In depicting and analyzing issues affecting women in late nineteenth century Europe, psychiatrist Sigmund Freud and playwright George Bernard Shaw take divergent approaches: while Freud directs his focus inward to the subconscious, Shaw looks to outside (and more social) influences in order to explain women’s responses to the realities of their lives. In “The Case of Miss Lucy R.,” Freud attempts to help a young Austrian governess who is experiencing symptoms of hysteria (a condition thought at the time to be a strictly female ailment, which caused a vast array of symptoms and resulted from the sex’s innate fragility). In doing so he chooses an individualized and meticulous method, embarking on an exploratory journey through his protagonist’s emotional world in an attempt to isolate the origin of her woes. Shaw, by contrast, looks to society in order to explain his subject’s thorny station in life. In his play, Mrs. Warren’s Profession, Shaw attacks directly a ferociously capitalist yet moralizing British social system that holds many women captive through subordination, exploitation, and painful poverty, and then goes on to assail these desperate beings for taking advantage of the last avenue out of sure wretchedness left to them: prostitution. Individual choice coupled with emotional accountability and reconciliation versus collective action to enact social-economic shifts are these two authors’ different, if complementary, solutions for ameliorating the difficult circumstances of Victorian womanhood.

Freud, in his professional explorations, looks to the past and to the inner self to find answers to events taking place in his patients’ everyday realities. Therefore, in trying to analyze and help Miss Lucy R., he chooses to ignore larger social influences on her psychic behavior and concentrates instead on comparatively small events that can be perceived as having a traumatic effect on her presupposed yielding female mind. Miss Lucy “was suffering from low spirits and fatigue, and was tormented by subjective sensations of smell” (109), more precisely “a smell like burnt pudding” (110). Freud decides to make this smell “the starting point of the analysis” (110). He works under the assumption that hysteria stems from an idea being “intentionally repressed from consciousness” (117). This idea then manifests as a physical reaction, “taking revenge by becoming pathogenic” and acting as a sort of reminder that something lays unresolved (117). Accordingly, Freud embarks on a deep and focused investigation of this woman’s memories, peeling off the suppressed, protective layers of awareness and putting together seemingly irrelevant details to form a clear picture that might give insight into her situation.

The conclusion to Freud’s careful medical investigations is that she is “in love with [her] master” and that she secretly fosters “the hope that she really will take the place of the mother” (118). He goes on to say that the symptoms affecting her are painful memories converted into physical quirks that stem from a traumatic incident involving her otherwise kind employer, who once even “looked at her in a particular way” (118). Upset about having his children “kissed on the lips” by a guest in his house, the master had behaved erratically, even violently towards Lucy, a simple bystander. He had held her responsible for something that, she had felt, was out of her control. “If he can set on me and threaten me like that over something so slight…when I am, in any case, quite innocent, then I have made a mistake,” she says (121). According to Freud, this crushed her romantic aspirations, and it embarrassed her that she ever could have allowed herself to entertain such unreasonable thoughts, given her social standing. “You are afraid that [others] will spot your hope and make fun of you,” he says to her (118).

“What remain[s] to be explained [is] why” this incident is so significant to Lucy (116). Is the frustration of an unrequited infatuation so painful that she is forced into fashioning such drastic devices of emotional protection as the splitting of her consciousness? Miss Lucy’s case brilliantly illuminates to the reader (most likely peers in the mental health professions) the methods Freud used in his early explorations of the unconscious, methods that will later be instrumental to the development of his vastly influential theory of psychoanalysis. Beyond theoretical merit, Freud’s tactics also achieve practical success: they seem to truly alleviate Lucy’s suffering. However, in explaining to the reader the underlying causes of Miss Lucy’s hysteria or even the disease’s widespread occurrence in such a large and easily identifiable set of the population—women—the scope of the analysis presented in the text is somewhat narrow.

Miss Lucy R. falls within a peculiar category of her society: that of the governess, the mid-point or junction between the lower and the upper classes. It is a position laced with social tension, and one that makes her an immediate outsider. As a caregiver and educator, she represents middle-class mothers’ values, yet by accepting wages for her labors she behaves like the lower ranking folk. As governess, Miss Lucy is neither to enjoy the social benefits of being a mother and wife—often women’s only chance to exert any influence at the time—nor to be afforded the recourse available to those who fall below society’s radar: prostitution, the tragic but in some situations preferable alternative of taking advantage of one’s body as a means to independence. In addition, her capacity to extricate herself, not from her station in life, but, at any rate, from this particular work arrangement, which brings her considerable anguish—“I couldn’t stand it in the house anymore”—is further limited by a deathbed promise she makes to the mother of the children she watches over (116). Lucy, who is a distant relative of the deceased, had sworn to her that she “would never leave [the children], and that [she] would take the place of their mother” (116). Although not directly in line with the Freudian approach, one can see how Lucy, trapped, would turn towards her last standing fort where her command still reigns: her inner world, where she is free to temper her thoughts and emotions as she sees fit.

Freud appears not to challenge this dominant social order. He downplays the broader sociological tensions upon Lucy’s psyche that are present in the text and seems to say that the problem is individual; it is her fault for failing to realize where she belongs. Freud suggests to Lucy that it is in her best interest to dispel any hopes of a successful romantic relationship with a social superior. Lucy belongs to a lower social stratum, and her proximity to her master’s family and his occasional kindness should not in any way invite delusions of inclusion. It is an impossibility that will only cause her emotional harm. “She is in complete agreement with me…and also recognizes quite clearly that her inclination is quite without hope,” says the author (119). Freud possibly recognizes, but perhaps for scientific reasons chooses not to explore, the fact that what he classifies as causes to Miss Lucy’s troubles could alternatively be perceived as mere symptoms of larger social maladies. Lucy is likely to see in her master’s kindness a gleam of hope to escape a most certainly grim future of truncated opportunities. Her neurosis has, in all probability, a stronger connection to the desperation she feels regarding the general state of her life rather than to a broken romantic fantasy. Freud gives the reader the impression that for him, however, it originates from her lack of “moral courage” to face reality, not society’s unwillingness to give her a voice in deciding her own fate or providing her with the means to alter it if need be (123). His prescription for Lucy is to realize her station in life, accept it, and dispel any such impractical, injurious thoughts.

Bernard Shaw adds some vivid, darker colors to the picture painted for us by Freud, achieving a depiction of the lower-class Victorian English woman and the social barriers she faces that is at once fascinating and terrifying. Some women did not have the luxury of avoiding life’s unpleasantness by removing themselves from it. The lower stratum of the female population lived a life so brutal that to avoid being devoured by its voracity, they were forced to become either nimble pragmatists (to steer clear of its many obstacles) or calculating manipulators (in order to capitalize on its scant opportunities). Mrs. Warren, the title character of Shaw’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession, displays both of these traits beautifully.

“[A] genial and fairly presentable old blackguard of a woman,” Mrs. Warren is a survivor (95).  The daughter of a fried-fish selling, self-titled “widow,” Kitty Warren is quickly made aware of the few, equally horrible paths her life can take, if respectability is to be her ultimate goal. She could slave her life away, working as a barmaid, “wearing out [her] health and [her] appearance for other people’s profit” (123). She could try her hand at industrial work, as did one of her sisters, Anne Jane, who died of “lead poisoning” as a consequence (122). And then, there was the blessing of marriage. At least there Kitty would have a close relation to her master, which, with any luck, could well prove to be a pleasant arrangement—unless, as was often the case, “he took to drink[ing]” (122).

Mrs. Warren (and presumably Shaw) seems to think this ugly virtuosity—virtuosity only possible through subordination, misery, and abuse—quite unworthy of such heavy sacrifices. One day, Lizzie, another of her sisters who had gone “out one night and never c[o]me back” (122), shows up “in a long fur coat, elegant and with a lot of sovereigns in her purse” (123). She offers Kitty a chance to go “into business with her” in “a much better place for a woman to be in than the factory where Anne Jane got poisoned” (124). Given the stark contrast in outlooks, it is hard to imagine why Kitty would, or even how she could, have refused. Her arguments make it impossible for the reader to miss the injustice of this exploitative system that is made possible, all while being persecuted, by the heavy hand of the upper social classes. “You were certainly quite justified,” says Vivie Warren upon hearing her mother’s deliberations (124).

Shaw is not directly interested in individual merit, choices, or interactions. His goal is to strike directly at the macro social-economic forces that render these things all but irrelevant. He savagely attacks the pervasive hypocrisy of Victorian society by holding a mirror to its institutions—especially that of marriage—to illustrate his point. “What is any respectable girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man’s fancy and get the benefit of his money by marrying him?—as if a marriage ceremony could make any difference on the right or wrong of the thing!” says Mrs. Warren (124). Kitty thus equates the most fundamental bastion of her society, marriage, to her own profession, prostitution—the difference lying in the official seal received by the former to the detriment of the latter. Shaw appears to say that we should not judge another’s supposedly immoral decisions before we understand how limited were his or her choices. We should point the finger instead at those who presented these individuals with such a negligible variety of prospects. Furthermore, we should suspend judgment until we take a good look at ourselves and realize that many of our most cherished middle-class institutions are hardly nobler than those practiced out of plain necessity by the have-nots of this world, and which we at once promote and so despise. “Oh, the hypocrisy of the world makes me sick!” exclaims Kitty Warren (124).

Shaw has no intention of glorifying prostitution, however. It can be a sordid, squalid business, but one that becomes inevitable to a great many women because of their economic realities and their inability to sustain themselves by any other means—the lesser of several evils. “I’ve often pitied a poor girl…having to try to please some man that she doesn’t care two straws for—some half-drunken fool…disgusting a woman so hardly any money could pay for her putting up with it…but I should have been a fool if I had taken to anything else,” explains Kitty (125). Inevitable as it may have been and undoubtedly preferable to the alternatives available, even in Shaw’s progressive world prostitution is not without repercussions. Mrs. Warren will soon find out that the consequences of putting self-respect over social respect are more painful than the mere indignities of her profession. The price to be paid is total loss of her most valuable investment, banishment from the life of the one she loves most: Vivie.

In Vivie Warren, Shaw offers us a new alternative, an alternative available to privileged young women with access to education and some monetary means. She represents a practical, able, and more assured modern woman: one who is poised to take on the world, and certain to succeed through her intellect and work ethic rather than through her association or dependency on men. But even this seemingly favorable portrayal soon strikes the reader as lacking, as not whole. Vivie states, “I like working and getting paid for it” (92). And as for romance or “beauty in [her] life” she declares, “I don’t care for either. I assure you” (92). Although at a better position than her mother to choose the course of her life, her choices are still considerably limited. Vivie sees that the price for autonomy, the price for a woman to succeed in a man-dominated, capitalist world is the renouncement of any characteristics viewed as feminine. This is perhaps why she feels the necessity to abandon love and marriage altogether—“I must be treated as a woman of business, permanently single and permanently unromantic”—and to completely cut ties with her mother—love and family being the last sources of the sentimentality she fears so much (149). They are the sacrifices that she feels must be made in order to achieve her goals as a self made woman.  “It’s better to choose your line and go through with it. If I had been you, mother, I might have done as you did: but I should not have lived one life and believed in another. You are a conventional woman at heart. That is why I am bidding you goodbye now” (160).

Through both of these texts we are given glimpses of the tremendous hardships faced by women who lived during the Victorian period and also of Freud and Shaw’s reactions to these realities. The former’s solution is presented as such: accept the facts of life and learn to work within its pre-set boundaries. The latter prescribes rethinking and reshaping those boundaries. Shaw displays a belief that the human race as a whole needs to be accountable for the social structures it has created, and it needs to extend to all humans—woman and man, rich and poor—the same level of consideration. Although writing at roughly the same time, these two men’s divergent conclusions to similar issues can be explained by personal differences but also by the different societies they depict and by the purpose of their work: Austrian versus English society, a work of science and research versus a harsh social commentary, if not a social-political manifesto, in the form of entertainment—thus reaching a much wider audience. Rather than viewing these men’s works as competing viewpoints, one could and perhaps should think of them as complimentary. Where one lacks the other feels the void, and together they offer us a much fuller and nuanced picture of the constraints weighing down these individuals’ existences. The synthesis of these works can also act as a tool that brings into sharp focus the evolution of the roles played by women in Western society. Indeed, the true equality dreamt by countless women and too few men of yesteryear is not yet here. But Freud and Shaw’s reflections show us that, through the efforts of persons such as themselves, strides are undeniably being made towards progress, making what once was widely thought of as preposterousness look more and more like inevitability.

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Marlon Altoé was born in the countryside village of Boa Esperança (Good Hope), Brazil. He came to the United States in 1995 as an exchange student for a year of foreign exposure and to perfect his English skills (non-existent at the time). Shortly after his arrival, however, Marlon received a scholarship from the Houston Ballet Academy, one of the preeminent ballet conservatories in the country, which prompted him to remain in America and pursue a career as a classical ballet dancer. Now, after eleven years of a fulfilling life on the stage, Marlon is thrilled to be discovering new venues on which to express himself, among which he finds writing to be the most personally rewarding. He joined the Baruch community in the spring of 2009 and is pursuing a major in Political Science. Marlon is currently spending a year in Paris, studying the prestigious Sorbonne University. He is overjoyed to have been awarded the 2011 Berlfein Prize and to have his work published by iMagazine and wants to thank Professor Michael Staub for believing in him and making it all possible. He would also like to thank Professor Jessica Lang and Keri Bertino for their guidance and encouragement. The “Good Hope” of Marlon’s infancy is, without a doubt, becoming a palpable reality.

A skeletal marquee juts out from the face of the shuttered building. Underneath, the entrance is covered by an expanse of the blue-colored boards that typically designate a new construction project. Except these boards have been in place for over two decades now and are dirty and graffiti-strewn. The RKO Keith’s Theatre, once a glamorous venue for cinema, has been languishing in limbo since it closed its doors to the public and the community.

The theater, which sits squarely at the intersection between Main Street and Northern Boulevard in Flushing, has weathered time and conflict in the years after it closed in 1986. The site has drawn both controversy and interest because of the economic opportunity of its land and the personal connections that Flushing residents have to the theater. In 2009 the strength of these connections and memories coalesced into a Facebook group called “Save the RKO Keith’s Flushing,” dedicated to the preservation of the theater.

“My earliest memory was watching The Empire Strikes Back with my father in 1980,” said Rick Gallo, an admin of the Facebook group. “We sat in the main theater, which was the largest of the three theaters. The screen was enormous and would rival the new theaters of today.”

Founded by Flushing native Ed Tracey, the group quickly took off and had over 1,000 members in a month. Many grew up watching movies at the RKO, or attended graduation ceremonies there. The Facebook page allows members to share their memories of the theater and brings together people who have otherwise moved away from the area.

“When I walked into that theater it was like entering another world; as my sisters and I would say, it was like heaven,” said Annette Guarino, who grew up in Flushing but now lives on Long Island. She went on to describe the gold embossed statues, the sky-painted ceiling, and the sweeping stairs with mahogany handrails, calling the beauty of the theater “endless.”

In addition to those who saw movies during the theater’s prime, the group also has members who were too young to remember the theater or who were born after it closed. For these supporters the root of their cause is preserving a piece of history that they never had a chance to take part in, but nevertheless moves and fascinates them.

Susan Carroll, who was six years old when the theater closed, grew up listening to stories about the wonders of the RKO and how her parents saw Star Wars there in 1977.

“I always felt sad I’d missed out on knowing that theater, not to mention that I had to take buses and trains to the movies, while the RKO, in walking distance, stood there vacant and neglected,” said Carroll.

For many subsequent generations growing up, the RKO would remain as such—an abandoned, lifeless, and dilapidated husk of a building. Yet its history stretches back to more than half a century ago, when, in 1928, it was first opened as a vaudeville theater. Designed by Thomas Lamb, one of the preeminent industrial designers of the era, the RKO was built with grandeur in mind.

The façade was lined with lively storefronts, and topped by an ornate, arch-like marquee, a preview of the marvels that awaited inside. The interior was designed in the Spanish Baroque style , heavily characterized by elegance and opulence. The lobby was a two-story high room with columns and gilded plasterwork on its upper story.  The foyer featured a fountain in the center and two broad marble staircases that led up to the gallery. Throughout the rest of the theater, elaborate and intricately worked elements variously made of wrought iron, terra cotta, and plaster contributed to the overall look and feel of a “movie palace.” The auditorium, which seated 2,900, was known for its Atmospheric-style ceiling, which was painted a deep blue and had projections of stars and clouds moving across its surface to create the illusion of an evening sky.

“I always remember walking in and being awed by the spectacular moon-ish ceiling: it felt as if I was in outer space,” recalled Gallo.

By the 1930s the vaudeville shows were discontinued and only movies were shown. In the 1970s the RKO was renovated and converted into a triplex to house three theaters. The entire interior was listed in the National Register of Historic Places in 1982 and in 1984 was granted landmark status by the city’s Landmarks Preservation Commission. Not long after, Queens Borough President Donald Manes used his position on the city’s Board of Estimate to reduce the landmark designation to include only the lobby and the foyer.

The RKO’s troubles began when developer Tommy Huang purchased it for $3.4 million in 1986. Huang planned to build a mega mall around the landmarked areas. During the years he owned the theater he had half of the auditorium torn down, the lobby stripped, and the sweeping staircase bulldozed. Although he was opposed at every turn by preservationists and activists, by the time Huang was arrested in 1996 for letting hundreds of gallons of heating oil spill into the basement, the theater was in ruins. In 1999, Huang pleaded guilty to environmental violations and was sentenced to five years of probation and fined $5,000.

Michael Perlman, the Queens Vice President of the Four Borough Neighborhood Preservation Alliance and a member of multiple preservation organizations, believes that locales like the RKO are culturally important and their value is greater than anything a profit-driven development could achieve.

“A theater owner should preserve and creatively reuse one of our city’s greatest landmarks at heart, and consider its intricate history.…Developers should not enter and attempt to demolish this gem awaiting TLC,” said Perlman.

After the Huang debacle, the RKO was once more without an owner and direction until Boymelgreen Developers bought the theater for $15 million in 2002. Boymelgreen had plans to build a 17-story condo tower with a senior center and received approval from Queens Community Board 7 to begin construction. However the developer backed out, citing issues with debt and financial viability, and the RKO was put on the market yet again in 2007.

Save the RKO Keith’s Flushing entered the picture after Gallo discovered the Facebook group online. He and Tracey worked closely together through phone calls and emails before finally meeting in person a year later. They worked to raise awareness for the group and in a short amount of time received press coverage from the Queens Tribune and The Daily News. The group managed to incorporate and attempted to attain a 501(c)(3) status for fundraising purposes when they learned in May 2010 that the RKO had been bought by Manhattan condo developer Patrick Thompson for $20 million.

Gallo and Carroll met with Thompson in June to discuss the developer’s plans for the RKO. Thompson’s plans mostly follow Boymelgreen’s original plan of building a 17-story condo and a senior center. He has also agreed to restore and preserve the landmarked lobby.

“The community board and landmarks committee simply would not landmark the whole building. This is not acceptable but it is better than tearing down the whole building,” said Gallo. “If the lobby can be preserved, at least we can say that a small portion of Flushing history has been saved.”

This of course comes after a large part of that Flushing history has already been destroyed. A video posted on YouTube in 2009 by preservationist Thomas Stathes offers a look at the neglected and ruined interior. The walls that are still standing are cracked and peeling, the ceiling has extensive water damage, and a gaping chasm is all that remains of half the auditorium. In some instances a few design elements and ornaments are still intact but for the most part the theater is littered with debris and left in darkness, a gutted remnant of its former glory.

Although construction has yet to begin, The Daily News has reported that Thompson may revise his initial plan to increase the number of apartments and parking spaces that are to be built. It seems that for now the RKO will continue to be surrounded by uncertainty but the resolve of Gallo, Tracey, and others to preserve as much of the theater as possible remains unchanged.

“I believe the current residents of Flushing deserve to learn about and to know a restored RKO, at least the landmarked lobby portion, if nothing else,” said Carroll. “As long as the building is still standing, I have hope that the RKO will come alive once more.”

The saga of the RKO is an ongoing one, as preservationists and residents await an ending that will honor the memory of the once storied theater.

———-

David He is a journalism student entering his senior year at Baruch College. He would like to thank professors Roslyn Bernstein and Joshua Mills for their guidance and support throughout his writing.

“On August 24, 2010, 73 immigrants from Central and South America, trying to make their way into the United States, were kidnapped in the northern Mexican state of Tamaulipas by members of the drug gang known as Los Zetas. For unknown reasons, the gang massacred the entire group. Only one survivor escaped to tell the story.

“In reaction to this atrocity – the worst committed by drug traffickers in Mexico to date – a group of Mexican writers and journalists, led by Alma Guillermoprieto, founded a virtual altar to commemorate its victims. On the Día de los Muertos (November 1), Mexicans honor their departed loved ones. Photographs, cherished objects and favorite foods are set out on altars, and families spend the day with their dead, singing to them and remembering them. The virtual altar that is www.72migrantes.com invited writers and photographers to evoke each of the 72 massacred immigrants, whether identified or unidentified, in words and images, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.

“In the fall of 2011 I inaugurated a workshop on translation from Spanish to English here at Baruch. The class’s first assignment was to translate a news article about the massacred immigrants. When we learned about the virtual altar, we agreed that for the class’s final project, each student would translate one of its commemorative texts. The project seemed especially appropriate since Alma Guillermoprieto has a strong connection to Baruch, having received an honorary doctorate here in 2008.

“With the publication of these texts in i Magazine, these evocations of the immigrants and their terrible fate can be read about and discussed on both sides of the border they were trying to cross, which is linguistic as well as geopolitical. In addition to the work published here, translations of other 72migrantes texts done by Baruch students can be read on the blog of The New York Review of Books.”
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#67: Karen Yanneth Escobar Luna, by Mariana Martinez Salgado

Translated by Karen Mego

With my eyes closed I can see through yours.  Nothing frightens me now.  You know I love you, and that’s why I didn’t bring you with me.  No one will take away your home, mi amor.  Your grandmother is right, you are better off in Tecapán.  “Karen,” your grandma said, “Leave the boy here with me.”  I wanted to take you with me to the North, so your eyes could see what lies beyond the volcanoes.  I wanted to take you with me to give you what was denied to us here.  But your grandmother said, “Leave him with me.”  And she was right.  I returned to our town to build you a house, so that you could have a place to keep you warm, a place that no one could take away from you, mi vida.  I am that home.  Its walls are my arms that protect you, its roof is my hand on your forehead, and its bricks are my kisses.  I wanted to return to the North to continue working, for you and for your grandmother, but…don’t cry, mi amor, now I’m closer to you.  Close your eyes, feel my embrace.  I won’t  leave you, mi niño.  Don’t be frightened.

In homage to Karen Yanneth Escobar Luna, a victim of violence in Mexico.  Karen Yanneth Escobar Luna was 28 years old when she died.  This young mother from El Salvador had returned to Tecapán, Usulután, to build a house for her family after living in the United States for several years.  She had considered returning to the North with her 13-year-old son, but the boy’s grandmother prevented her from taking him.

“On August 24, 2010, 73 immigrants from Central and South America, trying to make their way into the United States, were kidnapped in the northern Mexican state of Tamaulipas by members of the drug gang known as Los Zetas. For unknown reasons, the gang massacred the entire group. Only one survivor escaped to tell the story.

“In reaction to this atrocity – the worst committed by drug traffickers in Mexico to date – a group of Mexican writers and journalists, led by Alma Guillermoprieto, founded a virtual altar to commemorate its victims. On the Día de los Muertos (November 1), Mexicans honor their departed loved ones. Photographs, cherished objects and favorite foods are set out on altars, and families spend the day with their dead, singing to them and remembering them. The virtual altar that is www.72migrantes.com invited writers and photographers to evoke each of the 72 massacred immigrants, whether identified or unidentified, in words and images, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.

“In the fall of 2011 I inaugurated a workshop on translation from Spanish to English here at Baruch. The class’s first assignment was to translate a news article about the massacred immigrants. When we learned about the virtual altar, we agreed that for the class’s final project, each student would translate one of its commemorative texts. The project seemed especially appropriate since Alma Guillermoprieto has a strong connection to Baruch, having received an honorary doctorate here in 2008.

“With the publication of these texts in i Magazine, these evocations of the immigrants and their terrible fate can be read about and discussed on both sides of the border they were trying to cross, which is linguistic as well as geopolitical. In addition to the work published here, translations of other 72migrantes texts done by Baruch students can be read on the blog of The New York Review of Books.”
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#52: Unidentified Immigrant, by Daniela Rea

Translated by Sandra Guallpa

In the photos, the soles of your shoes looked worn out. Looking at them, one could imagine the journey, you had to walk, from your country to the north of Mexico, crossing borders, fleeing from both the police and kidnappers, and sneaking between the railroad tracks. Your trip back home has not been any less tragic. They brought you to the City of Mexico in a truck used to transport grocery products, so you could be identified and repatriated. The authorities that abandoned you when you crossed the country were abandoning you again in this crossing. Unguided, the truck crashed. Your body lay in a heap by the side of the road and the embalmer carried you with the carefulness of a lover, so as not to hurt you even more. He picked you up, undressed you from the plastic bag and washed you. He couldn’t recognize the color of your skin, your eyes, or the shape of your face, stamped by suffering. But as he looked at the holes in your clothing and your shoes, he thought about your story. And without knowing you, he felt he knew you. He envisioned that you left your home because you wanted to become better for your family and that your country like ours is sickly and vomits out those who live within it.  He imagined that you had favorite songs and that you sang them throughout your journey, perhaps, as he sings when he returns home.

Today your body remains with the Forensic Medical Examiner waiting to be identified so we can know who you are and where you came from. Perhaps, we will never know. Here they call you immigrant number 52. And in every thought we name you.    

“On August 24, 2010, 73 immigrants from Central and South America, trying to make their way into the United States, were kidnapped in the northern Mexican state of Tamaulipas by members of the drug gang known as Los Zetas. For unknown reasons, the gang massacred the entire group. Only one survivor escaped to tell the story.

“In reaction to this atrocity – the worst committed by drug traffickers in Mexico to date – a group of Mexican writers and journalists, led by Alma Guillermoprieto, founded a virtual altar to commemorate its victims. On the Día de los Muertos (November 1), Mexicans honor their departed loved ones. Photographs, cherished objects and favorite foods are set out on altars, and families spend the day with their dead, singing to them and remembering them. The virtual altar that is www.72migrantes.com invited writers and photographers to evoke each of the 72 massacred immigrants, whether identified or unidentified, in words and images, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.

“In the fall of 2011 I inaugurated a workshop on translation from Spanish to English here at Baruch. The class’s first assignment was to translate a news article about the massacred immigrants. When we learned about the virtual altar, we agreed that for the class’s final project, each student would translate one of its commemorative texts. The project seemed especially appropriate since Alma Guillermoprieto has a strong connection to Baruch, having received an honorary doctorate here in 2008.

“With the publication of these texts in i Magazine, these evocations of the immigrants and their terrible fate can be read about and discussed on both sides of the border they were trying to cross, which is linguistic as well as geopolitical. In addition to the work published here, translations of other 72migrantes texts done by Baruch students can be read on the blog of The New York Review of Books.”
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#40: Jose Angel Flores Bolaños, by Pablo Raphael

Translated by Carolina Julian

“It is more arduous to honor the memory of the nameless than the renowned. Historical construction is devoted to the memory of the nameless.”

-Walter Benjamin

I don’t want to mention that his name was Jose Angel Flores Bolaños and that he lived in Puerto Parada, Usulutan, in El Salvador. It is useless to say that he was 33 years old because he will never be brought back to life.

It would be absurd to count the miles between el Rio Grande of San Miguel, in El Salvador, and el Rio Grande of the North. Two months before his death, Puerto Parada suffered from a flood of biblical proportions, much like the one that is taking place in Mexico right now. All the crops were lost, thousands of animals had to be sacrificed and hundreds of families had to find another place, another town, another home. A campesino said on Salvadoran television: “We are no longer able to live here, for that reason I want to leave.” Perhaps this was what Jose Angel Flores also thought and why he left his overflowing river to try to cross another Rio Grande, the one known in Mexico as el Río Bravo del Norte.

What’s the purpose of mentioning his mother’s name or those of the relatives who welcomed him home in a gray casket wrapped in the blue and white colors of his flag? Why speak of the forty-minute speeches made by Salvadoran President Funes, Pastor Fernando Salguero or Father Angel Garcia?

When the ceremony came to a close, Jose Angel Flores’ family, overwhelmed and speechless, returned to Puerto Parada carrying a box and not their prodigal son’s belongings.

This is why I don’t want to mention his name, but I also don’t want fear to keep dictating our words or our silence.

“On August 24, 2010, 73 immigrants from Central and South America, trying to make their way into the United States, were kidnapped in the northern Mexican state of Tamaulipas by members of the drug gang known as Los Zetas. For unknown reasons, the gang massacred the entire group. Only one survivor escaped to tell the story.

“In reaction to this atrocity – the worst committed by drug traffickers in Mexico to date – a group of Mexican writers and journalists, led by Alma Guillermoprieto, founded a virtual altar to commemorate its victims. On the Día de los Muertos (November 1), Mexicans honor their departed loved ones. Photographs, cherished objects and favorite foods are set out on altars, and families spend the day with their dead, singing to them and remembering them. The virtual altar that is www.72migrantes.com invited writers and photographers to evoke each of the 72 massacred immigrants, whether identified or unidentified, in words and images, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.

“In the fall of 2011 I inaugurated a workshop on translation from Spanish to English here at Baruch. The class’s first assignment was to translate a news article about the massacred immigrants. When we learned about the virtual altar, we agreed that for the class’s final project, each student would translate one of its commemorative texts. The project seemed especially appropriate since Alma Guillermoprieto has a strong connection to Baruch, having received an honorary doctorate here in 2008.

“With the publication of these texts in i Magazine, these evocations of the immigrants and their terrible fate can be read about and discussed on both sides of the border they were trying to cross, which is linguistic as well as geopolitical. In addition to the work published here, translations of other 72migrantes texts done by Baruch students can be read on the blog of The New York Review of Books.”
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#28: Unidentified Migrant, by Laura Emilia Pacheco

Translated by Natalia Pardo Becerra

Mother of God, help me. Mother, I beg you. I don’t want to die here, far away from my beloved land, apart from my people, under this unfamiliar sky. Please, please. There is no way to let them know. How are they going to find me or my remains? My hands are tied; I’m like an animal led to the slaughterhouse. There is no way out. The taste of ruthlessness is bitter; it is impossible to overcome this wall of cruelty. The wall. I’d never thought this is how I’d end. I believed — we all believed — that after weeks, today would be just another day of being undocumented fugitives: extortions, blows, assaults, hunger, cold, dirt, and garbage for food. A brutal price to pay for our yearning for things from far away that we will never have. We were a nameless horde of nomads, but I didn’t know that then. We were so close. We pleaded. They have gathered us all here in a hell of insults and threats. This shed without a ceiling is now our last trace on earth. The smell of panic becomes the stench of death – a cold scent, like metal, that freezes the air and paralyzes the breath. There is hardly an instant left. Mother: the burst of gunfire, the burst of gunfire. The din of the barrage is unbearable, demonic. The executioners’ empty eyes make me cry. There are shouts, sobbing, wails, and the sharp blow of seventy bodies falling on the grass around me. Men and women stuck to the ground, as if magnetized, as if their blood were flowing toward an eternally dark underground current. Now I understand. I can’t describe that sound. I wait for the bullet. A flash blinds me. When I was little my mother would wash clothes in the river. The reflection of the strong sun on the current dazzled me. I pretended to be sightless and blindly pulled mangoes from the trees as if I lived in paradise. The sweetness of the fruit… I didn’t see it then. Many times I bathed in those waters to wash off the fatigue of a fruitless day. I was in the river the day I left. A last unknown baptism. How could I imagine that I would never return? The dust, the sweat, the exhaustion – everything was so different from the astonishing abundance we watched at night, gathered around the rickety TV set, with its twisted cord – an orphaned umbilical cord. Its images made me wish that my mother had something more. I wanted a sweet woman who smelled of soap for a wife. Now the laughter of the children I never had resounds inside my head but the impact of the bullet awakens me from the reality that will never exist. I wasn’t able to say goodbye. I see the river in the distance. The clamor of the water vanishes. There is nothing left. Nothing.

“On August 24, 2010, 73 immigrants from Central and South America, trying to make their way into the United States, were kidnapped in the northern Mexican state of Tamaulipas by members of the drug gang known as Los Zetas. For unknown reasons, the gang massacred the entire group. Only one survivor escaped to tell the story.

“In reaction to this atrocity – the worst committed by drug traffickers in Mexico to date – a group of Mexican writers and journalists, led by Alma Guillermoprieto, founded a virtual altar to commemorate its victims. On the Día de los Muertos (November 1), Mexicans honor their departed loved ones. Photographs, cherished objects and favorite foods are set out on altars, and families spend the day with their dead, singing to them and remembering them. The virtual altar that is www.72migrantes.com invited writers and photographers to evoke each of the 72 massacred immigrants, whether identified or unidentified, in words and images, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.

“In the fall of 2011 I inaugurated a workshop on translation from Spanish to English here at Baruch. The class’s first assignment was to translate a news article about the massacred immigrants. When we learned about the virtual altar, we agreed that for the class’s final project, each student would translate one of its commemorative texts. The project seemed especially appropriate since Alma Guillermoprieto has a strong connection to Baruch, having received an honorary doctorate here in 2008.

“With the publication of these texts in i Magazine, these evocations of the immigrants and their terrible fate can be read about and discussed on both sides of the border they were trying to cross, which is linguistic as well as geopolitical. In addition to the work published here, translations of other 72migrantes texts done by Baruch students can be read on the blog of The New York Review of Books.”
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#3: Milton Mateo Alvarado Villanueva, by Edson Lechuga.

Translated by Alyssa Alicino

On the initial list of Honduran victims of the massacre of 72 immigrants, Milton Mateo Alvarado Villanueva was assigned number three. Three is the number of man.  Our body has three extremities: head, arms, and legs.  Our face has three senses: sight, smell, and taste.  Many philosophies are based on trinities.  The Mayans, Romans, and Chinese named the number three by means of three: points, strokes, and lines.  Three unaligned points are not only sufficient but also necessary to determine the circumference of a circle. Three is the number of man. If, in numerology, Milton had had a “three” personality, he would have been an expressive, communicative, artistic, sociable, creative, and humorous person with the ability come up with ideas potentially essential to the realms of thought.  But I do not know that. What I do know is that his body was found among 71 other bodies in San Fernando, Tamaulipas.  I also know that Milton left Siguatepeque, Honduras, economically pressured to leave his family (Miguel Ángel, Orfilia), and cross Guatemala, southern and central Mexico, and the fertile plateau of northern Mexico, until he died 100 miles before the border.  What I do know is that they killed him, that he was illegal, that he was trying to reach the United States, that he was a victim of organized crime, that because he was an illegal immigrant he was vulnerable to criminals and to the authorities, that he did not have money, that he was beaten and humiliated, and that he was unprotected and abandoned.  Three is the number of man and Milton was a man.  Just as I am a man.  Neither more nor less. I am now writing about him, and it is only by chance it is not he who is writing about me.

Here are two methods of selecting student texts and the accompanying skills you wish to teach.

Start with the student text:
• Identify the moves or skills that seem strongest. Don’t worry about seeking perfect executions. Instead value those performances that you can clearly parse for students.
• Close read relevant passages. Where those strengths are most present, begin unpacking the writer’s choices.
• The model writing doesn’t have to be perfect throughout. In fact, even the stand-alone passage doesn’t have to execute the move perfectly. Value those performances that are legible to other students, that you can parse clearly, and that demonstrate excellence, not necessarily perfection.

Or consider starting with the skills:
• Develop a list of potential moves you value. Articulating these on your own terms first makes it easier to develop the resource in student-friendly language.
• Select the skills or moves most central to your discipline or writing performance. We’ve privileged close reading and source use, for example, since it’s a foundational move for much of what we see in the Writing Center, for example. But you may need something like “Summarizing a Source’s Argument,” “Reporting Empirical Evidence,” or “Writing an Abstract.”
• Bear in mind that skills or moves take place on different scales. Smaller-scaled skills, like signposting or transitions, are easier to annotate and faster to use in the classroom, but the payoff may be smaller.

1. Introduce and define a term or set of terms which will be used to discuss the skill at hand. This also helps build a common lexicon for talking about writing within a class.
2. Introduce the author and her writing, and give background information about the larger piece as necessary. This might not be needed in a class working on a common assignment.
3. Isolate and quote passages that demonstrate the skill. Try to select passages that can stand alone. This avoids relying on a series of ellipses to construct a legible passage.
4. Close read or perform a “moves analysis” of the student text to explain the component steps of a given skill. Continually move between the specific and the general. By using the immediate examples to speak to larger patterns and habits of effective writers, you facilitate the reader’s learning to read for, and write with, models.
5. Reveal process. Effective writing often obscures this, of course. Try to draw it out for the reader.
6. Explain the benefit to a student writer—and of writers generally—of learning to execute this move. What does using this skill help them accomplish?
7. Wherever possible, provide a template or instructions that uncover steps. Modeling is easier when it’s broken down into a linear process. You’re working to illuminate a skill or move, not the complexities of the entire writerly act.

________________________________________________________________

I woke

in a hypnotic wrap,

muttering assurances

that I’m awake:

An entity

hauled to my awareness. So

I slapped dry slobbered

tinted cheeks, like my

father did so many mornings ago

with his fat animal hands,

making my eyes cross to

draw water from their covert wells.

I dragged my tongue through

the graveolent bowl

of my mouth, to lure my mind

from the terrorized heart that

elbowed at my chest in

frightened excitement.

He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead

Soothes it, into a peaceful thump

—–

Growing up in Ghana, Jane Odartey wanted to be many things, yet surprisingly never thought to be a writer, though she spent most of her free time scribbling and reading. In Baruch, the yawns calculated by Calculus pushed her to the Weissman School of Arts and Sciences, where she was fortunate to sit in the inspiring classrooms of Prof. Grace Schulman, Prof. Emily Di Martino, Prof. Timothy Aubry, Prof. Corey Mead and Prof. Major Jackson. These amazing English professors helped her see the potential writer in herself.