Articles – Page 147 – Philadelphia Stories

From the Editors

Spring and summer brought many firsts to Philadelphia Stories: our first contest, the Rosemont Writer’ s Retreat, and the launch of PS Books, our new regional books division.

Helen Mallon won the First Person Essay Contest with her essay, My Charlie Manson, published in this issue. Judge and contest sponsor , author Kelly Simmons (Standing Still), had this to say about the winning essay, “[My CharlieManson] was a subtle, affecting essay that took a lot of courage to reveal.”We’d also like to congratulate Victoria Barnes on her runner-up essay, Anthony—A Love Story, which can be found on our website. Thanks to all who participated!

To properly launch PS Books’ first novel, Broad Street, a rocking roster of four female bands will perform at the Tritone nightclub in Philadelphia on Saturday, September 27, following an 8 pm reading by the book’ s author , Christine Weiser . Pre-order Broad Street on amazon.com or through the Philadelphia Stories website. Read a sneak peak, and catch an interview with Christine, also in this issue.

Also coming this fall, the return of last year’ s wildly popular , Push to Publish. This year’ s conference will be held at Rosemont College, on October 18 with easy access from public transportation, the Main Line and 76 (and plenty of FREE parking). Look for more details to come on the website.

And, on a sad note, we must close this letter in dedication to our dear friend, colleague, and essay editor, Marguerite McGlinn, who passed away late this spring. We still feel her loss and know that her family does, too. We had the pleasure of publishing one of Marguerite’ s stories, The Sphinx. If you missed it, you can access it online.

All the best,

Carla Spataro and Christine Weiser
Co-Publishers

On the Radio
Carla Spataro, Editor of Philadelphia Stories,was on Radio
Times with Marty Moss-Coane Thursday, July 12. Listen in RealAudio
from the archives at whyy.org.

Philadelphia Stories at the Kelly Writers House
October 30, 2006 Hear the whole show

Some more Press

Top Three Reasons
Why Your Stories Are Not Getting Published
By Carla Spataro,
Fiction Editor/Publisher
Philadelphia Stories

Local Author Profile: Christine Weiser

Broad Street is set in Philadelphia during the height of the grunge-rock scene of the early-nineties. Why did you choose this setting, and how does it factor into the story?

I was in a Philadelphia band called Mae Pang, which was mainly a chick rock garage band that started in the mid-90s. It was a great time for garage and underground rock. We saw bands like Nirvana at a small Philly rock club called JC Dobbs before “Smells Like Teen Spirit” hit. Weeks later, they were playing arena shows. We saw Dinosaur Jr. and Tad and Mudhoney and they were all great, but it was really the women that inspired us — performers like PJ Harvey and Liz Phair and Hole and The Breeders. I remember this time as being wild and magical, and those moments inspired me to write a book about the time and the experience.

The main characters in Broad Street, Kit and Margo, make a drunken pact to form a band, ostensibly to get back at the overbearing men in their lives, but as the novel progresses, music becomes an outlet for them. Do you see the arts in general and music in particular as liberating?
I think having art in a balanced life—whether it’s writing or playing an instrument or knitting—finding that one thing that you love to do just to do it–can be incredibly liberating and satisfying. Finding that balance is important, but it can be tough. It’s great to pour your soul into a piece of art, but I think you still have to stay connected to the world. I believe life inspires art, and if you cut yourself off from life and focus only on the art, you lose a great source of material. In Broad Street, for example, Kit thinks that if her band just became famous, then all would be right in her world. She learns that isn’t true.

I think women are especially pressured to do it all, and our challenge becomes how to carve out some time for ourselves in a way that doesn’t overwhelm us.

There’s a certain irony in the name of the band, which also happens to be the title of the novel. “Broad,” of course, is generally considered an obsolete, sexist term, but Kit and Margo appropriate it for themselves in a way that’s empowering. Do the characters see themselves as “broads” in any way? Alternately, how do they redefine the term to suit their own needs?
Margo love to embrace sexist, backwards terms like chick, skirt, and broads, and flaunt them in a tongue-in-cheek way that make these words silly, rather than degrading. This is a challenge for Kit, who has been raised by sixties-era radicals who think life in a girl band is not the best use of her intellect and schooling. When Margo first introduces the name, Kit questions how this reflects her parents’ ideals:

“I thought about this, feeling a slight tug on my feminist upbringing. My parents had spent many hours dishing out the importance of equal rights to my sister and me. I wasn’t sure they would agree that this was a fucking cool name. But this was different, I rationalized. This was just a tongue-in-cheek poke at the gender of our band.”

But, Kit begins to find a way to move beyond these expectations through the music. In one scene, she comments on their music:

“One song used these chords for a surf instrumental. Another song rumbled over a primitive African rhythm to proclaim, “never pick a man who’s prettier than you are.” Our songs were about living out repressed post-feminist fantasies in glorious ass-kicking frenzy. No more dick rock. Enter three girlie feminists not afraid to wear a dress, makeup, heels. What the hell was wrong with being a chick?”

I think that sums it up pretty well.

On a related topic, do you see yourself as a feminist writer?
I think “feminist” has many meanings to many people, and unfortunately not always positive. To me, a feminist is someone who advocates equal rights for women. Based on that definition, I suppose you could say I’m a feminist writer. Broad Street illustrates the challenge of being a girl in a boys’ rock club. Kit and Margo strive to be equal to their male musician peers, but they don’t necessarily mind that they get attention because they look good and are considered by some a novelty act.

This metaphor could ring true in a lot of areas of work and life. Sex is such a huge part of our culture, it’s hard to figure out how everyone can be treated exactly the same way when so many judgments are made based on the way someone looks.

In addition to making a name for their band in the music industry, Kit and Margo also have to deal with a number of personal issues. For example, they both have interesting relationships with their parents: Kit thinks she’ll never measure up to her father’s expectations, and Margo’s parents worked on the fringes of pop-music superstardom before settling down to raise a family. Why the interest in family? What draws you to such issues as a writer?

I think the power of family history is huge. We’re all shaped by the way we’re raised, whether it’s rebelling against our families or striving to be accepted by them. Often times, this behavior is repeated in our lives with parent substitutes, like a boss or an audience. I’m fascinated by people’s family histories and what that often reveals about their choices and personalities. For example, like Kit, I am very influenced by my father who always pushed me to question authority, strive for social justice, and pursue a balanced life of work and art. I have a job, a kid, a husband, a band, a book, a charity – and it’s tough balancing all of these things sometimes. But I feel I wear all of these hats better because I am lucky enough to have this whole package.

Your novel is the first from PS Books, the publishers behind the widely read Philadelphia Stories magazine. What’s your relationship to Philadelphia? Do you find that there’s a thriving literary community there? What does Philadelphia have to offer the burgeoning (or established, for that matter) author that other cities might not have?
I think Philadelphia has a bad cultural rap. People who aren’t familiar with the city still hear “Philly” and think: Rocky, cheesesteaks, and The Hooters. And while these are all great Philly icons, we also have a rich, diverse cultural voice that often gets drowned out by New York. I’ve lived in many places, but when I moved to Philadelphia, I fell in love with the city. It’s humble, and raw, and welcoming. Philly is nothing like New York or Chicago or Paris. It’s more like a big town with lots of neighborhood flavors that become rich sources of inspiration for writing and art. I’ve never felt more at home.

Any plans for a follow-up to Broad Street?
I have completed a sequel that picks up with Kit and Margo ten years later. Without giving too much away, things don’t turn out exactly as they expected (otherwise, what would I write about?), but their adventure continues in a new and surprising way.

Read an excerpt from Broad Street

Hear another interview:

Christine Weiser on Rowan Radio 89.7 WGLS-FM, 9/22/08
Download [mp3]

More at christineweiser.com

Mexican-Restaurant, North Jersey

Had they had different names,
or had this not been her first job
Stateside, or had the guy
just ordered instead of insisting
his knowledge of typical Hispanic
names, perhaps then, the Mexican-
American manager standing next to her
wouldn’t have doubled over
and his three friends at the table
wouldn’t have fallen on top of each other
in uproarious laughter while
the two of them stayed silent
– she not understanding,
he much chagrined. But her name
was Ingrid. Though fair with
sandy brown hair, she was not
six feet tall and her accent
exposed her Columbian origins.
Yes, dees ees my name. Flirting,
he shook his head and continued
to resist, “No, it can’t be.” Years later,
when Ingrid was at dinner
in Kansas for a conference
with a group of us, she related
the incident and still she was not
fully knowing why the ten of us
lit up the diner with guffaws and tears.
Wat ees your name? she’d asked him, making
small talk as she’d learned while yet
in training, scoring points
with the manager beside her.
With any other masculine name,
anyone could have easily gone with “Yes,
you look like a…”, or “the name fits you”.
But because he’d answered,
Dick, and because she was new
to this country, the agreeable Ingrid
had replied gently, kindly,
Your face matches your name.

Teresa Méndez-Quigley, a Philly native, was selected Montgomery County Poet Laureate by Ellen Bryant Voigt in 2004. Her poems have appeared in four volumes of the Mad Poets Review, Drexel Online Journal, Philadelphia Poets, and many more.

After Nothing

He took my hand
that grey day
dark, muscled
trees emptied of birds.

As if I were watching
a grainy video
myself, led away.
The man was strong,
all twists, low voice.

It’s silent.
Shouldn’t have
taken the shortcut.
There’s nothing after
the path. See
maybe I was meant to.
Nothing after the
Or had to.

Deborah Derrickson Kossmann won the Short Memoir Competition at the 2007 First Person Arts Festival in Philadelphia. Her essay, “Why We Needed a Prenup With Our Contractor” was published as a “Modern Love” column in The New York Times. Her other essays have appeared in many other journals and magazine. She teaches in the graduate counseling psychology program at Rosemont College.

DNA: Memory

So we were watching
a documentary on cows standing
not in fields of green grass
like we saw Upstate, but
on cement, squeezed in together
with black surfaces from their
droppings that get washed up
into lagoons and run off
into waterways, and how
they still moo, but mostly
how they only get to eat
corn, though I’m sure
they recall in their DNA
memory the way a blade
of grass felt in their mouths,
how the breeze cooled
them by the creek rippling
beneath an old weeping willow
and how they hope to rub up
against a tree to scratch
their hind quarters or be able
to switch their tails
to tag a fly

Teresa Mendez-Quigley, a Philly native, was selected Montgomery County Poet Laureate by Ellen Bryant Voigt in 2004. Her poems have appeared in four volumes of the Mad Poets Review, Drexel Online Journal, Philadelphia Poets, and many more.

Midway

The two-headed pig was jammed into a jar
so I couldn’t tell it from the cat with two bodies

or the cloven-hoofed devil baby discovered
dead in a dumpster in New Jersey but Snake Girl

was alive— no arms, no legs, no bones in her body.
The word illusion floated, pale grey, like a misty ocean

underneath her name, but I was distracted
by two men hosing down the world’s smallest horse

so I only remembered that later. Snake Girl
was alive, a woman in her twenties, her head stuck

through a hole in a fake table and wound around
with perfect fake snake coils. She wore her hair

in bangs and flicked her eyes from side to side
but mostly she looked tired. I asked her how she was,

she answered: cold. After that, there wasn’t much to say.
I wandered up and down; I couldn’t go. The horse

looked like a long-necked, stump legged dog and I,
well, I’d finally figured out I was part of the show.

Hayden Saunier’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Nimrod, Margie, 5 A.M., Drunken Boat and Philadelphia Stories. Her book of poetry, Tips For Domestic Travel, is due out in Spring 2009 from Black Lawrence Press.

Out of Nowhere

As the three men rush the cab – your cab – the truth hits: what only happens to others is about to happen to you. You are not the exception.

Moments ago, you and your Aussie boyfriend were splurging in a Bogotá bistro: grilled steaks, bottles of wine, and scoops of coke on an ATM card going black on the sides from acids. The waiter had looked away each time you ambled to the rest room. And here’s the killer: after thanking you for the fat tip, he’d offered to call a cab (neither of you had cells). But something about his eagerness, Davy had muttered, already paranoid. He’d probably call a friend, one of those dodgy drivers, saying, these gringos are loaded. And careless. Graciously, you’d answered, no gracias, and instead hailed a taxi off the street. Like you’d been told not to do a million times.

So here you both are, your hearts beating merengue, the coke redundant, the air around you stinking of fake pines and human grease. Davy’s round face suddenly looks gaunt.

A tsunami of silence then slammed car doors and heavy breathing. This is how it’s going to go, the one now in the passenger seat barks in Spanish. You and Davy get sandwiched between the other two. You can’t make out their features and never will.

Davy lets out a gurgling holler and stomps his feet as if running in place. A child scared out of his wits. Then the one in the front pulls out a gun.

The two of you dutifully unclasp your watches, unsnap your wallets and relinquish money, debit cards and pin numbers. For a rippling moment, you believe you may have to open something else as a sweaty hand reaches around Davy to caress your head, and the cab mazes deeper into unknown neighborhoods. You get a flash of yourself, flopping like a fish on the pavement as your jeans get yanked down and shadowed faces land on your face and neck. You imagine the aftermath: you and Davy lying face down, the sound of air being ripped by bullets.

You teeter on a precipice, flabbergasted by this possible fate. And to think it would be nothing personal, life just a minefield of ever-shifting odds.

But then, out of nowhere, peacefulness descends. Or maybe it’s passiveness. You let go, as if on a hilltop, allowing the sky to unfurl you into a mound of autumn leaves. They just want your money. This isn’t it. You’ll see your family again. Breathe in real pine trees again. You’ll get sober, dump Davy, study for the LSAT…

The gun-holder gently orders, close your eyes, like a parent putting you to sleep. Later he’s dropped off to procure cash from your accounts, earning two month’s wages in an hour. You can almost hear the purr of the machine.

The other two ask what you do, if your boyfriend speaks Spanish. You’re a receptionist at a law firm and no, he doesn’t.

The taxi driver just coasts along and you wonder what his cut is. Before the trio had emerged from peripheries, you’d sensed you were headed the wrong way, but couldn’t summon the boldness to order, “Stop. This isn’t it.”

But now words are tumbling, from nowhere again. You know the deal, you fib, because this has happened before. This is your second “paseo milionario,” as they’ve dubbed this hold-up. This is old hat, you’re calm voice suggests. No, this made-up gang hadn’t hurt you because you had cooperated. Just like you and Davy were doing now. Neither of you were going to trade your lives for money.

“Good girl,” the stroker says in his husky, friend-like Spanish. “That’s the way.”

You have the temerity to ask for enough cash to escape the shanty town you’re about to be dropped off in. The stroker says, “But of course,” though naturally he leaves you and your mute boyfriend peso-less, surrounded by houses that look like fangs in the dark. Finally, another cab catches your semaphore code for help and takes you to a friend who pays the driver and pours two glasses of scotch. You don’t touch yours.

At some point Davy gets up for more ice, and your friend leans in and calls you brave. Numbed by everything, you shrug. Brave? You turn the word over like a shirt you’re not sure will fit. What had you been more afraid of, really, death? Or feeling forever hijacked, speeding in the wrong direction, unable to say, this isn’t it?

Angela Canales was born and raised in West Philadelphia. From 1996 to 2004, she lived in Bogot?, Colombia, her country of heritage, where she taught high school English at an International Baccalaureate school. She is currently living in Ardmore and working on an M.A. in Writing Studies at Saint Joseph?s University. This is her first published piece.

Transparency

In a better world
casinos comp grafts for those about to be burned,
poetry workshops include vocational training,
mega hardware stores hang signs all around saying
Put that shit back before you hurt yourself,
and you, Inamorata, draped only in barrier tape,
read me my Miranda Rights.

Anthony Nannetti’s poetry has appeared In UK Guardian Unlimited and online in Ygdrasil.
He lives in the Bella Vista area of Philadelphia with his wife and two daughters.

At The Mutter Museum of Medical Oddities

It’s a miracle we survive at all,
I say, as we walk the cases,
wincing at a colon as big as a stove pipe,
scowling at ribs deformed
by corsets, and spines collapsed
into little broken heaps, the horns
and warts and tumors
jutting out of waxen faces,
carbuncles and gouty toes,
a lady whose fat has turned her into soap.

But my brother, being a man, jokes on.
He sees a petrified penis and gasps,
I’ll never look at beef jerky the same way again,
as I giggle and cringe.

Until a whole wall of bloodless
babies in jars breaks over us like a wave,
all stages of fetal development,
followed by the terrible web of maladies;
so many damaged dolls,
each one a lesson in fragility.

He points to the anencephalic ones,
saying they look like trolls,
but then a lonely floater
in its little sea of tears
sends him into silence,
for we could be at the grave
of the little ghost he’s been
tethered to for seventeen years:
his first girl, all tangled in her cord,
born still and cold as snow.
I can’t bring myself
to tell him about the tiny
pearl of a zygote my heart tows.

Eileen Moeller has an M.A. in Poetry from Syracuse University, and many years experience as a Storyteller. Her poems have appeared in The Paterson Literary Review, Feminist Studies, Icarus Rising, Writing Women, and more. She judged the 2004 Milton Dorfman Poetry Contest, and the 2005/2006 Syracuse Association of American Penwomen contests Her work Body In Transit, is online at skinnycatdesign.co.uk/eileen.

Broad Street (novel excerpt)

I took the subway to the party in Center City. I walked from the stop down a quiet street in the business district, where merchandise peeked out from behind thick steel gates. As I approached the address of the old brownstone, I heard the muffled sound of voices and the latest Nirvana album. I felt a wash of panic. I could be back home and under my blanket in twenty minutes; but my feet kept moving forward. I found the appropriate apartment number, rang the bell, and was buzzed in without question.

The party was a crowded gathering of hipsters. I scanned the room for familiar faces, feeling stupid. The few I recognized looked at me, then quickly turned away. Finally, I spotted Noelle.

“Hey Kit,” she smiled. Her sandy hair hung neatly around a tiny, plain face. “How are you?”

She gave me a hug. Noelle would be one of many mutual friends walking the tightrope between the fallen couple. I tried to balance her with a forced smile.

“Hi Noelle,” I said. “Thanks for inviting me. Who’s having this party, anyway?”

“Pete and his girlfriend, Margo.” She nodded toward a guy talking to a group of people. “Pete’s in that band, Smarmy.”

“And that’s Margo over there.” Noelle pointed to another corner.

My eyes followed her finger to the corner of the room. Margo was tall and curvy, her long black hair shining with streaks of midnight blue. Her full lips were accented with bright scarlet lipstick; her blue eyes painted with a swish of black eyeliner. She wore a low-cut red satin dress that hugged her figure, and held a martini and cigarette gracefully in one hand as she smiled at a chatting male guest. I felt flat-chested and plain.

“I’ll introduce you.”

My heart thudded noisily as I followed Noelle closer to this intimidating creature.

“Hey Margo,” Noelle said. “This is my friend, Kit.”

Margo moved her cool smile away from the guy to fix her eyes on me. She inhaled deeply from her cigarette; her pool-blue eyes bored through me. I felt like a frog pinned down to a board, a scalpel dangling above me.

“Don’t you go out with Dale?” she asked.

Noelle gasped.

“I used to,” I said, attempting my cheeriest tone.

“Oh. Sorry,” she said, looking over my shoulder at the rest of the crowd.

“It’s all right,” I mumbled.

Margo’s eyes continued to scan the room. I fiddled nervously with the clasp of my purse as I awaited further instructions from our hostess. After a moment, she looked back at Noelle and me.

“So,” she said in a bored tone. “Can I get you guys a drink?”

“I’m going to go grab a beer outside,” Noelle said.

Just as I was about to follow Noelle’s lead, Margo turned her piercing gaze toward me, and smiled with aloof politeness.

“How about you, Kate, would you like a martini?”

“It’s Kit, and… sure.”

I followed Margo to a table that sparkled with a liquor rainbow. She poured with expert precision, first filling a chrome shaker with ice, then using both hands to tip in a clear stream of vodka, then a splash of vermouth. She snapped on the lid, spun the shaker, then filled the triangular glass until the martini almost kissed the rim. Dropping two olives in the drink, she turned and handed it to me.

“You’ve done that before,” I said, trying to sound charming.

She laughed. “A few times.”

We both took long sips of the grown-up drink. Margo continued to smile politely, but kept her eyes moving around the room.

“What do you do, Kit?” she asked indifferently.

“I’m a proofreader.” I took another sip from the smooth glass. The vodka was already massaging my anxiety with its warm fingers. “How about you?”

Margo waved her hand as if shooing an invisible insect.

“Oh, I do PR for an insurance company. It’s selling out, I know, but it’s decent money.” She turned her gaze from the crowd back to me and leaned closer, crowding the air between us with musky perfume. “Sorry about mentioning Dale. I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay.” I took another sip. “We just had a different definition of monogamy.”

Her eyebrow lifted slightly as she smiled.

“So,” Margo began, pulling another cigarette from a silver case. “Last time I saw Dale he was playing at The Barbary with the Electric Love Muffin. I don’t remember meeting you there.”

“I don’t think I was at that show.”

“Probably a good thing.” Margo took a drag from her cigarette. “They were pretty bad that night. I stopped going to Pete’s shows. I thought it was fun for a while, but then I just got tired of being ignored.” She paused to glare in Pete’s direction, then took a sip from her martini.

“I know,” I said. “Dale was really different in college. H wasn’t in a band in college.”

“A band is just their excuse for getting drunk with their buddies. They don’t even know how to write a decent song.”

“What kind of music do you listen to?” I asked.

“Oh, I like the old stuff, like Wanda Jackson, The Collins Kids. It’s real simple, it has a hook, not like the crap these guys play.”

She lifted her glass to her lips, then realized it was empty.

“This is a problem. Looks like you could use one, too.”

She took my glass from my hand and refilled them both from the tall silver shaker she’d left on the table. I didn’t normally drink hard liquor, and could feel myself disappearing a little, but I was immensely grateful for the company. I hadn’t really talked to anyone about Dale. My parents didn’t want to upset me, so they acted like we’d never dated. My kid sister was wrapped up in her own little college clique. I wanted to tell these things to Margo, not just because we had things in common, but I really wanted her to like me. We sat on the couch and smoked cigarettes and swirled martini after martini, my intimidation dwindling with each new glass.

“I never knew what I would find when I came home from work,” I slurred slightly. “Sometimes Dale would just be sitting around smoking with guys from his band, and I’d walk in all corporate and they’d look at me like I was someone’s mother.”

Margo nodded her head sympathetically.

“I never knew where Dale was,” I continued, “and if I asked he’d say I shouldn’t be so paranoid.”

“What an ass,” Margo said. “Pete’s the same way. He’s a bartender, so he sleeps in and stays up late and listens to music when I’m trying to get to sleep so I can get up the next morning and make some decent money to pay our bills. All he cares about is ‘the band’ and his friends.”

“Exactly.”

We both stared at the tattooed people in the room.

“You know,” Margo said, “these people work in comic book stores and coffee shops and they feel so superior to people like us who have the nerve to get a 9-to-5 job.” She shook her head in disgust. “Just because they can wear an eyebrow ring to work they think they’re fucking artists. What gives them the corner on creativity?”

“Don’t forget record stores,” I said, “with their superior fucking attitude. God forbid if you pick up the wrong fucking CD and they look at you like you just voted for George Bush.”

“Please,” Margo rolled her eyes and took a long sip of her drink.

We stared at the clueless gathering, unaware of the invisible daggers we were hurling into their backs.

“I know I could write a better song than most of the people in this room,” Margo said. “I play a little guitar. It’s not that hard.”

“Really? Have you ever played with a band?”

“Nah. I just mess around on one of Pete’s acoustic guitars. How about you — do you play?”

“Actually, I kind of know how to play bass. Dale gave me one, and I took it with me when I moved because I knew he wanted it back, but felt too guilty to ask for it.”

Margo took a drag off her cigarette. “Maybe we should get together. See what happens.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

Margo glanced over at Pete. Two guys who looked just like him stood at his sides. They were passing a joint and laughing. She turned back to me.

“I can definitely get an electric guitar from Pete. He has, like, a dozen of them. I’m sure he can spare one.”

The buzz of the martinis accentuated my enthusiasm. Thoughts of parties and gigs and new friends clouded my blurry vision.

“We can play at my house,” I said. “I have plenty of room.”

“And I’ve got a ton of song ideas. Real simple stuff. I could bring some CDs over.” Margo fell back into the couch and grinned. “This is great. What better way to get back at these guys than to piss on their precious territory? Let’s do it.”

Margo lifted her martini in the air and we clinked glasses, the bond as strong as a blood oath.