AUSB Odyssey - Summer 2013

The Odyssey Summer 2013

Anthology Edition

The best from the Odyssey 2010-2012

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T h e Od ys s ey Contributors STUDENTS & alumni WRITERS (Pages)

FACULTY WRITERS

Cecily Barrie (34)

Stuart Light M.A., M.Ed. (18, 32)

Shonna Berk (21)

Shara McGuire Keller, M.F.A (16)

Chelsea Bets Christenson (11, 29)

Meryl Peters, M.F.A. (15)

Tessa Eckerman (38)

Art & photography

Jason Erwin (22)

Cecily Barrie (12, 34)

“Atty” Atsiylah Patricia Garfinkel (13, 46)

Chelsea Bets Christenson (2)

Jamaica Horton (14, 44)

Jeffrey Lovelace (Cover, 8, 9, 10, 17, 18, 23, 27, 28, 31, 37, 41, 44)

Heather Laney (36) Jeffrey Lovelace (26, 40) Megan Liegh Martello (8)

Jenna Martinelli (43) Alex Richardson (20, 24, 25, 29, 49) Brooke Robison (13, 21, 32, 47)

Todd Easton Mills (43) Tara Patrick (30) Brooke Robison (20) Richard Somdah (48) Denise Thorpe-Eheler (35) Chelsea Bets Christenson

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An thol ogy Staff “Atty” Atsiylah Patricia Garfinkel (Nonfiction Editor)

“Atty Garfinkel WAS an Environmental Studies concentration in the BA program. Atty is a proud single mom, tickled pink to be alum of AUSB and is now a proud graduate student at American where she is working on her Masters of Science in Environmental Policy and Management. Atty dislikes talking about herself in the third person, enjoys long walks on the beach and wants everyone to know that Christine Forte can answer that question for you; Dawn Osborn can direct you to the right agency; Stuart Light understands that; and Meryl Peters doesn’t “give” grades, you have to earn them. And with that- See ya!”

Jamaica Horton (Literary Editor)

Jamaica is currently an MFA student at AULA where she hopes to continue her pursuit of creative endeavors. Currently steeped in poetry up to her ears, she is loving every minute of it and learning “lots of good stuff.” She eventually hopes to put her knowledge and skills to use in writing education, because “teaching others to write cohesive, creative, and effective papers is where my heart truly lies.”

Jesse Kimball (Editor Elect)

Jesse is currently past the halfway point on his Antioch journey, and there’s no looking back for him. Out on the distant horizon, he catches a feint glimpse of his future: his first degree, his first child, and his first wife (but hopefully also the last!). In preparation for these added responsibilities, Jesse is taking on his most difficult challenge yet. He might be ready to graduate, he might even be ready to be a husband and father, but is he ready to be editor-in-chief of The Odyssey? Stay tuned…

Jeffrey Lovelace (Layout, Lame Duck Managing Editor)

A monstrously insignificant force in modern American literature, Lovelace is a collection of jarring homogenous contradictions. As a gregariously private person, he strives to eschew obfuscation by living life on the cutting edge of moderation. Some find him unwieldy while others consider him delightful addition to any toolbox. Despite Mr. Lovelace’s consuming paranoia that no one is plotting against him, he remains convinced that he is a figment of his own imagination, especially when forced to write about himself in the third person.

Meryl Peters - Faculty Advisor

Meryl earned her M.F.A. in Creative Writing in 1999 as part of the inaugural M.F.A class of Antioch University Los Angeles. Her short fiction has appeared in various literary magazines, and her novel is currently under consideration. Meryl teaches a cross section of writing and literature classes in the B.A. program at AUSB and is a member of the SBCC English Department. Her personal heroes and first students are her two children from whom she continues to learn as she does from her AUSB writers. Rule #1 in Meryl’s creative classes is “There Are No Rules.”

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T h e Od ys s ey Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s CREATIVE NONFICTION 8 Big Girls Don’t Cry

Megan Liegh Martello

11 The Most Dangerous Thing to Want is More Chelsea Bets Christenson

14 National Breast Cancer Awareness Month Jamaica Horton

15 The Heroes of Antioch Meryl Peters, M.F.A.

18 La Conchita

Stuart Light M.A., M.Ed.

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The Power of Addiction

Shonna Berk

22 How a Carpet Company Changed Business Forever Jason Erwin

24 For Blossom Cecily Barrie

32 The Ultimate Terrorist

Stuart Light M.A., M.Ed.

34 The Whole of Life Cecily Barrie

38 Making Human Rights Our Compass for

Globalization: What I Learned from Mary Robinson Tessa Eckerman

Columns 6 Introduction - A Look Back, A Peek Forward

50 Calendar of Events

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S umm er - 2 01 3 Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s Poetry Civilized 13 “Atty” Atsiylah Patricia Garfinkel

All I Want for Earth Day is a Ladder for My Friends Shara McGuire Keller, M.F.A

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My Other Half 20 Brooke Robison

The Truth About Smiling 29 Chelsea Bets Christenson

Giving as Perpetuated by the Inhabitants of Eden 30 Tara Patrick

Making a Difference in the World 35 Denise Thorpe-Eheler

The Traveler in India 43 Todd Easton Mills

Inside Her Room 45 Jamaica Horton

Heroes 48 Richard Somdah

Fiction Heroes and Homework 26 Jeffrey Lovelace

Letting Go 36 Heather Laney

Superman’s Third Child 40 Jeffrey Lovelace

Do the Ends Justify the Means?

“Atty” Atsiylah Patricia Garfinkel

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T h e Od ys s ey A Note from the Odyssey Staff

A Look Back, A Peek Forward Welcome to the summer 2013 issue of the AUSB Odyssey entitled Anthology: The Best of 2010 through 2012. This edition contains many

Santa Barbara community. Please submit your work to: odyssey.ausb@antioch.edu The Odyssey has featured many excellent

exciting firsts, and a few melancholy lasts, in the

works

and

writers

since

Megan

Martello

ongoing genesis of this publication. Let’s take the

resurrected the publication in 2010, but most

“lasts” first.

of the current student body did not have the and

opportunity to read the previous issues. Therefore

nonfiction editor Atty Garfinkel wrote a major

we decided to treat you to some of the more

share of the past several editions. Now Atty and

thought provoking compositions from our recent

Jamaica have graduated and will soon head off

past. The Odyssey staff chose to limit the eligible

to their respective graduate schools. All of us in

editions to those from 2010 through 2012. This

the AUSB community will miss them. We thank

way you don’t have to reread anything from the

Jamaica and Atty for making the Odyssey what it

last two quarters.

Literary

editor

Jamaica

Horton

is today, plus making it so much fun for the whole

We thank Megan Martello for reviving the Odyssey, and also thank her successor, Chelsea

staff.

Managing editor Jeffrey Lovelace is also

Bets Christenson, for moving it forward. In

stepping aside to “spend more time with family,”

addition, we thank Hanna Holbrook and Meryl

but he failed to specify whose.

Peters for their faculty guidance.

So with the editorial staff moving on to new

Most of all we hope you enjoy these

adventures, who on earth will keep this noble

inspiring, moving, and entertaining pieces from

journal from collapsing? Only one person alive

our Odyssey contributors whose voices still echo

could step in and hold the Odyssey upright, a

down Antioch’s halls.

Ω

mighty oak of a man named Jesse Kimball. Jesse is another exceptional writer and citizen, beloved

A Note from the Editors:

by all who know him. He will not only keep our

We attempted to contact the authors included

Odyssey standing strong, but will doubtless build

in this Anthology edition to afford them the

it up to new heights. Welcome Jesse to your first

opportunity to revise their pieces. We edited some

Odyssey editorship.

fiction and essays, and some are presented as

Both the outgoing and incoming staff invite

originally published. Most poetry is reproduced

you to continue submitting your fine creations,

“as is” with as little reformatting as possible under

and to keep the Odyssey a vital part of the Antioch

the circumstances. Ω

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The Best from 2010 - 2012

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T h e Od ys s ey Creative Nonfiction: Megan Liegh Martello

B i g G i r l s D o n’ t C r y

Jeffrey Lovelace

I got my tans,” he told me. My knees gave out and left me crumpled on the sidewalk. This was before everyone wore ACUs, and tan uniforms meant one thing: desert. The phone lines echoed silence for a moment. Twelve days had passed since our last conversation, during which he had excitedly reported about his first two days in Germany. “Are you there?” His voice came through, soft and strong.

“When?” I asked him.

“I leave for Baghdad… today.”

This can’t be happening. I knew this day was coming. Almost all of them were going now and it was only a matter of time before he joined them.

I hoped he had escaped it, for now at least, when his orders sent him to Germany. I prayed for him to have an easy tour, with leave weekends spent seeing Europe. They can’t send you two places at once, I had foolishly assumed. Never assume anything with the military. I had also assumed one day I would be in the same boat. Never assume anything.

First appeared in the “Transformations” edition - fall, 2011 8

An t h o l o g y “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m here,” I told him. He was my best friend and he needed me more than ever now. Get up.

I made my way from the sidewalk, stumbling slightly on the newly uneven ground. The phone slid from my hand as I reached to pull one of the wood chips from my sandal and I cursed.

My sister looked out from the window of her classroom, which I was supposed to be helping her set up. Her movement to wave me inside changed to a look of concern as I motioned “one minute,” turning my back to her as I picked up my phone.

“Yeah, I dropped my phone.” I traced my left hand along the white bricks, all the same, as I walked to the back of the building toward the playground. Swings. Those are comforting.

Nothing was really of true comfort at the moment, but they would have to do.

“Are the boots more comfortable than the black ones at least,” I asked, in a poor attempt to lighten the tone.

He laughed, that infectious laugh. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“You’re the one that’s crazy, crazy,” I retorted, as we returned to the days of drill sergeants calling us every silly name in the book in an instant.

“I think we both might be,” he sighed. I nodded and knew he was nodding at the same moment. “When I get my leave, I’m flying you to Florida.”

I wasn’t going to argue that. A young teacher pulled into the parking lot, blasting the local pop music station at full volume. Leaving her car running, she darted into the building, as that Fergie song drifted to me from her open window.

“Like a little school maid, in a school yard… big girls don’t cry…”

We remained on the phone until the sun turned low and orange, until finally, he boarded his plane.

Not one time since that day have I heard that song without thinking of that exact moment…the

I had also assumed one day I would be in the same boat.

Never assume anything. heat of the afternoon mixed with the chill of the unknown, and how something as simple as a swing set can balance out the seemingly insurmountable vastness of what lies ahead. But, for what it’s worth, that song was wrong. I have never been ashamed to cry, for closely tied with sadness are love and appreciation for life’s blessings. Sorrow complements joy, giving laughter more meaning.

And, because of life’s enormity, our bond is even stronger through a decade of lessons in love, war, illness, friendship, loss, and the miracles which have transformed us both. Ω

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T h e Od ys s ey

Jeffrey Lovelace

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S u m m er - 2 0 1 3 Personal Essay: Chelsea Bets Christenson

The Most Dangerous Thing to Want is More With a sound like breaking promises, the air conditioner shuts off in the blackness, and just for a moment, this little concrete room, six floors from the street, feels like the safest place in the world. All at once, the sleepless sounds from the stoop step aside to let the soft music from my speakers take the floor, and the bright city lights, so harsh and evasive at times, take on a temporary muted glow, filling the room with an emotion I never expected to feel.

in the last moment now eludes us, leaving us naked and shaking beneath our own crumbling self-resolve. As we lie here in shivering silence, skin bare and trembling, pressed together as if the closeness of our bodies could make up for the distance of our hearts, we become truly naked for the first time.

The darkness presses down on us, smothering every attempt I make to save the moment, and by the time I finally raise my head to face him, his eyes are

Beside me in the blackness lies the presence that attracts my every thought, absorbing my emotions before I can feel them myself, taking from me everything he can steal. But just for tonight, I don’t mind; I’m just happy to be feeling something, something I didn’t expect to find 3,000 miles from home, in a tiny dorm room in the darkness. And if he agrees, he doesn’t say, but that’s okay too, because I’m half in love with the mystery.

In the heat of the moment, we get down to what matters, or at least what matters to him. And in a furry of words never meant to be spoken at a time like this, I tell him my vision of paradise. My usual charm and wit abandon me in the blackness, and I lie beside him, wishing I could lie to him, telling him tonight is all I want. And what hurts the most, is I know he wants me too.

Just as suddenly as it came, the velvet safety leaves my room, filling it once more with the harsh noise and fear of the outside world. Voices from the street collide against the windows, and the music that fueled our emotions only moments before, exists now only in place of them hiding something too ugly to be revealed. And the closeness we felt

closed to me, and I know we just became lovers for the last time.

The endlessness of the last moment is comparable only to the shortness of this one. And as I fall through the blackness, wishing the stranger beside me would abandon good appearances and just leave, I wonder if the world’s greatest loneliness is self-inflicted.

The air conditioner comes to life once more, and the warmth of our combined bodies disintegrates instantaneously, making us cold to more than just touch. And in that moment, the moment after the moment in which something powerful happened, I realize that our forever never had a chance.

Because the ones who claim to love you, will only try to leave you, and destiny only calls your number once. If you knew who you were meant for, there would never exist a doubt; stars would never cross, but there’d be no such thing as mystery. And as I fight back my shame, I know this is the last night life will be keeping secrets from me. In the moments of fleeting forever, I saw eternity as temporarily as a one night stand. I know all the happily-ever-afters in the world can’t save us now. Ω

First appeared in the “Love” edition - spring, 2011 11

T h e Od ys s ey Art: Cecily Barrie

Voice

activism noun 1. the policy or action of using vigorous campaigning to bring about political or social change.

As members of the Antioch community, we are urged to impact social change at every turn, with each assignment or course study preparing us for activism as a life perspective. In many ways, this may be what led us to choose Antioch, and while that is certainly the first step, we must venture further. It is not enough that we banter with each other, insulated by our educations. We are tasked with much greater responsibility, for knowing and staying silent is perhaps the greatest crime against our humanity. We must take our knowledge and passions out into the world, educating those who do not yet know, those who have not yet heard. We must be the voice.

First appeared in the “Making a Difference� edition - winter, 2012 12

The Best from 2010 - 2012 Poetry: “Atty” Atsiylah Patricia Garfinkel

Civ iliz ed

Civilized, Dignified, Wrapped up in historic lies.

How can a war be civil When war is far from civilized?

Brother killing brother, Father versus mother.

This is not civilized, There is no way to justify The blood and pain as children cry.

War conventions, And your treaties; Only serve to prove us needing, Of your attention, And intervention.

We fight these wars for others; The battles against lovers; The acid rain falls down; And we poison the ground; Yet let’s fight for our neighbors lies; Because man, we are civilized.

Is there no other way No other price we can pay?

Must our youth die, For the sake of being civilized?

Brother-father-sister-mother, I beg you stop us before we make another Person civilized.

Listening to lies; Ignoring the widows cries; Lusting for victory’s prize; Cutting familial ties; So we can pretend to be civilized.

Never dancing to the drum, Never teaching our own young; Eating food that kills; Bouncing checks to pay bills.

We will cut off our hair; And wear the clothes they tell us to wear.

We will deny our past; And learn all too fast, How to tell lies; As we become Civilized.

The elders cry As the old ways die.

We don’t know why We would want to be Civilized?

What makes us think we are civilized?

The way we rape our land; With eco sticker in hand?

The way we teach the youth; And deprive them of the truth?

The way we accept all we meet; As we throw them out on the street?

The might of our fearless gun; As kids kill each other for fun?

Brooke Robison

First appeared in the “Villains and Monsters” edition - fall, 2012 13

T h e Od ys s ey Staff Picks - Social Justice: Jamaica Horton

National Breast Cancer Awareness Month Ask yourself one question “Is there really anything more worthy of celebration than breasts?”

Hurray! October is a month of celebration.

From the festive harvests of the fields to the macabre merriment of Halloween, October is definitely a month to highlight in your social calendar. So, while you are busy planning all the get-togethers and parties you’ll attend, add one more event to that list; a mammogram, because it is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month (NBCAM), and healthy breasts are the best breasts.

Ask yourself one question “Is there really anything more worthy of celebration than breasts?”

No, of course not! Ok, one could make an argument for marriage equality or the ending of world poverty and starvation, but after that it’s got to be the boobs. What other part of the human body can be both soothing and exciting at the same time, simultaneously lifesustaining and pleasure-giving? Depending on whom they belong to and what they are being used for, (yes, that’s right, they are multi-functional), breasts are beautiful and sensuous, nourishing and comforting, or disturbing and strange (the images of my Aunt Susan’s will haunt me forever!) Regardless of what part they play in your life, breasts are definitely a firm,

at least in their youth, member of our society; which is why they should be cared for and protected through preventative measures and cancer research and also, why in this month of festivity, you should take time to get the breasts in your life checked out.

That’s where NBCAM comes in to help. NBCAM is a collection of national public service organizations, professional medical associations, and government agencies “…working together to promote breast cancer awareness, share information on the disease, and provide greater access to services.” Currently, they are working on “...educating and empowering women to take charge of their own breast health” by connecting them with low to no-cost providers. To access this service use the info provided below: Information Line 1 (800) 511-2300 (in state) M-F: 9 am – 7 pm.

In English, Spanish, Cantonese, Mandarin, Korean, and Vietnamese Reference: http://nbcam.org/ Even though this piece is written in humor and with a bit of jest, cancer is a serious, potentially devastating disease. So please, do your part, and keep our breasts healthy by scheduling that mammogram today! Ω

First appeared in the “Villains and Monsters” edition - fall, 2012 14

An t h o l o g y Faculty Voice: Meryl Peters, M.F.A.

The Heroes of Antioch

Greetings AUSB Community. On behalf of the Odyssey Staff welcome to our Summer Quarter issue: The “Heroes” edition. In the call for submissions, our editor, Chelsea Christenson, asks, “So, what makes a hero?” She states, “A hero is the product of a rebirth: when an ordinary person encounters extraordinary circumstances and is selflessly motivated to become extraordinary themselves. Heroes embolden us to be better people. Because they are the best of us, we must aspire to tell their stories.”

Indeed, this issue aspires to “tell their stories;” heroes from the obvious to the invisible, from local to global, from family to friends; women and men, young and old, clearly our writers and staff illustrate that there is no one-size-fits-all hero.

When asked to define Hero I reply: You are my hero, not because you are a student, faculty member or staff here, but rather because collectively you “become extraordinary.” The AUSB community is the sum of its parts; the AUSB community is the intersection, the integration, and the intermingling of us all. The AUSB community is first person plural.

Students: In the classroom you at once

challenge and inspire; in the classroom you give and take, in the classroom you never cease to amaze your instructors with your intellect, inquiry, and intent.

Outside you give back, you give voice, and you give credit to the community to which you belong.

Fellow instructors: Your students respect and admire your expertise, your dedication, and your sense of humor. You inspire your colleagues to be better teachers, and your selflessness sets examples for all to follow.

Staff: On a daily basis, quietly, you support us all. You are the scaffolding from which we become the best we can be.

You are my hero, not because you are a student, faculty member or staff at AUSB, but rather because collectively you “become extraordinary.”

Indeed, when working together we are “better people;” thus our community is “the best of us” and ultimately we earn our place among Heroes.

In the spirit of community, the Odyssey staff invites every one at AUSB to submit to our next edition. Watch for the call for submissions and theme week two. The Odyssey remains student driven, however, we welcome theme-based faculty and staff submissions, from which our staffwill select one to include in every issue.

Thank you in advance. All of us at your Odyssey wish you a productive and enjoyable Summer Quarter. Ω

First appeared in the “Heroes” edition - summer, 2011 15

T h e Od ys s ey Poetry: Shara McGuire Keller, M.F.A

All I Want for Earth Day is a Ladder for My Friends Dancing light on the surface Cool secrets beneath Bubble up Run in shadow Find a way.

The river always finds a way To keep its ghosts alive.

Flashing scales, Twenty, Fifty, Hell, an armada In a secret pool Slim and spotted like advancing gravel Fractured by ripples, Steady Steady They watch me move past with the riverbank Oh yes, they look inside my eye Side by side They slide their way up the cottonwood dream Legends in our time.

Up ahead is a goddam end to it A concrete leviathan 200 feet high A border, a straight edge, a trap A great white absolute in this shapeshifting world A hangman where the river needs to go.

Even water could not find a way To scale that gallows But instinct, O instinct must break its heart, trying.

First appeared in the “Earth Day� edition - spring, 2010 16

S u m m er - 2 0 1 3

Jeffrey Lovelace

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T h e Od ys s ey Personal Essay: Stuart Light M.A., M.Ed.

La Conchita

Jeffrey Lovelace

“All are parts of one stupendous whole,

conceits. Or an enormous slab of earth, liquefied by

whose body nature is and God the soul.”

torrential rains, releases its grip on a mountainside

and renders inconsequential the feeble armor of

– Alexander Pope

our imagined primacy. Suddenly all distinctions What does Mother Nature teach us that we cannot seem to learn ourselves? Since the beginning

vanish like clouds, leaving only our common human vulnerability.

we Homo sapiens have obsessively invented ways

We become habituated to our lives and each

of separating ourselves from each other, and her.

other, existing mostly in a state of semiconsciousness,

Every manner of distinction has been conceived

sleepwalking through time, sustained by fairytales,

and ferociously defended. Through the lens of

and convinced of our power. Then the awakening

religion, race, ethnicity, class, gender, age, political

from our slumber by, as A.E. Housman called it,

party, sexual preference, and other markers of

“Nature, heartless, witless, nature.” Shaken to the

difference, we see our power defined by what we

core, our illusions, that we are better than others,

think we are, and are not. A monster wave races

that what we have will afford us special protection,

beyond its shores and washes away our ignorant

and that we actually need those things we think will

First appeared in the “Transformations” edition - fall, 2011 18

The Best from 2010 - 2012 make us happy, scatter before us like dust.

foundations crumble.

Thoreau spent a good deal of his life in nature.

La Conchita has become another symbol

He found Walden, and told us that Walden is

of profound sadness and great hope. The tragic

everywhere, if we ourselves are there. Thoreau was

consequences of this event were a very high price to

too rich in spirit to worry about amassing wealth,

pay for its lessons of hope, but they were everywhere:

and too courageous to worry about security. Just

in the heroic rescue efforts, the collective grief of

by opening his eyes, he found that life provides

the neighborhood, the response of the community

everything necessary for peace and enjoyment, and

beyond its boundaries, and the coming together, in

that nature is bountiful with gifts and sustenance grand enough for all to share. However, in our modern, mechanized, and alienated existence, we are more apt to experience confluence with nature when she is not so kind. We aggressively encroach upon her, and carve her into “private property.”

Until the moment when she voids our deed with one

The sky will open and the rain will fall. The wind will blow and fires will rage. The earth will move and seas will rise, and our collective heart will keep beating.

mighty stroke of her random hand.

The abandonment of illusion in the wake of a

memoriam, of residents and the many helpers that

natural disaster can be nature’s gift to us, her teaching.

joined from the outside. Eyes were filled with tears,

All the best parts of humanity rush forth, though

and hearts with mourning. People embraced, and

they never seem to stay long enough. However, in

stood arm-in-arm. It was humanity, once again, in

their expression, we learn about our potential, and

its heartbreakingly finest hour.

we receive a glimpse of what is possible. We see the

As of this writing, the clouds have blown away

depth of empathy, the breadth of compassion, and

and the sun shines its light upon us once again. But

we witness human kindness in all of its glory. We

are we illuminated? Will we remember the lessons

see hope for the human race, that there is evolution

we have been taught? Hopefully we can hold on

and elevation still to come, and yet, it is here now,

to the feelings that rise within us during and after

too often hidden behind our walls.

calamities, and learn to carry these feelings forward

The sky will open and the rain will fall. The

into our everyday lives. Nature, who has none, is

wind will blow and fires will rage. The earth will

asking us to give up our prejudices. Water, mud,

move and seas will rise, and our collective heart will

fire, ice, and wind will consume everything in their

keep beating. Our destiny is that of the universe,

path; so will empathy, compassion, understanding,

and of all the planets and stars that fill our eyes

and love. May La Conchita become a touchstone to

and inspire our dreams. Our work as humans is

help us remember.

to recognize our connection to all of this, and each other, before our roofs are torn away and our

-January, 2005

Ω 19

T h e Od ys s ey Poetry: Brooke Robison

My Other Half

Alex Richardson

My other half She's to my right, Bearing braids, Red hair that curls in perfect circles Upon her shoulders.

The queen of hearts, Oppositely matching my spades, We're stuck inside a costume parade, Where everyone is mirrored to see Their opposites the same.

Her power is my death, The center of attention In every conversation.

How can I show emotion Without lashing out?

If love is a devotion, I might turn it upside down, But if devotion was a love, Then hers I will forever miss.

A mourning to discover, A time apart with doubt, That before each can be trusted, Red and black bleeds, Blood: that's life.

And the truth must pour From each one's mouth.

Until then the swords are sharp, Held in defense in forward march, And our decks behind prepare for war, Lining up to top one another, But both must win for honor, Or one might fall apart.

But if neither one initiates the battle’s rage, This game will never start.

First appeared in the “Villains and Monsters” edition - fall, 2012 20

An t h o l o g y Personal Essay: Shonna Berk

The Power of Addiction that the addict was not with whom I wanted to work, but rather their families. While the addicted person has multiple rehabilitation centers in which to recover, the families rarely get the help they need. In order to keep some sanity in their lives, family often enable addicts, allowing them to continue their drug use. It’s my goal to help families understand that they’re not alone.

From prescription medication, to crack cocaine, everyone has a friend, family member, or acquaintance who has suffered because of Brooke Robison

addiction. Growing up, I felt anger towards my

A household of chaos and confusion was my

father, but my anger has now transformed into

reality growing up. My mother escaped in any

passion. I strive to help those around me; be

way she could be it in the barn with the horses,

it volunteering for an organization, or simply

or picking weeds to save her vegetable garden.

smiling at a homeless individual, regardless of

Sometimes, I would peer out the window just to

whether they are homeless due to drug abuse,

catch a glimpse of her smile. She was the rock

mental illness, or life tragedy. Every person has

holding my family together, but it wasn’t until I

the potential to make a difference, it just takes

was twelve years old that I realized the reason why

courage, strength, and the discipline to give of

she needed an escape. My father is an addict, and

yourself without reward.

has been since before I was born. At a young age, I

I could easily look back on my teenage years

knew that drugs were something I wanted to keep

and be angry, instead I am grateful. I am not

away from. I saw how destructive drugs can be

grateful or proud of my father’s decisions, but I am

through what they did to my father, and my family.

beyond thankful for my mother’s love, strength,

Four years ago I realized I would have a

and compassion. She has taught me to pave my

career path because of his choices. I began my

own path, and has let me make mistakes in the

journey in addiction studies attending Pierce

hope that I would succeed. I am looking forward

College in the San Fernando Valley. Surrounded

to my future, and am excited to see where my path

by people in recovery, I came to the realization

is headed.

Ω

First appeared in the “Making a Difference” edition - winter, 2011 21

T h e Od ys s ey Social Justice: Jason Erwin

How a Carpet Company Changed Business Forever Large multinational corporations have

petroleum intensive company into one which

the capital to go green; however, this trend

did not use a single input which the earth could

appears to manifest itself in small business

not naturally regenerate by 2020. He stated,

disproportionally. Thinking about this question

“There must be a leader, unless someone leads

led me on a search to find multinationals that

no one will, and thanks to the people at Interface,

were going green. While watching a TED video,

I have become a recovering plunderer” (TED

entitled “Ray Anderson on the Business Logic of

2009).

Sustainability,” from February 2009, recorded in Long Beach, CA, I realized I had found such a company. Mr. Anderson was also featured in the 2004 documentary, The Corporation, and Leonardo DiCaprio’s 2007 film, The 11th Hour. Mr. Anderson was the founder and CEO

Industry must replace fossil fuel with renewable,

bicyclical

fuel

sources.

Mr.

Interface has dispelled the myth that you have to choose between profits and the environment.

of Interface Inc., an American pre-made carpet tile company, until his death on August 8, 2011.

Mr.

Anderson

credits

Paul

Anderson realized this could reduce Interface’s

Hawken’s

impact on the climate and biosphere to zero.

1993 book, The Ecology of Commerce, for

In the 12 years since implementation of this

his environmental awakening. He described

program, Interface has reduced their net carbon

reading it as a “spear in the chest experience,”

emissions by 82% in absolute tonnage and their

after which Anderson started crisscrossing the

water usage by over 40%. Renewable materials

country with near-evangelical fervor, telling

now compose 25% of their products; 27% of the

fellow executives about the need to reduce waste

energy used to make them is renewable, and

and carbon emissions. Mr. Anderson argues

74,000 tons of used carpet has been diverted

that the radical decline in the biosphere has

from landfills, closing the loop through reverse

been caused in large by business and industry.

logistics and postconsumer recycling (TED

Ironically, the businesses within this industry

2009). Over the same time frame, sales have

are the only ones with the power, capital, and

increased two-thirds and profits have doubled.

pervasiveness to right the wrongs of the last

According to climatologists, this is the level all

century (TED 2009).

industry must reach by 2050 in order to save

Mr. Anderson’s goal was to turn his

our planet.

First appeared in the “Making a Difference” edition - winter, 2012 22

S umm er - 2 01 3 Interface has dispelled the myth that

In order for our planet and species to

you have to choose between profits and the

prosper, all of us must be on board with Mr.

environment. The improvements are said to

Anderson’s plan. This proposition requires a

pay for themselves. Mr. Anderson claims their

restructuring of our social world in order to

products are the best they have ever been

create a world in which we are all happier,

because of the unexpected rise in employee

while at the same time, requiring less “stuff.” If

innovation due to a holistic commitment to the

we can all pull together to accomplish this goal,

environment. It has also helped them attract

the future of our planet and unborn children

the best and brightest minds in the industry

will be saved from the peril my generation is

with an unbelievable employee retention rate.

currently facing. Ω

Jeffrey Lovelace

23

T h e Od ys s ey Personal Essay: Cecily Barrie

For Blossom children stirring my grandmother’s home with giddy shrieks.

Five kids were raised in this house; of which my mother is one, sharing bedrooms and memories, tragedies and triumphs; wallpaper and shag carpeting. At current count, my grandmother boasts a total of nine grandchildren “and nine great-grandchildren, with several honorary

members

of

family

and

spouses

along the way. On any given month, my family assembles, celebrating this, commemorating that.

There is a steady plume of laughter, opinion, and unwavering love that follows wherever we go.

Alex Richardson

There’s a house on Montalvo Drive that

Most of the great-grandchildren are below the age of five, so there’s always a flurry of courageous if unsure footing, flirty glances, and messy faces.

invites light and breeze in a way that makes it

During a recent gathering of all that is right

always the perfect temperature and never the

with the Montalvo house, in the far recesses of

wrong time of day. Lush, floppy roses in sunset

my mind, I was contemplating heroics. Just who

ambers and oranges billow from stems that line

were my heroes? I thought about all the writing

the driveway and a warm floral aroma hugs you

greats who have dropped the crumbs for me to

toward the front door.

follow home: Dorothy Parker, Tom Robbins, Jack

There are two modest bedrooms, a small

Kerouack, Joan Didion, Jhumpa Lahiri, F. Scott

bathroom, and a den to the back of the house.

Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, and countless others.

The front of the house belongs to the open flow

I tried to picture every teacher I’ve ever had,

of a living room, dining area, and small but airy

those who have lifted me up and broken me down,

kitchen that spies the whole of a well-tended

offering me the opportunity to prove, if only to

backyard. When the house is empty it can feel

myself, that I could. I racked my brain to think

tiny in the most comforting way, and when full

of the childhood caped crusaders whose golden

it feels robust and agreeable, like the swaying

lassos and bright Spandex had alerted my young

pink poppies that dwarf the fourth generation of

mind to the imaginary call of bravery that would

First appeared in the “Heroes” edition - summer, 2011 24

T h e B e s t f rom 2 01 0 - 2 01 2 turn out to be a very essential part of adulthood.

All of this contemplation was nestled between hugs and mini conversations of catch up, advice, appreciation, and history, making it seem perhaps a little ruddier than it actually was. As the afternoon set into evening and the

My heroes don’t wear capes (that they’ll admit to), or leap buildings in a single bound (even if they say they do).

house began to spill its contents back into the impending workweek, I unequivocally and gladly

The ultimate heroes are the ones I afford to

answered my own question. Sure, I’d catalogued

take for granted. My heroes are that house and the

some very essential mentors who have inspired

couple who are the very reason for our lineage.

my writing or prodded my academics, those who

My heroes are the people who have taught by

have nudged me in this direction or that, some

example for my entire life, that no matter how

without ever knowing my name. I’d taken a good

different we see things, no matter how far we

assessment of what inspires me now, and has all

feel we’ve gotten from home, no matter how hurt

along the way, but those aren’t the actual heroes

we think we are, there is always a place that will

to me.

hold us and love us and eventually want us back.

My heroes are my mother, my grandparents, my aunts, my uncles, and my cousins. My heroes are my family.

My heroes don’t wear capes (that they’ll admit to), or leap buildings in a single bound (even if they say they do). They don’t possess supernatural strength or x-ray vision. What they do have is the inexplicable bond that gets people out of bed in the middle of the night to go wherever they are needed, without fail my heroes tell and retell the same stories, not because we don’t remember them, but because they value the importance of our history. My heroes laugh the loudest, scrutinize the most, and forgive continually, knowing that what we have is rare and true and warrants protecting. My heroes cannot, in fact, fly and yet somehow they always Alex Richardson

manage to soar.

Ω

25

T h e Od ys s ey Fiction: Jeffrey Lovelace

Heroes and Homework “Son, are you doing your homework in there?”

“Yes Dad.” “It doesn’t sound like it. Don’t make me come in there.”

Darth cursed under his breath. He closed the book and shoved it under his pillow, then rolled off the disheveled bed, took two long tiptoe strides, and lunged toward his desk. As his butt hit the white plastic swivel chair, his right hand grabbed the volume control on his computer speakers.

“Since you’re so deaf I’ll turn it up for you,” he yelled then twisted the knob from off to full blast.

Explosions and robotic sounds from a You Tube Star Craft 2 battle demo flooded the room. Darth winced.

“That’s more like it,” bellowed his father through the hollow, white bedroom door, “And remember to work on your force fields. That’s why you lost the last qualifier!”

Darth scrunched his face and mouthed his father’s last sentence, then muttered “Yeah, whatever.”

He turned the volume down to half, loud enough to cover his movements while allowing space in his head for concentration. He glided to the door and rotated the lock in the discolored brass doorknob until it made a reassuring click, then eased back onto his bed so the bead springs wouldn’t creak. Darth resumed reading.

The frenetic sound effects not only concealed his movements, they also hid the crunch of a key inching into the doorknob.

“What the...!” boomed the father’s voice again from just beyond the foot of Darth’s bed. The teenager slammed the book shut and shoved it between the mattress and the wall. His dad crossed the room, clicked the mouse, and the room went silent as the browser closed. The man approached and loomed over

his son. “Really Darth, a demo? You think I can’t tell the difference from clear across the house?”

“Sor-ree, jeez.” Darth tried to look calm and dismissive, but his heart hammered away like a chaingun.

“And what were you doing that was more important than prepping for the upcoming Star Craft 2 tournament? This is the pro circuit you know. You’ve got to do your homework or you’ll have your rear end handed to you just like last time.”

Darth sighed, “It’s called schoolwork Dad. I was reading a book for English.”

Darth’s father removed his oversized black framed glasses and rubbed his tired eyes with the back of a thumb that protruded from a stiff, flesh-colored wrist brace. “A book…a book…the kid’s reading a book.”

“Yep, and it’s, like, a classic, Dad. It’s called, “A Tale of Two Cities...”

“I see, and what the dickens do you ever hope to learn from that?”

Darth suppressed a smile.

His father sat down on the bed and heaved a heavy sigh. “How can you keep wasting your time with this meaningless schoolwork when you have video games to practice? If you want to amount to anything, even if it’s only regional champion, or just an arena champion on some stupid WOW server, you have to stop this book nonsense.”

The two sat in silence staring into space. Twice Darth opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.

He took a deep breath, nodded, and said the words he had longed to say after the last year’s tournament debacle, and the tournament before that. “Dad, I don’t want to play games anymore.”

“What? You want...” The man’s voice caught.

First appeared in the “Heroes” edition - summer, 2011 26

An thol ogy

Jeffrey Lovelace

“I want to drop out. Please. I don’t want to be a gamer anymore” “I see…”

“Dad, I want to go to college. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

They sat in silence before his father spoke again.

“And what makes you think you can make it in that world, or even get into a decent college? You don’t know what you’re saying. Sure, it sound like fun but it’s so competitive...”

Darth’s chin hit his chest as all the air left his lungs.

He looked up at the graying stubble on the side of his father face as the legendary old gamer stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. “Dad, please don’t get mad, but...I’ve been admitted, on full scholarship, to Princeton.”

The young man had never seen his father weep before. As the former champion buried his face in his hands and moaned like a dying Pyrelord from Sethra’s Ledge, for the first time Darth saw this man not as his towering father, nor as the once great North American Battle.net tournament winner “HeroSause57,” but as a vulnerable mortal with dreams that must, in time, fail.

Darth’s eyes moistened. He reached a tentative hand toward the man’s heaving back, but yanked it back when his father turned on him, “And where will a Princeton degree get you? You want to become a doctor like the quacks who screwed up my carpel tunnel operation? Or a blood sucking lawyer like the ones who screwed up the malpractice suit? Or maybe one of those thieving investment bankers like your late mother, God rest her soul...”

Cont’d Page 28

27

T h e Od ys s ey Heroes and Homework - Cont’d from pg. 27 “Dad, stop!” Darth balled his fist, pointed his finger, and twice punched the air toward his father’s nose to punctuate each word.

This time the father jumped at the authority in his son’s voice. His mouth remained open as he stared into Darth’s flushed face.

“First of all, I don’t have all the answers, yet.

Maybe I’ll become, like, a teacher, or maybe I’ll go into the sciences...” Darth paused as a smile curled the corners of his mouth. He continued in a slower, more confidential tone, “Or maybe I’ll study computer science and game design.”

HeroSuace57 took in a quick hopeful breath. A sparkle returned to his red eyes. “You’d...you’d do that for me?”

“Maybe Dad, I’m just a newb you know, and who knows what specializations I’ll choose or what talent trees will develop. But you have given me some great initial talent specs on every aspect of computer and video gaming. I’d be a natural don’t you think?”

“You would make me so proud, son.” The man’s face began to collapse again into another sob, but froze halfway there. The eyes narrowed. He spoke again in a suspicious tone, “You said ‘first of all...’ Did you have something else to throw at me?”

“Uh right, maybe this isn’t the time...”

Jeffrey Lovelace

28

“No no, let’s hear it. Whatever you have to say to me, I can take it.”

“Okay. Dad, you need to stop referring to mom as though she’s dead. She isn’t.”

The older man shot to his feet and started pacing on the dingy once cream colored carpet. “So, you know about that.”

“Of course, who do you think helped me get into Princeton? How could you lie to me like that?”

The father’s mouth tightened, then opened with a sneer, but he caught himself and said only, “Damn it, she’s pwned me again.”

“It’s not a competition, Dad.” The old man gave a little defeated laugh. “If only that were so.” He stared off into space again until he turned to face his son, “Well, whatever you decide to do Darth, I’ll back you up. You’ll always be my boy.

I’m proud of you for standing up to the old boss and not backing down. I’m proud of you for knowing what you want and working hard to get it...Princeton, full scholarship...” the man shook his head. “Heh, I guess all I can say is wow. If you need anything, anything at all, just ask.”

“Uh yeah, about that, just one more thing.”

Darth squeezed his eyes closed to protect them from witnessing another parental outburst of rage or sorrow.

“Dad, I want to start going by my middle name.”

“What? But why? What on earth’s wrong with ‘Darth’?”

The young man pulled up one corner of his mouth, lifted his shoulders, and turned his palms up.

“Okay, I guess you’re right, son. It is a bit...unusual.

Middle name it is.”

“Thank you, thank you, you’re the best. You know, you’ll always be my hero. I love you Dad.” “I...” The old man paused to form the clumsy new combination of words, “I...love you too...Luke.” Ω

S um m er, 2 01 3 Poetry: Chelsea Bets Christenson

T h e Tr u t h A b o u t S m i l i n g

Alex Richardson

life’s a beach, he told me live a little enjoy the ride but he wouldn’t let me confide in him the truth about smiling. he sold me his story like a salesman of old now I wish I’d been told things would change once the music stopped. we forged through the jungle of his bitter past where he turned to me at last and said “I think you’ve found me.” yet our adventure was in vain the world forgot our name and in the end we forgot each other too our smiles only lied each and every time we tried to make it.

First appeared in the “Adventure” edition - spring, 2012 29

T h e Od ys s ey Poetry: Tara Patrick

Giving as Perpetuated by the Inhabitants of Eden

They were given names and the names eventually become Adam and Eve. Then the story begins. Adam loves Eve and Eve doesn’t know and vice versa. Adam believes, from the very beginning, that he has learned to love enough - that he adequately supplies the necessary elements and plays down the small turmoils. Daily complexities, sometimes audible, sometimes microscopic, are met with whatever tools lay at hand. Eve feels differently: cups of coffee-no-cream, unemotional absences, snakes, and giving things are what she has determined works best at this point. And both the man and the woman work well together until they simply do not. Here are a few things worth noting: Adam uses a new toothbrush every day and Eve forgets to water the plants.

Adam struggles to stay awake.

Eve likes her privacy.

Adam does not like to be alone.

Eve holds her own hand when she sleeps.

One day awakening moves in without notice. Adam’s friends gather and talk and burn leaves that do not collect easily. Eve’s hands give back their collections of lines. They both give up polishing their shoes, allowing feet to pick up their stakes like old horses. This new season is not easy to introduce oneself to. The traveling light steals and gives back something different. Adam is a thief and so is Eve and then back again and again and again until they have stolen everything recognizable.

And so, like all good women who find themselves unburdened of unhappy gods , Eve decides to go north. Adam can’t help but wonder if she will come back to herself alive; she was never good at getting lost or losing things. From the window of the closing of the day he lingers on types of love: quicksand infatuation, sandstorm affection, snow-filled lung passion. And arriving back to the dark morning, alone with the edge of himself, he declines an invitation to remove his leftover coats and memories of infliction.

First appeared in the “Giving Back” edition - winter, 2011 30

T h e B e s t f rom 2 01 0 - 2 01 2

And so, like all good women who find themselves released from sober tourniquets, Eve throws away her clothes. Her favorite types of love hold emptiness, give emptiness: yearnings that feel like cuts on the tongue. In the unfaithfulness of her open land she learns to play a unique version of solitaire; the trick she has learned is to keep her eyes shut.

The universe continues being the universe and Adam keeps busy with the trees. When he wearies of transplanting, pruning, grafting, he peruses the train schedule. He would like to go somewhere warmer and where the trees require less care. He would like to give the southern hemisphere a chance, find wide-open oceans, maybe learn how to play the piano; he has a lot of ideas about leaving and defrosting and love.

Eve, having gotten as found as she desired, meets some dogs passing out alms along the road. They become her unrecalled memories, surprising in their resiliency, greed, and tired independence. She takes up smoking and blows gold rings over the clouds, renames missing planets, watches scarabs etch comics under the kitchen sink.

The scenery spreads itself out. Adam returns to where he began, even though it is a million or more days later and the whole place has changed.

The trees have grown bigger and there are more varieties of apples from new places. Eve removes branches that have rotted away. Adam rakes up the leaves that spill to the ground. They each know that thieves do not return to the same place twice, that apples are magical, and that love enters, gives, and departs like clouds of dust.

31

T h e Od ys s ey Personal Essay: Stuart S. Light, M.A., M.Ed.

The Ultimate Terrorist

Photo by Brooke Robison

We are in grave danger. The enemy has penetrated our borders and lives among us. He strikes at will, without remorse, knocking down our twin towers of love and compassion. We are under siege as he eats away at us like a cancer, destroying our humanity and undermining the foundations of our lives. He eclipses our vision, turning the world into a dark, foreboding place. He compels us to defend and attack rather than connect and embrace; to reject rather than accept; to judge rather than understand. He is the most powerful and deadly terrorist the world has ever known, and his name is Fear.

We carry on wars within families, our communities, among races, genders, nationalities, nations, and ourselves. They are all a reflection of the inner twisting of conflict and fear. We sit in our

homes, in comfortable chairs, watching images unfold on screens. Buildings erupt in smoke and flame, tanks roll across desert landscapes, dead and mangled bodies lay along side the road. How can they slaughter other human beings?

It seems to be happening “out there” but, in some form, it exists within all of us. There is a warrior inside the psyche that engages in endless battles, rationalizes the shrouds and scars, and craves some illusory victory. There is also a healer who kneels and relates to the leprous wounds carried within the heart, wants to bathe them clean with compassion, and smile into the eyes of fear. In a healthy psyche the warrior and healer coexist, allowing life to unfold with balance and optimism. The warrior protects without destroying others; wounds are exposed without

First appeared in the “Villains and Monsters” edition - fall, 2012 32

An thol ogy destroying the self. It is said, “The greatest warrior is one who never has to use his sword.” Unless we rethink the nature of the enemy and stop looking for him outside of ourselves, we will never be able to heal our wounds and find peace within, or in the world.

Thomas Merton said, “At the root of all war is fear.” More than fifty years ago, Carl Jung expressed his concern that humans had come to a turning point.

In the aftermath of World War II, he realized that never before in history had the extermination of so many rested in the hands of so few. He was concerned, not only about the bomb, but about overpopulation and the abuse of the environment. He believed that it was

There is a warrior inside the psyche that engages in endless battles, rationalizes the shrouds and scars, and craves some illusory victory. within the individual psyche to turn the course of this malignant tide. We could survive if a sufficient number of us could “maintain the tension of the opposites.”

He was referring to the parts of ourselves, which we hold in the light of our awareness, and their opposites – those that lurk in what he called the shadow of our psyche.

We learn to disown this shadow in two predominant ways – by projecting it up and out where it becomes an external enemy (splitting in psychodynamic terms), or down and in to our muscles, bones, and heart where it becomes toxic. On the one side we march off to war like lions, appearing to be afraid of nothing, ready to destroy and conquer. On the other, hidden deep within the shadow, we cower in fear. Only in embracing this shadow can we find the light.

Longfellow once wrote, “If we could read the

secret history of our enemies, we should find in each person’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.” Every time we disassociate and turn someone else into the enemy, we might consider how we are disowning aspects of our own suffering. There is usually a wound hidden deep within the shadow causing old fears to invade our experience and cloud our thinking. Beneath all of the perceived enemies we are facing today, is the imperative to change our own lives and the way we relate to the world.

The hostility that drives the political discourse of our time, that drives people, families, communities and nations apart, must be overcome. Yet it can’t be tortured, bombed, or legislated out of existence. It can’t be contained or hidden behind huge concrete walls. It can’t be snuffed out by drones, or chased down and killed. Nor can it be wished, prayed, or voted away. It will only be defeated when as many of us as possible can dare to look our own truth in the eyes without fear.

Here in our campus community we have already spent countless hours and tears agonizing over the seemingly senseless and violent death of one of our own. Nobody saw it coming. What must be wrong with the young man that committed this horrific deed? In the wake of the seemingly senseless slaughter of innocent movie goers in Aurora Colorado, we will once again try to understand and explain by looking outward. Are the hyper-violent movies and video games to blame? Can we blame the politicians who shun gun control legislation in favor of votes? And again, what must be wrong with this young man that committed mass murder? Nobody saw it coming.

We’ll agonize, analyze and search desperately for answers as we always do. Time will pass and the horror will fade. But the terrorist that poses the gravest threat to all of us living in this world will remain dangerous and hidden. Not in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria, or Iran, but in the darkness of our own hearts. Ω 33

T h e Od ys s ey Personal Essay: Cecily Barrie

The Whole of Life

Cecily Barrie

It used to be that adventure was synonymous with the physical sensation of my heart trying to pound its way out of my ribcage, thumping to the erratic rhythms of risk and reward. The adventure of my teens and 20s tossed me out of a plane at 14,000 feet, drove me across the country in three days straight with no sleep, and whispered in my ear the virtues of spontaneity and delusions of immortality.

As adventure aged, its drumbeat still pulsed, yet softer in my ears. It bought me a car with a terrible interest rate, set me up with incompatible men, sent me on fabulous vacations I couldn’t afford, and took me wine tasting, a lot. It spoke of wrinkles and regret and sprinkled notions of children and marriage into my morning coffee.

One day, a little over four years ago, my mother called me to say that my stepfather was dying. He’d been diagnosed with lung cancer in 2000, and while his various treatments had spotlighted him as a

statistical anomaly for nearly eight years, that was no longer the case and time poured itself into an hourglass for us to watch and revere.

As I packed up my belongings and prepared to move from NY to CA in order to sit closer to truth and Fred, the man who was my father in most every way but biology, I boxed up adventure as something to be taken out years from then and perhaps dusted off as a reminder of my youth. I headed home to Santa Barbara accompanied by enduring love of family, anticipation of sadness, and the weight of duty.

Anxiety, not adventure, did all the whispering then.

Our little family unit had six months before Fred’s health seriously declined and a bit more than a year before he died. During that time of infinite sadness and exquisite togetherness, we went to all of our favorite local spots, careful to bask in the warmth of our fondest memories. We talked about our history as individuals and as a family. We got angry and impatient, both with one another and with cancer and with hospitals and with death. We laughed and cried, one sometimes just as hard as the other. We took each day as it went, and we loved.

A few months after Fred died, and the numbness had begun to recede, I thought of unpacking adventure just to see what it looked like. I thought of how much I’d missed it, and how welcome a distraction it would be from the wreckage of loss. But when I sorted through the attic, searching for the adventure I had so carefully packaged in the back of my mind, it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in a box, and it had never been packed away. It was with me all along, changing, shifting, and growing just as I had, into something so rare and beautiful as can only be considered the whole of life. Ω

First appeared in the “Adventure” edition - spring, 2012 34

S umm er - 2 01 3 Poetry: Denise Thorpe-Eheler

Making a Difference in the World

To truly make a difference in the world We should “want to” and never have the feeling, “I have to” We should develop the seeds of this “genuine helping,” this “making a difference,” in our hearts And water our “pure” intention every day by expressing kindness, compassion, and love toward others we meet Our desire set in motion, our “pure intention” will now blossom into a reality which will transform others in small or huge ways Through our smiles, hugs, some physical act, active listening and reflecting back; the gift so often lost is the ability to be fully present for another human being Our mindful awareness, our intuition, is always our best guide, our “helping compass” to tell us where we are needed most The more we are genuine and sincere, this “doing,” this action response of “helping” will automatically become a part of us Transforming our heart seeds to blossom in their highest form We no longer have to think about helping others, “we just do it” naturally In making a difference in others, we realize, we’ve also made a difference in who we are We feel lighter, more joyous, more connected to our true spirit form We also realize this “human connectedness” to others makes us all united in the human realm Our higher selves now know that we are linking our true spiritual selves together and there is no divide, we are as one

First appeared in the “Making a Difference” edition - winter, 2011 35

T h e Od ys s ey Fiction: Heather Laney

Letting Go

Jared sits silently, looking down at his leaden feet.

He doesn’t know how he got there and he doesn’t know how to get away. He can’t get away. There is no escape.

He looks around, but he can’t see much. Fear keeps his head from turning like he wants it to. But really, he doesn’t want to look around. The lighting isn’t very good, and the faces of the people around him are obscured by masks.

Except in the back, where a light shines brightly on a short, meanly muscled man wearing dark glasses.

Jared stares at the man from the corners of his eyes, so intently, so afraid, his head starts to hurt.

What am I doing here? he thinks. How did I get here?

There’s a loud buzzing in his ears. It’s a mixture of engine, wind, metal scraping and fearful murmurs he can’t understand. The buzzing makes him more anxious. He feels a drop of hot sweat make its way from his temple, past his ear, down under his shirt collar.

Only then does he realize he’s shaking, and the realization makes the trembling worse.

I’ve got to get out of here! his mind shrieks. But his body won’t listen. I can’t be here!

But all his body wants to do is to stay seated. His palms are so sweaty he wouldn’t be able to hold on if they forced him to get up.

Who are they?

Dark Glasses Squatty is joined by a much taller, much thinner man, who looks around at the group of people held captive like they were stinking cattle.

Squatty whispers something to Thinman, something Jared would never want to hear even if he could, but their menacing laughter did reach him, and he cowers in his chair.

They’re gonna come for me.

There’s a hot, metallic taste pooling in his mouth

as he watches the brutish, squat man approach. Jared pushes his body back into the safety of the padded chair trying to melt with it, hoping it isn’t him the man is after.

Please, please, please, he prays to whomever will hear him, but no one is listening.

Defeat stops his heart as Squatty grabs his arms and pushes him towards the door. Panic rushes through Jared’s body, the butterflies inside his stomach threatening to burst through and escape. Wobbly knees barely keeping him erect, Jared realizes that, other than shaking, he can’t move.

I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die!

Squatty decides to take matters into his own hands.

His clear baritone voice shouts, “One, two, three,” as if Jared is a child needing a time out. And then he shoves.

Seconds later there’s only silence as Jared’s brain stops functioning. He holds his breath, waiting for disaster to strike. His heart is beating so fast he can no longer hear the individual beats, and he’s sure any moment the blood being pumped will come spewing out of his head.

But something unexpected happens.

Adrenaline rushes through his petrified falling form, relaxing his muscles. Breath returns to his lungs and he realizes there’s no blood escaping his body.

Jared laughs.

He’s enjoying himself.

Whoever said skydiving is terrifying, got it wrong.

The anticipation is the real killer.

* * * Life is full of scary things we don’t think we can do, like skydiving, changing our eating habits, or taking on an irresponsible company that is polluting our environment. Making a difference starts with you.

Never let your fears of doing something stop you from doing it. Ω

First appeared in the “Making a Difference” edition - winter, 2011 36

T h e B e s t f rom 2 01 0 - 2 01 2

Jeffrey Lovelace

37

T h e Od ys s ey Personal Essay: Tessa Eckerman

Making Human Rights Our Compass for Globalization: What I Learned from Mary Robinson

She walked out. Her stance professional, her voice soft and subtle with a skewed Irish accent. It was then that the topics “climate change” and “human rights” hit my being like a tidal wave. I felt chills and tears welling up in my ducts. “This is collective consciousness at work. Leaders are finally stepping up. It’s time to get moving,” I thought.

Mary Robinson’s lecture on globalization, rights, and climate change revealed truths, offered facts, and catalyzed mind-blowing realizations. Her efforts and activism thus far are out of this world. The two hours of her lecture sent me on an emotional ride. The lecture affected me because Mary Robinson shed insight she gained from being physically involved and active around the globe. She is a credible and reliable source of information regarding the topics of human rights and climate change. Her lecture highlighted reasons why I live the life I do. It put into focus my life goals.

I gained an informed perception of how millions of

people in developing countries are affected by climate change and have almost no rights at all.

Richard Appelbaum introduced the list of organizations that Mary Robinson leads. “This is a rather exhausting list and makes me look like a couch potato,” he said. Among leading the Mary Robinson Foundation, Oxfam, Women World Leaders, and The Elders, she was the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights from 1990 to 1997, and she is the Chair of International Institute for Environment and Development and received the Amnesty International’s Ambassador of Conscience Award. The list goes on.

Robinson began by emphasizing that we need to work on solutions for seemingly unsolvable problems and that we need a world without borders. “How could I not be interested in human rights? I was wedged between four brothers, two older, two younger.” she said.

She had an epiphany that human rights policies were too narrow. They focused on one point: the freedoms (i.e. freedom of press, no torture, civil liberties, etc.)

“Basic rights are important too,” she says. But Robinson didn’t quite know how to turn this thought into action .

Robinson felt like a “lonely voice during 9/11.”

She went to ground zero to bring the perpetrators to justice because they committed a “crime against humanity.” “We said that we have been attacked and there’s a war on terrorism. [In essence], this sidelines human rights.”

This event catalyzed Robinson’s formation of the Millennium Declaration. Its premise is that globalization must work for all people. Robinson’s panel

First appeared in the “Making a Difference” edition - winter, 2011 38

An thol ogy created eight goals: End poverty and hunger, create universal education, gender equality, child health, maternal health, combat HIV/AIDS, environmental sustainability, and global partnership.

Robinson has done extensive work in Africa and she has noticed a recurring “ah but things have changed, things are worse because of climate change” conversation. The horn of Africa experienced its eight hottest years on record; the past eight consecutive ones.

“This hugely damages and undermines human rights, says Robinson. “Why do the poorest nations have to suffer from world’s efforts?”

Robinson desired to “put the obtuse phenomenon of this suffering into immediate focus.” Her foundation is the climate justice nexus of climate change and human rights. She has no skepticism of climate change because she claims, “I’ve seen it!” She follows with a sigh and perhaps a tear.

Robinson told us a story of meeting five African farmers with Arch Bishop TuTu. They all claimed that they have not had seasons for years. She said, “All farmers would complain of weather.” They replied, “We know. But this is way out of our experience!” Robinson mentions, “Water stress will displace masses of people.”

She then briefly describes the famine, water shortages, and the lives of “climate refugees.”

Robinson places urgency on the need to act now.

She was a fountain of facts and useful information.

I could go on for days explaining Robinson’s deep conclusions of the world’s current state.

From topics covered in overlapping courses I’ve taken, I’ve learned that we are in distress, and if people don’t feel it now, they soon will. This lecture affected me by filling my gaps in knowledge of climate effects and rights. It informed me about our current state. I feel saddened that we’ve allowed this to happen, that prior generations haven’t made swifter, more positive moves.

However, I feel that as a whole, humans are intelligent and, at times, brilliant. I am hopeful and resultantly excited for what I’ll see in my lifetime with regards to solutions and growth.

Robinson’s news affected me because I have been thinking about such topics since I was a young woman.

I am emotional, an Indigo Child of the Aquarian Age, and I love humanity. I sometimes feel depressed because I feel I can’t change the world.

The insight I gained is that it is in my, and the world’s, best interest to think about how our actions affect others on a grand scale. We are taught to admit, “Johnny hit sally and it hurt,” instead of getting to the root of the issue.

“How could I not be interested in human rights? I was wedged between four brothers, two older, two younger.”

I realized the best move is to continue living my lifestyle, with hopes of moving even farther off the grid. I live on a sailboat, rarely use water, shop only for food grown a maximum of fifty miles away (with the exception of a couple of meals). I don’t own a car, a computer, or iPhone by choice. We mine rare earth metals for phones and computers. I ride my bike everywhere, use a reusable bottle and biodegradable soaps, I reuse paper, recycle, pick-up trash every day (five foot radius rule) and raise my voice about the need to reduce waste and change our way of living.

I feel the urgency that Robinson feels. Thank God for women like her. I had the thought in a dream that night, “she is my hero.” I feel compelled to write her a letter. Robinson solidified my four year long dream to join the Peace Corps. and to start an organization, perhaps one like SOIL (composting toilets in Haiti).

She revved my help engine. Ω 39

T h e Od ys s ey Fiction: Jeffrey Lovelace

Superman’s Third Child Noah Kent tried not to look to his left. He didn’t need x-ray vision to know that something bad was happening at the adjacent teller window.

“Not again,” he sighed.

He made eye contact with the young man in front of him. The teller’s hands froze in the middle of counting the cash portion of Noah’s merchant deposit.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he whispered to the teller. “Pretend it’s not happening and we’ll all get through this just fine.”

The teller serving the person to Noah’s left burst out in sobs. Without moving his head Noah’s eyes darted that direction just long enough to see the distraught woman stuffing stacks of green bills into a white plastic bag. In front of her stood a smallish figure in a brown hoodie and mirrored sunglasses.

The stranger stood close enough for Noah to grab with his left hand, but he wasn’t about to try anything since the stranger’s right hand held onto something bulky in the hoodie’s pocket.

Noah’s eyes returned to his teller, the young man’s right hand worked on something beneath the counter. Noah opened his mouth to advise against it, but the teller’s hand withdrew, having pressed the silent alarm button.

Noah knew exactly what he had to do. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his cell, and texted his assistant manager, “Held up at the bank again, can you close out the registers and lock-up both stores tonight?”

The bank grew quiet as realization flooded the lobby. A few customers and employees slipped out the front door. Each time the door opened the whine of distant sirens leaked in.

“Stop crying and put the money in the bag!” said the hooded man, his voice thin and dry with panic.

Noah stowed his phone, then turned to the jittery man. “Sorry to interrupt, but those sirens out there are for you. You have one chance to get away.

So, take your money and scoot, now, and let the rest of these people salvage what’s left of their day.”

The man pointed his sunglasses toward Noah and began to pull his hand, and its contents, out of his pocket.

Noah held up both palms, “No, you don’t want to do that. If I see a gun, it makes this armed robbery, and that’s serious. So get the hell out of here before you really screw this up.” Noah punctuated his remark with a smile and quick nod.

The man grabbed the plastic bag from the teller’s quaking hand and raced toward the main entrance, but the screech of brakes and flashes of red and blue flooded in through the glass doors. The man froze in the middle of the lobby. He pulled his gun and scanned the room in vain for another way out.

Noah rubbed his eyes, sighed, and walked up to the man. “Look, since you’re new at this, let me help.

In about one hundred percent of these situations you will end up either dead or in jail. So the best thing to do is lay your gun down right here, put your hands on top of your head, and walk out that door.

Your cooperation will earn you a light sentence, and everyone goes home with a story to tell. Can you do that?”

“Nope. This time it’s do or die.” The man aimed his .45 toward the door, took a wide stance and braced himself.

“No, no, no,” said Noah shaking his head in irritation. “They’ll shoot you and half the people in here if you do that. Time for plan “B” I guess. Aim your pistol at my head. Cops get nervous when you point one their direction. By the way, is it loaded?”

The man rested the muzzle against Noah’s

First appeared in the “Heroes” edition - summer, 2011 40

S umm er - 2 01 3 forehead, “Yep.” “Then can you make sure the safety’s on?”

The man’s brow creased. He thumbed a lever on the side of the gun. It clicked twice. He lowered his weapon so he could look at the safety, clicked it a couple more times, then nodded and raised it again toward Noah’s face.

“Thanks man,” said Noah with a reassuring smile. “Now, send out the two most harmless looking people in here. They can tell the cops that you have hostages, you’re desperate, and you want to negotiate.”

The man nodded to himself and looked around the room. He pointed with his chin at a plump, elderly couple sitting across a dark mahogany desk from a thirtyish blond banker with big hair. The two customers shook with fright, wobbling the loose folds of skin hanging from their chins.

After clearing his throat, the gunman spoke with forced toughness, “You two, do like this man says.”

The couple sprint-shuffled out the door. Shouts of, “Keep your hands where we can see them,” erupted, then faded as the heavy glass doors closed.

“Good. Now get these people back into the safe before the snipers put a little red dot on the side of your head and flood this place with bullets. They’ll probably shoot some innocent person, like me, in the process.”

*** For the rest of the afternoon, the gunman talked on his cell to police negotiators while Noah sat between him and the other hostages. The man yelled vague demands into his phone, “I want my life back,” and, “I want respect.” Instead the cops sent in pizza and soda. Every half hour Noah advised the hooded man to send out hostages two at a time as a sign of good faith, and he did.

When night fell, only the gunman and Noah remained. “How are you doing? Hanging in there?” asked Noah after the last of the other hostages left.

“Man, what is it with you? You never quit. You

Jeffrey Lovelace

tell me how to run my bank robbery, how to handle the whole hostage thing, and you don’t sweat with a gun in your face.” To emphasize his point he raised the pistol and pointed it again at Noah, who smiled in return. “See? I get nervous just holding this damn thing. You are the coolest most put together dude I’ve ever known. You some kind of cop?”

“No, I own a couple of dry cleaning shops.”

“A dry cleaner? Damn, that hurts.” The stranger shook his head in disgust. The man’s cell phone buzzed, but he ignored it. A distant bull horn broadcast something about “…in five minutes…”

The stranger turned to face Noah. “Man, I wish I was you. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess. You run your own businesses, you’re ice under pressure, and I’ll bet you’re the most successful person in your family, the one everybody looks up to. Compared to you I’m a complete waste of skin. Everything I touch turns out…like this.” The man placed the gun on the floor, and buried his face in his hands.

Noah eyed the gun resting between them. He could grab it, but he knew he didn’t have to. “You’re wrong about that, about everyone, or anyone, looking up to me.”

Cont’d Page 42

41

T h e Od ys s ey Superman’s Third Child - Cont’d from pg. 41 The man scoffed, “Yeah right.”

Noah gave a single sad laugh. “If I tell you about my life will you end this?”

The man answered in a hoarse whisper. “I know there’s no getting out. Yeah, I’ll end it.” He held up both palms, inviting Noah to tell his story.

“My name is Noah Kent. My dad was Clark Kent, who everyone now knows was Superman. Dad used to take me and my older brother and sister to work sometimes, trying to teach us the family business. I attended bank robberies like some kids went to baseball games, and Dad always won. It got really boring.”

The gunman barked. “Boring! So if I shot you, the bullets would’ve just bounced off? You’re saying you could’ve grabbed the gun out of my hand at any time and bent it sideways? So why put me through all of this, you sick, spoiled bastard?”

“Spoiled? If you shot me, you would have killed me. Genetically we took after our mother.

We’re humans, not freaks made of steel from planet Krypton. But did that stop anyone from treating us like freaks? Do you have any idea how many times I awakened to the sight of an emergency room ceiling, beaten up by kids and adults who needed to prove they were tougher than Superman?”

The bank robber tilted his head and looked at him with tightened lips. He started to speak but Noah cut him off. “Sometimes my own big brother and sister put me in the hospital, they had to vent their frustrations on someone, and I was too little to fight back. Mom, the great Lois Lane, had no time to protect me from my own siblings, she had Pulitzer Prizes to win and university speeches to deliver. And Dad, well, he had school buses full of other people’s children to rescue.”

They sat in silence for a time. Refracted red and blue rainbows danced on the dim vault’s ceiling, disconnecting that space from the rest of the world.

“Wow, dude, I admit that’s harsh. But still…”

“Still what? Ever since Mom got Alzheimer’s 42

and Dad died of brain cancer, Brother and Sister fight over control of Superman Industries with its billions in licensing revenue. Meanwhile, I struggle to keep my two laundries out of bankruptcy. And back when Dad was alive, he wouldn’t even send his uniform to my plant for cleaning. You know, most obituaries for Dad only listed two children, and guess who they left out. I suffered for these people, and they pretend I don’t exist.”

The hooded man removed his sunglasses and set them on the ground next to the gun. He picked up the pistol, coddled it, and clicked the safety off and on, off and on, lost in thought.

A slight smile flashed across Noah’s lips, but vanished as he continued in a softer tone, “I can’t tell you how many times I tried to kill myself. I’ll bet you could pull it off with no problem; but I always failed at that too. Sometimes I crave the sweet pain-free peace of death, that’s why I didn’t care if you shot me.”

They both glanced down at the gun waiting on the scuffed linoleum.

Noah let out a long breath, “My parents led such charmed lives, and it’s as though I’m condemned to the worst fate imaginable, walking the earth in misery to balance them out.”

“Jesus, if you’re such a loser…” The man paused.

He stared straight ahead, unblinking. “…Then what does that make me?”

“Yeah, really! I’ll leave you with that thought.”

Noah pushed himself to his feet and sauntered out of the vault. Before he reached the front doors a flash of light and a bang exploded from the vault behind him.

Noah smiled but didn’t look back. Police holding shields rushed him away from the front door and straight to the officer in charge.

“You’ll find his body in the vault, Lieutenant, as usual.”

“What is this, Mr. Kent, like the fifth one you’ve talked into it? How do you get them to do that?”

“It’s my only superpower. I got it from my mother.” Ω

T h e B e s t f rom 2 01 0 - 2 01 2 Poetry: Todd Easton Mills

The Traveler in India In Imperial Mysore wretched as a beggar, untouchable.

The American traveler was low, having descended below the sidewalk and into the drains, where rats run in torrents like black water.

He sat on the curb watching the street magician make silks disappear-showing the crowd an empty tube, then tapping it sternly with his wand.

Jenna Martinelli

First appeared in the “Solstice� edition - spring, 2010 43

T h e Od ys s ey

Jeffrey Lovelace

44

An thol ogy Poetry: Jamaica Horton

Inside Her Room

Across her covers, across her still room, Night scatters like dust on the moon, Tiny fractures of light—love.

Her bedroom, her prison, trapped-in for the night On the floor she lies, breathless, consumed with fright.

Ear tucked to the door, waiting, heeding, listening.

Sounds echo the return of the uninvited.

Down, down she drops, deeper into despair, Knowing soon the reaper will be there, To take what he shouldn’t, Insistent that this love is gloriously given.

Seizing up, her figure stresses, tenses at the sounds.

Feet pound, pounding down.

Along the corridor he stealthy makes his way.

In a few frantic heart-beats, there to consume.

Silently, he picks her up, tucks her in.

Whispering words of tender confusion.

Desperately, she tries to hide, Shaking, shivering, stolen, little body lies there open.

He’s done now, his doing is over.

She’s gone too, curled up in the corner.

Off to dream of luminous beings, She forgets the terror of unanswered screams.

In her nighttime fantasy land she dwells, Safe, hidden, protected from his harm.

Now, comes the morning—divine.

Momma’s back home, sparkles, sunshine.

Lovely little dollies line around the brim, Childhood memory making, not always so grim.

First appeared in the “Villains and Monsters” edition - fall, 2012 45

T h e Od ys s ey Fiction: “Atty” Atsiylah Patricia Garfinkel

Do the Ends Justify the Means?

Maryam felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she heard the click of a gun and felt the cylinder against her back. Pure unadulterated terror gripped her as her breathing became panicked and rapid. She felt a jerk as her purse was yanked off of her arm. Her assailant’s instructions were simple “Get on the ground and don’t move until I tell you.” Yet she was frozen, unable to move.

She never felt the first blow to the back of her head. She was just dizzy, and suddenly it felt as if the ground reached up and grabbed her. She turned her head and rolled over and in so doing caught a glimpse of her attacker. As the kicks and punches rained down upon her she heard a loud bang and began to cry out, then she heard the voice of her psychiatrist rousing her from her hypno-therapy.

“Maryam, why don’t you sit up now? Do you want to talk about what you were able to remember?”

Maryam was still in tears and shook her head in silence.

“Did you remember more this time?”

Maryam nodded as her therapist droned on about coming to terms with her trauma, facing her fears and finding a place where she felt safe again. The words were almost garbled as if being recited over a fast food drive through microphone.

She slowly pulled herself together, dried her tears and glanced at the clock. Her appointment time was nearly over and she began to collect her things.

“Can you call Ben in here to help me please?”

Maryam finally spoke and her therapist complied. Ben was a strong burly man holding Maryam’s purse and pushing her wheelchair. Maryam thanked her doctor and Ben lifted her into the chair.

As they reached the street Maryam’s anxiety began to increase, she had to get away or do something!

When they got next to the alley where Maryam had been mugged and shot, she was in tears and clung to Ben’s hand as he pushed her.

Ben had been so supportive since that night.

Perhaps it was guilt; after all, if he hadn’t wrecked the car the week before she wouldn’t have been walking down that ally that night, and were it not for his drinking she would not have been alone when she needed him the most. But these were not things that Maryam would have ever vocalized even if she had thought them. These were Ben’s demons to face and as they wheeled into the rear parking lot at the police station they were heavy on his mind. Maryam swiped her key card at the door and Ben wheeled her inside.

“Good afternoon Maryam, good afternoon detective Steinbeck.” A voice rang out from the desk sergeant on duty.

“Hi Bill, how’s the Camaro coming?”

Ben called back, “Fine, just fine thanks. Maryam, are you working today?”

Maryam looked up at the fat old sergeant and forced a smile “Yes, I’m ready to get back to my baby, or, um, computer.”

A laugh floated down the hall after them as they headed towards Maryam’s office. The glass on the door read “Maryam Steinbeck, Records.” Ben bent over and gave Maryam a kiss before he headed up to the second floor and his own office.

“I’ll see you a little after four, ok honey?”

Maryam nodded and put a brave smile on her face. As Ben left the room Maryam locked the door and wheeled herself over to her computer. Ben thought she was locking herself in because she was afraid, but she just didn’t want anyone to see what she was working on.

As she opened an encrypted file the photograph

First appeared in the “Villains and Monsters” edition - fall, 2012 46

S umm er - 2 01 3

Brooke Robison

and full arrest record of her assailant filled the screen.

“I have to come to terms with what you did to me. I have to face my fears and I have to make this world a place where I feel safe again.” Maryam hissed at the face on her computer screen.

Her eyes were no longer the misty tear filled eyes of a terrorized woman, but filled with loathing and vengeance. She reached for a pen but it was out of her reach. Stiffly Maryam stood out of her wheel chair and grasped the pen before sitting back into her chair. She checked the door just to be safe. It wouldn’t do to have anyone knowing she could walk again. Maryam wrote down the home address listed in the file before she deleted the entire thing.

Maryam wheeled herself over to a large locker in the corner of the room and took out a duffel bag, placed it on her lap and quietly wheeled herself down to the elevator in the hall, carefully avoiding any places within the view of on duty personnel. She took the elevator down to the garage and found the squad car she had the keys to. Maryam tossed the duffel into the front passenger seat and tossed her wheelchair in on top of it, and then she drove out of the garage.

Maryam drove to a gas station where she changed into the uniform hidden in the duffel and put her wheel chair in the trunk. When she got back into the car she looked at the address she had written down, and then checked her gun’s silencer. Maryam drove with great precision and when she reached the address she got out of the car and walked into the house, gun in hand,

without a knock.

She found the man who had shot her in the living room enjoying the company of his female companion.

Maryam didn’t bat an eye as she raised the gun and shot him. The girl screamed in terror and Maryam shot her too.

Maryam walked back to the car and dismantled the gun before she wiped it down and put it in its case. She drove back to the gas station where she changed out of the uniform, threw it into a dumpster full of cardboard and set it on fire. Maryam put the wheelchair back in the front seat and drove back to the police garage. After she snuck back into her office she went to her computer and began to work as it nothing had ever happened. When Ben walked in he noticed Maryam hadn’t locked the door.

“Are you doing ok honey?”

Maryam smiled “Yes. I think I’ve decided that I am going to come to terms with what happened and hiding in my office with the door locked isn’t coming to terms with it.”

Ben bent over and gave Maryam a long kiss. As he stood up he commented “Do you smell that?”

Maryam smiled “Smell what sweetie?”

“I’m not sure; it’s like a faint smell of smoke.”

Ben sniffed again “It must just be my nose. Are you ready to go?”

Maryam smiled a sickeningly sweetie smile and crooned “I am now. You know I’m sure the doctors are wrong, I will walk again. I think I want to start physical therapy.”

Ben smiled and as they walked past Bill the desk sergeant. A radio crackled softly “Dispatch, be advised we have a murder scene at 1693 Apple lane. We need Homicide and the Coroner’s office out here. Two vics, one male, one female, both appear to….”

As the door closed Maryam smiled and Ben pushed her towards their house just a block away from the ally. Maryam closed her eyes and a look of satisfaction spread across her face. Ω 47

T h e Od ys s ey Poetry: Richard Somdah

Heroes Hero?

I am who I was taught to be, not who I ought to be.

Get my height, age, and race and you can write one autobiography that could explain all of me.

All of you are clones of me, cloned by who They think a clone is supposed to be, supposedly.

My life is no longer a dream driven by ambition and polished by experience. It’s timing and percentages.

By this time this percent of you will be ...what’s a hero?

Live hard, die young that’s what the music says, go play you’re too dumb that’s what the teacher says, I love you baby I gotta go to work that’s what my momma said, we all going through something that’s what the preacher says. ...who’s a hero?

Think for yourself. My thoughts come from the people who think for me and make me feel that my thoughts came out of me originally. So I’m thinking originality is the same as conformity.

But something inside of me can’t take this reality. I lash out and now They are proud of me. Proud that I’ve finally fallen between the parentheses, well its not finally because I am where they knew I would be. ...am I a hero?

I wanna blame you for blaming me. But blaming anyone doesn’t change what becomes of me. Now it’s time for me to decide to be my own me and create my own destiny. I’m not mad at you for framing me because with the pain I’ve learned to be ...my own HERO ...it’s always been me.

First appeared in the “Heroes” edition - summer, 2011 48

T h e B e s t f rom 2 01 0 - 2 01 2

Alex Richardson

49

T h e Od ys s ey Summer Calendar Date:

Event:

The Lindy Circle: Swing Dance Lessons July 1 Ongoing Reagan Ranch Center Exhibit Galleries Mon - Thurs PCPA Theaterfest: Fiddler July 1 -6 On the Roof July 1

July 2 (Recurring) July 5

July 10

July 12 July 12

July 13 July 13 – Aug 10 July 14

Time:

Free

11 AM – 4 Free PM

217 State St.

http://www.yaf.org/ ExhibitGalleries.aspx

Varies

Varies

http://www.pcpa.org/Default. asp?Page=378

Take-Out Lunch Yoga

Tuesday’s 12-12:50 PM

Solvang Festival Theater

$20

The Salt Cave

http://www.saltcavesb.com/ events-classes

Vertigo

8:30 PM

Free

County Courthouse

https://artsandlectures. sa.ucsb.edu/Details. aspx?PerfNum=2666

PsyD Info Session

5:00 – 6:00 PM

AUSB Campus, 602 Anacapa St.

http://www.antiochsb.edu/ admissions/informationsessions/psyd-in-clinicalpsychology/

$5

2701 Las Positas http://www.girlsrocksb.org/ Rd – Auditorium girls-rock-sb-presents-the-i-am-

8:30 PM

Free

County Courthouse

enough-summer-showcase/ https://artsandlectures. sa.ucsb.edu/Details. aspx?PerfNum=2669

8:00 PM

$ 15- 48

Granada Theatre

http://ticketing.granadasb.org/ single/EventDetail.aspx?p=2303

Varies

Varies

Solvang Festival Theater

http://www.pcpa.org/Default. asp?Page=381

1:30 – 4:30 Free PM

SB Museum of Art

http://www.sbma.net/programs/ events.web

8:30 PM

Free

County Courthouse

https://artsandlectures. sa.ucsb.edu/Details. aspx?PerfNum=2672

8:00 PM

$ 15 - 48

Granada Theatre

http://ticketing.granadasb.org/ single/EventDetail.aspx?p=2306 https://artsandlectures. sa.ucsb.edu/Details. aspx?PerfNum=2676 http://www.antiochsb.edu/swi/

6:00 PM

Rear Window The Academy Festival Orchestra – Leonard Slatkin Monty Python’s Spamalot

Studio Sundays

July 19 Concerto Night – Tito Munoz Psycho

July 26

8:30 PM

Free

County Courthouse

AUSB Summer Writing July 28 – Aug 3 Institute

Varies

$ 975

AUSB Campus, 602 Anacapa St.

50

Contact Info: http://www.thelindycircle.com/

North by Northwest

July 20

Location: UCSB

Girls Rock Summer Showcase

8–10 PM

Admission:

An thol og y Summer Calendar July 28 Aug 1 Aug 2, 4 Aug 9

Public Lecture: Grayson Perry

First Thursday – Patterned 5:30 – 7:30 Paper Lanterns PM The Academy Festival Orchestra – James 8:00 PM $ 15 - 48 Gaffigan Notorious

Aug 10

Craft Happy Hour Featuring Fallen Fruit & Bottle Tones

Aug 10

Summer Swing Carnival

Aug 11

2-3:30 PM $ 6 - 10

Studio Sundays

Aug 23

Memphis Music Fest

http://www.sbma.net/programs/ events.web

Granada Theatre

http://ticketing.granadasb.org/ single/psDetail.aspx?psn=2312 https://artsandlectures. sa.ucsb.edu/Details. aspx?PerfNum=2681

Free

County Courthouse

3 – 6 PM

$ 10 - 12

SB Museum of Art http://tickets.sbma.net/PEO/ Storke Plaza

1:30 – 4:30 PM

Free

8:30 PM

Free

County Courthouse

8:00 PM

$ 33 - 75

Granada Theatre

8:30 PM

Free

County Courthouse Stearns Wharf

Strangers on a Train Aug 23

SB Museum of Art

8:30 PM

The Birds Aug 16

SB Museum of Art http://tickets.sbma.net/PEO/

SB Museum of Art

Sept 1

Pier to Peak Half Marathon

6:30 AM

$ 75 - 85

Sept 1

Cyrano de Bergerac

8:00 PM

$ 22.50 – 36.50

8:00 PM

Varies

Solvang Festival Theater

$ 33 - 68

Granada Theatre

Sept 6 - 15

Always…Patsy Cline

Sept 13

Peter White, David Benoit 8:00 PM and David Pack

Sept 19

Itzhak Perlman

8:00 PM

$ 38 - 103

Granada Theatre

Sept 20

Dr. John

8:00 PM

$ 33- 78

Granada Theatre

Sept 28

Jesus Camona y Compania- Cuna Negra & 7:30 PM Blanca

$ 28- 88

Granada Theatre

http://www.thelindycircle.com/ node

http://www.sbma.net/ programs/events.web https://artsandlectures. sa.ucsb.edu/Details. aspx?PerfNum=2684

http://ticketing.granadasb.org/ single/psDetail.aspx?psn=2363 https://artsandlectures. sa.ucsb.edu/Details. aspx?PerfNum=2687 http://www.runsantabarbara. com/pier_to_peak.html http://www.pcpa.org/Default. asp?Page=380 http://www.pcpa.org/Default. asp?Page=379 http://ticketing.granadasb.org/ single/EventDetail.aspx?p=2367 http://ticketing.granadasb.org/ single/EventDetail.aspx?p=2328 http://ticketing.granadasb.org/ single/EventDetail.aspx?p=2400 http://ticketing.granadasb.org/ single/EventDetail.aspx?p=2454

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The Odyssey - summer - 2013 We thank all of the people who helped make the Odyssey what it is today. Here are just a few:

WE WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU……

The AUSB Odyssey provides a unique opportunity for students, faculty, staff and alumni of AUSB to share their written work. We accept theme-based submissions for current and future issues. Submissions can include: current news, short fiction, poetry, personal essays, photography, artwork, reviews, or articles on social justice, business, health, human interest, etc. Whether you are an undergraduate or graduate student, faculty, a staff member, or an alum, we would love to hear from you.

UPCOMING EDITIONS: The fall, 2013, edition will have the theme “A Celebration of Everything.” Contact us for more details.

Please email Odyssey.ausb@antioch.edu with submissions, questions, or comments. We appreciate your continued support of our humble publication.

The AUSB Odyssey is a student driven production designed to provide an opportunity for members of the AUSB community to share their critical and creative voices.

The views represented are those of the authors, not necessarily Antioch University Santa Barbara.

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