Kern Carter's Blog, page 25

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a poem about the hurt we know

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Learning to Listen

Photo Credit: Author

the city recently decided to enforce parking in my area, so after three years without issue, i now have to move my car everyday. during the week i throw on a housedress, grab my keys, do the move, come home. real regular. today, though? today i stood outside chatting with my neighbors for almost an hour and the mosquitos

ate.

my.

ass.

up.

and it’s what i deserve. because i distinctly remember an errant thought — or so i thought — to put on some bug repellant i’d randomly made (another story, another time) before leaving out. but why would i? out and immediately back in, right? tuh.

mosquitoes love me; i know this. if there’s one to be found it’s gonna bite me; i know this. me + those things = welts and blisters and allergy meds. i know this. friendly conversation, while great, isn’t worth all that so why did i stay out there? glad you asked —

as much as moving my car is a hassle, it’s allowed me to get to know more people in my area. this little neighborhood is everything. sweet families. quiet but active. everyone looks out for each other but minds their own business. WONDERFUL people. my favorite couple — of course i have one — has an amazing story associated with a well-known incident. while trying to convince Mrs. Favorite to let me document it one day, she told me about a recently passed neighbor who’d lived a very interesting life as well. tonight’s walk to my car afforded me the opportunity to become acquainted with his children. we connected over love of family history and record keeping and exchanged contact info, a major win for my passion project.

but now my arms and legs are braille-like. my prescription meds will put me out of commission for a full day; nothing is getting accomplished tomorrow. all because i didn’t listen to my first mind. gma always said to do so but i’ve always considered myself horrible at it. i don’t know how to trust my gut. what if i’m just paranoid? how would i know the difference??

today, though…i got it. sometimes i just know. a prayer was answered. God, Spirit, Egun, My People, my Gma…somebody, something, some Entity is listening and looking out for me. the deepest, darkest convo i have with myself is about knowing and trusting, or lack thereof. today i got a sign that i can trust me. i got the key to getting out of my own way and unlocking my dreams.

and it’s such a dumb thing.

put on some damn oil — that i wouldn’t normally need because i wouldn’t normally be out there talking for so long. something told me to do it and i fought it.

sometimes all you really need, no matter how much shit you have going on, is to know that you can do it; that someone believes everything is gonna be okay. that there’s a reason to be hopeful. that one day it’ll all make sense. gma used to be the one i’d call when i needed that. i knew what she’d say verbatim, but hearing it made it real.

“Wha’cha stressed fa’? Pray about it! God’ll fix it!”

her words were something i could hold on to and believe in, no matter the circumstance. steady and unchanging. unfortunately i never got around to recording her saying them. i had her, there was no need. until she wasn’t, and there was. so now i’m adjusting to that job. learning to give myself those talks. believing in myself. trusting my own prayers. honing my intuition. my abilities. my path. even when i don’t see clearly, or at all for that matter.

so to bring it all home (pun intended) — had i just listened, put on the damn oil, i wouldn’t be scratching my skin off and anticipating a full day’s hibernation. unknowingly i knew and i talked myself out of it, but it resulted in a lesson, or a few, that i won’t forget.

trust yourself.

you’re being guided.

shit’s gonna work out.

you can do this.

you know what you’re talking about sometimes.

dreams do come true. THINK BIG, B****!

AND PUT ON THE DAMN OIL NEXT TIME!

i know more than i think i do, and i’m learning to be okay with what i don’t.

except the new parking enforcement. i’m never gonna be okay with that annoyance no matter how many great connections i make.

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Learning to Listen was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Yes, It is Still a Man’s World

My experiences with the patriarchy

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Once upon a time and other great beginnings

What makes an engaging opening line?Art by Agnes (Author)

When I started writing this post, I wasn’t sure exactly what I would write. I just had this idea of compiling some opening lines I’d loved and trying to figure out why I loved them. I grabbed a few of my favorite books and copied out the first couple of sentences for each. And lo and behold, I discovered some of my favorite books don’t have great first lines.

So I expanded the search. My shelves are eclectic, and there’s a mix of books I’ve read and books I haven’t. My Kindle has an even less curated mix, with a few samples thrown in. Even so… when I started writing out their first lines, something happened: I started to find patterns!

Most of the opening lines I came across could be organized in the following categories

Once upon a timeA day like any otherFirst timesTruth and straightforward statementsName introductionsJumping right into the actionThought-provoking statementsSetting descriptionsSome special mentions

Disclaimer: I could have made dialogue a separate one, but often felt the dialogue took straight into the action or comfortably fit into the thought-provoking category. I also read articles that suggested “death” might be a good category. Apparently, a lot of books start with the death of someone, but I didn’t have too many of those on my shelves.

I should also note I’m not claiming these are all great opening lines, rather, I’m simply sharing some trends I’ve observed across genres and publication dates that I found interesting.

Once upon a time

A classic! Very common among children’s stories but making plenty of appearances in adult novels. Perhaps it works because it has been used so many times, it’s like settling into a favorite sofa, comfortable and familiar.

Once upon a time, before the whole world changed, it was possible to run away from home, disguise who you were, and fit into polite society ― Alice Hoffman, The Rules of MagicThere was once a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself- not just sometimes, but always. ― Norton Juster, The Phantom TollboothOnce upon a time — more like 15 years ago, actually ― I lived in a privately run dorm for college students in Tokyo. ― Haruki Murakami, FireflyOnce upon a time, there was a woman who discovered that she had turned into the wrong person. ― Anne Taylor, Back When We Were GrownupsOpening lines that start with “A day like any other”

Like once upon a time, these first lines hold a promise. The day starts out like any other, but it won’t end like one. Something is going to happen to make it stand out. It started as always; it was a day like any other until… there’s always an until ;)

Joseph’s morning began like any other, seated at his small yellow metal table imported from Rome, the destination of his yearly writing sabbatical. ― John Szabo, This Thing We Call Love.It began the usual way, in the bathroom of the Lassimo Hotel. ― Jennifer Egan, Visit from the Goon SquadWhen I left my office that beautiful spring day, I had no idea what was in store for me. ― Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern GrowsOpening lines highlighting first times

Marking the first time something happened usually brings a mix of nostalgia and hope: it’s an invitation to remember firsts and a promise of more to come.

On a warm night in early July of that long-evaporated year, the Interestings gathered for the very first time. — Meg Wolitzer, The InterestingsBobbi and I first met Melissa at a poetry night in town, where we were performing together. Sally Rooney — Conversations With FriendsIn the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life. ― Haruki Murakami, Sputnik SweetheartI still remember the day my father took me to the cemetery of forgotten books for the first time. Carlos Ruiz Zafón ― The Shadow of the WindI was nineteen years old the first time I saved Stella Bradley’s life ― Anna Pitoniak, Necessary PeopleVictoria’s world shook for the first time on the day Caitlin Somers sashayed up to her desk, plunked herself down on the edge, and said, “Vix…” ― Judy Blume, Summer SistersOpening lines with truths and straightforward statements

Some books start with a statement. When I was putting together these opening lines, it made me think of books about writing where renowned authors encourage writers to tell the truth; even in fiction, especially fiction. Anne Lamott, Elizabeth Gilbert, Neil Gaiman, and Stephen King, to name a few, write wildly different stories, and yet, on this point, they are all aligned: tell the truth.

“We writers (…) have an obligation to our readers: it’s the obligation to write true things, especially important when we are creating tales of people who do not exist in places that never were — to understand that truth is not in what happens but what it tells us about who we are. Fiction is the lie that tells the truth, after all.” ― Neil Gaiman

“… good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are.” ― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

It seems many authors share this view. Some opening lines will come out and tell you: this is the truth.

Here’s a true story. Simon, my editor, and I had been meeting to talk about how to put together this book you’re reading right now. ― Ali Smith, Public LibraryI’m not a bad guy. I know how that sounds- defensive, unscrupulous — but it’s true. I’m like everybody else: weak, full of mistakes, but basically good. ― Junot Diaz, This is how you lose herIt is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. ― Jane Austen, Pride and PrejudiceYou’ll think I’m making this up, but it’s true: my first memory is of cars. ― Jenson Button, Life to the Limit

Others confidently share a fact or statement.

Sarah talks too loud. it’s a problem ― Rumaan Alam, Rich and PrettyPeople think I’m smaller than I am ― Alexandra Chang, Days of DistractionWhen I was seven, I found a door ― Alix E. Harrow, The Ten Thousand Doors of JanuaryEver since my mom died, I cry in H Mart. ― Michelle Zauner, Crying in H MartAs most New Yorkers have done, I have given serious and generous thought to the state of my apartment should I get killed during the day. Sloane Crosley ― I Was Told There’d Be Cake

Opening lines with name introductions

For most writers, name matters. I haven’t seen the statistics, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the baby names websites get at least as many visits from writers as they do from parents-to-be. Does the name’s meaning say something about the character? Does it accurately reflect the character, or is it a contradiction we want to play with? Does it lend itself to nicknames?

My legal name is Alexander Perchov. ― Everything is IlluminatedCall me Ishmael. ― Herman Melville, Moby DickThere was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it ― C. S. Lewis, The Voyage Of The Dawn TreaderMy name is Eva, which means life, according to a book my mother consulted to pick my name. ― Isabel Allende, Eva Luna (opening line translated by yours truly)His full name was Mr. Harutsama Matsumoto, but I called him ‘Sensei.’ Not ‘Mr’ or ‘Sir,’ just ‘Sensei.’ Hiromi Kawakami ― Strange Weather in TokyoCopper is in his second year of high school. His real name is Honda Jun’ichi. Copper is his nickname. ― Genzaburo Yoshino, How do you live?The boy’s name was Santiago ― Paulo Coelho, The AlchemistMy name was Salmon, like the fish; first name Susie. ― Alice Sebold, The Lonely BonesOpening lines jumping right into the actionIt was too late to pretend he hadn’t seen her. ― Adelle Waldman, The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of grand central station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Bart. ― Edith Wharton, House of MirthShe had to tell Jack. ― Fiona Davis, Lions of Fifth AvenueA girl is running for her life ― V.E. Schwab, The Invisible Life of Addie LarueHe woke to the feeling of rough ground beneath him and the stench of mortal blood. ― Alexandra Bracken, LoreHer husband is almost home. He’ll catch her this time. ― A.J. Finn, The Woman in the WindowThought-provoking starters and statements to spark curiosity

I feel like these are the first lines we read twice. They can be questions, short remarks, or more elaborate observations.

Competence can be a curse. ― Min Jin Lee, Free Food for MillionairesA story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. ― Graham Greene, The End of the Affair (1951)In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my head ever since. ― F. Scott Fitzgerlad, The Great GatsbyIt was a story that made sense. An old story, but one that felt truer for it. Young love goes stale and slackens. You change, and you shed what you no longer need. It’s just part of growing up. ― Anna Pitoniak, The FuturesWould you rather love the more, and suffer the more: or love the less, and suffer the less? That is, I think, finally, the only real question. ― Julian Barnes, The Only StoryIt was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. ― George Orwell, 1984I may have found the solution to the wife problem. ― Graeme Simsion, The Rosie ProjectOpening lines with setting descriptions

Not sure these are the most notable or memorable first lines, but it feels pretty natural to start the story by setting the scene, an echo of the theatre perhaps.

On the pleasant shore of the French Rivera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the NightThe third floor of the SoHo office block smelled of instant coffee and disappointment ― Lauren Berry, Living the dreamPrinceton in the summer smelled of nothing, and although Ifmelu liked the tranquil greenness of the many trees, the clean streets and stately homes, the delicately overpriced shops and the quiet, abiding air of earned grace, it was this, the lack of a smell, that most appealed to her, perhaps because the other American cities she knew well had all smelled distinctly. ― Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, AmericanahSome special mentions (?)

Some sentences struck me as particularly original or different, at least from my random (and by no means exhaustive research). I probably could have included them in some of the categories listed above but they had elements I thought were interesting to call out: the narrator directly addressing the reader, the focus on a single word, the list format, Murakami’s combination of action, setting and the thought-provoking idea that there is a certain type of music to cook a dish, and Rhimes’ truth that tells the reader it may be a lie all felt like interesting choices.

You’re about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought.“Later!” the word, the voice, the attitude. Call Me by Your NameI remember in no particular order:
A shiny inner wrist;
Steam rising from a wet sink as a hot frying pan is laughingly; tossed into it;
Gouts of sperm circling a plughole, before being sluiced down the full length of a tall house;
A river rushing nonsensically upstream, its wave and wash lit by half a dozen chasing torch beams;
Another river, broad and grey, the direction of its flow disguised by a stiff wind exciting the surface;
Bathwater long gone behind a locked door. Julian Barnes — Sense of an endingWhen the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini’s ‘The Thieving Magpie,’ which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta –Haruki Murakami, Wind-Up Bird ChronicleI’m a liar — Shonda Rhimes, A Year of YesLast thoughts on first lines

I usually write the first lines last. Or at least, I’m very likely to tweak them in the final edit. I understand first lines matter, but a) when I start drafting, I seldom know exactly where I’m going, and b) I fear the pressure of a solid first line would be crippling if I gave it too much thought at the beginning.

Naturally, a little digging will yield a world of tips and best practices. I found a masterclass solely dedicated to first lines:

“ The first lines of a novel or short story must grab the reader’s attention, enticing them to continue past the first page and continue reading. The first sentence provides you with an opportunity to showcase your writing style , introduce your main character, or establish the inciting incident of your narrative.
Oftentimes, potential readers will glance at the opening sentence in a bookstore or on an online sample page in order to decide if they want to buy the book in the first place, so a great opening line may be the difference between a bestselling novel and a good story that languishes in obscurity.”

No pressure! While I agree that first impressions matter, I’m more likely to judge a book by its cover (I know, but it’s the truth), the blurb, and even the ending rather than the first line. And as I mentioned, some of the books I’ve loved didn’t have particularly strong starts, and something still made me read on.

Which type of opening lines do you prefer? Do you have favorite opening lines to share?

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Once upon a time and other great beginnings was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Writing With Purpose

And the purpose that makes me write

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Gma’s Death Doula

gma (standing, in plaid) and three siblings

my family’s narratives sound more like Black country tall tales than real-life happenings. i abhor the abuse that runs rampant in them and the traumas it caused generationally, but i‘m part of the laughing choral response to my relatives' calls and recounts of old ass whoopings. my colorful, multi-layered, dysfunctionally loving family.

i didn’t realize until now just how communal we are. from the daily 7pm prayer line to the walk-this-food-down-to-so-and-so’s-door errands, i learned early how to be in community with others. how there’s always enough ’cause we gon’ make it enough. how the bare fridge and cupboards that only bore syrup or sugar or tomato sandwiches for us, somehow turned out a whole meal of fried fish/squash/cornbread (or some other miraculous spread) once gma got home from work. how waking up to a floor full of bodies & blankets that weren’t there the night before never seemed to make the tiny house overcrowded. how everyone has something to offer & we all are stronger when we come together.

my gma has been the glue to this family since her mother passed. miraculously she raised five kids — and a huge extended family — on a meat packer’s wages. gma’s home was our collective heart and headquarters. everyone’s spirits are broken right now, gathering in wait. yet i also feel the beauty of the moment. traveling from far and wide. gathering on the porch telling stories. recalling ancestors and old times. sometimes we focus so much on generational curses that we overlook the generational gifts.

it’s a gift to be able to care for my gma. my glamour girl. the one love that has never felt conditional or incomplete. she’s done so much for me since i came into this place that, while i can never repay her, i consider it an honor taking care of her as she transitions from it.

her trust in me goes far beyond her body and health. gma is of the silent generation; long-suffering, hard working, and minimal complaining about the way things are or should be. it used to be that anytime she was questioned about the past, gma would deflect or say she didn’t remember. over the past year though, i’ve become a confidant of sorts. she’s entrusted me with stories of peoples and places that would be lost were it not for our talks and my transcription app. she’s allowed me to see and get to know her as a person. to understand more about her life and choices and reasons. while the life she was given didn’t allow her to dream — and she deserved so much more — the magic created from what she had is the foundation of a rich legacy. far too many of my relatives took it for granted. a great number still do, honestly.

i don’t.

so much of my life has been spent searching for things i knew were possible as others had them, but they were missing from my own. or so i thought. months of documenting gma cleaning fish, making her famous sweet potato pies and potato salad, and pointing out places that no longer exist as we drive by proved that i couldn’t see the forest for the trees. i’ve always had what i was seeking. i missed it because it didn’t look as expected.

losing her feels like the end of an era. the way of life my gma and her siblings knew is gone, and with each successive death a connection to many Black traditions is lost. my mom, her siblings, and cousins will soon be the only witnesses left. gma’s allowed me to be a bridge, though. watching her over these five months, relearning her silent cues and passive aggressive ways created a rosetta stone of sorts; i can now comb through my memories and her narratives to get a clearer understanding of her.

of Black southern culture.

of heritage & legacy.

of love & community.

us.

my gma is the least affectionate person i know. so in a way it feels wild, the flood of communications i receive daily, people sharing how she’s impacted their lives and is the favorite *fill in the blank relation or association*. i’ve always known her direct descendants/close relatives adore her, but i couldn’t have imagined how many coworkers/community members/distant relatives hold her in such high regard. she’s given so much in various ways over her lifetime and people are really showing up, ensuring that she’s carried out on a wave of love.

it blows my mind that she trusts me so much. like, yes — i told her i’d come support her through pancreatic cancer treatment. i was ready to be whatever she needed as it pertained to her health and medical care. however i wasn’t prepared for her to tell me she wants me to do EVERYTHING. that’s the exact word she used — everything. those familiar with Black folk speak understand just how much is being said in so little. one word with much emphasis. bypassing her five children and three living siblings, gma wants me to stand in her stead and i’m scared shitless.

in addition to the health stuff — which now includes managing a gallery of hospice care workers, equipment and tasks — there are also financial affairs. arrangements with the funeral home and family church. receiving guests and gracefully accepting calls and messages. holding space for members of my family in the ways each individual needs. playing hostess of gma’s apartment. choosing my favorite uncle, her eldest, to help me care for her at night. keeping him supplied with enough weed and six-packs to cope with losing his son and mother in a month’s span, while giving him an experience to reflect on later. i’ve been promoted to a position i didn’t expect to need filling for a long time and the weight is overwhelming.

i don’t know how i’m doing it. i’ve never been so all over the place yet organized in my life. my nerves are raw and numb all at once. i haven’t truly slept in weeks nor eaten in days. but i’m here because my girl chose me. through tears because i’m hurting her when changing her. silent sobs as she hugs me or squeezes my hand during coughing fits. trying to read her damned near closed eyes because she can barely speak.

the glamour girls.

this has got to be one of thee hardest things ever. but it’s also achingly beautiful. just as the best remedies often taste and feel the worst, i know somehow this experience is for my good. not only am i caring for gma as she’s cared for me, decades old family rifts are being mended. just in time for her to see some things come together despite the feeling of falling apart.

finding myself at the center of Black rites and traditions while my gma transitions isn’t the way i saw this whole thing going. holding vigil, supporting loved ones, and keeping gma comfortable as a main character was not on my bingo card. i feel like a death doula of sorts, but i find solace in knowing that i’m also helping birth a new norm.

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Gma’s Death Doula was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Depression is a Mind Fuck Which Screws With All Aspects Of My Life

My family rejected and abandoned me because of my mental illnesses

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Call For Submissions — Writing for a Cause

Call For Submissions — Writing for a Cause

I write for many reasons. I write because I love telling stories; it’s a part of who I am. I write to be heard because it’s important that others read my stories. There have also been times when I’ve written for a specific cause.

Writing my novels brings me the most joy, but writing with a specific goal to educate or bring awareness to a situation has a particular type of fulfillment. When I write for a cause, my goal is to move people to action. I want them to take the next step in their exposure to the cause and hopefully act in a way that is in alignment to their personal values.

There’s never a shortage of negative events happening in the world, but with the passing of the young woman in Iran after being arrested for not properly covering her hair, I thought this would be a good time to talk about writing for a cause.

You can take any approach to this prompt. Talk about a time you’ve written for a cause. You can talk about the significance of writing for a cause and how and why this informs your writing. Maybe writing for a cause is not your thing. You can talk about that, also.

Same rules as always:You can submit to this or ANY of our past writing prompts. Just scroll through our previous newsletters. They’ll be marked “Call for Submissions.”If you’re already a writer for CRY, go ahead and submit.Be as creative as you want in your submissions. As long as you stick to the topic, we’ll consider it.Just because you submit doesn’t mean we’ll post. If you haven’t heard back from us in three days, consider that a pass.[image error]

Call For Submissions — Writing for a Cause was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Fast Food Ain’t What It Use to Be

Is it Covid, just crappy management, or do people just not care?

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An Autumn’s Night

Image by Alesha Burton

The night is coming. A time of fresh, crisp air and a sky bloated with light pollution. The days grow short, and the night grows longer and louder, reminding us more and more of its looming presence. It burns a cold flame over the sky and puts out the sun’s fire. It burns us with a blistering reminder. The night is coming.

I love the night. I wish I could embrace it outside more often. Sadly, the night is an unsafe time to walk alone. I am unable to walk outside without fear. But if I could walk outside without the fear of being attacked, I would walk around at 9 pm.

I ended up going home later than usual, around a week ago. In that experience, I rode the bus in fading daylight. I watched as the grey clouds grew bluer and bluer, brightening to a halt. It looked like the ocean had swallowed the sky whole, and we were being drowned in its welcoming abyss. The unlit buildings veiled the sky, their silhouettes molding and bending with the trees outside of them.

The streetlights came on, and the luminescence of the bright signage by a shopping mall felt like a surreal image I was watching live. Like I had witnessed some form of transformation: hatching from an egg. It’s a sense that everything in that moment was exactly as in the movies.

The sky became purple, then black. The hues of orange from the streetlights bouncing upwards. Once I left the bus, the fresh chill slapped me across the face. I jolted and covered myself with my sweater, wrapping my wings around my body in a vain effort to keep warm. The air told me one thing.

It’s autumn.

Autumn isn’t the worst. A lot of early autumn in Masadam-Yae feels like summer, but if the nights were cold; then winter hits, and it’s actually cold and uncomfortable. Autumn is kind. It gives you a reminder of what was, then a warning of what will be. Just like how spring carries you into the forever daytime of summer, autumn gently carries you into the 4 PM darkness of winter.

I think Autumn deserves a lot more than just pumpkin spice and falling leaves. It deserves a mention of the change in time and a recognition of how beautiful the night is.

There is a proverb amongst the aristocratic vampires in my parents’ home country: “Fear the moon, not the sun. It is the only force that can tell the sun to set.” I know that science would say many things about that, but there’s an underlying truth. The night is terrifying. So terrifying that it should be appreciated and loved.

The nighttime is a beauty, and I cannot stress it enough. If the night were safer, I would most certainly walk as much as I could. I would take in every last tree and plant in their shadowed turquoise dream. I would sit under a streetlight and embrace the artificial warmth. I would wander in the darkness and pretend I know the constellations from one another.

The night is coming. Autumn is coming. I will try to embrace it as my ancestors would. But probably from my bed instead of outside. The chill is just a bit too strong for my toothpick arms.

— Heleza

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An Autumn’s Night was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.