08 February, 2019
thoughts on an austrian pastry
There is no graceful way to enjoy a croissant, especially if it's been made properly. An effective croissant will be light and airy, presenting with layer after layer of buttery, yeast-leavened dough. The crisp, laminated layers are what create the issue. I hesitate to peel apart the delicate layers to eat them individually: it feels savage, as if I were removing the wings from a butterfly. Lifting buttery sheets to place them, paper-thin, on my tongue where they rest for just for a moment before dissolving. I am inclined to bite directly into the porous pastry, but this, too gives the impression of one willing to sacrifice culinary experience for the instant gratification of rapid munching. Equipping oneself with fork and knife is another option, but seems too grandiose for the perfect simplicity a croissant embodies. There is no safe ground, no happy medium. So I am left to some combination of the three, and will most likely still end up looking a fool, leaving golden-brown flakes in my wake.
14 November, 2018
the order of things: published in the bethel university coeval, fall 2018
It’s Wednesday morning and I’ve made my way across town to tackle my to-do list from a high-top table in the Whittier neighborhood. The noise level in the cafe has reached a comfortable din: loud enough to have reached the point where individual voices are no longer distinguishable, instead every sound has overlapped the last one to create a woven tapestry of rhythmic humming. I do my best work in this sort of place, gleaning productivity from the chaotic order.
There is an elderly man sitting at the table next to mine who introduced himself to me moments ago as Sunny Eagle. He drinks a coffee and a tea at the same time - holding one beverage in both wrinkled, tanned hands. Every once in a while, he’ll stand and raise one of his steaming mugs above his head, exclaiming to the whole cafe in a thick East Asian accent, “Wonderful!” or, “Very good!” He turns his head like an owl, admiring his surroundings. He seems elated by the sunshine streaming through the windows, causing a fuzzy halo of morning light to form around his unruly black hair, sprinkled with streaks of silver. He does a few laps around the coffee house, walking with a slight limp, nodding and smiling to some customers, bowing and smiling to others. “Wonderful!” “Very good!” We nod and smile back. He raises a mug, toasting the general atmosphere. His cheerful disposition is contagious.
As I scribble notes in the margins of Foucault (Les Mots et les choses seems oddly appropriate, in a paradoxical way), I find myself wanting to become more like Sunny. I want to seek joy and find light in everyday things, like the strangers I pass on the street and in the sunshine. Approaching each day with unbridled curiosity and extending a hand or a cup of tea, affirming each person’s presence: inviting them to share in the simple pleasure of it all. Disallowing anyone to feel unseen or unheard. You are welcome here, and so are you, and you. And it is “Wonderful!” and so very good to be here with you. Sharing this grace in order to make each place a little warmer. A little more sunny.
______
Foucault, Michel. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. Random House, 1994.
There is an elderly man sitting at the table next to mine who introduced himself to me moments ago as Sunny Eagle. He drinks a coffee and a tea at the same time - holding one beverage in both wrinkled, tanned hands. Every once in a while, he’ll stand and raise one of his steaming mugs above his head, exclaiming to the whole cafe in a thick East Asian accent, “Wonderful!” or, “Very good!” He turns his head like an owl, admiring his surroundings. He seems elated by the sunshine streaming through the windows, causing a fuzzy halo of morning light to form around his unruly black hair, sprinkled with streaks of silver. He does a few laps around the coffee house, walking with a slight limp, nodding and smiling to some customers, bowing and smiling to others. “Wonderful!” “Very good!” We nod and smile back. He raises a mug, toasting the general atmosphere. His cheerful disposition is contagious.
As I scribble notes in the margins of Foucault (Les Mots et les choses seems oddly appropriate, in a paradoxical way), I find myself wanting to become more like Sunny. I want to seek joy and find light in everyday things, like the strangers I pass on the street and in the sunshine. Approaching each day with unbridled curiosity and extending a hand or a cup of tea, affirming each person’s presence: inviting them to share in the simple pleasure of it all. Disallowing anyone to feel unseen or unheard. You are welcome here, and so are you, and you. And it is “Wonderful!” and so very good to be here with you. Sharing this grace in order to make each place a little warmer. A little more sunny.
As I sit at my high-top table, surveying the environment which I have become a part of this morning, I find myself praying to God and everyone and no one in particular: Let’s have a little more sun.
______
Foucault, Michel. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. Random House, 1994.
31 August, 2018
pilgrimage
An elderly man stands at the corner of Bottineau Boulevard and Lake Drive. It is Sunday afternoon, and traffic at this particular intersection is light. Occasionally, a rusted, clunking minivan shuttling its family of four home from the 10 a.m. church service will trundle through underneath the clouded sky. Mother shushing brother and sister, fighting in the backseat, father checking his watch against the steering wheel to see if he’ll make it home in time for the one-o’clock football game on TV. The elderly man standing on the corner watches these minivans pass by, blinking slowly against the hazy sun filtering through the clouded sky.
The elderly man walks up the street from the apartments where a lot of wounded veterans live, I think. They live there together because the units are cheap and nobody asks any questions. The man has a slight limp and his spine curves at the top, arching in a sort of question mark. He wears a battered baseball cap and faded dress pants. In the summer, a yellow button-down with ink stains on the breast pocket. In the winter, a sheepskin-lined denim jacket with the collar turned up against the bitter northern wind. Simple. He emanates simplicity.
Another car motors its way up to the intersection of Bottineau Boulevard and Lake Drive: a red pickup truck with the city logo on both side doors, its bed loaded with gardening equipment and other maintenance tools. Going to keep up the landscaping outside of the apartment building where a lot of wounded veterans live. The man driving the city truck takes the opportunity of the red light to flick the butt of his cigarette out of the crack at the top of his window, making brief eye contact with the elderly man on the corner as the butt hits the ground. The butt spits a couple faint sparks in each direction. The light changes to green and the city man moves his foot to the gas and pulls away from the gaze of the elderly man standing on the corner.
Across the intersection, the Muslim man managing the gas station leans on the counter, nursing a can of 7-Up that’s coated with beads of condensation in objection to the sultry noonday heat. The Muslim man watches the elderly man on the corner of Bottineau Boulevard and Lake Drive each day as the elderly man walks up to the corner from the apartment building where a lot of wounded veterans live. The man at the counter appreciates the consistency of the elderly man’s humble pilgrimage. He sees the grace.
I have watched the elderly man with the slight limp and the curved spine and the ink-stained button-down cross the busy intersection of Bottineau Boulevard and Lake Drive dozens of times, maybe hundreds. His gaze always towards the pavement, as if his very eyes are tethered there, never able to lift more than an inch or so above the ground. He only raises his head when he’s arrived at the Pilgrim Cleaners; there, he leans against the retaining wall that separates the cleaners from the busy street. His forehead lifts slowly and he watches the cars go by, occasionally rotating his head to track a single vehicle. He doesn’t seem overly concerned with much of anything. He never says a single word to anyone, and no one says anything to him.
He seems to maintain the quietness of this small town. I suppose he hasn’t always been here, in this place, but maybe he was here before it was much of a place at all, and in this way he embodies sentimentality in its purest form. Now-isolated in a city that doesn’t know his name. A sentimental sentinel. I’d like to call him plain, but as a compliment. Effortless grace and conscious-less reassurance that some things really do stay the same forever. I share the Muslim man at the gas station’s appreciation for consistency. A daily walk, an untold story. He doesn’t demand anything, except perhaps that his legs keep working and his curved spine remains straight enough for him to continue walking each day.
The elderly man walks up the street from the apartments where a lot of wounded veterans live, I think. They live there together because the units are cheap and nobody asks any questions. The man has a slight limp and his spine curves at the top, arching in a sort of question mark. He wears a battered baseball cap and faded dress pants. In the summer, a yellow button-down with ink stains on the breast pocket. In the winter, a sheepskin-lined denim jacket with the collar turned up against the bitter northern wind. Simple. He emanates simplicity.
Another car motors its way up to the intersection of Bottineau Boulevard and Lake Drive: a red pickup truck with the city logo on both side doors, its bed loaded with gardening equipment and other maintenance tools. Going to keep up the landscaping outside of the apartment building where a lot of wounded veterans live. The man driving the city truck takes the opportunity of the red light to flick the butt of his cigarette out of the crack at the top of his window, making brief eye contact with the elderly man on the corner as the butt hits the ground. The butt spits a couple faint sparks in each direction. The light changes to green and the city man moves his foot to the gas and pulls away from the gaze of the elderly man standing on the corner.
Across the intersection, the Muslim man managing the gas station leans on the counter, nursing a can of 7-Up that’s coated with beads of condensation in objection to the sultry noonday heat. The Muslim man watches the elderly man on the corner of Bottineau Boulevard and Lake Drive each day as the elderly man walks up to the corner from the apartment building where a lot of wounded veterans live. The man at the counter appreciates the consistency of the elderly man’s humble pilgrimage. He sees the grace.
I have watched the elderly man with the slight limp and the curved spine and the ink-stained button-down cross the busy intersection of Bottineau Boulevard and Lake Drive dozens of times, maybe hundreds. His gaze always towards the pavement, as if his very eyes are tethered there, never able to lift more than an inch or so above the ground. He only raises his head when he’s arrived at the Pilgrim Cleaners; there, he leans against the retaining wall that separates the cleaners from the busy street. His forehead lifts slowly and he watches the cars go by, occasionally rotating his head to track a single vehicle. He doesn’t seem overly concerned with much of anything. He never says a single word to anyone, and no one says anything to him.
He seems to maintain the quietness of this small town. I suppose he hasn’t always been here, in this place, but maybe he was here before it was much of a place at all, and in this way he embodies sentimentality in its purest form. Now-isolated in a city that doesn’t know his name. A sentimental sentinel. I’d like to call him plain, but as a compliment. Effortless grace and conscious-less reassurance that some things really do stay the same forever. I share the Muslim man at the gas station’s appreciation for consistency. A daily walk, an untold story. He doesn’t demand anything, except perhaps that his legs keep working and his curved spine remains straight enough for him to continue walking each day.
22 May, 2018
a list of strangers we've lost (3rd place, 2018 jerry healy poetry prize)
A List of Strangers We’ve Lost
by Hannah Toutge
Jamar Clark.
Ring a bell?
Were he alive, he’d have a story to tell.
One of prejudice, one of fear
Just one night, when the stars were clear
Was all it took to end his life
The last thing he saw: an accusing flashlight.
Just one night, when the stars were clear.
Dontre Hamilton and Eric Garner
Two more deaths, tensions running higher.
Hamilton shot, Garner choked
Neither man had a chance, nor spoke.
Instructed to remain silent if ever detained
“Submitting will make it easier,” they’d claimed.
Two more deaths, no one spoke.
John Crawford (the Third) and Michael Brown
Cleveland or Ferguson, it doesn’t matter the town
“He fit the profile,” law enforcement defends
But what good does that do when they’re already dead?
Officers accused of being corrupt,
It’s obvious murder, but no one’s locked up.
What good does that do when they’re dead.
Tamir Rice and Jerame Reid
Two more names to ring in 2015.
The list is growing, and so is the anger
At this senseless slaughter, the increasing danger.
But only danger for black people, because their color makes them “bad”
The violence is becoming reminiscent of Stalingrad.
Now we’re in 2015.
Tony Robinson and Phillip White
Again, nobody put up a fight.
Because the more you resist, the worse it’ll hurt
The tighter the handcuffs, even though your hands aren’t any worse
Than the ones that held the gun, that confidently pulled the trigger
The gunshot summoned the gravedigger.
You are not at fault.
Walter Scott and Freddie Gray
Do you think we’ll ever see the day?
When black lives matter
And cops aren’t Mad Hatters
And they don’t shoot on a whim
Simply because of darker skin.
Black lives matter, Black Lives Matter.
Peter Gaines and Devonte Gates
Gee, ain’t this country great?
Demarco Rhymes was 35
Why do white men prefer “dead” to “alive?”
But only in terms of black men, you see
A free and but not all in this country are free.
Why are they dead. Why aren’t they alive?
Alton Sterling.
Before he’s buried, there’s already another name to add to the fury.
Philando Castile killed in front of his daughter
Live-streamed on Facebook, another senseless slaughter.
Tyre King was just thirteen
Another name glares up from the screen.
Another senseless slaughter.
And now the question stands at attention,
Demands attention, how do we enact prevention?
How do we respond to murder, hate crimes?
When a white man is afraid, a black man dies.
I wish these weren’t even questions to pose
Acceptance is wilted like an April Christmas rose.
How do we change?
Hear their names.
How do we change.
by Hannah Toutge
Jamar Clark.
Ring a bell?
Were he alive, he’d have a story to tell.
One of prejudice, one of fear
Just one night, when the stars were clear
Was all it took to end his life
The last thing he saw: an accusing flashlight.
Just one night, when the stars were clear.
Dontre Hamilton and Eric Garner
Two more deaths, tensions running higher.
Hamilton shot, Garner choked
Neither man had a chance, nor spoke.
Instructed to remain silent if ever detained
“Submitting will make it easier,” they’d claimed.
Two more deaths, no one spoke.
John Crawford (the Third) and Michael Brown
Cleveland or Ferguson, it doesn’t matter the town
“He fit the profile,” law enforcement defends
But what good does that do when they’re already dead?
Officers accused of being corrupt,
It’s obvious murder, but no one’s locked up.
What good does that do when they’re dead.
Tamir Rice and Jerame Reid
Two more names to ring in 2015.
The list is growing, and so is the anger
At this senseless slaughter, the increasing danger.
But only danger for black people, because their color makes them “bad”
The violence is becoming reminiscent of Stalingrad.
Now we’re in 2015.
Tony Robinson and Phillip White
Again, nobody put up a fight.
Because the more you resist, the worse it’ll hurt
The tighter the handcuffs, even though your hands aren’t any worse
Than the ones that held the gun, that confidently pulled the trigger
The gunshot summoned the gravedigger.
You are not at fault.
Walter Scott and Freddie Gray
Do you think we’ll ever see the day?
When black lives matter
And cops aren’t Mad Hatters
And they don’t shoot on a whim
Simply because of darker skin.
Black lives matter, Black Lives Matter.
Peter Gaines and Devonte Gates
Gee, ain’t this country great?
Demarco Rhymes was 35
Why do white men prefer “dead” to “alive?”
But only in terms of black men, you see
A free and but not all in this country are free.
Why are they dead. Why aren’t they alive?
Alton Sterling.
Before he’s buried, there’s already another name to add to the fury.
Philando Castile killed in front of his daughter
Live-streamed on Facebook, another senseless slaughter.
Tyre King was just thirteen
Another name glares up from the screen.
Another senseless slaughter.
And now the question stands at attention,
Demands attention, how do we enact prevention?
How do we respond to murder, hate crimes?
When a white man is afraid, a black man dies.
I wish these weren’t even questions to pose
Acceptance is wilted like an April Christmas rose.
How do we change?
Hear their names.
How do we change.
10 May, 2018
spoken word for my sister
There are so many battles to be fought today.
I’m a woman, I’m proud, but I’m also afraid because
The guy on the subway looked at me that way
And I know he’s not looking for my eyes
In his mind, he’s got a hand on my thigh
And he’s climbing, higher, up high
“Just relax, baby, you’re beautiful.”
I don’t know what I did to deserve this
He means to give me worth, I feel worthless
And I bet he would laugh if he heard this
Because I’m just being a “dramatic feminist.”
This is why we march, it goes back to Genesis
Women coming second: pent-up poetess
But you won’t hear the poetry ‘til we’re free.
Please tell me what it is that I’m not understanding
And don’t tell me that my request for safety is demanding
With the way it is now, I feel quite stranded
On an island of survivors, but in the distance I see
A free land, see no one on my island is free -
We’re behind bars which “protect us” but we’re imprisoned, not free
To embrace our sexuality, for fear of of it being mistaken for an invitation.
I’d like to tell my sister to thicken her skin
To stay strong, to stay silent, (never let him in-
[Or see the] -side of you) that shows you are afraid.
But I know passivity and masks will never win the day
We’ve seen what the threat of walls can do,
It’s guns versus roses and yet war isn’t our truth
So I wrote this for my sister, to tell her
Sister, stay soft. Strengthen your wild flame with truth.
Dance often, sing loudly, hold onto your youth.
Channel your passion into art and guard your beautiful heart
Use that heart to empower and give revolution a kickstart
Draw near to the hurt, the marginalized, the poor
Introduce them to courage and remind them what community is for
And know, (baby, sister,) you are so damn beautiful.
I’m a woman, I’m proud, but I’m also afraid because
The guy on the subway looked at me that way
And I know he’s not looking for my eyes
In his mind, he’s got a hand on my thigh
And he’s climbing, higher, up high
“Just relax, baby, you’re beautiful.”
I don’t know what I did to deserve this
He means to give me worth, I feel worthless
And I bet he would laugh if he heard this
Because I’m just being a “dramatic feminist.”
This is why we march, it goes back to Genesis
Women coming second: pent-up poetess
But you won’t hear the poetry ‘til we’re free.
Please tell me what it is that I’m not understanding
And don’t tell me that my request for safety is demanding
With the way it is now, I feel quite stranded
On an island of survivors, but in the distance I see
A free land, see no one on my island is free -
We’re behind bars which “protect us” but we’re imprisoned, not free
To embrace our sexuality, for fear of of it being mistaken for an invitation.
I’d like to tell my sister to thicken her skin
To stay strong, to stay silent, (never let him in-
[Or see the] -side of you) that shows you are afraid.
But I know passivity and masks will never win the day
We’ve seen what the threat of walls can do,
It’s guns versus roses and yet war isn’t our truth
So I wrote this for my sister, to tell her
Sister, stay soft. Strengthen your wild flame with truth.
Dance often, sing loudly, hold onto your youth.
Channel your passion into art and guard your beautiful heart
Use that heart to empower and give revolution a kickstart
Draw near to the hurt, the marginalized, the poor
Introduce them to courage and remind them what community is for
And know, (baby, sister,) you are so damn beautiful.
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