Spring 2009 - Culture

FIRST

SECOND

BEST OVERALL THEME

jerry sessions

DRAWING/ PRINTMAKING

laurie schutza

PAINTING

ECO-TOXIC BOOK

graphic design

ADDIE

linoleum print

karen mauk ANNIE

watercolor

PHOTOGRAPHY

2-D DESIGN

3-D DESIGN

POTTERY

GRAPHIC DESIGN

ILLUSTRATION

INTERACTIVE ANIMATION

SHORT STORIES

ESSAYS

POETRY

SOUND

william holland HIGHWAY 2

saira schutza

ALICE, QUEEN OF HEARTS

mixed media

gabe holmes

PACKER PLANT

heather ward

lori l. craig

drawing

monotype print

interactive/animation

PROM

saira schutza

WILL THE MATHEMATICIAN

oil

carianne klueck DOCK ASKEW

gabe clark

erin deloney

jess nagel

KC

saira schutza

SELF PORTRAIT oil

jessica foote SIGNS

TALL FIGURINE

WATER CRISIS

poster

jess nagel

valerie hyrman BOTTLE TRIO

jess nagel

erin deloney

3 ad campaign

poster

TRANNY TOURISM IN ISTANBUL

jess nagel

jess nagel

interactive animation

animation

animation

ren brabenec

ren brabenec

jennifer butler

benjamin dennis craig

amelia shugar

amelia shugar

carianne klueck

mica s. kole

erin deloney

ryan kalchik

paul leon

ryan kalchik

CHAGALL

CRAWL OF DEATH

MY FRIEND MISERY

THROUGH THE NIGHT

FOREST OF SORROW

CULTURES COMBINED

THE UNTOUCHABLE

JOHN 19

CULTURE

PRAYER SONGCALLING THE SPIRITS

LOST “DOG”

paul leon

FANATIC DOLLS

gabe holmes

LINDA

ARROWS & QUIVER

INUIT GEESE

MY OCTOPUS

saira schutza

collage

jason safronoff

poster

photography

UNFINISHED PUZZLE

jillene craker-dalley

VISUAL CULTURE

photography

william holland

RABBITS

valerie hyrman

diane ellis

MINOTAUR & THESEUS

william holland

ANTARES ISLANDS

paul leon

PRAYER PIPE

HONORABLE MENTION

THIRD

WATER WORLD

CHEMISTRY

william mcconnell TOLERO, TENEO, QUOD EXTRAHO

WRITING METAPHOR

PEDALING

WOE FOR THE SONS

ryan kalchik

DUEL AT SUNSET

Ò Culture is everything.

Culture is the way we dress, the way we carry our heads, the way we walk, the way we tie our ties...Ó (Aime Cesair)

EDITORSÕ LETTER We started this issue with a vague idea: a theme that examined culture in our area. We knew what we wanted, but we didnÕ t know how to express it to our audience. To get the kind of broad, artistic, personal submissions we were looking for, we had many discussions about what we should actually ask forÑ trying to focus in on a subject that was too broad and elusive for us to explain. In the end, we didnÕ t stray far from our original position, that what we really wanted was a personal response from our audience telling us about their lives. We wanted to know what makes them who they are, what defines their lives— what they call their culture. We were looking for submissions in a variety of formats with any subject that could be tied into our theme, still broad and difficult to define. But we went with it, hoping the community would understand what we were thinking, and hoping they had something they were yearning to share.

In the last few days before our deadline, we were pacing the office, wondering what we would do if we only received a few responses. Then the submissions cameÑa ll at once.

We ended up with more than could fit in the issue, and, as a team, we decided which works to publish and which to post on our website (all works can be found online at www.nmc.edu/ nmcmagazine/culture).

With three weeks to put everything together, our staff had a lot of late nights and drawn-out days of production. With constant communication between leaders and staff, devotion to the project, and hours of work, we were able to bring all of the submissions together into a quality artistic magazine. We thank everyone who contributed to the creation of this issue.

We would like to give a special thanks to John Pahl, our literary advisor, and Caroline Schaefer-Hills, our design advisor, for their guidance and assistance. WeÕ d also like to thank Summer Little for judging the literary submissions and James Zeits for judging the artwork. We greatly appreciate your help. And finally, weÕ d like to thank you, our reader, for picking up this magazine and exploring our local culture. We hope you enjoy this Spring 2009 issue of the NMC Magazine.

Ryan Little, Editor-in-Chief Laurie Schutza, Design Editor

Carianne Klueck, Literary Editor

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MY FRIEND MISERY benjamin dennis craig

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LIFE IN A SMALL TOWN carianne klueck

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CRAWL OF DEATH ren brabenec

6

WRITING METAPHOR amelia shugar

7

AS LONG AS THEREÕ S SNOW TOMORROW... article by olivia glinski

8

THE IRONY OF CLASHING CULTURE article by carianne klueck

9

ANISHINABE PERSEVERE article by cari klueck & olivia glinski

11

POETRY four selections

13

ANTI-VACCINATION NATION caroline schaefer-hills

15

RAJ - KULTURA michael anderson

16

VISUAL CULTURE painting, drawing, photography, 2-D & 3-D design, pottery, graphic design, illustration, & animation

24 CHEMISTRY jennifer bulter 25

NOT JUST SKIN DEEP interview by drake nagel

26

ELECTRONICA interview by whitney duque

27

THE STRINGS THAT BIND christopher slack

28

TOLERO, TENEO, QUOD EXTRAHO william mcconnell

29

BURDENS whitney duque

30

JOHN 19 amelia shugar

31

IF NOT A DOOR, THEN A WINDOW amelia shugar

32

DEAF CULTURE article by john pahl

33

WELCRIE - TRAVERSE CITY DAGORHIR interview by whitney duque

34

ENOUGH SAID article by carianne klueck

35

THE UNTOUCHABLE ren brabenec

36

ONE STITCH AT A TIME lisa garvin

37

HEROES IN THE WORLD OF BOOKS article by kendall kaye spratt

Let me tell you about an old, dear friend of mine whom I first met close to five years ago now. He can be white, blue, yellow, green, or pink; you could say he is a very colorful fellow. His name is Vicodin (also known as Norco or Hydrocone). I vividly recall the first time we sat down together—we were introduced by my doctor when I was seventeen years old after I had broken my shoulder in a sports-related injury. He said that it would make me feel better. He was more spot-on than I could ever have imagined. I had a feeling inside of me that has been described by others in my position as being kissed by God. The saying fits very well as it is nearly impossible to describe in words how good these pills made me feel. I was emotionally tougher, I felt physically more confident, and I was sharper mentally that I had ever been in my seventeen years of existence.

I was always the kind of person that I wouldn’t describe as popular, but more as an agreeable, easy-to-get-along-with kid. I flew under the radar until I met my new rambunctious friend.

I took more of my pills than the doctor recommended, because if just a little bit took my physical pain away, imagine what a lot could do! I was in the middle of a catastrophic shift in my life and I didn’t even know it. This could be the best thing that ever happened to me, or maybe it was as they say, “too good to be true.” My new friend and I were sitting in the cafeteria at Central High School just waiting for the day to end. I decided to skip all of my classes that day, something that rarely occurred. A girl named Sara happened to be walking through as I was sitting on my throne. I summoned her and she came to me. Sara was easily the most beautiful girl in our school. She wasn’t into the jocks or the rich kids, just a naturally beautiful girl who had her own preference in boys. Before this occasion, we hadn’t talked much beyond a casual hello and the occasional smile. But this time around I had all the confidence in the world, and all the wit that before had been blanketed by low self-esteem. My new mood burned right through the fibers and threads, melting them permanently. Sara and I talked for hours until it was time to go home. After an experience like this I could not think of any one thing that would make me want to stop taking this magical pill. For no particular reason, Sara and I rarely exchanged any words after that day. Still, I couldn’t believe what had happened; I had made Sara laugh and she returned the favor.

I finally found myself, the key to my inner self, or so I thought.

After hiding my relationship with Vicodin through the rest of my senior year and the summer of 2004, I watched all of my other close friends leave for college out of town, but I stayed to begin work and attend Northwestern Michigan College. This was a great opportunity for me to make my relationship with Vicodin more open. I had never felt better physically, mentally, or emotionally in my life. I had nobody to judge me as I had life by the balls. There was no stopping me. Many of my family members were proud of my accomplishments at work and some of my accomplishments at school, being that Vicodin and I would sometimes rather blow off class or homework to be together. They all thought that I had found that missing link between potential and actual success, and so did I. Years passed quickly, and school hastily took a back burner to my habit. Vicodin wasn’t the greatest friend anymore. Sometimes we needed our personal space, and I couldn’t get any of that because if I even tried to kick it out for just a day or two, I would begin to go into withdrawals, missing the poison badly, needing it. It had always been a give-and-take relationship in my eyes, not in the conventional sense of the phrase, but more like the doctor would give me the pills, and I would take them.

Now it seemed that my friend was taking more and more and giving less and less. What before had taken two pills to accomplish now took five or six, and what occurred once or twice a day was now every couple of hours. I realized that I had an addiction.

My friends and family started to wonder where that missing link went, the one that took me from having potential to being successful. They now were wondering why half the time they saw me I looked sick. It was from the withdrawals. The other half of the time I was in my own world, stoned out of my mind. I too, wondered where my missing link went, and figured more the more pills I took the closer I would come to finding it once more. The summertime that was meant to be fun and give separated friends a time to get back together and build relationships again, for me, turned into an unwanted attachment to Vicodin.

My relationships with everyone else on this earth began to crumble. I spent less time with friends and family and more time alone. This went on for another couple of years, until the summer of 2007 when I was finally confronted by everyone that I used to love and adore. I woke up at six in the morning on a Saturday to find my father sitting at the foot of my bed watching me sleep; watching me sweat as I went into withdrawal throughout the night without my drugs. He said that he and some other people wanted to talk to me. I agreed, hoping that this might be my chance to get out of this slump, the slump that had cost me tens of thousands of dollars, jeopardized priceless life-long relationships, and in a way had stolen my freedom.

I rode with him to his house. The trip was very quiet. I grew more nervous with every minute that passed. What was I going to do without my drug, my friend, my Vicodin? I walked into an ambush of love and compassion. There was a circle of chairs in the living room that held my brothers, my little baby sister (who wasn’t much of a baby anymore), my best friend since before pre-school—along with his family—and my recent ex-girlfriend. They had put together an intervention for me. They all read letters they had written for me. After seeing everyone in the room in tears, and hearing over and over, “Ben, I’m writing this to you because I love you and you need help,” I broke down in tears, begging for their forgiveness and accepting the gift of rehabilitation. I spent thirty days getting clean at Brighton Hospital, making friends along the way and learning that I wasn’t the only person who had been fooled into this life.

Now, though I still struggle with the loss of my old friend, I am quick to doubt any feeling of “too good to be true,” because in my experience nothing is too harmless or petty to not be wary of. My good friend turned into an enemy that attacks me, stalks me, and haunts me every day of my life. Now, though, I take the good with the bad, and I don’t count my clean or sober time in months and years. I take it on one day at a time.

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www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture

My Life in a Small Town Carianne Klueck

A month ago, I was surviving in Traverse City, Michigan—making it through each day and each deadline with my mind still mostly functioning. I was going to school, meeting with friends, telling myself I was happy. Then I went to San Diego, California, and it completely changed my mind. When my return flight descended into Traverse City, I looked at the scattered spots of light overshadowed by darkness, and I cried. Granted, I’d only slept five hours in the past thirty-eight, and I’d just spent at least six in the Chicago airport, repeatedly woken up by the blaring overhead speaker (“I just want to go to bed!” I had told the man next to me). But it wasn’t mere fatigue that stung my eyes. I could feel the cold and concrete and desolation gripping the plane and pulling us toward the ground. Northern Michigan’s strong shackles were clutching my body and yanking me back into its vicinity.

I’ve been crabby ever since. Homework is never-ending, the snow won’t melt away, I can’t sleep very well, and no matter how much time I spend in the coffee shop, it doesn’t feel the same when I’m alone.

But let me tell you about the other side of life.

I love Northern Michigan. It is a beautiful, tranquil, interesting place to live. I can walk alone in the dark without fear, I can go to movies with friends at the State Theatre, I can live with my parents and still attend college. There are bookstores, shops and restaurants here, just like any other town. There is local music, film festivals, art galleries, lighthouses, beaches; community. And the comfort of knowing there’s probably someone who knows you no matter where you go. But, wait, is that a good thing?

I’ve lived in Frankfort, Michigan all of my life. I believe that the biggest stereotype of a small town is that everyone knows everyone, and therefore no secrets can be kept. On the contrary, I don’t know everyone, and everyone doesn’t know me. In a town of only fifteen hundred people, I see new faces every day. I don’t even know very much about the people that I do recognize. Either I don’t hear the gossip, nothing is happening or people don’t actually talk about their private affairs. Then again, maybe my social innocence simply comes from my age level—I’m stuck in that elusive gap between teenage years and adulthood. No one knows what to say to me. But as far as I’m concerned, a small town is a perfect place to live a private life. As long as you keep your mouth shut.

So what’s wrong with me? Why don’t I enjoy my right to privacy in all its friendly, close-knit warmth? Because it’s all I know. I haven’t experienced the harshness of the world or danced in the tropical rain. I haven’t breathed city fumes for months at a time, got shoved around on a public bus or flown across the ocean to order my food in a foreign language.

I still feel that anywhere is better than where I am. I want to go somewhere where no one knows me; where there aren’t any people I don’t feel like talking to; where I can see and taste and learn new things all the time. It all stems from that basic human tendency to want what we can’t have. What I want is to be free.

I know I’m lucky to live in Northern Michigan. It is a wonderful place to grow up in, and a peaceful place to settle down. But right now, I’m lost in the middle, and I haven’t seen enough of the world to make me truly appreciate my home. I feel that I’ve learned all I need to learn here for now. I’ve been here far too long. It’s time to go.

Corner of a Country Block Photograph by Carianne Klueck

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page 4

The gentle vibration of 1200 c.c. of power flowed up from the motorcycle and through DerickÕ s body, caressing him like the hands of a Korean masseuse.

Mile after mile of open road lay before him in the desolate flatlands of the southwest. Derick was in Texas, or maybe heÕ d crossed over into New Mexico.

He couldnÕ t remember and he didnÕ t care. As long as the road was there and his Goldwing kept going, he would keep riding.

Derick thought back to a seemingly quiet and peaceful evening in his homely West Virginia neighborhood several days ago. It seemed ironic that a neighborhood could be so peaceful while inside his house chaos reigned. He thought about the argument heÕ d had with his wife, about their kids, his job, and the affair heÕ d been having with a coworker that he still denied to his wife to that day. Ò You asshole, Derick. How dare you treat me and the children like this?Ó Mary yelled, waving the spatula around like a flail. Ò Damn you, Mary!Ó cursed Derick, Ò Keep your voice down. YouÕ ll wake the kids up!Ó Ò Good then, damn it! They have a right to know their fatherÕ s a worthless cheat!Ó Mary picked up a stack of love letters to DerickÕ s mistress that sheÕ d found, and threw them at him.

Derick almost hit her. Almost. Instead he continued to argue with her for over an hour, bickering back and forth about finances, jobs, raising the children, and of course, DerickÕ s recently discovered adultery. Ò You should just leave! You cause more trouble around here then youÕ re worth, just leave!Ó Mary exclaimed, tears shining in her eyes.

Derick opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, then stormed out of the kitchen to their bedroom, grabbing a backpack full of his belongings. With the empty country before him, and the road flashing by under the tires of his steel horse, the distance between him and his cursed life grew as big as the desert sky above him.

Derick mused on his misfortunes, cursed his wife, cursed his brat kids, cursed his passionate lover, and even cursed himself. With each curse his hand moved of its own accord, easing back on the throttle until the speedometer pushed 100. The engine hummed louder and louder, responding perfectly. The scenery blurred as it flashed by, but Derick wasnÕ t paying attention. Those damn brats got what they deserved, they never appreciated anything I did for them. It was never enough, never enough for the kids or for Mary.

I worked my fingers to the bone for that damn woman and she never appreciated me anyway. He was so lost in his thoughts it took him a few fatal seconds too long to notice the antelope leap into the road ahead.

Seconds before antelope and motorcycle impacted, Derick snapped out of his hateful reverie.

He attempted to miss the animal and yanked the handlebars, swerving his bike far into the next lane.

He swerved too hard, and the bike flipped over with him underneath it.

Man and bike slid two-hundred yards over hard asphalt. Each yard of pavement took more and more fabric off DerickÕ s riding clothes, eventually stripping those away and then working on his flesh.

Cries of pain were drowned out by the earsplitting screech made by the seven-hundred pound cruiser skidding along.

Finally inertia lost its edge and Derick slowed to a stop, his bike continuing to slide out in front of him before stopping some distance away. A pained grunt escaped DerickÕ s locked jaw. He tasted blood in his mouthÑ his clenched teeth had bit down on his tongue, severing the tip. For a moment he just lay there, agonizing pain and shock immobilizing him. Bones were broken, most of the skin on his back and left leg was gone, and his mouth was bleeding profusely.

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The lights of a roadside building, most likely a bar, caught his eye. The place was a good mile or so down the road, but its bright, neon lights lit up the surrounding desert like a beacon. The occasional cactus stood illuminated by its hazy glow; lone sentinels guarding the desolate land.

The sage brush was a sea of browns and light blues, and the silhouette of a far-off mesa stood out darker against the starlit night. I could make it to that bar. I could.

The strength and courage it took to scoot his bruised and torn body a mere inch was a Herculean feat, for Derick.

A cry of pain shot from his bloody lips, every wound yelling renewed curses at him.

Derick lay there for a moment, breathing in short, heavy bursts. He set his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut on his tears, and dragged himself across the pavement another few inches. After twenty minutes heÕ d made it across the road and onto the shoulder. Now that he was into the sagebrush, he could no longer see the bar itself, but the sky ahead was lit up from its lights, and he knew if he followed the road heÕ d make it there, eventually.

Derick crawled. His body adapted to a set rhythm of crawl, rest, crawl, rest, crawl, rest. Eventually the nerves in his body numbed, and he lost feeling not only in his wounds, but across his whole nervous system.Tiny scrub cactuses scratched at his skin, and ants bit him, but he felt none of it.

Hours later Derick paused for a particularly long rest.

Some god somewhere had cursed him with feeling, and the numbness faded. The pain in his wounds renewed its attack, and as tears of life leaked from DerickÕ s eyes he began to contemplate his intentions. WhatÕ s the point?

I have no life worth living, no home to go to. Why fight it?

Derick wasnÕ t thinking clearly, so instead of accepting fate as fate would have it, he went on with his hegira.

Three hours went by and Derick crawled alongside the lonely road. His resolve was stronger than ever now; and his thoughts turned from death to the family heÕ d left behind. The whispering thoughts of regret and remorse that had been growing like the miles heÕ d traveled overwhelmed his mind.

If only IÕ d made things better with Mary. None of this wouldÕ ve happened if IÕ d made things better with Mary.

Derick plunged into a very lifelike daydream as he crept along. He dreamt that heÕ d made it to the bar, and before even phoning 911, heÕ d demanded that the bartender dial Mary for him, so he could talk to her once more just in case he didnÕ t make it.

The color of the night changed to a purple hue, dawn was coming and Derick was just seventy yards from the bar. He could see the place now through breaks in the sagebrush, and he decided to take a shortcut through the brush rather than keep to the road.

DerickÕ s face was as pale as the moon that hung above him. Thankfully, his wounds had slowed their bleeding, the dirt and sand from the desert floor having clogged his scrapes and cuts somewhat. Rays of pink and orange slashed across the sky as Derick came within yards of the asphalt parking lot and the bar itself.

In a matter of minutes he would be crawling across that pavement and through the barÕ s front door.

He could hear the sounds of jukebox music blasting AC/DC from inside. The sounds of drunk voices and clinking glass mugs issued from an open window. IÕ m almost there! Only a few more minutes. Only a few more minutes and IÕ ll be able to talk to her. And my kids, IÕ d give anything to hear their voices again.

Derick could feel his last bits of life ebbing away as he crawled within twenty feet of the parking lot. He was so involved in his mission that he failed to keep an eye on his surroundings, and was jerked from his determination by an angry rattle.

Derick froze. The rattle sounded again, just a foot from his ear. He very slowly turned his head to the sound, and came face to face with a diamondback rattlesnake.

Mary. A single tear escaped DerickÕ s eye before the snake lunged.

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A deep wilderness faces me, its length unknown and stretching on into woodland green. This is uncharted territory in which I must travel and search for new life. While staring down at my trail guide and journal, I take a deep breath and thrust myself into the blank shadows of the trees. I glance back at the field I left beyond the edge of the wood. The pale yellows and greens of the grass, dotted with limp purple clovers, beckon me back to the world I knowÑ a world of reality, of safety, where the warm sunlight is unbroken by an over-arching branch.

I pause. And yet, I cannot turn back.

Tossing my hair behind me I set out at a run, the cool still air brushing against my face. Wild ferns slap against my pumping legs, a rabbit frightened by my approach leaps away, and sunny woodland glades tempt me to distraction. And yet I run.

I know not what I look for; I only know it exists in this unexplored region. It is simply up to me to discover it.

I stop abruptly at the edge of a river.

Breathing heavily I take in the scene around me. The trees grow close to the water, their roots sinking twisted fingers into the soft earth of the river’s edge. Likewise, the branches overhead meet in a collage of green, pierced occasionally by golden sunlight. The laughing music of the water fills my ears as my eyes are delighted by the live painting in which I stand. It is a bit of Eden left on earth that defies the pale washed colors of the field. Who has seen this place? And who has this place seen? My mind begins to wander just as my feet have. I am not afraid, and I have discovered. I take up my journal and pen.

Amelia Shugar

www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture

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Photograph by Nate Williams

As Long as There’s Snow Tomorrow... page 7

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Winter is long and harsh in Northern Michigan. Those who can afford it sometimes leave when the snow flies, returning only when the lakes have thawed and driveways no longer require frequent plowing.Those who don’t leave—the permanent residents—are left to face the piercingly frigid temperatures and endless precipitation, equipped with not much more than an ice scraper and some good mittens. For some, this four- sometimes fivemonth snow spell is coupled with depression, boredom, and financial woe. But for others, winter is a time to thrive, and no one revels in this more than Nate Williams.

Nate is what some would call a winter enthusiast. That, and a long-time avid participant in any board sport that he can get his feet on. And when these two things fuse, there aren’t many places left to go but downhill… preferably on a good powder day.

From the very beginning, Nate was immersed in a world where snow is celebrated. “My parents would ski with me in a backpack when I was an infant, before I could even stand up. My grandparents are skiers too, so it’s definitely something that I’ve always been around.” Nate, who is now 24, skied until he was about 14, when he got his first snowboard. “I got it from the dump. It was an old-school, directional Rossignol, and it only had one binding… the front binding, luckily.”

As treacherous an introduction to the sport as this may seem, Nate’s interest wasn’t quelled. He was already an advanced skateboarder, familiar with the type of balance that board sports require, and the feeling of freedom that riding offers once that balance is mastered.

His first ride on his new board was on Traverse City’s Mount Holiday. Nate’s dad started Mount Holiday’s Ski Patrol program, so Nate and his cousin would often help with the Ski Patrol classes, pretending to have injuries in order to quiz the students. “One night after class, before the hill had opened for the season, Nick and I decided to walk to the top. Both of us had only ever skied, and the board still had only one binding, but we were both skateboarders and it was all fresh powder that night. We each went down a few times and pretty much fell in love with it.” As nice as his first experience was, though, Nate says he definitely didn’t pick it up instantly, even after his parents bought him a complete set of bindings for Christmas. “A few weeks later when Mt. Holiday opened, it was all groomed… and was nothing like the first night. I put up with three or four days of falling every five feet, and it made me horribly depressed. But then one day, something just clicked.”

Now, ten years later, Nate is a National Ski Patroller who rides every day of the season and gets paid to do it.

He describes his job not only as pure bliss, but also as common sense. “It’s nothing I wouldn’t do if I weren’t a Ski Patroller. If you’re out on a run and you see someone who needs help, obviously you’re going to help them.” As a certified National Ski Patroller, Nate qualifies for a position at any mountain in the United States. Recently, he served as a guest patroller at Mount Bohemia, an extreme back country ski resort in the Keweenaw Peninsula. The entire mountain is covered in un-groomed, expert level runs—the type that Nate lives for. “Everything is as it should be up there.You get up with the sun, ride all day, and stop when the lift stops.You hang out for a while, and then you sleep, and you don’t even care where you sleep, as long as there’s snow tomorrow.”

With that, I ask Nate if he would ever consider moving from Northern Michigan to a place where other board sports, such as surfing, are more prominent. He tells me that he would, but only during the off-season, and that without a doubt, he would be back to the Mitten when the snow flies. www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture

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Photographs by Caroline Schaefer-Hills

We sit in the cool evening air of San Diego, California, at a streetside bistro on Coronado Island. Andrew Sekora, art director of Snowboarder Magazine, faces us, answering our hastily-written questions about his personal culture. How did he get here? Well, we met him on the beach—an avid snowboarder living in Southern California. But his story doesn’t start there.

Andrew grew up skateboarding, but had a love for snow that led him to take up snowboarding when he was very young. He started on a toy board when he was probably about ten years old. He became interested in the sport on a wilderness camping trip, when he found himself intrigued by a snowboarding poster ad. It was a very new sport at the time, with a limited number of participants. “I taught myself,” Andrew says. “I went snowboarding with people who ski.” Even now, the sport is in its early years, without much history behind it. Andrew Sekora is one of the few who has embraced it, pursued it, and let his passion for it drive his life.

When he was a junior in high school, Andrew was given the opportunity to explore another culture—the culture of design. He was offered a scholarship to the design program at Northwestern Michigan College, and he took it mostly because it was a good deal that got him out of high school a year early. He admitted to us, “I never wanted to be a designer; I didn’t think it was a pure thing. I had this notion that I was going to be… I don’t know; a painter or something.” But once he started the program, he fell in love with it.

During his second year at NMC, he collaborated with some fellow design students to create Third Eye magazine, a local creative publication of which he was named art director.

“We were trying to help artists by publishing their poems, drawings, [and other works].” The magazine also hit on political topics—perhaps more than it should have, Andrew adds. This made it difficult to get devoted readership, especially in Traverse City.

“It was a little bit of a battle at times,” he tells us.

Nevertheless, the magazine was printed for three years before the team decided to end it. At that point, they were communicating between states to bring the issues together.“We decided as a group that it needed to go national or we were just going to drop it.” In order to do the former, they would have had to make it into more than just the side-project it was at the time. The extra cost would have left very little room for profit, so they decided it was best to move on. (It is still printed in online format at thirdeyemag.com.)

Two years later, Andrew started working as art director of Snowboarder Magazine, a position that melded together two of his distinct personal cultures.

Snowboarder is located in San Juan Capistrano, California, low in the southern part of the state. Every day, Andrew experiences the dramatic clash of climate and culture between SoCal and his native Northern Michigan. He hasn’t exactly embraced the differences.

“I absolutely hate SoCal,” he says. “I mean, other than the surfing, there’s no love.” He prefers New York, a place that gives him inspiration, especially during the late winter months. Since Southern California is not laden with snow, he also travels to places like Colorado, Idaho, Washington and Oregon—anywhere with mountains—to snowboard throughout the year.

As far as surfing goes, it’s unavoidable in SoCal. Though Andrew does participate, he doesn’t consider himself a part of the culture.“There are a million places to surf and everybody does it,” he says. “It would be weird if you didn’t.” However, his true culture originates in Northern Michigan, in the winter snow and the cedar panels of NMC’s Fine Arts building.

“Culture is what makes a person,” says Andrew, stating that many people’s views on life are influenced by the people and places around them.

An individual’s taste in music, political stance, and viewpoints on specific issues are often fueled by the opinions of his parents. When people travel and learn and do what they love to do, their individual culture envelops them. Andrew has traveled quite a bit, from California to New York, Hawaii, Detroit and plenty of snowboarding regions throughout the United States.

Still, he loves Northern Michigan and plans to make it back someday. “You have to live in other places to decide what you really want out of life,” he says. “I’ve lived in a few tropical places and the weather is great, but I miss the seasons.” He probably would have loved to see the Michigan snowstorm that raged during our staff trip to San Diego. But he drove home on a calm California night, and when our plane left for Traverse City the next day, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

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Drum & Song Photograph by Diane Ellis page 9

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Before highways and power lines snaked their way across the land, before everyone drove separate vehicles to the same social events, before monetary wealth was a symbol of personal success, there existed a culture that thrived on community and togetherness. It is older than any highway or state line, and though we may not realize, it flourishes as richly today as it did hundreds of years ago. The Native American culture remains profoundly influential in defining many people’s lives.

One of the most important parts of this culture is its people’s philosophy on community. They have a deeply rooted belief that collective needs are more important than individual needs—that others come before the self. Paul Leon, a member of the Cherokee tribe, elaborated on this integral belief. He explained that if the needs of the elderly and children were taken care of first, everything else within the community would fall into place. This ideology is a cornerstone of their fundamental beliefs as a culture.

Another vital aspect of the Native American lifestyle is spirituality, which is demonstrated, in part, by living in harmony with the Earth. For hundreds of years, the thought of interfering with Earth’s natural cycle has been unimaginable and almost blasphemous to the native people. Modern Americans outside of the native tradition are realizing the sensibility behind this logic and, as a result, are returning to it. Before modern times, no word for “pollution” existed in a Native American tongue.

Language is a fundamental part of the native society.“Words are made of actions,” says Paul. Most native words, by themselves, can depict something that would take dozens of English words to even begin to describe. It has always been important to natives to teach this language to their children, but in modern times, it is even more crucial. Being immersed in the language helps children to understand and appreciate their native roots. Through the children, the culture is preserved.

Anishinabe Persevere

Olivia Glinski and Carianne Klueck

The modern Native American people do not take their culture for granted. Instead, many of them honor it by attending Pow Wows whenever they can. Long ago, a Pow Wow was a social gathering meant to bring people together for practical purposes. People would travel miles to socialize, trade and meet potential mates. Now, it has become much more of a celebration, highlighted with music and dancing. While Pow Wows used to be necessary to sustain economy and community, they now function to perpetuate the culture as a whole. They are held each weekend, beginning in April and lasting until as long as the weather allows. Paul is passionate about attending Pow Wows. He traveled the Pow Wow circuit of the greater Midwest for ten straight years, running a craft booth where he sold multiple handmade items.

Though he has settled in many places, Paul has never lived on a reservation. He can therefore only offer an outsider’s opinion of them. “Reservations shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” he says. But now that they have happened, he believes that they have become a multi-faceted influence on modern Native American culture. On the down side, reservations encourage gambling and an unhealthy lifestyle that can contribute to alcoholism. However, they play a part in preserving the culture by keeping its people close together, and also present the opportunity for people to operate large businesses such as casinos. This can teach valuable lessons in money management, business and organization.

Many people may think that Native Americans are angry and resentful about having lost a piece of their original culture, and about having been oppressed and mistreated over the years. Paul believes that, in modern culture, natives still have everything that they used to have, and maybe even more. “We have the best of both worlds,” he says. For this reason, he believes that Native Americans have an abundance of unique insight to offer to the modern world.

Anishinabe = the original people

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Through the Night Carianne Klueck

Perhaps it is the poetry That keeps my mind awake The words that fall out of my pen And make my fingers ache When darkness cloaks the mortal world An inky shade of black My heart begins to cry and dance In homage to the past The happiness that once was borne Displayed for all to see The hope that overcame the truth But rarely did succeed

Addie lino print by Laurie Schutza

The sweetness of imagined joy Was painted on a face Oh, how I long to wipe away The tears that took its place The pen I hold is purely made No trace of magic there It is only within the mind That life can be made fair So let me cry myself to sleep With pen and page in hand Dreaming of a different life In a much kinder land Yet till that moment I will write With fatigue in my eyes Of truth and love and happiness Until my pen runs dry Perhaps someday I’ll quell the urge To write on through the night Though with these hopes and tears abound It seems ‘tis not tonight

Culture Mica S. Kole

My culture is a girl On the shoulders of a monster It is a van on water Driven by a footless man It is walking on a pier Talking to a whale Crucified for love My culture is a silent place Loud enough to shake you It is killing for a Pokécard My culture is in dreams

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KC monotype print by Lori L. Craig

It is a fire-angel

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True Gray John Pahl

You don’t know blue till you’ve watched countless clouds Stretch their underbellies in fat rows off to the gray horizon for two straight months, each drooping bulge a study in deeper gray, the changes too subtle for a National Geographic camera, The dark upward-reaching clefts searching for black.

Why blue for our gray moods? Why way back then when seasick slaves walked miles from the shore, chopped back the brush, picked up the plough, cut cane or baled cotton–– Why’d they take that blue-sided word for gospel, put it to work-song beats, strain it through banjo strings, plunk it across thumb pianos and slide it out horns, down the neck of guitars, and up the choir stands of churchy shacks?

Take gray, just take a good look at it, take it all the way in, the way you take in damp air on a dim morning.

Gray makes the right connection between all our woes: The look of the dead and our own huge sadness, The gray of old filing cabinets and their dreary contents, between the gray waters of the cold Atlantic, all the war ships that plough through them, the gray muzzle, and the graying temple of an empty writer.

Think about the birth of the grays—then jazz and grays.

Country grays. Chicago grays. A cool grays band.

“Every day I Have the Grays,” “Am I Gray?”

Go ‘long blue, Indigo. Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee kept blowing and strumming and living with the grays.

Let your mind go with gray for a while And now gray will sound right, feel right. It’s more right.

Look out the window at the full moon— not white tonight but gray-shadowed round the eyes, that old face, grief-stricken now, the surprise, the O of mild delight you saw up there as a kid watching it from a zipped-up Army Surplus sleeping bag—now gone too.

The gray dawn creeps through the oak tree shadows towards another day. Not blue Monday—it’s gray.

Gray Mondays come weekly in winter and at least monthly in all the other seasons. You’ll take a blue Monday any day.

Now the weak morning sun has slanted between the gray trees; you see the slush in the drive is grayer than yesterday and the snow pile where you tried to make a late-winter snowman last week has turned dirty gray, the snow shrinking back, letting the gray gravel from countless shovelings take over.

On your way to work the roads are gray, the bay is gray, most of the cars coming and going are road-salt gray. You hear the word itself three times on NPR as someone discusses depression alias recession.

You park the car and grab the pile of school stuff.

On top, the Class Record Book, Form No. 210-G-W.O., is truly gray, even the empty boxes where School-Teacher-Year should be written in.

Fanatic Dolls Illustration by Jess Nagel

Why not gray?

Pedaling Erin Deloney

I’m riding along Greeting the sweet morning sun Pedal…pedaling I’m riding along Up and down…around and round Pedal…pedaling I’m riding along Through the sleeping city’s streets Pedal…pedaling

Then into the gray building, across the gray carpet, up the darker gray stairs through the gray-trimmed doorway of the lounge. There, on the lighter gray cabinets you see that someone has made coffee. No—it’s yesterday’s.

And it’s gray.

Not really. It’s still brown. But don’t you get started on brown.

Not when one small corner of the sky, way over there west, shines blue.

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Poster from Ad Campaign Design by Caroline Schaefer-Hills

AUTOIMMUNE LINK Recent studies have shown that vaccinated children have an increased risk of ADHD, Asperger's syndrome and asthma. In a study of 17,000 boys and girls in California and Oregon, vaccinated children were 120 percent more likely to have asthma, 224 percent more likely to have ADHD and 155 percent more likely to have neurological disorder.

Vaccines are often made by harvesting infected tissues of the virus or disease in chick embryos that later cause allergic reaction in the receivers. Associations with chronic health problems are often linked to the process of vaccination itself that shifts the TH1/ TH2 immune system balance to TH2 dominance, which produces more allergic responses and inflammation. Most viruses and diseases, such as measles or chicken pox, enter the body and infect through the respiratory system. This system works like nature designed it to and fights by producing mucus, fever and so on. When a disease or virus is injected right into the bloodstream or tissue—as happens with vaccination—all runs amuck.

Patients often contract measles in the intestine or other organs, which could lead to death from what is normally fought easily with bed-rest. The other side of this argument is that the brain and spinal cord’s myelin sheath react adversely to virus and bacteria entering this way and trip-up, causing the many neurological disorders reported after vaccination. Many babies have experienced a drastic change—they are perfectly healthy and responsive; then a day after being vaccinated they are unresponsive and altered for life. Continuously, doctors fail to report vaccine side effects experienced by their patients to the CDC.

ANTIA NTI-

Vaccination

NATION Caroline Schaefer-Hills

The children of our nation today are born via an increasingly medical model of care. Often ripped from the womb by cesarean section, immediately swabbed in eyes and mouth with antibiotics, fed bottles of formula made from the milk of other species, mutilated genetically by circumcision, caged and separated from mother by crib sleeping and injected sometimes over twenty-six times in the first few weeks of life in the name of vaccination. Our country is unlike any other culture. America stands alone in this "birth crisis" that has strayed to drastic levels from the midwifery model of care. All other nations have over eighty percent of births attended by Midwives and the now "alternative" care that challenges c-section, medicated birth, circumcision, vaccination, crib sleeping, bottle-feeding and the like.

Among the many newborn decisions a parent must make, vaccination is the most likely to be debated and challenged by the Center for Disease Control (CDC) doctors and schools, presented as law and blindly administered. With autoimmune diseases and developmental disorders at all time highs in our country, there is a thriving underground connecting the research and statistics linking many victims to vaccine-related injuries. Many countries have banned vaccines altogether and world organizations like World Association for Vaccine Education (WAVE) and local ones like Michigan Opposing Mandatory Vaccines (MOMV) are advocating reformation of the mass vaccination systems.

They provide an avenue for a public exchange of non-medical vaccine information, ideas and continuously updated documents that concern vaccine risk and uselessness. The intent is to redress the balance of information available to parents on vaccination issues, acknowledge people who experience vaccine reactions, and adamantly advocate and maintain freedom of choice. There are pointed arguable issues related to vaccination:

VACCINE STRAIN DISEASE The CDC and others argue that unvaccinated children are a risk to public health. In fact, the only remaining strains of several of the diseases vaccinated against are the vaccine strains, which are mutated and charged versions that often bypass the respiratory entry of their distant cousins. When the media reports an "outbreak" of disease, usually after testing, in communities like the Amish that do not vaccinate, it is found that the outbreak results from a vaccine strain that an outsider brought into the community. Parents who do not vaccinate their children have to be very careful around vaccinated children. This is because these children carry super-vaccine strains, which can easily be spread through feces and saliva for more than three weeks after the inoculation.

THIMEROSAL Code name for the mercury used as a preservative in many vaccines. Mercury poising has been the direct link to many neuro-psychological deficits like autism. The jump-in statistics show autism and Alzheimer's rates rising, currently at more than twelve times what they were in the 1950s. These statistics align to the rising number of vaccines required. In the 1950s just two vaccines were suggested. Now a child will get over forty vaccinations in the first few years of life if following the CDC recommendation, many given during the same doctor’s visit (like the highly debated MMR—Measles, Mumps, Rubella) creating levels of mercury exposure that are ten times what the FDA considers toxic in fish for human consumption. Some vaccines are available Thimerosal-free, but only if the parents have researched enough to ask for them.There is no flu shot available without Thimerosal.Vaccines given to the third world by US pharmaceutical manufacturers still contain Thimerosal.

VIOLATION OF FREEDOMS All states require vaccination in order for a child to enter or stay in the education system.

Many states have organizations similar to MOMV that advocate the freedom of choice concerning vaccination. These organizations provide informational resources, statistics, waiver forms and other materials to help parents opt out of the vaccination system. The vaccine portion of the pharmaceutical industry is a multi-billion dollar one, and lobbyists are linked to the pockets of big business. Doctors receive kickback for each vaccine they sell to a patient; money and profit are much of what drives this "requirement" to vaccinate. Even with these requirements, many states like Massachusetts, Florida, Georgia, New Hampshire and Alabama have seen the rate of those seeking exemptions more than double in the last decade. Fifteen out of the twenty states that allow both religious and philosophical exemption have seen large increases in both. Now the CDC, vaccine manufacturers, and their lawyers are discussing the constitutionality of vaccine exemption. At a symposium hosted by the rotavirus vaccine patent-holder and Merck, there was discussion on passing a law to allow prosecution of parents of non-vaccinated children (prosecuting parents who home-school their children for neglect if they do not vaccinate) and posting and publishing lists of non-vaccinated individuals in public places in communities (called the New McCarthyism). In the name of independent thinking, personal responsibility and social evolution, these liberties should be protected. It should be a parent’s choice to vaccinate.

ALUMINUM Called the "new thimerosal," it is now what is used as a binder in most vaccines and in infusions like intravenous feeding injections. Aluminum accumulates in the bone, urine, bloodstream, plasma and brain, causing progressive dementia and death, especially in neonates. Studies have shown that infants given IV solutions containing aluminum showed impaired neurologic and mental development at eighteen months. The CDC continues to ignore issues of aluminum toxicity in vaccines (including the unnecessary and non-effective Hepatitis B vaccine that is given on the day of birth to most infants for a sexually transmitted disease that education can remedy, and that wears off well before the child is old enough to be sexually active). As with Thimerosal, the CDC has shut the book on further research, looking only at surface side-effects that can be physically seen on the skin, even though autopsies have revealed brain tissue that resembles that of Alzheimer's victims.

Vaccination is an international issue, but since only twenty states have the legal ability to opt out of vaccinating for philosophical reasons, the United States is the key scope. Oddly enough, this issue seems to have some relation to partisan voting, since the blue states are largely the same states that allow the waivers. Vaccinating is done less heavily outside the US and is very rarely required. The World Health Organization has the definite stance of not requiring vaccination, and many countries have banned vaccination altogether. There is a definite need to balance the information presented on the vaccination issue. To best combat the current sea of public service billboards, posters and direct mail pieces distributed to expectant and new parents, the anti-vaccine cause needs to swim in the same channels.

These are two divided cultures. Clear and communicative messages need to get out to parents, elderly, and all with weakened immune states in an effort to shock or enlighten them enough to question which choice is right for them—and better yet, to make an informed decision.

Wireless LED Therapy Balls Designed by Caroline Schaefer-Hills

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Raj Kultura

Culture can be about discovering where you came from. For some, this personal culture can be as unknown and strange as that of a distant and exotic land.

History doesn’t just walk up and introduce itself. You have to seek it out, in musty offices and cemeteries – and by talking to those who remember what life was like in Leelanau a long time ago.

Histories of Leelanau County focus mainly on Northport, Leland and Glen Arbor. In contrast, relatively little has been written about the Czech and Polish families who farmed the interior of the county and founded the parishes of St. Isadore and St. Wenceslaus.

Their names can be found in old maps of the county: Kovarik, Kabatek, Sedlacek, Houdek, Rosinski, Flis, Nowak, Brezenski, Sharnowski.

In a letter published in a Chicago newspaper in 1900 (and reprinted in Edmund Littell’s book on Leelanau), a Czech woman recounts her experience moving north from Chicago, with a few other Czechs, Hungarians and Poles, up the lakeshore: “We continued north, searching for paradise.”

Paradise :: Raj At a nursing home near Suttons Bay, my oldest relative, whom I hadn’t seen in 25 years and could not believe was still alive, whispered to me about my/these people and their times. I am thankful for what I’ve learned. With ears to listen, I am glad that my heritage is alive in me now.

Kultura Michael Anderson Please visit www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture for more photos

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Prom Drawing by Heather Ward

Alice, Queen of Hearts 2-D Design by Saira Schutza

Self Portrait Painting by Saira Schutza

Will, the Mathematitian Painting by Saira Schutza

COLOR PAGE

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Unfinished Puzzle 2-D Design byValerie Hyrman

Unfinished Puzzle 2-D Design byValerie Hyrman

COLOR PAGE

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Visual Culture Graphic Design by Gabe Clark

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Packer Plant Photograph by William Holland

Rabbits Photograph by William Holland Dock Askew Photograph by Carianne Klueck

Signs Photograph by Jessica Foote

COLOR PAGE

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Highway 2 Photograph by William Holland

Antares Islands Interactive/Animation by Gabe Holmes

Cultures Combined Animation by Jess Nagel

Chagall Interactive/Animation by Gabe Holmes

Water World Animation by Jess Nagel

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Inuit Geese Illustration by Paul Leon

Annie Watercolor by Karen Mauk

Arrows & Quiver 3-D Design by Diane Ellis

Please visit www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture to see these animations in their entirety and much more.

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What Would You Do For Water? Poster Design by Erin Deloney

Lost Dog Poster Design by Erin Deloney

Zack Painting by Saira Schutza

My Octopus Illustration by Jess Nagel

Eco-Toxic Book Handmade Book by Jerry Sessions

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Ooh la la Sites

Ooh la la Night Life

Ooh la la Fashion

Tranny Tourism in Istanbul 3-Ad Campaign by Jess Nagel

Linda Photograph by Saira Schutza

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Bottle Trio Pottery by Valerie Hyrman

COLOR PAGE Prayer Pipe 3-D Design by Paul Leon

Minotaur & Theseus Pottery by Jillene Craker-Dalley

Tall Figurine Pottery by Jason Safronoff

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chemistry Jennifer Butler

Professor Acer watched as Dezaia examined the vials before her, his eyes never wavering from her form. Dezaia was one of his best students, always the first to class, always the last to leave. She paid immense attention during his lectures, taking detailed notes, asking relevant questions. Professor Acer was sure most of his other students were asleep, if not physically, surely mentally. They showed no desire to be there, no desire to learn, but Dezaia was different. This, he told himself, had been the reason he had asked her to help him with this particular project.

“Professor Acer?” Dezaia turned from the test tubes before her to face him. “I know these are wormwood, columbine and damiana,” she said, indicating the glowing green liquid in the pot above the burning fire, as well as the clear and yellow ones that resided in the tubes. “But I am uncertain of what these two are.” Her fingers glided gently over the tops of the vials containing a violet and pink colored liquid.

“This,” Professor Acer addressed Dezaia as he came up behind her, his arms reaching around her to the two vials whose contents she was unsure of, “is elf leaf.” His fingers touched the lip of the vile containing a violet colored liquid. “And this,” his other hand carefully slipped the pink filled test tube from the rack it had rested in, “is sumbul.”

Dezaia nodded thoughtfully, then picking up her pen, scrawled the names of the ingredients on the paper before her, as well as their colors.

“What properties do they have?” Turning her head, Dezaia looked up over her shoulder to where Professor Acer still lingered.

“Their intended purpose, for this particular mixture, is to instill protection.” His fingers once more slipped along the violet-filled tube.

“And to aid in psychic vision.” As he tipped over the tube that contained the sumbul, the pink liquid slipped from the glass to join the green bubbling liquid that was already over the fire. Once more, Dezaia’s pen moved quickly over the paper, recording the new information.

Dezaia could feel the warmth of Professor Acer’s body as he stood behind her and had to remind herself to keep her thoughts on the task at hand. Professor Acer had, after all, picked her from amongst the rest of the students to help him with this project because he trusted her skills, knew she could be counted on. Still…

Don’t be silly, Dezaia chided herself, steering her mind away from the flights of fancy she usually reserved for the sanctity of her dorm room. There, in her quiet solitude, Dezaia was free to think and feel how she pleased. On more than one occasion she had let her mind go wild, fueled with imagined images of the professor she held so dear.

It was true that Professor Acer was close to twice her age, but time had not diminished the attractive countenance he had worn since his youth, at least in her eyes. Other students would be sure to disagree, counting way too largely on his usually cold demeanor.

Dezaia understood him, though. When Professor Acer spoke of the concoctions they were creating during class, of the ingredients they were using, Dezaia could hear, could feel his passion, for she too shared it, which is why she paid such rapt attention during all of his lectures.

Professor Acer instructed Dezaia in the proper measurements and on when to add each ingredient. From over her shoulder he watched the young girl take careful notes, nearly getting lost in the fluid motion of the letters as they formed upon the paper. “Professor?” Acer blinked and shook his head slightly, bringing himself back to the present, back from where his mind had wandered.

“Yes, Dezaia?”

“You said to make sure to add the elf leaf last,” Dezaia began, “and not to create it at all if you didn’t have it. Why do you add it last, and not make it at all without?”

“As you know,” Professor Acer replied, “each ingredient used has not only one function but multiple uses for a multitude of creations. In this particular draught, elf leaf is added last as a method of purification to negate other, perhaps unwanted, potential effects of the created brew.”

Dezaia nodded her understanding and returned to her notes once more, the swirling letters catching Professor Acer’s mind off guard as they curled around each other to form words. It seemed, he almost fancied, that the pen, the paper, the letters, the words… they almost danced together. Watching Dezaia write was hypnotic. The fluid motions mixed in his mind with the scent of the ingredients mixing in the pot. They had added the damiana and the columbine; it needed to steep for a while before they could add the elf leaf.

Acer was painfully aware of how close he was standing to Dezaia. He could feel the heat radiating from her body; smell the scent of her hair combining with the potion above the flame of the fire. He became aware of his own heartbeat as it began, of its own accord, increasing its rhythm within his rib cage. The blood in his veins seemed to be simmering in time with the liquid in the cauldron, just under the boiling point, threatening to rise even higher.

Dezaia was trying to keep her mind on the task at hand, even attempting to count the minutes to ground her thoughts in place. Her mind was against her, though, insisting on pulling her back to the daydreams usually reserved for her room. Perhaps it was his unusual closeness. That has to be it, Dezaia attempted to reassure herself. “How much longer, Professor Acer?” Turning around, she found herself face to face with her professor, closer than she could ever remember being.

“Only a few more minutes.” Only a few more minutes. The words echoed in her head, telling her that was how long she had left here, with him, like this. “Is there something else?”

It wasn’t until he’d spoken again that Dezaia realized she was still looking up at him, her eyes still intent on his. “I… Uh… No, Professor.”

“Are you sure?” His hand reached up to brush a lock of hair from her face, his fingertips grazing her cheek, sending a chill down her spine. Inside her chest, Dezaia’s heart constricted.

“You know,” Professor Acer continued, “I consider you my most prized student.”

“Really?” Once more, inside her chest, the organ responsible for the flow of her blood seemed to falter.

Professor Acer nodded, his face coming closer to hers in the process. Dezaia’s head spun with impossible thoughts, thoughts that suddenly didn’t seem so impossible, that seemed quite probable. Top teeth tugging at her bottom lip, the young girl looked up at the man before her. The corner of Professor Acer’s mouth turned up into a slight smirk as he leaned closer to Dezaia. “It’s time to add the elf leaf.”

“Yes, sir,” Dezaia could feel her cheeks flushing. Regaining her senses, she picked up the tube filled with violet liquid, carefully pouring the contents into the pot with the rest. “You said it’s a purifier?”

“Yes.” “What does it purify? What effects does it… negate?”

What could almost pass as a slightly amused chuckle sounded from the man who was once again standing behind her. “It negates the love-inducing aspects.”

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Tattoos by Shawn: An interview by Drake Nagel

NOT JUST SKIN DEEP

When given the opportunity to write this article, I could not have been more pleased. Tattoos and tattoo design have been something that has interested me for a long time, so I figured I should do some hands-on research and go get one. I have had my tattoo picked out for a few years now. I want two Koi fish swimming in a circle (yeah, it’s kind of typical, I know.) The only thing left to do was find someone I trusted enough to tattoo me. I decided on Shawn of New Age Tattoo. After seeing some of his work I knew I would be in good hands.

The day of my appointment soon came and I was so pumped! When I got to the shop, Shawn made a print of the design I was getting.

Then we went back to his work area, which was clean with colorful artwork hanging from the walls—all originals done by Shawn. I lay down in the chair and propped my arm up on another chair nearby. After shaving and thoroughly cleaning the area where the tattoo was going to go, Shawn placed the print on my arm to see how I liked it. I gave him the OK and he said he was going to do a little spot, just so I could see how it felt. The pain wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be, and after my arm went numb it was even less painful. But don’t get me wrong—it hurt.

As Shawn tattooed, I looked around at all the art on the walls. I was really intrigued by the works; they made me feel comfortable because I knew that I was getting tattooed by a real artist. It was really cool seeing someone who genuinely cared and took so much pride in what he did for a living.

After he finished (only about 45 minutes later), I got to look in the mirror and see how it turned out. It was perfect—exactly what I wanted. I got some aftercare instructions and paid; then I sat down and asked him a few questions.

How did you get into tattooing?

A friend of mine actually. He knew I was an artist, knew it was something I was real passionate about. He got my foot in the door. He talked to his boss and I ended up getting an apprenticeship. After I met him I went out to Ohio for three or four days—just visited, met everybody—and probably a month-and-a-half later I was living out there.

Did you have to apprentice for a long time?

Probably about seven or eight months, which was tough. It was about twelve hours a day and they didn’t pay you anything.You just pay three thousand dollars for the apprenticeship and you do twelve hours a day, six days a week and you’re kind of burnt out at the end of it, but it’s worth it.You take a lot of shit. They bully you around and make sure you really want to do it, but it’s definitely worthwhile.

What was going through your head while doing your first tattoo?

Well, it’s funny how they get you going. They show you everything.You watch for months and months and pound everything into your head. Then when you go to do it, you freeze up and forget everything. I did a real tiny one on myself, just to kind of get the feel, and before that I worked on a couple oranges. Oranges, if you go too deep it’s going to be spraying at you, so that’s what they get you going on. My actual first tattoo was on a really good friend of mine. He traveled like thirteen hours to Ohio to come visit me, and he let me do it. It took five hours, but it turned out good.

WhatÕ s your favorite part of the job?

I guess it would have to be just being creative, making my own hours and making people happy. It’s a really good job for that. I get all kinds of stories and some are very, very emotional. Some people have had a family member who passed away and they get a remembrance tattoo… it’s a very powerful moment. They’re going through a lot of stuff and it just helps them deal with it. I feel like that part of the job is almost too intense sometimes. Talking with the grieving parents or whatever the situation is, it’s pretty cool.

You feel like your work is worth a lot more when you see something like that.

Is there anyone who really influences your work?

I guess not so much tattoo artists, but like local low bro artists in general, like a lot of the artists in Juxtapoz magazine. There are so many aspiring artists in there. Even if it’s just, like, color or the way they put everything together, you see a lot of stuff.

What advice would you give to someone who wants to become a tattoo artist?

Do it right and really, really work on your drawings. Art is the most important thing, and some people can tattoo but they can’t necessarily draw, so they’re putting stuff out there that to an artist looks funny, but to them is a good tattoo. If you’re on top of your game and know your shading, depth, line-work and layout, it definitely helps a lot. It distinguishes you from all the people who scratch at home and at parties. I run into so many people who are like, “Hey! You’re a tattoo artist? I got this in my buddy’s kitchen!” I really have to cover up a lot of my shock sometimes. The big thing is just making sure you do it the right way, instead of buying machines off the Internet and trying to learn yourself.You learn all these bad habits that you just can’t unlearn.You might have been a tattoo artist for fourteen years, but someone who learned right with just two years of tattooing might be better than you. All the oldschool artists are getting shoved out of the way because there’s so much demand for good art now and not so much flashy tattoos.

People want their own design and their own ideas and [artists] who can draw those up for them. It’s a good business to be in.

Did you go to school anywhere for art, or are you just self-taught?

I did an art instructional through the mail when I was growing up. That was probably my junior or senior year. Then after that I just kind of fell out of it for a while just trying to find what I was going to do. I was real clueless right out of high school for a while, but I guess most people are.

WhatÕ s the craziest tattoo you have ever done?

One time a guy came in and got a vagina on his arm. I would say that would probably take the cake for the weirdest tattoo. People get them in weird spots too. I’ve done some on the inside of lips, in the armpit and I even did one around a girl’s nipple once.Yuck, nasty, I will never do that again. It’s really hard work and uncomfortable for everybody.

I saw your sign when I came in that said, “ I don’t do butts. So don’t even assk.”

Photographs by Drake Nagel

[Laughs] Yeah, I actually had to shave someone’s butt once—never doing that again.

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Photograph by Kevin Nesbit

ELECTRONICA the culture of electronic music making

An Interview with Balcony West Whitney Duque

Sitting in the new office of the NMC Magazine, the two members of an electronic music collaboration project called “Balcony West,” Kevin Nesbit, an NMC student, and Garrett Zammarron, a St. Francis High School student, took time to answer a few questions and to give a demonstration of their emotional, intriguing music. This interview and demonstration can be viewed on the NMC Magazine website: www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture.

NMC Magazine: How did you two meet?

Balcony West: We work together as lifeguards at the Great Wolf Lodge.

NMC Mag: How did you come up with the name for your band?

BW: We went on a trip together to Cedar Point, and we were sitting on a balcony, facing west, and the name just kind of stuck.

NMC Mag: How long have you been making this kind of music?

BW: [Nesbit] I’ve been doing it for nine months and Garrett’s been doing it for three years. We’ve been working together for nine months. I had an interest but I didn’t know where to start. [Zammarron] I was his guru.

NMC Mag: What kind of equipment or instruments do you use?

BW: [Nesbit] Usually, I use just a standard computer and electronic keyboard when I’m at home. We try to go out to a coffee shop or something, then we switch over to our laptops. [Zammarron] I just use my Macbook or my M-Audio keyboard.

NMC Mag: For a lot of your songs, you use materials from other sources, such as a news reel. Where do you get the material from which you sample?

BW: A lot of the stuff comes off the internet. Basically, how the song feels, we try to follow it. Whatever the song needs is what goes in.

NMC Mag: Where do you get your inspiration? Do you have a particular band or artist who influences you?

BW: [Nesbit] I can’t really say that any band or artists have inspired me to write a lot of music, but most of it’s emotionally charged, having to do with something significant in my life or even something small. [Zammarron] The only artist I would say is Joe Hahn. Sometimes [also] just a good movie I saw or a story I heard.

NMC Mag: Electronic music has kind of faded from the mainstream recently; it was big in the late nineties.You must see this as an enduring art form. Can you tell us why?

BW: [Nesbit] I kind of see it as taking on a different form. It’s starting to resurface. It’s something that will hold a beat and be true in the song for however long it needs to. [Zammarron] A lot of intelligence goes into electronic music because it’s more than booties and gold and grills. It’s not always specific. A lot of people can get a lot of different things out of it.

NMC Mag: So, can you describe to us the culture of electronic music?

BW: It’s a very diverse group who listen to electronic music. It’s not really mainstream, and people can pull what they need from it because it’s not so left or right.

It’s not so specific.

NMC Mag: You are currently producing a CD. What can you tell us about it?

BW: The release date is April 20. It’s got a lot of diversity. Every song we have can be put or stationed into the big city. The title of the CD is “A City Under the Sun.” As soon as you come into the big city, you can feel anything from being overwhelmed to being free, to happiness, to sadness, to loss, to regret.That’s what our CD is about.

NMC Mag: Is there any other way for people to hear your music? Do you have a web address at all?

BW: We do have a web address. It’s www.purevolume.com/balconywest and they can listen to all the songs we post. We don’t always put the newer ones up. We like to save those for when you go out and buy the CD.

page 26

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The Strings That BIND

I was born on March 16, 1976, at 6:04 am. Doctors told my parents that at only three pounds, two ounces it would be a miracle if I survived. Thirty years ago the odds were stacked against babies born so premature, but two months later I went home. I survived. I was a miracle. March 16 should have been the most memorable day of 1976 for my family. It was not.

One hundred and seventy-one days after the “supposed” miracle, my mother woke up early. They say mothers can sense when something is wrong. When she went to check on me, I was just lying there, staring up at her with my baby blues wide open. Silent. My father was nowhere to be found, but that was normal. Maybe he had stayed out all night with his band the night before. I never asked. Later that evening, he was finally found, alone in a field in Osceola County. I often imagine the soft laughter of the people that first saw him from a distance across that field, thinking he had just passed out. He had not.

He was slumped back against a maple tree with his brains blown across the once-white curls of bark and up into the bare autumn branches above. There was a handgun in the grass near his left hand. Not much was left there to sum up a man’s life, just a silver ring, a pocket watch, a crumpled piece of stained spiral notebook paper, and an acoustic guitar.

I had cracked the ring when I was young, so my mother took it from me for safekeeping. The watch had been a gift from my grandfather, and he quickly reclaimed it as his own. The guitar, the last of what my father left behind in that field, sits here next to me, just as it has done for more than three decades now. I look at those dents and scratches and imagine how they got there. I think of him laughing, surrounded by friends, playing that guitar—something I never had the chance to see. That guitar was truly mine to carry the minute it left that field. Sometimes when I am deep into a bottle, I think I can hear it whisper to me so softly—a whisper as loud as smoke, as bright as the new moon. “Play me,” it says. “Hold me, play me.” I have never been able to say no.

I went to that same field once when I was maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. I sat there with my back pressed against a maple tree, one much larger than the one in the crime scene photos I had with me. I remember wondering, as the sharp ridges of bark dug into my back, if it was the same tree my father was found under. It could have been. I do not know. I did not have the ring or the watch. The gun I had with me, of course, was also different. The guitar cradled in my lap was the same, and right then that was all that mattered. I sat there wondering what song was last played on its strings there in that field. I looked up into the autumn leaves and thought about who might be picking bits of my skull out of the bark behind me as I held that same guitar. I would like to say that I suddenly felt peaceful; I would like to say I suddenly felt such a desire to live that I ran from that field; I would like to say that I remembered what the most important day of 1976 should have been. But I was not peaceful. I was not filled with hope. No, it was hate that made me get up from that tree. I am made of stronger stuff than he was. What kind of bastard leaves behind a slilver ring, a pocket watch, a suicide note, and a beat-up guitar? His fate would never be mine. It was anger that made me stomp off that field. I may have lost a father there, but I had gained a guitar, and, at that moment, I counted it as a more than fair trade.

For thirty years I never wanted to know what the note had to say. What words could ever explain such a thing? Besides, I have always felt it was about the guitar. That guitar. It used to be his, but now it is mine. I bet it never whispered to him as it does to me. I am nothing like him.

I would never leave some pathetic note behind to make myself feel better about abandoning my wife and only son. Still, something about that note bothered me. The police reports never used the words “suicide note.” Why? I remember the day, not too many years ago, when I finally asked my mother about it. I thought thirty years would be enough time to, at least, dull the pain. I wanted to know why the suicide note was not ever mentioned.

She was so quiet. There we were, looking into each other’s eyes in silence. I imagine it was much as we’d done thirty years before. She never did say a word about it. She just went to her bottom desk drawer and brought me a folded piece of spiral notebook paper, stained. It read:

Christopher W. Slack

There is a boy I love And he is beautiful, beautiful My boy my son There is a boy I love And he’s the center of my Mind The center of my mind And whether he takes after me I don’t know, maybe so Jumpin’ and bobbin’ his head Around and telling me to play Some more and I know before my Time is up we’ll be friends For sure for sure It was not a suicide note. He had made notes for chords in the margins. All this time I thought it was a suicide note he left crumpled in that field, but it was a song. A song he was writing for me.

With just a quick look you can easily say it is an ugly guitar. More varnish has been scratched off than what remains. A jagged crack more like a hole presses into one side, making it almost impossible to tune. ‘Ventura’ it says inside on a label, a label that looks so fragile that a gentle touch of a single fingertip would turn it to dust. I bet it is hard for people to imagine music coming from such a wreck. But they never seem to notice the shine of new strings.

Whenever people see it for the first time they always ask the same thing, no matter how ill-used it may look. “Oh! I didn’t know you play. Play something will ya?” I have had a lifetime to perfect the dodge on this one. Conversation is a form of magic. With a little misdirection and distraction, people never see what you want hidden. One or two sentences with a smooth change of topic and they forget all about the battered guitar in the corner. I can say, without a doubt, that nobody alive has ever seen me play that guitar.

When I am sure nobody is around I sit with that guitar in my lap. For so many years now I have hidden those moments. Ask me if I play it? You will not get a straight answer out of me. I used to think it was because I was ashamed of the story. Maybe I am. Maybe I was. Maybe I wish it were as simple as that. It is not.

I am afraid. One piece of paper had drained away thirty years of rage and hate. Thirty years of thinking my father and I would never be alike destroyed by reading just one piece of paper. Suicide note versus song to your only son. His last hours had not been spent on self-pity. They had been spent on love, yet he still pulled that trigger. Before the note, I left the field carrying that guitar as a reminder that my fate would never be the same as his.

Before the note, I left that field carrying that guitar as a reminder that he and I would never be alike. Strange. If that was true, then why can I not let go of that guitar right now? Why, since the note, can I still feel the bark digging into my back every time that damn thing sits in my lap?

I am afraid because now I know I will have to go back to that field once more without my rage and hate to shield me. I am afraid because if he could pull that trigger while filled with love, who can say I would not as well? I am afraid because I do not know whether it will be the guitar or myself that leaves that field next time. page 27

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(to tolerate, to occupy, and to draw forth)

Photograph by Michael Anderson

will mcconnell

This is dedicated to the preservation of my own mind, and in the call of a friendÕs need for an epiphany.

tolero, teneo, quod extraho.

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I hate it. The repertoire of daily confinement has strangled my soul and gouged my spirit. I find myself begging sharp metallic instruments for mercy. Pleading to the heavens, or the lack thereof, I find myself wallowing in a conscious void of providence, leaving no compass to guide my reeling mind. The forces that have brought me to this last tread are of my own, and the guttural cries ensuing will thread my demise. Today is my last.

Setting his pencil down, Isaac stares through the window ahead.

The outside world is coated in a thin layer of snow. Among the defeated plants and half-frozen pond in the yard, there is a small brown dog. It trots freely, despite favoring one of its hind legs; the limp is subtle, but it is still there. Curiously enough, the dog is five miles from the nearest highway and thirty miles from its original home. The distance traveled correlates with the amount of food consumed; the dog is in the early stages of starvation. Despite this, and the minor brush-up with a highway-bound vehicle that led to its limp (albeit a few days ago), the dog found water, and is busily wagging its tail.

Creases spread across Isaac’s forehead. He does not know the circumstances of the animal before him, and brushes it off as a nuisance. He continues: And why is it animals cannot kill themselves? I am a human, and have had the choice since I could think of the possibility. The possibility has followed me since I have had the choice. I have chased the possibility and eventual solution my whole life, and yet I impede my progress with unimportant feelings, dashed with primordial desires to live. Such feelings are useless. I will endure my suffering no more, and take a train where others have chosen to walk.

The dog is busy lapping water at the far side of the pond. It has edged away from the house and retreated towards the back half of the Dubus’ yard.

Isaac peers through his window again, expecting to see the dog. He does not. Standing up this time, and shifting his glasses, Isaac squints, and moments later he lays his eyes on the animal. It has gotten far in such short time, it seemed, but Isaac never pays attention to time when he writes. He picks up his pencil and continues: I will end where others chose to continue. But I am ending the pain, and not continuing the suffering. Those who would only understand my feelings have been, or soon will be, dead. I am not doing this without reason but only with reason. A sound heart is following this decision as well, and I have chosen a painless end that will come quickly. I can only hope my choice will steer others in the right direction, being one of the best methods of escaping this world today. But I digress. It is not the method of departure rather than the reason behind it. To relieve the grief of those who mourn for my passing, I’ll try to do my best and explain in the following.

Hearing the dog bark for the first time, Isaac drops his pencil again and peers out the window. The little dog is barking at a much bigger animal. The full proportions of its body are not measurable; hidden by a thicket of snow-covered bushes. But Isaac can see its hulking, matted fur from his distant window.

Isaac shakes his head and breathes out of his nose, dismissing the subject.

Why do we fight? Why do we hang on to something that we’ll only let go of? I’m only trying to speed up what will eventually happen to every single one of us. We will never win the fight against time and age, we will only lose it, and I have already accepted that. I have no reasons to wake up in the morning—other than those of thirst, hunger, and warmth—if I’m cold. When I only get out of bed to satisfy my bodily needs, and have nothing to look forward to—no feelings or emotions—I have become an animal. Except I’m the exception. And I have the choice.

Hearing a small yelp, Isaac drops his pencil and looks up, still focused on his writing. The dog is bleeding. The tender, favored hind leg is now a red-swathed stick. The hulking animal is now gone and the little brown dog is now struggling to stay on all fours.

Sweat starts to break across Isaac’s forehead. An audible click comes from his throat, while he pushes his head back down, facing his handwritings. He continues: We will only lose. We will only get hurt. Why not speed up the process? The only wins in life are temporary, shrouding our expectations from the future—allowing us only to get hurt even more. I will not play these games. I will skip right to the end, and face what I have to, right now. I will stand up when it’s my turn, and exclaim— “That I’ve had enough!”

Quickly raising his head, Isaac shoots a look through the window and sees that the little dog is lying in the snow, not moving. Red splotches juxtapose the white landscape. Isaac stands up and runs out of the room, tears welling up in his eyes.

--Picking up the small, brown, and now bloody dog and holding it in his arms, Isaac sobs while he thinks aloud: “B-because this will only happen, w-whether or not we fight—it’s something that’s out of our c-control!”

Breathing heavily, Isaac tries to calm himself but is occasionally seized by sobs out of his control.

They wrack his body, and his face tightens in the February weather. He continues taking notes in his mind: There is no reason to go on when this can only happen—in one form or another; we all die. And why can’t I do it now, and just get it over with? I see no reason why— The thought is interrupted by a warm feeling on Isaac’s index finger, something along the lines of wet sandpaper. Looking down, he now sees that the animal is still alive and is trying to pass on some form of solace. Whether this is very well-interpreted or a huge misconception, he doesn’t know.

Isaac’s face breaks into a smile, clashing with the color and weather. Tears are still streaming down his face, but they’re tapered off by his cheeks, which are now round from his expression.

This…feeling… I would have attested minutes ago that I had none left, and yet this lowly form of life is reminding me that I’m more human than I ever believed. Is this what it’s all about? Have I been thinking only of the destination and not the journey?

Still cradling the dog in his arms with blood staining the front of his jacket, Isaac turns around and trudges through the snow and slush, towards his house. On the way, he persists with his inner dialogue: I still hate myself. But if I can cry over something like a small dog, I think I can change. If I can still change, then I still have the chance; the chance to someday love myself, and value my life, as well as others’ lives, as something much greater.

Isaac slowly shuts the door of his house. Giving the dog a bath, bandaging its leg, and providing food—as well as a spot next to the fireplace—brings him a few hours of entertainment. But after the small, brown dog is asleep and absent of pain, Isaac returns to his journal and finishes: Ignore what I’ve written in the past. It has changed. The fact that my truths and feelings can change so soon before death lead me to believe that there is hope for anyone; for everyone. It may take some time, but I’ll make it back on the path.

Where I will end up, I already know. Death is waiting for me, but I’m not waiting for it. I’m only interested in how I will get there, and what will happen along the way. It will take some time and more thought, but I’m back, and I’ve made the biggest step in the right direction in a matter of hours.

And I’m finally happy, at least for now. I’ve been gone for a long time… and I’ve got work to do.

Isaac Dubus - February 15th, 2009.

page 28

Burdens Whitney Duque

Sitting at lunch with Ly dia, we pored over Glamour magazine, trying to find the look we might want for prom.

“I really like that one, with the halter style top, Annie,” she informed me.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you think it’s a little too revealing? I mean it plung es, like, almost to the waist.”

“That’s the point!” she rep lied enthusiastically.

“It’s our junior prom. I want ev eryone there to want to look like me. And I want Eri c to be crazy about me.”

“I’m sure he will be,” I agreed, looking at the dangerous red halter again. “Bu t do you really want to give him that kind of impres sion?”

“What kind of impress io n?” She looked slightly baffled.

“You know, all the assum ptions guys seem to have about prom. Didn’t we tal k about this just a few weeks ago?”

“Oh, that,” she said, looking down at the magazine again. “I kinda decid ed it wasn’t that big of a deal, you know? I mean you’re gonna lose it sometime, right?”

Lydia’s voice got very quiet as she said this, and she wouldn’t meet my gaze. Before I could respond, we heard a loud bang from ac ross the lunchroom.

Looking across the room, I saw it once again; Bruce Nolan had pulled Daniel Trac ey’s chair out from under him as he sat alone in the corner, quietly studying his Bible.

I sighed. How could Bruce be so mean to It’s not like Daniel’s hurting anyone, it’s not like he tries to force his beliefs on other people; he keeps to himself. So he carries his Bi ble e verywhere with him.

So what? What did it matter to Bruce?

Daniel quietly picked himself up off the floor and began to pack up his things as Bruce laughed hysterically and shared approving looks from his fellow goth-looking friends, shouting “Bible-boy” as he left the lunchroom.

My heart went out to Daniel as I sat there, listening to Lydia chat about prom. How could she, and everyone else for that matter, just go back to lunch as if nothing had happened? Did they not see what I had just seen? Daniel never did anything to anyone; Bruce was just picking on him to be mean.

I wished I had the courage to stand up for what I believe in, no matter what the consequences were.

The bell rang. Time for biology class.

We walked into the classroom, Lydia still talking about prom. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I felt a little more agitated than usual. A young woman, only a few years older than me, was standing behind the teacher’s desk, busily looking through a file and glancing up to smile every once in a while the students coming in.

I had forgotten we had a new teacher starting today. Mr. Smith, our principal, had told us weeks ago that she would be completing her teaching semester here, in order to fini sh her degree, yet somehow it had slipped my mind. She looked nice enough.

We took our seats in the second row, not wanting to be too close to the front, in case the new teacher got a little overeager and decided to call on us first thing. Honestly, I can’t really stand biology. I would rather just do my time and get out.

page 29

She launched into class with a smile that seemed nothing but confident, until I noticed her hands shaking slightly as she took roll. She wrote her name on the board in large, scrawly lettering: Ms. Jennifer Rountree. At that point, I really felt bad for her. Most of the kids in class laughed and others ducked their heads, either in embarrassment or in trying to keep from laughing themselves.

Wow, I thought, this is going to be a long semester.

Unruffled by their rude behavior, Ms. Rountree began her lecture on mammalian reproduction. Ugh, could this stuff be any more boring? I really tried paying attention as best I could, but failed. Before I knew it, I was dazed and thinking about my day so far. Mom and I got into a fight this morning. After asking me what my work schedule was for this weekend, she got very angry and asked if I ever planned on coming back to church.

“Yes,” I said. “I just have to work this weekend, Mom. I’m trying to save for a car.”

“A car is not more important than having fellowship with your community and a relationship with God, Annie.”

“I know and I’m sorry, but weekends are all I get to work, and I really do need a car before I go to college.”

“Just remember that a car is only a material thing. It’s not something you can take with you in the end.”

She always knows how to get to me like that.

And every time she lectures me on going back to church and having a close walk with God, it seems like the world is trying to do the same thing. Just like last night at work, this guy asked me if I was Christian. When I told him yes, he got very enthusiastic and asked me to come back to chat when I had a minute. He told me about this website I could go to that tells about the coming of Christ. I thought he was a little odd, but it just seemed too coincidental. There were two other servers working at the Buffet last night. He could have asked either one of them—neither of them are Christians—and they would have been unaffected by it. But he asked me, and it almost seems like it was meant to be, like some unknown force drew us both to that place and time. It’s almost like God was trying to get my attention.

Realizing I had not been listening, I looked at the overhead screen, and found it covered with every religion I had ever heard of, and some that I hadn’t. I looked at Lydia, confused, and whispered, “What’s all this?”

“She’s listing all the dumb religions so we know what they believe about how we got here.

It’s kinda pointless, really,” she replied, looking annoyed.

Obviously, Ms. Rountree had gotten over any anxiety she had felt during my little break.

As she began going through the list of religions,

she explained what each one believed about the origins of human existence. Everything would have been fine—if she had left it at that.

“Christians believe that a divine creator put everything on this earth, including humans,” she said with a hint of a sarcasm. “I need you all to know that this is wrong. We have fossil evidence, radio-carbon dating and centuries’ worth of evolutionary studies to disprove it.”

For the first time, she looked serious, the nervous ear-to-ear grin wiped from her face. I was furious. Who was she to tell us that our religions were flat-out wrong? I felt my face grow warm with anger.

I stood up, my chair screeching the linoleum tiles.

“Ms. Rountree,” I said, “what makes you think that just because you have a degree you get to decide what we believe? Do you honestly think that you are allowed to tell us that our religions are just wrong?

Here’s a tip for you: instead of coming in here and trying to cram evolution down our throats, go back to school and study some of these religions before you so ignorantly go dissing them.”

She looked at me, clearly at a loss for words, no trace of the smile left. She opened her mouth the tiniest bit, then closed it promptly and looked at the other students, uncomfortably awaiting her response. Then, in one exasperated motion, she turned and practically ran from the room, her hand to her face. I sat back, pleased in having finally stood up for what I believed in.

Ms. Rountree had been calling my name.

“Hmmm?” I replied. Judging by the smug grin on her face and the numerous heads turned in my direction, she and the rest of the class knew I had been daydreaming again.

“I asked if you knew the correct age of the Earth,” she replied sweetly.

I stared at her, contemplating. How could I sit here and give her the answer she wanted?

I truly believe that the Earth is as old as the Bible claims: six thousand years. How could I honestly say that in front of my classmates and put up with the ridicule? Was it even worth it? And yet, if I did, I could stop feeling like such a hypocrite. The burden would be lifted, and I might be ashamed, but I would be rewarded tenfold with the benefits of living a life for God. “We’re waiting,” she reminded me. “Do you know the answer or would you like me to call on someone else?”

“No, I know the answer. It’s five billion years old, Ms. Rountree.”

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John 19 Amelia Shugar

(As I am a Christian, the Bible and its messages are a big part of my “culture.” I was reading John 19 and tried to imagine and fully grasp the concept of the crucifixion. This short bit of writing was the resulting expression.)

“Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” The teeming mob seethes with anger as the very essence of love stands before them - though they don’t recognize it embodied in this man of broken body. Blood and sweat drip from His brow into His crusted eyes, compliments of the thorns jammed into His skull. He looks into the crowd. Seeing darkness, hate, the unworthy sinners He’s bleeding for… and He loves!

The entirety of the evil and sin He will take upon Himself.

Silence, in silence the lamb is led to the slaughter. Darkness, sin is the weight. Blood, death is the price - Only the perfect life can pay the price of death finally - for forever. In love, in love, the lion steps forward in silence, bearing all sins to save the wretched sinners he loves. Scorn, humiliation, excruciating pain without comfort. The trial of all trials. A mockery of justice so the guilty may be justified— declared righteous through the lamb.

Stretched upon a cross, the God of the universe is put to death by His very creation.

The Son of God bears the entirety of His Father’s wrath - and denial.

From absolute righteousness to absolute sin. Oh what torture. Yet the lion, this lamb is silent.

Then “It is finished!” “And bowing His head, He gave up His spirit.”

Jesus, the messiah, died. Exhaling a last fevered breath, Life left the land of the living; traveled to the land of death; sealed in a tomb of rock… for the love of sinners. The entire weight of all sin of all time past, present and future heaped upon the lamb. The perfect life, perfect blood had been paid. Wrath, death, the debt was satisfied.

The temple veil tore in two. The sun hid its face. The earth trembled. Jesus Christ, Messiah, Son of God, God incarnate was in the tomb. “So there they laid Jesus…” So be it… for a time.

The sun rose the next day, shining upon the bloodstained ground - the lamb had died. The sun rose a second day— the lion was dead. Then came the morning of the third day… death’s hands were empty, and so was the tomb.

Christ is risen! Glory from the ashes of a trampled rose. The debt of sin was paid, sinners redeemed and the Redeemer lives! The sun shone upon the face of righteousness triumphant. With scars upon His hands, the lion raises his head with a joyful roar of laughter.

Father and Son are reunited, as always one. The enemy beaten, His beloved saved, Jesus ascends to His glorious throne. For His chosen the journey is only begun, the trek not always easy, but a glorious eternity beckons; a heavenly adventure awaits which goes on till the end of eternity. Christ is risen… He is risen indeed! Hallelujah.

I Am He Collograph Print by Lori L. Craig

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if not a door, then a window amelia shugar

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There are moments in a person’s life when time and space have no meaning. When the fingers of the clock cease to tick and you stumble after reaching for a step that doesn’t exist. This is one of those moments now.

“No.” With that simple, one-syllable word, the dark metal door begins to shut in your face. The creaking of the antique hinges signals the failure of your life. You must not give in to defeat. You must not let the door close!

“Please. You don’t understand. Can’t you help me somehow?” you say, your foot wedged in the doorframe.

“For the last time, no.” The man removes your foot from the frame with a little kick, and, next, you are standing with your nose pressed against the cold metal door. A grunted sigh escapes your throat as you slap your palms against the door as well, feeling the brushstrokes in the dry green paint. This is the tenth stop on your journey for employment— today. And what have you to show for it? Nothing.

Nada. Zilch. If you could be graded on your ability to get a job, that grade would be a big, red F. “F for failure, F for failure.“ Your palms beat out the rhythm of your defeat, making a dull thudding against the green metal door. Suddenly the improvised drum is removed from behind your quaking hands. Stumbling forward, you catch yourself before crashing into the pocketed face of the disgruntled man before you.

“May I help you?” Pocket-face asks. His tone is anything but helpful.

“Ha!” The sound bursts out before you can stop it. This is so ridiculous. As you raise your face to the sky, the dark clouds swirl above you, like a carton of moldy whipped cream. Quickly deciding you would rather be known as a failure than a total lunatic, you snap your eyes back to the grumpy man.

The grumpy man who has a job. Why do grumpy people get to be employed? You are a lot nicer than he is.

“No sir. Excuse me.” Slam. Again, the door shuts. Harder this time. It has begun to rain.

You do not cry. You never cry. Except that one time when you skinned your knee when you were seven. But you were just a kid. So why is there salt mixed with the rain on your face?

The rotten clouds of whipped cream are spitting at the back of your neck. Walking down the street, you keep your eyes plastered to the cement in front of you, refusing to even glance at the businesses that turned you away. Over there is the corner deli. It would be a nasty place to work, with all those food utensils to clean, and fried chicken to sell. But you would have been happy to scrub the fryer for a few bucks. Then, there was the little gift shop on Main Street. The woman there didn’t even look at your resumé. You know it isn’t their fault that they’re not hiring. It’s nobody’s fault. Your future is simply signed, and sealed… sealed like the doors that had been slammed in your face. Yep. Case closed.

At the end of the street you turn right, dodging a couple of puddles along the sidewalk.

But what’s the point? You’re already soaking wet. A couple of mud puddles wouldn’t make any difference.

Splashing through three consecutive puddles an inch deep, you shiver as the cold water stains your white socks a putrid brown. Your raise your voice in a snappy melody. It doesn’t matter, nobody will hear you. Everybody’s inside out of the rain.

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Ugh. Singing in the rain isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You jog the last few blocks to your house with its old, white siding and soggy lawn. At least it’s home.

And the front door is… open. That door isn’t supposed to be open. Glancing down at the doorjamb, you see the dirty sock that prevented it from closing.

“I c an’t e ven c lose do ors r ight.”

Stepping inside the door, you rip the wet tennis shoes from your feet and flop through the house in your wet socks.

Everything appears to be in its place, nobody took advantage of the open door that was supposed to be closed. Except…

A whirring sound, punctuated by sudden chirps, is coming from somewhere in the kitchen. Cringing at water squishing between your toes, you tip toe into the room. There’s the culprit. The tension suddenly releases your shoulders like a broken rubber band. A chickadee is flying frantically against the window above the stainless steel sink. Its glassy black eyes are hardly visible surrounded by the black feathers that cap its head. It pauses in its pointless effort, chest heaving as it sits on the dirty windowsill.

You approach it slowly. “Hey buddy, the door’s in the other direction.”

The creature merely stares, its eyes like shining black diamonds.

“But I guess I can open the window for ya. Oh great. Now I’m talking to a bird.” You move slowly over to the sink and reach across for the window.

It takes a couple shoves for the window to open, but when it does the bird takes off with a whirl of energy. Flying into the dying rain, it slips through the air with joyful ease, finally joining its friends taking a bath in a mud puddle. You wish you had even a tiny amount of that energy which the bird seems to have in abundance within its tiny body. But, why don’t you?

Throwing your head back, you laugh once again, except this time the laugh is real. Grabbing a rough towel from the kitchen, you wipe your feet dry after peeling the wet brown socks from them.

You should put on some clean white socks, fit for a king. Then grab your shiny, black dress shoes. The sun is coming out and you haven’t hit Seventh Street yet on your job search. They better be ready for you.

An hour later, striding down Seventh, you pause in front of the first potential workplace. You jump when the door is opened from the inside by a man with bright eyes.

“Just thought I’d get the door for you. It was raining hard earlier. Ya don’t want to get caught in a downpour like that.”

Your feet are stuck to the ground.

Did that man really just open the door? Is there somebody else standing here? Nope.

Just you.

“Yes, thank you very much.”

You smile.

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What if you had been born into silence? What if your own infant’s cry was nothing to you but a muscular strain in your throat and lungs?

Or what if in your toddler years, because of some disease, the world around you kept making its sounds—parents’ lips kept moving, TV sets flickering, your own Spotty yapping his mouth—but all those sounds grew dimmer and dimmer, fading to nothing, so that by your tenth year you had no concept of “word,” of “voice,” of sound itself, much less of sound linked to meaning.

So it could be for the Deaf. And so it could be that each deaf person would live isolated by that silence, no matter how loving the family or circle of friends. But over the generations, two developments within the deaf population have arisen to break through the barriers of silence and isolation: In the United States, as in other countries, a sign language evolved, based first on French Sign Language and the work of Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet and Laurent Clerc.

Eventually, this evolution led to what is today American Sign Language (ASL), serving as the primary means of communication for as many as 500,000 individuals in the U.S. Along with the growth of ASL as a living language, there developed over these same generations a Deaf Culture, a community of Deaf Americans who identify themselves not only on the basis of deafness, but also in their shared systems of beliefs and behaviors, shared ways of understanding the world, of looking at it from their own perspective, of assigning values to objects, actions, and human capabilities in ways unique to that culture.

How little most hearing individuals understand Deaf Culture may be represented by how surprised most of us are to learn that many Deaf Americans prefer to remain deaf than to choose a procedure that might “fix” them, most recently by undergoing the cochlear implants that can restore at least partial hearing to some deaf individuals.

That this might seem illogical or a form of self-denial, rather than as a rentention of identity and pride, indicates just how powerful and unique Deaf Culture is for its members.

To learn more about Deaf Culture and American Sign Language, to see some of it in action—including the signed translation of a Robert Frost poem—explore the NMC Magazine website at www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture. There, you’ll meet Mary Ann Schneider, an ASL Instructor at NMC and Support Services Advisor, and one of her deaf advisees, Tammy Weber, in a video interview conducted this March.

deaf culture john pahl page 32

Welcrie

Traverse City Dagorhir Whitney Duque

NMC Mag: You dress the part, correct?

Dag: Yes. Some of the larger events require that you wear garb.

NMC Mag: How do you think people perceive you when you are fully “armed”?

Dag: I think it more depends on if we’re in the game, or out of the game. You see one of us walking around in our garb, and you smirk.

You see five of us, and you turn around and walk the other way. We like to wear our garb into stores when we’re at big events, just to see the reactions.

NMC Mag: This seems like an alternative sport. What gave you inspiration?

Dag: [Pobst] I guess when I was younger, getting into sword fighting, I wanted to get into a sport that gave me a lot of exercise, but taught me to defend myself. That’s when I found Dagorhir. They really encourage you to come up with your own style; to figure it out for myself.

NMC Mag: Dagorhir seems to represent, in part, chivalry, a part of the culture that is believed to be dead. How do you think this fits into today’s culture?

Dag: I’m not sure that that’s quite the term for it. We try to show with this group that everyone is different. We have a community among the differences. With all the hatred and blame focused on others that’s going on in the world, this helps bring back the sense that “Hey, we’re all still human.”

NMC Mag: Is it your goal to bring something similar to chivalry out in your group?

Dag: When you go to a major event, and you’re talking to people, everyone tries to take on a role that would bring chivalry back. Right now, we’re still just getting people to join, and we’re not at the point of trying to be chivalrous. Maybe when we get as big as other groups, such as the ones downstate, we would become more chivalrous.

NMC Mag: Are you currently looking for new members, then, or are you happy with your group as it stands now?

Dag: Always. New people bring a sense of energy to the group.

They’re so into it—it revitalizes everybody else. [The group] remembers why they got into it in the first place. It’s always fun to train somebody else.

NMC Mag: If someone were interested in joining, how would he or she do that?

Dag: We have a website: freewebs.com/tcdagorhir. It’s easier to go to the Dagorhir website, though, dagorhir.com and look under “local groups in your area” and it should have links to us.

Photograph provided by Dagorhir

On the warmest day so far of 2009—St. Patrick’s Day—NMC Magazine took time to sit down with the medieval sword-fighting group of NMC, Dagorhir. Two of the group’s members, Jake Pobst and James Fewlass, both NMC students, participated in the interview as representatives of the group. This interview can be viewed on the NMC Magazine website at www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture.

NMC Magazine: What is it that your group does?

Dagorhir: It‘s a worldwide organization that performs a medieval reenactment of battles with foam weapons, made with PVC cores.

We meet with other groups in the area such as Petoskey and Central Michigan. We’re going to Detroit this weekend. Most other groups are on college campuses as well.

NMC Mag: What is the origin of your group’s name?

Dag: Actually, Dagorhir is the name of the worldwide sport. Our chapter name is “Welcrie.” When we were looking for a place to practice outside of NMC, we came to a small park in the evening, just before the sun set, and two vultures were flying overhead. We took it as a good omen. Then thirty more flew over. So, we looked up the Norse word for “vulture.” “Welcrie” was one of them.

NMC Mag: How did this group get started? Who started it?

Dag: [Pobst ] I started it. I’ve been sword fighting for over nine years now.

I’ve done Dagorhir for a good portion of that. I wanted to get my friends involved with it. We’ve been on campus for a year-and-a-half now.

NMC Mag: How many members are in your group?

Dag: We’ve got about twenty-eight constant members, and other individuals who show up every once in a while. We also have members who go to different groups in the area.

NMC Mag: Who can become a member of your group? Is membership open to only students or is it open to anyone?

Dag: Anyone who’s interested. The majority of our membership is the non-athletic type. The game even has rules for disabled people.

It’s good for people who twist an arm or break an ankle before an event.

NMC Mag: Do you have meetings or tournaments? What are they like?

Dag: We have practices every Sunday during the winter, in the gym here at NMC, from 12-2. During the summer, we’ll be out in the soccer field behind East Hall, Saturdays 12-6. A lot of us, though, show up at 10 and stay ‘til 8. We’ll have a couple of small games that we’ll play, and we’ll divide into groups and have battles. We’ve created a lot of games for our area, depending on the utilities we have. We’ll play “Capture the Flag,” and we invented one called “Sacrifice.” [At our tournaments] there are hundreds of individuals completely garbed, just out having a good time. They can span days or weeks.

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Enough Said

The Influence of a Road Sign

The first time I saw an M-22 t-shirt was in Frankfort High School, hanging off the shoulders of some sporty freshman guy. I figured he’d had it screened at the new shop downtown.

Custom-made t-shirts had been the latest Frankfort fad, and I thought his was just a cool idea to carry on the trend. Then I started seeing the logo everywhere. What is going on?

I wondered. What does it mean? Years later, I finally found my answer. I walked past a shop in downtown Traverse City, with a sign showing the same emblem that marks the road cutting through my hometown. Confused, and still curious, I did the only sensible thing I could do. I entered, I looked… and I understood. M-22 is not just a logo or a road sign; it is a symbol for Northern Michigan culture and community.

Matt and Keegan Myers, two Northern Michigan kiteboarders, are the founders of this cultural trademark.

I was fascinated by the idea; I wanted to know more. Did it simply come to them, driving down the road one day? Or was it something a long time in the making? I spoke with Keegan to find out the true meaning behind the black-and-white sign.

I expected him to give me a detailed account of the cultural influences that lead them to create the M-22 brand, but he simply said, “We didn’t really plan on doing it, it just kind of fell into our laps.”

The two brothers have been around the world searching for the best kiteboarding spots. The scenic route of M-22 still reigns superior, and Matt and Keegan made t-shirts with the road logo to show their love for its natural beauty. The community became interested, and when Keegan wore the logo in a magazine photo shoot, people started contacting the brothers to order their own branded clothing. “For me, M-22 is pretty much the coolest route I’ve ever been on anywhere in the world,” says Keegan.

“Obviously other people have the same feeling about it and that’s the brand.”

www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture

Carianne Klueck

An M-22 t-shirt is more than just another shirt; it is a reflection of local culture. When the idea caught on, Matt and Keegan started looking for other items to put the logo on.

They wanted to keep it local, to represent the area and give the community something to be proud of. “We listen to what [local] people have to say and take that into account when we make decisions.” The branded items are those that deserve it: quality products that represent Northern Michigan and the M-22 area, like coffee, clothing, and locally bottled wine.

On Black Friday, in November of 2007, the M-22 Store opened in downtown Traverse City. “We just started rockin’ it there,” says Keegan. “We liked the location because it was small and simple and not too much to deal with.” Not to mention it was easy to find and brought many more people’s attention to the brand and what it represents. But with all the hype about this relatively new idea, it seems to have the potential of turning into a fad. Keegan isn’t worried about that. “It could easily become a fad,” he says, “but that’s not what we’re about. It’s one of those things, you either get it or you don’t. It’s not something that’s going to die out.”

Since M-22 is a local brand, it is especially important to those who live in the area, who understand the meaning behind it. They buy the products to represent their hometowns, the private beaches, the close community, and the coastal route that takes them to their favorite destinations.

That’s why Matt and Keegan donate a portion of all M-22 purchases to the Leelanau Land Conservancy—to represent their desire to keep the land the way it is. Whenever someone buys an M-22 product, part of the cost goes toward conserving the area’s picturesque beaches and landscape.

The magnitude of such a simple idea is quite amazing.

I wouldn’t be surprised to see an M-22 sticker on the fender of someone’s car parked in my hometown. But this cultural symbol does not go unnoticed by people outside the vicinity of M-22. It has the ability to spread beyond our community and incite interest in people who’ve never even seen Northern Michigan. “It really connects people,” says Keegan. “If you wear an M-22 shirt, it doesn’t matter where you go in the world, somebody will say something about it.”

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ren brabenec

the untouchable the untouchable the untouchable page 35

Cadence was never late. So when the heavy, wooden door swung open to Mrs. Lantz’s English class ten minutes after the final bell rang, Mrs. Lantz sighed and looked up, expecting to see the dumb jock with no sense of time or perhaps the rebellious troublemaker with no consideration for the rules. But in walked Cadence.

A little fuse went “pop” in Mrs. Lantz’s brain. Cadence? She’s never late! But there she stood, Cadence Catorsky, her face resembling the color of a ripe tomato, her curly auburn locks loose and frizzy, her lungs bursting through her well-developed chest.

Even in her disheveled state, Cadence made a rather bland doorway seem quite pleasant, and the boys in the room became wholly distracted due to her sudden appearance. Her lips weren’t the cliché puffy lipsticked ones the preppy girls sported. They were simple, but when she smiled they were the frame for a smile that could make a man’s stomach do pirouettes. Her hands, lacking the normal red nail polish, were right out of an artist’s rendition of the perfect human hand. She stood there for a moment, embarassed by being tardy but gracing everyone with her presence nevertheless.

“Ss...ss...sorry I’m late Mrs. Lantz,” Cadence stammered. Mrs. Lantz nodded, still digesting what was happening, her quarter inch spectacles magnifying her blank stare. Cadence jogged to her seat, flip flops clacking on the cheap linoleum, red book bag swinging from her shoulder. “Ss...sorry,” she stuttered again, nearly tripping over a classmate’s backpack.

Mrs. Lantz resumed her dissertation on the exact use and placement of past participle verbs, but Cadence wasn’t listening. She’d flipped open her school planner. Today was April 4th, the day before the prom. Nobody had asked her to the dance yet. Actually, every boy in the school, including the handsome prep boys who could afford a new hundred dollar polo each week and an hour in the shower every day, thought Cadence Catorsky was out of his league. But each evening before she went to bed she looked in the mirror and only saw a plain face staring back. It never occurred to her to get her eyes checked.

Cadence took a deep breath and tried to relax. She’d never been late to class before. She opened her textbook to the page Mrs. Lantz was diligently droning over. The glittery pink “official” invitation from the cheerleading team she used as a bookmark stared up at her. Cadence never did join the cheerleading squad. Those silly girls asked her every year but she always politely declined. Cadence didn’t have anything against ditzy girls, she actually envied their blond, oblivious lifestyles. But the reflection she saw in the mirror didn’t say she was pretty, so she spent her free time hidden in the library, studying for her honors classes.

Mrs. Lantz continued to speak dramatically about past participle verbs, but Cadence couldn’t follow the lecture. What was a participle anyway? She opened her planner again. The word “Prom” was printed in bright red font, right below “April 5.” She glared at the word and penciled a big black “X” over it. Screw prom. I won’t go if no one asks me.

Cadence slumped in her seat, trying to figure out why none of the boys ever asked her to any of the dances.

She briefly contemplated taking the initiative to ask someone, but that thought was quickly dispelled as Mrs. Lantz called on her to explain what a participle was.

Cadence jerked upright in her seat, knocking her pencil and eraser off her desk. “Uhh…” she said, bending to retrieve her fallen utensils. “It’s a… it’s a kind of verb right?” she ventured.

Mrs. Lantz pursed her lips and placed her hands on her hips. “Yes dear, it is, but it’s a special kind of verb.”

She shook her head at Cadence and addressed the class as a whole. “Now, a participle is a verb that can also act as an adjective. It’s common…” Cadence had already tuned her teacher out again. How did I miss that one?

Cadence took a deep breath and glanced at the word “prom” that was still mocking her from the page in her planner. She stared at that word until the bell rang, dismissing the class. As she traveled the crowded halls to her next class, everyone gave her a wide space to walk, careful not to bump into the beautiful Cadence Catorsky.

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LisaÊG arvin “That’s not the way you do that,” my mom interjected, and I wondered if I could ever do anything right. She immediately walked over to where I was getting ready to start a load of laundry. As kids growing up, my brother and I were never allowed to do household tasks. To an outsider, we may have seemed lucky and spoiled; but we wanted to do chores so we could prove to her that we were capable of doing something. Don’t get me wrong, we knew she loved us, but at times it seemed she loved her washer or table or dishes more. We could not possibly know how to correctly start her washer, because in her eyes, one twist of the wrist from us was a death sentence to the machine.

After high school, my brother and I moved out on our own and became competent at household chores. My brother’s escape was going to college. Mine was moving to Traverse City and getting married. (Don’t think that was without drama!) I began cross-stitching, and after I finished each project I would bring it to show my mother. She thought my projects were neat and I loved to hear her praises. The cross-stitching soon became not about the process of making something, but more about the satisfaction I would get from my mother’s approval of my final product. See, she never cross-stitched herself, so it was impossible for her to be critical of it. And so our relationship went; her continual critiquing of my everyday existence and my dodging her criticism by creating works of art that she could not criticize but could only praise.

Fast forward five years. My mom and dad had just stopped by to see me in a costume I had sewn and was wearing at work: a Santa suit. I work at an Obstetrics and Gynocology office and we frequently dressed in costume during the holidays. She was impressed with my handiwork and she even posed for a picture with me and Dad, something she rarely did.

Little did I know that was the last time I would see her alive. The next morning my brother called telling me there had been a terrible accident. He handed the phone to my dad, who was crying. My dad was a veterinarian and crying was not part of his vocabulary. I felt a huge lump well up in my throat as I struggled to understand what they were trying to tell me: she was gone.

The days, weeks, and months that followed were very difficult for me.

Without her there to tell me how I should be doing things or how I should be living my life, I was really lost. I hit a low point and decided I needed an outlet.

One day, I happened to be frequenting one of my favorite craft stores when I spotted a gorgeous quilt hanging on the wall. My feet turned on their own accord and pulled me across the room to stand in front of this awesome sight.

I did not know where to look first. Was it the pattern, so intricately stitched that attracted me? Was it the bright, coordinating colors? Maybe it was the combination of all the pieces and different patterns in the material that pulled together in a kaleidoscope of beauty. I knew that in just an instant, something inside me had changed.

My mom always said that if I was going to buy something, I should buy the best. In her honor, that is exactly what I did. I went out and purchased, not the Rolls Royce of sewing machines, but definitely the Cadillac. I gathered my fabric and pattern and began piecing together my first quilt. I worked endlessly on it, wanting that instant gratification of having my first project done. Whenever I was sitting at my machine, I found inner peace. It was like the weights of grief were being lifted with every stitch I made. I felt a sense of calm as I stitched those delicate stitches; it was a way for me to not only keep my mind active and busy, but also a way of escaping the continual heartache I felt over losing my mom. Every time I put gentle pressure on the foot pedal, I felt closer to her. It was like the threads were reaching from my home to heaven, keeping us bonded for eternity.

After that first quilt, I had an urge to make a memory quilt of my mom. I gathered photos of her, which was very hard to do considering she hated having her picture taken. I then compiled shirts from her closet to cut up for the fabric of my quilt. I took the pictures and had them printed onto the fabric. I pieced them together and organized the quilt squares into a ladder pattern around her pictures. As I laid the pieces out, I pictured the rungs of the ladder extending up to heaven where she was. I worked tirelessly on the quilt; I felt I had to hurry and finish it so I could give it to my dad. I did not want to risk the chance of him forgetting one thing about her. Miraculously, I finished the quilt in two days. When it was completed, it occurred to me that my mom was not there to give me her opinion on my work. I imagined in my head what she would say about it, but I still needed to hear it spoken. I needed that confirmation from somebody. I showed my quilt to my brother and to my uncle Eugene, who was my mom’s only brother. They both loved it, and somehow, hearing the praises from Uncle Eugene was like hearing them from my mom.

What started as therapy for me has grown into a healing process and an addiction. Many more quilts have followed, commemorating happy times in my life: weddings, births and graduations.

As I have continued my quilting education and learned how to critique quilts for quality, I can see the flaws in the way I did the binding of the memory quilt and in the squares which are not perfectly square.

However, the memory quilt remains very special and symbolic to me. My father has since remarried and the quilt has come home to me. It hangs right next to my bed so that it is the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night. It is an everlasting memory of my mom, but it also reminds me a lot about my journey and how I got started in this wonderful art of quilt-making.

Quilting has led me to new friendships and experiences. Through quilting I have grown close to women who consider me their adoptive daughter and sister. We share a bond in our passion for fine quilting and quilt-shop-hopping, searching for the newest pattern, fabric or project. But it goes deeper than that. It is also about hearing words of praise coming from a motherly figure. It is about looking at all the bolts of fabric lined up at the quilt shop and seeing endless possibilities— not only in the quilt I could make, but also in what I see in myself. As I have pieced many quilt blocks together, I have been healing myself stitch by stitch. In a way, quilting has helped me learn how to accept criticism and do things for myself and for my own approval. It has given me the courage to start college later in my life and to finally pursue my goal of becoming a nurse. It has taught me that if at first the pieces do not go together, there is nothing wrong with ripping out the stitching and starting again. And I am doing just that. www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture

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Kathleen M. Mosher has been the Library Director at Kalkaska Public Library for seventeen years, but she didn’t go to college to be a Librarian.

Heroes in the World of Books

She graduated from Wayne State with a Bachelor’s degree in Sociology. The Library at Wayne State “smelled musty and the walls were pea green,” she says. It just wasn’t a pleasant place to spend time. It wasn’t until after she had graduated from college, got married and had three boys and began spending a lot of time with them at libraries discovering the world of children’s literature that Kate thought about being a librarian.

By this time she was about thirty-eight years old.

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When Kate told the Librarian in her town of Mayville that she was considering going back to Wayne State to get her Master’s degree in Library Science, the librarian asked, “Do you want a job?” Kate said yes.

Later, another library job opened up—the head of the children’s department in Caro, Michigan—and she got it. Her boss gave her one day per week off for college, so she commuted eighty-five miles to Wayne State on Saturdays. Most of the time, there was hardly anyone at the college on those Saturday mornings. It was difficult for her to take care of her three boys while studying for her Master’s, but she made it.

Today, she is the Library Director at Kalkaska Public Library.

Kalkaska County is small, connected by a spider web of dirt roads and our three major highways, all leading to the outside world. The woods and wildlife are abounding and there are farms everywhere.

The population of Kalkaska County is 2,226; there are approximately 35,000 books in the library. I asked Kate why she chose to be a librarian in tiny Kalkaska and she said, “When I started school, I knew I wanted to be a rural Librarian. I never wanted to work in a library were you’re so busy that you can’t make eye contact with people. I have been in libraries like that; larger libraries were the personal connection isn’t there.”

Those of you who enjoy libraries and the books they provide—and those of you who want to write—will be happy to hear that Kate has no fear of the demise of the book. “I think that books are insanely popular. If you look at the sheer volume of young adult titles that are coming out—I think that young people read just as much as we did when we were kids. Maybe they listen to it on CD, but a book is a book.

People have been talking about the demise of the book for a long time but I don’t see it happening. I don’t despair about the book. They are going to be around for a long time.”

Kate seems to love her job and when I asked her what the best thing about being a Librarian is, she thought awhile before speaking. “Well, besides the pleasure of being able to pick out the books, it’s finding information people will need to get through their lives. I mean, just helping people find what they want to read and find what they need to function in life.” I asked Kate if she would advise people to go into this career. “Oh, it’s a great field and we need young people in it. You’ll probably never get rich.

It’s public service and I don’t think you get rich in public service. But it’s a great job, there is a great need. In my generation all the librarians I know are looking at retirements. And there are a few young people coming up, not enough.”

by

Kate has done a lot to enrich the lives and culture of the people of Kalkaska. She has child-reading programs every summer, story-time for the very small children, and also a book club for the adults once a month. When Kate first moved to Kalkaska and told people she was working at the Library and people would tell her they didn’t know Kalkaska had a library. Now she says, “Everywhere I go, people are saying, ‘when are we getting a new library?’ and people know we’re here, they know what we do for the community, we have support from the county commissioner and the community at large.”

Kate knows her library could be so much more if only she had the space. “We would like to build a new library. We have been working on it for about seven years. Now we are looking at building across from the Kaliseum.” With more space Kate is hoping that the Library will be utilized more as a community center. “I know that the library is a community center already. People drop things off for other people here—we usually have an envelope or soamething behind the desk.

People will say, ‘so-and-so is coming into town in two days, would you mind if we would leave this here for them?’ We can refer people to other agencies. We distribute information about non-profit or community events.” She would also like it if the library could have quiet spaces for people to study, and comfy chairs for people to sit and enjoy a good book or newspaper. She says that they have lost this aspect, but with a new building, she hopes to regain it for the people of Kalkaska.

What I hope the people of Kalkaska realize that Kate is a hero. She doesn’t wear a cape to work every morning or shoot webs from her wrist, but she is an everyday hero. She and other rural librarians around the state of Michigan bring culture to us. They work hard to show us diverse backgrounds and traditions, and also bring sophistication and refinement to our dirt roads and woods—through the books that they handpick and place on the shelves of our libraries. All we have to do is pull them off the shelves and immerse ourselves in the world of books.

att r p S aye

K l l a d Ken

As the local librarian, she sees families pass through her doors that need this library more than they may even know.

“I see people every day that we help do things—file their taxes, file for citizenship forms—and give information for raising their children. From the time people are born to the time they die, we have books that help people plan for and deal with each part of their lives.”

www.nmc.edu/nmcmagazine/culture

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