2013 Issue

2013 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.

2013 Writing Awards and Selections for Print and Web

For her short story “The Power of Belief,” Malissa Thomas is the winner of The Metropolitan 2013 Prize for Student Writing, a 13.5-credit-hour tuition remission. The first runner-up, Sarah Buettenback, is awarded 9 credit hours tuition remission for her poem “One Summer Day.” The second runner-up, James DeSoe, receives 4.5 credit hours tuition remission for his essay “Reflections from a Rearview Mirror.”

The Power of Belief by Malissa Thomas

One Summer Day by Sarah Buettenback

Reflections from a Rearview Mirror by James DeSoe

Where I’m From by Sue Maresch

2013 Cinco de Mayo in Omaha by Max Douglas

The Loop by Shirlee Tourek

Web Selections

Flypaper by Jonathan Mcgill

The Long Ride Home by Ellen White

Contributor's Notes

Sarah Buettenback writes to save her sanity while juggling life as a wife of one sports-crazy husband, the mom of two sports-crazy boys and the assistant to three plain-old-crazy pastors at Citylight Church. In her spare time, she runs a non-profit basketball league, SCORE 4 Sports, that aims to teach leadership and positive character to over 300 kids in the metro area. She hopes these kids will be kind enough to choose not to impale any frogs on a barbed wire fence.

James DeSoe is currently a student at MCC where he is earning an associate degree in HVAC. English Composition I was one of his favorite classes. He feels very fortunate for all of the opportunities MCC has given to him. As he continues his education, he has a lot of appreciation for the instructors at the school and their commitment to the students. He thanks everyone involved in allowing him to share his story.

Max Douglas is a South Omaha Boy (SOB). He currently attends the University of Nebraska at Omaha as an undergraduate in English. Max is a changing human being, so for now he enjoys learning new languages, rock climbing, reading, and writing. He is loved by an eternal God and knows everyone else is as well. Max enjoys trying (and sometimes failing) different styles of creative non-fiction, which is exhibited in the piece, “2013 Cinco de Mayo in Omaha.”

Sue Maresch was born in the northern Kingdom of Jordan and immigrated to America as a child. She was educated in Catholic schools and enjoyed English, journalism, theatre, and debate classes the most. During her free time, she wrote poems and short stories and read countless books. She remains an avid reader and writer to this day. After raising a family, Sue returned to MCC to earn her associate degree in liberal arts, which will transfer to the University of Illinois. When she completes her BA in English there, Sue hopes to earn her master’s in creative writing. Sue has written a manuscript of her life in America, which she wishes to publish. She enjoys art, music, travel, documentaries, fine dining, and spending time with her family.

Kayla Swain is a professional illustrator with a passion for making graphic novels. She’s been drawing since she was a tot, and art is an intrinsic part of her life. She works for SkyVu Entertainment and has had artwork on the t-shirts and programs of Anime NebrasKon. She graduated from MCC in 2013 with an associate degree in electronic imaging and media arts. Kayla is creating her own manga, “Midwinter,” an urban fantasy story. Malissa Thomas was born and raised in Gainesville, Florida, then moved to Omaha in 2008. A recent graduate of MCC, she now works as a title analyst and spends her free time training to run a 5k marathon, baking, exploring local wineries, and writing. Existing in a constant state of self-reinvention, she hopes to someday find the self that fits best.  

The Power of Belief
Malissa Thomas

Marta Davis woke up dead on a crisp Friday morning in
September. She wasn’t aware of her passing until she opened
the morning paper. The obituary was so small that, had she not
habitually read every word of the local newspaper daily, she
might have missed it. As it was, she had to read it twice before
she believed it.
Davis, Marta L. (nee Wilson)
Ms. Davis died unexpectedly yesterday evening. She was
predeceased by her husband Stanley, a longtime pillar of the
town community and dedicated doctor of orthopedics. She was
54. Services for Ms. Davis will be held on Saturday at 3pm at
Greater Memorial Cemetery. No reception will follow.
Immediately, she concluded someone had made a terrible
mistake, and even though it cut into her carefully arranged day,
Marta decided that a visit to the paper’s office was in order.
It was only just across town, after all, and a personal visit was
much more impactful than a call or a letter. She had a natural
charisma—grit, her daddy called it—that people found difficult
to ignore.
Dressed in her Sunday best right down to the hat and
gloves, Marta stepped outside, carefully locked her front door,
double-checked the lock, and then headed down her porch
steps. Her tightly rolled, silver curls were arranged tastefully and
neatly under the hat’s wide brim, and her makeup was dabbed on
perfectly. An emergency was no cause to go running out of the
house without first being put together. Her mother always used
to say that steady eyeliner was a sign of a steady mind.
A September cold snap was passing through, and the flower
beds so carefully planted around her porch and along the length
of the walk from her house to the street were withering. Even
so, her little manicured lawn and perfectly planned landscaping
still shone out among the rather lackluster offerings of her
close neighbors. In spite of ample advice she’d given them, the
Howards on her left and the Martins on her right still had
skimpy flower beds and poorly placed trees, to say nothing of
their diagonally cut lawns. Dreadful.
In a town as small as Evans, the local paper—if one could
even call it that—ran mistakes so frequently Marta marveled
that anyone took the paper seriously at all. She wrote the staff
letters frequently, pointing out their errors and inconsistencies.
They never replied, but the lack of response didn’t deter her.
She considered it her civic duty to provide corrections when
corrections were necessary.
The office of the Evans Gazette was located in the center of
town about five minutes’ walk from Marta’s house. The building
it now occupied was once a barn that had later been converted
into a meeting hall before it found its final calling as a newspaper
office. Marta remembered every iteration except the original.
That was before her time. Somehow, she imagined she could still
smell livestock whenever she approached it. She wrinkled her
nose slightly.
The reception area for the Gazette was no more than a
young woman sitting behind a small desk with a phone and a
few sets of filing cabinets behind her. A couple of mismatched,
wicker chairs were set back against the wall opposite the desk,
and a small table was wedged in between them with a copy of
the day’s paper sitting on it. Any visitors kept waiting longer
than five or ten minutes were going to be terribly uncomfortable,
Marta thought.
She didn’t take a seat; she walked right up to the desk and
waited patiently for the girl to acknowledge her. The receptionist
was a slim brunette in her late twenties. She held the phone to
her ear with one hand while the other hand tapped a pen against
the desktop in an annoying rhythm. After a moment, when it
seemed that she had not been noticed, Marta primly cleared her
throat. The girl on the phone kept right on chatting, apparently
having a lively discussion about weekend plans.
“I’d like to speak to your employer, please,” Marta said
finally, raising her voice just slightly to be heard over the endless
prattle. The girl never even looked her way. “Excuse me,” she tried
again, louder still. The receptionist went right on chattering, and
she swiveled her chair to turn herself away from Marta entirely,
her attention focused on the call and now the contents of her
purse.
The door to the back production area opened, and the
paper’s editor came through the door to the reception desk. At
last! A responsible adult she could talk to. Arthur was a slight
man with a receding hairline and round-lensed glasses that
slipped down his nose at every turn. He had terrible taste in
receptionists and no sense whatsoever of what news was fit to
print, but she had always considered him to be a reasonable sort
in spite of his obvious flaws.
“Arthur, thank goodness! I’ve been standing here asking to
speak to someone for ages,” she told him, frowning pointedly in
the direction of the receptionist who promptly put her phone
conversation on hold the moment she saw the editor appear.
“Lizzie, has Reverend Edwards called back yet?” Arthur
asked the girl, reaching up to push his glasses back with a
fingertip.
“Not yet, boss. Sorry,” the girl told him.
“Arthur,” Marta started again. She stepped closer and
thumped one small, gloved hand down on the reception desk.
The thump rattled the smaller objects on the desk and sent one
of the receptionist’s pens rolling off onto the floor. Neither one
turned their head. “Arthur, did you hear me? I have a very serious
issue I need to discuss with you.”
The conversation between the editor and the young
receptionist never faltered. They went on just as easily as if Marta
weren’t even there. Bewildered, Marta watched Arthur finish
speaking with the receptionist and then retreat back into the
production area. The toe of his shoe bumped the pen on the floor
and sent it skittering across the hardwood as he closed the door
behind him. After she stood there for several minutes, Marta
shook herself, carefully straightened her hat, and turned around
to walk out in a huff. It was obvious that she would find no help
there. Well, she’d just see how the Gazette liked it when she
involved the law.
The sheriff ’s office was minutes from the Gazette building.
Sheriff Charles Daniels had been one of her husband’s oldest
friends. He’d become somewhat less reliable about visits and
returning phone calls in the last few years, but there had been a
time when he was over once a week for dinner and a game of gin
rummy with Marta and Stanley. She remembered those evenings
fondly, not just because she missed her dear, departed husband,
but because of how enjoyable it was to have those lengthy chats
with Charles and Stanley about so many interesting topics:
religion, politics, finance. Marta had opinions on them all and
could expound—at length—when given half a chance.
At the sheriff ’s office, Marta marched up and demanded to
speak to the sheriff himself. Not that there were many levels of
command to work through to get to him. The town of Evans was
small enough that the entire complement of currently employed
police officers and staff could comfortably fit in the foyer of
Marta’s house and still have room left over. The sheriff had two
deputies working under him and a young man who answered
phones and filed paperwork for them. In the rare event that they
needed additional manpower for anything, they had to call out to
larger cities for assistance. Fortunately, in the many years Marta
lived in Evans, no such emergency had ever arisen.
It was the young man behind the desk right now. Marta
couldn’t remember his name, either, but she knew him by sight.
The poor boy had such an unfortunate case of acne. She kept
an eye out when reading her women’s magazines for suggested
treatments, and every time she saw him, she offered him the
suggestions. Perhaps it wasn’t Christian of her to be so suspicious,
but she didn’t think he’d tried even one of them.
Marta tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and
announced herself. It shocked her to once again be on the
receiving end of silence. His head stayed bent over the files he
was sorting, apparently oblivious to her presence. She knew
perfectly well that that boy didn’t have any sort of hearing
problem. It was he who’d listened to her pour out every detail
of her battle with her previous neighbors to the right before
the Martins moved in. The gnarly, old crab apple tree in their
yard grew so unruly that it completely overshadowed Marta’s
begonias planted along the fence. The ensuing argument over the
tree lasted for nearly a year and only ended when the neighbors
abruptly moved away and Marta quietly had the tree removed
before the Martins moved in.
“Young man,” she said in short, clipped words, “I insist you
stop at once and tell Sheriff Daniels that I’m here to see him.”
It was no use. No matter how she insisted or threatened,
she received no response. Nervous now, and growing increasingly
agitated, Marta left the police station and headed for the
most reliable source of information she knew: the ladies at the
checkout counters of the town’s grocery store. She’d wiled away
many hours over the last few years chatting up the checkout
clerks.
It was after lunchtime, and her shadow fell long across the
sidewalk when she arrived at the grocery store. Wisps of gray
hair peeked out from under her hat, which sat slightly askew on
top of her head. She pushed it back irritably, her gloves wrinkled
and sliding down her palms.
“Linda!” she called to the woman she recognized behind the
counter. “Linda, something bizarre is going on in town today. We
may be under an attack.”
Linda laughed lightly, and that startled Marta long enough
to give her pause to take in the situation. It was as if she hadn’t
spoken at all. As if she wasn’t even there. Linda continued her
mechanical scanning of the grocery items on her counter, the
electronic scanner making rhythmic, cheerful beeps with each
pass. Anne Casey stood with her two small children as she waited
to pay for her purchases. They were chatting about the children’s
school and the chilly weather without a care in the world and
not a single indication that either of them saw or heard anything
strange at all.
Marta was too firm in her Christian faith to believe in alien
mind control, but something was clearly going wrong with her
town. As she nervously tugged her gloves back up into place, her
gaze fell on a stack of the day’s newspapers sitting at the end of
the checkout counter, and her hands froze. It was then that she
remembered her obituary and original reason for coming into
town today. A feeling of dread rolled over her. Could it be true?
Had she somehow died and not noticed? She certainly felt like
some woeful spirit flitting here and there around the town today.
If that was the case, why was she still here? Why hadn’t some
angel come to carry her to her eternal reward?
Marta’s heart raced, and her eyes were wide as she hurried
out of the store and turned toward home. All these years she’d
spent preparing herself, and she’d somehow managed to miss her
call to Saint Peter. Surely, when she got home, Gabriel would still
be waiting with his horn and his mighty, flaming sword to take
her home. She just had to hurry.
She turned to hasten out and, behind her, had she chanced
to look at the reflection in the storefront glass, she’d have seen
the toddler in the shopping cart seat waving goodbye.
The people of Evans laid Marta Davis to rest on a chilly
Saturday afternoon. The turnout for the funeral was remarkable;
it was the largest number of people that the minister could
remember attending a single service since Marta’s husband
passed. There wasn’t an empty seat left, and some people stood
back around the gravesite holding children on their shoulders to
see over the crowd.
While Stanley was alive, it was easier to ignore the nagging
and the bossing. He was so well loved by the community as a
whole that he just made her seem somehow more tolerable.
The town minister was not informed of the town’s little
ruse, and the sheriff refused to have any part of the trick. He’d
barricaded himself in his office with strict orders not to be
disturbed unless there was some emergency he absolutely had to
attend to. The rest of the town was all too eager to experience one
day without Marta Davis.
The minister finished his sermon, and the groundskeeper
lowered the casket into the grave, while the townspeople milled
around trading furtive, guilty glances. Slowly, they filed out of
the cemetery in low conversation; some were muttering quietly
to themselves. No one thought, when they started, they’d actually
find themselves standing over a casket in the cemetery. At first,
when her neighbor called to report her passing, the sheriff wasn’t
sure what to believe. At her home, he found her sprawled among
her prized begonias, arms outstretched and face tilted up to the
sky as if waiting to be carried away.

One Summer Day
Sarah Buettenback

We impaled those frogs on that barbed wire fence.
We weren’t mean kids as a general rule.
Even years later it doesn’t make sense.
I can still see them squirming. It makes me tense.
Frog juice dripped down to form a pool.
We impaled those frogs on that barbed wire fence.
We’d tortured none before or since,
Not counting the worms dissected in school.
Even years later it doesn’t make sense.
I should have come to their defense.
Would I have seemed too little? Uncool?
We impaled those frogs on that barbed wire fence.
Childhood fun at frogs’ expense.
A lifetime of knowing I’d been so cruel.
Even years later it doesn’t make sense.
Please tell me how to recompense.
We claimed to follow the Golden Rule.
Even years later it doesn’t make sense.
We impaled those frogs on that barbed wire fence.

Reflections from a Rearview Mirror
James DeSoe

When I was seven years old, I was just beginning to
become my own person with my own distinct personality. At the
age of seven, I was already a seasoned veteran at dressing myself,
brushing my teeth, and tying my shoes. I was also brave enough
to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night by myself if I
needed to. It was around this time that I started forming a set of
values for what I thought was right and wrong.
A major influence on my newfound sense of civility was a
cartoon that came on every Saturday morning called Fat Albert
and the Cosby Kids. The cartoon featured a group of colorful
characters with unique personalities and unusual names. There
was Mush Mouth, Dumb Donald, Bucky, Weird Harold, Rudy,
Russell, Bill, and of course, Fat Albert.
Each episode would start with the show’s creator appearing
on the television screen saying, “This is Bill Cosby coming at you
with music and fun, and if you’re not careful, you might learn
something before it’s done. So let’s get ready, okay? Hey, hey,
hey!”
I was fascinated with this cartoon as a child, mainly because
it was a show about other kids. The music in the show was
pleasing to my young ears, and the jokes were funny to this seven
year old’s sense of humor. For example, the character Rudy would
say something self-centered or foolish, so then the character Bill
would respond by saying, “Rudy, you’re like school on Sundays.
No class.”
Along with the music and humor, each show focused on
life lessons such as the consequences of lying, or why stealing and
vandalism are wrong. There were also episodes about child abuse,
gun violence, and drug use; however, these moral dilemmas
were toned down so that a young person could comprehend the
subject matter. Not only was this cartoon entertaining to my
young heart, it was also educational and character building.
I loved this show so much that when I found out that
the drugstore down the street from my house sold small plastic
figurines of Fat Albert and his gang of misfits, I persistently
pestered my mom until she gave in and purchased the entire
set for me. These small toys were no more than three inches in
height. Each one of these figurines was small enough to fit into
the front pockets of my jeans; therefore, I would always have one
of them on me at all times. I carried them around in my front
pocket like good luck charms. They made me feel safe and secure,
like always having a good friend close by.
While watching each episode of this cartoon, I was
reminded constantly to be a good kid. Whatever situation Fat
Albert and his friends encountered, these African-American kids
from the inner city of North Philadelphia would always do the
right thing. The show continually instilled the virtues of decency
and integrity, and I wanted to be a better person because of this.
One Saturday afternoon in the summer, Mom told my
younger brother and me that we needed to come in from playing
outside and start getting cleaned up. We were going to my uncle’s
house for a barbeque. Uncle Roland was going to grill some
hamburgers and hotdogs, so we needed to hurry up and get ready.
I have always loved the taste of grilled hamburgers, so I was
more than willing to run inside, wash my hands, comb my hair,
and change my clothes. I decided that for this special occasion, I
would take Fat Albert with me.
I was eager with anticipation when we finally arrived at my
uncle’s house. As we got out of the car, I could hear the inviting
sounds of laughter coming from the backyard. I ran to see what
was going on. There, I saw my cousins playing touch football.
Before I even had a chance to join them, Aunt Verleen shouted
out, “Time to eat!”
After filling my little belly with hamburgers, potato chips,
and soda, I was ready to play with my cousins. We horsed around
until it got dark. I was having such a good time that I did not
realize how late it was getting. I could see Dad talking with my
uncle right near the fence at the bottom of the yard. He looked
my way and told me that we were going to be leaving soon.
I started running up to my dad to ask if we could stay a little
longer. As I was running up to him, the toy that I was carrying
all night started working its way out of my front right pocket. It
eventually dropped onto the grass right in front of my dad and
uncle.
Before I had a chance to pick it up, my dad walked up, bent
down, and retrieved my sentimental treasure. As he held the toy
in his hand, the look on his face expressed a disturbing disgust.
He turned his attention towards me and asked, “Where did you
get this little n***** from? Did your mom buy you this plastic
piece of shit?” He then took the toy and threw it as far and hard
as he could into the dark of night. At that instant, it felt like my
heart had stopped and all of the air had left my lungs. It was as if
my father had just kicked Santa Claus in the face, right in front
of me.
Dad and Uncle Roland had been drinking for a couple
of hours prior to this moment. As I got older, I would come to
realize that intoxication was a daily occurrence for both men,
and this was not the first time my father sucker punched me
emotionally. There were several occasions during my childhood in
which my father was sent home from his job because he was too
drunk to work.
One night in particular, my father came home inebriated
and started acting belligerently towards my mother. I could hear
a lot of screaming and arguing coming from my parents’ bedroom
door. After some time, the door opened and I could see my
mother crying. She had her hand over her left cheek. My father
had smacked her pretty hard this time. As he stumbled towards
our front door, my father turned to me and said, “Jimmy, I want
you to remember one thing. The only good thing about a woman
is what’s between her legs.” He stormed out the door and headed
to the nearest bar to drink some more.
My uncle was not much different from my father. He would
often make disparaging remarks about other ethnic groups.
Along with having drinking and racism in common with my
father, he was also quite the chauvinist. He despised feminism,
even going as far as prohibiting my aunt from watching Murder,
She Wrote. I guess he felt somehow emasculated by Angela
Lansbury.
When Dad threw my toy into the dark abyss that night, my
uncle asserted himself into this distressing situation by saying,
“We don’t associate with j*******s, Jimmy.”
My father’s and uncle’s dysfunctional behavior was starting
to tarnish the hope that was in my young heart. I was beginning
to develop a deep resentment for both of them. I started to cry, so
my father told me to quit acting like a baby and get in the car.
As we headed for home, I was looking at the reflection in
the rearview mirror. Thinking about what just happened, I started
wishing for a different dad. I wanted Bill Cosby to be my father,
not the bastard that was driving us home.
A few years after this incident, my father abandoned our
family, which brought more relief than sadness, to be honest. As
I grew older, my mother faced many struggles to keep a roof over
our heads and food on the table. In spite of this, I feel our family
was better off without my father’s influences.
In many instances, a child does not have much control over
his or her circumstances. Sometimes, good role models come
from different places. At the same time my father was giving
our family grief, Bill Cosby’s cartoon creation was giving me the
moral compass to live my life with love and understanding. It was
as if Mr. Cosby knew that there were kids in this world, just like
me, longing for his positive guidance.
Thinking back on this moment in my life, I was reminded
of something that was told to me long ago. When looking at
a reflection from the rearview mirror of your life, what you see
might not always be pleasant. You must recognize and remember
that the reflection from a rearview mirror shows you where you
have been, not where you are going. 

Where I’m From
Sue Maresch

I am from a town in the north of a kingdom, a town that means
“castle” and dates back to the Roman era. I am from church bells
and minarets, large stone houses with wide open terraces, olive
trees and grape vines and prickly cactus fruit. I am from my
grandfather’s rooftop where I stood looking toward the West,
beyond the horizon, beyond where the sky disappeared.
I am from the rainbow I thought I saw from the airplane window
when we first arrived here, but it was only a trick of light.
I am from a Midwestern city and a house on the corner of a
street, just yards from an elementary school, from a front yard
so steep we had to tie a rope to the lawnmower to mow the top
rows. I am from the garden, from the tomatoes and cucumbers,
the eggplants and peppers that were pickled and stuffed.
I am from the front porch where I played with marbles and the
evergreen bushes where I hid my mother’s kitchen utensils. I am
from silkworms and lightning bugs and headless Barbies and
playing notes on my recorder. I am from Mrs. Pauly’s Restaurant,
seated on the counter, eating french fries while Momma took
orders and cleaned tables. I am from the scab across my nose and
left cheek still visible on school picture day.
I am from skateboards and hopscotch, drawings of stick figures
on the sidewalk with colored chalk. I am from cardamom, clove,
mint and sage. I am from rose water.
I am from the school yard where the boys called me “Big Blue
Marble,” “Suhairy!” and “camel jockey,” and other names my
memory has since forgotten. I am from that little girl who bribed
them with money so they would stop bullying me. I was scared
and timid then, but I grew up to be just as good as they are—
stronger even.
I am from the kitchen table in front of the Brother typewriter
where I typed Baba’s college papers because he asked me to; he
typed slowly, you see. I am from the bags of coffee, sugar and
rice we bring to the families of the dead. I am from small, ornate
coffee cups and the fortunes they tell. I am from the shoes that
do not point their soles to God.
I am from Catholic school plaid skirts, Wednesday Mass, voice
lessons, and play practice. I am from the voluptuous Anita
in Westside Story. I am from Shakespeare and Dickens and
Hawthorne and Poe, read by flashlight in the bedroom closet. I
am from diaries and poems and wishing wells.
I am from the black and white TV where Baba and I watched
Omar Sharif and Sammy Davis, Jr. and Frank Sinatra and the
rest of the Rat Pack. I am from the lamb we slaughtered in
the backyard shed as a sacrifice to God so Baba would recover
from his stroke. I am from joys of laughter as Momma tries to
pronounce “Connecticut” or “strawberry.”
I am from watching planes taking off at Eppley with my
children, sketching with them so many far-away places, lands,
seas.
I am from tears as I see my sisters and daughters grow up to be
women, and my son grows to become a man.
I am from birthday gifts two weeks before Christmas.
I am from the day, tender and pale, the tenuous mist, bathing
everything in a soft radiance. The water is grey, rosy and green,
grey like mother-of-pearl and green like the center of a yellow
rose.
I am from the spring air—clean, fresh,
crisp…

2013 Cinco de Mayo in Omaha
Max Douglas

Cinco de Mayo is one of the most significant holidays
celebrated by Mexican Americans. Every year on Cinco de Mayo,
which translated literally means the “fifth of May,” you will find
Omaha Nebraska’s South 24th Street lined with proud Mexican
Americans. As the dark sky lays flat against the background,
there are knees dancing to a loud beat, tortillas being slapped and
baked, carnival games lighting up like flashing stars, and people
parading with smiles. I am a Caucasian American who has grown
up just a few minutes west of South 24th Street, and, almost
every May, I had wondered about the green, white, and red flag
and the shouts of “Viva Mexico!”
During high school, I would squeeze my legs into my best
pair of skinny jeans, loosely wear my best pair of Air Jordans,
and slide my hands through my greasy mop-like curly hair as I
headed to South 24th Street on the Fifth of May. I always stayed
close to my pack of friends like space debris orbiting around the
earth. I kept an eagle’s eye for any potential females, and I kept a
raven’s eye for any bitter-breathed, hot-mouthed drunks. I always
waited for someone to belch, “What’s the gringo doing up here?”
because I already had an automatic response: “Just hanging out.”
However, this year my experience was different—as different as
the first rough lick of a Vero Mango chili sucker.
The population of Hispanics in Omaha is like fire to a wick
of dynamite, and so I was embracing the boom by attempting
to study abroad. After expressing my interest to Metropolitan
Community College’s Study Abroad Counselor, I was cordially
invited to a luncheon where I would meet the instructor. My
initial reaction was, no, I want to learn Spanish and act Spanish,
but I don’t want to actually become Spanish. I sat looking at that
same email with a blank stare until eventually I decided to attend
the luncheon with an open mind in order to please my instructor.
So there I sat with a mind about as open as a window, a plate
of Mexican food (brownish gray beans which felt like mashed
potatoes in my mouth, a burrito drizzled with thick red sauce,
and fluffy orange rice), and a bunch of people I hardly knew. We
mostly talked about Maximon, a Guatemalan idol consisting of
a wooden head, colorful scarves, and a carved mouthful of cigars
and liquor.
While sitting there, I embraced these seemingly fairy tale
stories and ate the Mexican food faster than I thought. Along
with my professor, my classmate Elizabeth, and the entire
audience, we were entertained by a live group of south of the
border dancers. I savored the look of the women who danced
with dresses which would resemble the inside of a candy store.
I marveled at the ten-gallon hats that stood like huge mounds
of brown clay on the foreheads of the guys. Heavy shoes clicked,
clacked, and stomped across the stage as the dancers complied,
no, united in a conversation of dance.
Two days later, I was on South 24th Street at the Cinco
de Mayo celebration with my best friend from grade school. As
we wandered without aim through the crowd, I looked and saw
scarves wrapped tightly around tall faces, faces with mountains
and peaks, and also squeezed tightly to round faces that bubbled
out and dipped to the sides. All of these faces were a different
color from mine, but we all felt the same unpredictable Nebraska
wind blowing our lips chapped. My friend (who happens to be
Hispanic) and I browsed in and out of the alleys as we passed
by bakeries, pottery shops, and all of the carnival games with
the constant background of “Viva Mexico!” We heard it, but we
didn’t know why.
Eventually, I stood before a group of guys with shiny
clothes and cowboy hats rocking out in Spanish. Men and
women danced in front of the live band as they hurled their
knees in the air like a football player chopping his legs through
tires in a football drill. As time passed, I became more and more
aware of the fact that I’m not like them. South Omaha is my
home, but I felt the size-and-a-half too small pair of shoes of a
minority. I have been the minority before, but this night it was
amplified with the music. I thought, but this is good for me. I
need to feel this diversity.
My Cinco de Mayo experience culminated with Omaha
South High winning the state soccer championship. In a sport
where most of the players are Hispanic, I saw why the students
are proud of their culture. To put it in other words, “Viva
Mexico!” began to make a little more sense to me. After the
championship clock had buzzed, and it showed South 1, Prep
0, one of the players went directly to grab the Mexican flag and
wrapped it around his shoulders. At first I was shocked. Why
would he do that? But then I remembered.
When I had been a student at Omaha South, opposing
teams would dress up with mustaches and sombreros as a way
to mock our players, and during my junior year when our team
lost the championship in a close match, we were mocked with
a shower of green cards. The opposing team’s student section
rushed the field where our defeated team stood and threw the
cards in the air as if they were confetti.
But in that moment, as the South Soccer team paraded the
field, the players made it clear that this championship wasn’t for
themselves, for their coach, for revenge, or even for their school,
but for the community of South Omaha. The team lifted the
Class A Nebraska State Trophy, and it gleamed in the sun and
penetrated into the eyes of the crowd. I saw clearer into the flag,
and marveled how the eagle crushed the snake. “Si se puede!” 

The Loop
Shirlee Tourek

Lights up to reveal the mother, an 80-year-old woman who has been
moved to a facility. With all her belongings packed, she waits in the
lobby to be picked up. The daughter, a woman in her fifties, enters the
room and walks over to her mother.
DAUGHTER: Hi, Mom.
MOTHER: Well, look who’s here. I was starting to think you
forgot me.
DAUGHTER: I wouldn’t forget you; I stop by at the same time
every day, just like clockwork. Here, I brought you some cookies.
MOTHER: Ooh, these look good. What kind are they?
DAUGHTER: Oatmeal-raisin, your favorite.
MOTHER: I’m going to have to hide these from your father; he
will eat them all in one sitting if I don’t stash them away. (Pause.)
Well, we’d better get going. If I don’t get supper on the table, your
father will have a fit.
DAUGHTER: Oh, um… I don’t think we need to worry about
that; we’ve got plenty of time. Let’s go for a walk. It’s beautiful
outside.
MOTHER: Oh no, we need to get going. If I don’t get supper on
the table, your dad will have a fit.
DAUGHTER: Let’s just go for a short walk. All the spring
flowers are blooming. I’ll get your sweater.
MOTHER: Oh, I don’t want to go outside. I’ve been working in
the yard all day. Seems like every time I pull a weed, two more
pop up. Dear Lord, I didn’t think I was ever going to get done.
DAUGHTER: Let’s just go for a short walk. I’ll get your
sweater.
MOTHER: Why do I need a sweater?
DAUGHTER: Well, it’s nice outside, but in the shade it’s a
little cool. So let’s put your sweater on and go for a little walk.
(The daughter looks through her mother’s packed bags to find a
sweater.) Any idea which one of these bags you packed your
sweater in?
MOTHER: Why do I need a sweater?
DAUGHTER: Well, I thought we would go for a walk. All the
spring flowers are blooming. You know how much you love the
spring flowers.
MOTHER: Oh no, we need to get going. If I don’t get supper on
the table, your dad will have a fit.
Daughter takes a deep breath and pulls a puzzle out of a bag she
carried in with her.
DAUGHTER: I brought you a new puzzle. The pieces are bigger
than the last one. Let’s clear off this table and put it together.
MOTHER: Oh, I don’t have time. I need to get home. I have so
much work to do.
DAUGHTER: Let’s just put this puzzle together first.
MOTHER: Let me see the box—I think I’ve done this one
before. (Pause.) Yeah, I’ve done this one already.
DAUGHTER: Well, I’m going to put it together, and you can
help me when I get stuck, okay?
MOTHER: I really can’t. I got to get going. I want to get out of
here before they close this place up. I got stuck here one summer;
the doors were locked, I was all by myself, and I couldn’t get out.
I was scared to death.
DAUGHTER: Don’t worry, Mom. They’re not going to close
this place. They just lock the doors so no one wanders off and
gets lost.
MOTHER: The hell they don’t. I got locked in here after they
closed. Couldn’t find anyone to let me out.
DAUGHTER: Let’s get some ice cream. Let’s go for a walk and
get some ice cream.
MOTHER: Oh, I don’t need any ice cream. I just need to get
home.
DAUGHTER: You feeling okay? You look a little tired.
MOTHER: I am tired. I’ve been working in the yard, pulling
weeds all day.
DAUGHTER: I talked to my friend Julie yesterday. She said
her mom is going to be moving in here, too. Do you remember
Berdene? The two of you were 4-H leaders together.
MOTHER: I can’t think of who you’re talking about.
DAUGHTER: Berdene. She lived in the farmhouse next to ours.
Looks like you’re going to be neighbors with her again. It will be
nice to have someone you know living here.
MOTHER: Why would she live here?
DAUGHTER: Her husband died, and she is having a hard time
remembering things.
MOTHER: Poor old soul. I’m so glad I’m still able to live on my
own.
DAUGHTER: Mom, you live here. Remember?
MOTHER: Why would I live here? Working here is bad
enough; I don’t need to live here, too. Where are my car keys? I
need to get going.
DAUGHTER: Mom, you don’t have a car. You sold it two years
ago.
MOTHER: Well, how did I get here?
DAUGHTER: I drove you here, two years ago.
MOTHER: I need to get home. I got to get supper on the table.
You know how your dad gets when supper’s not ready.
DAUGHTER: Mom, this IS your home. Dad…Dad passed
away several years ago.
The mother is shocked—in her mind, this is the first time she has heard
about her husband dying. Her lips quiver and her eyes water up with
tears.
MOTHER: Oh my God, how? When? How can this be?
DAUGHTER: He had an aneurysm. It happened very fast.
MOTHER: When?
DAUGHTER: Five years ago.
MOTHER: Why can’t I remember that? Did I go to the funeral?
DAUGHTER: Of course you went to the funeral.
MOTHER: I got to get home. There’s so much to do. I got to
gather the eggs before it gets dark.
DAUGHTER: Jim will gather the eggs. He lives there now.
MOTHER: Who is Jim?
DAUGHTER: Jim’s your son. He bought the farm.
MOTHER: Where do I live?
DAUGHTER: You live here.
MOTHER: Here! Why in the hell would I live here?
DAUGHTER: Well, after Dad died, you lived with me for a
while.
MOTHER: Dad died? When? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, my
God.
DAUGHTER: I did tell you, Mom. I tell you every day. Well,
almost every day. Sometimes you are so happy, I don’t want to tell
you because you forget, and then when I tell you, it’s like you are
hearing it for the first time.
MOTHER: I always want you to tell me the truth. I get so
confused sometimes because everyone around here lies. All of
them, they are just a bunch of liars. (She cries for a while.) Did
Dad pass away?
DAUGHTER: Yes, he passed away a few years ago.
MOTHER: I know I can’t remember things like I used to, but
you would think I could remember that. This darn old head of
mine. (She knocks on her head with her fist several times.)
DAUGHTER: Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease, Mom. Do you
remember taking care of Grandma when she had it?
MOTHER: I remember telling you to shoot me if I ever ended
up like that.
DAUGHTER (chuckles): Well, I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m not
going to shoot you.
MOTHER: Am I goofy?
DAUGHTER: No! You are not goofy; you are one of the
smartest people I know. You just can’t remember some things
because you have Alzheimer’s.
MOTHER: How long have I had it?
DAUGHTER: About ten years.
MOTHER: Ten years. (Pause.) Well, I guess I’m not going to live
to be 100, am I?
DAUGHTER: I don’t see why not. You’re as healthy as a horse.
MOTHER: What time is it?
DAUGHTER: Around one.
MOTHER: What are you doing out so late?
DAUGHTER: It’s not late. You just finished eating your lunch
before I got here.
MOTHER: I got to get going. Your dad is waiting for his supper.
You know what a temper your dad has. Remember how he would
sit in the car and honk that damn horn when I was trying to get
you kids ready for church?
DAUGHTER: I remember, and then you would send us out to
the car while you got ready. Dad was so angry about being late
for church, but as soon as you came out of the house he would
always say, “Oh, look, kids, doesn’t Momma look pretty?”
MOTHER (smiling): I never knew that. I never knew he said
that. (She is very pleased to hear that her husband thought she looked
pretty.)
DAUGHTER: I guess you were worth the wait.
MOTHER: Those were the days, weren’t they?
DAUGHTER: Yes, they were. Remember how Dad always
forgot about birthdays and never bought a single Christmas
present. But on Valentine’s Day, he would always come home
with a giant heart for you and five small hearts filled with candy
for us kids.
MOTHER: And a Valentine’s Day card. He always signed it,
from Jim Schurman, as if I didn’t know his last name. What a
knucklehead. Oh, those were the days, weren’t they?
DAUGHTER: Yes, they were.
MOTHER: You know, you are the only one that ever comes to
see me.
DAUGHTER: Oh, that’s not true, Mom. Sheryl was here
yesterday, and Sheila was here the day before that.
MOTHER: How would you know that?
DAUGHTER: I checked the sign-in sheet. When people come
to visit, they have to sign in.
MOTHER: I’m not talking about work; I’m talking about
coming to see me.
DAUGHTER: I know. You have several visitors every day. I
check every time I sign in.
MOTHER: What time is it? Your Dad is going to wonder
where his supper is.
DAUGHTER: Did I tell you that Mark and Maua are getting
married?
MOTHER: I need to write that down so I don’t forget.
DAUGHTER: I will write it on your calendar before I leave. Just
remind me.
MOTHER: You want me to remind you? That’s not a good idea.
DAUGHTER: Boy, we’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Neither one of
us can remember anything.
MOTHER: What time is it?
DAUGHTER: Time for a joke. What do you get if a baby
swallows a penny?
MOTHER: I don’t know. What?
DAUGHTER: Diaper change.
MOTHER: That’s silly. That’s not even funny. (Pause.) Okay, I
got one: Knock, knock.
DAUGHTER: Who’s there?
MOTHER: Um, gosh I just heard this joke earlier today. It will
come to me. (Pause.) Damn, I can’t remember the punch line.
DAUGHTER (laughing): Or the joke, we never got past ‘knock
knock.’
MOTHER: I can’t remember it either. Boy, we are quite a pair,
aren’t we?
DAUGHTER: Yes, we are. Okay, here’s one. What did the fish
say when he swam into the wall?
MOTHER: What did the fish say?
DAUGHTER: What did the fish say when he swam into the
wall? (Pause.) Dam!
Mother shakes her head like it’s not that funny.
DAUGHTER: Why did the tomato turn red? He saw the salad
dressing.
MOTHER: Don’t quit your day job.
DAUGHTER: Okay, your turn.
MOTHER: Boy, I used to know so many jokes. Can’t think of a
single one.
DAUGHTER: Tell the one about the cow. Do you remember it?
MOTHER: Oh yeah, what do you get from a spoiled cow?
DAUGHTER: I don’t know, what?
MOTHER (laughing so hard she can hardly talk): Spoiled milk.
DAUGHTER: That’s a new one. Did you make that up?
MOTHER: Hell, I don’t know. (Pause.) What’s brown and
sticky?
DAUGHTER: I don’t think I want to know.
MOTHER: A stick.
DAUGHTER (laughing): Oh my goodness, you better keep your
day job, too. You are the worst joke teller in the whole world.
MOTHER: You mean second worst joke teller.
DAUGHTER: Are you referring to me?
MOTHER: Boy, you are quick.
DAUGHTER: Remember that guy that used to buy eggs from
us? He had a new joke every week. Except his were funny.
MOTHER: I don’t remember his name, but I remember him. He
was so fat he had to wear overalls. Couldn’t find any pants to go
around his big belly.
DAUGHTER: He must have liked to eat.
MOTHER: His wife was a baker; she made pies and cakes for
all the restaurants. Don’t know how she made a profit with him
eating all her goods. (Pause.) He still buys eggs from me. Shows
up every day, just like clockwork.
DAUGHTER: Hmm….
MOTHER: What time is it? Your dad is going to wonder where
his supper is.
DAUGHTER: Mom, you don’t have to get home. Dad… (Long
pause.) Dad is out of town, remember? He is looking at land to
buy with Uncle Arnold.
MOTHER (pause): That’s right, that’s right. I remember that
now. Hot damn, looks like I got the night off.
DAUGHTER: We should do something fun.
MOTHER: Oh honey, I got to get back to work here before
they fire me.
DAUGHTER: Okay. (Pause.) Okay, I should get going. I need
to get to work, too. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom.
MOTHER: Oh wait, I baked you some cookies. Here, take them
home to your family.
DAUGHTER: Oatmeal-raisin, my favorite.
MOTHER: Is that what they are? I can’t remember. I baked so
many today, I didn’t think I was ever going to get done.
DAUGHTER: Bye, Mom. Love you. Thanks for the cookies.
MOTHER: Bye, honey. 

Flypaper
by Jonathan Mcgill

Nancy was having a hard time placing the wings she’d plucked from the fly into the raisin. They were too delicate and thin, like waxen paper, and her fingers were too pudgy. This was always the hardest part—the part she least enjoyed. Too many precise movements were involved, and the wings and the shriveled raisins were always much too small in her hands, and squinting down at them made the space behind her eyeballs ache after a while.

                Danny was better at this wings part. He was the one they gave the thinness to. The all-over kind of thinness. Thinness like a wobbly piece of string cheese, like the gleaming blade of a knife. She liked to tell him how he was a bug, how he had spiders for hands. He didn’t seem to mind. She doubted he even understood what she meant.

                She wished they would have given her some thinness too, but Mother had said she was perfect just the shape she was. An apple, she said. One of those juicy red ones. And Father had told her not to worry and not to cry. Big girls were the best, he said. Just like your mama. So full of love. And when Nancy was down he would cheer her up by reminding her that only the big girls had room enough for love, and he often asked her if she didn’t also want to be full of love? And she did. She wanted to be full of love. Still, a little bit of thinness would have been nice. Just for the fingers and the hands maybe. So she could do this wings part like Danny could, so quick and easily.

                She got the wing to stick in the back of the raisin and slowly, carefully, gently she let go. She held it by the bottom, between her thumb and pointer finger, raised it up before the bright window and turned it this way and that. So pretty and perfect. She wet her lips and smiled. Danny may have been the one they gave the thinness to, but she was the one they gave the smarts to. And the decorating to. And the laughs to, too.

                There were no more new flies on the windowsill. Just the sun-baked and shriveled and legless and wingless and, sometimes, headless remains of the flies she’d already used. The window in the study always seemed to have a good amount of flies. Something had chewed through the wire screen just enough to make a moon-shaped hole where they could squeeze and crawl in, but couldn’t get out. Probably because they were too dumb to find the hole again. There were always new flies in there. Laying on their backs with their crooked and hair-thin legs stuck rigid in the air. But the black house spiders lived in there too, in the corners where it was dark and she could barely see, and they never seemed to die. Every time she peered in there were always a few crawling around.

                But the study was where the computer was, and where Father was. He didn’t like her being in there when he was in there and told her she wasn’t allowed, so she hadn’t been able to check the window in several weeks. The door was always pushed closed, except for sometimes when it was left open just a tiny sliver, enough to see the bright, twitching screen floating, as it seemed to do, in the darkness. She thought of the window and smiled. There was sure to be a whole lot of new flies in there.

                She didn’t know where Danny was anymore. He was gone. He said he was going outside to help mother, but he wasn’t out there now that she could see. It was just Mother, out there in her pink and white flower muumuu and rubber work boots, walking around with the chickens. She had the dented feed bucket nestled in the crook of her right arm, and every now and then she reached in with her left hand and took a big handful of feed and tossed it at their heads. Nancy could hear her talking to them. Her voice had become bright and high-pitched, as it usually did when she talked to them. It reminded her of the time when Danny was small like a worm and just learning how to crawl on hands and knees, how she would coo at him. She was saying, “Oh you’re just the cutest. Aren’t you just the cutest?” and when a few of the chickens got pushy and nipped at each other she jabbed the air in front of them with her fat finger and scolded them to behave, to wait their turn. Roger, especially. The little shit. “Always trying to start something, aren’t you Roger?” she’d say, looking down at them all, then giggling once more as they clucked and scrambled in circles around her feet.

                Nancy heard father’s laugh come low and bumpy from down the hall, where the study was. She turned from the window and listened several moments as his laugh shuddered and became a series of hard, wet coughs. She heard him clear his throat and then silence. The computer chair creaked. He called for her. “Nan? Nan come here a minute,” he said from behind the sliver in the doorway. 

                She steadied herself with one hand on the lip of a nearby milk crate and climbed down from the window. She followed the path out of the mudroom through stacks of boxes and books and rusted-shut chicken cages to the living room where, as she entered, she caught sight of a rabbit just before it darted behind the sofa recliner. She started to go for it, hoping to trap it in the corner where she could cage it for good, but as she did so she heard Father call again, his voice louder and sharper than usual.

                The door to the study wavered and pushed in and the sliver of open space widened as she gently knocked. She felt the warm odor of him press against her face, damp and rich with sweat. The light off the computer screen was blue and unearthly and it cast the walls of the small room and the skin of his face and arms and hands in its pale coolness. The dark of his eyes flickered with the image of the screen and he didn’t seem to notice her standing in the doorway until she chewed her lip and finally said his name. “Dad?” she said. 

                He asked if she would be a dear and bring him his drink, and when she said okay he smiled and said, “Thanks, honey.” The tube that snaked out of his noise, across his face, up around his ears, glistened faintly blue-white and made him look like a large roach. Seeing him there, like that, made her want to run screaming into the bright, accepting daylight. His cheeks bubbled up under his eyes as he smiled at her. She backed away, pulling the door slowly shut as she did so, and she fetched an unopened two-liter of orange soda from the fridge and brought it to him and then she rummaged through a pile of pants, tennis shirts, and sweats for her winter coat and went out the kitchen door to hunt for Danny, who was still gone.

 

The barn was dark and tall on the inside and looked like the hollowed out skeleton of some long ago dead animal. Boxes were stacked and pushed up along the walls everywhere, water-stained and slowly disintegrating and sagging into the ones below. Danny had already been through most of them. Once he found an old paintball gun in one of them. It belonged to his father, he knew. He’d heard him asking about the gun once when he was bored, but Danny hadn’t told him he found it. He liked it and wanted to keep it for himself. The barrel was long and shiny black except where it was pitted with rust, and a jagged green lightning bolt shot down the length of it on both sides. He hefted it around in his tiny hands, and had spent the rest of that afternoon skulking around the wide open backyard, turning imaginary aliens into vaporized space dust.

                Now, Danny was sitting in the driver’s seat of the old Chevy pickup, hands on the wheel at eleven and one o’clock, his eyes barely above the curve. But he could see just fine. His feet pumped the air above the gas and brake pedals. At the moment he was ripping through the weedy front lawn. And then he was crashing through the fence along the eastern edge of the yard, tumbling onto the gravel road with a long cape of dust trailing behind, and he was just about gone when Mother appeared in the barn doorway and stood with the feed bucket dangling at her side and told him to get out of there right this minute and help.

                Danny didn’t get out right away. He stayed seated, motionless, both hands still gripped on the wheel. She turned away almost as soon as she had finished scolding him and was gone behind the edge of the doorway. He listened to the swishing sound of her boots in the grass and the weeds, moving away, until eventually the only sound he heard was the creak of the barn and the air whistling through the wood gaps.

                She reappeared a little while later, farther down the yard where the chickens were kept. She seemed to have forgotten all about Danny, didn’t notice the barn or the truck or that he was still in the driver’s seat. She only seemed to see and hear the chickens at her feet, and she was talking to them again as she tossed out seed. He could hear her voice, sugary and sweet, but couldn’t make out anything she was saying.

                Bored, he pulled the steering wheel left and then right, imagining that the Chevy still had four wheels, but the steering was stiff and budged only an inch either way. He pushed in and pulled out the cigarette lighter, but it hadn’t worked for some time and the end was cold and blackened. The passenger window had been left open just a crack, and the seat next to him was littered with the shriveled bodies of flies. He thought about scooping them up in his cupped palms and bringing them to Nancy — because she liked them, was always doing things with the wings—but before he could do that he caught a glimpse of her entering the barn. She had on her pink winter coat, the puffy one that looked like a bunch of soap bubbles.  Even though it wasn’t cold outside, she had it zipped up all the way so that her chin bulged out and looked like two round ones. She said, “There you are.” She said, “I been looking everywhere for you. Where you been?” He climbed out of the front seat and stood next to the truck with the door half-open, and as she came close she asked what he was doing, and he said to look here. He said, “I found somethin’.”

                He showed her the flies on the passenger seat and then abruptly he remembered and waved for her to follow him. He went around the back of the truck toward a dark corner of the barn. Nancy followed him uncertainly, tiptoeing around the crumbled bird and rabbit shit that littered the floor everywhere, climbing over a small stack of truck tires, over a sprawl of rustling, unruly chicken wire just to get to where he was standing. She asked what he’d found, but Danny didn’t answer. She asked him again. He crouched down and grabbed a nearby piece of wire from the dirt. She dropped down off a crate and came up next to where he crouched and saw at the end of the wire he was jabbing with the matted and fly-infested remains of a chocolate Labrador. “Gross,” she said. She winced and looked away and tugged her winter coat up over her nose.

                Danny poked at the dog softly, first at the shoulder, then at the ribs, then at the belly. She didn’t bother crouching down. Already the smell was making her light-headed, and she didn’t want to get any closer. She peered over his shoulder. The dog’s eyes were black and syrupy and had rolled back into his head. His mouth hung open slightly, enough for her to see how his tongue had shriveled and turned black and purple as a raisin.

                Danny wanted to know whose dog it was, where it’d come from. He lifted up the bitten left ear with the tip of the wire and peered inside and then let it flop down again. Probably just a stray, he decided. He was too young to remember. But Nancy remembered. His name was Spork because they all thought that was a funny word and he was a dog with a funny-looking face. She remembered the rescue lady bringing him inside the house when he was a pup. So long ago. She felt cheated and wondered why it had to feel like it was so long ago. She’d forgotten they even had a dog. Mother and Father, too. They all did.

                “Should we tell Mom?”

                Nancy was quiet and didn’t answer him. Her eyes burned. She felt like crying all of a sudden. She turned and looked out the barn at the doorway-shaped sky—pale blue with just a few clouds smeared over the low horizon—and the grass below, straw-colored and clumped, like islands in the dirt, and at her mother out there still. She was laughing, and from time to time the words she spoke sounded like joyful squeaks. “Yes, I do. I love you so much, she said. All of you so so so much. Even you,  Roger.” She was holding her clenched fist high in the air and letting the seed sprinkle down on the heads of the chickens. There were so many at her feet now that she appeared to be standing on her own feathery cloud. Nancy continued to watch for several moments, half expecting her to rise and float away with the other clouds.

                “No,” she said finally. She turned to Danny again, but his back was turned to her and he didn’t seem to hear what she said. He had the dog’s whiskered cheek pinched in a fold between his left thumb and pointer finger, enough so he could see the upper line of browned teeth, and he was prodding at the tarry gums and pushing the tongue around with the wire, and then with both hands opening the jaw wide, wide as the bones would allow, and it seemed like he aimed to open the jaw wider still until Nancy said no again, louder this time.

                He let the dog’s head fall limply out of his hands, and then wiped them clean on the knees of his pants. He glanced over his shoulder, up into Nancy’s eyes. He was quiet.

                “Come on,” she said. “Help me bury him.”

The Long Ride Home

by Ellen White

I can remember my very first bus ride. It was a big yellow bus that looked like it could seat at least 40 kids. I felt so happy because I knew that the ride was going to be a long one as me and about 15 other kids on my block were bused to a school named Siegel on the south-side of St. Louis. I couldn’t remember ever riding to the south-side and, in fact, I can’t remember riding on a bus or in a car at all until my siblings got their licenses to drive. I, the twelfth of thirteen children, probably wouldn’t have had a place to sit even if we’d had a station wagon. I imagine, with all of us kids, the muffler would’ve been dragging, the back of the car would’ve been weighted down. But that was not the case with the big yellow bus, and so here I was entering the fifth-grade all excited because I knew that the bus ride was going to be long, and I would get to venture into new territory and see new things.

The era was 1969, and out of our household I, my brother Mark, and our baby sister Marilyn were the only ones that had to be bused. The rest of my brothers and sisters were either in high school or had already graduated. The state of Missouri had been ordered to de-segregate its schools. Everyone seemed so angry at that time and didn’t mind showing it. I remember watching the news as people shouted about how they (white people) didn’t want us (black people) in their schools and how it would negatively impact their neighborhoods and properties. As I grew up, I learned that the south-side of St. Louis had always been predominately where the white people lived, the north–side was where I and other African-Americans lived, the east-side was where the really poor black people lived, and out west (suburbs) was basically inhabited by rich white and or “moving on up” George Jefferson type people.

The ride there was fun as I played with my next door neighbor Sharon who was always boisterous about what she was going to do. She wondered why she couldn’t go to the school that was right around the corner from where we lived. I was excited to see stores that I hadn’t known existed like the Five and Dime, J.C. Penney’s, Sears Roebuck and Co. and countless others.  I did notice that I went from seeing all black people to all white people, and I also noticed that the people were looking at the kids on the bus as if we were aliens, and I guess we were just that, aliens. I really didn’t know that there were that many white people all in one place as my mom had kept me totally secluded from the south-side or any side for that matter. I had seen a few white dolls, and once in a while I would see a white person in a grocery store, or maybe walking down the street, but this area was crowded with them, and they were holding up signs and shouting at the bus. I couldn’t clearly understand what they were saying, but I certainly could read and the signs were saying, “N***** go home!” “Go back to your own schools!” And me, who hadn’t encountered prejudices, couldn’t understand why they were shouting and holding up those signs as I was eager to meet new friends and see new things.

When we arrived at Siegel, the principal Mrs. Purdy greeted us and told us her expectations. She also called for all “trans-por-tees” on the school’s loudspeaker when our buses pulled up to take us back on the long ride home. I can’t remember her smiling. She was up in age and looked as though someone had carved her face out of stone. I could tell that she, like the angry people on the streets, didn’t want us there either. Like Principal Purdy, when I first arrived, the students in my classes had those fake smiles on their faces. The kinds of smiles that drop as soon as you’re not looking. On the playground, we all knew our “places” as everyone played with their own kind. There was a fight after school let out between a black boy and a white boy, but I didn’t stick around to watch as I was instructed by my mom to get directly on the bus and stay away from trouble. And besides, I was excited to get on the bus for the long ride home.

I can remember as though it happened yesterday that as the bus was taking us home, I suddenly heard a loud smash, then another and another, and the bus monitor Mr. Robertson  yelled “Everybody get down!” When we were able to lift our heads, I saw blood stains on the windows and on the railings. Some kids were bleeding, crying, screaming, and everything seemed surreal. Our bus had been bricked by the south-side people. The bus pulled over, and I saw one of my neighbors, Michael, whose head was bleeding. Rodney’s lip and jaw had pieces of glass in them. The bus came to a screeching halt and pulled over, and the bus monitor retrieved the first-aid kit and began to help the injured. The windows of the bus looked as though someone had etched a spider’s web in them. The window glasses were thick, but they had been penetrated by anger. I was so scared; I looked for my brother and sister, and they were unharmed. As soon as the bus pulled up to drop us off, I ran home as fast as I could to tell my mom what had just occurred.

Although times have changed somewhat today, when I see a big yellow bus transporting students, I often think of that incident, and how those people didn’t want to get to know us and clearly how they didn’t want us to get to know them. It didn’t change the fact that despite their efforts to discourage us from attending “their school” we still attended it. And contrary to popular demand, I did make friends who were just as anxious to learn about me and my culture as I was to learn about them and theirs.

Today, 42 years later, I view the world now as I did then–not clearly understanding why people are frightened of one another even when they don’t know you. And yet I grasped then and now at the opportunity to get to know other people and their culture.