Feather Chronicles, 2015 Edition A collection of creative works by students and staff of the College of Menominee Nation.
In this, our eighth year of continuous publication, Feather Chronicles continues to expand with new contributors and new types of content. This edition includes creative work from several authors, poets, and artists contributing to the magazine for the first time. Among them are artphotographers: Jonathan Peters, Anthony Allery, Reuben King, and Kaylissa Pecore – all students at Menominee Indian High School. I am grateful to Corey Webster, Art Teacher at MIHS, for helping us connect with these talented young artists. Also contributing for the first time are CMN students Denise Kasprzak (fiction writer), Sally Ertman (poet and photographer), Dolly Potts (storyteller), Jamie Komanekin (humorist), and Adam Schulz (essayist). Their work appears alongside contributions from talented writers and artists whose creative work appeared in previous issues: Mary Anne Hill, D.Kakkak, Sabrina Hemken, Madona Wilber, Jill Martin, Jessica Buettner, and Melissa Wilber. As always, Feather Chronicles thanks our contributing authors and artists. The 2015 edition of Feather Chronicles is published online through the digital publishing platform, Issuu.com. Everything published in the magazine since the first issue in 2008 is accessible in one online place, with consistent formatting that features state-of-the-art appearance and paging. Thanks to CMN’s Webmaster, Sue Delrow, for developing this platform for the magazine and for her work formatting and uploading content. Feather Chronicles is produced by College of Menominee Nation students and includes contributed work from students (current, former, and future), CMN staff and faculty, and anyone engaged in the college’s many community activities. Submissions are welcome; please email them to DVickers@menominee.edu. The content of Feather Chronicles is protected by copyright controlled usually by the original author and in all other cases by Feather Chronicles. U.S. and international copyright laws apply and visitors may not reproduce any content except for personal, non-commercial use.
Contents Precious is Life by Denise Kasprzak .........................................4 Leaves by Jonathan Peters.....................................................6 Drinker of the Wind by Mary Anne Hill .....................................7 What if you could dig your way to China? by Sally Ertman ..........9 Many Dimensions in One by D.Kakkak ................................... 10 Made Up Our Minds by Sabrina Hemken ................................ 11 Cone Flowers by Anthony Allery ........................................... 12 High School Reunion by Dolly Potts ....................................... 13 River by Madona Wilber ....................................................... 15 These Dreams by Madona Wilber .......................................... 16 Redbrick Seeds by Reuben King............................................ 17 Forgiveness by Mary Anne Hill .............................................. 18 Fuzzy Dandelion by Sally Ertman .......................................... 19 Do You by Jill Martin ........................................................... 20 Subliminal Thistle by D.Kakkak.............................................. 22 Condescending Cowboy by Jamie Komanekin ......................... 23 Brushwood by Kaylissa Pecore.............................................. 24 In the Corner by Madona Wilber ........................................... 25 Road Less Traveled by Madona Wilber ................................... 26 American Labor Unions: The Fight for Workersâ€™ Rights by Adam Schulz ........................ 27 Purple Bloom by Madona Wilber ........................................... 32 Intertwined Lives by Jessica Buettner .................................... 33 Iris by Sabrina Hemken ....................................................... 35 Lovelorn by Sabrina Hemken ............................................... 36 Ice Cold Satisfaction by Mary Anne Hill .................................. 37 Snow on Pine by Madona Wilber ........................................... 40 Migration by Mary Anne Hill ................................................. 41
Broken Tree by Ruben King.................................................. 42 This Place by Madona Wilber ................................................ 43 Yellow Blossom by Jonathan Peters ....................................... 44 She Loved Him by Jill Martin ................................................ 45 Eagle by Melissa Wilber ....................................................... 46 The Tide That Is Him by Jill Martin ........................................ 47 Storm Clouds by Madona Wilber ........................................... 48
Cover image by Madona Wilber, logo by Michael Gomeyosh. The Scott Zager Venture Fund makes possible production of Feather Chronicles in hardcopy.
Precious is Life by Denise Kasprzak My eyes pop open, not even a blink in shock! My mind is running wild. Quickly I sit up! Where the hell am I? I quickly gaze around; there is no sound, complete silence. Where am I? How did I get here? This is the most terrifying thought ever. After a few deep breaths, I get myself together and try to recall the night before. What the hell did I do? With whom? Where? I can’t remember... I slowly look around to see what I have on, and the best part is I’m fully dressed, but really fully dressed. How did I get here? This is just too weird. After a few more deep breaths, I pull the blanket off me, and see that the bed is perfectly made, which is not normal for the people I usually hang out with. This is just way out of character. Trying to get my thoughts collected is a real problem; my head is just pounding away. I never get headaches, let alone a hangover. Now I’m getting a bit more nervous. I finally get to the point of getting up to see what’s on the other side or these walls. The door is to the side of a wall that looks like a hallway, but it’s only the entrance to the room. There’s only one window with a heavy curtain. Still I hear no sound, and I have no idea what time it is. Only a small night light in the corner is on for me to see. I’m frightened and a bit nervous because I do not know where I am. As I edge my steps toward the door, I find the knob. It is longhandled. None of the people I am with constantly has these; this makes me feel more uneasy. It is scaring me that there is no noise, and very unfamiliar. Again, my mind is racing, and I am beginning to sweat. I never sweat, even when it’s super hot outside. So now this is really scaring me. I am beginning to feel like a child. I have no clue where I am. I make my way back to the bed and sit, trying to recollect everything I did, who I was with, where I was, and cannot remember a thing! Why? Why is this happening? I put my hands to my face and feel my skin, hair, and clothes. They all feel like I’ve been through hell and back! There’s no mirror to see my reflection, so I cannot tell if I’m full of dirt, how tangled my hair is, or how clean my clothes are. Then again I remember that the curtain is there and I can look out to see what time of day it is, and get an idea where I may be, hopefully. At this time I sure could use a cigarette, and a very strong drink! My hands are trembling so hard I don’t know if I can even hold one. I
begin to look in my vest pockets and they are empty, nothing. My pockets in my jeans are even empty. What happened to all my stuff? I frantically begin to search all my clothing and NOTHING! I have no identification, no money, credit card, phone. Who and where the hell am I? I feel lost, hopeless, and doomed! I never felt like this ever! I’ve never cried, nor felt useless, but I sure feel all these emotions hitting me harder than a brick wall. What the hell is going on here? I keep asking myself. My mind keeps coming up blank. Am I alive or dead is the next question. I feel as though I’ve been super drugged or super drunk to have this unknown feeling, but how did I get here? Then I think, have I ever been this wasted before? I don’t know. Breathing as heavy as I am, making myself sick to my stomach, the more scared I get. I don’t know what to do. Just sit here and wait? Wait for what? Who? When? And why me? After breathing and trying to get a handle on myself, I get up and move towards the curtain to see if I can see what time of day it is, and where I am. Reaching for the curtain, I can feel a draft of air, and quickly pull the curtain, and there is NO window! Where was the draft coming from? I can see boards around a square fitting that once was a window. Now it’s blocked off! I’m panicking! My heart is racing faster! What’s happening here? So I make it to the door and pull on the handle. It will not squeeze like this type should. It’s locked! I pull, and pull, and pull! It won’t budge! I start pounding on the door hard, hard, and harder and screaming at the same time. I must have done this for 30 seconds and didn’t hear anything from the other side. I am scared to death now. Who could do this to me? I don’t have enemies that I’m aware of. I’m a good person, generous, friendly, sharing, giving. What’s going on? Who would do this to me? Am I going crazy? Am I losing it? Am I that messed up? I don’t know what to do. I have no identity, no cell phone, no outside connection! No nothing! I have no access to anything! Where the hell am I? I’m lost and I cannot be found….please someone, please help me? I feel like I’m begging for my life. Please GOD, help me? Then after going through all these things, I remember I have my faith and my Higher Power! He is always with me wherever I go. And no matter what happens, my life is in his hands. I know that I will be safe as long as I keep my faith strong...
Leaves by Jonathan Peters
Drinker of the Wind by Mary Anne Hill
I was a horse â€˜Til I was twelve, Lavender and leaping, Golden and running free. I was a drinker of the wind, Holding pride in an arching neck, Posing questions in a maneâ€™s shake, Feeling the freedom of galloping hoofs, Pawing the sky in powerful rearing, Playful stomping, Flirtatious prancing, Majestic stance, Knowing the joy Of a tail carried high!
Bird in Winter by Sally Ertman
What if you could dig your way to China? by Sally Ertman Smell the rich, black dirt. Does it take you back to a time when you thought you could dig your way to China? I remember very clearly the excitement and anticipation as we dug our holes outside of the sandbox. Down into the earth we dug, looking for anything blue, anything which might signal we were getting close to breaking into their sky. Faces streaked with dirt, we continued to dig. “Look at this blue rock. I think we’re getting close!” Cheeks flushed, sweat mixing with the dirt, we kept on digging. “Hey, I found something.” Maybe it was an old bone. Maybe it was a piece of glass. Whatever it was, we were definitely closer to finding our way. “Do you think we’ll be able to speak Chinese when we get there?” With a shrug, back to the earth, we dug. The sun was high on our backs now, mid-day. No time to stop for a break, we had to hit China before eight. Little hands caked with grit, we kept digging bit by bit. Shadows grew taller, and we’re almost there! Now here comes Mom - it’s just not fair. Too soon we figure out the truth, but still I wonder. How many more feet before we would have found our plunder?
Many Dimensions in One by D.Kakkak
Made Up Our Minds by Sabrina Hemken You get too close I don’t like it You get too close I don’t want to like it You get too close And you’re gonna like it When you get too close I like it Carried off in your fantasy Locked in a liar’s soliloquy Your presence makes it hard to breathe Gonna make me sigh Gonna make you weep When I get too close You don’t like it I get too close You can’t help but like it I get too close Giving up the fight yet? I’m gonna get so close You’re gonna learn to like it Forever in your grand design A simple gesture Hands align To focus on a land mine Give up, give up Gonna make you mine Gonna make you mine Gonna make him mine Gonna make you mind
Cone Flowers by Anthony Allery
High School Reunion by Dolly Potts I gazed out the window of my third floor hotel room at the South Dakota landscape. Rolling plains dotted with scrub brush on a carpet of golden grass was a sight I had not seen in a number of years. I attended an Indian Mission high school in South Dakota. I was back for a class reunion and the hotel room was to be home for several days. Looking out the window, I could almost imagine my Nakota friends on horseback riding over the hill. I smiled to myself hoping I would run into those friends who became my family as a girl in high school. A sunny summer day greeted me as I walked out of the hotel. Without the shade of the abundant trees of Wisconsin’s north woods, it felt warm to me. The very first thing I did to begin my journey to the school was to put the top down on my convertible. I wanted to feel the freedom of the air rushing around me. That kind of freedom I never felt at the school. Nuns and matrons constantly watched making sure you didn’t do anything or go anywhere they deemed inappropriate. So I put my Animals “House of the Rising Sun” CD in and turned the volume full blast. The trip to the school seemed shorter than I remember. In the distance, I spotted the church steeple. Anticipation filled me with a wonderful youthful expectation getting to return after so many years. Arriving at the campus my first thought was how small it seemed. In my mind the area seemed so much bigger. Getting out of the convertible began my trip down memory lane. Everything seemed faded and old. The door to the girl’s dormitory read “Mary, Mother of God, Protect Thy Children.” I thought of the many blessings I carried throughout my life, that began when I walked under this doorway. My mind filled with the fond memories the school held for me. After a short excursion around the campus of the school, I found myself standing in back of the church. There was a man mowing the lawn, the fresh smell of grass filled the air. I waved to signal him I had a question. He turned off the mower and approached me with a sad look on his face. “I’m looking for Sister Miriam.” I smiled at him to ask for forgiveness for my interruption. “I have some flowers to put on my
friend’s grave; he’s buried in the cemetery up there.” I pointed in the direction of cemetery on the hill. “I was hoping Sister had some record of where he’s buried.” “Sister isn’t here.” He gave me a return somber half smile. “She went on some errands to Wagner. Who is your friend? Maybe I know him.” “Glen Holiday,” I replied. “We called him Doc. Glen committed suicide a few years after graduation. He suffered a shoulder injury that he could never recover from. He became addicted to alcohol and pain medication. I think depression and hopelessness of this community took his life. Living so far away, I was not able to return for his funeral. The flowers would fill an empty place in my heart and memories of my friend.” “I can show you. He’s my brother.” My look of pure surprise made him smile. “Rick!” I cried, tears welling in my eyes as I grabbed him and gave him a hug. “Gee, brother I didn’t recognize you.” While Doc could not have stood up to the hopelessness of this community, the years had taken a toll on Rick, making him an old man. “I’m all sweaty; hope I didn’t mess you up,” Rick said. “Let me push the lawnmower to the side here and you can follow my truck up there.” So I followed Rick to the cemetery. Creator had sent me a blessing. I felt guilty all these years because I did not attend Doc’s funeral, but he sent Rick to guide me to his brother’s grave. We walked past the surnames of my many Nakota friends, names on tombstones now, row after row. We stopped at a grave toward the back of the cemetery. “Here it is,” Rick looked down at the wooden cross on the grave. “I knew he was going to do this. He tried once with pills till finally using a gun to shoot himself in the head.” His tone was so sad and lonely. Rick had always looked up to his older brother; the love and loss echoed in his words. “I’ll leave you now; see you this week-end at the reunion.” I placed my flowers on the grave. Kneeling beside it, I sang a bear song to my friend. Looking up at the prairie beyond the cemetery, I saw my friend Doc. He was on horseback riding over the hill.
River by Madona Wilber
These Dreams by Madona Wilber
These dreams keep me alive These dreams they keep me new Wondering how you can flash that beautiful smile When I can't even breathe without you These dreams keep me grounded These dreams they keep me with you Wondering if your thinking of me but dreaming of someone new These dreams keep you with me but they are never what they seem always remembering every morning you're a never ending dream
Redbrick Seeds by Reuben King
Forgiveness by Mary Anne Hill
Forgiveness begins, As a jagged rock In your pocket, Sharp and abrasive, Irritating and offensive, An annoyance that Must be carried on a long hike. At first it pricks at every step, Before you build up a tolerance, And divert your attention, Then, one day, you remember, Reach for the rock, And find only a round, smooth, stone.
Fuzzy Dandelion by Sally Ertman
Do You by Jill Martin Do you think of me Like I think of you Thoughts like lightening Across my mind Fingering Through every hole Of my sanity But always Leading to you Do you look at me Like I look at you Love like colors Across my sky Painting Through every dream In my heart But always Consisting of you Do you dream of me Like I dream of you Fantasy like fog Across my reality Drifting Through every path Of my future But always Lingering of you
Do you wish for me Like I wish for you Hope like oceans Across my heart Flowing Through every vein Of my love But always Tasting of you Do you need of me Like I need of you Longing like aches Across my bones Burning Through every breath Of my life But always Wanting of you Do you know of me Like I know of you Recognition like imprints Across my soul Fingerprints Through every memory Of my dreams But always Living of you
Subliminal Thistle by D.Kakkak
Condescending Cowboy by Jamie Komanekin I am the hero of our adventures, and get all the credit for our actions, and yet, I do not feel that I am the hero I am portrayed to be. Believe it or not, Tonto, you are the actual hero; if it were not for you, our adventures would have ended long ago. I do not like that it is you who gets us out of all of our dilemmas. You, Tonto are always saving my hide, and things have got to change. I must figure out how to avoid danger, or at least be able to get myself out of certain situations. Tonto, once again I am in need of your help. Together we must brainstorm multiple ways to make me feel better about myself. There has to be something that you, Tonto, are not good at. Tonto, will you tell me if there is something you are not able to do well? Perhaps there is something minor that you cannot do. For instance, maybe you are a bad swimmer, and I could save you from drowning; or maybe you cannot tie your moccasins, and I could tie them for you so that you would not trip and fall. Anything would help, no matter how small; it is a start to rebuild my self-esteem. Otherwise, after you finish shining my boots, maybe there is some sort of duel, or competition that we could engage in? I need some redemption. We need to act quickly; I cannot have people lose faith in me. I, the hero, cannot always be rescued by you. This just shames me knowing that an Injun continually comes to my rescue. It is a good thing I wear this mask to cover my face, because if my white brethren knew my true identity they might heckle me for relying on your mostly unwanted, but appreciated help. Come on now, Tonto, what do you say? We have been partners, heck, even friends, for such a long time. I know you know more English than just “Kemo Sabay.” Why won’t you tell me a situation where I might me be able to save you? If you tell me, it would save us this long conversation. There has to be something that I can do to restore the faith of the people; something I can do to show that I am not solely reliant upon my illiterate Injun friend. Sometimes it is just so frustrating being outwitted by this lesser man. Oh man! I should not have shared my idea with Tonto. Now I find myself grasping my throat to keep my blood from spewing out of this cut. I understand; he did not like me pretending to be a doctor dressed in surgical attire, pouring whiskey on the scalpels and other surgical tools for sterilization; then taking a drink to calm my nerves before asking him which aorta in his heart needed to be bypassed. No question that is the reason he sliced my throat. What a sneaky Injun, killing me before I could kill him!
Brushwood by Kaylissa Pecore
In the Corner by Madona Wilber Be watchful for the stained luminous sky, painted in the heavens I asked God why? Hearts bleeding, lingering in this absolute darkness and misery, this never-ending conflict of trying to be so ever happy. Torn sleeves fill my bitter soul, years of berate and gutless wrenching tears now pay the toll. So abstruse and depraved. Perfunctory; I am not. Watch the ants march into that prevailing spot. When will that oaf shrink realize this padded room is not my hearth Caring, loving and smiling since birth. I sit here toiling to the heart, day after day I'm falling apart
Road Less Traveled by Madona Wilber
American Labor Unions: The Fight for Workers’ Rights by Adam Schulz The fight for workers’ rights is a never-ending battle. Labor unions have helped create balance between employees and employers in America since around the time of America’s birth. In the past two or three decades, unions have come under attack from Republican lawmakers and greedy business leaders. As a result, union status has devolved. I see this union down slope as a major setback to the past 150 years of advancements for workers’ rights. After all, if employers do not have watchdogs making sure workers’ rights are not trampled, working conditions are bound to go backward in a relatively short time. American needs unions if we want to compete with the rest of the world economically, vocationally, and educationally. Unions have brought us important advancements in worker safety such as the Occupational Safety and Health Act, the Family and Medical Leave Act, and the forty-hour work week (Union Plus). Unions have also helped stop child sweatshops in America. Unions set up the first pension plans in the country. Unions also supported and lobbied for workers compensation, unemployment insurance, and Social Security. In 1968, labor unions from Philadelphia to San Francisco organized and fought for more stringent and rigid safety measures in the work place. The unions organized strikes and demonstrations at hazardous work sites across the U.S. They held rally’s at both union and non-union work sites. Their goal was to bring awareness and change to the extremely hazardous and sometimes deadly working conditions. The workers quarrel with employers was that they were expected to sacrifice safety in the name of speed to complete jobs faster in order to reduce costs to employers. This practice put employees at risk for injury and even death. Employers often placed the blame for death and injury wholly at the feet of employees. Unions started negotiating new contracts affording workers protections on the job. Union leaders felt this was not enough. They worried about the fate of the unorganized workers. Thus began the push for federal regulations. Businesses tried to resist the push of workers fighting for better work conditions. Business leaders felt that if they had to pay workers more, their profits would decline. (Kaufman and Bennett) Fear of profit decline motivated some business owners and leaders to fight the workers attempts to have their voices heard. Despite the push back from owners, workers fought on for more ethical treatment and better benefits. Soon the fight for worker safety crossed over to the political world. Business friendly Republicans fought the push for federal regulations.
Democrats generally took the workers’ side. Eventually congress had to act one way or another, and, in 1970, passed the Occupational Safety and Health Act. This law was to protect workers from being killed or seriously hurt on the job (United States Department of Labor). The law also requires employers to provide working conditions free of known dangers. The act created the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) to oversee the implementation of regulations. OSHA has worked tirelessly with employers and both organized and unorganized labor in the decades since to improve work conditions for all workers. When accidents do occur in the workplace, OSHA investigates. They recommend changes and hand down fines to companies they find not in compliance with federal laws. In 1849, lawmakers in Wisconsin took business leaders’ side. In an attempt to curb union workers from assembling, they passed a law to suppress unlawful assembly and rioting. (Holter). Wisconsin union members still fought on for better pay, safer work conditions, and better benefits. While this law is still on the books in this state, it is rarely used as originally intended, to restrain union workers from striking. During the 1880’s union membership saw steep growth in Wisconsin and nationally. Strikes and inter-union conflict were also on the rise during this period. Wisconsin saw eighty strikes between January, 1885, and September, 1886. (Holter). In 1887, the state legislature again tried to squash union rights with three laws centered on blacklisting, boycotting, and picketing. These three techniques were, and still are, used by striking union members. These vain attempts against organized labor in Wisconsin never kept unions down for long. Too many workers in Wisconsin want fair and equitable pay and treatment. The Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA) and eight-hour work days have also come about through OSHA and their work with organized labor groups. Unions have worked side by side with OSHA and lawmakers for the betterment of all workers, regardless of age, gender, or union preference. They have brought about the eight-hour work day, the fortyhour work week and the payment of overtime to name a few. Unions have also worked to install safeguards for workers to take a leave of absence from work for medical needs for themselves or family without the fear of retribution. Unions were instrumental in the creation of the Social Security program. They were worried about how workers reaching the age of retirement would not be able to live off their meager savings and retirements. In response, they helped develop and plan the social security system. Lawmakers and union leaders also saw the need for a way to provide income for workers hurt on the job. Worrying that social
security laws were not enough to provide for injured workers, they launched legislation that created workman compensation laws. Workman compensation laws held both employers and employees accountable for injuries. Employers had to carry insurance to pay employees wages and medical bills from a job related injuries. Employees had to report incidents and if they were found mutually negligent, they had to retake training or other actions deemed appropriate. Again, unions helped create the legislation that supports these programs and laws. While many people perceive unions as little more than groups that keep people from being fired, unions are responsible for many important benefits to both employees and employers. The concept of American unions dates back to 1794 with the creation of the Federal Society of Journeyman Cordwainers (shoemakers). Skilled tradesmen formed these early unions to protect themselves from long hours and low pay. This early labor movement was also inspired by the concept of a just society. Early labor unionism was derived from the Ricardian labor theory (named for economist David Ricardo) and republican ideals from the recent American Revolution. (History.com). These early ideals included social equality, honest labor, and independent, virtuous citizens. This early time, when the United States was in its infancy, was an important time for organized labor as well. One might say that America and labor unions grew up together and benefitted each other. The early 1800s brought the industrial era. Some industrialists seemed bent on dividing people into two classes –rich and poor. This model of thinking ran against the vision and values of unions. Thus began the “us versus them” mentality of business owners. The nineteenth century consisted of unions standing up for their rights, proposing reforms, and equal rights movements. 1866 saw the first major unions come into existence. The two most notable unions of this time era were the National Labor Union and the Knights of Labor. (History.com). These two unions were the first to propose reforms that affected all workers, not just union members. While their push for reform seemed counterintuitive for the labor movement, they were looking to the future and employee rights as a whole. These early unions came and went as some ideas failed. Out of the ashes of early national unions rose one of the oldest and longest running unions. The American Federation of Labor (AFL) was born in December of 1886. With the rise of the AFL came the birth of modern unionism. The AFL was made up of trades groups. The AFL mantra was “pure and simple” unionism: only by self-organization along occupational lines and by a concentration on job-conscious goals would the worker be “furnished with the weapons which shall secure his industrial emancipation.”
(History.com). The AFL asserted as a formal policy that they represented all workers. National unions that made up the AFL championed themselves as the voice for all of the working class. Union efforts since the 1700s have made the United States one of the best working environments in the industrial world. However, working for a union still has more advantages than an “at will” job. According to a 2010 report from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, union members still make more per hour and have better benefits than their non-union counter parts. Take for example the fact that a single, unmarried union member has, on average, eighty-nine percent of his health premium covered by his employer versus just seventy-nine percent for his nonunion counterpart. Now take a married union member with a family, his health insurance is covered eighty-two percent by his employer. His nonunion counterpart has only sixty-six percent of his health care premiums covered by his employer. (United States Bureau of Labor Statistics). The last statistic of 2010 on insurance shows that less than one percent of same-sex, non-union couples have health insurance coverage through their employer. Sixty-nine percent of union same-sex couples, on the other hand, had employer-paid health insurance. Insurance costs alone would be a major reason to support or join a union. Among the most compelling statistics supporting union membership are the differences in retirement contributions. Non-union employers only contribute to sixty-four percent of employees’ retirement plans. Furthermore, only sixty-nine percent of non-union employers offer retirement plans. On the other side, ninety-three percent of union members have employer contributions going into their retirement plans, and nearly one-hundred percent of union members have retirement plans through their employer. If one wants a secure retirement, one might want to consider taking a union job. Another aspect of union life most people do not understand is the amount of training an apprentice must undergo. Trade unions as well as other national unions have apprenticeship programs that have very strict guidelines. In order to achieve the rank of journeyman, an apprentice must go through four to five years of schooling, on the job training, mentoring, and in most cases, take and pass state licensing tests, while most private companies are only encouraged to carry state licenses. Unions usually sign one apprentice to a well qualified journeyman for their field training. Apprentices usually work eight hour days with their assigned mentor. After work apprentices attend classes at union halls and technical colleges that work in partnership with unions and state apprenticeship boards. These apprentices go through this routine for four and sometimes five years. After a class of apprentices’ graduates they
still do not get the title of journeymen. As their last step, they have to take state tests that apprenticeship boards and state lawmakers require for their line of work. After these five long years of training, school, and hard work apprentices finally achieve the level of journeymen and get all the pay and benefits they have trained long and hard for. Granted not all unions are this way, but almost all unions have better training for their workers then the average factory. If an individual wants to complain about how much more their union counterpart makes, just answer one simple question. “How much training and school did you do for your employment opportunity?” The answer may give a person pause. Maybe that person really did earn their pay. Unions are essential to protect and campaign for workers rights. Unions affect non-union employees’ as much as union employees. Unions have to have a hand in the political arena to counter the sway big business owners have over the republican faction of politics. Organized labor promotes workers safety and training as guiding principles of their existence. By virtue of their rigorous training, union members tend to build a safer, better functioning product. Union members also help create a better revenue system for their employers. Through unions training and quality of work, they make better products and services to compete with the rest of the world. As I have stated, unions are essential to America’s future. Take the time to research my claims here and I am confident you will reach the same conclusions. Remember to be an American means to belong to the biggest union in the world. Works Cited: Bureau of Labor Statistics. Bureau of Labor Statistics. 12 February 2014. 15 March 2015. <http://www.bls.gov/>. History.com Staff. "Labor Movement." 2009. History.com. 23 March 2015. <http://www.history.com/topics/labor>. Holter, Darryl. Workers and Unions in Wisconsin. Menominee Falls, WI: The State Historical Society, 1996. Print. Kaufman, James T. and Bruce E. Bennett. What Do Unions Do?: A TwentyYear Perspective. New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 2007. Print. Union Plus. 36 reasons why you should thank a union. 2014. 15 March 2015. <//www.unionplus.org/about/labor-unions/36-reasons-thank-union>. United States Department of Labor. Occupational Safety & Health Administration. 2009. United States Department of Labor. 15 March 2015. <www.osha.gov/workers/>.
Purple Bloom by Madona Wilber
Intertwined Lives by Jessica Buettner Ruth Fulton Benedict's radicalism reflects her revolutionary heritage, and disposition for social reform and is evident in her ground breaking career, and sexuality changes throughout her life. The middle class ancestry in her family had backgrounds in migration, dissenting, moralism, and well educated female reformers which were rare for the time. Benedict's family settled in upstate New York, in an era where Puritan moralism, revolutionary idealism, and aspirations for westward expansion grew. Benedict was born in 1887 and experienced a troubled childhood due to the early death of her father. She believed his death led to her own mental and physical anguish. Lois Banner, the author of Intertwined Lives, suggests that possible abuse within the family might be an issue as well. She moved to Buffalo when she was twelve, and had a relatively idyllic middle class upbringing. She developed close friendships with other girls as were central to gender socialization of the time. She entered Vassar College in 1905. While she attended college issues of women's rights and race relations were important, but contrasted with older women's equality ideology. This new feminism concentrated on motherhood and marriage but also included higher education as well as having a career. After returning from a tour in Europe, she decided the social expectations of marriage and motherhood were a way to find happiness. She married Stanley Benedict, but chose to keep her last name Fulton and also agreed to a marriage contract â€“ something uncommon for the time. The reform ideals she further developed in Vassar inspired her free love ideals and after they moved to Long Island and she failed to conceive a child or fill the expected housewife role, she ended up rented a room for weekly living away from her husband in Bedford Hills. She came to New York City in 1914 when radical women's movements were developing, and was inspired to infuse feminism with humanism, individuality, and independence to achieve social change. In 1919, she enrolled in a course titled â€œWomen and the Social Orderâ€? taught by Elise Clew Parsons at Columbia University. This course focused on both genders and urged an end to social distinctions. She entered anthropology graduate studies at Columbia in 1921, and in 1922 became a graduate student instructor. This is where she met Margaret Mead, whom she recruited to anthropology. Mead became one of her lovers, as both experienced strained relationships with men.
They worked under Franz Boas, who was one of the first academics to take a stand against growing racism and nationalism in the nation. They agreed to work on projects that focused on documenting Native American tribes in the nation before their cultures were lost to Westernization. They experienced gender discrimination from men within the department who thought women intellectually inferior, but understood they needed women to carry out research with women in tribal societies. She focused her studies on males in various Native American tribes and the painful rituals they suffered during vision quests. She was against male aggression and domination and recognized matriarchal respect and leadership within some of these tribes. She also recognized the oppression and homosexual tendencies of people within some tribes, and rejected the increased hostility and homophobia in her own culture. She believed that learning from other cultures and focusing on nonaggression should be the way to measure worth within a society. According to Katherine Pandora, Benedict's book Patterns of Culture changed behavioral science by concentrating on relativity in cultures. Benedict also embraced ideas of sexual freedom that were prominent in the 1920's, believing that utopian free love was a way to reach social reform. This was a direct threat to the morality of the time. She sought to change labels of deviance, promote understanding of abnormality, further individuality and advocated a Deweyian style of social planning to overcome these threats (Banner, p. 303). She promoted race relations by designing anti-racist programs for elementary and secondary schools. She claimed that there was no such thing as racial purity and believed that racism was the direct result of nationalism, exploitation, and saw racial equality as a way to save democracy. Benedict supported FDR's New Deal and thought that the state had the power to reform. In 1947 she became president of the American Anthropological Association. She died of heart failure within a year. Her free-love ideals, entering the male dominated society of anthropology and her marked stand against racism make Ruth Fulton Benedict a true radical of her time.
Work Cited Intertwined Lives: Margaret Mead, Ruth Benedict and Their Circle. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003, Print
Iris by Sabrina Hemken
Lovelorn by Sabrina Hemken Tonight I’m talking in tongues I’ve drawn them all out by my storming moods Through my desperate needs Someone who knows what it’s like to truly fall apart To wake up To fall asleep To dream To be reborn through a heart that’s pure The stage is set The rules are ignored So now I’m running back home through thorns Tearing through the victims And showing my horns Lovelorn Sifting through memories and things that make you real again Sweet locket tendrils of autumn hair Stop me to catch my breath Make me trip on all that’s left unsaid Leave the marks of devotion on my fingertips To wake up To fall asleep To dream Reborn only to find it’s never ending Lovelorn
Ice Cold Satisfaction by Mary Anne Hill I awoke to an ice-covered February morning in Wisconsin. My backyard shimmered from my second floor bedroom window. Tree branches and telephone wires were dipped in Lucite. The sun made everything shine in colored crystals of pink, yellow and lavender. It was breathtaking and still. The whole neighborhood looked like it had been encased in Cinderella’s glass slipper. I was two and a half years old and I couldn’t wait to run outside and slide around in that shiny, gleaming wonderland. I changed out of my pajamas and ran downstairs. My older brother, Pat, had already left for school with my Dad who dropped him off on his way to work. My mother was sitting in a rocking chair in the living room with my new baby sister, Kathleen. It seemed to me that my mother was always occupied with Kathleen, every minute, night and day. Maybe my brother was right about wanting a brother instead of a sister. Maybe a boy would have been less needy and less trouble. My mother fixed me breakfast as I clamored that I wanted to go outside, NOW! I wanted her to look out the kitchen window at the glass-like backyard, at the crystalline trees against the blue sky. She was grumpy and probably exhausted from her round-the-clock vigil with a colicky newborn. She did not see what I saw. She was not at all entranced with the scene, nor motivated to go outside. I begged her to put the baby in her bassinette and come outside with me, or just get me dressed so that I could go out. It was too much to ask. My mother said, “No.” She had to give the baby a bath and could not help me put on my winter gear—boots, snowsuit, scarf, hat, mittens. A lot goes into going outside on a frigid day in Wisconsin! A lot goes into taking care of a newborn, also. I got which one always takes precedence. My mother shot a last, “I said, NO!” over her shoulder to my repeated entreaties, and climbed the stairs to clean Kathleen. “How dirty could a newborn get?” I wondered. I didn’t even have to take a bath every day in the winter and I moved through a lot of substances. I started to cry in frustration and rejection, thinking that the outside world would melt by the time my mother could give me a few minutes of her time to get me dressed. Crying got me nowhere. I felt totally defeated.
I heard the water running and the baby crying upstairs. Through watery eyes, I glanced at my boots and snowsuit neatly hung on a hanger in the hall and a new idea was born! I abruptly stopped crying and ceased being the victim of an uncaring mother. I had a clear thought that I could put on my clothes by myself and go outside. It was so simple. It was a moment of empowerment. It had never before occurred to me that I could do this by myself. The regimen was to spread the snowsuit out on the floor, push stocking feet through the anklets and arms through the sleeves, then have someone pull the long zipper up “from the nave to the chops,” as Shakespeare would say. Next, one had to put on shoes, skin them into rubber boots and snap the strap that came over the forefoot. Additionally, there was the crocheted hat that tied under the chin, the scarf that wound around the neck, and the mittens that required getting one’s thumb, not the little finger, into the thumb hole. After all this, one was ready for the zero outside temperatures. More or less, I did it. I got all the articles of clothing on. I didn’t know how to tie, snap, or wrap, but I did zip and pull. I looked like a Siberian refugee, clothes askew, belts hanging loose, boots on backward, empty mitten thumbs up. During a moment of triumph, I creaked open the back door to a shimmering world. I was a strong, independent, determined toddler. I could overcome obstacles and setbacks. I didn’t have to wait for someone to help me. Who needed a mother? I could do it myself! I slid down the ice-covered back porch steps. I kept sliding down the terraced backyard, rolling from my butt to my back to my stomach, occasionally slowing when my rubber boots skidded on the ice. The sun was shining, glinting off every surface. The world was crackling around me. Icicles were smashing off the eaves, like icebergs against the shore. I could have been a lifeboat from the Titanic, bobbing and whirling across the icy sea of my backyard. I came to a halt against a tree at the lot line. I could see my breath as a cloud against the sky and I was very cold. I struggled to my feet. I could not stand up. I kept falling to my knees on the slippery surface. I tried to crawl up the gentle
slopes of my yard. I couldn’t do it. I kept sliding backwards into the tree. My hands and knees were wet and cold. I was the boulder of Sisyphus, constantly rolling back down the hill. I was doomed. Not a soul stirred in this icy land. My mother had no idea I was even out here. I didn’t know when she would look up from powdering Kathleen’s behind to look for me. I went from triumphant to desperate. I began to cry. I was sure my mother would find me, displayed as an ice sculpture, sealed to the ground on my hands and knees, a monument to her parental neglect. I kept crying, loud and long, screeching, “Help Me!” between gulping sobs. She never heard me. The person who did was a stern Scandinavian neighbor, Mr. Olsen, who was walking home from the corner store. He heard me, dropped his brown paper grocery bag, spilling bread and eggs, and came running toward me across the ice. How could he run when I couldn’t even stand up? Probably, because he had his boots on frontward, for one thing! He picked me up, popped my hat back on my head, and said the most comforting words one can say to someone in dire distress, “Ssssh, ssssh, It’s going to be all right. You’re okay. I’m going to take you home…” He was big and strong and carried me effortlessly to my front door. He jabbed the doorbell several times. When my mother finally opened the door, holding a fragrant Kathleen, all snug and warm in a pink blanket, she was astonished. She seemed not to comprehend how or why her completely disheveled middle child was outside the door in the arms of Mr. Olsen, our neighbor. Mr. Olsen did not give her much time to compose herself before he launched into a vehement chastisement, asking her what kind of mother she was sending her toddler out to play, inadequately dressed, on the worst day of the winter? When my mother lamely responded that she had no idea I was even outside, Mr. Olsen gathered renewed ammunition to fire at her. He put into words what I could not. He vindicated my feelings of hurt and resentment at being displaced and abandoned. His barrage went on for what seemed like a long time. I sat in his arms, felt the vibrations of his voice, and savored every sweet moment of the vigorous scolding he gave my mother.
Snow on Pine by Madona Wilber
Migration by Mary Anne Hill
Migration is a spiral journey Of inner and outer waves, Like a voyageur Paddling a birch bark canoe Through a river of silver ingots, Singing a courting song With many repetitions, Determined, strong, yearning, Finding the way Through the odyssey Of pure wonder and grim adventure, Looking for the portage, Eating the pemmican, Trying to skirt the rapids, Striving to stay alive, Both on the expedition out, And on the voyage home.
Broken Tree by Ruben King
This Place by Madona Wilber This place At times I stumble At times I fall At times I can't walk so I crawl ...to this place within my mind Where no one matters or cares Where no one stops or stares The sun is fading and the fear is now gone Yet I miss the love ...that love was supposed to hold strong So there i went I went across that sea and I fought forever until finally it made me see that love is never right and love is never wrong that all you hope to do is finally just belong
Yellow Blossom by Jonathan Peters
She Loved Him by Jill Martin She loved him Like the sea Loves the moon His passion Pulled her in Time and time Again She was drawn To him No control Over her heart It was his To brighten To kiss To play with To haunt It was his And she came To him Night after night She ached for him And lit her speck Of hope Reaching Reaching As close As she could Stretching Her soul Only to dance With the darkness Only to withdraw Back Into the abyss. Back Into reality Knowing Full well The moon Would never Come to her And the moon Would never Set her free
Eagle by Melissa Wilber
The Tide That Is Him by Jill Martin The tide that is him Pulls me in I swim against The undercurrents Of his love Unseen But deep From the depths Of his soul A wild torrent Of disturbed memories And lonely dreams He pulls me in And I cannot be saved I cannot fight Or I will drown In the storm that is him The tide that is him Pulls me in I swim into The turbulence Of his love Chaotic But unyielding From the depths Of his soul An endless flood Of unsaid words And hidden dreams He pulls me I don't want to be saved I will not fight For I will tread In the ocean that is him
Storm Clouds by Madona Wilber