I. Visual Art
II. Audio
III. Creative Writing
Frequency Filter
Luke Litwiller '19 (He/him)
Presence with
Closed doors
Both physical
And psychological
Surviving with
Targeted removal
From fear, allied with power
And raw animus
Silencing with
And yet gathering havens
Open Doors forced off campus
Amidst publicly sanctioned harm
Stories with
And within Queer folx
Memories adrift, some beautiful
Start organizing, some pained
Visibility with
Safe Space – The Weather Vane
And art – “Face to Face” – Gonzo Theater
Claimed power, planting seeds of liberation
Enduring with
And departure through
Painful processes
Toward hiring policy change
Hidden with
Dissonance between policy
And practice
And power –
Not yet reckoning with Queer trauma, beauty, and truths
Roommates
Melissa May
1955
It’s an orange-red October afternoon, and Lois returns from her lunch at the Eastern
Mennonite College cafeteria to her little, orderly office with an examination table, a desk, and a
chair. It’s here that she puts away the mantle of college student and assumes the role of one of
two nurses for the campus; symptoms must be checked, and illnesses kept at bay. Influenza and
strep throat respect no one’s semester timetables.
Today a student comes with a different complaint, not of bones and throat and muscle but
of touch, of words.
“Millie and Katherine are making the rest of us uncomfortable,” the young woman says
to Nurse Lois. “They hold hands . . . they use endearments. It’s not right–it’s not appropriate.”
Lois looks down at her clipboard and considers what the student says. She knows very
well what is observed–how Millie and Katherine are too close, too friendly. They are looking at
each other the way a young man looks at the fetching young co-eds, who may return his longing
glances.
“Will you say something to them about it?” the student concludes.
“I will,” Lois says, thankful that she can be let off with this one task. Yes, she can caution
these two roommates that they should not do as a man and a woman do, they should not give
those looks, they should not let their hands touch.
“It’s just not decent.” This is the interloper’s final word on the matter before she leaves
the nurse’s office.
Lois considers what she’ll say to Millie, to Katherine.
The other students are gossiping.
You won’t catch a husband with such rumors.
If they get this idea about you, how will you settle down with nice young men and build a
family?
It is not what the Lord wants.
But Lois has seen the firelight in Katherine’s gaze as she laughs at her roommate’s jests
and places an arm around her shoulder in camaraderie, but also in claiming. How Millie seems to
liquify into this touch, running forth naturally like sap cascading down a maple.
Nurse Lois doesn’t want to treat these symptoms as an illness, but she will, because she
was asked to. Realize the diagnosis and apply a medicated treatment, hoping it will not flare up.
The other students are allowed the blush of first love, but for these women, it’s
pronounced a rash.
1985
“You’re taking your life in your hands, going into that ward every day,” people tell her.
AIDS is synonymous with “death,” and people who have it, or have HIV are more feared
than lepers from the Bible, Lois reflects. She takes strength in knowing that Jesus calls her to
persist in the danger and disgust.
She’s reasonably certain that her stringent precautions with blood, various body fluids,
and needles will keep her from infection. She offers hugs hampered by gloves and hospital
gowns, motioning loved ones and pets over to the patients’ sides. This is hospice, and the
patients will still die, but Lois hopes they will have comfort in cuddling, in crying together, in
stolen laughter.
Though she has met so many people who are unapologetically gay in these last few years,
her mind wanders back to the couples who hid in more halcyon times. Katherine and Millie
remained careful roommates after EMC, she heard, and settled in quietly at another Mennonite
stronghold community in Pennsylvania.
She knows they probably don’t have AIDS, but Lois wonders if their hearts are still sick.
Now she adds so many names to her list of those who’ll never leave her memory Stuart,
Michael, Simon, Everett. . .but those women are always the first on the list, and Lois carries
them with her as if in a locket.
2018
It’s finally time to take the plunge, Lois decides. Her daughter helps her navigate the web
search to find their names at the Pennsylvania retirement community, to find the phone number
to enquire about a mailing address, to find the right words to record on the letter.
My dear friends. . .
My church has started to embrace people who are like you: women who love women, men
who love men. I want to write to you at last, one more time, about our old conversation at EMC.
Do you recall when I told you to be careful about what you show others, about holding hands
and openly being affectionate?
I wish I had not given in to the other students’ discomfort and, in effect, censured you. I
wish I had been brave and told the others to mind their own business, live and let live, at least.
We had so much pressure at that time to conform. I did not find it a struggle to have a courtship
with Bill and agree to marry him and have his children, though marriage is not always a picnic.
I could go on at length about myself, but I want to say that I am sorry. I did not have to be
one of those voices which must have chastised the two of you. Your love is good in the eyes of
God, I can say now. But I feel I am a coward, waiting until my church gives me permission to say
so.
Lois opens and closes the letter with all the necessary social bordering, attempting to
make the missive a beautiful cursive quilt, not the clumsy tumbling she knows it really is.
It’s all an excuse, she admits to herself.
Eight days after she sends the letter, Lois receives a card in kind, a simple note with a
photograph tucked inside.
It depicts two elderly women, one in a hospital bed, bedecked with oxygen tubes, glasses,
and a faint smile, holding the hand of a plumper-looking lady, who grins at the camera.
The card simply reads, “Still roommates after sixty-four years.”
Artist's Caption:
A story from EMC and the larger Mennonite community in three decades: the 1950s, the 1980s, and the 2010s. The story of these women — both those in the couple and the observing student nurse — resonated with me because I have personal experience in hidden relationships in religious contexts. I’m fascinated with how the couple’s story impacted the nurse’s heart and conscience for the rest of her life, and how all three of their stories changed or remained constant over sixty-plus years. I want to work toward the goal that one day no one will need to hide their love due to fear of religious/community condemnation.
Melissa May, Adjunct Instructor (she/her)
A First Day
Melissa May
Clo slows their bike across the University Commons parking lot, riding across the bright
concrete canvas of the vivid, multilingual mural, bordered by the repainted art proclaiming
"Black Lives Matter." They remove their helmet and self-consciously touch their tousled curls.
“First days are difficult, but they only happen once,” Mom reminded them this morning. Clo's a
little embarrassed to be biking to campus from their nearby childhood home, not living in a dorm
yet, but maybe next semester.
But really, Clo knows EMU well. After all, it's just one part of the Menno Simons Intentional
Community that spans EMU and EMS, VMRC and Park View Mennonite, Shalom and Alethia
Churches, Virginia Mennonite Missions, a branch of the Islamic Association of the Shenandoah
Valley, and Open Doors. Really every day Clo is biking with their siblings and parents to one
part of the MSIC or another, meeting with their elder mentor at VMRC, celebrating community
religious holidays through the Interfaith Collaborative at Lehman Auditorium, dropping in to
sculpt at the Arts Collective, tutoring a young student at EMS, pulling weeds at the community
garden, or picking up a coffee at one of the Common Grounds shops.
So now they're officially a first-year undergrad student, bedecked with an EMU ID on a lanyard,
handy for the dining hall. Clo might be a bit of a nerd about being prepared, but at least they
know it.
Today's orientation will be filled with so much information that Clo's head is already spinning:
Intros to Student Life and Restorative Justice, a Land Acknowledgement, the Opening
Convocation, the Community Feast in the gym. Looks like they might have some throwback
events offered later: a silent disco and a karaoke night. Maybe a cute guy, girl, or enby will
notice Clo's amazingly awkward moves and dance with them.
So though they're nervous, Clo will get through this feeling soon with a quick centering exercise.
After all, this has really been home their whole life, and they know exactly how to live in it.
Artist's Caption
This is for my niece: in 16 years, she will be ready to attend college. What can change for the better in the meantime?
Melissa May, Adjunct Instructor (she/her)
For Those Far From Sure
Veronica Horst '23
There are two islands. The first one is where I grew up and have stayed most of my life: identifying as straight, imagining that my future would include marriage to a man. It was always fine, but it never felt quite right. At some point I noticed a second island off in the distance. Towards the end of high school, I started to wade out a little into the waters of questioning, trying to get a better view. I always went right back to shore, though. It has only been in the past two years when I have fully submerged myself in the water and started swimming towards the second island. The last time, I swam out too far to turn back, but I was still hesitant about approaching the second island. I am currently clinging to a raft that is security in my own identity, but I am getting lonely. I know my way back to the first island, but I don't think I belong there anymore. I don't know what will happen if I swim the rest of the way to the second island. And as much as I want to just do it, I can't get myself to move. The hardest part is that no one knows I am out here.
Artist's Caption
Before I came out to anyone, I created an analogy to articulate the loneliness and uncertainty I was experiencing in relation to my sexuality and belonging in LGBTQ+ spaces. The analogy references two islands and how I found myself drifting in the middle of the open water between them. I wrote the analogy on the outside of my boat as I had written it in a journal entry during the beginning stages of my coming out journey. I created a boat in response to this prompt, because my hope for the future is that students at EMU will feel safe to question their sexuality and have the ability to reach the shores that they long to be on when they feel ready. On the inside of the boat, I attached other phrases and sentences from journal entries in which I expressed frustrations, confusions, and hopes related to figuring out sexual and romantic attraction. What I needed during my journey was for someone to find me in the water and offer me a seat and a place for my questions and uncertainties, and that is what I want for others at EMU—in the present and future.
Veronica Horst '23 (She/her)