Vol. 8 • 2020
The Brown Lady
2020
Published by:
Honors College Student Association Poets, Inc. Printed by the Wm. A. Krueger School of Graphic Communications
Welcome Welcome to the 8th edition of The Brown Lady, a creative and academic magazine that celebrates some of the most impressive work created by Chowan University students during the past year! I invite you to explore and appreciate the impressive variety of exceptional writing and artistic creations in this issue. We have another outstanding issue this year, including our most colorful cover ever! Getting us started this year is Michael Futrell’s clever modernization of Lewis Carroll’s classic Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in his short story “Alice.” That story is followed by Deja Christopher’s simple, haunting poem “Ghosts.” In our first art block, Ginger Jordan demonstrates her varied talents in her extraordinary soft sculpture “Day of the Dead” and her vibrant portrayal of a bestselling singer, “Melanie Martinez Portrait,” which is also featured on the cover. And Alyssia Parker works with blues and purples to create both the striking gaze of “Natural Being” as well as the intriguing mixture of “Action Experiment 2.” Otis Hunter, Jr. follows these artworks with his highly innovative and moving autobiographical poem “ME.” And the first half of the issue concludes with four more stunning portraits: the vivid and intriguing half-glimpse of Alyssia Parker’s “Split Portrait” (featured on this year’s cover) and strikingly photorealistic “Buddha Portrait,” Naiyhani Etheridge’s cool and colorful “Jerry,” and the gaze of a global icon in Nick Adams’s “Gandhi.” As the second half of this year’s issue begins, we feature Loricia Martin’s insightful exploration of the portrayal of girls in Dr. Seuss’ children stories, “The Fate of the Forgotten Female.” In two socially conscious poems, Cadeirdre Futrell ponders the dangers that face African-American men in her poem “Black Weather” and Riley Maynard explores how we hide our real selves from each other in “Masks.” Nick Adams offers two distinct works of art, the highly accomplished “Tree” and his portrayal of the troubling effect of hateful words in “Worthless.” Antwuan Hicks, Jr. celebrates an important civil rights leader in his print “Bayard Rustin,” and Bria McNair creates an electric and energetic image in “Wild and Free.” The final three works this year each portray life’s difficulties in different ways. Mackenzie Taggart depicts a tragic school shooting in her story “Twos.” Ginger Jordan offers her poetic take on the ongoing battle between “head and heart” in “War in the Soul.” And Grace Arredondo closes this year’s issue with her raw and searing description of her grandfather’s tragic decline and death in her nonfiction piece “Unforgettable.” On behalf of this year’s editorial board, I invite you to spend some time with each of these exceptional works in the weeks, months, and years to come. I hope you are as proud of these talented students as we are. Enjoy…and, as always, be sure to congratulate this year’s contributors! Dr. Tim Hayes Editor-in-Chief
Editorial Board Timothy Hayes Editor-in-Chief Assistant Professor of English
Grace Arredondo Student Editor English
Shanelle Thompson Assistant to the Editor Graphic Communications
David Ballew Associate Professor of History Bo Dame Associate Professor of Biology and Physical Science
Gremi Fortunato Poets, Inc. Criminal Justice Michael Futrell Honors College Student Association Psychology Alyssia Parker Honors College Student Association Studio Art Alexis Riddick Honors College Student Association Business Administration
Jennifer Groves Newton Assistant Professor of Graphic Communications Danny B. Moore Professor of History R. Lauren Rodil Assistant Director of Printing Production Amin Rudaina Khalil Associate Professor of Graphic Design
Catherine Vickers Instructor of English
Table of Contents Alice Michael Futrell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Ghosts Deja Christopher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Natural Being Alyssia Parker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Day of the Dead Ginger Jordan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Melanie Martinez Portrait Ginger Jordan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Action Experiment 2 Alyssia Parker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
ME Otis Hunter, Jr.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Jerry Naiyhani Etheridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Split Portrait Alyssia Parker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Ghandi Nick Adams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Buddha Portrait Alyssia Parker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
The Fate of the Forgotten Female: An Analysis of the Underrepresentation of Female Characters in Dr. Seuss' Works Loricia Martin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Black Weather Cadeirdre Futrell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Masks Riley Maynard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Tree Nick Adams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Bayard Rustin Antwuan Hicks, Jr.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
Table of Contents continued Wild and Free Bria McNair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
Worthless Nick Adams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Twos Mackenzie Taggart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
War in the Soul Ginger Jordan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Unforgettable Grace Arredondo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
Alice Michael Futrell
Alice was wandering around Wonderland in aimless bliss, loving the sights and sounds as usual, when the White Rabbit came scurrying up to her in a panic. The rabbit was yelling at Alice, telling her he was late yet again and how could he have slipped up again this time—all while fiddling with his watch and telling Alice that she was late and needed to cooperate before the Red Queen found out, or he would be yelled at again and he couldn’t have that, no, sirree. Just then, the Hatter appeared, telling the White Rabbit to calm down, that everything will be fine, that Alice is his friend and, of course, she would listen and cooperate. “So, calm down, White Rabbit.” Alice swore she heard him say, “Dwight Robert,” but she must be hearing things. “I can’t, Hector!” the White Rabbit screamed at the Hatter. Hector? Who’s Hector? Alice wondered. That’s the Hatter, not Hector. Was she starting to hear things, she asked herself again. Just then, she heard the rabbit yell into his watch for “Chester” to come to the “ward” immediately. Alice worried now, questioning who Chester was and where and what was a “ward.” Alice was about to ask these questions to the White Rabbit, because he seemed more informed, but, before she could even utter a sound, The Cheshire Cat appeared. “What’s with all the panic and fuss?” the cat asked with his signature wide grin. “I have no time for your games or riddles right now, save those for Alice to keep her distracted.” “Chester, I am late once again,” the rabbit continued to say, “and we need you to keep Alice busy while Hector here (pointing to the Hatter) gives her some of his special ‘tea and cakes,’ and wipe that annoying grin off your face, while you’re at it.” “Keep me distracted from what?” Alice finally asked, breaking her silence. “What’s going on? Please explain all of this, White Rabbit,” she insisted, clearly getting upset. “Nothing, nothing, my sweet little princess. All is fine. Mr. Rabbit here is just a little late with reminding me about the tea party we were to have,” the Hatter said with a big friendly smile. “We must hurry and get her some ‘tea and cakes’ before the Red Queen finds out that I am late once again.” “All right, all right. I will keep the little lady here busy while you get the ‘tea and cakes,’” the Cheshire Cat said, still grinning wide. The White Rabbit hurried away until he was out of sight, all the while muttering to himself, “Hurry, hurry, hurry. Late, late, late.” The Hatter quickly followed after him, telling him to get the “tea and cakes” while he distracted Her Majesty, the Red Queen. Alice looked at the Cheshire Cat, confused, and asked, “Why are they always worried about the tea parties? We can have those any time.” “Because, my dear Alice, the ‘tea’ keeps you happy and content. Without the tea parties, you would be sad.” 7
Alice Michael Futrell
“And why is that, Cat?” asked Alice. “Because, my dear Alice, we need you happy so we can cure you.” “Cure me from what?” “From your madness, my dear, sweet Alice.” As soon as the cat said these words, everything started to lose its majestic and magical nature. The colors of Wonderland started to drip and peel away. She looked at the Cheshire Cat and, in panic, cried out, “What’s happening, Cat? Wonderland is dying. What should we do!?” “Stay calm, Alice. Wonderland will be back soon, as long as you listen and get ready for the tea party.” As the cat talked to Alice, she noticed that he started to change form. He slowly changed into a man with a wide grin and a lab coat. She noticed the name tag on the coat, which read “Chester.” She looked at this new man and asked where the cat went. The man replied by telling Alice that he is in Wonderland, she just “escaped for a moment,” and Mr. Hector would be back very soon. Alice noticed that the man named Chester looked a lot like the Cheshire Cat but boiled it down to her being in a new world filled with strange faces that resembled things she knew and saw in Wonderland. “That would explain why he looks so similar and why his name sounds nearly the same,” she told herself. Alice looked around in her new world. She was in a small room lined with soft, pillow-like pads on the walls and floor. She tried to move her arms and found that she couldn’t. She looked down and found herself in some kind of odd jacket restricting her arms. Alice asked Chester why she was wearing such a weird thing, and Chester told her it was the “coolest style” in this world and only princesses wear it. Alice smiled gleefully and told him thank you for the jacket—that it made her feel secure, even though it was rather unusual. Just then, a man in a bizarre hat with lenses on it walked in with a strange, chalky-looking cake and a peculiar drink in his hands. The man’s jacket read “Hector,” and he reminded Alice a lot of the Hatter, especially when it came down to his unusual hat. Alice thought to herself that the Hatter would love to add that hat to his own collection. She also realized how similar his name was to the Hatter’s, but, again, she told herself, “It’s just the weird world trying to copy Wonderland.” Hector asked if Chester was being good company. “Yes, he is really entertaining. He reminds me a lot of my friend from Wonderland called the Cheshire Cat, and you remind me a lot of my friend The Hatter,” Alice said in a sweet, innocent voice. “That explains a lot, actually,” Hector said under his voice. “What was that?” Alice asked. “Oh, I said to tell your friend, The Hatter, hi for me.” 8
Alice Michael Futrell
“I sure will, Mr. Hector,” Alice said with a big smile. “You’d love it there. It’s much more colorful than this world, no offense, and I’m sure the Hatter would love to meet you.” “Oh, I would, Alice, but there’s only enough tea and cake for you to go back to Wonderland.” “Oh,” Alice said sadly. “I’m sorry you won’t get to see the magic of Wonderland as I do.” Hector sighed and, under his breath, said, “I wish I could see the world like you do, dear Alice.” “Well, alright. Time to go back to Wonderland, little miss troublemaker,” said a voice coming from the hall. “Oh, no. Here comes Her Majesty, the Red Queen!” Just then, a short, angry-looking woman with frizzy, bright red hair was standing in the doorway of Alice’s room. “It seems Dwight was late again with her medicine, I see.” “Medicine?” Alice asked. “What medicine?” “Oh, nothing, sweet child. It’s only what Red here calls the ‘tea and cakes’ that are used to take people to Wonderland or, in your case, back to Wonderland.” “Do not call me Red! Chester, I shouldn’t have to remind you that I could have you fired if I wanted to! Especially after this colossal screw-up. And wipe that stupid grin off your face; it’s annoying and creepy. No wonder she’s not getting any better, not with you buffoons in charge of her case. Now, hurry up and give her the medicine, Hector, so we can get back to work!” “Yes, your majesty,” Hector said under his breath. “What was that?” “Nothing, nothing. I just said I’ll get on it right away.” “See that you do,” the lady with the red hair demanded as she stomped away down the hall. “What a royal pain,” Hector said. Alice giggled and said, “Yes, she is rather mean. She reminds me a lot of the Red Queen from Wonderland, who is also vile and rather bossy.” “Are you ready to go back to Wonderland now, Alice?” Hector asked. “Yes, yes I am. This place seems madder than Wonderland.” “Alice, we’re all mad here,” Chester said with a wide grin. “Alright. Are the sedatives in the ‘tea and cakes’?” Chester asked, quietly enough so that Alice couldn’t hear. “Yes, they’re in,” Hector responded. “Okay, Alice. Eat the cake first, and then drink the tea,” Hector said. 9
Alice Michael Futrell
“Okay,” Alice replied. She ate the cake, and it made her feel like she was growing very tall. Soon after she finished eating it, she drank the tea, and she felt herself grow smaller and smaller until she was very tiny. “Alright, Alice. How do you feel?” Hector’s voice boomed. “I feel very small,” she replied. “Alright. Just look for the doorway like you first did when you went to Wonderland.” Alice tried to listen, but Hector’s voice slowly began to fade away, and now she was in a completely different room, a room she recognized. It was the room where the door to Wonderland stood. She opened the door excitedly, happy to return to Wonderland. Chester and Hector talked as Alice drifted slowly back to the world of Wonderland. “I still can’t believe this sweet little girl is in this place, being tested on,” Hector said with sad, pitiful disgust. “We run tests on her in the hope of curing her from her illness. If you’d read her file, you’d know why she is here,” Chester said. “And why is she here, exactly?” Hector asked. “You never heard about what she has—a very distorted outlook on life. She sees things and hears things that aren’t there, and she is constantly in severe pain and at times talks in weird, nonsensical phrases and riddles. Every time we put her under, she forgets the real world. That’s why she never remembers us when she comes out of her medically induced coma. It’s because her brain is telling her she is from Wonderland and this world is false. “She also can hear and sometimes remember faces she sees when she comes out of her coma. So, when she goes back into her coma, the faces she saw and voices she heard are changed by her brain to creatures and inhabitants of Wonderland itself. That’s why she said we looked like a few of her friends from Wonderland. “I remember asking her one time, when Dwight forgot to get her meds again, what she thought was wrong with her, and she said that she must fight and kill the jabberwocky that’s plaguing Wonderland. My guess is, if she can finally kill this jabberwocky, then she will cure herself.” “I see. So, you think this jabberwocky is the physical embodiment of her disorder that plagues her in her coma?” Hector asked. “Yes, I do. In fact, I think the longer she stays in her coma, the more likely she will be able to defeat the jabberwocky, but Dwight keeps running late on delivering the required meds.” “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he will no longer run late. If what you said is true, we need to make sure Alice stays in her coma, so she can be cured,” Hector said.
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Alice Michael Futrell
Alice’s stay in wonderland grew longer and longer as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. It became a neverending Wonderland as Alice continued to sleep peacefully. Alice runs around and plays with her friends in Wonderland while also preparing to take on the jabberwocky. Alice has noticed changes in Wonderland, like how the White Rabbit never runs late anymore, and how The Hatter is always closer than he was before, almost like he is keeping his eye on her constantly and reminding the Rabbit to never be late again and to constantly check his watch. When the time comes, all of her friends in Wonderland and the real world will stand by her side when it is time to slay the jabberwocky and free herself from her own mind. But why would she ever want to leave the blissful plains of Wonderland? No one in their right mind would, but, then again, we are all mad down deep inside, some madder than others, but mad nonetheless. They tell me of my daughter's condition, keeping me informed with each new treatment and each new plan to fight her illness. I only know what the orderlies and doctors tell me—and what I observe on my own. She no longer knows me as her father but only refers to me as the “Blue Caterpillar.” She says that I am just like her father, because he is old and wise and smokes a lot just like me. It breaks my heart seeing her here in this ward, unaware of her own father, who is always there by her bedside, waiting for her to kill the "jabberwocky," as she and the doctors call it. It is then I am told she will be freed from her own mind. But I do not know if I want for her to be ripped from her paradise in Wonderland only to face the cruel real world. That is why I delay the worker Dwight, the orderly who gives the medicine, the best I can, not only in hopes for her to never leave Wonderland and face this ungodly world, but also so I can see my own daughter have life in her eyes and tell me all the wondrous adventures she has had in Wonderland. It’s these few moments of talking with her that I have left to hope for, seeing her happy. She will always be my wondrous little girl, no matter which world she chooses to live in, even if she no longer remembers me in my own.
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Ghosts Deja Christopher
I’m starting to see them again, Their faces.
When we were children, adults would tell us they didn’t exist, That our eyes were just playing tricks. And, for a while, we believe them.
But the terror never leaves, The fear of shadows dancing in the corner of your eye. Until they become all too real, Reaching out to us. Unassailable in their placid silence, Our senses screaming wordlessly into the night.
We cannot move, We cannot breathe… Until we see their faces.
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Natural Being Alyssia Parker Graphite
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Day of the Dead Ginger Jordan Soft Sculpture
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Melanie Martinez Portrait Ginger Jordan Graphite
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Action Experiment 2 Alyssia Parker Acrylic
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ME Otis Hunter, Jr.
Grandmother. Mine. Mother. Dad’s. Single. Parent. Single. Mother. Single. Bachelorette. Solution? Stepdad. First. Stepdad. Wicked. Pass. Second. Stepdad. Evil. Pass. Stepdad. Pass. Stepdad. Pass. Stepdad. Pass. Stepdad… Hopeless? Never. Desperate? Never. Stepdad? Maybe? … Stepdad... Good. 17
ME Otis Hunter, Jr.
Tommy. Uncle. Mine. Stepbrother. Dad’s. Sibling. Older. Disorder. Learning. Disorder. Abuse. Tommy. Abused. Dad. Fights. Abuse. Fights. Abuse. Fights. Abuse. Time. Passed. Tommy. Dead. Killer? Police. No. Justice. No. Peace. Dad? Grieving. Dad? Devastated. Regrets. Brimming. Last. Words. Argument. Last. Words. Hatred. 18
ME Otis Hunter, Jr.
Brewing. Target? Tommy. Last. Words. … Grandmother. Single. Hopeless? Maybe. Desperate? Maybe. Stepdad. Last. Forever? … No. Single. Mother. Child? Grown. Family? Distant. Husband? None. Alone? No. How? Tommy. Tommy? Reborn. Tommy? Child. Adopted. Tommy. “Cousin.” Mine. Grandmother. Hope. Tommy. Lifeblood. Tommy. 19
ME Otis Hunter, Jr.
Living. Tommy. Thriving. Tommy. Surviving. Grandmother. Fading. Grandmother. Fading. Grandmother. Hospitalized. Grandmother. Dying. Grandmother. Amputated. Doctor's. Mistake. Grandmother. Dying. Grandmother. Hospice. Grandmother. Going. Going. Going‌ Gone. Grandmother. Dead. Killer? Cancer. Grandfather. Mine. Father. Dad’s. Grandfather. 43. Child. Son. Dad. Mine.
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ME Otis Hunter, Jr.
Grandfather. “Caretaker.” Only. Child. Dad. Responsibilities? Abandoned. Child? Abandoned. Location? Unknown. Status? Unknown. Dad? Alone. Grandmother. Mine. Mother. Mom’s. Husband. Kids. One. Split. Husband. Kids. Two. Split. Husband. Kids. Three. Died. Husband. Killer? Diabetes. Widow. Grandmother. Child. Last. Mom. Mom. Rough. Tough. 21
ME Otis Hunter, Jr.
Bully. Mom. Dad. Connection. Friend. Mutual. Trina. Mom. Dad. Together. Friendship. Growth. Development. Experiences. Lovers. Forever? Maybe. Mom. Dad. Friend. Mutual. Trina. Friend. Traitor. Enemy. Mom? Disappointed. Dad? Upset. Mom. Boyfriend. New. Love? No. Lust? Yes. Pregnant? Mom. Boyfriend? Deadbeat. Time. 22
ME Otis Hunter, Jr.
Passed. Dad. Returned. Mom. Pregnant. Dad. Shocked. Dad. Cared. Dad. Cared. Mom. Dad. Together. Restart. Mom. Child. Stepbrother. Mine. Darrick. Miller. Jr. Mom. Dad. Marriage. 9. 19. 1990. Mom. Child. Sister. Mine. Tatyanna. Hunter. Mom. Child. Third. Last. 23
ME Otis Hunter, Jr.
OJ. Odie. Oatmeal. Man-Man. Buddy. Swoody. Wolf. Underwood. Hunter. Redwolf. Otis. Hunter. Jr. Me.
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Jerry Naiyhani Etheridge Digital Media
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Split Portrait Alyssia Parker Acrylic
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Gandhi Nick Adams Charcoal
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Buddha Portrait Alyssia Parker Graphite
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The Fate of the Forgotten Female: An Analysis of the Underrepresentation of Female Characters in Dr. Seuss’ Works Loricia Martin
Theodor Geisel, under the pseudonym Dr. Seuss, cemented a legacy as the most renowned writer of children’s literature. Despite the decades that have passed since his death, Dr. Seuss remains a household name; his works continue to permeate classrooms throughout the country and have become an influential component of the typical, idyllic American childhood. Despite the popularity and virtue often associated with his literature, Seuss’ writings are an inevitable product of the era in which they were written. Consequently, a number of his books are infused with contentious themes and controversial stances on political issues. Perhaps the most overlooked social issue manifested in Seuss’ works is the inequitable, discriminatory treatment of women in the mid-twentieth century; the overt lack of representation of female characters in his children’s books is a reflection of the systematic exclusion of women from roles that violate cultural norms. There exists an undeniable imbalance in the gender of lead characters in the children’s books that Dr. Seuss published. In fact, none of the 42 books he wrote for primary school children before his death contained a female title character, and most girls remain silent throughout his stories.1 As a result, his literature has undergone intense scrutiny by feminist literary critics for participating in gender role socialization. Research conducted on the impact that picture-books have on a child’s understanding of gender states, “These books are influential in the development of children’s sexual identities; hence, their content of sexual roles is critical.”2 Seuss exaggerates the masculine traits of his male characters and the feminine qualities of his female characters, upholding customary approaches to gender differences, in The Lorax, Yertle the Turtle, and The Cat in the Hat. The Lorax by Dr. Seuss is the most notable example of the perpetuation of gender stereotypes through biased characterization. The portrayal of the valiant, outspoken protagonist as a male reveals 1 Thomas Fensch, Of Sneetches and Whos and the Good Dr. Seuss: Essays on the Writings and Life of Theodor Geisel (Chesterfield, VA: New Century Books, 2015). This source does not include page numbers. 2 Joyce A. Kaufman, “Sexism in Children’s Literature” (PhD diss., Ouachita Baptist University, 1975), 2, accessed November 22, 2018, https://scholarlycommons.obu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1308&context=honors_ theses. 29
The Fate of the Forgotten Female: An Analysis of the Underrepresentation of Female Characters in Dr. Seuss’ Works Loricia Martin
that Seuss internalized the conventional notion that women were to withhold their opinions and remove themselves from political matters. The exclusion of women from this work maintains the belief that women are neither heroic nor entrepreneurial, as the ambitious Once-ler is also portrayed as a male in The Lorax. According to Joyce Ann Kaufman, “Male protagonists meet situations with intelligence … use their wits, they make things, and ‘create’ to handle the situation they are in.”3 The Once-ler, created by Dr. Seuss, satisfies each element of the ideal protagonist by inventing a successful, original product that capitalizes on the vast resources at his disposal. Female characters fulfill the typical expectations of their gender in this work, serving insignificant background roles and supporting the career aspirations of the Once-ler, who demonstrates the opportunism he is entitled to as a male character. The Once-ler places the burden of restoring the ecosystem damaged by his irresponsible pursuit of capital entirely in the hands of a young boy. The curious child in this tale is a classic example of a savior chosen for his presumed competence. Seuss heeds the desirable behaviors of both genders while developing the characters of his politically charged tale. Another blatantly political publication, Yertle the Turtle, fits the mold of a plot dominated by males. Even though the power and ambition of the title character are a direct allusion to the rise and fall of Adolf Hitler, a man of historical significance, Seuss created other characters, not on the basis of historical accuracy, but conformity to historical gender labels. Besides Yertle, the only meaningful character is Mack, also a male, who is credited with igniting the insurgency against the tyrannical Yertle. In this example, both the protagonist and antagonist are males, and Mack alone is described as brave and progressive while there is no reference to a specific female turtle in the text. Mack becomes the people’s champion not only for verbally protesting the treatment he and others receive but also for successfully removing their oppressor from power. Seuss writes, “that plain little lad got a bit mad … and his burp shook the throne of the king!”4 In a period remembered for clinging to conservatism, women were rarely involved in politics; it would have been taboo for a woman in America to speak out or take action against a political issue she deemed unfair. 3 Ibid. 4 Dr. Seuss, Yertle the Turtle and Other Stories (New York, NY: Random House, 1958), 12. 30
The Fate of the Forgotten Female: An Analysis of the Underrepresentation of Female Characters in Dr. Seuss’ Works Loricia Martin
Originally published in 1957, The Cat in the Hat depicts the orthodox family dynamic of the generation. More specifically, the well-known Seuss tale illustrates a sharp contrast between the behavioral standards of young boys and young girls. The narrator, a school-aged boy, and his younger sister, Sally, are faced with a dilemma during a visit by a mischievous cat who encourages the children to defy the rules their mother established. Although both Sally and the narrator are entertained by the cat’s antics, the narrator is portrayed as responsible and assertive while his sister epitomizes the docile, submissive girls that filled 1950s mainstream media. Though both protagonists were affected by their shared experiences, the brother is the sole narrator of the book; the audience does not receive an account of Sally’s thoughts or feelings. The brother single-handedly quells the chaos the cat causes with both quick-wittedness and verbal command. According to the text, “so as fast as I could, I went after my net … and I had them! At last! Those two things had to stop.”5 The aforementioned excerpt supports the affirmation that in the rare instances that Dr. Seuss’ literature has a female protagonist, sociocultural forces restrict her to the traits considered appropriate for her gender. The representation of the mother is yet another component of The Cat in the Hat that fails to resist prevailing conceptions about women’s function in society. The mother is not an active character in the book; she is merely spoken of by other characters until the story’s resolution. Despite being an authority figure in her household, her absence throughout the majority of the plot, particularly during the misdeeds that occur in her home, reinforces the pattern of voiceless women who are no more than supporting characters in Seuss’ stories. The children’s father is not mentioned, which indicates that the household in this fictional work mirrors the family structure highly regarded by Americans in the 1950s, characterized by a nurturing, stay-at-home mother, and a career-driven father who is inactive in the child-rearing process. As stated by Steven Mintz, “Being so preoccupied with his role as breadwinner, he was unable to be the paternal authority and caring father to his children.”6 In The Cat in the Hat, Dr. Seuss develops each member of the protagonists’ family in accordance with the established norms of suburban culture. 5 Dr. Seuss, The Cat in the Hat (New York, NY: Random House, 1957), 50-52. 6 Steven Mintz and Susan Kellog, Domestic Revolutions: A Social History of American Family Life (New York, NY: The Free Press, 1988). This source does not include page numbers. 31
The Fate of the Forgotten Female: An Analysis of the Underrepresentation of Female Characters in Dr. Seuss’ Works Loricia Martin
Dr. Seuss’ embodiment of illiberal gender expectations, while representative of literature published in the mid-twentieth century, is nonetheless unnerving, as gender socialization occurs in early childhood, the same stage in which children are typically introduced to his works. The overwhelming majority of male protagonists and the lack of complexity and respect given to female characters is as systematic as the discriminatory practices intended to restrict women to the roles delineated to them in a patriarchal society. Though likely unintentional, the inequity of character development in his children’s books is undoubtedly a result of Dr. Seuss’ exposure to misogynistic ideals and the belittlement of women. The pattern of perpetuating this negative treatment represents his unconscious expression of the sexist attitudes of his time.
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The Fate of the Forgotten Female: An Analysis of the Underrepresentation of Female Characters in Dr. Seuss’ Works Loricia Martin
Bibliography Fensch, Thomas. Of Sneetches and Whos and the Good Dr. Seuss: Essays on the Writings and Life of Theodor Geisel. Chesterfield: New Century Books, 2015. Kaufman, Joyce. “Sexism in Children’s Literature.” PhD diss., Ouachita Baptist University, 1975. Scholarly Commons at Ouachita. Mintz, Steven, and Susan Kellog. Domestic Revolutions: A Social History of American Family Life. New York: The Free Press, 1988. Seuss, Dr. The Cat in the Hat. New York: Random House, 1957. Seuss, Dr. Yertle the Turtle. New York: Random House, 1958.
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Black Weather Cadeirdre Futrell
Partying and laughing and having some fun All fun and games until a black one runs Fuzzy and dizzy and wobbling around Bang Bang shoot and he hits the ground Yelling and screaming and crying and more Call 911 someone shot my boy Days go by and no news to report Snitches get stitches so say no more Dark as the world and we make it no better Black men falling like part of the weather.
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Masks Riley Maynard
Nobody is real. We have fake smiles. We hide our feelings for others, whether it be hatred or love. The popular kid hides that he can't read. The weird kid hides her art, his voice, their dancing, for fear of societal rejection. The gay kid hides in the closet and behind homophobia. The pretty girl hides her intelligence because she doesn't want to be called a nerd. The jock hides his feelings for the gay kid because the gay kid won't say he's gay. The popular kid won't ask the pretty girl for help because she won't say she's smart. The weird kids hide their talent because they won't admit they have it, and the kids that say they do won't help because they're hiding, too. It's all connected. Don't you see?
Masks are built upon other masks, and nobody knows what's real anymore. So the ones who are real are labeled fake. Because, if you have a mask, they must have one, too. But nobody is brave enough to lift their masks, because once they do‌ there's only failure and rejection. Because the ones to lift the mask have masks, too.
Nothing is real, because real hides behind a “real� that they let others see. And if you're lucky, 35
Masks Riley Maynard
and look hard enough, you might see them trying. You might see that the popular kid never volunteers to read, but you never see that the pretty girl is failing, because she's trying to impress the jock, who's trying to impress the gay kid, who's trying to not get jumped. And the weird kids with the talent lose their spark, because they pretend to have none long enough that everyone stops asking to hear them sing. The guy never gets the girl, and the girl never gets the guy. Because his mask is red and hers is blue, so they never see that they're both purple underneath.
Nothing is real, because real is a mask hidden under love. And love is nice in picture frames and movies, but love is a mask. So everyone lives their life never truly knowing what's under the mask that is only built from hate. Because no one is born with a mask; It's made over time, based on what society thinks is acceptable. So a mask is just a comfort blanket of hate, and everyone spends their life trying to break the cycle... but it never ends. Nothing is real.
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Tree Nick Adams Pen
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Bayard Rustin Antwuan Hicks, Jr. Print
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Wild and Free Bria McNair Digital Media
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Worthless Nick Adams Digital Media
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Twos Mackenzie Taggart
It was a snowy December morning. The newly fallen snow lay like a soft white blanket across our front yard. I cracked the door to be greeted by a bone-chilling breeze that made goosebumps run up my arms. Inhaling the fresh morning air that made my lungs sting while watching the sun creep over the horizon, I hugged my warm coffee close to my chest as I shut the door. The house was filled with sleep. You could hear the faint snores of my husband, Brian, in our bedroom, the dog’s loud breath as he lay at my feet by the sofa, and the ticking of the clock in the kitchen. It was about 6:50 AM, ten minutes until I must wake the girls up for school. Sitting on the couch, I started to imagine their faces on Christmas morning. Only eleven more days. I bought my daughter Bailey the Barbie Doll dream house that she had been begging me for since the Christmas catalogs started flooding through our door. Bonnie, her twin sister, older by five minutes, wanted the Barbie Doll remote control car. I told them to write their Christmas letters to Santa and maybe they will have their wishes come true. The day after they wrote their Christmas lists, Brian and I were off to the mall. I wanted to go all out this year. It was the first year we weren’t traveling to Florida to visit family for Christmas. That meant the girls didn’t get out of school three days before the rest of their classmates, which they were bummed about. The sound of Brian’s alarm clock pried me from my daydream. 7 o’clock, time to wake the girls. I cracked open their door. They looked so peaceful, their small chests moving up and down with every innocent breath. Their eyelids fluttered with dreams filled with promise and imagination. I loved watching them sleep. Ollie, our two-year-old golden retriever, loved waking them up for school. I motioned for him to go into the room. He pattered in and started licking their faces. They woke immediately with huge smiles on their faces, giggling with pure happiness. Once they were up, we went through our everyday school routine. Two bowls of Frosted Flakes cereal, two toothbrushes pasted and ready, two lunches made, two book bags set by the door, and two smiling girls ready to be driven to school. We piled into the old green Subaru. Brian, ready for his desk job and dressed in a navy suit with a maroon tie, came to my window and kissed me on the top of the head. He kissed both the girls and told them he loved them and would pick them up once school was over. They smiled and waved to him through the window as I backed the car out of the driveway. It seemed like the perfect morning as I drove to Laney Elementary School to drop the kids off. There was no fighting, crankiness, or even an issue of what I set out for them to wear today. I was even going to be early for work. I turned on the radio to be greeted with soft Indie music. The music danced and twirled though the car. A small smile formed on my face when I looked in my rearview mirror, with Bonnie bobbing her head and Bailey tapping her hand on her thigh to the beat. They were so precious looking back at them. As we pulled up to the drop-off area, I helped them out of the car, kissing them both and squeezing them tight. “I love you, Mom,” slipped off their tongues as they ran to the front entrance. I hated leaving 41
Twos Mackenzie Taggart
them. Especially on this day. This morning seemed to go too smoothly. Like it was a sign to just hold onto my babies for a little longer. I tried to shake the feeling while driving to work. I sat at my desk, looking at the piles of patient folders stacking up. The hospital was quiet that day, but I was behind on updating the computers because I had been Christmas shopping. I dropped my pen and rubbed my temples with my pointer fingers. I closed my eyes and thought about my daughters. When the twins were born, we almost lost Bailey. She had her umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, cutting off her oxygen. She came out blue and wasn’t breathing. It felt like an eternity until I finally heard her cry. It was like my whole world had stopped turning, like I was the one who had oxygen cut off. When I heard the faint cry, it was like a weight was lifted off of my chest. I didn’t know what I would do if I ever lost them. Those are my babies, my whole world. The intercom snapped me back from my daydream. It announced multiple casualties coming into the trauma center and told the pediatric surgeon to be on standby. I frowned a little. “Hey Grace, what’s the emergency this time?” I asked one of the nurses. “There’s been a school shooting. Apparently, there were some fatalities and some injuries. That’s all I know,” she stated. I quickly pulled my phone out of my pocket to text Brian. When I looked, I had twenty-five missed calls from Cindy, my daughters’ best friend’s mom. I looked down at my cell, realizing that I had put it on silent so I could focus on my busy work schedule. She had called me twenty-five times! The phone rang once before she was on the other line. “Heather! I’ve been trying to reach you for twenty minutes! You have to get to the school! There’s been a school shooting. When I was dropping Danielle off, something didn’t seem right. There were people running out of the building screaming. A teacher ran to my car crying as she was telling me the news.” I couldn’t speak. “Heather! Are you still there? Talk to me!” My heart began to race, and I could feel the adrenaline running through me. Without a single word to my coworkers or boss, I ran out of the hospital to my car. I frantically tried to buckle my seat belt and dropped my key three times before I got it into the ignition. I should’ve kept them home today. I knew something was wrong! I screamed to myself as tears streamed down my face. I was speeding, my heart pounding out of my chest. That feeling of almost losing Bailey crept up and weaseled its way back into my brain. I tried to focus on getting to the school. I called Brian in a panic. When Cindy couldn’t reach me, she called him. He too dropped everything and ran out of the office. He was worried as well, but he tried to calm me down. He was always so strong. He always believed that everything was okay. The man I married had only cried a few times: at our wedding, when his mother died, and when we almost lost Bailey. He wasn’t going to cry until he knew something was wrong. We met at the school. Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and a whole zoo of worried parents 42
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crowded the scene. Caution tape blocked off the area, and parents clawed and pushed at the tape like they were stuck in a cage. Police officers tried to calm the unruly crowd but were unsuccessful. Brian and I stood in silence as we watched the children come out of the school holding each other by the shoulders. More screams roared from the pack of worried parents. Hours passed, returning uninjured children one by one. As the crowd grew smaller, my heart rate increased. I stood there and watched countless children be taken to the hospital. Probably the same one I work at. Two hours later, when most of the crowd was cleared, an officer approached us. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Sunny?” We nodded our heads in unison. “Can you follow me, please?” We obeyed the officer and entered the school building. It was a mess. Desks were flipped, while glass and posters covered the floor. I shivered at the thought of how those poor children felt. How today started off so good and ended in such a tragedy. We entered what once looked like a math classroom. Then I saw them. My daughters. My babies. Clinging to each other for dear life. The scene was unbearable to look at. Bailey was in shock, clutching onto Bonnie, who was no longer breathing those innocent breaths from this morning. The officer turned to us and explained, “She refuses to let go; we figured that, seeing you, she would be more willing.” I walked over to our daughters; my husband still had not moved. I knew he was about to lose it, but I couldn’t think about it. If I looked at him, I would lose it, too. I took Bailey and pried her away from her sister and handed her to my husband. He had tears running down his face and was sobbing uncontrollably. “Be strong,” I kept telling myself. The officer escorted them both out, covering them in a blanket. I walked over to Bonnie. My sweet girl. So strong, so brave, so innocent and pure. I picked her up, and I cried. I cried like I have never cried before. The feeling of not breathing came back, and everything went black. I awoke in a hospital bed. My head was sore, and my eyes felt tired and puffy. I looked around the room and saw Brian sleeping in a chair, Bailey clinging to his body like a baby monkey. My mouth felt dry and cracked. I searched for a cup of water, quietly trying not to disturb them, but, with one move of the covers, he was awake. He came to my bedside, holding Bailey in his arms. I wondered if he had put her down at all since the incident. “Hey honey, are you okay?” he whispered, kissing my forehead. His eyes were swollen and puffy, and his nose looked raw. “I feel okay, I’m just really thirsty. Do you know what happened?” I quickly realized what I had said when my husband’s eyes grew wide. 43
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“After I passed out,” I added, in a frantic tone. He took a deep breath, looking relieved he didn’t have to break the news to me about Bonnie. “You passed out and were rushed to the hospital due to the lack of oxygen getting to your brain. The medical staff said you were crying so hard that there wasn’t enough oxygen flow, which resulted in you having a mild stroke. The doctor, Dr. Williams, said that you will be okay but to take your time and rest.” I looked up at him. He looked exhausted, and this hospital lighting was not helping. “Go home and get some rest, and come back in the morning. I promise...” “NO! I am not leaving you!” he interrupted, tears welling up in his eyes. Bailey hadn’t woken up. The doctor must have given her something to sleep, because she was not a heavy sleeper. “Okay, I’m sorry, Love. I just figured you wanted some rest at home and to get Bailey to her own bed.” He looked at me in disgust. “We just lost our child. You really think I can just go and sleep? Like nothing ever happened?” He scowled at me and walked back to his chair in the corner, not saying another word the rest of the night. The next morning, I was greeted by Dr. Williams. He was one of my good friends within the hospital. He explained my results to me about what happened that day. He ran some tests and gave me some exercises to do at home. I would also have to go to physical therapy a couple times a week to gain back some of my motor functions. Overall, I seemed to check out okay, but my heart was shattered. I spent four more days in the hospital before getting the approval to go home. A nurse, Sadie, wheeled me out to our car. Brian still hadn’t spoken to me since our fight. They both helped me into the car, and Sadie gave me a hug and slipped something into my pocket. “If you ever need anything at all, call me. I am up all hours of the night, but you already knew that.” She squeezed me a little tighter before releasing me into my husband’s grip. I gave a faint smile back at her before getting into our car. Back at home, Brian placed me on our couch and made his way to the bedroom, shutting the door. Ollie slowly moved towards me and placed his head on my lap. I leaned my head down to touch his and let big, fat tears fall on his face. He sighed and tried to lick them away. I pulled the paper out of my pocket that the nurse gave me. Written on it was her number and a support group to go to. I smiled at her gesture and felt my eyes getting heavy. I lay on the couch and let myself doze off. “Mommy! Mommy! Come quick! It’s daddy!” Bailey screamed. My eyes shot open. 44
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“Mommy! Please!” I grabbed for my walker and slowly shuffled my way down the hallway. The door was open, and Bailey came running out of it, grabbing my hand to try and make me move faster. When I reached the door, I opened it to see my husband hanging from the ceiling fan. “NO! Brian!” I screamed. The walker slipped from my grip, and I fell to the ground. I woke up in a bath of sweat. I peered down the hallway to see our bedroom door still closed. I tried to call for Ollie, but my voice was hoarse. I must’ve been screaming in my sleep. I grabbed my walker and made my way to Bailey’s room. When I looked in, I saw Ollie sleeping with Bailey, and my heart broke when I looked over at Bonnie’s empty bed. I turned to go down the hallway to see my husband. I opened the door, and he was lying on the bed, holding a box of tissues. “Do you think she is okay? Do you think she still loves us? Do you think she is still here with us?” he whispered. I walked over to the bed and got in with him. “She will always be with us, Brian, and she will always love us.” I kissed his head, and we lay there in our own thoughts. “And we will always love her…”
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War in the Soul Ginger Jordan
If I opened up my chest And inside you got to see There you would find a brain and a soul– Waging war inside of me. The brain is cold and calculating An admirable stoic is she. She rules with precision And a robotic peculiarity. The soul is warmth and passion An artist is she. If she were to rule– Imagine the soul set free! The brain and soul are at war For who gets the sum of me. The brain tells me what is “wise,” And who I’m “supposed” to be. The soul reminds me That death can quickly strike. Hoary age is not promised This is but a vaporous life. I try to listen to my soul, but quickly strangled is she By the voice of reason–of utmost responsibility. “You have mouths to feed,” the brain does remind. But I can hear her screaming, that soul of mine. Passions are feral creatures who heal with love and life But those who snuff them out–only darkness they can find. Then she asked the point of living If enervated is the soul. For so long I tried to listen But the brain had more pull. Helpless was I to help her– My suffocating soul. Drowning in the brain And sorrows of the mind, I tried to close my heart– But oh, that soul of mine! I couldn’t take her screaming Or splitting wails of pain So, adjacent with my soul, we wrestled away my brain. To my soul I embraced, Taking that most trepidatious dare. Because passions gone to waste Leave one cold and bare. 46
Unforgettable Grace Arredondo
My name is Grace, but, to my grandpa, I was Thayer. My mother’s name is Thayer, but, to my grandpa, she was Kitty. My grandma’s name was Kathryn, and I love that Momma named me after her. Grace Kathryn Arredondo is my full name. I actually don’t have a middle name, just a double first name. But an impatient second grade teacher thought my name was too long and, with no respect for the mother who named me or the grandmother that I was named after, she refused to call me Grace Kathryn. I became a tall girl with a short name, just Grace. Momma didn’t send me to preschool. Instead, she became a stay-at-home mom and took it upon herself to be my first and greatest teacher while also wanting to savor all of my milestones. Devoted to my education, she never sheltered me from knowledge and learning. I was a three year old who called stop signs “octagons” and swollen clouds laden with thick loads of rain “the cumulonimbuses.” So when my grandpa came to live with us, Momma said it was because of the Alzheimer's, and it was making Papa forget. Not remembering how to drive became forgetting how to speak. My grandpa’s face would crumple in frustration, with his wrinkles holding his thin, papery, old-man skin together. He would stare at the hardwood floor or the squishy orthopedic shoes he detested so intensely. The stumbling. The stammering. The “whatcha-ma-call-its.” The stutters filled the air and came off his lips like they had just violated his tongue. And occasionally, Papa would lift his tired chin, and I watched, feeling as helpless as his mangled mind, while the foggy confusion turned to mist over his expansive, grey-lake eyes. “It’s only temporary,” Momma assured me. The hospice services had been suspended, and Papa was moving up the road. “It’s an assisted living facility,” I would repeat back to my curious friends in my mother’s informative tone. Momma said the nurses would keep Papa from wandering and that we could go visit him whenever we wanted. But I wanted him here, in the house, down the dark, creaky hallway from my bedroom. I wanted the early morning glances into his room to see if morning had pulled him from his dreams. I wanted his shaky, stiff hugs and silent smiles at bedtime. The nurses couldn’t love him like I did. They didn’t want him. But I didn’t know that yet. Visits were always heartbreaking. Like clockwork, God would drain every evening sky of all its light and glory, and hidden hauntings emerged to rule the night. Like a nocturnal animal, the Alzheimer's would viciously come to life and pull past memories and people to the forefront of Papa’s memory. Turning to me in the darkness, with only the TV’s iridescence making our faces discernible, Papa would say to me, “Now, listen … listen here, Thayer. I don’t want you out late with that boy. I want you to behave yourself now, you hear?” I tried correcting him once; my voice trembled saying, “No, Papa, I’m Gracie. I’m your granddaughter.'' But the futility in my assertions became so starkly apparent that, from then on, whenever Papa called me Thayer, whenever I transformed into my mother, the daughter he so longed to protect, I quietly answered, “Yes, sir,” and lovingly obliged. The night’s effects seeped into the day, and receding memories retreated permanently. Papa’s jovial smile vanished, and his eyes became two deep-seated, cold stones. He, a stranger to me now, seemed unrecognizable as the grandfather before disease. And I, no longer my mother to him, was a stranger 47
Unforgettable Grace Arredondo
as well. His arms were covered in massive purple welts and bloody cuts that required multiple layers of gauze dressing tethered by tape that tore out body hair. The nurses said Papa was behaving aggressively, striking fellow patients and doctors like a confused drunk in a bar brawl. The man who had never known a whiskey’s burn sat, strapped in a rented wheelchair, clutching a plush stuffed animal that resembled his dog who died three years before. The darkening sky that evening was particularly cruel in its beauty; it laughed in orange tones and regurgitated a rich, marvelous splendor while Momma’s anger drove us home in agonizing silence. Hot water boiled on the stove for tea while warm streams flowed from her red rims. And I knew something was terribly wrong. It was one week following every foolish lover’s favorite day. February’s frozen, chalky breath nestled uncomfortably in my chest as I clutched my vibrating cell phone. School had given me back to the world twenty minutes ago, and I imagined Momma’s voice apologizing excessively as she explained whatever it was that made her late today. My thumb barely reached the keypad in time to answer her call, as my fumbling efforts to free my hand from thick, black gloves nearly thwarted my intentions. The caller ID was my only confirmation that the muffled, hysterical voice I heard was indeed my mother’s; her raspy words spurted through the speaker in horrible, suffocated sobs. Confused and fearfully sick to my stomach, I grasped my little brother’s warm, dinner-roll hand as I attempted to quell the nausea. Alone at the breakfast table, face down in crimson grits and gravy, that’s how my Papa died. A former Marine and fire chief, the pinnacle of respect, humility, and poise, had sat silently in soiled pants as he struggled to swallow a sip of lukewarm water. How was it that this benign, pitiful posture provoked such a violent, fatal beating from nurses’ fists? Palms that had cushioned patients' pills joined forces with curled fingers and hatred, battering Papa indifferently, reveling in his suffering, and then left him there to die, undignified. I like to imagine that, as Papa lay dying, the disease granted him one bidding favor. I hope that, as his lungs clamored for breath, his muddled mind was finally at ease. That all lonely, disoriented thoughts were banished to oblivion, and those wayward, euphoric memories came flooding back. I pray that the scarring pain and mountains of heaping injustice were among everything and everyone who abandoned his recollection. In this manner, I hope Papa forgot. I am certain, I will remember forever. There is no amount of money that could lend my grandpa to us from heaven for one more blissful day. Merciless handcuffs chafing the wrists of those who embody evil would not mend the wounds inflicted on him nor those that remain on my family’s hearts. The apologies, if the guilty dared utter them, would fall like drops of oil on burning embers. This lawsuit is not founded on avenging a life marred by indifference, brutality, and insidious corruption. An expensive settlement or guilty verdict does not order time to rewind. It is in the name of justice and compassion for others that all is not forgiven. Though the obstacles never cease, the battle rages on to pass a law demanding that private assisted living facilities are held responsible. If passed, Jimmy’s Law would force these establishments, entrusted with the lives of society’s elderly, to make public their regulatory violations, including all ongoing or previous investigations and lawsuits. It’s more than a piece of paper and a majority in Congress; this law is a plea for accountability, transparency, and for the basic rights of human beings, no matter their age or physical state, to be upheld. Although Papa’s light was so wrongly extinguished without proper regards, the warmth of his memory sustains the fight to prevent another soul from enduring similar suffering. 48
Contributors Nicholas Adams, Graphic Design (’20): Nicholas Adams is a graphic designer and studio artist. Passionate about what he does, he aims to inspire everyone through his artwork. Grace Arredondo, English (’21): My name is Grace Arredondo, and I am a junior English major originally from Charleston, South Carolina. My contribution to The Brown Lady this year is a particularly poignant and heartfelt short story. Although raw and painfully true, I hope readers find Unforgettable powerful and profound. Deja Christopher, Biology (’18): Successfully impersonating a functioning adult by pretending to like red wine instead of rosé. Still figuring out finances and the pursuit of higher education. Naiyhani Etheridge, Graphic Communications (’20): I'm kind, loving, and can be very silly when I want to be. I love putting my all into things that allow me to show my personality. Cadeirdre Futrell, Interdisciplinary Studies (Minor: Psychology) (’20): I am very passionate about writing, and I truly believe that one day it will make a difference. Michael Dylan Futrell, Psychology (’21): I plan to work with children with autism once I graduate. I am a huge Star Wars fan but hate Disney Star Wars, except The Mandalorian that gets a pass. Other than that, I am a bland fellow human with little interesting about myself. Antwuan Hicks, Jr., Graphic Design (’19): I believe art is a great way of creativity. It’s an expression of one’s personality and can also be therapeutic. Otis Hunter, Jr., Creative Writing (’21): I am a poet, a published author of two books, and a Youtuber all under the pen name of Hunter Redwolf. My goal is to spread the ideology of poetry as a philosophy rather than just being qualified as a means of expression. Ginger Jordan, Creative Writing (Minor: Psychology) (’21): Before attending Chowan, I spent seven years in the Marine Corps and left to pursue my passions academically. I spend my free time writing, sewing, and making art. Loricia Martin, Psychology/Criminal Justice (’20): Born and raised in Henderson, North Carolina, Loricia plans to return to her hometown to teach elementary school after graduation. Loricia dedicates her work to the strongest women she knows: her mother and grandmother. Riley Maynard, Music Education (’21): I am a third-year music education major, with flute being my main instrument. I am also proficient in the piano and ukulele, and you’ll often find me singing while playing one of these instruments. Music is at my core, I am always humming, tapping, singing, playing, or listening to music, but poetry will always hold a special place in my heart because it allows me to express myself and tell a story, just as music does. Bria McNair, Studio Art (’19): During my time studying at Chowan, I majored in studio art pre art therapy. Art is freedom. Art speaks louder than words could ever. I am art. Alyssia Parker, Studio Art (’20): Although I have a passion for using a variety of media such as ceramics, oil, acrylic, charcoal, and mixed, I tend to seasonally gravitate towards a specific medium for a period of time. I love to change it up when it comes to my art work, and I’m not into focusing on one thing. Mackenzie Taggart, English (Minor: Graphic Design) (’21): I am a member of the softball team as well as an active member of many honors programs and clubs on campus. I enjoy reading and writing short stories, primarily fiction, in my free time. I hope you enjoy reading my piece!
See the Brown Lady online: www.chowan.edu/BrownLady
Front Cover: “Split Portrait” by Alyssia Parker Back Cover: “Melanie Martinez Portrait” by Ginger Jordan