Black Bear | Vol. I
Black Bear | Vol. I
Cover art by Rosalie Hazlett
Black Bear | Vol. I
Contents Daniel Loh
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Hannah Lenhart
3
Daniel Loh
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April Waltz
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Kelci Crawford
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W.B. Healy
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Noah Hedrick
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Chance Bonacci
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Ron Winslow
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Matt Cummins
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Claire Haizlett
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Ron Winslow
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Shayla Klein
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Makayla Carney
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Justin Cervenak
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Amanda Cummins
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Marquese Liddle
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Nolah Mull
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Hannah Mull
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Various (as noted in article)
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Untitled Photo Featured Artist Thoughts on Art Mod Shades The Forest Spirit The Potion Homemade Pepperoni Rolls Featured Photographer Untitled Love Gardens Hawaiian Aloha Ode to Coee Restoration Of Our June Rest Into the Deepest of the Dark Cadence of Injustice Hypocrisy in Common Conversation The Weather’s Current State Pour Art of the Valley
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All the other stuff Contact Info Facebook: Instagram: Email:
facebook.com/blackbearmagwv instagram.com/blackbearmagazine blackbearmagwv@gmail.com
Printing Info Fonts
Quicksand and Raleway
Legal Artists retain all copyrights to content published and have given permission to print. For more information about any artist or their contact information, please contact us via the above contact information. All uncredited photos belong to Monica Mull Photography. All rights reserved.
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Letter from the Editor Monica Mull
My name is Monica. I grew up in Valley Grove, West Virginia, just a stone’s throw away from Wheeling, WV, and a hop, skip, and a jump from Pittsburgh, PA. Homeschooled from start to finish my studies focused on art and writing. Math was a necessary evil that ended up almost destroying me; we don’t interact if we can help it nowadays. But I digress. My love of writing blossomed during my last year of high school when I wrote a novel for my senior project. Thankfully I’ve grown in skill since then. Alongside writing, photography is my passion. I became fascinated with it in middle school when my grandma would let me use her digital camera. From there it spiraled into obsession, and now, for lack of a better word, career. My life has been drenched in copious forms of artistic expression through the years; cross stitching, painting, drawing, writing, dance, music, photography, sewing. You name it, I’ve probably experienced it in some way. I started getting into the local art scene about three years ago. The more I experienced the culture and the people who are prominent around here, the more I felt something lacking. I now know that that something is connection. While artistry here is flourishing and growing at a rapid rate, there are many different subgroups of artists around here, and it seems (to me) that it’s hard to be a part of one without excluding another. For some reason, these groups don’t often intermingle with the exception of a few artists who frolic from group to group. My goal with this project, Black Bear, is to bring artists from all over the area together as one collective voice; to bridge whatever gaps are between us, be it age or genre or whatever. Along that train of thought I started a movement, Young Artists of Wheeling, as another way to bring creatives together. It’s a resource, if you will, to share and enjoy various art projects from people you know and those you’ve yet to meet. While a big part of Black Bear came to be through the desire for connection, the other part of it was to help fan the flame of artistry in West Virginia. No one else had created this type of magazine before that fit exactly what I wanted, so I thought, “Why not me?” and set about bringing this little idea to life. My goal is to make something that you can pick up and peruse through leisurely after a long day of work, as a respite during lunch break, or during any moment of relaxation—something to take your mind away from life’s troubles so you may enjoy the simple beauty this world has to offer. Whether it’s through written word or the visual words of photographs or drawings, my hope is that you will be able to find something in here to soothe your soul, to refuel your passions. Grab a warm mug of coffee or a cup of tea and prepare to sit for a while and simply be, just as you are, in that small moment in your life.
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Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up. Pablo Picasso
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Featured Artist Hannah Lenhart
Our Featured Artist for Black Bear issue #1 New Beginnings, is Hannah Lenhart, a ceramics fanatic and aspiring master of clay. She’s one of the Tamarack Foundation’s 2016-2017 Emerging Artist Fellows. Lenhart was born and raised in Fairmont West Virginia and she graduated in May of this year from Fairmont State University with a Bachelor of Arts degree in studio art and a Bachelor of Science degree in business administration. When Hannah first signed up for college, she considered going through the nursing program because she feared that she wouldn’t be able to make a career out of her art. Thankfully, Lenhart’s parents recognized her abilities and believed in her passion, enough so to encourage a pursuit of art school; a rare yet fortunate situation as many youths tend to feel pressured into leaving their artistic dreams behind as they enter the “real world”. While she’s now a wizard at wielding clay and contorting it to her whims, she wasn’t always quite so adept in ceramics. In fact, she’d never worked with anything like it until her second semester of college, when she discovered Fairmont State had a ceramics program. Up to that point she had planned on pursuing drawing or painting, but after just one class she was hooked on what would become her passion. She fell in love with the craft and it became her fixation in life. Jeff Greenham, a professor and ceramicist at Fairmont State, took her under his wing and taught her everything she now knows. He was a huge support role in her artistic journey, and with his help she began growing into the artist she is today. Lenhart, along with other Emerging Artist Fellow Rosalie Haizlett, will be traveling around West Virginia throughout the Spring and Summer of 2017. Together they’ll meet and connect with various members of the arts and humanities communities, chat with people such as local historians and artists, and learn more about the unique cultures of each location. Their project is 3
Black Bear | Vol. I called “Teapots and Time Capsules”, and is a creative exploration of West Virginia. I had the blessing of being one of the artists they met with during their first stop in Wheeling West Virginia. The three of us gathered inside of Wheeling Coffee Shoppe to get to know each other over hot lattes while snow fell outside the steam covered windows. After the two women finish their traveling, both creatives will return to their studios to make works of art based on the people they met and things they experienced.
Drip Teapot
Line Teapot
Teapots in Repose
“I’m most excited to meet so many in√credible people and explore West Virginia.” said Lenhart during one of our chats. “I’ve lived here my whole life, but I don’t think I’ve ever truly experienced it.” Her primary goal at the moment is to simply be able to make art, especially now that she’s graduated. She’s actually in the process of getting a startup studio put together at her home (which she’s thrilled about). As with all great endeavors, it’s likely to be rough going at first, but Lenhart is blessed to have such a fantastic support system cheering her on. Like many artists, Lenhart has had a few, well, less than stellar moments as she experiences the growing pains all creatives face. This one just happened to involve setting a studio on fire a few months ago.
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Black Bear | Vol. I She was in the workshop one evening working on an ample ceramic sculpture, and throwing large forms; she was using a torch to help dry pieces in order to continue working without waiting long for things to set. Everything was running as planned until one little problem—she couldn’t switch the torch off; the knob was stuck and she was left with an open flame! Frantically looking around for anything she could use to release the knob she started to panic as nothing seemed to be able to work. It was late and no one was around to help so she yanked out her phone to call her father, convinced something was going to explode. He calmly talked her through the process and she was able to stop the flame and unscrew the top of the torch from the bottom. Still paranoid about it exploding she left the torch outside all night while she worked and didn’t touch it again until the next day. After telling her professor the story the following morning he laughed and showed her the large toolbox in the studio to release the knob of the torch. And that is one of many delightful tales she will accumulate during her journey in the arts, I’m sure.
Geometric Tea Set
Three Kids
When she needs inspiration (or help to keep from burning up in flames), Lenhart looks to Greenham for the countless hours he spends teaching and guiding her. She also is tremendously inspired by her family, as they are her biggest cheerleaders. She believes if not for them, she wouldn’t be where she is now. Lenhart is a sweet soul that is a much-needed part in West Virginia’s art communities. While hoping to establish a successful business selling her art, at the end of the day she’ll be contented with being happy and doing what she loves, whatever that may be at the time. 5
Line Tea Set
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I do believe there is a good change coming for artists in West Virginia. I think people are very passionate about growing the arts community and are working very hard to do so. I think a lot of great things are coming. - Hannah Lenhart
Photo credit for article: Adrianna Currey and Hannah Lenhart
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Thoughts on Art Daniel Loh
In the words of C.S. Lewis, "Art, like philosophy and friendship, has no survival value; rather, it is one of those things that give value to survival." Being an artist of various mediums provides the opportunity to learn about the eccentricity and complications of life in unique and intimate perspectives. Art gives humanity chances to relate, connect, reflect, and grow. Stories exemplify the pain and struggles that humans share, down to the base essences of love and fear. Through art, people indirectly support each other in poignant times of tribulation. With art, we can draw closer to raw and true being and find each other in spaces of vulnerability and reverie. With such a diverse and non-particular career, I would have the privileged and incumbent responsibility to connect with people, to learn from other individuals, and to dream. This occupation would, hopefully, be ultimately transformative to others and myself on a deeper level. Doctors heal the body. Construction workers heal the road. Artists heal the soul. Somebody once said that artists are anarchists, to some degree. Every day, artists address serious problems of the human condition through challenging, preconceived societal standards and creatively embarking on new adventures. Controversial and provocative works of film, visual art, music, and performance initiate conversations on more explicit topics. Because famous artistic figures in media and popular culture possess power and recognition from generations of people, I believe that it is their obligation and responsibility to be role models and teach what they believe to be true. This journey has the potential to be socially and personally transformative. That feeling one gets when listening to their favorite song, watching their favorite movie, or reading their favorite book. Artists can give that bliss to people! Or, when one is listening to an emotional song that resonates with them on a deep and utterly personal level... I believe that artists are obligated by occupation to be driven to connect, relate, tell the heartbreaking and joyous grand narrative of people.
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The Potion W.B. Healy
Take a sip Quit the sage and mutterings Under breath and other things Embrace the grace of night or day Wish upon a talisman of or A remnant of your enemy.
Lucidly recreate memories and reveries Paralyzed by your own self-indulging fantasy Feel no shame: Enter a world entirely your own Allow Pandora’s Box to unfurl your Once so-safe world Of pattern, routine, and expectation.
Make sacrifices to your muse or monster Make peace with gods and men Taste a place of deeper strength or weakness. Brew a cauldron laced with mages’ spells Forecast forward to an unknown realm of mystery.
Let the fates take tether, wheel— Let god or gods drive your own unyielding force or pleasure Welcome the magic. It lingers Just waiting beyond the veil From the other world it stirs… Calculating. Tempting.
Unlock doors you left unopened Turned away from out of fear or perfidy Blink once to reason, twice to reassure Unearth what lies beneath, no matter how unsure.
Give into passions before ordained unworldly. And find the blackness—whiteness— You never once have felt before.
You race from things now released unfettered. Welcome black cats and potions: Wizards, warlocks, witches, devotions Only you can negotiate A passion, a lust, a trust Implored from beyond the surface of the crystal ball.
Make deals with prophet or devil Still progress your own evolving self: Be not embarrassed by self-gain and satisfaction. Just drink it in—and see what happens.
Escape.
No matter how light or dark:
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Homemade Pepperoni Rolls Noah Hedrick
19 oz.
All-purpose Flour
4 ½ tsp
Active Dry Yeast
1 ¾ tsp
Fine Sea Salt
1.8 oz.
Sugar
3 oz.
Butter, softened
1.8 oz.
Dry Milk
1.12 oz.
Potato Flakes (OR 2.25 oz. Potato Flour)
13 ½ oz.
Luke-warm Water
6 oz.
Pepperoni Slices
1. Dissolve the yeast in the water. 2. Stir together all the dry ingredients and pour into the yeast/water mixture. Add the softened butter. 3. If the dough is still dry/tough, add more water. You may need to adjust the flour or water but avoid adding too much flour because your loaf will end up dry and heavy. 4. Knead until smooth and soft. Cover the dough in a lightly greased bowl and let it rise until it is risen and has doubled in bulk. 5. Divide the dough into 2oz. pieces while keeping the pieces covered with a damp cloth or plastic wrap. This is so the dough won’t dry out. 6. Flatten dough pieces and layer pepperoni. Roll tightly, sealing all the edges. 7. After shaping, let the rolls rise on a sheet pan lined with parchment and lightly greased. 8. Cover with plastic wrap and let sit in a warm place until almost doubled in size. Carefully brush with egg wash (Beat egg and 1 Tbsp of water together until thoroughly mixed). 9. Bake at 350 degrees until golden brown. The internal temperature should be 190 degrees. 10. Finished pepperoni rolls can be brushed with butter for a softer crust. Yield – Approximately 20 2oz rolls 11
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Editor’s note: This recipe choice is intentional. The ďŹ rst pepperoni roll was sold in 1927 at the Country Club Bakery in Fairmont, West Virginia. They were marketed to coal miners because they do not need to be refrigerated, can be made in bulk, and have a comparatively high nutritional value.
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Featured Photographer Chance Bonacci
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My name is Chance Bonacci, I'm 20 years old and I live in Wheeling. I just recently graduated high school (Wheeling Park) and decided that college wasn't for me. My creative work of choice is photography, and I’ve been taking photos for about 4 years now. I first started when I was 16, using my iPhone 3gs, just shooting whatever caught my eye. I always loved the feeling I got when looking at an appealing image and that’s mainly why I started. I wanted others to look at my photos and feel that same way. I quickly realized that taking photos was about more than just a pretty image. Each photo is essentially history and a memory. I could vividly remember the day the photo was taken and it brought me back to that moment, a moment I would never experience again. Photos are often overlooked as "just an image" but mean so much more to the person who captured them. Furthermore, I'd say my style is based mainly on outdoor nature photography. I don't like to limit my photos based on that, but 90% of the time I'll be shooting in the woods somewhere. It's where I'm most comfortable shooting and it feels like home to me.
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Untitled Ron Winslow A boy who was skinny came from Wes Virginny. He met a girl named Sherry and did happily marry. They bought a home mobile in style, lived in three states and got 69 mile. Now this is the skinny on a boy from Wes Virginny. His dad loved to travel and took his family far. They roamed many places in a well used car. This boy kept going from state to state. And visited to now to number forty eight. Two to go, Alaska and also Oklahoma land. To ride a Piper Cub in pontoons and maybe see an Okie in the boons.
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Love Gardens
 Matt Cummins
Love gardens. Humility works to pay for a ďŹ eld. Authority purchases it. Justice removes weeds. Mercy plants a seed. Grace waters. Kindness fertilizes. Patience waits for growth. Hope keeps Patience company. Discipline prunes. Love gardens.
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Hawaiian Aloha Claire Haizlette
She is saying something to me. Something about Papa Dios. My right leg jerks beneath the table. I erupt into a violent scratch, kneading my knuckles up and down my thighs. This is silly. Why am I so bothered? My white skin attracts them. They tell me that it’s sweet. Another. I slap my leg but it’s too late. I can no longer conceal my discomfort. “Me están comiendo.” They are eating me, I say. Her maternal instincts fly into action. She springs up, wipes the grease off of her dark palms and onto her beige shirt, and disappears behind the curtain into the bedroom. I wait, motionless. Power through, power through. She returns victorious, bearing a can of Febreze and an ivory smile. Satisfied, she kneels and generously mists the under table. The can clearly reads “air freshener” not “mosquito repellant.” But I don’t say anything. Hawaiian aloha vaporizes into the island air. I have been here for three months now. I volunteer at a primary school down the street, the one next to Colmado Severino and the towering guayaba tree. I eat lunch with Eladia on Mondays and Fridays, with Deysi on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and with Fifa on Wednesdays. Today is Wednesday. When I first arrived in the Dominican Republic, I lived with a host family and Fifa was our maid. I had never before had a personal clothes-folder and bed-maker. At first, I relished the luxury. But soon it became the norm, an expected accommodation. Now Fifa, who once swept my floor and scrubbed my socks, is my friend. Last week she prepared empanadas and this week the same. She rolls the dough with an empty wine bottle and gently packages the queso inside. I ask her about the recipe, but my Spanish fumbles and stalls the conversation. She understands. She experienced the same thing when she was learning Spanish. As she drops the dough into the pot, the oil jumps out and snaps at her. She doesn’t flinch. A fly lands on the wilted iceberg lettuce then darts to the empanadas. She flicks on the television, probably to mask my munching. The TV wails in Portuguese 17
Black Bear | Vol. I it’s the Brazilian soap opera again. She explains the plot, as she does every week, detailing the love triangle and frequent familial disputes. It is poorly filmed, melodramatic and from the little I understand, just bad. But Fifa loves it. The TV fusses and she adjusts the antenna to no avail. Frustrated, she unplugs the TV. The mosquitos hum, buying me time to invent conversation. The fly silently tiptoes on the rim of my glass of grape soda; I wonder if he can taste the grape. I pick a conversation topic: fútbol. “How many siblings do you have?” she asks. She beats me to it. “There are seven of us.” I await the shock that usually accompanies this statement. But she seems unfazed. “And you?” I ask. “Thirty-two.” My eyes bulge. I must have misunderstood. Seriously, Clara? You still don't know your numbers? So, I ask again, cursing my high school Spanish teacher and his futile number games. “I don’t understand. How many?” Fifa smiles. She has been through this before. “Thirty-two.” I had heard it right. I silently forgive Mr. McWilliams and my impetuous curses. “Let me explain,” she says. “There are only eleven by my mother. My mother was one of my father’s six wives.” My chin drops to my collarbone. It rests there for the remainder of the conversation. Fifa was born in Haiti, the poorest country in the Americas and one of the poorest in the world. She migrated to Santiago, Dominican Republic as a young woman and has lived there ever since. She used to return to Haiti once a year to visit her family. Now she can’t. Who would care for the children? I have never met her husband, but his portrait still hangs on the dining room wall. The wall adjacent displays a dated family portrait: three kids, mom and dad. I just assume he is dead. The kids come home from school. Jenny scribbles in her notebook and Israel models his knock-off Ray-Ban aviators. While Fifa reheats the empanadas in the kitchen, I ask Israel, “Does your dad live here?” “No.” “Where does he live?” “Puerto Rico.” Jenny interrupts, “No, Israel. He lives in Boston. Verdad que sí, mama?”
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Black Bear | Vol. I Fifa yells from the kitchen, “Yes, Boston. But he’ll be home for Christmas.” “Oh, awesome,” I say. “I love Boston. Years ago, my family and I vacationed there.” I peed my pants at a zoo in Boston. We go to New England every summer and rent a lake house for a week. I always choose the lake house and it’s all on me to make sure it’s a good one. But it always is, as is any place with Ben, Will, Ellie, Rosalie, Molly, Jack, Mom and Dad. I miss them. I can’t believe it’s been almost three months now. “We haven’t seen him in three years,” Israel says. “But he’ll be back for Christmas,” assures Jenny. “He said that last year.” Fifa’s husband, Gedeon, had a six-month visa. Three years later, he is still there. When his visa expired, he married a Haitian-American woman to “obtain documents.” Only after the marriage did he inform Fifa. “I told him, 'But you’re married to me!'” she recalls. When she found out, she tore her flesh and scratched her black skin red. Scars crowd her cheeks; the scars are white like me. As a tween, I never regarded myself as privileged. The privileged were those who carried iPhones and wore UGG boots. The privileged shopped at Hollister and Aeropostale. I shopped at Walmart and the Salvation “Outlet.” Yet here, my pasty skin and American passport scream privilege. My race and nationality exempt me from the poverty served on the paper plate in front of me now, the fried pocket of air and cheese. Poverty is as foreign as the language I am trying to speak. And as hard as I try, I cannot understand. For the first two years, he didn’t send anything. “Not even one peso,” she says. Now things are better. He got a job at a laundromat and sends home one-hundred dollars each month. Sometimes fifty. A dollar goes a long way here. But not as far as three kids. A tower of dishes leans precariously to the right. I station myself next to Fifa. She scrubs and I rinse. It’s 2pm and there’s still water so we have to work quickly. The water shuts off mid-afternoon each Wednesday and Friday. At home, I drink water from the well on our farm. It never shuts off.
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Black Bear | Vol. I The faucet trickles, releases a final gush, and shuts off. The tower is still there. Fifa swats at the swarm of flies and exhales, “The tickets for Christmas are too expensive.” She swings again and misses. “I haven’t told the kids yet.” Guilt flushes my face and prickles my arms. Just last night I bought my return ticket. In the safety of my mosquito net, I flicked through Google Flights on my iPad and selected a $374 flight from Santiago to Pittsburgh. What a steal, I thought. And just in time for Christmas! I tap, tap, tapped my dad’s credit card number, expiration date and security code. It was so easy. The Hawaiian aloha dissolves into my colorless flesh. My stench cannot be camouflaged. I reek of guilt and privilege, of sweat and the blood of picked mosquito bites.
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Ode to Coffee
 Ron Winslow
Make mine black cream and sugar lack French pressed soft Sunday morning shared with a friend.
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Restoration
 Shayla Klein
I'm sorry for leaving I feel guilty for being happy Knowing you're stuck But it's no way to live your life waiting to die And I'm not afraid to be alive anymore I just want something that means something I only want something that means something I wake up in the sun I am no longer sleepless I shed my weakness and embrace the light Though some days I still wear my shades, I have something that means something At least I found something that means
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Of Our June Rest Makayla Carney
Somewhere there is a graying rock and roll legend Sitting at the drum set for one last time, A kid begging to go once more around the block, Someone buying a Greyhound ticket with their last paycheck. There are those who look at the sky with love in their eyes, Be it for the clouds or the memories projected up there. The only thing working in some lives are the clocks And sometimes corduroys are the last remaining choice. I’m saying all these things so maybe you will know what June was like; Something beautiful and terrible all at once, A goner I’m still processing. Because, let me tell you about June. A most bold typeface, A song so sad you smile, June was all the stars turning on all at once to blind you. I was pulling off on the side of the road to scream at midnight-It was good luck. It was all of everything. June was getting your favorite chocolate on Halloween and eating it all until you get sick. I got sick in June, I was saturated; A buzzing sound turned all on high. I’ll try to be simpler. June was everything I longed for, June brought happiness at a rarely normal rate. June was looking at the ceiling like stars or the other way around. It was “I know its late but…”, It was a tired that hung in the heart, June was rain storms and flowers and so much I could cry, June was a world without 23 rose-tinted glasses, And it was still beautiful.
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Into the Deepest of the Dark Justin Cervenak
A single nudge, a gentle touch Of which there is not enough But as we fall, we slip apart Into the deepest of the dark A lonely tear, a quiet goodbye Forever for-never within my life And as I fall it throws my heart Into the deepest of the dark Nothing sounds, nothing moves Only chill wind fulfills the mood Time is miscounted within the fall Just as the rest, forgotten all Memories Spark, hope rejoices At long last I can hear their voices Those I love, those I hold dear But yet again, a single tear Reminds me of my hopeless wonder Forever for-never, my mind is lost Memories fade, emotions dull Just as the rest, forgotten all Into the abyss, my mind is lost Into the deepest of the dark
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Cadence of Injustice Amanda Cummins
...It's not background noise to everyone. It keeps me up at nightthis proverbial drum line that marches around the world, repeatedly playing A Cadence to Injustice. Low and slow at first, the rumble of an empty stomach, inlaid with the whirl of the wind as it whips the desert sand. A beat is established, with the incessant key tapping of frustrated, fatigued fingers. Hoe into the earth, turning over rock on rock. A snap-solo is followed by a musical meter of the zippers on one thousand military uniforms. There is a pulsating rhythmic pattern the paddles make as they plunge into the water. The jangle of the cash register drawer is enough to send chills, overlaid with the occasional staccato cocking of a gun, while a fluorescent light hums on. Then a measure of a cracked-lipped girl who rhythmically whispers nothing more than "No. No.25No. No." ...while the cracks of Corona cans keep beat.
Black Bear | Vol. I It continues with churning of a washing machine cycle, then a sudden surge of sobs from a child missing their childhood, followed by end-note emphasis of a bilateral expiratory wheeze. And then you feel the vibration before you hear the explosionwhich quickly decrescendos as the splintering debris sporadically showers, musically hitting a tin roof. The throbbing consistency of a machete slicing through Sumac stems fades and you're left with nothing more than the sound of hundreds of bare feet, crunching leaves as they run, while the drone of an air-purifier tapers away before the cadence is repeated. ...It's not background noise to everyone.
It's dedicated to those who live with the injustices that are often overlooked... everyone from civilians in war zones to southern West Virginian men stuck in the mining industry to passionless secretaries to prostitutes to Nicaraguan farmers to alcoholics to over-buyers to starving orphans in India....
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Hypocrisy in Common Conversation MarQuese Liddle
In the realms of polite conversation, it is the bully who cries offense when his disregard for truth and consistency are called into question. It is the self-ignorant individual who regards his freedom to openly speak his mind to be sacred while simultaneously denouncing anyone who dares to disagree. I am willing to bet that this sentiment would be received with rousing applause if plastered across social media or spoken at any civil political gathering. Unfortunately, I am also willing to bet that most of the same people who would support these values would be the same individuals this introduction describes. I say this in confidence because I’ve seen it in every facet of my life. Whether the situation be public or private, digital or eye-to-eye, there will eventually come moment in any meaningful social discourse when one party will make a claim, argument, or assertion which the entire group does not believe. The trouble arises when the opposing party deems to do the same and states his, her, or their argument in the same fashion that the initial statement was presented. When this occurs, accusations of rudeness, impoliteness, spite, anger, and instigation are almost always foisted onto the disagreeable party by the above described group or individual. It is hypocrisy of the highest degree, for the contradiction in beliefs and behavior lies within the very act of denying another’s approval to speak with one’s own speech. The described hypocrisy--an individual denying speech in defense of his/her speech-occurs at multiple tiers of discourse. What I believe to be most publicized, the battle between post-modern authoritarians and literally everyone else, is not what I mean to focus on here. Such a conversation requires a louder, more intelligent voice than mine. What I mean to call attention to are the everyday incidences of self-censorship among close acquaintances, friends, and family; or the lack thereof and resultant aftermath. Make no mistake, as I know many reading are likely to do at this juncture, I am not suggesting that controversial topics be forced into otherwise calm and polite dialogue (at least not in this essay). What I am arguing, however, is that if you broach a conversation piece which you feel strongly about, it is hypocritical of you to take offense that someone else is openly disagreeing with you. By putting out your beliefs and values, you have already subjected everyone else in the conversation to the very thing you would subsequently be condemning. To put it simply, you can’t have your cake and eat it too.
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Black Bear | Vol. I Common sentiments to justify the described behavior are as follows: 1. “You just like to argue.” 2. “I was just stating my opinion. / I’m entitled to my opinion” 3. “You should just need to be more open-minded.” These are lies and projection. 1. Making a truth claim of any kind is either making an argument or a baseless assertion. So, unless you are willing to denounce your own statement as unfounded, you are the initiator of the argument. 2. An opinion is either a preference (which people by definition cannot argue about) or a belief. Unless you are saying that your beliefs are irrational and unfounded, you are not stating an opinion, you are making a truth claim. 3. The only person who is close minded in this situation is the person who is too offended to listen to dissenting points of view. The person who engages in arguments actually challenges his/her own beliefs. The person who avoids debate by claiming to be offended is the one who hides from outside ideas. tl;dr If you have the gall to bring up a contentious topic in open conversation, then it is hypocritical of you to hide behind offense, courtesy, or hurt emotions. Otherwise, you are the tyrant which you claim others to be.
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Black Bear | Vol. I
The Weather's Current State Nolah Mull
Sitting on my couch embracing the heat from the brick fireplace, I look out my big window and see a gray sky leaving its tear stains on the glass. I see the quiet road below me as the trees sway, dancing to the song of the wind. The waters are running with the breeze singing along, the leaves are dancing as they return to life. The birds are slowly singing their song again. As the sun sets behind the wall of clouds, gray is cast across the land. The clouds are hovering together to keep the gold of the sun to themselves. Looking at the weather from inside your house, you might think that it looks sad. But going out and standing still, taking a deep breath of the crisp air, You can smell and feel the earth coming back to life. You want to take off your shoes and let the grass tickle your toes, You want to run through the wind while it kisses your cheeks, Laugh with the flow of the creek and raise your hands to sun as it peeks through the clouds and Shines its gold light. You want to sing with the birds and join their joyous tune Lie down on the earth's floor as the life returns and wraps itself around you. Grass underneath you, the sun shining above you, the trees dancing around you. The wind and the water running beside each other. That's what I see when I look out my window; I don't see a sad a gray world, With dead trees and cold breeze. I see a world that is closer and closer to life. There is hope in everything, and in everything there is hope.
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Black Bear | Vol. I
Hannah Mull
The day and the breeze, So simple a release. The feeling; the knowing It's going, yet slowing. I'm feeling more, I'm thinking less. I'm thinking more I'm feeling this. Your eyes are like a picture Saying a thousand words. Your touch is like a book, A story, with no words. I like you, it's simple. Resistance is futile. You are mine, I am yours. My love, when it rains, it pours.
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Black Bear | Vol. I
Art of the Valley
Amy Meko | Paden City, WV
Tomato Poster Sayre Waverly | Wheeling, WV
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Black Bear | Vol. I
Monarch Butterfly Resting On Leaf Mikayla Jackson | Bellaire, OH
Peir Mini Albon | West Liberty, WV
Embroidery Zachary Ernest | West Virginia
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Black Bear | Vol. I
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