The Resisters

by Gish Jen

Do note that your choice is on the record. Nothing is being hidden from you. Your choice is on the record.

She, too, was an embodiment of that tornado that is girlhood—that glorious whirlwind of silliness and sophistication that seems to dance and spin and touch down just exactly where it likes.

Do you know what trauma is? she would ask. Do you know how it can change people?

In some urgent new way, she seemed to Eleanor and me to whisper, Watch me. And so we did. We watched her.

When one girl slipped, others appeared so instantly that it was as if their spirits were already there, and only had to perceive a need to materialize. Was this what you got with an all-girl team who lived together under special pressures, with a special leader? For if the Lookouts were an all-accepting party, this was a family—a group in which, as my mother used to say, everyone has a part of you and you have a part of everyone.

she was going to need what my mother would have called quality cement.

either we’re makers or just made.”

“Grief deranges.” Gwen’s loose hair bloomed enormous behind her, but her manner was restrained. Ondi looked surprised. “It does,” she said. “That’s the word. It deranges.” “Healing is slow,” said Gwen. “Yes.” Ondi tilted her head at Gwen. “It is. It is slow.”

The barest ripple of response. But then the tops of people’s heads lit up, and as with surprising speed the sun began to pick out, first people’s eyes, and then their faces, it seemed that you could see their dawning realization.

the fastball, like it or not, he said, is king.

So before I wind up, I just need to think about everything they have that the Surplus don’t and, goddamn it, go get it back.”

“Why don’t we have job sharing? Why don’t we define taking care of children and the elderly as real work, regardless of whether or not it supports a ‘productive’ member of society? And while we’re at it, why can’t we call cleaning up the environment ‘work’ even if it doesn’t result in a product that can be sold? Why do we behave as if producing is still the be-all and end-all, when it’s not?”

“And what if I do resist but it’s just—what’s that word…” “Quixotic?” I said. “Quixotic. What if it’s just resistance for the sake of resistance. So I’m not complicit. Is that a stupid way to live?”

“You mean, like why does she always play to win?” said Gwen. “Like why can’t she just play to play?” “Yeah, and I mean, like why can’t she just leave stuff alone?” said Sylvie. “Because we didn’t design her, old people did,” said Pink. “And adults are like that.” —

isn’t it amazing how interesting we find characters who say no? In life we like people who say yes, but in books we like people who say no, he said. Which is just so true, don’t you think?

For was this not the level playing field we envisioned? The field on which people could show what they were made of? And didn’t we Americans believe above all that everyone should have a real chance at bat? Didn’t we believe that with the good of the team at heart, something in us might just hit a ball off our shoetops and send it sailing clear out of the park?

even if we returned to the dirt and the wind and the rain like the plants and the animals, we had a bigness in us. Something beyond algorithms and beyond Upgrades—something we were proud to call human.

“I don’t care what Clara Zee thinks. It’s what’s on the inside that matters. Isn’t that what you always used to say? It’s just your wrapper.” “But it was your wrapper.”

very definition of the Netted is people who see nothing. Surprise! you will say. And does he now want them to see more or does he just wish he could see less?

Why is it that recollection brings us to life almost more than living itself? We live to remember what we did, my mother used to say.

We cried the way you cry when you would much rather have died instead;

There’s no forgetting what you can’t forget,

we pitched a perfect game.