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U niversi^ M icionlms International 300 N. Zeeb Road AnnAftJor, Ml 48106 1322862 JASON, JUDY COLLECTIBLES STORIES AND POEMS THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY M.F.A. 1984 University Microfilms I n te r n st i o n â I 3»n . zeeb Rw . a m A**, mi 4s lœ Copyright i9B4 by JASON, JUDY All Rights Reserved COLLECTIBLES STORIES AND POEMS by Judy Jason submitted to the Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences of The American University in Partial Fulfillment of The Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Signatures of Committee Chairperson: yf --------------------- Dean of the Coll DatâJ 1984 The American University Washington, D.C, 20016 TIE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY LIBRAEY ©COPYRIGHT BY JUDY JASON 1984 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED DEDICATION For my brother, Jim M.A., Literature American University In Memoriam COLLECTIBLES STORIES AND POEMS by Judy Jason ABSTRACT These stories evoke the conflicts of people who have been handed down assumptions through the generations about the definition of "womanhood" and "manhood." The characters doubt past values, and take "first steps" toward breaking out of one or another stereotype. In "Collectibles," three generations of women compare pop idols and question the practice of putting men on pedestals. Anne Connelly in "Sitting Duck Lane" realizes that her options in life are limited. She escapes into the aisles of suburban shopping malls. In "TGIF," June Gray is nervous about Fridays— the day that symbolizes her entrapment. In "Maid Marion on Mayday," a Vietnam veteran dominated by an authoritarian father finds a confidante in his sister, who is perenially pregnant. The poetry section of the thesis consists of a unified sequence of poems excerpted from "Seatangle," a chapbook in progress. Childbirth, Catholicism, and wife abuse are strong themes. ii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to acknowledge the inspiration that the following people have contributed to this manuscript. Their influence at this particular time in my life has finally allowed me to realize my long-delayed dream of becoming a writer. The members of my thesis committee, who, finally, let me be myself: Kermit Moyer, Kay Mussell, and Myra Sklarew; my husband, Gary, who led me to my first fiction teacher, who in turn, acknowledged promise in my prose; Peter Porosky, who laid the foundation for my fictional style; Carol Peck, whose constant positive reinforcement allowed me, at long last, the freedom to believe in myself and my poetry. Ill TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT............................ il ACKNOWLEDGMENTS........................................ ill STORIES COLLECTIBLES............................................. 2 SITTING DUCK LANE.................. 24 TGIF..................................................... 57 MAID MARION ON MAYDAY...................................84 POEMS THE BALLAD OF TWO VIRGINS............................. 105 YOUNG WOMAN IN BIKINI BY THE SEA..................... 107 WOMAN AS VULGAR MADONNA............................... 109 PURPLING................................................Ill MEDITATIONS.............................................112 CITY GIRLS, VINTAGE 1958.............................. 1 1 4 NINE YEARS..............................................116 DELIVERY ROOM......................................... 117 WOMAN AS TEST TUBE/MOTHER AT NINETEEN................118 KITTY HAWK, ACRYLIC....................................120 NO VIRGIN........................... 121 COLLAGE................................................. 123 EXCOMMUNICATED......................................... 125 UNPURPLING.......................... 127 iv STORIES COLLECTIBLES I slam on the brake, "Flea Market," Penelope, my eleven-year-old daughter, reads on our way across the gravel road to the whatsit building, "I suppose they sell fleas," "Wagon wheels," I say. Penelope sniffs. "Oh, that," she says, "When are you ever going to buv one?" "Probably never," I say. "I haven’t found the right one yet." The building is barn red. People swerve like ducks on a pond in and out of the aisles between tables crowded with collectibles, treasures, junk, or antiques, depending on which side of the fence you are on. Ladies in outsize print dresses finger ceramic dogs, old tonka trucks and bowls of green and pink carnival glass, vintage 1949. "ElvisI" Penelope shrieks. The lamp she has bumped into is four feet high with a ceramic base of Elvis and his guitar, his face twisted into a note of some painful song like "Heartbreak Hotel." The sign reads $59.95. Crossed out to $39.95. "That's a $20.00 savings," I say to my daughter, 2 "Mom, what would you iû with it?" She turns to a box filled with keys, each 10 cents. "Can I get one, Mom?" "A key," I say. "A key that fits nothing?" "Only a dime. Ma," "No key, Penn." She swivels toward a stack of National. Geographies. "I'm worried, Penn. Someone's going to buy that Elvis lamp who won't understand its 'camp' significance. It'll end up on an end table by a sofa as if it were just some ginger-jar lamp on a night table." "Ma, here's a National Geographic from 1951. Look at that old stove and that little girl in pigtails standing by her mother." The National Geographic mother wears a ruffled white apron over an ironed dress. Her daughter, near Penelope's age, wears a smile, a dress and an apron. She stares adoringly at the stove, "I hate to see it, Penn. That Elvis lamp lost. We could have used it as a conversation piece in our family room." I am beginning to sound like the princess whatsername who was raised in Brooklyn and married the king of some vague kingdom in the Himalayas. According to a quote in the Sunday supplement, what she missed most about her American upbringing was sitting on drug store stools drinking cherry cokes. She was pictured on a pillow cross-legged wearing an embroidered toga. "What's camp, Mom?" In ordinary conversation, I do not define my terms. But now that Penelope is eleven, I find myself consulting the dictionary more often. "Camp" in this sense, I know, is not in Webster's. I make up the following definition: "It's something so far out, it's in, so tacky, it's tasteful, so ugly..." "It's gorgeous. Like this junk, Ma?" The American-Himalayan princess had described sitting on drug store stools as camp. I spent my entire sixteenth year sitting on drug store stools flirting with the male counter clerks. I had not thought of this as camp. I mumble something to Penelope that is either um or yes and dig into the pocket of my tan culottes for a dollar to pay for the three National__GeograDhics that she is refusing to put back. They are 25 cents apiece. I pay a rabbit-faced farm woman behind the table. Her smile is as toothy as Thumper's. Outside, a wagon wheel is leaning against a gray milk can. More tables, arranged in a wide arc, seem prepared to attack like an Indian raiding party, I walk past a bread box worrying about the Elvis lamp. The bread box stares at me. It is metal, rusting around the edges. The word BREAD announces its purpose. in the forties, to future generations, I open the door of the box and a smell accosts me, I am instantly reminded of my old metal Cinderella lunchbox that soaked up odors of each sandwich filling or pickle or boiled egg. The bread box smells like my mother's metal step-on garbage pail. "Isn't this exciting, Penn? Going back in time like this? That could be your great-grandmother's treadle sewing machine. She gave it to me and I gave it to Goodwill before you were born." A cowbell voice rings from behind a table, "Be sure to get some pictures of the grave, you hear? And the house. Ya know ya can go in it, right in it. When I was in Memphis, ya could only see the grave and the swimming pool and his momma's grave." "She probably has all of Elvis' old 45s, Penn." A red elastic cinch belt circles the waist of the woman's hot-pink full skirt that hangs five inches below her knees.