Eyrie 2010

The Eyrie A Literary/Trades Journal 2010 Issue 2

Eastern Maine Community College

Welcome to the second issue of the Eyrie!

We continue to highlight the best writing our students are doing in classes here at Eastern Maine Community College, to provide a showcase of our students’ work and a resource for students and instructors alike; toward that end, we have chosen the very strongest work submitted to us.

While it does contain a balance of analytical and creative pieces, this second issue is still heavily weighted with submissions from general education courses. In future issues, we hope to strike a balance between the work being done in those classes and the excellent work produced by students within their technologies.

We are accepting submissions on a rolling basis, and we encourage every student in every course at the college to submit their best work to us for consideration. While our emphasis is obviously on writing, photographs or sketches of projects accompanied by explanations of those projects are also encouraged. We have an enormous variety of talent at the college, and we want to share it all.

Enjoy!

Lesley Gillis & Devin Wood, Co-Editors

All materials herein are copyright protected and remain the sole property of the contributors. Š

Zeraph Moore ENG 112, Introduction to Literature Personal Response Essay

Dragons and Water “A Chinese Banquet” by Kitty Tsui is about dualities—the family and the lover, the stifling and the open, the intimate and the merely familiar, staying and leaving. The dualities are encapsulated in the narrator’s thought whilst sitting at the table: “I dream of dragons and water” (51). While the Western way of expressing recognition of dual realities may be “oil and water,” for the narrator it is two of the oldest Chinese symbols, water and the dragon.

The opening stanzas of the poem give us a perspective on a family through the narrator’s experience of her family reunion. Within the first stanza is a passing mention of the speaker’s difference from the other women of her family—“All the women over twelve / wore long gowns and a corsage, / except for me” (3-5). The next few stanzas describe the banal details of the get together—the small talk, the occupations of the family members. The boredom and distance conveyed in these lines is subtle, too subtle for the reader to make many assumptions, yet, about the relationship of the speaker to her family. And, then, whilst eating and listening to the chatter, the speaker reveals that she is “dreaming of the cloudscape in your eyes” (17). The deeply personal use of the word “you,” the luminousness of the speaker’s inner world, suddenly shows itself in vivid contrast to the surrounding chatter. The first and most potent duality of the narrator’s world, the two worlds of family and lover that cannot mix, are shown here for the first time.

As a female-to-male transgendered, politically radical person who has had many life experiences outside of the norm, I find myself walking in dual worlds nearly all of the time. I walk in the “outside world,” the world of assumptions and mirrors, where I am not seen or am seen as “other”; as well as in an inner world, populated by close friends, lovers and my own imagination.

The play of luminosity between the two worlds is poetic, brushing upon erotic, statically charged with power. Oppression does have a taste, a texture; in a way it can allow one to see oneself more easily. As the narrator jumps between the banal conversations of her relatives, their disapproving attitudes and irrelevant questions, she also drifts into an inner world rich in feeling, perhaps richer because of the contrast with the outer world. So too are my inner worlds reflected off of the outer, and perhaps made to look more rich and exotic. It brings to mind the speaker’s dreams of dragons and water; perhaps the dragon is reflecting off of the water. Perhaps they even bring something novel to each other.

The speaker’s mother epitomizes the sensation of stifling that is present throughout the poem.

The mother’s alleged concern for her daughter—“It’s about time you got a decent job”—comes off as nothing more than snide and derisive; in truth, she has shut down to her daughter’s real needs long ago (21). Once, in an attempt to “bridge the boundaries that separate” her from her mother, the speaker tells her mother that she is gay, and “so happy with her” (31). Her mother cannot even muster the emotional courage to express her grief over this disclosure; instead, she sits unresponsively, eyes wet but “not [letting] tears fall” (36-37). By contrast, when the speaker thinks of her lover, her language changes: details dissolve into sweeping images. She speaks of the “cloudscape” in her lover’s eyes, her lover’s bedroom ceiling the “wide open sky” (17, 53).

In her words there is a sense of possibility, of self-realization. This sense of expansiveness the speaker feels with her lover contrasts startlingly with her mother’s stoic and closed emotional posture, but also with the emotionally stilted, gossipy family reunion scene.

While I am sure most of us have experienced a sensation of swallowing a part of ourselves, the ache of denying “uninvited” passion and the small death of keeping forbidden love hidden from family and society is deeply familiar to queer experience. There is not just the ache of the denial itself; there is also the singeing brightness of the desire itself, the sweet taste of it, which becomes all the more poignant. The pain is not only the pain of keeping oneself hidden: it is also the pain of depriving others of the gift of one’s full self. “I want to tell them,” says the narrator (50).

The poem also explores themes of familiarity and intimacy. As the speaker tells about her family, a sense of familiarity is obvious: this is a group who, if not bound to each other by real understanding and acceptance, is certainly close. They know of each other’s doings, whether that is “buying a house” or “taking a two week vacation in Beijing” (14-15). Yet there is another type of closeness that is lacking. Thomas Patrick Malone and Patrick Thomas Malone’s book, The Art of Intimacy, is a personal favorite of mine that has informed the way I look at the different ways that people connect. In speaking of the ways that some families interact, Malone and Malone argue that “some [...] routines block intimacy” (54). Within the speakers’ family, this seems true: the endless chatter and superficial questions mask an inability to connect in a radically accepting way.

In the poem, I see that though the speaker’s family is close, and certainly familiar to each other, they lack a deeper familiarity called intimacy. If the speaker’s relationship with her mother is any indication of the family’s overall pattern of interaction, then through the poem I am watching the interactions of a family which values closeness—the ability to superficially know and be known, to maintain social bonds and traditions, and to maintain images of who certain family members “are” and “should be”—over intimacy. Intimacy would permit the knowing of an individual as they are, rather than as they “ought to be,” and that is the only real knowing possible. It is this intimacy that the speaker seeks when she comes out to her mother, “wanting desperately to / bridge the boundaries that separate” her from her mother (27-28). She speaks of “wanting desperately to touch her,” as well, and I wonder: is this a family who is still intimate enough with each other for hugs (29)? No physical touch is spoken of in the opening stanzas that describe the family gathering. The family, while overly close and familiar, lacks the intimacy and realness that the speaker experiences with her lover, “in her arms” (52). While the text contains no specific language that lets us know that the speaker feels she can be emotionally intimate with her partner, the metaphors of expansiveness let us know that she can.

While I have never had to hide my sexual orientation, and have grown up in a culture that likely gives more allowance for sexual difference than the speaker of the poem’s, I consistently feel I must hide my transgendered identity and experience from extended family members. Family reunions have yielded difficult scenes. During Christmas, my grandmother and great aunt converged on my mother’s house, and I found myself unable to put up with being called a girl over and over, despite their knowledge that I no longer live as one. When requested to join yet another family photo of “just the ladies,” I declined; a few strong arms forced my unwilling body into the photo’s frame and the finished picture captured my fuming face. Shortly afterward, I left

without saying goodbye, and have not been able to convince myself to contact those relatives since. Over time, I have ceased to visit with many of them, because I would rather be fully myself than smother a part of myself in order to fit an expected mold. The limited attempts I have made at coming out have been mostly ignored—carefully thought-out letters replied to with jovial cards addressing me as “granddaughter.” I have seen neither joy nor grief in response, only a continued assertion that my identity is not valid. It is oppression marked by a sort of absence— an absence of recognition and acceptance, but also an absence of forthright anger or grief. This sense of absence in the poem is mirrored in its dedication: to the one who was not invited. It is a poem describing absences: things unsaid, feelings unexpressed, the absence of touch. It also describes, in brief interludes, a sense of radical presence.

Lastly, there is an unstated theme in the poem, set up by the other dualities: To stay with the family, to continue to participate in their rituals and to endure the self-imprisonment that this entails, or to leave and begin a new life. While the speaker does not address this choice directly, it is implicit within the poem. The draw of her lover irresistible, the stifling sensation of the family too painful to ignore, I can sympathize with the speaker if she should decide to estrange herself from her family in order to be more fully herself. “Our bedroom ceiling,” she says, is “the wide open sky” (53). As she mirrors this metaphor of freedom once again (the first time she speaks of the sky, it is the “cloudscape” in her lover’s eyes) there is a sense of buoyant possibility, perhaps of flight (17).I am able to empathize with her in this last stanza as if she were a bird, poised just before the moment of takeoff, looking for perhaps the last time at the familiar landscape.

While I have not had to face the same steep dualities between family life and queer experience as the speaker of “A Chinese Banquet” does, I can empathize with her struggle. Like her, I cannot be fully “myself” with extended family, and on my part have chosen to severely limit my relationship with them. Like her, I grieve for the loss of the beauty and diversity that I could help to bring to the world, if society were to see my difference as beneficial, rather than as something unfortunate, awkward, or loathsome. This is the sensation of “background grief,” connected not to any single incident, but to many: from being kicked out of countless public restrooms, to watching a transwoman friend beaten bloody without being able to stop it, to the awkwardness that often comes up between myself and others when I come out. But that grief would not exist beyond a vague yearning, but that I have experienced freedom too: sitting in the position of honor in the sweat lodge, laughing and wrestling with trans friends, my body between two lovers’. These are the dualities I have walked in each day, and their contrast has lent me a fineness and a strength I never knew that I would have. If I can assume that the speaker in the poem is the author, it is easy to imagine that she also has gone on to be strong and gentle, and that her grief changed over time into an acute love.

Works Cited Malone, Thomas P., and Patrick T. Malone. The Art of Intimacy. New York: Simon & Schuster Inc, 1987.

Tsui, Kitty. “a chinese banquet.” Responding to Literature. Ed. Judith Stanford. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005. 606-607. Print.

Carolyn Zani ENG 101, College Composition Graf #1 “Written with my grandson Colton in mind.”

Hands I stepped back to admire the bulletin board I had worked on all day. Each letter was perfectly drawn and carefully cut from construction paper. “Helping Hands” it said in large, multi-colored letters. Without giving it much thought, I quickly traced and cut out one last shape. “Mrs. Zani” I wrote across it with a dark green magic marker. I centered this silhouette of my left hand directly below these words. The warm, humid air hung in the classroom and gently curled the edges of all the papers I just stapled. The pale blue background would provide the perfect contrast to 19 tiny, yet brightly colored hand prints my Kindergarten pupils would add on Thursday.

Exhausted, I quietly sat down in the back of the room and stared for a long time at the handprint on the back wall. I did not recognize the silhouette of the large hand I just cut from construction paper. I scrutinized the outline of each finger. Then, looking down, I outstretched my left hand and examined each finger carefully.

Staring at a crooked pinky, I then recalled how I broke that finger playing volleyball in the sand at Crane’s Beach in the summer of “69. I refused to wear a splint because it didn’t seem fashionable to me at the time. Of late, I am more conscious of its misshapen form, as it aches whenever I close my hand. I also noticed the space between my knuckles on my ring finger was narrower compared to the same finger on my other hand. The skin between the joints here was smooth and a lighter color than the surrounding skin too. I imagined over these 40 plus years, everything just grew up and around my gold wedding band without me ever taking notice before.

Upon examining my middle finger, a long, white scar was a haunting reminder of my first bout with carcinoma melanoma. A small depression marked the spot where some of the bone had to be removed. My pointer finger was no doubt my strongest finger and the most flexible. Its firm muscles gave it an appearance of being slightly over used. It was larger than all the other fingers on that hand. Probably, because of all my fingers, it had always been used the most. As a child, it repeatedly tapped the back of many a pet frog in daily summer frog races. Jerking it back and forth, it also rang the bell on my bicycle as I rode around the neighborhood from just after dawn until well past dusk. That was until the streetlights came on to be more exacting. During the holidays, I used it to point out anything and everything I wanted from Santa. And I wanted a lot.

The worn skin and callus under the nail was attributed to the hard, steel strings of the guitar I played as a teenager. And I played a lot. Although I preferred the piano, it was a lot easier to tote a guitar to a friends house. I looked at all sides of my pointer finger and realized how much mileage it must have on it. There was barely a discernable fingerprint. It is probably the most intelligent finger of them all, if fingers can even have intelligence. My pointer has scanned phone books, road maps, dictionaries, foreign language spelling word lists and countless to-do lists.

Yes, it had a lot of mileage on it, but it is still going strong.

I knit my brow as I then looked at my thumb. It didn’t look at all like any of the other fingers on my hand. It was short and stout. How peculiar, the nail grew slightly off center and to the left.

Admittedly, I used it to unknot wet shoe laces, scratch off stubborn price tags, and occasionally it removed dried paint from window glass on sashes.

I rubbed my right hand over the back of my left hand and made the wrinkles disappear. The skin was soft and smooth yet so thin and frail now. I saw “birthday spots”, as they are called, where there was once an even complexion. My hands had begun to resemble my Grandmother’s hands and that brought a solace of its own. I turned my hand over and examined my palm. I looked at my lifeline. Somewhat surprised but pleased, I saw that had not changed. It was still long and smooth and sleek. Just like my fingers were the last time I stopped to examined them.

Hearing familiar voices coming from the hallway, I stood up and walked towards the door. My grandson was running down the corridor ahead of my daughter. As in playing a game of hideand-go-seek, I deliberately remained somewhat hidden behind the freshly painted door frame. I turned so as not to appear staring in that direction and waited. “I found you, Grandma“, a small voice exclaimed. The tossed auburn locks were the same color as my Grandmother’s hair. As I looked down, two tiny, tanned, and dimpled hands were waving , jerking back and forth in front of me. I studied the perfectly shaped fingers, straight , flawless, tender, and plump. “Can you fix my strap?”, he said. I reached down and untangled the twisted overall clasp. He grabbed both my hands and brought them to his face. He gave them “bunches of smooches”, our typical greeting to one another. I reciprocated. “ Your hands are warm and soft, Grandma, and smell like strawberries,” he said in a soft voice. I reached into a wrinkled brown paper bag and pulled out a small container. “I picked these from my garden this morning just for you,” I said.

With my left thumb, I peeled back the lid. With my pointer finger, I singled out the first strawberry I thought my Grandson should eat. I thought to myself, these are still “Helping Hands” and a familiar rush of energy flooded through me. I raced my Grandson to the playground behind the building. For a very long time, I sat quietly and stared at the silhouette of the young boy. He pointed to anything and everything he wanted. And he wanted a lot, including the frogs in the tall grass. And he played a lot. I watched as he rode the Tyke bike my daughter pulled from the trunk of her car. The silence was broken when my daughter called aloud, “Five more minutes, then we have to pack up.” Using both hands, I worked quickly to load the back of their Explorer. I raised my left hand, and extended my pointer finger towards a detour sign and gave directions as how to maneuver the back roads leading to RT 15. “If you leave now and go directly home,” I said,” you should get there before dusk, before the street lights come on that is.” With my right hand, I waved good-bye and brushed the sand from the back of my left hand. I stepped back and outstretched my fingers and I recognized everyone of them.

Morgan Talty ENG 101, College Composition Paragraph

Objects

Something so meaningful to me, I would say, is a lighter. Some people would say, “How is that important or meaningful?” Although, my lighters come and go like the Moorish wind against the sea, but they always return in a new color and sometimes size. Except, it always has that same symbolic entity that says, “I have been there with you.” My lighters have their own spirit to them and when I lose a lighter or it breaks that spirit inside of it transfers to the new one that I have.

And it will always have those memories of where I’ve gone, what movements I’ve made, the weather, the time, and the stories that blow away and return on certain days.

When I look at my lighter I can see things: I see past and present (usually the present is when I realize I need a cigarette.) When I look at my lighter, it’s almost as if I get sucked into a trance or into a repeated episode of South Park, I can see myself behind my old house in the woods on Indian Island. I look like I’m 13. The sky is looks gray and curious. It must be around 6. I can feel that o’ so cold air against my face and through my hair. The wind can’t be stopped. There are no leaves to create a wall. It is fall.

I’m down there, standing in my usual manner in those woods, with my usual brown sweatshirt on and the cargo pants, trying to smoke a cigarette. I stole that nasty Winston 100 from my mom. I don’t want her to see me smoking so I start to get paranoid. (At this point, my lighter gives me another memory: the paranoia memory of when I heard keys jingle outside my door) Then, I jump out of the paranoia and realize she can’t see me. So I light up my cigarette with that mindtime-machine while I don’t even realize what values that object carries. I just simply light my cigarette and put the lighter back in my pocket. I start walking up the path and I can feel the tosses and turns with every step I take. By the time I make it to the end of the path my cigarette is gone. I walk out on to the road and take a left. I’m walking to my friend Tyler’s house to see if he wants to come outside with me. I finally make it to his house and I knock at his door. His mom answers Me-is Tyler here?

Michelle (Tyler’s mother)- yup, hold on a second.

Michelle- Tyyyy!!! Morgan is here.

So I wait inside of the kitchen for him to come out. I can smell myself; it’s the smell of old cigarette smoke coming off my cold, young, and stale hands. I stand there in that warm kitchen for a few minutes waiting for Tyler to get ready. Tyler finally comes out, all prepared, to endure the cold breeze of the fall with me.

We go outside and we walk to the place we call the ‘rock’ where all of us Native boys just hang around. We then meet up with our other friend Jake. (I can see it all and feel the connection we all share: The connection that will never be forgotten between us.) I can hear our conversation…

Me- What’s up dude?

Jake- Not much man Jake- What are you boys up to?

Me- Not much just bored Jake-Same here Jake- Sup Tyler? (while poking Tyler in the chest)

Tyler- Gahh!

Me- You wanna go smoke a cigy Jakey?

Jake- Yea dood Me- Lets walk to Fort Dawson. (A place, on the bank of the Penobscot River, next to a tree where we used to have fires and hang out in the middle of the night) Tyler- I have to eat supper soon, dood…

Jake- Shut up you stupid billy goat Me- haha Tyler-sigh…fine…

Jake- Billy goats can’t win (poking Tyler in the chest) Tyler- Gahh!

Boom! I’m sitting here staring at my lighter. I just jumped out of that trance like I jumped out of that paranoia I experienced while I was trying to avoid getting caught by my mother. Now, the present hits me. I want a cigarette. I think I’ll go outside for another repeated trip to smoke that will always be remembered in the pocket of the spirit that is living in my lighter. And that spirit will always look and see me in those woods by myself or with my Native brothers and he will always tell me stories. Like that Moorish wind that hits the faces of o’ so many.

Kara Eve Kennison EMCC Associate Librarian, Circulation and Technical Services

Missing the Connection January does not make nice.

But, we are going into the light again.

Soon, the air which is brittle and crunchy like Spider roll bones, gives way to the warm green of summer and sunlight’s eternal return.

Winding backward, I am stale beyond 6 years ago when in sunlight I rang red and pink; rosing and rising into my paper youth.

January is not a kind month.

But we are whispering again about newness; applause from a collective audience.

Memories dance throughout this maze when the connection is missing.

When the dawn brings fake naifs; phony idle wanderers, we sing.

We sing of our written refreshments.

We sing of our chortles of rye.

We despise our fear.

We fear our loathing.

We sing.

We sing.

And we never cry when the connection is missing.

Soon, the air will change.

Soon, the air which is brittle and crunchy like Spider roll bones, gives way to the warm green of Summer and sunlight’s eternal return.

Jillian Smitherman ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction Theme Week 9

Rain *** Being a willful child, and getting soaked. Wet hair sticks to my face, and then my smile fades as mom’s frown appears. My punishment: a smack on the butt, and no T.V. tonight.

I still had fun though. *** I laugh and try to grab him into the dreary day. He is such a stick in the mud. He needs to loosen up and get the word ‘academia’ out of his head. We walk from the library down the hill, and into the town. I crack a few stupid jokes, and tease him.

My clothes are damp now. I probably look horrible, but at least he’s smiling. *** Hysteria makes people do funny things. She’s crying, and freaking out.

‘I shouldn’t have gone into his dorm room alone. I was so stupid. Now I’ve really hurt him.’

‘It’s ok. Nothing actually happened. You’ll be fine.’

We think of something to get her mind off of the matter. We decide to go camp out in the woods.

Torrential rains, and hurricane winds almost blow us off balance; but the tent is warm and dry.

Kumquats and chocolate fill our mouths. We talk and laugh and sing words of nonsense. She’s feeling better now. But when we turn out the flashlight, I can hear her tears.

I put my arms around her. *** Alone.

Sitting in a tree with no one in sight. I wrap my coat around me tightly in an effort to ward off the cold. I close my eyes and think of nothing.

Absolute peace.

Water trickles down my face and soaks my shirt. The cooling spring breeze brushes over my face. Above the world, and feeling free. *** ‘Oh God.’ My brother can’t look at it. As if he feels he’ll become less manly if he views the spectacle. Two men dance to a ‘90s beat which is blasting from a silver boom-box.

Tighty-whiteys and Space helmets; that’s it.

I close my eyes and pray that the cold wind and rain will force them to put something else on. *** Thunder and rain. Water drops from the ceiling onto my neck. The shock makes me flinch, and his fingers wipe the cold away.

I think I can take 6 more hours of this. *** Yellow leaves. Gray Clouds. Blue patches of sky.

As I scan barcodes and take people’s money, I listen to the small talk of countless people. Too much rain they say.

Too much complaining.

Sally A Taylor English 112, Introduction to Literature Critical Essay

Monster or Not What exactly is a monster? According to M. B. Clarke and A. G. Clarke in Retellings A Thematic Literature Anthology monsters come in many forms. “Monsters may be defined in several different ways: they may be defined spiritually, as having a profound sickness of the soul; biologically, as physically deformed; psychologically, as psychotic; socially, as outsiders with no recognized connections to the community; or historically, as war criminals who betray international standards of humanity” (419). The question raised is can the same monster be portrayed differently , depending on who’s telling the story? Lizzie Borden is a much written about character who was accused of brutally killing her parents in the late 1890’s. Angela Carter in “The Fall River Axe Murders” paints a vastly different picture of Lizzie than Florence King does in “A Wasp Looks at Lizzie Borden.” Both of their portrayals of Lizzie differ from that of Amy Powers and Christopher McGovern in “I Cry Alone.” Depending on the author and how they tell the story, the reader may be left with conflicting views on Lizzie and her perceived monstrosity.

In “The Fall River Axe Murders” Angela Carter builds her story of Lizzie Borden around the setting. She immediately introduces the reader to the stifling heat of the summer, “Nobody could call the New England summer a loveable thing; […]. More than the heat, it is the humidity that makes it scarcely tolerable. The weather clings, like a low fever you cannot shake off” (211). She further goes on to describe the oppressive clothing worn at that time, “But underneath, has gone a long starched cotton petticoat, a short one; long drawers; woolen stockings; a chemise; and a whalebone corset that takes her viscera in an unkind hand and squeezes them very tightly” (212). This is in addition to the cotton frock Lizzie has over all this. Her description of Lizzie’s attire continues to add to the sweltering atmosphere she is building. Carter also builds on her setting of the oppressive heat at the time in her description of people in the village, “And the stern fathers of Fall River will step briskly forth into the furnace; well wrapped up in flannel underclothes, linen shirts, vests and coats and trousers of good thick wool, and— final touch—a strangulatory neck tie as if discomfort were next to godliness” (211). Her scene continues to be built through her description of the house. She leads into her depiction of the house as “His house is cramped, comfortless—‘unpretentious’ you might say […]” (212). Carter continues to build on the austerity of the Borden home in her references to the fact they do not maintain a bathroom of any sorts and the lackluster nature of the furnishings. Her atmosphere of the scorching heat is carried through to the house, she references Bridget’s room as such, “Although Bridget left the door open a crack in forlorn hopes of coaxing draught into the room, all the spent heat of the previous day has packed itself tightly into her attic” (213) Carter continues using the Lizzie’s dismal surroundings to create her atmosphere, “The days opened their cramped spaces into other cramped spaces and old furniture and never anything to look forward to, nothing. Empty days. Oppressive afternoons. Nights stalled in calm” (225). Carter succeeds in setting a mood of oppression in which the reader can feel pity for Lizzie, and potentially an understanding of her alleged actions Labeling Lizzie a monster becomes much more difficult when the reader can sympathize with her.

Carter’s Lizzie is portrayed as sympathetic due to the conditions of her life, including the atmosphere in her home, but focuses strictly on her adult life. In “I Cry Alone” lyrics by Christopher McGovern and Amy Powers, the focus is on Lizzie as she sits alone in her room the night before the murders. McGovern and Powers explore not only the adult Lizzie, but also the child Lizzie, reminding the reader that the road to her adulthood started in her childhood. The lyrics humanize Lizzie and give insight into her misery, “Each night I try alone/To keep the tears away/They never seem to leave me for too long/So I cry alone/When no one else is near” (5-9) The lyrics alternate between Lizzie as an adult and Lizzie as a young girl. Lizzie as the adult continues to reveal how depressed she is, “For if I show the me that’s real/The me that hurts…the me that feels” (24-25). “For I alone/Know what is really true/I’ll keep the secret safe/Like I was told to” (28-31), giver the reader the sense that Lizzie is hiding a dark secret, possibly about her father. The young Lizzie adds to the atmosphere of isolated depression, “Tears like rain, fall like stars/Gently into my heart/Wind like pain, softly blows/No one hears/No one knows” (16-20). “Blood like tears/Pouring down/Clean them up/Make no sound!”

(42-45), as spoken by the little girl further makes the reader consider that as a child Lizzie suffered some sort of traumatic life changing event that she has never been allowed to speak about. The speakers in these lyrics set an atmosphere of a sad child, left alone to grow into a depressed adult. Powers’ and McGovern’s portrayal of Lizzie in “I Cry Alone” makes it particularly difficult for the reader to see Lizzie as a monster.

Carter in “The Fall River Axe Murders” and Powers and McGovern in “I Cry Alone give a picture of a Lizzie that ca by sympathized with even pitied in spite of the monstrous allegations against her. Florence King in “A Wasp Looks at Lizzie Borden” portrays a much less sympathetic Lizzie. She tells her story from the character’s point of view. King immediately lets the reader know, she will be telling her story based on the characters involved, “If you want to understand Anglo-Saxon Americans, study the Lizzie Borden case” (246). King depicts the family as a dysfunctional unit, describing how each family member plays their part. Her rendering of Lizzie initially doesn’t portray a monster, “Compared to the rest of her family, Lizzie comes through as a prom queen” (246).She builds on the description of Lizzie, with both negative and positive observations of her. In one excerpt, she describes Lizzie as ticking away before a robbery committed in the family home, then shortly thereafter describes how the family maid, Bridget adores Lizzie. King further writes that, “Anyone who studies the Borden case grows to like Lizzie, or at least admire her, for her rigid sense of self as a gentlewoman” (248).

King also makes the point that Lizzie could have easily shifted the blame for the elder Borden’s’ murders to Bridget, as the Irish were disliked in that place and time. “Yet Lizzie never once tried to shift the blame, and she never named Bridget as a suspect.” (248), continuing to give the reader reason to respect if not like Lizzie. At this point in King’s story, it is hard for the reader to imagine Lizzie as a monster capable of the atrocious crimes she is accused of. After Lizzie can’t obtain poisoning which King writes she was going to use as a ladylike murder means, she reveals a Lizzie of a different nature, “Lizzie did what every overcivilized, understated Wasp is entirely capable of doing once we finally admit we’re mad as hell and aren’t going to take it anymore: She went from Anglo to Saxon in a trice” (249). Her depiction of Lizzie actions during the murders portray a woman unaffected by the brutal crime she has committed, “She ironed handkerchiefs, sewed a button loop on a blouse, chatted with Bridget about a dress-goods sale, and read Harper’s Weekly” (250). When being questioned by the police about Abby Borden, King continues to develop her cold conniving portrait of Lizzie, “She is not my mother, sir, she

is my stepmother. My mother died when I was child” (251). King succeeds in rendering a description of Lizzie that makes her cold and calculating enough to be a monster, but with enough humanity to be a likeable one.

Angela Carter, Florence King, and Christopher McGovern and Amy Powers all look at Lizzie Borden, but from very different perspectives. Carter uses the setting to build her impression of Lizzie. The mood she set in her story is one of oppression and a stark existence Lizzie exists in.

The atmosphere she creates makes Lizzie a sympathetic character; one the reader can empathize with and understand how she may have been driven to murder her father and stepmother.

McGovern and Powers poem portrays a depressed Lizzie, who has been in that state since childhood. Their Lizzie is a sad little girl, grown into a depressed adult, who the reader can believe that Lizzie’s atrocious actions may have been the result of a mental illness. King’s portrayal of Lizzie is built around her character, portrayed as both considerate and conniving.

Two stories, one set of lyrics; all written on the same subject, but all leaving the reader with a different impression of Lizzie. Monster or not, depends on who’s version of Lizzie you read. All three versions of Lizzie show her humanity at differing levels, and each left this reader to believe that even if Lizzie committed the atrocities she was accused of, she had a certain amount of justification in doing so.

Works Cited Carter, Angela. “The Fall River Axe Murders.” Retellings, A Thematic Literature Anthology.

Eds. M.B. Clarke and A. G. Clarke. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2004. 211-228. Print.

Clarke, M B. and Clarke, A. G, Eds. Retellings, A Thematic Literature Anthology. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2004.

King, Florence. “A Wasp Looks at Lizzie Borden.” Retellings, A Thematic Literature Anthology. Eds. M.B. Clarke and A. G. Clarke. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2004. 246-251.

Print.

Powers, Amy and Christopher McGovern. “I Cry Alone.” Retellings, A Thematic Literature Anthology. Eds. M.B. Clarke and A. G. Clarke. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2004. 231-233.

Print.

Linda O’Connor ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction Writing Vignette, Pointillism

Because I Can I make supper like it’s any other day. I’ve talked to friends and family. Convinced them that I’ll be fine. Try not to say cancer, just say lump. My husband comes through the door. Green Dickie work clothes laced with welding holes, lunch pail on counter. Dirty, tired like any other day. I drop the tomato-y spoon. I point to my neck, words yip out that make no sense. ******

In my mind think I’ll ski full and strong as I’ve done for years. Close to home this time in case it doesn’t go well. Weak and not admitting it. The skis slip ahead of the body and down I go.

Terror strikes as my head falls back. Terror all out of proportion to the fall. Thirty stitches across the front of my throat hold. What did I think, that my head was going to fall off? ***** Head strapped to the table. Nurses caring, touching, loving my hair. They are happy for me that I won’t lose it. They are more accustomed to older and balder. Or little bald children, children must be the worst. The nurses like me. I look healthy and happy. A nice break from their normal.

Strange green and red lights. Hard to believe lights will kill cells. ****** Midnight all the time. Never have been so tired. People expect things I can’t deliver. Just too tired, can’t even explain how tired a strong, always been fit, in the prime of her life woman can be. Everyone so kind, but needing things. Needing me to be healthy. Needing me to be happy.

Needing me to pretend. Just go, let me be. Let me be tired. ****** Skiing across the lake, heading for beautiful, snow capped Mt. Katahdin. Won’t really make it to the mountain, but I can ski toward it. Skiing hard and fast and alone, celebrating the fact that I can. Healthy sweat steaming up from the jacket, working too hard, going too far, because I can.

Troy Welch ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction Writing

A Vignette.

The smell of the bus is intense; the body odor and smell of liquor is overwhelming. The large number of people crammed into the bus almost seem like it could be illegal, some people standing while others sit. Janice, the deaf-mute, lets out a loud scream to get someone’s attention. Another woman sits calmly knitting a blue and yellow scarf; and odd combination of colors but it’s almost complete. The driver yells out “Forest and Mt. Hope”. The loud beep signaling that someone wants to get off here is heard. The bus comes to a stop and 3 young men get off. Looking out the window the leaves on the ground can be seen swirling around as a light autumn breeze swiftly moves across the grass. The bus rolls on, turning onto different streets, stopping at a few lights and then arrives at the depot. I gather my transfer ticket and move to the next bus, which will take me home. This bus is even more crowded, with a large number of the people standing. The driver, the bald one that I do not like very much, lets me know that I must be standing behind the white line while the bus is in motion. I acknowledge him and step back a few steps. I put in my headphones and stare ahead. My music is low enough that I can hear idle conversations going on; ranging from what sounds like drug talk to the typical “what have you been up to” talks. We crest the hill and I see my road getting closer. I lean over and pull the chain; ding! The bus stops, the door opens and I thank the driver and exit. Once I step off the bus I see my mother’s truck in the yard. I wonder what’s going on for mom to drive all the way up here and not tell me she was coming. I don’t see her so I gather that she must be inside. I enter the house and find her on the couch talking with Adam. She looks up at me and asks “How was school?”

“Fine” I reply. “What’s wrong?”

“Come with me to the hospital. Grampa is in ICU and they don’t think he will,” she replies stopping short with tears welling up in her eyes. I walk over to mom, hug her and tell her “Lets go.”

Troy Welch ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction

A Linked Vignette The "C" Word The room is stale and white. The air is filled with the smell of sterile instruments and medical supplies. It’s chilly in here; like many operating rooms are. The wax paper rustles as I climb onto the table. I know the surgeon will be here soon. I look around at the different posters and such on the walls. There are posters on how to properly giver yourself a breast exam to the anatomy of wart; the most random assortment of posters and fliers I have ever seen. Soft music is playing over the small white speaker over my head. She knocks at the door and enters. “Hi. I am Dr. Kimberly Lieber.” ***************************************************************************** A few days go by with no results. I am sitting at home watching Ellen when the phone rings. I look at the caller ID and do not recognize the number; to voicemail you go I tell myself.

Commercial break rolls around and I check my voicemail. It’s Dr. Lieber’s office wanting to schedule an appointment. I dial the number. My heart is racing. Are they really going to tell me what that lump was over the phone? Oh my god, what if it really was cancer? “Penobscot Surgical Care, How may I help you?” ***************************************************************************** Dr. Lieber explains how she will take a needle and numb the area in which she is about to extract the lesion. I will feel minimal pain but will be able to feel some pressure as she cuts the mass away. She said that I must remain still at all times. I agree; she is after all working in my groin area. One little slip and, well, you know. She explain that after she removes it she will place it into a solution that will preserve it until the lab can run some test on it. She states that she is concerned with the prospect that it could be a form of cancer so she will put a rush on it. ***************************************************************************** This is odd, I think to myself. This woman is standing over my crotch with a little piece of cloth covering my man junk and a scapula in her hand, cutting into my upper thigh and talking to the nurse about her upcoming vacation. Shouldn’t her attention be on me? It was like she read my mind; she explains how talking to someone about something other than the procedure helps her to concentrate. Ummmmm, ok. A few more pulls and a little more pressure and she says “All done!” She stitches the hole up and explains the next step of waiting for the results to come back.

Oh boy, this is going to be a long wait. ***************************************************************************** “I just got the results back and it’s what we call Basil Cell Carcinoma. It’s a common form of skin cancer that forms when cells in the skin don’t grow properly and for these masses.

Sometimes they come in the form of a freckle and sometimes a mass like you had,” explains Dr. Lieber.

I honestly don’t care too much about what else she has to say. All I know is that she just said the “c” word and I am scared shitless. We just lost my grandfather to cancer, I can’t be next.

Laney Ashmore ENG 101, College Composition “A Brief Account of the Important Aspects of Who I Am”

Features of This Self I am a twenty four year old, pale-skinned, hook-nosed, first generation Mexican-American whose paternal grandmother has disowned because of my "half-breeding."

I am daughter to a woman who was pregnant with me when she was finishing up her Bachelor's and now believe that's where my extreme thirst for knowledge came from. I sat with her for nine months and listened to the professors lecture. My mom thinks I heard everything.

I am the younger sister, by seven years, who shares a mother but not a father, and grew up in a house where that was a simple technicality that never influenced how we loved each other. My sister is not my half-sister, she is my sister and my dad is not her stepdad, he simply is dad.

We grew up as a Jehovah's Witnesses, an embarrassment at the time, perhaps only a topic of social awkwardness now, but an experience that has ultimately shaped my life and beliefs.

I am physically small, being only 5.2" and, even after gaining 15 pounds since addressing a Vitamin D deficiency, I am still petite at 120 pounds.

I have scars from several surgeries, one to remove a black-as-coal appendix, another to diagnose endometriosis that may eventually lead to a total hysterectomy and two more when I was twelve and fifteen to fix a genetic chest defect.

I engage in intellectual love affairs with anything that makes me think, wonder and question, and I house a fascination for the odd and unexpected. I particularly enjoy reading (anything, everything) art, music and a well-brewed cup of hot coffee with enough cream to make anyone else cringe.

I like to go to random, hidden-in-a-hole thrift shops or used book stores where I enjoy running my fingers along the dusty sweaters and cracked spines. I daydream of who once owned them.

I like to go to bars, dark, questionable bars, where I sit alone and watch the bartender spin bottles and drinking just enough, that perfect amount, for the world to turn smooth and silky. My husband hates this particular trait because of the implications of danger, and I get tired of my gender being a handicap.

I live with, and deeply love, my husband, more than twenty years my senior, who loves and accepts me more than I could reasonably ask anyone to.

A good portion of my time is spent at work, in a rehab and living center, where I take constant physical and emotional care of the elderly who are demented and dying. I view them as my second family, which I know is a dangerous game my heart plays, but makes me damn good at what I do.

And, always, as soon as I wake I begin thinking, thinking, thinking, a whirlwind of thoughts and ideas that does not end until I lay my head down to dream in bright, rich, vivid colors of houses I've never been in, sitting in furniture I've never seen, a life I might not live.

Tonya Pickering ENG 112, Introduction to Literature Critical Essay

What Color is “The Open Boat”?

“None of them knew the color of the sky” although “…all of the men knew the colors of the sea” (820). There is an endless array of colors in the rainbow but in Stephen Crane’s “The Open Boat” the author only used a few colors to describe how four men, the correspondent, the oiler, the captain and the cook describe their January journey adrift at sea off the Florida coast. The majority of colors in the story were described as black, gray and slate, with an occasional mention of brown and white. Even less prevalent was the use of other colors such as blue, red and yellow. The lack of vibrant colors told the reader how dismal it was for the four shipwrecked men and it allowed a vivid picture of scenery to be imagined inside the reader’s head.

The color white is like a blank canvas; it can be thought of as serene, peaceful and calming. The author used this color in a soothing method to depict the promising sand on the beach. “Slowly the land arose from the sea. From a black line it became a line of black and a line of white—trees and sand” (825) told of how the lifeboat was so close to shore the men could nearly touch the white sand—their knight in shining armor. Later in the tale the author explains how “the men were again enabled to see the white sheets of water scudding up the slanted beach” (835).

Although both excerpts are hopeful with the men’s survival, the color white was also used in a tremulous way to convey the ocean’s power. “The tumbling, boiling flood of white water caught the boat and whirled it almost perpendicular” (836) masterfully exposed the sea’s unforgiving acts as the men struggled to stay alive and keep sane.

Gray is a more dimensional color than white. Gray or slate is like a deep black with a touch of white blended into its hallows. This color was dramatically used to express the dismal situation.

“These waves were of the hue of slate” (821) made the reader understand how the waves felt cold, hard and unforgiving. Beyond describing the waves the author uses the color to reveal how “In the wan light the faces of the men must have been gray” (821) and when the oiler and correspondent rowed they were “gray-faced and bowed forward” (830). This was a remarkable color to use because it displayed the seriousness of the situation and unattractiveness of what one would consider the beautiful waters off the Florida coast. Instead of the bright blue sky and yellow morning sun, Crane chose to describe the break of day as “the gray hue of the dawning” (835) and instead of describing a bright, tall lighthouse it was described as “the slim lighthouse lifted its little gray length” (826). The bleak and disturbing feeling the color exuded quickly spun

the scenery into something depressing. Initially I expected the lighthouse to be a place of savior and rescue, but the way Crane described it with the dark-colored scenery it was soon made clear that this land with the lighthouse would not be where the men tried to make land.

The darkest and most powerful color is black. It is the color of night, a bruised eye and a superstitious cat. It is the color a robber is expected to wear as he or she points a black pistol into the eyes of a terrified victim. With the instances in this story, the color black is used in a similar way as the before mentioned attributes but with a tough, cold sensation. When the gulls were pestering the drifting men they were described as having “black bead-like eyes” and one of the bird’s “black eyes were wistfully fixed upon the captain’s head” (823). How different the scene would have felt had the birds been described as having light blue eyes. In a similar example to the gulls, the sight of land should have been seen by the men as green and lush but instead was viewed as the land “seemed but a long black shadow on the sea” (825). One of the most powerful paragraphs in the story was soon after they found land but had to go back out to sea after the bus of people on land neglected to aid the men: In the meantime the oiler rowed, and then the correspondent rowed and then the oiler rowed.

Gray-faced and bowed forward, they mechanically, turn by turn, plied the leaden oars. The form of the lighthouse had vanished from the southern horizon, but finally a pale star appeared, just lifting from the sea. The streaked saffron in the west passed before the all-merging darkness, and the sea to the east was black. The land had vanished, and was expressed only by the low drear thunder of the surf. (830) The sea should be blue and green but because it is described as black its sensation has a dramatic effect of gloom, hopelessness and misery.

With exception to white, gray and black, the author seldom used other variations of color. In a brief but uplifting scene “suddenly there was another swish and another long flash of bluish light, and this time it was alongside the boat and might almost have been reached with an oar” (832).

The correspondent watched this bluish light “cut the water like a gigantic and keen projectile” and admired the “speed and power of the thing” (832). “The thing” was a shark and it further layered the sheets of colors and depth to the small, fragile open boat at sea that held four desperate men within its walls.

The author used the colors to represent their deeper meaning and to add dimensions to the plight which not only included realistic visions but helped make the reader feel as though they could have been in the boat as a fifth member. As the story’s climax came and went the anticipation of an optimistic and joyful reunion with land was continually dissolved—the reader was left to see a black sea with its rough, unforgiving white water and the gray hue of the dawning. After the men finally found respite on the shore “with its white slope of sand and its green bluff topped with little silent cottages, spread like a picture”, the reader can truly bring this predicament to a close with a plush portrait of a colorful and serene vision. The sinister colors used throughout the story quickly dissipated in the conclusion but the brilliant way they were intertwined during the long days at sea in the open boat were not forgotten.

Works Cited

Crane, Stephen. "The Open Boat." Responding to Literature. Ed. Judith Stanford. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005. 821-835. Print.

Cindy Papken ENG 101, College Composition Effect Essay

Knitting for All of Us I owe a debt of gratitude to the first people to tie knots with needles. I rediscovered knitting after several decades and have been surprised by the pleasure it has brought to my whole family. My kids get cool garments no one else has. My husband has a calmer spouse who can even remain at his side while he assaults the remote control. And I create things I’m proud of when I have to sit still. So for serenity with a little joy thrown in, I grab my knitting.

My daughters, Roxanne and Renee, love wearing the funky hats, socks, and other garments I make them. Their happiness is contagious. When Roxanne was in high school, I made her fingerless glovelets out of a self-patterning yarn. Several of her friends likes them enough to buy yarn for me to make them each a pair. More important than her friends’ appreciation was the gratitude Roxanne showed for the knitting I did for her friends. My youngest daughter, Renee, helped me pick out yarn for a pixy hat at about the same time. She was in early middle school and words her green hood-like hat with fuzzy trim every day that winter. I recently made a hat named for the Punta region of South America. With bright, contrasting colors it could resemble a jester hat. But the gold, dusty blue and medium purple I chose made it delightful without the comedy. While I knitted, both my daughters kept a close watch on the project, anxious to see how the finished product would look. I got separate requests for the hat, but in the end, Roxanne won out. She has the smaller head – a perfect fit. My husband has a couple of pairs of socks that I made, but for the most part he enjoys my knitting more because it keeps me content Robert has found a quieter happiness in my hobby. His is now blessed with a wife who can slow her busy mind by using needles to tie knots instead of twisting him into an emotional pretzel during those occasional bouts of insanity. While trying to decide whether or not to start school last fall, I spent hours with my needles clicking a staccato rhythm. Instead of rehashing the pros and cons over and over with Robert, I knit as I let the idea of school wander around in my brain.

In the end, I decided school would give me a deeper sense of accomplishment than simply being a mother to children who were rapidly outgrowing me. Robert and I did not argue about it because I didn’t vocalize my thoughts repeatedly as I made my decision. And instead of the fistclenching spouse who used to share the loveseat while he flipped through the television channels faster than I could say, “knit one, purl two,” he has a companion paying more attention to her knitting than the rapid-fire images flashing on the widescreen. A prime example is the way he watched the Olympics over the past two weeks. I made a second Punta hat for Roxanne’s friend David while Robert flipped back and forth between the ski jumping competition and men’s hockey, trying to avoid commercials. I find the quick screen changes irritating in the extreme, but that’s how he enjoys television. So instead of arguing about one of our differences, I focused my eyes on my hat project. We both stayed happy, but I think my contentment ran deeper.

The peace I derive from my knitting is the most important part for me. I hate waiting more than anything, but I can sit a long while in the doctor’s office as long as I’ve got a ball of wool and two needles. I choose a simple project- or one that I’ve done before, for car rides – no point getting carsick trying to read a complicated or unfamiliar pattern. David’s Punta hat came in handy as Robert and I ran errands last week. I had finished Roxanne’s not long before so it was easy to knit without referring to the pattern. I don’t make a terrific passenger. I seem unable to stop giving suggestions about the route we should take. Worse yet, I sometimes vacillate between a couple of routes, leaving Robert gritting his teeth and reminding me who’s behind the wheel at the moment. But as he drove, I paid attention to my hat and how nicely the forest green contrasted with purple and blended with black while he took whatever road he chose. When life gets stressful, I may choose a more difficult work to occupy my mind. Last winter I suffered a bout of depression. Part of the process of pulling myself back up was trying to make a cabled poncho. It was a lot of work, but that was what made the project so important. I watched it grow in tiny increments, just like my self-esteem. Simple or elaborate, my knitting projects calm me.

And the pride I feel in my work seeps into my soul like water in a dry sponge. David’s face lit up when I presented him with his hat. I’m sure I’ll never forget how pleased he was that I would make something so nice for him.

Though my children, husband, and I each see my knitting in a different light, we all agree that it has great rewards. My children get home-made treasures they adore. My husband has a happy companion while driving or torturing the remote control. And I remain serene as I knit through life’s slow moments and inevitable crises. Knitting pleases all of us.

Heather McGlauflin ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction Prompt: “Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just watch. What's going on? Set that scene.”

A Shaw’s Run The double doors open as I walk up to the door; I grab my cart and start to clean down the handle. God knows what is growing on that thing. As I pull out my list of things to do and start to walk around the produce section. While I am squeezing oranges and smelling grapefruits, I can’t help but notice a mother and her new baby. This baby can’t be more than a week old. It is a peanut. Mom keeps looking at the little bundle. I can see she is finding it hard to shop. She is so nervous that something or someone will want to come up to her and take a peek. New mom’s are always like that. They freak about germs and strangers. The old pro’s are the ones letting the sixyear old push the cart with the new baby on it and mom is walking around hands free.

I pick out my fruit and head on over to the meat section. Just in time to catch a glimpse of the glare given to another shopper by a guy in a red coat. Apparently this chick had just taken the steak he had been eying. I kind of giggle to myself at his frustration, doesn’t he know if you are unsure of which one you want your supposed to hold on to them both until you decide? I guess he won’t do that again. What kills me is that he is checking out her ass as she walks away. I think

he likes what he sees; he just grabbed whatever piece of meat was closest to him and headed on down the isle after her, Stalker!

I grab my milk and coffee creamer and head on down to the check out line. Great, there are only three lines open and they all look new. I have never seen such slow service. Good Lord, do you want me to jump back there and scan my own shit? I know I could move a hell of a lot faster then you, I think to myself. Biting my tongue as I smile and wait my turn. After what feels like forever it is finally get to the front of the line. While I am standing in front of the window loading the conveyor with my groceries, I can see a woman on the other side. She is trying to pull two carts apart so she can have one to begin her shopping. They are stuck and she is freaking out! I mean it is right out of a scene for a Midol commercial, PMS at its peak. She is shaking she is so bent out of shape. You can actually hear the carts banging up against the building while she yanks, pulls, and slams these things, just trying to get them apart. Hey we all have our moments and the stress of our days. I don’t mean to smile at someone’s misfortune; I mean she finally gets them unstuck. She is now painfully aware she had an audience, she practically leaves a smoke trail after making a bee line into the store to get away from the window that had become a stage.

Just think, if my check out girl had been any faster, I would have missed it.

Sally A Taylor ENG 112, Introduction to Literature Critical Essay

Anton Chekhov’s and Joyce Oates’ “The Lady with the Pet Dog” The narration of Anton Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Pet Dog” (437 – 448) tells the story of a marital infidelity from the male character’s point of view as opposed to Joyce Carol Oates “The Lady with the Pet Dog”, ( 449 – 460), which is narrated by the female character. In Chekov’s story, the reader is asked to see the characters and marital infidelity from the man’s point of view as opposed to Oates’, where the same are narrated from the woman’s viewpoint. There are marked differences in their characters and on their feelings towards the affair throughout the stories. Only as the stories are nearing their ends, do their thoughts seem to run close to parallel.

There are notable differences in how each narrator portrays their Anna and also their “Pet Dog” .

Chekhov depicts a young Anna, “… he realized that she had been a schoolgirl only recently, doing lessons like his own daughter…” (439), while Oakes portrays her Anna as older. When Oakes’ narrator describer her Anna the reader is left with the impression of an older Anna, “… she drew her husband down to her. For years now they had not been comfortable together, in their intimacy and at a distance…” (449). The “Pet Dog” is also tremendously different between the two Anna’s. Chekhov’s Anna has physical dog, a small white Pomeranian which he introduces to the reader immediately. Oates’ dog is not Anna’s pet, it is the title her Anna’s lover gives a sketch he has done of her with his golden retriever. They don’t even introduce them into the story at the same time. Chekhov immediately brings the “Pet Dog into the story, while Oates makes no mention of the “Pet Dog” until midway through the story. Oates’ “Pet Dog” makes a significant mark on the story when Anna pulls the sketch from her drawer after lovemaking with her husband. After looking at the drawing she makes a decision to renew her affair. Chekhov’s “Pet Dog” exists only as Anna’s pet, never making any type of mark on their

relationship. Chekhov uses the “Pet Dog” to further feminize his Anna, while Oates’ uses the “Pet Dog” while Oates’ uses the “Pet Dog” to reinforce her portrayal of a more guilt-ridden Anna.

An even more significant difference is that the feminine narration of Oates’ story plays on the feelings of guilt that Anna experienced due to the affair, while Chekhov’s male narrator more gave a feeling of Dmitry’s sense of entitlement to the affair. The guilt that Anna feels in Oakes’ version of the story is obvious from the opening scene at the concert when she first spots him, “They gave no sign of recognition. Only when he took a step forward did she shake her head no—no—keep away.” (449). In Chekhov’s version, shortly after meeting Anna as Dmitry reflects on his life, his feelings of superiority and entitlement become evident. When considering his wife “…while he privately considered her of limited intelligence, narrow-minded, dowdy…”

(438), he shows the disdain he held for her. His history of infidelity and contempt for women also reveals itself then, “He had begun being unfaithful to her long ago—unfaithful to her often, and probably for that reason, almost always spoke ill of women, and when they were talked of in his presence used to call them “the inferior race.” (438). Even after spending their first evening together, while he was in his hotel room considering further liaisons with her, his last thought of her before falling asleep shows his scorn, “There’s something pathetic about her, though.” (439).

This is in stark contrast to the thoughts Oakes’ Anna has as she and her lover are driving to Albany. Shame is her overriding feeling throughout the trip, “He would glance at her with his small cautious smile and she felt a declaration of shame between them. Shame.” (450). The guilt and shame continued even after she returned to her husband, causing her to contemplate suicide, “…and one day in January she drew a razor blade lightly across the inside of her arm, near the elbow to see what would happen.” (451). For Chekhov’s Dmitry however, the return home was an arrival back to the normalcy of his life, “…and when on Saturday night he heard the bells ringing, his recent trip and the places he had visited lost all charm for him.” (443). Their first parting also shows the differences in male versus female narration of the versions. The male narrator of Chekhov’s version leads us to believe that the affair is not an emotional attachment for Dmitry. As Anna is leaving on the train to return to her husband, he thinks the affair has ended, “and he reflected, musing, that there had been another episode or adventure in his life, and it, too, was at an end, and nothing was left of it but a memory.” (442). In contrast in Oates’ version, as Anna is returning to her husband, her thoughts are focused on the pain of their parting, “She began to cry; she told herself: I am not here, this will pass, this is nothing. Still she could not stop crying.” (451).

As the stories draw to a close, the differences remain, but become more blurred. In Chekhov’s story, as Dmitry is trying to comfort Anna he first believes their love may be long lasting, but will end, “…She adored him, and it was unthinkable to tell her their love was bound to come to an end some day; she would not have believed it!” (447). He however comes to realize that he truly loves her, “… he had fallen in love, really truly—for the first time in his life.” (448).

Oates’ Anna continues with her doubts about their love and relationship as the story is ending to the point of once again contemplating suicide “She would rush home and strike a razor across the inside of her arm and free that pressure, that fever.” (459). Oates’ Anna comes to realize though, that she can love him without shame, “This man, whom she loved above any other person in the world, above her own self-pitying sorrow and her own life, was her truest lover, her destiny.

…she did not hate herself any longer; she did not wish to die…” (460). As both stories come to their respective ends, the reader is led to believe the relationships will continue. In Chekhov’s ending lines Dmitry believes they can continue their relationship though it will be difficult, “…and then a new and glorious life would begin; and it was clear to both of them that the end was still far off, and that what was to be most complicated and difficult for them was only just beginning.” (448). Oates’ ending also gives the reader the impression that Anna will allow the relationship to continue. As her lover is questioning her sudden happiness, her thoughts were turned towards their love, “What, was it beginning all over again? Their love beginning again, in spite of them?” (460). The reader is led down two different paths by Chekhov and Oates, but end at the same final destination.

Oates and Chekhov both write of marital infidelity but with very different viewpoints. Oates’ Anna looks at it from love that in the beginning causes shame and turmoil, while Chekhov’s Dmitry initial feelings are of an affair to which he is entitled. In the end, though they both regard their newfound love as something more than an affair and the possibility of a love of a worth taking risks for.

Works Cited Chekov, Anton. “The Lady With the Pet Dog.” Ed. M B. Clarke and A. G. Clarke. Retellings, A Thematic Literature Anthology. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2004. 437 – 448. Print.

Oates, Joyce Carol. “The Lady With the Pet Dog.” Ed. M B. Clarke and A. G. Clarke.

Retellings, A Thematic Literature Anthology. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2004. 449-460.

Print.

Liz Silva ENG 101, College Composition “A young woman preparing for a night alone is pleasantly surprised to find her boyfriend’s carefully placed keys, luring her to where he awaits her company.”

The Invitation I ran up the walkway and hurdled the three steps that led into my apartment. Trying to catch my breath after my evening run, I fished around in the left side pocket of my pullover trying to hook my keys. Bypassing some Kleenex and lip balm, I found the keys and unlocked the front door.

Setting my water and keys down onto the small round entrance table, I bent over to untie my sneaker shoelaces and stretch my legs at the same time. I stood up and shook the evening run from my shoulders and decided it was good to be home.

I headed into the kitchen so I could prep my evening dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup.

Opening the refrigerator I pulled out my 12 grain bread and Colby and Monterey cheese along with some fresh green grapes. I set the items on the counter and kneeled down to grab the tomato soup out of the bottom cabinet. To the right of that cabinet was where I kept my pots and pans so I reached into that cupboard and pulled out my 8 inch frying pan and my 4 quart pot. With those items now on the counter, all I needed was the butter and a butter knife, and a can opener to open up my soup. After washing the green grapes, I opened the can of soup and poured it into the pan

and set it on the back burner. I turned the dial to in between low and medium and then threw the soup can away. I buttered the bread and sprayed non-stick cooking spray to the frying pan and set that on the larger of the two front burners. I was going to wait on the grilled cheese until after I had a quick shower, but in the meantime the tomato soup would get happy.

Walking out of the kitchen I had to pass the dining room and looking in I noticed that the fresh lilies I had in their vase were not so fresh anymore. I went to the dining room table to take them off and throw them away when I noticed something out of the ordinary. Against the backdrop of the fallen lily petals was the item I knew to be my boyfriends. The keys were tossed on the table like an invitation and feeling a flutter of surprise and curiosity I smiled excitedly and quickly grabbed them.

I ran back into the kitchen to shut off the burner that was heating the tomato soup and as fast as I could, found a lid to place on the pan of the soup to put in the fridge. I put the buttered bread for my sandwich into a Ziploc bag along with the cheese and found a small Tupperware container for my green grapes. I left the frying pan where it was and with everything taken care of and shoved into the fridge, I made a mad dash for the shower in the bathroom upstairs.

I could barely contain my excitement as I hurried the warm water over my body and ran the bar of soap along my arms. Traveling across my belly and down my thighs, the soap was as anxious as I and moved with great precision. Leaning my head back toward the shower head, I let the water submerge my hair into the darkened locks it draped upon my shoulders. I washed my hair quickly yet efficiently and took my time with conditioning, massaging from beginning to end.

Completing my shower I turned off the water and stepped onto the coolness of the tiled floor, wrapping myself in a towel. I drew a heart through the steam on the vanity mirror and smiled, feeling the warmth of what lies ahead in my toes.

After a quick decision to wear a simple yet flattering strapless sundress, I applied a shimmering moisturizer across my shoulders, along my arms, and down my legs. I dabbed a subtle musky perfume to the back of my knees, my inner elbows, behind my ears, and just above my heart. I slipped into my flat evening sandals with the strap that went around my ankles. I adjusted the full length mirror to get a complete look at myself and tucked a damp piece of hair behind my ear. I applied a little lip gloss, blew a kiss at the mirror, and laughed as I grabbed the keys and hurried downstairs and out the door.

Stephanie Carter ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction Writing “You haven’t been there since you were little. Now you go back…”

The farmhouse is still red with white shutters. Peggy liked red – she often wore red scarves in the winter; the paint is not as pristine as it once was though, since Peggy and Walter passed, the weather has slowly chipped away at the painted siding.

It was a two story home with a full basement. Walter would stack wood in the basement and

close the shutters on the upstairs windows during the autumn; the home sags a bit in the middle now and most of the shutters have fallen to the ground and rotted away – it looks dreary like it has giving up on life like its’ previous owners.

There was a porch on the front side of the house. Peggy kept her buttons there, she would sit on the white, wicker furniture during the summer and put the buttons on cards and label them for her collection; the porch, empty now, has collapsed and detached itself from the main part of the house – perhaps it can’t subsist without the buttons to hold it on.

A small fiberglass sunroom was added to the side of the place. Walter once started his seedlings in the early spring in there and it smelled of rich potting soil; the fiberglass has been destroyed by huge rocks that rest now almost peacefully on the wooden tables inside – the sunroom doesn’t mind the rocks for they do not need the tender nourishment that the tiny seedlings once needed.

Along the back side of the residence was the original part of the home that became the kitchen with a tall, black, galvanized pipe that jutted up through the roof. Together Peggy and Walter would concoct various treats in this kitchen all year long for their niece when she came to visit; the kitchen no longer exists only rumpled shards of burnt wood and an old black chimney - for the kitchen caught fire and burned within months after Peggy and Walter stopped cooking there.

When I look around, the farmhouse is almost unrecognizable – aged and worn, un-kept and forgotten but when I close my eyes I can see it like I did when I was little; piles of wood - ready for stacking, red balls of yarn with knitting needles - ready to be made into a scarf, colorful buttons on white cards scattered on windowsills, trays of little green plants covering the tables; well maintained, red and white, spirited and cheerful… and I can still smell the treats.

Darlene Veillette ENG 101, College Composition Graf #5

Things It was a 1964 Pontiac LeMans convertible. This wasn’t your stock version Pontiac, oh no, dad and the guys got a hold of it and had made some changes over the years. I have to say I loved that car not only because it was manufactured the same year I was born, it was given to me on my 19th birthday by my dad. The exterior was painted bronze, the convertible top was cream color and the interior was purple. It was rear wheel drive, limited slip rear end with wide Remington tires, aluminum mag wheels and bucket seats. Boy oh boy was she a head turner and not just because of how she looked, but how she sounded. The engine had been replaced with a 400 cc big block 4 barrel, it had dual exhaust, a close ratio Muncie 4 speed manual transmission with lock in reverse and a Hurst shifter. I’ve heard the nick name “rock crusher” for those Muncie’s but I always thought the tranny made more of a whiney sound. That car would scream power and it was so much fun to drive. I swear it took me weeks just to learn how to go from stop to move without squealing the tires although it made me smile each time I spun them out.

Once I got the hang of driving her, I learned how to get rubber and mean it! I could smoke those tires a half mile down the road. I was that girl with a hot rod at 19! How friggin’ cool was that!

My most memorable drive was one on I-95 heading north up past the Hogan road exit. I was alone in the car so I have no witnesses to attest the story except maybe the guy who was “trying” to race me up the highway. He had one of those import sports cars, couldn’t tell you to this day what kind, but he made it clear he wanted to see what my old car had under the hood. He pulled up beside the driver side, looked over at me and revved his engine. First time I looked back at him, I just shook my head back and forth, like I was saying “No, don’t think so pal.” This guy just wouldn’t give up and he was really beginning to irritate me. While driving side by side on his 4th attempt to race me, I turned my head to the left, looked over at him and gave him the “oh, yeah, you wanna race?” look…. So I dumped her down to 3rd gear and stepped on it. By the time I hit 4th gear, I was long gone. I glanced down to look at my speedometer and the needle was buried, I was going well over 120 mph. It was the one and only time I’ve ever done anything that crazy before as far as driving fast is concerned. I can still remember that feeling, not only one of victory but how the force of speed made my heart feel like it would explode out of my chest.

Unfortunately, I don‘t have that car any longer, but I’ll forever have the memories created during the time I did own it.

Linda O’Connor ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction

My Lake My lake. It’s been my lake since I was ten years old. Then it was a wild place with three tents for the seven wild children and the two parents brave enough to take them to a place with no road and no people.

I vividly remember the first time we made the trip to the side of the lake we had only viewed from the other shore. A Mom two months away from birthing number seven. A Dad unafraid to take six small children and a pregnant wife into uncharted territory. A hot walk around the shore and through a brook when the family got lost trying to find a dry way around. Dad at one point sat us all down under a tree while he went on without us to see if we were anywhere near our own three hundred feet of shoreline on our lake. I didn’t mind taking my turn carrying a younger brother. It was an exciting adventure.

Then, we were at the shore. All of us stripping off what clothes we didn’t need and walking into that water. The coldest, clearest water I have ever felt or seen. The sun shining down through the water to the rocks. I didn’t know it was not normal to be able to see through twenty feet of water to the rocks below.

The adventure just got better as the summer went on. We came back later with supplies brought over by boat. We put up the three tents. One for the boys, one for the girls and one for the parents. My Dad built a road that was semi-assessable if you had a four wheel drive. When that last baby girl was born before the summer was over, they made a hammock out of a clothes basket covered in cheese cloth to keep the mosquitoes from carrying her away and hung it in a tree. I’m happy to say she did get to go in a tent at night, but I wonder now what Child Protective Services would have thought of the whole deal. That summer we helped Dad build the camp on

the weekends. We passed boards and pounded nails. During that summer and for many summers after we owned that shoreline. There were no other camps near us until years later. We made pathways up and down the shoreline with our little bare feet. We found where the big high bush blueberries were. An especially big pine tree became my special place. I would sit for hours with a book, my back to my tree, the lake stretching out in front of me. One summer I buried a bag of lemon drops under the tree roots so I had my little stash of sustenance while I read. We swam with the loons. One of the most magical memories of my life was swimming underwater with a loon streaking underwater beside me. At night I would lie on my back on the mossy bank and watch the stars. I could picture how it must have looked when it was populated with the Native Americans. (The Indians to me then.) How their campfires would reflect off this very water.

How they might have picked blueberries off these same bushes.

Gradually other lots sold and we had to narrow down our ownership. That was alright. We were older and made many friends as others built their camps.

I now own my own one hundred feet of shoreline. There is a cute little bridge over the brook.

The four-wheel drive road in now just a path. The lake is still the clearest lake I’ve ever seen. It’s still the coldest, spring fed water that the hottest days of August can‘t warm up. Like sitting in a hot fudge sundae.

It wasn’t bad when I had to share my shoreline with other camps every one hundred feet, but now the houses are going up. Big view-changing houses. With street lights in the front and in the back drowning out the stars. Street lights shining down on the aluminum docks. They’ve cut down trees on the little camp road to widen the way for the v-plow so people can live there all winter.

Oh, I do hate change. I’ll hang onto my little brown camp while houses go up around me for as long as I can. I’ll fight for my old, heavy, wooden dock beyond the point where it’s too heavy for my husband to deal with. I fought with people about the bug zappers that killed good bugs and made that annoying zt,zt,zt noise. My new crusade might have to be those damned streets lights.

Danielle Lau ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction “Our main focus is to write a piece revolving around one main topic, going from a BIG event down to the small one. “

I can’t believe it, the day has finally come. After 13 years of playing summer soccer, travel soccer, premier soccer, high school, rec, and everything in-between, I am standing here waiting in line ready to be announced. “#12, from Sanford, Maine, Freshman Danielle Lau!” I run down the tunnel with both hands out as my teammates slap my hand’s and cheer me on. It’s the North Atlantic Conference championship game, and I’m starting as center half for Husson College.

The stands are packed to the max as our biggest rivals, UMF hits the field. The fans are screaming, ‘U.M.F! U.M.F! U.M.F!’ – ‘HUS-SON! HUS-SON! HUS-SON!’ I’ve never felt so excited and nervous all in one. The whistle blows and the ball goes flying.

SHIT! The ref just blew the whistle at me, Burns goes flying in the air as my leg comes across the ball and my body tackles her to the ground.

It’s the biggest game of my high school career. I’m a senior and we’re in the running for first place in Class A. We have home field advantage and the biggest crowd I have ever seen at a girl’s soccer game. Sanford fans are screaming and cheering me on, I am the top defender in the state of Maine and I just slide-tackled one of Gorham’s best players.

In-direct kick? WHAT! I run up to the ref and begin pleading my case, “That was all ball! She shouldn’t get a kick out of that! That was a clean tackle!”

Coach Brown is yelling from the side lines, “THAT WAS A CLEAN TACKLE!!”

The ref’s hand is still straight up, signaling for an in-direct kick. The fans begin to Boo as the whistle is blown by a side-line ref.

“STOP THE CLOCK!” the ref yells up to the announcers.

The side-line ref comes running across the field towards the ref in the middle, the whistle blows as he crosses his arms in an X. I can’t believe how un-fair that call was! It’s the friggen U-12 championship state game and we’re down one goal because of a bogus call from the ref.

I walk into the goal and pick up the ball; I look at our goalie, “That was NOT in; the ball didn’t even cross the line!”

She looks back at me and smiles, “Don’t worry we’ll get it back.”

I toss the ball towards our starting forwards the Plante twins and Coleen.

I take out my mouth guard, and take a huge breath in, “LETS GO SANFORD!! LET’S DO THIS!” My mouth guard goes back in as I stand there waiving at my mom on the side-lines.

I’m on the maroon team with my best friend Randi. I’m so excited mom signed me up for rec soccer. I’m kind of little compared to everyone else, but I’m ready!

My shin guards go all the way up to my knees and my socks match my maroon uniform. I have this cool stretchy purple band that my glasses go into so my glasses don’t fall off as I run down the field.

Dave, Randi’s dad, is our coach, he’s a good 6’2, with the biggest heart and the most motivational words a person could have when he’s coaching 6 year olds.

The ball is probably as big as my head, as I run in a pack towards the ball as it rolls next to the sidelines.

Alex Silverman ENG 212, Introduction to Film Frame Analysis

Smiling Killer In The Dark In Alfred Hitchcock’s Pyscho (1956), the frame (1:12:18) that occurs shortly after the sadistic killer, Norman Bates, has been interrogated by Private Investigator Arbogast, utilizes various visual tactics to express the resilient mental illness Bates possesses. These tactics include different techniques of composition, framing, and lighting as we see Bates leaning on the wall of the hotel smirking masterfully as he watches the investigator’s car pull away. These mise-enscene elements are insightful of the tone of the entire film as the antagonist is portrayed as a deeply troubled soul.

In this frame, Bates stands far right in the frame whilst the remainder of the view is of the hotel causing the composition to be clearly asymmetrical. As described in the book, Film: A Critical Introduction, by Maria Pramaggiore and Tom Wallis, the asymmetry of this frame implies a visual lack of equilibrium within the film. This is significant in the highlighting the case of the psychotic dual personalities dominating Bates’ world. The film’s name is an emphasis of the chaos that lies within our main character’s mind. To further emphasize the offbalance of the frame, the shades in the window behind Bates are drawn at different lengths, reminding the observant audience member of the opening credits that consisted of lines moving in a vertical fashion.

Now that one can sense lack of equilibrium within this particular frame, the actual miseen-scene element, framing, can be discussed. The framing in this scene is defined as tight by Pramaggiore and Wallis, describing “the image in which the lack of space around the subject contributes to a sense of constriction.” (p. 115) In this still frame, the tight framing is illustrated by the closeness of the hotel in relationship to Bates. In addition to the closeness of the building to cause this aura of confinement, this shot is taken with a normal lens forming a near-sighted depth of field. This is, in fact, a medium shot, as the audience can see Bates from about the knees on up. (p. 143) The lens, depth of field, and utilization of the medium shot are all simultaneous aspects of the tight framing beheld in this shot. It further describes the lack of freedom Bates endures throughout the film; it symbolizes the emotional and physical entrapment he was supposedly born in. This is also a step back to the discussion he and our so-called former protagonist, Marion Crane, had in the earlier scene in the parlor, which he stands outside now in this frame. Bates is bound and restrained by his “mother”, the house, and the hotel. Never once does the film show him leaving the grounds of this place except of course, when he is finally caught by the authorities and dragged to the jail. This, in fact, is the other place in which he will be “bound and restrained”.

Another important mise-en-scene element Hitchcock employs in this still frame is the

technique of side-lighting. This is once again his attempt to accentuate the split personality disorder of Bates’ character. Light from one side of his face casts a shadow on the other that can be visually interpreted as two separate halves of the self. The illuminated half of his face presents an evil grin symbolizing the character of his mother while the other half cannot really be seen, as it is too dimly lit. This technique is exercised at numerous times throughout the film such as the frame of Bates, having just cleaned up the evidence of the murder his “Mother side” has committed. He is seen watching and waiting for Marion Crane’s car to sink in the nearby pond and as it goes under, he feels relief and the evil grin is once again half-shown by the sidelighting. The use of the side-lighting is also useful to cast dark shadows on the rest of the set.

This gives the audience another sense of the trouble that lurks in the dark, or in other words, the Mother that lingers in his warped psyche. It also alludes to the haunted atmosphere that surrounds the Bates Motel. It is the place of murder, sin, and mental illness; it is the place under investigation, shadows cast by the spotlight at the interrogating detective’s desk. Furthermore, the shadows ricochet off all angles causing the effect of irregularity and once again, asymmetry.

Although the lighting does emphasize certain things, it also blends the background into what the director does not want the audience to focus their attention on. For example, the room that we see through the window is lit to contrast the darkness of the still frame’s main subject, Bates, so he did not simply intermingle with the shadows of the outside light. Transparent curtains are drawn so the room isn’t in our first glance vision and we can not see what exactly is inside the room. Instead, as written before, the light from room portrays the serial killer in a silhouetted sort of light.

This frame is especially significant in the film as it is reflective of the chaos and turmoil that plagues the main character’s, Norman Bate’s, mind. Its an excellent shot to explain the entire rationale behind the movie’s plot and happenings. Merely looking at this still frame without watching the rest of the film can be very educating to the viewer about the genre, and expectations and foretelling can be formed with ease. To the comprehending viewer, this shot may be recognized right away as one in a horror or perhaps film noir because of its shading and lighting effects. It may reveal Bate’s role as the antagonist of the film expressed by his malicious smirking illuminated by the side-lighting. It is foretelling the ending of the film where we learn that his dead mother is alive through him. Obviously, if one still frame can tell so much to the studied viewer, the film must utilize numerous and strongly reactive visual effects as Hitchcock did so magnificently in Psycho.

Works Cited Pramaggiore, Maria, and Tom Wallis. Film: A Critical Introduction. London: Laurence King, 2005. Print.

Anonymous Student ENG 112, Introduction to Literature Personal Response to a Poem

“For the one who was not invited” (line 1); this one phrase alone explains how I feel about myself right now. In her poem “A Chinese Banquet,” Kitty Tsui talks about a lesbian girl who is not accepted by her family or even her own mother. I can’t relate to being a lesbian; I can relate

more with the mother right now. I wish this wasn’t true, especially because earlier in the semester I described her as a bitch for not accepting her daughter’s choices in life.

My step-grandfather, Ernest, is in the hospital right now, and has been not doing very well. He had a problem with his gallbladder that they were going to try to medicate rather than operate on due to his age of eighty-nine. When the gallbladder didn’t get any better it caused an infection in his pancreas. The pancreas is full of poisons that can kill you if they are released, so the doctors decided to take him into emergency surgery. The surgeon, who has been a surgeon for thirteen years, did not think he would survive the surgery. Ernest did make it out of surgery after four hours. The surgeon said that in his thirteen years of surgery he had never before had to use a blood clotting spray to stop someone from bleeding to death, and that another surgery could and would most likely kill Ernest. Now Ernest is recovering, but they believe it has taken so much out of him physically and mentally that he may never fully recover.

The reason that this story is relevant is because Ernest, who I said is my step-grandfather, is really more than that. He is my grandfather. I’m just sorry that it has taken an incident like this to really make me realize it. It has been nine years since the last time I remember going to see Ernest. It was his eightieth birthday party, but now I see him in a hospital bed and I realize all the time I have wasted. “One day, wanting desperately to bridge the boundaries that separate us” (lines 27-28), this is how I feel about how I have treated Ernest in the past. I used to use excuses to avoid spending time with him, such as, “Why do I have to go see him? He’s not even my grandfather.” Looking back on it I can’t believe I treated him like that because Ernest was always the grandfather he didn’t have to be.

Ernest was married once before he married my grandmother. He was married to a woman who became sick right after they were married, and he was only in his twenties at that time. He took care of her until she died of her disease eighteen years later. He then met and married my grandmother who had also lost her husband, my biological grandfather. He died at the age of forty-five, so I never met him. Ernest and my grandmother had a few good years together, but then my grandmother was diagnosed with colon cancer. She became very ill very quickly and Ernest stayed by her side the whole time. He took care of her until the end. I was only a year old when she died in 1988, so had Ernest chosen to just walk away and have nothing more to do with our family I wouldn’t even know him today.

Ernest continued to come and visit our family until he was eighty (when he stopped because he couldn’t physically do the traveling anymore). He only lives about an hour from my hometown.

I could have gone and seen him, but I just always had something better to do, or so I thought.

“She sits across from me emotions invading her face her eyes are wet but she will not let tears fall.”( lines 34-37) I feel like the mother in these lines because the first day I went to see Ernest in ICU he couldn’t even remember me. This is when it sank in for me that the man who has never forgotten me on my birthday, a school activity, Christmas, or any other big or small event in my life is the same man I have treated as an outsider. I understand that some of his memories have been lost due to the stress and physical stain the surgery put on his body, his not remembering who I am--that’s my fault. I’m the one who didn’t make an effort to visit him in nine years, and to see him now is almost too much. I remember Ernest as being six foot seven and muscular, and now he can’t even get out of bed.

I wish I could go back and change the way I was. I wish I could go back to when Ernest was still healthy and spend the time with him that he deserves. That’s all he ever really wanted: to spend time with us growing up because in his eyes we were his grandchildren.

“I want to tell them: my back is healing” (line 50). I interpreted this line as meaning that the girl felt her family has stabbed her in the back because they do not accept her lover. I feel like this must be how Ernest feels about the way I treated him. He spent his money on us kids for Christmas every year. Money I’m sure he didn’t have to waste. When I was five or six he bought me this collector’s Barbie doll with a big red and gold dress that I thought was the best thing ever because I really liked Barbies at that age, and no one had ever gotten me a collector’s Barbie because they were too expensive. I’m surprised I still remember that gift, but it was one of my best gifts. He always knew what our interests were and tried to get us meaningful gifts. I honestly can’t remember ever picking out a gift for him. This is just another thing that makes me relate with the mother in this poem because she is so stuck on the fact that her daughter is a lesbian that she forgets about her daughter’s feelings. I think that I was always stuck on the fact that Ernest wasn’t my biological grandfather, so I didn’t feel like I had to spend time with him.

“For the one who was not invited” (line 1)--this is how I have treated Ernest all these years, and now because of my actions I’m the one who isn’t invited. Even though I wish I could go back and change the way I treated him I can’t, so now he doesn’t even really remember me. The past couple of weeks have been really hard for me to accept, but I can’t help but go and see him anyway. He may not remember me now, but he was always there for me and now I feel the need to be there for him. It’s too late for me to change the fact that he can’t remember me, but it is not too late for the mother in “a Chinese banquet” to change her relationship with her daughter. The mother just needs to accept her daughter’s lover, so that she doesn’t miss out on spending time with her daughter. If she doesn’t accept her daughter’s choices in life then she will end up like me in the end, realizing that she missed out on having someone really important in her life.

Jillian Smitherman ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction In the style of #4

Wind. Cold wind. I stick my hand out the window, and the resistance is so strong that it flicks my wrist painfully. Yellow and red maples, green firs, and the occasional birch all fly by; their colors meshing into a blurry side scene.

The stereo is blasting music. My friend yells something at me, but I don’t notice. He slaps my arm and I turn the volume down, and he asks me, “Right or Left?” I point left, but my mouth says right.

Big gaping pot holes impair the cars speed, but that doesn’t stop us. Time is of the essence. We pass a four wheeler, and the car slows down slightly as we admire it. The price isn’t too bad.

Then he speeds up again, flying over another crater like pot hole. Both of our eyes are darting actoss the horizon, scanning for signs of the law.

With the bright sun in our eyes, it’s hard to tell whether or not the car coming towards us has lights on the top of not. Again the car slows down, but this time in fear. *** He slams on the breaks; our bodies lurch as the car goes from 60 to 35. It feels like time drags as we creep slowly past the shiny blue car. Through his classic aviator glasses, we just know the cop has his eyes on us. Once out of the police’s line of sight, our car’s speed picks up again. The sky has exploded and the pink and red sunset flares up around us. We pass a golden field, with plastic covered hay bales making a circle off to one side.

An abandoned barn and farmhouse approach us. The headlights from the car illuminate it in one perfect moment. Brakes screech, and wheels peel out as our car makes a U-turn. He turns out the headlights, and pulls the car behind the dilapidated barn. Maybe they won’t catch us tonight.

Sally Taylor ENG 162, Creative Non-Fiction The assignment was to go to a crowded place and listen to conversations and write about the experience. I chose a small diner, and focused most of my story on the waitress’s interaction with the customers.

Fly on the Wall The restaurant was not much to look at from the outside, but I had heard the food was good, so I decided to stop. The white paint really needed a fresh coat, but the brightness of the mums distracted from the shabbiness. As I walked in, the smell of fresh brewed coffee mixed with the murmurings of the coffee break crowd, gave it a welcoming charm. I found a table in the middle of the room (I was here to eavesdrop after all) and settled in with my book.

“Edith, did you hear that Lizzie had to go up to Bangor for tests?”

“Yessa, I did, John told me this morning. She’s been feeling low for a while now.”

“Her sista has breast cancer and I’m pretty sure that’s how her mother died. Think that’s what’s wrong with Lizzie?”

The waitress came over to my table. She had a coffee stained menu in her hand that she tossed on the table.

“Get you anything to drink?”

“Diet Coke or Pepsi, whichever you have is fine.”

“Coke, you’re too early for the lunch specials and we’re out of the breakfast ones. Wanna wait for lunch or gonna have breakfast?”

“I’ll wait for lunch, I have some work I can do while I wait.”

She walked back to the counter and started stacking the white porcelain coffee mugs. The bell over the door tinkled as a weather-beaten man in jeans, a flannel shirt, and gum rubbers walked in. She looked up and hollered over to him.

“Hey Roger, how come you aren’t out on the boat? There ain’t a breath of wind today.”

“The damn transmission blew in her when we was pulling out of the harbor. Had to have Jim tow us in. Sent the boy to Searsport for the parts to fix her.”

“How happened you sent him?”

“Well we ain’t gonna get back out today, so I figured it would give him a chance to stop and see that girl I ain’t suppose to know about. Can’t wait to hear his excuse why it took him so long.”

She chuckled as she walked over to a white board and started writing with a black marker.

Lasagna with garlic bread, mac and cheese with hotdogs, shephards pie with a biscuit. Well, comfort food was certainly aplenty here or heart attack on a plate depending on how you looked at it.

“You ready to order yet?”

“Yep, I’ll have the lasagna special. Can I get a salad with that?”

“What kinda dressing you want on it?”

“Can I get ranch?”

“Sure, you want it first or with your lunch?”

“Either way is fine.”

She pushed through the swinging doors, yelling something as she went in. She came back through almost instantly.

“Roger, you having lunch today or just coffee?”

“Just coffee, Amy put my lunch up this morning. Ain’t no sense wasting it, sandwiches will be soggy tomorrow.”

“How bout you Joe, you eating today, or just hiding from JoAnne?”

“Hiding from JoAnne, but I’ll throw you under the bus if you tell her.”

“Yeh, you and who’s army, bring it on you bad boy.”

A voice yelled out from the kitchen and she disappeared. When she came back through she was balancing three plates and a salad bowl on one arm. She sat two of the plates at the table beside me, and then sat my lasagna and salad in front of me.

“Get you anything else?”

“No, I’m all set for now” “Don’t forget to save some room for dessert.”

I finished my lunch and she came back to check on dessert. When I declined, she put the check on my table. I dug a twenty out of my wallet and went to the register to pay. She doubled as the cashier, so she was waiting for me.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes it was good.”

“You from around here?”

“No, I’m just in the area for the day and someone told me you guys had good food.”

“Well glad you liked it, come back again.”

As I walked out the door under the jingle of the bell, I realized I certainly would come back if I was in the area again. She had made my visit as enjoyable as the food. She was the quintessential diner waitress and made the restaurant’s charm all the more appealing.

Brian Barianca ENG 112, Introduction to Literature “To His Coy Mistress” Weekly Response (A Stanza-by-Stanza Interpretation of the Poem)

There is a strong connection between love and time in the poem “To His Coy Mistress” written

by Andrew Marvell. A time constraint is hindering the potential relationship between the narrator and a woman, consequently time’s persistent passage is the major focus of the poem. He is trying to pressure the woman into a relationship by saying life is short, and she is wasting their small amount of time together by acting so coy.

The narrator starts his argument by saying, “had we but world enough, and time, / this coyness, lady, were no crime.” He wishes they had an infinite amount of time, then she could act coy and he wouldn’t be so impatient. If time wasn’t an issue he would actually encourage her to refuse him for as long as she needed, “and you should, if you please, refuse / till the conversion of the Jews” (9, 10). He wouldn’t let the time she spends aloof stop his love from growing, rather he would use time itself as a powerful demonstration of his love and admiration. “An hundred years should go to praise / thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; /two hundred to admire each breast / but thirty thousand to the rest” (13- 16).

In the second stanza, time is the focal point again as the narrator uses intimidating visuals of aging and death to persuade the woman to seize the day. “And yonder all before us lie / deserts of vast eternity” (23, 24), he’s saying no one is resistant of time, and death is eternal. Then he says, “Thy beauty shall no more be found; / nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound / my echoing song; then worms shall try / that long-preserved virginity, / and your quaint honor turn to dust, / and into ashes all my lust” (25- 30). I think in these lines the narrator is trying to make the woman question her purity by saying time will eventually decay their bodies, silence their voices, and forget things like honor and lust. He doesn’t understand how she could be so reserved, and wants to make her feel like she will regret her coy behavior.

In the final stanza the narrator is emphasizing that life is too short to be miserable and alone. He stresses that they should get started at a life together while they are still young because time is passing, “But at my back I always hear / time’s winged chariot hurrying near” (21, 22). Then he brings up an interesting conundrum, when they are together time/life will seem to pass at once, “now let us sport us while we may, / and now, like amorous birds of prey, / rather at once our time devour / than languish in his slow chapped power” (37- 40). He would prefer to be happy and have time seem to speed up than be miserable without her and feel time drag on. The last two lines of the poem tie into this idea and really stress the theme, “Thus, though we cannot make our sun / stand still, yet we will make him run” (45- 46). Time will constantly move ahead, and pleasure gives time the appearance speeding up.

The connection between love and time in this poem is very powerful. The imagery used by the author demonstrates just how unforgiving time can be towards life and love. I think the main theme of this poem is the passage of time, and love is used as an example of its ruthlessness. I especially liked the lines, “rather at once our time devour / than languish in his slow chapped power” (39, 40). I think the author is basically saying time flies when you’re having fun, which is better than suffering through a miserable existence.

Heather L McGlauflin Eng 101-01 This essay, in which the writer views herself from the point of view of a favorite inanimate object, is “based on actual events and a real pair of shoes.”

It's All About the Shoes There are many different things in Heather's closet. Clothes, purses, belts and me, Heather's four-inch, zebra-printed, peep-toe heels with a snazzy little red buckle on the top! I am a favorite in a collection of shoes. I came into Heather's life this past spring during a retail therapy session at Charlotte Russe. Heather had been having a hell of a time keeping her life together. She was a full time Paramedic student with five-hundred clinical hours on top of class time, a single mother of two little girls, and part of a work study to help pay for school. When I saw her walk into the store all exhausted and sad looking, I knew the only thing that could bring a smile to her face was me. I worked my magic and called to her from the shelf. It was love at first sight. Since

that day, I have been worn in many different places. Some places I was perfect, some I was borderline and the other, well, let’s just say I wish I hadn't gone there.

On the night I made my debut, I have to say Heather was definitely dressed to kill. It was a girl’s night out. This was the perfect time and place for me to be out in public. I was so proud she picked me for that night! It was so great to see Heather out having fun. She is all about getting the job done, which doesn’t leave much time for play. She has to work magic to be able to juggle her loaded schedule. I really admire her for that. Heather needed to blow off some responsibility steam. I have been watching her stress over her exams and how to diagnose a third-degree heart block. Now here she was getting ready for a night out on the town. I couldn’t wait! I got to ride in a limo surrounded by fifteen other pair of heels. Some were Nine and Company, others were from Macys, and there was even a pair of Manolos in the mix. I was in a league of my own and not a one of them could hold a candle to me. I was definitely the talk of the town. Heather was even able to find a red clutch purse that matched my red buckle perfectly. She is a genius! I thought she looked so good it was like I was living in a Bangor version of “Sex in the City.”

After my extraordinary girls night out debut I really didn’t spend too much time in the closet.

The love Heather had for me brought me to her Paramedic class one Thursday. I am not really sure it was the best place for me, but when worn with a pair of jeans and a black shirt I think it was doable. She really has a gift. She is nothing short of amazing to be able to wear me while simulating running ambulance calls and conducting patient care. I don’t know anyone who could have possibly kept their balance while jumping tin and out of an ambulance with me on their feet. I thought she was as graceful as a gazelle while she carried oxygen tanks and jump kits. I was amazed as I watched her extricate a patient from a vehicle without stumble. I have never seen anything like it. She is a goddess! A few of her classmates joked and asked her if I was "EMS approved"? My girl just smiled and crossed her legs. Nothing can get her down when she has me on her feet. With a friend like me what could possibly go wrong?

Then something scary happened. It was the day I wished I had been put back in the closet, instead of sliding onto my rightful place on Heather's slender feet. It happened one beautiful, sunny, Sunday morning: It was the day she decided to wear me to church! Yup, that's right, she wore me to church. I thought Heather was way too smart to make this kind of mistake. After all she does have a 3.56 grade point average. I mean, she had people calling her to double check their answers on homework assignments. I guess her books smarts had nothing to do with this.

She was completely oblivious to the fact that shoes as hot as me have no place in a sanctuary. I could hear the gasps from the brown loafers and clogs as I walked in the door. I begged her to turn around. I even tried to trip her up by getting my heel caught on the entry carpet, but nothing worked. I was in church surrounded by shoes that were all about comfort and nothing about style. I felt sick to my insert. I was alone.

Many shoes have been added to the collection over the past year. Some were gifts; others were impulse buys like me. I still remain her favorite, even though I am not out and about as much as I used to be. I keep dreaming for the night when she is dressed for success, and going out on the town. After all, it's all about the shoes!

Zeraph Moore English 112, Introduction to Literature Critical Essay

Wade in the Water: The Significance of Water in “The Management of Grief” The water and the land, the mysterious and the amphibious nature of death: these are the things explored by Bharti Mukherjee’s short story, “The Management of Grief.” In the story, an IndoCanadian woman living in Toronto has learned that the plane that her husband and children, along with many other members of their community, were flying aboard has been blown up by a Sikh bomb. There are assumed to be no survivors. The fact that the plane exploded above water, thus committing the passengers’ bodies to the depths, has allowed for the symbolic placement of water in the story as the home of the dead. Mukherjee has used the metaphor of water to show the ways that the living interact with death, including the ways that people of different cultures interact differently with death.

The placement of water as the realm of spirits and the deceased is established early in the work.

As the story’s speaker, Shaila Bhave, contemplates her strange edifice of calm in the wake of the death of her family members, she thinks to herself: “I wish I could scream, starve, walk into Lake Ontario, jump from a bridge.” She is briefly longing for an end to her own life that would be both dramatic and watery. Perhaps she is not really hoping to die so much as she longs to be close to her husband and boys. Though their deaths may have occurred in the sky, it is the water that opened up and accepted their bodies; it is where Shaila thinks of them as being still. This metaphor of water, which living humans can visit but not live in, as the home of the dead is present in religious belief as well. The River Styx of the Greeks, through which Charon poles his ferry carrying the spirits of the dead, is one of the better known examples of this. Mukherjee continues to establish water as the metaphorical and spiritual home of the dead throughout the work.

The ways that the living interact with death, and in this case the death of their immediate families, is explored when Kusum, Shaila and four other surviving relatives spend the day by the bay in Ireland where their loved ones perished. As Kusum squats on a rock by the water, Shaila thinks that “this is as close as we’ll ever get to [our families]” (952). As Kusum grieves by the rocks, Shaila notices that Kusum has the “bewildered look of a sea creature whom the tides have stranded.” Kusum is perhaps so bewildered by being alive when her family is dead that she feels like a ‘fish out of water’-experiencing, as some do after the death of a loved one, that they too no longer belong, or indeed wish to belong to the world of the living. As Kusum emerges from the water, where she had waded (imagining she spied a head bobbing in the waves) she says to Shaila: “That water felt warm […]” (953). Her comment is heard by Shaila just as if she had said, “I wish to die too, and join my family.” Shaila replies, “You can’t, […] We have to wait for our turn to come.” A friend, Dr. Ranganathan, who is floating flowers for his wife and children, cautions the women as they climb up from the water’s edge: “Don’t tumble, the rocks are slippery” (954). The unspoken meaning of his words seems to be that gazing in longing after the departed for too long makes it easier to slip into death oneself. Mukherjee has begun to use the water to show the reader the way that the Indo-Canadian Hindu people of the story interact with death. Water, while it cannot be inhabited long by living people, is permeable. It is not a wall, or

a door which can be passed through in only one direction. Instead, it is flexible; its gives and takes; it allows for brief passages in both directions.

The placement of water as the realm of departed spirits prepares us to understand the ways that people of Shaila’s and Kusum’s culture see death. As the story continues, the entrance of Judith Templeton as the representative of the provincial government allows us to contrast the ways that North American perception of death differs from Indo-Canadian and Indian perception. Judith Templeton has enlisted Shaila Bhave as her liason to the grieving Indian community; there are forms to be filled out, funds to be administered. Yet the Indians will not accept the funds. Partly, it is their distrust of the government that influences their confused dismissal of Judith’s offers, but as shown by an elderly Sikh couple who have lost their sons, it is also the finality of the administration of the funds. “God will provide, not government,” says the husband, and his wife finishes for him: “When our boys return” (959). As Shaila comments to herself, “[they] fear they are selling their sons…” (958). Perhaps the surviving families will never give up hope, nor accept government payouts--and in their minds there seems to be no difference between the two.

These choices are seen by Judith, the story’s lone representative of North American culture, as “stubbornness and ignorance,” but Shaila, more and more as the story progresses, feels a powerful empathy with these “stubborn” relatives. “In our culture,” she thinks to herself, “It is a parent’s duty to hope” (960). Hope, perhaps, is the line that connects those lost in the bay to those on land. While Judith charts the relatives’ progress according to the “textbooks of grief management” and hopes that “acceptance [and] reconstruction” will occur, Shaila is experiencing a profound, comforting and thrilling awakening to the knowledge that her “husband and boys are [with her] too, now more than ever” (960). For Shaila, death is not a one-way door.

Like water, death is flexible, mutable, and permeable. It is not final in the Western way. Grief, perhaps, does not have the same meaning in Shaila’s and Judith’s cultures. For Shaila and many other Indian relatives, “grieving” not about leaving behind those who have died. The Indian experience of death is so different from the North American one as to make Judith’s outreach work nearly impossible, and Judith does not begin to comprehend the barriers and differences that make it so.

Though Judith sees Shaila Bhave as “coping very well,” Shaila’s experience is not one of gradually growing farther from her family (952). Instead, she is growing closer to them; her grief is not a process of detachment. Like the Indian families that Judith tries to reach, Shaila refuses to detach, to move on. Instead, she moves with, and is healed regardless. In an abandoned temple Shaila sees her husband again in a vision. He tells her that she should “finish what we started together“ (957). Kusum moves to Hardwar and sees the exact likeness of her daughter again, singing in a small village. Mukherjee’s story allows us to question the Western way of managing grief. We can question not only its efficacy and humaneness, but also the assumptions that underlie it. Is acceptance necessary if the dead are not really gone from us? I recall one of my first experiences of death. My aunt died of a brain cancer when I was thirteen. I attended her funeral dry-eyed and happy; I had felt her presence the night before, and during the funeral saw her outside of the church, looking well again. I felt a bit of curiosity, even a twinge of guilt, as I passed the tissue box by. There was no need to grieve; she was not really gone. Mukherjee has enabled us to experience this understanding through Shaila’s experiences, by contrasting the Western and Eastern ways of understanding death, and through the metaphor of water.

Works Cited Mukherjee, Bharti. “The Management of Grief.” Responding to Literature. Ed. Judith Stanford.

950-960. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005. Print.

Renee Lecuivre Eng 212, Introduction to Film Frame Analysis

Although there have been numerous films created on the basis of horror and suspense, Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 release Psycho could arguably be one of the best. At first glance the film appears to be a linear exploration of a greedy woman and a twisted mother with a jealous streak. However, it proves to be much more as Hitchcock takes the audience on a journey into the twisted mind of Norman Bates. Throughout the film there are many clues given that attempt to convince the audience of the identity of the murderer. In a twist that no one sees coming, Norman is revealed as the killer. It is in this most frightening scene that the tension of the film comes to a head. Hitchcock creates these feelings of fear and tension by utilizing important elements of setting, the human figure, composition, and lighting.

Placing Norman’s big reveal in the basement of the Bates’ house is symbolic in many ways. The basement can be considered the foundation of a home. If the foundation is warped or broken in any way, it will be reflected in the condition of the home. Norman’s mother had influenced him negatively since he was a young boy. Because she had ruined his “foundation”, he was never able to grow into a proper adult. Also, since the basement is below the entire house, it is any easy place to store things that you wish to keep hidden. Norman had worked hard to hide the skeleton of his mother and his true identity from the world, and even though Lila Crane had not meant to go searching through the basement at the Bates’ home, it is where she finds all of the family’s secrets. Suspense is built in this scene by using the basement because there is seemingly only one exit. The basement is unfinished as well, which adds to the effect of everything coming undone for Norman and his “mother”. Overall, placing this pivotal scene in the Bates’ home brings everything together by ending Norman’s drama where it began.

The image of Norman standing in the doorway is one that is likely to dwell in the minds of the audience long after the film is over. This is mostly due to the combination of Norman’s body placement and the use of costume and props. In this scene, Norman’s large figure is placed in the center of the frame, causing him to be the main focal point. This helps get the audience’s attention. Beyond placement, the body language displayed by Norman suggests both anger caused by finding Lila in his home, and excitement for what is to come. His face also shows feelings that mirror his body language. Displayed on his face are close knit eyebrows that would suggest irritation and a large grin that shows his happiness. Perhaps the double set of emotion is foreshadowing what is to come when it is revealed that Norman’s mind is home to both his personality and that of his mother’s. Her influence is seen in the costume that Norman appears in. From head to toe, he looks like a woman. The wig on his head is modeled after what seems to be an older woman, and his long housecoat is typical of a woman the age of his mother. This apparel reveals Norman for what he really is and adds a new element to the plot. Clutched in his hand is the iconic knife which is seen the shower scene where Lila’s sister Marion was killed.

The knife further implicates Norman, because the audience is able to make the connection. By visually exposing Norman as both himself and as his mother, Hitchcock combines the disturbing

idea that Norman is the killer with even more disturbing visual confirmation. This is possibly one of the most frightening scenes in the film.

Feelings of fear are enhanced by the creative use of lighting. Hard light is focused on Norman. This creates a large dark shadow that makes him appear more menacing and accents him as the focal point of the scene. The shadow cast by Norman also blocks out the light from the hallway which could be symbolic of the end of all hope for Lila. Compositionally speaking, having Norman in the foreground and the shadow in the background could be symbolic of how Norman’s mother is always presiding over him, watching and waiting for a time to take control.

She finally allows herself to be seen, and it is the point where Norman finally loses himself completely to her. If the large shadow were his mother, blocking out the light from the hallway might not only symbolize the loss of hope for Lila, but also the loss of hope for Norman. He has finally succumbed to his mother and will never be the same again.

Setting, the human figure, composition, and lighting are combined in Psycho to weave an intricate tale of one man’s struggle with himself and its effect on others. Fear and tension are prevalent throughout the entire film, but are strongest in the scene in which Norman reveals himself as the killer and as his mother. This concept and the way it is presented to the audience is significant because it is more psychological than visually gruesome. Many other films released before and after Psycho have attempted to achieve the same effect but have not come close.

Psycho was revolutionary at the time of its release, and continues on as a classic through modern times.

Stephanie Carter ENG 112, Introduction to Literature Personal Response Essay

The Youngest Daughter in the Sheltered Garden If you have ever faced the death of a loved one, you might understand the rain. The rain around us, inside of us, that pours from us. If you have ever been the one to care for your loved one during their last days, you know the rain I am speaking of… the rain that comes in small showers to raging storms; some drops freeze on the way down and hit others we care for like sharp blades of ice. However, if you have not lived through such an experience then you are likely to find my views of the following two works fairly objectionable and maybe even a little cruel.

Rain is essential to a garden that thrives; my father taught me the ways of gardening all throughout my life. Together we planted sunflowers; tall beautiful, strong sunflowers that bordered our land. I learned gardening from his words and I learned by watching him, hunched over, amongst the tall weeds, thinning the beet greens in his faded overalls and ragged straw hat.

All eight of his children, six daughters and two sons, learned to garden from him and I, his youngest, do it now with his old, ragged straw hat on.

I remember one of the last days we were outside together; it was sunny and warm, spring was in bloom and summer not far away but my dad knew he would not see the fireflies this year. His sunflowers would not be planted and his comfrey, now growing wild, would not be harvested – not by his hands. Though the rain was around me, I was in denial but my father knew. We were just outside the door; his fragile, decaying legs could not carry him any further. Though not out

to garden this time, he was wearing his straw hat just the same, the medicines gave him sensitivities to the sun. He rested in a lawn chair, sipping an Ensure vitamin drink, tinkering with the old wooden lobster trap that rested beside him, now used as a table. He watched me. I was grooming the plants my sister and I had planted for him. The peas in the pots, the sunflowers, marigolds and the mums, all in pots too, the ground was still to cold. I was deadheading the mums; clipping off the blooms that were now brown and draining the strength from the green healthy plant. He watched me with sad eyes.

Cathy Song shares her poem, “The Youngest Daughter” (469), with us in our books. Her poem discusses the experiences and feelings the youngest daughter of a family feels while caring for her aging, dying mother. Reading through this poem, with tears in my eyes, I connected with the emotions and feelings the daughter experienced; memories of my last days caring for my father came flooding back. These emotions are in such a deep rooted part of my being that they are difficult to express into words, however, another poem in our book, “Sheltered Garden” (867),

by Hilda Doolittle, possibly unintentionally, touches on these feelings. This poem depicts images of a garden, yet the frustration felt behind those images feel, like many other emotions, raw, deeply rooted, inexpressible frustrations. Together, I found the two have much in common with each other and with one of my own personal life happenings.

Death is not always quick, even a suicide is slow, for the months prior to one taken their own life you can see it unraveling. Cancer, in some forms, is a slow death. It is what took my father before he was ready. “The sky has been dark for many years” (Song lines 1-2). Each day we live is another day closer to our death. We are born, we live, we die; it is not always so simple, but it is the same for all of us. “Every way ends, every road, / every foot-path leads at last / to the hill-crest— / then you retrace your steps, / or find the same slope on the other side, / precipitate” (Dolittle 3-8). Maybe he was ready, in spite of this, I was not… or was I too.

My very being was feeling the loss, the rain, the unseen decaying air around me; increasingly it became harder and harder to breath. “My skin has become as damp / and pale as rice paper / and feels the way / mother’s used to before the drying sun / parched it out there in the fields” (Song 3-7). I remember when Dad was laying in the hospital bed we had brought into the home for him, we held hands. I would admire his big strong hands, how cool they were against my warm ones. His skin on his hands was a beautiful pale shade of white, like a single cloud in a clear blue sky. His fingernails were large in comparison to mine; put side by side, my hand looked like that of a young child, not of a woman nearing her thirties. Our hands appeared frozen in time, for all the years I could remember, they always looked the way they did these last days.

His arms though, were different; no longer the strong, tanned, masculine ones that once held the acoustic guitar while he sang, “Sunshine on my shoulders…” to me. Now they were like spindling pink branches of weakened trees, trees still sheltering the garden but no longer strong enough to support a bird feeder. “I want the wind to break, / scatter these pink-stalks…”

(Dolittle 43-44). If I could not have him the way I wanted, the way he was, was I ready to let him go?

The doctor said it was only days we had left together, I stayed by his side, the days turned to weeks, the weeks into months. It was like driving from Hancock, Maine to Canada; a long way to go, not much to see, some beautiful nature, some polluted yards and if you’re not careful you

can drive right into the ocean. When we are nursing someone during this terrible time, we feel great amounts of guilt if we think of ourselves; our own aches and pains, our own family troubles, our own issues, yet life can only stay on pause for just so long before it becomes overheated like an old VCR and damages the cassette within it. “Lately, when I touch my eyelids, / my hands react as if / I had just touched something / hot enough to burn” (Song 8-11).

Out of eight kids, very few of us could handle caring for him, watching this slow death, smelling the end coming, feeling the rain. He held on for five months from the time the doctors told him he only had days. This time, precious as it was, took a toll. “My skin, aspirin colored, / tingles with migraine” (Song 12-13), “For this beauty, / beauty without strength, /chokes out life” (Dolittle 40-42). My father was beautiful, beautifully handsome, the old black and white photo mounted on my wall does not lie and he carried this handsome beauty with him till the day the mortician took him away. Yet, in spite of this preciousness, a dying being needs life and sucks, unknowingly, from the life around them. It is a natural exchange of energy that our bodies and all of nature does to one another.

He never meant to drain me. “Mother / has been massaging the left side of my face / especially in the evenings / when the pain flares up” (Song 13-16). My father’s favorite thing for us to do to comfort him was to rub his head. I would fall asleep rubbing his head. Months after he passed, I awoke finding myself rubbing the top of my pillow. On the occasional nights though, when he couldn’t sleep, I would awake to find him rubbing my head. Gazing at me lovingly, reminding me he appreciated everything I was doing for him. Months after he passed, I awoke once feeling as though he was there with me again, rubbing my head.

Why can’t we have the good days back, “O for some sharp swish of a branch – / there is no scent of resin / in this place, / no taste of bark, of coarse weeds, aromatic, astringent – / only border on border of scented pinks” (Dolittle 12-17), or simply freeze moments and hold on to them forever; where are our familiarities and why do they slip from us in some cruel, twisting, test of faith?

“This morning / her breathing was graveled,/ her voice gruff with affection / when I wheeled her into the bath” (Song 17-20).

Each day was different, there was some good ones and some bad ones and as time neared its’ end, the bad ones out numbered the good ones. “She was in good humor, / making jokes about her great breasts, / floating in the milky water / like two walruses, / flaccid and whiskered around the nipples” (Song 21-25). This line is spoken in humor, when caring for your parents in such a personal manner, humor might be the best way to deal with the reality of it all. “Have you seen fruit under cover / that wanted light –/ pears wadded in cloth,/protected from the frost, /melons, almost ripe, /smothered in straw?” (Dolittle 18-23). My parents cloaked me in modesty, for that is how they lived; for my father to unveil his own manliness is unfathomable.

The humility of what both parties endure is too private and embarrassing to want to go in great detail about. The following line may be uncomfortable to read, yet the truth of what really goes on is well demonstrated, “I scrubbed them with a sour taste / in my mouth, thinking: / six children and an old man / have sucked from these brown nipples” (Song 26-29). Imagine a young man’s scrotum, tucked up tight and firm; time stretches on though, as does our skin.

While performing the necessary duties of what a nurse in a hospital might do, I caught a glimpse of the aged, sagging skin of a personal body part that helped produce eight children and blushed

profusely; not daring to meet his eyes. “Why not let the pears cling / to the empty branch?”

(Dolittle 24-25). Why does our dignity need to be stripped away?

With this line, “All your coaxing will only make / a bitter fruit – / let them cling, ripen of themselves, / test their own worth, / nipped, shriveled by the frost, / to fall at last but fair / with a russet coat.” (Dolittle 26-32), I think of all the attempts of comforting words we heard after his passing. God this and God that… It is hard not to be bitter with God, whoever he is, when you watch one you love so much be stripped of all self worth, dignity, and the very breath needed to live. But parents, well my Dad at least, was mentally strong to the very end; for himself and for his children, much like the mother in the poem. “It seems it has always / been like this: the two of us / in this sunless room, / the splashing of the bathwater” (Song 36-39). Dad did his best to make awkward moments seem as natural as possible, in order for us both to mentally make it through it.

Regardless, of dad’s efforts, of my efforts, frustration won out at times, “I have had enough. I gasp for breath.” (867; lines 1-2) We laughed, we yelled, we cried and the rain came. “She knows I’m not to be trusted, even now planning my escape” (47-48). I could not help wanting to run away. I would go home for only a few days at a time, sometimes not even a whole day, but when I would leave I would SCREAM and contemplate never returning; to just drive and drive till I reached the Mexican border.

Time can not be stopped, “I have had enough – / border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies, / herbs, sweet-cress” (Dolittle 9-11), and some borders can not be brought down and we just need to deal, adjust and live on till our death.

Oh, we could fight the inevitable or dream of greener pastures, “O to blot out this garden / to forget, to find a new beauty / in some terrible / wind-tortured place” (Dolittle 55-58), but not all fights can be won and we simply need to succumb, “As I toast to her health / with the tea she has poured, / a thousand cranes curtain the window, / fly up in a sudden breeze” (Song 49-52) .

I think back to one of those last days outside with my dad, I now know my father felt as though he was draining the strength from his flourishing green plant, his youngest daughter. He saw me as the emerald plant trying to thrive and him as the dried, bronzed, old bloom, draining my strength. He gave in to the wind and rain, for us and for himself, but inside me the storm still lingers… ready to break through again, rain waits. Would I do this again, yes, time and time again if need be. My parents provided me with shelter but did not shelter me, for that I am forever grateful. Do I cry when I see the sunflowers? Yes. Do I plant them just the same? Yes, because, like a world without my father, a world without sunflowers would not be the same.

Works Cited Dolittle, Hilda. "Sheltered Garden." Responding to Literature. Ed. Judith Stanford. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005. 867-868. Print.

Song, Cathy. "The Youngest Daughter.” Responding to Literature. Ed. Judith Stanford. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005. 469-479. Print.

Kara Eve Kennison EMCC Associate Librarian, Circulation and Technical Services

Weather report from Vermont December brings good snow Twinkling winding around Christmas Whispers Yule and the family is here and wistful happiness appears.

Late January brings bad snow.

Cold and then thaw and then frozen again When February comes we have sky falling with ice, then wet, then snow, then ice again, then snow till the patterns appear crunchy under foot.

At least I can get work done, I tell my impatient nephew: Who cannot wait for spring and its damp and its promises.

He only wants summer and people and Sweden again.

This is how it happens with us in Vermont.

Jessica Grew SPE 101, Oral Communications 2-Minute Speech

What If… So, everybody’s heard of or is a daddy’s girl. My case was a little different. I have a dad, who I love very much, but when my parents divorced when I was two, I gained an amazing step father, a father figure who treated my mother with the most respect, love, and compassion. I was a step daddy’s girl. Most, if not all of you have a father, or figure that you have a relationship with, and if not, you may be in the same boat as me. Who would have guessed that three years ago my life, and my family’s lives would change forever? On January 22, 2007, my step dad passed away of an unexpected heart attack at the age of 48. Since then, my life has been drastically different. So…what if my step dad were still alive?

First of all, me and my father wouldn’t have the relationship that we do today; secondly, my mom wouldn’t be the woman she is; and lastly, I wouldn’t have a new step dad who I think the world of.

My father and I haven’t always had the best relationship, basically because we have the same personalities. We have the same hot headedness, the same stubbornness, and when I was in high school, doing rebellious high school things, me and my dad didn’t see eye to eye. Nowadays, my dad is my hero and I’m his little princess. Losing my step father brought me and my dad a lot closer. We now cherish our time together and value the father-daughter connection that much more.

My mom used to be a quiet, soft-spoken woman who stayed home at night and didn’t try anything fun and adventurous. She had a comfort zone and didn’t go out of that zone very often.

Now she never knows what the future holds, she lives her life for her and her family. She has a very outgoing personality; she now enjoys hunting and snowshoeing. While I was home visiting over Christmas, I heard about her ability to down an entire bottle of wine by herself. She lives for the moment and I’ve never seen her happier.

The step father I have now has been the best addition to my family. He is an amazing man, treats my mom perfectly, and has taken on me and my brother as if we are his own. He has brought the life back to my mother. I am so grateful for my new father figure who would be willing to do anything I needed. He’s the reason why I feel and believe things happen for a reason. He came into our lives when we needed him to. He’s been our saving grace.

Sometimes life throws you a curveball, sometimes good and sometimes bad, or in my case, both.

Because I had a man I loved with all my heart taken away, I gained a new relationship with my dad again, a mother who got back up when life had her down, and a new dad to prove to me that life will go on. I have learned a lot from my life-changing experiences. Don’t take anything for granted, always tell your father you love him, and sometimes things fall apart so that other things can fall together.

Carolyn Zani ENG 101, College Composition Graf # 10 “For my husband, Rob.”

Research—What it Means Research means to look for answers or solutions to questions or problems you have or think you may encounter.

When I purchased my home about fifteen years ago, I was looking forward to gardening there.

Actually, my husband told the realtor, that I was really looking for a place to finally be able to have my own garden in, and if the lot had a habitable house on the property we would live there too.

I had lived all over the country in the previous twenty-five years. What I did know, was that I loved to garden. I had miniature gardens in terrariums on coffee tables, potted plants in every windowsill, porches with window boxes, whiskey barrels filled with plants along the driveway, and in ground gardens in the backyard. I toiled in Florida’s sand dunes, Arkansas “Black Gold”, southern “gumbo” in Georgia, New England’s rocky soil, Maine’s clay soil, and Arizona’s desert just to name a few locations.

What I thought I could do, was to order my favorite plants from reputable catalog companies and seed companies and have them delivered to my address anywhere and Viola, my plants should do well. I was wrong. What I learned was not all plants are created equally and one size does not fit all. My beloved scented geraniums that flourished in New England succumbed under the hot

Arizona sun. Excessive watering was to no avail. My asparagus and peas needed a long, cool, spring climate , not typical in Georgia, to winter over for a bumper crop the following year.

What I did learn while in Arizona, was that I fell in love with the Prickly Pear cactus and its beautiful yellow blossoms and that it provided a habitat to the Cactus Wren. In Florida, I learned first hand that the soil was too sandy for petunias but supported tall, ornamental grasses and chameleons. My failures in some ways were my successes in others.

What I learned from all this was to ask questions. Lots of questions. Questions to the questions.

What kind of plants did I want and why? I broke those questions down further. Did I want: annuals, perennials, shrubs, trees, etc?

What did I want from each of those in particular: their scent, color, length of blooming time, easy to grow qualities, attracts bees, provides berries of fruit to feed the birds in the Winter months, easy to propagate, etc. What was the cost of the initial investment?

Then, I needed to do some research. What requirements did each plant have: watering needs, length of direct exposure to sunlight, susceptibility to disease, soil requirements, etc. My quest began at the local library. It “blossomed” to include contacting the local cooperative extension agencies and colleges with agricultural interests. I sought out individuals at the local state fairs who won ribbons for their floral and garden entries.

I subscribed to gardening magazines and watched gardening shows on television. I went to the WGBH “Victory Garden” location to see first hand what their gardens looked like too. I attended nursery and landscaping workshops during the year. I took a class at the University and received my Master Gardening Certification. I used the Internet to glean information from places too far to travel to. I took virtual tours of arboretums and botanical gardens. I did so much more too.

Each time, I either confirmed what I already knew or learned something I had no idea existed. It was exciting.

Now, when it came time to plant my garden in my backyard, I had a lot of information at my disposal. I did a soil test, checked for light exposures (or lack of), verified my planting zone, added outside faucets, put in stone walls for rock gardens, added a pond to attract wildlife, birds, and bees to pollinate my plants, purchased a wheel barrow, constructed a compost pile, etc.

I did a blueprint on a grid of my backyard. Each year as finances and time allowed, I added the plants from the list on my drawing. I had a plan. When I selected my plants from the various catalogs, I knew exactly where each plant would be placed. The taller plants went to the back along the property line, medium height plants in front of them, and the ground covers in front of those. I planned a color scheme and staggered early blooming varieties with late bloomers to ensure a long, colorful blooming season. It just took some planning.

My research produced very good results. Year after year my plants have thrived and provided me ( and the neighbors and wildlife) with something beautiful to look forward to. With a little time, research, preparation and planning, I discovered there are fewer disappointments, many rewards, and you do not always get the answers you want or would expect.