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.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
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.
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