Phebe Jewell – Writers Resist

Something So Small

By Phebe Jewell

You didn’t think twice after dropping me into the ballot box outside the library. You were busy, and I was one more item to check off your list. Return books, vote, and then on to the grocery store for a dozen eggs and a head of lettuce.

Still, I hope you felt something, a shiver as the present bent back to the past and into the future.

We’ve met before, many times. The first, waiting in line at the VFW Hall with your mother before she tugged you into a booth, pulling the curtain behind both of you. She took her time, putting on glasses, reading the ballot with the quiet attention you only saw when she played the piano after dinner. The last time, you voted in person while your son ate a donut shared by poll watchers before you walked out together into the wet November morning. Holding hands, his fingers dusted with sugar, yours tacky from unpeeling the “I Voted!” sticker before placing it on your coat.

This time, sliding me into the slot, you didn’t know it was the last time. It wasn’t a major election, like president or governor. A school levy, funding for public housing.

I fell into the box, landing on top of hundreds of other ballots before being picked up and loaded into a van by election workers. One of them whistled as he hoisted the bin up on his shoulder. The other ballots called to each other, arguing about policy and expenditures. I drifted, soothed by the debate. My favorite part of any election, so many voices jumbled together in messy piles before the counting.

But your vote will never be tallied. No one’s will, no matter which oval they filled in. The Leader declares that no one needs to vote anymore. The country will be better off if no one disagrees. You have been freed of the burden of choice, the Leader says in front of cameras, face flushed, eyes narrowed. No need to waste time or energy on something so small as a ballot.

The new military police have been ordered to destroy all ballots. For weeks we wait on shelves in warehouses. None of us know when it’ll be our turn. As we wait to be shoveled into the incinerator, we share our stories. Your stories. I learn about the single mom in Pittsburgh working two jobs, scared the rent will go up again. The imam from Detroit welcoming new members. The Portland couple staring in wonder at their newborn. I talk about you and your son, who just voted for the first time. And the last. Already the heat curls my edges.

Phebe Jewell’s recent work appears or is forthcoming in Bright Flash Literary Review, Does It Have Pockets?, SoFloPoJo, BULL, and elsewhere. A teacher at Seattle Central College, she also volunteers with the Freedom Education Project Puget Sound, an abolitionist nonprofit providing college courses and degrees for incarcerated students in Washington State.

Photo credit: Philip Chapman-Bell via a Creative Commons license.

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Playing Possum

By Phebe Jewell

Mama won’t let us leave the house, and MJ is furious.

After dinner we form a line at the kitchen sink, Mama on one end, up to her elbows in dishwater, MJ in the middle, rinsing each bowl and plate. I wait at the other end of the line, ready with a towel.

I’ve always been Mama’s favorite. I sit in the middle of the classroom and only speak when I’m called on. During parent-teacher conferences my teachers have nothing to say about me. Mama smiles at my neat homework, tells my teachers “Jackie’s my Mini-Me.”

MJ’s teachers complain about her asking too many questions and arguing with their answers. Whenever Mama and me watch America’s Got Talent we snuggle. “You’re my baby girl,” she says, smoothing loose hair from my forehead. She has no idea what goes on in my head.

MJ turns the faucet off. “Why can’t we go?”

Mama stops scrubbing, lifts her hands out of the water.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” she says in her you’re-on-my-last-nerve voice. “Don’t let anyone know your business. It’s not safe. Don’t let anyone know what you think. Or feel.”

She turns to face MJ, and continues, prodding her chest with one finger. “When you speak out of turn at school, on the bus, wherever, you’re playing with fire.”

MJ steps back, a wet spot dotting her tee shirt where Mama’s sharp nail poked her.

“But people are getting killed,” MJ whispers, like she’s asking a question.

“If nobody knows you’re there, they can’t get you.” Mama turns back to the sink, plunging her arms into the water.

MJ turns the water back on, rinses the silverware. She passes a handful of forks and knives to me, and I pretend to inspect the blade of a butter knife, raising an eyebrow. Our signal.

I dry the last pan and set it on the counter.

Mama presses my hand in hers. “You know what I mean, don’t you, Jackie? This is not the time to make waves.”

I nod because that’s what Mama wants. She’s sure I’ll go upstairs, wash my face and brush my teeth, say my prayers before slipping into bed.

Later, when the house is dark and still, and MJ whispers, “It’s time,” I know Mama won’t be waiting to catch me sneaking out. She’d never dream I’d stand with MJ outside the police station, raising my fist.

Phebe Jewell’s recent flash appears or is forthcoming in XRAY, Literary Heist, Ellipsis Zine, Bad Pony, Crack the Spine, and The Citron Review. A teacher at Seattle Central College, she also volunteers for the Freedom Education Project Puget Sound, a nonprofit providing college courses for women in prison. Read more of her work at PhebeJewellWrites.com.