A5 the Degree 3(O

I DON’T A written creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University In partial fulfillment of the requirements for A5 the Degree 3(o Master of Fine Arts In Creative Writing by Kacy Cunningham San Francisco, California May 2016 Copyright by Kacy Cunningham 2016 CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL I certify that I have read I Don’t by Kacy Cunningham, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. Chanan Tigay Assistant Professor of Creative Writing Department Chair of Creative Writing I DON’T Kacy Cunningham San Francisco, California 2016 Codi Grace always wanted more from life than her friends: more adventure, more love, more experience. Dissatisfied with the mundane and ordinary, Codi, 22, travels to Europe where she hopes to better understand herself, meet like-minded people, and find what’s been missing in her life. Instead, she turns strangers into enemies, mistakes one- night-stands for love, gets arrested in a foreign country, and nearly loses her best friend. She eventually settles in Florence, Italy to study abroad for a year. Here, she finds the last thing she wanted: true love. Now, Codi must learn to balance her selfishness while surrendering to love. I D on’t is a novel that explores how we become who we are while looking closely at personal history, female sexuality, and self-discovery through travel, lust, and love. I certify that the annotation is a correct representation of the content of this written creative work. Chair, Thesis Committee Date ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to my parents, Rhonda and Brian Cunningham, for always telling me I could do anything. I couldn’t have written this without your love and support. Thank you to everyone at San Francisco State University for reading, critiquing, and encouraging my work, especially Chanan Tigay, Maxine Chemoff, Peter Omer, Toni Mirosevich, Paul Hoover, Andrew Joron, Steve Dickison, Nona Caspers, Loria Mendoza, Austin Messick, Nate Waggoner, Jenny Alton, Ari Moskowitz, Ploi Pirapokin, Dirk Petersen, Dylan Brie Ducey, Sofia Lopez, Lara Coley, Yume Kim, Kendra Schynert, Jenna Feest, Maia Ipp, Kayla Eason, Jen Cross, Heidi Van Horn, Philip Harris, and Sean Barnett. I am grateful for supportive literary communities, particularly past and current curators of Velro; Jennifer Lewis, Monique Mero, and Veronica Christina of Red Light Lit; Fred Dodsworth, Sandra Wassilie, and Charles Kruger of Bay Area Generations', Evan Karp at Quiet Lightning; and Marguerite Munot and Jose Hector Cadena of Voz Sin Tinta. I am eternally grateful to Katie Crouch for saying the words that led to me writing I Don ’t: “I want to read that book!” Thanks to all the readers out there, especially you kind strangers who have come up to me after a reading to tell me that you were moved. You motivate me to keep writing. Thank you to my best friends, Brandi Dominicci, Erica Pfafflin, Kaitlin Bennion, Loria Mendoza, Jenny Alton, Dirk Petersen, Bekah Rosado, Mary Hable, Rachel Emily, Jamie Semanisin, Kiara Papa, Lenay Ruhl, Cooper Shanahan, and Max Largent for listening to my ideas, reading chapters, supporting my impulses, keeping your hearts and doors open, and teaching me about love and friendship every day. Finally, thank you to Riccardo Ciglia. Without you, this story wouldn’t exist. v 1 Chapter 1 Then there was Francis. I had decided to live in Paris for the summer because I knew I’d meet like-minded people who used words like rendezvous and lovers (plural!) regularly. “I just feel it in my bones! I just know ” were my actual words. Instead, I butchered the French language, cursed the constant drizzle and slippery cobblestones, and I spent too much of my time missing Justin, my latest and longest boyfriend. I sat in the Starbucks across from the Moulin Rouge, facing the attraction. My first day, after standing at the foot of the Eiffel Tower in awe, I took a train to Blanche, the nearest Metro station to the Moulin Rouge so I could see the birthplace of the can-can. I loved the idea of being at the birthplace of a dance, such a sensual, intimate, and passionate art form. The famous red windmill was motionless. I remembered being a child in Wisconsin, counting bam after red, decaying bam, dreaming of a bigger, more exciting world than the one I knew. As beautiful and intriguing as the Moulin Rouge was, both physically and symbolically, the locals were what drew me back daily. They were more disheveled than the typical, well-dressed, well-mannered Parisian. To me, unkempt appearances were the result of prioritizing differently than the rest of the world. Saying no to makeup and up dos and inside voices was evidence of rejecting general conventions and societal norms. Surely, they were too passionate to be bothered with the task of primping when they had 2 passions to pursue. I convinced myself that artists and writers and musicians surrounded me, and I wanted to be one of them. Before leaving the states, I had decided that I would document my overseas experience by journaling. Photography had always been documentation enough for me, but I had started to let go of the idea that they were mutually exclusive. I liked the idea of looking back and reading my thoughts moment-to-moment, when experiences were still fresh in my mind. I tapped my pen on a blank page. I fit in okay. Parisians liked Starbucks well enough, it seemed, and many joined me at the clouded windows, frowning at the drippings from the awning and the growing puddles in the street. Once, I was leaving Starbucks at closing - it was Sunday so it was still early - when a slender man on a rusty blue bike passed in front of the door as I exited. He had light brown hair, and he wore a stained t-shirt and black work pants rolled up at the ankles. We smiled at each other. I clutched my journal to my chest, exhilarated. Would he be my first real French kiss? But then he looked away. I looked down, thinking what the fuck is wrong with French people? Less than a block ahead, his bike chain fell off. He leaned to the side, looking down at the bike and saying very loud, very angry- sounding things. I was getting closer, walking uphill. He crouched down in front of the bike, cracking his knuckles repeatedly. Finally, he gave up and let the bike fall on its side, kicking the front tire, which creaked as it spun before slowing to a loopy spin. Now 3 standing, he turned his neck from side to side, and he tried unsuccessfully to tuck his hair behind his ear. Again and again, he was trying and failing to tuck the hair. When I was in front of him, I stopped. I allowed myself to smirk only a bit, ever amused by the universe. “Hello,” he said, and I was so glad he spoke first.. .and in English. He walked the bike, it was between us, and besides exchanging hellos and names we didn’t speak. We glanced sideways at each other often, and I walked carefully to stay in sync with him. I wasn’t sure how well he spoke English, and I didn’t want to speak in rapid-fire English like a typical American might, assuming that he understood, because it would be embarrassing for both of us if he didn’t, and then the walk would end. The thick clouds over us disguised the time of day, but I felt night approaching by the absence of open storefronts. I wasn’t surprised that he lived in Montmartre - he looked like he came straight off a poster for a struggling artist - but I was shocked when he stopped in front of a tall white building with gold trim. Many neighboring buildings were off-white, cream, and gray, but this was white-white, wedding white, and the paint was fresh, not peeling and flaking like the others. White like the dome of the Basilica of the Sacre-Coeur. The towering architecture didn’t compare to the other homes on this street. I looked up as a streetlamp flickered on prematurely. I still half-expected him to be pausing to light the half cigarette tucked behind his ear. But no, he took out a key that fit into the heart-shaped, gold-leaf lock. The heavy, wrought iron gate opened easily, and he waved me in. Blood-red roses wilted among overgrown bushes in the courtyard. In 4 the back, dark green vines laced the building’s exterior, concealing that pristine white almost completely. The place looked remarkably different from the front gate to the back. The only gold thing in the back was the doorknob, and even that looked tarnished. With his hand on the doorknob, Francis half-turned to look at me. Not like we had looked at each other while walking. His eyes were wider, mischievous. I willed myself not to blink. I looked back with, I hoped, the same intensity. I wanted to see a real Montmartre apartment and spend time with a real Parisian. I could hear my friends back home, especially Darcy. As much as they enjoyed my stories, they never related. They didn’t understand me. I don’t blame them; / didn’t understand completely. I only knew that I wanted this, whatever “this” would be. We were silent. I nodded, and he mirrored me, nodding too.

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