WRITERS ROOM | Anthology

GRE E K

LE GEI N ( G AT H E R)

ANTHOS

- LOGI A ( CO LLE CT ION)

GR EEK

( F LOWER)

F R ENC H

MEDI EVAL L ATI N

GR EEK

A N T H O LOG I A

WRITERS ROOM AT DORNSIFE is a place for writing, reading, thinking, and being. Here, members of the Mantua, Powelton Village, and Drexel communities will create a shared story.

FOR EVERYONE WHO HAS A STORY TO TELL

The room is the beginning of architecture.

It is the place of the mind.

—Louis Kahn, “The Room, the Street, and Human Agreement”

Winter was hard in our city this year—one long cold spell that felt unending, unendurable. As February came to a close we thought the worst was over, but in March the snow kept coming. And then, the ice storm: it dropped like a stage curtain.

Remember that night?

I was leaving my office when a colleague from Biology (research interests: symbiosis, coevolution, phylogenetics, dietary evolution, and environmental microbiology) asked where I was headed. When I said I was going to Writers Room, the scientist, ever-curious, wanted to know more: Why would anyone go there in this weather?

This is what I told him:

Every one of us has a story, but rarely are we asked to tell it. Rarer still are we given time and space to think and write—beyond what happened, to what it means. (This is who I am. This is how I see the world.)

Did I answer the question?

I left the scientist at MacAlister and, crossing a slicked-over Chestnut Street, made my way to Dornsife.

When I got here, this room was filled with people. A poet unpacked a box of postcards she’d been collecting for years. The stack was passed from hand to hand around the table. Heads bowed in concentration, imagination.

Here is what they wrote.

Rachel Wenrick West Philadelphia, June 2015

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S

Our Habits of Writing

1

The Shape of Family

5

Writing From Postcards

11

Journeys 17 Write Your Block

27

Mothers and Motherhood

35

Candy Chang: Personal Histories, Public Spaces

45

English 360: Philadelphia Stories

65

W R I T E R S

1

R OO M

O U R

H A B I T S

O F

W R I T I N G

1

T R A N S P L A N T CAROL MCCULLOUGH

When I was in high school, I decided I’d like to be a poet, to capture images and make them twinkle and sparkle off the page with luminosity. I dabbled and tinkered for a decade or two and then—BOOM—a major event changed my life and took all the poetry right out of it.

It’s been a process to rediscover and reclaim my intentions in a new place, respond and create, pick up shattered pieces and reconstruct beauty from brokenness.

I started simply with haiku.

Sonia Sanchez’s spirit inspires me.

I would love to turn my journals into memoir because there is a story I have to tell. Much has happened. Zora Neale Hurston wrote a book in 7 weeks to pay her rent. Perhaps I will do that, too.

I could write about how I came to be here in the first place

But the ink won’t flow out of my pen— How it wasn’t my first or second choice, or even my third But we came here for the offer of a J.O.B.—not for me, but for him How I drove the last leg of the journey up north

From down South in Alabama—another place I did not want to go Fought the urge to detour back to my Appalachian birthplace Did not waver at the Maryland-DC border where we’d lived before I could write about how everyone was tired of singing songs and playing road games

Sitting down in a van that kept on rolling on for 12 long hours

Past fields and farms and bridges and cities and buildings 2

And highways with traffic speeding up and slowing down

Sunshine and rainstorms—cars trucks vans—long stretches of white lines flowing onward and upward Northward

Toward the promise of what could still be

If we could just make it there— I could write about my relief as peaks of tall buildings

Finally painted a skyline and I thought

We’re almost there so put the pedal to the metal

And let’s GO—

Anticipation. Acceleration. Then abrupt scenery change Those few skyscraper glimmers dimmed to Darkened factories alongside the highway Standing like scrappy men who’d been in a fight they’d lost Broken windows like jaws full of knocked out teeth

How I thought “What’s happened to this place? Where’s the glitter and the glamour?”

Exit. Directional Switch. Turn around and try it again.

I could write about how I’d almost missed coming here altogether

Shot right past the place I could not recognize as

My destination city— a missed exit—

Could that have been my warning sign?

I could write about the early years here

How isolated I became trying to adjust

To dangers and fear and loneliness

Muggings carjackings brutalities quite horrible

Always happened someplace else, I’d heard on the news.

But in this, my new city, just down the street a man was shot dead. Too close for my comfort.

So call me homemaker/homebody—

Transplanted stranger in a stranger land.

I could write about my family—

Young son baby girl on the way

Their father— but that part’s complicated

So skip ahead to his departure

Where the true story begins I could write about what it means to be a mother

To have these unique beings, little essences of creation dependent on me to 3

get it right (the weight of responsibility) They are the pure joy, the worthwhile product of it all.

I’d write how from the moment they were laid into my arms

They have enchanted me with the mystery of their wonderment How sweet to see them grow and learn and blossom

Creative compassionate and caring citizens

Of the world we three created And beyond I could write about this new stage

Where I can almost catch my breath I’d create a space

For writing

That I would fill with a little something for myself—

4

T H E

S H A P E

O F

FA M I L Y

5

M Y M OT H E R WA S A M E TA P H O R I C A L C L AW H A M M E R E X T R AO R D I N A I R E NORMAN CAIN

My mother was short, lithe, Seeped in the serene realm Reticent, yet, in spite of her slight physique and sweet disposition she was Metaphorically a hammer, generally dormant within herself but Always emerging, Swinging, banging, connecting Against the nails Of necessity when various aspects our Family were in need of repair, construction, disengagement Her sturdy oaken will—the handle of the hammer that resides Within her—she securely griped with her hands to Console Teaches—by either striking nails of concern with a gentle, audible Harmonious pattern of barely Whispered resonance—reminiscent of rhythmic Raindrops upon Windowpanes Or a series of swift, controlled swings that would set in motion a vibrant Velocity of vehement rapidity—causing the head of the hammer (which was her Reverent Perseverance) to strike the nails of her choice, like Lightning abounding Resounding thunder—en route to assail its designated target.

The claw of the hammer is my mother’s determination to cleave to and extract Or unbend nails of negativity by gently prodding them into upright righteousness Or ferociously snatching them from detrimental dilemmas.

My Mother was a Metaphorical Claw Hammer Extraordinaire

6

My father is a railroad man, a comrade of section crews. He is a gandy Dancer whose movements and Common Metered intonations meshed with Synchronized Rhythmic slamming of sledgehammer upon spikes, Firmly driven into rail ties from South Carolina, through North Carolina,

Straight into Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He was a solitary man of Controlled Wander lust; when he was ill, the sturdy hammer of my Mother Pummeled Nails of devotion into his soul and made him whole.

My Mother was a Metaphorical Claw Hammer Extraordinaire I am, like my father was, a traveling man whose journeys have not Been confined to air, water or land, but rather to the time and places That come with the territory of reading: so I’ve been in ancient lands Where impetuous book worms roam, been privy to forgotten lore: My trek began with the meticulous Rhythmic tapping of the head of My mother’s Hammer against the nails of possibilities that were driven into my Psyche, creating a vessel of Knowledge key to all endeavors My Mother was a Metaphorical Claw Hammer Extraordinaire My brother is the scholar athlete, a radiant intellect, whose versatility gives New meaning to Renaissance man—a well-constructed cabinet Created by the head of my mother’s hammer upon the nails of guidance that, From time to time, had to be grasped firmly and maneuvered with care My Mother was a Metaphorical Claw Hammer Extraordinaire My youngest sister is a replica of my mother, an apprentice—a flash light whose Glow guides the sturdy hammer of mother’s persona as she administers With Gentle taps, delicate nudges, vigorous blows upon proscribed nails as she grasps And snatches with her hammer claw of Reverent Perseverance The negativity that would render our family unattached.

My Mother was a Metaphorical Claw Hammer Extraordinaire My oldest sister is a valentine heart with a dash of salt; the hammer within my Mother Misses the mark when it attempts to find her oldest daughter because While the oldest daughter is more sweet than bitter, her head is as hard as the Nails that cannot Penetrate her will. This, nonetheless, has made her as strong as my mother.

My Mother was a Metaphorical Claw Hammer Extraordinaire She has built a sturdy familial foundation whose legacy has Proven to be Unalterable.

7

FA M I L Y ,

A

M U R A L

CAROL MCCULLOUGH

Mama was the rainbow—beautiful originator— colorful sweetness and love Daddy was the earth—foundational force for our family—bedrock strength, supportive, orange in place of brown, looks like a basketball, which he coached

One above, one beneath, my loving support system.

I miss them.

My sister’s a white ghost now, because she died a decade ago. We rivaled each other for our parents’ love till we grew enough to know they loved us both, and we loved each other. Now she’s a spirit in the sky, like the song, or an angel. I miss her, too.

My son is the paint brush, continuing all the colors— creative, making enough beauty to spread around My daughter is a yellow star, luminous and bright.

She shines above the rest I am the sunflower—I reach toward the sky and stand tall in the warmth, but hard cold days make me shiver, and drop my petals down to the ground. But I’m determined to grow again, and I will, more beautiful than before.

8

L I K E

A

S TA R

JORDAN MCCULLOUGH

I am a bald eagle Ben Franklin hated the bald eagle And even called it lousy But I consider myself bold I am tough and caring at The same time If you mess with one of my chicks I’ll peck your f***ing eyes out Jilisa is a trout She likes to escape She’s often absentminded And carefree but also dedicated To staying on task. No matter How far away she is, she always Finds her way back to the other Schools of fish Brad is superman The S on Superman’s chest Means hope, that’s what he Does he gives people hope.

Hope for more morals in our Community, hope for everyone To be an artist and hope for Philadelphia as a force to be Reckoned with.

Mom is a sloth She hangs from a tree 9

She’s stronger and weaker At the same time, she Has short-term memory Loss when it comes to Remembering. But after She rests she regains Confidence.

Dad is a fox He’s clever but very strict A little intimidating at times But he comes through for his Family, also a cannibal to other Animals but most likely clever He has issues with being hunted By humans, over all he is alright And a fierce warrior in the wild.

My Grandma and Grandpa are The sun and mood The sun shines bright and the Moon just sits there.

Sun is hot, moon is cool I never met them or barely Knew them but they’re always In the sky and I can see them shinning and glistening.

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W R I T I N G

F R O M

P O S TC A R D S

11

S N A P S H OT S CAROL MCCULLOUGH

1. Big Baby 1930’s

The tables have turned in the checkerboard-tiled kitchen Ma-Ma in her apron, heels and hose sits silent listening to me, a big chubby cherub-cheeked baby boy clad only in a diaper.

My stance, hand on hip, elbow resting on the high chair tray, leaning in at an angle one leg crossed over the other commands the scene showing I am in charge, for once, finally.

Though I still don’t have any words. My look says it all, and she leans back into the chair, wondering how we both got scrambled into this mixed up scene.

No you can’t get out. Just sit there and think about what you have and have not done, I say, finally glad to say that for once and watch her expression.

Silence. Except for the drip-drop-drip of the faucet at the sink behind us.

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2. Untitled, 1942

She’s finished her morning toast and juice.

Time for a smokey drag from the one bit of elegance in the room A mid-day moment stolen.

She wraps her arm around the big book like she would the man—if she had one.

Imagination will have to do for this moment.

“Hot Romances” entrance her—almost curling her hair without the rollers For just a few moments she’s out of her drab kitchen and into sexy love— There’s steam at her shoulder, so it must be HOT.

13

A N A I S

N I N,

H O L L Y WOO D,

1959

JORDAN MCCULLOUGH

It’s a small diner, only a few people are there. Some people are eating, other people are doing other things while they eat. The booths are empty and some are full one woman is just sitting there, either she’s full or there’s something on her mind, but more importantly mostly all the plates are cleaned off but what’s not finished is her coffee. The woman looks sad and also terrified, maybe she’s had a rough day or someone she cared about really let her down. Everyone else is chatting and being happy while she’s staring out the window into the abyss in silence.

14

D I A N E

A R B U S

S P E A K S

JILL MOSES

I wanted to stop time to capture the face of the Jewish giant the boy with the hand grenade in Central Park the triplets in their bedroom.

They were not freaks of nature, Their faces shone with the distorted and fragmented light of the photographed.

The moment before and after the picture is taken, it is lost like the formation of clouds that keep moving over your head.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t see colors anymore.

Just the black and white Feather and bone of raw humanity.

With light comes pain.

It is palpable in the glint of an eye, a smile, or a hand with brown age spots and in the way the flower girl stands 15

in the field of fog, alone and gazing into the starry future.

I am that flower girl I am the Jewish giant.

I am the boy with the hand grenade.

I can frame things.

I can control life and death and grasp the sameness of sand, water, light, and body.

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J O U R N E Y S

17

S AT U R DAY M O R N I N G O N L A N C A S T E R AV E N U E , 1 9 5 3 NORMAN CAIN

Saturday morning is Lancaster Avenue’s busiest day. People come there to fraternize, shop, bar hop take in the sights. With the pace of a turtle, the crowd inches along the concrete-carpeted sidewalk, each individual traversing his or her personal path, taking care not to brush against someone coming from the opposite direction. On my journey, I meticulously creep, slither shuffling side stepping slipping and sliding between across and around slowly moving and brisk stepping between the multitudes of people. Around the sporting life men with wide brimmed hats, razor creased pants and two-tone shoes who are drenched in the aroma of expensive cologne, camel cigarettes, and rum. Around a group of scurrying squealing children, pursuing and being pursued.

I hop backwards so I will not collide with a baby carriage containing a sobbing infant who is being recklessly pushed through the throngs of pedestrians by a young gum chewing mother who attempts to console her child with a soft lullaby that is muffed by the conglomeration of rejoicing, booming, barking mumbling, begging voices of the avenue’s congregants.

Stopping suddenly and freezing like a statue so as not to make contact with an elderly lady who pushes a shopping cart filled with vegetables and fruits purchased from one of the multitude of outdoor stands located in front of the grocery stores that line the market place. Several more steps position me in front of a street preacher dressed in black. He vigorously thrums a weather worn guitar. His wife jubilantly bangs on a tambourine. Together they sing common metered hymns, southern-laced songs of salvation.

Several dandified, expensively dressed men languidly lounge in front of a bar in solitude, only speaking when a well-endowed woman in a dress that fits like a tight glove emerges from the women’s entrance of the bar. Oblivious to the concept of chauvinism they posture shout and coo to the attractive sister: “Hey, baby, can I go with you?” and “Must be jelly, because jam don’t shake like that.”

I stop for a while at the corner of 40th and Lancaster in front of the Leader 18

Theater, first looking at the poster of coming attractions: Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, and Johnny Mack Brown, then watching, with the other gleeful children, a burgundy vested and capped monkey prance in time to the rhythm escaping from an a dark tan street organ being vigorously churned by a smiling short brown-skinned man.

Behind the organ grinder, there is a store from which emanates the thick stale smell that comes from chickens awaiting death. Having no space for movement in the wired cages in which they are imprisoned, they quietly huddle and pitifully wait their fate: a customer points to one of them and an attendant opens the cage, firmly grasps the chosen fowl ignoring their frantic quaking, places the fowl on a chopping block and chops its head off with a sharp meat cleaver.

As I pass Brooklyn and Lancaster I spot the Fabulous Kings in their shining satin blue and yellow reversible jackets hanging out on the corner. I hover like a helicopter in animated suspension in front of the sea food shop where I ritualistically sniff, inhale, relish the pungent aroma of fresh and fried seafood flowing from the interior. I watch the throng of people make their selections by pointing through the spotless windows of sparkling white refrigerated cases that display beds of crushed ice upon which lay fresh shad, eel, mullet, salmon, trout, porgies, oysters, clams, shrimp, scallops, mussels, and crabs. Thickly gloved men wearing black rubber aprons set fish on hanging scales that abruptly sway and whose arrow points to the weight of the item that it accommodates on a circular clock arrayed with decimal numerals. They swiftly scale the fish with sharpened knife blades, gut the fish, wash the fish, and wrap them in sheets of newspapers before finally placing them in thick brown paper bags. Other white-aproned men carefully drop clams and oysters into vats of steaming oil and customers sit at a table eating their hot sauce drenched orders.

I’m pulled from my vision by the sound of clopping horse hooves upon the street. I see a weary horse being driven by a hustler who hawks food from his wagon. Walking on either side are three boys carrying baskets in which they will place the vegetables and fruits requested. Sometimes customers take their orders on the street. Sometimes the boys will deliver the orders to the first, second or third floors.

Walking toward 43rd and Lancaster I pass several young men taking unified/ softly/ swaying/ dance-like long strides to a slow soulful doo-wop tune coming from a transistor radio. Because of the always-crowded bakery, on this block the scent is a seductive sweet smelling, fragrance of sugarcoated cakes, donuts, and pastries.

The number 10 trolley shimmies down the avenue, its steel wheels rattling upon the tracks, its whistle sending out a deafening series of clangs before it hisses to a jerking halt, and lets folk on and off of the green iron carriage. Two boys perched on the thin platform on the back of the trolley do not descend to the street. They have not reached their destination or they, perhaps, will ride up and down the avenue until they find a new adventure to amuse them. .

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N OT

J U S T

W H I S T L I N ’

D I X I E

CAROL MCCULLOUGH

Moving to the Deep South was a journey of learning to conquer fears both new and old, taking big steps into new territory, leaving behind family and friends to carve a temporary safe spot in a place that had a history of not being readily welcoming and friendly. It was complicated by my not really wanting to move there at all. I wanted to move to At-lan-ta. Instead, my tiny family went to Alabama, where my ex landed a great job and I would settle into motherhood with our then two-year-old son.

I brought with me the recognition that this would not yet be “my time.”

It had not yet festered into resentment, because it was all new, and fresh, and hope-filled. I brought a dose of fear of the unknown, coupled with remembrance of the horrible reputation of harshness and cruelty this place had historically held for my people, from our arrival to this country to the struggles of the 60’s and beyond.

When we first moved, though, we got a two-bedroom apartment in a place called Rainbow City. Rainbows are always surprising, though fleeting, coming along with sunshine after a hard rain. So, perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad at all.

As it turns out, I did not experience the kind of animosity I had expected from the place that pulled the Freedom Riders off the bus, but not before they set it on fire. So I had to leave behind my preconceived notion of how a section of the country would be, or at least to know that there were good folks to be found everywhere—if you searched.

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Notes “School girl me to collegiate me” Charleston to Huntington August ‘72 Hot All essentials packed into the back of the

car—two trips New suitcase set & trunk Journey from Self to Motherhood: The “J Club” -had a baby boy, didn’t want epidural, Dr. placed one anyway but it did not work, so it was basically a natural birth -Washington DC during the height of the crack episodic. Treated everyone like they were an addict. Took my baby from my room for 24 hours. I couldn’t nurse initially—became massively engorged with infection 2nd time—baby girl in Philly Easy breezy three-hour labor Natural birth “Across the Country and Halfway Back Again” Washington DC to Seattle, WA to St. Paul, MN -5 hour flight from Washington to Washington -had sinus cold, ended up with painfully stopped up ear, did not pop for about a day and a half -Rained 4 or 5 days of the week stay in Seattle -Most awesome round trip every, 2,000 miles in 4 days, like a 9-5 job, wake up, eat breakfast, DRIVE, maybe stop to see a sight, then find hotel, eat dinner, rest/sleep— then do it all again -St. Paul— I wore ¾ length pants 21

(east coast style, hadn’t quite gotten to the Midwest yet— some yuppie looking man asked his wife was that a style or was I wearing high waters “Big Trip for a Little Girl” -5 hour car ride from WV to Indianapolis to visit my aunt, uncle, and cousins

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J O U R N E Y S ,

PA R T

1

JORDAN MCCULLOUGH

1. I rode the subway to city hall to protest against the police who became murderers of innocent black people. Me and mom went to support the lives who died in 2014.

2. I rode on the Megabus to Hershey, Pennsylvania for 3 days in the Hershey lodge and Hershey Chocolate World and we rode the bus back. It was cool and it was so sweet.

3. I went by foot to the Fresh Grocer at 40th Street. That’s always a journey and I never get tired at all.

4. I went in my Dad’s car to visit my sister in Pittsburgh who just started college.

It was everything I thought it would be and it was her birthday at the time.

5. I went on a plane to visit my father in Kansas City and Iowa. Me and my sister used to do that. I thought it was cool. We don’t do that anymore.

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J O U R N E Y S ,

PA R T

2

One time when we drove to Pittsburgh, I took my phone, my iPod, my bag and also my jacket in case it got cold. I didn’t leave anything behind because I took everything. As we arrived at Carnegie Mellon, I realized the entire campus is named after Andrew Carnegie, the teams mascot is a scotty dog and everything is covered in plaid, which is red, green, yellow and blue. Also there is a museum all about Andy Warhol, I didn’t see it but I would guess that it has some of his work. They have computers everywhere and it has an enormous library filled with books. The students have time for work and much time for play, my sister is living the dream, I never went to college but if I did, I’d never leave.

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L I K E

YO U

L OO K

L I K E

H E R

CYNTHIA ANN SCHEMMER First, pretend. Keep your mind closed to reality, but open to all whimsy.

Distractions are key.

Be sure to not acknowledge the wilted flower lying in front of you as your mother, with tubes and wires dangling from her body like a marionette who will never dance again.

Tell yourself this was your fault. All those times as a child, when you created nightmarish daydreams about life without her, were leading up to this.

Next, cry. For the first time in your life open up to your father, but be prepared for him to swat you away like a fly, like you are nothing, like you look like her.

After all the roses are thrown, and she is planted in the earth, move out of your childhood home. Your family, now all men (besides yourself), will be of no help to your pain. You are still so young, and she is gone. There is no one left who believes in you as a writer. Not even yourself.

Begin taking long walks through the ruins of New York City. Search for the place she was born, and find that it is no longer standing.

Go to therapy. Use all the drugs and one-night-stands you need to fill the bottomless void, but make sure that you show up every week and do the work in the deepest parts of your gut.

Now, fall in love with the idea of never feeling this grief again, of overcoming it completely, and let that love break your heart for the rest of your life.

25

Start writing again for the first time in years. Sit on your fire escape, beneath the burning liquor store sign, and plot the future. Dream all the things you know she believed you could be, and then be them.

Under no circumstance listen to your demeaning second voice, the eponymous scoundrel who most often takes form as your father. Smother it with forward motion.

Comfort a friend who loses a mother. The mother, with your exact first and middle namesake and birthday, died on the same day your own mother died.

In learning this, walk to the shore and understand there are unexplainable and amazing things that are bigger than you, that are floating you to the place you are meant to be.

Here, you find progress.

Still, you wish you did things differently.

Later, you will see your path for it’s own perfections and your way without her.

But for now, just write it down.

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W R I T E

YO U R

B L OC K

27

C I T Y

DAT E

KIRSTEN KASCHOCK

After a bottle of wine with Philadelphia, she pulls up her dress. I’m not that kind of doctor, I say. She says, It’s not that kind of body. Would I look at her navel?

She just had it pierced, she fears infection. It’s lower than most and there’s plenty of weeping and rending of garments but no pus. I tell her: All is well. I blinker myself, failing to note peripheral homicides, the crumble of infrastructures. She laughs. The dress drops. She claps her bridges together and I try not to stare at their sway.

We should get married, she says. Why, I ask, would we do that? We’ve barely met. Because, she says, you could dilute my poverty. She is serious. I insist, But I’m a poet.

Look, and Philly meets my eye with her deep Schuylkill and deeper North. It’s not about being perfectly tailored.

She winks. It’s about lying with love.

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W R I T E

M Y

B L OC K

CAROL MCCULLOUGH

4/7 On my street there’s a tree which marks time Passing seasons show in the color of life leaves—first bud, then blossom, then leafy color, then gone.

All to do again once the cycle goes around On my street there’s a caged in front porch— Makes me wonder who lives there and what

their status is Bars and a lock make it hard to run away On lockdown in your own house cannot be fun On my street there’s attempts at renovation— tall scaffolding serves some purpose, but what I do not know. It’s been going on forever, nothing is changing— a bit of an eye sore, so just look away On my street there’s people sitting out on their porches They’ll speak if spoken to, so the effort is worth it “Hello” here— “How you doin’” there— it costs nothing to be friendly, might save a lot of trouble down the line.

On my street there’s cars, and trash, and people, going in and out of pastel colored doors.

Pepto pink and sunshine yellow, robin’s egg blue and sweet mint green 29

Doorways colored lively pastels lift the mood on my street scene Two blocks down from the corner store— Market-fresh produce is 20 blocks more My traveling by foot mobile— Makes it hard to procure a home-cooked meal Still, we’re right across the bridge from the Art Museum Do a “Rocky” up the steps and then carpe diem Just a hop skip and jump away from Drexel and UPenn Who knows? Perhaps we’ll all become scholars once again Students are moving in from all over the place Let’s document our history so we cannot be erased On the edge of Mantua life is simple yet so sweet It’s peaceful all along North 32nd Street.

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A

H A I K U

CAROL MCCULLOUGH

Will the government Keep its Promise to our Zone?

Sincerely hope so.

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T H E

E N D

O F

T H E

R OA D

JORDAN MCCULLOUGH

I remember St. Joe’s University and Bala Cynwyd Library I remember Blockbuster, Dunkin Donuts, Rite Aid, KFC and McDonald’s I remember Sunoco, Olive Garden, Acme, Wells Fargo and Chili’s I remember Target, T.G.I. Fridays, the Marriot and Houlihan’s.

I remember Penn Wynne Library, Taco Bell, Eye Encounters, CVS I remember TJ Maxx, Baskin Robins and Rita’s water ice I remember Kohl’s, Pizza Hut, Burger King, AMC Theatre I remember Boscov’s, JC Penny and Ruby Tuesdays I remember Borders, Old Navy and Superfresh I remember Five Below, Rite Aid and Panera Bread I remember McDonald’s, Rite Aid, Blockbuster and Baskin Robbins I remember Ardmore Library, Barnes & Nobles and Ludington Library I remember Save-A-Lot, Hess Express I remember Checkers and Forman Mills I remember Cobbs Creek Children’s Hospital I remember a mural of a giant green-eyed monster

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A N ATO M I C A L

C I T Y

JORDAN MCCULLOUGH

The CVS Pharmacy is my left foot The Eye Encounters is my right foot The Library is my left hand The Taco Bell is my right hand The Rite Aid is my right eye The Panera Bread is my left eye The Blockbuster is my right ear The Baskin Robins is my left ear The Borders is my left arm The Barnes and Noble is my right arm The Boscov’s is my left leg The JC Penny is my right leg The Super Fresh is my nose The Ruby Tuesdays is my mouth The Rita’s water ice is my skin The AMC theatre is my mind

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S TO R I E S O F M OT H E R S A N D M OT H E R H OO D

35

T H E

G O L F

C L U B

I N C I D E N T

MICHAEL SHELMET

I am called away from my play by the shrieks of my mother echoing from the laundry room. Sprinting to the sound of her cries I stop at the portal between the kitchen and the washroom. The metal of the doorjamb is cool against my feet as I stare at the blood falling on the linoleum tile. My older brother is bent forward, my mother is pressing a towel that quickly saturates to his head. She is frantic, asking what happened and getting only sobs in return. The summer sun shines through the open door from our backyard illuminating the scene. The blood on the floor is the brightest shade of red. I still don’t know what is going on when my younger brother steps up behind me to make sense of all the noise.

Taking our brother by the arm, one hand continually pressed to his forehead, they exit the house. I hear the growl of the Blazer’s engine and the slam of the door as our neighbor, who has appeared out of nowhere, ushers us back into the house.

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M Y E A R L I E S T M E M O R Y O F M Y M OT H E R NORMAN CAIN

Stretching my arms upward and firmly clutching my mother’s hands, I ambled down Olive Street for what I believe was the first time. It was a long narrow alley-like street, the street where I was raised for the first fifteen years of my life.

I am, perhaps, two years old. Judging from the pleasant temperature and the buds extending from the tree branches, it was springtime.

It was extremely bright. The street was lit by both moonlight and streetlight, the latter being a fixture in every Philadelphia neighborhood during the 1940s.

I was aware of, yet oblivious to, the shale stooped brick row houses that aligned both sides of the street like sturdy soldiers standing in formation. It was as if I were having visions. I was secure for I was holding my mother’s hands. I seem to be in sync with her spirit, bathed in love. I am enthralled by the beauty of the street, the serenity it rendered.

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M OT H E R ’ S

DAY

CHANDA RICE

Sunday, May 10, 2015

It is 3:10 & I’ve just gotten finished watching the mother of all movies, Imitation of Life. I fell in love with this movie the 1st time I saw it and waited for it to come on every year since. So when I watched it—color & black & white—it was in hopes that my little girl would do better. But I’m Annie Johnson & she’s Sarah Jane. I found that out today. Really, I been knew it. I was still hoping that it would change. I wonder if because I didn’t get her like others got babies it had something to do with her disposition. I walked around in a state of confusion even after she got here under a curtain of mockery. Her father & I NEVER had sex. I let him put it in between my legs while we were standing up. He never penetrated me. Which also made me the joke of every family gathering. “So where did he put it?”

I sat up all night trying to give birth. Me & Miss Chunky. A nurse came by with magazines so I bought a Playgirl. Since I didn’t have no dick & I’m having his baby I thought I might as well find out what dick looks like. I’d dreamed of Marvin Gaye. I looked up & my cousin Moe was coming in my room with a case of formula & Pampers & he told me, “From now on, that pussy is mines & he walked out. I was 13 & it was Mother’s Day. It didn’t take her long before she turned on me too. I thought if I breastfed her it would bring her close; she would chew my nipples until they cracked & look up at me & smile. But I still had to nurse her. She would expose me in front of people or throw her bottle to not be weaned. Her 1st words to me were, “I don’t like you!”

Because I was young & inexperienced & also because children don’t come with instructional manual, I fumbled. Sometime when she do mean things to me, I’d let her have it. But then I’d remember that I chose her cause Momma wanted me to get rid of her. Sometimes I wonder how far would I have gotten without her. I tried my best. Back then black folks as well as society frowned on a woman/ girl who had a baby out of wedlock and they would send you down south & when you came back it would be your sibling or they would take your baby & that’s 38

what my grandmother by the help of Mildred & my sister did. I tried to give her things to secure our bond but that’s all I did. I gave her things.

By 17 they had all fucked me real good. I’m sorry, I’m jumping ahead of myself. So my cousin made me his. We met when I was 11 & he set out to get me.

My dad took me & the 1 born before me to Auntie Dean’s house where they were giving a party. When we saw each other, our eyes locked for 28 yrs. This was the introduction to incest. He groomed me til I got pregnant. He was allowed to spend the night. Momma would say, “As long as you’re with Moe, you’ll be alright.” My baby was 6 months & walking. She was getting out of the way. That’s what people say your baby’s doing when you’ve got another one coming. I was 3 month pregnant again.

We wanted that baby. I’d sit in between his legs while he rubbed my belly.

I got some pants from Chunky to hide it but I was showing. 1 night over Lucy’s I started spotting. I was losing his baby I worked so hard to get. My white jump suit was red in the back. I rushed down the hill just fast enough to drop it in the toilet.

I stood there looking. My baby was in the toilet. I got in the bed. I thought it was over. 6 months later I doubled over in the street & was rushed to Temple for a DNC. That’s when I found out he gave me an infection on top of his baby. That’s why the baby didn’t make it. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t have any more children, cause I gave my womb to my cousin.

He tried to be a good dad, so much so that on a bus excursion to Asbury Park or someplace she kept calling him daddy in front of everybody. He was family. He would always be there. This batch I come from took pride in saying, “We keep it in the family.” From his mother & her sister to us, a hot mess. A generational curse. This was the start of my Stockholm syndrome. This is when the captive falls in love with captor. So I’ve been in love with my abusers all my life. This must stop! It took me up til now to realize my grandmom turned me out.

So back to 17. I met this guy. He worked as the maintenance man where I lived.

He had curly hair like my cousin but he was white. My grandmother went off.

“I didn’t tell you to get a white boy!” She said to find someone who was nice to me, she didn’t say what color. What are we supposed to do, go back to the reservation? I should have known better. I thought they were better than black men because they kept their word. But this is not about dicks; that’s the other book.

This is about my Sarah Jane. So momma would let me out for a few hours.

She’d say, “It don’t take nobody all day to do nothing!” I call it “The James 39

Brown.” Can we hit it & quit it? Can we hit it & quit it? Let me count it off: 1, 2, 3, 4. Get up! You should be done. That’s what momma thought: “It’s a shame for a woman to be out all night & ain’t got no cigarette money, so if you go out with a man all night he’d better give you some money!” That’s how I got introduced to the game by my grandma. The only thing that made her mad was I came back with more than she ever did. I remember when I turned my 1st trick & gave her the money, she stopped complaining. It was the 1st time I got rest.

Back to Danyell. Children need to be kept away from adult business. They don’t know the things we as mothers have to do to keep a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, clothes on their back, shoes on their feet & a pencil in their hand. I gave her everything. 2 karat diamonds in her ears & those big chains that RUN-DMC use to wear. She had them 7 years before they came out. I let her go out & they’d strip her by time she come back. I bought them with my case money.

I had a good old trick named Artie. No matter what I’d spend, he’d give me $500.

We would go to Ponzio’s in Brooklawn, NJ every night for dinner. We went with Riccobene, Philip Tasty Lou Batone. She was so pretty. They called this yellow baby their doll. They would throw her back & forth across the table while she laughed.

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I

E X I S T

CHANDA RICE

I EXIST because I see me when you won’t; In memory of all you tried to kill: In spite of your desire to snuff me out.

I must; because you want me gone.

I EXIST because someone should have stood up for me & spoken out against you long ago.

After being lied on & to; after you tried to make me look like a fool in front of everybody w/ my help from protesting; “See, I told you” I EXIST after you lied & said “You loved me, stripped me, fucked me, gutted me & stole from me.” You even tried to put me on. You hater!

You pillaged my village!

I EXIST to stop you from ever doing this again. To repair the damage you caused.

I EXIST because you want not me, but from me & when you finished, I can go away. I EXIST because you were not strong enough to fight them off.

Because of your darkness I EXIST For love’s sake in spite of you.

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D U S K Y R O S E - CO L O R E D R OC K I N G C H A I R CAROL MCCULLOUGH

I am in the living room of my childhood, at the white house on the corner of Walnut and Locust, on the hilltop. It’s early evening in the springtime and the soft light gets ready to hide but graces us with its entry through our windows just a little while longer. The air temperature is pleasantly warm, so our house is not too hot, yet. And the smell of honeysuckle is drifting down from the neighbors shrubs just up the street, wafting a sweet wave of warmth.

I am standing right behind my mother, who is seated in her dusty rosecolored rocking chair. In the distance I hear dogs barking and kids still getting their last moments of playtime outside. There’s an occasional car turning the corner, either headed further up the hill or descending into the city. But the main thing is my mother, who has let me brush her hair while she tells me about, oh I don’t know, a story from her childhood in the house across the street.

Usually I sit in the floor at her feet between her knees and she combs my hair, first undoing the old work, gently combing through and brushing in just a dab of sweet smelling Dixie Peach to keep the edges tame. Then she parts and plaits it all together into a design of three—one to the top left side with two in the back, sometimes with bows at the ends to dress me up with a little style.

But this time I stand behind her and take the brush and play beautician with her hair. It’s thick, and cut into a sort of a bob, I guess, with curls. She lets me run the brush from the roots to the ends in a kid’s interpretation of a style. The clock on the mantel tic-tock-tics, marking the passage of time.

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U N T I T L E D JORDAN MCCULLOUGH

Today this is what I’m doing here at the Dornsife, writing about mothers and motherhood, and it is the late afternoon. It is just now beginning to feel like spring, but there is no light at the end of this tunnel, the sun has died and descended into heaven. It was sunny this morning but now it’s windy for some reason, the only thing I smell is grass. I’m writing nonstop about my thoughts and feelings, everyone next to me is writing too, they are people I’ve just met but don’t really know. The reason I’m here is because of my mom, she takes classes and I do my best to play along, the only song I heard today was John Coltrane, although I don’t see how it was supposed to help the situation. I see trees with pink flowers, the wall, more people, less people and the floor. I’ve noticed the point of this assignment is to remember how much stuff you did with your mom and I have done plenty with mine.

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44

C A N D Y

C H A N G :

P E R S O N A L H I S TO R I E S , P U B L I C S PAC E S

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

JONGILENE FERGUSEN

Wearing a life jacket sitting beside others that want to be part of kissing a whale, we don’t mind being cramped tightly together on the rear end of the rowboat attached to the large ferry. We are drifting on the tides, which are low. We smell the salt in the deep blue waters of the ocean. We have been waiting for the whales to surface since dawn and now its morning and the sun is shining brightly in the blue sky. The clouds have separated to allow the sun to come out as the dimness of the dawn slowly disappears… It is the perfect Spring day for this whale kissing outing. Warm and crisp breezes of air. It’s gotta be about 65 degrees out here in the middle of the ocean.

I’m glad that my brother Eric came along with me because he too always wanted to kiss a whale. I am sitting on this rowboat beside my brother, drifting on the gentle tides of the ocean waters, waiting patiently. Looking in front of me I don’t believe it I see a mother whale and her calf… Eric tells me, “You have your chance. Take it.” I kiss the mother whale and her calf. Eric is smiling at me and giving me a thumbs up. Behind me, I see a multitude of whales coming toward the rowboat we’re in. The ocean water is beneath us. We are grateful because it keeps us floating. We are just drifting… looking up, I smile at the brightness of the sun.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

NORMAN CAIN

Arising from a peaceful night of dreamless slumber, you sit at the edge of your bed for several seconds before standing. You stretch. You yawn. You attempt to adjust your eyes to the pitch-darkness. You shuffle towards the wall on the opposite side of the room. Upon reaching your destination, your hands locate and flick on the light switch. Immediately, an illuminating glow descends from the high voltage lighting fixture that extends from the rooms ceiling, causing your bedroom-study to be transformed from complete darkness to a brilliant brightness.

Next, you adjust the thermometer, which is parallel to the light switch, to 75 degrees. The room’s temperature has been transformed from a slightly irritable chilliness to a soothing warmth. Warmth and Light. You feel contented. Soon you will be set for a day of reading, writing, contemplating as you are finally en route to doing what you want to do before you die: write those two historical novels whose beginnings, middles, and ends, have lived within your imagination for decades.

But first, you must attend to matter of the morning toiletry ritual. You do so.

After, you dress, make up your bed, light some Indian incense, inhale its aromatic scent, turn on your stereo to an excellent jazz station in time to be serenaded by an Afro Cuban piece by Dizzy Gillespie. You work better when you listen to jazz.

Its rhythms coincide with your cadence of thought.

It is now time for you to commence working. You carefully scan your bookcase for the historical and geographical text you will need for the chapter you’ve been working on. You see and retrieve the text that you need, amble to the center of the room where your computer sits on a mahogany desk. You place the book to the left of the computer. You pull your comfortable swivel chair from the desk’s cavity and gently ease your posterior onto its seat.

You turn on your computer, place a flash drive into its designated slot, momentarily savor the fragrant smell of the incense, let the sounds of Dizzy’s ensemble saturate your countenance, and commence on your journey.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

E VA N G E L I N A K A P E TA N

The building is so clean and majestic. The building has ionic columns. I’m walking up the pathway where I approach a student. She is very friendly. I was running a little late, but I made it in time. I want to travel to Canada and Greece to visit family and friends. I need to be free to come and go as I please.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

JORDAN MCCULLOUGH

New York City A spring day in the afternoon The sun shines on the windowsill It is mostly sunny but mostly cloudy too I’m with just a few people that I’ve just gotten to know Walking around the streets of New York Looking for ideas for what I might draw or paint next The air smells nice, otherwise it smells like feet to me The sound of cop cars Tall building, big lights, the entire city

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

CHANDA RICE

I saw you that day you came out in that lovely ensemble in black. You were phenomenal! Where do you get your clothes? Who is your stylist? You look mahvelous! You made that? No you didn’t! Girl, I’m gonna have to get you to make me something too! Girl, you are bad! Where do you come up with all this stuff? I always thought you was crazy. You crazy! Not that kind, but I heard you have a book coming out soon. You go there and you’re not afraid to go there.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

BRENDA SPRUILL

As today walking along the street in areas which living has been an adventure for families. The families have endured, prayed, prodded and convened to have a continuity of traditions, education, and economic futures for all. At the start of walking a life of families who have been brave hearted remaining in mind after that short venues economies in the taverns of each continent antiquity across most postal peace mind upward mobile in each toward high call stills collected of neighborhood to communities as passing many qualities for living a shaded walkway for air, cooling flowering to see whatever imagery has been conveyed in what was and still thrives economic futures sweet peas in 2015 today upward technology minded students who have still been a collected community neighborhood academics for all.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

JUANDA MYLES

I’m in my remodeled house sitting at the dining room table with the deck door open to the breeze.

It’s about 11 o’clock ‘cause I woke up at decent hour, got dressed in a light lounge dress. I finished eating lunch and am now ready to create and zone out with music playing in the background.

I am using both electrical light from above and the natural light of God. Its about 64-68 degrees warm and cool enough to be comfy— just right to put in a couple of hours of work, maybe till 5 o’clock and then I can do my nighttime activities—haunting the educational and interesting events of the city.

I work alone as usual. That’s been my whole life. I can’t imagine spending my time trying to explain to someone what I see in my mind that I wanted translated on the recycled cardboard bracelets I was to make. This is only one of the many art projects I want to do. I have more ideas than I have time. I hope I’m not on borrowed time and God sees fit for me to keep on going like the Energizer bunny until I’m 125 years old. Maybe at 100, I’ll get an assistant, an apprentice, and an intern and pray they don’t get in the way or bump into each other.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

VALDA BROWN

I see man and women of ethnicity coming together, communicating without any difference but in harmony. They are hard working and not lazy not thinking of self but of one another. I see myself building houses. First a blueprint or design, then the materials. Money is involved, but that’s not important. I need people to help build. And then there are others who may need help with their houses.

Happy people.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

IAN ROSS

You are with friends who you work with, make art with. The bar you are leaving is full of people you all know and the one you are going to is too. As you cross the street a man in a suit stops you. He says he recognizes you and knows you and your friends’ work and tells you how much it means to him. He tells you about his life, his job on Wall Street, and his kids. He tells you about how he met his wife and what it was like in the city then. He tells you that the work you and your friends make reminds him of that, of everything he has. He says he began to take it for granted but what you do helped him. He tells you that what you do changed his life.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

CHRIS KENNEDY

You’re wading through the deep snow led only by the soft white light and the deep still silhouettes in front of you. The light snow separates midway to your knees as you press on. The only things you can hear are the snow crunching under your feet and your slightly labored breathing. You are surrounded by a collection of trees and plant life that managed to stick their heads above the gentle wrath of winter. The harshness of snow is lost on your warm body and almost feels welcome. You’re beginning to tire and look out into the blue-white glaze. You see a deep shadow on the ground, broken in its darkness by the water passing, reflecting what it can of the night sky. You stop and follow this creek with your eyes. The waters quiet splashing seems only to get louder as you face the hill itself. You assume there is less snow somewhere on the hill and decide to follow this small creek.

Your legs begin to burn a bit as you press upward. By the time you reach the top, nearly encased in darkness with the moon’s light hidden behind, only the night sky is left in view. You stop and feel as though this is as good as place as any to stare in silence.

You have blindly walked into yourself and now are looking for something.

In the spectral and unreal you look to find something real. A physical manifest of what, of who, of why.

55

B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

SHERRY JANE E. ALINDOGAN

On a midday morning, you are celebrating your 50th birthday, the first birthday you ever celebrated with your families, relatives, and closest friends on a coast of Hawaii. Deep diving into a cave, swimming with the dolphins, and getting to run your fingertips against their smooth, slippery skin, to hear, to see the colorful sea creatures and rugged sharp corals, to experience another world where there are no crimes committed by evil souls.

You are standing in the midst of your most treasured people on Earth, freely sharing your experiences for the first time, embarking on a new journey. You are feeling the sunrays against your windblown tresses, untanned shoulders, unshaved calloused legs and feet. You are feeling the smooth powdery white sand between your toes. Your newly hot pink pedicured toenails play peekaboo as your digits dig further into the sand. You hear the swaying of the coconut leaves and the sweet twittering of the birds. You smilingly look up into the bluest sky and feel absolutely blessed. “Thank you, Lord� is frequently on your happy lips. The people around you have warm and teary eyes and give tight prolonged hugs and meaningful kisses on foreheads and cheeks, wrinkled or smooth. Your beating heart is bursting, full of gratitude to be alive.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

JENNIFER YUSIN

It is quiet here. Slowly, methodically the waves fall quietly on to the sand, as if to awaken the sands from their night’s slumber. Their rhythm quiets your mind; it is the metronome by which your heart and blood pulse. It is quiet here. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her running towards the cluster of sandpipers fishing for their morning feed in the generous space of low tide. She is happy here, you think. She is at peace here, you say. The sound of your voice snaps into the silence, awakens within it a different kind of silence. It startles you, catches you off guard. You look towards the waves, watching her run with a freeing sort of flight, and unanticipated moment of the expected return cracks against the sand. Like the sandpipers who run so fast their legs move without seeming to move—the strange illusion caused by the convergence of the too slow and the too fast—the shes scatter into and across the spaces of your mind’s recesses. These imprints of little shes with their too slow, but too fast movements of searching, fishing, escaping, of trying to fly but not quite, are tracking across your mind with assured rhythm. They roll into and out of your life but you cannot help but wonder what if you have done right by her. You do not wonder where is she but you wonder about who she is. You worry about the size and shape of her of silences. Did she become the differences you tried to draw attention to in the pages you asked her to read and write? Did the wonder and admiration of difference become the mark of a new difference that was, at the same, the advent of a new mode of being? It is quiet here. But the silence is loud and demands an answer: did you do right by her—by all the shes who rolled into and out of your life? It wants to know: will you continue to do right by them? Still the silence presses for yet another answer: what does this mean to do right by her, by the shes? What does it look like? And you cannot help but worry, without boundaries, if, at the very least, you helped her discover new ways of being herself in world.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

LAUREN LOWE

You’ve gotten up early, because getting out of bed in the morning is no longer the worst part of your day. It’s become, perhaps, what it’s supposed to be—a moment of transition, of movement, of action. Your bed is no longer a seductive, suffocating trap of blankets and pillows; no longer does it feel like a prison.

You’re outside, standing on a street corner. Just standing. It’s strange to be awake before the city really comes alive. It’s stranger still to feel like you’re coming alive too. (But you do not dwell on the strangeness of these things so much any more, because you’ve learned to stop letting the unfamiliarity of feeling alive keep you from living.) There is an eerie, unusual silence about the city, but it’s not unpleasant. When you’re not focused on the steady inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale of your own breathing. The quiet hum of the city swimming its legs over the side of the bed, yawning, and stretching its limbs is there with you too.

Though the future is no more certain for you than it was before, you know where you’re going today, and that is enough. You’re in no rush. Because of this, you’re outside, standing on a street corner—just standing—watching the sun begin its ascent over the dark outline of the skyline. The colors, the warms hues of red, orange, and gold, they’re brilliant, you think. Even more brilliant is the thought of that city silhouette, and all of its people. Even more brilliant is the thought of thousands of people all waking up, all getting ready to join you in the world.

You inhale, exhale. You think, I am alive, and I am ready to believe.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

LAUREN ALTMAN

You are walking down one of the short strips of walkway in the center square of Christ Church, New Zealand. The square is made up of about eight rows of shops and restaurants, and the passageways in-between are riddled with purposefully placed park benches and trees. There is no room for cars to drive along the square. You walk, your hand in his. You look at the sky that was the perfect shade of blue earlier that afternoon but has now blended with shades of gray as dusk approaches. You are in a perfect little pocket of space and time. The square is at the bottom of the hill, surrounded by mountains on all sides except for the west, where it is bordered by the bay. There is a cool breeze from the water, setting the silence around you. You stand nestled in this space, shaped by millennia of quakes through plates of Earth into each other. Everything is quiet, calm, and still. It’s perfect and peaceful and only one of the hundreds of cities that you will explore together.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

STEPHANIE MUALIM

You are walking down a street with rough pavement. The sidewalk is full of tables and chairs spilling out from cafes. The smell of food fills the air and the sound of the saxophone wafts over from a performer not far away. The air gets colder and you wrap your jacket tighter around you as an unexpected breeze blows through.

Your friends are laughing at a joke but you were too distracted by the sunset and when they call out your name, you distractedly turn to them. “What?�

They mention their tiredness from a day of constant walking, and the rest of your friends chime in with a resolute yes when someone mentions getting a beer before the concert you were all supposed to attend tonight. Off you go to look for a bar.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

TIFFANY LIAO

You are running out of an old grey Honda Civic taking off your shoes one by one in the process. You feel the soft yet slightly prickly chives between your toes as you’re running into an open field full of dandelions ready to be blown away. Yes, chives instead of grass because they’re edible but look extremely similar. For no reason at all, you start spinning in a circle so your skirt can spin in the air forcing the dandelions to fly through the sky. You simply want to lie in the grass and feel the warmth of the sun on your face. You’re not afraid to run around in the green field because today your allergies don’t bother you at all. You feel relieved and free from everything. You can’t help but smile ever so slightly in happiness.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

JEN JOLLES

When looking for the lost or missing, It is best to work backwards Seven Breathe.

You both know that the line between: “You will see me again soon,” and “Goodbye,” Is paper thin.

It is nobody’s fault for ending up on the “wrong side” of things But beyond that, it goes no further You are incapable of breaking the vice grip In which you have found yourself She begins to back her way around the corner— This is the art of fading gracefully.

Six On the train ride to meet her, You sketch battle plans on the back of a napkin Hoping that the right string of words Will be enough to seatbelt you both Into something that could withstand a head-on collision After everything, she is still that habit You are not quite willing to break Five Through thousands of miles of telephone cable She spits your name like a curse word And tells you that time has dug in its heels, That the space between us is growing in excess 62

You stumble over the simplest phrases: “I am going to fix this,” and “We are bigger than the chasm wedged between us,” Each one catching in your throat, a broken circuit Of which you are incapable of flipping the switch You’ve always been eloquent at the easy moments But in this one all you can manage is: “I don’t know.”

Four The nature of addiction dictates that overtime, The effect of a given stimulus will decrease As the body becomes accustomed to a repeated sensation Grief. Loss. Alcohol. Her. Despite your best intentions, one night a week doesn’t do the job.

As well as it used to, and This is what terrifies you the most.

Three Daylight breaks through the window Rays of sun through partially askew blinds Shards of a winter that have hung on too long Tight-fisted and black-out beautiful The stark white concrete standing between you and Everything you are unprepared to walk away from You would abandon your bones just to have something to return for Two It’s been less than a week now and already You’re aching for another hit The phone lines keep you moving on the days She is too far to touch Your promise to visit, to stay with her when you do To fight the intrusion of daylight with both hands But the nature of addiction states that the first time Is ALWAYS the best time.

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B E F O R E

I

D I E ________________________

JACQUELINE GALLOWAY

You are looking out your 3rd floor window with a light frame of mind n the morning sun trying to burst n.

The wind is blowing.

It’s about 70 degrees.

You see beautiful flowers, budding trees.

You’re sittn n your kitchen chair, the smell like grass coming through your window.

You’re hearing birds singing. They’re going at it. (You wonder what they’re thinking.)

You hear children playing—screaming and laughing—and the sound of the basketball bouncing reminds you of your grandson. (Go, Quaran!)

All from your 3rd floor window.

O so beautiful 2 live n Mantua.

You want to be in the sky, that blue sky you see. You want to ride above the clouds.

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E N G L I S H 3 60: P H I L A D E L P H I A

S TO R I E S

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R E S P O N S E

E S S AY :

T H E

O F

P R I C E

A

C H I L D

SHERRY JANE E. ALINDOGAN

Lorene Cary’s chapter is beautifully written and very compelling. Its description of the characters’ emotions and the physical detailed description of the environment were amazingly familiar. Ginnie’s utmost desire to be free from slavery coupled with her mental anguish to remain a slave and not lose her baby was both poignant and ominous.

I felt Ginnie’s desperation to seek aid for her escape and also felt her utter hopelessness and anger when faced with rejections such as the hotel’s housekeeping employee who did not offer any assistance. I felt Ginnie’s selfhatred for feeling like a wretched coward when the ugly dragon of hopelessness would show its head. I felt the fear in Etta, the confusion in Mattie, and myriad emotions of each character as they prepared to assist Ginnie’s freedom.

I find it uplifting to hear William Still mention the word, “Superb black” which he referred to an old midwife’s sage advice as he offered comfort and relief to Ginnie to take a deep breath. It is a stark contrast from what Ginnie used to hear about colored woman such as herself. She grew up knowing that she was mere property, and no more than that. The act of taking a deep breath, beyond the physical act of releasing the tension that had gripped her body and mind, signifies the turning point of her life, going forward to unknown territory.

We all need help now and then as we learn, grow, and decipher the complexity of our lives. We cannot go through life in a vacuum. We all need courageous people such as Passmore Williamson and William Still of the Vigilance Committee to give us a boost to move forward when we are stuck in our situations that cause us great distress.

I connected with Ginnie’s plight to freedom, not just physical freedom, but freedom from all the emotional shackles created by people who were her primary caretakers. The crave for release, the desire to have the power of choice to live your life, and the longing for happiness, is what we all want in our lives. It is not only the ultimate American Dream but it is a dream of all individuals. The power 66

of choice is a God given right that every individual should be allowed to practice; however, it is the humans who destroy humanity.

Work Cited: Cary, Lorene. The Price of a Child. New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2011. Print.

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R E S P O N S E

E S S AY :

T H E

O F

P R I C E

A

C H I L D

VARUN PADMANABHAN

The excerpt from The Price of a Child describes the freedom of a slave and her two children in Philadelphia in great detail; this causes a strong emotional reaction along with other connections because it is so close to home.

The first emotional reaction I faced when reading The Price of a Child was surprise. Typically, when learning about conditions for slaves, the terrible punishments such as fear of the master, hunger, etc. are described; however, this was not completely the case in this story. The relationship Ginnie had with her master, Jackson Pryor, surprised me because it was a different connection than the one I had previously while learning about the connection between slave and master. First, Ginnie felt comfortable enough to go to Pryor to negotiate going on the trip to Nicaragua (Cary 4). Additionally, when the pair, along with two of Ginnie’s children, was at the hotel in Philadelphia, Pryor made it a point to order them food and see that it got to their room (Cary 13), which did not seem like typical slave treatment. Just to see a master interacting with their slave in such a way was a surprise to me.

Another emotional reaction that I had when reading this excerpt is anxiousness and fear. This occurs in the second chapter when Ginnie is faced with a decision of freedom. The entire situation was very tense and had me on the edge of my seat while I was reading it. Throughout the beginning and middle of the chapter, I was feeling anxious wondering if Nig-Nag would pass along the proper messages to the correct people, and also to see if everything would get

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done before Ginnie was leaving with Master Pryor (Cary 39-41). After that was accomplished, the scene on the dock also had me nervous and a little bit scared for Ginnie’s future. Jackson Pryor reacted extremely poorly towards Ginnie being told she could be free, “ ‘This woman is going to New York,’ Pryor bellowed.

‘New York, y’hear? And you have no idea of her circumstances. No idea.’ This he shouted at her, right in her face, so that it made the onlookers jump” (Cary 47).

For a little while I thought that Ginnie would be paralyzed with fear because of Pryor, so I was anxious to get to the end of the chapter to see what she decided to do. When she was finally on the carriage, however, I felt a sense of hope for her future and what would come next of her.

I mostly felt connected to this story because of the location in Philadelphia.

Reading about the different places I am familiar with, like the Delaware River, Camden, Harrisburg, and how the city is set up with the cobblestone streets, the perfect grid of the city, and the brick homes (Cary 16), made the story more real for me knowing that the freeing of slaves happened right where I live. Having this connection to the story aided in the emotional reactions that I faced because it made them stronger and kept my interest while reading.

Work Cited: Cary, Lorene. The Price of a Child. New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2011. Print. .

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R E S P O N S E

E S S AY :

“ H OO P S ” OSAZE BEM

My reactions to this poem are to my childhood and the memories of different deliveries to our home. We had a milkman who gave my mother credit. We were able to get milk, eggs, orange juice, cheese and bread. I remember waking up during the cold winters of the 1950’s and eating eggs and toast for breakfast before school, which was difficult because during the cold winter my Dad was the only one durable enough to walk through the snow and ice.

The vegetable man delivered watermelons, groceries, bananas, peaches and pears. Our vegetables that we ate were colored greens, with kale and pork oils for seasoning. I also remember a fisherman delivery porgies, flounder and cat fish, he also had the corn meal seasoning.

I will not forget how fortunate we were to receive credit among difficult deliverymen in my neighborhood because my dad was a construction worker and we were able to afford credit. I can smell the various aromas coming out of the kitchen and throughout the house, there were the friends who came during the dinner hour and I would share food after my family finished eating, especially my dad.

Work Cited: Jackson, Major. “Hoops.” Hoops. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 2006.

Print.

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R E S P O N S E

E S S AY :

“ L E T T E R TO B R OO K S : S P R I N G G A R D E N ” KRISTINE BOHNHOFF

The poem by Major Jackson, “Letter to Brooks: Spring Garden” is the name of a subway station stop in North Philadelphia along Broad Street, which runs North to South. I will use one word describing my feelings, “elated.” Why? Because I have read the poetry books written by Gwendolyn Brooks in grade school. I remember looking at her photo on the back cover of the book, her photo depicted the look of a teacher and I soon discovered that she was a teacher. She just had that image, the glasses, her clothes, and her neatness.

I can connect my childhood experiences in Stanza 3 and Stanza 5, “Smiles, when you have forgotten the Irish Man”, although I am familiar with this section of the city, North Philadelphia, in Cobbs Creek section there was also an Irishman, Mr. Ike. Our Irishman sold, butter, silver and, maintain trout, cutfish, checkers, and porgies displayed on ice, scales for weighing, newspaper an brown paper bags for packing. Years ago, and I mean many years ago, everyone knew the Irishman Mr. Ike sold his fresh fish in our neighborhood; and there were no flyers or announcements. It was just word of mouth, everyone knew what day the Irishman was coming. Most of the neighbors supported him because the fish was fresh and passed the eye test.

Today, this is not a reality in this neighborhood. No more Mr. Ike, we now buy our fish from the supermarket. However, most of us, as a family and religions tradition, still eat fish daily or on Friday. I can say this— I remember hearing Mr. Ike’s loud voice announcing his presence “Fish Man”, “Fish Man”, “Fresh Fish” for sale.

Like the weather girls? All in together, girls, January, February, March, April

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The above lines are from a jump rope game; this too is another experience I can connect to. Outdoor activity for children during playtime at home and schoolgirls and some boys too would play this jump game. This game kept us in (physical) shape, movement of both arms and legs, jumping up and down, singing together the rhyme of this jump rope game. What fun we had, and sometimes the boys would play too. And sometimes you could be part of a jump rope competition in this activity. It’s lots of fun and great prizes!

Today most school-aged children probably jump rope during Physical Education class and not as much when they go home. There are so much more technological games being played. No time for jump rope.

Work Cited: Jackson, Major. “Letter to Brooks: Spring Garden.” Hoops. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 2006. Print.

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R E S P O N S E “ U R B A N

E S S AY :

R E N E WA L

X V I I I ”

CARLOS R. HEMANDEZ

In Major Jackson’s set of poems, several themes are explored and in each poem there are parts that lead to personal reflection and connection to the emotions and ideas being conveyed. In Major Jackson’s poem, “Urban Renewal XVIII,” he eloquently gives the audience a perception of the narrator’s thoughts and as can be inferred through the style and text, this “high school experience” and play on words vividly resonates with feelings I can connect to my own experiences as a young man.

The poem opens with an all too familiar setting, that of being “flattened… against the wall” at school where I have found myself plenty of times, observing those that pass by with the reoccurring thought in my head: am I too being observed, or does my flatness enable my invisibility (3-4)? Sometimes when you people-watch, it is almost too easy to find yourself observing in a manner which pushes these complicated and meticulous speculations to take over your thought process. Jackson’s character further explores these thoughts as the poem continues, where adjectives take precedent in providing great insight into the character’s persona and the types of things he acknowledges at school.

We see throughout the poem that as the character watches his youthful female peers, he so vividly shares with us their appearance and how well it defines his perception of them. With their “cloud sea of élan” so apparently supported by their “swagger…[and] blue-tinted sunglasses and low-rider jeans,” it is easy to see how ones’ vision itself can produce an aura that we associate with the things we crave (4, 7-9). Here we see the character craving this coolness and flare…have we not all craved this before? Absorbing his thoughts as my own, it is so easy to understand how by using imagery, Jackson gives the character and myself the ability to equally experience in that moment what he is feeling. This “[celebration of] youth” is one that permeates my experiences as a young man even though indeed there were often “snubs and rebuffs” (16). The unknowing, the guessing, the allure that youth reflects upon me and the character only has 73

drawn me further into the abyss I refer to as the “craving”. Where I differ from the character however is in his tendency to “avoid what [he] fears” for even when I found myself flattened against the wall observing anyone, if there was fear… I saw it as motivation (17).

Works Cited: Jackson, Major. “Urban Renewal XVIII.” Hoops. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 2006. Print.

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R E S P O N S E

E S S AY :

“ L E T T E R TO B R OO K S : S P R I N G G A R D E N ” S H E N I TA PAT T E R S O N

“Letter to Brooks: Spring Garden” was written in 2006 and is extremely reminiscent of summer days in the 1990’s. The bright memory of people in the community, young and old, engaging in their favorite outdoor activities was very familiar. Jackson briefly mentioned the “pitter patter” of young girls playing rope in the 5th stanza. The song that he revealed was a game that I personally played quite a bit of growing up. Songs and games, such as this one, were very important in building and maintaining friendships and being communal with associates.

The lines that state, “the jump ropes’ portentous looming, their great, aching love blooming” is a personal favorite within this piece. It gives off an idea that through this exhilarating game, young girls are able to lose themselves in their engagement. I can speak from experience; playing double with young girls is a great way to grasp an understanding of various temperaments. How seriously one may take the game to how determined one may be to learn how to jump well.

Although it’s a recreational activity, if you look closely you can watch young girls “grow up” and face their juvenile adversities while playing.

In the 2nd stanza Jackson writes, “When you have forgotten wide-brimmed hats, Sunday back-seat leather rides & church, the doorlock like a silver cane…”

This was another vivid example of nostalgic imagery. Reading this section reminded me immediately of riding in the backseat of my grandparents’ car, heading to church, staring out the window during that short ride that felt like forever. The backseat of their old car, that I cannot remember the model of, felt huge. The seasons determined how comfortable I would be; in the winter they would not be warm until the car ride was over and in the summer a towel would have to be put down to protect your legs.

Jackson does a very warming job of illustrating common memories for many to be able to find themselves. He repeats, “when you have forgotten…” in the 75

beginning of a few of the stanzas and it’s like an invitation down memory lane. He mentions the fish man, and while I have been told stories about the fish and fruit man, they do not coincide with my upbringing. The “Mr. Softee” ice cream truck with an instrumental that will never be forgotten. The history of the prices of his soft serve ice cream and endless debates on whose favorite was the best order.

Childhood summers in Philadelphia can be bright, innocent, and multifaceted depending on your upbringing.

Works Cited Jackson, Major. “Letter to Brooks: Spring Garden.” Hoops. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 2006. Print.

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R E S P O N S E “ O N

E S S AY :

D I S A P P E A R I N G ”

GRIFFITH RIDGEWAY

Although Jackson’s poem is titled “On Disappearing,” the recurring phrase is “I have not disappeared.” What does he mean when he says “our ancestors…also have not disappeared”? What is the reference that reads: “In Jasper, TX you can disappear on a strip of gravel”(Jackson)? What do you think Jackson is saying in this poem?

In Major Jackson’s poem titled “On Disappearing”, Jackson primarily discusses the notions of extensionality and spiritual self-preservation. Jackson does this by referencing how his ideas, his love, and his work continue to live and thrive outside of his physical space. Furthermore, Jackson contemplates the struggles we face in coming to terms with our eventual demise and disappearance. We are plagued with the futility of life and overtaken by the magnitude and scale of our world.

Jackson challenges the traditional boundaries of self by explaining the pieces and fragments of his life that continue to be dispersed through his love, work, and dreams. For Jackson, the ‘self’ is something that goes beyond our immediate sensate world and includes the non-corporeal and spiritual. Lines in the poem such as “My wife quivers inside a kiss/My pulse was given to her many times” (13-14), as well as “In my children, I see my bulging face/pressing further into the mysteries” (34-35) display Jackson’s point clearly— the force of our lives come to inhabit and occupy the minds and hearts of others; our identities are fluid and open to influence of others’ existence. Our lives are inextricably linked with the thoughts and dreams of our fellow human beings. Furthermore, Jackson emphasizes the struggles we face in coming to terms with our own eventual mortality; that, in spite of being born into a structured and pre-organized world with many of the great human discoveries said and done, we are still stricken with an ailing drive to achieve immortality through greatness. In my favorite lines of the poem, Jackson takes this idea further by considering the feelings and experiences that were endangered by our ancestors: “The chunks of bread we 77

dip/in olive oil is communion with our ancestors,/who also have not disappeared.

Their delicate songs/I wear on my eyelids. Their smiles have/given me freedom which is a crater/ I keep falling in” (15-20). I love the metaphor of the final line— the vision of freedom as a slippery crater. The metaphor of the crater captures both the enormity and danger of freedom.

Jackson introduces a particularly interesting series of lines in the seventh stanza, “When we talk about limits, we disappear. In Jasper, TX you can disappear on a strip of gravel” (47-48). The first line ostensibly connects with the idea that our ‘self’ extends beyond our immediate space. Jackson appears to tell the reader that we decide the limits of our self. He follows this line by, in an out of fashion way, explaining that you can disappear in Jasper, TX. This line baffles me because it breaks the mold and the hopeful, contented tone of the poem. If death does not necessarily cause us to disappear, but our self-limitations do, then what could happen in the town of Jasper, TX to cause someone to vanish? Immediately my thoughts jump to racism given that Texas is a southern milieu and that Jackson contemplates the freedom as a crater earlier in the poem.

Humanity’s shared sense of emptiness and futility is temporarily overcome in Jackson’s inspirational “On Disappearing.” In spite of our overwhelming fear, we may take salvage in the fluid nature of our identities. Additionally, by understanding our ‘self’ as the final arbitrator of the extent and power of our existence, we can limit the spread of our vain battle for self-preservation.

Work Cited: Jackson, M. “On Disappearing.” Poem-A-Day. Robert Lee Brewer. New York: Academy of American Poets, 2013. Print.

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R E S P O N S E

E S S AY :

T H E T W E L V E O F H AT T I E

T R I B E S

SOPHIA BALTER

The excerpts from The Twelve Tribes of Hattie were filled to the brim with emotions of all sorts. There were the emotions of new beginnings, old endings, and the mysteries of what is to come. In the first chapter you see Hattie optimistically beginning a new chapter of her young life in Philadelphia with her lover August and her two newly born children, Philadelphia, and Jubilee. By the end of that chapter however, you see her happiness and excitement fade away along with her children’s lives. Throughout the chapters we read, Hattie displays a sense of independence that was rare for a young African American woman of her time.

During just the first chapter of the novel, you learn so much about Hattie through her arrival in Philadelphia, and her children’s deaths. You see how she was young and ambitious – that she wanted something more for herself, and most importantly for her children. August was almost a vehicle for her escape from the south, a way in which to get the freedom she wasn’t exactly sure existed just yet. As soon as she steps foot into Philadelphia, she immediately grows aware that this place is much different from where she grew up. She sees that African Americans are treated for the most part just like anyone else, and that there isn’t as much stigma, racism, and race battles as there were where she was from. She sees Philadelphia as a new beginning filled with hope and everything that she ever dreamed of. As a result of this she names her children after Philadelphia, and her feelings of Jubilee for the new chapter of her life. Shortly after arriving in Philadelphia however, her twins get extremely ill with Pneumonia and pass away in her arms after days of her trying everything she could to keep them alive. I feel as if during the death of her firstborn children, her dreams are shattered and her hope dissipated. She no longer saw Philadelphia as a place of hope, but rather a place of hope gone wrong.

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In the second excerpt, you really see how Hattie’s children’s deaths affected her life, especially between her and August. It seems to me that after her children’s deaths, she began to live her life in a state of misery, which later led to her affair with Lawrence. Even though she went on to have more children with August, you can tell through her actions that it wasn’t for August, it was more or less for herself. After she leaves August, her only worry is for her children, whereas for August her actions made him consider and reevaluate everything in his life. Both characters seem very confused and afraid of the emotions they have, especially towards each other, but neither knows what to do about them.

Lawrence was an escape route for Hattie, but it took spending a car trip with him to know that that path wasn’t right for her either. Out of the chapters that we read, one can really grasp a feel for the characters and the struggles that they have gone through, and will continue to go through. I fairly enjoyed these chapters, because they were filled with emotion and you could really get a sense of what it would have been like to be an independent African American woman starting a life for herself.

Work Cited: Mathis, Ayana. The Twelve Tribes Of Hattie. New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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R E S P O N S E

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T H E T W E L V E O F H AT T I E

T R I B E S

NORMAN CAIN

After witnessing the murder of her father and the theft of his blacksmith shop by racist white people in Georgia, Hattie, her mother and her two sisters flee. Upon reaching their destination, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Hattie senses that the city is nowhere as prejudiced as her former place of residence. She marries at a young age. She has two children. She embraces a celebratory mindset and names her children Philadelphia and Jubilee. Philadelphia symbolized Brotherly love and Jubilee the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation

Initially the children were healthy and her husband was helpful and sought employment. Then tragedy intervened. Her children caught pneumonia. She frantically tried to save their lives. They die. With their deaths, the concepts of love, freedom, and the benevolent north vanish. Hattie’s spirit is shattered. Her husband works when he feels like it and becomes a womanizer.

She leaves her children- with the exception of one, Ruthie, the child of her lover- with August and accompanies her lover, Lawrence, to Baltimore. They intended to send for her other children when they were settled.

Harriet returns to Philadelphia, I believe, for two reasons: guilt and the fact that she realizes that her lover, a gambler, was as unstable as her husband. Each of her remaining children suffers tragedy.

My parents migrated from rural South Carolina to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in 1938. I was born in 1942. Each summer, I spend 2 months on my grandparents’ farm in South Carolina; therefore, I was able to reside in both the North and the South each year. I experienced the life styles of both the southern and northern Afro Americans. As a consequence, I could relate to the story line presented in the Ayana Mathis debut novel, The Twelve Tribes of Hattie.

I have heard stories of how successful African American business owners in the south were either murdered or run out of the area after having had their 81

property stolen by the power to be. I have also heard stories about blacks having to flee the South because they had violated a code or series of codes that white people had specifically set-up for them to follow.

Two such cases involved my family: An uncle had to flee South Carolina because he had gotten into a physical confrontation with a white boy, and a third cousin had to abscond because of a relationship with a white woman. He was rowed from South Carolina across the Pee Dee River into North Carolina by my maternal and paternal grandfathers. Having been raised in Philadelphia, I can also relate to the experiences Hattie had in Philadelphia.

Years ago, it was not uncommon for Afro American families to have many children. Because of the decadent cultural norms and aloofness displayed by the inhabitants of the North, as compared to the social conservatism and community unity that prevailed amongst their counterparts in the South, Hattie’s children had a greater propensity to become engage in abnormal social activity—as well as become socially and psychologically disturbed.

Work Cited: Mathis, Ayana. The Twelve Tribes Of Hattie. New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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T H E T W E L V E O F H AT T I E

T R I B E S

CAROL MCCULLOUGH

The Philadelphia in Ayana Mathis’s Twelve Tribes of Hattie echoes the promise of hope presented in Lorene Cary’s The Price of a Child as well as contrasts the rural south. Hattie Shepherd headed northward to the New Jerusalem, as her Georgia preacher called it, landing in Philadelphia in 1925 at the beginning of the mass exodus of Blacks from the south knows as the Great Migration. This Philadelphia was already filled with people and bustling with commotion, a bigger city than her home back in Georgia. Upon her arrival she marveled at witnessing a civilized exchange between a Black female customer and a white male flower vendor, and she watched Black people walk proudly on the sidewalks with their heads held high, never having to defer to whites as they passed.

Although this big city was not the Promise Land after all, the freedom from overtly menacing violence led her to vow to her mother she would never go back.

The harsh northern winter ultimately claimed Hattie’s infant twins in Philadelphia and Jubilee. With no intervention beyond eucalyptus steams, camphor rubs, ipecac sips and a doctors consultation, eventually the fever of pneumonia snuffed out their young lives, but not before Mathis could show the depths of their mother’s love: “She did not know how to comfort them, but she wanted her voice to be the last in their ears, her face the last in their eyes.” She kissed their foreheads. She “called them precious; she called them light and promise and cloud.” Hattie “felt their deaths like a ripping in her body” (Mathis 13). This eloquent description of the twins’ passing touched me almost to the point of tears because it brought to mind for just a moment the memory of my witnessing the deaths of the twin influences on my early life’s development: my mom and dad. Though almost a quarter century apart, I was there for both transitioning’s, and I understand Hattie’s inability to bear her children’s suffering as she heard the “wet gurgling deep in their chests” (Mathis 13).

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By 1951 Hattie had several more children and had, in fact, borne a child (Margaret) called “Ruthie” to a man other than her husband August. At their relationships beginning, when she was only 15, she only liked August “because he was a secret from her mama, and because it thrilled her to go out with a country boy she thought beneath her” (Mathis 84). She was “a high yellow” girl who fascinated him, but “after his conquest, the thrill wore off for both of them” (Mathis 89). They both would never be the same after their twins’ deaths. There was anger but no tenderness; stepping out and blame. August felt that if she would just stop hating him for one day, he could garner the strength to do right by her (Mathis 40). Instead, he stayed out partying at night clubs and juke joints with women who “didn’t mean anything” but “just made his life a little more livable from one day to the next” (Mathis 87), for the heat of an argument about electric bill money having been spent at a juke joint, after a cast iron skillet was thrown and dodged, it was revealed that August was not Ruthie’s father. He told Hattie to get out, so she took the baby, met her lover Lawrence Bernard and they set off to Baltimore with Hattie promising to return for the other children. But Lawrence had his flaws, too, primarily gambling. Hattie had hoped he’d be her “safe port” in her stormy life (Mathis 93). He was accustomed to addressing the now as opposed to planning and preparing for a future filled with children. She left Lawrence and returned to August for the children. At chapter’s end August had resigned himself to their having had too many disappointments and too much heartbreak, being beyond forgiveness and love (Mathis 106).

Sad with so many children caught in the crossfire between them. Their domestic discord certainly connects to contemporary times. Verbal shots fired, dreams dashed, children taken prisoner in what is certainly not “The Promise Land.”

Work Cited: Mathis, Ayana. The Twelve Tribes Of Hattie. New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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T H E T W E L V E O F H AT T I E

T R I B E S

CAYA SIMONSEN

I found this piece particularly emotional and challenging to read. The Twelve Tribes of Hattie gives us insight into a poor African American mother’s saga with her twelve children. In Philadelphia and Jubilee, we learn about her first children, twins that die as babies from pneumonia. It is heart-wrenching to watch this mother’s struggle to save her children. As the chapter opens, she is giving the children medicine from the doctor as well as her own home remedies. Though her children are very sick, Hattie still has hope of saving them, and they themselves represent hope in her life: “Hattie knew her babies would survive. Though they were small and struggling, Philadelphia and Jubilee were already among those luminous souls, already the beginning of a new nation” (Mathis 9). Unfortunately this hope dissolves into a frenzied fight for her children’s lives, then futility, then despair, as she breaks the medicine tube and cuts herself in a desperate attempt to save her children, then runs over to the neighbor’s house for help, “only to end up in another bathroom just like her own, with a woman as helpless…as she was” (Mathis 13). When both babies died, “she felt their deaths like a ripping in her body” (Mathis 13). The emotionally captivating nature of the piece caused me to feel my own grief when reading of the babies’ deaths.

The chapter entitled “Ruthie” is emotionally charged in a different way. As the reader, we watch Hattie decide to leave her husband August for her lover Lawrence, the father of one of her children. This chapter seems much less about the child than about Hattie’s own journey and what she wants for her life given her constraints as a mother. What particularly struck me about this chapter was how Hattie provided financially for her children while August spent much of his money on entertainment; right before Hattie leaves she says to August: “’ They owe you something by now. All the clothes my children aren’t wearing and the shoes not on their feet are paying the juke’s light bill’” (Mathis 95), expressing her 85

frustration with this situation. I also found it particularly interesting that both August and Lawrence consider what kind of father and husband they are, and how they have lived up to and failed their standards for how they should fulfill these roles; also how they justify their behavior when it is less than what these standards they set for themselves are.

My work as a family law paralegal helps me to relate to this piece on a more personal level. I work with many parents, mostly mothers, who are fighting every day for their children—how to provide for them financially, emotionally, and with the best care and circumstances, often when they feel the father has not done his part to be supportive and to be involved in the children’s lives. Mothers I work with are fighting against poverty, violence in their neighborhoods, situations of domestic violence, and involvement of Child Protective Services to keep their children well, with them, and intact as a family. I think that there is a very special bond between mother and children that is displayed clearly in this chapter and that I see in my work: Hattie’s strong instinct to fight and do everything necessary for her children. This is particularly evident in the chapter about Hattie fighting for Philadelphia and Jubilee, but is also apparent from the chapter on “Ruthie” when we learn how Hattie has provided financially for her children and is the glue that keeps the family together in terms of performing the household chores as well. This work is a reflection on family, mother-child relationships, and how a mother’s relationship with men affects her children.

Work Cited: Mathis, Ayana. The Twelve Tribes Of Hattie. New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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T H E T W E L V E O F H AT T I E

T R I B E S

KIERA WILSON

The two selected chapters from, The Twelve Tribes of Hattie, highlight the personal growth of both Hattie and her relationships with August, Lawrence, and her children. It also illuminates some of the nuances of relationships, expectations driven by social norms, and a significant difference between the roles of men and woman.

The Twelve Tribes of Hattie open up with Hattie’s move to Philadelphia and the entry into a new kind of world. It is full of mixed emotions, strained relationships between her mother and sisters, and the gritty drive that it really takes to live in Philadelphia. Once off the train, Hattie encounters what may seem like a new world and she makes up her mind to stay: “Four Negro girls walked by, teenagers like Hattie, chatting to one another. Just girls in conversation, giggling and easy, the way only white girls walked and talked in the city street of Georgia” (Mathis 11). A sentiment she later ponders with thoughts around her sister and the death of her mother.

Hattie works tirelessly to keep her children well while struggling with pneumonia, but it is in between her faithful and alert moments that we get a grasp of Hattie, her dreams, and what keeps her afloat in the steam filled house on Wayne Street. Her understanding of how quickly your life’s work and valuables can be taken grips her and moves her forward through her life: “Hattie’s father was not two days dead, and at that moment the white men were taking his name plaque from the door of his blacksmith shop and putting up their own (Mathis 9).

While not articulated in the text, Hattie shows an immense amount of grit between the early 1920’s to her quick move to Baltimore in the 1950’s. It is her drive and almost severe anger that draws August to her initially. It is her fierceness and ability to be the mortar among stones that focuses a long and torrent relationship between her and Lawrence. The death of her twin children in 87

Philadelphia and Jubilee, while crushing and, “ripping into her body,” somehow bound her to progress, where August struggled to reconnect to their life together.

Hattie’s bravery is a mark of her success (Mathis 13).

The selected chapters also introduce us to the role of men and woman. We understand August and Hattie’s relationship a bit more, and from August’s perspective. He shares his thoughts on becoming a family man and the heartbreaking loss of his twin children. When Hattie said she was pregnant, August decided then and there that he wanted to be a family man. He would become an electrician and marry Hattie, who was, after all, one of the prettiest girls in Germantown. However, August compares himself to other men and allows the social norms of the time dictate his ethical standards for his relationship.

August never really grows into the shoes of a true family man and remains the same young boy who sought after Hattie as a conquest.

We also have a brief time to know Lawrence and we can see some significant differences in their approach to a relationship with Hattie. Lawrence seems to have some steady work, but still falls into similar standards when it comes to his vice, gambling. Neither man is up to Hattie’s standards.

Work Cited: Mathis, Ayana. The Twelve Tribes Of Hattie. New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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E S S AY :

B U C K NORMAN CAIN

MK Asante’s memoir, Buck, is a riveting, rhythmic, prosy, hip hop laced coming of age narrative that captures his young adult years on the mean streets of Philadelphia. Additionally, the Memoir captures his candid memories of a dysfunctional family and how he discovered his writer’s voice and self-worth as an alternative high school student in the wealthy Chestnut Hill section of Philadelphia.

While the derogatory definition of Buck describes a highly adventurous young Black man who is prone to anti-social activities, the term can also convey sentiments of endearment. In Afro America, ‘Buck’, can be preceded by a variety of adjectives, among them: Young, town, make and wild.

Throughout his memoir, Asante illustrates how the preceding adjectives used to describe Buck were a part of his life. As a young buck, he is the leader of a group of boys who are prone to violent behavior. Once he blew up a car.

Metaphorical Buck towns mentioned in his memoir are Broad and Olney, Erie and Girard respectively.

These are the intersections that are rife with underworld activities; these are the intersections that he frequented; these are the intersections where he sold drugs, solicited sex and employed and unsavory life style. His nonconformist behavior is not only confined to the aforementioned intersections of Philadelphia, they extend to a variety of other areas of the city as well. His life becomes being a disciple of buck wildness and making bucks.

The turning point in Asante’s life arrives when he becomes a student at the non-traditional Crefeld School in the affluent Chestnut Hill section of Philadelphia. There he finds solace, becomes acquainted with Kerouac, Whitman, Hurston, Baldwin, Ginsberg and other authors whose philosophies, love of adventure and quest for truth matched his mindset. He decides that he wants to become a writer; however, his Wild Buck ways still persisted.

His best friend is killed, perhaps by the same drug dealers that he owes 89

$3,000 to. It was at this point that his interests begin to change. He becomes interested in hip hop and poetry, performs at an underground spoken word venue that feature upcoming stars like poet Ursula Rucker, the poet/singer Jill Scott and the world renowned Roots band. This was his beginning of a productive life.

I feel that Asante initially experienced a misguided existence because his family was dysfunctional. His father, a world-renowned Afro American scholar was absent. His mother suffered from suicidal notions. His brother, who was his mentor, was in jail. His sister was in multiple mental institutions. Asante did not have guidance; therefore, he had no sense of purpose until he enrolled in the Crefeld School.

To the dismay of peers and family, in my youth, I have been what is known as a wild buck. During that period of my life was to use the vernacular “in the street.” Moving helter skelter into its ravine of Bacchanal did not make the fatal mistake of not returning to so called normalcy. Luckily, I knew how far to take my “Buck Wildness.” Eventually, I was employed by several agencies that dealt with troubled youth: Young Bucks. My street and professional experiences have allowed me to have an appreciation of Asante’s book.

Work Cited: Asante, MK. Buck. New York: Random House Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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E S S AY :

B U C K CHRISTOPHER COLLINS

When Asante attends the alternative school, his newfound freedom allows him to make crucial discoveries about life and himself. Had he continued along his previous trajectory, he probably would have continued getting into trouble while struggling to find his purpose in life. However, entering a welcoming environment like Crefeld fostered an educational experience for Asante that opened him up to new possibilities and created an entirely different prospective on life.

When Asante begins at the alternative school, it’s much different from his previous experiences in school. It looked like a gingerbread house than a school, and the students looked weird, too. More importantly, the school was less restrictive and seemingly more trusting of the students. “There was no bell, no guards, no metal detectors, everything here is different”, he writes (Asante 19).

In his two previous schools, Asante struggled. He felt like everything—his teachers, the administration, and the entire system in general—was against him.

So, he fought it. He broke the rules, and, since he was shown no respect, he gave no respect in return. Not only did this get him into trouble, but also it prevented him from getting anything out of his education

At the alternative school, it was different. In one assignment, he was given a blank sheet of paper and asked to write something. He thought it was a joke. He was shocked he wasn’t given anything specific to write about, and had no idea what to do. He was never given such flexibility and freedom for an assignment at his other schools, and was excited by the new possibilities. Asante writes, “I stare at the blank page, an ocean of white alive with possibility. I hear myself take a breath then exhale deep, like I just rose from underwater” (Asante 21). This new freedom changed his life.

Following the assignment, Asante decides he loves to write and wants to become a writer. Because of this, his teacher recommends he read more books, which Asante begins to love as well. He loves how empowering developing a vocabulary can be. He writes: 91

Now I see why reading was illegal for black people during slavery. I discover that I think in words. The more words I now, the more things I can think about.

My vocab and thoughts grow together like the stem and petals of a flower.

Reading was illegal because if you limit one’s vocab, you limit their thoughts.

They can’t even think of freedom because they don’t have the language to.

(Asante 229) I found this to be an interesting point. Having always had a basic vocabulary, I never really connected it to how it influences what I think about. This was an important realization for Asante to make, and none of it would have happened if he didn’t go to this alternative school. He could have very easily ended up in trouble like his friends, dead, or in jail, had he continued along his previous path.

It’s amazing how important institutions are to both individuals and society as a whole.

Work Cited: Asante, MK. Buck. New York: Random House Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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E S S AY :

B U C K JOHN DOBBS

Buck was about a troubled young teen living in urban America, specifically Philadelphia throughout the mid 1990’s to early 2000’s. It describes vividly the cultural scene of Philadelphia at the time and I cannot help but relate to this story. In fact, out of all the stories we have read so far, I not only related to this one the easiest, but I also found this to be my favorite reading by far. So much so, that I actually went online to read a free online copy of it. From the readings we see the main character, named Malo, going through trials and tribulations of a normal teen. Whether it was getting his first real love’s name, Nia, or rebelling in a way most teens usually do, as well as, most trials and tribulations that are left hidden and untold. Why are they untold? Isn’t every story worth hearing?

Who cares how eloquently the words flow from sentence to sentence, if it’s a good story, than that means it’s a good story. Unfortunately, I do not believe my opinion holds much weight. Otherwise, more stories would get out there.

What moved me the most, though, were the letters that Malo’s mother, Amina, wrote to herself. They were deep. They were real. They were the stories of a woman who could see everything going on around her, but she too was lost.

So lost she couldn’t even speak up about how broken her family was becoming.

She was so desperate to do something, but all she could do was write. She saw and ever so desperately wanted to tell her oldest son, Uzi, it’s wasn’t his fault, to hold him, to say she loves him. But she couldn’t, so she only wrote. What she wrote is how she noticed her son steal her car; she wondered if this was heading towards more bad decisions in the future, or if this was just natural boy behavior.

She stated that he would do whatever he wants to anyone and no matter what she says it’s useless, that her bond is disconnected.

I connected with this story because it was real. Life is harsh. Life can be cruel. Life can be short. It can be chaotic to almost anyone for any reason at any time. Many burdens are cast on many shoulders everyday, one can only fathom the very reason a person crumbles, but to me it is understandable. Few have the 93

strength to get up and rise from a breaking point. Life is about the choices one can make and an outlook one can have through any obstacle. Malo saw a point in his life later in the book where he found a passion and he turned his life around.

He found that his voice was something. That he could make it work if he sat down and let the words take over. They would help write and fill his blank page.

They would provide him with the words that will help him write down his story.

Work Cited: Asante, MK. Buck. New York: Random House Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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E S S AY :

B U C K BRANDON JANITS

Buck is a memoir by MK Asante. It demonstrates the kind of hardships that he had experienced as he was growing up. The story expresses the struggles of a young African American boy named Malo. He was born and raised in the streets of Philadelphia. Malo was also put into a school knows as Friends. However, Malo wasn’t always given the correct guidance from his peers or his parents. This was based on the reality of most African Americans and their lack of education.

At the time, Malo’s brother Uzi was in Arizona. It seemed he had been forced to develop his own identity away from his family. The mother ended up in the hospital and was diagnosed with an illness that affected her way of thinking; the father was an African American professor who would often disappear without notifying where he was going. This would be difficult for Malo as he was forced to mainly learn for himself.

As Malo’s mom was at the hospital, he opened up her diary with a sense of interest. He would discover his mom’s past, as she would have stories of being depressed. In essence that it had led her to possible attempts for suicide. The mom’s diary provided Malo the explanation of their family’s story. As the mom states, “My oldest son is away and my home has become the house of secrets” (Asante 59). Malo would also come to learn that his brother Uzi was being held in the Arizona State Prison Complex. This came at a surprise as he answered the phone hoping it was a girl named Nia. Malo’s mom would eventually come home to realize Uzi has been sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. This caused her to start shaking involuntary.

Malo writes a story of his past experiences with the intentions of inspiring young individuals. It’s to show that no home is filled with perfect people.

However, as a young African American, he expresses the kind of behaviors that are taught and experienced from prior generations. People tend to behave as much as they’re guided. For instance, the father considers each American holiday a celebration of shame. Though Malo is an individual who is still learning, it’s 95

likely to discourage him with negativity. This will automatically manipulate his thoughts on American holidays. I believe the father should have guided Malo to show some character even if others criticize him. This goes a long way to build up his characteristics as an individual. In essence that African Americans are already predominantly targeted. I feel bad for young individuals like Malo because they are forced to experience life the hard way.

Work Cited: Asante, MK. Buck. New York: Random House Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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E S S AY :

B U C K CAROL MCCULLOUGH

MK Asante’s writing presents the reader with a shot of what life is like for many young African American men, aka young bucks, in Philadelphia. In the interview, “BUCK Tells of Wild Childhood in Killadelphia,” he says that his memoir is about education—miseducation, reeducation, self education, street education— and the differences between school and education (Interview, p. 3). He tells of bad experiences in a couple of schools that relied upon regurgitation of rotely memorized facts as indicators of student achievement, where his intellectual potential was neither recognized not stimulated or challenged. It was not until he was expelled from Friends’ Select and enrolled in Crefeld, an alternative high school where eccentricity and difference in (learning) style was taken into account, that his talent was recognized, nurtured and allowed to shine through.

His English teacher helped him make the breakthrough discovery that he could write “sentences that flow like water, then…ride the word waves into new perceptions, new ideas” (Buck, p. 206).

Asante is now a professor of writing and film as well as a hip-hop artist, an award winning talent and published author who has lectured throughout the US and the world. But things could have turned out very differently for this young Philadelphian had he not received help learning to harness the power of his own potential and discovered his own purpose. He found that purpose in writing: first, learning that he could write in his future, spelling out his destiny in sharp strokes (Buck, p. 202), then later telling the story for other people going through similar situations—for “the kid who had never read anything that’s resonated with him,” who has never seen himself acknowledged in anything (Interview p.5). He could have turned out like some of the other Young Bucks he hung around with— maybe dead, or imprisoned, or drugged-out roaming the streets searching for that unattainable something. But an English teacher (shout out!!) challenged him with a blank white page and the words, “Write Something,” which set his creative mind 97

free—to sprint, to dive in, to take his best shot—not in sports , but in writing and consequently, in life.

Asante learned to build a strong foundation for his writing by reading widely. Since his previous schools had done nothing of substance to foster a reading habitat, he was “starved” and “hungry for words, phrases, stories, and knowledge.” He recognized the power to take him on a “journey,” setting him off on a “voyage into a new land” (Buck, p. 226). He practiced writing all forms— poetry, stories, songs, essays, rhymes—to speak fluently to people in whatever language they understood (Buck, p. 231).

Asante then came to understand the power of literacy and the threat it poses on external control systems. Illiteracy is a form of mental slavery. Without owning word power, people’s minds are enshackled. They can never be totally free because they lack the language to formulate the thought process to break free. This holds true even today. When schools fail kids, they most likely grow into “failures” themselves, unless some very specially enlightening forces intervene in time. It is heart-wrenching to imagine the loss which would have occurred had not Asante become empowered to find his voice—and his way. It is heart-breaking to know that this happens even today in Philadelphia. That is why those in a position of knowledge and enlightenment must not turn their backs on the masses but instead, reach out a hand to uplift someone else so that there might be a ripple of positive change.

Asante’ story is so REAL, so PHILLY, a pungent slice of life in the city.

When I read his description of the Broad Street Line at Olney—its people and sounds and sights—it was as if I were there, or had at least seen it all before at another stop on another day. In fact, the day I read of the young bucks “bustin” the dozens at each other, ogle-eyeing young women at the stop, getting their hopes up to be verbally shot down rapid fire, where Malo sighted the lovely Ms. Nia and rode to the Spring Garden stop with her just to get a chance at getting her number, this was the same day of “The Brawl,” an actual real life occurrence at Spring Garden Station. A student was repeatedly kicked in the head and one guy fell down into the track area during a massive after school fight reportedly started over a girl. (Art reflects life reflects art, endlessly.)

Philly has its own flavor, its own rhythms and style. It is distinctive, often dangerous, yet it can be dazzling as well. Take for instance, his chapter 43, “The Five Spot.” Captured on Black Lily night. “All types of peeps” are catalogued Whitman-style: “beautiful brown girls with Coke hips and tribal tats… backpackers…braids dreds, weaves, perms, baldies, everybody nappy, happy” (Buck, p. 239). This is the place that birthed Ursula Rucker and Jill Scott and nursed Black Thought and ?uestlove after CAPA. They were all Philly’s own. And MK—aka “Malo”—rocked it back to the beginning, spittin his jawn called BUCK, setting his own story free.

Work Cited: Asante, MK. Buck. New York: Random House Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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R E S P O N S E

E S S AY :

B U C K GRIFFITH RIDGEWAY

In Buck: A Memoir, author MK Asante reflects on his tumultuous childhood experiences in the city of “Kill-adelphia.” As Asante navigates puberty and comes into maturity, he finds himself deeply confused and troubled by both racial politics and family drama. Ultimately, Asante explains this story to be both a coming of age and a triumph over the structural evils of the world. At one crucial point in Asante’s academic career, a teacher empowers Asante. In one brief moment, Asante is inspired to quite literally find his own self-authorship, both in terms of his freedom and writing. Ultimately, this is a transformative moment for Asante as he sheds the stereotypes and pressures of his neighborhood and burgeons into a scholastically voracious high school graduate, By the close of the excerpt, both Asante and his family have overcome significant hardships.

Threatened and disheveled in his two prior schools, MK Asante finds himself at an alternative high school for non-traditional students. Caught in the first day of class, his English teacher hands him a pen and paper. Instead of offering a prompt or guiding his thoughts, she simply requests that he write.

From the lens of literacy theory, this point serves as a major turnaround for Asante’s cognitive and emotional development. Both figuratively and literally, Asante assumes a position of “self-authorship” in his life; he takes ownership of his freedom and begins to write his own destiny in the same way he finds love in writing and self-expression. In chapter 4, “Friends or Foes”, Asante explains his confusion and self-loathing in a wonderful metaphor using Philadelphia’s “LOVE” park, “they say we can’t skate LOVE even though it’s public” (Asante 39). Asante feels confined and lost as a result of his family’s misfortunes and his unsuccessful school life. Typically, Love is thought of as an emotion readily available to everyone—children especially; however both family and educators neglected Asante’s well being. As Asante’s insides wither from desertion, he laments and yearns for the notion that love is meant for everyone. Ultimately, this is a story of triumph as Asante pushes through a world of mistreatment and actualizes as an 99

emotionally stable and intellectually competent young man. Asante’s own coming of age coincides with the emotional stability of his mother.

As Asante undergoes the challenges of teenage life, his mother meanwhile feels similar stresses and pains. She is the product of years of neglect and the future of Asante. Asante’s mother helps to highlight a key theme in the book: the power of purpose. Both Asante and his mother suffer through significant turmoil, but ultimately are able to connect with a greater sense of purpose and meaning.

Purpose pushes Asante to a profound new level of thought and discipline, while purpose also finally convinces his mother to push past her depression and fight for a better life. The book carries a significant tone of self-ownership and taking responsibility for one’s actions. Asante is mangled and damaged until he is able to take ownership of his identity and push back against the negative pressures of his life. However, with that said, Asante’s tone is also very self-righteous and accusative. He challenges the authority of several very well respected institutions (e.g. the Friends Select school in Center City which is well-known for its Quaker roots. Racism, while still possible and prevalent, would be significantly less likely there. At no point does he truly take responsibility for his disrespectful and silly behavior. Throughout the book he continues to justify his actions and scorn authority. However, I both hope and expect that this behavior is simply a reflection of what he thought rather than what he thinks.

In conclusion, Asante’s moment of enlightenment led to a profound change in both the well-being of himself and his mother. As he comes to learn, freedom is granted to all, but owned by few. While his narrative was very touching, by the end of the story I felt rather under confident in the legitimacy of his claims and his credibility as a narrator.

Work Cited: Asante, MK. Buck. New York: Random House Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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E S S AY :

B U C K CAYA SIMONSEN

For me, one of the most powerful parts of what we read of Buck were the journal entries from Amina. It is powerful that these journal entries are from Amina’s actual journal and are paired alongside Asante’s recounting of events; in addition to offering the perspective of a second narrator these journal entries provide a window into life for mothers who are struggling with depression and other types of mental illness. Specifically, I will be discussing her journal entry detailing when she leaves Daudi at the airport.

The details Amina gives about how hard this decision was for her reveals the complexity of the decisions that parents make on behalf of their children as well as her love for Daudi. Amina is frustrated by her own inability to control Daudi and to set him on a better path: “why can’t Chaka and I get a grip on things?”

(Asante 61). I think this feeling is very common for parents who have children who are going through difficult problems and feel a sense of powerlessness over their children although they also feel that they should be able to control their children more. Then Amina makes this decision to send Daudi to Arizona to stay with his uncle—this is a last-ditch decision, as Amina seems to feel that Chaka has not abandoned her in her attempts to do her best by Daudi (Asante 62). Amina has doubts about this decision, “My brother has problems of his own” (Asante 62), and also seems conflicted about her motivations in sending Daudi away, “Am I doing this to please Chaka?” (Asante 62). However, despite the fact that she is second guessing this decision, in the end she seems to think that it is necessary to do this, to demonstrate this type of tough love towards Daudi though it hurts both of them. She likens dropping him off at the airport to other times when she has had to leave him for his own good—at nursery school when he was younger— but laments the fact that she cannot accompany him to this new place: “I want to travel beside Daudi on his collar, whispering on his ear…” (Asante 63). I think that this back and forth that Amina has with herself about this decision is very telling of the painfulness of decisions that parents often have to make for the best 101

interest of their children.

Also fascinating in this passage is Amina’s self-resolve to better her psychological state in order to help her children. In this journal entry she very clearly accepts that she bears responsibility towards her children and needs to find a way to provide the support that they need even though she is suffering psychologically: “I must get stronger so I can be there for my sons…My strength is my light and both of my sons need me” (Asante 63). At the same time we know that she is fighting serious depression, from our background knowledge that Amina has had several suicide attempts as well as from the text: “I want to go home and sleep for seven days and seven nights…I have to resist going into a black hole and never seeing light” (Asante 63). With these statements, Amina is either saying that she has to resist suicide or depression so strong that she is not functional and disappears from the world into herself. I think this self-resolve to get better for her sons is both touching and telling of the struggle that many parents dealing with mental health problems face.0

Finally, I was struck by how poetically Amina writes about her grief in leaving Daudi. She says, “I want to forget that pain can be so intimate” (Asante 63). This simple statement is so telling of the depth of feeling that she is experiencing, but it is also a beautiful statement about emotional pain that can be applied to many people’s experiences of pain. Additionally, it is very poetic when Amina compares the inside of her body to the weather, and how her inner pain was transformed into tears as she walked away from Daudi: “the tears that were raining inside of me began to fill up the spaces in my eyes and then envelop my face until I couldn’t see. I can’t say how the weather is today but I know that inside me, it is raining” (Asante 64). Amina’s journal entry is as beautiful as it is deep; I am not surprised that with the publishing of this book people began to ask Asante when his mother was going to publish her own book.

Work Cited: Asante, MK. Buck. New York: Random House Publishing Group, 2013. Print.

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T H E

W R I T E R S

SHERRY JANE E. ALINDOGAN was born in Manila, Philippines and raised in Polillio Island by her maternal grandparents. She attended Central High School in Philadelphia until her sophomore year and graduated from Blue Mountain Academy, in Harrisburg, PA. She has a BA from Temple University. She is an avid reader, swimmer, martial artist, traveler, and a professional student.

LAUREN ALTMAN was born and raised in Montgomery County in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She is a student in the Music Industry Program at Drexel University. She plays bass in Plainview, an indie band, and owns and operates D6 Merchandise.

SOPHIA BALTER was born and raised in South Jersey. A psychology student at Drexel University, she works at Garland of Letters, a new age book store on South Street, and loves reading. In her free time, she enjoys making tie dyes and spinning fire poi.

OSAZE BEM was born and raised on 34th Street & Mantua Avenue in West Philadelphia. He went through the public school system and was an x-ray technician for twenty-five. He received a BS in business administration and management from Philadelphia University and now works for the city of Philadelphia Health Department as training and education specialist. He is am a community activist.

KRISTINE BONHOFF was born in Northern California and is graduating from Drexel this year. She hopes to obtain a PhD in anthropology.

VALDA BROWN wants to do her part to make change in the world. She resides in Mantua.

NORMAN CAIN was born in 1942 and raised on Olive Street in West Philadelphia. He graduated in 1964 from Bluefield State College in West Virginia where he majored in social science and minored in English. A retired social worker, teacher, father of five and grandfather of seven, he is active in several writing groups, including the Best Day of My Life So Far at the Germantown Senior Center.

CHRISTOPHER COLLINs is a graduating senior majoring in economics at LeBow College of Business, Drexel University.

JOHN DOBBS was born in Philadelphia in 1992. He is the son of Mary Dobbs and brother to Lauren and Maureen Dobbs. He graduated from Salesianum and currently attends Drexel University. i

JONGILENE FERGUSEN is a community gardener and fiber and abstract artist.

Her pastimes are reading, listening to music, and playing the guitar and drums.

She lives in Philadelphia with her cat, Bones.

JACQUELINE GALLOWAY, the daughter of Mayella Galloway, was born in South Philadelphia in 1952 and has lived in Mantua for over fifty years. She is a resident of Mt. Vernon Manor. Her daughter is Regina Galloway and her grandson is Marcus Baptiste Galloway.

CARLOS RAUL HERNANDEZ is a junior international business and economics student at Drexel who—until moving to Philadelphia five years ago—grew up in a large Hispanic family in Los Angeles, California. Now on his own and working through school, he is determined to make it as an interpreter and plans to study international marketing in graduate school.

BRANDON JANITS is a graduating senior, majoring in Criminal Justice. He hopes to start his career as a law enforcement officer and plans to continue his education in graduate school.

JEN JOLLES is a senior English major at Drexel who hails from a sleepy suburb in Maryland known as Silver Spring. She has been a peer reader at the Drexel Writing Center since the winter of 2012 and looks forward to continuing her studies in literature at Georgia State University in Atlanta in the fall. Jen likes to run too many miles, drink too much coffee, and live with intention—to mixed results.

EVANGELINA KAPETAN is a resident of Mantua.

KIRSTEN KASCHOCK is the author of three books of poetry and a novel. She has earned PhDs from the University of Georgia in English and from Temple University in dance. She is the editor-in-chief of thINKing DANCE (an online consortium of Philadelphia dance writers) and is on faculty at Drexel University.

CHRIS KENNEDY is a surfer from the New Jersey coast. He is a computer science major at Drexel University and enjoys writing. He is currently working on a short novel.

TIFFANY LIAO is a graduating senior in the materials science and engineering program at Drexel University. She plans to continue her education in functional apparel design and fiber science.

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LAUREN LOWE is from somewhere just across the bridge in South Jersey, but has somehow lived most of her life in Philadelphia without having actually lived in Philadelphia. She is currently a sophomore English major and a peer reader at the Drexel Writing Center. Fueled almost exclusively by words, sports, and dumplings (in that order).

CAROL MCCULLOUGH is a transplanted West Virginian who has lived in Philadelphia for two decades and now resides in Mantua. She received a BA in language arts from Marshall University. She is currently re-writing her life story.

JORDAN MCCULLOUGH was born in Washington, DC and has lived in Philadelphia since 1995. He is a graduate of Philadelphia Academy Charter High School. He likes to draw and paint and has been a participant in the City of Philadelphia Mural Arts Program.

JILL MOSES earned her MFA in creative writing from the University of Oregon, where she received the graduate award in poetry and served as assistant poetry editor of the Northwest Review. Currently, she teaches writing at Drexel University and is an editorial assistant for Painted Bride Quarterly.

STEPHANIE MUALIM is a graduating senior double majoring in international area studies and finance at Drexel University. She hopes to be employed sooner rather than later.

JUANDA MYLES is a resident of Mantua.

VARUN PADMANABHAN is a graduating senior majoring in marketing at Drexel University. Varun has completed three co-ops and has participated in Drexel’s baseball club program for five, years earning 1st and 3rd team all region honors.

SHENITA PATTERSON is a twenty-something Philadelphia native. Since graduating in 2011 with her BA in sociology she has worked primarily with youth, especially those experiencing homeless. After neglecting a long lost love for writing and poetry, Shenita plans to share knowledge and light through words.

CHANDA CHERISE CORLEY RICE is known as Muffy. She was born in 1961 on the train from New York to Philadelphia and was raised in North Philly by her maternal grandmother. She is a resident of Mantua.

GRIFFITH RIDGEWAY hails from Roanoke, Virginia and moved to Philadelphia after graduating from James Madison University with a BA in philosophy and BS in biology. He currently works as an AmeriCorps*VISTA at Henry H. Houston Elementary School where he organizes school and community partnerships. He hopes, at all times, to live with courage and candor. iii

IAN ROSS has never been to the Grand Canyon. He is graduating from Drexel with a BS in film and video production. He moved to Philly from Louisiana because the people were too nice and the food was too good.

CYNTHIA ANN SCHEMMER is a writer originally from New York now living in Philadelphia. She has an MFA in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College, works as a program assistant with One Book, One Philadelpha at the Free Library, and is the managing editor of She Shreds magazine.

MICHAEL SHELMET has never lived more than 50 miles from Philadelphia and currently resides in West Philly. He received an MS in computer science from Drexel University where he has worked for over a decade providing technology support to faculty, staff and students.

CAYA SIMONSEN is a resident of West Philadelphia. She graduated from Haverford College in 2014 with majors in political science and Spanish. She is currently a Haverford House Fellow, through which she works at Philadelphia Legal Assistance as a family law paralegal. Caya enjoys baking, cooking, traveling, and exploring different neighborhoods in Philadelphia.

BRENDA SPRUILL is a resident of Mantua.

KEIRA WILSON currently works at Princeton University with an ambitious group of students to plan programs including Breakout and Pace Council for Civic Values. Hailing from the sleepy town of Bellefonte PA, she still enjoys hiking and camping with her dog, Wynn. Holding a BA in psychology from Guilford College and an MS in education from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, she is a die-hard lover of Carolina BBQ. JENNIFER YUSIN is an Associate Professor of English in the Department of English and Philosophy at Drexel University. She is currently walking on the beach or thinking about walking on the beach.

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T H A N K

YO U

This book would not have been made without the help of Mackenzie Anderson, Jen Britton, Dominique Coleman-Williams, Jenna Damico, Dan Driscoll, Valerie Fox, Jerry Fuller, Gabriella Ibieta, Jennifer Johnson Kebea, Jen Jolles, Kirsten Kaschock, Lucy Kerman, Keith Leaphart, Lauren Lowe, Janel McCloskey, Harriet Millan, Jill Moses, Donna Murasko, Catherine Murray, Laura Oxenfeld, Irvin Peckham, Abioseh Porter, Bill Rees, Cyndi Rickards, Stephen Ruiz, Cyrille Taillandier, Scott Warnock, Amy Wen, and Jennifer Yusin.

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Editor

Designer

Layout Editor

Editorial Assistant

Mackenzie Anderson Bill Rees Jenna Damico

Copy Editors

Jen Jolles Lauren Lowe

Jen Britton

vi

Rachel Wenrick

Photographs

Fonts Montserrat by Julieta Ulanovsky Tryst by Philatype Printed in West Philadelphia by Replica Creative Š 2015 University Writing Program All rights are reserved by the artists and authors.

vii

G REEK

L EGEI N ( G AT H E R )

ANTHOS

- L OGI A ( CO L L E C T I O N)

GREEK

(F L OW E R )

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FR EN C H

ME DI EVAL L AT IN

G R EE K

A N T H O L OG I A