He exuded a masculine energy that framed me in a more feminine light, something I grappled with as my hips expanded, my breasts filled out.

His frame was stocky his thick, pale skin sprouted black hairs. It’s almost as though she can hardly believe that it’s really happening, and so romantically inexperienced is she, that it doesn’t immediately occur to her that twenty-eight-year old men should not be pursuing thirteen-year-olds, no matter how mature. Ortiz tells him that she is not, but knows how fervently she has committed every last detail to her journals. Ivers - later she calls him Jeff - loves her writing, he insists that she never write down anything about their conversations or times that they meet. The conversation takes a sexual turn, and she is thrilled, confused, and overwhelmed. He said, “you” like I was the embodiment of some kind of dangerous elixir threatening to seduce him, forcing any control he might have over himself underground. He said “crush” like I said it in sixth grade when I was talking about Marc Hendricks. Over an hour into this conversation, this conversation that forced me to listen, reply, and think swiftly to keep up with the speed and flow of it, he used the word “crush.” He talked about his hometown and his ex-girlfriend, the college where they met, my own plans for college. Museums he wanted to check out now that he lived in Los Angeles. We talked about my writing, which he raved about, having read the contents of the red binder, my novel in the making. A constant smile on my face threatened to break when my cheek muscles quivered. I had been talking, laughing, hooting with Mr. And now, here’s this man whose eyes fix on her in a way that make her feel powerful, so when she receives his phone number, she only briefly hesitates before calling. She is not a teenager easily impressed, and with a distant father and an alcoholic mother, she’s spent her childhood wrapped up in worlds of her own imagining, only sharing her writing with a few trusted people. Starting with her eighth grade English class, Ortiz recounts the five-year-long relationship she had with her teacher, a man fifteen years older who immediately catches her attention with his encouragement of her writing.

Ortiz’s excellent memoir, Excavation, is an experience no different. No matter the specific subject matter, there will be at least one moment, a feeling, a crash into clarity that makes one realize: I’ve been here too. When one reads a book published by Future Tense, one should expect to feel willingly uncomfortable with the author’s honesty.

Wendy c ortiz excavation