In a seemingly staged event more akin to a scene from “Mean Girls” than a diplomatic event in the Oval Office, U.S. President Donald Trump and Vice President J.D. Vance verbally attacked Zelensky using Russian propaganda talking points and gaslighting techniques. Zelensky held his ground and refused to capitulate – unlike scores of Republican congress members – or cede mineral rights without security protections that would harm his constituents. An increasingly astute statesman and former professional actor, Zelensky rapidly understood the scene and his intended role in it, thus referring to the suits worn by the other men in the room as “costumes.”

As a theatre professor focusing on performance in Eastern Europe, I’m regularly impressed by Zelensky’s adept balancing of stagecraft and statecraft. We can learn about both by understanding his craftsmanship. Using the tools of a skilled actor, Zelensky deftly dodged the juvenile efforts to strong-arm him using wordplay and repartee while maintaining a steady voice and controlled physical disposition. In doing so, he defended his war-torn country from brutish insults, harnessed the scene to garner global support, exposed his rivals, and schooled us all on how to stand up to a bully.

President Zelensky once told historian Timothy Snyder that “everything is in Shakespeare.” Zelensky has absorbed both the lessons of stagecraft and statecraft from the Bard. Eliot A. Cohen, in his book “The Hollow Crown: Shakespeare on How Leaders Rise, Rule, and Fall” points out the many ways Shakespeare collapses stagecraft and statecraft, showing how the most effective leaders master both. A leader like the current U.S. president may partially understand stagecraft, though like a despotic 19^th century actor-manager, he often mistakenly overemphasizes his own role and plays mostly for the applause. Zelensky understands the “craft” and executes his role with complexity, keeping multiple live and digital audiences in mind and remaining steadfast to clear-eyed objectives.

Zelensky’s background in improvisational comedy prepared him for deep listening and quick thinking, verbal acuity and wordplay, deft timing, tone shifting and understanding a scenario-in-process. This enabled him to deflect and drive his interlocutors into fully exposing their uncompromising position as well as their weaknesses of character. He used the American leaders’ own words against them to demonstrate his own competence, declare his position and unmask their ignorance and alignment with Kremlin talking points.

Zelensky moved toward unmasking when he hit a clear nerve after he said, “But you have a nice ocean and don’t feel now, but you will feel it in the future.” Though Trump grew increasingly agitated and stated, “Don’t tell us what we’re going to feel,” Zelensky boldly riposted, “I’m telling you. You will feel influenced.” He repeated it several times. Aware of losing his footing, Trump tried to turn the tables by declaring the weakness of Zelensky’s position and his lack of “cards”. Zelensky swiftly shifted the tone, this time with a moral emphasis, reminding the American president that this wasn’t a game. “I’m not playing cards,” he said. “I’m very serious, Mr. President, very serious.”

The agitated U.S. president began rambling and using increasingly hyperbolic language and nonsensical arguments, while Zelensky interjected with only short, direct and precise facts (stylistically creating a great contrast between the two leaders while creating powerful digital sound bites). The meeting ended without any agreements, and Zelensky did not get the U.S. security guarantees he had hoped for. He did, however, earn the respect of the leaders of democracies on which he must now rely for support.

To be sure, the loss of U.S. support for Ukraine would have a devastating impact on Ukrainian war efforts and negotiations and will weaken European security. All signs, though, already pointed toward an eminent withdrawal of significant future support for Ukraine by this administration, even with a signed minerals agreement. America’s relationship with its allies shifted on Jan. 20, 2025, and the new administration’s coercive playbook is being solidified daily.

Whatever the outcome of future negotiations – and for the sake of the ravaged Ukrainians people let’s hope it goes quickly in their favor­ – Zelensky has taught us some things about leadership and standing up to bullies. Perhaps it’s time for us all to enroll in an improv class and prepare to face those who are threatening our future.

Nowadays, when my contemporaries grow sick and die they are commemorated but seldom lionized. They leave small imprint: a paragraph in the alumni magazine or local paper—worked at. . . . survived by . . . condolences to.

“Phil?” I speak into the phone.

“Yes, this is Phil.”

“Tom Hutchinson here . . . from high school.”

“Who?”

“Tom Hutchinson from the Prentiss School. You and I were roommates freshman year: it’s been a very long time.”

“Tommy?”

“Thirty years, my friend. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“No, of course not—not at all. Wow, this is a surprise.”

“We missed you at the reunions. I’m on the committee this year and want you to consider joining us this fall. We can drink some beer on the back lawn, eat cafeteria food and reminiscence about when . . . ”

. . . everything was possible because nothing mattered, except waking and making it to class before the final bell, taking chances seemed as ridiculously simple as walking across the campus late at night. Sneaking out after curfew freshman year, rolling down suicide hill, stripping in the cool light of the moon, you and I leaped into the lake, stepped out naked with goose bumps riddling our flesh and gazed at the pallor of skin and complexity of parts. Something delicate stirred within me as I peeked into the depths of who I was. We dressed like dervishes. snuck back into the dorm—unspent and alive. Surely you recall such things?

“Of course, my God—that was such a long time ago. Tommy! I’m sorry, I . . . it’s just . . . you know, I didn’t like Prentiss that much. Didn’t hate it but boarding school was hard, being away from friends and family, not to mention the pressure of getting into a good school.”

From a thousand miles away I nod in agreement.

“You’re a contractor?” I ask. “That’s what it says—living in a town in Vermont?”

“My wife and I own a small business around Elmore, no kids, we keep expenses down. Not much extra cash, we get by all right.”

“Like for reunions, you mean?”

An abyss separates then from now—for most people traversing from past to present is easy enough but for some: where are the eyes that danced? the curved shoulders, pale-white thigh of the boy I once loved who has left the world for places unknown?

“What about you, Hutch?” he asks, referencing the nickname as though it was yesterday. “Where are you? This is unexpected—really, I never imagined . . .”

We chit the chat. I pace like a girl prepping for a date, only this is a different century and I’m married to the man of my dreams with a son trying to gain admission into my alma mater. Extorting money from classmates is part of the process.

“I invest and write fiction on the side,” I explain.

“Like a stock broker or something?”

“Not exactly: I run the family office.”

“Ahhh,” he says and grows quiet before continuing, “good for you—beats working; right?”

“You could put it like that,” I respond amicably before beginning the pitch. “You should come back for the reunion in June. The school has changed since we were students. . . other classmates will be there . . . we could . . . ”

. . . get high on top of the ski jump, smoke a joint of Acapulco gold and hide as others rattle past to some secret rendezvous. We can discuss girls and how much we loathe those who deserve loathing and adore those whose spirits are wild and free but as remote as caverns at the bottom of the sea—and teachers and deans and pass the joint and don’t Bogart it before rolling another and climbing down the rickety ladder constructed long before women attended the school. Flying high, Peter and I unleash ourselves like crazed acrobats floating across a cascade of rocks. We roam the woods like djinn from another age and bound over streams as if levitating from boulder to boulder with the ease of dancers pirouetting across a stage. We are unknown gods, addled deities deranged in giddiness in the midst of discovering who we are and might someday be. At the end of the journey on the outskirts of the woods we pause in exhilaration and press our lips together like caravans colliding, shrugging off the dust, continuing through the desert like mendicants in search of some lost oasis where we might rest until morning.    

“You ran on the track team,” says Phil.

“I was the manager—yes.”

“And the newspaper?”

“Editor.”

“It’s coming back: you used to hang out with that guy Derringer and those people from Rye, right? You guys were tight.”

“Us guys were tight, right—Peter was my best friend.”

“I remember. Sure—stand-up guy. You keep in touch with any of those fellas?”

In dreams.

“He passed a few months ago,” I say.   

After a slight pause I continue: “I’m sorry to bother you, Phil—your name was first on the list so . . . is this a bad time?”

He hears the crack in my voice.

“I’m sorry, Hutch. High school is funny, you know: none of it true, all of it—I don’t know – more real than it actually was?”

“I guess.”

“Sometimes things . . .  how . . . ”

How now?

“ . . . did he die?”

In broad strokes I explain what I know while imagination fills the gaps with details of . .

. . . a once beautiful boy, round and jovial, lying on pink sand off the coast of Eleuthera with an empty bottle and a vial of pills: vodka and valium and an ex-wife with children in Norway sheltered from the bloated corpse found before the tide can roll the remains into the sea for the fish to feed. A girl discovered my friend, an unmoving mound in a swimsuit, and yelled for help as the mother of the mound rushed from a villa to identify and drop to her knees and howl like a wounded animal.

An overdose—the death was characterized as cardiac arrest in the pages of the paper. This was a man of substance. An old sad tale told over and over by different voices in different times and tenses, only this one is mine: all of it real, none of it true, except a lasting image held safe in a place of comfort and light.

A few days after graduation Derringer stood at the bottom of suicide hill with a backpack on his shoulders and indicated with a wave that he was walking down the lane toward the road that led into the future: I wasn’t ready. The figure proffered a final farewell: I watched from a distance and never laid eyes upon him again. We spoke once or twice over the phone. I learned of his story from acquaintances, articles in the paper—whispers in the wind.

“I’ll make the reunion this year,” says the voice by way of consolation. “Maybe we can hoist a beer.”

“A farewell toast,” I say from my driveway in Indiana. “To Peter.”

I hang up the phone, kiss my husband good night and dream of the life that used to be.

Q: Emily, to start off, can you tell us about your background before getting involved with the gallery? Did you always know you wanted to be involved with art and its business side?

A: Yes and no. My dad is a stonemason, and as a kid, I saw him as a sort of sculptor. We grew up drawing together, and he always encouraged me to pursue my creative side. When I went to college and eventually started pursuing an art history degree, followed by my master’s, I didn’t initially think I would end up in sales. But I’m happy I did, as the fast-paced, future-focused environment is something I believe the art world really needs right now.

Q: I noticed you started in the Tampa area during your college and internships. For those unfamiliar with the area, what makes the art or cultural scene in Tampa unique?

A: Oh, absolutely! What’s great about strong cultural areas is that they start to shape their identity through art in unique ways. In Texas, you might see serene landscapes, but in Tampa and Miami, the art scene finds its identity in bright colors and bold, energetic marks. Interestingly, a lot of the art in our gallery at Bowie House was sourced from shows in Miami, so we’ve created a bridge between these different art worlds at Bowie House.

Q: How does the gallery balance offering original Texas-style art while also bringing in pieces from other regions?

A: That is a key aspect of what we do. The Gallery at Bowie House pays tribute to the rich local art scene. We’re located in a cultural district with institutions like the Kimbell, the Cowgirl Museum, and the Amon Carter Museum. However, we also aim to capture global attention. Our guests come from all over the world, and the art reflects that – Bowie House’s art collection doesn’t fit into a single box. It’s a balance of local pride and global reach, ensuring we have something for everyone.

Q: I heard that the gallery at Bowie House started with the owner’s personal collection. Is that true?

A: Yes, that’s true! It all started about 15 years ago when our owner, Jo Ellard, began seriously collecting art. Like many collectors, there eventually weren’t enough walls for all the pieces, and some went into storage. When the idea of opening Bowie House came to life, it was the perfect opportunity for Jo to showcase her collection and support the artists in a more public way. Now, instead of just collecting privately, she can support these artists through the gallery. We’ve built and strengthened relationships with many of the artists she’s known for years.

Q: As the director of the gallery, what can you tell us about the typical client visiting Bowie House? Are they seasoned art collectors or newcomers to the art world?

A: It’s really a mix. Some of our clients are deeply knowledgeable and come in with specific styles in mind, while others are just starting their journey into the art world. What’s exciting is that we cater to both – whether someone is looking for a particular piece or just beginning to explore art, we have something that speaks to them.

Q: Can you describe the variety of people who visit Bowie House and the gallery? Are they typically experienced collectors or newcomers to the art world?

A: That’s such a great question, and it really reflects what Bowie House brings to the table—an exciting mix of people from all walks of life. When you walk into our lounge, you’ll see people of all ages, backgrounds, and careers, and that’s what makes the space so inviting. We have first-time collectors who are excited to get guidance, and we’re here to help with consultations, home visits, digital mock-ups, whatever they need to start their journey. On the other hand, we have seasoned collectors who have been collecting for decades and know exactly what they want. Our collection isn’t about prestige or price tags; it’s about art that drives emotion, with pieces ranging from a few hundred dollars to several hundred thousand. This makes it possible for collectors at any stage to find something meaningful.

Q: When it comes to building relationships with artists, do artists typically reach out to Bowie House, or do you actively seek them out?

A: We have a fantastic roster of artists, many of whom were previously collected by Jo Ellard, our owner. However, we’ve also been fortunate to have both local and international artists reach out to us for representation. This year, we’re proud to have taken on new talents like Abigail Jackson, a local artist whose works feature 24-karat gold and oil paint. Instead of painting celebrities, she focuses on the legends of our city—people from Fort Worth, which adds an emotional depth to her work. We’re also thrilled to represent Jacob Lovett, a Texas-based artist who combines traditional landscapes with contemporary interpretations. These relationships are part of our mission to bridge traditional sensibilities with contemporary ideas, always keeping an eye toward the future.

Q: You recently had an Ashley Collins exhibition. For those unfamiliar, can you tell us more about the pieces showcased and any key takeaways from the event?

A: Absolutely. When Jo first had the brilliant idea to reinvent the gallery model and integrate it into hospitality, Ashley Collins was one of the first artists I knew we had to feature. Her reach is global—she’s collected by figures like Lady Gaga and Doc Rivers, but also by local legends like Kit Moncrief and Mary Ralph Lowe. She has a special place in Fort Worth, and it felt perfect to showcase her work at the Cowgirl Museum.

When I first spoke with Ashley, she hadn’t had an exhibition in about a decade. We wanted to make this moment special. One day, she called me and suggested unveiling a piece she had been working on for 26 years. It was a masterpiece called 11, and it had quite literally been through storms in California, with Ashley dragging it outside to weather the elements alongside her. We hid the piece behind a large red curtain at Bowie House before the exhibition. When we finally unveiled it to the crowd, the reaction was electric—people were in awe. The emotion and energy that radiate from her work, especially something crafted over 26 years, is just incredible.

Q: As a last question, is there anything you’re particularly excited about for the future of the gallery? I noticed you have an event in November and another coming up in January.

A: There’s a lot to be excited about, especially in this first year. Our next big event is highly anticipated. On November 10th and 11th, Ingrid Magidson, one of our most featured artists at Bowie House, is coming all the way from Colorado for an exhibition. She’ll be hosting an artist talk, and the event will be open to the public. Ingrid’s work is all about layering—symbols, items, compositions, and even emotions—so we’re really looking forward to seeing her new masterworks.

Looking ahead to January, we’re thrilled to be hosting John Marshall Stubbs. He’s become a beloved artist among our collectors and has earned a bit of a reputation as the “bad boy” of Western art, which he fully embraces! He’s a total rule-breaker, blending acrylic and oil in unconventional ways, pushing boundaries even in Western art. You never quite know what to expect from him, and that’s what makes him so exciting. Many of our collectors already own his pieces but haven’t had the chance to meet him yet, so it’s going to feel like a grand reunion.

Interviewer (Grayson Mask): Could you tell me about your journey with the Sunrise Movement? Were you involved in activism before, or was this a new path for you?

Interviewee (Joshua McNair): I’ve been with Sunrise for about a year, joining in August 2023. Before that, I wasn’t very engaged in activism; I thought voting every four years was enough. But I soon realized I wanted to make a more direct impact. I started searching for the right group, initially considering a pro-immigration rights organization. Then, someone recommended Sunrise, highlighting how environmental issues connect to many causes. After attending a coffee and donuts meet-up, I knew this was the right fit. I jumped into the campaign team, and now I’m one of the hub coordinators and the National Delegate for Sunrise Dallas.

Grayson Mask: What does your role as National Delegate involve? Do you find yourself balancing between national and local initiatives?

Joshua McNair: As one of the contacts between our chapter and the national organization, I participate in monthly meetings with about 108 other national delegates. We discuss policies, vote on key issues, and relay decisions back to our local hubs. Instead of balancing, I see it as a series of interconnected steps. The ultimate goal, like the Green New Deal, is the biggest domino, but we first need to tackle smaller, local issues. Everything we do locally feeds into the national objectives.

Grayson Mask: Your organization has been working on eliminating parking minimums in Dallas. Could you explain what they are and why it’s an important issue?

Joshua McNair: Parking minimums are policies that require new buildings to include a specific number of parking spots. While it seems reasonable, it raises construction costs, increasing rent and property taxes. From an environmental standpoint, parking lots contribute to carbon emissions and create heat islands in urban areas. In Dallas, 25% of our urban space is dedicated to parking. By eliminating these minimums, we give developers more flexibility, potentially reducing unnecessary environmental and economic burdens. In cities like Austin, dropping parking minimums led to rent reductions, making housing more affordable.

Grayson Mask: I saw you’re running a petition related to parking minimums. How do you set a signature goal, and what happens when you reach it?

Joshua McNair: We research how many people are impacted by the issue to set our signature goal, making rough estimates based on the area we’re canvassing if an exact number isn’t available. We also target neighborhoods that have historically suffered from policies like parking lots displacing homes. For example, Fair Park in Dallas was built by destroying homes in poorer areas. Once we collect enough signatures, we present the petition to local officials to push for policy changes.

Grayson Mask: Your group has also worked on initiatives like free public transit for K-12 students. Do you have any strategies that work best for activism?

Joshua McNair: Social media is crucial. Clever designs, memes, and ads grab attention, while in-person actions like canvassing and tabling help build community presence. Combining strong social media outreach with face-to-face interactions is key. You need a team skilled in graphic design and social media but also ready to engage directly with people.

Grayson Mask: You mentioned environmental issues intersect with other causes. Can you explain these connections and your stance on broader issues?

Joshua McNair: Many issues overlap, like environmental racism. For instance, in West Dallas, factories known as the “Toxic Twins” have caused higher asthma and cancer rates in the area. Climate change also drives immigration, as people escape environmental disasters in their home countries. However, they often face challenges finding safety here. So, our work addresses these intersections between environmental and social justice issues.

Grayson Mask: Your organization offers training for public comments at city hearings. What does that involve?

Joshua McNair: Our training prepares people to speak at city council or committee hearings, rallies, and public events. We focus on helping individuals tell their stories effectively, make personal connections, and end with a compelling call for change. Personal stories can be especially powerful in these settings.

Grayson Mask: I noticed links to a youth program and a movement house on your Instagram. Could you tell me more about those?

Joshua McNair: Sure! Sunrise Dallas Youth is open to people up to age 18, and they’re currently focused on reducing food waste. When members age out, they can join the main Sunrise hub in downtown Dallas. The Movement House is a multi-story house near Baylor Hospital where we hold meetings and events. It’s also open for other organizations to use as long as it fits the calendar.

Grayson Mask: As we approach the new year, what projects or campaigns are you excited about?

Joshua McNair: We’re awaiting a decision on parking minimums, and if they’re reduced or removed, we’ll shift our focus to other projects like improving public transit or making rent more accessible. I’m also leading recruitment efforts to bring in more members through social events, direct actions, and mutual aid. It’s an exciting time for our chapter!

May 8, 1971, was my eighth birthday. Birthdays were never a big thing for me. I would always be asked by my mother what I wanted for my birthday and my usual response was the latest cool toy. However, I was always disappointed because my mother always bought me either clothes or a new doll. I never did understand why she asked me every year what I wanted when she was only going to buy me what she wanted anyway. This year when she asked me what I wanted for my birthday I said I wanted a new bike. A blue Schwinn bike to be exact. But I didn’t expect I would actually get one. I figured that this birthday wouldn’t be any different than past birthdays and I would probably end up with some dress I would never want to wear or yet another doll I would never play with.

There was one good thing about this birthday, I remember thinking. This year my birthday was on a Saturday. Being a Saturday I was glad not to be up early for school and was looking forward to watching cartoons after breakfast. I may not get my bike, but at least I could sit in my pajamas and watch cartoons.

Getting up out of bed, I went to the bathroom and quickly brushed my teeth, which was the prescribed morning ritual, before going downstairs for breakfast. Descending the stairs, I stopped at the landing where I could hear my parents talking at the kitchen table. Not being able to make out what they were saying, I scurried the rest of the way down the stairs, into the dining room and stopped at the door to the kitchen. As I stood there, I felt a sense of excitement as I saw a brand new blue Schwinn bicycle sitting right there in front of me on the kitchen floor. I remember that I was so excited that I couldn’t move. I just stood there staring at the bike with a huge grin on my face. Finally, after a few minutes, I looked up at my father who was sitting there in his usual spot at the kitchen table. “Happy Birthday kiddo,” he said to me as I stood there grinning ear to ear.

“Can I take it out for a ride?” Looking away from my father, I jumped excitedly on the bike, enjoying the feel of its perfection. Seeing the bell on the handlebars, I tried it out and delighted in its sound. This was the best birthday present ever.

“Don’t you get any tire tracks on my clean floor,” my mother barked from the other side of the kitchen.

“I won’t.” Being content for now with just sitting on my new bike, I did not want to piss off my mother and nix any chance I had to take the bike out for a ride.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes.”

“Come and eat your breakfast.”

“But mom,” I whined moving my bike back and forth on the small three by five carpet, careful not to touch the wheels on the floor. I was having my first love affair with this bike and didn’t want it to end before it got started.

“Come on kiddo,” my father said intervening, knowing that a war of wills could break out at any time between me and my mother. “Eat your breakfast. There will be plenty of time to take that bike out later.”

Reluctantly, I got off the bike, went over to the table, and poured myself a bowl of cereal. As I sat silently eating, I would sneak an occasional peek at my new bike just to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. When I was finished, I sat back in my chair and looked at my mother. “Can I go now?” I asked, just as I was expected.

“No, not yet. Go rinse your bowl out in the sink and then I have something else to give you.”

Walking my bowl over to the sink, I turned on the water as I heard my father tell my mother “I still don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think this is a good idea. She’s too young.”

“She’s not too young. It’ll be just fine,” I heard my mother say in her usual dismissive way. Giving my bowl a few extra rinses in the sink, I wanted to wait to make sure they weren’t going to start fighting. Feeling I couldn’t stall any longer, I turned the water off, put the bowl in the sink and turned back towards the table. Looking between them, I couldn’t help but wonder what the disagreement was about.

“Come and sit.”

Looking at the table, I could see a white envelope where my bowl had been just a few minutes before. Looking at my father, I could see a look of disapproval on his face but I didn’t know why, although I had a feeling it had to do with whatever was in that envelope. Looking over at my mother, I could see the impatience on her face as she looked from me over to my chair. Not waiting for her to say anything else, I returned to my chair and sat back down. I did not want to be on her bad side, not today. Not with my new bike sitting only three feet away.

“You’re getting to be a big girl now,” my mother started in a calm tone, “and I think that you should have what’s in that envelope.”

Picking it up, I looked at the return address. ‘Onondaga County, Family Court, 531 Montgomery St.’ Feeling a bit confused, I looked over at my mother. “What’s in it?” I asked feeling the thickness of the envelope.

“Well, you know that we have had conversations about you being adopted.”

“Yes,” I said trying to figure out what being adopted had to do with what was in the envelope.

“Honey, please. She’s not ready for this yet,” my father tried interjecting one last time.

“Shut up!” Raising her voice to just below a screech, she gave him the look that said ‘don’t interrupt me again’. Looking back to me, she tried to soften her tone. “You’re a big girl now aren’t you?”

“Yes mom,” I responded quickly, knowing it was always best to just agree with her. I still had no idea what I had to be old enough for or what could possibly be in the envelope that had to do with the fact that I was adopted. All I knew was that she was going to give me this envelope and it was best for me to just take it and not question her.

“See, even she says she’s old enough.” Giving my father the look that said ‘don’t interrupt me again’ she turned her attention back to me. “What’s in the envelope is your birth certificate, your baptismal certificate and papers that have to do with your adoption. Now, I want you to take that envelope and put it in a safe place so you don’t lose it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Feeling myself starting to fidget in my seat, I sat there still looking at the envelope but not opening it. The thought of opening it then and there never crossed my mind. No, my mind was racing for a place where I was going to keep this important envelope in a safe place in my room. “Can I go now?” I asked timidly, wanting to avoid what was coming next between my mother and father.

“Yes, you can go. But don’t dawdle too long watching cartoons. We have to go to your Aunt’s house this afternoon. She has a cake for you and wants us to come over for awhile.”

“Okay.” Getting up with envelope in hand I wanted to stay on her good side, at least for now. Giving my bike another loving touch, I quickly ran back upstairs to my room to watch cartoons and see what was in this mysterious envelope from ‘Family Court’.

Closing my bedroom door, I went over to the television and turned it on. Hearing the familiar hum of the tubes warming up, I waited for a picture before turning the channel to my favorite Looney Tunes program. Usually the antics of Bugs Bunny and company kept me completely engrossed in their antics. But today the white envelope that my mother gave me trumped my love of cartoons.

Sitting down at my desk, I read the front of the envelope again. Turning the envelope over, I slowly pulled out the neatly folded papers that had been stuffed in the small envelope. Unfolding them, one at a time, I saw my baptismal certificate from our church and my birth certificate. As I dug deeper, I unfolded a very long piece of paper that was entitled ‘adoption decree’. ‘In the matter of Elizabeth Gendron, a child under the age of 18…’ Elizabeth, I thought. That was the name my other mother gave me when I was born. “Elizabeth,” I said out loud, trying the name on for size. I like that name. I wonder why my parents changed it.

Staring at the name for a while longer the realization that this person was me and what it actually meant to be adopted started to set in for the first time. They were talking about me. My name was Elizabeth Gendron. I was someone else’s daughter and my name was Elizabeth Gendron. That means that my other mothers’ last name was Gendron too. There’s a family out there somewhere with the last name of Gendron and I was once part of their family, I remembered thinking for the first time. I wonder what her first name is. Looking up at my reflection in the mirror, I wondered for the first time, do I look like her?

With curiosity getting the better of me I got up from my desk and went out to the hallway where the telephone and phone book were located. Bringing the book in my room I sat down on my bed and started to look for the name. “G..e..n..” I said out loud to myself as I flipped pages. Finding the right page, my index finger started down the columns: Genay, Gendahl, Gennet. No Gendron. Walking back to my desk I looked at the name again just to make sure that I was spelling it right.

My heart sank as I realized that they weren’t in the phone book. If they’re not in the phone book that meant that they don’t live here in Syracuse. Maybe they moved? I thought trying to rationalize why they weren’t in the phone book. A sense of sadness began to set in as I let the phone book slip out of my hands. They moved and left me behind. Why did they leave me behind? I wondered, feeling tears filling my eyes.

In the midst of my ponderings I heard my mother’s voice yelling up the stairs. “You better be getting dressed, we have to leave soon to go to your Aunt’s house,” her voice getting louder as she ascended the stairs.

“Oh no,” I thought, wiping my eyes quickly with the sleeve from my pajamas while feeling a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. She’s going to notice that the phone book is gone, I thought with a sense of panic beginning to build. Grabbing the phone book from the floor, I quickly went back to the phone stand and put it back under the phone as quickly and quietly as possible. Feeling guilty, as if I was somehow doing something wrong by looking at the papers that were in the envelope, I didn’t want my mother knowing what I had done. Hearing her continuing to ascend the stairs, I quickly folded the papers and returned them to the envelope before quickly opening the bottom desk drawer full of blue hanging folders. Finding the folder that contained my family tree project for school, I dropped the envelope in and quickly shut the drawer.

Giving my eyes a good wipe with my sleeve, I didn’t want my mother knowing that I had been crying or that I had looked at the papers in the envelope. Turning my attention to the cartoons on the television, I heard myself let out a nervous laugh as my mother poked her head through the door.

“Start getting dressed,” she said before heading off to her own bedroom.

“Yes mom.” Staring at the television, I let out a sigh of relief that she hadn’t noticed anything was wrong or out of place. Giving my eyes another good wipe, I looked towards my bedroom door to make sure I was alone. Getting up, I quickly dressed in my favorite jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. Ready to go, I sat back down and feigned watching cartoons until it was time to leave. Lost deep in thought, I pondered my birthday present.

The stars shift around me as I speak
my world into the black abyss that
consumes every last
living particle

Planets rotate,
space ships blow by,
and the sun screams across the
intangible universe,

But not one single living particle ever
hears
what I
have to say.

I will forever be an outcast,
even in space, the place
where
all the

outcasts go.