Little Armenia

She does not know why she cried when the Armenian procession filled her neighborhood street.  A man screaming “1915 never again!” so loudly that his voice keeps breaking and falls into the pitchiness of a child.  She has no connection to this particular struggle.  Listening to the NPR reporter laying out the delicate political strategies between the US and Turkey, she feels nothing but guilt for feeling nothing.  But looking out of her bedroom window, she sees the rhythmic slow paced march of thousands pressing through to the very edges of the street and it does not seem like a far stretch to think that they might press further into her room, onto her bed, under her covers.  Their chants are impassioned but their walk is notably casual and had they not been in such large numbers, each individual might look like they were simply out for a morning walk.  She is above them, close enough to make out the colors of their clothes, an elderly man holding the hand of his wife, a thin boy wrestling with the weight of a flag. It startles her when her nose begins to sting and her eyes grow full and leak.  She feels embarrassed. This is not her battle.  It is the sheer number of people, the idea of mobilizing so many for a singular purpose.  She is not so much touched by it as she is overwhelmed and even more so when the procession disappears.  The street returns to normalcy so eagerly, unscathed and without any imprint of what has passed through.  

Saehee Cho

sleep-a shiver before an interim still, a summer when I felt the season move and then pass, a deep graze.

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Little Armenia

She does not know why she cried when the Armenian procession filled her neighborhood street.  A man screaming “1915 never again!” so loudly that his voice keeps breaking and falls into the pitchiness of a child.  She has no connection to this particular struggle.  Listening to the NPR reporter laying out the delicate political strategies between the US and Turkey, she feels nothing but guilt for feeling nothing.  But looking out of her bedroom window, she sees the rhythmic slow paced march of thousands pressing through to the very edges of the street and it does not seem like a far stretch to think that they might press further into her room, onto her bed, under her covers.  Their chants are impassioned but their walk is notably casual and had they not been in such large numbers, each individual might look like they were simply out for a morning walk.  She is above them, close enough to make out the colors of their clothes, an elderly man holding the hand of his wife, a thin boy wrestling with the weight of a flag. It startles her when her nose begins to sting and her eyes grow full and leak.  She feels embarrassed. This is not her battle.  It is the sheer number of people, the idea of mobilizing so many for a singular purpose.  She is not so much touched by it as she is overwhelmed and even more so when the procession disappears.  The street returns to normalcy so eagerly, unscathed and without any imprint of what has passed through.  

Saehee Cho

sleep-a shiver before an interim still, a summer when I felt the season move and then pass, a deep graze.

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