2005 Issue
Click on the cover above to read a pdf version, or stop by an MCC Writing Center, Student Services Office, Learning and Tutoring Center, bookstore, or library to pick up a hard copy.
2005 Writing Awards and Selections for Print and Web
Leah Clare Hoins is the winner of The Metropolitan’s 2005 Prize for Student Writing, a 4.5 credit hour tuition remission, sponsored by the Metropolitan Community College Foundation. The first runner-up is Jessica Shimerdla. The second runner-up is Debbie Mansur.
The Footsteps of Maggie Dowdy by Leah Clare Hoins
You by Natalia Paz
You Left by Natalia Paz
A Runner’s High by Jolene Moseman
Sarcarphagus by Jake Perrigo
Trigonometrical Cat by Jessica Shimerdla
Austin Bats by Sheila Magnuson
The Visitor by Debbie Mansur
Cover art: Landcycle II and Wind Whispers by Traci Osborn
Additional Web Selections by Promising Writers
Anticipation by Jolene Moseman
Jenny Ondioline by William Collen
Walking Alone by Francisco Saldana
my wall when i was eighteen/seventeen/sixteen by Catlin Bates
Unwritten by elt
I Scream, You Scream by Marhya Anderson
The Island of Freedom by Kim Talamantes
The House that Mommy Built: Getting Young Girls Interested in the Construction Field by Melissa Figueroa
The Footsteps of Maggie Dowdy
Leah Clare Hoins
Maggie Dowdy struggled through the wild vines of the western Tennessee woods. Her ankles were scratched and bleeding as the tangled weeds roped around her feet and bit into her flesh. The struggle through the woods seemed almost an allegory of the past few years of her life. A series of bitter events had changed this place where she once roamed free and happy—the most recent and the reason for this journey promised to entangle the remainder of her days. Her oldest son was buried just a day ago, a painful and solitary affair—the hasty preparation of the body without the usual grieving guests and tears shared by loved ones, not even one flower given in memory of the dead. The men carried the pine box to the grave, set it in the ground and covered it with dirt, no prayers given, and no words of comfort spoken. Maggie wanted to witness the burial of her firstborn, but her husband wouldn’t allow it—whether from the immense pain of his own loss or just the humiliation of it all. So, she set out on a stealthy pilgrimage to the cemetery along this hidden trail. Big Sandy, Tennessee, defied its name. The small community, resting beside a gentle river, was on the map with the assistance of the L & N Railroad. A few families lived in town, but the farmers who lived in the outskirts were vital to keeping the community’s merchants thriving.
Putting food on the table every day, working the land, tending the livestock, and making enough money to pay the mortgage were the farmers’ primary goals. For most, life was humble, but on occasion a family would rise above their means such as the brothers William and David Lashlee. Their new wealth came as the result of a wisely invested inheritance in the railroad.
The Lashlees were neighbors of Horace and Maggie Dowdy, their farms side by side on Mansfield Road. The families were close, and the men helped each other make each farm a bit more successful. The women often did their Monday laundry together at the Lashlee’s, which was nearest to the creek, making a heavy and boring task an enjoyable opportunity to catch up on the area’s gossip.
Even the children shared chores, and when they were through, the little girls played together with dolls and the boys would take off fishing, hunting, or just looking for some curious marvel to investigate. Growing up together caused the children to regard each other as brothers and sisters rather than neighbors. Evening meals often hosted a mixture of Dowdy and Lashlee children at each home, so they devised a method to communicate who was where. Maggie would strike the porch bell twice, wait for a reply, and then strike it one more time for every Lashlee child at her table. Elizabeth quickly responded with strikes to indicate whether the missing Dowdy children were eating with them. Maggie was fond of all the Lashlee children, but one she particularly loved was Robert, who was the same age as her John and his very best friend.
When the Lashlees came into money, they did what came natural and built fine white houses in town. The children attended school full time and enjoyed owning books, trinkets and dolls, new fishing poles, and fancy dresses for the girls. They tried to remain humble in their new fortune, but at times their quick willingness to help came across as snobbery anyway. The Lashlee children adjusted to city life, leaving the Dowdy children to suffer a new challenge, for the loss of their friends and work partners left them little time for pleasure.
The two who seemed to suffer the most were Robert and John. Visions of going away to school together all but died when Horace insisted that farm boys needed to learn from the land. In a rage, John overturned the dinner table, causing a fire to ignite from a broken lantern, leaving Horace to believe he had made the right choice. John became more depressed, and his bouts of anger mixed with episodes of quietly sinking into himself had Maggie convinced that his problems were deeper than having a friend go away to school. His inability to accept the new status of his friend simply broke what was already fragile.
Maggie watched her son sink into darkness and became afraid. The change became alarming about the time of the accident, which she knew was no accident at all.
John carried a heavy load on the farm as his dad believed that keeping the mind occupied and the body tired was good discipline. But Maggie knew in her heart that John’s mind was making choices beyond his control, and her husband’s philosophy was only complicating the matter.
The day of the accident John wanted to go fishing, but Horace pointed to a pile of wood he wanted chopped and stacked by the time he got home. He unknowingly added offense by telling Janie, who was begging to go to town with him, that it was her duty to make sure John got his work done. But she wouldn’t agree until he promised her gumdrops, a small price to escape having to take her into town. The tot instantly felt the power of her station, and John fumed as the child sat beside the chopping block, barking out orders.
“Chop harder…I can chop wood…Let me have a turn, let me.” John chucked a piece of wood, barely missing her. “Go away. I got work here.”
The child’s face tightened, and with balled up fists, she replied, “I’m gonna tell.”
John sneered at his sister, “Go ahead.” Janie stomped her foot hard on the ground. “Pa will hit you with the strap.”
He stared at her in contempt. “Want to have some fun? Put your hand there,” he said, pointing with the ax. Janie innocently accepted the challenge, and she placed her hand on the block. The axe fell, and she pulled her hand away just in time to save her fingers. Her eyes grew wide then dimmed in a furious glare. He’d gotten close, but she was fast, and without a word she challenged him by putting her hand back on the block.
“Don’t tempt me,” he said. She didn’t so much as blink as he lifted the axe above his head and delivered another blow, her hand escaping his wrath. John’s face contorted. “I won’t miss this time.”
Without hesitation, she put out her hand, the axe rose— and with a scowl John brought it down hard to the left. Whack! Janie grimaced, and when she looked down, blood was on her dress. Two fingers were missing from her hand. Her eyes pleaded, and her bottom lip trembled at the sight of one finger on the ground near her shoe.
Eula ran to assist her screaming sister, and William went on the mule to fetch his father and the doctor. Through the spilling of blood and tears, Maggie managed to get only one intelligent piece of information from her daughter. “Johnny told me to.” The process of mending the wound was excruciating for both mother and daughter. Janie, writhing in agony, shrieked as she tried to escape her mother’s grasp while the doctor stitched her wound. Out of necessity Maggie trapped her daughter’s little body against the table by fully laying on her, and the child finally gave up, either because of exhaustion or the suffocating weight of her mother.
Maggie rested her forehead against the table, her own tears gathering into a puddle before her eyes. Closing this type of wound properly was important as it could mean the difference between life and death. The next battle would be to keep it from infecting, which would not be easy with a five-year-old child. Her head was pounding, and her eyes burned…the thumping pain joined in perfect unison with the continuous whack of the axe. John was still chopping wood.
Janie was resting as best she could, drugged with morphine and missing two fingers. A storm raged in Maggie. She loved her son, but something was terribly wrong. She rocked her baby girl and grieved for the beautiful, wonderful child in her arms. What got into him? The cool breeze whistled through the open window, and she rested in its caress for only a moment, interrupted by John’s angry cries as his father tried to beat whatever it was, out.
A few days later Maggie and Horace went to town to purchase supplies and have Doc Alsup take a look at Janie’s hand. The father carried the now solemn little girl into the mercantile where they met Elizabeth Lashlee. The two women were happy to see each other and made apologies for not keeping in touch. Maggie handed her supply order to the clerk and moved to the side so that she and Elizabeth could talk. Janie’s accident came up, and Maggie broke down and cried. Elizabeth gently guided her out the back door, telling Horace he could pick her up at the house later.
The two friends talked over cold glasses of tea, but Maggie was distracted. Over the last few days, her mind wouldn’t rest for trying to come up with a way to help John before he hurt anyone else. Finally, she could no longer escape her convictions, and she excused herself and went on foot to talk to Doc Alsup about her son.
She walked along the dusty road, her mind whirling in confusion about her son. When she arrived, Janie had already been examined and was resting on a small cot. She learned that Horace had gone to fetch the wagon, which provided the perfect opportunity for Maggie to discuss her son.
“Doc, I’m worried about my boy.”
He shifted his brow in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Something ain’t right. What happened to Janie…” she bit hard onto her lip to keep the horrible judgment inside. “He’s a smart boy. But he has a way about him…He gets mad.”
“Most of us do.”
“But he hurts himself sometimes. And he hurts the other children.” The doctor gave her his full attention.
“Go on…”
“When he was little, he would bite himself when he couldn’t have his way. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good boy.”
“That isn’t normal…”
“Janie said he told her…but I don’t know…”
“…you don’t think it was an accident?”
She gave the question little thought. “Horace thinks hard work is the cure.”
The doctor sighed and rested his head in his hand. “We have medicine for some things, but the mind…”
The open door became a threat, and Maggie moved quick to close it tight. Her hands pressed against the frame while she lightly banged her head against the wall, sobbing through her words. “He ain’t right…he used to be happy…he’s angry…can’t manage him…Horace…tries to fix him. He can’t, none of us can.”
The doctor put his hand lightly on her back. “We’ll get him to Nashville; I’ll talk to Horace…”
Maggie wiped her tears away in disappointment; her husband would never agree to it. She’d hoped for something else, but what she did not know. She smoothed her dress. “It’ll do no good,” she said as she lifted Janie into her arms. Horace was coming up the steps, and she took in a deep breath before opening the door to greet him in a cheerful voice. That evening Maggie knelt beside John’s bed and placed her hand on her sleeping son’s chest. He woke and looked into his mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry Mama…”
Maggie laid her head on his arm and wept for both of them. Grasping his face in her hands, she looked deep into his eyes for some indication that her sweet little boy still lived there. She rose and stood for a moment, then left the room, void of emotion. Her boy was gone.
The weekend came, and Robert surprised them with a visit on Saturday. They had a lighthearted day as John and Robert reminisced about the antics they pulled as young boys. John’s laughter warmed Maggie’s heart. She had not heard him that happy in a long time and considered that perhaps her judgment of the night before was hasty.
She outdid herself cooking a meal of fried squirrel, pinto beans, sliced tomatoes, and corn bread with apple pie for dessert. Stomachs full, the two boys set out for town where the two would spend the night at the Lashlee’s before rising early to go fishing, then meeting their families at church. Maggie folded her arms in front of her as she watched the two young men walk down the road, a peaceful smile on her face.
The next morning the family took off on foot to the small country church in Manlyville, minus William who convinced his pa he was sick enough to stay in bed. A commotion was happening out on the church lawn when they arrived. Through waving arms of grief and crying, Maggie noticed Horace’s brother Tom and his wife Annie rushing in their direction.
“Come with me dear,” and her sister in-law steered her away from the crowd. Horace’s brother had taken him in the opposite direction.
Maggie dreaded what would come next. “Just tell me. What happened?”
“John killed Robert last night.” Maggie wrinkled her brow in confusion, let out a short breath and leaned heavily to one side. Annie continued, but the words were all mumbled, and nothing she said made any sense. She clutched her chest, struggling to fill her lungs. She fell forward and landed on her hands and knees, forcing the words through the vacuum.
“Where is John?” “We don’t know…The Sheriff got into town this morning.” She swung around in a daze, recognizing her husband’s angry voice.
“Who would put boys in a poker game? I’ve never taken my boy into a saloon. He’s just a boy, for pity’s sake!” He fell to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
Maggie gathered her husband, and together they turned their back on the crowd and headed for home. They carried each other until she could no longer keep up with Horace’s’ wide stride, all the while he was plotting his son’s defense. As they neared the farm, William came running wildly and screaming hysterically. Horace and Maggie ran to their son. A streak of fear ran through her; she knew it was about John.
“Where is he, William—tell me where he is!” Maggie shrieked.
“I tried, I told him not to. I told him he’d go to hell. He said he’d kill me, too. He’s dead…he killed his self with Pa’s gun.” The boy fell to the ground, muddy streaks of tears running down his face, out of breath and nearly fainting. Horace ran the rest of the way leaving Maggie and William holding tight to each other as they closely followed.
The next thing she knew, she was at the barn door, which was flung wide open, the wail of her husband coming from inside. Oh, God…oh, no, no, no. Her mind whirled, and she started to turn and walk the other way. Her hand was shaking as she wiped the sweat from her forehead, the other hand clutching her middle as she bent forward and let out a scream that hung like a thundercloud in the humid air. She stumbled to the doorway and saw Horace cradling John’s lifeless body and could bear no more, collapsing in an unconscious heap.
As Maggie neared the cemetery clearing, she saw the Lashlee buggy stop at the gate. Elizabeth walked ahead while he lifted a stone from the buggy, and they made their way to one of the fresh mounds of dirt. She supposed they were marking Robert’s grave until a more appropriate stone could be made. Maggie stepped back to hide from her friends. Her son caused their pain, and she failed to address his problems properly. Another step back—as she watched the Lashlees holding each other and crying. Another step—when John’s name was spoken, and she didn’t have the courage to hear any more.
The rock was set, and the Lashlees soberly left the cemetery. Maggie walked into the clearing of the peaceful resting place. Lilacs and magnolia trees were in bloom sending a sweet fragrance all around, and a warm gentle breeze made the leaves rustle like the sound of running water. She thought about John and his sin and hoped God would take into account that his mind was not right these last years.
She stepped around the mound of dirt being careful not to step on the grave of Horace’s mother. She so wanted John next to his grandmother Dowdy, who he dearly loved, but the Lashlees had family here too, and they were within their rights to take the sacred plot. She moved around and caught sight of the rock that was on the grave. The hand carved message shocked Maggie, and she was barely able to swallow. They were not marking their son’s grave as she had believed.
“Here lies John Adrian Dowdy
who took the good life of my son
W.P.L.”
She laid her body across the grave and remembered the sweet dark-haired boy whose mind thought faster than he could talk, who couldn’t say his “s’s” and who was afraid to learn to swim. They called him “Johnny the snake wrangler,” but he feared the sting of a bee. The little boy who wanted to learn to spell his name, so he didn’t have to sign with an X like his grandpappy. Her boy, her firstborn. She did not understand him, but she loved him thoroughly. She put her fingers on the grim epitaph. Wiping the tears from her face with her skirt, she made her way back into the woods upon a path that soon would be clear by her footsteps.
You
Natalia Paz
i watch you get in the car, your legs as
thin as a ten-year old’s, black boots hiding beneath
the rain-splashed edges of your jeans and
your tight blue sweater that brings out the sky
in your wide eyes, and you turn to smile
—a beautiful smile—lips stretched from cheek to cheek
and perfect teeth, except the one that is turning yellow
from the cigarettes you smoke. the scent of your last joint
fills my car, clinging to the seats, floating around my head,
seeping sweet tobacco through my skin.
i watch you fight to light it, the wind flapping out the
flame of the lighter and the flash of sparks against the white butt
of your cigarette, but your small, thin hands with the penny
shaped scars and the chewed down nails protect the flame,
and your patience is rewarded. the lighter flicks out and you draw
your first breath, shoulders relaxing the moment it
hits your lips, and a stream of gray smoke flows from your mouth.
you tap the ash out the window
into the rain.
the lights shine on the streets, flickering, sliding from gray
into lavender, from pink into shades of silver blue,
and the clouds in the sky are thin and cold, stacked against
each other for warmth, close to the streaks of faint gold,
and they open to the mouth of the weeping heavens, who sings
her sorrowful songs into the silent atmosphere, where few,
if anyone, hears.
you talk on and on, pushing back your curls behind your ears,
staring out the windshield as the wipers travel back and forth, squish
and squeak across the rainy pane of glass, and the windows fog
from the chill and heat, and dusk falls across the streets.
you talk of death and all you’ve lost, how you and jordan planned
a million things to do after her vacation, and you had
lifetimes still to spend in dance and glass-blown art,
but she never made it home.
you tell me “this moment’s all we’ve got.” you speak of cicily,
your niece, just a baby when she died, how at her funeral they played
“the rose” and how the soul afraid of dying, never learns to live,
how your brother, just a child, would listen
to the song and cry when he was alone.
clarence and his boxing gloves that they hung out
on the tree, and how you saw the car parts lying at your feet
and turned away. “it wasn’t ****** fair,” you say.
“they left me when I needed them.” and you smile now,
but your voice is raw, and your hand lifts your cigarette to your
parched lips. you inhale deeply as the rain patters down
outside and we watch the headlights shine
and in the silence pass the time.
you, with your passion for beauty
and the way texture and shapes are made. you, with your
love for color, the pastels, the bolds, the grays.
and you, with your eye for movement, how beads
can make you gasp. lastly, you, with your love for french fries
and taco bell and pot. i drop you off at the driveway.
you tell me “thank you,” give a wave, head bowed
beneath the rain, and i watch you walk away,
stick legs and sunken cheeks,
and wonder how
someone
as beautiful as you
can already be dying.
You Left
Natalia Paz
you left me for
beer,
a liquid
that will drown out
all of your fears.
you left me for
song,
a rhythm
that will fill the silence
in your ears.
you left me for
a glance,
a dance,
a night that
gasps for pleasure.
you left me for
him,
her,
for someone
who will tell you
all you want
to hear.
you left me for
vomit, headaches,
repetitious songs
of love
that sing to you
as you make love
and taunt you as you
fall back on the bed
panting
with thirst.
you left me for
dung
when I was
offering you
pearls.
A Runner’s High
Jolene Moseman
It’s best to start out early as the sun rises
when the birds first begin to take wing
off darkened branches filling the sky
with their songs. This is the time to catch
the cool air and run down roads not yet heavy
in traffic past houses still dark with sleep
where newspapers wait in driveways
and abandoned tricycles, balls and jackets
lay scattered in lawns left behind by children
called inside the night before.
At this hour it’s possible
to own the winding trail through meadows
where fog swirls close to the ground
and then ascend the hilltops with a view
of commuters driving into the city
their car lights linked together
like a necklace of diamonds
sparkling over the miles
Sarcarphagus
Jake Perrigo
Nestled in the backwoods of the rural community of Fort Calhoun, Nebraska, lies a place of solitude and desolation. This place was first settled by Frank Sert, who built a house on the property with the profits of bootlegging moonshine during the days of prohibition. That house quickly turned into a home when the Ohrt family bought it and the 488 acres of land surrounding it. With a little experimenting and many laborious days, that land became the first farm in Nebraska to grow soybeans. Accompanied by his newly adopted stray cat— appropriately named Cat—Randy Truhlsen, standing in front of the house originally built by Sert, squints into the sun.
Proprietor of the Museum of Automotive History/Machine Shop that now occupies the land, Randy recalls, “My first was a 1955 Chivy. I used my grandpa’s Studebaker tow truck to haul it out back.” On the last syllable, he smiles and points behind him
at a fatigued-red, ox-like creature that almost seems to be waiting for the order to start its rampancy once more. Overcome again with a youthful grin, he cocks his thumb over his shoulder and reflects, “At one time I had more’n three hun’erd of ‘em back there.” Looking at this bullish-bear of a mountain man, I can’t help but notice how years of excessive labor have turned his once dark brown hair and thick mane
of a beard into a tired gray, making him oddly resemble Santa Claus—that is, in a Grizzly Adams sort of way. As he leans against the front of my car, Randy gently places his hands down on the hood. Almost instantly, I notice the scars of manual labor, and I think that every faded scratch could probably tell its own epic—like the winter he rebuilt 200 transmissions. Taking another look at his eyes, I can’t help but notice a certain sadness, and it somehow clings to me like the dust on these lifeless automobiles. “I’ve only got maybe seven’y-five to a hun’erd now,” Randy confesses. “I sold ‘em. Knew I’d be gettin’ out of the business.” After twenty-five enduring years, Randy sold the bulk of the relics he possessed to a scrap metal entrepreneur. The cars he’d devoted himself to for an era just weren’t the same anymore. I walk behind Randy’s home and then past a corrugated metal house—this is the shop that he reconstructed after his first one burned down some time ago. The white gravel crunches with a karak-karook under my feet. Abruptly the gravel stops, and all
that lies ahead is a road of red clay and dirt that twists and turns like a radiator hose.
The bodies now lie muffled, unnatural: corpses bereft of any apparent congruency. Finality consumes them in their rusted condition. Their headlights are eyes that no longer have the highbeam ferocity to startle four-legged creatures absentmindedly
straying onto the road. Horns, which were formerly voices that used to honk out in rage or catch someone’s attention, now have succumbed to a stifled murmur, a last terminal effort puffing out a single tuft of air. The rusted frames seem more tranquil than the whispering wind through the wall of trees. Rows of victims peer at me through their hollowed out sockets, sending a sense of sorrow straight up my spine; I cannot help but speculate what brought each one here. As we continue the exploration through the trailed out catacombs, several of the inhabitants explain their tales of how they achieved this dissociative nature without uttering a syllable:
that pick-up with the cab-level bed was rolled; apparently that green van was hit T-bone style on the passenger side. I see an antique limousine, made completely out of steel, which was once befriended by a prominent family from Omaha, is now a crumpled configuration of its former self. For some dwellers, however, their tales are not as simple as show and tell. There is a select bunch whose illnesses went on unbeknownst to anyone. Perhaps just one part of the larger whole gave up. Nonetheless, it is easy to see where some of the cars have had their organs removed in a surgical manner, most likely to rejuvenate another being. There are others that possess even more haunting tales. Several years ago, a young woman was abducted from Blair. The kidnappers actually locked her in the trunk of her car and drove the car into the Missouri River. After it was pulled from the restraints of the current, it was laid to rest here, creating a melancholy ambiance to what is labeled a “junkyard.”
The chalky, graveled path dissects the land into a cul-de-sac. Standing amidst the roundabout in a mausoleum fashion are three buses, once employed by the city of Lincoln. Even through the holocaust-like surroundings, I can’t help but breathe and
taste the freshness of the oil-infused sage, the crispness of the gasoline and diesel powered jasmine. This succulent sensation is not duplicated anywhere. Just inhaling one quick gasp of air from this memorial yard is enough to make anyone feel more youthful and more alive than ever before. His wrench of public service now at rest, Randy presently devotes his time to restoring cars for his wife, his daughter, and
himself. Yet, he still wonders if he’ll run into Wayne Newton at another auction around here again; maybe Wayne will need to store another artifact at the old Truhlsen place again. Perhaps Warren Buffett will be inclined to retire another cadaver with Randy. He would certainly be happy to oblige. Nestled in the backwoods of Fort Calhoun, Nebraska, atop the smallest mountain, the biggest hill, lies a place that many call a junkyard. For those with a more optimistic perspective, however, it’s a salvage yard.
Trigonometrical Cat
Jessica Shimerdla
A one-nippled cat
sheds fear on me
tongueless jaws spout:
“The tail of me to the head of you,
the head of you to the tail of me,
nose to tail, nose to tail
vector you, vector me.”
At this my eyes grow wet and wide.
Is he here to salvage me?
Or in that snout do secrets lie?
My direction reverses back to bed—
shaking fists and footless toes,
haunted dreams and bodiless clothes.
Austin Bats
Sheila Magnuson
At dusk, a million and a half
Mexican free-tail bats
Begin to stir within the crevices
Of their concrete prison
Under the Congress Avenue Bridge.
Held captive by an unrelenting Texas sun,
Sleeping all day snugly tucked
Into the dark recesses of the pylons,
Until purple twilight and rumbling guts
Rouse them to flight,
Streaming tendrils snake out Medusa-like,
Swirling and curling round the crown of the city
In a flurry of furry little spit curls,
Ringlets of teeth and sonar,
Wisps of claws, wings, and strands of undeserved reputation.
Boiling black lava erupts from sheltered roosts,
Flowing steadily and ceaselessly
Silhouetted against the neon Austin skyline,
Reflected in the calm, dark water of Town Lake,
Imprinted on the faces curved skyward.
The Visitor
Debbie Mansur
A faint silhouette emerges through the frosty glass of the
front door. Lifeless as a concrete statue, the scruffy, white cat is
crouched on the icy, snow-packed welcome mat.
As I reach for the doorknob, he is startled and jumps back
towards the black railing. A ruler thin layer of snow clings to
the cold iron. Instinctively, he draws back his lips and hisses,
exposing his decayed, broken fangs. His breath and the wintry
air collide, sending a steady stream of vapor and spit from his
mouth. The cat displays fresh wounds on his thin body, perhaps
caused while defending his honor on the feline battlefield. He
begins to shiver. His legs grow weak. Ultimately, he must decide
whether to trust a human.
Trusting the enemy may be his only chance for survival
tonight. His mesmerizing, sky-blue eyes are watery and red from
the biting cold and feline conjunctivitis. As he looks toward the
door, the porch light turns his tears into shimmering pools of
stardust. His eyes have a desperate look about them, as if to say,
“I need your help.”
I have seen him before. He is the old, stray tomcat who
patrols the neighborhood. Roaming from street to street, on the
prowl like a fierce lion in the wild, he hunts for any scrap of food
he can salvage. His long, tangled hair, once white as the freshly
fallen snow, has become a dirty grey, while his limp, stubby tail
drags the ground behind him. Tonight, his condition reveals a
difficult life. A life filled with pain, anguish, fear, and loneliness.
Tonight, he is reaching out.
It is frigid and dark. There is eight to ten inches of new
snow blanketing the ground, causing an eerie silence in the
neighborhood. The wind catches the light, fluffy snow, producing
miniature tornadoes that whirl towards the heavens. Blowing
snow beneath the streetlamp sparkles like confetti dropping from
the sky in New York City on New Year’s Eve.
I stand in the warm, safe shelter of my house, knowing
the cat has to be cold and hungry. I want to invite him in, to
escape the brutal reality of the outside world. We could initiate
a friendship and share our loneliness. I would offer him the
best blanket in the house, fit for the king of our neighborhood.
He could find solace here. I would caress his tortured body and
soothe his fears until he descended into peaceful slumber. Then,
we could continue our journeys together.
Quickly, I make him a plate of food, carefully slipping it
just outside the door, so as not to frighten him. He inhales huge
bites without taking a breath. After each bite, he stops to look up,
making sure I am still a safe distance away. Fear still glazes his
eyes. Before he finishes the last bite, I make him another plate,
and another, and finally one more. Gently, I move a fresh bowl
of water close enough for him to see. Why is he here on this
particular night?
Earlier, I welcomed another guest for dinner. She is a
gentle, black and white feline who lives up the street. I call her
Precious. She has also had her tummy filled with delectable
salmon and tuna. No doubt, her scent has brought him to my
door. When I let Precious outside, she timidly passes the tomcat.
Scampering up the street, she weaves her way through the tire
tracks in the snow. He does not follow. Instead, he continues to
eat, lifting his head occasionally to watch her. The tomcat decides
tonight his appetite is more important than his instinct to mate.
He seems satisfied now, yet I decide a little brick cheese
might top off the meal. I return to the door, where my nurturing
heart suddenly sinks. He is gone.
I step into the bitter night for one last chance to see the
cat. The streetlamp shines down on the mountains of snow lining
the roadway. From a distance, there comes a familiar sound.
One lonely “meow” pierces the silence of the night. I turn to
see him crouched in the drive across the street. Under the dim
streetlamp, his fur blends with the snow making him almost
indistinguishable.
Anticipation
by Jolene Moseman
My yellow cat
sits below
the kitchen
window watching
the house fly
buzz against
the warm
glass.
Jenny Ondioline
by William Collen
Jenny Ondioline talks to me
Jenny Ondioline says, “I love you.”
—I don’t think I love her.
Jenny Ondioline tells me things
Jenny Ondioline says, “You don’t know what to think.”
Jenny Ondioline has a sister
Jenny Ondioline’s sister is younger, and shorter
—and brighter.
Jenny Ondioline’s sister intrigues me
Do I love her?
Jenny Ondioline says, “Make up your mind!”
Jenny Ondioline says, “The quality signal is recorded equally on both channels
but is out of phase….”
Jenny Ondioline’s sister says, “I was thinking of you
when the sun burned the fog away
and powdery clouds appeared overhead.”
I say to Jenny Ondioline’s sister, “The theater, my dear,
you could do great things in the theater!”
—Jenny Ondioline’s sister says,
“I like the theater.”
Lobsters can’t ever feel love
but I don’t want to be a lobster.
I will tell Jenny Ondioline’s sister how I feel
and maybe she will feel the same way.
Walking Alone
by Francisco Saldana
I’ve been walking for an hour
my knuckles ache from clenching in the cold
sweaty open palms steaming
the anger is still not cooled
my ears hurt from the crunching, squeaking snow
snow is falling faster, thicker as I stand and catch my breath
for the first time I can feel something besides rage
the dull pain of going numb
a sharp twist in my knee
a burning chill on my face
A deep breath and I open my hands
in the orange pool of light and watch smoke rise
ice is forming on my cheeks
I don’t want to remember why I am walking
But I do
So I start moving again
my wall when i was eighteen/seventeen/sixteen…
by Catlin Bates
the sun cast pale shadow onto the
wall
the likeness of the absence of my window
momentarily
the filter lightness of shape unfocused
shifted position
up
to the side
down
up
very methodically
came back into focus
and stayed for only
a split second
until it carried on with its dance
Unwritten
by elt
Write what you will
for you are not written.
The future is blank
and unprinted.
Choose your turns
and words with care.
For others will read
what you write here.
Fill up the pages
with joy and pain.
Make it of interest.
Do not be vain.
For what you do
from this point on
will live out in memory
when you have gone.
Take care as you type
and spellcheck often
for you never know
who may be watchin’.
I Scream, You Scream
by Marhya J. Kelsch-Anderson
We had been roommates before. We never talked much, at least not at a regular volume. I was moving in with a stranger that others knew as my sister. She had just finished college, and I had just finished high school. We had a lot to learn.
We acquired an apartment the size of a regular dining room, with a bathroom the size of a closet and a kitchen the size of a short hallway. It was the two of us living in this hole along with two cats. We were going to have to get along. There wasn’t enough room to yell. We’d blow each other out the door.
The first time we looked at the apartment in Carpenteria, California, we both quickly realized that it was the place for us. Foster Freeze was only half of a block away, and the beach was five blocks away! The perfect surroundings!
On our first day in the apartment I realized that a very important decision had to be made, so I sat my sister down to have a discussion. “Serena,” I said, “we really need to talk.” She could tell I was about to bring up something serious by the stale tone of my voice and the concerned look on my face. I continued, “Before we get everything unpacked, we need to make an important decision that will affect our living arrangements for the time we remain roommates.”
“OK,” she answered, “What is it that you want to discuss?”
“What day of the week do you want to eat ice cream on?” I said. “We can eat it every day, but I think we should have an official day that we always eat it especially with Foster Freeze just down the street! We need to utilize that! So what day is good for you?”
“Well,” she said, “I work late on Mondays and Thursdays and you work late on Tuesdays and Fridays. I would like to do it on a week day.”
“Yeah me too,” I agreed.
“I get off early on Wednesdays. Don’t you have Wednesdays off?” she asked.
“Yes, I do, ” I answered.
“So it’s official, ‘Ice Cream Wednesday,'” she announced.
Two days later in our dusty old un-packing clothes we walked out of our apartment complex, past the festively painted Mexican grocery store, across the street, and by the town library to Foster Freeze. We both ordered a sixty-nine cent chocolate dipped, vanilla ice cream on a cone. We sat in the fast food encrusted red and white booth seats with old surf music in the background and began to talk, first just about our ice cream, then about our tiny, cute, new apartment and the town that we lived in, opening up more to each other with each lick of savory cold cream taken.
The tradition had begun. We went out for ice cream every Wednesday, always together, often with company, every time trying a new flavor. That was part of the deal–no trying the same thing twice. We would discuss the pros and cons of every ice cream experience. That way we would become the ice cream experts and would no longer wonder if a Foster Freeze banana split is really as good as it looks in the picture (by the way it’s not). We would know by experience.
With each passing week we learned an ice cream’s worth of knowledge of each other. Very quickly I began to look forward to Wednesdays, not only for the sweet treat guarantee, but also for the companionship. My sister and I became closer than I ever imagined we could be. We could discuss more than the weather or why our mother was annoying. We chatted about life goals and gave each other feedback. We helped one another become better forms of ourselves by talking and listening to each other’s opinions on faults and good habits.
I was able to help her with looking for a job. I taught her to put herself first and pamper herself. Her life goals as a teen were a lot different from the ones she has achieved, but I worked on helping her understand that she has achieved a lot and should be very proud of her accomplishments. She taught me how to slow down. She pointed out the importance of putting
school before work. She taught me to stick up for myself and my opinions, especially in dating relationships.
It has been two years and in that time I have married and moved all over the U.S. I am still close to my sister and will never forget the times we had, the thoughts we shared, and the treats we enjoyed. We share our ice cream experiences from time to time, and when I visit home, we go to the Foster Freeze down the block from our old apartment and reminisce.
I have brought this tradition everywhere with me often inviting friends, strangers, and family to enjoy the treat and the company. My husband is the un-official Ice Cream Wednesday Recruiter. He loves it and will involve as many people as possible. This tradition has given me the opportunity to become close to several people who would otherwise have remained strangers to me. I continue to use Ice Cream Wednesday as an invitation for others to come into my life.
The Island of Freedom
by Kimberly Talamantes
Imagine waking up one morning and finding out that you have lost your most basic civil liberties and half of your family and friends. This is exactly what happened to millions of people, the night of August 13, 1961. During the middle of the cold war, the East German government built a 12-foot concrete wall separating East and West Berlin in an effort to stop its citizens from leaving the city. In one night, West Berlin had been completely isolated from the rest of the free world, making it an island of freedom.
In 1980, when I was 12 years old, my Girl Scout troop had the privilege of visiting this city. Being raised in the military, I was used to all sorts of travel; however, this was the first time I would be traveling without my family. Our adventure would take us from Grafenwoehr, West Germany, through East Germany and into West Berlin by train. Before we could board the first train, we had to go through a sort of training. The Post Commander laid out the rules of our trip.
Do NOT smile or point at any of the East German guards.
It was forbidden.
Do NOT take any photographs of the East German guards.
It was forbidden.
Do NOT talk to any East German or East Berlin citizen.
It was forbidden.
ONLY take pictures of what the tour guide said would be alright,
nothing else.
If we did try to sneak an illegal photograph, the East German guards would confiscate our cameras.
If we were to break any of these rules, we were told that the East Germans were documenting our every move. If they got a picture of one of us smiling and pointing at them they would use it as propaganda against our country. The headlines could have possibly read “United States Children Harassing Our Guards.” After the general’s speech, we were all very anxious. The rush of adrenaline was unbelievable. This was going to be the most exciting trip ever.
When we arrived in West Berlin, I noticed apartment buildings and businesses had been split in two by a huge concrete wall. Roads that seemed to go on for miles and miles came to an abrupt end at the wall. This didn’t appear to affect the citizens of West Berlin. The West Berliner’s went about their daily routines as if there were no boundaries at all, mothers with small children going to the bakery to get brochen for that evening’s dinner, store owners putting their goods on display in front of the market windows, automobiles and horses going up and down the narrow cobblestone streets. This was by far the most curious city I had ever seen.
Later that day we took a tour around the city. One of the sites we visited was Checkpoint Charlie. Checkpoint Charlie was one of the military access points through the two Berlins. On the east side Checkpoint Charlie was guarded by East German soldiers carrying binoculars and automatic weapons. If anyone tried to cross the border without permission the East German guards had standing orders to shoot-to-kill, no questions asked. Guarding the west side were soldiers from the United States, Great Britain and West Germany (commonly referred to as the Allied Forces). They were also carrying binoculars and automatic weapons; however, their orders were different. Let any East Berliner in search of freedom enter West Berlin, BUT do not let the East German soldiers enter the city unless they had proper documentation. While we were there, we noticed a small cross at the foot of the wall. When we asked one of the Allied Forces soldiers about it he told us that a long time ago, a young man from East Berlin had made it past the East German guards and the three rows of starving guard dogs; this young man was climbing to the top of the 12 foot wall that was crowned with barbed wire. When he was directly on top of the wall the East German guards shot him. This brave young man fell off of the wall and landed in West Berlin. As he lay there dying, he was able to roll over, kiss the ground and thank God for letting him die a free man. Over the years, thousands of people attempted to cross the border at Checkpoint Charlie in search of freedom. A few didn’t make it. Those who did were able to live the rest of their lives as they freely chose.
The following day was gray and overcast. We went into East Berlin to visit an architectural museum. As we crossed the border it started to rain. No flowers or curtains decorated any windows in the buildings that were split by the wall. The windows looked like dark, cold, vacant eyes. The buildings, themselves, reminded me of sad little children who had never been cared for or loved. We were told that the people who lived in these buildings were not “allowed” to have anything in their windows. The guards had to be able to see what was going on in the buildings 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. These people had no privacy whatsoever. No trees lined the streets. Everything was made out of concrete and bricks. It seemed as if the whole city was vacant of color. Even the people who were walking along the sidewalks were wearing dark overcoats and carrying black umbrellas. The passerby’s all appeared to be moving in a mechanical way. No one was smiling or talking. It was as if all of the joy for life had been sucked out of them. Later on we found out that all those people we saw on the streets, every single one of them had to get special permission from the government weeks in advance just to go for a 15 minute walk to the neighborhood grocery store.
Before we could enter the museum, we had to pass through a guard station. We were instructed to hold our passports up to a bulletproof glass window so that the guards, who were armed with automatic weapons, could verify who we were. I had never been so scared in all my life. If we made one wrong move, we were told, the guards had permission to shoot at us. No one dared to crack a smile. It felt as if I was entering a prison. When we finally made it through the doors of the museum, we were flooded with color. The floor of the entryway was a mosaic constructed out of thousands of tiny brightly colored tiles, replicating the floor of one of the old castles in East Berlin. I remember looking down and being struck by the vibrant shades of blue, yellow and gold, the colors of royalty. As we turned the corner, I looked up and saw, hanging in the middle of a room, a stained glass window. During World War II, the window was the only thing to survive when the church that it had once been a part of had been destroyed. This was the most beautiful window I had ever seen. I loved the way the light shining through the multi-colored glass seemingly made rainbows dance along the walls and everything in the room. In another room were paintings and photographs of old or historical buildings surrounded by hundreds, sometimes thousands of flowers in every color and shade imaginable. I don’t recall as much about the architecture of the buildings as I do the colors of the flowers represented in the photographs and paintings. This was the happiest I had felt for several hours because, for the first time all day, we were allowed to laugh and smile and move about freely.
As we headed back to the hostel in West Berlin, it hit me, all those little things that we take for granted everyday, a flower, a smile, the ability to move about freely, even our privacy; not everyone can enjoy these rights or freedoms. Freedom is so precious that people have died searching for it.
The House That Mommy Built:
Getting Young Girls Interested in the Construction Field
by Melissa Figueroa
What image comes to your mind when you think of a construction worker? Do you picture a muscular man wearing a hardhat and a tool belt, sweaty and dirty as he toils away under the hot summer sun? No matter what image comes to mind, you are probably not picturing a woman. Chances are that you are definitely not thinking of someone like me. I am a faculty secretary at Metropolitan Community College, as well as a student earning an Associate’s Degree in Construction Technology. When people hear I am getting a degree in Construction Technology, they often ask why I would want to work in construction when I have worked in an office my entire professional career. So many people are unaware of the benefits for women working in the construction field.
According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, a nontraditional occupation for a woman is defined as having women comprising 25 percent or less of the total employment. Currently, nine percent of the construction field is female. (McCabe) This number needs to rise significantly. In order to accomplish this, society needs to begin introducing girls to the construction field, as well as other nontraditional fields, at a very early age to pique their interest, because having women in these fields benefits both the women in the fields and the companies they work for. To better understand the challenges and benefits, let’s first take a step back and look at the history of American women at work and men’s views of women in history.
Without question men have historically considered women to be the naturally weaker sex. They have also thought that women are intellectually inferior to men. Men have viewed women’s role in society as the bearer of children. And thus the stereotype “a woman’s place is in the home” was born. (Women’s International Center)
During the colonial days of America, a woman’s main purpose in life was to get married and become a mother. Women spent much of their day taking care of the children, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and sewing, as well as milking the cows. Generally, men worked the fields and hunted. (Women’s International Center) When women did work away from home, they worked as seamstresses or midwives (Hopkins).
The number of women taking jobs outside the home began to rise during the 19th century. Women began working in textile mills and garment shops since these jobs were the most acceptable for women. The conditions that women working in these jobs faced were poor. They were expected to work as long as twelve hours a day in rooms that had inferior ventilation for the overcrowded conditions. (Women’s International Center)
By the beginning of the 20th century, approximately 40 percent of single women were employed. The number of employed married women was drastically lower at a mere five percent. One of the few careers at that time for educated women was teaching; however, married women were excluded from this field. (Barnett)
A major turning point for women in the area of work began in the 1930s and continued through World War II (WWII). Nearly 300,000 women served in the Army and Navy during the war as secretaries, typists and nurses. (Women’s International Center) This was not the only way in which women contributed to the continuation of productivity in the United States during World War II. Due to the shortage in male labor caused by the war, single and married women, with or without children, were recruited for jobs that were thought to be suitable only for manly men (Barnett). Women took jobs in factories, munitions plants, farms, and they drove trucks and entered previously male-only professional fields. The hard skilled labor of women during WWII was symbolized by the figure of Rosie the Riveter. (Wikipedia.com)
Although the end of WWII in 1945 meant that many women lost their jobs to returning soldiers, the progress towards equality for women continued. In the late 1950s bans were lifted and married women were allowed to hold teaching positions. Previously, if a teacher became pregnant she was dismissed from her position, but that changed in the late 1960s when pregnancy bans were lifted (Barnett). The Equal Pay Act of 1963 provided women with pay equal to men doing equal work. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 banned discrimination against women by companies larger than 25 employees (Women’s International Center). Affirmative action under President Jimmy Carter made inroads for women in the construction field (Munson). Even today women are making progress in nontraditional fields; in the 1980s occupations such as insurance sales, physicians, chemists, lawyers and even mail carriers were nontraditional for women-–today these jobs are not (U.S. Department of Labor).
History shows that women have eventually been able to break into nontraditional fields of work. For women to work their way into fields such as construction, changes, including exposure to many career choices, need to begin very early in childhood. It has long been said that the development of one’s career is a life long process and children develop perceptions of careers at a very early age. These perceptions help to shape our children’s choices of future careers.
A study was conducted in the early to mid-nineties by the Psychology Department of Mary Baldwin College in Virginia where 68 four-year-olds were interviewed about their occupational aspirations. They were asked what they wanted to be when they grew up and if they couldn’t be that, what their second choice would be. The results of the study were that both boys and girls chose jobs stereotyped to their gender. The most common answers for boys were fireman and policeman. The most common answers for girls were physician, teacher and nurse. However, girls showed a wider range in the jobs they chose than boys, and both of their first and second choice jobs were significantly higher in educational status than boys’ choices. Girls were more open to taking male-stereotyped jobs than boys were to taking female-stereotyped jobs. (Trice and Rush) This study supports the idea that if we introduce girls as young as four years old to nontraditional occupations they are more likely to be accepting and possibly consider these jobs as future careers.
A study conducted in the mid to late nineties in a metropolitan city in the Southeast U.S. used 103 third and fourth grade students (52% female and 48% male students). The students were given an inventory to determine their gender role identity and then asked the following question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” The results of the gender role identity inventory showed that at this stage in life the children did not have a firm sense of themselves as either masculine or feminine, but the occupational survey proved that children did choose occupations that were gender stereotyped. This means that while children haven’t yet gotten a firm sense of who they are individually, they still chose jobs according to gender. These choices are likely influenced by the children’s environment and society in general. (Sellers, Satcher, and Comas) The one thing I hope we as a society can change is the stereotyping taught to our children. This study corroborates my belief that we limit our children by perpetuating stereotypes. Our girls should be allowed to build things, and our boys should be allowed to play with dolls without being criticized. When they are criticized, they believe what they are doing is wrong or bad in some way, and that is just not true.
Earlier I mentioned that currently nine percent of the construction field is female; what I did not tell you is that of that nine percent, 84 percent are employed in secretarial roles (McCabe). This means women are seriously underrepresented in the trades. A career in construction can offer many benefits. One of the biggest benefits to a nontraditional job for women is the earning potential.
Occupation
Hourly Wage (2003)
Child Care Workers n.e.c.
$ 9.29
Nursing Aides, Orderlies, & Attendants
$10.00
Hairdressers & Cosmetologists
$12.81
Construction Laborers
$13.75
Secretaries
$15.41
Carpenters
$18.83
Plumbers, Pipefitters, Steamfitters
$22.34
Electricians
$23.91
According to the US Department of Labor, nontraditional jobs offer higher entry-level wages and opportunities for advancement with pay reaching to between $20 and $30 per hour. Using statistics from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, I compared four traditionally female occupations to four traditionally male occupations. The table I created showing the hourly rates of all the occupations I looked up is in Figure 2. The hourly wages are an average for the United States, and the work level is an overall level for the occupation. This information shows that general construction laborers, a traditionally male occupation, earn on average 48 percent more than child care workers, a traditionally female occupation. Both of these jobs require only on-the-job training. Electricians, another traditionally male occupation, average 55 percent more than secretaries and nearly 2.4 times as much as nurse’s aides, both traditionally female occupations. To become an electrician, many people complete an apprenticeship while secretaries require only a high school diploma; however, many people in the secretarial field require training to learn the computer skills they need to advance.
Nontraditional jobs can do even more for lower income women. In 1998, 59 percent of workers who were earning less than $7.91 an hour were women. This statistic alone is distressing, but we must also consider that of adults receiving welfare 90 percent are women. (Legal Momentum) Nontraditional jobs offer women who are going through difficult times an opportunity to earn a living and support themselves and their children. If the women receiving welfare were able to get good paying jobs they would be less likely to return to the welfare system.
The benefits of nontraditional jobs are not only for the women who enter these fields. The construction companies are benefiting from having women on their teams as well. The latest trends show that more high-school students are enrolling in college and preparing for white collar jobs working for large organizations. This trend, coupled with the impending retirements of many skilled workers, means that there is and will continue to be a critical need for skilled workers in the construction field. (Munson)
Probably the most important thing a woman can bring to the construction field is service. What many people do not realize is that construction is a service industry, constructing buildings for people (McCabe). Many of the jobs that are traditionally female are service-oriented. Jobs such as child care workers, nurses and secretaries all require good people skills. Even being a mother requires people skills such as patience, understanding and an even temper. Generally, women are good at working with people; thus, they would be well suited for the construction industry. Imagine hiring someone to remodel your house. You would want that person to understand your needs. You would want a person who made you feel like you were in control of the project and that your opinions were not only being heard but listened to. Women seem to have an innate ability to perform these skills and could only serve to strengthen relations between customers and construction companies.
It is common knowledge that men are generally physically stronger than women, and that leads to the assumption that men are better suited for jobs where physical strength is needed. What society needs to realize is that although the construction industry can be physically demanding, it also takes brains and innovation to complete a job. In these areas, women are equal to their male counterparts. (McCabe)
Kathleen Bandurski of Niles Indiana is completing an electrical apprenticeship for Blackthorne Electric of Goshen Indiana. “You will get dirty,” she said. “But it’s very rewarding. You will learn how to build… from the floor up, and you won’t be scared of ‘manly’ things.” Bandurski did not enter the apprenticeship program until she was in her early forties. For many years she worked as a medical technician and also taught classes for Ivy State College in Indiana. “I’m in the field, not because I’m macho,” she said, “but for an income my children can benefit from. I want a chance to earn a good living.” (Munson)
Bandurski’s story has a fairly common thread found in many stories of women entering the construction field. The path that she was on was not a fulfilling one. In order to satisfy herself she had to make a change.
“I did what my parents wanted, you know; go onto college, try for some kind of white collar profession. And it just didn’t work out for me,” says Carol Arness. Arness was in graduate school working towards a Ph.D. in German when she realized that was not the path she wanted to go down. She took a year off school to decide what she really wanted to do. Arness liked doing physical work and she enjoyed being outside so she decided that carpentry was the best fit for her. Arness completed a carpentry apprenticeship and became a journey-level carpenter. Arness does admit there are challenges. “Mostly, for me, it’s a challenge being the only woman on the job site. And always working in an environment with all men. I think the average woman probably doesn’t think she could, but I think with a little bit of training I’m sure she would amaze herself at what she can do.” (Riley)
Kathleen Bandurski and Carol Arness are just a few examples of women working in construction. They demonstrate the attitudes needed by women entering the construction field. They both greatly enjoy what they are doing, despite the difficulties they face.
Some companies are realizing the benefits of having women on their teams and are beginning to recruit women. BE & K Inc., a construction company in Birmingham, Alabama, is a leader in this area. BE & K Inc. has strongly taken the initiative in encouraging women and girls of all ages to consider construction as a career. This company not only recruits women already in the field, they offer programs that encourage girls to give construction a try.
One of the most interesting things that BE & K provides is a week-long day camp for teen girls during the summer. It is the first of its kind in the nation. The camp, run by Diane Quimby, a BE & K manager of training, teaches the basics of electrical wiring, welding, carpentry and safety procedures. There’s a tour of a construction site and each girl receives a hardhat and tool kit when the camp ends. The classes are taught mostly by tradeswomen employed by BE & K Inc. The teachers discuss with the girls how they deal with the challenges of being a woman in a male-dominated field. The main goal of the camp is to “to get girls excited about a career in the construction industry.” When the camp began, the biggest challenge was convincing parents to allow their daughters to attend. “Most people don’t think, ‘Well, gee, when my girl grows up I want her to be a construction worker,’ ” says Ms. Quimby. (Maher)
BE & K Inc. does not stop there. Randall E. Evans, construction operations manager, started BE & K School of Industrial Construction in Saginaw Alabama in 1999. The junior and senior high school students attend regular high school in the morning and take accredited electives in the afternoon at the BE & K School of Industrial Construction. BE & K pays all the costs. Instructors teach the students the skills they need to be welders, electricians or carpenters as the students work through BE & K’s four-year craft-training program. The students must complete two years with at least a “C” average in both the morning and afternoon classes. If they accomplish this, BE & K guarantees them a job with a salary beginning at $25,000 a year. (Engineering News-Record)
In 2001, BE & K Inc. was named as the Champion of Diversity by Working Mother magazine and has been included on the Fortune listing of the Top 100 companies to work for in America. In February of that same year, BE & K began hosting “Introduce a Girl to Engineering Day” where professional engineers began forming mentor relationships with high school girls. The program began with the girls shadowing the engineers in their work. Among the activities the students participated in were presentations on engineering as a career, job demonstrations and a tour of a local construction project. (Cutshall)
BE & K Inc. also realizes that the students are not the only people who need to be educated about women in construction. They have begun teaching school officials and counselors in the Birmingham area about the benefits for women entering the construction field. BE & K held a “Women in Construction Week in the spring of 2001 where school principals, superintendents and guidance counselors were brought in to learn from women in the construction field. Everyone who participated received a personalized hardhat, company t-shirt and an educator handbook that explained how to recruit young women for construction careers. (Cutshall)
BE & K Inc. not only recognizes the need for more women in the construction field, they also realize that young girls benefit from being introduced to the construction field at an early age. BE & K Inc. has been a leader in giving examples on how to do this. The camp that they provide gives teen girls a glimpse into careers that they may not have otherwise considered.
While this and the other terrific programs that BE & K has implemented are invaluable to the forward movement, they alone are not enough. More companies and schools should be offering camps and classes geared towards young girls. A shining example of this can be found in Sarasota County, Florida. The local Girls Inc. chapter will host the National Association of Women in Construction (NAWIC) Block Kids Building Program. This is a national program that introduces young children to the construction industry through a competition to build the best structure. The winners are awarded prizes, but all participants receive insight into the construction industry as a possible future career. (Girls Inc.) Maybe if more companies and organizations stepped up their efforts to introduce girls to nontraditional fields, then as the girls grow, they will keep these experiences in their minds and draw on them when it is time to choose an occupation.
The companies and organizations are not the only teams involved in creating a plan to encourage women and girls to enter the construction field. Teachers and counselors are a large influence, also. Teachers can offer activities in class that show women working in the trades and explain that these can be great jobs for women. Students respect what their teachers and counselors say, especially at an early age. Building self-confidence and self-assurance in girls when they are young will stay with them for many years. When the girls get older, counselors will play an even more important role as they talk the girls about their future plans.
Another dimension to this plan is positive role modeling. Mentors provide girls with strong women to look up to and emulate. The program that BE & K Inc. set up with engineers mentoring young girls is a great example. Mentors can often provide a perspective to these young girls that they otherwise may not see in their home and school environments. Other examples of positive role models are on television. Within the last few years, there have been many shows popping up such as TLC’s Trading Spaces and ABC’s Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. There is also a kid’s version on NBC titled Trading Spaces: Boys Versus Girls. All of these shows include a female carpenter in the cast. This casting is an amazing feat, considering how few women work in the construction field, and it shows girls that the construction field is not closed to them if that is where their interests lie.
Parents are the foundation to a plan to encourage girls to enter the construction field. Girls need to be encouraged in anything they try. I recall my experience when I was in junior high. The time came when we had to pick our electives. There was a little of everything on the list of available classes, from home economics to foreign languages, art to shop class, keyboarding to speech. I was encouraged by the counselors to take classes like home economics and art. Those classes sounded fun, but I wanted to try everything. The one that intrigued me the most was the shop class. The description talked about using saws and sanders, as well as building things from a picture frame to a mini race car. Growing up, I hadn’t been around tools beyond a hammer and screwdriver, but the thought of using raw materials to create a finished product excited me. I couldn’t decide what to do, take what was suggested or try what sounded fun to me. My mom and I talked it over, and she encouraged me to do what I would like. I took that shop class, and I still have the picture frame I made in it. While doing research for this paper, I spoke with my mother about that decision. She couldn’t even remember me taking that class much less discussing it with her. I have never forgotten. My mother’s encouragement was what pushed me to take shop.
Women have made huge advances in many fields over the last few decades. One field that is still virtually unexplored by women is construction. With encouragement and support we can make advances in this area, too. I am the mother of two young girls, and I encourage them daily to follow their interests. Who knows, maybe one of them will be building your home one day-–I would certainly be proud to have anybody’s daughter building mine.
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