The room was cloudy with smoke, making it difficult to breathe. You all sat on the floor crooning, “girls just wanna have fun.” There was a collective outburst of laughter, fueled by the pot. Brian sat across from you and periodically passed you a joint, winking as he did. You could feel that wink, like a tsunami, waves of heat hitting you in the most unlikely of places.  You’d only stopped carrying his eighth-grade picture in your backpack a few months ago, and here he was staring at you through the smokey haze. You had pulled your T-shirt down and wondered where those breasts had come from, seemingly overnight. All that was left over from that religious youth group was the belief that if God didn’t want you to have sex at 17 he wouldn’t have given you this body. Music thrummed, a deep base. You clicked your tongue ring against your teeth to the beat. You looked over at Brian and winked back.
 

Staring in the mirror in your college dorm, you adjusted your black turtleneck and swore off make-up… it was made mostly of animal products after all. You were late for the meeting of the literary club where you were due to read from a collection of poems. You had been surprised that those poems resulted in your being named poet of the year at the college. Brian had said, “Come on Trish you so deserve that honor, you’re the best writer.” It sounded like the lines for his role in a play.

You were the first of your group to organize marches for the environment. You had a feeling of false confidence as you addressed a crowd at the student union, your microphone serving as a shield that prevented the audience from seeing who really stood in front of them.

You were the first to write purposefully controversial articles about the academic hierarchy, articles that landed on the front page of the school newspaper, signed with a pen name. There became a wider and wider chasm between who you appeared to be and who you really were.

You were the first of your class to drop out of college, doing so because you couldn’t remember how to breathe. You couldn’t stop crying.
 

I still feel remnants of my former selves, Patti and Trixie and Trish, who led me from adolescence into adulthood.

The tea at my side is growing cold. The open book in my lap lays unread. A single teardrop marks the page. From my chair I look out the window into the backyard where the autumn light slants through the trees. The changing leaves remind me of my own evolution from the girl I was to the woman I am. The green leaves of the summer are now a kaleidoscope of browns, yellows, scarlets and oranges. They seem to be dancing to the ground with their invisible partner, the wind. Dancing to a choreography that is as unpredictable as it is inviting.

I sweep a stray hair back from my face and into my ponytail. Reaching for my teacup I see the glass jar with the black top, still filled with air, still a reminder to breathe.  A talisman. My last child is off now, living independently. That’s what I wanted, of course it is. I wonder how I will reinvent myself in this season in my life. I place my finger in my mouth and feel the hole where my tongue ring once rested. I can still perceive a faint passage of air through the gap that remains.

All of you are always with me, young girls brave enough to experiment with who they were and who they wanted to be. I call upon you now.  I want to wrap my arms around you, to comfort you and listen to you, to laugh, cry, and delight in you. I want to thank you.

Thirty Years Hence, A Novel

by Denise Beck-Clark

  This debut novel provides a wonderful sense of 1970’s New York City. Washington Square Park, Greenwich Village, squalid six floor walk-ups and posh co-ops, streets crowded with hustlers and cabbies, all come to life. The bars Michelle frequents have characters right out of central casting. The reader becomes submerged in the sights, sounds, and smells of NYC. Beck-Clark does a great job of tackling weighty topics in a way that inspires introspection without detracting from the narrative flow. Given the exploration of trauma, it might not always be a comfortable read, but it is an important one. - Erin Britton, San Francisco Book Review 
 The novel’s plotlines are excellently woven throughout, and the novel’s narrative moves ever forward, with several twists and turns maintaining the interest of the reader. The characters are fully developed as the reader gains a large measure of intimacy with them, identifying with their struggles and motives. At the end of the day, Beck-Clark succeeds in spinning a true to life tale of Holocaust memory, trauma, and recovery, that is both sad and inspiring. - David Keenan, Manhattan Book Review Available at Amazon.com, B&N, Apple, Bookshop.org, and most booksellers online and in bookstores. For more information: www.denisebeck-clark.com

Find this and more in ArtsMart