“Editorial”

The Literate Humor Magazine, November 2019

Secrets. One of the truest forms of power that any given person can hold in their lifetime. I remember the first time I kept a major secret.

I was in the fourth grade. On one particular day during our art period, we were tasked with the responsibility of creating a monochrome self-portrait. These portraits would then be organized and hung in the hallway to create a larger collective shape or picture. What would this great creation be? I cannot remember. I was ten years-old; my main priorities were Webkinz, the volleyball B-team, and figuring out whether sex was actually when two people kiss and then jump on top of a bed like Annie Foland had told me during indoor-recess one time. I can’t remember a lot about that day, but there is one image which remains ingrained in my mind all these years later: a splatter of bright red paint strewn across an indistinct grey-blue classroom carpet floor.

The scene remains as vivid and abhorrent to me as a murder-suicide crime scene. Nearby laid a cold, forgotten paint brush smeared in the same red stain, ignored and neglected by a room full of nose-picking mini-humans. Eventually, our old and cranky teacher, Mrs. Patterson, spotted the stain and exploded, enveloping us in a cacophony of “disappointed in yous” and “never in my entire ninety-eight years of teaching have I encountered such defilements.” Mrs. Patterson was very well versed in all aspects of the english language. She demanded that one of us little turds step forward and admit our crime. I had done it, I had spilled the red paint.

Fourth grade was going great for me; I had made a Facebook account, carried a few conversations with the hottest boy in our grade, and had even heard a kid my age use the “fuck” word for the first time. On the downside, I was also dealing with a recent blow to the ego after having squeaked my way through a clarinet performance and promptly burst into tears– I wasn’t exactly in a position to take the fall for being the dick who spilled some paint and unleashed the wrath of 200 year-old Mrs. Patterson. So I said nothing. And everyone moved on. But I knew the truth.

Here’s the thing about secrets: the power to keep them comes with the consequence of awful, nagging guilt. For ten year-old little me, this manifested in the form of stomachaches. Every day I came into that awful classroom and looked over at dear Mrs. Patterson, thinking “she probably had to live through Julius Caesar’s assassination, how on Earth will she be able to handle my betrayal as well?” I felt so terrible, mentally and physically, that many days were spent being sent home with stomach pains, left to wallow in my guilt as I downed bowls of Lucky Charms at my Grandma’s house. Okay, that part was pretty lit.

My point is, secrets are no funny business. I finally came clean months after the “incident,” and Mrs. Patterson didn’t really care (or didn’t hear me) but I still get random surges of guilt when I think about it. I’ve been taking tests, working out, or even in the middle of presentations and had this dumb memory steal all of my attention– guilt is the ultimate killer of vibes. For this reason, I only keep secrets that aren’t my own and that I really can’t share with other people– like the time my friend Phoebe borrowed her roommate’s heels and accidentally peed all over them on her way home from a bar… SHIT.

It is in honor of our collective inner turmoils over and fascination with secrets that we at The Literate present this as the theme of our second issue. You know what’s not a secret? Our immense appreciation for the overflow of love and support from our readers after our launch. But, if after realizing our first issue wasn’t a one time deal and you’re now ready to step off The Literate train, kindly keep your exit to yourself.

L. Jerse