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YUTSI / WYATT LUCAS

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FIRST THEY KILLED MY FATHER: A DAUGHTER OF CAMBODIA REMEMBERS

Loung presents the reader with a straightforward and heartbreaking account of
the Cambodian genocide through her first-person perspective as a child
struggling to survive. She does a fantastic job of humanizing the experience,
displaying a singular perspective of an era which can be hard to empathize with
otherwise due to its unimaginably vast and horrific nature (including the death
of millions). The contrast between Loung and her relatives is particularly
beautiful in showing the different ways that humans can cope under extreme
duress. While she is headstrong and fueled by rage, her sister Chou endures
through passivity. Loung’s description of the desperate actions taken out of
fear, hunger, and anger are especially enlightening. The prose is fairly simple
and the internal monologue comes off as repetitive at times, though this
bolsters the book’s childish lens. Loung focuses almost entirely on portraying
the narrative of her family; do not expect a complete overview of the genocide
or any political analysis.

> Finally the women stand still. Their weapons drip with blood as they walk
> away. When they turn around, I see that they look like death themselves. Their
> hair trickles blood and sweat, their clothes drip, their faces red and rigid.
> Only their eyes look alive as they seethe with more rage and hate. The women
> are quiet as the crowd parts for them to pass through. During the execution,
> the crowd did not cheer but watched, silent and devoid of emotion, as if it
> were the slaughter of an animal for food. After the women are gone, the crowd
> begins to buzz.




IN SEARCH OF RESPECT: SELLING CRACK IN EL BARRIO

Anthropologist Philippe Bourgois lives in El Barrio (an impoverished
neighborhood in East Harlem, then mostly populated by Puerto Ricans) from 1985
to 1990 and befriends a network of crack dealers. Through transcriptions of tape
recordings combined with historical contextualization and socioeconomic
analysis, he paints a vivid picture of broken families who want out of this
lifestyle but face countless hurdles from institutional racism. Generational
trauma is maintained by a cycle of physical/sexual/emotional abuse and drug
addiction. The characters are not easy to like yet their humanity is made
obvious. Read more




TROTSKY’S TERRIBLE TUESDAY

October 26, 2021 Wyatt LucasLeave a comment

(Written in April 2019)

It’s the tail end of a gorgeous summer day in Coyoacán. It’s August 20, 1940;
the Communist revolutionary Leon Trotsky and his wife Natalia Sedova are
drinking mint tea in the garden of their villa in this rural borough of Mexico
City. They’re sitting on a stone bench under the shade of many tall royal
palmetto trees, facing the garden of tropical flowers and rare cacti which
Trotsky has meticulously cultivated these past few years. Thoroughly-needled
tubes of mammillaria glochidiata cacti are backed by a shrub of pink dahlias
with thousands of small tongue-like petals. Clucking comes from their nearby
enclosure of chickens and the resonant plucking of a guitarrón is heard in the
distance.

The stress from years of exile has aged the pair. Both of their hairs have faded
to gray and Trotsky has put on a few pounds. The quiet lifestyle of this Mexican
villa suits them, however, and it shows in their relaxed apparel. He is wearing
a sleek white button-down and gray trousers (having ditched the suit jacket in
this climate) and Natalia is in only a thin striped blouse and a long black
skirt.

Continue reading “Trotsky’s Terrible Tuesday” →

Posted in Creative non-fictionTagged history, politics


FARADAY

October 26, 2021 Wyatt LucasLeave a comment

(Written in April 2019)

March 30, 2011. My first big item, a Nintendo 3DS. At this point, I’d been
stealing on a near-daily basis. It started with that bag of chips in the school
cafeteria but it quickly progressed to retail. At first I’d justify it to myself
as stealing things that I wanted so I didn’t have to pay for them, but I knew
that I was really doing it for the rush. The rush you get from the weight of
your full pockets, and that rush you get when the automatic door opens and your
thieving ass is safe.

I got Trey roped into this early on, and I’ve not since experienced a bond at
all similar to the kind that I formed with this partner in crime. Video games
were our treasure of choice since we didn’t need to sell games to get value out
of them. You just had to locate the security camera, get your buddy to cover
you, and slip that game in your pocket. Then you had the choice of walking out
nonchalantly or buying some cheap item as a decoy if anyone gave you a funny
look. Of course, we would steal anything if we felt like it; even something as
monotonous as a pack of batteries. Trey and I thought of ourselves as
redistributors of wealth, not villains.

Continue reading “Faraday” →

Posted in Creative fictionTagged crime, realistic, youth


POSITIVE

October 26, 2021October 26, 2021 Wyatt LucasLeave a comment

(Written in April 2019)

It’s a hot August day on Rikers Island. Of course, I can only tell that it’s
daytime from the rays of light shining between the bars of this cell’s tiny
window. No one’s been around to enforce bedtime in days, nor let anyone out for
a meal, shower, or recreation in the yard. That fucker down the hall is moaning
again. Does he think anyone hears him? Nobody’s coming to help you, buddy! Can’t
you smell the death stinking up this shithole, begging for the sweet escape of
an open window, a door, anything ? The stench of the diarrhea and vomit that
soaks the clothes of my criminal neighbors had gone from an infuriating
olfactory presence to my new normal.

My name’s Eric Porter, and I guess I’m a survivor. Oops, that sounded like a
hokey line from an NA meeting. Well, it’s true. Every night last week, the whole
block would huddle around the big wall-mounted CRT TV over in the rec room to
get the latest updates on the superflu. It popped up in Montana and spread
hundreds of miles in a flash. 100% lethality and seemingly airborne
transmission. Of course there was a riot in here when the news came that it was
in New York, but what could we do when they brought out the tear gas and tasers?
Into your cell you go and into your cell you die.

Except me. And that other guy. That was 5 days ago so I’m starting to get hungry
in spite of the stench. All I’ve had to eat is some of the skin above my
fingernails, but I’ve been doing that since I had to kick meth on account of my
imprisonment. I’m not too far above moany guy, I just express myself
differently. Right after the cell block got real quiet, my favorite pasttime was
to poke my nose through my cell door and shake the thick white bars hoping that
someone would come rescue us. Now I’ve given up and await impending doom. I lay
in my hard, white cot and stare at the hard, gritty ceiling to conserve energy,
only getting up to relieve myself in the stainless steel toilet or drink water
from the tap above it.

Continue reading “Positive” →

Posted in Creative fictionTagged post-apocalyptic, sci-fi


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