SIGMA TAU DELTA JOURNALS INTERNATIONAL ENGLISH HONOR SOCIETY 2020 Sigma Tau Delta Review | Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle Delta Review | Sigma Tau 2020 Sigma Tau SIGMA TAU DELTA RECTANGLE Journal of Creative Writing VOLUME 95, 2020 english.org SIGMA TAU DELTA REVIEW Journal of Critical Writing VOLUME 17, 2020 ISSN 0888-4757 (Rectangle) ISSN 2471-318X (Review) 2020 SIGMA TAU DELTA JOURNALS SIGMA TAU DELTA JOURNALS INTERNATIONAL ENGLISH HONOR SOCIETY SIGMA TAU DELTA RECTANGLE Journal of Creative Writing VOLUME 95, 2020 SIGMA TAU DELTA REVIEW Journal of Critical Writing VOLUME 17, 2020 2020 Copyright © 2020 by Sigma Tau Delta Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle No. 95 Sigma Tau Delta Review No. 17 Managing Editor Dan Colson Editorial Interns Amy Jackson Megan White Emporia State University Emporia, KS All rights reserved under International and Pan–American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Sigma Tau Delta, Inc., the International English Honor Society, William C. Johnson, Executive Director, Department of English, Northern Illinois University, DeKalb, Illinois 60115–2863, USA. Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle and Sigma Tau Delta Review journals are published annually with the continuing generous assistance of Northern Illinois University (DeKalb, IL) and Emporia State University (Emporia, KS). Publication is limited to members of Sigma Tau Delta. A limited number of print copies are shipped to Chapter Advisors to distribute to Sigma Tau Delta chapter members. Sigma Tau Delta is a member of the Association of College Honor Societies. Subscription Information Please email the Sigma Tau Delta Central Office to request a subscription: [email protected] Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle: ISSN 0888-4757 (print), ISSN 2471-3171 (online) Sigma Tau Delta Review: ISSN 2471-318X (print), ISSN 2471-3201 (online) 2019–20 WRITING AWARDS FOR SIGMA TAU DELTA REVIEW AND SIGMA TAU DELTA RECTANGLE Frederic Fadner Critical Essay Award Ashley Walker: “It Drives Me Crazy: Childhood and Madness in J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye” Eleanor B. North Poetry Award Sydney Roslin: “Evolution” E. Nelson James Poetry Award Ryan Drendel: “I will not kick my brother in the head.” Herbert Hughes Short Story Award James Braun: “Clay” Elizabeth Holtze Creative Non-Fiction Award Hannah Rogers: “After the Stroke: Feeling for Her” Contents RECTANGLE Poetry Evolution SYDNEY ROSLIN 5 I will not kick my brother in the head. RYAN DRENDEL 7 I say It’s like Mexico’s Grand Canyon when we see it RYAN DRENDEL 9 Prayer book 9.4.17 ISABELLA HIGGINS 11 Try a Little Tenderness ISABELLA HIGGINS 13 Meanwhile in Trafalgar Square BRIANNA MORRIS 15 Having Breakfast with My Anxiety in Morninglight BRIANNA MORRIS 16 The Flood ABBY N. LEWIS 18 Trout Fishing ABBY N. LEWIS 20 Macbeth, Visited by Three Witches MADISON RODAK 21 Early Onset SARAH ANNE PFITZER 23 Orange Peels MAYA GRUBNER 25 Multnomah Dreams SARA PERKINS 27 W.C.T.U., c. 1530 ZACHARY ERICKSON 29 Winter Poem SEAN CHO A. 30 vii viii CONTENTS When a Warrior Becomes a Horse BROOKE STANISH 32 Photograph of L’Arc de Triomphe, 1981 SHEA MCCOLLUM 33 wu wei TYLER STEINSDORFER 36 Elegy for Unclaimed Bodies COURTNEY DUCHENE 39 Feast PACEY HAM 41 do you fear the jellyfish dancing in the night MADISON BRADLEY 43 Creative Non-Fiction After the Stroke: Feeling for Her HANNAH ROGERS 47 Bite Down KYMBERLIN BUSH 54 Why I Stopped Introducing Myself as “Amber” AMBAR GRULLON 61 Some Kind of Permanent KYLE RIPER 64 My Haunting SARAH BLISS 69 Cardboard Chemotherapy REBECCA MEAR 73 Unfinished AMANDA TOLVAISA 77 Trembling Hope SHAUN ANDERSON 83 Short Fiction Clay JAMES BRAUN 87 Wild, Wondrous KIERON WALQUIST 93 Fate Inc. ALLISON AKERS 100 Beside the Scarlet Sea VIA D’AGOSTINO 105 The Old Man of the Lake KYLIE MULLEN 112 Edgar Alphabet’s First Day of School Discussion SAMUEL ERNST 117 The Stairs Have Heard What the Walls Have Seen ASHLYN M. BRISLEY 125 Advice For Driving While High CHRIS DENHAM 129 REVIEW “It Drives Me Crazy”: Childhood and Madness in J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye ASHLEY WALKER 137 Voice and Transformation in the Exeter Book Riddles ALANA TRUITT 145 CONTENTS ix “Fifty cents for her love”: Autobiographical Fiction and the Rejection of White Patronage in Zora Neale Hurston’s “The Gilded Six-Bits” AMBER GAUDET 151 What is the Word: The Prerogative of the Interrogative in Samuel Beckett’s Endgame ANDREA HERRIG 158 José Martí, Travel Writing, and the American Canon CATHERINE EVANS 165 Mind Under Matter: Death and Margaret Cavendish’s Poetic Natural Philosophy DILLON O’NAIL 172 Defending the Toxic Woman: William Faulkner’s “A Rose For Emily” and Toxic Discourse ISABELA MEDINA 178 Language of Blackness: Negotiating Identity in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah MADDIE SCHULTZ 184 India as an Imagined Community: The Function of Magical Realism in Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children OLIVIA KLEIN 192 The Ambivalent Critique of Imperialism in E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India RACHEL STROIA 199 “We shed not a tear for our own”: Vulnerability and Advocacy in Anne Brönte’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall REILLY FITZPATRICK 206 A Reasoned Agent: Mary Wollstonecraft’s Vindication and Feminine Power in Eliza Fenwick’s Secresy ROSA CANALES 213 The Paradox of Language in The Handmaid’s Tale XAVIER XIN 220 The Reliability of the Senses: Sight, Sound, and Touch in Louise Glück’s The Wild Iris GRACE PERRY 227 BACKMATTER Contributors 235 Judges 245 About Sigma Tau Delta 249 SIGMA TAU DELTA RECTANGLE POETRY Evolution Sydney Roslin The air wasn’t safe to breathe, so I decided to stop breathing. It took time. I’ve been breathing my entire life, so I trained myself to ignore my chest screaming in protest until it stopped burning. Until one day it forgot to care. You can’t yawn without breathing, which I discovered when I started falling asleep in broad daylight. I guess my brain liked the extra air, but the sleeping wasn’t too bad. Waking up was harder, pulling myself back from the pitch-black tar sticking to my consciousness, hovering at the edges of my vision. The government found out and sent me to NASA to talk 5 6 SIGMA TAU DELTA JOURNALS / RECTANGLE to astronauts and scientists and bigwigs with deep suit pockets, but I couldn’t speak. My vocal cords had grown stiff and slow and my lips had fused together, so I stood mute as they checked my lack of pulse, took x-rays and scans and marveled at my stillness. They said, choking on the smog that had settled into the earth, that I am what humanity could be. They said I am our future. I will not kick my brother in the head. Ryan Drendel A love poem for the grown man who threw an empty fifth of Fireball at me from his Chevy as I biked down Newman Road at nine in the morning. I know I look like I don’t know anything about anything. Too young to have had to commute the morning after lighting your loved ones to death. To have ever noticed the glass that seared them staring back, aching and empty in the passenger seat, the same second you turned the ignition. I know I looked pretentious riding my fixie next to traffic, occupying the right half of the shoulder, making you feel older and wonder whether you should shift lanes to allow me some safe space. I saw you react to wonder with violence. Rolling the passenger window down, you decided I was just another libtard judging your MAGA bumper sticker and godawful, stenciled flames. I know I look furious now that I’ve found you stuck in your ugly pickup, begging the light above you to flick green. 7 8 SIGMA TAU DELTA JOURNALS / RECTANGLE Your chaser has pedaled here at breakneck speed to tell you: Roll that window back down. Face me like a real man. I want to tell you why I love my old man. My dad will happily rant with you on politics, ask you where you got your hot paint job done. He’ll wonder if flames would look good on a ‘34 Ford Tudor, and whether you’d know someone who can sell him the past. I can’t imagine kicking my best friend in the notch of the back of his skull for snatching a tennis ball from me—but I know that I did this. My dad made me remember it one-thousand times. I will not react. I will not react. He made me write, I will not react, hoping he might raise me a new man. I say It’s like Mexico’s Grand Canyon when we see it Ryan Drendel but Hernán and I aren’t looking while taking selfies with the birds of el Cañón del Sumidero. We record them flaring into their belvedere-nests below. We wonder if birds ever feel transcendental, whether they also imagine the canyon to be immaculate. I gawk down the green shelf, gaping at how roots can cling into limestone set so steep. (When it still lived here, the Harpy Eagle saw everything as it was. It could fly clutching prey half its weight, flee faster than eighty kilometers an hour.) Hernán captures a panorama. He grins. The Grand Canyon was Mexico’s Grand Canyon. I drop my head to squint at what must be a motorboat. The speck soars upriver, cuts the water clean, leaves a V. I cannot hear our tour guide narrate over the motor, but I can follow his finger, pointing at the spider monkey families who hide up the green shelf. He delivers us to a famous pink alcove where man has glued a cast figurine of the Virgin Mother.