exogamy
Ed it o r’s No t e
After the overwhelming success of the first edition of Robert Morris College’s literary magazine, egg: gen{o}sis, a multitude of students, faculty and staff were once again eager to share their talent and ideas with the RMC community. The most challenging aspect in creating this magazine was choosing from the vast number of submissions, for each was wonderful in its own right. Our staff sought encouragment knowing that this is not the last edition of egg. There will be many more editions in what will become a longstanding tradition, if the response we received on the first two magazines is any guide. The multicultural atmosphere is one of the most attractive features of RMC, permeating throughout the halls of our campuses, making it an ideal place to work and study. Constantly, we learn from the many brilliant people who grace our halls, whether instructors teaching students, or students educating their instructors. All of us have unique backgrounds and experiences that mold who we are: individuals as well as representatives of our cultures. The egg is a celebration and marriage of the creative talent of all cultures represented in our community, which is why we chose to title this edition exogamy. According to The American College Dictionary, exo g amy is defined as:
ex.og.a.my - n. 1. The custom of marrying outside a social unit, such as a tribe. 2. Biol. The fusion of two gametes that are not closely related. The poetry, memoirs, fiction, artwork and photography that follow are the marriage of our creative multicultural community and a testament to the vision that unites RMC and makes us such a rich community. We encourage you to enjoy egg: exogamy and share a taste of our culture with your own.
exogamy Sláinte!
Mick McMahon
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Edi to ri a l Bo a r d S t u d e nt s Rodney Broaddus Shirley Cruz Ivan Jackson Fa c ul t y John Beer Paula Beer Greg Hill Julie Jung Mick McMahon Sheila O’Donohue Michael Singletary Lisa Skoler Jenny Stelzer Jane Ungari Ryan Wilson Gerard Wozek
Des ign Staff Shirley Cruz Michael Jankowski exogamy Robert Morris College Arts & Literary Magazine December, 2001 Special thanks to: Mike Viollt, Deb Dahlen & Don Haynes
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T ab le of C o n t e n t s
J a m e s B a l t ru m 68•Coyote Steals & Everything is Told
G re g B o rg m a n 7•I Am Only a Number 25•To the Woman I Never Knew
R o d n e y B ro a d d u s 29•Jewish Ghetto
L o re n a M . C a b re r a 12•What About Me?
S a br i n a C a s t r o 24•Confusion
C har l e s Co nd e 4•Anger
A is h a Co n ne l l 3•Reflection of a Strong Mind
C har l e s Co t t l e 67•flower
D e l a r a k M. C u l l o u g h 51•Mother of Mine
M a r i a Da v i l a 2•Lonely
A ng e l a D a v is 31•A Mother’s Love
A nt o i ne D e nt o n 50•1865
M ar cu s Eatm o n 28•Pain
R h o d a l in e F a t o k i n
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34•Eternity
M a s s i e l F ie r r o 40•I’m Sorry
U r s u la F it z p a t r ic k 42•Disappointment
D o ro t h y F l o re s 5•Shattered Dreams
G a j j a r Ma y u r G a j j a r 47•Fake
F re d e r i c k E . G e ig e r , S r . 6•I don’t Want to Die Alone
Ism a e l Go m e z 58•Alone with You
J a v ie r G o v e a 21•Furious Night
A ri j a n a H a j d a re v i c 52•Story From My Childhood
G on z a l o H e r n a n d e z 4•Amazing Love
A m ir a l i J e s s a ni 40•I Knew I’d Miss You
K a r ri n J o h n s o n 30•Sister, Sister
Rh o nd a R . M ay s 20•A Poem Isn’t Just a Poem
D e b o ra h M c C u ll o u g h 66•Only in My Dreams
P a t s y C o l l i n s Me y e r 41•Dear Black Mother
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J u a n Lu is M un o z 46•Conviction
M i c he l e Ne l s o n 60•Speakable Losses
T r e s i a Ni s b e t t 37•Where Was I Going?
R o b e r t Nu nn 55•Sorry
Ei l e e n Owsi an y 27•Butterfly Me 45•Is a Rose the Symbol of Love? 56•Wasted Childhood
M i ke P a r s o n s 38•Where Can it Be?
G r i s e l d a Qu e z a d a 11•Reflection of Life
A ng e l R iv e r a 39•The Sky is the Limit
C hr is t in e S a nt a na 22•The Red Man I Am
R e g i na ld S c o t t 74•Artwork 14•A Child of the Holocaust
A nd r e a C. S t o r e y 78•What Do you See? 10•The Visitor
J o e S y n og a 26•Leaving
M a d d y T a t a r o ff
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8•Wind Chill
D e n i s e T h om p s o n 48•The Answer
K a t i e V on d e r h e i d e 35•She’s the One
Je n ni f e r W ag ne r 32•Far Away
S h i r l e y A . W a l k e r- Mo o r e 43•Sugar Mama
D e l p hi ne W h it e 36•Mom
W il li a m L . W il s o n 59•The Killed In Action 44•Tears
S e n e ca G. Wo o d s o n 33•This I Pray
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exogamy graphic designed by Shirley Cruz
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L o ne ly By: Maria Davila Lonely, I feel as I walk, talk and smile Always hoping it will only be awhile I stroll down the lonely lane Where only I can feel the pain Tears crawl down my eyes As I look upon the sky. Lonely, I walk, talk and smile Oh, how I feel so unworthy I look around me and I wonder How can I feel that warmth inside me. I lose my hunger and I feel cold I look around me and I feel lost I need a hug, I need but a word To comfort me like a child would. Stars and rain can heal my pain As my mind wonders and my heart remains Cold and sad, my lonely heart proclaims With only the hope that one day it will change.
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Re f l e ct io n o f a S tr o ng M i nd By: Aisha Connell
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Anger By: Charles Conde A loud tone of voice Fist tightening while you grind your teeth Heart beats faster You breathe through your nose You can taste your own blood, When you bite the inside of your cheek You focus on that one item Feel their pain when you bite them I’m not like that today.
A mazi ng Love By: Gonzalo Hernandez Amazed, amazed, why so amazed? Easy comes, easy goes Amazed, amazed, One day you are here The next day you are gone Amazed, amazed, Enjoy the love.
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S ha tt e re d D re a ms By: Dorothy Flores She was only eight when her father took her in his bedroom and made her do what she was told. God watched and did nothing as her father did what he pleased. Her innocence gone forever and the worst was yet to be. Now she’s twenty-five and has never been truly loved. Never will she bear a child, the Lord has seen to that. No child, no man, no family of her own, a punishment of her past. Not a day goes by that men don’t flirt, poor guys don’t know how much she’s hurt. If they only knew what God has done, made her an outcast because of her father’s fun. She has nothing to live for and she’s too afraid to die, not a day goes by that she doesn’t cry. A lonely old lady is what she’s afraid to be. Oh Lord, won’t you please set her free?
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I Don’t Want to Die Alone By: Frederick E. Geiger, Sr. I do not want to die alone I do not want to die alone I want to be with someone Somebody Surround me with the children God's children for nation building The adults are Too chaotic, too confusing Trouble they are Too bizarre The children bring forth Life, a gift of happiness Alone, I would not be My soul would feel happiness Freely Those little smiles Mean more to me Than life entirely
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I Am Only a Num ber By: Greg Borgman I am only a number Brought in as five Without my numbers I would not be alive I am only a number My name doesn’t matter In a family of eight I am only extra chatter I am only a number when I drive my car I am only a number when I go in the bar I am only a number working 9 to 5 everyday I am only a number to receiving my two weeks pay I am only a number at my bank it’s the same I am only a number for creditors to blame I am only a number even at my school To use my name would only be cool My name is Gregory I would like everyone to use it My numbers are worn I don’t mind; please abuse it
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Wi nd C hi ll By: Maddy Tataroff The clouds looked angry, full of wrath Daring anyone to cross their path So I go outside, to get to my car The wind informs me, my trip will be far I ignore the warning, for I can see My car is only a few yards from me The wind invites his good friend sleet To join the party, here’s someone to greet And greet me he does with an icy blast Sleet slaps my face like slivers of glass I defend myself and lower my head I’m closer now and keeping my tread Near my car door, I step in deep slush It soaks my worn boot, turning my foot to mush Opening the door, I retreat inside And look out the window with considerable pride I turn the key quickly to get the heat flowing For my foot is like ice and the cold is still growing To my amazement I only hear a click The wind is mocking me and I feel sick The car will not start and I must go back In here I will freeze with the heat that I lack
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The wind has kicked up now. It’s blowing with glee. It’s lifting the snow so I cannot see I leave the car as fast as I can But soon the wind shows me he has his own plan He pins me against the car with his icy embrace I free myself to end this gruesome race My hands are my sight for I cannot see, Snowy bushes, my guide dog, leading me But even as I hold onto these The snow wets my glove, My hand starts to freeze, I continue my quest, fighting fatigue I get to the porch, my heart filled with dread, The wind grabs my hood, exposing my head Shivering and shaking, my teeth start to chatter This is what they mean by wind chill factor I reach for the doorknob and turn it so quick. The door will not open; again I feel sick. After this battle, after coming so far, I hear the wind laughing, You locked your keys in your car!
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T he V i s it o r By: Andrea C. Storey I am the face that hides behind the door; I am the man who passes by the window store. I am a leader who uses other people’s names, but we are not the same. I am the winner of this particular game. I have no glory, I have no shame. I am the winner of this particular game. I am the thought that brings destruction. I am the weapon that causes unnatural eruptions. I am the confusion of your reality. I can’t stop my reign of catastrophe. I am the visitor. I am a warning of things to come; I am a true believer of repeating what has already been done. In my time frame, I have witnessed many miracles and also many pains. I have seen the innocence of life taken away from the insanity of their rage, of their vengeance, and of another's lust. I am the embodiment of their hatred and not to be trusted. I have walked the earth from one end to the other, I am the reason why you don’t even bother to see what truth lies beneath the lie and who inconceivably led you all to die. You ask, who am I? I am the visitor. As I watch from a distance, which is still very near, it’s clear that there is a slight resistance in the stronger ones, but there is evidence of fear. I have a way with words and can make them mean whatever I want. I have a way with minds of all different types or kinds. I am not prejudiced by any means. I do not discriminate, because that wouldn’t be fair, “but you do!” You failed to impress me with your advanced technology or your developed intelligence, because you’re distracted by your creations which serve no purpose for the poor, but only for your ego. You’re blinded by your hypocrisy. That’s why it has become very easy for your ego. You’re blinded by your hypocrisy. That’s why it has become very easy for me to be allowed inside your world, inside your home, inside your mind. That is why I am the visitor.
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R e f l e c t i on o f L if e By: Griselda Quezada
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What A bout Me? By: Lorena M. Cabrera Always made sure I made the bed Had to make sure the baby was fed Trying to make sure the house stayed clean Always trying to be nice, never mean. I look to you, Lord I look up to thee I ask you Lord, What about me? I always try to be a good friend Stand strong, help out until the end I’ll share my clothes, my food, my time, Help out anyone that I see in a bind. I look to you, Lord I look up to thee I ask you, Lord, What about me? My family will call when they are in need I rush to assist them; they don’t have to plead I’ll give them my first, middle and my last I don’t remember them returning favors in the past I look to you, Lord I look up to thee I ask you, Lord, What about me? I reach out to everyone - the weak and the strong Trying to make sure no one feels alone. Seeing people happy is important to me Their laughs, their smiles, it makes them seem free, but
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I look to you, Lord I look up to thee I ask you, Lord, What about me? I give of my time my money, and my heart, Doing what I can to feel like I’m a part. Why is it so hard to feel things in return? Instead, my feelings inside feel hot and burned. I look to you, Lord I look up to thee I ask you, Lord, What about me? I did it this long I just try and wait my time It’s getting real hard I’m losing my mind I’ve done all I can do and there is no more to say I’ll just stay on my knees and continue to pray. I look up to you, Lord I look up to thee I ask you, Lord, What about me? WHAT ABOUT ME?!
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A C h i l d of t h e H o l o c a us t By: Reginald Scott Belzec- 600.000 Sobibor- 250.000 Treblink-850.000 These are the names of three of the extermination camp where Jews were killed. In honor Of the deceased And Living I would like to dedicate Fifteen second of silence, a prayer, may we bow our heads. I am a child of the Holocaust I dwell in the possibility, Trying to understand why Silence has invaded my soul. Inside their anger I am reminded of the pain That lives in me. We are the victims ! Destruction Corruption Have crushed through our homes with a rifle, Shooting and killing My people Taking all the valuable things we had, Leaving us with nothing But fatal memories.
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We were told to undress And horribly had to beg For food to eat. At the very last moment, While we were Still alive, I was exempted From the bazaar. The punishment of death I survived I didn't know If I was going to live To see tomorrow, And If I did I was going to thank my God. So much humiliation Dreams taken. Blocked my path once more. What does it mean? Does it mean that I have to be strong Keep going on? And on... I know that it can. Because of power!!!!
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Will it ever bring me to a form Of a new horizon? I know that it can Because of power!!! I prayed many times for A day like this to come. Show me a different sight and reveal to me a better light. My people died with honor. My people died with honor. Yes, honorably speaking, I am one voice. It's It's it's It's
time time time time
to to to to
dream dream dream dream
of of of of
hope respect dignity vitality
The past has opened my eyes My mother and father separated by love, Decimated by slaughter, Back together in spirit, but I can feel their presence I remember my mother reaching out For me, Screaming,
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Don't take my baby!!! Don't take my baby!!! Before you knew it I was gone. But never to forget Oskar Schnidler who protected meThe man, the hero Right about now I feel a slight change in the way I used to dream. It's not about the blood That flows through my veins I am no longer afraid!!! I am not afraid to say that My people die with a loving spirit. I am not afraid to say that Love was the symbolic pride In which my people died Honorably speaking Rebuilt by the power of hope, I know that my children Will carry on the history and memories That I will Instill In them.
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My mother's blood, My father's pain, I am a child of the Holocaust My mother's pain, my father’s name, I am a child of the Holocaust The dreams I have accepted Will not control me In such negative form Anymore. When I wake up from this nightmare, Hearing them say: Women to the left And Men to the right Those are the words that No longer control my destiny. I saw it all; I heard it all. Awakened by the noise Of my grown grandchildren Walking down the stairs To listen. As they sit by my side, I tell them the story. My life certificate didn't expire.
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I placed my hands on each of their shoulders and leaned back slowly... I am a child of the Holocaust I survived
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A P oe m I s n ’ t J us t a P oe m By: Rhonda R. Mays Look gently to your right, and then slowly turn your eyes to the left Sorry that you see different shades of colors, colors that are different from your own Sorry that you see shades of white, shades of black, shades of brown You might even see shades of yellow and pink too Sorry that the colors frighten you, you must look around to see Somehow, under these shades of color, we are all the same.
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Furious Night By: Javier Govea
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T he R e d Ma n I Am By: Christine Santana This native soil you claimed as your own Was long ago a field that my soul called home. You silenced my heart’s bell And spoiled the fruits of my hands. I reaped nothing but a “farewell” And a fistful of sand: Infertile grains reserved for me, A secluded home where I dwell alone. I no longer roam with the pack; I’m no oak by a stream, or snow on a mountain. My only companion is the melody Of my timbre howls echoing back. My dance pleads in behalf of this waterless fountain. You stop up your ears and close your eyes To smooth out the creases of your own mind. Please…please…tell me why! Did I look too proud?
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An hourglass you have made me, Keeping track of my own existence. I am merely surviving each cold, lonesome night. As I catch a glimpse of the spirited eagle, I solicit the heavens for a remedy and pray Not to share in his dreadful fate. Soon I will no longer be part of the free, No longer part of the brave, Only a permanent sunset never to rise again. That is what I am! Yet, until that final day, With each fragile breath I have left, I will remind all who choose to forget, Who I was and Who I am. It is I…one of a kind! The Red Man! The Red Man I am.
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C o n f u si o n By: Sabrina Castro Confusion does not know which way to turn To your left is the convenience and security: What you’ve always wanted, waiting for acceptance. To your right is the road covered with pebbles and branches, You see cobwebs forming, illustrating the lonely path. Which way to turn? Your heart is racing like a car on a track. Your blood pumping like the beat of a man’s heart filled with anticipation. But which way to turn? These are the moments that stand still in time Wishing you were back in your mother’s arms, security your baby blanket. Now, the only way to choose is to close your eyes And wish you didn’t have to choose at all.
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To t h e W o ma n I Ne ve r K n e w By: Greg Borgman The stories echoed halls of your wisdom and your cheer, Showing your love to everyone; they always knew you were sincere. The stories of your heart so kind Bring to me a vision of you so blind. Not meeting you was a big mistake I sometimes even lie awake Thinking of what times would have been I think we would have been close friends. I miss not having you so close But what I miss the very most Was never knowing you, Grandma.
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Leaving By: Joe Synoga When you look back into my eyes, I thank the heavens I’m alive. My heart starts racing with every glare, our eyes connected in a perfect stare. I grab your hand and pull you to me, give you a hug that sets us free. I don’t ever want to let you go; it truly hurts my heart and soul. Then I realize I’ll see you soon, but the pain I feel leaves my day-a-gloom. Until we see each other all the time, I’ll keep my feelings in these rhymes. I can’t wait for that day to come, and I know you are the perfect one.
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B ut t e rf l y Me By: Eileen Owsiany Slow slowly I started to transform, Some that are colorful ones and some dull ones. Mostly... browns, grays, and black. Help me! I am trying my whole life to escape, from myself. Can’t I just fly away, like everyone else? No! I am stuck in this transformation, in a cocoon. I feel like I’ll never escape and become a beautiful free me!
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P ai n By: Marcus Eatmon Physical or emotional Had many of both Which seems to last the longest? I’m not sure Though physical is visible and May be permanentAs is emotional Depending on the person and Situations Pain if you are human, have experienced it May have even enjoyed it Pain, what is its purpose? To make us feel human Or could we do without it? Pain one of the many emotions I enjoy them all Just to be alive...
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J e wi s h G he t to By: Rodney Broaddus
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S i st e r, Si s t e r By: Karrin Johnson Don’t you know that you are the strongest in the land? Don’t you know that you will raise the black man? Hang-ups, put downs, poisons and pain, it’s been the same, but who’s to blame? Throughout time, you have been there. Danger and torment everywhere. Facing your pain, you stand tall. Loving you in spite of it all. Don’t stop now sister, sister. The future holds you close in hand. In the 90’s, some of my sisters were weak, with more and more poison on the streets. I see them everywhere, riddled with pain, wanting more of Satan’s game. Sick of doing the damnest things, HO! How serious the shame. Wake-up, sisters, the time is now. Our race is in need of your powerful smile. Our men are in trouble, our children are in pain. To heal the world, we must proclaim. Sister, sister, find your way. Sister, sister, make a better day.
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A Mo t he r ’ s Lo ve By: Angela Davis Mommy, who am I? You, my Darling, are the apple of my eye. Mommy, who am I? You are the sun That shines so bright. Mommy, who am I? You are a ballerina in The dance of life. Mommy, who am I? You, are a princess in The kingdom of love. Mommy, who am I? You, my Darling, Are a part of me And I’m a part of you.
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Far Away By: Jennifer Wagner The cool, soft, summer grass runs through my toes As I walk barefoot to a place In the middle of an open field. The golden sun shows its face From behind the puffy cotton clouds That dance against the blue sky. This is where I spread out the blue and white checkered quilt my grandmother made for me When I was just a young child. Avoiding the abundance of dandelion gardens That sprout in bunches throughout the field. Lying down on my back, Cradling my head in my intertwined fingers, Letting my hair down to get a touch of sun, I gaze up at the sky and drift away. The silence fills my ears and overtakes me. There is an absence of thought Away from the bustle of everyday life As I lay and ponder on the simplicity and wonders of the world, The perfect world far away.
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This I P ray By: Seneca G. Woodson Dear Lord, I seek thy guidance To love the one That loves me, I picture a being That is my every likeness A dove of heavenly wings To cherish all the joy it brings To grow together And eliminate bad weather, Sometimes I fight My jones builds up my confidence in sight Many years of passion To live happily ever after The soul I seek I pray that my soul will meet I seek no other Not even my brother This love is genuine I love one with a little bit of time, This prayer’s to you To compliment all the things we can do Before they bury me Please, love, will you marry me?
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Et e rn it y By: Rhodaline Fatokin I smile whenever I recall the special moments we have had, Walking always hand in hand through the good times and bad. Sometimes I think it is a dream; the love you gave me could not be. But when you are in my arms, there is no mistaking its purity. Whether I am with you or far away, my thoughts are always drawn to you Like the compass needle pointing North to a love much more than true. Of all the people on this earth, how lucky can a person be to have found the likes of you, my love, with whom to share eternity.
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She’s the One By: Katie Vonderheide She’s the one who will see me through everything, through all the pain and all the bad things. She’s the one who I talk to until late, the one I try to but never hate. She’s the one I’m proud to call my big sister, the one who if she was gone for more than a day I’d miss her. She’s the one I put all my trust in and wouldn’t let her down in a second. She’s the most strong, independent, and smart woman I know. For her, the longest distances I’d go She’s the one I just want to know... that I trust in her every way and I love her so. She’s the one for everything I do Even though we never say it, “I love you!” You’re the one I’ll love until the end You may see me as just your sister, but to me you’re my world, my everything, and my best friend.
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Mo m By: Delphine White I wish you were here, but now you’re gone You left me and my sisters on our own But that’s okay you’re in God’s hands. And that is a safe place for you to stand. We love you with all our heart You knew this from the start Please don’t give up on us; In our hearts is your trust. Don’t worry about us; we are alright. We will have our turn to see you one night We will stay strong and keep our heads up to the light. Good night and sleep tight.
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Whe r e Wa s I G o in g? By: Tresia Nisbett I packed my bags as I went on my way; I was journeying to a land that was so far away... Different food, different dress all that awaited me But... that wasn’t the purpose for my long journey Education was the reason I traveled this far ...For my parents, letting me go was somewhat a war. They always told me EDUCATION is the key to success. It’s the path of the best and sets you apart from the rest Windows of opportunities it opens for you; It will help you be triumphant in all that you do. Yet when I walked through the door, mixed emotions were flying... My father was smiling, my mother was crying, All in all they were proud of the steps I was taking, And for once they both knew all along I was listening... To the lectures...telling me to be the best that I can... To the sermons...preaching to me that regardless of circumstance that I should be brave But more so to the prayers that God almighty may guide me and keep me safe.
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Wher e Can I t Be? By: Mike Parsons A city of knowledge, wealth, and power; people advanced for their time, suddenly gone as fast as a stealth, disappeared with the flip of a dime. Streets of gold, open and wide; sky so blue and cloudless too. An island of mystery, not denied, whether fact or fiction no one knew. People wonder but no one can say where it disappeared below the sea. Now it’s a mystery, to this day always searched for, where can it be?
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Th e Sk y is th e Li mi t By: Angel Rivera
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I ’m Sorr y By: Massiel Fierro My dog has eaten the flowers that you took so much care for but you know how crazy he gets with the things you plant Forgive me for not taking care of him and forgive him for being so in love with your flowers that the only thing he thought of was to eat them.
I Knew I ’d Miss You By: Amirali Jessani When you care about someone as much as I care about you, being apart is hard to get used to. I thought I’d handle it just fine, and that I’d be happy just to keep you on my mind. But it isn’t always very easy. Sometimes the one thing that would please me the most is simply seeing you. I knew that I’d miss you. I just didn’t know I’d miss you as much as I do.
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D e ar B l ac k M o t he r By: Patsy Collins Meyer Dear Black Mother, I’m writing you today To thank you for your struggles And paving the way. Dear Black Mother, I can see that life for you was hard You struggled for generations To keep the black family from being torn apart. Thank you Black Mother, For instilling in me To never give up Fight for the free. Thank you, Black Mother, Cause now I can see That those songs of freedom Were chanted just for me. They were songs of hope That the black race would live on, Chants of freedom That they had won. You told me to educate myself And never sit down, Cause if I did The black race would drown. So I marched with Kings, Jacksons, And a host of others In Washington, at the White House Just for you, Black Mother.
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Di sa ppoi nt men t By: Ursula Fitzpatrick My words are lodged in the back of my throat. You promised, promised it wouldn’t happen again. Tears streak my face like tires in an alley I thought we were back on track. Feeling shattered like a fallen mirror. As I pick up a piece of the glass, I see that I’ve held up my end of the bargain. As a result, I hold my head high... Then I pass the soul searcher to you. What is it that you see? Do you see the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on? Do you see the cycle of promises broken yet again by lies? What have I done to deserve such pain? In the midst of my pain, I heard words... “Look to me for advice, for your sanity you shall gain no use crying over spilled milk. Look forward to your tomorrow. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy will replace that sorrow. Put your faith in me, my child. The spirit of fear I did not give you. I am the healing from your storm, Your soul I’ll refresh and renew.”
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S ug a r Ma m a By: Shirley A. Walker-Moore Even though home may never be what you think, Sugar Mama says, it is exactly what you make it to be. It may be cold at yours and warm at mine, but never the same and we make our way to that place everyday. Sugar Mama makes everything alright morning, noon and night, 24/7, cause that’s how she likes it to be. Then eventually Sugar Dada follows her step and goes there everyday without going astray.
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T e ar s By: William L. Wilson The wall cries in the rain, Tears falling, sliding down the Face of every name... Your name... Your face... Awash in a sea of sorrow. This black marble, Impenetrable, deep as death. Yet I see--I reach to touch-You. Here. At the very edge Of the shore, where I try... Where I try not to cry. While the cold, dark Waves splash over me.
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I s a Rose the Sy mbol of L ove? By: Eileen Owsiany If a rose is love, why is the rose the symbol of love when every time a man gives us one to show his love, it dies? Then, in all reality, is the love in the rose, truly dead, or does it just wilt away into nothing, like the so-called love the man gives us?
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C o nv ict i o n By: Juan Luis Munoz Unlike love, which is sometimes broken, you never denounce it. Unlike trust, which is sometimes doubted, we never betrayed it. Unlike friendship, which is sometimes forgotten, they never cease to watch for one another. Was there ever a word that was made to be kept close to heart? Conviction! Is what my preacher preaches if one wants to make it to heaven? A feeling no longer has been persuaded back and forward like the waves of the ocean. Yet condemned for life to never be free, but to be chained like a convict in a jail with no view. It feels firm like a mountain never to be moved, never shaken, always noticed and never persuaded to change its view. It is always ready to strike and leave its mark like a father’s belt after disobeying an order. It is a feeling, a deep emotion that even if death was the only option I would never step down from my own conviction. Ask the 54th if they had convictions? Oh! What a shame for they cannot possess conviction unless they love. We cannot love unless we trust. You cannot possess these qualities unless you have convictions to keep them close to the heart.
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Fake By: Gajjar Mayur Gajjar Things of destruction are caused by materialistic functions Which ignite the flames of dynamic proportions. The notions of realistic values support theories of lost values By generation to generation Rising to a new point in space, I grace my thoughts like priests give sermons in a holy place, Taste the fruits of sin that date back from Adam and Eve to Clinton and Lewinsky Gate. The knowledge I bring is interlocking Like Lionel tracks being trapped in your brain, Stain your thoughts like materialistic pain, Drain your sorrows. Just win the lottery Money takes control of your inner sanctuaryMajor psychosis as defined in Webster’s Dictionary Terrifying communities with prolific greenbacks, stacks upon flat surfaces. While white snow falls down as you sip a Bloody Mary, Sorrows drown in ziplock bags filled with anti-depressant vehicles, Engines roaring as flaming nostrils open to exhaust fumes of stress. Guess, not the jeans, but genes of generations of Ideological values destroying society’s conscientiousness As a whole, but not as one
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T he An s we r By: Denise Thompson Do you feel like there’s something missing in your life? Are you faced with everyday strife? You think maybe there’s a hole Somewhere down in your soul. Are you constantly saying IF? IF only I can find some happiness within IF only I can meet somebody who will be a true friend IF only my problems would just end IF only, IF only, I can start all over again! Do you feel like you’re in this thing: this life all by yourself? Does it seem like you just can’t get any help? Do people keep letting you down, Walking by you; looking up at you with a frown? They tell you, “you ain’t gonna make it Naw, you won’t last,” Making you feel like some kind of outcast. Has somebody been spreading rumors about you, Telling you all the things you can’t do? Are you on a search for a peace treaty? Do your pockets make you feel like the needy? One more question and that will be all: Do you know the Lord Jesus; Do you know him at all? Well, Do you? Somebody says, “If you don’t know Jesus Christ Then this thing called life you might as well quit-give up. ‘Cause Jesus is the answer; yep, he’s IT!” Now, just find somebody who’s hooked up with him So you can get hooked up with them. Then you’ll gain eternal life
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And have loving Jesus to help get you through your strife. Plus, you can start afresh; you know, anew. And there won’t be a thing you can’t do! Uh huh, Jesus is the ANSWER!
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1 86 5 By: Antoine Denton Hurt and Hungry I haven't eaten in two weeks. Walking close to the window hearing voices outside of my mind, Wiping the window off with our only wash cloth, seeing my uncle on his knees begging for his life. At the age of eight I heard stories of lynchings. Seeing my Uncle Will with a thick rope tied around his neck, looking directly at me, “Go hide!” Moving his lips slowly with a whisper. Then I glanced to my left and saw a wooden cross on fire with smoke of my African people’s faces. White gowns and hidden ghost faces. “Po Nigger! Burn in hell!” Flames and burning flesh, screams and melted skin, White Gowns and hidden ghost faces grab a hold of the rope. And my uncle was in the air about 5 feet, hands tied behind his back. This is the first time in my life at the age of 8, I saw my uncle, 65, who died right there in front of my face.
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Mother of Mine By: Delarak M. Cullough As far back as I can remember, you were always there, Raising your children, always ready to care. Even then as you struggled to make ends meet, Somehow you kept going, on tired weary feet. You always put your children foremost and first; Your heart so heavy, you must have thought it would burst. There must have been time when even you felt lost, Yet willing to go on, no matter what the cost. Seven children, here on earth you bore, And you carried us all, till you could carry no more. Then one day, in a moment, you were gone, The one that loved and cared for us so long. As I go about each day, I can still see your face Etched with suffering, yet filled with grace. I often look back on your strength and determination, And to this day, you 're still my greatest inspiration. Even though you are gone, you're never quite far away, For I feel your presence with each passing day. You have gone on now, somewhere else in time, But I'lI love you forever, dear Mother of Mine.
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Story Fr om My Chi l dhood By: Arijana Hajarevic This is a story from my childhood, that went on for a little bit longer, a story that will always bring me back bad memories. I will describe the details. I was ten years old. My mother, my brother and I were packing to go on vacation. We woke up and heard some loud voices under our balcony. I just heard my mother scream, and remember it as well as if she were screaming right now. My brother and I went to the window to see the same thing she saw. There were a lot of people standing on the streets, and there was some wood there, so nobody could get through the street. Some loud men were stopping each and every car that drove by. My brother and I looked at each other and didn't understand what was going on. Mother was crying. My brother was eleven years old at that time. I could hear my mother saying "WHAT NOW, NOW IT'S TOO LATE, WHAT NOW?” That was the day when we left our apartment and went to my aunt's, which was close to the city, so it was safer. That's when I actually heard for the first time there was a WAR starting. Yes, I heard that but what is it?? Hmm, I thought, a WAR, but who and why? We all look the same; we all speak the same language. Is there another country that wants to have a WAR with Yugoslavia? “No,” my mother said, “turn that off. Somebody is going to hear that music.” And I didn't know what she was talking about. That was the music the whole of Yugoslavia was listening to and the song was actually about our country, about how Yugoslavia is beautiful and nobody can take that away. But I turned it off anyway. Then my mother started crying and sat closer to me and said a few things that were so strange. She said, “Listen, Arijana, I know it's hard for you to understand,
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but there is a war between Muslims, Serbians, and Catholics." And then she said,"We were Yugoslavians, all of us, but not anymore." I wasn't sure that I really understood what she said, but I wanted to know what we were then. What is my family? Who am I? That's when I first found out that my mother was a Serbian and my father a Muslim. Okay, so I was probably a mix, but I didn’t realize it until the bombs started to fly over our buildings and our beautiful city -SARAJEVO, the main city of Bosnia. The horror when we couldn't sit in our homes anymore and had to go to the basement to be safer. Sometimes we didn't have enough air in that basement, so it was hard to breathe. That’s when my parents started talking about sending my brother and me out of there to my uncle in Croatia. But, at this time, only Serbians and Catholics were allowed to go out, just mothers and children. But my mother wasn't ready to leave my father by himself. So my aunt Dragica had some friends who made some fake papers for me and my brother so we changed our names to Drazena and Drazen Avram, our aunt’s last name, which made her like our mother. It was July 24, 1992. My aunt, my brother and I left Sarajevo and my parents behind. I will never forget their faces and tears, but they were crying because they were too happy that we were leaving that horror. It was so hard for me not to call my brother Haris on the bus, because there were no Muslims and I had to call him Drazen. My aunt was scared, because we still were little kids. As we arrived to Mali Losinj in Croatia, where my uncle lived and had a big house, restaurant, and a shop, we felt so happy. But the time flew so fast that I really was almost sure that I wouldn’t see my parents again.
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Everyday on the news this much and this much dead or almost dead or in the hospital. And I just couldn't fight anymore. For almost two years, I never heard anything about my parents, nor did they hear about us. They didn't even know if we came out alive or what. These were very hard times for me. I really needed my parents. I needed their support and needed their lessons because I was already starting to grow into a teen. I had my uncle for everything, but still it was not what I wanted. After three years, for the first time, I heard the voice of my mother and just couldn't believe it; she was alive and my father as well. That's when everything in my life changed, and I started to have an imagination again like other kids. When my mother first came to Croatia, she was a stranger for me. I know it sounds crazy, but she was. I couldn't recognize her with her black natural hair, her weight, and the questions she was asking. Sometimes I thought that she wasn't really alright and lost her nerves. But sometimes I was scared because she was looking so much at me. Now I think how we have all these years we lost over there, but I am proud of myself and of my brother. Especially when we were without parents in the most craziest years. I say everything is okay, just don't say “go” or something, or “I don't need you” or anything, because a person knows what they have when they lose. Now after seven years, I am ready again to be on my own and not so close to my parents, but before this, oh no no!
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Sor ry By: Robert Nunn I did the crime You did the time I felt the pleasure You felt the pain I will be seen You will never be heard I made the mistake You paid the price I will never forget you You will never know me I will say, “I’m sorry” a million times You will never hear me once I have hope for a better tomorrow You never had a chance for a today I held the faith of your future in my hands and threw it away. Sorry.
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W a s te d C hi ld ho o d By: Eileen Owsiany Name calling, tears falling, people laughing. Wasted childhood! Parents pointing, never knowing, always fighting, leaving constantly. Trouble sleeping, no friends around, always by myself. Wasted childhood! Teenage years go by, same things happening. Never happy, routines passing, years of agony! Wasted childhood! Boys are mean to me, am I ugly? Love is never known. Broken hearts always, and forever. Wasted childhood! Adulthood worsens, years of hatred. Lies in disguise, a mask of humanity.
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Darkness rears its ugly head, so, why not end it, and be dead? Wasted childhood! Parents never change, still pointing, always blaming, never showing the love that could’ve saved the wasted childhood years!
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Alone with You By: Ismael Gomez Give me only one kiss so that I can feel your love; Only one moment in your eyes, so that I can see your soul. Give me only one kiss, so that I can feel your lips - kiss me, So I can feel your love slowly with passion. Give me only one moment alone with you, to embrace you with my arms and assure you, you are with me. You won’t be left alone. Give me your hands, so I can kiss your beautiful hands, one moment to look at you and kiss you, only one kiss. Give me one moment to caress you with my soul, my kisses, your kisses, our souls. Trust in me. I only want to feel you, your body, my body, and with my kisses, I will show you. S o l e d a d Thinking C o n t i gofoyou... By: Ismael Gomez
Dame solo un beso para yo poder sentir tu amor; Solo un beso para sentir tus labios - besame, para sentir tu amor suavemente con passion. Dame un momento en soledad contigo para abrasarte, con mis manos y asegurarte conmigo, no te quedaras sola. Dame tus manos, para besar las manos tan bellas, un momento para mirarte y besarte, solo un beso. Dame un momento para carisiarte con mi alma, mis besos, tus besos, nuestra alma. Confia en mi. Solo quiero sentirte, tu cuerpo, mi cuerpo,
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Th e K i ll e d In Ac t i o n By: William L. Wilson Ominous. Like a long black wave Rising against the shore. The wall Looms above the snow, stark, Impossible to ignore. As we Approach the names, panel after Panel. Line after line. We Stand here reading the list of KIA. In a war that only a War-God could Conceive of, could plot - inspired, Delighted by the young obeying commands To fight, to die. In jungles...in mud...in Rice paddies...on hills taken, ordered abandoned, Then taken again...by those named here. In this valley...in this peace, at last won, That they share with us. Each time we come, To stand in admiration, in awe profound. More reverent than snow.
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S peakable Losses By: Michele Nelson At fIrst glance, the word miscarriage doesn't appear so bad. It sounds less like a physical phenomenon and more like something a frustrated city dweller would have complained of back in the 1800s. I often try to smile at the image of a huffed, well-dressed gentleman on the street who misses his ride and cries out to a friend, "Damn! I just suffered a miscarriage! Good thing another comes around in 30 minutes !" But the reality of miscarriage is much harsher. It's the death of someone we've loved and imagined but, in many cases, never met. It's the shocking revelation that we have no control over some of what happens to us. It was, to me, a reminder of God's power; as much as I think I may be in charge, I'm not. It's also the realization that the course of our lives can change greatly in only a few hours. Worst of all, miscarriage is something that most women don't want to - or just cannot - talk about. In this world there is a majority that is masquerading as a minority. The women who have miscarried often don't mention it to anyone. They are afraid of ruining someone's day. Maybe they are afraid others will think they're weird, an anomaly. So, they hurt in silence. Others mention it to only their closest friends and family members. It makes the number of miscarriages seem smaller than it is. That, in turn, makes those of us who miscarry feel alone, though we may be surrounded by others who have experienced the same painful event. My doctor tells me that each pregnancy has a chance of only 50% of lasting through the fIrst twelve weeks. Statistically speaking, a woman may have as many as 30 miscarriages throughout her lifetime. Most of the time she isn't aware she has miscarried; oftentimes miscarriages come just
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as "late" periods. But many times a woman is indeed aware that the little life she dreamt of beginning has tragically ended. It wasn't until I miscarried that I learned that my grandmother miscarried, and that both of my husband's grandmothers miscarried, along with one of his aunts. Many of my friends tell me about So-and-So who miscarried. Oftentimes, So-and-So has been blessed (or burdened) with six children despite her miscarriage(s), and sometimes she's not. Still, no matter what has happened to her since her miscarriage, every other woman who has miscarried becomes someone to me; she is a sister, an unknown partner in pain. Even I am reluctant to talk about it. As I sit here composing this, a small voice in my head tells me that it's really not that important. It happened a full three months ago. That was February, and there was snow on the ground. Now it's almost June, and the flowers are blooming. Get over it. When I was pregnant, one of my students lost her baby. This was a baby she had delivered, met, named, loved, and buried. It was the second she had lost. She came to me, obviously needing to talk. I was ignorant. I didn't know what to say. Eventually I sputtered something about her youth and her ability to have more children. I was wrong in what I said, though. What I did not know then was that each baby is unique to its mother. Sure, my student is young and she could have more children, but none could replace this baby. This baby was someone to her. Not knowing any of that, I dismissed her loss and tried to focus on the future. But mothers who have lost children can barely focus on the future. I am still embarrassed for being so unaware of these things. I never met or felt my baby. I was eleven weeks
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along and getting ready to tell my friends and coworkers. It was a missed miscarriage, which meant that the baby had died within me and it hadn't been expelled yet. I had not known. I still felt pregnant. I went home from my routine checkup carrying a dead baby in my body. The feeling is inexplicable. The next day I went in for a D&C, during which the baby was surgically removed. My body recovered in a matter of weeks. My heart still hasn't recovered. I tell people about my miscarriage not because I need to share my sorrow with someone. Instead, I tell others mainly because I hate the thought of anyone facing this alone. Women who miscarry often feel alone. I don't want anyone to feel alone. Sometimes, women who miscarry have negative thoughts. They feel depressed. They feel like they are not normal. They hurt. Sometimes they even contemplate suicide. None of these feelings is unusual, and certainly none should be endured alone. I've gotten the whole gamut of responses to miscarriage, even from people who don't know that I have miscarried. I usually don't tell anyone about my experience unless I am asked if I have children or if l am planning to have any soon. When I mention my miscarriage, most people don't know how to respond. I don't blame them; in a society in which miscarriage is often an unmentionable in public, it's hard to know what words work in this situation. I don't think Hallmark has an appropriate card. They therefore have no way of knowing that an "I'm sorry to hear that" is all it takes. Many people respond in the same way that I did to my student. One woman told me that she didn't know why God did this to me, as though it were a pun-
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ishment, as though there were some who deserve babies and others who don't. One of my sisters-in-Iaw in Texas, who is pregnant, has not called or written to me. It's as though I have some kind of disease she's afraid of catching. That hurts. Other people are kind and supportive. They listen. They tell me that it wasn't my fault and that I'll get pregnant when my time comes. They tell me that God has a plan for me. They tell me of the women they know who have miscarried and have delivered other babies successfully. But in contrast there are the unbelievably uninformed. About a month ago, another woman at my friend's wedding shower told me that God used miscarriage as a way of telling women that their marriages were not sound. What I was truly not prepared for was this feeling of utter failure, which transfers into every area of life, even places where the pregnancy itself didn't touch. Since I miscarried, I have often felt that I am less of a person. It' s not a constant thought, but it does creep into my mind without warning. When I see other people with children of any age, I feel that there must be something wrong with me. Pregnancy seems to be so easy for many, many people. Why is it so hard for me? Then the feelings increase and feed upon one another. I begin to feel I am less of a wife, because I couldn't present my husband with the gift of life. I am less of a daughter who couldn't give her parents a grandchild. I am less of a friend because sometimes I just can't reach out to others. I am even less of a teacher, because I sometimes get so wrapped up in my feelings that I neglect my grading or planning. I feel that I am a terrible failure in every sense. Although my house plants burst with life, I still feel that I am a killer.
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No matter how many times I've been told that the miscarriage was not my fault, I still find a reason to blame myself. Nothing compensates for this loss. So I walk around with a heaviness inside me that sometimes threatens to stop me from breathing. I sob without even thinking of the miscarriage. So I search. I buy more plants and I water and fertilize them Sometimes I just can't seem to surround myself with enough life. I think of getting a dog but know it doesn't belong in my town house with no yard. We have fish that I am afraid of overfeeding. I do more baking and more cooking. I try new recipes. I call my mom and cry. I call my friends. I go for walks. I clean the house. But nothing fills the empty, black hole inside of me. Many times I have wished that I could be run over by a truck, so that I wouldn't have to feel this. But it passes, eventually. Yet at other times the miscarriage seems far off, like something that never happened. Maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing. Maybe it's a lesson that I have to learn. Maybe it had to happen to me so that I can relate to others. Maybe it has some bearing on what I am to do in the future. When sitting on the train on my way to work, I usually look out the window. Sometimes in the mornings the sunlight glints off of small ponds or illuminates the trees. When I see this, I catch my breath and thank God that I am alive. This God who made all of this knows what He is doing. And it' s at those moments that I feel that life has so much more to offer than motherhood. Sometimes when I'm out I see children crying and fussing and driving their parents crazy. Would I really be able to handle
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that? Do I really want to? As my mother says, "Money and travel aren't bad." I think about Rome, the,place where I met my husband, and I hunger to return there. It's possible, I know, in time. If we never have children we can definitely afford to go there. Maybe we could even go to England or to Switzerland. Maybe we could go I to China. The world could be mine to explore. Motherhood is, indeed, a blessing, but sometimes I realize that it's not all a person can do to improve the world. As the weeks have passed, things have gotten easier.The day after I found out that I'd lost the baby, I asked my mother if I would ever stop crying. I cried nonstop for a week. The crying jags have subsided. Now, I can sometimes go through a whole day without crying. It has gotten easier to bear. I can now look at a pregnant woman. I try to think of her as a reason to hope and not as a reminder of what I couldn't do. Maybe she too has had a miscarriage. Hope returns. After all, life is good. My husband is kind and loving. I have a warm family and some fantastic friends. I even have some good teaching days. The seeds I planted in April have sprouted and are thriving. I'm not as much a failure as I used to think I was. Maybe, in time, I could get pregnant again. Maybe this next baby will decide to keep me. As I sit here writing this there is a butterfly outside my window. Its black wings have a streak of orange and some specks of white. It has gone away three times and returned. What is it looking for? I don't know, but I can't help but look at it as a sign. Though I am sitting here no longer pregnant, there is still beauty to be found. Some of it I can create, but some of it I didn't create, and that is just fine.
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Onl y i n My D reams By: Deborah McCullough Only in my dreams is there no sorrow, Nothing but love and peace for tomorrow. In my dreams the whole world is filled with love, Love that hangs over us like clouds from above. No wars, hatred, prejudice or strife, But equality and justice in everyone’s life. In my dreams we all live in harmony, Every skin color united in one family. When we look upon one another, We’d see our fellowman, sisters and brothers. We all bleed and we all cry. We all laugh and we all die. Only in my dreams could be real, Imagine how we all would feel. We’d feel the pain and joys of each other, without checking first, to see who’s of what color. Only in my dreams, I would hope not, For in reality we’d gain quite a lot.
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flower By: Charles Cottle
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C o y o te St e a ls & Ev e ry th in g i s T o ld By: James Baltrum or A Meditation on Truth-, Lie-, and Story-Telling “What therefore is truth? In short a sum of human relations which became poetically and rhetorically intensified, metamorphosed, adorned, and after long usage seem to a notion fixed, canonic, and binding; truths are illusions of which one has forgotten that they are illusions.” -- Nietzsche
The movie ends with credits scrolling names across the Magnavox, bottom to top, that I don’t recognize and won’t remember. Sometimes, I forget how to speak, to talk to people. Movies are wonderful pet creatures for such days. The room is dark, with only the television’s fading green plane to shape our surroundings. There is silence, and no words are used to set boundaries, restrictions, or limitations; nor are any spoken to break through them either. The couch is soft and worn and gives gently as she falls back and fights off sleep, fluttering her eyelids like camera shutters catching snapshots of nothing but the settling dust around her. She asks me to tell her a story. She tells me she’s sleepy and that I’m to produce a bed time story for her to nod to. She lies on the shadowy cushions, her toes curling over the rippled pillows at the end, and I sit on the carpet leaning against the soft, worn, and giving couch. I say that telling is an assault in which we force ourselves on each other, civilized rape; that telling is a weapon that I’ve never felt comfortable with. I say I’d rather not; I don’t feel like it.
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She says I’m being silly, excessively silly she says, and that I’d better tell her a story or she’ll smack me. Physical violence, I say while rubbing my eyes, would be better than talking. At least -- it’s honest to God brutality, I explain, and not disguised as something else. Isn’t language honest, she asks? It’s not honest: paused, I swat at the air as if a cartoon bubble were suspended from my lips; in the sense that people aren’t ready for what it brings them. It has baggage. We aren’t honest animals; we aren’t really ready for the truth about language. It’s like giving a kindergarten class a neatly packaged hydrogen bomb to play with and sitting back to watch the fireworks, I say. Sometimes I forget how to talk, I say, and I thank God for those days. There has always been something closer, more visceral, more truthful about silence than anything else. It leaves you as you really are, I mutter almost inaudibly. She rustles briefly with her pillow and pins her hair behind her ear. Tell me a story, she asks again, ignoring my protests, and we both know I don’t want to tell any stories. She asks me why I’m being so stupid and won’t tell her a story, a good story. I stare at my fingers playing circles and figure-eights in the strands of off-white carpeting and smile in the dimness of the room. Her toes shadowbox against the chipped and bubbling shark-skin hue of the wall. She asks me why I won’t look at her. I raise my
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head, and the scrambled folds of maroon flannel at her shoulder, like generations of fallen earth, make her shirt appear baggier than it is. I scrutinize the toppled rolls of fabric, part my lips, but don’t look farther, staring. Eventually, I can’t think of a story to tell, not a good story, I say. Why won’t you look at me, she asks again, not pushing but demanding all the same. I can’t look at you, I tell her, and play again with the weeds of tattered carpet swimming between my fingers. She turns her head and is close to me, fine strands of blonde topple over the right side of her face covering her eyes, and asks why. Because I cannot think of any stories, I cannot think, I tell her in defense, it’s just the fact that I can’t. Two of her three roommates are in the next room, and I hear the clicking of a lamp being turned off. The apartment is dark and filled with the sound of the tape rewinding. Story please, she asks in a for-the-last-time tone. I remember something, an old Indian story, folklore that I had been told as a kid, but I say nothing, and my digits continue to play. Look at me, I hear, and I give in. A long time ago lived Old Man Coyote, I say. The creaking of the neighbor’s floorboards up above turn her head away from me and to the cracks along the ceiling.
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I ask her to remind me when her birthday is, although I’m well aware of it, and say smilingly that mine is in May as well. Coyote was mischievous and liked playing tricks on others, at which she smiles, and I think maybe she’s heard or read this story somewhere before. On a warm night, I explain, a pair of twins had come up on Coyote in the desert, and he told them he could make it so they could meet the Great Bear in the sky. I tell her it refers to a constellation, but I feel I’m being redundant without meaning to. I say, the twins agreed to meet the Great Bear, that we are under the impression the twins have always wanted to do so, and followed Coyote. Coyote shot an arrow into the air and punctured the night sky. He shot arrow after arrow, which stuck, one after another, into the one immediately before it, and built a long string of arrows stretching from the Great Bear to the ground. And then what, she asks with eyes closed and toes still wiggling. And then, I answer without lifting my head, the twins climbed the arrows, the make-shift bridge of sorts, and met the Great Bear, but Coyote wasn’t done with his little prank on them. She smiles again, wider, but doesn’t open her eyes. I pause to think of how to word the ending, how to bring things to a close, and say that Coyote pulls all the arrows out of the ends of each one in front of the next. Coyote pulled each arrow out of that night sky, I say, and trapped the unsuspecting twins up in the heavens along side of the Great Bear. The twins had nowhere to go and nothing to do and were miserable, but thanks to Coyote we now have the constellation Gemini, I explain, feeling somewhat satisfied with myself and a lit-
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tle more at ease. She smiles and turns to me, realizing the story is over. I say I know another version from somewhere, I tell her I don’t know where, that makes the twins into the eyes of a bigger constellation, one bigger than the Great Bear. I say I don’t like that story as much, and she nods, still smiling. There, I told you a story, I tell her. I ask if she’s happy for making me break my beliefs about telling and laugh to let her know that I’m only joking. I say that it’s no trouble to do these things for her, even though I do believe that language is a sort of weapon. Why, she asks. I say nothing, but then ask what… why what, after a while. Why won’t you look at me, she asks. Her toes stop wiggling, and the carpet stops being amusing. That would involve more telling, I say, and I’d rather not again. She clears her throat, sighs, and is about to say something. What, I ask. She is silent. What do you want to hear, I ask without moving, without looking up at her. Honesty, she says unsurely. Do you want to hear that I love you, that I think I’m in love with you, that I think we could spend the rest of our lives together, I exclaim staring at the unraveled stitching along the side of my shoe. I don’t blink, and my breathing is louder. I can’t, I say, I want to say these things, but they aren’t honest; I feel them and they seem
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to fall somewhere between lies and something else. They hurt me to explain, and I fall silent.
There is no sound from the house to fall between our positions and the cold surface of the lifeless screen. I fall backwards to my story and say the twins were tricked and realized they didn’t want what they were offered after all. The creaking upstairs and her roommates shifting in their beds do not turn her away from me or close her eyes. She looks at me with her beauty surrounded by the graying-twilight darkness of the room and night, and I sit with nothing to protect me. The bellies of the blinds above her glow with the filtering moonlight. There are no clouds out, and satellites are crossing each other’s patterns somewhere above us. Sitting with this silence, I quickly and uncontrollably shiver, wanting to wrap something around me, to have something covering me, something between us. I can come up with another story, I say and glance down at my motionless fingers stranded on the off-white carpet of the still room.
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A rt wo r k By: Reginald Scott Welcome to my world. My investigation Has a path that we must follow. Yes! We will travel, unraveling Those beautiful blends of colors, connecting my Imagination to the center of your canvas, To the surface of your skin. I need for you to decorate me. Guide me into your work of art. But don't tell me which way you want me to go. As we paint, let us paint. I feel my mind racing with time. Our bodies will speak in slow motion, dividing multiple colors of love. Splashing paint drops will settle and take their form. Soft skin touching the rough skin of a man who’s in control,
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Interlocking the sensation of art. Hold on, don't let go; we will be creative. Embraced by images of rainbow colors That sparkle the light of creativity. Love what you're doing. Keep doing what you're doing. Yes, I feel your style. Decorate me using your favorite colors. I want you to design my mind, tracing your soft-tip-brush body all over mine. When colors touch, they will connect. I need to feel your paintbrush dripping. Tears of dripping paint flow From your eyes, as the sound of birds cry out loud. Is that Your voice That I hear? The colors of life, Joy, and happiness Unfolds. Yes,
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Life in my sight Is full of Darkness. In my view, I love the art As I create; I use my gift To allow my mind, Body, And soul To feel its way directly across the form of your canvas skin. We are both the designer. My best is brought forward; Your best is brought forward Sensually, artistically, As I give my best, I must show my best to you, for you. I need you. I want you to work with me, To build up a collection of artwork... Your eyes will shine for me Your heart will laugh for me A lifetime. Laughing out the colors of life, Laughing out the colors of joy: What my mind has articulated
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And what my soul has designed. You will feel my connection, feel my happiness, feel my spirit. And forever you will live Designing my world With your passion, With your love.
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W h a t do Y o u S ee ? By: Andrea C. Storey What do you see when you look at me? Do you see a beautiful woman, or a woman with integrity? As I stand here on this day, I stand here not as a woman, but a woman who is own her way. I am not just a woman, but a symbol of the past; I am a symbol of the hardship of women who took on the daunting task. I am the embodiment of their strength, their courage and their goals. It is because of them, women of today can take on many roles. We are doctors; we are lawyers; we are basketball players; we are astronauts; we are pilots and engineers. We are also leaders for our peers. Others are teachers and some even preachers, but most importantly we are mothers; we are truly an inspiration to each other. As I take a step back and give them thanks, I also take time out to reevaluate myself and pray, “keep me safe and humble Lord. Keep my path from stumble, and help me to be an example for the women of today.� Help me continue to build a better pathway.
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