2016 Issue

2016 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.

2016 Writing Awards and Selections for Print and Web

For her poem “Pigeonhole,” Janie Ensor is the winner of The Metropolitan 2016 Prize for Student Writing, a 13.5-credit-hour tuition remission. The first runner-up, Mekenzie Sutton, is awarded 9 credit hours tuition remission for her poem “Things That Grew Between Us.” The second runner-up, Ally Halley, receives 4.5 credit hours tuition remission for her story “New Beginnings.” 

Pigeonhole and Night One by Janie Ensor

Things That Grew Between Us by Mekenzie Sutton

New Beginnings by Ally Halley

Painted Toenails by Anu Kovilam

Crybaby by Andrew Clegg

Where I’m From by Karina Ortega

Fading Smoke by Tierra Straw

The Hunt by Brian Duroche

Where I’m From by Ariel Lauf

Web Selections

Censorship in the Arts by Benjamin Pearson

Eyes are Keys to the Soul by Lisa Oliverius

Homelessness by Diane Barnett 

I am MCC by Anna Mock

Contributor's Notes

Diane Barnett is originally from Tennessee, but now resides in Omaha with her boyfriend of four years. She is currently seeking a degree in Criminal Justice with Psychology as a minor to obtain a position as a Child Advocate in the courtroom to be the voice for abused children. She is the proud mother of three daughters and grandmother to three grandsons and one granddaughter.

Janie Ensor was raised on a Northern Cheyenne reservation in Montana and moved to Omaha, Nebraska when she was twelve years old. At MCC, she recently completed an Associate of Applied Science, a Certificate of General Management, and a Certificate of Professional Communication. She loves reading fiction novels of any genre and writing free verse narrative poetry, most of which stems from personal experience. Her other interests include playing the piano, being outdoors, and travelling with her husband and two dogs whenever possible. She and her husband also stay busy as foster parents, providing a safe place for kids in need as best they can.

Ally Halley grew up in rural Kansas and lived in Alaska and Turkey before settling in Omaha where she has lived for nearly twenty years. She is a financial analyst, mom, wife, and zombie enthusiast. As a pathological planner, she aspires to spend more time living life than planning it. Now that her sons are grown, she is flitting from one long-forgotten interest to the next. She took lessons to learn how to sing her favorite Italian aria and frequently belts it out, all alone, in her car. Creative writing is her latest foray into unadulterated joy.

Julia Konwinski is a native of South Omaha. Her heart has always been in art. After graduating from Bryan High School, she attended Universal Technical Institute where she completed her Associate of Commercial Arts degree. Julia has utilized her passion for art in the career field through both sign design and glass etching. She is currently attending Metropolitan Community College pursuing an Associate of Arts degree. She aspires to one day have some of her personal artwork displayed in local galleries.

Anu Kovilam is a sophomore at Creighton University, majoring in political science and minoring in philosophy. When she’s not studying for classes or running around campus, she can be found scribbling in her poetry journal, singing Carnatic music, doing social work with the Cortina community, or judging high school speech tournaments she used to compete in as a student of Millard North High School. Poetry in her life serves as respite from the stresses of daily life and is a way in which she develops herself on a personal and artistic level.

Ben Pearson is currently a student at MCC studying theatre with an emphasis on playwriting. He plans on transferring to the University of Nebraska in Omaha in the Fall of 2017 to complete a bachelor’s degree in theatre.

Tierra Strawn was born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska. She first took classes in liberal arts at Metropolitan Community College and is now majoring in two-dimensional studio art at the University of Nebraska in Omaha. Tierra has always loved writing fiction and drawing her own original characters, which has led her to continuing these practices as a future career. She has a passion for telling stories and is currently working on writing more fiction and drawing her own comics in her free time.

KayCee Wise spent the first 11 years of her life in a small town south of San Antonio. She is the youngest of six, but most of her siblings moved out of the house by the time she was seven, so she grew up feeling like an only child. Public school was a struggle for her. She got into trouble for drawing in class or doodling on assignments, but at home, her artistic interests were supported. Her family moved to Fremont, Nebraska when she was eleven. KayCee took her first real art class in the eighth grade. After that, she knew she was meant for art. She is now enrolled in the arts program at Metropolitan Community College. Since attending, she has blossomed artistically and found a clear direction for her work.

Pigeonhole
Janie Ensor

They ask:
“You’re indian? You don’t look indian. Haha.”
I am not Indian. I am Native American.
“My great, great grandmother was full-blood,” I say.
“So you’re not really indian then. You just have a little in you.”
I grew up on the reservation, there
built my bow. My quiver
is filled with insecure arrows.
“Those places look kinda poor,” they claim.
The delicate red
and turquoise bracelet I have
is shining inside my dresser drawer.
They ask:
“You’re indian? Me too! I think. What are you?”
I am not Indian.
“Northern Cheyenne,” I say.
“Cool. Did you ever dance in one of those ‘thingys?’”

They ask:
“Are you sure you’re indian? My skin is darker than yours! Haha.”
I am not Indian. I am Native American.
“I have documentation to prove it,” I say.
“Can you really hunt anywhere, for free?”
Ignore the protective
hide, while I disassemble
my dirty white tepee.
“Do you have an animal name, like in the movies?” they say.
Call me Sitting Duck
for scalping all my great,
great grandmother earned.
From a sacred PowWow,
my jingle dress now clashes
against my Converse shoes.
“Did you ever smoke peyote? Haha,” they chime.
Our words are that vapor.
Feel free to pluck
feathers from my ancestral headdress.

Night One
Janie Ensor

CPS on the caller ID.
I’m checking the list
of questions we were told to ask.
Remember, it’s okay to say no.
“Sorry, we don’t have that information yet.”
Then how do I know if I can help? What is the point
of this list?
“He goes to Jonestown Elementary.
Not sure where his siblings are. Or
the mother.”
I can’t let him sit alone at a shelter.
“We’ll take him in.” What will I say?
“We’re on our way.” What will he do?
Headed ‘home.’
He’s rubbing his brown recluse eyes.
Or wiping away tears.
Ask lots of questions. But don’t push, don’t scare.
“How old are you, buddy?”
“Nine,” says a mousy, high-pitched voice.
Keep smiling. Build trust.
“Nine! You look too tall to be nine.” False.
He stares out the window, searching
for answers. Try
to be funny. Kids like that.
“I hope your feet don’t hang off the end of the bed!”
He didn’t laugh. Of course
he didn’t laugh.

We’re home.
This is where he’ll be staying.
Please don’t ask me how long.
Project Harmony gave him a bag that holds
one set of pajamas,
one outfit for school,
one toothbrush, and shampoo.
It weighs heavy on his slim frame.
Was there nothing else?
Case worker said he was left
on a stranger’s doorstep. Mom told stranger it was
his turn. Guess
it’s my turn now.
His new room.
Bunk bed cloaked by Iron Man.
Shiny Avengers poster on the wall. I hope
he likes it.
“Time for bed. Gotta get rest for tomorrow.”
“Will I see my mom tomorrow?”
The anticipated plea. The dreaded sentence.
How did my foster care manual say to respond to this?
“Sorry buddy, I don’t know. But we’re gonna try
to see her as soon as we can, okay?”
His wet eyes look to Iron Man
for strength, for rest.
I will hold you! Kiss your head of black hair
spiking in all directions and say, “It’ll be all right.”
What I can say is, “Goodnight.”

things that grew between us
Mekenzie Sutton

we started: an all-consuming fire. ended: a slow-sad letting go. a
sigh. no big flailing struggle fight. just: sleeping without touching,
on the couch, in different rooms. wide-mouthed, silent screaming
into pillows, then cordial hellos and tv shows. a final nod to the
corner where we had been carelessly brushed, rotted; both of
us mumbling about cleaning it up. like a horrid season change,
moving closer to where it will feel more normal to sleep without
you than with. a breathtaking sudden feeling of alone whenever
you’re around. ripping, re-ripping the wound, desperately hoping
that somehow, through all the pain, the light will get in, too.

New Beginnings
Ally Halley

“Freedom’s just another word for ‘nothin’ left to lose.’”
–Janice Joplin, “Me and Bobby McGee” 1970

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your anxiety today?” Dr. Shapiro sat behind her mahogany desk, pen poised above a yellow legal pad, and gazed at Alice over her bifocals. Alice Jefferson sat in the wing-backed chair opposite the desk, twisted the spare button of her yellow cardigan, and sighed.

“Better today, I think. A seven, maybe?”

“A seven for you or a seven for a regular person?”

“Oh…for a regular person, probably a nine.” Alice’s green eyes darted around the office as the psychiatrist took notes.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Once I fall asleep, I sleep through the night, but I seem to lie there a long time before drifting off.” Dr. Shapiro scribbled, and Alice’s eyes were drawn to a picture on the opposite wall of the doctor shaking hands with President Bush, the first one.

“How soon before bed are you taking your Xanax?”

“It’s the last thing I do before going to bed.” More scribbling and Alice wondered how much the leather couch next
to the desk set the doctor back.

“Try taking it about an hour before bed and see if that helps, and let’s increase the dosage to two milligrams and see
how you do.”

“Thank you.”

“On your way out, make another appointment for two weeks, and we’ll see how you’re doing.”

Clutching her new prescription in her manicured hand, Alice shuffled out of the office. As an actuary, she knew how risky it was just to live. She spent her days putting the odds of insurance holders’ deaths into numbers. The odds of a 42-year old woman dying at any given time were 1 in 645, but people died in accidents all the time. Some things she could control. She wasn’t going to be a victim of an accidental gun death since she didn’t own a gun, but her odds of dying by gun violence were still 1 in 300. Her fear of water made a death by drowning unlikely, and the most common cause of accidental death, illegal drug overdose, was a nonexistent risk for her. Other dangers, by their very nature, were unavoidable. Her odds of dying in a fall were 1 in 184 and meant that she dreaded stairs and high places. Glass shopping mall railings were a nightmare. A death by car accident had a risk of 1 in 272, but she’d rather trade the control of driving her own car than risk exposure to God knows what germs on public transportation. On the drive home, she listened to the comforting drone of National Public Radio: “In science news, astronomers are tracking the trajectory of a previously unknown comet, dubbedAMB-1973.” The reassuring purr of Robert Siegel explained, “The comet is on a collision course with the sun, and scientists are excited to document this unprecedented event.” Alice lived in a second-floor, one-bedroom condo in downtown Seattle. Lakeside North Condominiums were equidistant from the coast and the touristy Space Needle. Obviously, she would never go up in the Space Needle, but she liked being within walking distance of it. A condo made more financial sense than an apartment, and unlike a house, someone else was in charge of maintenance and yardwork. Financial risk was just another aspect of her life that Alice spent energy mitigating. She never used credit to buy depreciable assets, she maxed out her 401K and maintained a Roth IRA, and she kept six months’ worth of income in an emergency fund. Her home was meticulously organized: a place for everything and everything in its place. Her galley-style kitchen opened into the living room, and she watched Jeopardy! while grilling chicken breasts and steaming broccoli. Alex Trebek was interrupted by the deafening buzz of the Emergency Broadcast System.

An electronic voice came over the speakers: “This is not a test. Please standby for an announcement.” An eagle on a field of blue appeared on the screen for a moment before cutting to the Oval Office. The president sat behind his desk wearing a navy blue suit and an aquamarine tie. “My fellow Americans, earlier today, comet AMB-1973 slammed into the sun. Scientists initially theorized that the comet would be vaporized in the sun’s corona. However, it appears that the impact has accelerated the sun’s life cycle. Scientists now believe that the sun will burn through its hydrogen within the next 24 hours at which point it will begin burning helium and become a red giant that will engulf Mercury, Venus, and, ultimately, Earth. I have consulted with the top scientists of our generation and they tell me that, regrettably, we do not have the technology or resources to prevent this catastrophe.” The president cleared his throat, and a single drop of sweat rolled down his temple: “I am calling on all Americans to shelter in place as we await this event. Spend your time with your loved ones, pray, make your peace with your maker, and may God have mercy on us all.”

Alice sank down on her couch and stared, mouth agape at the now-snowy screen. Was this a prank? How could this happen? She didn’t have family in Seattle. Her parents were both gone, and she was an only child. She had an elderly aunt in Miami but didn’t know how to reach her. She needed to talk to someone and had no idea who to call. She had spent a lifetime protecting herself from risk, and human relationships were a risk she avoided like all the others. She scrolled through the contacts on her phone and stopped at “Boss.” The call did not go through; a recording explained that all lines were busy.

“Well, I can’t stay here. I’ll go insane.” She went to the kitchen and pulled the magnetized grocery list off the refrigerator. Alice sat back down on the couch and started writing.

TO-DO
Go up in the Space Needle
Kiss a stranger
Sing karaoke
Drive a convertible
Set a zoo animal free
Go to Mt. Rainier

As she finalized the list, her living room went dark. No electricity meant that the elevator wouldn’t be an option, and she’d have to take the stairs to get out. She used her phone to see in the hallway and stairwell. Outside her building, the streets were eerily absent of human activity. Two squirrels chased each other across the sidewalk in front of her and scampered up a tree. She headed up Broad Street but didn’t see a soul until the science center. She wasn’t sure what to expect at the Space Needle, but she certainly didn’t expect a party. The fountain in the courtyard was now a reflecting pool without electricity running the pumps. Music was blasting from somewhere, and a dozen or so people were mingling at the entrance. As she climbed the stairs to the ticket window, a young man with blond dreadlocks in board shorts and a Van Halen t-shirt stopped her.

“It’s closed,” he said.

“Thought it might be, but I need to get in there.” Alice looked down at Van Halen’s skateboard.

“Can I borrow that?”

“Sure, but what do you…”

Alice picked up the skateboard and rammed it through theglass doors.

“Whoa. You’re crazy!” Van Halen exclaimed.

“C’mon.” Alice grabbed his hand and looked for the stairs.

Finally, all those hours on the Stair Master were going to be good for something other than giving her the butt of a college co-ed. A sign over the stairs boasted, “Just 848 steps to the best view in Seattle!”

“Perfect.”

Alice could have run straight to the top, but with Van Halen in tow, it was slow going. She was impatient, so the fifteen minutes it took to get to the top seemed a lifetime.

Van Halen was doubled over and gasping, “How are you not even out of breath?”

Alice shrugged. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Awesome.” She wrapped her hands around his head and pulled him toward her. Alice maneuvered to kiss him and…their teeth clinked together.

“Ow! Take it easy, lady!”

“Sorry. I thought we had a moment.”

“Well, we’re here now. Let’s check out that view.”

They walked to the observation deck and gasped. The bay was a glassy blue, and Mount Rainier’s snowy countenance was naively timeless. From the top of the world, she could almost feel hopeful. For a moment, Alice forgot she wasn’t alone.

“I can’t let that stand. I can do better,” she said out loud.

“What?” As she turned toward Van Halen, he cradled her face in his hands and brushed his stubbly lips across hers. She closed her eyes. He smelled like ramen and Cheetos. He smelled like youth and rebellion. Alice opened her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “Let’s go.” Grabbing Van Halen’s hand, she marched back down the stairs. The party was still going in the courtyard, but Alice was on a mission.

“Where are we going?” Van Halen asked.

“I need a convertible.” Alice started back up Broad Street with designs on finding a car with the keys in it. Seattle being Seattle, the pragmatic Seattleite did not drive a convertible. Alice knew the odds of finding one were slim, but she was determined.

“Jackpot!”

Van Halen was confused, “That’s not a convertible.”

“True. It’s better. It’s a Harley with the keys in it.”

“I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle.”

“How hard can it be?” Alice climbed onto the bike and was trying to balance it while on her toes and simultaneously kick up the kickstand.

“Get on.” Van Halen squeezed in behind her, and she turned the key. Nothing happened. “Why isn’t it turning over?”

“Maybe it’s out of gas.” He peered over her shoulder,

“Shouldn’t we be wearing helmets?”

“Seriously? Why?”

Van Halen shrugged. “What’s that button?” he asked as he
gestured to her right hand.

“No idea.” But Alice pushed it, and the bike sprang to life.
“I did it!”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re on a rescue mission! Next stop: Woodland Park Zoo!” From her tippy toes, Alice shifted her weight to pull away from the curb, and felt the bike tipping…and tipping…and tipping! They managed to hop off before getting pinned under it and promptly stood up to look around for witnesses. Luckily, their only company was a squirrel.

Van Halen threw up his hands. “Now what?”

“Now we fall back to Plan C.”

“Plan C?”

“Yeah, this way.”

Alice started trotting back to her house. They climbed into her car and headed north. With the best traffic conditions, the drive to the zoo was twelve minutes. With no traffic, they should make it in ten. “Just enough time. How do you feel about Gloria
Gaynor?”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Alice synched her phone to her car stereo and took a deep breath.

At first I was afraid
I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live
Without you by my side
But then I spent so many nights
Thinking how you did me wrong
And I grew strong
And I learned how to get along
And so you’re back
From outer space
I just walked in to find you here
With that sad look upon your face
I should have changed that stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I had known for just one second
You’d be back to bother me…

“Hey!” Van Halen smiled, “I know this song!” and he chimed in. They sang all the way to the zoo. The parking lot was empty, and they were able to drive right up to the entrance. They hurdled the turnstiles and approached the first exhibit, the African Savana. It housed the zebras, giraffes, and ostriches.

“How do we get in?” Van Halen wondered aloud.

“There must be an employee access point.” Alice started searching the trail for a “Zoo Staff ” sign. Twenty yards west of the main exhibit entrance, she found a wooden gate partially hidden by bushes with a “Restricted” sign on it.

“Over here!”

Van Halen came up behind her. “How do we open it?”

“Are you tall enough to reach over the top of the gate? Can you feel around for a latch?”

He leaned up against the gate for maximum reach and fumbled blindly.

“Got it!” Alice heard a click, and the gate swung towards them.

“Great, now open it as wide as it will go.” They stood out of the way on either side of the gate, expecting a stampede of animals running for freedom, but nothing happened. They peered around the gate and saw only more bushes.

“Where are the animals?”

The animals were grazing in the exhibit, acclimated to their simulated environment and unaware of the opportunity for escape. Alice entered the exhibit to try and herd the zebras toward the gate but was blocked by a deep, concrete aqueduct that served as a secondary barrier to keep the animals contained. It wouldn’t deter the humans from getting to the animals, but there was no way they could coax them back over it. 

“I didn’t plan for this.”

“You had a plan?”

Alice laughed, “Okay, not really. I just thought this would be easier.” She pulled the list out of her pocket.

TO-DO
Go up in the Space Needle
Kiss a stranger
Sing karaoke
Drive a convertible
Set a zoo animal free
Go to Mt. Rainier

“Well, we don’t have time to deal with it now. How do you feel about a road trip?”

“I got nothing better to do.”

The trek to Mt. Rainier was two hours to the south, so they stopped at Marketime Foods for some supplies. The grocery store was abandoned but unlocked. Without electricity, they had to force the automatic doors open manually. They grabbed only the essentials: bottled water, blankets, marshmallows, Twizzlers, Milk Duds, sunflower seeds, Cheetos, and beef jerky. They munched in silence for the first half of their journey as Van Halen struggled with his sun visor. Alice was struck by the ordinariness of the sunset. Could it be a mistake? Shouldn’t it look different if it was dying?

“So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Mt. Rainier.”

“Why? Wouldn’t that just get us closer to it? Shouldn’t we go underground or something?”

“Underground won’t be any safer. At least the mountain is a
beautiful and serene place to be when it happens.”

“Fair enough.”

The park entrance was unmanned but had an information board with trail maps. For  practicality’s sake, they picked the closest, shortest trail on the map. Spray Park Trail was only three miles long, one-way. As they unloaded their meager provisions, Alice regretted not bringing backpacks and flashlights. The twilight was still lingering when they set out on the trail, but once they entered the forest, their progress was slowed by the darkness and uneven terrain. The trail in the forest was an obstacle course of rocks and jutting tree roots. Their eyes adjusted to the darkness somewhat, but they had to tread carefully to keep from falling or turning an ankle. The wilderness around them came alive in the dark. Alice could identify some of the music bouncing off her eardrums: the rhythmic whir of cicadas, a hooting owl in conversation with a lady owl barely within hearing distance, and a pack of coyotes that sounded uncomfortably close. She didn’t recognize the throaty song of the bullfrogs, but their contribution to the cacophony indicated the trail was close to a water source. Alice estimated they had been hiking for an hour when she started to hear the waterfall. Soon after, the forest cleared, and they were in a meadow at the base of the mountain. The glaciers on its peak reflected the moonlight, and the meadow had a glorious view of the spectacle; they decided to set up camp here. They spread out the blankets and blatantly flouted the prohibitions against campfires that were printed on the map and multiple signs throughout the park.

“What are they going to do,” Alice snickered to herself, “arrest us?”

Dinner was beef jerky and toasted marshmallows. Mosquitoes feasted on the pair of campers. Alice’s stomach was unused to a convenience-food diet, and it let her know it. As they lay back on the blankets and stared up at the heavens, she grimaced through stomach cramps. She was exhausted but conflicted about whether she should try to sleep. Should she sleep to reduce the agony of waiting or stay awake in case it happened during the night so she could be ready for it? Was it better to meet it eyes wide open or to not see it coming? She couldn’t decide. Ultimately, fatigue made the decision for her, and she drifted off to thoughts about aerial views, motorcycle mishaps, and zebras. Alice felt that she had just fallen asleep when she was awakened by the stifling heat. The forest had grown quiet except for a strong east wind. Directly above their heads, she could still see stars, but the horizon in all directions had an ominous red glow. Van Halen was awake now and coughing. The air was so stifling that it was hard to breathe. They ran to the river in search of relief. Totally submerged, with only faces above the water, they watched their last sunrise. As the red glow encroached on their watery refuge, they were momentarily dazzled by the opalescent colors of the burning atmosphere. When the solar wind rolled across the meadow, Alice and Van Halen were instantly vaporized, their bodies reduced to atoms. The sun scorched the land and boiled the oceans dry. As the sun absorbed the moon, Mars became the new Mercury, and 342 million miles away, orbiting Jupiter, Europa’s frozen seas had begun to thaw

Painted Toenails
Anu Kovilam

What
I want you to see
is a pretty side of me
something like
a shade of Deep Blue,
something that expresses my complexity.
Are you looking?

The brush strokes are
petite, careful, not
too loud,
too grand,
but something to
make your head turn.

And after a hard day,
when all that’s with me
is my charcoal soul,
my nocturnal tears
will crawl down my cheeks,
down my
Never-Quite-There body,
until they reach my toes,
wash off that Deep Blue
and remind me of
What’s really there.

Sometimes I forget.
Maybe that’s why I’m crying.

Crybaby 

Andrew Clegg

Every once in awhile, a person will take an action that
largely defines who they happen to be at that time, or who they
are going to be in the future, or at least, who they want to be.
These actions can be deliberate and even artificial, but most of
them, I think, tend to materialize organically within the space
of a moment. I experienced more than a few of these moments
throughout my childhood, and almost all of them defined me as
a crybaby.
For instance, when I showed up for the first day of second
grade with an embarrassing lack of knowledge on the subject of
how to read words, I put my head on my desk and began to bawl
my eyes out. In the fourth grade, I slipped on a piece of paper,
landed flat on my butt, and promptly burst into tears. When, in
the sixth grade, I found that I had lost my favorite pencil in the
world, I threw an absolute crying fit (I suspect to this day that it
was stolen by my “friend” T.J.). This sort of thing happened with
enough frequency that the notion that I was a crybaby became
widely accepted as fact among my classmates, and I, unfamiliar
with the concept of self-esteem and unaware of my capacity for
change, accepted it as well.
There was one moment, however, that would, above all the
others, solidify my crybabyhood for years to come. This moment
took place on a summer afternoon in the year 2006.
Despite the events that were about to take place, the
afternoon was a tranquil one and possessed a quality that would
easily satisfy any child’s boyish curiosity. The summer rain had
left puddles perfect for jumping in, and the almost pleasant scent
of dead worms lingered in the air. In such basketball-friendly
weather, I would have been a fool not to have found myself on
the court outside of Dodge Elementary, losing to T.J. in a game
of Horse.
DONK! My ball had just bounced from the backboard, off
into some ridiculous and unintended direction.
“You suck at this,” T.J. commented.
“I know,” I stated without disdain.
After a few more minutes of our playing Horse and
accumulating a few more letters, Missy and her gang of she                                                                                           friends arrived. Missy lived next door to me, and up until this
point, had generally greeted me with a smile and a wave. It
became clear, moments after her arrival, however, that such
niceties were not on her agenda. She and her companions
expelled a series of disparaging remarks about my basketball
skills, my hairstyle, and my bodily stature.
“Go away,” I said. “Leave me alone. That’s not nice.” Such
foolish suggestions were beyond acknowledgement. Effortlessly,
my basketball was swiped from my hands by one of Missy’s
followers.
It was at this point that T.J. had made the decision to leave.
And so, in the midst of my feeble and ultimately fruitless
attempts to reclaim my basketball, Missy stepped forward, ready
to deliver her final crushing word. An arrogant smirk danced
across her face. In a tank top and sweatpants, she somehow
managed to maintain her intimidating demeanor. Her cold,
unfeeling eyes remained still, as she spoke three words that would
continue to haunt me throughout my adolescence: “You’re a
nerd.”
I collapsed in on myself.
Despair gripped my body. I couldn’t breathe. Tears pooled
in my eyes and snaked down my face. I crumpled to the ground
and hugged my legs to my chest, effectively forming a pathetic
weeping ball. I was peer to no one but the half-dried worm
on the pavement next to me, pitifully inching its way out of a
puddle.
Why would she have said that? I thought.
What’s wrong with me?
I’m a big, stupid nerd. It must be true.
Upon witnessing such a display of hilarious weakness
and insecurity, there was nothing for the girls to do but laugh
at the situation that they’d found themselves in and enjoy the
absurdness of the small sobbing boy who had suddenly fallen at
their feet.
Within the deplorable clump on the ground, something
was happening. Despair was being transmuted into pure seething
rage.
“LEAVE. ME. ALONE!” my anger demanded of them.
“No,” said Missy, sadistically delighted with herself.
Without hesitation, I betrayed my partner, the worm. (The
poor thing was still clinging to its last amounts of life-preserving
sliminess.) I retrieved it from the ground, and hurled it toward
my tanktop-clad oppressor with all of my meager might. The
sight of Missy screeching and backing away from the airborne
invertebrate was quite satisfying.
“Ha! You’re scared of worms! You’re a girl!” I sputtered at
her in a tempest of tears and spit, hoping that perhaps her friends
would all laugh at her for a change.
That was not to be the case, however. Quickly recovering
from the temporary invasion of her dignity, she placed herself
directly in front of me so she was inches from my face, and
her stern expression dominated my view. “Do you want me to
strangle you right now, boy?” she threatened.
Entirely convinced that she was capable of strangling me,
I trembled. Fear, woe, and anger surged from within my core. It
was a bit more than I felt I could wrestle with, in both emotional
and physical senses. I began to cry even more (if such a thing
were possible) and ran towards home.
“Um yeah, and I think I’ll be keeping your basketball!” she
yelled after me.
I cried the whole way home, which was impressive
considering it was a fifteen-minute walk. The few strangers
that I walked past either gave me an odd look or tried to look
somewhere else.
The moment passed. Left in its wake was a boy who knew
exactly who he was: a walking flight of stairs, a social outcast, the
nerd, the crybaby.

Where I’m From
Karina Ortega

In the manner of George Ella Lyon
I am from my iPad
from Funimation and Sally Hansen.
I am from bricks and cement.
(Strong, musty smell,
trapped underneath.)
I am from the cherry blossoms
the marigolds
whose colors brighten the altar of our dead.
I’m from tamales and dark hair,
from Jose and Cecilia.
I’m from the stubborns
and the always late,
From Speak up! And Quiet down!
I’m from the rosaries’
Prayers to the Virgin Mary
and Sunday church day.
I’m from Mexico and Omaha,
tacos and atole.
From the sight my grandfather lost
to the liquor,
the leg my father injured
to put bread on the table.
On the wall an old picture
a forgotten face,
a distant memory
taken too early from me.
I am from the hardships
Lived by my parents
So I could have a better chance.

Fading Smoke
Tierra Strawn

In Remembrance of Grandpa
A new day approaches as sunlight touches the top leaves of
the Buraga trees. Not far below the edge where the leaves stop on
one of these 3,000-foot tall trees is a nest inside the trunk. The
sun is able to shine just enough for light to get in, but it dares not
get any farther than a little bit past the entrance.
Mikyi has just woken up and is already whining to be fed.
Ee comes and picks her up, surrendering her fingers over as
substitute pacifiers. She walks over to find Roro sitting near the
edge of the nest, doing his usual routine. “Ugh. How many times
must I say it?” Ee speaks in an irritated way. “You really need
to stop making smoke. It will be the end of you, and there are
Young living here as well.”
“Leave it be. The Young will be fine. And please, leave the
choosing of my end to me,” Roro responds calmly.
“Věn póroma. (You are far too simple of an Old.)”
“That I will be proud of.”
A few feet away, listening in on the conversation, is Kikyáre
hidden underneath a bed of autumn leaves. He’s been awake
since right before dawn, watching with curiosity. He waits for
the clear as Ee walks away. In the next moment, he pounces out
of the leaves and edges ever so slowly on all fours towards Roro.
Kikyáre is mystified by the smoke being made as it gently floats
up in the beginning and fades away at the end.
In the middle, it looks as if it shifts into shapes and forms
like the clouds in the sky. Kikyáre lies down on his stomach and
watches as the smoke changes from a curled snake to a dancing
hand. Taking his own hand, Kikyáre reaches out in hopes of
touching the shapeless figure. He moves slowly and with caution.
Only inches away, Roro stops him in his movements. “It’s
better not to disturb the smoke or else it will fade away faster,”
he speaks. Roro carefully puts down his smoke stick as Kikyáre
pulls his hand away, then goes back to his smoke-making.
This calm being, full of understanding, always seems to know
what’s all right. He then turns his head to find Kikyáre wanting
to ask a question.
“Why do you keep making smoke every day?” he says.
“I do it to see the stories it tells. You’ve noticed how it shifts
and morphs into new forms, correct? The smoke has a way of
keeping my imagination from dying.”
Enchanted and somewhat taken in by Roro’s words,
Kikyáre silently wishes he could make his own smoke to tell his
own stories. Glancing up, he asks out loud, “What if I made my
own smoke?”
“That is not what many would call much of a good idea.”
“Why is that?”
“Making smoke may seem well and good, but it comes
with great consequences. Look closely, Kikyáre. Your Roro did
not always look this way. There was a time when his face was not
bathed in ash. His teeth were not as golden as autumn leaves. His
gums were not as dark as a moonless night sky. When I began
making smoke, I was barely no longer a Young. Plus many other
things with it, I have taken on many consequences. Heed every
word that I say: Enjoy your time as a Young while you still bare
no burdens. Such sufferings are only for those who are Old. I tell
you to live life long and well.”
This aged being, speaking as if he were a Wise, says his
piece with only concern for the curious Young. Kikyáre heeded as
told, and now he understands. Making smoke comes with a price,
sometimes even a dire one.
Days later, a morning comes when Roro is no longer sitting
at the edge of the nest. The night before, a death ceremony had
taken place. Roro could no longer stay amongst the living. The
day is now silent, but it is an empty silence. Kikyáre has lost one
of the only reassuring comforts he ever had in the world.
He sits at the edge and stares into space when Ee walks
over to him. He turns to find her upset and glaring with
disapproving eyes. “Is everything all right?” Kikyáre asks. For an
almost everlasting moment, there is a pause.
“I told him,” Ee then answers. “I told him it would be his
end, but no. He was too carefree and wouldn’t listen.”
“Ee…?”
“I’ll tell you this, and you’d be best to listen. Making smoke
can have no good come out of it at all. Whatever mystified
nonsense your Roro told you about smoke-making, you wash
it completely from your mind. I forbid you from ever making
smoke, even when you do become an Old.”
After her scolding words pass, Ee jumps from the nest to
go hunting. Mikyi is left soundfully asleep until she gets back.
Kikyáre is still at the edge and stares back out into space. Many
thoughts flood his mind of everything that has happened. He is
confused mostly about the words his Ee had said. Why would
she say such things, he thinks. Did Ee not like Roro? She always
did speak roughly to him.
Kikyáre begins remembering the times when he would sit
next to Roro and watch as the smoke floated up and faded into
clear air. It would form like clouds and sometimes come in puffs,
but now it won’t ever happen again. Kikyáre is alone and has no
tears left from last night to shed. There would be no more Roro
sitting at the edge of the nest, no more smoke-making. All the
smoke is gone. Kikyáre knows it well enough because it all faded
away.

The Hunt
Brian Duroche

I left camp two hours before sunrise. There was a light fog
and mist in the air that felt refreshing as I trekked one and a
half miles to my destination. As I found my way through the
dark—stumbled twice and did not break my neck—I arrived at
the tree that I had cleared out for my hunt days earlier. This site
overlooked a rushing freshwater stream, where mountainous
terrain glistened with bright green, gold, and brown colors on
the far side and open, sun-driven golden meadows to my back. I
picked this spot because it was the only crossing within a mile in
each direction to access the other side of this small river. There
was a game trail, fifteen feet wide, that ran from the far side of
the creek to the other and directly under my setup in the tree I
chose. This gave me the opportunity to catch the bears coming or
going.
My view on trophy hunting big game was not always about
the kill or the size of the mount hanging on the wall. It was not
about the amount of meat that was packed into the freezers after
the hunt. It was definitely not about the bragging rights that so
many people embedded into their own small little minds to boost
their egos about their successes as hunters. My view on trophy
hunting big game is about the experience, the adventure, and the
bond created with nature as a whole. This was my experience, and
this experience was real.
I acquired the nickname “Cat” before I was in kindergarten,
and as I spiked up into the tree and got settled in for my
morning hunt, the name seemed to fit. As the damp fog started
to lift and the cooling mist diminished, the sun began to crest the
horizon from my back, and the world of wildlife slowly emerged.
The birds were singing. The coyotes were howling. The grouse
began cooing—when suddenly all hell broke loose, loud crashes
in the woods all around me, and a small moose came busting by
directly under my tree running at full speed. The next thing I saw
was a gray wolf in full pursuit and gaining ground. The rest of the
pack appeared, and four more wolves were involved in the hunt.
The first thought that ran through my mind was, “Damn, it is
nice to be perched up in a tree.”
As the morning was coming to an end, I found myself
admiring two eagles circling overhead in their majestic flight.
Suddenly, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I
slowly turned my head to see a good-sized black bear on the
mountainside across the creek. The bear was 200 yards out and by
no means within bow range. I was on the bear, and for the next
six hours, that bear had my full attention.
After several hours of my watching this magnificent animal
roam around on the mountainside across the creek, the bear
finally started coming down towards the crossing. The stream was
full of salmon and was roughly a thirty-yard shot. I knew it was
dinner time and just a matter of minutes before the bear would
be within bow range, but time was working against me because it
was getting late in the afternoon. Darkness was approaching fast.
It was close to sunset, and for thirty minutes I had the bear
within twenty-five yards, but this animal would not give me a
clean shot. I kept waiting. The next thing I knew, it was too dark
to shoot. I watched the silhouette of the bear at near dark walk
directly under my tree stand and go about 25 to 30 feet and stop.
The bear started walking in circles. My heart sank. Instantly, I
thought, “This cannot be happening.” This bear was bedding
down. As I watched the bear smash the brush and grass down
in a ten-foot circle, rolling around in it like it was scratching its
back, I knew full well that it was making its bed. Now, I have a
bear bedding down below my tree that I am hunting out of in
pitch darkness—this was not a good scenario.
There I was in the middle of nowhere in Alaska. I was
a mile and a half from camp. I was up a tree with nowhere to
go but up. Going down was not an option at this point. I was
hanging out in a tree for the night. I felt pretty good about the
predicament I was in, though, because the wind was in my favor.
I had a Ruger fifty-caliber sidearm packed full of 150-grain wadcutter                                                                              hollow-point bullets, a quiver holding eight Terminator
expandable bone-crushing broadheads with a two and a half
inch diameter cutting ratio, and I was sporting a fourteen-inch
military issue survival knife to get me by. I was feeling somewhat
confident as I assessed the danger I was facing.
As the night dragged on, I heard the bear breathing and at
times snoring as it wrestled around on the ground trying to stay
comfortable. The smell of this animal was horrendous. The air
was full of a musky, damp, and moldy aroma entangled with a
twist of excrement and urine. I found myself thinking, “Do bears
shit in the woods? No, bears shit on themselves.” It was around
three-thirty in the morning when my leg went to sleep. As I
quietly maneuvered to wake up the dead limb attached to my
hip without waking the sleeping bear below me, a branch caught
on my holster and released the restraint snap, which allowed my
sidearm to fall to the ground twenty-two feet below. As I heard
the sound of my pistol hit the ground, I immediately heard the
bear growl and thrash around in fury. My heart started to beat
ninety miles a second. Bears climb trees. My adrenalin kicked in
because I was sure that I was going to have to go into battle. I
was at full alert; I listened while the bear ran in all directions as it
went ballistic in the dark. The bear acted like it was in protection
mode. Surprisingly, everything settled down, and it seemed that I
might live to see another sunrise.
As dawn approached and visibility was on the horizon, a
slight breeze sent chills straight to the bone. The bone-chilling
breeze worked perfectly in my favor and kept me downwind
from the bear. I thrived on these extreme conditions because it
seemed the cold awakened my senses, and the discomfort kept
me alive. As the horizon filled with light, I tried not to think
about how bad I had to piss. I could make out a dark spot on the
ground below moving around. I slowly reached out with my left
hand to grab my bow that was hung on a branch next to me in
the tree.
I was overcome with excitement as I fletched an arrow on
my bow string in the early light of dawn. With bow in hand, I
detected the bear, and I knew the animal was within range to
take my shot. The sun was coming up, and legal shooting time
had arrived. I was at full draw with my opportunity to harvest
this animal when I saw movement on my left. I shifted my eyes
and saw two young bear cubs that had wandered out of the
brush. The cubs ran straight toward the bear below me that I had
dead in my sights. I paused to take this all in.
The danger level at this point had just risen tremendously.
There were now three sets of eyes and six nostrils that could
possibly detect my presence, so I kept the mother bear in my
sights and was ready to let my arrow take flight at any time. The
mother bear walked up the path toward the cubs and eventually
got a safe distance away; finally, I could let off of my bow and
watch nature at its finest.
The mother bear met the cubs halfway at first glance. She
began to lick them with her enormous tongue. She pushed them
back a good two feet with each swipe. She was giving them their
morning bath. I sat and watched nature in its fullest and admired
the beauty of it all as I had done on every hunt I had ever
been on over my lifetime. I watched the family of bears as they
wandered off into the wilderness and out of my sight.

Where I’m From
Ariel Lauf

I am from green glass ashtrays targeted at Mommy.
From Camel Cash
And nips from his peppermint schnapps bottle on a blustery
December afternoon.
I am from hallways filled with deafening rage, juxtaposed with
lush ripe gardens,
Filled with life.
I am from shiny new gifts from Grandma,
And secondhand replacements from the pawnshop when things
went badly.
I am from the scent of big breakfasts on peaceful Sunday
mornings,
Eggs and potatoes and bacon nestled snug in a warm tortilla.
I am also from the scent of spent cigarettes and used beers on the
bad mornings,
As I perpetually sift through the wreckage.
I am from fingers worked to the bone, self preservation, and
survival.
I am from grit and gravel, the sugar and the s**t, the Hell located
just outside the corridor into heaven.
I am from the last mile in a grueling march of survival,
I can see the red ribbon stretched across the finish line,
Demanding to be broken in retribution.

Censorship in the Arts

by Benjamin Pearson

Note to My Readers

This paper was written to investigate a controversial issue in the arts: censorship. I am interested in theater and love studying diverse art forms in college. I had initially been opposed to censorship, since I had sympathized with artists who had to alter their works under the pressure of higher authorities. When I began my search for sources, I found a few anti-censorship articles and decided to interview Professor Scott Working, my theater instructor, expecting him to share my ideas about artistic suppression. However, his interview covered the numerous benefits of controlling the spread of dangerous ideas, so I decided to rework my entire paper to expound upon the issue from the opposite perspective. The research for the paper was interesting, and I was amazed by how vulgar and distasteful some artists could be with their works. Censorship has been a part of human civilization since the first art forms developed, and naturally many artists detest the idea of having their works changed or limited to a specific audience. This paper will illuminate restrictions are a necessary evil in American culture. The power of free speech only extends so far, and some restrictions placed on artists can actually help them to create stronger pieces that can draw in audiences. Now, I want to clarify that I do not think that bowdlerization should be the ultimate and unquestionable solution for controversial art. The most important way to avoid situations that might result in a work being changed is to understand both the artist’s and the censor’s viewpoints, and hopefully come to a solution that satisfies both parties. I also do not support the government silencing art, as I feel that the decision for censoring a work should be made by concerned individuals as parents or corporations. This paper helps people look at censorship from a different perspective and how to confront the problems associated with it in the future.

No aspiring artist wants to see his or her project changed by the warping power of censors. Censorship can occur anywhere to almost anyone who creates art for a living. Advocates of diverse art pieces vehemently argue about the presence of censorship and its restrictive effects. While many artists believe that restrictions are a destructive force that limits their creativity, thorough research and analysis indicates that censorship can be essential in helping to protect minors, to eliminate unnecessary provocative material, and helping artists to empathize with their audiences.

A History of Censorship:

According to Funk & Wagnall’s New World Encyclopedia, censorship is the “official supervision and control of the ideas that are circulated among the people within a society.” It also states that censorship is “intended to protect the family, the church, and the state.”  Artistic editing has been present in human civilization for as long as there has been subversive art.  The ancient Greek philosopher Plato was one of the first prominent people to write in support of censorship; ironically, his mentor, Socrates, had been opposed to the restrictions of his own works. Plato believed that art should imprint valuable lessons upon audiences, and any art that did not meet these standards should be banned.

The United States has had a long and varied history with censorship in the arts. Prior to the Civil War, abolitionist literature had been banned in the South in order to prevent slaves from instigating riots (“Censorship”). After the war, censorship increased significantly thanks to the efforts of a New York dry goods clerk named Anthony Comstock. He made numerous efforts to eliminate obscenity and restrict access to materials regarding abortion and contraception which eventually inspired the passage of the Anti-Obscenity Law of 1873 (Freivogel).  In 1906, Comstock helped to instigate a raid against the Art Students League in New York for its use of nude models (Freivogel). Censorship was also strongly in force during the Great Depression, as many artists came under attack for alleged Communist themes in their artwork. In 1933, a massive mural made by Diego Rivera in Rockefeller Center was destroyed due to it containing an image of Vladimir Lenin, and artists working for the federally-financed Public Works of Art Project came under attack for supposedly including left-wing agendas on murals on the Coit Tower in San Francisco in 1934 (Freivogel). The Motion Picture Association of America developed a rating system based around the content of films in 1968 in response to public complaints urging for greater control. The recording industry would implement a similar parental advisory rating in 1985, while television programs would eventually be subjected to a rating system in 1997 in order to restrict underage viewing of certain shows (“Censorship”). Filmmakers have been limited due to the effects of these systems since they prevent them from showing indecent material or, more importantly, from gaining a wider audience. But these people are also able to get away with projecting mature content that would not have been possible years ago, and they can tailor their work in a way that can attract and entertain the expected audience instead of worrying if someone underage might be exposed to the project.

Censorship in the World Today:

Censorship has been enforced continuously for years in nearly every form of media. The proponents and enforcers of censorship range from producers, media watchdog groups, concerned parents, religious organizations, and audiences repulsed by offensive material.  The motives and reasoning for censoring among these groups can vary significantly with some considering offensive material sacrilegious, while others believe that countries like America are too permissive of indecent, audience-alienating art. On the other hand, several artists also believe that art should be free from the limitations placed upon them by censors, and that editing a project for the masses dilutes the impact and range of their art. Dominic Cooke, a prominent English theatre playwright and director, says “Artists have a right—and sometimes a duty—to offend their audiences.” Cooke believes that art will stagnate and cease to exist or remain relevant the more it is censored. Many of these artists state that the First Amendment protects their projects from artistic suppression, and that art is protected by freedom of speech. The legality and expanse of censorship remains a strong subject for debate.

Censorship Protects Minors:

One major topic of the debate concerns the issues of banned books in public schools. Some librarians argue that more controversial books need to be added to libraries in order to celebrate diversity. Opponents to this notion say that an educational facility is not the place for the sharing of potentially dangerous materials, and if students so desired they can find readings on their own elsewhere via a public library or the Internet. Regardless of the debate, several school libraries still participate in selective censorship to this day. According to a study conducted by researchers from the University of Idaho Library in 2014 for the Library Philosophy and Practice, a majority of high school libraries in the state of Idaho possess “a formal written policy” for controversial books and rarely deviate from it, showing an intense faith in the system (Monks, Gaines, and Marineau).  Another study in 2002 conducted by School Library Media Research revealed that eighty-two percent of the one hundred Texas high schools selected engaged in some form of self-censorship, regardless of a challenged book’s praise from critics or the number of awards won (Coley).  The decision to ban a book from schools is traditionally made by the school board; however, arguments have been made attempting to promote parental controls instead.

Huckleberry Finn:

            A frequently banned book in schools is Mark Twain’s classic novel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The book takes place in the southern United States during a particularly racist time in history, and racial slurs abound throughout the novel. An often-neglected aspect of the story is the fact that the titular protagonist is not racist, and only uses demeaning language because he has grown up hearing that talk. Some librarians are aware of the satire and encourage students to read the book for English classes, while others believe that the constant derogatory language sullies a perfectly fine book. In the article “Counterpoint: The Value of Censorship,” author Brian Wilson (presumably no relation to the Beach Boy) explains why the decision to ban the novel is short sighted: “Although racism is understood now to be reprehensible, it cannot be denied as a part of human history. Therefore, to ban The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn from America’s schools because it uses a demeaning term for African Americans is wrong.” In other words, banning a novel just because of the content can ignore the historical or social impact that a book can have on an audience, especially school students who need to learn about the world around them without having sugarcoated information.  Educators need to evaluate whether the book can appropriately teach teenagers about relevant issues like racism before banning it. Thus, school boards should exercise caution when selecting books to be banned.

Parents Should Take an Active Stance:

The University of New Hampshire Professor Christina Healey and Tracey M. DiLascio, a graduate of the Boston School of Business, argue that parents should be responsible for choosing whether their children are exposed to potentially dark subject matters in the media, like gratuitous violence or sex. In their jointly-written article titled “Counterpoint: Book Censorship can be Justified in Some Cases, “they say that “parents are the primary educators of their children, and have the right to restrict what their children are exposed to in public schools and libraries.” Healey and DiLascio believe that parents should make efforts to find suitable alternatives to controversial books to help educate their children. Children and teenagers are significantly influenced by the arts, and any books that can be found in a school library or read for a class should be educational and help speak to minors during an important stage of their growth. Concerned parents should evaluate books with controversial content closely before deciding if their children are ready to handle the themes that are present, as they understand their children more than any educator ever will.

Censorship Helps Remove Provocative Material:

Censorship can be useful in helping to remove scandalous imagery or scenes from projects that can function entirely without them. Professor Scott Working, a theater instructor at Metropolitan Community College, explained a situation at the Blue Barn Theater where a colleague of his wrote a play called Anti-Porn. The playwright had wanted the actors to actually perform certain scenes in the nude, which certainly would not be allowed in most establishments and was racy even for the Blue Barn. Anti-Porn was eventually censored instead of being banned outright because the play contained several poignant scenes without nudity, such as a senator’s speech about porn stars. Working has approved of the final version of the production: “I’m not anti-nudity, I just believe that there is a time and a place for it.” This was an excellent example of an artist having their work changed, but preserving elements that can still work in lieu of the controversy.

No Guts, No Glory!

Movies are also often censored in various ways during the production/post production phase or when aired for television.  Some notable people or companies edit the theatrical cut of a film in order to censor unwanted content. Pepsi once created an edited version of the Civil War drama film Glory intended for release in public schools. The edited movie removed several graphic depictions of violence and bloody scenes; however, the film is not really changed that much. The central themes of sacrifice and the persistence in the face of adversity still resonate without the gory imagery of the original cut, and the historical aspects of the movie, as well as the overall triumphant yet poignant tone, can be shown in schools to help educate and inspire students.  Professor Working once said something similar when he said that funerals for soldiers do not show the charred corpse if they died horribly: “We can describe the tragedies a soldier went through without showing the horrific battlefield. You show them with honor.”

The First Amendment:

Another topic for discussion regarding censorship is the debate whether censoring art violates the First Amendment. Some artists claim that any form of censorship in America violates the First Amendment, which guarantees free speech. What many of these artists forget is that not everyone can say anything they want with complete immunity. The Supreme Court ruled that accusatory language that is used “as to create a clear and present danger that they will bring about the substantive evils that Congress [or the state] has a right to protect”(“Censorship”). Even journalists have to avoid publishing certain statistics and other information during wartime; leaks of precious military secrets are considered acts of treason because they can be seized and abused by opportunistic terrorists or enemy nations (Witherbee and Cushman).

Amy Witherbee, a professor of English at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, says “for everything that needs to be said, there are always those that should never be.” She argues that the nation needs censorship in order to encourage free thought, not just free speech. Many artists use obscene images and materials as a crutch to shock and offend audiences rather than creating any material of substance or thought.  They use everything in their power to subvert an audience’s expectations rather than on focusing on using elements to enhance the quality of their art. The columnist Ben Shapiro says that the abundance of subversive art is polluting the culture of America and that artists must function within certain boundaries if they are going to work: “All rights have reasonable limits. The right to bear arms does not include a right to own a nuclear weapon. The right to free exercise of religion does not include a right to ritualistic child sacrifice.” Artists have to adapt to this line of thinking, otherwise their work will suffer without gaining an audience that will accept and appreciate it.

Pornography:

Professor Witherbee believes that the level of violence in the media has a profound damaging effect on young people. In the article “Counterpoint: Sometimes Censorship is Necessary” co-authored with C. Ames Cushman, the effects of pornography on both children and adults were analyzed and evaluated.  Minors often learn many valuable lessons from the media, so the influence that porn can have on their psychological processes can be especially dangerous. The research indicated that “children exposed to pornography through the Internet or other popular media tend to model their own behavior and expectations of the opposite gender on the often bizarre and abusive sexual dynamics they see” (Witherbee and Cushman). Adults regularly viewing porn are not exempt from its influences either; as studies show that these people tend to be more violent and sexually abusive to their spouses (Witherbee and Cushman). Porn arguably has the worst effect on women, who often lose self-esteem or are abused for not complying with the degrading images presented in this medium (Witherbee and Cushman). Whether porn constitutes art can still be debated, it is undeniable that the media can instill dangerous values, and that these provocative materials must be limited to stop the spread of caustic influence.

Censorship Helps Artists Understand Audiences:

Censorship can be vital in helping artists anticipate and empathize with their audiences. Professor Working described an incident that occurred while he was arranging a Day of the Dead presentation for a local church in Omaha. He had his students write stories from the perspectives of deceased people, and one student decided to use expletives in his speech. Working figured that this would provoke a hostile reaction from the average churchgoers, so he talked with the student and convinced him to change it. A potential scandal was narrowly averted, and Working argued that the entire event was a matter of time and place. He explained that artists should “have an expectation up front of who the audience is…” before creating a story or work of art, as some places, like the Blue Barn Theater, might be more lenient towards a raunchy or risqué production as opposed to a house of worship. This argument ruled that producers can have the right to censor a controversial production.

“Blasphemy or Art?”:

Art that is critical of religions generally tends to receive the most venomous responses and demands to be banned. A study performed at Western Illinois University studied the effects of art that fused sacred symbols to several religions with obscene or disgusting imagery, like urine or dirty animals. The results of the experiment revealed that Christians were generally more hostile towards artwork that depicted Jesus in a profane way, while Muslims were angered by art that could be seen as disrespectful to the holy prophet Muhammad, such as Vilk’s Roundabout Dog, which fused the religious figure with a dog (Dunkel and Hillard). Participants in the research who identified themselves as nonreligious also felt offended by some of the artwork, but most of them generally felt that the art that was offensive to Muslims should be banned. In conclusion, artwork that simply contained repulsive themes or imagery was not enough to elicit an angry reaction in the test group; the art that received the most vocal complaints and requests to be banned had to involve sacred symbols or prophets paired with degrading and filthy visuals.

Those Danes!:

The arts and the media have often been disrespectful to several religious people, especially Muslims. In the article “Counterpoint: The Media Should Exercise Restraint When Publishing Offensive Material,” author Michael P. Auerbach described a situation where a Danish newspaper called Jyllands-Posten published a series of controversial editorial cartoons in 2005 with some less than flattering depictions of Muhammad. These images included a picture of the prophet concealing a bomb with his turban, which sparked several outrages among many Muslims. Any images of Muhammad are inherently sacrilegious to the Islamic faith, so the pictures would likely have received a harsh reaction, but the issue was made even more complicated thanks to the inclusion of a revered figure as a terrorist. Other newspapers defended Jyllands-Posten’s actions citing freedom of the press and reprinted the cartoons within only a few weeks of its publication, adding fuel to the fire.

Auerbach says that the problems illuminated by this scandal demonstrate why the media should be cautious when publishing material that could be seen as offensive by several people. Muslims had already experienced hardships trying to maintain their faith when everyone else around them suspected them of terrorism, and a cartoon promoting these stereotypical views alienated and hurt several Muslims internationally. “The purpose of the media is to educate, entertain, and inform the public. As such, it must be a representative of the audience it serves, understanding its interests as well as its sensitivities. Although democratic states must ensure the freedom of speech and the press, the press itself must act responsibly” (Auerbach). Muslims are present all over the world, and thus are a part of the audiences of these newspapers and the global media as a whole. They should be not alienated and mocked like they are not considered part of the viewing audience. The immature handling of the situation does not reflect well on Jyllands Posten’s part, as the newspaper came off as intolerant of people who are different, rather than witty. If the artists of the cartoon had anticipated the hostile reaction they were probably going to receive, perhaps the images would never have been published. Likewise, if the editors and publishers of the newspaper had blocked the images and advised against their publication, the entire scandal might have been avoided.

It is essential for artists to understand their audiences before creating works of art, as it is ultimately up to them to determine the longevity and influence of the art. If someone is anticipating a wide mainstream audience, then the artist should avoid including elements to deliberately offend people, as the backlash could be catastrophic. If an artist wanted to appeal to a more niche, select crowd, then that artist would have to be content that he/she is appealing to a limited audience and will probably not generate a lucrative amount of money. The age of the audience in question is important as well, as the material in a work geared towards children will likely not include a multitude of swearing, etc. The knowledge of what audience is going to be viewing certain art pieces will allow artists to refine and adapt their artwork to appeal to the expected audience, and producers can help to censor an artist’s work to achieve this goal.

The Downside of Censorship:

Despite all of these beneficial effects, censorship must still be applied modestly. After all, the Nazis burned any books that they found disagreeable and are thus not respected by many people for doing so. Those in charge of evaluating an artist’s work should not assume the role of a goose-stepping storm trooper. Any form of censorship must be used to enhance the quality of a work of art in order to gain a wider audience, downplay offensive aspects, or even improve the cohesiveness or overall tone of a piece. Artists should be receptive and open when people request that their work should be censored, and in return artists should defend why they feel that their work should stay the same or adapt willingly to the changes. Producers should clearly state why material must be censored and understand the artist’s viewpoint and the contested material’s purpose in the overall piece, and explain to the artists how the controversy that the objectionable content might receive would hurt the producers and perhaps the artist’s credibility or future in the business. This conversation or comprehension can be essential in helping artists to understand why their work might be seen as controversial, and it is even possible to avoid changing the material at all. Professor Working believes that these conversations will lead to a compromise that gets the artist’s work recognized and leaves the producers free from suffering any backlash that the uncensored material might have created. He also says that producers or organizations must know exactly what kinds of artists they are dealing with before letting them create something so that scenarios like a “heavy metal rock band in a sacred church” do not occur.  Accomplishing this feat should help artists to refine their work, help producers to anticipate an audience’s reaction and communicate with artists, and might even increase the audience’s respect or appreciation for a work of art.

Final Thoughts on Censorship:

Censorship is an essential aspect of the artistic medium that cannot be avoided by creators. The benefits of censorship help to grant authority to parents and teachers who wish to educate children about the world in their own distinct way. The indecent imagery that sometimes finds its way into projects can be eliminated to provide for a more palatable presentation and perhaps a stronger product. Artists can use changes in their work as a tool to help them to anticipate their audiences and update their work to reflect the audience’s expectations and avoid a scandal due to inappropriate subjects or segments. While artistic limitations are necessary to ensure quality control, it can get out of hand.  This is why artists should maintain a dialogue with the producers to defend the integrity of an art project and protect it from being changed unnecessarily. Effective censorship in moderation can help increase the quality of the artistic culture to create a more refined, intelligent experience.

Works Cited

Auerbach, Michael P. “Counterpoint: The Media Should Exercise Restraint When Publishing Offensive Material.” Points Of View: Political Cartoons & Islam (2015): 3. Points of View Reference Center. Web. 27 Oct. 2015.

“Censorship.” Funk & Wagnall’s New World Encyclopedia, 2014, 1p. World Book, Inc., Chicago. Ebscohost.Web. 20 October 2015.

Coley, Ken P. “Moving toward a Method to Test for Self-Censorship by School Library Media Specialists.” School Library Media Research 5 (2002). ERIC. Web. 22 Oct. 2015 

Cooke, Dominic. “The Arts Should Not Be Censored.” Censorship. Ed. Byron L. Stay. San Diego: Greenhaven Press, 1997. Opposing Viewpoints. Rpt. from “An Insidious Form of Censorship.” The Spectator (11 Oct. 2008): 49. Opposing Viewpoints in Context. Web. 22 Oct. 2015.

Dunkel, Curtis S. and Erin E. Hillard. “Blasphemy Or Art: What Art Should Be Censored And Who Wants To Censor It?” Journal Of Psychology 148.1 (2014): 1-21.Business Source Elite. Web. 27 Oct. 2015.

Freivogel, William H. “Art Censorship Linked to Hard, Violent Times.” St. Louis Post- Dispatch [Missouri] 5 Nov. 1991, FIVE STAR ed.: 10B. LexisNexis Academic [LexisNexis]. Web. 29 Oct. 2015.

Healey, Christina and Tracey M DiLascio. “Counterpoint: Book Censorship Can Be Justified in Some Cases.” Points of View: Banning Books. 2015, p3–3, 1p. Points of View Reference Center. 20 October 2015.

Monks, Kathleen M., Anne M. Gaines, and Caitlin A. Marineau. “A Statewide Survey of Censorship and Intellectual Freedom.” Library Philosophy & Practice (2014): 1-36. OmniFile Full Text Select (H.W. Wilson). Web. 22 Oct. 2015.

Shapiro, Ben. “The Arts Should Be Censored.” Censorship. Ed. Bryon L. Stay. San Diego: Greenhaven Press, 1997. Opposing Viewpoints.  Rpt. from “No Bodily Fluids in the Public Square.” Human Events.com. 2008. Opposing Viewpoints in Context. Web. 10 Nov. 2015.

Wilson, Brian. “Counterpoint: The Value of Censorship.” Points of View: Banning Books (2015): 6. Points of View Reference Center. Web. 10 Nov. 2015.

Witherbee, Amy and Ames C. Cushman.  “Counterpoint: Sometimes Censorship Is Necessary.” Points of View: Censorship & Democracy. 2015, p3—3. 1p. Points of View Reference Center. 20 October 2015.

Working, Scott. Personal Interview. 28 Sept. 2015.

The Eyes are the Keys to the Soul

by Lisa Oliverius

I walk in with the expectation that I will be a distant observer. I know how homeless shelters operate, and I had promised myself that I would remain detached, emotionally, from what I was about to see. I should know better than to have to expectations.

“We have a pretty decent place here, don’t you think?” says, Rob. I snap to attention and realize I must’ve been standing there, looking completely out of place, for more than a few minutes. Rob is the daytime supervisor and friend to the friendless extraordinaire. He’s worked here for 12 years and can’t imagine doing anything else. “I have a college degree in business management and I help run a homeless shelter. Who knew?” he says. Rob shares that he saw a close family friend lose everything to drug addiction and promised himself that no one would ever suffer again on his watch.

“That’s a bit unrealistic, don’t you think?” I ask. But he assures me that, although a bit unrealistic, it’s not impossible. He refuses to give up believing that he can change the world. I share with him why I’m here and he doesn’t seem the least bit curious. He simply tells me to pull up a chair and enjoy the ride.

I do as he suggests and I find a seat in a far corner of the room. It’s hard plastic and joined to several other chairs by a metal bar underneath. There’s a television hanging from the ceiling in the corner. There’s surprising order and cleanliness to this room despite the amount of people flowing in and out. Settling in to my seat, I observe several people intensely watching the TV and having a heated debate about the recent news of the Ebola outbreak. Others are slumped over, sleeping, while seated on the chairs, but most of the folks just appear bored.

The homeless here do not seem to be incredibly diverse in ethnicity, with most appearing to be African Americans. The diversity lies in how one carries oneself. I’m incredibly surprised to see that many present themselves as if they are six-figure business men on their way to broker a million dollar deal. They carry briefcases and newspapers, some wear suits, and speak in a way that tells of another life. A life they were proud of but lost. I hear them speak; their words, their stories. But what I notice most are their eyes.

It is said that the eyes are the keys to the soul, and I have never believed that more than now. I am mesmerized by a man whose real name is Jackson but goes by Sir-Talks-A-Lot. It will become clear to me, after spending some time with him, how he got that nickname. He is tall and lanky with a head full of curly white hair. He wears a dirty suit and tie and shoes that have been taped together. His eyes, though, are what draw me in. They are big and black and wrought with a kind of emotion that can only come from a lifetime of pain.

Sir-Talks-A-Lot catches me staring at him and throws me a smile. He doesn’t hesitate to pop out of his chair and come straight over to me. I immediately sense that this man has much to say and that I must look like a very willing audience. His eyes appear eager as he sits on the floor in front of me, cross-legged and leaning forward. He position seems almost childlike, which is in direct contrast to how he is dressed. The folks sitting on either side of me must have heard his story a million times because they scatter like ants as soon as he sits down. I have a feeling I’m in for the ride of my life. I would later come to find that he would not disappoint me.

Sir-Talks-A-Lot immediately launches into a story about when he was a young man trying to navigate his way into the business world.  Back in the day, Jackson, as he was known then, had big dreams. He wanted to own a bank. He talked about being the descendent of slaves and vowed that he would never let anyone dictate how he lived his life. He graduated, with honors, from a high school in St. Louis and decided that he didn’t need college. “I was a force to be reckoned with,” he says. His voice is gravelly, like you’d expect from a man of sixty three. His daddy, he tells me, had taught him all he needed to know about how to conduct himself like a gentleman and that, he shouted, “was all you needed to be successful!”

Startled by the tone of his voice, I look around to see if anyone is paying attention. I realize that most of the dozens of people that had crowded this room when I walked in were now gone. The seats are empty and the television drones on without an audience. Rob is still sitting behind the desk, lost in a newspaper, oblivious to our conversation.

When I looked back at him, I noticed that something has changed about his face. His eyes seem dim and he is quiet and distant. He clearly was in another place in his mind. I break the silence by telling him that I came here today to observe life in a homeless shelter. That I was writing a paper for a class I was taking and that I’d like to use his story. He lights up again at the prospect of being important. His reaction delights me and breaks my heart, in equal measure.

I share with him that I, too, have been homeless but he doesn’t seem surprised by this like so many others do when I share that information. I tell him about my drug addiction and how I lost everything because of it. Again, he isn’t surprised. It’s quite the opposite, actually. That bit of information silently connects us. The pained expression on his face tells me that he understands exactly what I’m talking about.

Throughout our conversation, I find out that Jackson became quite fond of “the drink,” as he calls it. He talks of a young man, himself, married with two small children at home. He describes his family’s apartment in St Louis and I’m reminded of those old black and white movies that show inner city tenements with their residents hanging out on the front stoops. He could barely afford to pay the rent, much less provide any kind of chance for a better future. No one was willing to give a young, uneducated, black man a chance, especially in banking. He became resentful of the fact that his good manners and ability to be a gentleman were not enough to advance him in the business world. He turned to alcohol to ease the pain and, as he puts it, “We all know what happens from there.”

That, I would find out, was 40 years ago. Jackson had been homeless for 4 decades. He travels from city to city, looking for job opportunities in the business world only to be turned down again and again. The suit that he is wearing today has been with him for over 20 years. He found it in the trash in an upper class neighborhood somewhere outside Denver and has worn it ever since. “Not every day,” he reminds me. “I want to make it last just in case someone decides they are willing to give this old man a chance.”

We talk a bit more about our similarities, despite the fact that all I see are differences. He encourages me to never, ever give up and I share with him that that is my mantra. He laughs when I tell him that I have it tattooed on my leg. “You young people do the damndest things!” he says. His levity makes me laugh, too. “Yes,” I chuckle. “We really do.”

I’ve been here for almost three hours. I’ve run the gamut of emotions and decide that it’s time for me to go. I’m not sure how I’m going to process all that we talked about. I don’t know how to reconcile that this man, who is clearly intelligent and capable, lives the way he does. It is a choice? Is it habit? It is that the system doesn’t allow him to get out? I have no idea how to answer any of those questions. I only know that I got to spend my afternoon with an incredible human being who allowed me into his world and let me be a part of his story. I got to make him feel important and that, I believe, is all he really wants from this life.

I hug Jackson and thank him for his time. He hugs me back. Hard. He tells me that he is proud of me and that he is honored that I chose to talk to him today. I laugh and remind him that he approached me first. I look into his eyes one last time; eyes that say everything without a word being uttered. With that, I turn and walk away, silently promising to come back to visit with him again. Honestly, though, I know that will likely never happen. This was just a rare moment in time, never to be repeated.

 I want to be broken hearted for Jackson but his love for, and acceptance of, his life won’t let me. He doesn’t seem sad. He lives on hope. He lives for that one day when he’ll be important. He truly believes that it will happen. He believes it so much that I walk away believing it, too.

Homelessness

by Diane Barnett

            How do you feel when you come to a red light or a stop sign and you see a man standing there looking all dirty and filthy, wearing worn out shoes and holding a sign saying “homeless, will work for food or money”? How about when you see that slumped over woman pushing a shopping cart on the street who has the appearance of someone that has aged well beyond her years, with her wrinkled clothing and mismatched shoes, and a look on her face that screams she’s tired and defeated? Do you feel empathy toward them, or do you feel disdain and disgust that someone could live like that? Many people stereotype homeless individuals and think they are all like this man on the street corner or the woman with the cart. People perceive anyone who is homeless is a low life or someone that is beneath them. Well, I am here to tell you that homelessness isn’t a choice, but rather something that happens due to circumstances that no one has any control over, and it can affect anybody at any time. I should know because I have experienced it myself. 

            In the United States in 2015, there were 564,708 homeless people that were counted for, but there are many more that aren’t in those numbers. Ten percent of homeless people are military veterans. How sad is that? Would you look at a homeless person differently if you knew they had once served your country? A veteran should never have to be homeless, but then again neither should anyone else. Many children are homeless, and that sure is not due to anything they have done. Yet, they are condemned through the eyes of those who do not or will not understand. There are many reasons people become homeless, not because they made that choice. Instead the choice was made for them.

            I grew up in a sheltered family in a small town in West Virginia. Although I graduated with 500 people, it was still a place where things like homelessness never happened, and if it did it was never heard of. In my family, you were raised, especially as a girl, that it was your place to take care of the home, the kids, and the man because he was always deemed the ruler of the house.  He would make all the decisions concerning his family, and the woman was to know her role as being just that. The woman. Never having a voice for her or her children.

            In 1990, I got married and moved to a small neighboring town called Pineville. Things changed quickly from what they were supposed to have been. Soon I become a battered wife. I went to my dad and told him I wanted to come home, but he told me I had made my bed so now I had to lay in it. Lay in it I did for eleven years. I know you are going to ask why I stayed that long. Well, answers are never as easy as the question and until you have been through this you would not understand.  Imagine having three small daughters, living up in a holler, not having a vehicle you can drive with no connection to family, not being allowed friends and constantly having your entire life controlled. There were no shelters to go to nor were there cell phones at that time. Now, can you see why I stayed?

            Finally, in 2001 I got up the courage I needed to leave. Something had to be done. This had gone on for way too long, and this was the only way I knew. My only condition to leaving was I had to leave my children. He wouldn’t hurt them, though, I knew. I thought I would just go get a job and get them back after I got my own place, and I took him to court. Things didn’t quite work out that way.

            I left WV and ended up going to TN where I had heard there were jobs for people like me that had little work experience and only a high school diploma. Life was starting to go my way, but then 9/11 hit and jobs were affected. About two weeks later the motor blew up in my car, and I had nowhere near enough money to get it fixed, so I lost my job because it was too far to walk and I had no other means of transportation. That is when my downfall really began. After I lost my job, my roommate kicked me out so I had to put my pride aside and enter a homeless shelter if I wanted to eat and sleep. 

            At first I admit I was mortified to be there because basically I thought I was too good to be there, that I did not belong there, that I was not like those people, but guess what? I was one of those people. I had to be up at a certain time, had to go to bed at a certain time, had meals at certain times, and had to be in for roll call at a certain time. So, once again my life was being controlled by someone other than myself. It was okay for the time being because I wasn’t on the streets.

            I had to sleep in a bunk bed with three other girls in the room. Privacy could not be found there, but friendship was. For the first time since 1988, I had friends. This was a new kind of freedom for me. We had to share the dining room with the men, but were not allowed to speak to them. We showered in the same area and each had chores to do daily. It wasn’t the best of life, but I certainly had been through much worse. Come to find out the women who were there had ended up there through circumstances not much different than mine. One woman’s house had burnt down, one was there because her car had broken down and was stuck without money for a motel, and one had been kicked out with nowhere else to go. Different circumstances call for different solutions. Some were there only temporarily and some were there indefinitely.

            I found a job and was on my way to getting my life back.  Not long after, karma bit my ex-husband. I was due to go to divorce court, and the Salvation Army gave me a Greyhound ticket to go to WV. The judge ruled in my favor although my ex-husband tried to get me for abandonment. He had to buy my half of the house out along with having to sell all the assets and give me half of that. I ended up with a car and the money to get my own place, and yes, I got my girls back!

            It took me two years to do all this, and I was lucky because some people who are homeless never get the chances I got, but it depends on your mentality, also. You have to want to have better. Though you end up homeless due to circumstance, it is up to you to fight your way out of that hole. A lot of homeless people lose that will to fight because it is a very hard road to travel. You have others refusing to help you, sneering at you, and yes, avoiding you like you are the plague. Funny how the views of people can be so wrong.

            So, the next time you think about judging that man holding that sign or the woman pushing a cart, stop and think about the fact that you don’t know their story or the reason they are at that point in their life. I was one of the fortunate ones, but there are many that aren’t. Homeless people really aren’t that very different from anyone else. It is people’s opinion of them that make them different.  Not every homeless person is dirty. Not every homeless person smells bad or wears worn out clothing. Not every homeless person is looking for a handout. Not every homeless person is filthy and nasty. These are just misconceptions that people have thought over the years. That because a few are like that, then surely they must all be like that. What every homeless person is though is a human being. A human being that deserves to have a prosperous life as much as a billionaire, a human being that bleeds just like all the upscale people, a human being that has feelings and hurts just as much as someone with a title in their name.

            Homeless people are just a group of people that have had situations come up that put them in that path.  When someone becomes homeless, it is because that is their last resort. No help is available through family or friends or churches and other organizations. Some go to shelters, others fend for themselves seeking shelter wherever they can such as under bridges or in alleys. Yes, there are a few people who choose to be homeless whether it be through alcohol or drug addictions, but for most it is not.

            It takes courage, strength, hard work, motivation and dedication to overcome homelessness, but it can and has been done. More awareness, education and resources need to be made to the public to prevent homelessness. Let others know what can lead to being homeless, and maybe bring a decrease in the statistics in the homeless community.

            I am not ashamed to say I have been homeless. Being homeless humbled me down because not so long in the past I had a home, a car and my kids, and I never thought I would ever be with nothing, but that is exactly what I had. Nothing. If anything, it taught me to be a better person. I am mentally stronger, more independent, have more drive, and I strive to not ever be in that situation again, but to prosper. I now appreciate the small things in life, and I thank God daily for my blessings. It also taught me to not ever take anything for granted because you just never know when that next homeless person may be you.

I  am  Metropolitan  Community  College

by Anna Mock

I  am  a  South  Sudanese  with  no  concept  of  my  father’s  culture  nor  an  understanding  of  my  mother’s  tongue.  I  speak  a  language  from  nearly  2000  miles  away  from  my  native  land  and  pledge  allegiance  to  a  flag  whose  history  is  but  a  tale.  I  am  a  medley.  Born  to  a  Dinka  father  and  Nuer  mother,  members  of  diverse  tribes  in  the  Republic  of  South  Sudan,  I  was  blessed  with  the  plump  lips  of  my  father  and  the  ideal  nose  of  my  mother,  baffling  my  South  Sudanese  people  as  they  try  to  decipher  what  tribe  I  am  from.  Though  I  can  easily  be  identified  and  categorized  as  the  obvious–black  and  female–I  am  part  of  a  larger  group,  a  larger  community,  the  Metropolitan  Community  College.  With  all  my  puzzling  features,  varied  cultures  and  miscellaneous  languages,  I  am  a  portrait,  a  beautiful  collage  that  brings  together  people  of  different  cultures,  ethnicities  and  nationalities.  I  am  Metropolitan  Community  College.