2007 Issue

2007 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.

2007 Writing Awards and Selections for Print and Web

For her essay “New Year’s Day,” Angel Dewaele is the winner of The Metropolitan 2007 Prize for Student Writing, a 12-credit-hour tuition remission. The first runner-up, Daniel Otto, is awarded 9 credit hours tuition remission for his poem “How to Make a Soup Sandwich.” The second runner-up, Tara Novak, receives 4.5 credit hours tuition remission for her essay “Sun in the Sandhills.”

New Year’s Day and Tolerance and Community by Angel Dewaele

How to Make a Soup Sandwich: (a list of things I love about Iraq) by Daniel Otto

Sun in the Sandhills by Tara Novak

Colorism by Nicole Upchurch

Poor Relations by Zedeka Poindexter

The Artist by Brooks Utterback

Stone Critics by Hoken Aldrich

The Battle of River Run by Catherine Burghart

Metropolitan (cover photograph) by Derek Kordash

Field #4 (cover photograph) by Steven Schmiedeskamp

Additional Web Selections by Promising Writers

MetroReads! Spring Contest Winners

I Am From… by Sara Jackson

I Am From by Christine Porter

MetroReads! Winter Contest Winners

I Am From by Bethany L. James

An Underdog’s Reward by Elizabeth Denburg

*Honorable Mention: We Are From… by the class of ESLX  0130 8A (Winter 2006)

New Year’s Day
Angel Dewaele

What am I going to do? What is it doing here? What am I
going to do?
I couldn’t move. My feet refused my commands (turn
around, get out, leave). I had just gotten home and come into
the kitchen to check my messages, and now my panic filled the
room. A half-full bottle of warm, honey-colored liquid had my
complete attention. It screamed at me to pick it up. I had no
choice but to stay. I belonged to it.
Damn. I love whiskey. Damn.
Why is it even here, in my own apartment? Shit. I had
somehow managed to avoid booze for the last six months.
Okay, maybe I had cruised the cold medicine aisle for Nyquil
even though I didn’t have a cough, stuffy head or fever to treat,
but, still, I hadn’t taken a drink since summer. Oh, that’s right.
Chuck’s brother, Brent, is in town for the holidays. They like to
have a few drinks and get a little loopy when they get together.
This must be the leftover booze from last night. Leftover booze.
That’s funny.
I grabbed the bottle from the top of the fridge just to shut
it up. The weight of the whiskey bottle felt good in my hand. It
felt right, like home. Like I could breathe again.
The kitchen faded around me: the new linoleum marred by
an errant Fourth of July sparkler lit inside last year, the stained
glass piece that Jodi made hanging in the window, glowing blue
with the midmorning sun, the photo of Brent donning a sleazy
pencil-thin mustache he grew specially for his graduation on
the refrigerator. Images from my non-using life raced through
my mind: my friends, my girlfriend, my nieces, my cats. I saw
everything I value, everything I love. Everything that is me. I
instinctively knew I would lose my life, piece by piece, if I took
even one drink.
I unscrewed the cap.
The aroma broke free and stung my senses. I salivated. No
glass for me. I had spent a night a few summers before teaching
myself to drink whiskey straight from the bottle without so
much as a wince. Hey, a girl’s gotta have goals. I earned this
badge of a badass, and I wasn’t going to puss out now. I raised the
bottle to my mouth.
I remembered humiliation after humiliation: vomiting,
ditching friends, waking next to “what’s your name again?”
getting pulled over, wrecking my car, “coming to” under a tree in
the park. A lot can happen to a girl when she is a blackout drunk.
Christ. The problem with blackouts is that they don’t black out
enough.
Damn. Damn. Damn. I don’t want that. I hated that. My
life was miserable. All of the time. Except, that is, for the first
half hour of drinking. That was really the only time I felt like I
could live in my own skin. One half of one hour. Thirty minutes
of bliss. It came after I got the booze and before I lost any
control of what I was saying, what I was doing, who I was doing.
But whiskey (beer, tequila) tastes so good. And promises
so much. It promises to give me relief, peace, calm. It promises
to give me confidence, self-esteem. It promises me the ability to
interact with people without wanting to disappear. It promises
me that I will belong somewhere. It promises to rewrite my past
and give me the future of backyard barbeques, a loving family, a
successful career. And that I will become 5’8”, blonde and skinny,
attractive.
It lies.
I’m not one to hold grudges, though. I absolutely believe in
giving second (third, twentieth, sixty-seventh) chances.
This time will be different. This time I will be able to
handle it.
I am such a sucker.
I think of putting my tongue just inside the bottle opening.
Just touching my tongue to the rim, just getting a taste. I won’t
take a real drink. I just want to have some contact, any contact.
Standing in my kitchen, whiskey bottle in hand, I had
an awareness of how pitiful this is, how completely ridiculous
sticking my tongue in a bottle would look to anyone watching
this little drama. Normal people don’t stick their tongues in
liquor bottles. Normal people don’t want to stick their tongues
in liquor bottles. I am pretty sure of that. Don’t recall seeing
Chuck’s mother or father (or brother or sister or brother-in-law
or Chuck for that matter) playing tongue tug-of-war with the
Merlot at Christmas. And while his family grooves to its own
song of dysfunction (whose doesn’t?) they are pretty darn normal,
pencil-thin mustaches and all. Family, church, work and school.
Upstanding Midwestern citizens. Not an arrest among them.
I think I might be having a problem here.
I walked the three steps from the refrigerator to the table
in my small kitchen and placed the bottle on the vintage chrome
and laminate table top. Four gray fleur-de-lis reached, one
from each corner, toward the center of the table, breaking the
landscape of the gray and yellow speckling.
Shaking my hands, I tried to lose the sensation of the
whiskey bottle from my grip. I reached for the phone, checking
my messages, a forgotten task from my to-do list. I dialed Patty’s
number. I knew Patty was in AA, and I figured she might have
an idea of how I could not drink this whiskey right now. Hey,
Patty, got a coupla questions for ya. When is the best time to plant
tulip bulbs, what’s the first step in retiling the shower, and, say, you
got any tips on how I might not have to take a drink of this here
whiskey?
I wanted some sort of tip, a helpful hint. I needed a Heloise
of Hooch. Try hiding the liquor from yourself. Put it in the linen
closet behind the extra cotton balls and the guest towels. Or this one,
sent in by a reader in Ohio: I turn the television and/or radio up
REALLY loud, disturb the neighbors to drown out the demands of the
booze, and in a manic fit, alphabetize the M & M’s. Or, how about
this: Go shopping, get something to eat, start smoking, have sex.
Gamble. Punch a wall. Or cut. How about cutting? That’ll take the
edge off.
It would never occur to me to throw the alcohol away. That
would be wasteful.
“Hey, Patty, whatcha doin’?” I tried to sound chill.
“Hi honey! Happy New Year!” Oh yeah. I forgot. “Just
setting up my new TV. Alex is trying to figure out the remote.
What are you doing?”
“Um, I’m having a problem.”
“What’s up, sweetie?” Her tone was light and cheery. Ugh.
“Um, I came home and was minding my own business and
then all of the sudden I saw some whiskey and now I want to
drink it but I can’t and I don’t know how to not drink it when it’s
right here and I don’t know what to do.” Breathe.
“Listen, why don’t I come over?” I cringed at the thought of
her coming over.
“Um, oh..kayyy.” I didn’t want to be rude.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Shit. I didn’t want this to be a
big deal or anything. Jeez.
I paced my living room, ineffectively tidying (pick up, put
down. pick up, put down) random clutter, trying to keep busy
until Patty arrived. I was both relieved that she was coming to
help and disappointed. Now I probably wouldn’t drink since she
was coming over. What was I thinking asking for help? Nuts.
“So where is it?” She was at the door. Man, she got here
fast. She looked like she had been having brunch at the country
club or had just come from a refreshing massage or playing
tennis. Not a care in the world. Bitch.
“In the kitchen.”
“Go get it.”
“You want the whiskey?” Uh-oh, is she falling off the
wagon? I don’t know about these AA types handling booze. I
hesitated.
“Go get it.” Dang. Bossy. I walked to the kitchen as Patty
sat down on my loveseat, the arms of the sofa shredded by my
two cats.
I gave Patty the bottle. She put it next to her purse on the
floor. I sat next to her on the loveseat.
“Patty, you can’t take that. It’s not mine.”
“Whose is it?” The bottle remained by her purse.
“Chuck’s.” Listen, lady, hand it back.
“He can have it back. All he has to do is call me and I’ll
bring it to him.” Well, that’s ridiculous. How am I going to
explain that? Yeah, Chuck, uh, listen. I know you had a bottle of
whiskey here at the apartment, but I spazzed out and couldn’t handle
being around it so Patty came over and I had to give it to her. No,
really, it’s not embarrassing at all. Real smooth, Angel. French silk
pie. Shit.
“So what’s the problem?” She was so nonchalant. Wasn’t the
world caving in?
“I want to drink that whiskey.”
“So, go ahead.”
I wasn’t expecting that. Hmm. Maybe these alcoholics
weren’t so bad after all. “But I can’t.” If I could, I would and we
wouldn’t be sitting here now would we?
“Why not?”
How to put this? “Well, horrible things happen when
I drink.” I tried to be specific and clear. I sounded like a
kindergarten teacher breaking down, step by step, how the
caterpillar turns into a butterfly. First, the caterpillar eats and eats
and eats. Then he spins a cocoon. A chrysalis is formed. Can you say
chrysalis, kids? Kevin, stop picking your nose. “I can’t help it. I will
drink, get drunk, go to a bar, get drunker, probably vomit, most
likely black out, and then you can pretty much guarantee I will
make out with a stranger. Kari will then break up with me, and
I’ll end up alone and drunk and in an alley somewhere. I really
don’t want that.” Man, that seems grim.
Maybe I am being too hard on myself. Maybe I am
being an alarmist. The sky may not be falling, Chicken Little.
I switched tactics and attempted to negotiate. “Do you think I
could drink just a little bit and it would be okay? You know, just
one drink? Is that possible? Like maybe things wouldn’t be as bad
as before?” There has got to be a way to make this work. I didn’t
know how, but maybe Patty would. Who would know better than
an alcoholic, someone versed on problem drinking who could
plainly see that I did not qualify? I got excited. Yes! This is it.
History doesn’t have to repeat itself.
Instead of telling me sure, go ahead, don’t see any reason
why not, you probably don’t have a problem, she pulled a book
out of her purse. Oh, brother. Here comes her pitch. Sister, I gave
at the office.
I refrained from rolling my eyes, assumed a serious
expression (furrowed brow, pursed lips) and leaned in,
manufacturing interest in what she was about to read. I mean,
she did come over and all.
Many who are alcoholics are not going to believe they are in
that class. By every form of self-deception and experimentation they
will try to prove themselves exceptions to the rule, therefore, nonalcoholic.                                                                    Most of us believed if we remained sober for a long stretch,
we could thereafter drink normally. Commencing to drink after a
period of sobriety, we are in a short time as bad as ever. We have seen
the truth demonstrated again and again: “Once an alcoholic, always
an alcoholic.” We do not like to pronounce any individual as alcoholic,
but you can quickly diagnose yourself. Step over to the nearest barroom
and try some controlled drinking. Try to drink and stop abruptly. Try
it more than once. It will not take long for you to decide, if you are
honest with yourself about it.
Controlled drinking? What the hell is that? I can’t do that.
I knew I could not abruptly stop once I had started drinking. I
started to panic again. What does this mean? Wait. This can’t be
right. My mind fogged. I don’t want to be an alcoholic. I can’t be
an alcoholic. Shit. Stupid whiskey. Stupid book.
“Patty, I don’t want to be an alcoholic.” I don’t want that to
be me.
“Maybe you’re not. Go try to drink.” Wasn’t she listening?
Bad things happen when I drink.
“But I can’t. I can’t start drinking and stop. I can’t.” This isn’t
happening. I don’t want that book to apply to me. That book is
for alcoholics. I don’t want to be an alcoholic.
“Honey, why don’t you come with me to my Saturday
morning ladies’ meeting?” Her voice was kind, gentle. “There will
be people there you can talk to and maybe ask some questions.”
A meeting? How is that going to help? I can’t drink, and I
can’t not drink, and Patty wants me to go to a meeting? I am so
screwed.
“A meeting?” I tried to buy some time to think of an excuse
as to why I should not go with her. This was a bad idea, calling
her. I am not ready for this. “I…”
“Why don’t I pick you up at 9:30?” Boy, she is good. Crafty.
I did not want to go to a 12-step meeting. Not at all
interested in communing with strangers about drinking. La la
la, touchy feely. Talk about lame. Man. I was stuck. Can’t drink
without losing my underwear, can’t not drink without help. I
agreed to go with her. Shit.

How to Make a Soup Sandwich

(a list of things I love about Iraq)
Daniel Otto
The smell of camel dung, trash burning, diesel and oil.
Cordite and sulfur that burns your nostrils
From inky, blue clouds that quickly pass away.
The wails and cries on a lousy megaphone
Calling the faithful to prayer
While I wash my hands with dirty water.
Blood spilled on fine, marble tiles, the smell of iodine.
A mother with no face, moans for a baby
She hears crying but cannot see,
Will never again see.
The rhythmic beating of rotor blades,
Metal steeds with heaven or hell on board.
The hollow sound of mortar tubes, tha-thump.
The silence and fear that follows, waiting.
The smell of curry in the market,
Food you’ll regret eating and tea that’s too sweet.
Haggling with a child over pirated French smut
For greenbacks to feed his family.
Crowded, pockmarked highways.
The Fiats and BMW’s, and my sights
Leveled on their windshields.
My child’s laughter a world away,
Her first steps unseen.
Explosions and death.
Men at their worst and men at their finest.
The bagpipes.
A roll-call ending in silence.
Mourning, my brothers and sisters
And knowing we will never be better
Than at this moment,
And tears when I hear the bagpipes play
A dirge for the warrior caste.

Sun in the Sandhills
Tara Novak

It was in August of 1987, in the oppressive heat of the
Western Nebraska sun, that I fell in love for the first time. It was
love complete and blinding, and it knocked me off my feet. Only
thing is, I was just seven. Years later, I remembered the incident
and had the vocabulary and context to understand what had
happened. But then, in the shimmering heat waves of the late
summer days, I only knew that the stories that filled my girlish
imagination had suddenly, inexplicably, come alive for me.
Other kids went to Disney Land or to Boston or Miami or
even Paris for vacation. My family went for one week to Chadron
State Park. All five of us sisters and my parents piled into our
1985 silver Toyota van—arms and backpacks loaded with
books and dolls, blank paper, crayons and decks of cards for the
journey—and away we went. Eight hours and many renditions
of “Home on the Range,” “My Favorite Things,” and “White
Christmas” later, we arrived at our little cabin in the woods.
The world is crisscrossed with mountains—purple, majestic
and remote. There are oceans, deep and cold and bracing. Cities
zoom and zip with excitement, vigor and bright lights. Western
Nebraska has none of these glamorous beauties to offer. Still,
there is no place like Chadron. The wind there whistles through
the tops of the white pines, a continuous mad organist playing
for no one. The scent of the tall conifer trees mixes with the
heady aroma of sweetgrass, with the dry taste of dust kicked up
by the hooves of horses and herds of cattle, with the salty earth
of the sandhills and the loam and granite and cool lichen of the
bluffs. It is the smell of vast potential. It is the smell of thousands
of years of human history, undocumented and unrecorded. It is
the smell of life.
That first night at Chadron, I stood with my family on the
top of Lookout Point. In my towheaded pigtails, clasping tightly
my brown bear Honey, I stood on the edge of the cliff, breathing
in the sharply carbonized air from the lightning storm crackling
haphazardly across the horizon. From that precipice, the entire
world made sense.
Eager to explore my new surroundings, the next morning I
threw on my sneakers and hollered to my mother as I bolted out
the door, “Mom! I’m going down to the Trading Post. Be back
for lunch!”
My sisters followed my madcap dash through the
underbrush and overgrown trails to the main road. I didn’t
know the route, but had very seriously studied a map in the
car the day before and was certain I would find the way. My
diligence paid off: there was the Trading Post ahead of me. I
knew from reading about Chadron State Park before leaving
Omaha that the Trading Post was the center of all State Park
activities—informational movies about the area, jeep and horse
rides through the bluffs, ceramics, games of archery, horseshoes,
dominoes. I raced into the building, slowing momentarily to ask
a bottle-blonde college-aged girl behind a counter if there was
anyone working.
“Yeah,” she answered chomping her gum, “Out the side
door and in the field…”
I tore out of the building and stopped. There he was. My
Mountain Man. I had never seen anyone or anything like him.
My little pioneer heart beat faster in its cage. He was tall and
wearing handmade animal skin clothing. He had dark, slightly
wavy hair and a heavy, full beard. I crossed the browned prairie
grass and approached him. He looked down from his height into
my painfully sincere eyes. I needed more than anything for this
man to be genuine.
“Well, hello. I’m tanning this buffalo hide. Would you like
me to show you how?”
That began one of the most magical weeks of my life. My
Buffalo Bill told me how he had hunted and killed the buffalo
with an arrow, which he had made himself. He taught me about
Native American respect for animals, about the idea that the
animal had sacrificed its life for the survival of its hunter, and,
because of that, the importance of using every part. Together, we
scraped out the hide with the bones; I held the wet, coagulated
gray mass of bison brains in my hands as he used them to tan
the skin. Later that morning, my mother and father arrived, and
Bill showed us how to start a fire using nothing but charred cloth
and flint. Over the week, he spent hours with my sisters and me,
patiently explaining how to straighten feathers on arrows, how to
set up and live in a tipi through the harsh Nebraska winters, how
to blaze trails and shoe horses and build proper fires. One night,
when it was pouring rain, Buffalo Bill and two other State Park
employees sat with my family at the Trading Post, laughing and
playing dominoes until long past my bedtime.
Of course, there were moments spent beyond the Trading
Post that first August in Chadron. I visited the corrals and fed
the horses each day. I bravely tromped off on my own, pretending
to discover the land and invent trails. My sisters and I found a
family of turtles in the little pond, adopted them for the week,
and were righteously shocked when my mother wouldn’t let us
haul them in the van the whole way back to Omaha.
When my family returned to Chadron the next year,
Buffalo Bill was gone. That summer the forest fires ravaged all of
Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks, and he had gone off to
fight the fires. Another man was working in his place. I still went
to the Trading Post to learn about the Wild West I loved, but the
deep thrill was gone.
I have since wondered where Buffalo Bill eventually
wandered after the fires. Two years ago, my parents and sisters
decided it would be a brilliant idea to go on an all-family trip
to Chadron again. This time, with two vans, two parents, five
sisters, three husbands, a niece, a nephew, a guitar, and a violin, it
much more resembled a parade or a circus than a vacation. In one
stolen moment of silence, my Dad and I went jogging together
in the velvet dusk and pine-sweet air. As we passed the Trading
Post, I hesitantly brought up the subject to my father…
“Um…Dad…do you remember a guy…he worked at the
trading post our first summer here?”
He remembered. How could he have forgotten? We
reminisced warmly of that week in 1987. Apparently I was
not the only person who had found Buffalo Bill’s courage and
dedication to his lifestyle appealing and refreshing.
When I talked about how much this Mountain Man had
influenced my young imagination and thoughts on life and the
environment, how he had made history come alive for me, my
Dad—uncharacteristically—opened up and told a story I had
never heard. He talked of a traveling musician passing through
the Boy’s Home where he lived as a child. When the road-weary
man strummed the first chord on his beat-up acoustic guitar, my
Dad’s world shifted. He knew in that instant that he had to be a
guitarist.
Love is a funny thing. Buffalo Bill probably never had
any idea how much one little blonde girl adored and idealized
him. It doesn’t really matter. He offered something passionate
and tangible—and glitteringly alive—in direct contrast to the
quiet death of my suburban childhood. His existence was exotic,
completely off the grid, irrational by all modern standards. There
was a romance to it all that resonated through and through my
being, and still does to this day.
I only wish I knew his real name. 

Colorism
Nicole Upchurch

I was kid when I came back to black
From livin’ across the pond to St. Louis.
I did a stint in DC for a couple a months.
That wasn’t black yet.
Had no idea
What my real world was back then.
Had all kinds of friends
Black, Puerto Rican, White, Hawaiian.
Couldn’t jump double dutch
Didn’t know Rockin’ Robin
“You talk like a white girl.”
Where I had been
Being dark skinned wasn’t a bad thing.
Gapped teeth made me different.
When I came back to black
I was ugly.
They called me an Oreo,
Black on the outside,
White on the inside.
They didn’t want me as a friend.
Said “she thank she better than us.”
The white girls took me in
Never made me feel bad.
I was just a nice kid to them.
I tried comin’ back to black,
But they wouldn’t let me in
And to think these are the people I call ‘us’.

 

Tolerance and Community
Angel Dewaele

I don’t care what they do behind closed doors, but why
do they insist on flaunting it? I mean, it’s on television, in the
movies, out in public. Why can’t they just be who they are and
keep it quiet? I decided to find out what makes these people tick.
What’s it like to be pitching (or catching) for that team? I know
one personally, so I decided to ask.
Mark met me in a bar downtown. He looked around,
nervously scanning the room. He was out of his element. He
looked normal enough, though, even kinda hunky. He’s a
firefighter, and you know how everyone feels about those guys.
He could probably pass. I was worried that people might think
I was one since I was with him, but it’s not like you could really
tell just by looking. I chose a table near the entrance, or exit, I
suppose, in case this didn’t go so well and either of us had to
make a quick getaway.
Men and women enjoying after-work camaraderie laughed
around us, tables filled with appetizer and drink specials. I had
so many questions. When did he first realize it? Is it a phase?
Do his parents know? Although it was happy hour, Mark didn’t
seem happy at all. His jaw was set. He sat with his back straight
and kept looking over his shoulder. I offered to buy him a drink,
maybe take the edge off. What do they like to drink, anyway?
This wasn’t going to get any easier as we sat there, so I decided to
dive right in. “Mark, just how did you become a heterosexual?”
He looked at me sideways, not knowing what to make of
such a question, and answered that he has always been that way.
“What kind of answer is that? Are you straight because you have
a fear of others of the same sex? Maybe you just haven’t found
the right guy yet.” Mark twisted his face in disgust. Was it the
suggestion of having a same sex partner or the fact that I would
actually ask him to explain his sexuality?
I continued. “Just what do men and women do in bed
together? I mean, how can they truly know how to please each
other, being so anatomically different? And why do heterosexuals
feel compelled to seduce others into their lifestyle?” Mark rolled
his eyes, not amused. He has a daughter in pre-school, so I
thought it appropriate to ask if he considered it safe to expose his
kids to heterosexual teachers considering the disproportionate
majority of child molesters are straight (Yetman). Oddly, he
didn’t think it unsafe at all. That’s a shame. He really should
be more on top of that sort of thing. While we are at it, what
about all those “special” rights heterosexuals have, like the right
to get married, the right to adopt children, the right to spousal
benefits, the right to visit partners in the hospital, rights of
survivorship, the right to protection from discrimination in work
environments, housing, and public institutions? I mean really.
Who do they think they are? All this based on who they sleep
with?
Okay, okay, you get the point. Mark and I have been friends
for a couple of years, and he knows I’m gay. What he doesn’t
know, though, is that I get asked these same questions, in earnest,
by the straight community without hesitation or a sense of
impropriety. He was even amused having these questions posed
to him. And while the questions may seem silly to him, as they
should, they hurt and anger me. These questions speak volumes
about the division we have in our community. I can’t feel part of a
community that seeks a reason for, not an understanding of, who
I am. The implication is that if there is a reason, maybe there is a
cure.
Mark doesn’t experience this. He is a middle-class, straight,
white male. He belongs to his community as a neighbor, a
worker, a father, and a husband. No one would ask him to justify
his life or try to “cure” him. I work; I own a house. I have had
a partner the same length of time that Mark has had a wife.
I live in the same city as Mark, but I am denied the benefits
of community, from getting married and sharing insurance
to holding hands at the zoo without fear for our safety. Mark
cannot understand this and tends to minimize and deny my
experience. He has no point of reference. He is able to walk into
the grocery store, the video store, the bank, holding hands with
his wife, and no one blinks an eye. I can’t imagine what it must
be like to have that level of assimilation. When I hold hands
with my partner, it is always with the awareness that we could get
attacked. If we only receive stares and snickers, we are relieved—
relieved that we weren’t brutalized, that we were tolerated. But,
to have community, tolerance is not acceptable. The paradox of
practicing “tolerance” is that instead of resolving problems that
stem from difference, it actually perpetuates intolerance and
inequality.
We tolerate things that are unpleasant: the heat, a
boring lecture, a headache. These are things we would rather
do without, but are unavoidable. According to the United
Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization,
or UNESCO, tolerance means that we are “living together
with respect, acceptance and appreciation of the rich diversity
of our world’s cultures, our forms of expression and ways of
being human. Tolerance is harmony in difference” (“What is
Tolerance?”). I applaud the spirit of this message; however, there
is a problem. The word “tolerate” implies an ability to punish
and a conscious decision not to. Since the group in power (in
this case, the heterosexual community) is encouraged to practice
tolerance, they then have the power to not tolerate. It’s as though
they have their hands around our necks and are choosing not to
squeeze. We are always aware of the hands, able to crush. We are
at their mercy, therefore, unequal. We are tolerated because we are
different, and we are unequal because we are tolerated. Without
equality, we cannot have community, but we need differences for
our communities to thrive.
Not everyone in a community needs to be the same.
Equality is not about homogenization. We can have difference
in our communities and not have discrimination. Difference can
be productive, as long as those differences are equally regarded.
A baker is different from a mechanic, yet both are viable
members of the community. We don’t judge one as less than the
other. We are dependent upon their respective contributions to
the community; a community of all mechanics would not be
sustainable. A community is interdependent. If we stop only at
tolerance of our neighbors, the scales remain unbalanced and we
are not maximizing the potential for a strong community. We are
actually increasing the potential for discord. If a group is denied
their rights, they will fight for them. It is in our best interest to
embrace those different from ourselves, if not for humanitarian
reasons, then only for a little peace and quiet.
Since tolerance is contingent upon separation, the
alternative to tolerance is engagement. Respect, not tolerance,
should be taught in order to close the chasm that divides us. We
need to radically accept that our way is not The Only Way and
actively approach those who are different from us. Education
and experience will lead to equality. With equality, we can have
community.
In order to obtain partnership in my community, I will
continue to challenge the Marks of the world and remain open
about my sexuality until it is no longer an issue. I will continue
to educate others. I will demand inclusion and respect until I
am able to enjoy the same benefits straight people get for paying
the same taxes and living in this country. But the onus does not
rest solely on me. It is imperative that those whose “lifestyles” are
different from mine also embrace these principles until gays are
no longer the shadow members of community.
Works Cited
“About Us: What is Tolerance?” Tolerance.org: Fight Hate and
Promote Tolerance. 2005. Southern Poverty Law Center.
1 May 2007 <http://www.tolerance.org/about/
tolerance.html>.
Yetman, L. “Answers to Politically Incorrect Questions.”
The Heterosexism Enquirer. January 2006. Memorial
University of Newfoundland. 1 May 2007
<http://www.mun.ca/the>. 

Poor Relations
Zedeka Poindexter

Today is the funeral for one of the Strong daughters.
Years ago one moved south and labored though packing houses
and inner cities.
The other stayed near family and provided her children every luxury.
Like the last funeral we
Embrace delicately
Cry silently
Separate from habit.
Maybe it takes being the poor relation to notice this.
We are the folks who put water in the ketchup bottle
Know exactly how many miles are left after the fuel gauge hits
empty
And have been close enough to shit to recognize the look people
toss its direction
In the land of the city cousins
The rules of politeness just don’t work the same.
This sister we bury today died at home
Blood sugar out of control
Gangrene in the wound her well-bred babies could not bring
themselves to dress
And we are the poor relations
Who grieve silently enough not to embarrass the city folks
Then leave before the battle royal over property, possessions and
insurance money.
We may be broke as the Ten Commandments
But down here in the sticks
We survive through each other.
When one of us is paid
We all eat.
When one of us is sick
Everyone prays.
When a child is born
We are all there to show them how to carry this tradition on
And when the sister who had nothing but Medicaid and a
mortgage died
It was also at home
With my hand in hers
Telling her whatever world she chose to surrender to
We would say her name with a smile on our lips
Even as the family came through to tell us where she went wrong
And look uncomfortably at the too small house she fought to
keep.
The smell of us that causes you to lift your noses at family
gatherings is the thickness of this family
What keeps us together when your cultured values evaporate in
the face of trouble
You smell the sweat of women who work like men in their
absence
The rot of dying because we care for our sick
The joy of knowing we clean up good, but by hook or crook this
family will make it
My grandmother taught me that
Which one of our family lines are lowly
Something has got ya’ll confused
Believing hair care commercials and prime time sitcoms
Lost hold of the knowledge
Fat meat is greasy
Broccoli ain’t greens
And family is for more than the free shit when our elders die.
Why is it only the bumpkins know this?
Us poor relations
Small town
Limited education
Pitied
Wrap your clucking tongue around this.
We came from the same people
We aren’t poor and perfect
We know weed spots and holding cells
You are not corrupt and cold
Some of you believe in work and family
But there is this status-shaped chasm between us
That only seems to widen every time we gather to pay respect
To the dead but never to each other
Making the poorest relations of all
The two generations of children raised across an abyss of class
and accusations
Who don’t know what their family looks like
And have no feeling of solidarity beyond the knowledge we
should all be grieving right now.
These women we buried were sisters
Blood and back up whenever needed
Never separated by more than a phone call
But we . . . don’t have each others’ numbers
Don’t call or know each others’ names
Just look at each other across caskets
Remembering the virtues of the family we lost
Forgetting we were all taught better than this. 

The Artist
Brooks Utterback

New Mexico had been a state for only fourteen years when
my father was born. The 47th territory to join the Union, it was
acquired from Mexico in 1912 after centuries of invasions from
conquistadors and Native Americans. My father has the blood
from all of these warriors. He was born in the mountains near
the Rio Grande River in Magdelana, a cold and dusty town.
A miner’s town, it was a place where a man understood the
meaning of hard work. Magdalena today is a barren, untouched
land with only tumbleweeds and scrub for nature’s landscape,
unchanged from centuries past.
This is where my father grew up, along with three brothers
and two sisters. My father never knew his birthmother; her
life ended five days after his began, consumed by infection and
fever. At the age of eighteen, my father left, joined the Merchant
Marines, and never looked back. He traveled the world, all the
while working as a cook on supply ships.
He later settled in San Francisco and began training as an
artist and sign painter. He loved the advertising of the 1940’s. The
flashing neon signs that beckoned drinkers to bars and diners to
cafes drew him in. He learned the art well: calligraphy, Gothic,
Old English—all letter styles he could replicate. Enamel paints,
camel hair brushes, and turpentine, these tools of the trade filled
the garage where I grew up. This combination of odors always
takes me back to my father’s garage.
He worked alone in the cool, dark shop. After school,
my hours were spent sitting on an overturned milk crate,
handing him solvent soaked rags or charcoal, and I was always
mesmerized by his steady hand. Believe it or not, that garage
allowed me into some of the finest shops in the city. Beauty
parlors, butcher shops and fine restaurants in San Francisco
ordered signs from my dad. Sometimes he let me ride when he
delivered and installed his works of commercial art. I met shop
owners and chefs. Barkeeps let me sit at their bars and drink
ice-cold 7UP, an exotic maraschino cherry added for my delight.
A pair of white, patent leather shoes became mine courtesy of
the Golden Goose Shoe Store. Hard candies and Snickers bars
were tucked into my pockets. Once, a live rabbit came home as a
family pet. I don’t know if dad paid for these goods or they were
gifts bestowed to a little girl, but I always felt special spending
time waiting for my father while he hung his custom-made signs.
Six days a week for thirty years, my father worked in the
garage honing his skills. Not satisfied with only painting plywood
or paper signs, he took on jobs lettering vans and boats. Delivery
trucks would be colorfully painted with whatever the business
specialized in. Pre-computer age, it was my job to research his
subject out of books and magazines. A seafood delivery van
required me to find an old copy of Field and Stream. Freshwater
or deep sea, colorful flying fish came to life on a panel truck
because of my father’s trained eye.
Sunday was his day off. Sleeping late, my sister and I often
made brunch for my mom and dad. We talked and laughed and
caught up on the past week’s events. In the afternoon, he read
books on chemistry or history, never novels or magazines. His
thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and to this day, he spends
hours learning about great artists or inventors.
At the age of sixty-two, my father retired from the sign
business. He took up woodcarving, and for extra money, used
his old work van as a moving van. He advertised and set his
price. If a job came and he needed extra help, again I was his
assistant. We hauled for every ethnic group in the city. Everyone
befriended him. His Indian red skin and thick black hair
allowed him to look Mexican, Vietnamese, or Southeast Asian.
Sometimes people didn’t have enough cash to pay him in full,
so they would give him a television or lamp for payment. He
said it made them feel good to help out an old man. I cleaned
the empty apartment and hauled their trash. They would feed us
tacos or sandwiches, whatever the family was dining on. With
my father, it always seemed more like a moving day party than a
dirty work day.
My father is now eighty years old. He works in his garage
every day, his shop still filled with paints and art supplies.
Primitive carved wooden busts of his family and friends line the
driveway, our names engraved into the front since our identities
are too vague. His creations are made from discarded wood or
metal. Hand-made lighthouses fabricated of brightly painted
scrap metal beckon passers-by to stop and look. His daily                                                                                          threemile walks are like treasure hunts when he discovers                                                                                         unwanted junk inside a construction dumpster.
His whimsical public displays continue to attract urban
artists to his shop. Drawn in by the color and movement of his
creations, they soon discover this charismatic man holds many
secrets to life. 

Stone Critics
Hoken Aldrich

They stand on the floor like stone critics
Shifting eyes, anticipation building inside
We look over each spectator, each one
Stares back, waiting for us to make our move
And there’s our cue, the stage lights up
Music turns on, our first notes strike
The statues like a sledgehammer of sound
Forcing them to move in one direction or another
We arrange and rearrange this crowd like pieces on a chessboard
Strategically setting each rhythm and rhyme
Let them knock each other over, watch the crumble.
We won’t stop until checkmate.

The Battle of River Run
Catherine Burghart

The front seat in a vehicle has long been the choice of
those with discerning tastes. It is a throne of luxury nestled high
above the economy class. The cushion on the reclining chair with
built-in lumbar support is always a bit more plush, the legroom
more plentiful, and the cinematic window more than ample to
take in the beauty of the landscape rushing by. All the amenities
are at your finger tips: access to the personal butler that is the
cup holder, climate control at the touch of a button, and, of
course most importantly, complete dominion over the radio. It
is no wonder that wars were fought amongst my siblings and
me over this illustrious status symbol. The Battle of River Run
in the summer of 1992 was one such engagement that ended in
bloodshed and is forever etched in my memory.
The old farm house we lived in at the time had no air
conditioning, and unfortunately that year’s heat index was one for
the record books. Most of our days were spent in sticky clothes
anxiously awaiting Mom’s return home from work because we
knew that accompanying her would be our salvation. Every
evening she would pack us up and take us to be cleansed of the
devilish heat in the baptism of the cool swimming hole. On that
particular day, it was just my sister Mary and I waiting on the
front porch with our ears perked for the sound of gravel being
ground by tires. We were already in our swimsuits with towels in
hand when were heard that familiar sound and saw a trail of dust
left in the wake of Mom’s van plowing up the drive.
Mom’s “new” van was not so new. It was probably from the
late seventies, drenched in shag carpeting from floor to ceiling
with a bench seat in the back that folded into a bed. The wheel
wells were rusted out, the passenger side door would not close,
and the upholstery was dilapidated, but Mom must have thought
it was a great deal and tried to fix it up. She bought some Bondo
to fill in the holes, rigged a bungee cord to secure the wayward
door, and painted the whole thing with some teal swimming pool
paint she had picked up at a yard sale. It was a piece of crap, but
what did I care? All I knew was that it had a front seat and that I
wanted to be perched there. Unfortunately for me, Mary had her
eyes on the same prize, and before I could purse my lips to utter
the syllables, she hastily yelled, “Shotgun!”
There are many ways to decide who gets the front seat
during a trip in an automobile. Some people use Rock, Paper
Scissors; others take turns, but my siblings and I had elected to
use “The Shotgun Method.” The rules to this competitive game
are quite simple. The first person who shouts “shotgun” before a
trip and with the vehicle in sight stakes claim to the first class
accommodations for that ride. So, in keeping with the rule, I
accepted defeat and crawled into the back.
Sitting there, watching my sister indulge in the
complimentary vintage Merlot while I was back in coach with
mere peanuts, made me realize that this was simply unacceptable,
and like Pinky, I began to hatch a plan. To my advantage, I knew
my mother’s route. Without fail, she would pull off at the small
country store along the way and let us pick out something laden
with sugar to subdue our shakes while she grabbed something
laden with liquor to subdue hers. This would be my golden
opportunity because according to the bylaws of Shotgun, as soon
as the front seat is vacated, the game starts again, and the throne
is up for grabs.
When we got to the store, I wasted no time. I dashed for
the freezer, grabbed an ice cream cone, and raced for the exit.
Halfway through the door, I turned and in a clear voice shouted,
“Shotgun!” However, this did not go over as planned. A heated
debate ensued over the validity of applying the move-your-meat,
lose-your-seat clause to this instance. Mary made the case that it
had only been three miles to the store and that this was hardly a
full trip. I stuck to my position that a strict fundamentalist stance
needed to be taken in regard to the interpretation of the law, and
Mom did not care either way. She had had a long day at work,
and this was not how she wanted to spend her evening.
“That is enough! This is ridiculous!” she shrieked in the
same tone that any mother adopts when she is about to use her
child’s full name: “Catherine Claire, you scoot over and share that
seat with your sister!”
“But Mom,” I complained with a furrowing brow, “I called
it!”
“No you didn’t!” Mary retorted. “There was nothing to call!
It’s my seat!”
“I have had it with you two!” Mom said, her eyes now
wide and her finger stiffly shaking. “We could have had a lovely
evening, but like always you kids have to start bickering over
trivial things! We are going home!”
“But Mom,” Mary and I grumbled almost in unison as if we
were suddenly deciding to join forces to defeat a common enemy,
“We want to go swimming!”
But there were no “buts” about it. Mom had made up
her mind, and as soon as we realized that she was not going to
budge, we disbanded and became adversaries once again. Now
the motivation to fight, however, had changed. It was no longer
territorial, but vengeful. The evil-eyed expression mirrored on our
faces crystallized our position on the matter—‘It is all your fault!’
Mary was the first to retaliate. She climbed in and with a
bump of her hip forced me to share the throne. With that, she
set the rules for engagement and changed the seat cushion into
a tangible expression of who was guilty. The entire way home,
elbows were bruising ribs as we fought for a victory that could be
measured in inches of foam and faded upholstery. As we turned
into the driveway, I knew that I was losing ground. So in a last
ditch effort to project the shadow of blame onto Mary, I shoved
her hard into the faulty passenger side door, and she disappeared
from sight.
“Stop the car!” I immediately screamed. “Mary fell out!”
But before Mom could bring the tires to a standstill, I
had my feet on the ground. A thick cloud of dust suffocated
my vision, but I could hear her crying, and when she came into
sight, I could see why. A long gash extended from right above
her elbow to halfway down her forearm, and I could see the bone.
Victory was anything but sweet! The ridiculousness of the battle
was evident in my ice cream cone’s melting and merging with the
dust on our driveway to become nothing more than mud as we
waited for the ambulance. 

Dead or Alive
by Jason L. Jablonski

            “Dude, where’s the hammer?” my brother asked me with a shit-eating grin on his face. I didn’t want to tell him, “It’s hanging back there on the workbench!”  We were practically yelling at each other over the heavy rain and thunder being poured into the fully opened garage door.  “You sure you wanna do this?”  he asked.  Hell no, I didn’t want to do ‘this’.  I didn’t even know what ‘this’ was.  Hesitantly, I sputtered, “I gotta learn sooner or later!”

* * * *

            All day long we had been fishing the Salt Creek for catfish.  We started well before noon, and now the sun had been down for a solid four hours.  In the middle of summer, that would make the time about two in the morning.  We were brothers and loved spending time together fishing and telling stories.  But the one story I regretted telling him was how I had never learned to clean a fish. And that I had always found a way to have the other guy do it instead of myself.   I was slightly proud of that fact, but never thought that this little bit of information could come back and bite me in the ass. 

            On the way home from the river he started in on me.  “So, who’s gonna gut all these cats for fryin’?  I know you’re wife ain’t gonna do it.  And I must have pulled something in my hand, so I can’t do it.”  I knew what he was getting at. I’ve known the kid my whole life and could spot his sarcasm a mile away.  “Alright Tony,” I said swallowing my older brother pride, “Will you show me how to gut a fish?”  He just smiled.  Smiling in his sinister way, he was loving it, “Of course I’ll show you how.  You’re my brother.  I love you.”  I was shaking my head thinking, ‘This ought to be lovely.’ 

            By the time we pulled up to the house, there were no signs of the rain letting up that had started soaking us before we made it to the truck from the riverbank.  Comfortable in our own filth, we silently sat there in the driveway contemplating our next move, mainly because we had said enough over the past 15 hours in one another’s company.  I broke the peacefulness with, “So, do we gut ’em alive or do we have to kill ’em first?”  He answered with, “I don’t know, how would you rather do it?  With ’em dead or alive?”  I thought about it for a minute.  Being somewhat of a sensitive individual, I figured the cleaning wouldn’t be as mean or cruel if it were already dead.  The fish wouldn’t feel the filet knife slicing through its cheek side, all the way down to its tail, knocking against its spine, vertebrae after vertebrae.  Its violent convulsions could be avoided from slicing open its belly, extracting every little piece of undesirable fish part I didn’t want.  I myself did not want to put one of God’s living creatures through this horrific spectacle of being gutted alive.  Confidently I answered, “Dead.”  Then my own brother retorted with a quick, “Okay,” to seal the deal.

             Knowing what we had to do from having done it a hundred times before, we both jolted out of the truck in a frenzy, impossibly trying to avoid getting less soaked than we already were.  I grabbed the cooler full of catfish. He grabbed everything else he could carry from the bed of the truck that we didn’t want sitting outside all night in the rain.  Out of breath, we both stood there in the open garage with our hands on our hips and smiles that said, “Job well done, brother.”

            Smiles or not, we were hungry and hadn’t eaten in some time.  We always tended to eat all of our food too early in the day.  Bragging to each other about how we were going to take catfish home and fry up filets did not help.  That kind of talk just made us want to eat.  If we didn’t consume meat soon we were going to get really cranky.  We were home.  The truck was parked and locked up.  The gear was dried, drained, or put away.  It was time to get down to brass tacks.  My brother made sure of that. And I could tell he didn’t want to wait any longer.

* * * *

            “Dude, where’s the hammer?” my brother asked me with a shit-eating grin on his face.  I didn’t want to tell him, “It’s hanging back there on the workbench!”  He grabbed it and handed it to me as if it were the Olympic torch.  “Well, let’s get to it!  Hit it square on the head and kill it!”  At this point, if I had a tail it would have been tucked deep between my legs.  This did not seem right.  “Are you serious?” I asked. With no hesitation he replied, “Yep, hurry up.  Let’s go.  We still gotta cook the sons of bitches!”

            With that lovely piece of encouragement, I got into position. Going down on one knee, I raised the 28 oz. framing hammer up above my head and squeezed the catfish as hard as I could around its belly.  It must have been at least a 10-pound cat and strong to boot.  Its tail was kicking back and forth, jerking the rest of its body, having no idea of what was going on and still fighting for its life.  My heart was racing. The rain was bouncing off of the pavement, lightly misting us both.  Tony had suggested earlier we get close to the outside, as to avoid too many blood stains on the garage floor.  Time had frozen.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tony laughing, but could not hear him.  Every single one of my senses were laser focused on one thing: killing a catfish with a hammer.

            I hesitated lowering the hammer.  “There’s no way it’s done like this!  Screw this, man!  I ain’t doin’ it!”

            “Let’s go, Sally, I’m hungry!” he demanded.

            Alright!  Fine!  Whether he was messing with me or not, I was going to take my medicine and not let him know it bothered me anymore.  My little brother was calling me out.  So what?  I had never done this before.  Gutting a fish was one he had up on me.  But killing did not feel at all natural.  Just to save my pride, I had to do it.  With every fiber of my being I lifted that hammer again above my head.  My other hand was now numb from not letting up on the death grip I’d held for so long on the fish’s belly. Back in position, he started to coach me, “Make sure you hit it square on the head, right behind the eyes!” I tried one practice swing, “And do it hard!”  He kept yelling.  I was envisioning its head splattering all over us and the garage like a tomato.  I let out one last breath.

            WOMP!  TINK!  Dead on, but no splatter.  The hammer had bounced off of it’s head and onto the cement, not killing it.  “Do it again!” Tony belted laughing hysterically, “Harder!  You swing like a girl!”  At this point I had dropped both the hammer and the fish.  My body was shaking from an ice cold chill crawling up and down my spine. I felt sick to my stomach.  “So much for taking my medicine,” I thought.

            A couple of minutes had passed, and I had regrouped.  I looked down at the writhing fish I had just pelted in the head and decided this was way more cruel than cleaning it alive.  But the reality of it was that I had to finish what I had started.  And I accepted that.  In doing so, without warning, I quickly grabbed the hammer and fish.  Swinging the tool around my side, I popped it with a WOMP!  And then a smashing second, CRACK!  This had definitely killed the cat.  I turned to my brother and told him to show me how to do this while it was alive because the hammer in the head thing just wasn‘t going to work for me.  My brother, dumbstruck by the sudden burst of energy I had displayed, respectfully replied, “Okay.”

           

The Historical Significance of Kanosha, Nebraska

by Patricia Sedlacek

            While searching for information on local Indian tribes in the Plattsmouth library, I happened across a story written by an early settler. In this remembrance, she described how her family had crossed the Missouri River at the town of Kanosha. This piqued my interest immediately because almost every day on my way home I turn off Highway 75 onto Kenosha Road. I then stopped by the Cass County Historical Society and asked for any information on the town of Kanosha. An employee confirmed that there was at one time a town three miles south of the ghost town of Rock Bluff, but the library didn’t really have any information on it. On my way home that day driving down Highway 75, I checked my mileage between Rock Bluff Road and Kenosha Road: three miles, almost exactly. It was this first small discovery that sent me down the path to many more discoveries and mysteries regarding the forgotten riverboat town of Kanosha, Nebraska. After many weeks of research, I am convinced that the historical significance of Kanosha, Nebraska has been overlooked and should be outlined in a condensed documented form and preserved on the actual site.

Kanosha was located eight miles down river from Plattsmouth, and it was three miles down river from the town of Rock Bluff. Much has been written about the history of Rock Bluff, but very little attention has been paid to Kanosha. The town began as an Indian trading post before the area was opened for settlement in 1854. Businesses sprang up quickly, as many of the earliest pioneers of the newly opened Nebraska territory crossed the Missouri River at this point. The site was known as Kanosha, but it was not incorporated until January 22, 1856. The little frontier riverboat town seemed to flourish for approximately ten years. There were several stores, a post office, school, saloon, doctor, wagon and blacksmith shop, and many residences (Gilmore, “Ghost Towns in Cass County”). At some point in the mid 1860’s, it began to fade into obscurity. The property is now all privately owned by the Biel family.

I began my research by contacting the present owner Lavonn Biel. She suggested that I look at the George H. Gilmore Collection at the State of Nebraska Historical Society in Lincoln. Dr. Gilmore had researched the history of Kanosha for approximately eleven years. He believed that Kanosha was “One of the leading ferryboat transfer points on the Missouri River.” He also noted that many biographical sketches of early pioneers mention the fact that they entered Nebraska Territory at Kanosha” (Gilmore, notes re:Kanosha). His interest in this site was because his father was one of the first settlers in Kanosha in 1855.

 Dr. Gilmore was born in 1866 in Cass County and graduated from Rush Medical College in 1895. He practiced medicine in Cass County for most of his life. He is credited, along with Dr. Sturm from Harvard, with the “Turtle Mound” find at Rock Bluffs and the “Walker Gilmore Buried Village” at the White farm east of Murray, Nebraska (Gilmore). Many of his writings are housed in the Archives of Archeology at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln. Dr. Gilmore founded the Cass County Historical Society in 1935, and his contributions to society, both through his medical practice and as an historian, are immense. He died in 1955 and is buried at Oak Hill Cemetery in Plattsmouth, Nebraska.

To begin to understand the historical importance of the Kanosha site, we must start in 1804 with Lewis and Clark’s expedition up the Missouri. There has been much speculation as to the exact location of the Lewis and Clark campsite on the night of July 20, 1804, in what would fifty years later become Cass County. According to their journals on the day of July 20, 1804, Lewis and Clark passed a creek which they refer to as “L’Eauqin Pleure,” or the “Water Which Cry’s.” This reference would be to what later became known as “Weeping Water Creek” (Moulton). They also note increasingly large sand bars. This was possibly because the confluence of the Missouri and Platt rivers was approximately eight to ten miles upriver. In their notes they also describe high points of land which are the river bluffs of southern Cass County, later mapped as the lower part of the Pennsylvanian Wabaunsee Group (Moulton).

Lewis and Clark note that their campsite of July 20th was approximately one quarter mile above Spring Creek, below a high bluff, on the left side of the river (Moulton). This would put their campsite approximately one half mile south of the Kanosha site and north of Rakes Creek, most probably between mile markers 578 and 579 at the base of the bluff known as Flag Pole Point on the Biel property (Wood). What Lewis and Clark noted as Spring Creek was later named Rakes Creek, and due to the rerouting of the Missouri River in this area by the Core of Engineers in the 1940’s, it now empties into the river farther south than it did in 1804 (Wood). There is a marker at Flag Pole Point noting the spot as a Lewis and Clark survey point. It is not hard to speculate that a member of the expedition climbed to this spot to see what lay ahead for the next day’s journey, as it is one of the highest points in Cass County. The fact that this spot has been marked as a Lewis and Clark survey point is in itself historically significant.

From the marker at Flag Pole Point, it is a short walk to the Kanosha Cemetery, which is also situated on the top of the bluff. In reading over Dr. Gilmore’s notes from 1937, ones sees that he was appalled at the condition of the cemetery and tried to gather funds and public support to preserve it, without much success.

 The cemetery is approximately one quarter of an acre, surrounded by a hog wire fence that is falling down in many places, and it is covered by such thick brush in the summer as to be almost impenetrable. Many of the gravestones are either missing or buried under one hundred and fifty years of debris. According to Dr. Gilmore’s research, there are at least twenty-one gravesites that are some of the earliest pioneers in Nebraska Territory (Gilmore, notes re: burials at Kanosha Cemetery). The pioneers buried in the Kanosha Cemetery, each in their own way, made a significant contribution to the early history of Nebraska and the westward expansion of the United States. The courage they must have taken to move their families to the wild unsettled frontier should at the very least be honored by the preservation of their final resting place.

One of these early settlers was John McFarland Hagood. He settled in Kanosha, having come from Kentucky in October 1854. He married Mary Katherine Brown in 1855. She was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gorman Brown, who are also buried in the Kanosha Cemetery (Gilmore, notes re: John Hagood). John Hagood, along with Bela White, formed the Kanosha Land Company in December 1856, with himself as President and White as secretary. They filed a plat map for the town in 1857, which shows 56 blocks with approximately 591 lots.

In the early organization of Cass County, Governor Cuming divided the county into two voting precincts, Martin’s in the northern part and Kanosha in the south. In the second general election held on November 6, 1855, John Hagood was elected to the territorial legislature for Cass County and was again elected to the tenth session in 1865. He also served as a representative in the house in the fifth state legislature (Gilmore, notes re: John Hagood).

John Hagood enlisted in Company A of the First Nebraska Volunteers in June 1861 as a private  and, by May 1862, had been promoted to First Lieutenant (Gilmore, notes re: John Hagood). John McFarland Hagood was a pioneer, business man, blacksmith, ferryman, politician, and civil war veteran, who was laid to rest in a cemetery on a high bluff in his home town, but is now forgotten.

When John Hagood came from Kentucky to Kanosha, he brought with him an African American slave. His name was Sam, and he is also buried in the Kanosha Cemetery, along with most of the Hagood family (Gilmore, notes re: Interview with Peter Campbell). The fact that a slave or former slave, depending on his date of death, was buried in a small, all white cemetery, in the mid-1800’s, is very significant.

Another one of the first settlers in Kanosha was Dr. George Gilmore’s father, John Gilmore. He came to Kanosha in the spring of 1854 from Ohio, with his first wife Rachel and their two young sons. There was no ferry at this time, so in order to cross the river he built a raft and directed it to the opposite bank near the trading post (Gilmore, notes re: Ferry boat at Kanosha). In 1855 John Gilmore, along with John Hagood, and Thomas Thompson were granted the first permit to operate a ferry at Kanosha.

John Gilmore’s first wife died shortly after giving birth to a third son at Kanosha in September 1855. According to Dr. Gilmore’s records, Rachel Gilmore is the first recorded burial in the Kanosha Cemetery (Gilmore, notes re: Burials at Kanosha Cemetery). Rachel was a twenty-nine year old mother of three who followed her husband into the unknown, uncivilized frontier, and after a short time paid the ultimate price. Now she rests in an unmarked grave, in a forgotten cemetery, in a forgotten town. John Gilmore remarried in 1860 and moved his family to a farm located six miles west of the present day town of Murray, Nebraska (Gilmore).

One of the most interesting and mysterious characters in this early pioneer town was Bela White. In Dr. Gilmore’s notes and correspondence, he seems to become quite obsessed over his eleven-year period of research with finding out who Bela White was, where he came from, and what happened to him.

Bela White owned the trading post at Kanosha, and he could probably be considered the town’s first settler. As the little settlement grew, so did Mr. White’s trading post into a good-sized store. In 1856, he and John Hagood formed the Kanosha Land Company, and that same year he was given a commission as Notary Public by Governor Mark W. Izard at Omaha City, Nebraska Territory (Gilmore, notes re: Kanosha Land Company). He was also elected the first County Treasurer at the first county election held on April 10, 1855 (Andreas). White was the postmaster in Kanosha from 1855 until its discontinuation in 1868 (Gilmore, correspondence re: Kenosha post office).

 Looking at these facts regarding Bela White, I believe it became quite obvious to Dr. Gilmore that Mr. White was no run of the mill river-rat trading post operator and that he must have been well educated, thus inciting Dr. Gilmore’s curiosity of the man’s origin. In a 1937 letter to a Mr. Sheer who used to help run the ferry at Kanosha, he asks for information on Bela White, such as where he came from, did he have any relatives in this country, when did he die? (Gilmore, Correspondence to Mr. Sheer). In doing this research, I too had become quite intrigued with the mystery of Bela White, and I have made some exciting discoveries regarding his history before he came to Kanosha. Early one morning I simply googled his name, and to my astonishment got a hit on the very first site. It was in the Edward and Orra White Hitchcock Collection at the Amherst College Archives.

Bela White was born in 1798 to a prominent Amherst, Massachusetts farming family. His sister was Orra White Hitchcock, considered one of the earliest female artists and illustrators in the United States. She and the other White children were educated at home with a private tutor, and then Orra was sent to boarding school. I can only assume that if the Whites sent a daughter away for higher education in the early 1800’s, they must have also done the same for their sons. Orra’s husband was Edward Hitchcock, a scientist, educator, and minister at Amherst College for almost forty years. He was a Professor in Chemistry, Natural History, Natural Theology and Geology, and served as President of the college from 1845 to 1854 (Amherst College Archives). Bela’s brother George was a doctor, in Hillsboro, Illinois.

Bela White married Julia Ann Stanton on February 1, 1832 (Condarcure). This is the only reference to a wife I could find, and there is no record of any children. Bela was seventy years old when the post office closed in 1868, and there seems to be no trace of him or information on him after that. His name appears on the 1855 Nebraska State Census, and on the 1860 Census, but not on the 1870 Census. He had outlived his parents, siblings, wife, and had no children. Peter Campbell described Mr. White in his interview with Dr. Gilmore in 1948 as being a short and heavy set man, with full cheeks, blue eyes and had very long hair that hung near his shoulders. Where did Bela White go at the age of seventy in 1868? I think there is a strong possibility that he, like Rachael Gilmore, and many others, lies in an unmarked and forgotten grave in the Kanosha Cemetery.

I started my preliminary investigation of burials at the Kanosha Cemetery at the Cass County Historical Society. The Society’s official record of gravesites in this cemetery is ten (see Table 1). This was compiled by a simple walk through and notation of existing headstones by Maurice Carmichael in 1995. According to Dr. Gilmore’s research and personal interviews, there are approximately twenty two gravesites (see Table 2). Considering the size of the cemetery and the length of time it was in use, I believe Dr. Gilmore’s count to be far more accurate.

CASS COUNTY HISTORICAL SOCIETY

OFFICIAL GRAVSITE RECORD KANOSHA

NAME                                              BIRTH                                 DEATH

Augustus Case                                 none                                   12/3/1861

John Pulley                                      8/24/1803                          4/8/1865

Frances Biel                                     9/26/1882                          1/8/1885

Emily Brochus                                  1831                                   1896

Andy Exeline                                    2/7/1863                            7/10/1891

John Hagood                                   none                                   none

            Four stones/unknown

Table 1 (Carmichael)

 

  1. GEORGE GILMORE’S RECORD OF BURIALS ATKANOSHA

NAME                                              BIRTH                                 DEATH

John Hagood                                   8/5/1818                            10/21/1885

Mary Katherine Hagood                    none                                   8/26/1888

Adresse Hagood                               1/1/1861                            2/11/1861

Fredrick Gorman Hagood                  7/24/1867                          5/8/1879

Oscar Hagood                                  none                                   3/3/1889

William Sutton                                 6/14/1840                          2/9/1911

Harriet Francis Sutton                      8/2/1839                            1/8/1909

Rachael Anderson Gilmore                1826                                   9/1855

Andy Exeline                                    1826                                   7/10/1911

Baby of William. Exeline                   none                                   none

Augustus Case                                 1819                                   12/3/1864

John Pulley                                      8/24/1803                          8/8/1865

Francis A Biel                                  9/26/1882                          1/8/1885

Emily Brocrus                                   1831                                   1895

Gorman Brown                                 none                                   none    

Eva Brown                                       none                                   none

Jennings                                         none                                   none

Sam                                                none                                   none

Gustena Brown O’Dell Nix                 none                                   none

Baby of Glenn Campbell                    none                                   none

Two Rorebeck children                     none                                   none

Table 2 (Gilmore, notes re: Burials at Kanosha)

All of the people in this cemetery deserve to be remembered on paper, and their gravesites maintained. They were real people leading real lives in a new frontier. I believe that several were born over two hundred years ago, such as John Pulley, Gorman and Eva Brown, Mary Hagood, and Augustus Case, who was one of the incorporators of the first Agriculture Society in Nebraska in 1856 (Gilmore, notes re: First Agriculture Society).

In the 1930’s, Dr. Gilmore tried to raise funds for preservation of these pioneer cemeteries, and also tried without much success to heighten public awareness of the destruction of many of the sites. He noted that the Doom Family Cemetery located in Cass County at that time was being used as a hog pen, and he was concerned that the Kanosha Cemetery could be made into a pasture. (Gilmore, Correspondence to Mrs. Mabel Tuttle). At that time there were no laws to protect pioneer cemeteries. It has only been in the last few years that the State of Nebraska has written statutes pertaining to abandoned and neglected pioneer cemeteries.

According to Section 12-805 of the State of Nebraska Statutes, the county board can expend money from its general fund for care and maintenance of these cemeteries, which can include repair or building of fences and spraying to control weeds (State of Ne. Statues Sec.12-805). This would be a great beginning to the preservation of the Kanosha Cemetery, and the owner of the property would not have to incur the cost herself.

Section 12-807 states that when petitioned by thirty-five adult residents of the county, the county board shall expend money to preserve and provide maintenance for an abandoned and neglected pioneer cemetery (State of Ne. Statues Sec. 12-807). As I have talked with various people in my community regarding my interest in preserving this cemetery, I have discovered that there are others who are as interested as me in trying to get this site cared for. I don’t think it would be very hard to get thirty-five signatures.

The first step of course would be to meet the criteria of an abandoned and neglected pioneer cemetery as defined by Section 12-808. The cemetery must have been founded prior to January 1, 1900. The first recorded burial in Kanosha was 1855, and the last was 1911. The site must also contain the graves of persons who are homesteaders, pioneers, first generation Nebraskans, or Civil War veterans. It can be easily proven that most of the people in this cemetery are pioneers and first generation Nebraskans. Also, it is on record that John Hagood was a Civil War veteran. The last requirement is that the cemetery has been generally abandoned and neglected for a period of at least twenty years (State of Ne. Statue Sec. 12-808). Since the last burial at Kanosha took place nearly one hundred years ago, and due to its impenetrable condition today, I would assume it would meet this requirement easily.

Section 12-810 says that any county affected by sections 12-807 to 12-810 shall provide for one mowing per year, and after five years of maintenance, a historical marker giving the date of the establishment of the cemetery and a short history shall be placed at the site of such cemetery (State of Ne. Statute Sec. 12-810). Spraying for weeds a couple of times a year, mowing once a year, and placing a marker for this historical little cemetery does not seem like it would put much of a burden on county funds, especially when compared to the loss of so much Cass County and Nebraska history if the cemetery were not preserved.

The history of the Kanosha site goes back farther than the town itself, or its little cemetery, to a band of brave, courageous, adventurers who set out to map the mighty Missouri River all the way to its head waters and beyond to the Pacific Ocean. Lewis and Clark’s exploration was the beginning of the western expansion of the United States, and the town of Kanosha and its early settlers played an important part in that continuing expansion.

There isn’t much left of the once booming riverboat town of Kanosha, Nebraska, other than one crumbling old building, several deteriorating foundations, and an overgrown cemetery. In this place was a school, stores, brickyard, church, post office, grange hall, and many other businesses. The Kanosha ferry brought many pioneers across the Missouri River on their journey westward, searching for what was the American dream in the 1800’s. Would we as 21st century Americans uproot our families and head out for the unknown, uncivilized frontier like the first settlers of Kanosha? I doubt that we would have the courage or the stamina to endure the hardships and make the sacrifices those early pioneers did. This is why it is important to remember them and what they did, and to preserve something of what they left behind.

It is only a little cemetery on the top of a bluff in southern Cass County, but in this day and age of absorbing into our culture the cultures of so many other countries, we may be losing touch with our own. In studying our past, we can come to a better understanding of who we are now as a society. In preserving our past, we are building a bridge for the next generations to understand who they may have become as a society.

* * * *

Works Cited

Amherst College Archives, Edward and Orra White Hitchcock papers, Series 11 & 9, URL: <http://clio.fivecolleges.edu/amherst/hitchcock/index.htm> 14 June 2006.

Andreas, Alfred T., and William G. Cutler. “Cass County.” History of the State of Nebraska. Ed Connie Snyder. Lawrence, KS: The Kansas Collection. 15 June 2006. <htt://www.kancoll.org/books/andreas_ne/hon_cnty.html>

Biel, Lavonn. Personal interview. 10 June 2006.

Carmichael, Maurice Kanosha Gravesite Record. Cass County Historical Society 1995

Condarcure, Steve “Steve Condarcure’s New England Genealogy.” 21 June 2006. http://newenglandgenealogy.pcplayground.com/sjc.htm.

Gilmore, George H., “Ghost Towns in Cass County.” Nebraska History Magazine, volume 18, No.3, March,1938.”Rpt. in” “The Plattsmouth Journal” Volume 85 1967.

——Notes re: John McFarland Hagood. Box19, Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Notes re: Kanosha. Box 19, Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Letter from First Assistant Postmaster General. Box 19, Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Correspondence to Mrs. Mable Tuttle. Box 19, Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Notes re:First Agreculture Society. Box 19, Kanosha file Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Notes re: Burials at Kanosha Cemetery. Box 19 Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Notes re: Interview with Peter Campbell. Box 19 Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Notes re: Ferry-boats at Kanosha. Box 19, Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Notes re: Kanosha Land Company. Box 19, Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Notes re: Business in Kanosha. Box 19, Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

——Notes re: Correspondence to Mr. Sheer. Box 19, Kanosha file, Gilmore Collection, State of Nebraska Historical Society.

Gilmore, Dr. John E, Massie, Harry T. ed Genealogical Record of James Gilmore and Peter Massie and Their Descendants. Unpublished 1963.

Moulton, Gary E., ed. The Journals of the Lewis & Clark Expedition. Vol 2 Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press 1986.

State of Nebraska Statutes. Section 12-805

State of Nebraska Statutes. Section 12-807

State of Nebraska Statutes. Section 12808

Wood, Gertrude Lewis & Clark in Cass County. Kearney, NE. Morris Publishing 1996

Ole’s Shoe Repair Shop:
Not Just for Toni Lama or Manolo Blahnik

by Dottie Smith

          Not so long ago you could buy a pack of gum for a quarter and gas was less than a dollar per gallon.  Now things from my lifetime are considered vintage; many things older than 1970 can be found in antique shops.   Soda shops and ice cream parlors have been replaced by vending machines and drive thru’s.  Computers and the newest, smallest electronic gadget have substituted for typewriters and vinyl records.  In a time when things are not meant to last and people look to replace rather than repair, Ole’s is a refreshing find.

          Ole’s Shoe Repair Shop sits on the southeast corner of 48th Street and Pioneers Boulevard in Lincoln, Nebraska.  This quaint establishment has been around since 1988 and is currently owned by Jay and Stephanie Haes.  From the moment I walked through the door, I was pleasantly surprised by what I discovered.  I expected the pace of Ole’s to be similar to the older clientele that makes up some of Ole’ business: slower and laid back.  That was not the case at all.

          The counter was directly in front of me, and I was greeted with Jay’s giant smile.  I caught his eye as he was handing a sack over the counter and ending a friendly conversation with his customer.  Stephanie stood next to him with the phone perched upon her shoulder, answering the questions from the other end.  In a tiny room to the right of the counter, I saw Dennis, Stephanie’s dad, through a little window, gluing new tips on the soles of a pair of women’s boots.  Within seconds after his customer left, Jay presented me with an item that he offers to every customer standing at the front counter of Ole’s, a Tootsie Pop.

          Ole’s occupies a rather small space, about 20x 30 feet, where every corner is filled with either a leather product or the movement of someone working on such an item.  The main counter is in the center of the open space, with a presence like a hive, with Jay, Stephanie or Dennis weaving in and out.  A narrow path encircles the counter, which provides access to the outer rooms, machines and the work to be done.  I expected the place to smell of leather or maybe stinky feet, but all I smelled was a mixed of adhesive and lacquer thinner.

          Shoes of all shapes and sizes overflowed the bins behind the counter, where they awaited repair.  Shelves covering the walls from floor to ceiling lined the left and rear of the counter and held the finished items waiting their owners’ arrival: women’s dress boots with varying heights of heels; men’s cowboy, work, hunting, motorcycle and patrol boots; clogs, orthopedic shoes, sandals, slippers and pumps.  Many styles of purse, a couple of leather coats, an umpire’s breast plate and a piece of luggage were gathered on yet another shelf directly behind the counter.

          You do not have to own an expensive pair of Toni Lama’s or Manolo Blahnik’s to reap the benefits of a cobbler.  There are a number of other services that Ole’s offers.  Ole’s can be of service if you need your baseball cap re-stitched or a new zipper pull for your coat.  If the backs of your shoes ride too high on your heels, Stephanie can cut them down for your comfort.   Ole’s also provides some orthopedic needs, like adding a lift to help with your alignment.  More specialized orthopedic needs are referred to the Diabetic Outreach shop down the hall.  There are many reasons to renew your shoes instead of buying new.  If you have a shoe size that is hard to find, you would definitely want to hold onto any shoes that fit and let Ole’s revamp them.   What about that favorite pair that could never be replaced?  Then there is that pair that are “broken in” and too comfortable to part with!

          The most unusual item at the shop for repair was a set of horse boots.  These belonged to Stephanie’s “best customer,” Bailey.  Bailey is a horse and as Stephanie explains, he “likes the taste of Velcro” and picks at the Velcro closures on each boot.  Being Stephanie’s best customer, Bailey received an apple from Ole’s this past holiday. (I’m not sure but I think that this treat might reinforce this type of behavior!)

          Four rooms, which all have their own purpose, along with the individuals who work within them define the outer edges of the shop.  Stephanie spends most of her time in the small room directly behind and to the left of the counter.  Within that room, she repairs all of the items that come in and are not worn on the feet (with the exception of Bailey’s horse boots).  Here, she adds or replaces zipper pulls, re-stitches loose or worn stitching, or replaces thick material like Velcro.  She does this with a machine called the Gateway Shoe Machine.  This heavy-duty machine will repair the umpire’s breastplate that I spied earlier.  In general, this machine is not used for stitching shoes, another machine does that.

          When Jay and Dennis are not busy with customers, you will find them in the little room to the right of the counter, the one with the small window.  All of the footwear that comes in for a new heel or sole will pass through this room.  Jay repairs the men’s shoes and boots.  At Dennis’ workbench, attention will be given to the ladies’ shoes.

          Dennis informed me that a lot of his work involves repairing just the heel on the women’s shoes.  This repair may involve the sanding down of one of the heels, so that it will match the other more worn one, or he may just have to replace the cap on the heel that has been worn off.  Dennis also handles the requests for ‘sole savers’ which, when glued to the bottom of a pair of shoes, provides better traction.  He works only part time.  Dennis shared with me how Jay enticed him to work at Ole’s.  Jay told him he’d be in the “business of saving ‘soles’ but really he ended up working with ‘heels’.”

          The men’s shoes are a bit more labor intensive.  Along with a tool that looks like a knife but in reality is blunt, Jay uses brute force to remove the sole of a stubborn boot.  A hole the size of a half dollar leaves this sole in desperate need of repair.  During my visit, I was lucky enough to witness most of the transformation of one pair of men’s shoes entrusted to Jay’s care.

          The type of shoe that Jay started to work on was a pair of men’s dress shoes.  He began by prying the old worn out ‘outsole’(the bottom layer of the shoe that touches the ground and usually what we refer to as the sole) back to the instep, and the worn leather was cut away.  After the ‘insole’ and remnants of the cork were exposed, Jay sat on a stool and meticulously removed the old stitching by picking at the threads with a pair of pliers.  He explained that this is necessary so that in the end, this old stitching won’t add unnecessary bulk.  After he was sure that he got every last thread, he brought the shoes over to a rather large, long machine that housed different grades of sanding rollers.  Jay then proceeded to feather and lathe the edge of the remaining leather at the instep of the shoe, and also the end of the new leather piece that would soon be glued onto and overlap the instep.   The remnants of the cork were also sanded off.  The shoe was now ready to be put back together.

          At this point Jay shared with me a little bit of recent history regarding the cobblers in Lincoln, Nebraska.  In 1988, sixteen full-time cobblers and five part-time cobblers competed.  Two years ago when Jay and Stephanie bought Ole’s, there were four.  Now, only three exist.  Jay and Stephanie are very glad and appreciative that these two cobblers are still operating.   They are not competitors to them; they are associates.  They help each other out by supplying materials needed for a repair when one of them has run short.   They know they have someone to lean on, if necessary, and freely offer the same.

          One can depend on Ole’s to help even if a customer needs something that they don’t sell or a service they don’t provide.  If they don’t offer a service requested, they gladly refer them on to a neighboring business.  Most tennis shoes are not repairable, so those who come through the door with that need are referred to “Waller’s Running Shoes” next door.  Even the lady that called, wanting to know if Ole’s could “straighten out a ruby ring that belongs to her aunt that is in the nursing home, and she just wants for her to be able to wear it for the little time she has left,” was given the name of the local jeweler.  While I was there, a man came in to thank Jay for “giving him new sole even though he only wanted heels, and not charging” him, because Jay made the mistake of replacing the soles, too.  He continued on to share that he had been to the emergency room twice that week…they listen to all the stories that are told.

          Ole’s offers what you‘d expect from a cobbler, but I also discovered that it offers and represents value beyond the repairing of the items that come through the door.  This tiny shop is much bigger than the services offered.  They are a big part of the community they belong to.   They offer a helping hand, a listening ear, and friendly advice to all.   Ole’s is not just for re-stitching Toni Lama’s or Manolo Blahnik’s.  What Ole’s can stitch is much deeper and stronger than piercing a piece of thick material.  Ole’s re-stitches the much needed connections for folks in our fast-paced, competitive, disposable society.

I  Am  From…                             

I am from the endless plains of Nebraska, flowing fields of corn

From the small country covered in animals

The smell of horse manure and the sound of hoof beats

I am from the old fashioned town where everyone says “Hi” and “How do you do?”

And from the busy city where you don’t know a soul

I am from a world where women carry briefcases, wear suites, and have executive positions

From a generation where there are hybrid cars and never ending advances in technology

I am from an upbringing where you have to be creative and work with what you already have

Not go to the store and use daddy’s plastic

From a time where war is a focus for many and control is an issue for the government

I am from dysfunction, lies, addictions and negative examples

From a family lacking high education and stability

I am from self understanding and learning life’s lessons the hard way

From many social circles, both good and bad

I am from British roots, tea time, accents, and a six hour time difference

I am from high experience in life and knowing the value of a dollar

From the self-taught lesson that hard work gets your goals accomplished and that stagnating holds you back

I am from the messages of “If you don’t like something, run.”, not “Deal with things as they come.”

I am from self-established independence and discipline

From the urge to do things the old fashioned way

I am from hotel birthday parties and cake fights

From Polly Pocket, Barbie’s, and pogs

I am from oppositional ways so I know what not to do in order to be successful

I am from my antithesis, but because I have control of my future I am going somewhere bright

~Sara Jackson

I Am From

by Christine Porter

 

I am from Loraine and Jimmy, Jean and Jake, and Doris and William

From the ‘burbs of “the city of brotherly love”

From big buildings, tall lights, subways, and corner stores.

I am from dysfunction, hard work, creativity, and loyalty to the American dream

From Geno’s and Pat’s Philly Cheese steaks on Amoroso rolls.

I am from Agnostics, Catholics, Baptists, and believers of Buddha.

I’m from “no pain, no gain” and survival of the fittest

From plantation owners, nurses, soldiers, and accountants

From conservatives and liberals, patriots and protesters.

I’m from Isuzu Stylus’, Honda Civics, Ford trucks and “you have legs–use them.”

I’m from a world where “It’s all about Tasty Cakes” and Little Debbie is a thing of the past

From where the past meets the present with Amish Lancaster and Hershey Park.

I’m from Polish, German, French, and British immigrants

From pot holes, rush hour, and endless streets with no horizon.

I am from travelers and homebodies.

I am from summers down the Jersey shore and skipping school to go to Cow Town.

I am from the true meaning of “Live today as if it were your last.”

I Am From

by Bethany L. James

I am from Lorie and Eddie Bob, Mildred and Doug, Lois and Billy Bob.

From the Appalachian Mountains and the Smokies of Western North Carolina,

From spring-fed creeks and limestone sleeping under red clay.

I am from collard greens, grits, chitlins,  fat back, and venison stew eaters.

I am Tsalagi from the ones who hid from Jackson’s soldiers.

I am from the potatoeaters and the moon shiners.

I am from the ever’ thing’s-a-sin Southern Baptists and gun totin’, redneck, shoot ’em-all-and-let-God-sort-’em-out, and thSouth Will Rise Again people.

From warriors, soldiers, farmers, and truckers.

From herbals, housewives, textile mills, and TVA.

I am from stock cars, Tennessee Walkers, frog-giggin’, and Saturday night fiddles, banjos, and guitars.

I am from timber rattlers, bobcats, cotton fields, loggin’ trucks, and mountain laurel.

From the Monkey Trial, Blue Suede Shoes, Grand Ole Opry, and the Volunteers.

I am from Yes Ma’am, sweet tea, summer nights hotter than a three dollar pistol, and Y’all Come Back Now, Ya Hear

An Underdog’s Reward

 by Elisabeth Van Denburg

            From behind the closed stall door, I heard them approach, voices ripe with resentment, bouncing off the narrow walls of the locker room.  I closed my eyes, feeling my stomach flop inside of my body like a dying fish.  I remained this way for seconds, quaking hand poised on the door latch, garnering the fortitude to open the door and face my fate.   

            Forty minutes earlier, I had been doing leg lifts in aerobics class when a few boys from the weight lifting class next door walked by and peered into the aerobics room. “Hey…girl in the purple tank top!”  I looked over at them, confused.  It was my first week at a new school in Nebraska, and I didn’t recognize the boys that motioned me over to the doorway.  I stopped working out and cautiously walked over to them.  They were friendly, and we chatted for a few minutes before I headed back to the floor mat and resumed exercising.  I was aware immediately that something was amiss.  Three girls that had been loafing around in the back became animated, talking in heated tones.  I only caught a few words, but they sent my stomach jumping into my throat.  “Thinks she’s hot…Matt…flirting…the hell…trashy… tight tank top…kick.”

             Forty minutes after my supposed faux pas, I exited the protective shell of the bathroom stall in the girls’ locker room.  My face felt like fire, and I felt that at any moment I was either going to drop dead of a heart attack or throw up.  My heart was not hammering; it was smashing itself in a frenzied seizure against my ribcage.  The adrenaline rush was foreign to me. It was a feral, mammalian feeling.  I was an antelope, eyes fading, cornered on a Saharan plain. 

            The three girls stood by the sinks, waiting for me.  The pack leader, Jennie, was a bulldog of a girl, stout and compact.  She stood a few feet away from me, a calm look on her face.  In the corners of my eyes, I saw the second girl blocking the doorway with her willowy frame to prevent any escape attempts.  Her name was Julie, and she was deceptively pretty.  As she leaned into the apex of the doorway, she sighed heavily and her gaze drifted to the floor in a bored manner. The third, named Alison, was applying a heavy coat of mascara and dousing her chest with body spray.  She smelled of apples, red apples left out in the sun too long.  I would smell this perfume, ‘Country Apple’, years later on display in a Victoria’s Secret store and feel my knees buckle. 

            I stood, motionless.  It was then that I noticed that an entire class full of teenaged girls had disappeared from the locker room, quickly yanking on flared jeans and dragging brushes through their layered hair before silently retreating back out into the hallways. I would realize later that they had fled to avoid any repercussions of being front row spectators to an outright thrashing. 

“You’re a slut,”  Jennie hissed. Her eyes were small and rodent-like, and I couldn’t tear my own away from them. 

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,”  I explained.

 I was cut short by her small hand, which had smashed into my face, striking me.  It was unexpected, and I instinctively raised my hand to touch my cheek.  It felt like a thick rubber band had been stretched back and then released, snapping like a blazing whip across my face.

            I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, could only stare at disbelief at my own horrified reflection in the mirror above the sink, hand clapped to my cheek.  I felt like I was in a low-budget movie and that at any second a director would scream “Cut!”  Jennie took advantage of my pause and attacked again.  Her fists clenched handfuls of my long, straight hair and used it as leverage to pull me to the floor.  Strands of my ripped-out hair trailed from her bent fingers like blonde Christmas tree tinsel. 

            Before this, I had never been struck.  I am not counting the clumsy, frivolous scuffles with my older siblings.  There had been plenty of those. When I was little, my sister would often sit on me and make me smell her bare feet, persuading me in a lilting voice, “They smell like cherries, Lizzie.”  My brother had delighted in shoving Valentine’s Day candy up my nose.  Now, crumpled to the floor, I almost smiled at the thought of him chasing me around the back yard with a bag of conversation hearts.  My marital-arts trained brother would not be proud now, as I knelt like a penitent sinner against the denim-clad shins of a sophomore girl. 

            Unlike the low-budget movie, where I would bounce to my feet and defend myself, I was deathly still. I was a coward. I was not like these girls, who acted out their retaliation on me with great pleasure and ease. I was the bookworm, the girl who laughed until I wet my pants, a girl who took goofy pictures of her cat wearing baby bonnets.  Physically, I was very much a young woman.  Emotionally, I was not as seasoned as these aggressive girls.  I was fifteen and I still slept with my ratty baby blanket.  I had only stopped playing with my Barbie dolls two years ago.  While these girls bragged about staying out all night getting completely wasted on various stimulants and cheap beer, I had chaperoned sips of Chablis at dinner.  These girls were already jaded with life’s rites of passage. The irony was that these girls did not live in Washington D.C., the bustling rowdy city that I had just left.  They lived in America’s Heartland, what I then thought was comprised of wholesome crops, girls with braids and simple people.   

            Minutes later, it was all over.  The aerobics instructor barreled into the locker room, my savior in Garfield socks and nylon shorts.  “Stop it right now!” she shouted, yanking Jennie away from me with Herculean force.  As I crawled to my feet, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  Syrupy blood was smeared on my face, forming a bizarre glue that had pasted clumps of uprooted hair against my skin.

            The girls were punished with suspensions.  I was punished with guilt.  Where was my spunk, my stubbornness when I was being laid out on a dirty tile floor?  After the fight, fantasies of my fist flying into Jennie’s face lulled me to sleep at night.  I was racked with shame.

It was a few years later, after spotting Jennie’s name in the newspaper for assault and battery, that I finally came to peace with my lack of retaliation.  Jennie had never changed. The violence, the fiery rage, it had never released her.  It was then that I realized that by not hitting her back, I had sidestepped the chain of brutality.  I had chosen poise over malevolence, grace over vengeance.  If virtue and kindness made me a coward, I was a coward who would gladly accept the title. 

Class of ESLX

We are from…….

 

We are from Sika, Behanzin, Shahodat, Julia, Kossiwa, Maria, Ana,

            Fernando, Malakal, Jany, Primachenko, Christine, Yoro and

            Vesna.

 

We are from many rivers….the Nile, the Volga, the Amotchou, and the

            Oti.  We are from the Papuk Mountains, from the Salvonia

            Mountains, and Machu Pichu in the Andes.  We are from cities                   

            and countrysides, from high plains, blue skies and valleys.  We    

            are from hot climates, cold climates and moderate climates.

 

We are from ¿Cómo estás?, Zdravo, Bonjour, Bonsoir, Privet, Kak

            dela, Zdravstvuyte, and Chihei.

 

We are from farmers, artists, engineers, dreamers, cattle

            keepers, doctors, and hard workers.

 

We are from many dreams.  We are from dreams of more money, an

            education in civil engineering, and in computer engineering. 

            We are from dreams of being a doctor and teaching medicine. 

            We are from dreams of marrying a rich gringo and being a

            dental assistant.  We are from dreams of finding more

            opportunities for our children, of finding a better life, of being an

            economist, of being an electrical engineer and working in public

            administration.

 

We are from people who left their own country to avoid death,

            hunger and civil wars.  We are from people who dream of a

            better life.

 

We are from people who live with daily discrimination about their

            culture and their broken English.

 

by the class of ESLX  0130 8A  (Winter 2006)

 

Irina Agapova

Yawo Agosseme

Adok Amalek

Rozika Balog

Alain Banka

Nasimdzh Ibragimov 

Andrey Kim 

Kossi Mamah

Aurora Mendoza,

Kodjo Mevor

Yak Ruea  

Claudia Taylor

Instructor, Ann Crawford