Spring 2001

Spring 2001

Fiction

Poetry

Pulling Teeth by Joe Bernard, Jr.

My Love by Dirty Howie

The Hippopotamus Desk by David Klinginsmith

Foreigner by Marina Miranda

Know Thyself by J.J. Mitchell

Reflection by Bridget M. Morrissey

Short Stories

Being Booted by Chris Holder

Non-Fiction

Observing

Memories of Walpo by Sang Im Park

A Morning With Jayare by Michelle Starkjohn

Remembering

Hearts on Fire by Asagira

My Nana, My Grandmother by Barbara Hamilton

Wrestling With Eric by Abby Hemmingsen

Wiffle Ball by Johnny Palermo, Jr.

Our Kidnapping by Annick Smith

Explaining

Transition by Chevant Starr

The Day My Son Was Born by Steven Sutton

Problem Solving

The Sins of the Fathers… by Patricia Wokurka

Arguing

Stepping Stone or Way of Life? by Jacqueline Skaggs

Evaluating

Pulling Teeth

by Joe Bernard, Jr.

 

Poetry is like a trip to the dentist.

Thinking of a subject

Is like being in the waiting room.

Writing the first line is

Like a shot of pain killer.

After a line or two,

The pain killer sets in,

And before you know it,

The poem is pouring out.

Then you are done

And feeling so proud,

Ready to show

Your pearly whites to the world.

My Love

by Dirty Howie

These days I hardly think of you at all.

Oh, maybe once in a while,

late in the evening, and

sometimes in the middle part

of the evening, and now and

then in the middle to late

part of the evening, and

perhaps in the early to middle

part of the evening, and of

course the early part of the

morning, and the early to

middle part of the morning,

OK!!!

These days I can’t stop thinking of you.

The Hippopotamus Desk

by David Klinginsmith

 

He was an older plump man sitting in an office without any walls

I know what it’s like because I’ve sat in forts and castles in my basement

He sits behind a large brown wooden roll top desk that seems ready to eat him

Like the gaping mouth of a large African hippo that’s lying in shallow water

Short gray hair that rose only inches about his two ears, leaving the top bare

I wondered if he had a nightcap at home that would fit over the top of his head

Black shoes, a design on the end of the toe, that needed to be tied in a bow

I wear black engineer boots that never need to be laced or tied in a bow

Black dress pants, that hung over his shoes, small cuff at the bottom

My pants are dark blue with a large cuff that also hangs over my boots

Black suspenders one that was twisted hung over a white short sleeve shirt

I wear a cowboy belt with a big belly buster brass buckle on my pants

An office with no walls meant his suit coat hung on the back of his chair

Mom always has to look for mine in the closet when it’s time for church

Leaning over his desk his eyeglasses slide off in a bowl of chicken noodle soup

He was smoking a large brown cigar, clutched in his mouth by his teeth

I smoke cigars too but they’re pink gum cigars, I think they’re better anyway

He seemed oblivious of the commotion of everything that surrounded him

Like me when I’m daydreaming of catching the biggest fish in the world

On top of the hippopotamus desk was an area where all kinds of papers laid

Scattered one on top of another in every direction and in no particular order

Mom says my room looks like that after I get done playing with my toys

Staring back at him were a number of cubbyholes like little houses all in a row

I think they look like our neighbor’s birdhouse where birds go to sleep at night

Up in the corner next to his right side was an opened, dented, black metal box

I know this is the place where really important papers are probably stored away

I have one in my room downstairs where I keep all my bubble gum baseball cards

Mom’s calling, gotta go, my dog Spotty and I have lots to do this afternoon

It’s been nice meeting you Sir and your Hippopotamus desk, too.

Foreigner

by Marina Miranda

 

Between a face and a picture,

The real and the abstract,

Hallucinations and sanity,

Uniforms and nudity,

Between the end of the world and the end of the month,

The facts and the media,

And the others and you,

I feel like a foreigner.

Between the dead and the injured,

Screams and smiles,

The lies and the truth,

The solitude and the city,

Between the Greeks and the Trojans,

New Years that come and go,

Two glasses of the same drink,

And so many bodies with the same illness,

I feel like a foreigner.

Between your lips and mine

There is so much time, so many dreams,

But I never know where we are going.

I feel like a foreigner,

A passenger in a train,

A train that doesn’t travel this way,

A train that is an illusion.

Know Thyself

by J.J. Mitchell

 

I am a good friend when the sun sets.

I am socially accepted.

Most people really enjoy my company.

I ease pain.

I bring pain.

I am the life of the party.

For many years I have controlled lives.

I am hard to control.

I give you what you want,

but at a price.

Enjoy your evening,

but not too much,

because I will turn on you in the mourning.

I am.

I am a brown bottle in a brown paper bag.

Reflection

by Bridget M. Morrissey

 

I am a puddle of water

Staring, unblinking, up at the world

Reflecting what I see

Feeling what they feel

A mirror of my own surroundings

Never with any thoughts of my own

Laying stagnant on the ground

Helpless and still

Waiting for someone to step on me

For someone to disrupt my calm surface

Longing to be swallowed up into the air

And spat back down to earth again.

Being Booted

by Chris Holder

“Come on, Chris, get up! It’s 10:30!” My mom shook me.  “Aren’t we even good enough for you to get up on time!” 

I was supposed to be up before 10 a.m.  I had made a deal with my parents that we would talk at that time. The night before, my dad could see that I wasn’t feeling right about something.  I didn’t want to talk about it because I didn’t have it straight in my head yet.

“I’m up, I’m up,” I said. 

From the floor, I got some clothes that I’d worn yesterday.  I headed out to the living room.  My parents sat on the couch with stern looks on their faces.

“Can’t you even get up for your parents?  You were still up when I went to take a piss at three o’clock in the morning!  See, you didn’t even change.  No wonder you flunked out of college!” my dad yelled. 

I’m a night person. I like staying out all night and sleeping in the daytime. I did that at UNL and skipped more than half of my classes.  Obviously, I flunked out.

I responded with a quick mumbling, “Sorry.”

“You’re the one who said we could continue last night’s conversation at ten this morning, and what time is it?” my mom yelled at me.

“I said I was sorry. It’s not like we won’t ever see each other again!” I responded.

“Fine, so talk!” my dad erupted. 

The conversation we were supposed to have at ten was about something I had heard. On separate occasions, two of my brother Russell’s friends had told me my dad had said,  “Russell isn’t really mine.” 

That doesn’t sound like much to you, but those words really hurt me.  Russell had just graduated from Southeast Community College in Milford, Nebraska, and was going through a tough time.  He was to the point where it was best for him to leave home.  A lot of disagreements between him and our parents were “family secrets” we didn’t talk about unless we absolutely had to. My parents kicked him out before he could get his feet on the ground. He didn’t have a job yet. He was broke. All of his friends from college were from small towns across Nebraska, so he stayed with Jenny’s family for a while.

When I was very young, my parents divorced, and my mom remarried to the man I call Dad now.  When I was seven, he adopted us.  So biologically we are not really his, but his telling people really hurt.  He could say the same thing about me that he said about Russell.  In my head, I was questioning his love for me, and that was what last night’s conversation was about.  I didn’t want to doubt his love, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought it could be true.

I graduated from Boys Town in 1999.  I was there for just under five years—four years, eleven months, and three days to be exact.  During all that time, my dad hardly called me to find out how I was doing.  Neither of my parents really called me.  I was the one always calling them.  I brought this to their attention many times, but they still never called.  A lot of times I couldn’t go home for a visit because my mom had to work on Saturday.  Who cared if my mom had to work for six hours on Saturday? My dad would have still been home, and it’s not like I needed 24-hour surveillance.  When I did visit, things were done at their convenience.  I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything because they always said Boys Town wouldn’t let me either.  What did that matter? Boys Town wasn’t my parent.  Boys Town didn’t have full custody over me.

I had many reasons to question my parents’ love for me.  I didn’t want to talk when I didn’t have my thoughts together because my dad would sidetrack me, and I would be confused and sound like I didn’t know what I was talking about.  The night before, he had manipulated me into talking, so I had spilled the beans and I told him what I’d heard.

“Are you going to talk or what?” my dad asked.

“I don’t have anything to say.”

The words came calmly out of my mouth. I could not believe what I had said.  I had many things to say, things I’d been keeping inside me for a long time that I wanted him to know, but I didn’t want to go on a rampage about how bad my parents were.  God knows I’m no angel.  But I never really felt loved when I was living with my parents.

Boys Town isn’t set up like an institution like many people think it is. Boys Town is set up to be run like a family. I lived in a house with a married couple, called family teachers, and seven other guys. Since I had the same set of family teachers the whole time I was there, I started to love them back. They loved me from day one. When I first got there, I didn’t know how to react to it. I would lash out angrily and just be a total ass. I would argue with my housemates about petty things, I wouldn’t do my chores, and I was very disrespectful to Brett and Anita. They never changed. They always loved me and cared for me. I learned what a family was supposed to be like from living at Boys Town. My parents weren’t even close.

“You made an appointment this morning to discuss this crap you heard, and you have nothing to say?” my mom said harshly.

“I’m not the one who wanted to talk! I didn’t even want to talk last night!” I responded.

“Why didn’t you want to talk last night?” my dad said.

“I didn’t have my thoughts together, I was not prepared to talk, and every time I talk with you, I feel I have to prepare like an attorney because you always want examples and shit!”  I yelled.

“Watch your mouth!  This isn’t the college dorm!” my dad said.

“Sorry,” I responded.  “Do you have anything to say?”

“Yeah, do you really believe that I said that?” he questioned.

After thinking about it, with all the things that had happened in my life at Boys Town, I had to say yes.

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit!”  he screamed at me.

“I believe you said it.  Why would two different people on two different occasions say the same thing?  I think that’s bullshit!” I yelled back.

“Get the fuck out of my house!” he commanded.

“Fine!  I don’t want to live where I’m not welcome!”

It was 10:45a.m. It had taken me only fifteen minutes to get booted out of my house.  I had nowhere to go. My best friend Steve was out of town.  All my other friends were from Boys Town, and I hadn’t seen them since I graduated because they all lived out of state.  The only place I could go was to my friend Jenny’s house. At eleven o’clock, I called my parents from her residence.

“Hello?” It was my mom’s voice.

“Yeah, uh, Mom, when would it be ok to pick up my stuff?” I tried hard to make my voice hide the fact that I was crying.

“Well, it would have to be a time when your father and I are here because we don’t trust you.”

“Ok, fine.  How about one o’clock?”

“Let me check with your father.” There was a pause.  “Yes, that will be fine.”

“Ok, see you then.” I said.

One o’clock came.  I had a lot of stuff to fit into my little Honda Civic. I didn’t want to make more than one trip. I wanted everything out of there.  I started loading my belongings into my car and ignoring my parents, not even looking in their direction.  I was hot.  I couldn’t believe that they had kicked me out of the house.  I didn’t have a place to stay, I didn’t have any money, and I was so confused.

“Don’t you want to talk about anything?” my dad asked.

“No, what’s there to talk about?” I said. 

He had just kicked me out of my home.  What did he want to talk about?  I couldn’t think of anything.

“Yeah, I do have one question:  So I can tell all of my friends why you kicked me out of the house, what is the reason?” I asked.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he responded.

Think about it?  What kind of answer is that?  That is crap! I continued loading the Honda. I didn’t even acknowledge him when I passed him in the hall with a load of my dirty laundry. I came back into the house after I had finished loading everything I could.

“So, do you have an answer yet?” I said with sarcasm. I was mad.

“Yes, disrespect,” he replied.

Disrespect? I couldn’t understand how or when I had disrespected him. I obeyed all of his rules. I did more than half of the chores around the house and didn’t even complain once when he cut my curfew from 1:30 a.m. to midnight. How could he say I disrespected him?

“Disrespect, right?” he asked, seeking confirmation from my mom.

He nodded his head and held out his hands like he didn’t know the answer. In that instant, I could tell he finally realized that he didn’t know why he was kicking me out of the house. His actions with his hands and nodding his head yes were his way of trying to convince my mom that I had actually disrespected him somehow. My mom goes along with anything my dad says or does. I knew he had screwed up from the instant he kicked me out. He just realized that he had screwed up when I asked him why he kicked me out.

“Whatever,” I said.

I walked to my car and drove off. I had so much more to say to him. I sounded like a typical teenager, mad at the world and cocky because I knew all the answers. I wasn’t like that, though–I knew I wasn’t the typical teenager. I had a grasp of the way the world worked, a small one, but it was more than most kids my age had. I could read people. I could look at their demeanor and tell what kind of persons they were. I felt like I had the brain of a ninety-year-old on the shoulders of a nineteen-year-old. My dad knew that too, but he never treated me like an adult. Instead, he treated me as if I didn’t know or didn’t have the capacity to handle such highly sophisticated adult conversations when we argued. Our relationship had always been shaky. We never really clicked as father and son. It was probably because I didn’t feel any love from him. When we weren’t arguing, he knew I was level-headed and could see the whole picture. We had many long discussions over my brother’s problems. He wouldn’t talk to my mom about them. He would talk to me. I didn’t like him using me to vent his anger and frustration, but I was glad that we were at least talking and not yelling.

More than a month went by before I talked to them again. When I did finally go over to their house, I saw a For Sale sign in the yard. When I walked in, my dad was putting in a new shower, and my mom was already in bed.

“What took you so long to come by or talk to us?” my dad said.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“I thought this whole thing would be over in a day or two, but it has been a least a month and a half.”

“You kicked me out of the house. I don’t even know why I want to try and work things out with you.”

“I didn’t kick you out of the house. You left. You would’ve had a place here if you had called the next day. You still have a place here.”

It took a moment or two for what he said to register in my head. He just said that I had wanted to move out. Not that I had been kicked out. Now, this whole problem seemed worse. I knew I would never get him to say he had kicked me out. This was his way of fixing his screw-up. Now he didn’t need a reason for kicking me out of the house. He just had to insist I had gotten mad and my memory wasn’t right. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to be in that house.

But I couldn’t leave. If I did he would just say I was running away from my problems. He would be right. I wasn’t ready to try to prove to him that I knew he had screwed up.

“I didn’t move out. You kicked me out,” I said.

“No, I didn’t, Chris. You left us,” he replied.

“You kicked me out.”

I realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. We finally agreed to disagree and to mend what was left of our relationship. I was still not satisfied, but I wasn’t ready to go any further with it.

After talking with my family teachers and other Boys Town employees who were familiar with my parents, I felt much better. They all agreed that my parents were kind of odd. I got the answer I wanted. I wasn’t going through the normal teenage stage of “I hate my parents.” My parents were just odd. I could pick my friends but not my parents.

The last time I talked to my parents was over three months ago. My brother, Russell, had told me to get what was mine from my parent’s attic, so I called my dad on my cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Dad, hi, it’s Chris,” I answered.

“Hey, Russell already came over and picked up everything. He has anything that would be yours,” my dad said.

“OK, well, I’ll just go home then.” I was in my car, and I’d just got off from work.

“Hey, we’re miles apart, aren’t we?” he offered.

“Well, I’m at 144th and Dodge, and you’re going to be at 180th and F?” I said in a questioning manner.

“That’s not what I mean. I meant our relationship.”

“Oh, yeah we are,” I said.

“Did you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You won’t even think that you may be wrong. You won’t admit that you screwed up.”

“I screwed up? When did I screw up?” he asked.

“When you kicked me out of the house!” I exclaimed.

“Chris, are we going to have to go through this again?”

“That morning when you kicked me out I asked you a question,” I said.

“Chris, why don’t you come over and we’ll talk about it?”

“No, I don’t want to,” I insisted.

“Why not?”

My dad was sidetracking me again. We argued over why I didn’t want to see him or talk to him. I knew exactly what he was doing. I didn’t let him get away with it.

“Dad, the day you kicked me out, I asked you, ‘So I can tell all of my friends why you kicked me out of the house, what is the reason?’ Do you remember that?”

“No, I don’t,” he said.

“Well, I do. Your answer was ‘disrespect.’ You said I disrespected you. You even said that right in front of Mom. If you didn’t kick me out, why did you answer that question? Why didn’t you say, ‘Chris, we’re not kicking you out, you’re moving out on your own?”

“I don’t remember that.”

I just couldn’t win. I was going to be made out as the bad guy with all my relatives. I couldn’t get my dad to admit that he’d kicked me out of the house. I was really upset. I knew the next thing I was going to say would change our relationship forever.

“Dad, right now in my life, speaking with you or seeing you is not healthy for me. You have my cell phone number for emergencies. Don’t call me otherwise.”

That was the last time I talked to either of my parents . Since then I have had a lot less stress in my life. I have been going to bed at a decent hour and getting up in the mornings. I’m healthier. I finally realized that my parents were odd.

Memories of Walpo

by Sang Im Park

Have you ever lamented fallen leaves of magnolia blossom?  Have you ever seen how beautiful magnolia trees are in full blossom? Have you ever listened to the gigantic sound of frogs that keeps you awake on beautiful spring nights? Have you ever felt the scent of dew-lit peony in late summer when it’s getting brisk? Have you ever ridden a sled that your grandfather made for you on a frozen river? Have you ever tasted the savor of sweet potatoes that your grandmother baked for you?

I remember the moment I really saw a peony for the first time. It was on the day that my brother and I arrived at our new school, holding our grandfather’s hand after an hour-long walk; the first thing that caught my eye was a peony blossom lying on the flower bed with morning dew on it. That cabbage-like plant had never drawn my attention before, and I didn’t even know that it was a kind of flower. Finally, that big flower, which had a color combination of green and deep purple, was starting to reveal its mysterious beauty on that day. And I can never forget the subtle fragrance the flower was sprouting. The scene and scent were so impressive that I can vividly remember now, even though 20 years have passed from that day.

Just a few days earlier, I was a bratty little 10-year-old child living in a big city. I was just an ordinary kid who went to school, took piano lessons, and played with friends on paved streets of the city, until I suddenly moved to my grandparents’ house in a small country village.

The village, Walpo, which means “moon estuary,” was so remote that it didn’t even have a grocery store. There used to be one before the village had decided to shut it down because of some village folks’ drinking problems. That tormented me and my little brother. We were just spoiled city children who had lived on all kinds of candy. To us, not having a grocery store was almost a disaster.

This wasn’t the only thing that bothered us. We had to walk almost an hour to school because there wasn’t any transportation service provided in route to our school. However, we couldn’t complain because our grandfather didn’t let us. He had strict rules for raising children.

Despite those initial shocks, I gradually began to realize that living in the country was quite enchanting.  The path to our small school was lined with a lot of wild flowers. Those flowers might seem worthless, but if you looked at them closely, you would find that every little flower was so beautiful, even abandoned ones blooming on rough weeds. My new friends showed me how to pick snake strawberries and suck honey from certain flowers. When I went picking spring greens with them, they were so good at finding useful vegetables while I didn’t have any clue to tell which was which, but they were willing to split theirs with me to fill my empty basket. I was better than them at school because I was from city which had a better education system, but I was awful in the skills required to live in nature. My friends were capable of everything. They could tell trifoliolate oranges from walnuts, knew how to drive cows to pasture, and could swim across the river, which seemed impossible to me. They also knew how to build up fires and bake corn and potatoes.

The river running in front of Walpo made a great contribution in enriching my sensibilities. Everyday, I went out to the riverside. I spent most of the time lying on big, flat rocks looking up at the clouds in blue sky, singing songs with friends treading through paths covered with pebbles, and closely studying a variety of plants. When I came back home at dusk, I could smell the smoke coming from the oven with which my grandmother fixed supper. That smell still remains in my memory and I miss it a lot.

Now, it’s impossible for me to return to Walpo because it was flooded by the government’s plan to build a dam. I wasn’t born in Walpo, but it’s like my hometown. I had lived there for just two years, but the two years were among the greatest times of my life. Later, I had a chance to return to the area that was once Walpo. There was nothing but water. I looked at the river calmly, but I felt a sorrow coming up from the bottom of my heart. If the dam hadn’t been built, Walpo would have been changed and might have lost most of its characteristics. But the fact that it was sunk in the water broke my heart. I completely lost the evidence of my precious time there.      

I believe that I was made what I am now while living in Walpo. I became the person who loves the sound of winds passing through the trees, the scent of spring rain slowly soaking the earth, the warm sunbeams in quiet, peaceful afternoons, and the icy but beautiful moonlight bouncing on the snow. If I had stayed in the city, I would have become a totally different person. I might not have this ability to appreciate the small things of nature.

A Morning With Jayare

by Michelle Starkjohn

        It is a cold dark morning in January. I roll out of bed into the freezing air of my room, grab my clothes, and put them on as fast as I can, thinking, “Why do I keep this horse?  I hate getting up early!” As soon as I am dressed, I run out to the kitchen for a bite to eat before I head outside. When I step out into the dark, cold, and snow, I start to think that being back in my warm bed sounds awfully good.

        I walk down to the machine shed where Jayare’s hay is kept and pull the key from my pocket to unlock the door. I can’t believe it; the door does not open. Oh, I forgot, it’s winter. The door always sticks this time of the year, making it nearly impossible to open. I have to kick, hit, and body slam the door for about ten minutes before it will even budge. When the door finally does move, I step into the dark shop, hoping the fluorescent lights will work in the cold, but they don’t. In the semi-light, I feel my way over to the hay to mix up the grain and put the hay into the wheelbarrow.

        I head outside and walk around the side of the shop. Jayare can hear me coming. His morning whinnies and “dances” have begun. He will continue this performance until he gets his grain. As my five-year-old bay Arabian gelding is eating, I clean the ice and snow out of his hooves. Next I break the ice in his water bucket and give him fresh water to drink. Jayare is so thirsty in the morning! His water has frozen over night so he usually drinks close to a gallon within about 30 seconds. It is fun to watch him slurp it up because his eyes never stop moving. He looks around constantly, pausing every few seconds to catch his breath and glance at me. He doesn’t realize I know what he’s up to; the big stinker loves to pick on me. One of his quirks is to not swallow all the water in his mouth, come over to me pretending to be affectionate, put his head on my shoulder, and open his mouth. Another one of his favorite tricks is to sneak up behind me while I am bending over and give one big push with his head. It forces me to either move or fall over.

        After he has had his fun, I get his hay for him. He is anxious to go pig out, but before he does, we always hug and kiss goodbye. It was worth getting up early. We have had a good time together.

Hearts on Fire

by Asagira

        My heart was beating to the rhythm of the exploding sirens and lights in the distant background of the night.  Every nerve screamed throughout my body as I immediately suited up into my bunker gear and strapped my air tank onto my back.  Minutes before, SSgt. Dom informed me that Joel, my partner, and I would be the first crew to head into the burning building to search for a woman who was trapped on the second floor. Terrified, I gazed up at the old run-down brick building. Thick black smoke poured from the windows on the second floor of the building as colors of yellow and orange danced in the heavy smoke. As SSgt. Dom gave us the signal, I rushed in first as a team leader with Joel behind me.

        I dropped to my knees followed by Joel and crawled my way to the staircase, then ascended to the top. As we cautiously neared a closed door in front of us, thick smoke that I ‘d noticed earlier outside the building was now slithering out and underneath the door.  Panic was all I could feel as Joel’s grip on my pant leg tightened behind me. “Time’s running out, Nikki! We don’t have much longer on these air tanks before they run out!” Joel hollered.

        As I made the decision, we entered the room.  I stopped dead in my tracks as the intensity of the fire seeped through my bunker gear and the smoke from the room cut my visibility down to only a few inches in front of me.  We went in further and crawled clockwise around the room to finish our search for the woman.  Just before I was about to call it quits, my hand snagged across an object on the floor next to what seemed to be a window.  I looked closer. “Joel!  I found her! Call in and have the paramedics be on standby; we are coming out!”

My Nana, My Grandmother

by Barbara Hamilton

             When I think back on my childhood and the memories I have of my nana, I am reminded of her passion for life.  I grew up wanting to be just like her, young at heart and full of life.  She was more than just a grandmother to me.  She was a friend as well.  I remember, well, the silly, juvenile things we used to do together and how we shared some special secrets.  She would make me swear to never tell those secrets to another living soul, but I knew that she meant my mother.  Mom would never have approved of my grandmother acting so silly.  She would never understand that my nana was so passionate about life.  She thought that people Nana’s age should act mature and reserved all the time.  Nana would never have been happy living that way.

            Nana Lillian was always there for me when I needed her.  She lived seven houses down the street from our house in Karen Addition.  I spent a lot of time with her in her little blue house, and I considered it my home away from home.  Every afternoon, when I came home from school, I would drop my books onto my bed, grab my collection of 45’s, and run down the street to her house.  She would be there in her apron, waiting for me.  I could always count on her making me some special goodie that day.

            Her kitchen was cozy, and it always smelled like garlic, onions, tomatoes, and freshly baked bread.  Her homemade pizzas were second to none.  She liked to make them for me, and she told me that was because I was a skinny little thing, and the pizza would “put some meat on my bones.”

            On one of my visits, the one that I remember the most, she surprised me.  I got there at the usual time, but there was no pizza on the table; instead she told me she was going to teach me to make the pizza.  She put one of her aprons on me, and it was too big.  She folded it several times at my waist, but it still hung to my ankles.  I looked down at myself and giggled.  I sure did look pretty silly with that long apron on, but I didn’t care.  All that mattered to me was that I was going to get to help my nana in her kitchen.  I felt so grown up.

            While we worked, we listened to my records.  Sounds of Lesley Gore, a favorite of mine, singing, “It’s my party” filled the house.  My nana tried to sing along in her broken English/Italian way.  It was funny to hear her stumble over the words, but it wasn’t important that she knew all the words.  I was just happy that I had such a groovy grandmother.  She wiggled and twisted her ample body around the kitchen while we made the pizza and listened to the music, and at the end of a song, she put her finger to her lips and said to me, “Shhh,  Babba Gina.  Don’t you tella nobody.  People they no understand; they think your nana she is crazy.”  She snapped her lips and shook her head then went back to working on the pizza.

            That night I had time to think about what my nana had said to me.  I could not understand why people would think that my grandmother was crazy.  It seemed to me that she was acting very normally.  I looked forward to growing up for real, but I didn’t want to be one of those stuffy, serious, kind of adults.  I wanted to be like my nana.

            There were many more times when Nana Lillian and I shared time together.  Sometimes she would try to help me with my homework and sometimes we would gossip about boys, like teenage girlfriends.  We grew even closer as the time went by.  She taught me many new things, and I taught her some things, too.  It was the best of times.

            I am grown up now, and in a few months, I am going to be a grandmother for the very first time.  I look forward to this blessed event with great anticipation and joy.  I have never really thought of myself as the “nana” type, yet I hope I am someone that a child can love and respect.  I have a great deal of love to give to a child in return.  I also want to be a friend to my grandchild.  It is important that he feels he can trust me enough to confide in me.

            We can all learn a great deal from our elders.  I guess you could say I learned about being a nana from my own nana.  I am sure that people will think I am crazy too, but it won’t matter.  All that will matter to me is that my grandson thinks I am a groovy grandmother.

Wrestling With Eric

by Abby Hemmingsen

“Quit it, Brace-face!!” I yelled at my brother.  He was once again chasing me around the glass coffee table in our living room.  It was the daily routine in my house.  I’d come home from school, only to be in the care of my brother, Eric.  And everyday it was the same thing: wrestling and fighting.

The day finally came when my mom got tired of paying for Kinder Care, and my brother was old enough to baby-sit me after school until our parents arrived home from work.  He is seven years older than me, and not to mention, bigger and stronger.  There was only about an hour and a half when I needed to be watched until my mom arrived home, but it was a long and hellish hour and a half. 

Eric and I had one common goal:  to annoy the other as much as we possibly could every day.  Whether it was name-calling (Brace-face and Zit-face were amongst my favorite names), pinching, or fighting over which TV show to watch, something would always trigger a match.  In those days, it’s what we lived for.

Wrestling was a part of my childhood.  Both my dad and my brother would watch WWF on TV.  I was even a fan. I had a huge crush on “Hulk Hogan.”  Nonetheless, it’s what I grew up watching and probably how my brother developed a love for the sport. He loved it so much, he even wrestled for school and at a wrestling club.  He was good at his sport, and there was no reason he shouldn’t have been:  I was always there for him to practice on. 

On this particular day, we were wrestling for control of the TV.  I wanted to watch Sesame Street and he wanted to watch Bozo the Clown.  I hated Bozo and he hated Sesame Street.  He got his way and the sound of Bozo filled our living room. I was mad.  I hated not getting my way.  I took my security blanket (I called it my “Binney”) over to the entertainment center and covered the screen with it so he couldn’t see.  This made him mad, and I knew it.

He got up off of the red-plaid couch and ripped my “Binney” from me.  Then he shoved me to the ground.  I usually had enough time to attempt an escape, but not this time.  Even if I did manage to escape, he would chase me around the coffee table until I was caught and shoved down again.

Once he was sure I was down, he took my “Binney” and twirled it around until it was in a tight, straight line (almost like a rope) and snapped me with it.  My “Binney” was soft, but he would twirl it so tight that when he snapped me with it, it left red marks on my bare skin.  I cried and begged him to stop, but I think this reaction made him want to wrestle me some more.  He knew he was going to win.

I once again tried to get up on my feet, but he pinned me on my stomach and bent my arms and legs in directions that I didn’t even think they could bend.  I could hear them snap and pop.  I screamed and tried to wriggle my way out of his hold, but I could only manage to flip myself over onto my back, where I looked him right in the face and spit on him.  This was not a smart move, and I knew it, but I also knew how to push his buttons, and he knew how to push mine.

Then came the worst part.  He pinned me down once again, only this time harder.  After he was sure I couldn’t move, he slammed his hand down on the carpet next to my head ten times to ensure his victory and my loss. (He must have learned that maneuver from wrestling club.) Tired and exhausted from struggling, I gave up and took my beating.  He picked me up high over his head, spun me around a few times until I felt my lunch begin to rise from the pit of my stomach, and then WHAM! He “body slammed” me down on his propped up knee, just like the wrestlers on WWF.  The pain that shot through my back was the final straw.  I burst into tears and cried as loudly as I could.  Fearing my mom might be coming home early, he muffled my cries by shoving my face deep into the brown carpet of our townhouse, which mostly smelled of our two dogs.  I bit my cheek on accident, and the taste of blood filled my mouth.  By this time, five o’clock had rolled around, and I knew it was my turn to win.

I could hear Mom’s high heels coming up the wooden steps of the porch that led to the front door.  My brother and I raced to the front door to be the first in line to tattle to her what the other had done.  It was time to defend ourselves and lie to make the other one look like the bad child. This is when I put my skill to the test.  He may have won the wrestling match, but my skill was at getting him in trouble, and keeping myself out of it.  With the sound of the key in the lock, I instantly put the tear ducts to work. 

No sooner had she stepped foot in the door, we were talking to her at once. “Mom!  Eric body-slammed me again!”  I managed to get out through my sobbing cries.  I held up my red, carpet-burned arms for her to see as proof.

“Well, SHE called me brace-face, AND she pulled my hair!” he told her. He also showed her the scratch marks I had managed to create in the match.

My mom just sighed and shook her head.  I’m sure being at work all day, and then coming home to two children screaming at each other was not on her favorite’s list.  She told us to go to our rooms and wait for our punishment.  This made me cry even harder, because I hated being sent to my room, and there was also the fear of being spanked. I cried harder and tattled everything that he had done to me.  I think she just got so fed up with me crying that she scolded my brother and told him he was old enough to know better just to get me to stop crying because I could cry forever.

He may have won the wrestling match that day, but overall, I was the real winner.  I had managed once again to get him into trouble, and I was still a “perfect little angel.”  We were pretty horrible, but no different than most siblings.  And as Eric went up the stairs to “spend some time in his room to think about what he had done,” I sat on the landing of the stairs.  As he passed me, and when I was sure Mom wasn’t looking, I stuck my tongue out at him to show him that I had really won this one.  It was not only the traditional thing to do, but also to show him that there was always tomorrow.

Wiffle Ball

by Johnny Palermo, Jr.

On my last trip to New York, I passed by my old neighborhood, and to my surprise, I ran into David Ruiz.  David Ruiz was my best friend all through kindergarten until Junior high.  I heard a couple of years ago that he had run into trouble with the law, and he wasn’t doing too well.  David and I sat on the steps in front of our old building.  I asked him how things were going, and he said, “It could be worse.”  I began to ask him about his run-in with the law when he cut me short.  “Check them out,” said David.  He was looking down the street at two kids playing wiffle ball.  The sounds of laughter and plastic hitting plastic reminded us of how we used to play wiffle ball.  “Those were the best times,” said David.

Wiffle ball was like a ritual for the two of us.  We had about four or five wiffle bats apiece.  We would tape them up with electrical tape.  There was something about the black electrical tape spiraling down the bright yellow wiffle bat that made me feel a sense of pride.  We would challenge other kids on our block.

The best game we played was against two kids from across the street, Keene and Tito.  Keene and Tito were two older kids that swore they were the greatest wiffle ball players on the block.  The game was the last one we played that summer.  It was the middle of August, and the wind was perfect for wiffle ball.  There was just enough wind for David to throw his split slider that he had perfected.  The streets were filled with the sounds of cars honking and sirens screeching.  In the distance, we could hear little Tony’s mother yelling out the window for him to come home and clean his room.  Keene and Tito thought just because they were older they could win on intimidation alone.  Every time we would play against them, they would get right in front of our faces when we would try to argue a call.  To me, Keene and Tito were funny looking.  Keene had a lump behind his ear that I wanted to pop like a pimple, and Tito never used to wear socks, and that bothered the heck out of me. 

Just before we played, we went over the rules like we always did.  We played from one side of the street to the other side.  It was considered a hit when the ball bounced behind the pitcher.  We had to hit the ball against the apartment building over the first floor to be considered a double.  Over the second floor window was considered a triple, and over the third was a home run.

Keene and Tito had won the toss up for the right to bat first.  I thought they had cheated, but I didn’t feel like arguing.  David pitched, and I played the field.  Keene batted first, and the first pitch from David looked like a beauty.  The ball had a lot of rotation, and just before it began to curve away from Keene, he swung and smacked it right above the second floor for a triple. I could see the frustration on David’s face.  Keene began talking smack, and I couldn’t wait for our turn to bat.  They ended up scoring three runs that inning.  It seemed that the first pitch that was thrown had taken David out of the game.  I walked over to David and whacked him on his backside and told him, “Let’s get these runs back.” 

Now it was our turn to bat, and I was up.  The first two pitches were way outside. The next pitch was right down the pipe, and I squeezed the bat as hard as I could and swung with such velocity I missed the ball.  I was getting anxious.  The next pitch was in the same spot, and I swung and popped it straight up for an easy out.  After two more easy outs, it was their turn to bat again. 

This time David was ready to pitch.  He threw consecutive sliders for strikes.  Just before he threw the third pitch, the familiar sound at the end of the street grabbed all of our attentions.  It was the lovely sound of the ice cream truck.  After a quick time out and a couple of Mr. Softie ice cream cones, we continued the game.  David ended up striking out the side. 

Our next time up to bat was awesome.  David hit two home runs, and I assisted with a base hit and a triple.  We took the lead four to three.  David was untouchable.  Keene and Tito were throwing temper tantrums.  They were so upset they started arguing amongst themselves.  “What’s the matter with you?  You play like a girl.  I should have had your sister play instead,” Keene said to Tito.

“I play better than your mama, though,” Tito replied.  It was so humorous to watch these two older kids get mad to the extent that they didn’t want to play anymore.  So the score ended up four to three in our favor.

As David and I sat there and reminisced over that game we played so long ago, we realized no matter what we go through or what troubles life may pitch to us, we can still remember the past to find hope for the future.

Our Kidnapping

by Annick Smith

The kidnapping took place in Geneva, Switzerland, while we were standing in a bookstore on a bright sunny day in June 1970. The way I remember, it was simple. My mother turned to us saying, “How would you like to visit Maman-Flo in Rhodesia?”

But I suppose I should go back in time to give you all a better understanding of why the kidnapping transpired back in June 1970. My older sister Brigitte and I had been living with our father’s parents for two years. Our grandfather Jarca was a lawyer by trade, and all I can remember about him is that he would usually be found in his study. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with bright blue eyes and receding, fine grey hair which he combed back. He always looked well groomed.

My grandmother Jalca, on the other hand, was a short woman with dark brown hair, a hook nose, and dark, deep-set eyes. Her hands had extra-large knuckles which bore a couple of oversized rings. Looking back now, I’m ashamed to say she reminded me of a witch, and I was petrified of her.

We also had another man living with us, George, who was ten years their junior and had somehow been adopted by the family. He was the type of person you tried to avoid, unsociable and very strict as I remember him. He reminded me of a professor—tweed coat, cord pants, and glasses.

You might be wondering why we were living in Geneva, Switzerland, with our grandparents. Well, the story goes like this:  I was four, Brigitte seven, and our younger sister Michele (who we nicknamed the monkey) was two and a half. Our mother went to visit her family in Rhodesia (a country situated in the south of Africa now called Zimbabwe), taking my younger sister Michele with her, supposedly to have a break. I have recently found out that while they were in Rhodesia, our father filed divorce papers on the grounds of abandonment. Our mother and Michele did not come back. The long absence of Mom worried us, and when we asked our father when she would be back, he told us that she would be back soon and that in the meantime we were going to spend the holidays with Jarco and Jalca.

I wasn’t very close to Brigitte growing up. She was definitely the favorite and liked to spend her time with the adults and boss me around. I felt very lonely and started wetting my bed on occasions, which Jalca dealt with by making me wear oversized nappies which I hated because they kept me awake at night. I was so conscious of wetting myself, I didn’t dare fall asleep. I would lie awake, wishing that my mother would come back and rescue me.

I remember constantly asking when my mother would come to fetch us, and I soon got the message that talking about my mother was not a good thing. I then started asking when my father would come and get us. When Jalca enrolled us in school, I think it finally sank in that we weren’t going anywhere.

Over the two years we were left at our grandparents, we saw our father once a month for a couple of days at a time. Our mother visited once in the first year, which I don’t remember too clearly, except that I didn’t want her to leave. The next time was in June of 1969 when she came with Michele. On both occasions, I remember asking why Michele and Mom couldn’t stay at the house with us. Jalca responded angrily, “We haven’t the room!”  I didn’t dare ask again.

Living with my grandparents was a painful experience for me. I hated practicing piano, learning English, and playing tennis. I was not very good at any of these tasks and always seemed to be in trouble for not doing well. My lack of mastery was amplified by the fact that Brigitte was good, and it didn’t make any difference that she was older. Jalca kept a little book in which she logged black marks for each misdemeanor we made. I invariably had too many black marks at the end of the week to get a treat. Friday nights were bridge-playing night, so we weren’t allowed to disturb the adults. I never could figure out the point of holding a bunch of cards in one hand and a cigarette in the other for several hours.

However, I do have some fond memories of my stay in Geneva. Usually on Sundays we went out for tea and a walk in the country. I particularly enjoyed looking for four-leaf clovers. Jalca explained to us that they would bring us good luck, and I secretly hoped my mom would come and save us. My father’s visits were always exciting. He would hug and kiss us on arrival and departure. His visits gave me hope that someday he would take us with him when he left. I loved watching him and Jarco playing with the “Scalextric Set.”  They would spend what seemed like hours setting up the miniature racing circuit with bends and slopes on Jarco’s large polished wooden desk in the study, then race each other around the track. Jarco usually raced the red car and my dad the white, their excitement and concentration evident on their faces. I would stand in the far corner out of the way, hoping that I would be allowed a turn. I was thrilled whenever I was offered a chance to race.

The study was my favorite room, although we were allowed in only occasionally. The room smelled of polished wood and was full of assorted stationery items which I loved. We were sometimes allowed to play in the study and use the crayons, felt-tipped pens, labels, assorted paper clips, different colored paper and cards. I would get lost in my own dream world, creating pictures and cards to send to Mom. My favorite pastime at school was to use the quill pens. I loved dipping the quill into the inkwell and concentrated hard to avoid getting any blotches on the paper.

On the occasions when our great-grandmother Madla (Jalca’s mother) would visit, she would bend down, putting her face close to mine, and look at me with great big eyes.”Who wants to play cards?” she’d ask.  She’d pull out an enormous deck of cards that was twice the size of normal playing cards. She seemed so very old, but I loved to play cards with her. Madla couldn’t see or hear very well, so her oversized playing cards had extra large writing and pictures on them. I found the cards very amusing, and I would shout my answer close to her ear: “Can we play Battaille, please?”  At other times, knowing I loved to draw and paint as she did, Madla would say to me, “Shall we do some painting?”

I was very proud of myself when I learned to ride my two-wheeler bike. I remember Jarco holding the saddle, running behind me, and when I looked around at some point he wasn’t there any more, and I was still upright, and going for it. It took several seconds before I realized he wasn’t supporting me, and then I came crashing down.

Most of all, while living with my grandparents, I wanted my mother.

I remember that there was excitement back in June 1969 as preparations were being made for Brigitte’s First Holy Communion. Brigitte had her final catechism class to attend, dress fittings, and invitation cards to prepare. But for me the greatest excitement was that Mom arrived with Michele for the event and an extended visit. At the back of my mind, I still hoped Mom would take us home with her.

I remember asking Mom, “Can Michele stay with us when you have to go away again?”  That question went down like a lead balloon. Jalca overheard me and was not pleased with the prospect at all, although I don’t remember exactly what she said at the time. Mom smiled at me and explained that there wasn’t room for her here. I felt jealous for two reasons:  Michele was allowed to stay with Mom and she didn’t get to stay with me. I felt I needed an ally. Michele and I were much closer siblings than Brigitte and I.

The adults seemed to be acting strangely over the days leading to our kidnapping. I sensed Mom was nervous each time she visited the house. She kept snooping around in drawers and asking questions about things I didn’t understand. Jalca seemed to hover around when Mom was with us or she’d tell Jarco and George to stay with us.

I remember Mom asking Brigitte, “Can you go and see if your passports are in Jalca’s bedside drawer?”

“No I can’t!” she answered, her forehead creased in defiance. “I’m not allowed to go in Jalca’s things, Mom,” Brigitte pleaded. She was scared at the prospect of getting caught.

“I need you to go and get them for me quickly while Jalca is busy downstairs. If she comes, you can say you wanted to look at your dress.” Mom seemed to be begging and then added, “It’s important I have them. I think Michele’s passport is there too, and I need it to get her home. Please!”

Brigitte reluctantly conceded. Jalca was edgy and didn’t like to have Mom around us unsupervised. I remember on the day of the kidnapping, we were dressed in matching dresses, polished shoes, and long white socks, and our hair was pushed back with an Alice-band, ready to go to town. Our errands were to order the cake at the baker’s and to visit the bookstore for Brigitte to choose a Bible. I thought she was very lucky to be getting all this attention, and I wanted to have my First Holy Communion, too. When we reached the bookstore, Jalca turned to us. “I have to go and post this letter in the post box across the road,” she said, and with a smile aimed at Brigitte she added, “You choose a Bible with your mother. I’ll be back in a minute.” With that she was off, giving my mother a stern look as she left.

As soon as Jalca was out the door, Mom turned to us and asked, “How would you like to visit Maman-Flo in Rhodesia?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed all excited. Michele, standing next to me, gave me a nodding look of approval.

Brigitte had found a beautiful white Bible, and asked all seriously, “When?”

“Now,” Mom responded.

“But we have to wait for Jalca. She said she’d be back, and tomorrow is my First Holy Communion. What about my Bible?”

“I’ll buy the Bible, but you have to decide now!” Mom answered, wanting Brigitte to comply, irritability prominent in her voice.

“Oh, all right,” Brigitte surrendered.

The Bible was purchased, and we were on the sidewalk standing in the beautiful sunshine next to Mom, who hailed a taxi. Brigitte was clutching her new Bible, muttering under her breath. “Why do we have to leave so quickly? We should wait and tell Jalca where we’re going!”  Mom bundled us into the taxi, saying nothing. All the commotion happened in a matter of seconds. In the taxi, Michele was chattering to me excitedly about all the things we would do when we arrived at Maman-Flo’s. She described the house and all the family members who lived in it. I was totally content and eager to go for this adventure, far away from Jalca, the witch. We stopped at the house where Mom and Michele were staying and were told to stay in the taxi while Mom collected their luggage. Then she ordered the taxi driver to go to the airport. At this point I was confused. Why did Mom need her suitcases? Was she going away after we saw Maman-Flo? I didn’t want to ask in case she confirmed my worries. We all sat quietly in the taxi for the remainder of the journey, but I noticed Mom kept looking out the back window. On arrival at the airport, she paid the taxi driver, grabbed the suitcases, and shepherded us to a ticket counter.

“Stay still and don’t wander off!” she ordered. We didn’t argue. After a few minutes she crouched down and smiled at us. “I had better buy you each a coat. It’s cold in Rhodesia, brrrr!”

I smiled back, feeling a little more relaxed. Mom stood up and looked around as if she were expecting to see someone, then grabbed Michele’s and my hands while asking Brigitte to hold Michele’s other hand. Off we went in search of coats. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, and although I had plenty of questions I wanted to ask, I dared not. I sensed it would be a bad idea to question Mom and just took pleasure in being with her. In the store, Mom picked out a couple of big puffy coats. I think they were called anoraks. One was bright orange and the other a navy blue. I wanted the blue one, as blue is my favorite color.  “Can I have the blue one?” I ventured.

Mom, in her usual style that I have become used to over the years, didn’t reply at first, but placed it in front of me, assessing its fit, then said, “Put it on, quickly, and see if it fits.”

Mom then turned to Brigitte and handed her the orange one that looked larger and asked, “Would you like this one? There are no red ones!”

“Yes, please,” Brigitte agreed, and started to pull it on.

Michele already had a lovely, fluffy, white coat. Mom paid for the coats and allowed us to keep them on. As we walked out the store, she again looked around for that someone, and then hurried us to what must have been the departure lounge. We sat quietly by Mom’s side, watching the activity going on around us.

It didn’t take long before we started boarding the airplane. Things were getting interesting now. Once we were on board, an air-hostess offered us each a goody bag, holding crayons, a coloring book, a small toy, and stickers. Michele and I sat together playing. I noticed Mom was still looking around, expecting someone. She had a hold of Brigitte’s hand and wasn’t responding to her questions.  At one point, an announcement was made over the intercom. Mom jumped, and Brigitte yelled indignantly, “You’re squashing my hand!”

I think we landed in Italy. Mom whisked us to another waiting lounge. It was dark outside and by now we were tired, hungry and wanted to go to bed. We pestered Mom with requests for food, drink, and a place to lie down and sleep. Unbelievably to me, Mom started shouting at us:  “Everything is closed! You’ll have to wait till we get on the next plane.”  She started shaking and crying, which started us off crying. Then she frantically tried to quiet us down by whispering, “Shhhh, you’ll wake everyone up.”  There were people all around us sleeping, stretched out across the lounge chairs. And more quietly Mom suggested, “Why don’t you lie down on these chairs and have a sleep? The time will go quickly, and we will soon be on the next plane.”

The next airplane ride was not as exciting. What I had originally thought would be a good time with Mom was turning into a long, boring, and tense experience. There was no sign of any quick relief. Mom got more and more edgy. Every time an announcement was made, she would jump and ask Brigitte what was said. Michele and I hung onto each other and slept as much as possible. We made another landing in some country in Africa to refuel the plane, and another long wait ensued. Back up in the air, Mom pointed to the landscape and explained how different it was from Switzerland. I finally felt it was ok to talk and laugh with her. Mom started getting excited as we neared Salisbury Airport. She started crying and stammering all at the same time.  “Look! We’re nearly there!” she said over and over again. We bounced up and down on our seats awake and expectant, shouting, “Where? Where?”

From that moment on, time seemed to speed up. The airplane landed, and Mom turned to us, grabbing each of our faces in both hands and kissing us long and hard while tears streamed down her face. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to be happy or sad, and I didn’t want to upset Mom any more than she was. It was sunny but cool when we walked out of the terminal, and I was pleased to have my special new blue anorak. There were black men dressed in white or khaki uniforms standing around. One of them came and offered to help my mom with the suitcases. I was intrigued. Why was their skin black? Why were they helping us? Who were they? All of these questions I was too shy to ask. Mom turned to us. “Only twenty more minutes in the taxi, and we will be at Maman-Flo’s,” she promised.

In the taxi as we neared the house, I started feeling apprehensive. With all that had gone on, I was really hoping Maman-Flo would like me. Would she be like Jalca? The thought of Jalca sparked off a new, more terrifying thought—Jalca angry at me for being gone for so long, and I voiced my worry. “What will Jalca say when we go back?” I blurted out.

“You’re not going back ever! You’re staying with me now,” Mom comforted.

“What do you mean we’re not going back?” Brigitte demanded. “I’ll miss my First Holy Communion! Everybody is coming!” She crossed her arms, pouted and continued, “It’s not fair!”

“You can have your First Holy Communion and a big party here,” Mom tried to reassure her.

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Mom nodded.

I was glowing at all the good news. I was staying with Mom, Brigitte was missing her First Holy Communion, and I never had to answer to Jalca again. Mom would look after me.

As we got out of the taxi, Maman-Flo, Milou (the dalmatian), Christopher (later to become my favorite cousin), and Freddie (the servant who became my best friend and confidant) all came flooding out of the house to greet us. There were smiles on their faces as they fought to hug and kiss each of us. I noticed Freddie stood back while the family said their hellos. He had the most beautiful, inviting, large white smile I had ever seen and a magnetism about him. I watched as Michele darted straight for him with arms outstretched. “Freddie, Freddie!” she shouted.

She jumped on his back, hugging him, and I wished I could join her. Once we were inside the house, Michele dragged Christopher and me away to explore all the things she had described to me on the airplane. Come to think of it, Michele couldn’t speak French and I couldn’t speak English, yet somehow we understood each other. I couldn’t remember a time when I had felt so loved and special. Mom was my heroine.

Transition

by Chevant Starr     

Four years ago, I was a straight menace to society–gangbangin’ to sellin’ drugs, you name anything of that nature, I was into it.  I lived at home with my mother and two younger brothers who in my deepest thoughts I cared much about. My mom was a devoted Christian, and my brothers were not old enough to know the difference between religion and reality.  My spirituality had more anger than gratitude towards the life that we were so “blessed” with.  My anger and rage allowed the unthinkable to come very easy.  Even though I could handle myself with my hands, every day I carried a Browning HI-Powered 9mm (it was a 14 shot, 15 with one in the chamber) along with a .22 revolver just in case anything kicked off the wrong way.

Like any other day I had to kick it off with a fat joint and a shot of E & J. After I was dressed, I wiped off my guns and bullets. I didn’t want anything coming back to me if I could help it. Next I checked my pages to start the business day.  I had been having problems with one user in particular.  For about a week, he had been avoiding me. So that was first on my list of stops to collect.  Word on the street was that he was taking his money elsewhere, which would’ve been cool if he hadn’t owed me anything.  I made it to his house by noon.  I knocked and I heard his voice.

“Who is it?” he said. 

I started to laugh to myself.  “You know who this is, fool! Now open the door!”

“No. I know you got your gun on you, and I don’t want none of that jumping off up in here.”

I said, “Listen, mothafucka, I don’t care what you want! I want my money!” 

“I don’t have your money, and if I open this door I got to get my gun too.”

“Go ahead!  Just open the door.”

He said, “I’m not opening the door. Now leave before we both do something we are going to regret.”

I took this as a threat.  I wanted to shoot the door full of holes right then and there, but he had babies in there. I left just as mad as I could be.

I yelled, “I’ll be back at 5!  Have my money!”

All of a sudden, I started to think it wasn’t about money any more.  It was about me being disrespected and not obeyed on command.  I felt like he was taking advantage of me like I was some punk, some kind of pushover or something. If there was one thing that I could not handle, it was threats and dis- respect. I drove off thinking he better have money.  I got to the homie’s house and told him what was up.

He laughed at me and said, “Fool, you is tripping off that smoker.”

“Man, if that fool don’t cough up my bread, it’s on!”

He said,  “Man, don’t trip.  Give him one more week.  If he doesn’t have it by then….” 

My homie just smiled and picked up his SKS-47.  Then we talked about what we were going to get into for the night, which of course was getting blitzed and acting a fool.  I smashed on out.  I had some pickups and dropoffs to handle. After running all day long it was time to kick it!  My homies and I hooked up at the house of a potna of ours. Boy, it was on! A pocket full of money almost made me forget about my altercation with Old Boy this morning.  As you can see, I didn’t go back at five.  I thought it would’ve wasted too much time to play around with this cat.  Plus, I wanted to go to the store.  I needed to re-up on my ammo. After I left the store, I went home to drop that stuff off and change.

I got home that night, and my family was at home.  My Aunt Christi and her daughter Michaela were over.  Michaela is my favorite cousin.  She was eleven at the time, the coolest little girl in the world. I came through the door and was greeted.

“Hey, Chevy,” my mom said.

“What’s up?” I said.

I headed straight for my room before anybody could ask me what I got from the store. I was putting stuff away when I heard some knocking at my door.  It was my little cousin Michaela.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I said, “Chilling. What’s up with you?”

“Fine,” she said, “but I ain’t got no money.”

I said, “Let’s see what we can do about that.”  I smiled and said, “If you can count all the money in my hand, you can have ten bucks.”

She said, “Bet!” and started to count.

That was one of my favorite things to do with her. It made me feel like even though the way I was making money was wrong, my purpose behind it was correct. My intention in the dope game was to make enough money to give my family what none of us had experienced. While being caught up in my thoughts, one came back to me like a sharp knife. I thought, this mothafucka is playing me like a bitch! A voice in my head screamed, and I sat there shaking my head.

I told my little cousin, “I need to change my clothes I have somewhere to go.”

I shut my bedroom door and locked it, called up my homie and began to put my things away and get dressed. I told my friend I was on my way over to kick it. By the time I left, it was dark, and I think it was around 10.

When I got to my friends, they had already started.  I joined in on the drinking and smoking. We always had a lot to drink and a lot to smoke. As the party progressed, about six of us began to shoot dice.  Besides talking about the money on the floor, the topic of our discussion was about this smoker and me.  I told everybody not to trip and that I was cool, which at the moment I was. It was maybe about 1 a.m. when I finally left. On the way home I stopped at a pay phone. I had got a page from my girlfriend. I called her up, and she asked if I could pick her up so we could go for a ride.  We lived only a couple of blocks away from each other, and while I was drunk and high I began to think about Old Boy not paying me my money, so I stopped at the crib to get my heat.

At that time I didn’t know what I wanted to do.  As I was loading my gun, this crazy idea popped in my head.  Since he lived only a couple blocks away, I’d go handle my business and then go pick my girl up.  I left out the house on foot.

The whole time I walked over there, my mind was spinning like a tornado.  I finally got there; I was standing outside of his house.  And I couldn’t see the fact that there were kids and innocent people in there; all I could see was him resting peacefully in his bed.  I thought to myself, Here is a wake-up call you won’t forget, mothafucka. I pulled my heat, and one by one I emptied my clip into his bedroom walls.  I took off running feeling paid back in full. I got to the crib, hopped in my car, and shot to my girl’s house.  She knew something was wrong. 

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m cool,” I said.

But my mind kept replaying what I’d done over and over.  We made love for what would be my last time for three and a half years.  I left her house, and by the time I got home, it had to be three or four o’clock in the morning. I was so exhausted that I didn’t put anything away.  I just crashed out like everything was cool. No sooner than I fell asleep, my mom was knocking at my door.

She said, “Chevant, the police are at the door and they want to talk to you about some shooting.”

I thought to myself, Ooh shit! I didn’t know what to do.  This was way crazy.  What I did was insane!  My mind started to spin again.  I got to the door and was bombarded with questions.  At that point I already knew I was on my way nowhere but to jail!

As I began to answer their questions and they went to search my room, my mom was crying and I could see the pain in her face.  It was like I was looking in her heart. They handcuffed me, and even though I was standing there, it was like I was outside myself.  I couldn’t believe what was going on and that my beliefs had led me here, to destroying my family and almost killing another. The very thing I was so-called doing to have a better life only tore me down.  It was like I woke up from a deep sleep.

Even through all the trouble I was in, what bothered me the most was the way my mom looked.  I looked at my mom face to face.  Her face was drenched with tears, and she looked very tired.

I said to her, “Mom, I won’t ever put you through this again, I promise.”

The police then took me away to jail. After being booked and processed, I finally made it to my cell for some rest. The next day I just slept all day long. As I lay there I thought about what I needed to do make a change, what I needed to be out of my life, and what I needed to bring in.  I was moved from the police station to the county jail. This was my first time in jail, so I wasn’t really nervous.

From the moment I set foot in there, all I thought about was home. I was put in a cell with an old head.  His name was Thorton, a thirty-six-year-old drug dealer from California.  Thorton had been involved in a conspiracy that brings dope from California to Nebraska.  He was facing a sentence of twenty years to life in a federal penitentiary.

After we introduced ourselves, he asked, “Would you like to read a book?”

He had seventeen books that I had seen in the room when I walked in.  All of them were about knowledge of self, history, and culture.  I hadn’t read a book in years. I was surprised I still knew how. Thorton became my big brother throughout my stay. From that day forth I started to read as much as could.  And when I didn’t want to read, Thorton was the positive reinforcement.  I became hungry for knowledge. We had talks, discussions, debates–it was literally mental exercise.  I began to see what kind of lifestyle I needed to survive and enjoy it. I felt true confidence in myself.  I felt like a soul with purpose.

My family could see my changes, too, but deep down I know they had their doubts.  Yet they stood firm.  My mom and girlfriend were the only people I got to see at my visits my whole time in the county jail. The love I felt from them carried throughout my mind and body, every day, every hour, every minute.

Hardships did come, though, along with depression and fear.  I lost my little cousin Michaela to asthma while she still was eleven, and I love her very much. The jail would have let me go see her, but I did not want her to see me in an orange jumpsuit, handcuffed and shackled.  As sorrowful as I was, I just kept holding on to her smile.  She was always happy.  Those were the thoughts that allowed me to continue on my journey.

November 17, 1997 was the day I was sentenced.  My family had come. I was a little nervous but ready.  I was shackled, and it was hurting me, not physically, but emotionally. I tried to hold tough, but I knew what I had done was wrong, and I owed.  I felt that I owed this to everyone, to God, to the people whose house I shot up, to my family for dragging them through this, and to society itself.  I knew I had much more to offer to life than destruction. When I finally made it in front of the judge, I looked behind me to see my family right there loving me still.  The judge talked about the incident, then asked me if I had anything to say.

I sincerely said, “I’m sorry for all I have done and all I have affected.”

The judge replied, “I believe that you are sorry and that you’re really a nice kid, but I have to teach you a lesson, and hopefully you’ll use this time wisely and learn from mistake.”

I nodded my head in understanding.

The judge then sentenced me. He said, “Five to ten years in the Nebraska State Penitentiary.”

I turned to look at my family, and I saw the hurt their eyes and quickly turned back around.  I did not want them to see my face.  I was quiet my whole way back to my jail cell. Thorton asked me how it went as soon as I got back.

I said, “Man, I got five to ten years.”

He said, “Is that all you got? Man, you are straight! Compared to what you were facing, you got off easy!

I said, “How do you figure I’m straight? I’m not going home for a longtime.”

He said, “Yeah, you’re right, but it’s not life!  You’ve already done nine months here, and if you keep your mind clear and your nose clean you’ll make parole in little over a year and a half.” 

I couldn’t believe that. I started to feel better, but Thorton would never let me get my spirits down. I respected that. We continued to talk for as least an hour on how I could make the best of my time.  I began to see how I could and I would make it through this. Thorton had told me of all the good that could happen for me.  I could go to college, and the visits from family were a lot less restricted.  I knew nothing about the penitentiary except that it was considered to be a nightmare for most.

He told me, “It’s no different from the streets except you just can’t go home.” 

I talked to my mom and girlfriend that night.  I told them that everything was going to be cool.

 “I’m going to do my best to get myself home. Whatever it takes, I will do it and do it the right way,” I promised them. They were listening but I could hear them crying. 

“I love you,” I told them, and I went to bed. 

As I lay there I started to talk to God about who I was and who I wanted to be. My eyes would water if even a glimpse of home would pop into my mind. I started to think about this dedication I read in the front of a book.

It said, “God bless the child that can hold his own.”

It took about a month before they came to take me to the pen.  During that time I prepared myself for prison.  Even though prison is a very physical place, believe me, it’s mental warfare.  My first thought when I saw the pen was, “God bless the child that can hold his own,” and I believe that to mean, Be the very best in everything you do.  That’s how I strived for the next two years and nine months.

I continued to read but I had broadened my reading.  I started to read about other walks of life–their history.  I read a lot because I took the saying that “knowledge is power” very seriously.  My mind and heart were open and I loved it, but I also could feel all the things I’d done wrong to people, and I contemplated all the wrong things people do to people.  Watching the news during my time in there was like watching what I did over and over again.  Every time I‘d watch I would think about what I’d done.

 You gain a lot of respect in the pen for having control of your life, in a place where it controls you.  Everything is there for you, good and bad, mainly bad.  That made it very hard to be around people who you affected you so closely that if they messed up, everybody would get locked down their in cells. It stopped the freedom you get, if someone else didn’t care.  This was an instant flashback to who I was and how I treated people.  Every opportunity that came along to better myself I did it, not just to do it but to accept it and adapt it to my life to continue my growth.  My family would visit and they were all so proud of me. 

I would tell them, “Just wait until I get the chance to be free.”

I was doing good in this bad place.  I was going to college in there, and I made the dean’s list. Every little bump I encountered I overcame.  Then finally after two years and ten months I was promoted to work release, and I took off like a bird takes flight. The first I job I got out here in the real world was at the Spaghetti Works in the Old Market.  It was the best job in the world to me, but I had lots and lots of things to be grateful for.  It was a hard job sometimes, but my attitude towards work and accomplishments was in constant overdrive.  I picked a second job at the airport. I could not stand to be in jail anymore so I tried to stay away the best way I knew how–with work.  My parole date came up pretty fast with working as much as I was. I was nervous about parole, but I was ready to go home.  I had been anticipating release. 

When my day came for parole, it was July 20, 2000.  I had the same feelings I had felt the day I got sentenced.  I was confident that I had done and was prepared to do everything humanly possible to transcend my life.  When I sat before them and they began to talk, I was outside myself again listening to them and reflecting on my life.  I was released that day. Gaining my freedom and getting back to reality was beautiful.  I thought, I am free, but I’m still on the outside looking in on the world.  Good and bad, it is massive in the contents of my thoughts.  As soon as I walked out the door my family was right there waiting for me.  They didn’t leave me. They were right there loving me.  When I look in my mother’s face today, I see her happy and proud that I am her son. Sometimes I wonder if she remembers that promise I made to her, but even if she doesn’t, I do.

The Day My Son Was Born
by Steven Sutton

It was January 28, 1997, around 5:00 in the morning.  I woke up and got dressed.  I packed some of my wife’s things into a bag and woke her. 

“It’s time to get up, honey,” I said.

“I know it is,” she said.   “I have been awake all night.  I am too nervous to sleep.”

 My wife was eight and a half months pregnant.  She had been to the doctor the day before for a checkup.  He’d said he was a little concerned with her last month.  The  doctor had told her to come in the next morning for some tests to see how the baby was doing.  He also told her to be prepared to stay in case he had to induce her labor.  She had developed toxemia, which had caused her to retain water.  If the water is in the body long enough, it becomes toxic.  Not only is this bad for the mother, but if the toxic fluid gets in with the amniotic fluid, it is dangerous for the baby.

“Everything will be all right,” I told her. 

“All I need is to have complications!” she said.  “You just lost your job, and with that we lost our insurance.  We can’t afford to have complications.”

I reassured her again, and we got ready to go.  The hospital was a forty-five minute drive from our house, so there was time for tension to build up before we got there.  When we arrived at the hospital, we checked in, and a nurse took my wife to get her ready for the tests.  When I reached my wife’s room, she was in a gown and had several monitors strapped to her.

“They just took some blood and said the doctor will be in as soon as they have the results,” she said.

“Well, then, I guess we will just have to wait a little longer, won’t we,” I replied.

After about an hour the doctor came in and said, “The test result showed that you are on the borderline of  becoming toxic. You have two choices:  Either you can wait out the next two weeks, and we keep a very close eye on you; or I can induce you now, so we do not have to worry about what might happen later.”

My wife did not take long to decide.  “Go ahead and induce me.  I don’t want to wait for something bad to happen.”

The doctor broke her water and started her on some drugs to help induce her labor.  We were both excited that we were not going to have to wait much longer for our child to be born.  I started to call everyone to let people know what was going on.

The labor had a slow start.  It was about three hours before my wife had any labor pain.  Once the pains started, a nurse came in to check how the baby was doing.  She couldn’t get a good reading with the standard monitor, a round sensor that was strapped around my wife’s abdomen.  The nurse came back with the doctor, and he said that since he couldn’t get accurate readings this way, he would need to hook the monitor directly to the baby.  

The doctor explained, “This is done by taking wires that have corkscrew-like sensors on the end of them and screwing them under the baby’s skin on its head.”   The whole idea didn’t sound too great, and my wife was not fond of the idea of the doctor sticking his hands up there to put the monitor in.  But the doctor assured us, “The baby really won’t feel anything, and your wife’s discomfort will be temporary.” 

The one thing the doctor didn’t mention was that once they hooked up this monitor, my wife couldn’t get out of the bed.  This was the start of a very long day for me and, of course, for my wife, too.  My wife had decided that she hated the nurse taking care of her.  I still do not know why.  Her nurse was very nice and made sure my wife was as comfortable as possible.  

The nurse would look in on my wife about every fifteen minutes and say, “Hi, hon, how is everything going?  Can I get you anything?”

My wife would say, “Fine!”  Then she would give the nurse a look that could kill. 

“If she calls me ‘hon’ or ‘sweetheart’ or even smiles that way at me that way again, I will kill her,” my wife told me.  This went on for most of the day.

At around eleven p.m., the doctor came in.  He checked my wife and said she had dilated to only four centimeters.  He told us he was going to go home, but he would be back as soon as my wife had progressed a little more. Because of the drugs, my wife’s labor pain had been pretty intense all day.   Around eleven thirty, the nurse came in and asked if I wanted to go eat since I hadn’t yet.  She said she would stay with my wife if I wanted to quickly run and eat.  I told my wife I would be right  back.  I felt a little guilty because I was going to have some real food, and all my wife could eat were ice chips.  I came back close to midnight. 

The nurse said, “We have stopped the drugs causing your wife’s labor pains, so you both can get some sleep.”

  I lay down in the waiting room right across the hall from my wife’s room.   I had just closed my eyes when I heard, “If you don’t get that no-good-lazy-selfish-son-of-a-bitch in here now, I will show you what pain is!”  

Just then, a nurse came into the waiting room and said, “Excuse me, I think your wife wants you to go back into her room.”

I went to see what was wrong.  It turned out that after being on the drugs that caused her contractions all day, she had actually started having contractions on her own.  She glared at me. 

“You put me in this hell!  Don’t think you are going to be able to go get a nap while I’m still lying here!” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” I told her.

I sat down beside her.  I leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek and to tell her I was proud of her.  Then pow!  I didn’t know what happened at first. All I knew was that I was now lying on the floor and I couldn’t find my glasses. 

“Don’t even try to kiss my ass, you son-of-a-bitch!  If you think that I’m ever going to forgive you for the pain I am going through, you have another thing coming.” 

That is when I realized she had punched me.  Not a little punch either. This is when I figured out why I couldn’t find my glasses.  My glasses were in pieces all over the room, and my face was starting to hurt. 

“Now calm down,” I said.  “You don’t need to get so angry.  You wanted this baby too, remember?”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she shouted.  “You’re not the one in constant pain.” 

This is the way that most of the night went.  At six a.m., my wife had been in labor for about twenty-two hours.  The doctor came in and checked her.  She was still dilated to only four centimeters. 

“It doesn’t look like you are progressing quite the way I would like,” he said.  “We are going to have to do a C-section because I just don’t think you are going to be able to do this one on your own.” 

By this time, my wife didn’t care if she had a C-section or not.  She just wanted everything to be over.  The nurses came in and started to prep my wife for her surgery.  Because of her condition, she was going to have to be knocked out for the surgery.  She was not happy about it but didn’t say much because at this point she just wanted it over with. The nurses then wheeled her into an operating room and asked if I wanted to go with her. 

“Of course I do,” I said. “I haven’t stayed up this long just to miss the end.” 

I was given some scrubs to put on over my clothes.  I walked into the operating room just in time to see the doctor make his first incision.  I had never seen anything like this before and was not prepared.  After he had cut through the muscle, he took two big metal hook-shaped objects and inserted them into each side of the incision.  Then two nurses pulled on each hook to open my wife’s incision so the doctor could see inside her.  At this point, I almost lost my lunch.  It was one thing to be by her side while she gave birth; it was another to stand over her and look at her insides.  As I looked on, I kept thinking, shit, that just doesn’t look like it should go there or do that.  I kept myself together and I thought, it’s almost over.  The next thing I saw was the doctor making an incision in my wife’s uterus. 

Within a few moments he pulled out my son.  This was a big surprise to me.  We had thought that we were going to have a girl.  I laughed a little and thought what a surprise it would be for my wife when she woke up to see she had a son. 

One concern that the doctor had with my wife’s condition was that the baby would be dehydrated.  We soon found out this was not the case, as my son urinated all over the doctor as he was pulled out.  The nurses took my son to a table on the other side of the room and started cleaning him off. Something was wrong, though.  They couldn’t get him to breathe.  I found out they had tricks to make babies cry and breathe, such as tickling their feet and patting their backs.  After a few seconds, I started to get a little worried.  Just when I was going to ask the nurse what was wrong, I heard a loud scream. I didn’t know at the time, but I soon found out my son doesn’t do anything until he is damn good and ready.

The nurse looked at me and said, “He’ll be just fine.”

She then took my son into the next room to weigh him and measure him.  I looked over at my wife.  The doctor had almost finished sewing her up.  I knew she didn’t want to miss anything, so I hurried into the next room with our video camera to record everything.  After the nurses weighed and measured my son, they put him in an incubator as a precaution since he hadn’t breathed right away. 

Then they asked me,  “What do you want to name him?”  I had to really think about this.  Since we assumed we were going to have a girl, we hadn’t talked much about boy names.  Then I remembered that when we first found out my wife was pregnant, she had mentioned that she liked the name Ethan and I had told her I liked Michael. 

I told the nurse, “We’ll name him Ethan Michael.”

My wife woke up an hour later, but she was pretty out of it.  She still doesn’t remember much of what happened the next couple of days.  But I will always remember the day my son was born,  probably the most tiring and exciting day of my life.

The Sins of the Fathers…

by Patricia Wokurka

            My title comes from Euripides (480 – 406 B.C.). The full text is “the gods visit the sins of the fathers upon their children.” When I was about twelve years old, my father was having a Boy Scout leaders’ meeting at our house and I heard him say this, but I didn’t understand what it meant until I became a parent myself. As a parent, I have learned that I have to be careful of what I do and say with my children because every decision I make will affect them. If I don’t provide the proper discipline, then they can become out of control; but if I am too punitive, I can make them angry and violent. If I’m not there to listen to them when they have a problem, they may turn to someone who will listen but who provides them with inappropriate answers to their questions. In other words, the “sins” that I commit as a parent will affect my children’s futures as adults.

            In recent years, we have seen a growing number of incidents of violence among our young people. Whenever these stories are broadcast in the news, we hear the same outcry from the adults in our society:  “It’s the movies, music and video games that children have that make them violent.”  They begin demanding more and more sanctions to control the entertainment media. But that is not the first thought that goes through my mind when I hear one of these stories. I begin to ask myself what that family or community did–or didn’t do–to create those violent children. Despite what the U.S. government, the news media, and various organizations would like us to believe, the real causes of youth violence are not movies, music, and video games. To find the real influences that make our youth violent we must look into the American home, educational system, and social system.

            We all remember those hours watching the tragic events in Littleton, Colorado unfold on April 20,1999. I remember watching the news people showing the same video building over and over again for hours that day of those frightened students running from the school. I listened to the witnesses’ terrified stories of what was happening inside the building and watched as the sheriff’s officers tried to rescue the survivors. I sat frozen to the television while this American tragedy played itself out. For days afterwards, I listened to the terrible descriptions of what happened inside the school and what kind of persons those two boys, Harris and Kleibold, were. And I listened in shock as everyone from the president on down began blaming the movies, music, and video games that Harris and Kleibold had access to for their violent spree at Columbine High School.

            After that tragic day in spring, President Clinton demanded that sanctions be placed on violent media because he and many parenting groups believe that it has a detrimental influence on America’s young people. In every corner of our country, thousands of supposedly concerned adults have taken up arms against these industries and are demanding more and more censorship. They are pulling out studies that they say prove that violent media causes violent reactions in our young people and this media must be stopped. But what are these studies really proving?

            The study that is most often used to prove that media causes violent responses is one done many years ago by Dr. Ed Donnerstein and Dr. Dan Linz. In their study, a group of adult males were shown hours of video on the subjects of violence and sex. After watching these videos, the men filled out a questionaire that asked if they felt as if they were capable of committing a rape after watching the films. Many of the men answered yes to the questions. Thus, the doctors concluded that violent video, especially sexually violent video, caused rape. The researchers say that the sexual violence desensitizes men to the plight of rape victims and makes them potential rapists (Fischoff).

            Dr. Stuart Fischoff and I have a problem with this study. In his address before the American Psychological Association, Dr. Fischoff argues that such studies are not empirical evidence that violent media causes violent behavior. He goes on to explain that there have been no post-exposure studies to show that the men who watched these videos then went on to commit rape. In fact, the researchers admit in later studies that the desensitization that the videos cause only lasts for about twenty minutes after the subjects stop watching the videos (Fischoff). These studies also fail to question what the subjects’ attitudes were about sex, rape, and violence before they watched the videos. And no studies have been done using subjects who have committed rape or assault. That would be unethical. In fact, research guidelines prevent a true study of the connection between violence and media because it would endanger both the subjects and the public. And to assume that these limited studies prove a connection between media violence and real violence is unprofessional.

            There have been over a thousand such studies in the last fifty years, most of them only on adults, and none of them have proven conclusively that media causes violence. Since the incident at Columbine, there have been many researchers who have actually spoken out against the clamor to censor media. Dr. Henry Jenkins, director of MIT Comparative Media Studies Program, testified before the senate that no research proves a connection between the movies, music and video games that Harris and Kleibold watched and the violence they committed. One senator accused him of working for the “Dark Side,” and the rest of the senate mocked and booed him off the floor (Fischoff). There are others who have tried to bring to the attention of the American public the facts that both of the boys involved in Columbine had histories of aggressive behavior, criminal records, and that Harris was seeing a psychologist and on medication for depression. Dr. Fischoff himself was told by both CBS and NBC news that they did not want to use him on their morning programs after the Columbine incident because he was going to speak out against those who were calling for censorship in the media.

            There is a long list of psychological professionals who have been speaking out for years that media and violence are not connected, but they have been censored. Many of these same professionals have been crying out for reforms in other areas that they have found conclusively do cause violence in our young people. The one area that all of them agree where reforms need to start is in the home with parents and guardians.

            There was an interesting study done on elephants about twenty years ago of which many child psychologists took notice. It seems some researchers separated several young bull elephants from the rest of the herd. These young “men” were set free in an area of an animal reserve that had no adult elephants. In a very short time, these young bulls began to destroy everything they came across. They even began to attack each other, trying to dominate their small herd. The researchers then introduced an adult male into the herd. Within a very short time, this “father” succeeded in pulling the young bulls into line and had them behaving like normal young elephants. Child psychologists have seen this study as a profound peek into the importance of parents to the proper development of a child (Fischoff).

            Psychologists know that most of a child’s personality is developed in the first five years of life. During those years parents are the primary teachers. Children look up to their parents as their primary guide to the world. If parents are loving, giving, and supportive, children will grow up with those elements as the foundation of their personalities. But if the home is full of violence, anger, and selfishness, then that is what children will take out into the world. We all know that abused children grow up to become abusers themselves (Kashani). Jerry Springer and Jenny Jones have done hundreds of shows on the subject, to the point that many people are tired of hearing about it. But the truth is that most violent youth come from homes where violence and criminal behavior are common factors. In fact, children are in more danger in their own homes than they are anywhere else. Every three days, more than sixteen children die at the hands of parents and guardians in this country (Schiraldi).

            But there are other forms of abuse that parents can use on children that can cause irreparable damage. Some parents run their homes like miniature military camps. They are overly harsh and threatening and dole out punishment at the slightest provocation. These parents believe that by keeping their children on a “short leash” they are teaching them to control their baser instincts. The truth is that these drill sergeants are actually causing their children to become rebellious and angry. Eventually those pent up emotions have to come out, and many times they are released in the form of violence toward others (Kramer).

            At the other end of the spectrum, we have the parents who don’t maintain any control over their children. These parents are many times so involved with their own selfish lives that they never have time for the children they gave birth to. They often give their children material things, such as video games, computers and televisions, in place of their time and attention. These “latch key” children are often left unsupervised for hours every day. I have found that it is often these delinquent parents who are doing the shouting for censorship. They are demanding that the government do their parenting job for them. They want the television, radio, movie, music, and gaming industries totally whitewashed so that they can still leave their children home alone and not feel guilty. They never stop to think that if they would just stay home occasionally and spend some quality time with their children they would not have to worry as much or feel guilty.

            Many of them insist that they have to work to keep a roof over their heads and food in their mouths, that they don’t have time to spend with their children. I have been a single mother ever since my three children were very young. I have had to work and go to school, yet I have always had time for my children. My children always knew what my schedule was and I had a mobile phone on me at all time so that they could call me if there was something wrong. I also had family time every night before bedtime. That was when we all got together and one of us would read a chapter from a book. Family time was also when anyone could talk about any problems they had during the day. I have had none of the problems that I hear other parents complain of, and my children listen to Marilyn Manson, watch horror movies, and play mature video games. In fact, I do all of these same things myself and none of us are violent or have criminal records. It is interesting to note that movies in other countries, such as Japan, are much more violent than American movies, yet the youth violence rate in these other developing countries is almost nonexistent (Diaz).

            But home is not the only place that our children learn violence. Many of them learn it in school along with their reading, writing, and math. Our schools have become mini-prisons and the inmates are starting to fight back. In their efforts to keep discipline and prevent more Columbines from happening, many schools have taken a no-tolerance stand on violence. But I don’t think that these schools have thoroughly thought out the consequences of such a policy. These overly harsh school environments can have the same effect on children, as do overly harsh parents. The children will begin to feel angry and frustrated and start lashing out in rebellion. Many of our schools are seeing an increase in bullying incidents because the children are finding the conditions unbearable and are starting to crack (Kashani). If you add into this already tense environment children who are experiencing abuse at home, you have a disaster in the making. Another factor to this mix is that many of our schools, especially those in our inner cities where youth crime is at its highest, are overcrowded and poorly funded, and many experts are surprised we haven’t had more incidences like Columbine (Kashani).

            This no-tolerance policy is leading to another problem. Suspensions and expulsions are being used as the most common forms of punishment by our schools. This means that for however many days the administration sees fit to give them, these children are not in school. This puts these students behind on their class work, which they must then make up when they are allowed back into the school. Many of these children are already struggling to keep up with the class work. Eventually, these children will become frustrated and either begin to create more of a problem in the classroom, or they will just drop out (Kashani). Many of these children will never complete their education and will eventually become a burden on our poorly funded social systems, either as welfare recipients or wards of our over-crowded prison system.

            But our social system doesn’t treat our youth any better than their families or schools do. In many cities there are very few programs for young people. Some cities have begun to shut down community centers because they feel that they are not worth the money spent on them. Here in Omaha, the mayor has been trying to close the Lafern Williams Center for years because he does not want to spend city money to fund their activities programs. The interesting thing is that whatever the city does put into supporting the Lafern Williams Center is matched by federal funding. Sadly, many of these community centers are the only safe havens for our young people. Other cities have stopped any funding for before and after school programs or Head Start programs. Many of these programs help keep our low-income children off the streets and safe until mom or dad gets home. Many community leaders, most of whom are well to do, don’t feel that the money is worth spending. It also seems interesting to notice that very few of our community leaders and parenting groups start demanding reforms until the crimes are committed in suburban areas such as Littleton, Colorado (Kramer). There is youth crime committed every week in our inner cities but no one seems very concerned about it. That is why so many cities now have to spend millions each year on anti-gang task forces, juvenile detention centers, and prisons. When children have nowhere else to go, many of them turn to gangs as an alternative to their disfunctional families.

            Dr. Milton Rokeach conducted research that suggests humans always seek out the company of others, and especially those who will support their own point of view. This can be a positive thing if what you like is growing flowers. But many young people are angry at the world because of the inequality in their lives. These young people will seek out others who hold their same point of view. This was the case for the Lords of Chaos. These three young men went on a destructive spree in Ft. Meyers back in 1997. After twelve hours they had caused hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of damage, assaulted dozens of innocent people, and ended their spree with the killing of their school music teacher. When the boys were caught and questioned, two of them insisted that all of it was the master plan of the eldest boy. He alone had chosen when and where they would strike. The other two boys had become his followers because they all had been bullied in school and they had similar hatred for the system (Fischoff).

            Peer group studies have been going on for years, and they all show that humans will do things they wouldn’t normally do when they are in a group. Children who would never think to commit a crime will do so when they are with a group of other children who are willing to commit crimes. Gangs are becoming an epidemic in our inner cities because of the breakdown of the family, educational, and social systems in these areas. Children choose the gangs as their surrogate families. In some cases, the gangs feed them, clothe them, and protect them better than their real families. So it is no wonder that the children begin to take on the values of these gangs (Kashani). There have been some interesting prison studies over the years that prove that when people are put into violent social environments even those not normally inclined to violence will begin to show violent tendencies (Fishchoff).

            A disturbing factor behind much of this disfunction in our country is the single-minded pursuit of the “American Dream.” We live in a society that worships individual material success above all else (Kramer). It is the reason parents don’t have time for their children, why communities shut down Head Start programs which are not for profit, why cities build more mini-malls than they do schools, and why we hear stories of children assaulting other children to steal their expensive tennis shoes. We make heroes out of people like basketball player Dennis Rodman who is known for his antisocial and violent behavior. He is idolized by thousands because of his financial success. We have become a selfish, insensitive, egotistical, hedonistic society that is only interested in their own happiness even if it is at the expense of others. Yet for all this interest in financial success, America still has the highest poverty rate and largest class gap of any developing country (Kramer). This means that most of us will never reach the level of financial gain that we are aspiring to. That all of our hard work and neglect of our families is for nothing. But many of us are trapped in the system like rats on a wheel; we just keep running in circles and are getting nowhere. So what can we do to break out of the wheel?

            To begin the healing process, we have to turn around and start focusing our time and effort on our families instead of our mindless pursuit of the “American Dream.” If there are problems in the family, you must actively seek counseling. The AACAP (American Academy) has provided a simple list of guidelines for parents who are truly concerned about their children:

1. Pay attention to what your children are interested in. Take time to listen to their music, watch their movies, and even try to play their games. You can learn a lot about your kids from what they’re interested in. Spending time listening to my kid’s music has been the start of some of our most interesting conversations.

2. Set limits. Rules are always necessary when you are raising children. But don’t be inflexible. Be willing to discuss the rules with your children. I found that when my children were involved with making the rules they were more willing to abide by them.

3. Enforce the rules. When your children break a rule, don’t keep warning them and putting off the punishment. You must be willing to dole out the punishment when the crime is committed. But make the punishment fit the crime and don’t overreact.

4. Know your kids’ friends. This is really important. You can learn a lot about who your kids are by knowing who they hang out with. It also wouldn’t hurt to get to know the parents of these kids.

5. But the most important thing of all is listen to your children. They are actually very intelligent and, even though they may not have the benefit of your years of experience, they know what they like and dislike. They also have problems like us and need to work them out with someone. Wouldn’t it be better if they brought their problems to you instead of a stranger?
            There must be social programs that can train parents how to become better parents. Many of these programs should include problem solving and anger management training (Kashani).

            We must insist that our school personnel and healthcare workers be trained to spot abused and troubled children (Kashani). They need to make every effort to intervene when there is a problem detected and get these children the help that they need (Kramer). We need to delegate more funding for our educational programs. Communities need to invest money and time into human resource programs and expand the community centers for our young people (Kashani). Our government needs to provide generous, universal social services such as child and health care for our citizens who are disadvantaged (Kramer). Our government should also begin enforcing child-support laws and seriously punishing those who do not provide for their children (Kashani).

            There are two programs that have been found to reduce violent behavior in our young people. The first is called Multisystemic Therapy (MST) and it has been the more successful of the two programs (Kashani). Under MST, every element of the child’s environment is evaluated. The social worker then tailors the program to meet the individual needs of that particular child and his/her family. The social worker involves not just the family members but neighbors and teachers in the therapy. In this way, any problem in the child’s life can come to light and be dealt with.

            The second program is called First Step to Success. This is a three-month training program for kindergarteners and their families. Everyone involved is taught anger management and conflict resolution with an emphasis on non-violent solutions. This program has worked wonderfully in the inner cities where violence is a serious problem (Kashani).

            Youth violence is a problem that is not going to go away over-night; it has been with us for centuries, but it is a problem that can be corrected. It is going to take some serious re-evaluation of what is really important to us as a society. And it is going to take a lot of work to undo all the damage that has already been done. Children are the mirrors held up to us that will always reflect what we don’t really want to know about ourselves. If you don’t like your reflection, then only you can change it. Like my father and Euripides said, “The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.” I think it’s time we all asked for a little redemption and “Go out and sin no more.”

 

Works Cited

American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry. Children and TV Violence.
            <http://www.patenthoodweb.com/parent_cfmfiles/pros.cfm?n= 247>. 20 Mar, 2001.
Diaz, Tom. “Report on Violence in the Media and Children.”
            FDCH Congressional Testimony, 13 Sep, 2000. Academic Search Elite. 
            32y20009200004456. Online. EBSCO. <http://www/epnet.com>. 
            10 Apr, 2001.

Fischoff, Stuart, Ph.D. “Psychology’s Quixotic Quest for the Media-Violence Connection.”
            Address to Annual Convention of American Psychological Association, 
            Boston, 21 Aug, 1999. <http://www.calstatela.edu/faculty/sfischo/violence.html>.
            20 Mar, 2001.

Kashani, Javad H., Michael R. Jones, Kurt M. Bumby, Lisa A. Thomas. “Youth Violence:
            Psychosocial Risk Factors, Treatment, Prevention, and Recommendations.”
            Journal of Emotional and Behavioral Disorders, Winter 1999, Vol. 7 Issue 4,
            p200, 11p. Academic Search Elite. 2574784. Online. EBSCO. 
            <http://www.epnet.com>. 10 Apr, 2001.

Kramer, Ronald C. “Poverty, Inequality, and Youth Violence.” 
            Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, Jan 2000, 
            Vol. 567, p123, 17p. Academic Search Elite. 2654581. Online. EBSCO.
            <http://www.epnet.com>. 10 Apr, 2001.

Schiraldi, Vincent. “Juvenile Crime.” FDCH Congressional Testimony, 8 Mar, 2001.
            Academic Search Elite. 32y20019200002954. Online. EBSCO. 
            <http://www.epnet.com>. 10 Apr, 2001.

Stepping Stone or Way of Life?

  by Jacqueline Skaggs

Some people believe that those who collect welfare or public assistance are burdens to society.  They feel in no way, shape, or form should their taxes be used to assist others in need.  Overall, I do not agree with this way of thinking except for those who abuse the welfare system.  Instead of using public aid to help get themselves back on their feet, the latter group makes a choice, for whatever reasons, to literally live off of others’ tax dollars.  People who actually have options to improve their lives, who refuse to do so, and who accept public assistance as a way of life, suffer from lack of motivation and are, in fact, the burdens to society.

Welfare has a very generous and valuable purpose.  It was designed to financially aid physically, emotionally, or mentally challenged human beings due to their inability to work.  It was also designed for those who need temporary financial assistance due to unfortunate or trying circumstances.  For example, Elyzabeth Joy Stagg, author of “From the Welfare Rolls, a Mother’s View,” first became dependent on welfare when she was pregnant with her first child.  Her unfortunate circumstances included losing her job and losing her home and everything she owned inside of it due to a fire.  These incidents weren’t expected nor could they be helped.  Since she was pregnant, she had no choice but to receive financial assistance from the state (240).  How else would she have been able to provide for her unborn child? 

Layoffs, house fires, and many other devastating events occur in many lives everyday.  A number of those who encounter such misfortunes have children to support and, therefore, need public assistance to survive.  It’s disturbing to contemplate the probable outcome of these lives, if say, public aid wasn’t obtainable.  What would happen to them?  Where would they be?

Approximately two years ago, I myself received welfare for nine months.  I unexpectedly became pregnant and stopped working three months into my pregnancy.  I continued receiving welfare checks month after month until my daughter was three months old, and I felt it was necessary to return to work.  I currently receive aid for childcare costs and medical insurance because, otherwise, I would not be able to afford these things at this time.  The birth of my daughter and the struggles I have endured have been my motivations for a better life for the both of us.  I decided to enroll in college and pursue a financially and emotionally beneficial career.  I’m using my public assistance gratefully as my stepping stone, temporary financial assistance while I’m getting back on my feet. 

Stagg makes a very powerful statement in her essay:  “But I’m more than just a statistic” (240).  She graduated in the top 10% of her high school class, as did I.  She is attending her local community college, just as I am.  Her parents have been married for 30 years and mine have been married for 20 years.  She also asked herself a very significant question concerning her life.  She inquired:  “Do I struggle for a few more years to finish college, or do I work for little money the rest of my life” (241)?  I have asked myself that same question on a number of occasions and know that my daughter and I deserve better.

Stagg claims, “The biggest lesson I’ve learned from being on welfare is that most people assume I don’t want to work” (240).  Even Barry L. Reece, author of Effective Human Relations in Organizations states that “We live in a world where generalizations are commonplace. . .People on welfare are lazy” (160).  I would have to debate such generalizations.  Not all people on welfare are lazy.  Those who assent to living on public assistance as a way of life are lazy.   

 Elyzabeth Joy Stagg, I, and many other welfare recipients are utilizing welfare for its intended purpose and, therefore, are not burdens to society.  Nevertheless, there are others who can make a difference in their situations, but don’t.  They accept welfare as a way of life.

My ex-best friend at the age of 16 told me her plan in life: “ I want to have my first kid by the time I’m 18 years old and go on welfare.  I know people on welfare and they’re surviving.”  These were her exact words.  This was her goal in life, and sure enough by the age of 18, she became pregnant with her first child.  Two years after the birth of her son and receiving welfare, she got pregnant with her daughter.  She continues to receive public assistance today.

Another person I know gave birth to her daughter at the age of 16, her son at 18, and her second daughter at 20 years old.  At the age of 24, she has three children, and of the four years I have known her, never have I seen or heard of her having a job.  Nor have I heard anything about the pursuit of a job and a better life.  She lives with her mother and father, children, and 22-year-old brother in a public housing development.  She has abused the welfare system for the past eight years.

These two people are fully capable of using public assistance as a stepping stone to better their lives, but don’t.  They suffer from lack of motivation.  I realize that catching a bus or taking a cab to daycares and work aren’t easy tasks, but to depend solely on welfare month after month and year after year is ridiculous.  The two examples I have brought forth are just two of many more people who have repeatedly brought children into a poverty stricken life without ever responsibly providing for them

Welfare is, indeed, a very necessary and great program, but it should not be abused.  Those who take advantage of the welfare system make others (who use public assistance as intended) look bad.  Too many of the people who have the ability to improve their lives, instead embrace public aid as a way of life and make invalid excuses for themselves and their status.  Clearly, these are the genuine burdens to society.

Works Cited

Ex-Best Friend.  Personal Conversation.  Oct. 1995.

Reece, Barry L., and Rhonda Brandt.  Effective Human Relations in Organizations.  7th ed.  Boston:  Houghton, 1999.

Stagg, Elyzabeth Joy.  “From the Welfare Rolls, a Mother’s View.”  Viewpoints:  Readings Worth Thinking and Writing About.  Royce W. Adams, ed. New York:  Houghton, 2000. 239-41.

A Visit to the Wild Oats Market

by Wren Schulz

        Omaha has been waiting for a store like Wild Oats for a long time. While you can find limited organic produce, vegetarian cuisine, and whole-wheat products at some grocery stores, they are just that: limited. Finally, you can go to one place and get it all. The Wild Oats Market on 78th and Dodge opened on the last Thursday in March, and I got my first look the following Wednesday.

        “Make your life… More delicious” is printed on the front doors as you walk in, challenging you to take care of yourself and enjoy it. I bypassed the rows of tiny shopping carts, knowing I wouldn’t be purchasing a lot on this trip. The first thing I saw as I walked in was the produce section. A wide variety of organic fruits and vegetables generated an inviting aroma.

        “Hi, ma’am. My name’s Corey. Can I help you find anything?”

    Whoops, I must have been standing there, looking dumbfounded. “Well, Corey,” I said, “you could answer some questions for me if you’re not too busy.” He proudly announced that he could indeed answer anything I wished to ask. He was fairly young and seemed excited about his job. “What are the three different types of produce you sell?” I asked, noticing the produce was split up into three different categories.

        “Well, there’s organic, transitional, and traditional,” he said. “Organic is grown without the use of pesticides, growth enhancers, or fast-ripening agents. Transitional produce is on its way to becoming organic. The farmers have to harvest a few crops before they can call it truly organic, because of chemical residues left in the soil. Traditional produce comes from local farms. It is grown with pesticides and such, but it’s Wild Oats’ way of supporting the local economy. For example, we sell Robert’s Dairy products because it is a local dairy.”

        “Right on,” I replied. “Does organic produce taste better than traditional?”

        “You tell me,” he said handing me an orange wedge. I bit right in. Wow! It really was more flavorful than a Sunkist, I thought shaking my head to show my affirmation. He smiled knowingly.

        “Is organic farming better for farmers?” I questioned.

        “Well, ya see,” he started, “it’s better for the farmland. Organic farming doesn’t produce the turnout that traditional farming does, with organic farms yielding only 65-80% of their crops, but traditional sucks the nutrients from the soil, not leaving anything in return, so they end up with barren fields, unfit for growing anything.

        “And ya know,” he said glancing at my furiously fast note taking, realizing I was here to learn all about Wild Oats’ philosophies, “organic farming isn’t the only way to better yourself and your environment. We also have good-karma meats and earth-friendly cleaners.” This sounded interesting, so I followed him to the back of the store. I noticed the brand-new sparkling cleanliness of the store and the carefully aware customers, all of whom were reading labels, concerned about what they put into their bodies. We walked by the bulk section where I got caught up gazing at a wall of different granolas, trail mixes, dried soups, various whole grain wheats, and dried fruits in plastic “help yourself” bins.

        I had to run up to Corey and ask him to start over, please. “Um, well good-karma meats means free-range animals that aren’t given growth hormones or electrically prodded onto overcrowded transport vehicles.” I thought that was pretty cool, and we talked for awhile about America’s obsession with eating meat for all three meals, seven days a week. He explained to me that eating meat so much was greatly damaging the world’s food supply because the food we feed a chicken could feed a human for weeks, but the chicken itself was only good for a few meals.

        I noticed they had an extensive sea food section. In the case was the most disgusting thing I had ever seen. It was called octopus salad. It was just that: little slimy octopuses, red pepper slices, and cold noodles. Gross! Corey didn’t see me making faces at the seafood case, so I just followed him to aisle three.

        We walked past organic baby food, jellies, and teas, and then the pop and snack food section caught my eye. “I thought this was supposed to be a health food store,” I said. “Pop and cheetos can’t be good for you–if they taste halfway decent anyway,” I added.

        “That is a common misconception,” he said. “Wild Oats is not only about healthy foods, but also simplicity. If you’re gonna eat junk food, it might as well be real food instead of chemical cocktails.” I read some of the ingredient lists on a few of the products. There was real cheese in the cheetos, no added sugar in anything (it was sweetened with fruit juice concentrate), and there were no unpronounceable words. I was going to comment on this, but Corey was already telling me about their earth-friendly cleaners and solvents, and showing me the recycled toilet paper.

        “You should totally check out the natural living section. I’m sorry, but I gotta get back to work.” I thanked him for his time as he walked away. He just winked, “You gotta try the pizza!” he said as he rounded the corner, dreadlocks bouncing.

        Pizza? I haven’t seen any pizza, I thought as I wandered along the back of the store towards the natural living section. Then I saw the hot foods section. There were pizzas, soups, smoothies, burritos, different potato salads, and more. Deciding to take Corey’s advice, I bought a piece of four-cheese pizza. It was delicious. The crust was dotted with several baked-in herbs and spices, and the organic tomato sauce was spectacular.

        I browsed the natural living section while I finished my lunch. Dozens of herbal extracts filled the shelves. Ginseng, echinacea, and valerian root were some I recognized. There was also what I guessed Corey would have called good-karma make-up. It was made without the use of animal byproducts and wasn’t tested on animals. I questioned a tall, dark-haired, older lady named Quinn, stocking botanical extracts. She told me that herbs could do wonderful things for people, but the key was first exercising, eating right, and drinking plenty of water.

        “People come up to me all the time,” she said, “wanting to know what magical herb will make them have more energy or help them lose weight. They’re looking for a quick fix, and don’t listen when I tell them they have to nurture mind, body, and spirit all the time.” She told me how she loathes drugs like Tylenol because people don’t understand why they don’t feel well. “They just pop a pill, and it’s all good for a few hours. The next day after drinking beer and watching TV all day, they wonder why their bodies don’t function smoothly.” She shook her head in disgust, “I’m sorry for ranting and raving. What can I tell you about?”

        “I think I’ve got everything I need, thanks,” I said taking a bottle of sweet-smelling moisturizer from the shelf.

        At the register, when I told the cashier I didn’t need a bag for my lotion she handed me a wooden nickel. I raised my eyebrows in question.

        She smiled as she explained it to me, “For every bag you bring for your groceries we deduct a nickel off your bill and give you a wooden one to donate to the charity of your choice.” She pointed to the boxes near the exit with various non-profit organizations printed on the front. “We count them up once a month or so and donate the total in real money to the charities,” she said.

        “Right on,” I said as I headed to the Humane Society box. As I left, I noticed a bulletin board and stopped to check out its contents. There were suggestions written by customers and responses written on the bottom by the manager of the department it concerned. I thought it was neat. The store cared enough about what customers thought to respond. This trip to Wild Oats had left me wanting to take a healthy turn in my life. Quinn and Corey were very enthusiastic about their jobs and very willing to answer my questions. I couldn’t wait to come back. Next time, I was sure I’d leave with much more than a bottle of lotion.