Q & A
by Samantha Crozier and Amanda Freedman
I cannot love a haunted thing.
What hurts to look at?
I don’t like sunsets. The red color is caused by pollution in the air, the scattering of blue light to
leave only the red. I want to go to a place with air so clear that I will never have to see a sunset.
Why do boys keep playing with our hearts?
It’s a compilation of moments. A karaoke bar duet at 1 in the morning. A road trip sing-along
through Plymouth, Michigan. A cozy nap in an unfamiliar bed. An embrace that ends too soon. A
kiss we’ve never shared. Moments fleeting too fast, and I never know the next time we’ll meet.
When did you know it was over?
There is a Greek myth that says that all people started off as having four legs and four arms, that
these original creatures were cut in half to damn us, so that every creature would spend the rest of
it’s life trying to find its other half.
This is bullshit, but sometimes I am certain it is true.
Where is the strangest place you’ve ever been? Describe it.
On stage. The rush of the crowd as I bare my soul in a performance. I step into the skin of another
character and have never felt more like myself.
Where is home?
A church full of bones in Lima. Skulls hanging from the rafters, dusty femurs in a pile by the altar, a
hundred year-old finger bone feeling like clay before a kiln in my hands.
Your favorite person in the world?
Chaos. And I can’t help but be the cause of it. A messy desk and I don’t know how to clean it. My
brain uses band-aids to fix the problem, holding the pipes together for only so long before they
burst. And it hurts, because a walk in the park for some is my Mt. Everest.
What body part of yours holds your pain? Tell me why.
My overbite, the presidential election, how long it takes to fly from Boston to Honolulu, how
anxious I get when you don’t text me back, how long it takes me to run a mile.
What’s your favorite part of a sunset?
Holding hands with a best friend. Crying into the arms of the people I love who I am lucky enough
to love me back. Petting my dog. Swinging with my brothers in our backyard. Laughter. Laughter
feels like home.
What do you wish you could change?
I am the wild best friend, the protagonist’s wine-drinking unfailingly loyal support system when she
goes to pursue her love interest.
But sometimes, I am Dido and Cleopatra – every beautiful and broken queen.
Tell me about the last time you felt like you were in love.
When I am in the taro patches, up to my knees in mud so dark it is tinted purple in the light,
squinting against the sunlight in a town so small it is defined by its non-existence. It is called
Pukalani. Puka, in Hawaiian, means hole.
When you shatter, where can you find the pieces?
Mismatched socks, Spotify, my inhaler.
When have you felt the most whole?
Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein.
Tell me about a moment you can swear you found God.
In music. In poetry. In you.
When do you feel most a part of your heritage?
When I made you feel strong.
Do you believe in ghosts?