Tom Heggie
EVWP Summer 2009
Try to spend as little time as possible thinking about death. Time spent thinking about death takes precious time from life, and that is what is truly important.
Death is not the worst that can happen to men. – Plato
What can be worse than death? Start with a life poorly lived. No matter what the meaning of life really is it must be lived and lived well. And a well lived life – that, however, must be defined by the person, just as the life poorly lived must, likewise, be defined by the individual. Riches and fame, failure and suffering are relative terms. But never forget there are worse things that can happen than death.
It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.
– Marcus Aurelius
Death should never define the human experience because when it does, one runs the risk of avoiding life to avoid death. Life is inherently dangerous; nobody gets out alive. Live life and live it to its fullest.
Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here.
And when it does come, we no longer exist. – Epicurus
There is a beautiful passage in Jack London’s the Call of the Wild and the sum and substance of it is this: when we are most alive the thought of death is the furthest from our minds. After all, how could the soldier on the battlefield fight if this were not true? The surgeon in the operating theater is fully engaged in life – saving life, improving life. The adventurer explores the highest mountains, paddles the wildest rivers, and confronts the harshest environments all with the thought of living life to the fullest measure possible. Here where death is the closest, life is the fullest and most alive, the highest realm of existence.
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, 'Let no one be called happy till his death;' to which I would add, 'Let no one, till his death, be called unhappy.' – Elizabeth Barrett Browning
What could be farther from death than happiness? Saki’s allegorical short story “The Image of the Lost Soul” tells a story set amid the parapet statuary of some great unnamed European cathedral. There among the pious statues of kings and bishops, queens and seraphs, jackdaws, pigeons, and sparrows, a small bird brings happiness to a bleak, self-centered landscape. If we follow through to the stories end, the small bird, whose voice provided the metaphor for happiness dies and as the great cathedral tolls out its daily message "After joy ... sorrow," Saki invites the reader to ponder the alternative massage – before sorrow … joy and happiness.
If we don't know life, how can we know death? – Confucius
The invitation then becomes to know life in an effort to reflect upon death. Few people are bothered by the fact that life went on before their birth. The sun rose and set, people did what people do, history was being written by people whose name are as familiar as those of our contemporaries. It is not sad, painful or fearful to talk of the past, a time prior to our life. But at our birth all of that changes. Years marked on a calendar have meaning, Major achievements, minor memories they all add value, worth. This is the knowledge of life. The years that will occur after we die suddenly are not like those before our birth. Through the knowledge of life, we realize that that which happens after our death will be different. We know our present and our history; what will be the future? We know our family. We are aware of our ancestors, but what will become of our progeny? Now that we know life, its emotions, its experiences, its worth and maybe its meaning, death too becomes all too knowable.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Finding Faith
Pamela Galloway
EVWP Summer 2009
Chapter 1
She held the cool, dark sphere in her sweaty palms. The smooth surface comforted her wavering resolution. She needed someone or something, ridiculous as it seemed, to reassure her. Her eyes shut tight, she quietly breathed the words she had been holding on her tongue all morning.
“Should I go?”
“Concentrate and ask again.” She read the words. A few strands of strawberry hair fell across her hazel eyes hiding her disappointment. The eight ball had failed her.
She let her mind wander to where “go” was. Was she really asking permission to drive to Philadelphia? No, she knew that she wasn’t asking permission to visit him. Hours before she had already started packing her bag. Samantha was looking for permission to attempt the complicated venture of love again.
She shifted the weight of chance back and forth between her slender fingertips. Should she ask again? A slight smile escaped her lips as she noticed the bold number eight shake its head no. Samantha ignored its remark and flipped it over again. Before the answer appeared, she blurted out, “Should I take the gamble on Ollie?”
Slowly the black circular abyss lightened. The light triangle of blue sat on its edge, undecided. She shook it loose from its hesitation and watched it sluggishly float to a resolution.
“Reply Hazy, Try Asking Again Later.”
“This is stupid,” she stated, not sure whether she meant asking the magic eight ball or hoping for love.
After a moment, she decided that she meant the eight ball. At the age of twenty-seven, she had traveled the possibilities of all the destinations that her decisions had and could have taken her. Accepting the scholarship to attend Chapel Hill, landing the job in Richmond, refusing to move home. Often, she was looking for someone else’s approval. Even today, she was nervous about taking ownership of this step. Deep down, she had to admit that if the eight ball had said yes, she would have gone without hesitation. She would already be stuck and annoyed in the steaming lanes of D.C.’s summer traffic. It was easy to trust in the judgment of someone (or even something) else, since hers, so far, had failed her miserably.
Chapter 2
GollieOllie: (11:27 am) What are you doing online? ☹
Sam_i_am: (11:28 am) Nothing. I should have said something. Ugh. I’ll tell him how I’m scared. No. That’s stupid. I’ll tell him I’m amped. No. Do you want to look like a desperate silly girl? Okay. Well, I have to say something!
Sam_i_am: (11:30 am) Actually, I am printing directions.
Sam_i_am: (11:40 am) I have typed and erased a million lines. And yet I can’t bear to let go of my innermost thoughts.
GollieOllie: (11:41 am) LOL. Me too.
Sam_i_am: (11:42 am) What were you going to type?
GollieOllie: (11:43 am) I really want you to visit…
GollieOllie: (11:44 am) Are you coming?
Sam_i_am: (11:45 am) Should I tell him how I feel? Not sure yet. I hate playing these games! Why can’t I break out of this old habit?
Sam_i_am: (11:45 am) I wasn’t sure you really meant it.
GollieOllie: (11:48 am) Meant that I really wanted you to visit? Well, I have the whole weekend planned FOR YOU! So, you better come!
GollieOllie: (11:49 am) Sam! You didn’t think that I meant to invite you? Yes. You’re supposed to be here…and by seven, so hurry!
Sam_i_am: (11:50 am) Nice. Well, I haven’t finished packing. I got distracted. Why am I playing this game!?
GollieOllie: (11:51 am) What distracted you?
Sam_i_am: (11:53 am) A magic eight ball, thoughts of this weekend’s possible disaster, worries that this could end like it did with Jim. My mother called.
Sam_i_am: (11:54 am) And… Stupid girl. Why would you type that?
GollieOllie: (11:54 am) And what? Samantha, what aren’t you telling me?
Sam_i_am: (11:56 am) Just type it. I wasn’t sure if we were ready. I wasn’t sure of how you felt.
GollieOllie: (11:58 am) Apparently, the bouquet of flowers wasn’t convincing? ☹
Sam_i_am: (12:01 pm) Hahaha. That’s why I’m half-packed! When I look at them I want to get on the road. Sorta. I mean, I want to be in Philly in your arms. Is it too soon to say that?
GollieOllie: (12:02 pm) Don’t try to sound excited now. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.
Sam_i_am: (12:04 pm) I am excited! So excited I’m getting ready to drive for 4 hours! FOUR HOURS. I better at least get a hug for this! Roundtrip, I’m spending half a day on the road.
GollieOliie: (12: 05pm) So you’re coming? Really???? I’m not sure I believe you.
Sam_i_am: (12:07 pm) Well I have to finish packing…get gas…stop by the ATM, and then I’ll be on my way. Though by that time I could hit traffic.
GollieOllie: (12:09 pm) Ugh. I hate that you have to drive. I know I said hurry, but don’t rush. When my car gets out of the shop, I’ll drive down to visit you. And don’t stop by the ATM. You won’t pay for a thing once you get here!
Sam_i_am: (12:10 pm) Okay…okay. I’ll finish packing be on the road in a few.
GollieOllie: (12:12 pm) Be here by seven!!!!!!! LEAVE BY two at the LATEST!!! That will put you in DC around 3:30, and hopefully you’ll miss traffic. I checked the reports. No accidents yet!
Sam_i_am: (12:13 pm) Lol. You’re ridiculous. Do you always plan this much? Perhaps you can explain why I need to be there by seven?
GollieOllie: (12:14 pm) Yes, I am. Yes, I do. No, I can’t. See you tonight!
GollieOllie is offline. (12:14)
Sam_i_am is offline. (12:15)
Chapter 4
Collecting the warm sheets from the printer, I cross “find recipes online” off the sticky note.
“You think these will be alright, right Champ?” His big brown eyes were saying yes. I need his eyes to tell me yes.
“Would you like to eat something with 4.5 stars?” I scratch him between the ears to help with his positive feedback. Who am I kidding? Champ would eat anything, with or without stars.
Glancing back at the logout screen, I can’t help but let out an audible sigh. I am in trouble.
My dad always told me that there’s a tricky balance between overwhelming and romancing, but of course, I didn’t listen then. I had to learn the hard way with Becky. Samantha is nothing like Becky. Samantha is like no other girl I’ve ever met, hence my need to balance the line between doing too little and doing too much.
I was glad to log off the computer for two reasons. Reason number one, I need Samantha to want to be here, and the illusion of something mysterious and thoughtful seems the only bait Samantha takes. Based on that IM conversation, Samantha is not overly impressed by flowers. I crossed that off my list. I would need something different for this visit. I mean, flowers started her packing, but did you notice that it didn’t get her on the road? And reason number two?
The second, and more important reason that I was glad to escape is that I just couldn’t answer her last question. It is fair to say that if I keep my current plans, this weekend getaway would likely end disastrously. Too bad I didn’t have a plan B.
My fingers mechanically type her name in Facebook. Weak, I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures. This is one girl I want to stay around for a long time. Not days or months, not even years. I’d take her for a lifetime, if I could.
You might be wondering why I’m so enthralled with this girl. How long I have known her? How in the world did I convince her to come? It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. I have been working on her for years. Years, I say.
The first time Samantha strutted into my room was about seven years ago. Subtract 25 from seven, and yes, you can imagine why our introduction was so short-lived. I was fresh out of high school, and a little reckless. She was the “responsible” RA in my building, though we didn’t know it then. At that time, we only knew she was upperclass, and smokin’ hot. I’d like to say (without bias), that I was probably the funniest guy she knew (if people can say that about themselves), and I might have been. However, I was also a little ridiculous. She wrote me up for designing the water balloon fight in the girls hall, planning the party during spring reading days (I didn’t know she was actually stayed to work!), and of course, arranging the lounge furniture on the roof. That last one, was a difficult task, especially when drunk. Needless to say, we didn’t always get along, especially while I was under the “dictator’s” rule. Our interactions were dripping with sarcasm.
The next year of college was her last. With the dictator out of my hair, I was free to plan my life away. However, when I did run into Samantha, I started to admire the way she carried herself. Her confidence wasn’t cocky. Her smiles were genuine. And her laughter contagious. It didn’t matter where we were, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Sometimes she’d be picking up a plastic cup that missed the trash can or holding the door open for the bag lady who was going into the library. One time, she stopped a runner who had dropped her key. It’s those little things that get you, you know? Anyways, she was in a serious relationship, and I had other people, places, and activities to help me try to forget her.
But things have changed in the last six years. And now, Samantha is coming to visit! My eyes recheck my handy list, and I decide to cancel the reservations. A fancy dinner and then a movie seemed a little cliché now. I had forgotten I was pursuing the most creative girl I had ever met. I needed something brilliant to excite her, but what? What can we do in Philadelphia at 7 pm that would be beyond all the other first dates she’s ever had? Whispering a prayer for some divine guidance, not that God really cares, I spot my calendar. I had the perfect evening already planned. In my haste to impress Samantha with fancy décor, I had long ago dismissed this pedestrian path. However, if I could catch Kevin in the next few minutes, I could right the wrong and be set. As I hit the speed dial, I hoped that Kevin hadn’t already left, I would need his help.
EVWP Summer 2009
Chapter 1
She held the cool, dark sphere in her sweaty palms. The smooth surface comforted her wavering resolution. She needed someone or something, ridiculous as it seemed, to reassure her. Her eyes shut tight, she quietly breathed the words she had been holding on her tongue all morning.
“Should I go?”
“Concentrate and ask again.” She read the words. A few strands of strawberry hair fell across her hazel eyes hiding her disappointment. The eight ball had failed her.
She let her mind wander to where “go” was. Was she really asking permission to drive to Philadelphia? No, she knew that she wasn’t asking permission to visit him. Hours before she had already started packing her bag. Samantha was looking for permission to attempt the complicated venture of love again.
She shifted the weight of chance back and forth between her slender fingertips. Should she ask again? A slight smile escaped her lips as she noticed the bold number eight shake its head no. Samantha ignored its remark and flipped it over again. Before the answer appeared, she blurted out, “Should I take the gamble on Ollie?”
Slowly the black circular abyss lightened. The light triangle of blue sat on its edge, undecided. She shook it loose from its hesitation and watched it sluggishly float to a resolution.
“Reply Hazy, Try Asking Again Later.”
“This is stupid,” she stated, not sure whether she meant asking the magic eight ball or hoping for love.
After a moment, she decided that she meant the eight ball. At the age of twenty-seven, she had traveled the possibilities of all the destinations that her decisions had and could have taken her. Accepting the scholarship to attend Chapel Hill, landing the job in Richmond, refusing to move home. Often, she was looking for someone else’s approval. Even today, she was nervous about taking ownership of this step. Deep down, she had to admit that if the eight ball had said yes, she would have gone without hesitation. She would already be stuck and annoyed in the steaming lanes of D.C.’s summer traffic. It was easy to trust in the judgment of someone (or even something) else, since hers, so far, had failed her miserably.
Chapter 2
GollieOllie: (11:27 am) What are you doing online? ☹
Sam_i_am: (11:28 am) Nothing. I should have said something. Ugh. I’ll tell him how I’m scared. No. That’s stupid. I’ll tell him I’m amped. No. Do you want to look like a desperate silly girl? Okay. Well, I have to say something!
Sam_i_am: (11:30 am) Actually, I am printing directions.
Sam_i_am: (11:40 am) I have typed and erased a million lines. And yet I can’t bear to let go of my innermost thoughts.
GollieOllie: (11:41 am) LOL. Me too.
Sam_i_am: (11:42 am) What were you going to type?
GollieOllie: (11:43 am) I really want you to visit…
GollieOllie: (11:44 am) Are you coming?
Sam_i_am: (11:45 am) Should I tell him how I feel? Not sure yet. I hate playing these games! Why can’t I break out of this old habit?
Sam_i_am: (11:45 am) I wasn’t sure you really meant it.
GollieOllie: (11:48 am) Meant that I really wanted you to visit? Well, I have the whole weekend planned FOR YOU! So, you better come!
GollieOllie: (11:49 am) Sam! You didn’t think that I meant to invite you? Yes. You’re supposed to be here…and by seven, so hurry!
Sam_i_am: (11:50 am) Nice. Well, I haven’t finished packing. I got distracted. Why am I playing this game!?
GollieOllie: (11:51 am) What distracted you?
Sam_i_am: (11:53 am) A magic eight ball, thoughts of this weekend’s possible disaster, worries that this could end like it did with Jim. My mother called.
Sam_i_am: (11:54 am) And… Stupid girl. Why would you type that?
GollieOllie: (11:54 am) And what? Samantha, what aren’t you telling me?
Sam_i_am: (11:56 am) Just type it. I wasn’t sure if we were ready. I wasn’t sure of how you felt.
GollieOllie: (11:58 am) Apparently, the bouquet of flowers wasn’t convincing? ☹
Sam_i_am: (12:01 pm) Hahaha. That’s why I’m half-packed! When I look at them I want to get on the road. Sorta. I mean, I want to be in Philly in your arms. Is it too soon to say that?
GollieOllie: (12:02 pm) Don’t try to sound excited now. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.
Sam_i_am: (12:04 pm) I am excited! So excited I’m getting ready to drive for 4 hours! FOUR HOURS. I better at least get a hug for this! Roundtrip, I’m spending half a day on the road.
GollieOliie: (12: 05pm) So you’re coming? Really???? I’m not sure I believe you.
Sam_i_am: (12:07 pm) Well I have to finish packing…get gas…stop by the ATM, and then I’ll be on my way. Though by that time I could hit traffic.
GollieOllie: (12:09 pm) Ugh. I hate that you have to drive. I know I said hurry, but don’t rush. When my car gets out of the shop, I’ll drive down to visit you. And don’t stop by the ATM. You won’t pay for a thing once you get here!
Sam_i_am: (12:10 pm) Okay…okay. I’ll finish packing be on the road in a few.
GollieOllie: (12:12 pm) Be here by seven!!!!!!! LEAVE BY two at the LATEST!!! That will put you in DC around 3:30, and hopefully you’ll miss traffic. I checked the reports. No accidents yet!
Sam_i_am: (12:13 pm) Lol. You’re ridiculous. Do you always plan this much? Perhaps you can explain why I need to be there by seven?
GollieOllie: (12:14 pm) Yes, I am. Yes, I do. No, I can’t. See you tonight!
GollieOllie is offline. (12:14)
Sam_i_am is offline. (12:15)
Chapter 4
Collecting the warm sheets from the printer, I cross “find recipes online” off the sticky note.
“You think these will be alright, right Champ?” His big brown eyes were saying yes. I need his eyes to tell me yes.
“Would you like to eat something with 4.5 stars?” I scratch him between the ears to help with his positive feedback. Who am I kidding? Champ would eat anything, with or without stars.
Glancing back at the logout screen, I can’t help but let out an audible sigh. I am in trouble.
My dad always told me that there’s a tricky balance between overwhelming and romancing, but of course, I didn’t listen then. I had to learn the hard way with Becky. Samantha is nothing like Becky. Samantha is like no other girl I’ve ever met, hence my need to balance the line between doing too little and doing too much.
I was glad to log off the computer for two reasons. Reason number one, I need Samantha to want to be here, and the illusion of something mysterious and thoughtful seems the only bait Samantha takes. Based on that IM conversation, Samantha is not overly impressed by flowers. I crossed that off my list. I would need something different for this visit. I mean, flowers started her packing, but did you notice that it didn’t get her on the road? And reason number two?
The second, and more important reason that I was glad to escape is that I just couldn’t answer her last question. It is fair to say that if I keep my current plans, this weekend getaway would likely end disastrously. Too bad I didn’t have a plan B.
My fingers mechanically type her name in Facebook. Weak, I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures. This is one girl I want to stay around for a long time. Not days or months, not even years. I’d take her for a lifetime, if I could.
You might be wondering why I’m so enthralled with this girl. How long I have known her? How in the world did I convince her to come? It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. I have been working on her for years. Years, I say.
The first time Samantha strutted into my room was about seven years ago. Subtract 25 from seven, and yes, you can imagine why our introduction was so short-lived. I was fresh out of high school, and a little reckless. She was the “responsible” RA in my building, though we didn’t know it then. At that time, we only knew she was upperclass, and smokin’ hot. I’d like to say (without bias), that I was probably the funniest guy she knew (if people can say that about themselves), and I might have been. However, I was also a little ridiculous. She wrote me up for designing the water balloon fight in the girls hall, planning the party during spring reading days (I didn’t know she was actually stayed to work!), and of course, arranging the lounge furniture on the roof. That last one, was a difficult task, especially when drunk. Needless to say, we didn’t always get along, especially while I was under the “dictator’s” rule. Our interactions were dripping with sarcasm.
The next year of college was her last. With the dictator out of my hair, I was free to plan my life away. However, when I did run into Samantha, I started to admire the way she carried herself. Her confidence wasn’t cocky. Her smiles were genuine. And her laughter contagious. It didn’t matter where we were, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Sometimes she’d be picking up a plastic cup that missed the trash can or holding the door open for the bag lady who was going into the library. One time, she stopped a runner who had dropped her key. It’s those little things that get you, you know? Anyways, she was in a serious relationship, and I had other people, places, and activities to help me try to forget her.
But things have changed in the last six years. And now, Samantha is coming to visit! My eyes recheck my handy list, and I decide to cancel the reservations. A fancy dinner and then a movie seemed a little cliché now. I had forgotten I was pursuing the most creative girl I had ever met. I needed something brilliant to excite her, but what? What can we do in Philadelphia at 7 pm that would be beyond all the other first dates she’s ever had? Whispering a prayer for some divine guidance, not that God really cares, I spot my calendar. I had the perfect evening already planned. In my haste to impress Samantha with fancy décor, I had long ago dismissed this pedestrian path. However, if I could catch Kevin in the next few minutes, I could right the wrong and be set. As I hit the speed dial, I hoped that Kevin hadn’t already left, I would need his help.
Thanks for the Memories
Sandra Hayward-Jones
EVWP Summer 2009
Thanks for the memories – the things you introduced to me
The taste of Miracle Whip on sandwiches
Cheese on a hot dog – I’d never heard of that
The love one can have for brothers and sisters –
You were one of six; I was the only one.
Thanks for the memories – the adventures we shared.
Travel all over the South and East Coast
Although I cannot stand long car trips to this day
Meeting new people in different academic spheres
Standing by your side as your wife, proud to be there.
Thanks for the memories – our children are born
What shall we name them?
Let’s remember family names and let our children know their heritage
Let’s give them names that are strong and beautiful
A boy and a girl – perfect family.
Thanks for the memories – the stories you told
I felt like I was there, though I did not go
To high school or most of college with you.
The images were vividly embedded in my mind.
The friends, your friends, became mine by default.
Thanks for the memories – I’ll ne’er forget you.
Not that I could. The love of my life.
Thirteen years together as man and wife.
When you died, a big part of me died too.
Thanks for the memories.
EVWP Summer 2009
Thanks for the memories – the things you introduced to me
The taste of Miracle Whip on sandwiches
Cheese on a hot dog – I’d never heard of that
The love one can have for brothers and sisters –
You were one of six; I was the only one.
Thanks for the memories – the adventures we shared.
Travel all over the South and East Coast
Although I cannot stand long car trips to this day
Meeting new people in different academic spheres
Standing by your side as your wife, proud to be there.
Thanks for the memories – our children are born
What shall we name them?
Let’s remember family names and let our children know their heritage
Let’s give them names that are strong and beautiful
A boy and a girl – perfect family.
Thanks for the memories – the stories you told
I felt like I was there, though I did not go
To high school or most of college with you.
The images were vividly embedded in my mind.
The friends, your friends, became mine by default.
Thanks for the memories – I’ll ne’er forget you.
Not that I could. The love of my life.
Thirteen years together as man and wife.
When you died, a big part of me died too.
Thanks for the memories.
Alaska
Mary Forbes
EVWP Summer 2009
Alaska.
The soft ripple of slow moving water as it flowed past smooth rocks beneath the coolness of the rock beneath my legs. The cool breeze as it passed through my hair. The low bush cranberries' tart taste fills my mouth. The eagle's shrill voice as it passes overhead. These are the sounds that were heard on a summer afternoon in Alaska in my youth.
There are many wonders that took place in that summer so many years ago. Studying for an FCC license with my Dad, walking our family's St. Bernard (or rather being walked by the St. Bernard!), living in a log cabin, having only three television stations to watch, working at the radio station writing commercials, then hearing them badly read. But the strongest memory was just being outside in a place where nature is truly untamed.
I have always enjoyed hiking and camping. I think this is mainly because of the summer my family spent in Alaska. It was the summer of the eighth grade, and we were in a very different place. Each afternoon I would take a short hike by myself. We were living in an area on the edge of a forest. There was a trail, but it was a subtle suggestion. One afternoon, I decided to take my usual stroll. It was warm, but not hot, just as all the afternoons are in midsummer, central Alaska style. I strolled through the trees, noticing the rustling of the breeze through the pine branches. I went to my favorite spot by a small spring, and threw rocks into the water. The rushing of the water over the rocks made a peaceful, gentle sound that erased tension. After a period of time, I decided it was time to go back to the cabin.
For the first few minutes, all that I could hear was the smooshing of the moss underneath my feet. I started to her the faint call of an eagle overhead. I stopped to look at the beautiful creature. I observed it soaring lower and lower. Soon I noticed that the eagle was getting closer and closer. The screeching of the very large bird started to get me nervous. As the bird started to get very close, I noticed that it's claws had become outstretched. I quickly realized that I had a problem.
I started to run, which really got the large creature excited. I looked up, and saw the claws coming my way. “Think quick,” I told myself. The only thing that I could think of was to run toward the many trees. To my relief, the bird decided that it couldn't reach me under the tree. I heard him screech in irritation, and fly away. I realized after this that I was indeed living in an area that was untamed frontier.
The eagle experience didn't stop my love for the beauty of Alaska's nature. I still took my walks and sat by the stream. I just couldn't stay away from seeing the beauty that surrounded me. One thing that did change, however, is having a watchful eye for eagles flying overhead.
EVWP Summer 2009
Alaska.
The soft ripple of slow moving water as it flowed past smooth rocks beneath the coolness of the rock beneath my legs. The cool breeze as it passed through my hair. The low bush cranberries' tart taste fills my mouth. The eagle's shrill voice as it passes overhead. These are the sounds that were heard on a summer afternoon in Alaska in my youth.
There are many wonders that took place in that summer so many years ago. Studying for an FCC license with my Dad, walking our family's St. Bernard (or rather being walked by the St. Bernard!), living in a log cabin, having only three television stations to watch, working at the radio station writing commercials, then hearing them badly read. But the strongest memory was just being outside in a place where nature is truly untamed.
I have always enjoyed hiking and camping. I think this is mainly because of the summer my family spent in Alaska. It was the summer of the eighth grade, and we were in a very different place. Each afternoon I would take a short hike by myself. We were living in an area on the edge of a forest. There was a trail, but it was a subtle suggestion. One afternoon, I decided to take my usual stroll. It was warm, but not hot, just as all the afternoons are in midsummer, central Alaska style. I strolled through the trees, noticing the rustling of the breeze through the pine branches. I went to my favorite spot by a small spring, and threw rocks into the water. The rushing of the water over the rocks made a peaceful, gentle sound that erased tension. After a period of time, I decided it was time to go back to the cabin.
For the first few minutes, all that I could hear was the smooshing of the moss underneath my feet. I started to her the faint call of an eagle overhead. I stopped to look at the beautiful creature. I observed it soaring lower and lower. Soon I noticed that the eagle was getting closer and closer. The screeching of the very large bird started to get me nervous. As the bird started to get very close, I noticed that it's claws had become outstretched. I quickly realized that I had a problem.
I started to run, which really got the large creature excited. I looked up, and saw the claws coming my way. “Think quick,” I told myself. The only thing that I could think of was to run toward the many trees. To my relief, the bird decided that it couldn't reach me under the tree. I heard him screech in irritation, and fly away. I realized after this that I was indeed living in an area that was untamed frontier.
The eagle experience didn't stop my love for the beauty of Alaska's nature. I still took my walks and sat by the stream. I just couldn't stay away from seeing the beauty that surrounded me. One thing that did change, however, is having a watchful eye for eagles flying overhead.
Assaulted and Insulted
Katherine Warner
EVWP Summer 2009
Sweaty and scorched, we lugged our cumbersome boards down the sandy road, climbed the hot sand dune, and longed for a peek at what lay beyond. The wide- spread ocean was a collection of sparkling gems. Its crystal blue was deep and mesmerizing. The waves lazily lifted and crashed on the shore. A light breeze tugged at our hair. The water beckoned us and promised relief. The sun shone warmly on our faces.
Sean had us toss our boards down in the sand delaying the gratification of the cooling water. It was easy to see he longed to take a dip like the rest of us. Quickly he instructed us on the simple steps of surfing. “First, you will see the wave behind you, and then you will paddle hard. Next you will feel the wave catch your board, and finally you will pop up and ride.”
Lauren and Tiffany, first time surfers, were satisfied with this explanation and preceded to the water. Being an expert beginner of two “crash and burn” experiences and an hour of U-tube surfer training videos, I was reasonably confident and rushed to the water behind them.
I should note that once we approached the water I slowly realized that the waves were intimidating and massive. I thought they might be too strong for inexperienced surfers. I decided to consult someone with a little more experience. “Sean, do you think these waves are too rough for us?” I asked.
“No way!” he said with confidence. “They are perfect!” he smilingly assured me.
Still being doubtful I noted, “The last time I went it was calmer and it was still challenging.”
Curtis, Sean’s best friend, chimed in, “I learned in rougher conditions than this.”
I reflected on my limited experience. I began to convince myself that I was wrong. They were probably right. I still needed a little more convincing. I looked around and saw others that surfed with ease. I put my worries aside.
Fighting in the hard-hitting waves to reach the point beyond the break the five of us laughed. Strong-minded we pressed forward. Lauren spent her summers as nanny at the beach. She suggested diving under the waves to use less energy and lose less ground. Lauren, Tiffany, and I fought to make it past where the waves were breaking. Lauren’s strong body got her past the break on her own. Sean helped his wife, Tiffany push through.
Each wave seemed a little more determined to keep me back. I could no longer reach the ocean floor. I struggled and battled the waves. Forced back by the uncompromising current, I gritted my teeth and fought harder. Patiently my fellow surfers waited for me beyond the break. Sean passed his boogie board off to Curtis and came back to help me pull through. He got behind the board and pushed as I kicked. Finally, exhausted from the fight I sat on the board. Allowing my legs to dangle into the water, I tried to shake the jitters of exhaustion and excitement.
I bobbed up and down on soothing hills of water. Lauren joked that she would stay out forever because of all the hard work getting here. We all laughed. Peaceful dips and bobs brought me closer to the dreaded break. I laid flat on my belly and paddled farther out to sea. I knew I only had one shot to catch the perfect wave, and I intended on taking my time.
As I paddled out a large wave rose in front of me and broke. My board’s nose pointed vertically and then tipped over, violently slammed me on my back and plunged me deep into the water. Disoriented, dazed, and lost, I was held under mercilessly. I longed to breathe. I told myself any minute now. Here it was. I popped my head up to take a breath. Apparently, it was precisely the wrong time. Another strong wave broke right on my face and forced me back into the abyss. My mind raced. I was confused, scared, and angry. I could not possibly hold my breath another second. I begged the waves to release me from their tight jerking grip.
Sand scraped my knees, and it was over. I gulped in air. I pulled myself to my feet coughing, shaking, and breathing intensely. I trudged to the shore realizing the current had carried us far from our spot down the beach. I grabbed the board and put it in the sand. I sat facing the ocean.
Tears and snot ran down my face, and my body shook. I shielded my face from the ocean. A couple passed me walking in the waves. Please ignore me, I prayed. My prayer was answered when they kept walking. I sat for a time that seemed endless and tried to rationalize the emotions that had taken control.
Noticing that I did not return, Sean came out of the water dragging his boogie board. He saw my tear streaked face and tenderly asked, “Are you ok?”
I nodded.
“You just got Waterfalled. It can be scary.” he gently assured me. When I did not respond he sat and put his hand softly on my shoulder. I turned and looked at his concerned face. He opened his mouth then hesitated. He sat for a minute and then leaned toward me and asked, “Can I use your surfboard?”
“Uhhh,” I examined his face and put the pieces together. I slowly responded, “Sure.”
EVWP Summer 2009
Sweaty and scorched, we lugged our cumbersome boards down the sandy road, climbed the hot sand dune, and longed for a peek at what lay beyond. The wide- spread ocean was a collection of sparkling gems. Its crystal blue was deep and mesmerizing. The waves lazily lifted and crashed on the shore. A light breeze tugged at our hair. The water beckoned us and promised relief. The sun shone warmly on our faces.
Sean had us toss our boards down in the sand delaying the gratification of the cooling water. It was easy to see he longed to take a dip like the rest of us. Quickly he instructed us on the simple steps of surfing. “First, you will see the wave behind you, and then you will paddle hard. Next you will feel the wave catch your board, and finally you will pop up and ride.”
Lauren and Tiffany, first time surfers, were satisfied with this explanation and preceded to the water. Being an expert beginner of two “crash and burn” experiences and an hour of U-tube surfer training videos, I was reasonably confident and rushed to the water behind them.
I should note that once we approached the water I slowly realized that the waves were intimidating and massive. I thought they might be too strong for inexperienced surfers. I decided to consult someone with a little more experience. “Sean, do you think these waves are too rough for us?” I asked.
“No way!” he said with confidence. “They are perfect!” he smilingly assured me.
Still being doubtful I noted, “The last time I went it was calmer and it was still challenging.”
Curtis, Sean’s best friend, chimed in, “I learned in rougher conditions than this.”
I reflected on my limited experience. I began to convince myself that I was wrong. They were probably right. I still needed a little more convincing. I looked around and saw others that surfed with ease. I put my worries aside.
Fighting in the hard-hitting waves to reach the point beyond the break the five of us laughed. Strong-minded we pressed forward. Lauren spent her summers as nanny at the beach. She suggested diving under the waves to use less energy and lose less ground. Lauren, Tiffany, and I fought to make it past where the waves were breaking. Lauren’s strong body got her past the break on her own. Sean helped his wife, Tiffany push through.
Each wave seemed a little more determined to keep me back. I could no longer reach the ocean floor. I struggled and battled the waves. Forced back by the uncompromising current, I gritted my teeth and fought harder. Patiently my fellow surfers waited for me beyond the break. Sean passed his boogie board off to Curtis and came back to help me pull through. He got behind the board and pushed as I kicked. Finally, exhausted from the fight I sat on the board. Allowing my legs to dangle into the water, I tried to shake the jitters of exhaustion and excitement.
I bobbed up and down on soothing hills of water. Lauren joked that she would stay out forever because of all the hard work getting here. We all laughed. Peaceful dips and bobs brought me closer to the dreaded break. I laid flat on my belly and paddled farther out to sea. I knew I only had one shot to catch the perfect wave, and I intended on taking my time.
As I paddled out a large wave rose in front of me and broke. My board’s nose pointed vertically and then tipped over, violently slammed me on my back and plunged me deep into the water. Disoriented, dazed, and lost, I was held under mercilessly. I longed to breathe. I told myself any minute now. Here it was. I popped my head up to take a breath. Apparently, it was precisely the wrong time. Another strong wave broke right on my face and forced me back into the abyss. My mind raced. I was confused, scared, and angry. I could not possibly hold my breath another second. I begged the waves to release me from their tight jerking grip.
Sand scraped my knees, and it was over. I gulped in air. I pulled myself to my feet coughing, shaking, and breathing intensely. I trudged to the shore realizing the current had carried us far from our spot down the beach. I grabbed the board and put it in the sand. I sat facing the ocean.
Tears and snot ran down my face, and my body shook. I shielded my face from the ocean. A couple passed me walking in the waves. Please ignore me, I prayed. My prayer was answered when they kept walking. I sat for a time that seemed endless and tried to rationalize the emotions that had taken control.
Noticing that I did not return, Sean came out of the water dragging his boogie board. He saw my tear streaked face and tenderly asked, “Are you ok?”
I nodded.
“You just got Waterfalled. It can be scary.” he gently assured me. When I did not respond he sat and put his hand softly on my shoulder. I turned and looked at his concerned face. He opened his mouth then hesitated. He sat for a minute and then leaned toward me and asked, “Can I use your surfboard?”
“Uhhh,” I examined his face and put the pieces together. I slowly responded, “Sure.”
Untitled
Michelle Davis
EVWP Summer 2009
Shaking the cardboard box marked with the smiling swoopy arrow told me that I was seconds away from a new book. I joyfully slit the packaging tape with my truck key and read the invoice. Getting Married After 35, by Rachel Greenwald. I didn’t order this. Looking closer at the packing slip, I was able to find the sender. Happy birthday to me from my gay friend, Lou. Okay, Lou doesn’t refer to himself as my “gay friend.” I only mention "gay" here to make it clear that this book was not some charming heterosexual man's cantankerous attempt at a proposal. It was not. It was my 30th birthday and Lou's idea of a joke. Ha Ha.
Rachel Greenwald's "simple 15-step action plan" was hatched after graduating Harvard Business School. This is Marketing 101, she writes, and it takes a commitment of 12-18 months. Since Lou had planned ahead, I did have the time, but found myself lacking the motivation. I admit that I wasn't giving Rachel my full attention as I was preoccupied with a carton of vegetables lo mein and a marathon of Sex & The City re-runs. I thumbed through enough of the book to know that it wasn't for me. Most horrifying was the command that I create flyers announcing my availability and mail them to everyone I know...and ask everyone to spread the word AND the flyers. I'm not kidding.
I never finished the book, but I did take its advice of trying on-line dating...kind of. Why? Because after a certain age, when you are found out to be single, helpful people always ask, "Well, have you tried the internet?" They deliver this line as though they are generously pointing you to the last lifeboat on the Titanic, if the Titanic had been simultaneously sinking from a jagged iceberg, burning to a crisp from an unwieldy bonfire and cowering under an attack by a fleet of dive bombers. If I could say “yes,” would the interrogations stop? It was worth a try.
The eHarmony commercials seemed harmless enough. Answering the questionnaire that would supply me with "compatible matches pre-screened across 29 dimensions" and viewing my matches was free...kind of. Nothing's ever free. I found that out after I spent roughly 30 minutes answering the survey, eHarmony told me that there was no one, no one in the whole universe for me. I immediately imagined the twinkly loveliness of the Milky Way with its 200 billion plus stars dotting the velvety black sky. Really?
eHarmony has boxes to check, depending on just how far and wide you are willing to go for love. A firm believer that one should not expend any more effort than is absolutely necessary whenever possible, I started with 25 miles. Nothing. I moved my check to 50 miles, hoping that Mr. Match was not on the other side of the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel. He wasn’t. I kept recasting a wider net, still nothing. How could that be? I didn’t mind at all that my perfect-across-29-dimensions match, Sergey, was hiding out in Chechnya and unable to answer the phone. I just wanted to know that he was out there.
Curiouser and curiouser, I selected the last box, The Universe. eHarmony swiftly informed me that there was no match to be had. I couldn’t believe it. First, it was statistically unlikely. Second, why would a dating site actually tell a potential customer that? It must have been operator error. I tried again; it wasn’t operator area. Stupefied, I removed my information and user name from the site and decided immediately not to have an existential crisis.
I confided to my friend, Michelle, the truth about the universe and its surprising disdain for me. “You must have answered the questions wrong. You’re so hard on yourself. You need me to help you with it,” she suggested.
“I know I’m hard on myself, but it was a looooong questionnaire. It wasn’t all ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ They even had sliding scales and other boxes to check. I think it’s virtually impossible to sabotage,” I replied.
Michelle wrinkled her nose in my direction and weighed the possibilities. Like any great friend, she took my side in this matter, even if it was the whole universe we were up against. And that’s when I noticed that I had an involuntary response to eHarmony commercials, specifically when Dr. Neil Warren appeared to endorse his brainchild. I still flip that man the bird with the dexterity of a seasoned gunfighter.
I took a five year break before I had the nerve to try Chemistry.com. Remember that repulsive flyer that you send to friends? That’s basically what a profile is for dating sites. Chemistry was more rigorous than I had anticipated. Each 24 hours, I was sent five new matches that I had to rate before the next five would be sent to me. It was like high school. Actually, the second bachelor who was matched to me was an old high school friend. Chemistry provides a series of “safeguards” before you are allowed to e-mail your matches. In order to say hello to my friend, I would have to feign interest by rating him as “sizzling.” I did, feeling confident that he would know that I was just trying to say a friendly hello.
He did not return the sentiment, and I found out that the on-line dating world is its own version of Vegas. Not for me, though. I couldn’t stop talking about it. I had a whole host of friends as a support system this time around just an Alt-Tab away on Facebook. My Pit Crew enjoyed the regular mass discussion threads I sent out detailing my progress. In fact, they were quickly friending each other, making connections, all a direct result of my inability to make any for myself. When a stripper was matched to me on Chemistry, I decided to take my leave before the month’s subscription was up. It wasn’t him; it was me. My pal Lucy offered the consolation of, “You will always have ones.” He had a job. He was smiling and fully dressed in his picture. I just couldn’t figure out what I could bring to that relationship.
A month of Match.com was my next plan of attack. The good news about this site is that you are able to search profiles of all users without having to wait for matches to arrive in your mailbox. The bad news is that you have to choose your best physical feature from a pull down menu. Seriously. Based on the available options, I thought the box marked “feet” was safe. I even posted what I thought was a harmless picture of my feet minding their own business in front of a bookshelf to support my claim. That’s when I found out that I was a couple of photographs away from being a kingpin in the foot fetish community. You see, the profiles are also searchable by feature. “Will you post a photograph of your feet in stockings?” men wondered. “No, I would not,” I replied. “Would you be interested in joining a Yahoo user group that’s for people with foot fetishes?” someone asked. “No ,thank you,” I answered.
At least I was having some fun e-mail exchanges with a member of Red Sox Nation. I eventually gave him my phone number. It was about thirty minutes into the conversation that he was able to work in this little tidbit; he also had a foot fetish. My cordless phone allowed me to get on-line while we finished the conversation and delete the pesky photo from my profile once and for all. Even at home, I began to involuntarily obscure my bare feet under furniture, or quite intentionally wear thick socks. The other 50% of the mail in my inbox was from the male homosexual community.
I was so relieved when the gay men showed up to send me “winks.” Winks are exactly what they sound like, a wordless way to pass on a little, “Hey Cutie!” with a tiny smiley face appearing in your in-box. My friend Kevin tells me, “You are a gay man’s dream.” I assumed that they had dutifully shown up again with their parade float full of support for me. Being a southern girl, I always read their profiles and sent thank-you messages for the winks and a little shout out to the gay crowd. Seems all of these “gay” men had mistakenly marked that they were interested in the same sex on their profiles and bristled a little when I sent them a “woop woop” hello for their solidarity. Apparently, I am the accidental gay man’s nightmare.
The best yield from my two-month marathon in the world of on-line dating is my girlfriend, Lisa. Not that kind of girlfriend...we were lab partners in high school chemistry class. You can click on “Find People Like Me” to scope out the competition and get an idea about what a successful promotional campaign might look like. I took her out for lunch, didn’t even have to kiss her goodbye and we’re still friends. My male match did end up being on the other side of the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel, and all I have to show for it is a Magic 8 Ball and a strong hope that there really is no one in the universe who mirrors my 29 dimensions of compatibility. I’ve spent enough time on dates with myself already.
EVWP Summer 2009
Shaking the cardboard box marked with the smiling swoopy arrow told me that I was seconds away from a new book. I joyfully slit the packaging tape with my truck key and read the invoice. Getting Married After 35, by Rachel Greenwald. I didn’t order this. Looking closer at the packing slip, I was able to find the sender. Happy birthday to me from my gay friend, Lou. Okay, Lou doesn’t refer to himself as my “gay friend.” I only mention "gay" here to make it clear that this book was not some charming heterosexual man's cantankerous attempt at a proposal. It was not. It was my 30th birthday and Lou's idea of a joke. Ha Ha.
Rachel Greenwald's "simple 15-step action plan" was hatched after graduating Harvard Business School. This is Marketing 101, she writes, and it takes a commitment of 12-18 months. Since Lou had planned ahead, I did have the time, but found myself lacking the motivation. I admit that I wasn't giving Rachel my full attention as I was preoccupied with a carton of vegetables lo mein and a marathon of Sex & The City re-runs. I thumbed through enough of the book to know that it wasn't for me. Most horrifying was the command that I create flyers announcing my availability and mail them to everyone I know...and ask everyone to spread the word AND the flyers. I'm not kidding.
I never finished the book, but I did take its advice of trying on-line dating...kind of. Why? Because after a certain age, when you are found out to be single, helpful people always ask, "Well, have you tried the internet?" They deliver this line as though they are generously pointing you to the last lifeboat on the Titanic, if the Titanic had been simultaneously sinking from a jagged iceberg, burning to a crisp from an unwieldy bonfire and cowering under an attack by a fleet of dive bombers. If I could say “yes,” would the interrogations stop? It was worth a try.
The eHarmony commercials seemed harmless enough. Answering the questionnaire that would supply me with "compatible matches pre-screened across 29 dimensions" and viewing my matches was free...kind of. Nothing's ever free. I found that out after I spent roughly 30 minutes answering the survey, eHarmony told me that there was no one, no one in the whole universe for me. I immediately imagined the twinkly loveliness of the Milky Way with its 200 billion plus stars dotting the velvety black sky. Really?
eHarmony has boxes to check, depending on just how far and wide you are willing to go for love. A firm believer that one should not expend any more effort than is absolutely necessary whenever possible, I started with 25 miles. Nothing. I moved my check to 50 miles, hoping that Mr. Match was not on the other side of the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel. He wasn’t. I kept recasting a wider net, still nothing. How could that be? I didn’t mind at all that my perfect-across-29-dimensions match, Sergey, was hiding out in Chechnya and unable to answer the phone. I just wanted to know that he was out there.
Curiouser and curiouser, I selected the last box, The Universe. eHarmony swiftly informed me that there was no match to be had. I couldn’t believe it. First, it was statistically unlikely. Second, why would a dating site actually tell a potential customer that? It must have been operator error. I tried again; it wasn’t operator area. Stupefied, I removed my information and user name from the site and decided immediately not to have an existential crisis.
I confided to my friend, Michelle, the truth about the universe and its surprising disdain for me. “You must have answered the questions wrong. You’re so hard on yourself. You need me to help you with it,” she suggested.
“I know I’m hard on myself, but it was a looooong questionnaire. It wasn’t all ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ They even had sliding scales and other boxes to check. I think it’s virtually impossible to sabotage,” I replied.
Michelle wrinkled her nose in my direction and weighed the possibilities. Like any great friend, she took my side in this matter, even if it was the whole universe we were up against. And that’s when I noticed that I had an involuntary response to eHarmony commercials, specifically when Dr. Neil Warren appeared to endorse his brainchild. I still flip that man the bird with the dexterity of a seasoned gunfighter.
I took a five year break before I had the nerve to try Chemistry.com. Remember that repulsive flyer that you send to friends? That’s basically what a profile is for dating sites. Chemistry was more rigorous than I had anticipated. Each 24 hours, I was sent five new matches that I had to rate before the next five would be sent to me. It was like high school. Actually, the second bachelor who was matched to me was an old high school friend. Chemistry provides a series of “safeguards” before you are allowed to e-mail your matches. In order to say hello to my friend, I would have to feign interest by rating him as “sizzling.” I did, feeling confident that he would know that I was just trying to say a friendly hello.
He did not return the sentiment, and I found out that the on-line dating world is its own version of Vegas. Not for me, though. I couldn’t stop talking about it. I had a whole host of friends as a support system this time around just an Alt-Tab away on Facebook. My Pit Crew enjoyed the regular mass discussion threads I sent out detailing my progress. In fact, they were quickly friending each other, making connections, all a direct result of my inability to make any for myself. When a stripper was matched to me on Chemistry, I decided to take my leave before the month’s subscription was up. It wasn’t him; it was me. My pal Lucy offered the consolation of, “You will always have ones.” He had a job. He was smiling and fully dressed in his picture. I just couldn’t figure out what I could bring to that relationship.
A month of Match.com was my next plan of attack. The good news about this site is that you are able to search profiles of all users without having to wait for matches to arrive in your mailbox. The bad news is that you have to choose your best physical feature from a pull down menu. Seriously. Based on the available options, I thought the box marked “feet” was safe. I even posted what I thought was a harmless picture of my feet minding their own business in front of a bookshelf to support my claim. That’s when I found out that I was a couple of photographs away from being a kingpin in the foot fetish community. You see, the profiles are also searchable by feature. “Will you post a photograph of your feet in stockings?” men wondered. “No, I would not,” I replied. “Would you be interested in joining a Yahoo user group that’s for people with foot fetishes?” someone asked. “No ,thank you,” I answered.
At least I was having some fun e-mail exchanges with a member of Red Sox Nation. I eventually gave him my phone number. It was about thirty minutes into the conversation that he was able to work in this little tidbit; he also had a foot fetish. My cordless phone allowed me to get on-line while we finished the conversation and delete the pesky photo from my profile once and for all. Even at home, I began to involuntarily obscure my bare feet under furniture, or quite intentionally wear thick socks. The other 50% of the mail in my inbox was from the male homosexual community.
I was so relieved when the gay men showed up to send me “winks.” Winks are exactly what they sound like, a wordless way to pass on a little, “Hey Cutie!” with a tiny smiley face appearing in your in-box. My friend Kevin tells me, “You are a gay man’s dream.” I assumed that they had dutifully shown up again with their parade float full of support for me. Being a southern girl, I always read their profiles and sent thank-you messages for the winks and a little shout out to the gay crowd. Seems all of these “gay” men had mistakenly marked that they were interested in the same sex on their profiles and bristled a little when I sent them a “woop woop” hello for their solidarity. Apparently, I am the accidental gay man’s nightmare.
The best yield from my two-month marathon in the world of on-line dating is my girlfriend, Lisa. Not that kind of girlfriend...we were lab partners in high school chemistry class. You can click on “Find People Like Me” to scope out the competition and get an idea about what a successful promotional campaign might look like. I took her out for lunch, didn’t even have to kiss her goodbye and we’re still friends. My male match did end up being on the other side of the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel, and all I have to show for it is a Magic 8 Ball and a strong hope that there really is no one in the universe who mirrors my 29 dimensions of compatibility. I’ve spent enough time on dates with myself already.
Saturdays of Past
Emily Curle
EVWP Summer 2009
On any given Saturday,
In the heat of summer
When I was young,
I would journey with my father
To his place of work.
On any given Saturday,
I would notice the cold stone floors
That looked like black and copper pebbles
Pressed smooth.
On any given Saturday,
I would sit in the open room
Eating my mid-afternoon treat
Of a big flat hamburger with ketchup;
The kind from a walk-up stand
That no longer exists.
On any given Saturday,
I would sit while he worked
On what looked to me like drawings
Of a mixed-up game of tic-tac-toe
With too many players.
On any given Saturday,
I would sit and listen
As the wind from a noisy fan
Quenched the humid, sluggish air.
On any given Saturday,
I would feel the breeze
And close my eyes, content
Just to be.
EVWP Summer 2009
On any given Saturday,
In the heat of summer
When I was young,
I would journey with my father
To his place of work.
On any given Saturday,
I would notice the cold stone floors
That looked like black and copper pebbles
Pressed smooth.
On any given Saturday,
I would sit in the open room
Eating my mid-afternoon treat
Of a big flat hamburger with ketchup;
The kind from a walk-up stand
That no longer exists.
On any given Saturday,
I would sit while he worked
On what looked to me like drawings
Of a mixed-up game of tic-tac-toe
With too many players.
On any given Saturday,
I would sit and listen
As the wind from a noisy fan
Quenched the humid, sluggish air.
On any given Saturday,
I would feel the breeze
And close my eyes, content
Just to be.
Bridget's Tumor
Stephanie Alberti
EVWP Summer 2009
I taught English in a juvenile correctional facility for eight years. Or tried to, anyway. I was a pleasant distraction for most of the inmates; my activities helped the time pass and gave them something to look forward to during the long hours they spent locked in their cells. When they weren’t in school they read books from our poorly stocked library or the ones that I often bought or borrowed from the public library. The rest of the time they plotted and planned, everything from how to steal the candy from some hapless teacher’s desk or how to ferment smuggled fruit juice from the cafeteria and turn it into wine, to what they were going to do with themselves once they were released.
We teachers were always trying to find ways to connect with our students and make learning fun. After all many, if not most, of these young people had been mediocre to bad students who often missed school before they were incarcerated. Once locked up, they rarely missed any. The Staff didn’t want to have to watch them during the day and would deliver them to school even if they had fairly high fevers and were throwing up. On top of everything else, they came to us hating most adults and teachers in particular.
At the time, I had a black Lab named Bridget and a couple of cats. One day I noticed a big lump under the skin on Bridget’s belly. I took her to the vet for tests and was told that they were going to have to remove the tumor. The next day over lunch at work, Mr. Jones, the science teacher, became excited about my story and requested I ask the vet if I could have the tumor, then bring it to school so his students could look at it under the microscope. I thought it sounded gross, but who am I to stand in the way of scientific research?
The day of the operation I sheepishly asked for the tumor and explained why I wanted it. The doctor laughed and brought it to me afterwards in a plastic medicine bottle, like the ones you get filled with prescription pills. It was difficult to see the mass without taking the top off, but he said he’d filled the bottle with formaldehyde to preserve it. Bridget would be fine; the tumor wasn’t malignant.
The next morning I presented the bottle to the science teacher.
“This is going to be great!” he effused. Science teachers get excited about weird things.
He took it from me and put it on his desk.
“We’ll look at it later this week.”
I told him to let me know how it went and continued on to my room.
During lunch Mr. Jones came to my room. The students returned to their cottages every day for two hours and we had planning time (when we weren’t having endless meetings.)
“You will not believe this!” he announced. “Someone has stolen Bridget’s tumor!”
We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Some student must have assumed it was a prescription. One of them had stolen the gym teacher’s heart medication earlier in the year. I would have loved to have seen it when that poor kid finally had some privacy to open up the bottle. He would have had to smuggle it back to the cottage, then go to the bathroom to be alone so he could open up the bottle. I can’t even imagine what he thought or did when he got it open!
EVWP Summer 2009
I taught English in a juvenile correctional facility for eight years. Or tried to, anyway. I was a pleasant distraction for most of the inmates; my activities helped the time pass and gave them something to look forward to during the long hours they spent locked in their cells. When they weren’t in school they read books from our poorly stocked library or the ones that I often bought or borrowed from the public library. The rest of the time they plotted and planned, everything from how to steal the candy from some hapless teacher’s desk or how to ferment smuggled fruit juice from the cafeteria and turn it into wine, to what they were going to do with themselves once they were released.
We teachers were always trying to find ways to connect with our students and make learning fun. After all many, if not most, of these young people had been mediocre to bad students who often missed school before they were incarcerated. Once locked up, they rarely missed any. The Staff didn’t want to have to watch them during the day and would deliver them to school even if they had fairly high fevers and were throwing up. On top of everything else, they came to us hating most adults and teachers in particular.
At the time, I had a black Lab named Bridget and a couple of cats. One day I noticed a big lump under the skin on Bridget’s belly. I took her to the vet for tests and was told that they were going to have to remove the tumor. The next day over lunch at work, Mr. Jones, the science teacher, became excited about my story and requested I ask the vet if I could have the tumor, then bring it to school so his students could look at it under the microscope. I thought it sounded gross, but who am I to stand in the way of scientific research?
The day of the operation I sheepishly asked for the tumor and explained why I wanted it. The doctor laughed and brought it to me afterwards in a plastic medicine bottle, like the ones you get filled with prescription pills. It was difficult to see the mass without taking the top off, but he said he’d filled the bottle with formaldehyde to preserve it. Bridget would be fine; the tumor wasn’t malignant.
The next morning I presented the bottle to the science teacher.
“This is going to be great!” he effused. Science teachers get excited about weird things.
He took it from me and put it on his desk.
“We’ll look at it later this week.”
I told him to let me know how it went and continued on to my room.
During lunch Mr. Jones came to my room. The students returned to their cottages every day for two hours and we had planning time (when we weren’t having endless meetings.)
“You will not believe this!” he announced. “Someone has stolen Bridget’s tumor!”
We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Some student must have assumed it was a prescription. One of them had stolen the gym teacher’s heart medication earlier in the year. I would have loved to have seen it when that poor kid finally had some privacy to open up the bottle. He would have had to smuggle it back to the cottage, then go to the bathroom to be alone so he could open up the bottle. I can’t even imagine what he thought or did when he got it open!
One-on-One
One-on-one by Ron Wheeler
It was night, and we were caught in the middle of a horrendous thunderstorm. As the small, 1940s-vintage DC-3 shook violently, I looked out the cabin window at utter darkness, save for streaks of lightening. Every time the lightening came, it briefly revealed the terrified faces of the passengers across the aisle. We were traveling from Kuching to Sibu in Borneo, a part of Malaysia. I was a 22-year-old Peace Corps Volunteer fresh out of college. I thought about my hometown, where I had spent my whole life, and from where I had always wanted to escape. I was half way around the world fulfilling my dream, but now I kept wondering if the next second would be my last. I thought about my mother, a single parent, who had struggled hard to raise me, her only child, and I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me, and I thought about the friends I’d known there, including Benner.
……………
Seven years earlier, as I walked across town from my place to Benner’s mansion on the hill, I had asked myself what am I doing? I’d gone by his house many times during the construction, and so had everybody else. It was a massive three-story white structure with a front portico overlooking an expansive yard and gardens. When they finally finished the place it had at least ten times more living space than the average 1950s rancher, which is what most well-to-do people lived in.
I stood in the drive wondering whether I should go up to the door. I had hated Benner ever since I could remember. I first met him when I was five years old and we both lived in another part of town. Mom and I had just moved into a wood frame house that had been converted into apartments. We shared a bathroom down the hall with some other tenants. My father had left us, and Mom worked fulltime in a shoe store, which meant I often had to fend for myself. Benner lived across the street in a large two-story house. His father was a big shot at a company that manufactured metal products, and his mother stayed home and looked after him and his sister. Desperately searching for some kids to play with, I ventured over to Benner’s house, but he already had a friend who lived next door, and their idea of fun was to pick on me. After getting bullied around and chased back home a few times, I wised up and stayed on my side of the street, but I never forgot what a jerk he was.
If anybody had told me that ten years later I’d be headed to Benner’s to play hoops, I would have laughed. When I first got to high school, I tried to avoid him, which wasn’t that hard to do because he was a loner. He missed school regularly, and after a two-week absence, rumors spread around the school that his parents had sent him off to a military academy because of his poor grades. When he reappeared one day, word was he had busted out, hitchhiked back, and talked his parents into giving him one more chance. I couldn’t wait for him to get kicked out for good.
But his grades improved, and we ended up in study hall together sitting at the same table. After spending several days ignoring one another, we finally struck up a conversation about sports and discovered that we were both obsessed with basketball. He liked the St. Louis Hawks, while I was a Boston Celtics fan. Benner knew I was on the high school basketball squad, and he finally got around to telling me he was the better basketball player, which made me laugh out loud. I told him that when it came to sports, he was just a big screw up, which explains why I was at his door. Benner wanted revenge. He wanted to beat me one-on-one.
Benner led me down to the horse barn. His father had created a lighted, half-court arena with regulation basket and backboard in the hayloft over the stable. The original loft floor was covered with smooth plywood and the sidelines and free-throw line were painted black.
That evening we played twenty-one for hours. Benner had the edge physically. Although only an inch taller than me, at slightly over six feet, he could jump high enough to dunk the ball. But I had a decent jump shot, and our games were hotly contested battles. Benner was the Hawks’ Bob Pettit, up against his nemesis, the Celtics’ Bill Russell. We kept up a constant stream of chatter: Good ball pressure by Russell, but Pettit drives for the basket. Pettit with the step! To the reverse! What an acrobat! We played often that year and the next, until graduation. Then we went our separate ways.
…………..
My mom called and told me of Benner’s death. The obituary in the newspaper did not include information about the cause, and when I talked to his sister on the phone, she didn’t disclose any details either. Only after I finally reached a mutual friend of ours, did I find out he had taken his own life. In early March, 1976, at the age of 35, Benner drove to a secluded nature preserve, sat down in the underbrush, and slashed his wrists.
During the search for Benner, they looked in the hayloft. That’s where they found his shirt lying on the hay bales, the sleeves spread out in the form of a cross. Pinned to the shirt was a poem, T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
I grow old…I grow old…I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
……………
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
When I see kids playing hoops in their driveway, it puts me back in a time that seemed like it would last forever. We all try to remain boys as long as possible. Maybe that’s why Benner did what he did.
After all these years, I can’t remember who won any particular game, but I do remember certain moments, like when Benner was dribbling to the basket, sweat streaming down his face, and I reached in and scooped the ball away, then spun around and fired a jump shot. Somehow Benner leaped high enough to block the ball in midair. That’s a play I’ll never forget.
It was night, and we were caught in the middle of a horrendous thunderstorm. As the small, 1940s-vintage DC-3 shook violently, I looked out the cabin window at utter darkness, save for streaks of lightening. Every time the lightening came, it briefly revealed the terrified faces of the passengers across the aisle. We were traveling from Kuching to Sibu in Borneo, a part of Malaysia. I was a 22-year-old Peace Corps Volunteer fresh out of college. I thought about my hometown, where I had spent my whole life, and from where I had always wanted to escape. I was half way around the world fulfilling my dream, but now I kept wondering if the next second would be my last. I thought about my mother, a single parent, who had struggled hard to raise me, her only child, and I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me, and I thought about the friends I’d known there, including Benner.
……………
Seven years earlier, as I walked across town from my place to Benner’s mansion on the hill, I had asked myself what am I doing? I’d gone by his house many times during the construction, and so had everybody else. It was a massive three-story white structure with a front portico overlooking an expansive yard and gardens. When they finally finished the place it had at least ten times more living space than the average 1950s rancher, which is what most well-to-do people lived in.
I stood in the drive wondering whether I should go up to the door. I had hated Benner ever since I could remember. I first met him when I was five years old and we both lived in another part of town. Mom and I had just moved into a wood frame house that had been converted into apartments. We shared a bathroom down the hall with some other tenants. My father had left us, and Mom worked fulltime in a shoe store, which meant I often had to fend for myself. Benner lived across the street in a large two-story house. His father was a big shot at a company that manufactured metal products, and his mother stayed home and looked after him and his sister. Desperately searching for some kids to play with, I ventured over to Benner’s house, but he already had a friend who lived next door, and their idea of fun was to pick on me. After getting bullied around and chased back home a few times, I wised up and stayed on my side of the street, but I never forgot what a jerk he was.
If anybody had told me that ten years later I’d be headed to Benner’s to play hoops, I would have laughed. When I first got to high school, I tried to avoid him, which wasn’t that hard to do because he was a loner. He missed school regularly, and after a two-week absence, rumors spread around the school that his parents had sent him off to a military academy because of his poor grades. When he reappeared one day, word was he had busted out, hitchhiked back, and talked his parents into giving him one more chance. I couldn’t wait for him to get kicked out for good.
But his grades improved, and we ended up in study hall together sitting at the same table. After spending several days ignoring one another, we finally struck up a conversation about sports and discovered that we were both obsessed with basketball. He liked the St. Louis Hawks, while I was a Boston Celtics fan. Benner knew I was on the high school basketball squad, and he finally got around to telling me he was the better basketball player, which made me laugh out loud. I told him that when it came to sports, he was just a big screw up, which explains why I was at his door. Benner wanted revenge. He wanted to beat me one-on-one.
Benner led me down to the horse barn. His father had created a lighted, half-court arena with regulation basket and backboard in the hayloft over the stable. The original loft floor was covered with smooth plywood and the sidelines and free-throw line were painted black.
That evening we played twenty-one for hours. Benner had the edge physically. Although only an inch taller than me, at slightly over six feet, he could jump high enough to dunk the ball. But I had a decent jump shot, and our games were hotly contested battles. Benner was the Hawks’ Bob Pettit, up against his nemesis, the Celtics’ Bill Russell. We kept up a constant stream of chatter: Good ball pressure by Russell, but Pettit drives for the basket. Pettit with the step! To the reverse! What an acrobat! We played often that year and the next, until graduation. Then we went our separate ways.
…………..
My mom called and told me of Benner’s death. The obituary in the newspaper did not include information about the cause, and when I talked to his sister on the phone, she didn’t disclose any details either. Only after I finally reached a mutual friend of ours, did I find out he had taken his own life. In early March, 1976, at the age of 35, Benner drove to a secluded nature preserve, sat down in the underbrush, and slashed his wrists.
During the search for Benner, they looked in the hayloft. That’s where they found his shirt lying on the hay bales, the sleeves spread out in the form of a cross. Pinned to the shirt was a poem, T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
I grow old…I grow old…I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
……………
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
When I see kids playing hoops in their driveway, it puts me back in a time that seemed like it would last forever. We all try to remain boys as long as possible. Maybe that’s why Benner did what he did.
After all these years, I can’t remember who won any particular game, but I do remember certain moments, like when Benner was dribbling to the basket, sweat streaming down his face, and I reached in and scooped the ball away, then spun around and fired a jump shot. Somehow Benner leaped high enough to block the ball in midair. That’s a play I’ll never forget.
Learning to Reach
Kevin Schoolfield
EVWP Summer 2009
I Remember…
The desperation of feeling out of my element
The desperation of trying to figure out how to communicate with Autism and Deafness
The desperation of working with a child who is living with both simoultaneously
The desperation of knowing a textbook could not have prepared me for this
I Remember…
Realizing that eating with a spoon instead of fingers can be an academic accomplishment
Realizing the disorder does not make the child
Realizing stubble on my chin can be a teaching tool if sensory stimulation and focused attention are the goals
Realizing how important it is to reach a child, not just teach a child
I Remember…
Feeling frustration alongside a child who can not get her point across
Feeling joy at the breakthrough of a smile
Feeling confusion when a repeated technique did not bring about a repeated result
Feeling anger at my inability to help
I Remember…
Seeing hope in the face of my mentor
Seeing pleasant surprise when I wanted to learn
Seeing a mess left behind what I thought was progress
Seeing her little face go blank in despair as she prepared to return home
I Remember…
Learning to love a child that was not my own
Learning to use actions instead of words to instruct and train
Learning that normal is a truly relative word
Learning that teaching is about so much more than grades and concepts
I Remember…
EVWP Summer 2009
I Remember…
The desperation of feeling out of my element
The desperation of trying to figure out how to communicate with Autism and Deafness
The desperation of working with a child who is living with both simoultaneously
The desperation of knowing a textbook could not have prepared me for this
I Remember…
Realizing that eating with a spoon instead of fingers can be an academic accomplishment
Realizing the disorder does not make the child
Realizing stubble on my chin can be a teaching tool if sensory stimulation and focused attention are the goals
Realizing how important it is to reach a child, not just teach a child
I Remember…
Feeling frustration alongside a child who can not get her point across
Feeling joy at the breakthrough of a smile
Feeling confusion when a repeated technique did not bring about a repeated result
Feeling anger at my inability to help
I Remember…
Seeing hope in the face of my mentor
Seeing pleasant surprise when I wanted to learn
Seeing a mess left behind what I thought was progress
Seeing her little face go blank in despair as she prepared to return home
I Remember…
Learning to love a child that was not my own
Learning to use actions instead of words to instruct and train
Learning that normal is a truly relative word
Learning that teaching is about so much more than grades and concepts
I Remember…
Para
Louise Warner
EVWP Summer 2009
Topic sentence, body, conclusion, indentation
Relative of essays, books, and papers
Clause, phrase, sentence
Lover of ideas, sharing, creativity
Feels complete, well rounded, and to the point
Needs commas, periods, and question marks
Fears shallow ideas, run-ons, and fragments
Gives knowledge, meaning, and information
Would like to see people learning, enjoying, and growing
Resident of literature
Graph
EVWP Summer 2009
Topic sentence, body, conclusion, indentation
Relative of essays, books, and papers
Clause, phrase, sentence
Lover of ideas, sharing, creativity
Feels complete, well rounded, and to the point
Needs commas, periods, and question marks
Fears shallow ideas, run-ons, and fragments
Gives knowledge, meaning, and information
Would like to see people learning, enjoying, and growing
Resident of literature
Graph
Near Death
Tripp Robinson
EVWP Summer 2009
In Memoriam Quan, Cierra, Skit, Thomas. RIP
Noah’s Tee Shirt shop is all about freedom. Noah’s a religious dude, likes to talk to you about how blessed he is. Matter of fact the other day a “foreign” guy, to Noah’s way of thinking, presumably less blessed, in the grocery next door was freed from his earthly sojourn though a crack in the Second Amendment. Not a bit daunted about his own safety, Noah asserted to the Times-Dispatch his contented confidence in God’s impenetrable shield protecting his store. Noah, who seems to possess a friendly heart, persists in almost non-stop religious commentary to anyone—listening or not. His adolescent customers seem to weary of it about the time he tells them that to stay in his shop they have to pull their pants up.
Two types of freedom shirts dominate Noah’s trade: Funeral and jail. Local custom demands a fresh tee at a funeral with a picture of the funeralized. (Nothing fancy, necessarily. Maybe just a snap from a cell phone.), birth and death dates, and RIP. Noah posts the images he uses to make funeral tee shirts. One wall of his shop is completely covered floor to ceiling. Imagine a wall entirely covered with faces of the dead. The mostly young dead. The mostly shot-to-death, young dead. I call it Noah’s wall of death. I have a picture of it posted in my classroom. Ten or fifteen students in three years have pointed out someone they know on the wall. One girl is particularly well known. My son knows one of the guys.
Got to meet Noah one day a while back when one of my sons, DJ, popped up one day with a sudden need to have a tee shirt made, the second kind—a freedom shirt—to wear on behalf of his buddy Marco who was in city jail. DJ wanted the shirt to say “Free Marco” and display images they valued. In my opinion those chosen were the worst possible pictures of the two together. But the pictures were about freedom of a sort. In general the photos reflect DJ and Marco engaged in a war to wage temporary freedom from the misery they have grown up with. Faces blank, stupefied, their expressions look like nothing so much as the calves I once saw being killed at a slaughterhouse in Richmond. It’s a three-blunts-to-the wind glaze, tweaked with maybe a few Percs or a couple of Zannie bars. That’s how Marco and DJ looked on the shirt—like the dying calves, childhoods slaughtered.
Inside my head, the calf connection is this: My college roomie and I once prodded each other to take a somewhat sophomoric, ghoulish field trip to the Richmond Abattoir. As we watched a group of calves begin their pilgrimages to final freedom, their attentive guardians anesthetized their young charges: A sledgehammer’s thud to the forehead left the little guys standing, but stupefied, eyes darting wildly, distracted from the last blade between them and freedom. I see this knocked-in-the-head expression of the dying calves disconcertingly echoed on the countenances of Marco and DJ in the photos. But I’d never have made an issue of it with DJ. He was so proud of the tee shirt he had designed. And when I leave him alone to find his own way he takes me inside his world and we understand each other better. It would hardly have been the death of our relationship, but such a petty comment would bring me only momentary freedom, and lasting regret. He’d survived Noah’s preaching. That was enough. So as with my college buddy long ago, DJ and I left Noah’s and went to grab a burger.
****
One of the guys on Noah’s wall of death is Too. DJ knew him casually, and later got to know him too well. Too was a boy soldier.
DJ himself is a boy soldier, the archetype. He was once also a businessman, which means survivor. Frequently he stayed up all night seeking income, excitement, warmth. For lack of a place to sleep he found camaraderie waiting on the corner with his “bruh” as he calls Marco, for a blustery midnight sale. He still feels safer with a Glock 44C than a teacher. Raised in the margins of the city which was once the capital of a country hastily thrown together to keep DJ’s progenitors in bondage, he has lived and moved without much being. His ephemeral dad’s obsession with other women, cost his dad the unspeakable fun of raising his kid. DJ’s parenting of himself was uneven, evinces itself now in tribulations with any authority. DJ is Everykid and the impact of the lash, stilled long ago, is still evident on him. Even though his agony may now have the psychiatric handle PTSD, it goes with him, as with his peers, untreated and misinterpreted. He reflects, staggers under, the same fiction that males enslaved bore: that he, they—were stupid.
Though not now prevented by law from learning, DJ is print-averse, feels unlettered. DJ and the battalions of kindred boy soldiers seem to be on an unconscious mission. With casual guns, raging rap, sagged jeans they assert some modicum of authority over the obscenity that mostly is their lot. Bullets are as gnats at a picnic. Can each bullet, ominous, unpredictable, be a time-bomb legacy hurled down through the unhealed generations— compressed anger finding voice as rage in firearms in the streets of the young soldiers’ Richmond haunts? Randomly, misdirected, the ancient lash returns in steel projectile guise, and stalks most those yet still reeling from its forbearers. In my classroom I, too, have my own wall of young warrior death. But each firing is only momentary release. Decade upon decade of rage remains, unperceived, unhealed. Unabated and deadly, disguised as weed, bravado, and sadness, this ancient and present rage marches with the child warriors into their classrooms. The soldiers sit and stare placidly. Grammar, the encryption of privilege, stares back. “It’s not “I’m is.” Say, “I am.” Vainly they scour their schools for their place. These boy soldiers’ hearts hear accurately the unspoken harmonics of worthlessness.
And so it is that one notorious weekend this worthlessness erupts savagely. Five people are shot to death on the Southside in two different venues by a regular guy with some ax with the world. It was his day to turn ordinary grinding into rampage. Dramatic headlines, several days of TV delirium report the bloodletting. DJ’s inheritance from this weekend was a more intimate acquaintanceship with Too, and even deeper layers of grueling insomnia and nightmares.
By chance DJ got drenched in Too’s blood. DJ was deep in hopelessness in the most hopeless of the bricks (his slang for the projects) still trying on facets of his life, sorting out the odds at 19 of staying alive past 21. Too and an antagonist were toe to toe in the middle of the street. The dispute was trivial, enlarged through the lens of tangled perceptions to an epic issue. It was four, five o’clock. August. Saturday afternoon. Heat snapping, humidity short circuiting sultry, sluggish reason. It got down to ok shoot me bitch. So he did.
Too instantly was at once suspended and dropping. Blood mist and eye-socket fragments flayed the air, stultifying, oppressing, confusing the helplessness personified as young men, arrayed at random around the roiling tableaux; DJ’s not part of the fracas, but closest to the impact. Too slumps, DJ kneels—a pieta in indigo and crimson. Too heaves. DJ cradles. Medics fail. Too, once friend, now pagan Eucharist, finds heartbroken acceptance and revulsion at the altar of godlessness trembling in DJ’s heart. It’s not so much death, it’s the dying that’s so tough, he later tells me.
DJ’s jeans and white tee, fresh with dammed spot, are abandoned, thrown into a nearby sewer.
And the telling when it comes is clipped. Wire reports lingering in my head complete the fabric of his story as I patch them into his laconic, staccato Teletype.
It took DJ three days to mention it.
EVWP Summer 2009
In Memoriam Quan, Cierra, Skit, Thomas. RIP
Noah’s Tee Shirt shop is all about freedom. Noah’s a religious dude, likes to talk to you about how blessed he is. Matter of fact the other day a “foreign” guy, to Noah’s way of thinking, presumably less blessed, in the grocery next door was freed from his earthly sojourn though a crack in the Second Amendment. Not a bit daunted about his own safety, Noah asserted to the Times-Dispatch his contented confidence in God’s impenetrable shield protecting his store. Noah, who seems to possess a friendly heart, persists in almost non-stop religious commentary to anyone—listening or not. His adolescent customers seem to weary of it about the time he tells them that to stay in his shop they have to pull their pants up.
Two types of freedom shirts dominate Noah’s trade: Funeral and jail. Local custom demands a fresh tee at a funeral with a picture of the funeralized. (Nothing fancy, necessarily. Maybe just a snap from a cell phone.), birth and death dates, and RIP. Noah posts the images he uses to make funeral tee shirts. One wall of his shop is completely covered floor to ceiling. Imagine a wall entirely covered with faces of the dead. The mostly young dead. The mostly shot-to-death, young dead. I call it Noah’s wall of death. I have a picture of it posted in my classroom. Ten or fifteen students in three years have pointed out someone they know on the wall. One girl is particularly well known. My son knows one of the guys.
Got to meet Noah one day a while back when one of my sons, DJ, popped up one day with a sudden need to have a tee shirt made, the second kind—a freedom shirt—to wear on behalf of his buddy Marco who was in city jail. DJ wanted the shirt to say “Free Marco” and display images they valued. In my opinion those chosen were the worst possible pictures of the two together. But the pictures were about freedom of a sort. In general the photos reflect DJ and Marco engaged in a war to wage temporary freedom from the misery they have grown up with. Faces blank, stupefied, their expressions look like nothing so much as the calves I once saw being killed at a slaughterhouse in Richmond. It’s a three-blunts-to-the wind glaze, tweaked with maybe a few Percs or a couple of Zannie bars. That’s how Marco and DJ looked on the shirt—like the dying calves, childhoods slaughtered.
Inside my head, the calf connection is this: My college roomie and I once prodded each other to take a somewhat sophomoric, ghoulish field trip to the Richmond Abattoir. As we watched a group of calves begin their pilgrimages to final freedom, their attentive guardians anesthetized their young charges: A sledgehammer’s thud to the forehead left the little guys standing, but stupefied, eyes darting wildly, distracted from the last blade between them and freedom. I see this knocked-in-the-head expression of the dying calves disconcertingly echoed on the countenances of Marco and DJ in the photos. But I’d never have made an issue of it with DJ. He was so proud of the tee shirt he had designed. And when I leave him alone to find his own way he takes me inside his world and we understand each other better. It would hardly have been the death of our relationship, but such a petty comment would bring me only momentary freedom, and lasting regret. He’d survived Noah’s preaching. That was enough. So as with my college buddy long ago, DJ and I left Noah’s and went to grab a burger.
****
One of the guys on Noah’s wall of death is Too. DJ knew him casually, and later got to know him too well. Too was a boy soldier.
DJ himself is a boy soldier, the archetype. He was once also a businessman, which means survivor. Frequently he stayed up all night seeking income, excitement, warmth. For lack of a place to sleep he found camaraderie waiting on the corner with his “bruh” as he calls Marco, for a blustery midnight sale. He still feels safer with a Glock 44C than a teacher. Raised in the margins of the city which was once the capital of a country hastily thrown together to keep DJ’s progenitors in bondage, he has lived and moved without much being. His ephemeral dad’s obsession with other women, cost his dad the unspeakable fun of raising his kid. DJ’s parenting of himself was uneven, evinces itself now in tribulations with any authority. DJ is Everykid and the impact of the lash, stilled long ago, is still evident on him. Even though his agony may now have the psychiatric handle PTSD, it goes with him, as with his peers, untreated and misinterpreted. He reflects, staggers under, the same fiction that males enslaved bore: that he, they—were stupid.
Though not now prevented by law from learning, DJ is print-averse, feels unlettered. DJ and the battalions of kindred boy soldiers seem to be on an unconscious mission. With casual guns, raging rap, sagged jeans they assert some modicum of authority over the obscenity that mostly is their lot. Bullets are as gnats at a picnic. Can each bullet, ominous, unpredictable, be a time-bomb legacy hurled down through the unhealed generations— compressed anger finding voice as rage in firearms in the streets of the young soldiers’ Richmond haunts? Randomly, misdirected, the ancient lash returns in steel projectile guise, and stalks most those yet still reeling from its forbearers. In my classroom I, too, have my own wall of young warrior death. But each firing is only momentary release. Decade upon decade of rage remains, unperceived, unhealed. Unabated and deadly, disguised as weed, bravado, and sadness, this ancient and present rage marches with the child warriors into their classrooms. The soldiers sit and stare placidly. Grammar, the encryption of privilege, stares back. “It’s not “I’m is.” Say, “I am.” Vainly they scour their schools for their place. These boy soldiers’ hearts hear accurately the unspoken harmonics of worthlessness.
And so it is that one notorious weekend this worthlessness erupts savagely. Five people are shot to death on the Southside in two different venues by a regular guy with some ax with the world. It was his day to turn ordinary grinding into rampage. Dramatic headlines, several days of TV delirium report the bloodletting. DJ’s inheritance from this weekend was a more intimate acquaintanceship with Too, and even deeper layers of grueling insomnia and nightmares.
By chance DJ got drenched in Too’s blood. DJ was deep in hopelessness in the most hopeless of the bricks (his slang for the projects) still trying on facets of his life, sorting out the odds at 19 of staying alive past 21. Too and an antagonist were toe to toe in the middle of the street. The dispute was trivial, enlarged through the lens of tangled perceptions to an epic issue. It was four, five o’clock. August. Saturday afternoon. Heat snapping, humidity short circuiting sultry, sluggish reason. It got down to ok shoot me bitch. So he did.
Too instantly was at once suspended and dropping. Blood mist and eye-socket fragments flayed the air, stultifying, oppressing, confusing the helplessness personified as young men, arrayed at random around the roiling tableaux; DJ’s not part of the fracas, but closest to the impact. Too slumps, DJ kneels—a pieta in indigo and crimson. Too heaves. DJ cradles. Medics fail. Too, once friend, now pagan Eucharist, finds heartbroken acceptance and revulsion at the altar of godlessness trembling in DJ’s heart. It’s not so much death, it’s the dying that’s so tough, he later tells me.
DJ’s jeans and white tee, fresh with dammed spot, are abandoned, thrown into a nearby sewer.
And the telling when it comes is clipped. Wire reports lingering in my head complete the fabric of his story as I patch them into his laconic, staccato Teletype.
It took DJ three days to mention it.
Childhood
Patricia Phillips
EVWP Summer 2009
Pancakes
Lovingly you let me mix
The flour, sugar, butter, eggs
After church on Sunday
Lovingly you let me climb
In front of the stove
On top of the chair
Lovingly you showed me how
Bubbles must be all over
Before I could flip
Lovingly we placed them
On the plate with flowers
One of the only things left
From your mother
Decorating
Remember the cake
When you let us
Cover the two layers
In frosting
When we piped all the flowers
Three inches high
When we decorated with little girl
Joy and style
When without
Complaint or word
You ate a whole piece
Station Wagon
Please, Mom, stop right here
Oh, I don’t know
With sweet pleading faces—
Please let us today
She gazes back in the mirror
Alright
Scrambling,
Beaming,
Giggling with glee
Unlatching our belts
We come to a halt
Back we go
Climbing the seat
Are you ready?
Up, up, up
She steers the car along the drive
That rises like a mountain
Laughing and tumbling
Free
List, what list?
Dad will bring us
To the store
Mom will stay
At home today
Because
Oreos
Sugar cubes
Ice cream
Candy
Will all be
In the cart
When Dad takes us
To the store
EVWP Summer 2009
Pancakes
Lovingly you let me mix
The flour, sugar, butter, eggs
After church on Sunday
Lovingly you let me climb
In front of the stove
On top of the chair
Lovingly you showed me how
Bubbles must be all over
Before I could flip
Lovingly we placed them
On the plate with flowers
One of the only things left
From your mother
Decorating
Remember the cake
When you let us
Cover the two layers
In frosting
When we piped all the flowers
Three inches high
When we decorated with little girl
Joy and style
When without
Complaint or word
You ate a whole piece
Station Wagon
Please, Mom, stop right here
Oh, I don’t know
With sweet pleading faces—
Please let us today
She gazes back in the mirror
Alright
Scrambling,
Beaming,
Giggling with glee
Unlatching our belts
We come to a halt
Back we go
Climbing the seat
Are you ready?
Up, up, up
She steers the car along the drive
That rises like a mountain
Laughing and tumbling
Free
List, what list?
Dad will bring us
To the store
Mom will stay
At home today
Because
Oreos
Sugar cubes
Ice cream
Candy
Will all be
In the cart
When Dad takes us
To the store
On The James
Jan Healy
EVWP Summer 2009
Written on the Jamestown-Scotland Ferry
Frantic dash to the ferry, racing to the appointed time;
cars impatiently form the line
to rumble onto the rocking platform.
Inner, middle, outer –
a man casually points to assigned spaces
for cars to sit gasping for a breath of air.
Radios and engines are stilled
while seagulls squawk and escort each ferry passing.
Silence the mind with the car.
Allow the eyes to ponder
the world near the ferry on the James.
Shivering in the morning cool,
the pushing current carries other boats down river.
Geese sift through beach debris,
nonchalantly considering the bouncing daylilies in a yard nearby.
Still-sleeping houses pay no attention while the
slender-fingered docks stretch out from the shore.
Later, loud tourists gawk and aim their cameras in the distance.
Children scramble to the front only to be splashed with the river’s sprays.
Meanwhile, the regulars visit with people known.
Others simply sit,
an exercise in patience
as the ferry lumbers forward.
Abruptly,
bouncing against the distant dock,
dreams and conversations are replaced
with the staggered starts of throttle.
All eyes turn to the motions of the man,
waiting for permission to leave
the ferry on the James.
EVWP Summer 2009
Written on the Jamestown-Scotland Ferry
Frantic dash to the ferry, racing to the appointed time;
cars impatiently form the line
to rumble onto the rocking platform.
Inner, middle, outer –
a man casually points to assigned spaces
for cars to sit gasping for a breath of air.
Radios and engines are stilled
while seagulls squawk and escort each ferry passing.
Silence the mind with the car.
Allow the eyes to ponder
the world near the ferry on the James.
Shivering in the morning cool,
the pushing current carries other boats down river.
Geese sift through beach debris,
nonchalantly considering the bouncing daylilies in a yard nearby.
Still-sleeping houses pay no attention while the
slender-fingered docks stretch out from the shore.
Later, loud tourists gawk and aim their cameras in the distance.
Children scramble to the front only to be splashed with the river’s sprays.
Meanwhile, the regulars visit with people known.
Others simply sit,
an exercise in patience
as the ferry lumbers forward.
Abruptly,
bouncing against the distant dock,
dreams and conversations are replaced
with the staggered starts of throttle.
All eyes turn to the motions of the man,
waiting for permission to leave
the ferry on the James.
On The Inside
Melissa Daniels
EVWP Summer 2009
“I’ve missed you!” I exclaim, giving Tayvon a side hug. “It’s so good to have you back.”
“Did you see my grades?” he asks, sheepishly hiding his obvious pride.
“All A’s and a 95 in English!” I give him another pat on the back. “I used to volunteer at a detention center in Williamsburg. It’s a tough place and hard to keep your grades up in there. I’m proud of you.”
“Really, Ms. Daniels? I can’t picture you at a detention center.”
********************************************************************
“You’re wearing shorts,” Kate states matter-of-factly, but the implication is that I have no clue what I am doing.
Bottling up my irritation that Kate is gawking at my naiveté, I say, “Yeah. That was dumb” in my self-deprecating manner. I force a smile, and the tension dissipates.
There’s a security camera outside a double set of glass doors. We hear the first set of doors latch before the second automatically open, an extra precaution to ensure inmates do not escape. On the right we sign in and gather a lock.
My few identifiers – change purse, id card, and keys tumble into a small plastic container. I spin the knob on the front of the locker to be sure no one can open it.
Then, we go through the metal detectors. All clear. Another buzz. Through one heavy set of metal doors. Again we secure the first set before we are allowed to go through the second.
A chipper round face greets us. Like a kindergarten teacher, she has the afternoon snack cart. “You’re wearing shorts,” she observes without judgment. She reminds me of Sister Mary Patrick from Sister Act. Even my lack of proper attire does not discourage her.
Acknowledging my fault, “Yeah,” I reply.
“We can give you something to wear. Or, you can wait outside and meet up with the others afterwards,” she offers.
Without hesitation, “I’ll wear whatever, and I’m so sorry.” She’s not upset, and her kind acceptance makes me regret my forgetfulness.
A female security guard directs me down a hall and through yet another set of doors off to the right. I notice the others heading into the open quad structure with different units – co-ed, boys, and girls.
I enter a back room with the guard. To the left sits a metal shelf with identical plastic tubs and a shower curtain on a metal rod, used for strip searches. Artificial lights cast a yellowish film over the room, a cheap replacement for the windows. Everything is sterile.
From one of the tubs, the guard pulls out a gray jump suit. “Change here.” She points to a single bathroom.
I’m in and out in about thirty seconds. But I’m starting to feel it. My identity is leaving. In that gray jumpsuit, I look like those coal miners in October Sky – lifeless. And, I see the cups on the wall and directions to provide urine for a drug test.
I imagine what it must be like to arrive at the center. First you undergo a strip search that invades your privacy. Next, you lose your identity with a gray jumpsuit. Finally, you take the drug test, and every ounce of trust you once knew leaves. Reduced, you file into line with other inmates – indistinguishable.
As I shudder back to reality, the guard nods. She leads me down the hall into the quad.
The cheerful cart lady greets me with a smile. “Want to go into the co-ed unit today?”
I nod.
After leading me through more metal doors, she whispers something to the guard about me.
Inside a nurse is talking to the kids about sexual health. I slide into a chair at a table with three boys.
“What’cha in fer?” one boy asks.
It takes me a second to think about what to say. “I’m a volunteer, but I wore the wrong clothes today.”
“Oh.” He smiles.
I say, “Yeah, this is kind of comfortable though. I had no idea. I’m going to see if I can borrow one.” We all laugh.
A nudge from a boy at another table. “What’cha in fer?”
I grin at the boys at my table, a knowing smirk crossing all of our faces.
“Well…” I hesitate.
“Yer the new gal ain’t yuh? So what’cha in fer?” he repeats.
I tell the truth. Now several boys are sharing a group smile, glad to know the secret.
Meanwhile the nurse up front jabbers. Mostly blank stares look back at her. She doesn’t realize it – just goes right through. She’s trying – hoping to relate to the kids, talking like them, telling jokes. Then she’s passing out brochures and sheets. We’re still smiling.
“Let’s play cards,” one of the guys at my table suggests as the nurse packs up her stuff.
“Ok.” I sit and chat with them about stuff – their stuff. We’re like a group of buddies laughing as we play “Slap Jack”. A few others lean over; they can’t pull up chairs. Only four allowed at a table.
“Yuh want one?” One of the guys holds up a piece of his Kit Kat, chocolate residue on his fingers.
“It’s ok,” I say. “How did you get that?”
“Well, it’s like this. Yuh do what’cha ‘pose ta do, and yuh move up in levels. The higher the level the better the snack you kin get. I ain’t fixin’ ta get in any trouble ‘round here, so I get me some good snacks,” he explains.
Time passes.
The unit warden announces dinner, and the kids line up. Hands behind backs. One of the guys whispers…”Why don’t yuh come with us to dinner? Get in line. Let’s see if they notice.”
“Put yer hands like this.” One kid shows me.
When we get out of the unit door, I slip out of line. The guys look disappointed, thinking I’ve abandoned our plan, which I have.
“Hey, Woah!! In line now,” a guard barks at me.
“Oh, sorry.” I hop in line again, and the guys are stifling their laughter by biting their lower lips.
“Just come to dinner with us,” one whispers.
So, I go ahead. I’m almost feeling nauseated at the smell of frozen chicken nuggets, pizza, and fries. After finding a seat with my new friends, I start to chatter.
“Silence.” A guard comes over. Now the guys are dying in laughter. They love seeing me get in trouble.
“Sorry. We forgot to tell yuh; it’s a silent dinner,” one says.
As we sit in silence, the humor of this situation is still present.
“Hey, your group is waiting for you.” The pleasant lady is motioning to me.
The guard looks on incredulously. “I’m sorry,” he says curtly.
The guys are laughing too hard. Giving them a directed smile and laugh, I get up and walk past the guard.
“Not a problem. You didn’t know,” I say.
I wave good-bye to my new friends.
Back through the hallway and into my shorts. I walk through the sets of metal doors one at a time then into the lobby and sign out.
“You’re wearing your shorts,” says Kate.
“Yeah. One of the best decisions of my life,” I say.
She doesn’t get it. I smile to myself after glancing at her confused face.
********************************************************************
So we play “Two Truths and a Lie” in Tayvon’s class. I go first. “I have been in the West Wing. I have a cat. And I’ve worn a prison uniform.”
“Well, she definitely has a cat,” one kid laughs.
I don’t have a cat, but that’s ok.
“Yeah, brah, but a prison uniform…Ms. Daniels?”
“Nah, brah, she’s been to Merrimac. I think that one’s true,” Tayvon pipes up.
“How’d you end up in a prison uniform, girl?” One kid calls out from the back of the room.
I scowl. “We’re not doing the ‘girl’ thing, remember? I don’t like that.”
“Yeah, yeah, ah-ight Ms. Daniels.”
“But, I will let you in on that story,” I say.
I start, “Well, I guess you’re not supposed to wear shorts when you volunteer at a detention center.”
They laugh.
“Yeah, I know.” I laugh too at my own innocence. “But I’d wear them again.”
EVWP Summer 2009
“I’ve missed you!” I exclaim, giving Tayvon a side hug. “It’s so good to have you back.”
“Did you see my grades?” he asks, sheepishly hiding his obvious pride.
“All A’s and a 95 in English!” I give him another pat on the back. “I used to volunteer at a detention center in Williamsburg. It’s a tough place and hard to keep your grades up in there. I’m proud of you.”
“Really, Ms. Daniels? I can’t picture you at a detention center.”
********************************************************************
“You’re wearing shorts,” Kate states matter-of-factly, but the implication is that I have no clue what I am doing.
Bottling up my irritation that Kate is gawking at my naiveté, I say, “Yeah. That was dumb” in my self-deprecating manner. I force a smile, and the tension dissipates.
There’s a security camera outside a double set of glass doors. We hear the first set of doors latch before the second automatically open, an extra precaution to ensure inmates do not escape. On the right we sign in and gather a lock.
My few identifiers – change purse, id card, and keys tumble into a small plastic container. I spin the knob on the front of the locker to be sure no one can open it.
Then, we go through the metal detectors. All clear. Another buzz. Through one heavy set of metal doors. Again we secure the first set before we are allowed to go through the second.
A chipper round face greets us. Like a kindergarten teacher, she has the afternoon snack cart. “You’re wearing shorts,” she observes without judgment. She reminds me of Sister Mary Patrick from Sister Act. Even my lack of proper attire does not discourage her.
Acknowledging my fault, “Yeah,” I reply.
“We can give you something to wear. Or, you can wait outside and meet up with the others afterwards,” she offers.
Without hesitation, “I’ll wear whatever, and I’m so sorry.” She’s not upset, and her kind acceptance makes me regret my forgetfulness.
A female security guard directs me down a hall and through yet another set of doors off to the right. I notice the others heading into the open quad structure with different units – co-ed, boys, and girls.
I enter a back room with the guard. To the left sits a metal shelf with identical plastic tubs and a shower curtain on a metal rod, used for strip searches. Artificial lights cast a yellowish film over the room, a cheap replacement for the windows. Everything is sterile.
From one of the tubs, the guard pulls out a gray jump suit. “Change here.” She points to a single bathroom.
I’m in and out in about thirty seconds. But I’m starting to feel it. My identity is leaving. In that gray jumpsuit, I look like those coal miners in October Sky – lifeless. And, I see the cups on the wall and directions to provide urine for a drug test.
I imagine what it must be like to arrive at the center. First you undergo a strip search that invades your privacy. Next, you lose your identity with a gray jumpsuit. Finally, you take the drug test, and every ounce of trust you once knew leaves. Reduced, you file into line with other inmates – indistinguishable.
As I shudder back to reality, the guard nods. She leads me down the hall into the quad.
The cheerful cart lady greets me with a smile. “Want to go into the co-ed unit today?”
I nod.
After leading me through more metal doors, she whispers something to the guard about me.
Inside a nurse is talking to the kids about sexual health. I slide into a chair at a table with three boys.
“What’cha in fer?” one boy asks.
It takes me a second to think about what to say. “I’m a volunteer, but I wore the wrong clothes today.”
“Oh.” He smiles.
I say, “Yeah, this is kind of comfortable though. I had no idea. I’m going to see if I can borrow one.” We all laugh.
A nudge from a boy at another table. “What’cha in fer?”
I grin at the boys at my table, a knowing smirk crossing all of our faces.
“Well…” I hesitate.
“Yer the new gal ain’t yuh? So what’cha in fer?” he repeats.
I tell the truth. Now several boys are sharing a group smile, glad to know the secret.
Meanwhile the nurse up front jabbers. Mostly blank stares look back at her. She doesn’t realize it – just goes right through. She’s trying – hoping to relate to the kids, talking like them, telling jokes. Then she’s passing out brochures and sheets. We’re still smiling.
“Let’s play cards,” one of the guys at my table suggests as the nurse packs up her stuff.
“Ok.” I sit and chat with them about stuff – their stuff. We’re like a group of buddies laughing as we play “Slap Jack”. A few others lean over; they can’t pull up chairs. Only four allowed at a table.
“Yuh want one?” One of the guys holds up a piece of his Kit Kat, chocolate residue on his fingers.
“It’s ok,” I say. “How did you get that?”
“Well, it’s like this. Yuh do what’cha ‘pose ta do, and yuh move up in levels. The higher the level the better the snack you kin get. I ain’t fixin’ ta get in any trouble ‘round here, so I get me some good snacks,” he explains.
Time passes.
The unit warden announces dinner, and the kids line up. Hands behind backs. One of the guys whispers…”Why don’t yuh come with us to dinner? Get in line. Let’s see if they notice.”
“Put yer hands like this.” One kid shows me.
When we get out of the unit door, I slip out of line. The guys look disappointed, thinking I’ve abandoned our plan, which I have.
“Hey, Woah!! In line now,” a guard barks at me.
“Oh, sorry.” I hop in line again, and the guys are stifling their laughter by biting their lower lips.
“Just come to dinner with us,” one whispers.
So, I go ahead. I’m almost feeling nauseated at the smell of frozen chicken nuggets, pizza, and fries. After finding a seat with my new friends, I start to chatter.
“Silence.” A guard comes over. Now the guys are dying in laughter. They love seeing me get in trouble.
“Sorry. We forgot to tell yuh; it’s a silent dinner,” one says.
As we sit in silence, the humor of this situation is still present.
“Hey, your group is waiting for you.” The pleasant lady is motioning to me.
The guard looks on incredulously. “I’m sorry,” he says curtly.
The guys are laughing too hard. Giving them a directed smile and laugh, I get up and walk past the guard.
“Not a problem. You didn’t know,” I say.
I wave good-bye to my new friends.
Back through the hallway and into my shorts. I walk through the sets of metal doors one at a time then into the lobby and sign out.
“You’re wearing your shorts,” says Kate.
“Yeah. One of the best decisions of my life,” I say.
She doesn’t get it. I smile to myself after glancing at her confused face.
********************************************************************
So we play “Two Truths and a Lie” in Tayvon’s class. I go first. “I have been in the West Wing. I have a cat. And I’ve worn a prison uniform.”
“Well, she definitely has a cat,” one kid laughs.
I don’t have a cat, but that’s ok.
“Yeah, brah, but a prison uniform…Ms. Daniels?”
“Nah, brah, she’s been to Merrimac. I think that one’s true,” Tayvon pipes up.
“How’d you end up in a prison uniform, girl?” One kid calls out from the back of the room.
I scowl. “We’re not doing the ‘girl’ thing, remember? I don’t like that.”
“Yeah, yeah, ah-ight Ms. Daniels.”
“But, I will let you in on that story,” I say.
I start, “Well, I guess you’re not supposed to wear shorts when you volunteer at a detention center.”
They laugh.
“Yeah, I know.” I laugh too at my own innocence. “But I’d wear them again.”
Growing Up
Stephanie Alberti
EVWP Summer 2009
He stared at the stethoscope hanging around the doctor’s neck, then reached out with one finger, hesitantly touching it while making a soft grunting noise. The white foam coffee cup taped to his head tilted jauntily to the side as it protected the I.V. line from his deft, ever- inquisitive fingers.
“You want that?” The doctor said, and continued talking to me as he handed the stethoscope to the baby. Enthralled, the boy gripped the metal earpieces, one in each spidery hand, spreading them out then pressing them in, oblivious to the universe- shattering conversation going on above his head.
“What do you mean?” I whispered, unable to comprehend or absorb what Dr. Hitch had just told me in a kind, but matter of fact tone only moments before.
When I had first met him, it was hard to take him seriously because he looked like he was about sixteen. Now, however, I knew from experience that he was a skilled doctor; therefore, I trusted his judgment implicitly.
“Just that,” he went on, “the procedure may or may not work, but if we don’t do it there is no chance that he will survive past the age of two.”
I had never been face to face with death so palpably in my young life before; my knees were weak and I sat down abruptly. I was alone and being asked to make a decision that I wasn’t sure I could handle. He was just a baby and had already been through so much. We weren’t even sure his debilitated body could withstand another onslaught so soon after the operation he’d endured just two months earlier; the operation I had been sure would put to rights the problem with his tiny body.
My husband was still at our home in Turkey and would not be coming for several more weeks. The rest of my family was scattered across several continents. Even my sister-in-law was at least thirty minutes away, although at that moment it felt like a million miles. Alone, I had carried my son here to Oklahoma when he was a little over three months’ old, delicate-limbed and yellow-skinned, the yellow spilling over into what should have been the whites of his eyes. He cried almost the entire twenty-four hour journey, several times eliciting the sympathy of other women travelers who would gently take him from me and walk the aisles of the plane or the airport murmuring softly in his ears as he sobbed relentlessly. A first-time mother, I was naïve enough to convince myself that the doctors would quickly fix whatever was wrong with Robbie, and we would subsequently return to life as it should be- filled with parties, friends, and travel to exotic locations. I inwardly denied information to the contrary that was hinted at by several of the many doctors we had seen in the past few months. Now I was forced to face the possibility that we could lose him.
“We need to operate soon,” he went on, interrupting my reverie and pressing, albeit gently, for a decision. “ If we wait, it will be too late: it may already be too late.”
I glanced briefly at him, then let my eyes rest on my boy, who still concentrated single- mindedly on the stethoscope. I knew that I could not bear to lose him; I wasn’t strong enough. That meant I would have to take control. Up until now I had been a reactive participant in Robbie’s care. From now on I needed to take a proactive part in vanquishing death and making him well. In my mind I began to see myself as a comic-book hero, using my wits in combination with Dr. Hitch’s expert care to outwit Death. I became angry at Death for plotting to take Robbie away from me before he’d lived his life, before we’d had a life together; letting my anger blossom into determination. I decided that from now on I would be the master of both our destinies. I remember that moment with absolute clarity; the moment when I grew up and resolved that he would, too.
“Let’s do it.”
EVWP Summer 2009
He stared at the stethoscope hanging around the doctor’s neck, then reached out with one finger, hesitantly touching it while making a soft grunting noise. The white foam coffee cup taped to his head tilted jauntily to the side as it protected the I.V. line from his deft, ever- inquisitive fingers.
“You want that?” The doctor said, and continued talking to me as he handed the stethoscope to the baby. Enthralled, the boy gripped the metal earpieces, one in each spidery hand, spreading them out then pressing them in, oblivious to the universe- shattering conversation going on above his head.
“What do you mean?” I whispered, unable to comprehend or absorb what Dr. Hitch had just told me in a kind, but matter of fact tone only moments before.
When I had first met him, it was hard to take him seriously because he looked like he was about sixteen. Now, however, I knew from experience that he was a skilled doctor; therefore, I trusted his judgment implicitly.
“Just that,” he went on, “the procedure may or may not work, but if we don’t do it there is no chance that he will survive past the age of two.”
I had never been face to face with death so palpably in my young life before; my knees were weak and I sat down abruptly. I was alone and being asked to make a decision that I wasn’t sure I could handle. He was just a baby and had already been through so much. We weren’t even sure his debilitated body could withstand another onslaught so soon after the operation he’d endured just two months earlier; the operation I had been sure would put to rights the problem with his tiny body.
My husband was still at our home in Turkey and would not be coming for several more weeks. The rest of my family was scattered across several continents. Even my sister-in-law was at least thirty minutes away, although at that moment it felt like a million miles. Alone, I had carried my son here to Oklahoma when he was a little over three months’ old, delicate-limbed and yellow-skinned, the yellow spilling over into what should have been the whites of his eyes. He cried almost the entire twenty-four hour journey, several times eliciting the sympathy of other women travelers who would gently take him from me and walk the aisles of the plane or the airport murmuring softly in his ears as he sobbed relentlessly. A first-time mother, I was naïve enough to convince myself that the doctors would quickly fix whatever was wrong with Robbie, and we would subsequently return to life as it should be- filled with parties, friends, and travel to exotic locations. I inwardly denied information to the contrary that was hinted at by several of the many doctors we had seen in the past few months. Now I was forced to face the possibility that we could lose him.
“We need to operate soon,” he went on, interrupting my reverie and pressing, albeit gently, for a decision. “ If we wait, it will be too late: it may already be too late.”
I glanced briefly at him, then let my eyes rest on my boy, who still concentrated single- mindedly on the stethoscope. I knew that I could not bear to lose him; I wasn’t strong enough. That meant I would have to take control. Up until now I had been a reactive participant in Robbie’s care. From now on I needed to take a proactive part in vanquishing death and making him well. In my mind I began to see myself as a comic-book hero, using my wits in combination with Dr. Hitch’s expert care to outwit Death. I became angry at Death for plotting to take Robbie away from me before he’d lived his life, before we’d had a life together; letting my anger blossom into determination. I decided that from now on I would be the master of both our destinies. I remember that moment with absolute clarity; the moment when I grew up and resolved that he would, too.
“Let’s do it.”
Anna and the Guitar
Mary Forbes
EVWP Summer 2009
Anna grew up in the northeast section of Los Angeles. Anna was a high achiever, maintaining a straight “A” average throughout her high school years. Her family referred to her as “super student.” She took all the hardest classes, studied in the evenings at Occidental College (her goal was to attend Harvard), played the saxophone in the marching band, was the student representative for the high school in the PTA. But she had two disappointments - that she was overweight, and didn’t have a boyfriend. Being the high achiever that she was, she researched how to lose weight, and took it on as her summer goal the summer of her junior year.
In her research at Occidental College, she ran across a book that spelled out the workout for Air Force Cadets. She was planning on visiting her grandmother during the summer, and made it her goal to come back for her senior year fit and trim.
As Anna boarded the plane, she started to form her plan. One of her purposes for the trip to the Midwest was to document her grandparents’ story (there always had to be a purpose to things she chose to do). She planned to interview her grandmother in the mornings, and work out in the afternoons. As soon as she arrived at her Grandmother’s house she got to work.
Being a retired home economics teacher, Grandma didn’t take too kindly to her granddaughter’s food and exercise choices. She enjoyed talking about her life, and how life had changed in her lifetime. After each session of the interview, she would finish by stating her views on diet and exercise. Anna would respond with respect, but was resolved to succeed at her goal.
After spending the summer at Grandma’s house, it was time to fly back home, and start her senior year of high school. She had succeeded in her goals, and sported a slim, shapely figure and documented interviews of her grandmother’s recollections. To add to her long list of accomplishments in high school, she became student body president. Along with this accomplishment, she also had a first-her first boyfriend. Anna’s family was dismayed at her newfound fame and popularity. They were more dismayed by who she was dating. Her boyfriend was, as her mother said, a “motor head,” and didn’t see how they would have any future. “What will you do with a boyfriend who fixes cars when you go to school next year at Harvard?” her mother wanted to know. Anna said that she didn’t know, but she was happy to experience a boyfriend in high school. She was even more excited when she was able to go to the prom with a date. Her and her new boyfriend, Ernie, decided that they would do something different, and both wore a tuxedo (Anna wasn’t much for dresses).
The day finally came to take all her belongings and fly to Boston to attend Harvard-She had succeeded in going to the school she dreamed of since a little girl. She promised Ernie that she would not forget him. Anna did really good keeping in touch with Ernie her first semester in college. She wrote letters to Ernie every night, and talked to him on the phone every week. She cheered for him when he landed a job in a bank as a teller. One thing that really bothered Anna, however, was that she could tell that they were growing apart. Ernie’s father loved Anna, and told her that when she came home for winter break, he wanted to have a talk with her.
Anna met with Ernie’s father soon after returning from Harvard for winter break. She was not prepared for what Ernie’s father wanted to speak with her about. He wanted Anna to know that she was loved by Ernie’s parents, and wanted to propose something to her. He said that he wanted Anna to marry Ernie, and if she agreed, he would pay her $50,000. Anna knew that this would not work. She knew that things were changing between Ernie and her. She had not planned to break up with Ernie, but put to her in these terms; it seemed the logical thing to do. “Well, at least it happened at the beginning of the visit home, “she said. “Now the pressure is off, and I can relax.”
After returning to Harvard, Anna poured herself into her studies. She noticed that a young man named Jonathan never lost the opportunity to say “hi.” She didn’t think anything of it, because he was a member of the “Porcs”, THE fraternity, the hotsy totsy fraternity as many people said. Jonathan was obviously out of her league. Then one day, that all changed.
Anna was at her desk, and started to hear something funny outside. It was late at night, and hoped they would soon go away so she could get back to her studying. She kept hearing a voice singing, a guitar being played quite badly, and then started to hear her name. Anna went to the window, and much to her surprise she saw Jonathan outside her window, playing a guitar, wearing a tux (remember he was in a fraternity) and drunk out of his mind. He started singing “I Love You Truly” at the top of his lungs, strumming his guitar like mad, and then started to call for Anna. Anna opened the window, and tried to reason with Jonathan. All that Jonathan would say was that he loved Anna and he needed her to come down so he could sing to her. Finally, Anna relented, and went down to the “troubadour.” She said later that the only reason she went down was that she was afraid he would wake up the whole dormitory. Jonathan sang to her for quite some time, and Anna finally succeeded in convincing Jonathan to go back to his room, and yes, she would go out with him the following week end.
The next day, Anna saw Jonathan in class, and he reminded Anna that she had promised to go out. Anna was wondering what she had gotten herself into, but stayed true to her word.
Anna and Jonathan did go out that next week end. By the end of the month, they were spending more and more time together. Anna’s roommate started calling her the invisible roommate, since she would be in her room only briefly to change clothes and shower most days. Anna and Jonathan dated all the way through college. After college, they were married in the Harvard chapel and had their reception, can you guess? At the “Porcs” fraternity house. Oh, and no, he didn’t play the guitar at their wedding.
EVWP Summer 2009
Anna grew up in the northeast section of Los Angeles. Anna was a high achiever, maintaining a straight “A” average throughout her high school years. Her family referred to her as “super student.” She took all the hardest classes, studied in the evenings at Occidental College (her goal was to attend Harvard), played the saxophone in the marching band, was the student representative for the high school in the PTA. But she had two disappointments - that she was overweight, and didn’t have a boyfriend. Being the high achiever that she was, she researched how to lose weight, and took it on as her summer goal the summer of her junior year.
In her research at Occidental College, she ran across a book that spelled out the workout for Air Force Cadets. She was planning on visiting her grandmother during the summer, and made it her goal to come back for her senior year fit and trim.
As Anna boarded the plane, she started to form her plan. One of her purposes for the trip to the Midwest was to document her grandparents’ story (there always had to be a purpose to things she chose to do). She planned to interview her grandmother in the mornings, and work out in the afternoons. As soon as she arrived at her Grandmother’s house she got to work.
Being a retired home economics teacher, Grandma didn’t take too kindly to her granddaughter’s food and exercise choices. She enjoyed talking about her life, and how life had changed in her lifetime. After each session of the interview, she would finish by stating her views on diet and exercise. Anna would respond with respect, but was resolved to succeed at her goal.
After spending the summer at Grandma’s house, it was time to fly back home, and start her senior year of high school. She had succeeded in her goals, and sported a slim, shapely figure and documented interviews of her grandmother’s recollections. To add to her long list of accomplishments in high school, she became student body president. Along with this accomplishment, she also had a first-her first boyfriend. Anna’s family was dismayed at her newfound fame and popularity. They were more dismayed by who she was dating. Her boyfriend was, as her mother said, a “motor head,” and didn’t see how they would have any future. “What will you do with a boyfriend who fixes cars when you go to school next year at Harvard?” her mother wanted to know. Anna said that she didn’t know, but she was happy to experience a boyfriend in high school. She was even more excited when she was able to go to the prom with a date. Her and her new boyfriend, Ernie, decided that they would do something different, and both wore a tuxedo (Anna wasn’t much for dresses).
The day finally came to take all her belongings and fly to Boston to attend Harvard-She had succeeded in going to the school she dreamed of since a little girl. She promised Ernie that she would not forget him. Anna did really good keeping in touch with Ernie her first semester in college. She wrote letters to Ernie every night, and talked to him on the phone every week. She cheered for him when he landed a job in a bank as a teller. One thing that really bothered Anna, however, was that she could tell that they were growing apart. Ernie’s father loved Anna, and told her that when she came home for winter break, he wanted to have a talk with her.
Anna met with Ernie’s father soon after returning from Harvard for winter break. She was not prepared for what Ernie’s father wanted to speak with her about. He wanted Anna to know that she was loved by Ernie’s parents, and wanted to propose something to her. He said that he wanted Anna to marry Ernie, and if she agreed, he would pay her $50,000. Anna knew that this would not work. She knew that things were changing between Ernie and her. She had not planned to break up with Ernie, but put to her in these terms; it seemed the logical thing to do. “Well, at least it happened at the beginning of the visit home, “she said. “Now the pressure is off, and I can relax.”
After returning to Harvard, Anna poured herself into her studies. She noticed that a young man named Jonathan never lost the opportunity to say “hi.” She didn’t think anything of it, because he was a member of the “Porcs”, THE fraternity, the hotsy totsy fraternity as many people said. Jonathan was obviously out of her league. Then one day, that all changed.
Anna was at her desk, and started to hear something funny outside. It was late at night, and hoped they would soon go away so she could get back to her studying. She kept hearing a voice singing, a guitar being played quite badly, and then started to hear her name. Anna went to the window, and much to her surprise she saw Jonathan outside her window, playing a guitar, wearing a tux (remember he was in a fraternity) and drunk out of his mind. He started singing “I Love You Truly” at the top of his lungs, strumming his guitar like mad, and then started to call for Anna. Anna opened the window, and tried to reason with Jonathan. All that Jonathan would say was that he loved Anna and he needed her to come down so he could sing to her. Finally, Anna relented, and went down to the “troubadour.” She said later that the only reason she went down was that she was afraid he would wake up the whole dormitory. Jonathan sang to her for quite some time, and Anna finally succeeded in convincing Jonathan to go back to his room, and yes, she would go out with him the following week end.
The next day, Anna saw Jonathan in class, and he reminded Anna that she had promised to go out. Anna was wondering what she had gotten herself into, but stayed true to her word.
Anna and Jonathan did go out that next week end. By the end of the month, they were spending more and more time together. Anna’s roommate started calling her the invisible roommate, since she would be in her room only briefly to change clothes and shower most days. Anna and Jonathan dated all the way through college. After college, they were married in the Harvard chapel and had their reception, can you guess? At the “Porcs” fraternity house. Oh, and no, he didn’t play the guitar at their wedding.
I'd Rather Be In Philadelphia
Louise Warner
EVWP Summer 2009
“If you have any further questions, please see me after class. Enjoy the rest of your day!” I said dismissing my students. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man walking up to my desk. I smiled up at him and realized it was my husband. How odd that Mark was here since he was in the middle of an strategic deployment exercise. As I looked up from my desk, I was blissfully oblivious as to why he was now gingerly reaching out his steady hand to mine. Mark's eyes fixed on mine.
“Lou, I have some news, and it's about your dad. He was rushed to the hospital. They tried to save him. I'm so sorry, but he's gone”
My mind raced. I wondered what he was talking about. My dad was fine. He was the picture of health!
“He had a massive heart attack.”
Now I understand. Poor Mark! It wasn't my dad; it was his dad. My dad was strong and healthy. Mark's dad was the one who recently had bypass surgery.
Mark continued to say more words. My mind froze.
“Lou...Lou...Lou...”
“What?”
“Did you hear me?”
I did not want to answer because then it would be true. Dear God, please don't let this be true.
What do I do next? How will I tell the children? What should I say to my mom? How is she handling this? I must call my brothers.
It took hours to fly from Kansas to New York. One of our stop overs was in Philadelphia. While waiting in the Philadelphia airport for our next flight, I gasped and sobbed uncontrollably when I read the word Philadelphia on one of the airport signs.
Suddenly I was eight years old. Dad, who was an avid reader and excellent speller, often queried my brothers to spell thought-provoking words. I always tried to keep up with my older brothers. Whatever they did, I wanted to do too. So Dad included me in the game and also gave me challenging words.
“OK, Louise, spell Philadelphia.”
Under close scrutiny, my teenage siblings sensed my uncertainty. Brushing the hair out of my eyes, I took a deep breath and hesitantly stammered “F-i-l-a...” Nervously rocking back and forth on my heels, unknowingly I was doomed from the first letter of this elusive word. Patiently Dad explained that ph could also make an f sound which I never forgot. With a reassuring wink, he moved on to the next word. He never missed a teachable moment.
The blury airport sign came into sharper focus as my tears began to dwindle and an unexpected smile crossed my face. Amazingly I giggled. What were the chances that this pilgrimage would take me through a city that would ignite such a vivid childhood memory. The city of brotherly love brought a joyous rush of memories. My heart strings were tugged in so many directions as I shared a heavenly laugh with my dad in Philadelphia.
EVWP Summer 2009
“If you have any further questions, please see me after class. Enjoy the rest of your day!” I said dismissing my students. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man walking up to my desk. I smiled up at him and realized it was my husband. How odd that Mark was here since he was in the middle of an strategic deployment exercise. As I looked up from my desk, I was blissfully oblivious as to why he was now gingerly reaching out his steady hand to mine. Mark's eyes fixed on mine.
“Lou, I have some news, and it's about your dad. He was rushed to the hospital. They tried to save him. I'm so sorry, but he's gone”
My mind raced. I wondered what he was talking about. My dad was fine. He was the picture of health!
“He had a massive heart attack.”
Now I understand. Poor Mark! It wasn't my dad; it was his dad. My dad was strong and healthy. Mark's dad was the one who recently had bypass surgery.
Mark continued to say more words. My mind froze.
“Lou...Lou...Lou...”
“What?”
“Did you hear me?”
I did not want to answer because then it would be true. Dear God, please don't let this be true.
What do I do next? How will I tell the children? What should I say to my mom? How is she handling this? I must call my brothers.
It took hours to fly from Kansas to New York. One of our stop overs was in Philadelphia. While waiting in the Philadelphia airport for our next flight, I gasped and sobbed uncontrollably when I read the word Philadelphia on one of the airport signs.
Suddenly I was eight years old. Dad, who was an avid reader and excellent speller, often queried my brothers to spell thought-provoking words. I always tried to keep up with my older brothers. Whatever they did, I wanted to do too. So Dad included me in the game and also gave me challenging words.
“OK, Louise, spell Philadelphia.”
Under close scrutiny, my teenage siblings sensed my uncertainty. Brushing the hair out of my eyes, I took a deep breath and hesitantly stammered “F-i-l-a...” Nervously rocking back and forth on my heels, unknowingly I was doomed from the first letter of this elusive word. Patiently Dad explained that ph could also make an f sound which I never forgot. With a reassuring wink, he moved on to the next word. He never missed a teachable moment.
The blury airport sign came into sharper focus as my tears began to dwindle and an unexpected smile crossed my face. Amazingly I giggled. What were the chances that this pilgrimage would take me through a city that would ignite such a vivid childhood memory. The city of brotherly love brought a joyous rush of memories. My heart strings were tugged in so many directions as I shared a heavenly laugh with my dad in Philadelphia.
Ode to Our Road
Nicole Throckmorton
Summer 2009
There are more momentous roads to write about-
Springsteen's is made of thunder;
Dylan's #61 goes nearly the whole length
of the Mississippi; Frost, held up
the choice of two from memory.
Add in Kerouac and his "the road is life"
business and I fear my planned road ode is toast,
stale, bond dry, and much too done, outclassed
by poets and troubadours. No competing with
the Roads Scholars, specialists in the
portentous premises and promises
of The Road.
###
When I was little, we burned it up
on summer days;
we three in that green, vinyl-topped LTD,
voluntary exiles from our home
leaving to preserve
Daddy's 3rd shift recovery sleep.
We'd pack for the day, climb in, take off,
headed somewhere. Anywhere
took at least twenty minutes. Twenty minutes
of big brother/little sister bickering, mom refereeing, and
radio sing-alongs before pool, park, Little League.
The way home, moments filled rehashing
feats and piffling failures between mouthfuls of Slurpee
or milkshake, open windows offering our
melodies to that road between
home and town, both connection and escape
no matter which destination we faced.
When I was older, in school,
Mom was working, driving
it without us, until pick-up from
piano lessons (me)
football practice (him)
and the day's debriefing:
"Nothing." His teen-aged
answer to her open-ended,
"What did you do today?"
Mine, more report, itemized by
morning, snack time, late morning, lunch,
recess, afternoon. Brother, image of cool,
offering commentary of sighs
and boredom-induced head slump
'til home.
When I was older, it was just me
in the car, promoted to the front seat
by way of my brother's entry
into marriage, fatherhood, then graduation
(in that order).
After school practices, late night
bus returns from away games,
all needing collection, transportation.
Mom was there, almost every time,
unless Grandma stepped in to help.
But the late night trips were all Mom's
traveling the dark road home from
ball games, talking, listening,
quiet conversations like those she'd had
with my brother after his near-midnight retrievals.
Later, I over hear her confess to a friend
who complained about the time spent
in transit: "I know my kids because
of those trips. Wouldn't trade them."
Now I'm grown, in a home at least
twenty minutes away from anywhere.
After my day is done, I climb in, take off
down the road, heading home.
I call Mom. She's on her way too.
We're not traveling the same route, but
we're still going the same way.
It's still our road, our time to share.
###
So the Boss can claim dominion of
The Road, his by way of a dozen-plus
tributes. And the others who've made it
symbol of Frontier, Freedom, Life.
They can keep The Road
and we'll keep Ours.
Summer 2009
There are more momentous roads to write about-
Springsteen's is made of thunder;
Dylan's #61 goes nearly the whole length
of the Mississippi; Frost, held up
the choice of two from memory.
Add in Kerouac and his "the road is life"
business and I fear my planned road ode is toast,
stale, bond dry, and much too done, outclassed
by poets and troubadours. No competing with
the Roads Scholars, specialists in the
portentous premises and promises
of The Road.
###
When I was little, we burned it up
on summer days;
we three in that green, vinyl-topped LTD,
voluntary exiles from our home
leaving to preserve
Daddy's 3rd shift recovery sleep.
We'd pack for the day, climb in, take off,
headed somewhere. Anywhere
took at least twenty minutes. Twenty minutes
of big brother/little sister bickering, mom refereeing, and
radio sing-alongs before pool, park, Little League.
The way home, moments filled rehashing
feats and piffling failures between mouthfuls of Slurpee
or milkshake, open windows offering our
melodies to that road between
home and town, both connection and escape
no matter which destination we faced.
When I was older, in school,
Mom was working, driving
it without us, until pick-up from
piano lessons (me)
football practice (him)
and the day's debriefing:
"Nothing." His teen-aged
answer to her open-ended,
"What did you do today?"
Mine, more report, itemized by
morning, snack time, late morning, lunch,
recess, afternoon. Brother, image of cool,
offering commentary of sighs
and boredom-induced head slump
'til home.
When I was older, it was just me
in the car, promoted to the front seat
by way of my brother's entry
into marriage, fatherhood, then graduation
(in that order).
After school practices, late night
bus returns from away games,
all needing collection, transportation.
Mom was there, almost every time,
unless Grandma stepped in to help.
But the late night trips were all Mom's
traveling the dark road home from
ball games, talking, listening,
quiet conversations like those she'd had
with my brother after his near-midnight retrievals.
Later, I over hear her confess to a friend
who complained about the time spent
in transit: "I know my kids because
of those trips. Wouldn't trade them."
Now I'm grown, in a home at least
twenty minutes away from anywhere.
After my day is done, I climb in, take off
down the road, heading home.
I call Mom. She's on her way too.
We're not traveling the same route, but
we're still going the same way.
It's still our road, our time to share.
###
So the Boss can claim dominion of
The Road, his by way of a dozen-plus
tributes. And the others who've made it
symbol of Frontier, Freedom, Life.
They can keep The Road
and we'll keep Ours.
Willow Tree
Jan Healy
EVWP Summer 2009
“Dalton, please don’t do this.” I frantically scramble after my son as he hurriedly tosses his life’s worth in the back of his Tahoe: clothes, backpack, guitar, dog. Roughly, he chides me as if the roles are reversed-he the parent and me, the child.
“You know I have to. I can’t stay in this house,” he tells me sternly, too sternly for even an angry 18 year-old.
Guilt and despair flood me as I grab his arm, “Stop! I have not finished raising you yet.”
He turns to me, his face awash with emotions and looks me straight in the eye, “If you cared about raising me, you would have left him long ago.”
Mutely, I nod and let him go. Watching him drive away, I deal with the guilt and frustration: guilt for his unhappiness and frustration because I thought staying for the kids was the answer. The question quietly forms in my head, “So now do I leave?”
Against the counsel of the voice in my head, I blurt out the recurring thought that had been percolating like coffee. “I’m leaving.” Stunned, I wonder if the words were really out loud or just in my mind.
Stonily, taking a drag off his cigarette, he mutters, “Yes, you said it and you don’t know what you want. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Smoke hovers around my head as he shrugs away the idea. My words have no meaning. Before, I would have raged against the not-so silent accusations and the demeaning dismissal. This time, though, I knew. Leaving would happen.
The time between making the decision and the actual leaving is almost inconsequential. The argument is complete. Pleas, bribes, threats are ignored, and resignation sets in. The important decision has been made and the others are easy: new job, new house, and new state. Children, pets, and furniture are fought for and divided. Papers are signed and the process of packing up the remnants of a life begins. What to take and what to leave behind?
The wrenching part of the journey is the leaving behind of everything familiar…friends, my garden, the lake. Anna, Dalton’s girlfriend, gives me a parting gift. It is a wooden doll from the Willow Tree series. The young woman has her face upturned to the sky as her arms stretch wide to her sides. Bluebirds perch on those arms. Even though her features are not carved, I immediately channel her openness to the world. I imagine that this is me. Happy. Joyful. Free.
EVWP Summer 2009
“Dalton, please don’t do this.” I frantically scramble after my son as he hurriedly tosses his life’s worth in the back of his Tahoe: clothes, backpack, guitar, dog. Roughly, he chides me as if the roles are reversed-he the parent and me, the child.
“You know I have to. I can’t stay in this house,” he tells me sternly, too sternly for even an angry 18 year-old.
Guilt and despair flood me as I grab his arm, “Stop! I have not finished raising you yet.”
He turns to me, his face awash with emotions and looks me straight in the eye, “If you cared about raising me, you would have left him long ago.”
Mutely, I nod and let him go. Watching him drive away, I deal with the guilt and frustration: guilt for his unhappiness and frustration because I thought staying for the kids was the answer. The question quietly forms in my head, “So now do I leave?”
Against the counsel of the voice in my head, I blurt out the recurring thought that had been percolating like coffee. “I’m leaving.” Stunned, I wonder if the words were really out loud or just in my mind.
Stonily, taking a drag off his cigarette, he mutters, “Yes, you said it and you don’t know what you want. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Smoke hovers around my head as he shrugs away the idea. My words have no meaning. Before, I would have raged against the not-so silent accusations and the demeaning dismissal. This time, though, I knew. Leaving would happen.
The time between making the decision and the actual leaving is almost inconsequential. The argument is complete. Pleas, bribes, threats are ignored, and resignation sets in. The important decision has been made and the others are easy: new job, new house, and new state. Children, pets, and furniture are fought for and divided. Papers are signed and the process of packing up the remnants of a life begins. What to take and what to leave behind?
The wrenching part of the journey is the leaving behind of everything familiar…friends, my garden, the lake. Anna, Dalton’s girlfriend, gives me a parting gift. It is a wooden doll from the Willow Tree series. The young woman has her face upturned to the sky as her arms stretch wide to her sides. Bluebirds perch on those arms. Even though her features are not carved, I immediately channel her openness to the world. I imagine that this is me. Happy. Joyful. Free.
Freedom
Melissa Daniels
EVWP Summer 2009
After a year at home,
I anticipate freedom.
Parents away.
Empty house.
A newfound sliver of introversion,
Desiring to recharge alone.
Sleep in.
Relax.
Watch a movie.
Write.
Read.
Swim.
Don’t talk.
Holler. Catch up?
Text. Lunch date?
Reminder. Pick up book?
Plea. See my family?
Call. Attend picnic?
Invite. Visit me?
Inside.
No, no, no,
No, no, no.
But I say,
“Yes, yes, yes.
Yes, yes, yes.”
EVWP Summer 2009
After a year at home,
I anticipate freedom.
Parents away.
Empty house.
A newfound sliver of introversion,
Desiring to recharge alone.
Sleep in.
Relax.
Watch a movie.
Write.
Read.
Swim.
Don’t talk.
Holler. Catch up?
Text. Lunch date?
Reminder. Pick up book?
Plea. See my family?
Call. Attend picnic?
Invite. Visit me?
Inside.
No, no, no,
No, no, no.
But I say,
“Yes, yes, yes.
Yes, yes, yes.”
Taking a Ride
Sandra Hayward-Jones
EVWP Summer 2009
We did not own a car until I was in the fourth grade. Actually, my mom didn’t learn to drive until then, which would have been around 1965, and she would have been about 36 years old. Although she taught school in the neighboring parish about 15 miles away, she and other co-workers who did not own cars took a bus to the intersection of Tulane and Carrollton, where another teacher picked up the carpoolers. In the 1960s, I don’t think the term “carpooling” had been coined, nor was it done with concerns for the local environment.
I’m not sure what finally convinced my mom to buy a car, but she finally got a 1965 or 1966 Mercury Comet. It was gray in shade, and believe it or not, air conditioning was considered an option! And my mother, on a budget obviously, chose to forego that option! In Louisiana humidity and heat, no less! But interestingly enough, I don’t recall the heat, just the fact that we now had transportation for the limited trips we took.
Limited, as in local. Neither my mom nor my grandmother ventured beyond the borders of the Greater New Orleans area. My mom at that time worked in Kenner, a stone’s throw from the airport. She often bragged about her driving prowess and declared her excuse for needing r&r: “I just bucked aside those diesel trucks on the highway!” As an adult 20-plus years later traversing Airline Highway, I could not figure out what the big deal was. The Airline is a two-lane on each side stretch of road with a neutral ground separating the road (I learned later from a USAToday article about an upcoming Super Bowl that Louisiana is the only place that refers to median strips as neutral grounds, but that’s another story for another day). It was hardly a drag strip nor did it come close to a California freeway. But my mom needed a valid reason for crashing once she got home from teaching third graders five days a week, teaching piano lessons on Saturday, and her off-and-on position as a church organist on Sundays.
My grandmother left the southwest Louisiana community of Franklin in 1925, never to return. I could not understand how anyone could leave their hometown and never go back. From time to time a cousin would come to New Orleans and visit us, but my grandmother, Tottie, as I always called her, had no desire to go back. Distance was not an issue: Franklin is probably 110 miles away to the west. Greyhound buses go past daily. But in my adult reflection, I suspect there were childhood memories and events that were best left alone.
When she did refer to her childhood, Tottie spoke of hard times, working in the fields, living with various aunts and cousins as her mother abandoned her and her two brothers, remarried and “had a good time”. I know that Tottie resented not having the opportunities of higher education. She bragged about the eighth grade education she had, that she felt was equivalent to much higher education in the 1960s. People she went to school with learned to cook and sew and you knew your time tables by a certain age.
Although Tottie had only an eighth grade education, she was hardly illiterate. I credit my passion for newspaper reading to her: we always had the daily paper delivered to us, and Tottie read it cover to cover. She could tell you not only about President Nixon and Watergate, for instance, but who had a baby, who bought a marriage license, who lost their homes, who’d recently mortgaged their homes. Tottie may have been a homebody, but she was neither isolated or lonely. When she was not doing her daily household chores, you would find her on the telephone giving legal advice to women ranging in ages from their 20s to those of her age. People sought advice from Tottie on protecting their property, or seeking assistance for their children when the parents were not married. She knew a lot about a lot of things, but was never quite comfortable in the presence of what she considered “educated people”.
She’d educated my mother on a paltry income. Somehow she managed to have long-standing jobs through the years that were unusual, given the social climate of the time. In the 1930s and 1940s, she worked for an Italian portrait artist whose studio was on Royal Street in the French Quarter. I’d just always heard she’d “worked” for him, and that he taught her to paint in oils. To this day her scenes of French Quarter courtyards grace the walls of my relatives coast to coast. But a conversation I had with her in the 1990s revealed to me she had been his cook/maid. She’d never called herself that, but just assumed I knew what her role had been.
When I was in the fourth grade, about the same time my mom bought her first car, Tottie decided to go back to work after being “retired” for about 10 years. At this time she was in her 60s, and she worked three days a week in the office of Dr. Stewart. She had no formal training as a dental assistant, but had worked previously in the 1950s for another dentist, who recommended her services to Dr. Stewart.
My mom and I would drive to Dr. Stewart’s office in the afternoons to pick Tottie up. We’d go a little early and parked in front the office. The office was located on St. Claude Avenue, about five blocks from the Industrial Canal, the body of water that links the Mississippi River to Lake Pontchartrain. It also separates the Ninth Ward; we were on the opposite end of the Lower Ninth Ward so much heard about after Hurricane Katrina. As I reflect back on the neighborhood of the 1960s, obviously not too much, if any, changes from the civil rights movement had occurred. The nearby high school, Francis T. Nicholls, was named for a Confederate hero. Twenty-some years later the Orleans Parish School Board renamed all schools named after Confederate heroes and replaced them with names of black heroes. Nicholls is now Frederick Douglass High School. But circa 1965, Nicholls High School stood a few blocks away. I recall us driving past businesses, in particular a laundromat on St. Claude Avenue, with a “whites only” sign in the window.
It was not this outward sign of segregation that perturbed me, but the covert ones, recognizable to me in spite of my young age of nine or ten. Dr. Stewart, highly regarded in local societal circles, who lived in the tony Garden District section of the city (think Windsor Farms in Richmond), was king of a local Carnival parade organization (only the elite wealthy are afforded this distinction), owner of a Bonanza Steakhouse franchise, hired my grandmother as his dental assistant, a black woman, but on general principle did not accept black people as patients. I recognized this as highly irregular, to say the least, but I understood even then that one could not easily change the status quo. As Tottie made dental appointments, one of her duties was to ascertain if the caller was black or white. I’m not sure exactly what she said to the caller if she thought they were black. I’m not even sure what happened if a black person showed up at the office for an appointment. But Dr. Stewart, bless his heart, worked on my mom’s and my teeth once as a courtesy. Now as I think about it, maybe it was his day off or something, because I don’t think there were any patients in the office that particular day.
That Mercury Comet drove my family around intact only as long as Tottie worked. Otherwise, we could not get Tottie into the car. As feisty a person as she was, she never learned to drive, but traversed the streets by bus, either to go shopping downtown on Canal Street or to Gentilly to a supermarket aptly named the Economical.
My mom and I, on the other hand, spent time together in the Comet, replaced later by a 1970-something forest green Ford Granada. Every Saturday was spent at church for Youth Choir rehearsal, which my mom directed. We may have stopped for lunch at the newly built Burger King, Church’s or Popeye’s (and my mom later would go into any McDonald’s and proceed to order a Whopper). On Sundays she and I would take a ride, which meant cruising along the lakefront and on to New Orleans East, where we admired new construction homes and oohed and aahed. These homes were a stark contrast to our five-room shotgun house.
Fast forward to 1995. I was summoned to New Orleans. You have to do something. My mom had suffered a stroke in 1981, which affected her short-term memory but not her ability to play classical piano, and Tottie was her caretaker. Tottie, now in her 80s, was beginning to show signs of senility. I went to New Orleans with my nephew to help me so I could literally kidnap them and bring them to Richmond. My mom was not the problem; she’d go along with anything. But how to distract Tottie, the homebody, so I could make arrangements for their absence, pack up their clothes, and bring them to Virginia?
Somehow I was able to take Tottie and my mom in my rental car to my aunt’s house for a visit. That was easy; the day of the flight was not as simple. I finally used Shoney’s as the carrot to get them out the house, insisting we needed to go somewhere together for breakfast. However, Tottie did rant and rave before we left, threatening to call the police and her lawyer. We eventually, with my nephew’s calm demeanor and ability to pick up a less than 5 feet tall, 90 pound lady and put her in the car, got to Shoney’s, and later to the airport.
My mom and grandma sat in the waiting area, discussing what bus they needed to take to get back home. They thought they were simply seeing me off. When our flight was called, I said, Come on. My mom was like, I’m going with you? Yes! She was excited. I held my breath, hoping Tottie would not embarrass me by cussing everybody out.
So that’s how I got them to Virginia. There were adjustments to be made on all fronts. I had to arrange for them to live in an assisted-living facility. My children loved having their grandmother and great-grandmother here. My mom drove me crazy with noting only fast-food restaurants as we drove down the street (“McDonald’s…Hardees…Wendy’s”), which prompted Tottie to shout “Shut up Audrey, all you think about is eating”. Tottie’s reaction whenever we drove through the modern, suburban neighborhood I lived in, was to ask, “Colored people live here?” which she always asked in disbelief. Tottie resented no longer being in charge (“I was the boss, now here you are the boss”), to which I replied “Trust me, I would not be the boss if I had the choice”.
Riding alone now as I drive through Richmond, I can’t help but remember life with the VIPs (my nickname for them). Tottie lived to the ripe age of 95, passing away the week before 9/11. My mom suffered a mini-stroke that December of 2001, from which she never recovered, and she was laid to rest the next April. Both were returned to their beloved New Orleans.
EVWP Summer 2009
We did not own a car until I was in the fourth grade. Actually, my mom didn’t learn to drive until then, which would have been around 1965, and she would have been about 36 years old. Although she taught school in the neighboring parish about 15 miles away, she and other co-workers who did not own cars took a bus to the intersection of Tulane and Carrollton, where another teacher picked up the carpoolers. In the 1960s, I don’t think the term “carpooling” had been coined, nor was it done with concerns for the local environment.
I’m not sure what finally convinced my mom to buy a car, but she finally got a 1965 or 1966 Mercury Comet. It was gray in shade, and believe it or not, air conditioning was considered an option! And my mother, on a budget obviously, chose to forego that option! In Louisiana humidity and heat, no less! But interestingly enough, I don’t recall the heat, just the fact that we now had transportation for the limited trips we took.
Limited, as in local. Neither my mom nor my grandmother ventured beyond the borders of the Greater New Orleans area. My mom at that time worked in Kenner, a stone’s throw from the airport. She often bragged about her driving prowess and declared her excuse for needing r&r: “I just bucked aside those diesel trucks on the highway!” As an adult 20-plus years later traversing Airline Highway, I could not figure out what the big deal was. The Airline is a two-lane on each side stretch of road with a neutral ground separating the road (I learned later from a USAToday article about an upcoming Super Bowl that Louisiana is the only place that refers to median strips as neutral grounds, but that’s another story for another day). It was hardly a drag strip nor did it come close to a California freeway. But my mom needed a valid reason for crashing once she got home from teaching third graders five days a week, teaching piano lessons on Saturday, and her off-and-on position as a church organist on Sundays.
My grandmother left the southwest Louisiana community of Franklin in 1925, never to return. I could not understand how anyone could leave their hometown and never go back. From time to time a cousin would come to New Orleans and visit us, but my grandmother, Tottie, as I always called her, had no desire to go back. Distance was not an issue: Franklin is probably 110 miles away to the west. Greyhound buses go past daily. But in my adult reflection, I suspect there were childhood memories and events that were best left alone.
When she did refer to her childhood, Tottie spoke of hard times, working in the fields, living with various aunts and cousins as her mother abandoned her and her two brothers, remarried and “had a good time”. I know that Tottie resented not having the opportunities of higher education. She bragged about the eighth grade education she had, that she felt was equivalent to much higher education in the 1960s. People she went to school with learned to cook and sew and you knew your time tables by a certain age.
Although Tottie had only an eighth grade education, she was hardly illiterate. I credit my passion for newspaper reading to her: we always had the daily paper delivered to us, and Tottie read it cover to cover. She could tell you not only about President Nixon and Watergate, for instance, but who had a baby, who bought a marriage license, who lost their homes, who’d recently mortgaged their homes. Tottie may have been a homebody, but she was neither isolated or lonely. When she was not doing her daily household chores, you would find her on the telephone giving legal advice to women ranging in ages from their 20s to those of her age. People sought advice from Tottie on protecting their property, or seeking assistance for their children when the parents were not married. She knew a lot about a lot of things, but was never quite comfortable in the presence of what she considered “educated people”.
She’d educated my mother on a paltry income. Somehow she managed to have long-standing jobs through the years that were unusual, given the social climate of the time. In the 1930s and 1940s, she worked for an Italian portrait artist whose studio was on Royal Street in the French Quarter. I’d just always heard she’d “worked” for him, and that he taught her to paint in oils. To this day her scenes of French Quarter courtyards grace the walls of my relatives coast to coast. But a conversation I had with her in the 1990s revealed to me she had been his cook/maid. She’d never called herself that, but just assumed I knew what her role had been.
When I was in the fourth grade, about the same time my mom bought her first car, Tottie decided to go back to work after being “retired” for about 10 years. At this time she was in her 60s, and she worked three days a week in the office of Dr. Stewart. She had no formal training as a dental assistant, but had worked previously in the 1950s for another dentist, who recommended her services to Dr. Stewart.
My mom and I would drive to Dr. Stewart’s office in the afternoons to pick Tottie up. We’d go a little early and parked in front the office. The office was located on St. Claude Avenue, about five blocks from the Industrial Canal, the body of water that links the Mississippi River to Lake Pontchartrain. It also separates the Ninth Ward; we were on the opposite end of the Lower Ninth Ward so much heard about after Hurricane Katrina. As I reflect back on the neighborhood of the 1960s, obviously not too much, if any, changes from the civil rights movement had occurred. The nearby high school, Francis T. Nicholls, was named for a Confederate hero. Twenty-some years later the Orleans Parish School Board renamed all schools named after Confederate heroes and replaced them with names of black heroes. Nicholls is now Frederick Douglass High School. But circa 1965, Nicholls High School stood a few blocks away. I recall us driving past businesses, in particular a laundromat on St. Claude Avenue, with a “whites only” sign in the window.
It was not this outward sign of segregation that perturbed me, but the covert ones, recognizable to me in spite of my young age of nine or ten. Dr. Stewart, highly regarded in local societal circles, who lived in the tony Garden District section of the city (think Windsor Farms in Richmond), was king of a local Carnival parade organization (only the elite wealthy are afforded this distinction), owner of a Bonanza Steakhouse franchise, hired my grandmother as his dental assistant, a black woman, but on general principle did not accept black people as patients. I recognized this as highly irregular, to say the least, but I understood even then that one could not easily change the status quo. As Tottie made dental appointments, one of her duties was to ascertain if the caller was black or white. I’m not sure exactly what she said to the caller if she thought they were black. I’m not even sure what happened if a black person showed up at the office for an appointment. But Dr. Stewart, bless his heart, worked on my mom’s and my teeth once as a courtesy. Now as I think about it, maybe it was his day off or something, because I don’t think there were any patients in the office that particular day.
That Mercury Comet drove my family around intact only as long as Tottie worked. Otherwise, we could not get Tottie into the car. As feisty a person as she was, she never learned to drive, but traversed the streets by bus, either to go shopping downtown on Canal Street or to Gentilly to a supermarket aptly named the Economical.
My mom and I, on the other hand, spent time together in the Comet, replaced later by a 1970-something forest green Ford Granada. Every Saturday was spent at church for Youth Choir rehearsal, which my mom directed. We may have stopped for lunch at the newly built Burger King, Church’s or Popeye’s (and my mom later would go into any McDonald’s and proceed to order a Whopper). On Sundays she and I would take a ride, which meant cruising along the lakefront and on to New Orleans East, where we admired new construction homes and oohed and aahed. These homes were a stark contrast to our five-room shotgun house.
Fast forward to 1995. I was summoned to New Orleans. You have to do something. My mom had suffered a stroke in 1981, which affected her short-term memory but not her ability to play classical piano, and Tottie was her caretaker. Tottie, now in her 80s, was beginning to show signs of senility. I went to New Orleans with my nephew to help me so I could literally kidnap them and bring them to Richmond. My mom was not the problem; she’d go along with anything. But how to distract Tottie, the homebody, so I could make arrangements for their absence, pack up their clothes, and bring them to Virginia?
Somehow I was able to take Tottie and my mom in my rental car to my aunt’s house for a visit. That was easy; the day of the flight was not as simple. I finally used Shoney’s as the carrot to get them out the house, insisting we needed to go somewhere together for breakfast. However, Tottie did rant and rave before we left, threatening to call the police and her lawyer. We eventually, with my nephew’s calm demeanor and ability to pick up a less than 5 feet tall, 90 pound lady and put her in the car, got to Shoney’s, and later to the airport.
My mom and grandma sat in the waiting area, discussing what bus they needed to take to get back home. They thought they were simply seeing me off. When our flight was called, I said, Come on. My mom was like, I’m going with you? Yes! She was excited. I held my breath, hoping Tottie would not embarrass me by cussing everybody out.
So that’s how I got them to Virginia. There were adjustments to be made on all fronts. I had to arrange for them to live in an assisted-living facility. My children loved having their grandmother and great-grandmother here. My mom drove me crazy with noting only fast-food restaurants as we drove down the street (“McDonald’s…Hardees…Wendy’s”), which prompted Tottie to shout “Shut up Audrey, all you think about is eating”. Tottie’s reaction whenever we drove through the modern, suburban neighborhood I lived in, was to ask, “Colored people live here?” which she always asked in disbelief. Tottie resented no longer being in charge (“I was the boss, now here you are the boss”), to which I replied “Trust me, I would not be the boss if I had the choice”.
Riding alone now as I drive through Richmond, I can’t help but remember life with the VIPs (my nickname for them). Tottie lived to the ripe age of 95, passing away the week before 9/11. My mom suffered a mini-stroke that December of 2001, from which she never recovered, and she was laid to rest the next April. Both were returned to their beloved New Orleans.
Racing the Moon
Katherine Warner
EVWP Summer 2009
The sun had already sunk below the horizon. The sky’s blue grew deeper and darker. It caught my eye, the orange sphere over my father’s shoulder as he drove. My father made a left turn that placed the illuminated ball directly before us. As he began to pause for a stop sign the moon came to life. It got low in the sky, scarcely touching the trees, playfully about to pounce. My eyes watched with wonder. Then the moon whispered to me, “Do you want to race?” Unable to break my gaze I nodded my head. Its auburn color seemed to intensify. Delighted I accepted the challenge.
As my father turned left down the road the orb moved to my side of the car and rustled in the trees rushing to keep up. My heart began to pump quickly. “Go Dad!” my heart called out. The bubble of joy was honorable and fair. Each time my father paused for a stoplight it paused and waited too. When the light turned green it would dash off gleefully. I beamed watching it sprint through the trees. Blissful and happy the moon began to win. “Oh no!” my heart cried. The glowing sphere was so far ahead we might never catch it. My father turned down our street and pulled into the drive way. Unbuckling myself I jumped out of the car searching the sky for a sign of the luminous globe. It was gone.
EVWP Summer 2009
The sun had already sunk below the horizon. The sky’s blue grew deeper and darker. It caught my eye, the orange sphere over my father’s shoulder as he drove. My father made a left turn that placed the illuminated ball directly before us. As he began to pause for a stop sign the moon came to life. It got low in the sky, scarcely touching the trees, playfully about to pounce. My eyes watched with wonder. Then the moon whispered to me, “Do you want to race?” Unable to break my gaze I nodded my head. Its auburn color seemed to intensify. Delighted I accepted the challenge.
As my father turned left down the road the orb moved to my side of the car and rustled in the trees rushing to keep up. My heart began to pump quickly. “Go Dad!” my heart called out. The bubble of joy was honorable and fair. Each time my father paused for a stoplight it paused and waited too. When the light turned green it would dash off gleefully. I beamed watching it sprint through the trees. Blissful and happy the moon began to win. “Oh no!” my heart cried. The glowing sphere was so far ahead we might never catch it. My father turned down our street and pulled into the drive way. Unbuckling myself I jumped out of the car searching the sky for a sign of the luminous globe. It was gone.
Lost Shoes
Cece Wheeler
Summer 2009
I saw a shoe on the side of the ramp
leading to the interstate
and it made me cry.
I hoped it belonged to some carefree young man
who rode with his feet stuck out the window
and the shoe just fell away.
It would make me cry harder to think it
was left from the scene of the accident
fallen from his foot as he was placed
on the stretcher.
I’m sure his mother would want it.
It’s not the first shoe I’ve seen
on that ramp.
I’ve seen a gray one and a blue one
and even a red one.
I’m not sure what happens at that
point in the road.
Perhaps the turn is too much force
when taken quickly and loose shoes
fly out car windows
to find new homes on the side of the road.
Do people miss their shoes?
Have any of them begged the driver to stop
So they can go back and pick it up?
Or are they meant to be road markers,
traces of lives lived and lost
reminders of our tenuous experience
on our commute.
Summer 2009
I saw a shoe on the side of the ramp
leading to the interstate
and it made me cry.
I hoped it belonged to some carefree young man
who rode with his feet stuck out the window
and the shoe just fell away.
It would make me cry harder to think it
was left from the scene of the accident
fallen from his foot as he was placed
on the stretcher.
I’m sure his mother would want it.
It’s not the first shoe I’ve seen
on that ramp.
I’ve seen a gray one and a blue one
and even a red one.
I’m not sure what happens at that
point in the road.
Perhaps the turn is too much force
when taken quickly and loose shoes
fly out car windows
to find new homes on the side of the road.
Do people miss their shoes?
Have any of them begged the driver to stop
So they can go back and pick it up?
Or are they meant to be road markers,
traces of lives lived and lost
reminders of our tenuous experience
on our commute.
Someone Else
Kevin Schoolfield
EVWP Summer 2009
April 2003
When I called my father to ask how he was doing, I expected that it would go exactly like all of the weekly check-ins during my college years. I thought we would chat about how work and class had been going. I figured I would hear some funny anecdote about the hazards of getting older; he had his first colonoscopy that morning. I had the picture of the conversation drawn neatly in my head.
“Hey Dad.”
“Hey Kev.” Something is wrong. His voice is shaking. Panic creeps into the edge of mine.
“How did everything go?”
“Well, not very well. I don’t know how to tell you this son.” Short breath. “I have cancer.”
Detachment.
If you have ever heard the sound of a record scratching just before it skips and stops, this is what happens in the brain of a 19 year old boy when he hears that his father might die. How quickly a human brain can spin when sufficient emotional trauma occurs. The mind enters into a smoking tire-like peel out, like when the roadrunner gets ready to run away from the coyote and his feet spin in those crazy circles. Then thought finds traction and your mind takes off on a staggering burst of questions, fears, and concerns. Cancer is something that you see on statistical breakdowns and CNN tickers. It doesn’t happen to you. It is always happening to someone else. Amidst all of that, your mouth stammers, “What?”
Reality returns.
“Yeah. The doctor found a six centimeter mass in my colon. I have cancer.”
“Oh my gosh! Dad. What does that mean? What happens next?”
I am frozen to my dorm room desk chair. I no longer see the web page on my computer screen. My roommate Eric is startled and turns as he notices my shock. I am suddenly aware of the time, only a half-hour before I am supposed to leave for my tutoring session in downtown Lynchburg. I am thunderstruck by how little all of this matters at that moment. Dad is answering.
“Well, I have to go in for surgery in two weeks. We won’t know how bad things are until then. When the surgeon gets in there, he will see if it has perforated my colon and gotten into my lymph nodes. If that has happened, I could be in real trouble.”
Detachment.
When the father of the 19 year old boy speaks the word, “cancer,” death swarms rapidly into place hanging like a dark cloud inches above the boy’s head. Life becomes a shadow of what it formerly felt like. Everything is extreme, while at the same time everything is dulled. The boy’s emotional immune system breaks down in a split second, as he reaches critical mass. Death has not yet taken place, but it looms in the very near and possible future.
Reality returns.
“Dad, I’m so sorry. I love you. Is there anything I can do?” I am painfully cognizant of how silly that question sounds.
“Thanks son. I love you too. Just pray.”
I hang up the phone and fall sideways out of my rolling chair face first on to the cheap red area rug taped to my dorm room floor. I begin to shake, pray, and cry. Death changes everything, and it has not even arrived. I am repeatedly jolted by the realizations of what life after my Dad’s possible death would be. I see my future wedding that would not have him performing the ceremony as I had always planned. I see the lives of my future children, filled only by the stories of the grandfather they would have loved so much. I see the family holidays missing his prayers before meals, and room filling chuckles as we share stories and play games. These events pass through my mind in a long storyboard, with a hole cut out of each picture in the perfect shape of my Dad.
“What’s going on man? Are you okay?” Eric asks, scared to death.
“My dad has cancer.” Shock.
Ten days later.
I am sitting in the living room of Eric’s Charlottesville home. The clock reads 11:30 in the evening and everyone has left for the return to school except Eric and Jolie, two of my closest friends. I am falling toward the tail end of the worst two weeks of my life. I have done my best to remain stoic and jovial in front of the people with whom I spend each day at school. Those who know me best know that I am barely hanging on. They are scared. I turn to Eric and Jolie from the end of the soft wraparound couch in an effort to close the distance between us.
“Guys, I’m really not doing very well. I am trying, but I just don’t know what to do. Could you please pray for me?” I barely finish the sentence. The agony of being 200 miles away from the rest of my family has become too much. As they pray aloud into the stillness of the late night, my body is racked with sobs. I sob in release of the emotional torment I am living. I sob, bathed in the love and support of close friends. It is the hardest I have ever cried in front of people who are not my family.
July 2009
In the year and a half of intense chemotherapy following my Dad’s successful cancer surgery, he would come within moments of death two more times. The first was an allergic reaction to anti-nausea medicine. I watched alone; his face swelled, and throat closed as we waited for the ambulance to arrive at our house in Maryland. The second was a blood infection that was found when he came down with a fever that would not break. Each event added to the legacy of agonizing memory left by cancer.
My Dad has been cancer free for six years, but my family will forever live with the knowledge that our names can be found on the list of families who know cancer personally. For the first time in our lives, death was not something happening to someone else.
EVWP Summer 2009
April 2003
When I called my father to ask how he was doing, I expected that it would go exactly like all of the weekly check-ins during my college years. I thought we would chat about how work and class had been going. I figured I would hear some funny anecdote about the hazards of getting older; he had his first colonoscopy that morning. I had the picture of the conversation drawn neatly in my head.
“Hey Dad.”
“Hey Kev.” Something is wrong. His voice is shaking. Panic creeps into the edge of mine.
“How did everything go?”
“Well, not very well. I don’t know how to tell you this son.” Short breath. “I have cancer.”
Detachment.
If you have ever heard the sound of a record scratching just before it skips and stops, this is what happens in the brain of a 19 year old boy when he hears that his father might die. How quickly a human brain can spin when sufficient emotional trauma occurs. The mind enters into a smoking tire-like peel out, like when the roadrunner gets ready to run away from the coyote and his feet spin in those crazy circles. Then thought finds traction and your mind takes off on a staggering burst of questions, fears, and concerns. Cancer is something that you see on statistical breakdowns and CNN tickers. It doesn’t happen to you. It is always happening to someone else. Amidst all of that, your mouth stammers, “What?”
Reality returns.
“Yeah. The doctor found a six centimeter mass in my colon. I have cancer.”
“Oh my gosh! Dad. What does that mean? What happens next?”
I am frozen to my dorm room desk chair. I no longer see the web page on my computer screen. My roommate Eric is startled and turns as he notices my shock. I am suddenly aware of the time, only a half-hour before I am supposed to leave for my tutoring session in downtown Lynchburg. I am thunderstruck by how little all of this matters at that moment. Dad is answering.
“Well, I have to go in for surgery in two weeks. We won’t know how bad things are until then. When the surgeon gets in there, he will see if it has perforated my colon and gotten into my lymph nodes. If that has happened, I could be in real trouble.”
Detachment.
When the father of the 19 year old boy speaks the word, “cancer,” death swarms rapidly into place hanging like a dark cloud inches above the boy’s head. Life becomes a shadow of what it formerly felt like. Everything is extreme, while at the same time everything is dulled. The boy’s emotional immune system breaks down in a split second, as he reaches critical mass. Death has not yet taken place, but it looms in the very near and possible future.
Reality returns.
“Dad, I’m so sorry. I love you. Is there anything I can do?” I am painfully cognizant of how silly that question sounds.
“Thanks son. I love you too. Just pray.”
I hang up the phone and fall sideways out of my rolling chair face first on to the cheap red area rug taped to my dorm room floor. I begin to shake, pray, and cry. Death changes everything, and it has not even arrived. I am repeatedly jolted by the realizations of what life after my Dad’s possible death would be. I see my future wedding that would not have him performing the ceremony as I had always planned. I see the lives of my future children, filled only by the stories of the grandfather they would have loved so much. I see the family holidays missing his prayers before meals, and room filling chuckles as we share stories and play games. These events pass through my mind in a long storyboard, with a hole cut out of each picture in the perfect shape of my Dad.
“What’s going on man? Are you okay?” Eric asks, scared to death.
“My dad has cancer.” Shock.
Ten days later.
I am sitting in the living room of Eric’s Charlottesville home. The clock reads 11:30 in the evening and everyone has left for the return to school except Eric and Jolie, two of my closest friends. I am falling toward the tail end of the worst two weeks of my life. I have done my best to remain stoic and jovial in front of the people with whom I spend each day at school. Those who know me best know that I am barely hanging on. They are scared. I turn to Eric and Jolie from the end of the soft wraparound couch in an effort to close the distance between us.
“Guys, I’m really not doing very well. I am trying, but I just don’t know what to do. Could you please pray for me?” I barely finish the sentence. The agony of being 200 miles away from the rest of my family has become too much. As they pray aloud into the stillness of the late night, my body is racked with sobs. I sob in release of the emotional torment I am living. I sob, bathed in the love and support of close friends. It is the hardest I have ever cried in front of people who are not my family.
July 2009
In the year and a half of intense chemotherapy following my Dad’s successful cancer surgery, he would come within moments of death two more times. The first was an allergic reaction to anti-nausea medicine. I watched alone; his face swelled, and throat closed as we waited for the ambulance to arrive at our house in Maryland. The second was a blood infection that was found when he came down with a fever that would not break. Each event added to the legacy of agonizing memory left by cancer.
My Dad has been cancer free for six years, but my family will forever live with the knowledge that our names can be found on the list of families who know cancer personally. For the first time in our lives, death was not something happening to someone else.
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