Essays on a Traumatized America

Hello, Mercurius Magazine readers! I’m Monica Fernandez from Red Hen Press and I’m pleased to share some work from our Red Hen Press authors.

2020 has been a difficult year, there’s no question about it. But author and poet Sebastian Matthews noticed the fractures in US society well before 2020. His memoir in essays, Beyond Repair: Living in a Fractured State, explores a traumatized America through his encounters with friends and strangers.

I’m delighted to share two essays from the collection below.

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A quick look of mischief in her eyes. “Who’d you vote for?”

I was getting a six-pack of beer, the obligatory I Voted sticker an emblem on my shirt. The young clerk couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Tall, thin as a rail, her light-brown skin unblemished, hair plaited perfectly. I said: “Hillary.”

“I’d vote for Bernie.”

“Yeah, I get that. I almost did, too.”

She hovered the six-pack over the scanner. “Then why didn’t you?”

I chose my words carefully. “I’m not sure he’ll make an effective president.”

She grinned. “Better than Trump.”

“Oh yes, much better.”

The man behind me in line shifted his weight from foot to foot, a pinched frown shellacked on his face. I didn’t care who heard or how it made them feel. Nor did the young woman, who went on a brief but passionate diatribe about Trump’s many deficiencies.

I slid my card and tapped yes and no as the clerk snapped a green rubber band between her fingers. She said: “That white man is evil.”

I was taken aback—not by the sentiment, I wholeheartedly agreed—but by the way the young cashier attached the adjective to the noun. A flash of worry in her eyes as she ripped off the receipt and handed it to me. “Not that you’re like that.”

I looked her straight in the face. “If that’s being white, I don’t want to be white.”

Walking Lubbock

It’s inevitable. Whenever Curtis and I get together, we go out for a long ramble. As we do this lovely morning, sauntering through Downtown Lubbock. It is early fall and unseasonably cool; it even rained a little. We wear light pants, T-shirts, sneakers, both hefting backpacks filled with books and extra gear. Saunterers.

It is only a few suburban blocks to the Texas Tech campus, Curtis’s standard route to work. A trio of barky dogs follow along a long fence, tails wagging, then wait with us until we cross the eight-lane boulevard, watching as we sidestep the SUVs and the giant puddles caused by flash flooding.

We have been talking about the state of affairs in Lubbock, in Texas, in the country. Trying not to fall into despair. I worry aloud that our world has moved “beyond repair.” Curtis pushes back on the thought. Is anything really ever beyond repair? I try to explain myself. I mean, why even try to repair something so broken? We bat the idea around. Maybe it’s not about systemic failure—as in, That car is dead, it’s beyond repair—but, instead, about something transformational—as in, We need to move beyond repair. Not trying to fix something but overhauling the whole system. Throwing everything out and starting again.

As we pass out of the walking paths and student buildings and parking lots, we move into a new kind of grid. Downtown Lubbock feels bombed out, abandoned. Whole blocks of empty warehouses, old brick buildings with boarded-up windows. I joke about it being like an episode of The Walking Dead.

Curtis sticks up for his adopted city. “It’s more complicated than that. You’re reducing the place.”

Right on cue, we come upon a pair of well-dressed men speaking Spanish strolling down the middle of the street. They give us a polite nod as they pass.

Further down the block, men sprawl out in a rough semicircle around a homeless shelter, chatting and chilling. Another turn and we are heading through campus housing. Our talk has turned to the upcoming break, and the time he and Idoia will spend in Spain. I admit my jealousy of their freedom, their adventurous life—a way of being that has all but vanished for me post-accident. (This trip to Lubbock one attempt to alter that!)

It takes us a moment to realize that we are walking too close behind a woman. We slow our pace, allowing her the space to get to her car without the potential menace of our presence. Soon we are crossing back over the boulevard jammed with cars that don’t make room for two guys on foot. Somebody honks. The puddles have evaporated. The dry heat rises up off the ground in an invisible waft. And the dogs come running.

If you’d like to read more, Beyond Repair: Living in a Fractured State is available for purchase directly from Red Hen Press, as well as on Bookshop.org.

These excerpts were reprinted with permission (and pleasure) from the publisher.