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The Rebel is published for and by the students of East

Carolina University. Offices are located in the Publications
oy, (Old Cafeteria) on the campus of ECU. This issue,
volume 32, and its contents are copyrighted © 1990 by the Rebel.
All rights revert to the individual artists upon publication.
Contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor may any
part be stored in any information retrieval system without the

written permission of the artist.

The Rebel invites all students, faculty, and alumni to v oice

their opinions and/or make contributions. Inquiries should be
addressed to the Rebel, Mendenhall Student Ce nter, East Carolina
University, Greenville, NC 27858-4353.

e) T TAT tw Se Nan eT WW LAE SOR ARR REI manne IE PBI UIT MRS areal ohh bet bt ated ak et eee y en rn PATE Sed SEDER IR) WR AIS PHT EE EES oN SF ge tetanus he eR
eta te 8 RENE age ea ee eas ae aeee = - "E . :
a SCH = aE. z oe : = acme aa
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Phallic Altar #1
photograph
Jessica Murphy

SPRING/FALL 1

Visual Art

] Phallic Altar # 1 Jessica Murphy
11 Blue Pie, Cherry Sky Miranda Golden Newson
17 Hubie the Robot. . . Mark Smith
19 Steel Deity Albert Horne
20 Pacifier Marshall B. Riddick
21 Untitled Lisa Brantley
27 With Long David Walser Yarbrough
28 Untitled CCE Walker
32 Dream State Valerie Madden
44 DeSoto Karyn M. Jones
49 Living Room Painting Study Julie Mitchell
50 Introversion scott Humphries
51 Order-Chaos-Order Paula V. Goodnight
52 City Nights Janette K. Conrad-Hunt
53 SeasonTs Greetings Jack Jennings
54 The Relationship Between

Interior and Exterior Marshall B. Riddick

55 Subservient Riders Victoria Higgins-Sylvestre
56 Untitled CCE Walker
57 Love Lisa Daniels
58 Jacket Janice Eagle
TV Couch Kristin E. Sauer

59 Strange Configurations Christine Dowd
Spring Loaded, for Me? Melissa Lovingood

Sunspots Janice Eagle

67 Untitled # 2 John Gibson
70 The Frog Hunt Tom Lewis
71 Untitled Renée Rice

Acknowledgements: The Rebel staff wishes to thank those individuals
who helped to make this yearTs publication possible: Dr. Norman
Rosenfeld, Mr. Mike Hamer, Mr. Luke Whisnant, and Mr. Alex
Albright of the ECU English Department for judging this yearTs
literature contests; and Ms. Karen Churchill, Ms.Marilyn Adamson,
and Mr.Tony Moore for judging this yearTs art contest; Mrs. Yvonne
Moye, Media Board Secretary, for whom this yearTs issue is warmly
dedicated, for her continued support; Harper & Row Publishers,
Inc., for permission to reprint their copyrighted materials; Ms.
Karen Churchill for the use of Wellington B. Gray Gallery for the
art exhibition; Chock Full OT Nuts for the caffeine; Hershey's for the
chocolate; Ms. Catherine Walker for her photography of the art
works; and Mr. Nick Honeycutt and Ms. Sherrie Davis of Theo.
Davis Sons, Inc. for their help in keeping us on time and within
budget.

JUDGES

PROSE
Alex Albright
Luke Whisnant

POETRY

Norman Rosenfeld
Mike Hamer
We'd also like to extend our sincere thanks to the indi-

viduals who provided emotional support and/or financial assis-
tance: Ms. Hilda Campbell; Mr. James M. Campbell; Ms. Carolyn

VISUAL ART

Marilyn Adamson
Karen Churchill
Tony Moore

2 REBEL 1990

Henderson; Ms. Karen T. Pasch: the Media Board; WZMB,
Expressions,The East Carolinian, and the Buccaneer staffs; that
Maryland crowd; Dave, Carol, Todd, Lisa, Art, Scott, and Eric:
Tana, Elvis, Mr. Wheat, Theodore, and Penny for their warmth and
affection; Jessica Murphy for the inspiration and morale boosts; and
Dr. Don Spence, Dr. David Sanders, and Ms. Marcia McLendon for
their advice, patience, and understanding.

~_ -_

NY

on
ith
ne
ick
ey
gh
(er
en
eS p. 55
ell ' Ps
es t i ctl on
Nt
int 12 oRolling the RrrrTs� Chippy Bonehead
gs illustration by Jeff Parker
22 oThe Song that They Sing� Rita Rogers
Ok 40 oNever Trust a Biped� Chris Glass
as illustration by Michael Lang
er 46 oWhippoorwills� Linda Clark
>I 60 oDown to the Mall� Valerie Anthony
le
er
dl 2 2
Te
° Non-Fiction
. 6 oComic Books:
Selling Quality or Selling Out?� Jeff Parker
° 18 oThe Order of Disorder� Todd Lovett
29 oIn Every Mirror.
An Interview with Julie Fay� Debbie Free
38 oHow | Became an Ecofeminist� Kit Kimberly
64 oSaving the Emerald Forest
- and Ourselves� Nathaniel Mead
75 oCatfish: Trouble Plagues
GodTs Medicine Man� Dr. Beverly Merrick

Poetry

4 oThis Road� Rita Rogers
33 Traditional Forms:
" Bells� Karen Beardslee
oMerry Christmas, 1989� Joseph Campbell
oMarble Tables� Mary Parrish
oThe Day After Divorce� Deborah Price Griggs
oMother Haiku
(in three trimesters)� Lisa Daniels
45 oYour World� Doug Smith
68 oContemplations on the Lost Cause� Valerie Anthony
72 oA Letter Never Sent to my Daughter� Dr. Ernest Marshall
oWoman's Work� Lynne Rupp Shannon
73 oBustinTs Island� Karen Beardslee

SPRING/FALL 3

r 2 844 a SS ie ee P30 Af 2? .¥

This Road

| stop somewhere

waiting for you.
Walt Whitman
Leaves of Grass

This morning,
no cars behind,
no cars ahead,
the road curves like
a question mark
but so familiar
that | see
only daydreams
and then

you"
on the wrong side
of the road
too close:
| can see
your brown
eyes, brown
coat, extended
arm, emphatic
thumb;
| can see
fear; you are not me:
| pass you by;
now you become even
less me: a blur in
my rear view mirror.

Once, at a stop-light
|saw faces

sO close | could

not not stop;

three young boys
hitched a ride,

all brown, alll

4 REBEL 1990

lt

ih Ae ns esas th cr oe " "" ee an F . ~ a a
om ans ATONE LI IRIE AL GRA IRL CELE 8 ee eae

surprised, shy;
when | let them out
|saw the two

in the back seat
crunched up,
unwilling, afraid

to move my white
tote bag.

On sidewalks also
looking takes too
much time, effort,

there are too many of you.

Yet, here | am

on this page

hand outstretched,
reaching for some thing:
if you must blur past
(encased in metal),
pass on by:

lam too hard

to know.

Rita Rogers

ETE he ene COT emir tl iS us) be A eee as

SPRING/FALL 5

~ Pt RIVE ne Deere

bem call

ious pau
to | CAN rf oTHAT WAS AN ORIGINAL

DEMETRIUS ANTIOCHUS /

OP

no - Ohare

"""

"""

_

| A KEY TO FABULOUS WEALTI
A SECRET KEY TO A SECRET Ot
IN THE LOST CITY OF PANO-H

ONLY YOU AND
| PROFESSOR
STEELE KNOW ITS
LOCATION, AND
IKNEW ANNES
KIDNAPPING (@
WOULD BRING
AT LEAST ONE ééoyfY

>

"~_

_

va ae
YF

ce
M74 a

mam)
NXE
NG

TD)

L/
ae
SS

,

WHAT IT CONTAINED WAS

THE TRUE TREASURE...

oNOW, IF YOULL BE KIND .
ENOUGH TO MAP OUT OUR COURSE...T

Ka

OOOH... LOOK AT THOSE Si
LINES, THOSE SWEEPING CURVES!

|
-
e
>.

a a PUT TOGETHER, DO YOU REALIZE THAT

NOWHERE ... NOWHERE ELSE IN THE
PF ,. Word WILL YOU SEE ANYTHING

BUILT LIKE THAT?
, l

\
\

ye |i
a) |||

~

2

. \
4 4

I'VE NEVER SEEN ANY THING SO WELL ey /

et Oca
me XY DD
SAMO) J ene)
wii i atl )
\ |
WEIN ys!

ten eens a

Tiina
""

An original page from Dashiell Varium and his Tenth Planet Airmen, by Micah Harris and Jeff Parker. ©1990 Harris and Parker.

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é

Vad

COMIC
BOOKS

by Jeff Parker

Selling Quality
or Selling Out?

Using the term responsibility presupposes a pertinent question for the industry: Do the comic
book creators and publishers have a responsibility to their readership to better their medium?

a age is beginning, or al-

ready has, in the history of comics.
With better coverage of the medium
from sources such as Rolling Stone
and Mtv, and the overwhelming
success of the movie Batman, com-
ics readership is growing at a rapid
rate. Long-time comics fans and
creators have been waiting for this
kind of acceptance for years, and
are now able to benefit from publish-
ersT new willingness to sink money
into the field that has traditionally
maintained the bottom of the literary
totem pole. The question now is
whether the comics creators are able
to live up to the responsibility.

Using the term responsibil-
ity presupposes a pertinent ques-
tion for the industry: Do the comic
book creators and publishers have
aresponsibility to their readership to
better their medium? In other words,
should better stories and art be a
priority, and should better talent be
encouraged in the comics industry?
Of course they should.

A utilitarian viewpoint says
that the publishers are, after all, busi-
nesses, and should get by with as
little effort or expense as possible in
making their product. Inthe instances
of the Big Two publishers, Marvel
and D.C. fans are already pouring
out their pockets for what these
giants produce, so why try to im-
prove upon it? In many cases these
buyers are self-styled ocollectors�
who buy the books to slip into a
mylar bag until its price value goes

up, thereby justifying their rationale
for being acomics fan. Interestingly,
this type of publisher and this type of
fan are suited perfectly for each
other. Neither care about the work,
ideas, and aspirations of the artists
involved with the book, and both are
more or less oin it for the money.�
Still other fans are perfectly happy
with the complacency reinforced by
these publishers, seeking no more
than to follow their favorite charac-
ters through the various books,
regardless of the quality of the story
or treatment of the character. Why
should the publishers tamper with
success?

Perhaps because they have
an obligation to their medium and
their readers. Comics are just now
getting out from under the dubious
reputation of being a print waste-
land, and encouraging mediocrity
will quickly make sure that this is a
passing phase rather than a trend.
More importantly, these publishers
have a responsibility to the fans, to
encourage them to become sophis-
ticated readers, and present them
with higher quality books.

This is not to say that all
comics Marvel and D.C. print are
worthless bits of bird-cage liner. It
is perfectly safe to buy and enjoy
your copies of X-Men and Teen Ti-
tans without your brain turning to
royaljelly. The problem comes when
these kinds of books are touted as
the be-all, end-all of comics. The in-
dependently published Teenage

Mutant Ninja Turtles is not going to
change any readerTs life anytime
soon either, and doesn'ttry to. Most
of the popular fan titles like these are
more or less marketed, rather than
created in any artistic sense. As a
type of mental junk-food they are
fine, and can be fun to follow.

However, few of this titles
have any of the timeless appeal, as
the old Scrooge McDuckadventures,
drawn by the legendary cartoonist
Carl Barks. The duck stories have a
quality in them thatis rarely matched
by todayTs comics, owing to the care
taken in the art and emphasis on
values in the stories. Today this
tradition has been carried on by artist/
writer Don Rosa, who goes to lengths
to recapture the spirit and feeling of
the Barks stories.

The difference between
Barks and the average comics crea-
tor of today is probably more simply
explained by the fact that he had a
love for what he was doing, whereas
the majority of todayTs comics pro-
fessionals are merely paycheck-
motivated. It is true that the major
publishers do not offer generous
terms in the way of creator-owner-
ship, which can sour creators, but
Disney never gave Barks ownership
either. Still, the result of what he put
into those stories is that his name is
indelibly linked to the duck charac-
ters by fans to this day. A sour
footnote to this is that Disney has
just relinquished the publication of
the duck stories from current pub-

SPRING/FALL 7

RIGHT ! OUR VISITOR
4S A PLANET!

THAT ASTRONOMER WAS ) HOLD ONTO EACH

OTHER! WETRE
BEING BLOWN

Carl Barks never let Donald and the boys sit still for long. Their adventures
still inspire fans today. ©1961 Walt Disney Productions

lisher Gladstone, and will not be
using artist Don Rosa. Disney also
plans to scrap the use of original
Barks art for the covers, opting for a
more glitzy type of package that
their management feels will make
the book more attractive to new
readers. Not only does this give
long-time fans a slap in the face, but
it also provides another example of
how poorly the business mind ap-
preciates art.

Perhaps in a medium that
is so famous for biting the giving
hand, all that a creator can really
hope for is to be remembered
fondly. While a relative flash in the
pan, the E.C. comics of the fifties
are still put on pinnacles for the
high-quality work that went into
them. The art of Al Williamson,
Frank Frazetta, Wally Wood, Reed
Crandall, and Jack Davis from the

pages of magazines such as Weird
Science-Fantasy and Tales from
the Crypt still influences artists
and amazes _ fans today. The
comedy of writer Harvey Kurtzman
helped shape our societyTs sense
of humor from the beginnings of
Mad Magazine. For a while these
men lived in what was virtually an
artistsT colony, doing the work they
enjoyed most for the benefit of
themselves and each other, get-
ting by on embarrassingly low pay.
This certainly isnTt a testament to
smaller salaries, but it should help
illustrate the difference made by
creators who do work for the right
reasons.

It would be ideal that the
creators who put the most care
and work into their comics be the
most highly rewarded monetarily,
but this is far from so. John Byrne

is Currently one of the highest paid
comics professionals in the U.S., and
undeservedly so. Gaining acclaim as
artist on X-Men, Byrne acquired a
strong fan following and a reputation
as a ore-vamper,� jumping from comic
to comic to boost sales as Marvel
needed. Lured away with even more
money by D.C., Byrne reconstructed
the Superman mythos, in a much-
popularized attempt to clean up
muddled continuity and put the Man of
Steel back on top.

What he actually did was strip
the character of any charm " the
meek Clark Kent was gone, Lex Lu-
thor reduced to a fat, manipulative
tycoon, and Bizarro, Supergirl, Krypto,
the bottle-city of Kandor and more
went the way of the buffalo. An effort
to bring orealism� to popular American
fantasy resulted in a castrated ver-
sion of a modern myth. But as all
insincere plannings, these new
threads are unraveling even now, and
more and more elements of the old
Superman are working back into the
books. Byrne has since returned to
Marvel and to his bouncing creator
Status.

This past year C.C. Beck, crea-
tor of Captain Marvel, passed away.
Beck largely did only the Big Red
CheeseTs adventures, and asserted
before his death that he was very
proud of that work. Many comics fans
fondly remember those stories, and
think of Beck whenever they are
brought to mind. Not too long ago
D.C. put out a Shazam! mini-series
with exceptionally poor art, several
grades below the Beck standard.



THE MEDICO SAYS

I'LL HAVE TO TAKE

IT EASY FoR AwHiLe!
" WHAT ABOUT APRIL...
AND SLUGGER 2

PAT, OLD SOCK,
WE'RE DOCKING.
IN HONGKONG SOON
-AND I HAD A
. WIRELESS FROM
SMYTHE ~ HEATHERSTONE
SAYING HE'LL HAVE
THE WELCOME SIGN

our !
2 >>
oT ee ©
~ = ,
= 174 «



Milton Caniff's Terry and the Pirates had adventure, romance, and a spirit of fun that is rarely seen in today's full-length comics.

'�"� 1988 Tribune Media Services, Inc.

8 REBEL 1990

FUNNY.... APRIL'S SO
GRATEFUL THAT HE
WOULONTT LEAVE
SANJAKS ISLAND
WITHOUT HER=THAT
SHE'S TAKEN HIM

HMMM.,..
HE'S NOT
CUTTINT

YOu out,





IN TOW! ... NOW
HE'S HER SLAVE!



NOPE... HE TOLERATES
ME... BOY- OH-BOY! I'M
GONNA GET To SEE
APRIL PLENTY WHEN
WE LAND AT HONGKONG!

TO CONGRATULATE

MY CAPTAIN ON THE
RESCUE...AND DEETH
INSISTED ON COMING!
1/ HE HAS HEARD oF

THE LOVELY LITTLE =
AMERICAN GIRL
REFUGEE, I'L WAGER!





Ald |

aid
and
nas
da
tion
mic
rvel
lore
ted
ich-

up
nof

strip
the

tive
oto,
ore
fort
can
/er-

all

and
old
the
1 to
ator

ea-
ay.
ted
ted
ery
ANS
ind
are

igo
ies
ral
rd.

Perhaps even worse was an attempt
once again to bring orealism� to the
comic, and rid the Captain of his
osilly� cast. Gone was Mr. Tawny
the talking tiger, Captain Marvel, Jr.,
Mary Marvel, Mr. Mind, the worldTs
only criminal genius worm, and more
"inother words, all of the fun. What
is the rationale here? Why are the
publishers trying so hard to make
fantasy realistic?

Pick up an average issue of
X-Men, The Punisher, and what-
ever else is selling big now, and
you'll find comics that are so grim
and devoid of humor or fun that your
wrists will be longing for razors. The
problem is that the comics world
today generally has a twisted con-

"oo a AW;

ITTS O73
IN YOUR Yk
GEST INTERESTY

TO STAY AWAY BELIEVE ~*
FROM TENREC ME, \'M THE
FOR THE TIME BEST FRIEND

BEING A

JACK HAS
RIGHT NOW...
AND PROBABLY £

YOURS,



~

TOO...

means Sag AE OILY BT MS EE

cept of what omature� comics are in
their quest to become accepted to
the growing readership. They be-
lieve that comics have to forego
their Sunday funny-page roots and
be near-morose to be considered
adult and mature. This idea filters
into the independent comic publish-
ers, who feel the need to depict
graphic violence and sex to be
omature.� Naive journalists reinforce
this mind-set by promoting only these
books and proudly exclaiming to the
rest of the world that ocomics have
grown up!�

This is a gross distortion of
the truth. Mature comics are ones
that donTt insult their readers by pro-
viding merely what sells, or what is

THE COUNCIL VOTES SOON ~~o

NOW TO FILL THE VACANCY CREATED
{ PLEASE WHEN GOVERNOR GORGOSTAMOS
am EXCUSE DIED, AND THERE'S MUCH





ME Z PREPARATION TO BE DONE...
A I'M NEEDED THERE.

; I'M SURE YOU
ARE, GOVERNOR...
AND | STILL DONTT
TRUST YOU.

AV ECA \,
y MAYBE THE YA \

SUN 15 MAKINT MY
HEAD A LITTLE FUNNY, 4

SAMBUKS AR
ACTINT SKITTISH, TOO
AND IT ISN TAME THEY RE
CONCERNED WITH.




»

. BuT | FEEL LIKE I'M A\
BEING FOLLOWED...

\~M WAY TOO SMALL TO SG

WORRY ABOUT, HUH, GUYS 2 \
JUST MINDINT MY OWN_BUSINESS
eo eRE a SS
A i ~ S\N)
ZF ao WX
_-

Ny)

4 ~~.

The dinosaur age returns in Xenozoic Tales. Creator Mark Schultz follows in the
traditions of Frank Frazetta and Al Williamson while still bringing to it a quality all his own.

© 1989 Mark Schultz

vb ee ARR OAR a

a4: WRG See Bee SN a eC ee ad i ae

Al Williamson art. ©1955 Bill Gaines

expected. They have well-com-
posed stories that eventually end
rather than continue for more thana
year to maintain sales to readers
desperately awaiting a conclusion.
They have art that aspires to a goal
other than imitating Jack Kirby, Neal
Adams, Arthur Adams, Bill Sink-
iewicz, or whoever'Ts style is in vogue.

If all this makes the comics
world situation look hopeless, itTs
not meant to. There come some
shining achievements, such as the
Mike Baron and Steve Rude team
on First ComicsTs Nexus. This
award-winning science fiction comic
is rich in story and art, and shows a
clear love for the book by its crea-
tors. Steve Rude shows in all of his
work careful attention to story-tell-
ing, body language, and concise,
clear imagery that gives the stories
credibility. And while the storylines
may have a serious tone, Baron and
Rude still occasionally let loose with
the humor, doling out some equally
effective comic relief.

Another book that shows
an unprecedented concern for qual-
ity is Kitchen SinkTs Xenozoic Tales.
Writer/artist Mark Schultz follows in
the tradition of aforementioned
greats such as Wood, Williamson,
and Frazetta, and brings personality
to his characters as well as treating
the reader to fantastic visuals. The
back-issues are now compiled in a
book-size format entitled Cadillacs

SPRING/FALL 9

and Dinosaurs. The independent
publishers also put out many com-
ics that are more alternative in na-
ture, with some of the best humor to
be found in print. Two very promi-
nent books of this sort are Bob
BurdenTs Flaming Carrot, and Daniel
ClowesTs Lloyd Llewelyn. Both
comics feature offbeat humor that
has previously appealed to cult
audiences, but with the growing
acceptance of comics, may yet gain
mainstream readers.

Other good choices may
come from the new collection of
Classics Illustrated, which has re-
turned from extinction to attract some
of the best talent the field has to
offer. At least one notable adaption
is Bill SinkiewiczTs treatment of
Herman Melville's Moby Dick.

But latest releases are not
the only good comics available. Sev-
eral classic strips of the past have
been compiled and re-issued for a
whole new audience, and the fans
who loved them before. Flying But-
tress is reprinting the entire run of
Milton CaniffTs Terry and the Pirates,
an adventure strip of the thirties and
forties. Caniff's delightful blend of
action, romance and humor makes

Ly oUa

I HATE PEOPLE WHO DON'T LIKE COMIC
BOOKS --MATE ~Em! THE woRLp 16
FILLED WITH WITLESS CREEPS WHO
WOVLDN'T RECOGNIZE AN INTRINGIC-
ALLY DYNAMIC NARRATIVE ART-

FORM |IF IT SMA r
THE race JT MACKED'EM IN

| Personally I feel dorry ~>
for Kim: most performers
wowld rather BURN IN HELL
than follow my ack ed

ines WAITRESS !
¢; ARE.
MY RAINS eee

A WA HA

""

Left: Lloyd Llewellyn, with a message for people who don't like comics. Right: HowlinT Thurston, another

of the odd Daniel Clowes repetoire.

for endearing characters and atime-
less comic, which will make you
wish he had never left it to create
steve Canyon. Terry and the Pi-
rates will still be good long after
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles has
gone on to join disco and pet rocks.

Hal Foster used to put in an average 60 hours a week on the full-sized Prince Valiant Sunday pages, and
is still considered by many today to be the master of comics illustration. ©King Features Syndicate

10 REBEL 1990

©1987 Daniel Clowes

Another classic comic re-
printed in spectacular color by Fan-
tagraphics is Hal Foster's original
Prince Valiant. Foster's work is
breathtaking, as the writer/artist
spent roughly sixty hours a week on
each Sunday page. Foster's art-
work, influenced by the great Ameri-
can illustrators, still serves as a
textbook for artists today.

Listing all of the quality
comics of today and the past can't
be done in such little space, and to
attempt to would be highly subjec-
tive. The fact is, they are out there,
but are harder to find than the read-
ily accessible ojunk food� comics.
The ultimate responsibility is that of
the reader " to sort through the
quagmire to find these good comics.
When enough people start exercis-
ing this scrutiny, the publishers will
be forced to print comics based on
the contentTs worth rather than sales
projections and markettrends. Then
the average mature people will be
able to sit in public and read a comic
book without having to explain guilt-
ily to others that they are collectors.

x)

saad

herry S

Playground Songs of New York City

CLOA
Wy NS
A) See S

Oc!

Blue Pie, Cherry Sky

INk ON paper

Miranda Golden Newson

"_"""" Ve ~Ww = = est

"_"_"_ we "_" SS ee i Wiel

12 REBEL 1990

oRef-f-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-right
turn only,� | say, thumping the roof of
my mouth with my tongue. | sound
like a truck revving up.

Momma turns her frosted hair
around from the front seat of the
Buick. oBoy, you better quit rolling
those ~rTs right now, or you won't
have a tongue left in your head to roll
~emwith.� She glares at me and |try
to stop.

| canTt help it. Some words get
in my mouth and they donTt want to
leave. They remind me ofthe stream
behind the house that | dam up
sometimes. The water bubbles all
around and after awhile, itjust slams
through the rocks and mud ITve built
up. | try to roll my rTs quietly in the
backseat. It vibrates my taste buds
the faster | go.

| feel bad it bothers her. |
just like to sit with my head hanging
over the velour armrest in the front
seat between her and Pop. Pop
never notices it. HeTs on his third
Cold Duck from the old plaid ther-
mos | used in first grade. He proba-
bly thinks my rTs are (a-r-r-r-r-r-re)
just the fan belt slipping again.
Momma notices ~cause sheTs only
had one cup of Cold Duck, and Big

Daddy didnTt answer the phone this
morning when she called to tell him
we were coming. HeTs always there
inthe morning.

Also,
sheTs queasy
from reading
her r-r-r-ro-

Momma won't
let me use all

mance novels my allowance
in the car.

TheyTredumb. On comics.

| r-r-r-read

comic books. She says |

oHot Stuff, The Pears
Little DevilT is on't live in
my favorite. .
Hehasablich. reality enough.

fork and he
gets mad all
the time. He
blasts people
with fire from
his tr-r-r-r-

Reality doesn't
sound right
when you roll

ident, and he ItSF.
canflyandturn ,, mee
invisible. | R-r-r-reality.

have a cloth

tail Aunt Jackie made me out of red
satin she had left over from her Hal-
loween costume. | used to wear it all
the time, but now that |Tm in fourth
grade, | only wear it when ITm play-

ing by myself. Which is lots now that
we've moved to Charlotte.
| buy all his comics with my al-
lowance. | get two dollars every
Friday, but Momma won't let me
use all my allowance on comics.
She says | don't live in reality
enough. Reality doesnTt sound right
when you roll its r. oR-r-r-reality.�
But Big Daddy buys me comics and
| hide them at his house. ThatTs
where we're going now, to see Big
Daddy. He lives in Durham, where
we used to live. When Big Momma
died, Momma and Pop had a lot of
arguments and then we moved to
Char-r-r-r-lotte.

I'm in fourth grade there. |
miss my old school. | played soccer
there. My best friend Tim Burton
got everybody on the team to start
calling me Hot Stuff, cause he was
my favorite comic book. | donTt know
the kids at this new school, and
theyTd probably think | was dumb if
| told them to call me Hot Stuff.
They donTt even have soccer there.

I'm glad weTre going home. It
takes three hours to get back to Dur-
ham. | put all my stuff in PopTs tennis
shoe box. He calls it my orations.� He
tells me, oGet your rations in your

SPRING/FALL 13

footlocker and get it in gear!� when
we get ready to go somewhere. My
r-r-r-rations. My footlocker-r-r-r.
Ther-r-r-r-e | go again.

| put some comics in there.
some Fig Newtons from the pantry,
my magnetic chess set, my silly putty,
and my G.I. Joe figures. | also have
a notebook and a big pen shaped
like a rocket that writes in five differ-
ent colors. Big Daddy gave it to me
in my stocking last year.

We're not too far from Big
DaddyTs. He lives off the highway,
near to the tobacco plant. When |
look outside the car window, it looks
like thereTs a big blur running along-
Side us, keeping up with us. | pre-
tend itTs Hot Stuff, flying with us, but
heTs invisible, so all | can see is his
blur. You can only see his blur when
your Car is going as fast as he is.

| open up my footlocker-r-r-r, |
look in the front seat. PopTs hum-
ming Charlie Rich songs and
MommaTs resting her head on the
headrest. | take out all the comics
but one, and shove them under the
seat. When | get to Big Daddy's, |'ll
wait till Momma and Pop are un-
packing in their room and I'll get the
new Hot Stuffs Big Daddy hides in
the closet for me and sneak 'em out
here. They never notice that | have
more comics than ITm supposed to.
They all look the same to them, but
| can tell Tem apart just looking at
em. Big Daddy helped me figure out
this plan.

| love going on the r-r-r-r-rounds
with Big Daddy. ThatTs what he calls
going to the shopping center near
his house, oGoinT on my rounds now.�
We go to Kerr Drugs, to the barber
shop, to the Seven Eleven to get
comics, to the Fast Fare to see if
thereTs any comics we missed and
then to the grill to eat. Everybody
there knows Big Daddy. He canTt
drive, so he walks down there ever-
r-r-ry day. The girls at the perfume
counter at Ker-r-r-r-r-r-r drugs flirt
with him and the old bald man at
Pascal's Grill gives him coffee free.

Every time | go thereTs new
girls at the perfume counter. He has

to introduce me every time. oY'all

14 REBEL 1990

met my boy? ThisTs SondraTs
young'un, Robbie Lee!� They smile
and say how handsome | am. | just
wanna get to the Seven-Eleven.
ThatTs where the Hot Stuff comics
are.

Big Daddy looks at the naked
magazines while | get my comics.
He thinks | donTt see him, but | found
some in his closet once. | guess Big
Momma didnTt like him wasting all
his money on naked books any more
than Momma likes me wasting it on
comics, and he had to sneak Tem
home too. But now that Big MommaTs
dead, he don't have to sneak around
anymore. He still does though.

| love buying comics. | use my
money, but Big Daddy always asks
me, oYou got enough for your funny
books?� If | do, | tell him yeah, but
sometimes thereTs alot and! have to
Say, oWell, | r-r-r-r-r-r-eally need
these thr-r-r-ree, too, Big Daddy,�
and he'll give me five dollars. He
doesnTt ever ask for the change, so
| keep it and buy Fig Newtons. | can
make one Fig Newton last for 45
minutes. | timed it once. | just suck
on it real slow and it turns to mush in
my mouth.

ThatTs how Big Daddy eats,
too. When we getto the Gr-r-r-rill, he
has to chew his food into mush. He
donTt have his teeth no more. Once
| asked him why he never got false
teeth like Mama Jane, my other
grandmother and he said, oBoy, the
Lord figured | don't need teeth no
more. You want me to be the one to
tell God Almighty He made a mis-
take?�

So when we go to the grill, he
just gums his food into mush, like
me and my Fig Newtons. We go to
the counter, right next to the cash
register. The counter has a big burnt
spot right there and | like to pretend
| got the wrong food once andblasted
the counter with my pitchfork. But |
always get the same thing. They
never get it wrong. | have a hot dog
with mustard and chili, large onion
rings, and Coke. Big Daddy gets a
cheeseburger and his free coffee.
He steals my onionrings all the time.
If he steals a lot, or | catch him, he

a

has to buy me another order. ~

He chews up his food and the o"
gets his coffee and washes it dowf
His hands shake sometimes, an o
they always shake when he picks U
his coffee cup. He says itTs nerves g
Ner-r-r-r-rves... ~

o...0n my nerves, Robert Le
Braxton! | am going to pop you rigf ~
upside the head! Now sit back an ,
be quiet. We have about ten min
utes left to drive and ITm not going t
sit here and listen to you roll your
like a runaway freight train! Do yo
understand me?� MommaTs mai
now. Her eyelashes are blinking lik
crazy, and sheTs halfway turnet
around in the front seat.

oITm sorry, Momma. | canTt hell
it, sometimes. | just canTt stop once
| get an r-r-r-r in my mouth.�

oYou can so help it. Now bt
quiet so your father can drive.� Pof 4
mumbles something. SheTs not mat
at me really. | can tell.

| canTt wait to get there. Bil
Daddy should have a bunch of nev
comics hidden in the closet for mé
There's a little vent in the closet if
Momma's old room, and thatTs wher
we hide my comics till | can sneat
~em out. Nobody even knows it
there but me and Big Daddy.

| love that room. ThereTs noth
ing in there but an old ironing boaré
(ir-r-r-roning boar-r-r-rd is fun to say.
but | better not even try to say I ,
quiet) and an old TV. Momma tool f
all her furniture with her to Charlotte
ThereTs two big windows in it and thé
windows have really dusty curtains
When you shake Tem in the after
noon when the sunTs shining in theré.
it floats around and looks like |ittlé
light particles. LightTs made out 0!
particles, we learned that last year if

science. | like to pretend the sur
beam is a force field and | have td
run through it without touching any
of the particles.

|can't wait to get there. Mommé
and Pop are going to a football gamé
and then out to dinner. Big Daddy
babysits me, even though ITm really
too old for a babysitter. He says, oLe!
~em think ITm sittinT you. We all need
somebody takinT care of us, boy, n@

> TF

SS . ee ek SS. eS. SS

29 . 2 e. SP SS 2. ee. SS

SS =

>

matter how old you get. Hell, half the

ni the time | think they stick you with me to

it dowl
es, all

dicks U}
e¢ 90 to Fast Fare to see if thereTs any

nerv

ert Let

=n mif

ing lik
turnet

n'thell
p one

low bt
2.� Pot
ot mat

re. Bi
of nev
or mé
oset If
whefé
sneal
ws itT

s noth
boaré
to say
say |
a tool
irlotté
nd thé
tains
after
theré:
> |ittlé
out O
ear if
» SUIT
ive {0
g any

ymmé
gamé
daddy
really
oLel
need
yy, no

babysit me.� So | donTt mind. | just
want to get my comics.
Once we leave the grill, we'll

more comics | need. | love the comic
rack at the Fast Fare. It squeaks
when you turn it. | turn it and look out
the big Fast Fare window. | can see
the grill and the drug store and the
highway to the football stadium, the

, road to the cemetery where Big

Momma's buried and the highway
back to Charlotte. There are little
sparkles all in the pavement and
where the road starts running into
the sky, you can see big black
puddles. Pop says thatTs the reflec-
tion of the sky, but | donTt know why
the skyTs reflection is black instead
of blue. It looks like Hot Stuff blasted
the highway back to Charlotte, so |
don't got to go back.

We finally get to the turnoff to
Big DaddyTs. | put the cover back on
the footlocker-r-r-r-r, and make sure

driveway. Some of the rocks are
grey, some are white. ThereTs sand
and little sparkly bits underneath the
rocks. | put my forehead up against
the window and it makes a blob of
fog on it.

| turn my head sideways alittle
to see what's happening. PopTs
reading a piece of paper. MommaTs
gone inside. | can hear her pick up
Big DaddyTs kitchen phone and start
to dial it. He has a dial phone, not a
push button like ours. Every num-
ber, even the one and the two, take
along time to r-r-r-r-roll back to their
Starting point. The receiverTs real
heavy. ItTs black and it weighs about
a ton. | used to not be able to pick it
up, but ITm a lot stronger now.

PopTs walking back to the car.
oRob,� he says. He hunches down
on the gravel next to my open door.
He smells like his thermos of Cold
Duck. | never see him sit on the floor.
He always leans on his front toes
and bends his knees to talk to me. |
keep looking at the rocks in the

my old comics won't slide driveway.
vten we gu enna ee ee
driveway at Big Daddy's. think I'm Daddy to the hospital.
Once bag > eae sittinT you. te came by = ne
Carport, Pop shuts off the ours ago.� | see the
vara iF chad and We all need note in his hand. She
coughs a few times before somebody didnTt even sign it, but |
stopping. Momma's al- ote could tell it was her
ready out of the car and takinT care handwriting with the big
fumbling for her keys. Pop Of US, BOY, loops for the oS� in
finishes off his Cold Duck. no matter MommaTs name.
oDaniel! Daniel come oWhile we were in
here! They've taken him to how old Greensboro?�
Duke!� Momma sounds you get." oUh, well, yes,
scared. ITm scared. WhoTs probably about thattime.

at Duke? Big Daddy? HeTs

not supposed to go to the game. Is
he at the hospital? PopTs out of the
car, the thermos laying on his seat.
Momma's leaning up against the
screen door. It squeaks like a comic
book rack. She's crying and she still
can't find her keys.

My throat hurts. The insides of
my nose are burning, like | have to
sneeze and can't. My door is open
but | donTt want to get out. | hold on
to the silver-painted plastic door
handle and look at the gravel in the

She came by and found
Big Daddy. It sounds like heTs hada
heart attack or a stroke.� | know
what a heart attack is. Big Momma
died from that. | never heard of a
stroke before. The gravelTs getting
blurry. | donTt move my eyes. ITm a
big boy.
Pop rests his arm on the door.
oDo you know what a stroke is?� |
shake my head, but my eyes don't
move. | stare at a big white stone.
oSometimes, old peopleTs blood
vessels donTt work properly and

something happens to the ones in
their brains. It paralyzes part of their
body or all of their body.�

oIs Big Daddy dead?� My voice
sounds hoarse. My throatTs dry and
| canTt roll any rTs, even if | felt like it.
| donTt want to be here anymore. |
want my comics. | want my pitch-
fork. | want to blast this place into a
puddle and fly off.

oNo. We donTt know how seri-
ous this is. Your mommaTs calling
Jackie now, and then we'll probably
have to go to the hospital.� He looks
back at the screen door thatTs still
hanging open. oThough | donTt know
what we'll do with you, or how we'll
catch up to the Hoffmans to tell them
we can't meet them...� Pop takes
off his glasses and wipes his fore-
head with his Duke sweatshirt
sleeve. He doesnTt want to be here
either. He wants to go to the football
game, not the hospital.

| want them to go, too. | want to
go inside and find Big Daddy on his
La-Z-Boy watching cartoons and
drinking his coffee. | want him to
smile when | run in to hug him and |
want to go on our r-r-r-r-rounds.

oRobbie?� I'm getting out of
the car. | have to get to the closet.
oRobbie, are you alright, son?� | nod
my head. Pop follows me across the
carport and into the house. MommaTs
calmed down. | guess sheTs talking
to Aunt Jackie. | didnTt wipe my feet
on the mat but nobody notices. Pop
wipes his though, and heads for the
refrigerator. MommaTs writing stuff
down on napkins. | walk down the
hall to the ir-r-roning boar-r-rd r-r-
room.

It's too early in the day for the
force fields. | walk over to the TV cart
and drag it and the TV to the closet
door. |Tm big for my age, (four feet,
three inches) but | still have to use
the TV stand to get to the heating
vent.

The closet door is a brown
wood stain color. The third slat be-
low the doorknob is missing. When
we played hide and seek, | always
hidin there, so! could see Big Daddy
looking for me. | open up the door.
The wind from the door makes the

SPRING/FALL 15

light switch chain move. | yank it
twice and it comes on. | climb up on
the TV stand.

The heating vent is white metal
and itTs missing all its screws. | can
pry it off with my fingernails, even
when Momma _ cuts them to the
quick. One of Big DaddyTs shoe
boxes is in there. ItTs a grown-up
shoe box, from BelkTs, one that Big
DaddyTs loafers come in. ItTs tan and
has a green lid.

My heart is beating really fast.
He would've known. He would've
Known what to get me. Hot Stuff
comics. He would have gone yes-
terday on his r-r-r-ounds and known
we were coming today, and asked
the black girl at the counter, oHey,
sugar, my boyTs cominT to town to-
morrow. Y'all got any ~Hot StuffT funny
books?� and she would've said, oYes
sir, Mr. Maxwell. Here they are right
here,� and she'd pull ~em out and
he'd buy them. He would have known
if there was something wrong with
him.

| get down off the TV stand and
put the shoebox on the ironing board.
| feel my nose burning again. He
would remember me. | take off the
lid.

TheyTre old. TheyTre the ones |
brought last time, so | could smuggle
new ones in. TheyTre old. He forgot.
oTheyTr-r-r-r-re old!�

The box is lying on the floor
under the flaking paint of the win-
dowsill. | donTt know how it got there.
| feel like | did the time | was four and
put a fork into the electric socket.
Momma and Pop are standing in the
doorway screaming. No, itTs just
Momma. Have! gone unconscious?

oRobert Lee! What inthe name
of God are you doing?� She looks
scary with her mouth open and her
eyes so wide. SheTs pointing at the
window, and | see a big crack splat-
tered in the middle of one pane. Did
| do that? My face is wet and |
wonder if the glass flew at me and
cut me. | start hiccupping and | know
itTs just me crying.

Pop has a white aluminum can
in his hand. He looks scared too, but
Momma won't move so he can getin

16 REBEL 1990

the room to get me. She finally stalks
in and puts her hands on her hips.
oMy father is off dying in the hospital
and you're in here breaking win-
dows! Do you have an explanation
for this, young man? If so, ITd be
more than delighted to hear it.�

| canTt talk right. One of the old
Hot Stuffs is near my foot. | pick it up
and try to explain. oThe-theyTre old.
They-r-r-r-r-r-r-re old!�

She stomps toward me and
backhands me. My cheek burns like
my nose. Worse. ITm really crying
now. oI told you to stop doing that!
Don't you have any compassion for
me? DonTt you see what ITm going
through?� Pop comes over and
hunches down. No, he sits. On the
floor. With me. He hugs me and | cry
and cry. His sweatshirtTs gonna get
all wet and snotty, but | donTt care.
oDaniel, it does absolutely no good
for me to punish him when youTre
right there to reinforce his negative
behavior,� Momma says. ITm not
being negative. ITm just sad. Why
isnTt she? Pop just hugs me and
ignores her.

oFine. We have to go to the
hospital. When you feel you're ready
to go, | willbe in the car waiting.� She
leaves. ITm glad. The first shafts of
the force fields are creeping over the
windowpane. Pop lets me go and
looks at me.

oRobbie, | have to take your
momma to the hospital. Do you want
to go?� His beard is showing. He
never shaves on the weekend.

oUhn-uhn,� | tell him. He looks
confused.

oRob, | donTt wantto scare you,
but this might be the last chance you
get to see your grandfather. Are you
sure?�

| think about it. oDo | have to?�

oNo. Not if you donTt want to.
Stay here. You're too young to getin
to see him without a pass anyway.
It's just that | Know how much you
love Big Daddy, and | know he'll
want to see you.�

oPoppa, ITm... I'm scared, too.
| donTt wanna go to the hospital.
Please let me stay here. I'll be good,
| promise.�

ae

He hugs me again and stands up
He holds his hand out and pulls mé
up too. oI love youson. Your mommé
loves you too, sheTs just upset righ
now.� | nod. oI'll call you if anythin¢
happens and then I'll come get you
SO Stay near the phone, okay?� | nol
again. He takes off his glasses an¢
wipes them again. | canTt tell if heTs
been crying or not. oIf the Hoffmans
call, tell them what happened.� Hé
picks me up and hugs me again. Hé
puts me down and goes outside. |
hear him start the car and then | hea!
the wheels grinding down the grave
driveway.

| sit back down. | rest my head
against the leg of the ironing board:
| look at the open closet at al
Momma's old dresses and Big
DaddyTs coats. | look at the box 0!
comics on the floor. | look at thé
sunTs force fields. They're little, bul
they're growing. Gr-r-r-r-r-rowing:
That sounds good.

G-r-r-r-r-r-rowing.

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wing Smelling the Flowers Was an
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But perhaps If He Only Tasted
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and an Idiotic Grin Appeared
on His Face.

Mixed Media
Mark Smith 3
a /. Pa
s y

SPRING/FALL 17

18 REBEL 1990

The Order of Disorder

| drive slow to the grave. It is a windows-down warm day, almost
noon, out on the blacktop, out of town. Slash-slash-slash, the yellow line
flashes like an old movie past my car, past the old houses with old names
on the mailboxes, and | wonder if these people mind living where they do.
For a tiny moment | am next to a child in overalls: then he moves away in
my rear-view, only it is me who's moving. | think this, and the Pinewood
Memorial Cemetery is there to my right with its brick and hedges entrance
and white columned monument rising up in the center.

| am here in my fatherTs house.

The road reaches in around the graves circle-like, momentum
tugging softly as | coast by the flowers, anda green rope-taut tent with wilt-
ing arrangements underneath. Too fast in the curve, and tugging turns to
pulling, pulling, pulling past the markers till I'm there .. . and | stop.

This is a place that never seems quite familiar, all the clean cut and
smooth granite, the grass so short itTs unnatural and the silk or plastic plants
faded by the sun. Out of the car, everything is like a ruler, straight, and you
wonder if the weather ever really changes at this place. Miles off, a siren
wails lunch time so the farm workers can take their lunch, and | remember
why ITm here.

A few minutes later and | am trimming with a knife the styrostuff
bottom that holds together an arrangement my mother ordered from the
florist. ItTs always too large and too square to fit in this round hole. So | fix
it. When there are enough shavings to tell me itTs ready, | remove the old
flowers, only they won't come out, theyTre stuck. A little harder, a better
grip, and my arms get wet when they come free; the vase has collected
water. | don't want it to rust"will a brass vase rust? | donTt even know"so
| turn the twist and lock bottom to detach it and pour the water out. There is
a hollow space beneath the base for Storage (when you won't be coming out
for a while), and inside, cob webs and webs and little black spiders, and one
big one with an ebony round and shiny marble of a body. On their bellies,
they have two triangles point-to-point, the color of blood. | should kill them
because theyTre dangerous. But | am afraid.

| am afraid to reach into this grave.

So | replace the vase and do what | came to do, change the flowers.
And after comes the clearing of the weeds that have crept too high over the
marble, almost to the brass plate with all the letters and numbers which also
must be brushed clean gingerly with the palms of my hands. When | am
through, it is neat, orderly, well-kept.

All this time, | have not even read the grave.

Todd Lovett

PPT ONE AN AR TTP ee OL CE NTA TE ae SS LT IM IT IE LL. se

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Steel Deity
welded steel!
Albert Horne

Pacifier
Coupons, xerox, pastel, and oil on wood

Marshall B. Riddick

20 REBEL 1990

ete Fa Na ET UY POM Toe Ske BRIO RE I ee ae ATO ONL aT had Pear wpe 2 RISES NETL) Fo eek. aS Pelt] nl Fe Cheer 3 ee a EO aero od Leb i Aaa

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Untitled
oil on canvas
Lisa Brantley

SPRING/FALL 21

rige@s Fin 8,

raeOs &

oSong

that

They Sing

OR McKimmie worked
night-shift in the same factory where
her mother had worked every sum-
mer a generation ago. It was then,
as now, a flat-roofed, cinder-block
building, though through the years it
had grown new cinder-block wings
that spread outward as the shirt
business had prospered. The plant
was a natural extension of the cot-
ton mill for which the town, Browns
Mill, was named, and indeed, for
which it had come into existence.

Out from the factory, in all di-
rections, stood the old mill houses,
constructed by mill owners to rent to
their employees. Nowadays, de-
spite being owned by individuals,
including mill and factory employ-
ees, and being painted various
shades of pastel blue, green or yel-
low, the rows of houses still contin-
ued in their uniform pattern of mo-
notony: wood-frame, two bedroom,
kitchen, bathroom, living room, and
two front doors, vestiges of their
duplex origins.

On one nearby street corner,
vines had taken over the remains of
the obsolete company store, where
paycheck was often spent before
received, as ifin symbolic obeisance
to the command oDrink Pepsi� still
faintly embossed in the weave of the
screen door. On late October har-
vesting days, highways and yards
from town to the outlying fields were
dotted with fat cotton snowfall from
carts piled too high on route to proc-
essing.

Of all CharleneTs mother had

22 REBEL 1990

by Rita Rogers

told her about those long-ago days
as shirt inspector at the factory, one
event stood solidly fixed in her mind.
Its telling had become a bedtime fa-
vorite: one Summer morning in 1945
the factory bus, along with other
early traffic, had become trapped on
a fifty-foot high wooden bridge whose
middle supports had partially col-
lapsed, leaving a two-foot gap. The
bus stalled, and riders, including
CharleneTs 16-year-old mother, had
to jump the gap. Charlene often tried
to picture her young mother leaping
for her life, leaping courageously
over a chasm that exposed the
whirling water and rocks far below,
then, onthe other side of the red clay
embankment, reporting brightly to
her work station to pursue her search
for imperfect shirts.

Her mother was very sick now.
She could barely shuffle one foot in
front of the other. She had a nerv-
ous disorder that was slowly degen-
erating her muscles, starting with
her feet and moving slowly upward.
lt was a particularly frightening con-
dition since, even in these early
stages, her mother never knew when
her muscles might give way. She
had fallen quite often and was fear-
ful of not being able to get back up
again or, worse, of breaking a bone.
Understandably, she had become
housebound. CharleneTs Aunt
Sarah, a fairly healthy widow except
for occasional bouts with her arthri-
tis, had recently moved in with them,
and helped take care of her while
Charlene was at work.

Charlene rather liked her jol
When someone asked her what sh ~
did for a living, sheTd answer che@
fully, o| do pockets.� Then she ,
smile as if she knew some big jok .
about putting on pockets. There w4 ,
no joke there really, there was ju!
something different, somethin
humorous about putting on pocket "
not like hemming shirt-tails or tufl "
ing down collars. It made her wa! |
to laugh when she spoke of it.

The job was not hard. Its la¢ |
of mental stimulation suited Cha |
lene. She had had enough of thint -
ing during her two years at Parkel
Ridge Baptist College, majoring |
religion. She had been drawn to thé "
school by one of its professors, D
lsaac Myerson, who had preaché
revival services at Charlene
church.

That service had been a turf
ing point in her life. There she h@
received her first osign,� a person
signal from God as to what he wanté
her to do with her life. As Myers0
earnestly described his early mif
sion work in Venezuela, Charlef
had witnessed a halo of light emé
nating from him and surroundift
him, and she had felt the power ¢
his words and had gone forwatt
joyfully dedicating her future to GodT
service overseas.

That emotional spark began?
leave her though, in the coldness ®
college work, in source studies ©
papyrus fragments, Qumran De@
Sea Scrolls, or dictionary-thick v0
umes of church history " Augustiné
Aquinas, Luther. And Dr. Myersof
who had been so enthusiastic wil
CharleneTs decision at churcll
turned impersonal and businesslikT
in the college world.

But most disillusioning of a
was her experience with Jay, a ta
ented music major. She first notic@
him as he played the violin for mor
ing chapel services. She had nev@
heard anything like it. His playim
had swept her away to another tim
and place " no music had ever #
moved her before. Charlene sawT
as another sign. They dated for!
few months and got along wel

er jol
at sh
chee

she
g jok
re Wa
~AS ju:
thin
ckett
r tur
r wal

is laé
Cha
thint
arkef
ring |
to thé
rs, D

aché
ene

a turl
ie ha
rsoné
yanté
fers)
y mis
arlen
-emé
indin
wer ¢
ware
God:

gan!
ess ¢
lies °
Dea
sk vo
isting
orsol
fe} wit
vurcl!
sslik!

of 4
ata
otice
mort
nevé
layin
vr tim
ver 9!
saw!
1 for!

wel

though Charlene was a little
disappointed in his sarcasm over
the church.

oTheyTre all fakes,� he said,
opreachers, choir directors, organ-
ists. TheyTre either in it for money or
because they couldnTt make it some-
where else.�

He was getting his degree just
incase he didnTt get that lucky break
in the real world. Charlene thought
with her influence he would change.

One chilly fall afternoon, they
went to the chapel steeple to study.
There were soft chairs and large
windows, and from all directions the
sun seemed to pour in as ina green-
house. Below someone was prac-
ticing oA Mighty Fortress Is Our God�
on the pipe organ and Charlene
could feel the notes go through her
body.

oYou didnTt really want to study
did you?� Jay asked and drew her
close to him.

She shook her head and hap-
pily placed her notes on the major
prophets on the glossy Victorian end
table. They began kissing, and
Charlene felt herself grow weaker
and weaker, and the organ music
vibrated through them, and the sun
enveloped their bodies in warmth,
and Charlene let everything go.

o| love you,� she told Jay. oI
love you.�

Yet, when it was over, she was

On late October harvesting days, highways and
yards from town to the outlying fields were dotted
with fat cotton snowfall from carts piled too high on

route to processing.

mortified. It was awkward having to
re-dress in the glare of sunlight and
awkward not to have anything to say
and awkward to walk down that long
flight of marble stairs with the middle
of the steps carved smooth like the
palm of a hand.

She suddenly didnTt want to be
with Jay anymore, and though he
tried two or three times to persuade
her to go out with him again, she

refused. He was hurt. But she
couldn't explain or change her feel-
ings. Itwas as if someone had died,
and things would never be the same
again; she felt nothing for him or for
her studies. She just couldnTt con-
centrate. Then when her mother
became ill, she took that as a sign
from God that she belonged at home
and dropped out.

After that, no more signs came
to her. She sometimes wondered if
she had misinterpreted. Or had God
given up on her?

At the factory, they had kidded
her at first " acollege kid! Thatfirst
day, the personnel secretary asked
her to touch her toes to check her
back strength and agility, then she
and another potential employee
raced fingers on a wooden peg
board, placing one peg in front of the
other, on and on, until they finished
the row, then onto the next row, up
and down. Charlene had won.

A big, bulky machine actually
did most of her work. She just stood
there and fed it pockets and posi-
tioned the shirt in the right place; the
machine tucked under the ragged
edge and sewed the pocket to the
shirt " neat little upside-down tri-
angles along the top corners. Aroller
arm swished out the shirt when it
was done.

Some nights, like this one,
though, things were not so simple. It

happened every few weeks, it
seemed: some unfathomable grem-
lin would enter her machine and
there was nothing in heaven or hell
that she could do to exorcise him.
She looked over at the pocket-sewer
identical to her own and to her friend
Barbara producing sewed pockets
at admirable speed. She was one of
the few at the factory who exceeded
production.

oBarbara, help!�

oWhatTs the matter? It still
breaking needles?� Barbara pulled
the lever to interrupt her machineTs
rhythm and, as it spit out the shirt
front, she walked over to Charlene.
Sure enough the tip of the needle
had broken so that the eye was now
two jagged teeth that chomped holes
and puckered up the shirt.

oThatTs the third shirt ITve
messed up. ITm getting real sick of
this.�

oWell, youTd better go ahead
and call George.� The regular eve-
ning shift mechanic had phoned in
sick again. As usual, George, a day
mechanic for the cotton mill, was on
call.

o| hate to. HeTs always so"
you know.�

oDonTt mind his attitude,� Bar-
bara said. oRemember, he gets time
and a half for coming here.�

Charlene did repairs while
waiting for George, snipping and
unraveling triangles that were sewed
too high on the pocket, then sewing
them back on. She was discour-
aged " her triangles never looked
quite as neat as the machineTs. The
unrepairables, such as the three
puckered earlier by the machine-
demon, were tossed in the remnant
bin to be sold as seconds. The first
of every month, Charlene, along with
other employees, lined up to get first
choice at these sec-
onds, sometimes
barely distinguishable
from first quality "
maybe a grease mark
or slight tear of the shirt
tail. The company sold
them for fifty cents
each, quite a bargain
since many employees, in turn, sold
them at yard sales for two or three
dollars. Charlene wasnTt quite sure
if that was legal or not, but no one
said anything when women walked
out with garbage bags full of slightly
defective blue chambray workshirts.

George arrived finally and
opened up the back of her machine,
Compo #3. oDonTt see anything the
matter. Just dusty.� He picked up

SPRING/FALL 23

the blower and swished air around
the machine like acalm,experienced
fireman hosing down endangered
property. Good mechanics were
the indispensables in the shirt fac-
tory business and their dispositions
certainly showed it, Charlene
thought.

She was getting impatient. She
tried to get George to look her in the
eyes. oDust canTt break needles,�
she said. He was still blowing dust.

She walked over to the water
fountain to get away from the frus-
trating scene and to keep from get-
ting angry at GeorgeTs flippant atti-
tude. As she walked back, she saw
George still fumbling around inside
the machineTs innards. He grinned
at her.

oMight be your bobbin,� he said
with a slow deliberation and smile in
his eyes that showed he knew he
was right.

He took the bobbin out and
turned it over in his palm like it was
a dead insect. oWell, well, look how
it's bent.�

He gave it to Charlene, part of
it bent out like a pouting lip. oWonder
how that happened?� she said. She
felt her face heating up. It was the
kind of problem she should have
caught without George. But,
doggone it, why should
she feel guilty?
MachineTs fault. When
George was out of sight,
she gave it a little kick.
Damn machine.
TonightTs work " only
fifteen dozen lousy
shirts!

Charlene always hoped for a
good night. But in her heart she
knew, smooth-working machine, or
not, it didnTt really make much differ-
ence. She knew she would probably
never even meet the production rate
which was based on top speeds
throughout the industry. Those few
who could exceed that rate, like
Barbara, got nice bonuses.

CharleneTs factory specialized
in blue chambray workshirts, al-
though occasionally, a Sears order
for knit shirts broke the monotony.

24 REBEL 1990

Charlene hated doing knits, though.
They puckered if you so much as
looked at them the wrong way.

At 8:30, Charlene and Bar-
bara took their thirty-minute break,
facing each other at one end of the
long table in the employee lounge.
The room was lined with standard
concession machines: LanceTs
cheese nabs, peanut bars, coffee,
7-up, Nehi, and Pepsi. To CharleneTs
left, several smokers huddled to-
gether, sliding matches to each other
across the table, then the plastic
oVisit Grandfather Mountain� ash-
tray. One woman alternately blew
smoke upwards then sideways as
she discussed her kidTs latest prob-
lem: the teacher had said he wasnTt
trying, but she had heard, through a
friend whose daughter had had the
same teacher a year earlier, that the
teacher was moody and often yelled
at the students for no reason. She
had made up her mind to speak to
the principal about her.

Another pointed her cigarette
at Charlene: oThat gal had to wait an
hour and a half for George. Honey,
you better go on a little trip with
George. Then he might come alittle
faster to your machine.� The others
laughed.

Charlene tried to ignore her.

Outwardly, she was disgusted by
what she had heard about GeorgeTs
olittle trips� to the closet or to the
ladiesT restroom with whoever would
oblige him. Part of her knew that
was an exaggeration, but the other
part was fascinated by these women
who could sink so low.

Barbara gave her a don't-let-
them-bother-you look as she took
her boysT latest pictures out of her
wallet. oCharlene, look. Aren't they
sweet fellas?�

Charlene, who had just taken
a bite of apple, agreed with a nod of

>= eee

her head. They really were sweé
kids, especially for boys " polité
hardworking. She babysat for Bal
bara sometimes on weekends ar.
they never gave her much troublé
except when she tried to get themt!
goto sleep. But really, she didnTt tf
too hard. She enjoyed their com
pany. Last time, BarbaraTs brothé
had dropped by to see his nephews
Out of high school, Jake had worke!
several years in the cotton mill as~
fork lift driver and was almost pra
moted to shipping-receiving foré
man but, when offered the job, qu
to become anightclerk at 7-11. Bal
bara had told Charlene he was craz)
to give up that good money. |

oHe has no sense of respons!
bility,� she had said. Charlene kne¥
him from high school days, a skirt
chaser if there ever was one, a nev
girl-friend every month. But that nigh
with the boys, he had seemed diffef
ent, more real. He had watched thé
Winnie-the-Pooh special with them
and when Tigger sang his song, hé
joined in, inthe same voice, dancing
and bouncing " othe wonderful thing
about Tiggers, Tiggers are wondef
ful things . . .�

Then he wrestled with the boy
until they were too hyper to go t
sleep, so they had all stayed up wit!

Charlene turned and saw the top of her machine
behind the empty bundle racks; its rolling-pin arm was
up in the air, giving her a silent fingerless salute.

the late movie and ate popcorn and
Doritos, all five of them cruncheé
together on that sad, sagging plaié
couch that was BarbaraTs bed. Whef
Ben got ready to leave, Charlené
saw him to the door. He surprise?
her by grabbing her hands too famil
larly.

oGet out of there,� was all hé
said in an uncharacteristically ser
Ous tone, but then he laughed and
kissed her forehead. She just shook
her head at him and shrugged. Hé
was a puzzle!

Barbara told Charlene later tha!

he had asked about her, but Char-
polite lene wasnTt sure she wanted to get
Bal involved with his type. He was too
a ant good-looking for her anyway. Yet,
oul there was something about him.
sna She looked at the pictures
in'tth Barbara had handed her, all three
be boys with BarbaraTs dark, drooping,
| comm Paul McCartney eyes, and a sud-
rothé den, certain realization came to her:
hews this is why your husband left you,
fork she thought, the boys look too much
ill AS" like you. Men need to have sons
st ple who look like them, or act like them.
BarbaraTs husband had just
taken off one day five years ago, no
warning, only six months after the
youngest was born. He sent spo-
radic support checks, one month
from Nevada, the next from Alaska.
This time, it had been almost eleven
weeks since she had heard from
him.

sweé

b, qui
|. Bal
:craz)

pons!
knev
| skirt
a nev

tnigl But Charlene didnTthave much

diffe to brag about in the man department
ed thf cither. She had never even known
_ her father. Before she was born he
left with a woman he met at a bar,
and died several years ago from
prostate cancer, an old manTs dis-
ease, mourned by another family,
and not by hers. She had to say this
for him, though, he had kept the
money coming in, enough that
CharleneTs mother, after inheriting
her parentsT house, didnTt have to
worry over finances.

As for boyfriends, besides Jay,
she had dated her high school sweet-
heart on and off until last year. They
had simply tired of each other, at
least, thatTs the way it seemed to
Charlene. Anyway, he had left for a
diesel mechanicsT school in Nash-
ville. Itsurprised Charlene how much
she missed him. Barbara often tried
to get her to go the Fiesta Room at
the Interstate Holiday Inn, but she
couldn't yet get up the nerve.
Barbara's stories of traveling phar-
maceutical salesmen frightened
Charlene.

oTry some of this.� Barbara
offered her some raspberry yogurt.
oNo way,� Charlene made a
face. She couldnTt stand anything so

sweet this time of night. She took
»r thal

incing
I thing
yndef

> boys
go tt
p wit!

ine
vas

n and
1cheé
plaid
Whel
irlené
yrisee
famil

all hé
/ sell
1 and
shook
1. Hé

another bite of apple, then her last
slice of cheese, then a sip of coffee.
Ugh, too strong at the bottom.

On their way back from break,
Charlene glanced at the posted
worksheet next to the orange and
blue oUnions-We donTt need them�
poster. Employee #83 worked her
machine day shift" 85 dozen! Hey,
thatTs more than ITve been getting in
two nights, she thought. oShe proba-
bly messes up the machine before
she leaves it to me,� she told Bar-
bara. oHow can she do so much with
such a screwed-up machine?�

oDay shift really works the
machines. But then they got four
mechanics working full time,� Bar-
bara said.

CharleneTs machine did all right
the rest of the evening, but when the
janitor, Henry, flicked the lights to
signal fifteen minutes clean-up, she'd
finished only ten dozen more.
Somehow she couldn't get the right
rhythm tonight. Her floor supervisor
really emphasized establishing
pace, suggesting that she and Bar-
bara race against each other. But
there was never enough immediate
incentive to prompt this competition
in either of them. And they felt just
plain silly faking enthusiasm for their
bosses.

The manager, too, was big on
ways to boost production. When
Charlene first came to work, two
years ago, he had played James
Taylor, Kris Kristofferson, and oth-
ers over the intercom. Charlene and
Barbara had sewed and sung along.
Sometimes she still sang the bits
and pieces of the songs she remem-
bered:

oThereTs a song that they sing

when they take to the

highway,

A song that they sing

when they take to the sea,

A song that they sing ~bout

their home in the sky. . .� *

The music had helped to pass
time but apparently had done little to
speed the making of shirts. It was
soon replaced by elevator-type
Muzak, oscientifically proven effec-
tive,� the bulletin board notice had

proclaimed enthusiastically.

Charlene kept thinking how
unfair it all was. Machines. Every-
one else seemed to be having a
good night. Barbara had finished at
least 80 dozen.

She watched as Barbara
plopped her big cloth purse on top of
her machine and searched through
its depths of hair brushes, banana
clips, tissues, food coupons, miscel-
laneous receipts, bobby pins, pen-
nies, powder compact, and lipstick
gloss for her car keys. oCharlene,
can you clean up for me, ITve got to
go by Big Star before it closes?�

oSure, go ahead.� Barbara with
those three ever-hungry boys was
always running out of milk and bread.
She had to go the store every day.

As Barbara was nearing the
exit, Charlene called out to her, oTell
Jake he can call me sometime.�

Barbara gave her a look of
disbelief and kept on walking to-
wards the door. Charlene had
shocked even herself. The state-
ment had come out before she had
even thought it through. It wasnTt
like her.

Charlene started the clean-up;
she didnTt mind doing it for someone
else. She was one of the few work-
ers who didnTt have the responsibil-
ity of husband or children. Only
Mama and Aunt Sarah.

She pictured her mother sit-
ting there in that fat brown recliner in
front of oLittle House on the Prairie,�
her lap full of baby blue and pink
crocheted granny squares, her
walker within easy reach. The walker
was only a precaution, her mother
always said, she didnTt really need it.

By the time Charlene got
home, Mama would already be
asleep; Charlene would peek in at
her, the crack of light from the hall-
way skimming across her sleeping
face. Sometimes, Charlene would
pull the covers back over her shoul-
ders from where they bunched at
the foot of the bed, or smooth back
her hair from her face.

Charlene usually had a hard
time getting outofthe factory mode.
Even inher sleep, when it finally

SPRING/FALL 25

came, she saw only blue pockets
and her hands putting the pockets in
the clips and mashing the buttons
that brought the pockets down on
the shirt front and the needles sew-
ing the triangles and the pocketed
shirt front being spewed out...

Charlene hadn't told any one
yet, not even her mom, but she was
Saving up to pay adown payment on
a double-wide mobile home; she
had already picked out the one "
sunken tub, cathedral ceilings, fire-
place.

She took the blower and
cleaned under the two Compos--
buttons, dust, and bits of thread flew
up and settled near the neighboring
button-hole machines. When she
had finished, Charlene tried in vain
to brush the thread and lint from her
navy blue work jacket, then she
looked around and saw the line form-
ing ready to punch out time cards as
the clock made its slow journey to
12:30. Usually she was second or
third to leave. But tonight she
wanted to be last.

She looked around. No one
was paying any attention as she felt
in her deep pocket, and, moving her

26 REBEL 1990

scissors and comb to one side, she
took out the bent bobbin, then
popped it into the machine. She felt
good. Tonight, she had done some-
thing. Number #83 would break four
needles, she hoped, maybe tear up
four shirts.

She punched out. Twelve-
thirty-four indented red on her time
card. At the door, Charlene turned
and saw the top of her machine
behind the empty bundle racks: its
rolling-pin arm was up in the air,
giving her a silent fingerless salute.
She imagined the commotion Mon-
day: a day mechanic jabbing the
machineTs insides with screw driv-
ers and #83 cursing it and kicking it
in frustration after five torn, puck-
ered shirts. All of a sudden, a pow-
erful feeling bolted through her body
" a feeling she hadn't felt for awhile
" a quivering in her heart, a racing
of her pulse. It was a sign. It had to
be a sign.

oHenry, wait a minute. | forgot
something.� He sighed, leaned
against the opened exit door and
gave his weighty ring of keys a tired,
clanking twirl.

Charlene ran quickly to her

machine, reached underneath, an
took out the bent bobbin, then thre!
it away. It landed softly, like a pied
of lint, in the huge trash can full ¢
paper and cloth fragments. Th
new bobbin, still three-quarters fu
of #3 light blue, fitted securely int
place.

Outside, asummer shower ha
left its glimmering sheen on th
darkness of the asphalt. Pools 6
water filled the uneven spots an
small potholes of the pavement an!
made a meandering path t
CharleneTs dented white Toyoté
The largest of those puddles mil
rored an undistorted reflection 4
factory lights, lights that left a haz!
pinkish glow on the night sky f0
miles in every direction. Suddenly
Charlene felt an overwhelming child
ish urge to jump smack dab in thé
middle of that puddle. She didn
even look to see if anyone wat
watching. Both feet landed togeth@
and the splash of water went wot
derfully upward and gave her a luké
cool, refreshing, partial drenching:

~James Taylor

h, an
1 thre!
1 pied
full ¢
Th
ars fu
ly int

er ha
yn th
ols ¢
'S af
nt ant
th t
oyoté
s mil
ion ©
1 haz)
ky {0
denly
child
in the
didn
» was
yethé
wort
| luke
hing:

ws ewe ee ew

With Long

woodcut
David Walser Yarbrough

SPRING/FALL 27

On ORAS LE MENT IT OC N

Untitled
lithograph
CCE Walker

28 REBEL 1990

Sop eee Ie we WA

LISLE PR TNR RET IT I ea PATEL NE RESP EOI TLE EIEN ENE NLT RE EATS Ge LAE LETTE SLT ITE OE LAL TO ERE mS

SS =

In Every Mirror

An Interview with Julie Fay

photograph by Joseph Campbell

by Debbie Free

bam the speeding ticket she received on the way to East Carolina University,

Julie Fay appears relaxed in her office where the green of the side wall and the light
cooled by a green lampshade simulates the outdoors. Her desk is a reservoir of
books since there is really no more room left on the shelves. About the additional
mountains of books on the floor, she says after finding the one she has been
searching for, oITm in the process of moving.� Fay is moving into anew home beside
the Pamlico River in Washington, North Carolina. She commutes daily to ECU where
she teaches literature and poetry writing classes.

SPRING/FALL 29

Fay has divided her time between North Caro-
lina and France. In describing her home in France she
is reminded of an earlier home in southern California
where she spent her early childhood. The memory of
California is summoned by the similarity of landscapes
between the two places. She has also lived in Arizona
and Connecticut.

Landscapes are generally important to Fay and
her poetry, such as the dramatic landscape of the
Pamlico River; her roots as a poet are in Connecticut.
Remembering her first writing attempts as a youngster
there, she begins:

o| was a voracious notewriter as a kid. And a
friend and | wrote a novel together which | hope never
surfaces. One thing | wrote that did surface was a note
to a friend. A teacher found it in the hallway and sent me
to the guidance counselor's office. | had written it with
all small ~iTs.T, The guidance counselor asked me if ITd
ever read any e. e. cummings. | hadnTt, so | went to the
library to get a copy of his book. After | read it, | thought,
~|can do that.T

oOne time | wrote a paragraph while looking out
a classroom window atthis big maple tree. Allthe leaves
were coming off of it. | saw that the tree could be a
symbol for my experience. In the same way it had lost
its leaves, | had lost some friends. | assigned values to
the sunshine, roots, leaves, and branches, and it worked
for me. | found it the other day when | was unpacking.
It's terrible. All the stuff | wrote then was terrible, but
you've got to start somewhere.�

Another place to start, Fay says, is with reading.
An avid reader herself even as a child, she says that the
two must walk hand in hand. She describes one expe-
rience in particular that influenced her:

owas very young, living in California, and read
a book. . . an anthology. . . that exposed me to many
different genres: poems, short stories, essays. | soon
expanded the realm to include many of the writers that
later influenced me: Cummings, Hemingway, Frost.
Then, later, Plath, Shakespeare, rock ~nT roll lyricists,
Roethke. Robert Creeley was perhaps one of the most
important influences.�

A couple of poems from her book of poetry /n
Every Mirror begin with walking. oAll Our Lives� opens
with the line, oAt dusk we walk the property.� Another
poem entitled oProvengal Laundry� describes walking in
a mountain village called Coursegoules, oa perched
town few touch completely.� Ms. Fay explains that
walking is an important part of her writing process.

oWhen | write, | walk. | can be at a stage in
writing a poem and then I'll go walk it for a couple of
hours.�

The creative process involving walking mani-
fests itself through FayTs poetry in many ways. Her
poems are vitalized by kinesthetic imagery, giving the
fluctuating landscapes an intimate, tactile quality. Fay

30 REBEL 1990

achieves this vividness by weaving the landscape righ
through the hands of the poemTs personas. For ex
ample, the persona in oConnecticut Summers� remem
bers that when she was ten years old, she ocollecte!
wings/ that fell from maples,/ ~helicopters,T/ and from tht
barn loft/ threw them to watch their falling// like gir!
trying on the graceful moves/ of their mothers.�

oMy husband asked me. .. heTs Hungarian, ant
at the time didnTt read English very well . . . if my poem
were political, and | just laughed. How can yol
separate the politics from the person and the poemsT
Feminist? No one really likes labels applied to his or hé
art. | find it odd that no one ever asks men if they'fé
male-ist.

"One editor sent back a manuscript of mine wit!
a long letter of praise attached to it. He had been sen
nearly 700 manuscripts and could choose one to pub
lish. | was among the last two or three he was consid
ering, but he chose to publish the other one. He wroté
at great length about how fine the book was, but that thé
experiences were mostly female. | donTt think an)
professional rejection has wounded me as muchas tha!
one. This is someone who is a very well-respecteé
poet, a very well-known poet, and someone | would ca!
a very ~machoT poet, kind of a Norman Mailer among
poets. He writes about hunting and fishing and motof
cycles " traditionally "male" subjects. | write abou!
love and death and violence in the world and am calleé
too feminine. To be faulted for having a female point 0!
view is absurd tome. | ama female, so | write, usually:
but not always, through a female persona and out of my
experiences as a woman. Did anyone ever ask Twain
~Why are you writing about a young boy? Why not 4
young girl?T "

In hernewest book, Portraits of Women, sched
uled to be published in 1991, the poems employ 4
persona whose life is different from Ms. FayTs in many
ways, proving the notion that a poem's speaker is no!
always the poet. While she waits for its release, two new
books are circulating at publishers: Hole in the Boné
and Heading for the Sky, and a fourth is underway:
Another she just started is a biographical portrait of
Hannah Duston. As Ms. Fay explains it, Duston was 4
17th century woman who was kidnapped by Indians:
She later escaped by killing some of them, but not unt!
they had murdered her three-day old infant. In addition:
Ms. Fay is also currently being translated into French:

With all her success, Ms. Fay is still not fully
Satisfied. In ten years, when looking into her own
private mirror, she would like to see, oA woman who i$
content.�

When is she content that the writing process of
a poem is completed? oI know. ItTs a very physical
feeling in fact.� She explains how there is a sense 0
pleasant exhaustion and you just okind of get chills.�

e righ
or ex
mem
lectet .;
4m th from Bicentennial Bastille ,
> gitk (a sonnet sequence from Heading for the Sky )
al The emblem of the week and month and year
be is birds in flight. They stand for freedom, rights
os of man. Renaud, the protest singer,
~ yor re-designed the logo so the flight's
ee of mig jets instead, the words Ca suffat
ory comme ci (he often twists the verbs around)
ney emblazoned underneath and then apar-
t theid, debt, and colonies. Last week, around
ae ) BastilleTs tall green column, the Third World
: seu rallied: Nicaragua, Palestine,
: pul Nouvelle Caledonia, banners unfurled
ee , and carried through the streets, solidarity lined
wig up for miles. Meetings at Mutualite
- followed. This week, the Grand SeptsT banalities
sit as today, the chiefs of state held their meeting.
7 That is, the chiefs of state of industry.
1d ca The poorer ones donTt count. Friday, leading
mong the First String in a round of smiles " crusty
ee Mitterand. George and Maggie flanked him.
"_ Next to them the other ones " the Kraut,
alle : the Wop, the Jap, Kanuck " all there to thank him
pint 0 for his hospitality. Inside the out-
ually side-letting-in pyramid (which canTt be said
of m) of the Grand Sept group) hot air rose
wail! and steamed the glass. Past PeiTs peak, the dread
not 4 blimp " the fattest spy there ever was "
wheezed, nosed above the streets of Paris,
a security-secured to snare us
oy
nany unsavory characters in the mob
is no which Thursday stormed the Bastille Opera.
»new Exotic glass wings, it nests on the cob-
Boné bled place. Opening night. Paparazzi
way: perched on the mezzanine with distinguished
ait O! guests. Helicopters rested below like dogs
vas a outside a store. The citoyens, squished,
tans: celebrated, lost their heads, wine-idealogues,
~unt charged the streets with firecrackers, danced in red caps,
ition spiked hair, frilled bonnets, sang the Marseillaise.
2nch We walked the peppery streets, found a café,
fully round table. Seven people, seven countries,
owl! sounded off names, places, and professions "
ho Ie the little peoplesT summit was in session.
ss of
sical
se of Julie Fay
lls.�

SPRING/FALL 31

32 REBEL 1990

~ow @ = ee hee a ee 2 es

Dream State

Color Paper and color pencil
Valerie Madden

SULIOJ [PUOTIIPR)

Rhyme, meter, and pattern have lost their hegemony " and that
is good " but they have not lost their effectiveness. . .When one
option is discredited, as free verse was earlier in this century and
as formal verse is now, poetry runs the risk of becoming limited
and narrow. American poets were right to rebel against ~the
tyranny of the iamb.° But ~freedomT can tyrannize as much as the
iamb, and therefore our principal aim. . . is to help foster a more
balanced view of poetry, one that recognizes that both traditional
and open forms are indispensable resources for contemporary

poets.

from Strong Measures: Contemporary American Poetry in Tradi-
tional Forms. Philip Dacey and David Jauss, editors. © 1986,
Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc. 015484-5.

SPRING/FALL 33

Bells

We will lie in wait for the sound of bells

tinkling softly in the moonlight

On, oh, so many nights we've let go by.

But sometimes, many times, the bells do not sound.
It is as though they are reflecting our silence

as we lie so quietly side by side.

SO long ago time had been by our side,

so much to do, we never heard the bells.

When night came there was romance in moonlight,
No looking back on those old times gone by.

All we hear now is our own quiet sound,

and we try not to think of the silence.

But we know alll there is now is silence.

Lying too close in the bed by our side.

And silence seems to be laughing with the bells,
making me wish through the night for the light,
Trying to forget all those days gone by.

Dry tears, crying softly without a sound.

But somehow at night there is a sound.
Whispers, that dark haunting sound of silence.
Waiting quietly, lurking at my side.

Whispering words of worry with the bells.

If you look closely, its face in the light

reminds me of all | have let go by.

If only | could laugh at the time gone by.
Though we try, our voices donTt make a sound;
all that comes from open mouths is silence,

its reflection groping at our side.

The ringing in our heads of telling bells

that tinkle loudly, shattering moonlight.

That sweet glowing amber of the light,

quietly washing away time gone by,

Coming to us in the night without a sound,
Stealing over us with quiet silence

and laying itself down gently by our side.
Emptiness ripples across us with the chime of bells.

Now we see that silence is on our side.
As it moves along with the sound of bells,
and weTre chilled by the light as night goes by.

Karen Beardslee

34 REBEL 1990

Merry Christmas, 1989

| lie cold and flat on my narrow bed.
In fact, since you left, |'ve gotten so flat
| cover the whole cot; no one else fits.

Late at night | still have you in my head.
The grief is black & makes my heart so fat
| lie cold and flat on the narrow bed.

Swollen affections under tattered guilts,
| made too much room for me in your bed.

Now you cover your whole cot. No one else fits.

Affections now filtered with caustic dread,
Your truculent truths are almost quiet.
When | lie cold, flat on the narrow bed

For too long, my dreams become erratic:
Lovers waft & wane & come again, yet
| cover the whole cot so they won't fit

Their narrowing deceits into my head.

| guess you could say ITm resigned fo if:
| lie cold and flat on the narrow bed
And cover the cot so no one else fits.

Joseph Campbell

SPRING/FALL 35

36 REBEL 1990

Marble Tables

| still donTt understand my mother

who cried for a broken marble table.

But to me, my sister, and my brothers,
she said love was the gift that enabled
her, and us, of course, to always forgive
angry husbands and angry fathers,

who in drunken stupors seemed fo live

to break marble tables and any other
useless thing " like children.

| guess itTs okay for a father that misses
barroom brawls to hit five kids and then
wake hung-over mornings to wifely kisses.
We stayed because she loved him, and |
was supposed to love, but not ever to cry.

Mary Parrish

The Day After Divorce

lt rains, | donTt expect him home today,

Not to the big windowed bedroom where cloth
Covered boxes strewn across the floor lay
Open, spilling calico pieces, moth-

Eaten dreams, odd size buttons, black and blue.
Through billowing sheers wet breezes blow,

Not that it matters that the rug is new

Or that the cat in the corner knows

Something is up, or rather, heTs not fed.

He volunteers to stay off of the chair.

| pad to the banister, lie my head

Against the dark wood at the top of the stairs
And wait for the drop of galoshes on the floor,
Staring in the red of the stained-glass door.

Deborah Price Griggs

Mother Haiku (in three trimesters)

you gave birth to slate
your roots could not grow in me
they died bare, brittle.

child of field and grass,
my feet hardened by pavement,
seasoned by gravel.

your earth will grow bare,

and | will be crushed, ground, baked,
forced to air again.

Lisa Daniel

SPRING/FALL 37

ee _

How | Became an Ecofeminist

by Kit Kimberly

W... | was 18, | read The WomenTs Room and
became a feminist. The book confirmed what | had long
suspected -- that the limitations, controls, and restric-
tions | chafed under were, in fact, arbitrary and had no
basis in logic. | was a girl and therefore was expected
to act in certain, prescribed ways, regardless of the fact
that | had little predisposition to many ofeminine� char-
acter traits. As akid, | was loud, aggressive, often stri-
dent and even violent in asserting my claim to leader-
ship, which | was good at despite the resentment of the
neighborhood children (mostly boys) that | interacted
with. When pubescence and adolescence came on me
-- although | had always believed the restrictions | faced
were personal, that my inability to be like oother girls�
was in some way my fault -- | continued, perversely, to
rebel against parental and societal expectations, until
the kids in the neighborhood refused to play with me
anymore. | didnTt act like a proper girl. | turned to alter-
native forms of interaction, but continued my rebellion in
other, more subtle ways. It was not until | read The
Women's Room that | discovered there was a name for
the restrictions | rebelled against -- sexism --and for my
rebellion -- feminism.

| spent the next ten years honing my perspectives
on feminism. Throughout high school and into college,
my raised consciousness helped me to identify sexism
in my personallife. | built a network of friends whose per-
ception of the world validated my

stemmed from the same source and therefore moved to
the same end. Or so | thought.

The first hint | had that this was not so was at a
meeting where | brought up the idea of some kind of
action focused on womenTs safety on our college cam-
pus. A series of rapes and attempted rapes had re-
stricted women in the area to going out after dark only
with male escorts, and | thought that was a real prob-
lem. The idea was discussed, but one of the male mem-
bers of the group suggested that perhaps minority
issues were more important at that time. | looked
around the table. We had no minority members in our
group, while fully half of the group was female. It
seemed to me that an issue which had a direct and
immediate effect on at least 50 percent of our organiza-
tion was timely as well as crucial, and deserved at least
some discussion. | said as much, and was accused of
being divisive, not a team player. | dropped out of the
group soon afterward.

But once into politics, never out. In every group
| joined and every movement | worked with, | kept run-
ning into this endemic problem, of sexism and gender
bias, and of racism and homophobia, as well as other,
more subtle but equally undermining aspects of the pre-
dominantly white male mainstream society which had,
nevertheless, managed to infiltrate all of these opro-
gressive� ideologies. | found a word for this self-
centered, very limiting methodology as well: patriarchy.

At about the same time, a friend of mine, whose
holistic political perspective | had always admired and
tried to emulate, moved to Washington state. David had
long been concerned about environmental issues; one
night he called, very agitated about what he termed the
omurder� of the Old Growth forests.

| am a country girl (pardon the expression, femi-
nists --ocountry woman� just doesn't have the same
ring). | grew up on a tidal river of the Chesapeake Bay,
surrounded by acres of pine forests. | went to camp in
the mountains of North Carolina where | fell in love with
the very different but equally compelling woodlands of

own, and who did not make me Only at few upturned stumps and

feel that the character traits and

idiosyncrasies which defined my QOUGeS remain, and the rich topsoil

personality were in some way un-

feminine, unnatural, or undesir- IS gone, leaving nothing but red clay.
community of people whodid act_ tt looks like the Earth is bleeding.

community of people who did not

try to put the proverbial lid on me.

| might have remained at this idyllic state indefinitely had
not my principles challenged me to put personal ideol-
ogy into political action.

The first political action | participated in was
for human rights in Central America rather than womenTs
rights in my own political arena. | saw the two as intrin-
sically connected, and it didnTt seem to matter so much
what the issue was; progressive political action all

38 REBEL 1990

the Blue Ridge Mountains. When David, an extremely
clear-headed and well-educated individual, told me the
trees were being omurdered,� it struck a chord. oYou
have to see these trees,� he said. oThey're ancient,
incredible. And the first time | went to the forest, alone,
they said to me ~Save us. We are in trouble. Save us.T
So thatTs what ITm trying to do.�

Well. David, who had since changed his name to

ee

STEER ep ar

Gaia in order to reflect his commitment to the Earth,
was working with the Sierra Club on a program to
protect the National Forests, and | decided to go out
there and see what was what.

The Olympic National Forest is enchanting
and everything David/Gaia said that it would be. Huge
trees, incredibly huge, nurture the most lush, fertile en-
vironment imaginable. Douglas Firs are the largest
and can reach a height of 300 feet and be several
hundred years old. When one of these trees dies, it
doesnTt decompose quickly but remains where it is for
sometimes centuries. These dead trees, called nurse
logs, host whole communities of insects, lichen, ferns,
shrubs, and other trees.

One nurse log towered over my head for
ten feet or more, and stretched down the mountain
as far as | could see, its top and sides covered with a
myriad of growth, including another Douglas Fir as
large as the one that hosted it. Before me stood a life
form which dated back at least 1000 years, maybe
more. And in that moment, the forest spoke to me too.

| saw evidence of the murders my friend
had told me about. Clear-cutting is the method of
logging used most often in our national forests, and it
is the most damaging. It cuts all growth, underbrush
and trees, to the ground, subjecting the land to all
elements. The topsoil runs off with rain or just blows
away; the animals who lived there are left with no
habitat and the land is barren for years after the
loggers have gone. You can't imagine the feeling of
driving down a narrow mountain road, surrounded by
forests so rich and green you can practically feel them
growing, and coming upon an area about an acre wide
which is almost completely bare. Only a few upturned
stumps and gouges remain, and the rich topsoil is
gone, leaving nothing but red clay. It looks like the
Earth is bleeding.

Thus began my commitment to environmental
issues. It occurred to me, as it has to many environ-
mentalists, that even if we eradicate racism and sex-
ism and hunger and oppression of human rights, it
won't do any good if we can't breathe the air and drink
the water. But the environmental groups | worked with
seemed to be as patriarchal as any of the other political
organizations | had been exposed to. None of them
seemed to understand, as | did, that exploitation and
oppression of any segment of society -- women, minor-
ity members, third-world cultures, the environment --
were connected and emanated from the same source.
And they resented my attempts to draw , what seemed
to me, the obvious parallels. | found that | could not
commit myself to a movement which still used gender-
biased terminology (chairman, spokesman, man the
booths) allowed mento dominate and control its agenda
while women did the paperwork, and refused to recog-
nize or even entertain the idea that the oppression of
women and the oppression of the Earth were intrinsi-

cally related. oOh, for GodTs sake, is that necessary?�
they said, annoyed, when | corrected their terminology
from omiddle man� to omediator.� oThat's so trivial.� But
it wasn't to me.

And then | came across the term ecofeminism. |
first heard the word at a political conference, when |
attended a workshop entitled oThe Green Movement:
Environmental Politics at Work.� The speaker defined
ecofeminism as the philosophy that exploitation of
women and exploitation of the environment are intrinsi-
cally connected and stem from the same source. Aha,
| thought, this is it.

Ecofeminism diametrically opposed the current,
Western patriarchal perspective which values people,
animals, plants, and entire biospheres on the basis of
how they can benefit the system. The same soci-
political and economic structure which has broadened
enough to allow women and minorities into it will also
allow the forest to continue and the species not to be
annihilated if it can be shown that these organisms will
directly benefit the system. It is not enough to allow
women to participate in the current system if they can
adapt to it; such a paternalistic, controlling perspective
does not recognize that women and their contributions
are essential to the society at large, whatever system is
in place. Likewise, it is not enough to value the forests
because they provide wood for building, paper, and jobs
for loggers. Even if the forests did not provide those
things, they are essential to continuation of life -- all life,
not just human life -- on the planet. Ecofeminism is an
alternative value system which says that nothing is
more valuable than anything else, that each person,
animal, plant, and even mineral on the Earth is essential
to the whole.

As an ecofeminist, | can participate in any politi-
cal, social, or environmental action which works toward
full participation for any segment of the world population
without feeling that | am diverting my energy from an-
other, more important issue. Because ecofeminism
encourages me to use and develop whatever qualities
| discover within myself, | can be loud, strident, and
assertive without feeling | am somehow less feminine.
| still become incensed with the white-male biased
language and methods that are endemic in some of the
causes | believe in. Ecofeminism has made me aware
that the way things are done is as important as the end
result -- that the end does not justify any means, andthe
methodology used has a far-reaching effect on the
world at large.

As | become more attuned to the principles of
ecofeminism , | find once again, as with The Women's
Room, a validation of my concerns and experiences.
Ecofeminism and the community that supports it help
me to live in the world as it is, and as | am, while working
toward the full potential of both.

SPRING/FALL 39

So 2 8: @ Po

A C

4. PF oe Cee

a

NeverTrust a Biped

by Chris Glass

| had never thought about trea-
son. The government never held any
particular appeal for me, but | never
thought about bringing it down. Let's
face it" it canTt be done. All we have to
look forward to is the four year vote, the
grand opportunity to oust one asshole
and replace him with another. But! canTt
vote anymore, even if it mattered who
wins. The end of one presidency starts
it all again, and the bureaucracy easily
protects itself, the machine canTt be
stopped.

Why does everyone put so much
faith in the president, anyway? Pup-
pets, all of them, figureheads with strings
waiting to be pulled. Like the one who
was in when they hauled me off " |
never trusted him, not even during his
days on the House of UnAmerican Ac-
tivities Committee. We were asking for
arrogance when we elected him. It
didnTt bother him a bit when they came
and got me, the agitator from within, and
sent me away. He had enough things to
do, his own crimes to conceal. | didnTt
know what was happening; | met her at
the fish store. How was | to know the
CIA was watching her?

| had stopped by the Fish Hole, a
small store filled with tanks of tropical
fish. My Oscars, Talbot and Warwick,
were tired of eating regular food " they
needed some meat. | walked around
the store, looking in the tanks, figuring
I'd get another fish as well.

oThey're beautiful,� | heard from
my right. oSo beautiful.�

oYes, they are,� | said. | turned to
see who had spoken and saw a woman
standing about five and a half feet tall, a
little taller than |, with long, straight red
hair.

oThey just swim around, in their
own universes,� she said. She pushed
her hair away from her eyes and looked

40 REBEL 1990

atme. oThetimeis right to buy fish. |saw
it in the stars.�

oHow are they aligned?�

oIt's not in the alignment. ItTs the
feeling | get from them.� She looked at
the tanks again. oLast night, | sat naked
on the beach and meditated, looking to
the stars and then closing my eyes.�

oAnd the feeling was aquatic?�

oA tension had been building up
inside of me,� she said, her eyes waxing
distant like she was crawling inside of
herself, oand when the moon was straight
overhead it burst, and | felt so relieved,
and in my mind the stars said ~Fish.T "

oMaybe it meant that you should
go fishing.� She may have heard me, |
donTt know.

o| walked to the ocean and swam
until the sun rose. It was wonderful.�
She seemed to focus on the tanks again.
oThey're so peaceful. | want to get atank
today, but when | asked that salesman
over there a question,� she said, point-
ing with her eyes at a man with greasy
black hair, slick enough to slide on, ohe
looked me over and walked away.�

| did the same, starting from the
floor, going up her legs, meeting her
shorts just under the hips, gently curving
over her chest, and finished at her eyes,
noting the absence of both shoes and a
bra.

oHeTs such a prick,� she said as
my eyes were somewhere on her legs.
o| Know | shouldn't talk like that, but if we
just said whatTs on our minds and didn't
bother hiding things, weTd all be so much
happier.�

| told her | felt the same way, but
she didnTt need to know what | was
thinking. | helped her pick out a tank, all
the rocks and chemicals to go in it, told
her why, and she got some goldfish and
neon tetras to take home. | bought a
Black Moor and some goldfish myself,
but | didnTt tell her that mine were food.

oYou still havenTt told me
your name,� she said.

oJon.� Back then, it was
nice to say only my name, no number
behind it.

olll need some help setting all this
up, Jon,� she said, looking at me with big
blue eyes. oWould you come over to-
night and help get me going?�

oI'd love to.� | couldn't believe she
was actually writing down her address
and handing it to me. oWhen should |
come by, Ashley?� | asked, reading the
name from the paper.

oWait until after dark. ThereTs
something about the night that fasci-
nates me, brings me alive. Do you ever
feel that way?�

oYeah, every night.� She smiled
and walked away, leaving me clutching
her address in one hand, a bag full of
water and circling fish in the other.

By the time | got home, | was
ecstatic. Derringer, my dog, part collie
and part setter, greeted me at the door,
wagging his tail. | had picked him out at
the animal shelter during grad school.
The eyes did it to me, those big black,
sad eyes -- it was like he knew he was
going to die, looking at me through the
bars, not barking like the others. | took
him home right then, even though |
couldn't afford him, and ate rice and
noodles for a year and a half. After
school, | bought a house; | still had a lot
to pay on it, but it all went to the bank, not
a landlord, and the payments weren't
that bad. Another twenty years and it
would have been mine. | wonder who
lives there now since the state provides
me with room and board.

My one hundred gallon tank was
built into the wall and | dropped the
goldfish in there, watched them scatter,
and then put in the Black Moor. | named
him Othello, the Moor of Norfolk. Talbot
and Warwick came alive, snapping up

a

the goldfish whole. The smart ones hid
among the plants, even though they'd
get theirs soon enough.

The sun hung long after | was
ready to leave, casting light while | waited
impatiently for darkness. The day
dragged on like the summer had; | wa-
tered my plants, played the cello in front
of my fish tank, sending the bass notes
vibrating to them through the floor, and
played with Derringer until it was good
and dark. DidnTt want her to think | was
too anxious. oTake care of the place,
Derringer,� | said when | left, patting him
on the head. oItTs all yours.�

lt was a small house, close to
campus. The front rail barely hung
together, the old and twisted nails show-
ing between gaps of wood. The failing
porch light didnTt do its job well -- | nearly
broke my neck going up the stairs. After
checking the address once more to make
sure | was right, | knocked on the door.

oCome in,� | heard from inside.

| did. Incense assaulted me, jas-
mine, | think, and speakers mounted on
the walls relayed gentle Indian music. It
was dark inside, too,
with candles burning
in each corner, and
one lamp, a blanket
draped around its
shade.

oWhere
you?� | asked.

oDown here.�

From the floor.
And she was, wearing
a one piece bathing
suit with a bandanna wrapped around
her head, her hair in a ponytail, her leg
stretched out in front of her.

o| didnTt see you down there.�

oI stretch every evening,� she said,
raising her leg above her head and hold-
ing it there, her toes pointing to the
ceiling. My eyes couldn't help staring at
her leg, all the way up --

oTo know myself, through my
body,� she said. | looked away and saw
her fish tank, sitting on a table by the
window. oDo you want the tank to stay
over there?�

oYes.� She brought her leg slowly
down and stretched the other one in
front of her.

oI'll need to wash the gravel.� |
took the bag into the kitchen, turned on
the light, and saw a picture of President
Nixon on the wall, arrayed with darts.
oYou know you could go to jail for this in

are

some countries,� | said, and pulled a dart
out of his nose.

oYou're not against us, are you?�
she asked, swinging aleg back and forth
in front of her, then the other.

oNo, not me.� | jammed the dart in
his neck, covering my mistake, and
turned on the water.

oIl wasn't catching any of those
vibes from you today,� She twisted her
torso, giving me a shot of her breast in
silhouette, the skimpy top exposing bare
skin around the outer curve. | wanted to
pull those strings tied behind her neck
and let gravity take over, but | kept my
hands in the water.

oItTs important to listen to your
feelings, Jon. When | met you | knew
you were special, that you had that
something. So many people | meet are
simple -- they're not interested in things
of the mind.�

My mind had nothing to do with
why | was there, but | feigned otherwise.
o| know what you mean. Just the other
day --�

o| think you know what itTs like to
convey a feeling,� she interrupted. oIt's

"A tension had been building up inside of me,"
she said, her eyes waxing distant like she was crawl-
ing inside of herself, "and when the moon was straight
overhead it burst, and | felt so relieved, andin my mind
the stars said, ~Fish.T "

in your karma -- ITm sure our biorhythms
are in synch. | can tell.�

That was a little too much for me,
so | stayed in the kitchen, getting things
ready to set up the tank. | wasnTt sure
what to say -- | didnTt meet people like
her in the symphony.

oThank you so much for doing
this,� she said, stretching her arms above
her head, arching her back, thrusting
out her chest and all onitto see. oITm not
too good at setting things up, and it
wouldnTt have been fair to those poor
fish to die tonight while | slept.� She
exhaled deeply, lowered her arms, and
looked at me. oIf | sleep tonight.�

oAre you an insomniac?�

oOnly with company,� she said,
smiling. oThat can wait a minute, canTt
it? Come here, sit down with me.�

| pulled my hands out of the sink,
quickly drying them on my pants while |

walked into the living room.

oTake your shoes off, and untuck
your shirt,� she said. oYou've got to be
loose.�

| kicked off my shoes, sat down,
and crossed my legs. She pulled off her
bandanna, letting her hair fall down.

oTake some deep breaths,� she
said, olike this.� She breathed deep, her
breasts rising and falling. | started to say
something, but she stopped me with an
upheld hand. oIn silence, fora moment.�

She touched my hands, running
her fingers all over them, stopping at the
tips. oCalluses,� she said. oDo you play
guitar?�

oCello.�

~I've never met anyone who played
cello before.�

oI've been playing since grade
school.� She still held me by the hands.
oIt's someth"�

oYes, | can feel it.� She grabbed
me by the shirt, looking me in the eyes
before closing hers. oUrge me.�

With what? My mind? She leaned
forward, her mouth opening slightly, her
tongue sliding around her lips in eager
anticipation; we
were almost touch-
ing when her face
twisted and she
sneezed, covering
me with spit and
phlegm. She
sneezed again,
and again, got up
and moved to-
wards the kitchen,
sneezing. About
eight or nine sneezes, in all.

| stood up. oWhat was all that
about?�

oI'm not sure.� She wiped her
nose and watering eyes with a towel,
walking cautiously towards me. She
stopped a couple of feet away and
pointed at my shirt. oAre those dog
hairs?�

| looked down self-consciously.
oWell, yeah.� She sneezed again and
backed away.

oYou'd like Derringer,� | said, step-
ping towards her. oI can never like him,�
she said, moving away, oor ever see
him. His hair makes me sneeze and itch
and gives me a headache -- | can feel it
now.� She raised her hand to her head.
oYou've got to go home and shower and
change and get all those hairs off you
before you can come near me again.�

| put on my shoes and left.

SPRING/FALL 41

oDon't keep me waiting,� she said
before the door closed behind me.

Like always, Derringer was at the
door, but | walked past him, went to the
bathroom, and immediately took a
shower. | found a shirt way in the back
of my closet, and stood in front of the fish
tank, brushing off the dog hairs while
looking to see if any goldfish were still
alive. | didnTt see any, but at the bottom,
almost blending in with the gravel, lay a
huge, round eye. Had to be OthelloTs"
Talbot and Warwick must have ganged
up on him. Such are the fortunes of the
Moor.

| held a private wake for Othello,
flushing the remnant of the Moor down
into the intricate sewer system; the eye
stared at me, swirling round and round
before disappearing. Stepping out of
the bathroom, | almost ran over Derrin-
ger. oAlot of good you did,� | said, scold-
ing him in a voice all too stern. oKeep
watch on my fish.� | looked back at him
as | shut the door " if only | never had.
He stood there, holding his head at an
angle, cut-
ting into me
with implor-
ing eyes,
tearing at
my heart,
but
couldn't pet
him. My
libido was
in the way.

to tell them that.
Ashley if | did.

Ashley must have heard my car
because she met me at the door. She
had pulled on a white t-shirt, the outline
of the swim suit pushing from under-
neath. Random hand prints of paint
decorated the shirt"| wondered if they
were her hands.

oITm not sneezing, so youcan come
in,� she said. She had guests. One guy
was at the window, testing chemicals in
the filled fish tank; another guy was light-
ing incense stuck in a plant on the table,
and a woman sat on the floor, leaning
against the couch, drawing.

oThese are my friends,� Ashley
said, coming up from behind me. oThat's
Julian, with the glasses and the matches,
and Lorraine, and Drew over there said
itwouldnTt take him long to set up the fish
tank, so | told him to go ahead. HeTs
such a help. Everybody, this is Jon.�

oHello,� | said, feeling a little un-
comfortable. | knew | should have let

42 REBEL 1990

my hair grow.

Drew looked up from the tank long
enough to nod at me. and Julian sat
down beside Lorraine, who kept draw-
ing. Ashley sat down with them, motion-
ing for me to sit, too. Drew stayed at the
tank, so | sat down, figuring | might as
well let him finish what | had started, if he
wanted to so bad.

oMy cousin just got his draft no-
tice,� Ashley said. oHe doesnTt know if
heTs going to go or not.�

oHe shouldn't have to go half way
across the world to fight and die in a war
that heTs got nothing to do with,� Julian
said, walking into the kitchen.

oWe've got to get behind
McGovern,� Lorraine said. oHe'll end
the war.�

Julian walked back into the living
room and hung up the picture of Nixon.
oToo much corruption,� he said.

oThe CIA broke into the Demo-
cratic Headquarters,� Ashley said.
oWhat's going to come from that?�

oThey don't work for the CIA any-
more,� Drew said, walking over after

No way was | about to go in the streets and let the
cops swing their sticks at me, but | wasn't going
I'd never get anywhere with

putting the fish in the tank.

oOnce an agent, always an agent,�
Julian said. He handed us each a dart.

oYou're right there,� Drew said.

oHereTs one for air strikes,� Julian
said, throwing a dart. Lorraine stood
and threw hers. oAnd peace with honor,�
she said.

Drew threw his without saying any-
thing and missed. oWhat can you do but
vote and wait for history to sortit all out?�
| asked.

oThe historians are a long ways
behind, man,� Julian said. oWe've got to
act now, hit them hard and make them
listen.�

oIt's up to us,� Ashley said.

oWhat can we do?� | asked.

oJon,� Ashley said, touching my
arm, owe know a guard at the Norfolk
Naval Base and Air Station who'll leave
the gate open for us.�

oOnce we're in,� Julian said, speak-
ing with zeal, owe'll plant a bomb big

enough to blow the place sky high, and
then issue a statement protesting the
war. We've got to make them see we
don't want anymore people dying.�

oWe've got contacts,� Drew said.
oIt'll start a nationwide reaction.�

oWhere are we going to get a
bomb, and what about the people work-
ing at the base when it goes off?�

~I've already started the bomb,
and our friend tells us the schedules, so
it'll explode when no oneTs around,� Jul-
lan said.

oSounds like it could work,� | said.

oSo you're with us?� Drew asked.

| looked at Ashley; she looked
back. oYeah, let's doit,� | said, and threw
my dart, sticking itin the corner of NixonTs
smile. |knew | didn't have to worry about
going to Vietnam because one of my
legs is shorter than the other " theyTd
have only called on me if Ho Chi Minh
marched on San Francisco, and | didn't
see that happening any time soon. No
way was | about to go in the streets and
let the cops swing their sticks at me, but
| wasn't going to tell them that. I'd never
get anywhere with Ashley if | did. I'd get
sick when they went to the Naval Base.
Let them think what they wanted then.

The next three months were
heaven " | virtually lived with Ashley,
and Julian, Lorraine, and Drew came
over often. While Julian worked with his
explosives and Drew read political phi-
losophy, Lorraine sketched our faces,
drawing mushroom clouds around them.
She said her dad had been stationed in
Japan after the bombs had gone off.

| was thinking too much of Ashley
to worry about Derringer. | didnTt play
with him much because of AshleyTs al-
lergies, and I'd leave him in the back
yard with enough food to last a few days.
He'd sit at the chain link fence, looking at
me before | left, probably wondering
why | wouldn't take him.

oJon,� Ashley said, oweTre going
tonight.�

oTonight?� | said. oI didnTt know
we were going tonight.�

| wouldnTt have been there had |
known.

oIt's time to rise in arms against
our oppressors,� Drew said, a little too
heartily.

oI've been waiting for this moment
" I'm so excited,� Lorraine said.

Julian stood up and cleared his
throat. oOk, the bombTs in Drew's trunk,

and we'll all go in his car to the base.
We've got to go tonight because there's
a special military meeting up in D. C.
and the wing of the building we're gonna
blow is empty. We'll sneak in, put the
bomb under a desk or something, and
be back here by the time it goes off. Any
questions?�

| had some, but hesitated. Ashley
looked stunning in her black outfit. If |
backed out now it would be the end of
us. It was only one night " it would all
be over soon.

There was a knock at the door,
loud and simple, and | knew who it was.
Only percussionists and cops knock that
loud, and it couldn't have been a drum-
mer. They bang out rudiments and
paradiddles, but cops hit the door hard
and simple, with an urgency behind it,
trying to establish their authority before
they even getinside. | ran to the window
and saw five police cars outside, with
cops crouching behind open car doors
in riot gear, their rifles pointing to the sky.

Drew opened the door and the
feds were in, lots of them, dressed in
brown suits with their guns out, their
pointy black shoes clacking on the hard-
wood floor. Two of them held walkietalk-
ies, buzzing with static, and a man with
a mustache spun me into the wall,
searched and cuffed me beside Ashley's
goldfish. My heart pounded in my ears,
racing in my chest"I| wanted it to burst
and end it all for me, spewing blood eve-
rywhere for someone else to clean up,
but it didnTt happen.

An older man with grey hair came
in last, and stopped in front of Drew.
oNice work, Todd,� he said.

oThank you, sir,� he said. Be-
trayal. Treachery. oCut that recorder
off,� the captain said into his walkie-
talkie. oWe've got all we need.�

As the four of us were led out,
Drew pulled a wire out of his shirt " it
had been hiddenin his hair. They tossed
me into the back of asquadcar, slammed
the door shut behind me, and put Ashley
in the other side. Surrounded by thick
glass and wire mesh, | couldnTt hear
anything as we rode, and was only
vaguely aware of AshleyTs sobs. The
passing headlights grew larger and
blurred by, fading into my past as my
world changed and there was nothing |
could do to stop it; | merely watched my
life unfold as if on a television screen "
| wasnTt a participant, had no control, no
influence.

ee ns ATTN TR MG Mee

And so here | am. Been in here
almost a decade, got at least another
one left. They played some tapes at my
trial and got me for conspiracy, with
intent to commit treason against the
government of the United States "
twenty years. My state appointed law-
yer just sat there, no cross examina-
tions, and shook his head during sen-
tencing. Inafit of rage | added five years
to my term. Something | said about jus-
tice, but | watched myself do it. Like |
wasn't even there.

ItTs not that bad, really. After a few
years the warden figured | wasn't much
of a threat to society, and almost be-
lieves me when | tell him | didnTt know
what was going on, but heTs still fulfilling
his part of the deal in holding me pris-
oner of the state. It wasnTt his idea. It
gives me time to think. And no one lies
to me anymore.

But ITm lying to Derringer. He
stands in my mind, killing me with his
eyes like when | left that last time and
didnTt even scratch behind his ears. It
was like he wasnTt even my dog at the

illustration by Michael Lang

STe GER ARLIN MERTEN ET EAR Te eee

end. Faithful like always, he wanted to
be, but | wouldnTt let him. The feds sent
all my things to my parents in North
Carolina, but Derringer went to the ani-
mal shelter. | think of him; we're playing.
| throw the Frisbee and he runs and
catches it, but before he comes back
heTs in acage, with that same look in his
eyes. He knew he was going to die.
They didnTt notice the fish, and
when they came back three weeks later
only the two Oscars were alive, bits of
flesh scattered on the bottom. | can still
see the fish, though, when the tank was
full. | was close to their brightness,
watching them for hours; now all | have
are my four walls, bland and empty,
lifeless. Through my bars, past the
twisting barbed wire, | watch the sea-
sons change, from green to the colors of
autumn, grey in winter, then back to
green. The sky is blue, clouds float
across, and then itTs blue again " ITm
passed by, left behind on the wrong side
of the fence. As my years idle away |
stay, moving nowhere, going nowhere.

SPRING/FALL 43

» """ ae ie r a ea See : 2 DTU na

woe

a a Ali A I iat = gt i i at cai alata ape
~

ee |

DeSoto
photograph
Karyn M. Jones

44 REBEL 1990

Your World

| wonder

if you ever really noticed me

trailing behind as you churned the earth
dwarfed in deep footprints

in your garden at the bottom of the hill.

Later, | plowed my fingers

through your short wires of hair

or held it straight up "

but you were uneasy in my barber chair
and dreamed of sitting

hunched over

that precious John Deere.

You thought grown up thoughts.
You were above us.
You cut and primped only God's hair.

Walking with you in the woods

pulled annoying questions from me

and you never held my hand.

Aqua-Velva spilled on my leg

ruined the smell of the land for you,

and | was sent up the long gravel driveway

to change.

But you stayed in your garden

at the bottom of the hill.

You are there even now, Grampa,
in your world of gasoline and plastic,
mule gloves and wet earth.

You have fallen asleep

in your world without touch,
where hair stays in place
and no one asks questions.

Doug Smith

SPRING/FALL 45

W Pend

by Linda Clark

The ride to JohnTs parentsT house seemed long.
But, it always did. John turned left at the corner where
the restaurant with the giant plastic fish on top stood
guiding us.

oIt's starting to get warm,� he said.

oYeah, itTs always unseasonably warm on my
birthday,� | answered. It was difficult to know how to
dress in mid-March " one day itTs cold like February
and the next warm like May. The night before was cold
like February, and so we wore sweatshirts JohnTs mom
bought us for Christmas. We were already feeling very
warm and would find no relief at the house. JohnTs
mother always kept the heat up too high so we wouldn't
catch something. JohnTs mom is like that. Always
worried someoneTs going to catch something. She
always watches Donahue, Oprah, Geraldo, or anything
else that has bizarre illnesses on it. Her latest kick was
a man in West Virginia who got cancer from eating
Klondike ice cream bars. They were marked down at
Food Lion and she was sure that was the reason. She
bought some anyway because they were such a great
bargain.

As John turned the last turn at the Sweet Home
Baptist Church, | saw the trees that signalled their drive-
way. They were very tall, taller than the telephone
poles, and they never had any green. If they were not
right next to a phone pole, | might have thought they
were phone poles. The three of them stood there like a
light house, guiding us home. | always wondered what
would happen if those trees got cut down " would we
not know where to turn?

John shifted into second and we turned up the
driveway. We looked at each other and sighed. We
knew we were in for a long day.

o| wonder what today will be like. | wonder if
your dad will say anything?�

oHeTs just quiet. If he doesnTt have anything to
say, he doesn't say anything.�

o| Know, but | wish he would talk more because
heTs so sweet and funny when he does. "

oMy mom talks so much though that he can
hardly get anything in anyway.�

He did not exaggerate. She was always talk-
ing. That morning, when we called to tell her when we

46 REBEL 1990

fe ioe a a

os ee

would get there, she told me about their neighbor,
Luller, who had started to plant her garden, but had to
wait until there was a crescent moon because then the
water would pour out of it and make her plants grow.

Luller was always doing things like that. I'll
never forget when | first met her. The first time John took
me home, | made the mistake of telling his mother that
| liked collard greens. From then on, we had collard
greens every time we visited. Luller cooks creasy
greens; creasy greens are weeds " they grow close to
the ground and you see them everywhere, and Luller
eats them (| guess lots of people do, | had just never
heard of it). On our way home from that first visit, we had
to stop at LullerTs so she could give us some ocreasys,�
as JohnTs momcalls them. Fromthen on, whenever she
would say anything about Luller, she always felt the
need to explain that Luller was the one who gave me the
creasys.

When we got inside, JohnTs mom was on the
couch watching ACC basketball.

oJohn, State won this morning. DaddyTs so
happy. | donTt like that Yankee coach they got though.
What's that book?� She pointed to a book John brought
for his dad to read on chaos theory.

o| brought that for dad to read. | think he'll like
it. It's pretty interesting.�

oOh, he'll like that. Mel just reads all the time.
| guess thatTs his mistress. Better than a real mistress.
Of course why would he want one with a voluptuous wife
like me,� she said trying to make a sexy face. Voluptu-
ous is not the word to describe JohnTs mom. SheTs
about 45 and overweight. She wears her hair in a opixie
cut, thatTs what they used to call it� and seldom wears
anything other than house dresses. She does have a
few double knit polyester dresses she saves for trips to
town to shop every Friday. She smokes menthol Doral
cigarettes and scratches her back with her special back
scratcher " a corncob on the end of a stick she got in
the mountains in the 70s " which she refuses to go to
bed without.

oWhat did you do last night?� she asked, not
waiting for an answer. oWe stayed up and watched the
basketball game. State won. | don't like their coach.
Granny, Vicki (her sister), and Lee (JohnTs cousin) are

coming for dinner. RandallTs got a meeting at church or
something. | declare heTs always running here and
there; itTs awonder he ever sees his son. We're having
turkey roast and pintos and GrannyTs bringing deviled
eggs for you, Debbie.�

| made another mistake in telling Granny that |
really love deviled eggs. And! do, but not at every meal.

oGreat,� John and | said together. John picked
up the BrendleTs catalog sitting on the coffee table and
started to study it as if it contained all the answers to all
of lifeTs questions, leaving me all but alone with his
mom. He and his father both do that to me " read or
do something, anything, so that she won't talk directly to
them. She never waits for me to respond so | had time
to think about what | had to do when | got home. She told
me about her visits to the doctor, about Granny's visits
to the doctor, and Vicki's refusal to go to the doctor, and
about Luller" the one who gave me the creasys " and
all her troubles with her son. His name is Don or Dean
" she never can remember " and heTs been drinking
again. Last time he got drunk he took his bb gun out into
the back yard and ended up busting the car window.
LullerTs insurance will pay for it, but sheTs still real upset.
HeTs 32 years old and all he does is watch television and
get drunk and shoot things with that bb gun. She
doesnTt understand it. Vicki's got female problems (she
tells me this after John goes into the bathroom to smoke
a cigarette) and won't go to the doctor to save her life.

She stopped talking and got up to put the Food
Lion buttermilk biscuits in the oven.

oJohn, come pop the tube for me,� she called.
SheTs afraid to break open the tube of biscuits because
she heard of awoman who hada heart attack when one
opened too hard. 3

Bandit, their dog, started barking as Vicki's car
came up the driveway. Lee pushed out of the car and
ran up to the house. HeTs 12 years old. His cheeks are
bright red all the time " almost like kids who have
asthma, but he doesn't. He ran in and gave us both big
hugs.

oRoberta, there was a dead possum on the
road about a mile back near FredTs Family Fish House.
We almost hit it and had a wreck. HereTs some bread,�
Vicki said, holding up a tube of Food Lion buttermilk
biscuits, oI didnTt know if you had any.� She's almost
panting because sheTs out of breath.

o| always have bread. Where was the possum?
I'll get Mel to move it.�

oHeeeey,� Granny said slowly as she walked
toward us with her arms reached out. oHow ya'll doinT?
Anybody get shot or killed in Charlotte last night?
Granny was always worried about us in Charlotte. She
watches the news every night so she knows about every
crime or car accident and always worries that It was us.

oGranny! Stop. CharlotteTs not what you think.
Daddy, turn the heat up,� JohnTs mom yelled. | know
she worries like Granny, but doesnTt want us to know.

JohnTs dad walked in the room and turned up
the thermostat. He sat down in his chair, picked up the
book John brought for him, put on his K-Mart reading
glasses, and started reading the book without saying a
word to anyone. He nodded and smiled, so he wouldn't
appear rude, but he didnTt say a word. He rarely spoke.
| remember when John and | were first dating and |
asked him about his parents. He said that he really
admired his dad because he only had a 8th grade edu-
cation, but had gone on and became an electrician. He
explained how he built the heating system for their
house and that he could fix anything.

Whenever John really likes something, or is
very excited about explaining something, he gets this
certain smile on his face. The ends of his lips sort of
stretch outward and a tiny
dimple appears low on his
left cheek. The first time |
saw that smile was when he
was talking about his father.

John and his
dad both get

that same It was reserved for very spe-
: cial things.

grin when | saw the grin on

JohnTs father after we had
they talk visited a few times. He was

explaining about this bird
about the they had seen in the yard
new birds that they had never seen

before. Both JohnTs parents
love to watch the birds that
seemed to love their yard.
There were hundreds of
them sometimes. JohnTs
mom makes a special mix-
ture of lard, peanut butter,
and sunflower seed. His dad puts piles of it on their
fence posts and the birds love it.

Every birthday or gift-giving holiday, JohnTs
father gets a bird book from us. He keeps track of all the
birds he sees in them. And he looks forward to showing
them to John when we visit. John and his dad both get
that same grin when they talk about the new birds
highlighted in the books.

Even though JohnTs dad doesnTt talk, when the
family was together, there was never a lack of conver-
sation. Granny said that we should all be careful now
because the heat was starting to come back and a heat
stroke could creep up on us and we'd never know it.
This compelled Vicki to tell of a man at their church who
died of a heat stroke last summer.

As JohnTs mom got up to check on the bread,
his dad went out the back door, shaking his head and
chuckling to himself. Lee told John about his scout
troop. And that he had been elected school president.

oYes, first it was John who was in scouts and
president, now itTs Lee,� Granny said with that pride in
her voice only a granny has.

highlighted
in the books.

SPRING/FALL 47

oIt's a regular dynasty,� JohnTs mom said,
echoing GrannyTs pride.

oWell, Debbie, open your presents!� Vicki said
out of the blue. JohnTs family always gave me money.
They said they didnTt know what else to give me and |
could get what | wanted with money. Still, | had to open
and read each card and wave the bills.

As | thanked everyone, JohnTs mom an-
nounced that dinner was ready. She leaned out the
back door and hollered for JohnTs dad to come for dinner
(or is it supper, | never can get that straight). We waited
a couple minutes and Lee decided that we should not
wait for him " he was hungry, as usual, and wanted to
eat right then. After much discussion, we decided that
JohnTs father would be back in a minute and went ahead
and fixed our styrofoam plates.

oLee, | made some green pickles for you. Just
the way you like them,� Granny said.

Lee looked at the flourescent green pickles in
the mason jar and whispered to his mother, oMama,
thereTs bugs in there.�

Vicki answered loudly, oThat ain't bugs. ItTs the
glue from the lid. It just turned alittle brown. Eat them.
TheyTre fine.�

oBut mama, thereTs bugs in them!� he whined.

oI'll wipe it out Lee. It ainTt bugs. ItTs glue like
your Mama said,� Granny explained. Lee took a few of
the pickles out of the jar and sat down, muttering about
how he wasnTt going to eat pickles with bugs in them
even if she did wipe them away.

Granny asked where Mel was and JohnTs mom
yelled for him again.

oHe always comes when | tell him foodTs ready.
He'll be in,� she said, wiping some pinto juice up with her
biscuit.

oWell, | hope he ain't had a heat stroke. This
March weather is strange that way. Cool one minute,
hot the next,� Granny said. oYou kids better go look for
him after you eat.�

oThat's a good idea,� Vicki agreed.

oITm sure heTs fine,� John said, getting annoyed
with his family, yet grateful for the chance to escape to
the woods behind their house. We all ate our supper
and watched ABCTs Wide World of Sports. Greg
Louganis, the diver, was on. JohnTs mom talked about
how sad it was he had turned to drugs.

oRoberta, ITm worried about Mel. You kids go
find him. If heTs lying on the ground, donTt move him. |
heard on the radio that you shouldnTt move someone
who is hurt and fallen down. You just run back and call
an ambulance,� Granny was beginning to panic. So
was JohnTs mom.

oThis just isnTt like him. | think he had a fever
last night. What if he had a heat stroke or just passed
out or what if a tree fell down on him. You better go
check to see if heTs ok,� she said.

oOkay, okay, we'll go find him, but calm down.

48 REBEL 1990

HeTs probably just walking around or something. Calm
down,� John said clenching his teeth.

oWell, you never know. You just never know.
LullerTs husband went out to weed his 'mater garden
and dropped dead. You just never know,� his mother
said, her voice shaking, and her eyes starting to water.

We went outside and walked toward the woods
behind their house. We passed by the old tractor, a
collection of used tires, a rusted set of box springs, an
old Coke cooler JohnTs dad was going to make some-
thing out of, and an old wagon wheel John was sure we
could make something out of.

oHe has been gone a long while,� | said.

o| Know, but he probably isnTt very hungry and
wanted to enjoy the nice day. | donTt know why every-
one assumes somethingTs wrong,� John answered.

We heard a rustle near the skinny creek about
10 yards in front of us. There was JohnTs dad with his
head of white hair, lying on the ground, looking up into
a tree.

oWhat are you doing?� John asked him.

He just pointed up at two birds making their
nest. We explained that everyone was scared some-
thing bad had happened to him and he better get inside
and tell them heTs okay.

o| wish they would find something to do besides
worry,� he said.

When we got back to the house, everyone was
still worried and full of questions. Even Lee had started
to worry, even though he said he knew everything was
fine. JohnTs dad fixed his plate and everyone got back
into watching the diving competition.

Granny, Vicki, and Lee left to pick Randall up at
church, and | helped JohnTs mom clean the kitchen.
When we were done, | called to the family room to John
that it was time for us to go. He didnTt answer, so | went
in there. He wasnTt there. | figured he was outside, so
| went to look for him.

Bandit was running toward the woods, so |
followed him. As | neared the creek, | saw John and his
dad lying on the ground, looking up at the same two
birds JohnTs dad was watching earlier. They were still
building their nest. They skillfully wove pine needles
and dried grass together. Occasionally they included a
piece of blue yarn which must have come from the old
afghan by the wagon wheel that JohnTs mom threw
away because it was oholier than a priest on Sunday.�

oWhat kind of birds are they?� | asked. | didnTt
Know a titmouse from a chickadee. | looked at JohnTs
dad.

oWhippoorwills,� he said, with that special smile.

aan

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Living Room Painting Study
Oil on canvas
Julie Mitchell

SPRING/FALL 49

INTROVERSION

prismacolor on paper
SCOTT HUMPHRIES

opposite page:

City Nights

Weaving
Janette K. Conrad-Hunt

80 REBEL 1990

Cotten pean
picked pie eee aS oe

A wi lod at ae

Aaa

red
Wee

ar 4
a fs a a =
Rag Bight = Y ~a oe ~- aie ee ""n y
5 Mees eres geet

ee
Deeg had ay tpt

anes

Shhate

SEUSS



PTD

aa |

t

My
oe ee

Order-chaos-order
oil on Canvas
Paula V. Goodnight

opposite page:

season's Greetings
oil, acrylic and geesso on canvas

Jack Jennings

92 REBEL 1990

= a
ase RBA. ager AS CSR tree eS Sena oe503 ~ " ' F kas

~ ~" Pn ~ ,. 1?
= - Nie 5! St ew Bee el id SOI Ot rr ee I es
Se Oe ee te r aa oe et Pn - . aoe

itat"e S{-)folifeyalsalioM ey-JaNU-\-laMlalicvilelmelalon > ai-vile)
©) Ke)anere aie;
Marshall B. Riddick

Sarah eh ST: TESS FS uA EL Ve eat) oS Le be eee
oBe Me ene on he ° ° ° -

3s es gee Bee

Subserviant Riders

Clay, African Beads and Velvet
Victoria Higgins-Sylvestre

SPRING/FALL 55

Untitled
pencil on paper
CCE Walker

opposite page:

Love

acrylic and tobacco twine
Lisa Daniels

56 REBEL 1990

ee pata ame et

a ay

Jacket

Wool, silk mohair and cotton
Janice Eagle

f if ~ : x wa A 7 ia 4 J
ct in Sey SE Eg
Ee aa eel
ASS ey ea ee
J) tl Se gy,
ll - yf : al

oe

se

om oe wen

TV Couch

photo silk screen
Kristin Sauer

OQ 8 2 A 8 te UM

: Wf. te

Strange Configurations

Spring Loaded, for Me?

silver
Christine Dowd

Anodized aluminum, silver, brass , bismuth crystal

Melissa Lovingood

Sunspots

Sterling silver, agate, carnelian, wood

Janice Eagle

Oe ee

hs See -

| can see

that Delores is
getting

angry, but I'm not
backing down.

| think it's strange
that she doesnt
ask me why

| don't like

the pancakes.

DOWN

TO
THE
MALL

by Valerie Anthony

60 REBEL 1990

oExcuse me, but are you a
housewife?� A woman approaches
me from the side.

oYes, | am,� and | think to
myself ~who else would be at a mall
in Augusta, Georgia at 10:00 a. m.
on a Tuesday morning?T | look
around. Housewives and senior
citizens, thatTs about it. Housewives
for peace and quiet, seniors for noise
and conversation. The mall gives us
the pleasure of change, a different
setting than the one we face at home.

For some reason there are
more septagenarians than usual.
Seventy-year old women in their
warm-ups, happily sporting Reeboks
their children gave them for Christ-
mas. | know theyTre just like mother,
caught between tradition and the
trends of today. ItTs so difficult to
wear socks and not hose, so they
put on their LTeggs knee-highs un-
der their sweat socks. ItTs the proper
way to do it, besides, wearing socks
reminds them of World War II, when
they couldn't get nylons, when they
had to draw seams down their calves
with eyebrow pencils.

TheyTve formed a commu-
nity within themselves. When the
weather started getting bad, back in
November, they appealed to the mall
manager and got him to open the
doors early, at 8:00 a. m., so they
could start mall laps. The food mart
caught on to what was happening
and WendyTs started selling break-
fast. Now they stride, five abreast,
past Casual Corner, turning around
at Sears, arms churning, cheeks
flushed, from eight to ten or eleven.
| suppose they'll disband in the
spring, but | hope theyTll stay to-
gether. Walking in the mall, with its
artificial air, may not be the Olympic
training grounds but | think friend-
ship and mobility are more impor-
tant at 70 than fresh air.

Ignoring the woman with the
questions and clip-board, | watch
the walkers and smile at each one
as they stride by me. When | bring
Sullie to the mall in his stroller, they
stop and tickle him, tell me heTs too
pretty to be a boy. That's why |
never come to the mall on a week-

day morning when FrankTs got a day
off. It would only take one woman
calling his son pretty to make him
cut SullieTs curls off.

| left Sullie with Mama to-
day. FrankTs driving to Waco to de-
liver some boat trailers and won't be
back for four days, | just had to get
out of the house by myself. | de-
cided that Frank needed tube socks
and my sisterTs birthday is inacouple
of weeks, enough reason to go to
the mall. | donTt really need an
excuse though, because Mama
loves keeping Sullie. SheTs bought
him one of those Johnny Jump-Ups
and Frank hung it in her yard from
the live oak. When Sullie gets to
jumping in it, he gets excited and he
starts to snort. Mama sits in her
lawn chair with her sweet tea and
watches him. Before long, he gets
her so tickled that she snorts.

| turn my attention back to
the woman with the questions and
notice her purple clipboard and red
marker. She repeats a second
question to me and it finally con-
nects. She asks, oDo you mind an-
swering a few questions? We're
doing a marketing survey.�

| have nothing but time this
morning and | answer, oShoot.�

She smiles at me, overly
friendly like the preacherTs wife on
the sixth day of revival week. oThis
is a questionnaire about the things
you buy in the market. We are trying
to determine which pancakes home-
makers prefer. Would you be willing
to participate in a taste test in our
test kitchen, which is located right
here in the mall?�

She sounds like the robot
on oLost in Space,� but, despite my
misgivings, | follow her into a con-
verted store/office next to Montgom-
ery Wards. ThereTs gold lettering on
the glass door ~Consumer Testing,
Inc.T and itTs propped open with a
cement block. A woman is sitting at
a desk just inside the room. She
smiles at me, both women must
practice smiling in front of a mirror
every morning before they prop the
door open. ThereTs a baby stroller
next to the desk and a toddler about

two years oldis using it for a balance
beam. HeTs got apretzel hanging off
his ear, the big mall kind that comes
with nacho cheese.

| read the name tags on
both women, Charlene and Delores.
Delores has the purple clip-board,
Charlene mans the desk. Charlene
tells us, oBooth number five, test
seven eight oh.� | follow Delores
down an artificial hallway created by
office dividers and the back of a re-
frigerator. | study her from the back.
SheTs got on bell-bottom pants and
a shiny shirt, plastic imitation-leather
sandals and a chiffon scarf in her
hair holding up her pony tail. Fora
minute, | think ITm in a time warp.
Could this be 1962? Not even the K-
Mart sells polyester bell bottoms any
more ... where did she get them?

We sit down, across from
each other at a small round plastic-
topped table, the kind they have in
bars, too small to hold anything but
a couple beer bottles and an ash-
tray. Delores is facing me and our
knees just about touch. ITm afraid of
kicking her foot and hurting her toe
where it sticks out of her sandals.

Delores starts talking to me,
asking me questions. She looks me
right in the eyes and for some rea-
son, it makes me nervous. No oneTs
ever asked me about pancakes
before. As a matter of fact, | never
really thought about pancakes be-
fore. Pancakes are like oatmeal,
they exist without much intellectual
discussion. But hereTs Delores, pen
in hand, watching me intently. Is
she looking for the inner truth... the
soul of pancake preference? She
begins with inquiries about my ap-
pliances and my home. | notice
most of my answers are either oB� or
oD� and | figure ITm being categor-
ized. | hope the statistician who
reads the survey doesn't die of bore-
dom. A oLeave It To Beaver� woman
who stays at home, how droll.
Madison AvenueTs got me pegged. |
know pancakes, ITm the ace con-
sumer who a/ways does what's best
for my loved ones. A modern-day
martyr, clothed in my love of domes-
ticity, apologizing for staying home,

while relishing it and all the perks
that come with it.

oHow many times a week
do you eat a complete breakfast?
Not just coffee, a true meal? Once
a week, three or less, four to five
times a week, every morning? Re-
member, weTre talking a complete
breakfast.�

| answer her, oFour or five
times, depending on FrankTs schea-
ule. When heTs not home, | donTt eat
much except a bowl of cereal.� On
Fridays, Frank eats in town with his
brother Lester and LesterTs crew.
TheyTve been eating together ever
since their dad died. ItTs their me-
morial service to a man who thrived
on sausage and greasy eggs, Win-
stons, strong coffee, and sweet rolls.
| let Frank get away with it once a
week, as long as he doesn't try it at
home.

Delores is staring at me. |
keep forgetting to an-
swer her questions and
just let my mind wan-
der. | apologize and tell
her I'll pay more atten-
tion. She begins her
questions again.

7 ore, Pe
going to bring out some
pancakes in just a min-
ute.T Please drink this
glass of water and eat

Dressed like
Aunt Bea
and Miss Clara,
in stockings
and heels,
no Reeboks,
this cracker to clear your carrying substantial

hold a piece of meat in her back
teeth, clenched, but it changes when
she turns to me after heTs gone.

oI'll be right back with the
first sample.�

| hear beeps and | figure ITm
about to get microwave pancakes. |
am trying to have an open-mind, but
the idea of a microwave pancake
doesnTt thrill me. You can buy pan-
cake mix that only needs water, it
doesnTt get much easier than that.
She brings me a pancake on a pa-
per plate. ThereTs no butter onit, but
she gives me a small cup of watery
pancake syrup and aplastic fork, no
knife. The pancake is aesthetically
perfect in every way, too perfect,
and | start to eat it. | want to like this
pancake and | try to keep an open
mind, but | canTt. My palate knows
carpet when it tastes it. As ITm
chewing | wonder if the physical per-
fectness of this pancake isnTt what
America has
gotten to. It
represents
more than just
convenience. It
is ogearedtothe
modern
woman,� pro-
viding the kind
of breakfast
mother used to
make with the
speed of the

palate. We will test T eighties. |limag-
three separate types of purses with ine the box has
pancakes. I'll get the the words oall
first sample.� heavy Clasps, natural� or

As she gets up ' - owhole wheat�
to leave, the toddler they ve just prominently dis-
waddles in. He has the begun played on the

pretzel in his mouth by
now and itTs getting kind
of pasty and turning
brown from. being
dropped on the floor. There are little
pieces of dough between his fingers
and theyTre squishing out like Play-
Dough, sticking his fist together. De-
lores looks at him, oJoshua, go find
Mommy, thatTs agood boy. .. you let
Miss Delores do her work... go find
Mommy ...GO Joshua.� Her smile
makes her look like sheTs trying to

to shop.

front. These
microwave pan-
cakes demon-
strate our Supe-
riority over June Cleaver,
technologyTs one-up from the days
of the shirtwaist dress and pearls in
the kitchen. AmericaTs kitchen is
efficient, quick, and doesnTt even
need Mom. | can provide a bal-
anced breakfast for my family with-
out being home, and all they need is
one finger to push the microwave

SPRING/FALL 61

button. I|panic...am| becoming
obsolete?

After ITve forced myself to
eat about half of the pancake, De-
lores takes the plate away and gives
me more soda crackers and water,
asking me to clear my palate again.
| hear beeps and in a minute and a
half, she brings another pancake on
a paper plate. Same scenario as the
last, but this oneTs not quite as per-
fect. The color is a wonderful wal-
nut, but on the edge of the pancake,
thereTs a bubble. It is contrived, are
they trying to emulate MomTs little
foibles? Probably.

| cut into the pancake with
my fork. This oneTs alittle bit better.
Fluffier, a smidgen of flavor, but
thereTs a pocket of flour that didn't
get mixed to the batter and it sticks
to my teeth. Now thatTs more like
homemade, | think to myself. After
two bites, Delores takes the plate
away from me and we repeat the
water/cracker process before she
brings out the third and final pan-
cake.

| wish | could tell you that
she brought out the ideal pancake,
the creme de la creme of the pan-
cake world, the shangri-la of do-
mestic triumph, but. ..no. Sadly, it
is another piece of styrofoam, cor-
rect in size and shape, pleasing to
the eye, but flavorless as an enve-
lope. | am both jubilant and re-
morseful. Pleased that my place in
the kitchen has not been taken over
by the technology of extruded mate-
rials, but saddened because | know
women will buy these pancakes and
children will believe in them. The
same children that will grow up and
order imitation crab salad, never
realizing what we've done.

Delores brings back the
other two pancakes and sits down.
She shows me where numbers are
written, under the pancakes, on the
paper plates. oWhich do you prefer,
number 385 or 287?�

o385.� It was the least de-
plorable.

Then she asks, oWhich do
you prefer, number 287 or 134?�

oNeither, those are horrible.�

62 REBEL 1990

o2 Re > te

oYou have to choose be-
tween 287 and 134. Pick from those
two samples please.�

oNo. | won't tell you | like
something when | donTt. ItTs not
honest and it'll lie to the manufac-
turer.�

oPlease answer the ques-
tion.�

| can see that Delores is
getting angry, but ITm not backing
down. | think itTs strange that she
doesn't ask me why | don't like the
pancakes. It must not be on her
survey. She flips back to the first
page on her clipboard.

oWell, if you won't answer
the questions in the way in which
they are posed, we will have to nul-
lify this survey. Is that what you
want? After we've gone to all this
trouble, you're not going to cooper-
ate, correct?�

Delores gets up too fastfrom
her chair and it tips over backward.
When she bends down to pick it up,
she drops her pen and then her
glasses fall off. All this stuff falling
down is making her clumsy and alot
angrier.

| scoot my chair back and
follow her down the artificial hall-
way. SheTs walking ahead of me
toward the propped-open door. |
feel bad about not liking number 287
or 134, but | always tell the truth,
always. Delores talks to the woman
at the desk and they both shake
their heads and look at me. | walk on
out the door, back into the mall
towards Montgomery Wards. | still
have to buy those tube socks.

| turn to look back one more
time as | enter Montgomery Wards.
ThereTs Delores, back to the win-
dow, still shaking her head and talk-
ing to Charlene. Joshua has his
pasty face smooshed against the
window and itTs all blurred and wet-
looking, kind of runny and yellow.

| see something on the back
of DeloresTs pants and | walk back to
the window, hiding a little behind a
column to get a better look. Sure
enough, thereTs JoshuaTs pretzel,
Stuck to the seat of her pants.

An hour later, ITm still laugh-

ing about JoshuaTs pretzel. | walk
down to the other end of the mall, to
the gourmet coffee shop. ItTs lunch
time and the geriatric joggers have
been replaced by the serious shop-
pers. These women, some of them
towing reluctant husbands, are rest-
ing at GardnerTs Coffee Emporium,
gearing up for their next battle with
the sales force of stores with names
like oThe GrandmotherTs Shoppe�
and oNannyTs Boutique.� Grand-
mothers at the mall, out for the real
stuff: linen shorts with matching
Eton jackets, miniature bow-ties;
percale and smocking, tights with
lace on the rear and black patent-
leather Mary Janes. No parent in
Americacan pick out Sunday school
finery like these women. They know,
they know in their hearts, that the
measure of their love walks down
the center aisle each Sunday, cloth-
ing the bodies of those miniature
Michelin tire men called grandchil-
dren. In this decade of aerobicized
bodies, there is nothing finer than
the view of a toddler's chubby legs
coming out of the hem of one of
those glorious outfits from oNannyTs
Boutique.�

| negotiate the other
shopperTs bags and sit down at a
table next to two women in their late
sixties. Dressed like Aunt Bea and
Miss Clara, in stockings and heels,
no Reeboks, carrying substantial
purses with heavy clasps, theyTve
just begun to shop. | canTt help
myself, | tune into their conversation
like it's National Public Radio. | am
eager for their constructive report-
ing on the state of the universe.

o| mean it, Lucinda . . . she
has gone back to college. _Left
those children with Elliot during the
day .. . moved his office into the
breakfast room. They havenTthada
decent meal in weeks, everytime |
go over there, the TVTs on or some
kind of machine they call Nintendo.
We're just sick about it . . . just sick.
| tried to get her to let me send
Marsella over to clean once a week

. begged her... do you know
what she said .. . said, ~a clean
house is not one of my priorities,

2 REO BOW EG Deen ee

ERODE LR I ae RCL RRL RG I Tt ot AAG LLL BLOF SIRE DRE. FI EERIE BILE ELLEN ERNE TAS BI

err aes SO TS nro

Mother, and as long as Elliot doesn't
mind, donTt worry about itT... Don't
worry about it! WeTre just sick about
it.�

oOh, | Know what you mean.
When Connie and Michael got a
divorce, everything | ever taught her
went flying with the wind. She gave
Deborah her own key to the house
and those children come into an
empty house after school and do
you know that Connie doesnTt get
home until a half an hour later! | tried
to get Deborah to call me everyday,
as soon as she walked in the door,
but she said, ~Grandma, |Tm fifteen,

| can take care of myself.T Figure
that. | made them a Jell-O salad last
Thursday and when | went back
over yesterday, they hadnTt even
eaten it. . . hadnTt touched it.�

oThatTs nothing . . . wait until
you hear this. | went over to clean
out the refrigerator for poor Elliot
. .. you wouldn't believe what they
leave in there for weeks at a time,
and what does a man know about
cleaning anyway . . . | opened the
freezer door and do you know what
she had in there . . . microwave
pancakes. | mean it. Microwave
pancakes.�

| got up from the table and
threw away my coffee cup. | wonder
what my mom would say if she saw
microwave pancakes in my freezer.
Would she measure my domestic
worth by the products in my freezer?
Was that what | was doing, just a
little while ago? Did | really want my
character to be measured by my
domestic triumphs? I'll have to ask
Frank when he gets back from Waco,
heTs got all the answers.

SPRING/FALL 63

=a eae TENA Ts
OFT 0! aig Alte! i Ser Mink «6 ap alas vo Se .

ad

wc

by Nathaniel Mead

As the devestation continues, entire species of birds and other creatures are lost forever, and
a dramatic change in global climate has been forecast -- one that could, in theory, bring

global famine by the year 2000.

he Brazilian natives call them othe Invisible People,� a mysterious, fleet-footed Amazonian tribe depicted
in the movie, The Emerald Forest. Uniquely well-adapted to life in the tropics, the tribe refers to the white manTs
civilization as othe Dead World,� for from their perspective there could be no life outside the rainforest's rich green
canopy. Beyond this oedge� the desolate expanse of gravel and cement appears to them as a world where no trees
will grow, where the earth can no longer breathe " hence where life ends and death prevails.

At one point in the movie, the chief of the Invisible People recounts their vanishing context: the rainforestTs
periphery, othe edge of the world,� draws closer each year.

The chief's words are not fiction. According to the Rainforest Action Network, over 36,000 square miles
of rainforest are cleared by oslash & burn� methods each year " an area the equivalent of Maine or over half the
state of California. Half the worldTs five billion acres of rainforest are already gone; the rest could disappear in
a few decades. As the devastation continues, entire species of birds and other creatures are lost forever, anda
dramatic change in global climate has been forecast " one that could, in theory, bring global famine by the year
2000. The rainforests are critical to life on the planet as a whole.

The life of a rainforest bespeaks a fragile ecology: it has been called a o
abundant vegetation is a natural paradox for the trees themselves grow on impo
extremely thin layer of stored-up nutrients suitable only for trees which thrive on the
rainforest. The treesT thick blanket of green covers most of the rainforest. penetrate
of sunlight streaming down through gaps in the vegetation. At such spots, seeds
ground germinate and plants quickly take root. In a natural
followed by the larger shrubs, then by the trees.

Beneath the rainforest's lush green canopy, plants and animals live in
each other's materials completely " excepting a small amount left over to m
of life forms and the intensity of their competition ensure the ecosystemTs st

counterfeit paradise.� The
verished topsoil " from an
moist, sunny conditions of the
d only occasionally by flashes
that have accumulated in the
process known as secondary succession, weeds are

exquisite collaboration, recycling
aintain the soil. The great diversity
ability.

64 REBEL 1990

This delicate fabric is easily unravelled by humanity. Since the tree roots in a rainforest are generally
shallow, bulldozers can push over even the largest of trees. Along with the low cost of land, this has made the
rainforest a choice target of exploitation. When cattle ranchers or farmers cut down and burn the trees to create
clearings for pastures or crops, the unprotected soil is quickly eroded away by the first few pelting rains. Within
two or three years the land becomes sterile, and the farmer then moves his family and livestock to another area
to begin the cycle again.

Left to itself, the average rainforest might recuperate in a century or two, depending on the extent of
original clearing. But ifthe clearing is continually extended deep into the forest, topsoils at the border rapidly erode
and sterility begins to spread. The biomass base weakens, the air becomes hotter and drier, and the odds for full
recuperation dwindle to near-zero.

It was the rainforest's illusory reserve of fecundity, perhaps, which kept people from saving the once
forest-covered country of Madagascar, which is now 75 percent denuded (SPR Charter, Man on Earth). After
centuries, the native Africans are emerging from human exploitation of their forests. Throughout Africa, the
rainforests are retreating because of population pressures and oslash & burn� agriculture for cattle, coffee, and
cotton " a wave of defoliation that has made drought and famine commonplace occurrences. South America may,
in a very short time, follow suit.

Greed and Necessity

The primary causes of rainforest destruction are polar opposites of our world of economy: overabundance
and abject poverty. In Africa and South America, assaults upon the rainforests are partly the result of shortages
in food, fuel, and grazing land. But the enormous pattern of devastation is all too commonly blamed on the
ounfortunate realities� of Third World economic conditions. The assessment is comfortably anonymous " and
it is a blatant distortion of fact.

The great majority of despoiled acres are grazed by foreign cattle, mining and timber interests, irrespec-
tive of Third World needs or benefits. Cattle ranching for beef exports takes the biggest toll. Between 1966 and
1978, for example, an area the size of Maine was converted to 336 cattle ranches in the Brazilian rainforest under
the direction of a single developmental agency. By 1980, the development of such ranches had accounted for
more than 72 percent of Brazil's forest clearing (oOSA Rainforest Review, Spring 1983.� Science News, June 4,
1988). All but a fraction of the profits come back to the foreign coffers of multinationals like Nestlé, Goodyear,
Volkswagen, and Mitsubishi.

Why is cattle ranching for exported beef so attractive to developers? The equation is simple: cheap land
yields cheap hamburgers"that is, burgers for AmericaTs fast-food chains. The U.S. now imports 90 percent of
Central AmericaTs beef exports " about 132 million pounds " though this accounts for less than 2 percent of our
national beef consumption. The total savings, per burger, to the fast-food industry: a owhopping� 5 cents per burger
(Tom Robbins, Diet for a New America).

Moral Imperatives

Most people think of the rainforest crisis in terms of massive species extinctions and the potent CO,,-
Storing, climate-regulating function. The species effects, however, like the effects on climate, are not only local.
In recent years, declines in some populations of North American songbirds have been reported " birds which
Survive each year only because they can migrate to the warmer habitats south of our borders. It is a bitter tribute
to Rachel Carson in her Silent Spring that her warnings of the 60s are now coming true " the songbirds, sources
of music in our woods and suburbs, are fast disappearing.

Along with the trees, birds, and thousands of other creatures, the Invisible People are also swept away
by the tide of indiscriminate development. Of the five million Indians that occupied Brazil, only 5% survive. Most
die because they lack immunity against common diseases transmitted by whites, such as tuberculosis. According
to recent reports, about 45 percent of a given Indian population die within two years of initial contact with outsiders

ltis a bitter tribute to Rachel Carson in her Silent Springthat her warnings of the '60's are now
Coming true -- the songbirds, sources of music in our woods and suburbs, are fast
disappearing.

SPRING/FALL 65

represents life and prosperity to these native rainforest dwellers is going up in smoke. What happened to the
Indians of North America a century ago is happening today to the Amerindians of the Amazon River Basin.

Clearly the murder of humans and other species is a matter of deep moral concern. Solutions must be
sought, and soon. What steps can we take to put an end to the genocide, help stabilize the climate system, and
preserve the tremendous wealth of the rainforests?

The answer may lie in our collective power as consumers in a free market system. Perhaps the most
effective way is through the choices of foods you buy and eat. Refrain from consuming burgers sold at fast-food
chains, most of which give sanction to the burning of rainforests. (To date, Burger King has stopped buying
Amazonian beef.) If you go to a fast-food joint, tell others about the destruction they may be causing, indirectly,
by consuming rainforest beef.

We can also support environmental groups and ecologically-minded businesses which are working to
preserve the rainforests. Groups like the Rainforest Action Network, the Rainforest Alliance, and the New Forests
Project are working hard to support small, indigenous economies and protect the rainforest and its resources. Ben
and JerryTs has begun selling ice cream containing rainforest-grown Brazil nuts " a product which requires
conservation rather than cutting of rainforest trees (Sierra Club, Bankrolling Disasters).

Lessons from the Emerald Forest

In addition, direct remedial action may be taken by learning from the rainforest dwellers themselves. The
native Amazonians understand secondary succession " the sequence of plant species that appears after a virgin
rainforest is cleared " and that the critical variable is the amount of light reaching the ground.

Even today, when an experienced Mayan farmers decide to thin out the kaT analT kT aax (old forest), they
carefully choose which trees to cut, which to leave as stumps, and which to spare. They fell the fast-growing trees
to burn their wood for fuel, but they donTt touch those trees that provide food, medicine, building material, or other
valuable commodities. They may leave certain flowering trees because they are beautiful or because they supply
nectar for mellipona bees, which produce their honey. Inthe remaining space, they may plant maize, squash, and
beans, which help restore nutrients to the soil. They call this miniature ecosystem a sakT aab.

The fast-growing trees will spring up quickly again. Since these species are the best users of CO,, they
help stabilize the carbon cycle even as other trees are burned for fuel. When the farmersT soil can no longer
produce vegetables, they leave the land fallow so the natural process of secondary succession can begin.

With their fast-diminishing tribal lands taking up only 8 percent of Brazil, the Amazon Indians are running
a desperate race against time. When these natives go, they will take with them a profound tradition of rainforest
management dating back at least to the ancient Maya of the Yucatan. Their methods offer an ecological model
for industrial nations like the United States, where decades of chemical monoculture have eroded soil, depleted

fertility, and contaminated our food, air, and water. If we heed these ancient lessons, the Amazonia may owe as
much to the past for its deliverance as to the present or future.

66 REBEL 1990

ooe - : > ~~ ons = 0 OE Rohe EEO Ee ad Oot rus� - nt Po A ayn 0 one 3
SPLIT Se woe wee atin ee TOL ONL . eri PELE Fo OTT F EY o7 ee bad TeiSMite ae pease s tS ae 4 fm

Untitled # 2

photograph
John Gibson

SPRING/FALL 67

Contemplations on the Lost Cause

, While cleaning out the filing cabinets
of Southern aristocracy,
| found your family tree.
Sullied by bank foreclosures
And opportune acreage,
Midnight raids
And dangling ropes hung high from oaks
You claim you marched to Selma,
sang freedomTs tune and followed the man,
Our, NO. >.
You locked the door
And hid behind shuttered windows,
Watching as the future
Trampled the lawn
And picked the roses.
The season is hard to hide,
Time replaces the past
In favor of reality.

ll.

Your grandmother told me she saw
Young black girls as they passed her yard,
Heads lifted, filled with thoughts

Of education and lunch counters,

bus rides and the National Guard.

Your grandmother told me she was proud
Of those young black girls,

Until one stopped, on her way to the bridge,
Lifted her skirt

And urinated,

On your grandmother's lawn.

Your grandmother told me she was sad,
Because she would have let them in,
Those young black girls.

68 REBEL 1990

lll.

You know who I'm talking about,

Her daughter graduated when we did.
Her pictureTs in the annual

at the back,

same page as Earl's.

They live in a mobile home

That was part of her divorce settlement
In 1956.

He works at the munitions factory

sheTs a beauty operator

at EllaTs Hair Emporium.

HeTs got two boys from his first marriage,
OneTs serving five years for armed robbery,
The other married Linda Speck

And they have four kids,

under the age of five.

Her son Ronnie joined ROTC

in high school

Then followed LBJ to Viet Nam,
His pictureTs on the coffee table,
His nameTs On a wall in DC.

Her daughter left

in 1965

Calls once a month

And doesn't leave her number.

They~re here,

Every Tuesday night... early,
Before the coffeeTs even made,
Picking out their cards,

Hers with number 4 under B

And his with a 72 under O,
Because thatTs when he met her,
in 1972.

Valerie H. Anthony

SPRL ad gS ARES RST BR RIN IF PT

SPRING/FALL 69

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) 74,

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Untitled
photograph
Renée Rice

opposite page:
The Frog Hunt

Ink on Paper
Tom Lewis

SPRING/FALL 71

A Letter Never Sent To My Daughter

Dear Stephanie,

The dogwood we've both enjoyed in spring

is still there in the yard next door,

ItTs tinged with crimson now,

to show some secret wound left by you
leaving for another fall semester.

There is green around the veins of each leaf,
making slender fingers pressed against the red.
SpringTs hand held in autumnTs,

as yours so offen once was in mine.

Much love,
Dad

Ernest Marshall

SS as

WomanTs Work

Hung by my belly on the edge of the

tub, | scrub and scrub until | clear

y away the scum you said would never come
g off. And thatTs not all ITve done today.

~>

TH

a!

While you were at the office, | called

the psychiatrist and said | wouldn~t be

coming in " ever again because we

had solved our differences, | finally

found happiness in a pair of rubber

gloves, the kind mother wore, | always shunned.

Lynne Rupp Shannon

T
%
-

72 REBEL 1990

S-DSRS Teo

BustinTs Island

Crossing the ice on BustinTs Island

to the rock in the bayTs semi-middle.
Boots and parkas this time

and three pairs of footprints left

in the brief covering of snow behind us.

Stepping onto the rock by way

of the water made ledge

We sat down to remember

dolphins jumping in the distance,

seals sunning their bellies,

a shower heating on the hill by our cabin
in the evening yellow light

Again on the rock.

In the stillness of that day

After the snow quieted the leaves,

We spoke in hushed voices " Waiting "
Coming slowly

Walking with confident ease across the ice
to the other side of the bay where the bellows
of other waiters echoed

That moose was so close

| could feel the heat of his breath

touch the muscle of his flank

the velvet of his flaring nostrils.

We stopped "

Our fingers itching to know "
My fatherTs face

breaking into wonder "

and mine.

Karen Beardslee

SPRING/FALL 73

Hushed

More than a watercolor

| donTt wash off; oil base only
Sinking in your folds

Of skin.

In the lewd semi-darkness

take your warm body limp
Cowering, covering

An exhaled endearment.

No red sloop adorns your
Harbor. | am not the sneaking,
The lying to get away to
Smoky motel rooms,

Flashing neon, thereTs

No Vacancy Here.

Lying on the rea-checkered blanket
Uneaten grapes squashed

Beneath our backs, | am not your alibi.
Lover only, friend.

Loving you then

Ils planting seeds on fallow ground.
Scraping at hard earth, | sow
Knowing nothing may grow.

What grows may die.

| plant nonetheless.

Deborah Price Griggs

74 REBEL 1990

By
Dr. Beverly
Merrick

; \
: ~Ps
Pe
| ri

Photograph by Dr. Merrick

A. he leaned forward on the round

feedbag plumped up over the lip of the
canning tub, Catfish, Man of the Woods,
slowly turned the bill of his cap embossed
with the words oAlmost Heaven.�

A plea to heaven one lonely eve-
ning, in fact, had changed his life: oGod,
send all the sick people in the world to
me!�

Catfish said he awoke the next
morning to the sound of awomanTs voice,
which said: oCatfish! Look here!�

He opened his eyes. There by his
shoulder a womanTs hand held a fluores-
cent globe the size of agolf ball. It litup the
room of his one-room cardboard shack.
Catfish finally managed to whisper, oWhat
is it?�

The hand disappeared.

But there was no doubt in his mind
where the voice had come from, and for
what reason.

oThank you, God,� he said, then got
up, smoothed the wrinkles from his cotton
pants and craggy face. He took a long icy
drink from the bucket, then leaned for-
ward and poured another dipper over the
back of his head. A lick and a prayer, and
off to church.

The grinding battery of his ancient
Chevy just did not want to turn over the 8-
cylinder that morning. But finally the en-
gine caught, and Catfish made the 5-
minute drive from Union Gap to the Church
of Christ in Glenwood, West Virginia.

After morning services, he turned
the Chevy back up Union Gap. Hundreds
of cars were inching up the winding track.

s Trouble
= Plagues
God's
Medicine
Man

He shifted down in low gear, and it was an
hour before the overheated Chevy made
the last turn.

Catfish was plumb out of sorts. He
had planned an afternoon of brewing peach
brandy in the lean-to.

oNow, when | finally gothome...cars
were parked everywhere. | pulled over toa
little elm tree. Only place to park.�

He climbed out and asked, oHeh! Is
there something wrong?�

First voice he heard:
people in the world is here.�

More than a thousand people made
a pilgrimage to the shack of the herb doctor
that Sunday in May of 1975 " as he tells
it"the result of an Associated Press story
about his cures.

And they still Keep coming. At last
count, Catfish claimed 65,000 have sought
him out on Union Branch near Glenwood,
including people from 38 countries. They
are met with a greeting he always uses
when he talks about his cures: oNow, here,
let me tell you right. If you want some of this
here bitters, if you come on Thursday or on
Friday, you got a chance to get some, if |
got it.�

He speaks swiftly, almost incoher-
ently, running the sentences together. His
choppy words sound like an ancient incan-
tation.

lf he has herbs on supply, he hurries
to his makeshift lean-to and grabs oa poke�
(brown bag) or acardboard box, and starts
sacking old bleach bottles filled with spring
water and such concoctions as sassafras
tea or juice of slippery elm bark. And this

oAll the sick

SPRING/FALL 75

~ eeeT

2... 7-2

aoe

o_

~~ eee

afternoon, he adds a plastic milk jug
of peach brandy.

His cheeks are as ruddy as the
amber liquid. For the life of him,
Catfish looks like a workman, who
has just stepped out of one of the
corner bars near the plants that thrive
up and down the Ohio River, flowing
several miles to the north. His
crewcut above the weathered face,
flannel shirt and grey cotton work
pants seem to confirm that he is a
plant worker. He will tell you, after
hours of rambling on about herbs,
that he had once been a general
handyman of sorts, working part-
time jobs for nearly 30 years.

Of course, that was before he
had become the herb doctor visited
by the Kennedys.

That was before he had dis-
covered there is a real fascination in
a person describing himself as being
born in one-half of a chicken coop.

From half a coop to cardboard
shack " and 65,000 visitors. It is
always important for Catfish to speak
about his origins in fractions and his
fame in thousands.

Humble origins are not incon-
gruous to the
specter of an
aging charac-
ter leaning
forward on his
feedsack
talking con-
vivially about
the way he
has changed
the world.

Born
Clarence
Gray 63
years ago in
Jackson County, West Virginia, he
learned herb doctoring between the
ages of eight and 12, from his grand-
father, Abner Dillon. It was a legacy
passed down through a great-great
grandfather, John Dillon, who had
lived with the Cherokees.

The young Catfish had walked
through the woods hunting herbs
with his Grandfather Abner. They
combed the hills when ginseng, the
most profit-making of the wild roots,

76 REBEL 1990

A series of missives
fromonecancer sufferer

from Greenville, North
Carolina, reputes that
she had been kept alive
for years and years
through Cattfish's herbs.

sold for $3 apound. His grandfather
died shortly thereafter, and Catfish
found himself on his own. Still, people
continued to seek the healing power
of herbs at his grandfather's house
onremote Trace Fork Road between
Ripley and Sandyville, West Virginia.

During one day in 1961, Cat-
fish dug a record 1,800 stalks of gin-
seng. Its going price for that year
was $25 apound. Ginseng nowsells
for more than $150 a pound.

And, among the pilgrims seek-
ing out Catfish these days are the
hopeless, with illnesses such as
cancer and conditions such as blind-
ness, and the curious. And, when
the curious are writers and report-
ers, they go back where they come
from and spread the gospel about
Catfish " faster than any word of
mouth. Then the people start com-
ing to his shack in hordes again to
see the man called the last Ameri-
can medicine man by C. Paul Luono
in AmericaTs Best! 100 (1980).

CatfishTs be-all-to-end-all cure
is a bitters recipe made from 10
herbs, which he farms out of the
mountains. Verifying his claims of
healing power are let-
ters from pilgrims taped
to cardboard scraps
wallpapering his shack.
Catfish points to first
one, then another, and
reads through them
quickly, his voice as slip-
pery as elm bark. He
has repeated his chant
often and knows it by
rote: oFellow, here...
92 and one half years
old, right here, pain by
his shoulders . . . took
sody all his life. Asked me what to
do. | told him to double it.�

The herb man likes to speak of
his Kennedy connection. Eunice
Kennedy Shriver came once to talk
to him at the nearby Huntington
FarmerTs Market, where he had set
up shop. She consulted him about
her latest pregnancy. The baby had
been turned wrong in the womb. He
Says Shriver later sent him an invita-
tion to come to D. C.

oThe Kennedys wanted me to
set up shop there.�

To verify his claim he points to
a round Kennedy campaign button
taped to one of the letters pasted on
the wall.

Another pilgrim was Vida Blue,
who was going through a no-win
season.

But the convert Catfish likes to
talk most about is a country-western
singer. He speaks of her in con-
spiratorial whispers, extracting a
blood pledge that her name will not
be used. She had come to Catfish
because of problems with her voice.
She ended up staying the night with
Catfish in his padded orug bed,�
hidden away in acorner of the lean-
to.

Catfish claims his mixture of
bitters has a secret ingredient that
increases sexual potency. This is
the same man who said he was oso
shy of women� that he had courted
his wife for eight years before he
had enough courage to ask her to
marry him. His wife had been gone
far back as he could remember,
otook the little ones with her.�

A letter from the singer hangs
like a Picasso above his one piece
of furniture, the stained and lumpy
sofa, where he can talk to it in the
dark. The letter thanks him for all his
help. Catfish cured her of course.

However, the most interesting
testimonials are those from people
owho are given up to die.�

oThereTs hundreds of them
things all over this house,� Catfish
said of the letters.

A series of missives from one
cancer sufferer from Greenville,
North Carolina, reputes that she had
been kept alive for years and years
through CatfishTs herbs. The doc-
tors had discovered cancer of the
throat and lung, sent her home to
die. The total cost of CatfishTs pro-
longed treatment was $150 for 600
bags of bitters.

Incidentally, the pilgrims have
shown their gratitude in spontane-
OUS ways.

By CatfishTs telling: oOnce there
comes alady in and she hugged and

kissed me all over my face and all
over my neck and pulled my sleeves
up on my arms, kissed me on my
arms, and she said, ~My gawd! My
gawd! ITd kiss you all over if you
didnTt have no clothes on. You don't
know what you've done for my hus-
band!T

oWell, I'll tell you the rest of it,�
Catfish said, his eyes darting from
letter to letter.

oShe said she wanted a
hundred more bags of bitters and
that she wanted them right now! And
her sister wanted fifty bags! Now,
the next five people (listening in)
wanted a hundred bags a piece after
her tellinT her story. Heh! Heh!�

He reaches behind him as he
adjusts his seat on the canning
bucket. Pulling open the folds of a
letter, he points to the words, oCat-
fish, youTre a man of God!�

According to the herb man, if
some pilgrims need help and he
doesnTt know about it, God reveals
their ailment to him. One particular
conversation with God, as related
by Catfish:

oCatfish.�

oYeh.�

oWrite ( ) here and send
herbs to her to have her baby.�

oGod said it again. . . three
times. And | said, ~Okay, God.T. . .
And | sent the bitters " and she
was!�

Catfish said he would rather
talk with and about God than about
bitters. Some people stay on late
into the night, sitting on his battered
couch while he rocks back and forth
on his feedbag. A woodfire crackles
in the old stove to drive out the
mountain chill. Along piece of tinfoil
wrapped about the stovepipe is the
only shield against the cardboard
walls. You wonder if it won't all go up
in smoke " quickly " one night
when Catfish is stretched out
smoothing out the folds of the
singerTs letter.

Catfish said heTs not worried
about burning up.

oIf God wants this place, he'll
burn it.� He breaks into the song,
oGod will take care of you... ,�

following this with the old hymn,
almost ancient, but sacred to the
mountain people: oLife is like a
mountain railroad . . . with an engi-
neer thatTs brave... you must make
the run successful . . . from the
cradle to the grave. . . . You know,
people come to my house for herbs,
Start talking about God.�

He puts another slab of wood
into the cast iron stove. The room
soon grows uncomfortably warm,
as he spins out along yarn about all
the people saved in New Martinsville,
West Virginia, after having read his
letters of inspiration there ina Church
of Christ.

When a reporter came from
PM Magazine and asked Catfish,
oAre you a Moses?,� the herb man
handed him a flyer entitled oHealthy
Words of Wisdom.�

The religious tract tells people
that the Earth is going to pass away;
but before that happens there's
homilies for the home: a recipe on
osody� cures, the effects of sugar on
the blood, a list of the foods people
should never eat.

The flyer prescribes the bitters
he sells to cure people after theyTve
eaten pork, salt, cabbage, vinegar,
cranberries, store-bought tea, oys-
ters, carbonated beverages, graham
crackers, potatoes, ofish that don't
wear scales,� and tomatos, too...
ocause tomatos Cause cancer, ul-
cers, hemmroids (sic)... .�

The cure is four baggies of
herbs (with ginseng) for a dollar.

However, in the Biblical tradi-
tion, his herb doctoring has not been
without its trials. One warning came
in the form of a letter.

oLady wrote me. ~Dear Catfish.
Bec.a.r.e. ful,T her letter said.
~ThereTs somethinT goinT to happen
to you. Catfish, donTt go into the
woods alone.T

oNow, next day, here comes
these men from Washington.� He
refers to the time the Smithsonian
sent someone to offer him $3,000 to
setup a booth at the American
Folklife Festival inthe Capitol (1976).
Catfish refused and, among other
things, told them that theyTd ojust

make $10 million off him�: oPiddle
on it. Bring the White House over
here!�

With the wisdom that comes
from reflection, he says, oThey was
trying to get it fixed up to a place
where | got to pay sales tax, income
tax, have licenses. But God saved
me. And they ain't got me yet. And
they ainTt about to get me either.�

God also helped him when he
was known as the Sassafras King.
A winter flood on the Ohio River
trapped catfish under the ice in the
backwater hollows. People came
from hundreds of miles around,
waiting for the easy catch after the
high water receded. Catfish out-
lasted them. He pulled enough cat-
fish out of the ice and the mud to
feed Dupont plant workers for a
month. The plant manager saw him
with the daily washtubs of fish and
tagged him with the name Catfish.

The sheer numbers of people
visiting the humble shack keep
Catfish from going out into the nearby
woods to collect herbs, where thereTs
over 900 to choose from. He talks
about the demands on his time. He
said he had 14 heart attacks inseven
years but the herb pipsossowa
doctored him up.

He is equivocal about what will
happen to his herb business some
day.

oThis is turrible, turrible. .. .
Too big a mess is goinT on for one
feller to handle, but still ITm workinT
on it. Daggone. | tell you what. | bet
this here stops me. Stops me from
being able to help people. | got
$15,000 worth now about ready to
grind in the next few weeks and that
will last ~til February ... and that will
probably be the end of Catfish, Man
of the Woods.

oNow, here | am jumping out
of a tree at 60 years old... .�

SPRING/FALL 77

David Walser Yarbrough
Art Director

Linda Clark
Assistant Editor

"" """ as * *

Tracie Clark
Prose Editor

Self Portrait Monotypes

Lynne Rupp
Shannon
Poetry Editor

LT Fb ht afin i

Joseph Campbell
Editor

Patrons

Ms. Hilda Campbell
Mr. James Campbell

Sponsor

Ms. Carolyn Henderson

I want to help provide an
outlet for student expression by
supporting the Rebel, EastCarolina
University Literary-Art Magazine.
I have enclosed my tax-deductible
contribution of :

$250 Benefactor
$125 Patron

$50 Sponsor

Please make checks payable to
ECU /Rebel and return to: Rebel,
Mendenhall Student Center,

East Carolina University,
Greenville, NC 27858-4353.

80 REBEL 1990

THE

ENDLESS

HORIZONS
OF

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how color does what it does, but we do know that
color enhances your message, gives your sales pitch

greater impact, and insures better return on dollars
you invest in printing.

When you want to make the most of color, have
your printed pieces produced by the CarolinasT qual-

ity color printers. WeTre known as Theo. Davis
Sons, in friendly Zebulon.

THEO. DAVIS SONS, INC.

PRINTERS - LITHOGRAPHERS

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owt

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- oa tae _ : . 8 a eee ~