{"title":"Four Tales","authors":"Jake Marmer","doi":"10.1353/mar.2023.a907318","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/mar.2023.a907318","url":null,"abstract":"Four Tales Jake Marmer (bio) Keywords hybrid, Jake Marmer, Eastern Europe, Ukraine, immigrant, birch, writing, class, wealth, music, nostalgia AGAINST THE BIRCH (AND THE FIR) EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT to be a self-respecting Eastern European émigré writer, you must learn to long for the birch. Before you can even attempt to tackle the whole second-language issue, alienation, lost loves—you gotta take your first wobbly steps around the poeticized-to-death, they-bend-but-don’t-break, “oh under her window” birch tree. It’s the shibboleth, the rite of passage, an affirmation of having lived and lived again, elsewhere, and taking up the feather to write your big, nostalgic immigrant novel. Can I tell you something? I feel no nostalgia, nothing at all, and I never did. Even before this war in Ukraine started and these stories of mine needed immediate evacuation—and not nostalgia’s lukewarm soup of faux feelings. In the meantime, all over his memoir (an actual classic of émigré nostalgia, written, by the way, in part during World War II), Nabokov pines over birches & firs & his family’s fancy-ass estates, populated with barefoot peasant girls named Polina or Tamara, who lingered mysteriously in some doorway as he, barchuk (“the young master,” geez) was inhaling this or that scent while riding on his fancy-ass bicycle with a butterfly net. Let me tell you this: no one I grew up with back in Ukraine owned a butterfly net. Barchuk! Just that word alone awakens the old communist fervor in me. Nostalgia is for rich people in safety, or rather, those who were very rich once and are now moderately well off. I guess those who grew up poor but became rich and are now miserable can feel it too, and it’s not that different, feelings-wise—I just don’t really care. It’s all about the crossover, see, the grassy patch between classes. In that patch grow impenetrable, mean birches. Yes, mean and pompous: that’s why I hate them. A writer I admire once asked me: Why is it that you Eastern Europeans always cry at classical music concerts? The music reaches crescendo, and you can pretty much count on it. Sitting there, with your noble tears running down the cheeks. Some folks even bring kerchiefs knowing it will happen, too. Like they come expecting it. You want to cry? [End Page 17] Stay home and cry—why does it need to be in public like that? I didn’t tell him, but I will tell you: the types who cry at those concerts sit and think about birches. Me, I rub my eyes trying to stay awake and look cultured. One time, an old Soviet-style army choir came to the Lincoln Center and sang all the little folk songs my grandmother used to sing along with the television, and that really got to me. Good thing I didn’t go with my sarcastic writer friend but instead brought an American-born date who looked politely bewildered as I sat there, bawling all through the concert over aging, red-faced army dudes singing about the rowan bush and the little raspberries. Sometimes I turn off the news, ","PeriodicalId":43806,"journal":{"name":"MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW","volume":"59 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135427338","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Three Works","authors":"Juanita Morrow Nelson, Louis Herbert Battalen’s","doi":"10.1353/mar.2023.a907324","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/mar.2023.a907324","url":null,"abstract":"Abstract: This portfolio presents three works—an essay, a play, and a poem—all previously unpublished, to honor the late Juanita Morrow Nelson, an anti-war activist, on the centennial of her birth in August 2023. Nelson was involved in various activist fronts including the civil rights movement of the 60s and war tax resistance, and these works represent the spirit of Nelson’s politics and the examination of the injustices of America in the second half of the 20th century.","PeriodicalId":43806,"journal":{"name":"MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW","volume":"59 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135427347","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Poem in Which I Have Read the Terms and Conditions, and: Battle Hymn of the Hymen","authors":"Denise Duhamel","doi":"10.1353/mar.2023.a907315","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/mar.2023.a907315","url":null,"abstract":"Poem in Which I Have Read the Terms and Conditions, and: Battle Hymn of the Hymen Denise Duhamel (bio) Keywords poetry, Denise Duhamel, God, policy, health, capitalism, body, blood POEM IN WHICH I HAVE READ THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS I’ve checked the box acknowledging that, whatever happens,it won’t be your fault—that my insurance policy will covereverything, except what actually breaks, that you are not responsiblefor any data corruption, any mistakes in my bloodwork results,that your mammogram can only detect so much. I knowyou are not responsible for the brakes in my car, the asbestosthat might have crawled into my lungs, whatever germsyour germ killer can’t kill, the long o’s of my moaningif I get sick. You can’t possibly be responsible for the contentsin an envelope you send my way, any viruses or spywarethat may injure me. I understand there may be disruptionsand I shouldn’t complain. I understand there may be shipping delays,stolen packages from my porch, and that’s, of course,not your fault. You can’t be held liable for damage, director indirect, consequential or incidental. What you sell mecomes “AS IS” and I will deal with that. I understandwars or “acts of God” have nothing to do with you,that there is no such thing as “perfect” and you never claimedto be. Of course you reserve the right to cancel my orderdue to product availability. I understand you cannot—and do not—guarantee the accuracy or completenessof any product images or description of services. I understandprices may go up—you need to make a buck. I understandthat you are not responsible for typos or omissions,that, heck, you can terminate this agreement at any timewithout notice. I understand that your help deskis not required to help me and that your “chat” buttondoesn’t necessarily mean someone is there to talk.I understand you may use cookies and pop-up ads—that’s all fine and dandy with me. I have waived my rightsto sue should you cause me inconvenience or harm. [End Page 10] It only makes sense that you can’t be blamedfor the shenanigans of any third-party vendors.I get it—you can sell my information to anyone you wantand I won’t get a cut. Needless to say, you are takingreasonable steps to protect my identifying info,but shit happens and, hey, what are you going to do?I, in turn, will do nothing as I have no recourse.I understand I am consulting you at my own riskand I, alone, am responsible for keeping myself safe.I agree that my password has an “!” and a jumbleof letters that will be hard for me to remember.I agree to refrain from any abusive, pornographic,and obscene behavior and that you will determinewhat those behaviors might be. Should I have a lackof enjoyment, that cannot possibly be your fault—enjoyment is subjective after all. I respect that your brandis your brand and I will never try to copy it.I agree that I will never scan, probe, or testyour vulnerability. I will not “deep-link,” “page-scrape,”“robot,” or “spider” you. I also attest that I, myself, am not","PeriodicalId":43806,"journal":{"name":"MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW","volume":"58 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135427342","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Diaspora Makes for an Unlikable Narrator, and: Shahrukh Says It’s The Time To Disco","authors":"Sreshtha Sen","doi":"10.1353/mar.2023.a907336","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/mar.2023.a907336","url":null,"abstract":"Diaspora Makes for an Unlikable Narrator, and: Shahrukh Says It’s The Time To Disco Sreshtha Sen (bio) Keywords poetry, Sreshtha Sen, diaspora, Hindi, Indian writer, love, debt, fear, government, films, Shah Rukh, dancing, love, romance, marriage, family DIASPORA MAKES FOR AN UNLIKABLE NARRATOR I have never desired to be cruelbut of late, something so bittercurls inside me—loose-knottedbile—with no place to go. Likewith everything, I name reasonsto blame: my sadness. my PMS.my horniness. the uncertain ebbof the future. I don’t knowwhen I’ll see my mother again soevery son who can, growsinto a menace in my eyes. Their joymy blight. I am difficult to love & desperateto prove this as truth to anyonewho contests it. The neighborhoodbarista’s fondness for my tastein hindi films was harmless but nowI find myself irked. Intruded upon.My roommate runs hot. Every morningI turn the heat to 76 & scurry intothe dark like an impish rat upto no-good chaos. Generositymakes me retch. A visa extensionis just another debt. All I wantto do is write better poems& who has the time for that pluspaperwork. My dad says we’re justgetting too old to not need help & I don’tcall again for ten days. Too afraid.Do you want to hear more? Ifyou say no, I’ll want to keepgoing. If you say yes, I mightcry. [End Page 177] SHAHRUKH SAYS IT’S THE TIME TO DISCO Except I am Shah Rukh. The waythese hips sway. On tabletops.In Ricardo’s living room. That oneclub downtown we swore we wouldnever visit again but somehow once morewe did. Everywhere I go, I am choreographedto be romantic. Everywhere, it is time.Sahar says heropanti is necessary for living.Something like how, in Bride & Prejudice,Kohli says “No life withoutwife” so I spend all summer beingA Lover. A [sc]amour. I marketfor a marriage—the kind of jobthat would have me a v*sa.I am looking to know howI will live in the future even asthe future itself begins to turn impossible.By which I mean I just want to seemy mother. Or that I don’t have it in meto chart a route or return. I mostly meanI am crying on the bus a lot. Let me not.Let me boogie—my heart a village—this seasona yoke how I stoke my hopes back into survivingbreathing things. Here, the sky. Here, it is timeto disco. Khisko. & when my grandmothercalls to tell me her brother died I—sweat-swung, music-thrummed—these arms splitopen to embrace mere air—Reader?I confess I danced. [End Page 178] Sreshtha Sen sreshtha sen is a poet from Delhi. They studied literatures in English from Delhi University and completed their MFA at Sarah Lawrence College and their PhD at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Their work can be found published or forthcoming in Apogee, bitch media, Hyperallergic, Hyphen Magazine, The Margins, McSweeney’s, Rumpus and elsewhere. She was previously the 2017-18 readings/workshops fellow at Poets & Writers, an assistant poetry editor at The Believer, a visiting assistant professor in interdisciplinary, gender, and ethnic studies at UNLV, and currently lives a","PeriodicalId":43806,"journal":{"name":"MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW","volume":"12 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135427349","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"I Don’t Need It, I Just Want It","authors":"Valerie Sayers","doi":"10.1353/mar.2023.a907332","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/mar.2023.a907332","url":null,"abstract":"I Don’t Need It, I Just Want It Valerie Sayers (bio) Keywords fiction, Valerie Sayers, mattress, marriage story, feminism, relationships ________ I TELL RUDY that we really really need a new mattress and watch his mouth twist––he’s never thrilled about buying anything, much less a mattress that might take as long to pay off as a new car. The old one was supposed to last twenty years, and Rudy’s hell-bent on getting every last night. But honeybun, my aching back and the yellowing receipt agree: the twenty years are up. The first mattress Rudy proposes, naturally, is the cheapest one possible, so I promise to research futons. I have fond memories of an extra-lumpy futon owned by a fellow grad student, though the orthopedist grimaces when I ask if sleeping on one now might help or at least be OK. The futon FAQ page also says slatted beds like the one we own are bad for futons. So I move along to researching mattresses of the future. I make a date with my husband to check out reports and reviews and lists of guilt-inducing materials, to make a new budget that will fool us, or at least Rudy, into thinking we can afford the all-natural green mattress I want, made in the U.S.A. without a whiff of fossil fuel. Marriage: blood sport, my mother used to call it, but she meant that literally and I’m afraid my poor mama knew whereof she spoke. ________ EVERY MATTRESS I’ve ever slept on has imprinted itself on my spine, if not my soul. Our twenty-year-old mattress is made of memory foam, that unholy stew of dark-side chemicals. Who knew we slept on polyurethane? The first time I lay on it in the storeroom, blissfully ignorant of how the mattress sausage was made, I panicked: the surface was as unyielding as a lecture from my father. Or maybe that was just the kind of memory the foam produced. I made myself breathe deeply, relaxed into the mattress’s authority, and fell asleep for forty-five minutes, right there among all the other wild-eyed shoppers at the Memorial Day sale. That mattress was bliss for the first four or five years. Now it’s a torture contraption that sets me on fire sure as petrochemicals are setting the earth ablaze. [End Page 132] ________ RUDY HAS a million things to do before we can sit down together, even though we set the time, eleven a.m. on a Saturday, late enough for him to do all those things: rant about the cuts his editor’s made to his column; rant about his colleagues’ emails; rant about every picture Rosellen’s posted on Instagram. Rosellen’s just finished junior year of college (pronouns they/them/their). Rudy’s befuddled by the pronouns. He likes to gaze on the pictures to see what today’s gender is, but they always just look like Rosellen: dark heavy brow under a tangle of hair gathered up in back, Rudy’s full lips and bulbous nose, my too-long chin. She’s not pretty but she’s gorgeous, lithe and brown and stylish as a Parisian, arms bared to show off her only tattoo, a top hat: homage à George Sand, a writer I’m not sure she’","PeriodicalId":43806,"journal":{"name":"MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW","volume":"8 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135428467","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Contentment","authors":"Ying-tai Lung, Sandra Chen","doi":"10.1353/mar.2023.a900395","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/mar.2023.a900395","url":null,"abstract":"Abstract:An essay about what it means to be content. Contentment is being free from constant fear; it's ordinary days continuing as before, ordinary people continuing as before.","PeriodicalId":43806,"journal":{"name":"MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW","volume":"64 1","pages":"13 - 15"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-06-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"44070243","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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