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All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.
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The Dorothy Shoemaker Awards celebrate literacy in all its forms.
This year's second place prize winner is Dandelion Tufts, by Katelin Ditner.
Read the short story with comments from this year's judge, author Catherine Bush.
by Katelin Ditner
I look towards the windows of the office building where I convene ritualistically, like a moth to flame, every weekday. And through the glass skin, draping over the world that feels slightly beyond my grasp, I see the peculiar sight of what appears to be snow. The mesmerizing display of snow is a peculiar accompaniment to this moment, as the many man-made calendars of the working world, and all of the pieces of paper I’ve signed today, tells me it’s June.
I watch this so-called snow drift past me, observing in each flake’s passing self the absurdity of life. I enjoy this practice, of admiring a display of preposterous proportions, of admiring the wonder that is a blizzard in June as I stand still and peaceful, forgetting the distraught papers on my desk — papers that are choked with the names of people whose lives have been snared, each in different ways.
Each document tells me of alleged wrongdoings, tells me of how I ought to judge them. For now, standing near the window, I admire this new task of mine. This task of observing and of witnessing, of forgetting how to judge, of being a child who looks to the sky through eyes of wonder. I admire this task so much that even when I discover these floating flakes to be tufts of white dandelion seeds, I still allow my mind to call these passing moments ‘snowflakes’.
Attempting to relive a moment of childhood, standing as a captive student of the window, I know it is a facade. I know that snowflakes are not dandelion seeds and that I have not touched the cheerful cry of childhood in quite a long time. I know this clearly, reluctantly, solemnly, as I stand in a building that raises itself above the city and as I live a life that the child version of myself would not care to understand. I long to approach the window, to touch its glassy face and to allow my eyes to search for a child who is wandering the city streets below. Perhaps a child that is grabbing onto its parent. I wish to look down on it and to wonder what it is thinking, to wonder if it can forgive me for all the mistakes that I have made.
I mustn’t. It is not a stranger’s job to forgive me. Just as it is not mine to forgive, nor to bestow perceived moral value, onto the shoulders of the names littering my desk. And so I refuse. I see letters stringed together, representing names, and numbers stringed together, representing birth dates. That’s all that these black silhouettes permit themselves to be in my mind. Representations. Symbols. They are not the people themselves standing in front of me. They do not lingerin front of me as I wish to linger in front of the window, asking for forgiveness. These people, who I do not know, are not symbols.
Having returned from the window, I lift a page from one of the piles. I recognize a string of numbers to be my birthday. Briefly, these symbols allow themselves to mean something. My eyes cross over the letters, which now blossom into a name. Its demanding syllables contort into something that dances purely to be seen and cries purely to be known. I allow its dancing self to permeate into my own twisting self and to produce a lasting image. I look at the paper as I had looked out the window, longing for the imagination and innocence of childhood to return to me.
What was this person feeling on the day of their sentencing? Did they dress in their favourite clothes? Did they have children or friends to explain where they were going? Did they look deeply into the judge’s eyes? They will never look me in my eyes. Not unless it is as a stranger walking down the street. I refuse to remember this name. I refuse to hold its owner captive in my thoughts and fleeting judgements any longer than the symbols on the paper tell me they’ve already been held. Like the fleeting snow on a June day, I let them go.
Waking from a dream, I remember a time when I did not stand in a building of glass. The man who ruled the building which looked like a windowless shoebox was a successful businessman, and I was a young woman who had been taught to learn how to make myself permeable and to exist for these creatures of empires. I possessed no measure of success to hold against the many entwining worlds of business, glass, concrete, and unsmiling faces.
I lay awake, attempting to decipher the swirling symbols in my mind. I aim to turn symbols into meaning. The letters of his name come to life, and his reply of acceptance of a meeting between us sings to me louder than any resting symbol could.
“Do you remember the day when you killed a rat and disposed of its body before greeting me?”
He laughs in amusement.
“You have an impressive memory.”
Not really, I wordlessly confess. I only have a memory of images which I’ve gathered like berries, hoping to semble them into some air of meaning. Wanting desperately for them to mean something, I clench onto them, strangling them until they bleed their meaning onto me.
I had arrived to work on a morning where the clouds were pleasantly accommodating of the sun’s cheerful smile, through their own tender presence. Another smile greeted me. The man smiled knowing that he had just killed a rat and disposed of its body. I overheard his laughter as I walked away from where he and his colleague stood, laughing at the fate of the rat and of how they had hid it from me. His smile was foremost a symbol of his humour in killing a rat, not a greeting intended for me.
“People are somewhat scared of you.” “I know.”
“You seem proud of that.”
“I’m proud that I’m self-aware enough to accept other people’s judgements of me.”
“Do you think other people’s judgements of you are fair?”
“That’s not up to me to decide. Do you think their judgements are fair?”
Once more, as a moth to a flame, eerily close to melting its wings off of its sacred body, I sit in a world that fervently asks me to become a judge of things I wish not to judge. The juice of the many berries I’ve so intently collected, staining my hands in one swift act of rebellion. Staining me like the stain of all the unpleasant judgements of the world. I tap my hand nervously. Judgements are not always a bad thing, I bargain with myself. The judgement to avoid one’s death, to avoid a bad relationship, to taste a favourite food.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person.”
Once, while feeling the jolt of a particularly lonely night, I ran through its painted body. The city, the shoebox, the glass building, all looked the same.
I ran to the building that the man ruled, standing at the mouth of the parking lot. My eyes glanced through darkness, looking for the remnants of a friend. Their search ended as I saw two circular clumps of stars twinkling in the darkness, starting to see the outline of the fox’s body. These circular mounds of stars were the stars of the sky, being reflected in the animal’s glassy eyes.
The fox spoke to me. First, symbolically, through gentle eyes, and then it spoke plainly with its mouth.
What are you afraid of?
Are you looking for a home?
“If you think I’m crazy, put my name on a piece of paper that declares me as such. This world loves to put things to paper to declare them as true. To declare the crimes that have occurred. To declare what is a crime. To declare you as wealthy and me as working class. A fox is not a symbol, nor are its words. Believe me, until my name resides as a symbol on paper.”
I return to the fox in the parking lot, hoping it has not died. I seek its life, hiding in the darkness. Its enduring heartbeat responds, as it bites my hand. The blood its teeth inspires is real, it is not a symbol. I feel its hot and heavy realness sliding over the sides of my hand, making thick dripping sounds onto the pavement below. A snowflake drifts down from the Summer sky. Not breaking bitterly, as dandelion tufts crashing to the ground, but melting gracefully, mingling with the pavement and blood at my feet.
I have found my home. It exists in all the places where I care. It is not a symbol. It is something to be held tenderly. I recognize this as I sit down in the darkness of the empty parking lot, clutching my bloody hand to my chest.
---
There’s an almost surrealist sensibility at work in this compelling story in which a narrator journeys through a series of unusual encounters in an unnamed city, questioning how we judge others and take in the world around us. Dandelion tufts look like snow and a fox bites the narrator’s hand as she searches for, and at last finds, a true sense of home.
Catherine Bush, author
2024 Dorothy Shoemaker Awards judge
The Awards began in 1967 as a Centennial project, created by Dorothy Shoemaker, Kitchener Public Library's Chief Librarian from 1944 to 1971.
In 1996, when government funding for the awards was eliminated, Ms. Shoemaker made a significant personal donation to ensure the awards would continue. In 2000, Ms. Shoemaker passed away at the age of 94. However, her legacy of support for aspiring writers continues today through her ongoing endowment.
Kitchener Public Library thanks the Waterloo Region Community Foundation for their ongoing financial support of this long-running contest.