Whittenberg's characters are outspoken and sometimes even silent, in which case, they're still saying a lot. They're convincingly alive and they come at you from the page. In this brilliant mid-career collection, Whittenberg's The Carnival of Reality investigates the complexities in human relationships from a decidedly black woman's perspective. In the first engaging story, "Ride the Peter Pan" touches on gender and elements of racial bias. You will root for main character Arna--and her journey as she comes to terms with the aftermath of date rape. In another absorbing story, "Choice" a single mother is faced with a Hobson's choice as she is faced with the possible increase to her family. Her aching decision is a realistic one.
Thick with zany and fearless elements in "The Sane Asylum." The humor is there, mingled with the desperation in Lucy, a mother trying desperately to keep her rebellious, head strong son from a conscription notice. Another highlight is "Why Didn't You Call Me, 9/11?" the story of Jean who lives with her mother in a far from the Twin Towers small town. She is in a go nowhere interracial relationship with a commitment phobe engineer and must reckon with her loneliness.
Whittenberg's characters are outspoken and sometimes even silent, in which case, they're still saying a lot. They're convincingly alive and they come at you from the page. In this brilliant mid-career collection, Whittenberg's The Carnival of Reality investigates the complexities in human relationships from a decidedly black woman's perspective. In the first engaging story, "Ride the Peter Pan" touches on gender and elements of racial bias. You will root for main character Arna--and her journey as she comes to terms with the aftermath of date rape. In another absorbing story, "Choice" a single mother is faced with a Hobson's choice as she is faced with the possible increase to her family. Her aching decision is a realistic one.
Thick with zany and fearless elements in "The Sane Asylum." The humor is there, mingled with the desperation in Lucy, a mother trying desperately to keep her rebellious, head strong son from a conscription notice. Another highlight is "Why Didn't You Call Me, 9/11?" the story of Jean who lives with her mother in a far from the Twin Towers small town. She is in a go nowhere interracial relationship with a commitment phobe engineer and must reckon with her loneliness.
Ride the Peter PanÂ
There were times when it seemed like all the beauty was sucked out of my life. This was one of them. It was cold and damp, early spring, and I was Greyhounding from my old life to my new, from North to South. I was 24, master degreed, unwed, and pregnant.Â
All around me, I saw failure. As each passenger climbed aboard, emptiness filled the bus. I saw the unshaved and the unshowered. The angry and confused. Widows, retirees, practically invalids dragging their duffle bags. Beside me, a degenerate unwrapped his plastic wrapped sandwiches. I stared out of the windows like a peeping Tom. Riding the bus never meant passing City Hall, never going by the nice restaurants or boutiques melting into friendly pedestrians strolling past. No businessÂ
man with wedding bands checking briefcases. No, I saw a squeegee man dirtying clean windshields.Â
I wish Iâd taken the Peter Pan, a special line that showed escapist movies. Iâd taken that before when I was only going as far as NYC. I saw a flick about moving an elephant cross-country. It wasnât a box office smash but for a bus ride it was perfect. Here, there wasnât even a blank screen. I could go for another feature length; too bad that line doesnât go down South.Â
A man with eyes like the sky was doing the driving. He loud talked to the passengers in the front couple of rows about how fake pro wrestling was. He asked the question, âHow come every time they hit each other, they stomp their feet?âÂ
Back in high school, I was valedictorian. A decade later, long after Pomp and Circumstance was played, I found myself a loser. Just anotherÂ
confused minority waif riding public transportation bouncing the back of her neck against a greasy headrestâŚÂ
My wish was for a miscarriage. I know that was a horrible thing to wish for.Â
I had used up all my distractions. I put on my headphones and heard only a staticky cassette tape. The magazines I had brought, I had read too quickly. I had put away the novel I had brought miles ago. I just couldnât get into it. It was just words on a page. Now what?Â
There was a woman with chicken wings in her shirt pocket. Her fin gers smudged the window.Â
Iâm going to kill my baby. Strangle it with my large intestine or with my hands like the Prom Mom. It was a fleeting thought. I blamed it on the bus. Some people get motion sickness; I get homicidal thoughts.Â
If only the Peter Pan would go way down to Georgia. Maybe I should have flown or rented a car. Truth is, I didnât have the presence of mind to do either. I needed to let someone else do the driving. Let someone else make the stops and turns. I was so angry. Angry at rape, domestic vioÂ
lence, the porn industry, sexism, fascism, racism, ismisms. My life wasnât supposed to go like this. I was the smart girl.Â
I should have watched my drink.Â
I should have reported it.Â
I should have taken the morning after pill.Â
I shouldnât have been in denial.Â
RU486 could have stopped this from being compounded. How am I going to look at this product for the next 18 years? How? What am I going to do? Where am I going? I know where Iâm going. Macon. But where am I going?Â
Iâm going home. I donât even have a job waiting for me. I had two grand saved; thatâs all.Â
My legs were cramping from a rocky night when I tried to turn this seat into a sofa. I snuggle in the best I can.
I had no other plans than to live with my mother. My mother was lov ing and nurturing but not understanding. She couldnât understand this; IÂ couldnât understand this.Â
A few rows behind me that Lolita pop music was playing, someone else turned on a hip hop station and overpowered it. This all could have been understandable if I dressed like that naval centric nymphet, but I didnât. I never did. Even on that night, I had on my work clothes at the party, Navy skirt, light blue turtleneck. (When groping for cause and effect, fall on stereotypes.)Â
I thought I knew Warren. We had talked before about peace, public education, and reparations. My life was going so well. I was saving to buy a condo, something tasteful with modern furniture. It would look like the furniture storeroom at Ikea. Now look at me, boomeranging back to my same humble beginnings, to the grey borough I grew up in. I have lost control. My power is taken. My destiny. Couldnât he at least have opened up a condom package and put it on? Â
The woman in front of me was babbling about how thick her sonâs neck is. He was in the Navy and that Navy wanted to kick him out because heâd gotten fat. They have been taping his waist and throat to find the density.Â
My rapist wasnât big, but he did overpower me.Â
My rapist didnât look like a rapist. He was tall, slender, a runnerâs build, dark, bookish eyeglassesâkind of like me only male and a pervert. I only had one glass of wine.Â
Date rapists arenât any different from rapist rapists. In a lot of ways, they are worse. They gain your confidence, then betray you. They Milli Vanilli their way into your life. They donât carry a knife or a gun. Just a drug. And surprise.Â
I remember my stockings pulled down around my ankles so I couldnât move my feet and run. The wheel of my mind takes in the way he braced my arms, so that I couldnât move my arms and clock him. The way he got inside my mind so even my voice didnât work. Why didnât I scream? IÂ
lived in an efficiency on the third floor where the walls and ceilings were as thin as loose-leaf paper.Â
I worked in the politics of shame as a counselor at a womenâs shel ter where the politics of silence was busted every day. I should have come forward. Instead, I did what I urged others not to do, I swallowed it down⌠yet the projector kept whirring and clacking.Â
There was a woman on the bus with her hair so uncombed she had dreads from the neglect. Her carry on was a shopping bag full of pain. I was just like her. Up until the rape, my life had been so fine toothed combed. Pregnancy dictated to me that all my dreams were gone. Even my distant ones of going to Africa, eating raw cashews in Nairobi, tracing my roots . . .Â
The bus driver stopped just past Columbia. He told us to get a smoke or a coke. The previous day, I had thrown up twice. Today, I was hungry. I went to the restroom to wash up. The smell of joints hit me as did the sight of women brushing their teeth and washing up. Not just bird baths. Not just splashing under the armpits, spritz to open the dry eyes. These women had their tops off and their pants down. They were buck-naked crowded by the drain.Â
I left the rest room and cleansed my hands with a moistened towelette I had stored in my carryall bag. I ducked into the terminal coffee shop and sat at the counter.Â
A waitress made her way over to me and grunted at me. âDo you have any turkey?â I asked.Â
âNo.âÂ
âWhat do you have?â I asked.Â
âBurgers. What did you want? A club?âÂ
âNo. I wanted a Rachel.âÂ
She looked at me blankly.Â
I explained. âItâs like a Ruben, but you use turkey.âÂ
âWe donât have no turkey.âÂ
âDo you have bacon?âÂ
âDo you want a BLT?â she asked.
âNo. Bacon cheeseburger.âÂ
âWe donât have no cheese.âÂ
I squinted. âNo cheese? No bacon?âÂ
âNope. So what do you want?âÂ
âAn abortion.âÂ
She gave me a blank stare.Â
âIâll have a burger,â I swallowed hard and said hoarsely. âYou want fries with that?âÂ
Soon, the moon-faced waitress slid the plate my way.Â
The bun was cold, and the burger looked like an SOS scouring pad. I just donât get it; I had done everything I was supposed to do right down to only using my first initial on the mail and the phone book. How did I get raped?Â
Some fellow with a head full of shiny Liberace hair -- every strand in place -â sat next to me. I eyed him. He was a brown skinned man, chubby, I donât know why I thought Liberace. I should have thought Al Sharpton.Â
âHowâs your burger?â he asked.Â
I said nothing.Â
âMy nameâs Brian.â He smiled. I noticed that he was missing a side tooth. âYou know, you are exactly what Iâm looking for.â I thought for a moment; exactly what was I looking for? A life of fox furs, red sequin evening dresses? White candles in silver candlestick hold ers? The man kept smiling at me showcasing his missing molar. I told myself to give up. Life is not going to be gallant.Â
He chewed his burger favoring one side. âWhatâs your name?â âAnn.â I lied. It was really Arna. This is what I always did. I never give strangers too much information. Even in singles clubs, when asked for my phone number, I would give only the last digit. Iâm always cau tious, watchful.Â
âAnn. I like that. I like women like you. I like a woman whose breasts are where theyâre supposed to be and have a nice small waist like you have.â
I turned away from him and placed my napkin over my burger. âI have a truck,â he said.Â
I put a five-dollar bill on the counter.Â
âYou want to go for a ride in my truck?â he asked. He smelled oily and close.Â
I stood up. âHow old are you?â Â
âIâm 42, but I donât want no has beens. My daddy had kids up until he was 60âŚ. I donât date women over 21, 22.âÂ
âYou donât.âÂ
âNaw, I donât want a has been.âÂ
âDo you have any kids?â I asked.Â
âI have grandkids,â he answered.Â
âYou have grandkids.â I absorbed and repeated.Â
âYeah, but thatâs my daughterâs business.âÂ
âWhat happened to your wife?â I asked.Â
âWhat wife? Iâve never been married â â He leered. â- Yet.â I made a fist. âYouâre a 42-year-old grandfather. Why donât you date grandmothers?âÂ
âI done told you I donât deal with no has beens,â he told me. âHave you started your family yet?âÂ
âBy family, you mean a mother and a father and a child right. If you mean that, the answer is no.â I made my voice icy as Massachusetts in December. I kept my cadence proper and dry.Â
âYou know what I mean. You got any shorties?â he asked still snag ging a toothed grin.Â
âThe answer is no.âÂ
I turned to leave. He reached for me.Â
âGet your goddamn hands off of me.âÂ
The entire clientele craned their necks at me. An older woman next to the door looked over her glasses at me. The waitress cupped her hands over her face.Â
âI went to Smith!â I told them, then I gave Grandpa the finger.
I gathered my coat around me, clutched my bag and walked toward the pay phone. I had promised Iâd call my mother when I got close to home. I pulled out my card and pressed the digits. Ma answered on the first ring.Â
âHowâs your trip going?â she asked.Â
âAll right,â I answered. This was my biggest lie yet.Â
âItâs a cast of characters ainât it?â she laughed. I loved her laugh. It was full, colorful, and Southern.Â
âHow far are you along?â she asked.Â
âRight outside of Columbia.âÂ
âHow far are you along?â she asked again.Â
âIâm right in Sumter. Outside Columbia, Iâll be there in another two hours.âÂ
âNo, Arna, how far are you along?âÂ
âYou know? How could you know?âÂ
âI just do. Something about the way you told me out Â
of the clear blue you were moving back home. You love Boston.â She didnât sound angry or disappointed. She sounded psychic. âEverything is going to be all right. Youâre not around any smoke are you? They say that now. That ainât good for the baby.âÂ
âIâm only two months in, Ma,â I told her.Â
âItâs too bad you have to travel pregnant. You have morning sickness and jet lag.âÂ
I smiled. It felt strange to smile. âMa, you canât get that from a bus because you feel every mile.âÂ
âBuses ainât so bad anymore. Donât they show movies?â âCertain ones do. Greyhound has a spin off. Peter Pan. Iâm just on the regular one.âÂ
âWell, youâll be home soon. Weâll all be there to pick you up.â âI donât have a job lined up.âÂ
âYouâre a mother now. Thatâs your job.âÂ
âBut I had a career.âÂ
âYou find something down here. Youâve always been smart.â
âMa, I let a dumb thing happen.âÂ
âYouâre the first one in the family to ever go to college, Arna. Youâll find something down here. We got everythingâs Bostonâs got. Just a little less of it.âÂ
I saw a mass of people heading toward the bus. âMa, I have to go.â âSee you soon.âÂ
The bus was just about to pull off as I climbed back aboard. The driver asked me if I knew The Rock.Â
I crossed my fingers and said, âWeâre like this.âÂ
There was a reshuffling of the seats, and I found my middle of the bus seat gone. I went to the back.Â
Itâs always those honor student, 16-year-olds who donât want to disap point their parents who hemorrhage from grimy abortions. Ma took the news better than I thought.Â
My mother had emphatic ears. She didnât wear makeup or nail pol ish. She had basic hobbies; she liked to sew and cook. She was lucky; she didnât go out to the world to discover herself. She was married at 15. I was the exact middle child of seven. Maybe. Macon wouldnât be so bad, itâs not like I had a job on Wall Street. Thereâre shelters in my hometown or at least people in need of shelter.Â
A voluptuous big-hipped woman sat next to me. She had swollen ankles. She was one of the nude women I saw in the restroom. I guess I wasnât put into this world to be pampered; I was put in this world to be squeezed between a window and foul-smelling misery. Back home, kids ride their bikes and chase each other up and down the sidewalk. Just thinking of that made me feel warm enough to ignore the draft that was coming from the metal vent alongside the window. I will not end this life.Â
If itâs a girl, I will cover her pigtails with red and purple plastic. If itâs a boy, I will teach him to be kind.Â
The bus started up, and I got a mild case of whiplash caused from my neck bouncing against the headrest.
There are times when it seems like all the beauty is sucked out. This isnât one of them.
Think Warm ThoughtsÂ
The world burns. The sun stalks.Â
Can life be sustained off a window sillâs moisture; a lead pipeâs sweat? Someone spills the orange juice weâve been rationing. It spread more sunshine across the room. We splintered our tongues lapping it off the wooden floor.Â
In the white glow of night, a man bursts in and steals thirty-three ounces of water.Â
I should have shot him, weâre all going to die anyway this way. As want drips into need, itâs a good news bad news sort of thing, con tentment, comfort.Â
Itâs all a matter of degrees, I am between cool white sheets. Outside snow is falling, falling, falling like sugar. Itâs piling up to hills, mountains. They say a new Ice Age is upon us, but my fever is breaking and I remember a wise, old saying.
The Carnival of Reality is a perfect title as Whittenberg's short stories hold a kaleidoscope to the multiple realities lived by us all, with a particular focus on the lived experience of Black people. This focus in itself is refreshing as we are given a cast of characters who are not defined by tropes and stereotypes too often perpetuated by those centring Black lives in literature. Instead, Whittenberg delivers unique, multiloquent and complex narrators and characters.
The stories themselves are vast in their subject matter; from carrying a baby after sexual assault, to a young man campaigning for peace, and young brothers who seek to take justice into their own hands through acquiring a gun. Whittenberg leaves no stone unturned when it comes to delving into the depths of humanity. There are people within these pages you will admire, some you will empathise with but wish you could take them by their shoulders and talk them down, and others you'll despise. This characterisation is Whittenberg's strength.
The actual crafting of these stories is what hinders this collection overall, however. Towards the end, there are several stories where dialogue and monologue appear so rushed and unchecked that at times it was a struggle to make sense of Whittenberg's writing and the plot of the individual stories. At times it felt like night and day in regards to how well the story had been written and this was, undoubtedly, disappointing, as the originality of Whittenberg's work suffered as a result.
There were also some stories which read more like the opening of something bigger and so they lacked the subtle ending a good short story craves, which elsewhere in the collection, Whittenberg nails, particularly in the stories which are only one page long. Ultimately, there are some absolute gems to be read and enjoyed in The Carnival of Reality and I hope that in the future other stories will be polished to the same standard.