We all know why we’re here: our country is being stolen. They’re here to take our food, they’re  here to take our jobs, and they’re here to take our homes. They think they’re entitled to our  healthcare. They think they’re entitled to our wealth. They think they’re entitled to our possessions.  We know what’s going on: they think they can be the new us. 

For too long, we have suffered this injustice. I say, no more! No more to their lack of morals! No  more to their terrible English! No more to their sucking on our women’s breasts! It’s time to act.  Babies will not replace us! 

Look around! Babies are everywhere: in our pre-schools, in our playgrounds, even in our maternity  wards! And they’re disgusting. They don’t even look like people. Their heads are gigantic, their  hair doesn’t grow right, and — and — Excuse me. It’s just so unnatural — no real human is that  short. We should not have to share our air with these aberrations.  

And have you ever talked to one of these monstrosities? It’s impossible. Many of them just make  noises. Not a word of English! And the rest are even worse. They need you to read to them. Can’t  do it themselves! No education! And they don’t even listen if you try. They refuse to understand.  You read about green eggs and ham and they talk about “gween eggs anam.” You read about three  little pigs and they go on about “free yidduw bigs.” And don’t get me started on Peter Piper picking  peppers! If they won’t hear us, why should we tolerate their presence? They have to go! 

Now, I know some say we should love babies. “Babies are God’s creatures,” they say. But I’ve  read the Bible. Look at Genesis! It’s right there. God created one man and one woman. Where are  the babies? Nowhere. It’s Adam and Eve, not Mommy and me. “We were all babies once,” they  say. But we’re not anymore. We left that behind. We’re better than them. “We need babies to keep  the population up,” they say. But what about the immigrants? Our beautiful immigrants need space  to live. Their accents are so musical and their cultures are so vibrant. We don’t need babies and  they don’t deserve our compassion! 

So what can we do? Well, first, deportations. The babies have to go. All of them. Back to where  they came from. Back to women’s bellies. It will take determination, but if we do enough chopping,  and grinding, and maybe seasoning, our women, our capable, capable women, can eat all the babies  within a year. Then they’ll be gone. And then? Then we make sure no more of those minuscule  abominations enter our great country ever again: We need new laws to defend ourselves. Our  schools must teach the dangers of heterosexual sex. Free contraception must be available to the entire population. And abortions — abortions, our God-sent panacea! — abortions must be  mandatory. Everywhere. For everyone. The character of our country is at stake.  

We can’t wait any longer to save ourselves from being replaced. We must act. And we must act  now! Vote for me and I promise to do everything in my power to save our way of life. Down with  the babies and up with the flag! Make our country grown again! Now is our time! 

Thank you. God bless you and God bless our great nation. 

The post The Growth of a Nation appeared first on The New Absurdist.

“Seems they have you in the wrong place.”

“No. I’m supposed to be in the maternity ward.”

He looked at her. “A mistake. But an understandable one given what your previous doctors knew at the time.”

“This morning?”

“It appears so.” The doctor stepped out into the hall. “Nurses, I need the patient in this room moved one ward over.” Two nurses came in. Martha thought their scrubs made them look like blood clots. It was not reassuring. She tried to think of them as giant cranberries. They removed the monitoring devices from her and started to wheel Martha’s bed out the door. 

“Where are we going?”

“A short distance. A minor change. Nothing drastic,” the doctor replied.

“Why shouldn’t I be in the maternity ward?” She held her belly. “I’ve been here a week. I thought we were supposed to induce?”

“Don’t worry,” the doctor continued. “It’s all very normal.”

“But why move me? What about my things?”

“The nurses will get them for you. Again, this is all regular. Part of the standard procedure. Just sit back and relax.”

Martha looked up at the ceiling and tried to count the tiles. She made it to seven on three separate attempts before stopping. The overhead lights were too disorienting. They glared at her like cars on a highway at night. The nurses pulled Martha through a room for premature births and she caught a glimpse of pink bodies wiggling inside of their incubators. She tried not to imagine her own child ending up there.

Soon they were in another hallway. The doctor called for a hard left, and the wheels of the bed squeaked. Martha covered her ears. They went through a set of white doors, followed by another that were red. She looked up and saw a sign announcing that they were leaving the maternity ward.

“Where are we going?” She asked a nurse.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.”

“Yes, but fine where?”

The nurse pointed to a sign that read: GENERAL LYING-IN. 

They went through another set of doors and the staff parked Martha and her bed into an empty room. She looked around at her new surroundings. The walls were yellow instead of the familiar white. It was not overwhelmingly bright, but the paint reminded her of dirty teeth. Martha leaned back on her pillows and tried to get comfortable. Her gown itched and the fabric was riding up with the doctor would call her intergluteal cleft. She wanted to pull it out and down, but not in front of the other people.

Martha waited for them to leave. New tasks and minor crises kept presenting themselves. The staff had to reattach wires to her abdomen, sweep and disinfect the corners, give her a series of shots, take her temperature, replace her pillow, provide her with a vitamin to swallow, do blood work, and bring over her things from the other room. Through it all, they kept reassuring Martha that it was all normal, standard, and typical, promising her that although she was late, her pregnancy was, in fact, quite boring.

“Not that you’re not a top priority for us,” the doctor said. He pressed the button for a device near the foot of the bed. It started to release a beep every thirty seconds. 

A nurse continued. “You just don’t present a special case.” 

“Okay.”

“But’s that’s good too!” She rubbed Martha’s legs playfully. “You want to be like everyone else.”

“But not in the maternity ward?”

“No. Here’s just as good. Don’t worry. It’s all very normal.”

“Very regular?”

The nurse smiled. “Yes!”

The doctor smiled too. “You want to leave here with a baby. Not with something in a textbook named after you.”

They left but before she could adjust her gown, her partner Stanley came into the room. Their head was freshly shaved and glistening like the floors outside. They kissed her on the forehead. “I came as soon as I heard they moved you.” 

“Thanks.”

“I talked to the nurses. Your new doctor too. Seems it’s normal.”

“Seems so.”

“Nice and regular.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Part of the process.”

“That’s a new one.”

“How are we?”

They put their hand on her abdomen. Martha looked down. She held up one of the thins wires running from an electrode stuck to her skin. The wire ran off the bed and to a monitor that sat on wheels. “I look like an octopus.”

“I know. But it keeps us updated.”

“To see how normal I am?”

“Yes.”

A nurse came in to check on Martha. She gave her a menu for dinner. Martha just wanted something light and opted for a fruit salad. Stanley was there when the meal arrived. Martha ate it quickly and still felt hungry. She asked Stanley to go to the vending machine to get her something to eat.

“But you said you wanted something light!”

“Not that light.”

“You should probably eat something healthier.”

“At this stage, Stanley, it won’t matter. Unless I’ve got another week, or month here,” she started to cry.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get you something.”

“See if they have any ice cream.”

“Ice cream? In a machine?”

“Sometimes they sell it.”

“Okay.” He paused by the door. “If I can’t find ice cream, what should I get? You want candy?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything with nuts?”

“If they don’t have plain chocolate sure.”

“Milk chocolate?”

“Stanley, you can figure it out. Okay?”

“Fine, fine.” He left and Martha put the tray and container for her dinner aside. The nurses returned. One took them it away, another gave her an injection. 

Martha spoke up after the prick. “Oh, to move things along?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “What did you think it was?”

‘There’s been so many injections.”

“It’s part of the process. Don’t worry.”

“Normal for when I’m not normal,” Martha mumbled.

The nurses left and Martha spread across on the bed as much as she could. The gown was no longer an issue. She looked out her window. It was already dark outside. Martha found herself struggling to keep her eyelids open and her head upright. When she was able to look, she looked for Stanley. Martha worried that by the time he managed to find a frozen treat for her and came back to the room, she would be asleep, and Stanley would have a melted dessert on his hands. She tried to focus on the device that was still beeping at the foot of her bed. Something so regular and annoying was bound to keep her awake.

It did not. Martha woke up and the darkness outside was gone. She felt a warm patch on the bed where the sunlight had been lingering over her thigh. Martha stretched and looked around the room to see if Stanley had spent the night. They were gone, along with whatever they found in the vending machines. Martha got up off the bed and prepared to walk towards the bathroom that was attached to her room.

She knew the procedure. Certain things had to move with her. Martha reached out for the portable vital signs monitor in order to wheel it over to the toilet. It was gone. Martha checked her wires and they were gone too, along with the nodes that were once stuck to her. Her belly was flat and felt lighter. Martha pressed a button for a nurse.

Two of them came in, nearly getting stuck together in the door. The cranberry twins asked what was wrong in unison.

“Why are the gone? Where’s the beeping sound? Where’s my baby?”

A nurse fluffed her pillow and directed her to lean back on the bed. “Don’t worry. Please. It’s all normal. Everything went normal.”

“What did?”

“You’re a mother.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” the other nurse said. “Come on, let me introduce you two. Come in.”

Martha leaned up and put her arms out, ready to receive her child. She hoped her partner would accompany her child. Maybe all this time Stanley had been outside, welcoming their progeny into the world. The nurse left and came back pushing a wheelchair. A teenage male in a hospital gown was sitting on it. He was lanky, with unkempt hair, and a phone in his hand. He waved at her and returned to looking at the screen. Martha put her arms down.

“What’s going on?”

“He’s your son.”

“No. It’s can’t be!”

“Yes, he is. Can’t you see the resemblance?”

“He’s…old. He’s got a pimple. Pimples. He’s got fuzz on his lip.”

“Not every baby looks like they do in the ads,” the nurse tried to assure her.

“Fine. But not like this.”

“You can’t judge him based on unfair beauty standards.”

“What standards? That’s a teenager. You’re saying I pushed a teenager out of me?”

“Gross,” he said.

“Again, they’re not all going to look like the baby on a baby food jar.”

“The doctor made a mistake. Get the doctor.”

The nurses left. The teenager kept scrolling. “Really, how did you get here?” Martha asked him.

He shrugged. “I dunno. You brought me here. You tell me why.”

“What’s your name?”

“You have to give me one.”

“What?”

“They say I don’t get one until you give me one.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

She shouted at him. “You’re joking!”

He shouted back. “No!” 

“Well, I’m not giving you a name. Sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to participate in this. This is some stupid prank.”

“How do you think I feel? One moment I was sleeping and warm in a nice place and then the next moment I’m out here and you people are yelling at me.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe you woke up from a coma or something.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

The doctor came into the room. “Ah, Martha, I see you two have met.”

“Yeah.”

“Your son. I mean, your child.”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?” He laughed. “There’s a no returns policy here.” He walked up behind the wheelchair and ruffled the young man’s hair in a playful manner. “Some disbelief over the process is quite normal. It can manifest itself as shock. Even resistance and denial. This is all regular. Part of the very common undertaking for many women.”

“Not like this.”

“Do you need to speak with a specialist?”

“You’re not a specialist?”

“I meant someone who focuses on psychology. Do you think you might benefit from therapy at this juncture?”

“I would benefit from seeing my baby. My actual baby. My real child. Please, you don’t have to cover anything up for me. Did something go bad?” Martha started to cry and put her hands together over her navel. “Just let me know what happened. This is worse than a joke. I’m going to sue you all.”

The doctor looked at the teen. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I’m confused.”

“Martha, everything is fine. This is a very healthy child. You should feel proud. He broke all our records.”

“Yay,” he said.

“Get him away from me!”

“This reaction isn’t good for the child. Think about how he must feel?”

The young man looked at the doctor. “Yeah, why am I here?”

“That’s what I want to know!” Martha shouted at both of them.

“Martha, please. You don’t need to be parent of the year. We understand this is all new to you. But remember, it is nothing new overall. Martha, billions of women, billions Martha, have gone through this. Your mother, your grandmother, her mother, all part of one maternal chain stretching back to the beginning of the species. It is normal to be shocked at how our infants first look. It is normal to feel alienation at how different they appear. And yes, there is some feeling of resentment.” He turned to the teen. “I’m talking to both of you.”

“Cool. Cool.”

Martha wiped her eyes on the sleave of her gown. “Where’s Stanley?”

“Still looking for your ice cream,” a nurse told her.

“What?”

“You told them to find you an ice cream right?”

“How do you know?”

“They told us on the way out.”

“Where are they now?”

“According to our security cameras, Stanley is currently walking around the Nephrology Center. They found vending machines for drinks, candy, and chips, but nothing frozen for you. Their search continues.”

“Can I bring them back? Can you ask them to come back over the intercom?” 

The nurse looked at the doctor. The doctor thought for a moment. Martha could feel her gown starting to bunch up and make her uncomfortable again.

“The trouble is that we don’t have a code,” the doctor explained. 

“A code?”

“We use a color code to announce to the staff what’s going on. It keeps patients and visitors from panicking. Normally we use a hue and follow it up with a name. The alert tells people here where to go and why. Both doctors and nurses follow the system. It’s a very normal way to handle irregular situations. Most hospitals do it.”

“And what does this have to do with me?”

“Well,” the doctor said solemnly, “we’ve run out of colors. We don’t have one that tells Stanley to end the search for ice cream and come back to this room. Especially in a way that conveys immediacy without emergency.”

“I see.”

The teen put his phone down. “I’m hungry.”

The nurses and the doctor looked at Martha. Martha folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, and?”

“The natural process is favored by current literature…”

She shook her head. “No. Doctor. He’s got teeth! He can’t eat a sandwich or something?”

The doctor laughed. “At his age? No.”

“Come on, if you’re gonna bring me here, at least feed me,” the young male pleaded

The nurses helped the teen out of the wheelchair. They lifted him in their arms and carried him over to Martha’s bed. After putting him down, they turned him rightward towards her chest. His right arm was still holding his cellphone. His left one stretched out to his mother. The doctor and nurses applauded. Martha was confused.

“His reflexes are coming along nicely,” a nurse said. 

“Thanks,” the teenager replied.

“Well, do you have any questions?” the nurse asked Martha.

“A lot. A lot of questions.”

“That’s normal,” the doctor said. “Perfectly normal and regular.”

“Part of the process,” Martha said.

“Exactly,” they all replied.

Martha unbuttoned her gown. The young man’s head started to move towards her breast. “Maybe it’s all normal,” she wondered aloud.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s why I’m here.”

Someone tapped her shoulder. Martha shook her head and opened her eyes. She was back in a white room. Her old room. It was Stanley. Their thinning hair was back but there was no ice cream in their hands. Instead, Martha saw an infant, squirming and wrinkled.

“Hey,” Stanley kissed her forehead.

“Oh my God, I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s okay. You’re tired.”

She noticed her gown was still open. “I was trying to feed.”

“You were. But when you dozed off, I took the baby away for a moment. Do you want to try again?”

“Yes.”

Stanley carefully transferred the baby from their arms to hers. Martha slowly brought the warm body up against one of her nipples and felt the tiny mouth begin to suckle. Stanley brought a napkin over and started to dab Martha’s side.

“Sorry, some of the milk is dribbling.”

“We have a sloppy eater on our hands,” she giggled through tears. 

“We do,” he laughed. “We do.” He started to cough and said he needed to get another drink of water. Stanley ran the to the bathroom, cupped their hand under the faucet, and began to sip from it. Little of the water reached their mouth. Martha noticed the family resemblance with the baby in her hands. The room was filled with smell of something burning.

Martha looked around for a source and listened for an alarm going off in the hospital or one of the buildings across the street. She strained to look out at the hall. Doctors, nurses, and other patients walked by without panicking. Some of them were coughing just like Stanley. Martha gazed out the window. The sky was hazy and red. She squinted to look at the sun. It was a dark pink, like an areola hanging over the city skyline. Martha wondered if she needed to wake up yet again, until she felt another pang at her breast. 

The post The Separation for Her Infirmity appeared first on The New Absurdist.

She is referring to the pearly chain that is holding the ostrich’s glasses in place. “Etsy,” replies the ostrich and then, without a beat, “So what kind of work at the tech company?” Alright, she’s been had, the question is direct, she must elaborate:

“I’m a UX writer.” 

She winces, anticipating furrowed brows, though ostriches don’t have brows, not really, actually they look permanently judgmental, purse-lipped, quite refined, even, in an intimidating sort of way, not to say  that the this ostrich sitting across the sheeny mahogany desk represents the facial expressions of all ostriches, she’s no expert, but you can’t help jumping to conclusions about these things.  

Relief, when the ostrich reveals not confusion (he doesn’t even tilt his head) but genuine interest: “What made you want to be a UX writer?”

Maybe the ostrich is a career counsellor, she thinks, it would explain the BELIEVE IT CAN BE DONE poster hanging on the wall behind him, his earnestness, though his glasses are Prada which seems out  of character for a career counsellor, but it could be he just spends more than he earns, and once it’s her turn to inquire she will certainly ask, the “What do you do?”, to get an idea, alas now (again!) she must offer a  direct answer to his direct question: “I’m naturally a good speller, I pay attention to detail. I’m a problem solver and, you know, tech pays.”  

She omits the Taco Tuesdays, the flexible office hours, the hybrid remote work model, it suffices to say that it pays, because everyone knows that programmers make a good living, that startup nomads take MacBook Pros to beaches in Bali without worrying about the sand getting in, because they don’t have to,  because they are rich, even though she doesn’t make nearly as much as a programmer (but who’s job is even  safe these days) and a career counsellor should know that, if the ostrich is in fact one.  

She doesn’t mention the air conditioning, how the office is her only respite from her sixth-floor apartment that faces south, meaning it’s baking in the sun all day, nor does she mention her shitty Dyson fan at home, overpriced, totally useless, just a loud-breathed menace blowing dust in her eyes (plus it turns out  the inventor campaigned for Brexit) on the hottest week on record according to the United Nations, and  that’s why she’s was the only one to show up, on Friday Funday, to the air-conditioned open-plan glass walled office at 9 AM on the dot, that is, apart from the office manager, Lilliana, who left at lunchtime.  

She doesn’t talk about how before leaving Lilliana stuck the laminated pink note that says DON’T  OPEN on the front of the dishwasher, meaning she had turned it on, and that above the sink there is another  laminated note, also pink, with an icon depicting a stack of dishes X’d out by a big cross that says, in the  same font, NO DIRTY DISHES IN THE SINK, that today both signs were up at the same time, meaning she  was meant to wash her yogurt-crusted spoon by hand, but that she washes enough dishes at home as it is and, there, in the office, a dishwasher is the perk, the point.  

She can’t bring herself to confess that even though she could hear the dishwasher’s innards churning, she opened it anyway (there were no witnesses), which is how she ended up in here, in this other much more retro office, not an open space walled in glass at all, but one with wooden panels and a linoleum floor, sitting at this antique mahogany desk, across from an ostrich and his boxy DELL desktop and clunky yellowed  keyboard, the BELIEVE IT CAN BE DONE in huge red Helvetica. 

She doesn’t explain that when she went to stick the spoon into the dishwasher, not bothering to rinse it because she read in The Guardian that it’s a waste of water to pre-rinse dishes (it’s redundant), when she pulled the soaked wire basket toward herself and, fanning away the soapy steam with the hand gripping the spoon, she saw that the back of the dishwasher opened up into a long hall with a red linoleum floor and white  lights that reminded her of high school, she didn’t hesitate, she crawled in.

And maybe it’s because she hadn’t bothered knocking on the door at the end of the hall that the ostrich is so curt now, if not her unannounced presence, or the fact that she is dripping wet, though she is on a hard plastic chair with steel legs and rubber feet, super easy to wipe down, and the linoleum is so dark you  can’t see the foot marks from her tennis shoes, and she smells like dish washing soap which is not that unpleasant, still, it’s objectively bad form to turn up wet and uninvited to anyone’s place of work. “A problem-solver,” echoes the ostrich, and she can’t tell if he’s mocking her. 

“I don’t solve all kinds of problems,” she feels she should clarify, “I’m terrible at math. I’m just good with words, with people. I’m very committed to solving other people’s problems, only when I drink I get carried away with my advice, I end up talking too much, which I’m trying to work on…” “Are you drunk now?” 

“No,” she says, laughing sheepishly, but point taken, she thinks, as her eyes land on the ostrich’s barren bookshelf: surely not a career counsellor, given the handful of mainly Paolo Coelhos and Milan Kunderas, and one, inexplicably, Simone de Beauvoir (probably a gift from an ex-girlfriend), and she’s ready to ask about the books, the job, ease back into small talk, but, shit, she isn’t quick enough, she’s been had again, the ostrich has fired: 

“Does it make you feel better?”  

“Does what make me feel better?” 

“The Ukrainian flag on your lapel.”  

He ruffles his feathers, he’s very good at this game, this ostrich, maybe he’s a psychotherapist, though there are no posters listing things that alleviate depression, but given how he good is at turning the conversation away from himself, his incisive confidence, the monotone, he must have some training, like maybe he’s a life coach—yes!—that would explain the Coelho books, the ugly motivational poster, the self effacing tendencies.  

“I suppose it does,” she answers without much thought and, not to waste another opportunity to interrogate, she goes straight into: “I’ve always wondered, what’s it like to stick your head in the sand?” “Tired old myth,” says the ostrich, and now she feels her face flush, she could have Googled that, she could have just asked about this specific ostrich’s job, which is what really she wanted to ask, but now she’s missed her chance, the ostrich is already going for it, yet again, how boring, how humiliating: “Tell me,  is it true that women reach their sexual prime in their thirties?” 

Ouch: obviously he’s trying to highlight the tactlessness of her own question, to offend her right  back, bringing up sex like that, he must think she’s a terrible person, but I’m not a terrible person, she wants  to say, really, I do care about the war in Ukraine, like, a lot, I went to a vigil, I had the flag filter on my  profile photo not for weeks but months, but it’s not like I’m Russophobic either, I have a ton of Russian  coworkers, sometimes we go out for drinks, in fact I don’t have a racist bone in my body, I even dated a  Muslim for a few months, one day I fasted Ramadan, and now, when the owner of the corner store avoids eye  contact, maybe because I’m a woman who buys cigarettes, I don’t take it personally, I tell myself it’s  cultural, or probably he’s had a hard life, you’re the terrible one, you didn’t even thank me for that  compliment about your stupid chain, and anyway I was just being curious, you’re the one who got all testy  and defensive, you’re the one who got all invasive, all “Does it make you feel better?”, and so what if it does.  

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long week,” says the ostrich, because he must see that she looks flustered, or maybe he senses she might go on a rambling self-dense, which, frankly, she feels compelled to (and rightly so!), and then he says, “Is there anything else? It’s getting late, I’ve got work to get back to.” 

“That makes two of us,” she says, passive-aggressive, intentionally so, though not without instant  regret, because really he gave her a good opening with his “Is there anything else?” (it was direct enough), to  ask about his job, about the books, or she could’ve just answered the question like he did (are sexual primes even a thing?), all aloof, but it’s too late, the ostrich is already on his feet and, making a point to avoid the glistening wet patches on the floor, he kicks open the already-ajar door to his office (she didn’t close it behind her) with his two toes, and he says, again, that it’s getting late, meaning he’s so ready to put an end to all of this.  

“Nice meeting you,” he says, meaning fuck off, though his tone remains inscrutable, she rises, she walks slowly, the floor is slippery, she is wet, her soles are rubber.  

“Nice to meet you, too,” she says, hopefully more wounded than passive-aggressive, though maybe he deserves a bit of spite, a bit of malice, the sexist pig. 

She’s already way down the hall, at the opening in the wall with the dishes, clean now that the dishwasher cycle is over (someone must have closed it behind her), when she hears the ostrich call out, “Your spoon!”  

She ignores him, he can wash the dirty spoon himself, she thinks, he can mop up the puddles, and so what if she is still sore about the sexual jibe, and his quizzing her about the Ukrainian flag, that doesn’t make her a terrible person, but even if he thinks she is, hell, why should she care what he thinks, and it’s only once she’s wedged herself in the gap between the plates that she turns back toward the hall: the ostrich is running in her direction, he has the spoon in his beak, he’s coming at her so fast—damn this guy can run!—she pushes open the dishwasher door and (careful to avoid the knives) clambers out onto the floor of the kitchen of her own office, the one with glass walls, thank god no one’s in today, she slams the dishwasher shut with her foot.  

“Hello,” she hears, a heavy-accented hello, she looks up, shit, it’s the cleaner, it’s the poor office cleaner who will have to mop her foot marks off the already-just-mopped white tiles, the cleaner never deserved this, no one was supposed to even come in today, except for Lilliana, it’s already so dark out, it really is getting late, it’s a Friday night, so maybe the ostrich is right (though he only implied it), maybe she is a terrible person, though at least she’s facing up to it, and anyway the cleaner probably can’t even speak English, not properly anyway, so, really, there’s nothing to worry about, is there.  

The post Deep Dive appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Nothing could break this magic, except–

Hm. Waliul and I make eye contact again, and I know that he has noticed the same thing I have. 

The Taiwanese sailors that are supposed to be working on the ship Tsimsum, where are they?

The rest of Life of Pi is beautifully acted, and the lighting effects are phenomenal, but I walked out of Wyndham theatre that day a little crestfallen. Not only was Life of Pi one of my childhood staples, it was one of his, and for both of us it was largely because of the representation it gave to us as children of POC immigrants, although in very different ways. 

For Waliul, as a Bangladeshi boy growing up in New York, Life of Pi was one of the first Western stories he had seen about a Brown person where the Brown Person wasn’t a novelty character or a stereotype. (Other stories- but far too few- did eventually join that list, such as Slumdog Millionaire and Lion.) Not only that, the other main character on the screen was a Bengal tiger!

For me, Life of Pi became one of the few instances in my formative childhood years in which I could recall seeing Taiwan mentioned out of the context of my own home. For both of us, a mixed Taiwanese girl and a Bangladeshi boy growing up in America, Life of Pi was a mainstream story that provided us with the representation that we were sorely lacking. 

Here’s a quick summary for those who aren’t familiar with what Life of Pi is about: we follow Piscine Patel, (a.k.a. Pi) on his journey lost at sea after a shipwreck drowns his family and all of the crew. The only other survivor becomes his companion on the small lifeboat: Richard Parker, a 450 pound Bengal tiger. For 227 days Pi and Richard Parker survive life at sea with a tumultuous concoction of both fear, love, and desperation. It’s a captivating story about spirituality and survival.

A decade after its publication as a novel by Yann Martel, the hype for this modern day classic still hasn’t died. In 2012, it was adapted into an Academy Award winning film by Ang Lee (also director of Brokeback Mountain and the Incredible Hulk) In 2021 the story premiered as a play on the West End and now in 2023, Life of Pi is making its way to a New York City Broadway debut. 

Life of Pi is a book written by a White Canadian man about a Pondicherry Indian boy, but it somehow became a Taiwanese icon in 2012.  And it all started from this quote, the first few lines of Chapter 35 in the book:

“We left Madras on June 21st, 1977, on the Panamanian-registered Japanese cargo ship Tsimtsum. Her officers were Japanese, her crew was Taiwanese, and she was large and impressive. “

Despite the obvious evidence to the contrary, there are people that insist that Taiwan is not an independent country and should be considered a Chinese territory. Even though it’s a part of my personal heritage, saying the words “Taiwan” or “Taiwanese ” became inherently political. If the word ever came up in a history class, from elementary to high school, there was always somebody in the class who would immediately roll their eyes and grunt out the classic phrase, “Taiwan is not a real country.”  

On top of being mixed race, being Taiwanese delegitimized my “Asian-ness” to my peers and their parents. Some parents even went so far as to prohibit their kids from talking to me at all. Teachers would look at me, then my name, and inevitably ask where my family and I were from. When I answered with Taiwan, I would get a variety of responses, including: “Thailand. Nice!” “Does that mean you’re Japanese?” and “Oh, so you’re Chinese.” To which I would have to respond, “No, I’m Taiwanese,” and explain a little more about the history of Taiwan, only to be ignored anyways.

So when I was 12 years old, it was a very big deal to me when a Taiwanese filmmaker —Ang Lee— adapted the book for the cinematic screens in 2012. My mom rallied the household for weeks before the show, insisting for the first time in my life that we get outside and go to the movies. My family even chose to go to one of the nicer theatres further away from home that had vintage movie posters lining the walls with bedazzled sparkling lights in the hallway. 

I remember looking at posters of old Hollywood glamour and thinking that what I was about to watch would eventually join them in the movie theatre’s hallowed halls, because if this movie was important to my mom, it must be a big deal. I resolved to pay attention, and promptly forgot the entire plot of the movie the second the credits rolled. In my defence, I was twelve years old and as far as I was concerned, most of the movie was a bootleg Calvin and Hobbes napping on a lifeboat.  I think much more highly of the story nowadays. 

Even as a pre-teen, I knew that it was significant that a mainstream Taiwanese director had filmed such a critically acclaimed hit. Life of Pi won 4 Academy Awards, including Best Director, Best Cinematography, Best Visual Effects, and Best Music. And the director had taken great care to pay homage to where he grew up. 90% of the work for the film was shot in Taiwan, with many scenes taking place in Ang Lee’s hometown Pingtung. Even the animals in the film were sourced from the Taipei City Zoo.  Yet, even with Taiwan being such a significant backdrop for this movie, it isn’t mentioned once in the film– not even in the Taiwanese ethnicities of the sailors that Yann Martel takes the time to point out in the original book.

To most audiences, it may be easy to chalk up the ‘non-mentioning’ of Taiwan in the West End and film adaptation of Life of Pi as an oversight. It’s a detail that can be somewhat erased. After all, the Tsimsum is a Japanese run ship registered in Panama, Pi is an Indian boy, Everyone is headed to Canada. The sailors may as well be from Thailand, or anywhere else. 

But what seems to be an inconsequential decision is incredibly political. It appeases Chinese nationalist audiences who would immediately protest the show or film for any indication of Taiwanese culture or identity. It’s a financial decision. Life of Pi pulled in over $90 million dollars when the film showed in China, something that certainly wouldn’t have happened had there been any mention of Taiwan in the film. There’s a lot of money to be made for Hollywood in China as the world’s second largest box office market, so it’s common to see Hollywood trying to avoid controversy and cater to Chinese censors. 

You may recall the viral burbling apology video John Cena made to Chinese audiences after calling Taiwan a country in 2021. In Top Gun: Maverick, a patch with the Taiwanese flag was removed from Tom Cruise’s jacket in a 2019 trailer in an attempt to appease Chinese audiences and censors, but was reinstated in 2022. With the flag’s reappearance, it’s no surprise that the movie has not been released in China. And just like how my mom took her family to see Life of Pi when it came out in theatres because of Taiwanese pride, Taiwanese moviegoers were similarly bolstered by their flag’s appearance in Top Gun: Maverick. Top Gun broke box office records in Taiwan, bringing in over 100 million Taiwan dollars in the opening week.

Yann Martel took the time to clarify that the sailors were Taiwanese on a Japanese ship, indicating his research into the geographical and political setting of his story.  As an island nation, Taiwan has historically been very connected to the sea. The country has a long history of fishing and maritime trade. Even now, a significant portion of maritime trade and shipping is done by Taiwanese companies. Remember when that shipping container got stuck in the Suez Canal in 2021? That belonged to Taiwanese company Evergreen Marine Corporation, the sixth largest container shipping company in the world. Out of the globe’s top 20 largest container shipping companies, 4 of them are Taiwanese. 

Furthermore, the omission of the Taiwanese sailors from Life of Pi adaptations ignores history and impact of Japanese colonisation in Taiwan. Taiwan was Japan’s first colony, taken over in 1895. For about 50 years, Japan controlled and ruled over the country until they renounced sovereignty in 1952 post World War II. Pi’s journey takes place in 1977. Despite Taiwanese independence, the remnants of colonisation and power structures remain: The Japanese officers are in control, and Taiwanese sailors are posed as second-class citizens.

When Waliul and I watched the show on the West End, it was amazing for both of us to see for the first time in our lives, South Asian actors of a wide variety of ages on the stage. With so much care taken to cast actors that represented Yann Martel’s characters faithfully in the show, The West End adaptation of Life of Pi fell short when it came to the other half of its cast: the Taiwanese sailors/would-be puppeteers. The irony is not lost on me that there is this disregard for the casting of East Asian actors and puppeteers with the West End being only a block away from Chinatown. It’s not as if there isn’t a 5,000 year old tradition of lion dance in East Asia that would come in handy when there’s a massive tiger body puppet in need of puppeteering. (That’s sarcasm. There is.)

Life of Pi isn’t the only current cultural phenomenon that benefits and distances itself from its Taiwanese connections. Bubble Tea is a Taiwanese invention that has hit New York, the US, and the rest of the world in a massive wave of popularity, and yet most people still aren’t aware of the country it comes from. Similarly, there is an uptick in trendy foods such as Taiwanese Beef Noodle Soup, Taiwanese Fried Chicken, Shaved Ice, and Gua-Bao (Pork Belly Buns) with little to no mention in mainstream culture how these foods are incredibly popular and rooted in Taiwanese food culture and cuisine. Even as Taiwan lends itself to big hits in cinema, cuisine, and trade it’s existence is often forgotten by people, and worse, intentionally omitted, erasing the identities of Taiwanese people in the process. I feel the ache of having to remind people of my own existence every time I see Taiwan in the blank spaces of media and culture .

A friend of mine went to see Life of Pi when it debuted in America for the first time at Harvard and informed me that in the American rendition, the sailors were now played by an Asian cast. Now as Life of Pi’s Broadway debut approaches today on March 30, I’ll be keeping my eyes open to see what choices they will be making when casting.

The post Life of Pi and Bubble Tea appeared first on The New Absurdist.

LIZ  

Jesus fuck Brandon I’ve spent all night scoping the party for available lips for midnight and all  I’ve got to show for it is the realization that Rebecca has basically NO single friends. 

BRANDON  

And you got creepy Dave’s number.  

LIZ  

Yeah fuck off. Anyone who writes a haiku on the napkin along with the number and  unapologetically sniffs my hair is a fucking psycho.  

BRANDON  

Tsk tsk, with that attitude the only boy you’re gonna be kissing at midnight is Mike….Mike’s  hard lemonade.  

LIZ  

I repeat, fuck off?  

BRANDON  

No come on actually though Liz, you’re not seriously gonna let a kiss from some dude make or  break your night.  

LIZ (wavering)  

I’m not I just….last year was such a shitshow. Like, dumped the day before? 

BRANDON 

Shit dude I forgot that was so close to New Year’s Eve.  

LIZ  

Yeah, I watched the ball drop with my cat and even she ran away before I could kiss her!  

BRANDON  

Screw Mark, I swear if I saw him in the street I’d—  

LIZ  

Ugh, I can’t even look at you two right now.  

BRANDON  

Come on Lizzie, get out of that head of yours and come dance with us.  

LIZ  

In a bit. I’ve consumed so many liquids tonight I gotta release the kraken. 

BRANDON  

You’re so poetic Liz. Write me a haiku while you go?  

BRANDON (calling after her)  

Nine minutes til midnight!  

LIZ 

Motherfucker, have I looked this shit all night?  

CAM  

It’s Cam actually. And if it helps, I’m pretty sure everyone out there is too drunk to notice how  you look.  

You look fine, by the way.  

LIZ  

What the fuck? Dude.. Cam… whatever why are you sitting in the tub reading Tiger Beat?  

CAM  

I’m discovering which perfume goes best with my star sign. I’m hoping for something floral.  Don’t mind me.  

LIZ  

Um…CAM?  

CAM  

Yeah?  

LIZ  

I kinda mind you being here while I drop trough if you don’t mind leaving.  

CAM (nonchalantly)  

 I can pull the curtain and put on my headphones, you won’t even know I’m here.  

LIZ (shrugging)  

Fuck it, fine  

Cam?  

Cam!  

CAM  

You’ve interrupted a really good podcast whatever your name is.  

LIZ  

It’s Liz…  

(beat)

I can’t pee knowing you’re here.  

CAM  

What? I can’t even see you right now.  

LIZ  

Yeah but I still know you’re here.  

CAM  

Would it help if I sang you a tune?  

LIZ  

Yeah, maybe no.  

CAM (singing)  

The wheels on the bus go round and round—  

LIZ (interrupting)  

–fuck you dude.  

CAM (continuing)  

—round and round, round and round. The wheels on the bus…  

I didn’t realize it’d be that effective.  

LIZ (embarrassed) 

I guess your singing voice is just so terrible my body would do anything to stop it.  

CAM (unbothered)  

Maybe so, but glad I could help regardless.  

LIZ  

So why aren’t you at the party, actually?  

CAM (matter-of-factly)  

The host is my best friend’s new girlfriend and he didn’t want to come alone and I owed him a  favor.  

LIZ  

So you’re the type that gets forced to go to a party, huh? That doesn’t really seem like a favor.  

CAM  

I’m just not that big on New Year’s Eve. Nothing like waking up hungover and disappointed to  reign in another year.  

LIZ  

Big on the cynicism though, huh?  

CAM  

Eh, maybe.  

(beat)

You seem to actually want to be here, so why are you still in this bathroom with me with only– 

—five minutes until midnight.  

LIZ  

Fuck, five minutes?  

CAM  

Yup, five minutes.  

LIZ (defeatedly)  

Five minutes.  

CAM  

I think that’s supposed to be a good thing? I mean don’t ask me, but that’s the general consensus.  

LIZ (laughs)  

I really thought this was going to be the New Year’s Eve party that I was going to get a kiss. A  good kiss, not just a pity peck, or one from some sloppy drunk dude with his hand on my ass.  

CAM  

No viable options at the party, huh? I feel like it can’t be that hard.  

LIZ (shakes her head)  

I scoped out the whole party. Most of the guys came here with someone or are gay or are gross or  are a peeping tom in a bathtub.  

CAM  

Hey! I’m many things, but a peeping Tom isn’t one of them.  

(beat)

Why is a kiss at a random time of year decided by someone hundreds of years ago so important. 

LIZ  

It’s not the time, exactly. It’s the meaning, I guess.  

(beat)

It’s that moment. That moment when the ball drops and time stops for a minute and there’s  confetti and everyone is cheering and there’s champagne and embraces. I don’t know. Normally I  would gag at that kind of thing, but maybe I just wanted a little bit of that joy tonight.  

CAM  

And you think that joy is gonna be transferred to you through tongue?  

Ok, fine, I actually see your point a bit. Everyone deserves a little joy.  

(beat)

Maybe it’s none of my business, but if that’s not your thing normally then why do you give a shit  now? 

LIZ  

I don’t know…maybe it’s always been my thing and I just hate to admit it. Maybe I want to feel  genuinely wanted. Doesn’t everyone?  

(beat)

Besides, if I’m going to wake up tomorrow hungover and disappointed tomorrow, at least let it  be with someone I can go get egg mcmuffins with.  

Minutes until midnight?  

CAM  

Three minutes.  

LIZ  

Fuck it, I can’t. Fuck this whole fucking night. Room for one more in that tub?  

CAM  

How could I refuse such pleasant company?  

So you can see which member of One Direction is your soulmate.  

LIZ (laughs)  

How old is this magazine?  

(beat)

Brandon is probably wondering where I am.  

CAM  

Brandon?  

LIZ  

My best friend. He’s here with his boyfriend though and I’m just not in the mood to see their  happiness. Bitchy, I know.  

CAM 

I don’t know, that’s pretty sane. But we’ve established I’m a cynic so  

maybe he’ll think you got your kiss.  

LIZ  

I would love to prove him right. But, like I said,  

no pity peck.  

CAM (laughs awkwardly)  

Didn’t realize I was offering.  

LIZ  

Shit.  

(beat)  

So, maybe I’ll take this quiz then. I’m hoping for Harry.  

CAM  

Yeah, I could see that for you.  

Um, thirty seconds now.  

LIZ  

Thirty seconds.  

(beat)  

I suppose a firm handshake at midnight will suffice?  

CAM  

Sounds sufficiently passionate.  

Happy new year, Liz.  

 (she laughs and whispers back)  

LIZ  

You had an alarm set for midnight?  

CAM (laughing)  

I wanted to know when I could go home!  

LIZ  

Happy new year, CAM.  

So, can I get that handshake now?  

CAM (avoiding her eyes)  

Sorry it wasn’t the kiss you wanted.  

LIZ  

It’s ok. I think I got a moment, whatever kind of moment it was.  

CAM  

I do what I can.  

(beat)  

So…did you finish the quiz?  

LIZ  

Yeah, I got Niall.  

I guess I don’t know shit about shit.  

CAM  

The year just started. You don’t need to know anything for a few minutes. 

LIZ  

If only. Can’t spend my life in a bathtub, though.  

CAM  

Yeah…  

LIZ  

Didn’t realize how popular I am.  

CAM  

Brandon wondering where you are?  

LIZ  

Yeah, he’s drunk and wants to go home.  

CAM  

Well, I guess that’s your cue. Thanks for stopping by, I can honestly say it made my night.  

LIZ  

Yeah, I’m surprised no one else tried to come in.  

CAM (teasing)  

And miss the ball drop? You’d have to be a total loser.  

LIZ  

Yeah well fuck you, Cam.  

CAM  

Fuck you too, Liz.  

There. Now it’s not out of pity. 

LIZ  

What time is it?  

CAM  

12:03, New Year’s Day  

LIZ (beaming)  

Close enough.  

END SCENE

The post Minutes To Midnight appeared first on The New Absurdist.

(CN: Self harm, suicide, homophobic slurs)

There was a great and mighty wind,

splitting mountains and

shattering rocks

by the power of the Lord;

but the Lord was not in the wind.

After the wind – an earthquake;

but the Lord was not in the earthquake.

After the earthquake – fire;

but the Lord was not in the fire.

And after the fire –

a soft murmuring sound.

1 Kings 19:11-12

The post Reincarnation appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Brundage is the artist behind the wildly sensational covers of Weird Tales during the 1930s and was largely responsible for the success of their sales during a depression ridden America. She was revolutionary for many reasons, not only steamy covers for science fiction and fantasy, but as a woman making them, as well as her involvement in progressive causes such as civil rights for African Americans and the labor movement.

However, as with all legends, her caveats are overlooked. The existing scholarship on Brundage’s artwork often frames itself in the context of Brundage being a leftist and a woman artist, largely from a feminist angle.  It might make her more palatable as a feminist hero to frame her in a solely progressive light, but it is reductionist and overlooks important themes in her work, particularly her inclination to ‘yellow peril’ imagery and other orientalist themes. 

In this paper, I will consider the existing scholarship on Brundage’s work for Weird Tales through the analysis of one of Brundage’s most popular covers: The Weird Tales September 1933 issue, which corresponds to Robert E. Howard’s story The Slithering Shadow. I’ll also be offering my own input as an art historical scholar. I will discuss how queer-coded depictions of kink were another, although less obvious example of orientalist imagery in  1930s America. Finally, unlike prior scholarship on Brundage’s work, I will consider her art in relation with the writing and authors they corresponded to rather than as art alone.

1930s BDSM:  The Slithering Shadow 

The September 1933 issue of Weird Tales was one of the most controversial, and popular covers that Brundage created. Like her other illustrations, the original drawing was created using soft pastels on an illustration board before being printed on pulp paper for mass production. This cover depicts a scene from Robert E. Howard’s story, The Slithering Shadow.  Two women are set against a brilliantly red background and a massive black abstract shadow. The dark-haired woman holds a whip and seems ready to whip her victim again, a blonde woman chained by the wrists pulling against her bonds. 

The dark-haired woman wears loose, skimpy garments reminiscent of outfits worn by Middle Eastern belly dancers. Unlike her counterpart, the blonde woman is nude.  She embodies many characteristics of a classic ‘Brundage Girl, ’ including the character soft pinkness and triangular perkiness of her breasts.¹ It’s likely that the hairstyles of both of these women are based on references that Margaret Brundage had available to her in the time through fashion magazines and nudie mags, hence the coifs and curls.² The blonde woman’s chains are not fixed to anything; they float in space. Similarly, the two women look as if they have just been placed into this space. There is no illusion of depth or foreshortening, creating a poster-like quality to the cover similar to Brundage’s other Weird Tales work. 

Spurlock vs. Yaztek : The existing writing on Brundage and her work.

At the current moment, Stephen D. Korshak and J. David Spurlock portray themselves as the torchbearers to Brundage’s legacy, reviving long-lost interest held in Brundage’s artwork through a book dedicated solely to her: The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art.  

Taking a different approach, Lisa Yaztek frames Brundage in the context of women working in science fiction from the 1930s to 1960s in her book Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction.  

Both of these historians consider Brundage’s role as a female artist working during that period, and the effects it had in her work. However, they take different interpretations on what this meant. 

A woman making women

Spurlock considers the way that Brundage created these empowered female figures in the light of her own leftist ideas and interest in civil rights. According to him, being a female artist in the 1930s who created sexual pieces was inherently a means of pushing back against the norm.³ He claims that Brundage was both trying to inject her own personality and point of view into her ‘women in peril’ pieces.⁴  He also frames Brundage’s ability to get her job for Weird Tales within the context of her social scene and husband in Chicago.⁵ 

In Spurlock’s opinion, while Brundage’s illustrations catered to the male gaze, they also offered a way for women to reclaim space in a patriarchal society. He points out that in the 1930s, it was typical to show women as weak and cowering victims.⁶ He considers the ‘Brundage girls’ to “have a unique sense of dignity” compared to other illustrations portraying women of the time.⁷ Of particular note, Spurlock points out that when there are scenes of bondage or subjugation in Weird Tales, Brundage frequently had a woman in charge.⁸ 

The September 1933 issue showcases one of these scenes. Spurlock considers scenes like these to be examples of feminine strength, where these female figures can be viewed as heroic and powerful compared to weak and submissive alternatives.⁹ Their strength is further emphasized by how they struggle and resist against evil, without signs of pain or abuse on their body or emotional distress.¹⁰ We can see this in the September 1933 issue, the blond woman pulls against her chains but she does not seem to be in emotional or physical pain. Rather, her movement is considerably beautiful. She looks as if she might be stretching or lying down. Despite her binds, she is in complete control of her body.

How does a female artist make art?

Lisa Yaztek places Brundage within the context of other female illustrators of the time, for science fiction and otherwise. While Spurlock only briefly mentions Brundage’s history in fashion as something that bored her, Yaztek elaborates on how this background in ‘woman’s art’ led to Brundage’s work in Weird Tales. Yaztek points out how the aesthetic conventions of the 1930s for women and by female artists of the time lent themselves to female illustrators in science fiction.¹¹  Working in soft mediums was likely something Brundage picked up from her fashion illustration days, the familiar look of which might have contributed to some of her popularity with the Weird Tales female audience.  Furthermore, because fashion magazines of the time depicted women in bright colors and marketed a progressive and active lifestyle for women, Brundage was skilled in both portraying active women and textiles.¹²  

Like Spurlock, Lisa Yaztek considers the ‘Brundage Girls’ to be strong female figures. For her, Brundage is one of many female artists creating female bodies infused with power.¹³ Furthermore, while Brundage’s illustrations catered to the male gaze they “endowed their female subjects with personality, using their subject’s reactions to the situations at hand to critically assess masculine behavior.¹⁴  Yaszek considers the Brundage women to push back against patriarchal and Enlightenment-based conventional standards for women. Her illustrations challenge a “good woman’s place” within a rational universe.¹⁵ 

Both Yaztek and Spurlock agree that Brundage both as a female artist and her background of women’s art in fashion meant she had a good grasp on female anatomy.¹⁶ Compared to male artists who were trained in a classical mode of representational painting, women artists were simply better at drawing women and fabrics.¹⁷

Caveats: The Progressive leftist and her use of racist, orientalist imagery

However, while Spurlock frames the Brundage women within Brundage’s desire for equal rights for minorities, Yaztek takes it a step in the other direction. She does not skip over how the ‘Brundage girls’ or Brundage’s background in women’s art were used to further xenophobic sentiment of 1930s America. Brundage’s background in fashion illustration meant she knew about Eastern fabrics and textiles and could incorporate them easily into the villains portrayed on the covers of Weird Tales. Yaztek points out that Brundage’s covers fused emerging twentieth-century fears of “yellow and black perils” with a colonial American Gothic style of painting. ‘Oriental’ men were the villains of these illustrations, taking the place of the ‘wild savage’ in colonial American Gothic art.¹⁸ 

The feminist focus on her role as a female artist creating female art often means scholars put a more favorable, progressive and feminist spin on Brundage’s illustrations, especially considering her own leftist views. This leaves scholarship on her more xenophobic and orientalist themes in her work to be wanting. I appreciate Lisa Yaztek’s analysis on Brundage’s background in women’s art lending itself to her expertise in creating racially charged ‘yellow peril’ and ‘red danger’ imagery, but I also notice that it specifically points out the male-female dynamic within this xenophobic imagery. The evils of the ‘Orient’ are portrayed through an oppressive male figure attacking a blond, beautiful and innocent woman who is easily read as a symbol for America.¹⁹ I’d like to expand on that.

As such, covers like the September 1933 issue of Weird Tales don’t seem to register as particularly xenophobic at first glance. After all, there are no men on the cover, and there are no obvious signs of ‘slanty eyed’ stereotypes or plotting, magical brown-skinned villains like there are in some of Brundage’s other work. I’d like to consider how the female-on-female dynamics in this cover were a way of expressing xenophobic and homophobic attitudes of 1930s America. This is not to take away from more ‘pro-woman’ readings into Brundage’s work or the progressive characteristics of her illustrations, but rather to consider her illustrations with nuance and as products of the time.   

What is The Slithering Shadow made for?

As I was researching, I noticed that scholarship of Brundage’s covers seem to consider the art as stand-alone pieces. Spurlock acts as if the choices Brundage makes to show women in peril or flagellation scenes are completely her own as an artist. He also considers illustrations like this, scenes of bondage with a woman in charge to be visual examples of female power and strength pushing back against conventional norms.²⁰  And while it wasn’t necessary for the covers to wholeheartedly accurately reflect the contents of the magazine as long as they were visually appealing to buyers, Brundage did read each written issue of Weird Tales before creating her illustrations.²¹ The choices she made as an artist were actively based on the written content of the stories, and in the case of the September 1933 issue that story would be Robert E. Howard’s The Slithering Shadow.  

We miss an important analysis into Brundage’s work both as a whole and specifically into this September 1933 issue if we don’t consider the writing the visuals accompany. The context in which the writing and the story were created offer insight to how the visuals must have viewed as well. We have insight directly from Brundage on how the September 1933 issue of Weird Tales was received by the public. We also have writing from Robert E. Howard himself that explains some of the thought processes in the themes in his work such as The Slithering Shadow. Seeing how these two worked together so frequently and were big fans of each other’s work,²² it seems only fitting to consider their partnership when analyzing Brundage’s work. 

Fred Taraba offered this comment on the September 1933 issue: “This is more than a picture of flagellation.”²³ Brundage herself seemed to agree; in an interview she said “We had one issue that sold out! It was the story of a very vicious female, getting a hold of the heroine and tying her up and beating her. Well, the public apparently thought it was flagellation.” ²⁴ 

Despite her denial, I find it incredibly difficult to believe that Brundage could not have had at least a little inkling on how the scene depicted flagellation for a few reasons. First, she was heavily involved in a counterculture social circle. She frequented the Dill Pickle Club, where artists, bohemian, and queer culture all came together and people would discuss different lifestyles and philosophies.²⁵ It’s highly likely that Brundage’s work took some kind of inspiration from this community. At the very least, she would have needed to figure out some kind of mental or visual reference for the cover illustration. Furthermore, Brundage was deeply familiar with Howard’s writing not only because she read through each issue of Weird Tales to hand pick scenes that she wanted to illustrate, but also because she was a huge fan of his work. He held similar sentiments towards her illustrations.²⁶  

Robert E. Howard and his obsession with kink and lesbian erotica

The Slithering Shadow is not simply about a villainess holding the heroine captive; both the story and the cover illustration clearly have queer and sexual elements. This doesn’t inherently mean that it was expressed in a positive light.  Howard regarded “lesbianism” as a way of showcasing the barbaric behavior of these fantastical and exotic realms in his writing and similar Weird Tales environments.²⁷ These moments of ‘lesbianism’ were never consensual, and always involved a villainous woman torturing her victim mercilessly.²⁸ At the same time, Howard’s extensive library on sadomasochism and “lesbianism,” and his own erotic poetry indicates that he had a fascination and deep interest in kink.²⁹ Howard knew that readers were interested in sexually deviant stories and illustrations and activities that challenged normal convention.³⁰  For readers that wanted “weird tales, ” this was about as weird as it could get. 

Regardless of whether Brundage considered the scene to be some form of erotic flagellation, the reality is that this sexual, sensual and queer-coded imagery was both hugely taboo and hugely popular with the Weird Tales audience. The September 1933 issue was so popular it sold out almost immediately. Taking a cue from this, Howard continued to show scenes of female on female flagellation and Brundage continued to illustrate them, as we can see from the December 1934 Weird Tales cover.  Other authors caught on that if they wanted to make the cover story, they were more likely to be chosen if they featured a woman in a state of undress.³¹ Showing scenes of sadomasochism or homoeroticism would also up their chances– after all, it was the scandal and sex that sold these magazines, even if they were about science fiction and fantasy. We can see this pattern catching on in the covers of January and March 1936 Weird Tale Issues. 

September 1933	December 1934	January 1936	March 1936

So how is this scene of lesbian BDSM “of the times?” 

Brundage’s covers may have portrayed women in positions of power and can be interpreted as working against society’s patriarchal views on a woman’s place in society, covers like the September 1933 Weird Tales were still examples of capitalizing and encouraging xenophobic attitudes of America of the time. Both Howard and Brundage’s work often centered around themes of barbarism and a romantic notion of uncivilized and exotic lifestyles. In the cover illustration, the dominatrix-like villainous has dark hair, probably based on the description that Howard offered for these characters in his writing. His character design plays into ‘good versus evil’ tropes; the blond woman is the virtuous heroine and the brunette woman is the harsh and cruel villainess.³²  These sentiments are reflected visually and brought to life by Brundage’s illustrations. As Yaztek mentioned, Brundage’s work frequently featured white, blond women in danger of an oppressor- often a ‘yellow peril’ or /red danger’ male.³³ Here the oriental stereotype is not a male, but note that the villainess is a dark haired woman wearing ‘Oriental’ clothing that Brundage was familiar with drawing. The woman herself is ethnically ambiguous, but certainly could be a Middle Eastern or Asian woman. By creating queer scenes within the context of ‘exotic’ and ‘fantasy’ worlds acts of non-heteronormative behavior were more acceptable to the public. At the same time, it was the homophobic and xenophobic attitudes of the time that Brundage and Howard employed with sexual imagery to make their content marketable.

Although homophobic and xenophobic attitudes contributed to the creation of sadomasochistic and queer coded illustrations and writing for Weird Tales, the covers still might have found appeal with female and queer audiences. Weird Tales had a relatively high proportion of women in their workspace. A decent percentage of the writers were women, as well as other artists and staff.³⁴ And while their readership was predominately heterosexual men, it certainly wasn’t limited to them.  In a discussion about the  later genre of 1950s and 1960s lesbian pulp, Paula Rabinowitz says “even if slip-wearing is not tied to a woman’s desire for women, its extravagant display of sexuality marks her as a sister rebel.”³⁵  Although this analysis pertains to work a couple decades later, I think this statement can be retrofitted to consider Brundage’s work considering both Korshak and Yaszek’s analysis of Brundage’s female figures. I also would like to consider that Brundage’s images could have been a predecessor for lesbian pulp fiction cover iconography. Lesbian pulp covers aided lesbian women on how to recognize each other by the way that they dressed through the depiction of risqué lingerie, which heterosexual women aligned to normal conventions would not find the need for.³⁶ In this way risqué and sexy fashion conveyed counterculture ideas available to women through pulp fiction cover illustrations.

The continuing effects of Brundage’s covers in art and media 

The scholarship around Brundage’s work is very clear on her impact as the ‘Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art.’ Before Margaret Brundage began producing iconic ‘women-in-peril’ cover illustrations for Weird Tales, science fiction pulp magazine covers mostly showed things like aliens and robots. She was the first of either sex whose covers featured nudes in science fiction.³⁷ As the editor of Weird Tales caught on that sexually charged imagery would help sell magazines and other pulp fiction magazines caught on, more sexualized and sensational imagery began showing up on their covers.³⁸ This type of iconography eventually translated over to comic books and mainstream media in years to come. Earlier, I discussed the possibility of Brundage’s artwork leading to more portrayals of queer-coded illustrations in mainstream media. Bobby Derie, a scholar on Howard’s writing, offers another angle. He points out that one month after the September 1933 Weird Tales, Dime Mystery debuted, the first of “shudder pulps” that focused on stories of torture and sadism on women.³⁹ He defines “The Slithering Shadow” as a potential marker indicating that there was an audience for this pulp genre.⁴⁰ Yaztek interprets Brundage’s legacy and iconography of strong and powerful women to continue in the work of female science fiction artists like Rowena Morill, Victoria Poyser-Lisi and Julie Bell.⁴¹

Concluding Thoughts

There is a strong temptation to portray Brundage as ‘ahead of her time’ due to a simplified conflation of her personal views and scholarship on her illustrations.  Her covers expressed her progressive and counterculture sentiments using her iconic women, but at the same time capitalized on xenophobic and homophobic attitudes in America.  By examining her artwork alongside the writing, it accompanied rather than considering them as stand-alone pieces, I think it helps us learn more about the motives behind creating certain types of visual imagery. It offers a more nuanced perspective into Brundage’s artmaking rather than flattening her artwork as inherently female-positive and progressive because she was a leftist and female artist.

Afterthoughts

Since I have the platform, I would also like to offer a brief review on the authors and scholars that I referenced throughout this essay. As a introduction and a book to peruse through the covers, Korshak and Spurlock’s book is adequate. However, the overall quality of the writing mediocre at its best, and repetitive and fanboyish at its worst. And the foreword by Rowena Morrill is truly awful. For a book about Brundage, Rowena Morrill barely seems to know anything about her. One of the most delusional quotes I can pick from the foreword is “The photo I saw of her looked very attractive. I have always thought it is a great advantage to the a woman in a male-dominated field. The art directors treat you better!” I could go on for a while about how insensitive and untrue this is, but there are literally interviews depicting Margaret Brundage’s experience in the book from Brundage herself that point out the contrary. I would much more highly reccomend Lisa Yaztek’s Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction (Early Classics of Science Fiction. Although it may not market itself as sensationally as The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage, it offers much more substantial information on not only Brundage but other women working in the science fiction genre in the 1900s.

Citations:

1. Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 35
2.  Ibid, 117.
3.  Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 148
4. Ibid, 147.
5. Ibid, 145-148.
6.  Ibid.
7.  Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 148.
8.  Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 148.
9. Ibid.
10.  Ibid.
11. Lisa Yaztek, Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction (Early Classics of Science Fiction) (Wesleyan University Press, 2016), 334.
12.  Ibid, 336.
13. Lisa Yaztek, Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction (Early Classics of Science Fiction) (Wesleyan University Press, 2016), 335.
14. Ibid,  333.
15.  Ibid.
16. Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 149.
17.  Lisa Yaztek, Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction (Early Classics of Science Fiction) (Wesleyan University Press, 2016), 333.
18.  Lisa Yaztek, Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction (Early Classics of Science Fiction) (Wesleyan University Press, 2016), 335.
19. Ibid, 333.
20. Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 148.
21. Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 149.
22.  Ibid, 150.
23.  Fred Taraba. Masters of American Illustration: 41 Illustrators & How they worked. (The Illustrated Press, 2011).
24.  Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 29.
25. George Hagenauer, “Wobbies and Weird Tales: Brundage’s Life and Marriage in Chicago,” in The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage, ed. Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock ( Vanguard Productions, 2013), 114-115.
26.  Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 149-150. 
27.  Bobby Derie, “Conan and Sappho: Robert E Howard on Lesbians Part 1 & 2.” The Dark Man: Robert E. Howard and Pulp Studies. (2017).
28.  Ibid.
29. Charles Hoffman, “Elements of Sadomasochism in the Fiction and Poetry of Robert E. Howard.”  The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies, Volume 4, No. 2 (June 2009).
30. Bobby Derie, “Conan and Sappho: Robert E Howard on Lesbians Part 1 & 2.” The Dark Man: Robert E. Howard and Pulp Studies. (2017).
31.  Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 19.
32. Charles Hoffman. Elements of Sadomasochism in the Fiction and Poetry of Robert E. Howard. The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies, Volume 4, No. 2 (June 2009).
33.  Lisa Yaztek, Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction (Early Classics of Science Fiction) (Wesleyan University Press), 335.
34.   Lisa Yaztek, Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction (Early Classics of Science Fiction) (Wesleyan University Press), 396.
35. Paula Rabinowitz. Scenes of Reading Women: Feminism and Paperbacks: A Possible Origin Story. Australasian Journal of American Studies 37, no. 1 (2018), 195. 
36. Ibid. 
37. Stephen D. Korshak & J. David Spurlock, The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage: Queen of Pulp Pin-Up Art (Vanguard Productions, 2013), 147.
38. Ibid, 148. 
39.  Bobby Derie, “Conan and Sappho: Robert E Howard on Lesbians Part 1 & 2.” The Dark Man: Robert E. Howard and Pulp Studies (2017).
40.  Ibid.
41.  Lisa Yaszek,  Sisters of Tomorrow: The First Women of Science Fiction (Early Classics of Science Fiction) (Wesleyan University Press, 2016), 340.

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