twisted in a scowl, looked like it was carved out of a piece of dead wood. I could see his huge muscles bulging beneath his feathers. Every inch of him reeked of death. I pivoted my neck from side-to-side, looking for a way out, thinking, I have to fight him?

A frantic cadence beat at my chest, its rhythm going all the way into my throat, forcing me to swallow down.

I looked to Master for guidance but he only gave me a stoic stare and a weak pat on the back. I became irritated again; at the time when I needed him most he couldn’t read my signs for help.  We stepped to the center of the pit to start the match as all matches are started: by biting. Each fighter gets three free shots at his opponent to start the match, and my opponent got to hit me first.

Master handed me off to one of the gayera staff because owners aren’t allowed to be in the pit with fighters, it has something to do with being objective. I was glad to be rid of him.

The staff member kept me just inches away from my opponent’s face.  When the staff member pulled my head back slightly, exposing my neck for the bites, I could feel the heat in my opponent’s breath. It was a heat that didn’t feel natural. Living things are supposed to be warm, but his breath was hot like a fever. I imagined his breath wasn’t made of air; it was pure hate for me. And his hate seemed infectious; I felt it spread through my body. It was small heat at first, as if there was something simmering in my stomach.

Then he bit me.

A jolt of surprise made me shake off the staff member’s grasp.  The frantic cadence of my heart was replaced with a steady, angry thump, each pulse angrier than the last. I scowled in the face of my opponent and wanted to bite him in retaliation, but the gayera staff pulled my head back before I could.

My opponent bit me again.

The simmer in my stomach was gone; instead there was a fire. Anger gripped my body and shook me.

He bit me again.

There was no light in me when the staff member let go of my head. The sight of my opponent’s twisted face seemed to awaken a beast; I wanted to rip pieces of flesh from my opponent’s neck ‘till his head rolled in the dirt. Safe to say, there was no blood in my veins, just pure malice rushing through my entire body.

Then it was my turn to bite. I gave a ferocious tear into his neck. The searing pain agitated my opponent and he quaked in fury beneath the hands of his handler. But I bit again, this time with more force. I even held on for a second or two, just because I thought he was a piece of shit who deserved it. My handler stuck his finger in my mouth to pry me away, so I bit him too.

With one free bite left, I took a deep breath. I concentrated on hitting a spot I had left red and aching from repeated blows. I summoned all the bad intentions I could and bit down.

I released and it was all done. All the preparing, all the waiting—finished.

Time to fight.

Time to kill.

The crowd erupted in a frenzy of shouts as they corralled around the fiberglass windows of the octagonal pit, looking for anyone willing to put money on my life or my opponent’s.  I looked deeply into my enemy’s eyes and felt an electric surge run down my spine; the feathers of my neck stood on end.

Our handlers brought us face to face one last time, hurriedly dashed back a few yards, set us on the ground, and let us start the match. 

 My opponent’s hideous face grimaced about ten feet ahead of me. We charged head first at each other, yet even then, it looked like that malicious expression could only be washed away with blood; I was more than happy to oblige. I leaped through the air but was too high; he easily ducked beneath me, getting to a favorable position behind my line of sight. I hit the dirt, spinning around as soon as I could, only to see my opponent half a foot away, soaring through the air with his blade pointed directly at me. I tried to collide with him mid-flight, but he was too quick; his blade sliced into my side. I was amazed at how little it hurt; maybe it was the fear of death that distracted me from the pain of it, or maybe the cut just looked worse that it was. But I plowed ahead regardless. My opponent clumsily tore his blade from me, letting my blood drip to the dirt, tripping as he did so; that was my chance to retaliate. I bit on his neck and held him in place, then threw a nasty kick to where his ribs meet his spine.

Måkpo’

I thought I saw his already twisted face coil in deep agony as I stuck him with the blade, but on second thought I’m not sure if I just imagined that. As soon as I jumped back to free my spur from his body, I saw a sick glimmer in his eyes that told me I was in for a long fight. He bolted at me, and I kicked off the ground to smash my legs and blade into him. We became a typhoon of black and red feathers, rushing about the pit, spewing dirt in every direction.

Jump.

Kick.

Stab.

My opponent’s blade mauled my body; every cut was searing pain. Yet, I couldn’t stop, I wouldn’t stop, because with every stab he made, I matched him. Two in my gut, two in his, three on my back, three on his; victory was only one stab in the right place.  I’m sure you could have showered someone with all the blood we were spilling.

            He seemed to be the fresher fighter though; his kicks were quicker and his leaps were higher. I struggled to evade; side-stepping, back peddling—all useless; he cut me off every time. I stuck my leg out in a pathetic attempt to defend myself; my blade would slice him, but barely more than skin deep.

His blows absolutely punished me; the gayera started to spin. Then he landed a hard left to my face—with his unbladed foot, no less—and sent me reeling to the ground. I tried to get myself to my feet in vain, falling to a heap in the gayera dirt; the fight was done. A roar lashed out from the crowd. I spit blood and saliva to the ground with my eyes closed, letting the sound of the gayera thunder filter through my brain.

           

I waited for the end; gayera fights end the way they begin, with three pecks. I heard the handler pick up my opponent and bring him in front of me. I prepared myself to accept defeat; I decided to just lie there and let the handler drop my opponent three separate times, let my opponent peck my worthless head three separate times.   

Just like earlier in the night, my opponent was so close to me I could feel his breath. This time was different though. His breath was labored and cold. The hate seemed to be gone from his body, replaced with a thankfulness that I was going to Sleep. The handler lifted him a few inches off the ground; my muscles tensed. The handler dropped him and my opponent plucked at my skull.

A single clash of thunder—one point for my opponent.

Again, the handler lifted him.

A silence filled the village; every man in the gayera stared in wonder at the center of the pit, every blade of sakåte silenced itself in tense attention around the cockfight arena. There was no noise except for the sound of claw on dirt, of beak on skull. My opponent jammed his beak into me.

Rolls of thunder now—two points for my opponent.

The crowd was excited, murmuring in delight; they sensed my defeat.

I opened my working eye and saw Master in one of the fiberglass windows. He had a head bent in sorrow. There was something behind him standing on one of the wooden tables. It wasn’t man, it wasn’t an animal. I had no idea how it stood upright, because I couldn’t see its feet; all I could see was that it was tall and skinny and seemed to be wrapped in a shroud covering its whole body. The shroud was blacker than soy sauce left in a windowless room at night. The thing seemed at home in the giyera, and was watching my fight with keen interest. In its right hand was a carrying box with its door ajar.

The handler lifted my opponent

I saw Master glance at me; I looked away.

A silence, once more, came over the crowd.

I felt master glaring at me, begging me to do something—to do anything. My swollen eye stung with the pain of days wasted; training sessions ruined.

My opponent dropped.

I thought I heard laughter come from behind Master; I trembled with anger.

With all the energy I could muster I leaped from the ground and felt my opponent’s beak graze my shoulder. The pit spun violently around as I steadied myself; I saw my opponent’s belabored efforts to keep upright. In one motion I hopped in the air, kicked out my right leg, and thrust my blade square into my opponents neck.

Put ni laputa!

We collapsed into the dirt, and I yanked my weapon out of his vertebrae. A savage quiver ran through his entire body; there would be no need to peck at his head; everyone could see he was done. Måkpo’

An entire thunderstorm—I was the winner.

I collapsed into the dirt.

The pit spins now, as I keep one eye open, waiting for Master to claim me and bring me home. The black figure I saw on the wooden table is not near; he seems to have vanished. My head feels so heavy I don’t think I can lift it from the floor. My chest is just as heavy, and every inhale is deliberate, slow, and deep. I close my eyes and see those shores again, inviting me to rest. I hear footsteps approaching and just know it’s Master coming to get me. The question is, where am I going?

Gi Gayera Comments

The muses must have been near me the day I set out to write “Gi Gayera” because in a matter of a few hours I had a work that I was proud to call mine, despite its flaws. In the weeks leading up to that fateful day, I had been considering ways I could infuse my Chamorro soul into my stories. Additionally, that kind of work was exactly what Professor Schriener encouraged; he always pushed us to give Guam a literature of its own. With these influences, it was just a matter of time before I wrote something that was undeniably local. Yet, even I didn’t know what that could mean exactly. That’s why I was glad for the day I walked into class and heard an incredible retelling of an ancient Chamorro legend in this creative writing seminar.  The story worked around themes of family and community, which have perennially been central to the Chamorro people. With my classmate's vivid words as the paintbrush and my fluid imagination as the colors, I envisioned her story with ease.  I’m glad I wasn’t late that day, because when I left the class after hearing the entire story, I was ready to write my contribution to Chamorro literature.

             With “Gi Gayera” the clichéd phrase, “write what you know” was the rule. My father raises roosters for sport, and I can’t imagine a time when I didn’t hear the incessant cry of a rooster in the early morning hours of the day. Though I don’t raise roosters my self, I did help my father spar them. And of course, I followed him to the gayera. Even on my first trip, I was able to tell that the gayera was a masculine place. The arena was a place where men gathered with other men to place bets on two male animals killing each other. The first time I ever watched the two animals dance with death, I felt a momentary twinge of pity and sorrow. Yet, I kept that inside and hardened my heart, because the gayera was not the place for that. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t want the gayera shut down. I loved the gayera. I loved the time I was able to spend with my father and uncles. I loved being part of a tradition that has been on Saipan (and the Marianas) for hundreds of years. And I did have that typical boyish excitement in watching a fight. However, knowing what I now know about masculinity and the pit falls of following one prescribed type of masculinity, I can’t help but look towards the gayera when I want to comment on certain masculine qualities.

            “Gi Gayera” was really my attempt at applying what I learned in my adolescent psychology class. I had been reading a book called Raising Cane and it opened my eyes towards gender issues that boys face each day. According to Raising Cane, society encourages boys to be stoic, tough, aggressive, closed off, etc, much to the detriment of a boy’s emotional literacy. I hope readers will notice that I worked to include some of those traits and more into my rooster character. The aim of this story was to be able to give guys a work they could relate to. I’m not sure if my work will come across as a statement against stereotyped masculinity. In fact, I don’t know how readers will interpret the work. But to be clear, I never had any kind of radical agenda to change gender stereotypes while writing this story.  I just wanted other guys to enjoy the piece.

I decided to write it from the rooster’s point of view because I knew it would be exciting for boys to read. Too often, boys don’t have stories they find engaging. As I’ve already stated, the giyera was more than enough to engage me. I just took that excitement and tried to transform it to story mode. Unfortunately, excitement needs tension, and I'm not sure I achieve the right amount of it in "Gi Gayera."  Although Write Like the Masters has taught me to build tension by hinting at events to come, tension has still proven difficult for me to procure. I tried to create tension in the scene where my narrator is lying in the dirt waiting to get his head pecked. That is why "every blade of sakåte silenced itself;" I was hoping readers would get the feeling the end is near.  However, my skill has yet to match my intention.
Despite not having strong enough tension, I did have fun with this piece. For my writing style, the rooster was the natural choice to make. I enjoyed letting my mind be free. It was a challenge capturing the emotions of a being whose sole purpose in life was to die or kill. I had to place myself in the perspective of a being who had no use for love and was never going to be loved. And I needed to do all of that within the context of growing up as boy.

I can say without a doubt this is my favorite, and best, piece. I think it deserves a 90%