• Grace In the Shadow of the Big Tree (novel sample chapter)
  
  
  
• Chrysanthemum now being serialized on GotPoetry.com
  
  
  Hinda Mendelstahm is a college student in the early 90s, steeped in a subculture of punk rock & political activism. With a Reagan-era hangover and an expulsion from Florida State University under her belt, she's ready to start her college years over again, this time in Cincinnati. What she was expecting was a regular kind of life, something a little more wheat bread and middle-American, and a place to quietly major in Getting My Shit Together. What she finds instead is a well-kept secret: when the nation isn't paying attention to your town, the Underground is still happening there anyway. And when that Underground embraces her, everything changes - including Hinda's own notions about who she is.
  
  Chrysanthemum is an emotional scavenger hunt through an Ohio on the cusp of Operation Desert Storm. Hinda traverses the shaky territory of self-discovery with her best friend Jaime, an art student who finds himself an accidental ISO member during the 1990 Mapplethorpe debacle, and her troubled boyfriend Paul, professional painter of the Starving variety. Together with the friends that surround them, an edgy cast of band-mates, activists, and artists, they tackle the big questions about class, sex, gender, and what it means to Fight the Good Fight.
  
  
  "A canvas painted with the bitter conflict between the powerful and those who would speak truth to power, of one woman's fierce reaction to fix injustice, and of an entire subculture's loud, collective strength, Chrysanthemum is a modern classic of American literature, one that captures the horrors of the underground as it delves into the very nature of what it is to find oneself in America."
  -John Powers, GotPoetry.com
  
  
  Prologue
  
  “Today’s protest is passive resistance – that means don’t hit the cops. Don’t spit, don’t swear – these are considered to be acts of violence, and they will get you in deep shit. I reiterate, today’s protest is passive resistance. You need to go with the flow. Say it with me, Go With The Flow!” And we do.
  
  We know that the city is arresting the director of the CAC on obscenity charges when the doors open on the Mapplethorpe exhibit today. We know that the ACLU has arranged for a bondsman at the downtown police station. We don’t know that we can count on each other, but we do know that something has to be done, so we are going to count on each other.
  
  “Make sure you have your ID on you. Leave your jewelry here. If you are wearing constrictive clothing, please change on the way and meet us downtown.” As he’s talking, Gary makes eye contact with each of us. An organizing member for the campus branch of the ISO the last two years, he’s got a good idea of how to read someone’s face.
  
  He scans the room and I can’t help but look too. Our little branch of the ISO has doubled in size since the Fernauld protest a few months ago, and I find myself scanning for familiar faces. Gary would say it’s the issue that brought all these people in, and judging by the gross number of art-school-looking types, he’d be right.
  
  And speaking of art school, there’s Jaime. He’s flanked by a pair of girls he probably dragged out of the DAAP studios. He winks at me, catches me checking out his friends, and grins like a cat that’s brought in live birds as a gift for his people. Cardinals – they’ve both been into the same tub of red Manic Panic that Jaime’s been using. I wink back at Jaime and go back to paying attention to Gary, who’s still looking over the room.
  
  Gary gets to me and looks for a moment longer than he maybe should, smiles gently. He gets to the blonde behind me and bounces her from the room with a point and a jerk of his thumb before he starts to pair us off with our buddies. We’re supposed to exchange info and keep track of each other should anything intense happen.
  
  “Stay together and in plain sight of the group under all circumstances! Am I perfectly clear here?”
  
  We echo our yesses as Kristen starts handing out plastic baggies. In each ziploc is a bandana that’s been soaked in vinegar. As she does this, she helps Gary finish pairing the rest of us up. It looks like they’re putting us together novice with protest veteran, mostly boy to girl, small to big.
  
  “In the event that we are tear-gassed, do your best not to panic. Hold the bandana over your nose and mouth and get upwind of the smoke. We are responsible for each other, here. Do not lose track of your buddy!”
  
  Kristen points this dusty-looking skinny guy with long brown hair in my direction as Gary turns me to face him and make introductions. I sense a conspiracy among us as Gary says, “Hinda, this is John Lee,” and Kristen says, “John Lee, this is Hinda,” at the same time. They look at each other over us and say, “Jinx!” at the same time, then, “Owe me a capitalist cola beverage!” They’ve been together too long.
  The two of them have been trying to set me up since September when I started coming to meetings, but you’d think it wouldn’t be the best time to do this, with us leaving in a half hour. I asked Gary at his kitchen table after the joke of a date that he sent me on with Jaime, that Isn’t this supposed to be about politics? He replied We’ve all got plenty of politics – and if we’re not doing God, we should at least be doing each other. I said Puh-leez – Jaime’s an awesome guy and all, but that’s just not gonna work. Gary said, For the love of Christ – you two have been inseparable since you met. At least give it a chance. I raised my eyebrow at the mention of Christ and he stammered on it while I tried to maintain my composure. There was something in there too about raising the revolution, but by then I was laughing too hard to catch it all. Kristen muttered something about feminists with a sense of humor and then the gin came out my nose. And so here I am with my buddy, looking around to see if Jaime’s looking at me.
  
  Jaime does catch the scene. He throws me a quick eyeroll and mouths the word Musician, at me. Greeeeeat.
  
  The skinny guy says, “Don’t I know you from Scruffy’s or something?” “Maybe,” I tell him. “I go up there to see bands sometimes.”
  
  “I’m in a band,” he says, all hopeful.
  
  “Oh, yeh?” I answer. I glance over at Jaime and he nods that didn’t-I-tell-you nod.
  
  “The Veldt,” Skinny Guy tells me. “I play bass.” I can’t tell if he’s searching for recognition or if he’s checking out my tits. Christ. Musicians.
  
  I shake his hand and we exchange slips of paper with our addresses and phone numbers, personal contacts and legal names. He’s listed an address in the city, but his contact is a sister in Tennesee. I’m thinking Right. She’s gonna do him a whole lotta good three states away.
  
  “Isn’t there anyone closer?” I ask. When I look up from his contacts sheet, yup, he’s checking out my tits. I let him know that I’ve caught him looking, lean down a little so he’s looking into my eyes instead, and I smile up at him. He shakes his head quick and he’s back, stuttering into the moment.
  
  “Uh.. Wha– what?”
  
  “Your sister’s in Tennessee – is there anyone local you could put down as a contact?”
  
  “I just moved.”
  
  “Oh. Well... What about someone in the band, then?”
  
  He thinks for a minute, chews his bottom lip over it, and finally says, “Uh... I guess I could put down Lucy... She’s our manager. I don’t think she’d bail me out, tho’.”
  
  “Yeh. Well, I don’t think my dad would bail me out either. So what’s her number?”

  ***

  It’s over before we have time to think about it. It took longer to make the signs than to hold them, but the news cameras take down the scene anyway. We’re in front of the CAC when the cops go in. We’re asked to move across the street when they take Mr. Barrie away in handcuffs with his grey suit jacket thrown over his shoulders. He smiles at us, nearly Santa with his white hair and glasses, as he’s being led to the cruiser. He looks like he’s going to wave. I wonder if the cops think the cuffs are really necessary.
  
  Across the street when the cops come for us, it turns into the Dead Cat Carnival. They ask us to disperse and we all sit down. They get into the middle of us and start writing tickets for obstructing the sidewalk, and we all go limp. It seems like an awful lot of work to go through, zip handcuffs and shoveling us into the paddy wagons. There’s a good two minutes I feel bad for them.
  
  Laying on the sidewalk next to John Lee, it crosses my mind that he really is kinda cute. He’s got that whole indie rockstar thing going with his hair caught in the breeze and his left hip sticking up. I’ve gotta wonder, does that hip thing just happen to musician boys? I mean, is it part of being in a basement all the time that makes someone slouch sexy, or is it some kind of spine defect that makes boys into bass players? That angular floppiness is kind of appealing if I think about it. Makes him look almost... sensitive. Almost. Completely sensitive, very nearly bordering on sappy, is Jaime lying over there on the sidewalk, meditating.
  
  It takes two cops to carry Jaime into the wagon. I’m chuckling under my breath as I’m cuffed, and the cop doesn’t think it’s funny at all, puts his knee hard into my thigh and pulls the zip too tight around my wrists. He tries to pull me off the sidewalk, still pinning me down, and I cry out a little before he figures out that the physics of this is just not gonna work. When he stands me up, he cuts the ties off my wrists and puts a new one on with my hands behind my back. I look up into the lens of a news camera and think to myself, don’t swear don’t swear don’t swear as he shoves me along to the paddy wagon and ducks my head for me. Add, Don’t Laugh to the list, Gary.
  
  Inside I sit down next to Kristen and facing John Lee, who’s been craning his head around to look at who’s here. He sees me and lets out his breath. I lean to him and tell him not to worry.
  
  “They’ll take us to the station to process us and we’ll sit for a while. Don’t panic. I won’t call Lucy unless I’m waiting for you for two hours once they let us out. We should all be at the same facility.”
  
  He says, “Meet you in front of the station?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  The wagon fills up and starts to move without warning as I’m leaning over. They never cut the engine, so it’s always a surprise. I pitch forward off the seat and onto my knees between John Lee’s legs, all ass and plastic handcuffs, and whack my forehead on his seat. When I look up, he’s looking at me with his mouth open a little and red rising up from his collar. He tries to help me up as the driver takes a sharp turn, but with his hands together, it doesn’t work so well – he gets a grip on my shoulder and then we’re both on the floor. Kristen reaches forward with her shoulders, but she’s cuffed with her arms behind her too. I make a mental bet with myself that they’ve done this with all the girls. John Lee and I roll around on the floor for a while, attempting to right each other, but it seems hopeless. We’re face to face and whispering directions to each other as if it will help. Gary’s got his foot in the mix to try to balance us, coaching us through it, and Kristen’s trying to stifle the small noises rising from the back of her throat, when the driver yells at us to Pipe the hell down back there! I open my mouth to say, “We’re stuck on the floor,” but John Lee’s mouth meets mine and – what the fuck? I hear Jaime groan in response to the development from somewhere not far behind me. And why do I kiss John Lee back!? Then we’re laying there on our sides staring at each other in disbelief. I glance up to break his gaze and see Gary and Kristen making out, Gary leaning across the aisle, hands together, balancing himself on Kristen’s knee. Now I groan. Yeh, we all have plenty of politics, I guess. John Lee’s still watching my face when I look back. Or just south of my face.
  
  And then we’re at the station, being pulled out and herded into the sun like so many awkward boxes that sprout legs upon contact with the pavement. We’re on our own now to be photographed and fingerprinted, and hopefully that’s all, before we stew in cells for a while.
  
  They take my picture. They take my belt. They take my shoelaces. My stuff is slid into a yellow envelope with my name on it. Please don’t call my dad. My hands are freed by the same officer that did this a month ago after the Fernauld protest, and she rolls her eyes at me as she takes my fingerprints and tells me to strip. I’m doing ok when the other attending officer sprays me down with disinfectant, but when she reaches into a box for a pair of plastic gloves, I start to sweat.
  
  “I have my period,” I tell her, and she sighs.
  
  When the cavity search is over, I’m humiliated and she’s disgusted, holding one very messy sea sponge. Well, what the hell was she expecting to find up there? She hands me an aircraft carrier of a maxi pad and my own underwear, points to a jumpsuit that I already know is way too big. My boots, sans laces, are under the bench it’s resting on. I try not to make eye contact as I get dressed.
  
  In the cell I find out that the four of us who got arrested at the Fernauld protest all went through the same search. We cling to each other like baby mice until we’re sprung by the good graces and deep pockets of the ACLU. My Communications 104 prof is here – I can hear him talking to the lawyer, but I never see him, as eager as I am to get out of the station and into the air on the curb. I’m moving fast, despite the maxi, holding my yellow envelope between my fingers.
  I find John Lee next to a light pole waiting for me, nervously chewing on gum and checking his watch. I step up to him and man, he smells terrible. He says, “Man, you smell terrible.”
  
  “It’s the disinfectant. You smell bad too.” I poke him in the stomach and he pokes me back. We’re giggling as he hails us a cab back to campus.

  ***

  I bring John Lee back to my parents’ house in Mt. Washington because I figure we could both use something to eat and a shower. He’s still a little rattled when we get to my car, but the twenty minute drive takes the edge off. We’ve got REM in the deck and we sing loud to Radio Free Europe, making up the words when Michael Stipe is indecipherable, and we sound awful, but that’s fine too.
  
  No one’s home when we get there so we head straight upstairs. I hand John Lee towels, a pair of my jeans that look like they’re the right size, point him towards the bathroom. I leave him in the hallway while I pee before he gets in. I think about getting rid of the maxi, but decide I can wait the fifteen minutes until I’ve had a shower, leave a fresh sea sponge on the back of the toilet tank with the cleanser that I use for my face.
  
  I’m getting out of my clothes in my room when I hear John Lee ask over the running water if I have anything he can use to wash his face with, and I yell to him to check the back of the toilet. About a minute later I realize what I’ve said and whip into the bathroom and look and– Damn.
  
  “Uh, John Lee...”
  
  “Yeh?”
  
  “What are you using to wash your face?”
  
  “The loofah from the back of the tank. That ok?”
  
  “Ah... John Lee?”
  
  “Yeh?”
  
  “That’s not a loofah.” There’s a gap in the conversation here.
  
  “Uhh... Hinda?”
  
  “Yeh?”
  
  “What am I washing my face with?”
  
  “Sea sponge.”
  
  “Sea sponge. Right.”
  
  “Yeh.” And my face is going red, I can feel it. But I’m cool, right? I can pull this off, right? “I use them instead of tampons – better for the environment…”
  
  “You put this... where?”
  
  “In my–” but then his hand emerges from behind the shower curtain with the sea sponge in his palm and I need say no more.
  
  “Well, uh... it’s, uh, it’s clean now.” And I take it from him, trade him a washcloth. He says, “Sorry,” but it’s no major violation. Thankfully we both find the humor here. Right? Right?
  
  Yeh, right. When the phone rings and I get to go run to answer it, all of my humor is apparent. I don’t wait around to see if John Lee is one the same page.
  
  “Hello?”
  
  “That. Was the funniest shit. I have ever seen, Chica – you rolling around on the dirty floor with that dirty band boy – I could have peed.”
  
  “Glad you made it home ok too, Jaime.”
  
  “Oh, c’mon, don’t get all cranky now – it was funny!” He waits a second for my reply, but I don’t know what to say. “Oh no!” he gasps. “You brought him home with you! You did, didn’t you? You did!”
  
  “Oh, stop laughing,” I chide. “He looked like he could use a sandwich.”
  
  “And a bath.”
  
  “As a matter of fact, he’s in the shower right now.”
  
  “We-hell, then – look at you changing the world one indie musician at a time. I’m impressed, Hinda!”
  
  “Heh. Make sure you mention that to Gary next time you talk to him, ok?” I tell him. “So what’s the deal with your art chicks?”
  
  “Eh.”
  
  “Naw, really? Sorry, sweetie. I was rooting for you, too.”
  
  “No big deal.” He sounds like he’s about as interested as anyone inspecting their nails.
  
  “Serious?”
  
  “Serious. Not my type.”
  
  I hear the water shut off.
  
  “Hey, Jaime? I think John Lee’s out of the shower. I should go.”
  
  “Enjoy that,” he says with a hint of a giggle. I snort back. “You’ll have to let me know if he’s cuter when he’s clean.”
  
  “He’s kind of cute when he’s dirty,” I have to admit.
  
  “Are you kidding? You’re a closet grunge girl?” Jaime teases.
  
  “Footsteps in the hall, Jaime.”
  
  “Go, go! Tell me everything later.”
  
  “Ok, ‘bye.”
  
  I hang up the phone just as John Lee comes in wearing my clothes. He tells me there’s hot water and I’m thrilled, bolt in there and try to wash the stench of progress off my skin. When I come back in my jeans and bra, rubbing the water out of my hair with a towel, he stands up from the papasan chair with a book in his hand – Turgenyev. I decide immediately that I like him a little more.
  
  He says, “About the kiss in the wagon...”
  
  “Yeh – Nice way to help me keep my mouth shut.”
  
  “I... um... I got carried away.” We’re standing here not looking at each other. There are other people in the room here with us, Turgenyev and Dostoevsky, Anaïs Nin and the authors of dictionaries. Gary would probably think this is a match made in heaven – wait, he doesn’t do heaven, right?
  
  I sit down on the end of my bed, say, “Ah, don’t worry. It was nice.” And we smile into each other’s faces across the room. He moves over and sits next to me and we talk politics for a while. I lay on my back on the bed and he sits on the floor, his head by my head, and it takes maybe ten minutes of looking into his eyes to realize I’m totally turned on.
  
  So I kiss him. So he kisses me back. He reaches up to touch my face and sticks his finger in my eye. He apologizes as I rub my eye and he climbs up onto the bed. We start to make out a little and I sit up for better purchase, but our heads collide like two coconuts. We’re sitting on our knees with our hands on our foreheads when I look down, and Oh! Oh, my. Oh, my God, he’s got the biggest...
  
  He looks up and sees the look on my face. It must be akin to panic, ‘cos he looks over his shoulder to the window real quick, says, “Areyourparentshome?” like it’s all one word.
  
  And I start to laugh from my belly now, “No – no, it’s just...” And I stare at his dick, which is staring at me over the top of the pants I’ve lent him.
  
  He looks at me, looks down at his pants, blushes, says, “Here, it won’t bite. You can touch it.” And I do, and this should be turning me on, but I can’t stop laughing, and now it’s infectious, he’s laughing too. We roll around like this on my bed for an eternity, but it doesn’t seem to help. He kisses me again, our teeth clank together. We undress each other and break fingernails. We can’t stop laughing. There’s a break in the hilarity when he puts his head between my thighs, but then he starts laughing again and we both say, “Sea sponge,” and lose our shit. Then we both hear the garage door opening and we’re scrambling for our clothes, trying to get dressed before my mom has time to get into the house. I throw him a t-shirt as we’re racing down the stairs in our bare feet.
  
  We’re in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, sweating and stupid and giggly, me holding a head of lettuce, when she steps in. Boy, is she pissed.
  
  “You had to get arrested in front of the news cameras?! You better hope your father didn’t see you on tv! He’s going to fucking kill you when he gets home!”
  
  I made my mom say fuck. Fuck.
  
  
  

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