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Inspired by the insanely provocative television series, Mad Men, Jennica Harper’s poem cycle here traces the meandering thoughts of pubescent Sally Draper, the oft times neglected offspring of paterfamilias and part-time Lothario, Don Draper. Harper’s monologues capture Sally’s experiences at the edges of the masculine, cut-throat world of Manhattan’s advertising, and the shifting social upheavals of the 1960s.

Though Sally’s not a leader for the sex, drugs and rock and roll revolution, she is a reactive element: a baby boomer kid with some indelible philosophy. In “Sally Draper at the Premier of Jaws,” her approval-seeking banter annoys her date and she realizes that she’s missing the entire point of being in a dark theatre with a boy. “This is me flirting,” she states, “I know I’m doomed.” In “Sally Draper: Upwardly Mobile,” she deems the consolation prize for not following her career path as being relegated to “wife.” For her, this means, “You may start pretty, but you get old fast. You become a secondary character in your own life. A wife.”

Harper foregrounds Sally’s sense of being a “secondary character,” by emphasizing her self-conscious voice and her obsessive need to see herself from afar. Whether she’s painting her lips in Hellbent and Taboo, taking peyote and contemplating the lyrical origins of “Puff the Magic Dragon,” or romanticizing her first abortion as “A calculated fainting” where she should be “woken with smelling salts by ladies in waiting – [her] problems gone,” her inner-monologue captures her disassociated steely understanding of the human condition. Despite the dishonesty and emotional fallout from her parents’ generation, she’s ready for change and wields it like “a sword in a virgin cocktail.”

These poems are not Harper’s first foray into adolescent voices and perspectives. She has also written a poetry collection from the point-of-view of thirteen-year-old girls, What it Feels Like for a Girl, and works on the YTV sitcom, Mr. Young. Incidentally, some years ago, Jennica and I completed our MFAs at UBC together. I remember her being quick even then at cross-hatching pop culture and the ten angst as she does here and in her other poetry collection, The Octopus and Other Poems.

For Harper, youth culture is a poignant watermark of what’s deemed frivolous in the previous generation. Perhaps this is why she is drawn to Sally Draper: because she is such a mercurial figure, as she struggles with realpolitik and her parents’ emotional tailspins into extramarital affairs and vodka martinis. These poems attest to Sally’s sense of unmooring. As Sally herself suggests, “There should be a system,” or at least balefire to illuminate her turn toward adulthood at the cusp of the most explosive youth culture movement in American history.

—Tammy Armstrong

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The Sally Draper Poems by Jennica Harper

Sally Draper at the Premiere of Jaws

I recognize that beach. Something about it – even in the dark.

Hey, Martha’s Vineyard!

Shhhh!

Jeez.

I whisper to him. We used to go there in summer.

He rolls his eyes.

We’re under the surface now, with the girl.

She has pretty legs, like a dancer.

They hired that girl just for her legs.

He looks at me. Pleading.

Sorry.

She treads water. I suck in my stomach.

The cold water’s just making me colder.

They sure did crank the A/C – to the point

I barely remember that it’s June.

They made it cold in here

so we’d cuddle up to our boys.

This is me flirting. I know I’m doomed.

He doesn’t look at me. I guess to not

encourage more talking.

The sound kicks in, and I jump a little.

Da-da. Da-da. Da-da. I recognize it as a tuba

from the years Bobby practiced in the basement.

Stuck with that fat thing after being out sick

the day instruments were picked. I take it in. Know

the notes. E-F. EF, EF, EF.

I don’t turn to him. Don’t tell him about the tuba.

Now that I’m quiet, he takes my hand. Rubs

it between his to warm me up.

I know it’s supposed to be scary

but they won’t let this girl be hurt. They can’t.

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Sally Draper Hides

Ten feet below me

decisions are made.

I hide under the bed, though

she says I’m too old.

You learn a lot, ear to the floor.

Which boards squeak; that the front door

(opening after midnight – witching

hour, I once heard Francine say)

releases a tiny gust of air that floats

up the stairs, ever so stealthy and sweet,

blowing dust bunnies by.

I watch them hop and bob…

they’re dancing like lovers! Or,

it’s possible, running for cover.

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Sally Draper’s First Kiss

I knew kissing a boy would be different when it wasn’t your brother, I just couldn’t imagine how. I’d turned my hand into a mouth, like Senor Wences (but didn’t let him talk). Brought my hand close, really slowly, shut my eyes most of the way, keeping them open just a slit so I could see, too. Tasted the salt on my fingers; tried to imagine what the hole of my hand was tasting. I’d stuck my tongue in, but there was nothing there, just air.

When finally I made James stay still so I could kiss him, I knew what had been missing: resistance. I slipped my tongue through his teeth, happy he put up a fight. The kiss made me want to pee and made me want to kiss him again. Then James wanted to keep going, and I got distracted by the TV.

Now, whenever I see a ventriloquist – or puppets, Pinocchio, any wooden boy, boy on a string, boy with a hand inside him – I have to excuse myself.

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Sally Draper Struggles to Buy a Christmas Gift

He’s got no hobbies –

doesn’t fish or golf

like other men.

He’s not cultured.

Wouldn’t care about

opera tickets,

or the new Neil

Diamond. A magazine

subscription’s out,

of course. The ads.

He might wear a tie,

but I can’t bear to buy

him something so dull.

So I choose The Spy

Who Came In From the Cold.

Maybe he’ll see

the symbolism –

a man wanting

out. Hope. The girl.

And if not,

maybe he’ll at least

wonder

why this book, what does it mean,

and he’ll realize I’m

interesting.

§

Sally Draper Buys Red Lipstick

The woman at Marshall’s

lines my lips first, with Brick,

as in House,

as in Shit-A.

I make an O.

Next comes the stick: Dare You.

I want to say, You win!

I’ll buy you, but you’ll just

languish in a drawer

with Hellbent and Taboo.

All my life I have

shied from these lips – his

lips. Bowed and smacking

of blow-up doll…

Ode to an O.

But today I’ll wear red.

The red of a cherry

on a sword in a virgin

cocktail I’ll have to sip

through a straw.

§

Sally Draper: Upwardly Mobile

I’ve seen what happens when you don’t push for it. Follow your dreams. You may start pretty, but you get old fast. You become a secondary character in your own life. A wife.

It’s the kind of war you can’t let them know you’re waging. And you can’t ever fall asleep – or onto a mattress – while on watch.

What they don’t tell you is, you still have to pay your dues. And your dues may mean bringing coffee to men, again and again. A wife on the clock.

At home, my mother had it made and brought to her by the help. Something I think about when I pour.

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Sally Draper Contemplates the Interstellar Mission

Apparently the planets are aligned,

so they can shoot (launch? dispatch?)

the two pods into deep space – they’ll

hop from orbit to orbit, hitching lifts,

their trajectories curving out, dots

connecting to form a conch-like shell.

I guess Voyager is, kind of, a conch.

We’ve spoken into it, hoping sound travels.

Everything about the mission is designed

with beauty in mind: the hope of it all. The sounds

on the record (whales, that kiss from a mother

to her baby, and my favourite, thunder).

The fact there are two, a pair, twins,

a couple mated for life like swans.

So how come when I think of those things

hurtling out, carrying Earth’s seeds, all I can

think is that we are fucking the universe

like a man fucks a woman, and I want to fuck

the world like that too?

§

Sally Draper Takes Carla Out for Lunch

It’s taken me a year to find

her. There’s no maid directory.

There should be a system; something.

I’d no idea we could live with women

and they could be taken from us and we

could not even know their full names.

She cooked me hot dogs. She taught me

fractions. Once, she spanked me. I

deserved it, and she took no pleasure in it.

I wanted to take her to a nice restaurant, but

on the phone she said no. The lunch counter

at Woolworth’s it is.

When she arrives

she looks the same to me. Except my size,

instead of the powerful figure she’d been.

I stand to hug her, but she sits before I can.

She orders a clubhouse. I barely eat

my salad. I tell her about college. Classes,

living with the girls.

She tells me things have been fine,

she went to work for another family,

with twins. Smart boys. Nice boys.

I tell her she should have pulled the toothpick out

of her sandwich first. She smiles. Pulls

it out. It comes out clean, and I feel sick.

When I can’t stop the tears from coming,

she holds out her napkin. Then changes

her mind, daubs at my eyes.

I thought. I thought.

She says, I know, sweet pea.

You know, you’re nothing like her.

She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

When I get back home I dye my hair

a dull yet shocking shade of black.

§

Sally Draper On Doctors

As soon as she came out,

I bought Surgeon Barbie. Her scrubs

are short, it’s true. Still, score

one for us. I put her box

on my desk for when I study.

I will worship no idols beyond thee!

………………….*

Then it’s Miss America Barbie.

For a laugh, I buy her too. Put

them side by side. But one day

I come home drunk and open her

so I can comb her hair.

I will worship no god but irony.

………………….*

He asks me which I’d rather be:

the career girl or the beauty. Of course,

I say the surgeon. He knows it’s true.

What I don’t say? My doctor, dentist, gynecologist,

therapist… men. Always will be.

I worship you in hopes you’ll worship me.

§

Sally Draper Hears the News

I get the call. Feel my face

go cold. The lion can’t die.

No tears, yet – not till

I’m on the subway, really

trying not to cry. I let a man

give me his seat, and ride

in comfort all the way uptown.

At the wake, I speak, read

Yeats, though I know

he’d have preferred O’Hara.

Tougher. But tough,

the day isn’t for him.

It’s for us, the living.

And I wait for it. The fire.

I expect it to ignite in me,

his fire, it’s my

right, I’m the eldest,

the heir. But the cold

persists. A cold there’s no

coming in from.

Twice a week, I try

his death on for size.

A coat of imaginary grief

I’ll wear like armour.

I should send a card

for his birthday this year.

§

Sally Draper’s First Abortion

Junior year is hard on the girls. Two got married

and quit school. One became a drunk and flunked.

Then there’s me, failing for no good reason

and for the first time, two men in one month.

They ask me who’s picking me up —

I lie. Say my brother, though I haven’t called either

in weeks. I’ll take a cab home, have a nap.

Then study. Clean the kitchen. Be useful.

Except: I didn’t know you were awake

when they did it. I guess I imagined being under.

A calculated fainting, then woken with smelling salts

by ladies in waiting – my problems gone. But no.

Bet she never wondered what kind of mother

she’d be… I call her. There’s no answer. I will not cry.

They say a name, the name I gave them, the other

me, and I stand. Put on my father’s face.

So this is what it’s like to be brave.

§

Sally Draper Will Never Do Mescaline Again

It’s natural. It’s from a cactus. Native Americans

in Mehico have been using it

for thousands of years.

Yeah, but there weren’t cars you could get hit by.

Or fifth-story windows to jump out of.

Do you trust yourself, Sally?

Not really.

[…]

Just, put it in a drink or something.

I don’t want to taste it.

Even you have limits

for what you’ll put in your mouth,

huh?

Funny.

Now we wait. Soon the backs of our

eyelids will be like stained glass.

Puff, the magic dragon, lived by the sea…

My dad used to sing me that song.

But he’d turn Little Jackie Paper

into Little Sally Draper…

That’s sweet.

Ehn.

That song’s about grass. You want some?

It is not.

And yes.

It’s a well documented fact. Ask anyone.

[Without warning, it hits me. I want to ask him.

I want to call, wake him up, beg him

not for the truth

but for what I want to hear.

He was always good

at what I want to hear. But

I don’t know his number

off by heart, I’d have to

call information.]

I’m feeling pretty good. How about you, Sall…?

Sallster? I’m sall…ivating. For you.

Shut up.

Are you crying?

I’m Jackie, and I’m Puff.

I left and am left behind.

[…]

I am going to be like this

for the rest of my life.

Would that be so bad?

[…]

—Jennica Harper

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Jennica Harper’s books of poetry are What It Feels Like for a Girl (Anvil Press) and The Octopus and Other Poems (Signature Editions). In 2012, What It Feels Like for a Girl was published as an e-book for Kindle and Kobo, and was adapted into one-third of the critically acclaimed theatrical experience Initiation Trilogy at the Vancouver International Writers Festival (Marita Dachsel/Electric Company). The Sally Draper Poems are part of a new manuscript, Wood. Jennica is also a screenwriter and is currently working on YTV’s teen comedy Mr. Young.

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Our guest introducer Tammy Armstrong‘s poetry has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in Canada, US, Europe, UK, and Algeria. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, the Governor General’s Award, and short-listed twice for the CBC Literary Prize. She is currently a PhD candidate at the University of New Brunswick, working in Critical Animal Studies and North Atlantic Poetry.

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