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SSSThe Rebel is published for and by the students of EastCarolina University. Offices are located in the Publicationsoy, (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 anypart be stored in any information retrieval system without thewritten permission of the artist.The Rebel invites all students, faculty, and alumni to v oicetheir opinions and/or make contributions. Inquiries should beaddressed to the Rebel, Mendenhall Student Ce nter, East CarolinaUniversity, 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 eReta te 8 RENE age ea ee eas ae aeee = - "E . :a SCH = aE. z oe : = acme aaoe , " a= 6 on -Phallic Altar #1photographJessica MurphySPRING/FALL 1

Visual Art] Phallic Altar # 1 Jessica Murphy11 Blue Pie, Cherry Sky Miranda Golden Newson17 Hubie the Robot. . . Mark Smith19 Steel Deity Albert Horne20 Pacifier Marshall B. Riddick21 Untitled Lisa Brantley27 With Long David Walser Yarbrough28 Untitled CCE Walker32 Dream State Valerie Madden44 DeSoto Karyn M. Jones49 Living Room Painting Study Julie Mitchell50 Introversion scott Humphries51 Order-Chaos-Order Paula V. Goodnight52 City Nights Janette K. Conrad-Hunt53 SeasonTs Greetings Jack Jennings54 The Relationship BetweenInterior and Exterior Marshall B. Riddick55 Subservient Riders Victoria Higgins-Sylvestre56 Untitled CCE Walker57 Love Lisa Daniels58 Jacket Janice EagleTV Couch Kristin E. Sauer59 Strange Configurations Christine DowdSpring Loaded, for Me? Melissa LovingoodSunspots Janice Eagle67 Untitled # 2 John Gibson70 The Frog Hunt Tom Lewis71 Untitled Renée RiceAcknowledgements: The Rebel staff wishes to thank those individualswho helped to make this yearTs publication possible: Dr. NormanRosenfeld, Mr. Mike Hamer, Mr. Luke Whisnant, and Mr. AlexAlbright of the ECU English Department for judging this yearTsliterature contests; and Ms. Karen Churchill, Ms.Marilyn Adamson,and Mr.Tony Moore for judging this yearTs art contest; Mrs. YvonneMoye, Media Board Secretary, for whom this yearTs issue is warmlydedicated, 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 theart exhibition; Chock Full OT Nuts for the caffeine; Hershey's for thechocolate; Ms. Catherine Walker for her photography of the artworks; and Mr. Nick Honeycutt and Ms. Sherrie Davis of Theo.Davis Sons, Inc. for their help in keeping us on time and withinbudget.JUDGESPROSEAlex AlbrightLuke WhisnantPOETRYNorman RosenfeldMike HamerWe'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. CarolynVISUAL ARTMarilyn AdamsonKaren ChurchillTony Moore2 REBEL 1990Henderson; Ms. Karen T. Pasch: the Media Board; WZMB,Expressions,The East Carolinian, and the Buccaneer staffs; thatMaryland crowd; Dave, Carol, Todd, Lisa, Art, Scott, and Eric:Tana, Elvis, Mr. Wheat, Theodore, and Penny for their warmth andaffection; Jessica Murphy for the inspiration and morale boosts; andDr. Don Spence, Dr. David Sanders, and Ms. Marcia McLendon fortheir advice, patience, and understanding.~_ -_

NYonithneickeygh(ereneS p. 55ell ' Pses t i ctl onNtint 12 oRolling the RrrrTs? Chippy Boneheadgs illustration by Jeff Parker22 oThe Song that They Sing? Rita RogersOk 40 oNever Trust a Biped? Chris Glassas illustration by Michael Langer 46 oWhippoorwills? Linda Clark>I 60 oDown to the Mall? Valerie Anthonyleerdl 2 2Te° Non-Fiction. 6 oComic Books:Selling Quality or Selling Out?? Jeff Parker° 18 oThe Order of Disorder? Todd Lovett29 oIn Every Mirror.An Interview with Julie Fay? Debbie Free38 oHow | Became an Ecofeminist? Kit Kimberly64 oSaving the Emerald Forest- and Ourselves? Nathaniel Mead75 oCatfish: Trouble PlaguesGodTs Medicine Man? Dr. Beverly MerrickPoetry4 oThis Road? Rita Rogers33 Traditional Forms:" Bells? Karen BeardsleeoMerry Christmas, 1989? Joseph CampbelloMarble Tables? Mary ParrishoThe Day After Divorce? Deborah Price GriggsoMother Haiku(in three trimesters)? Lisa Daniels45 oYour World? Doug Smith68 oContemplations on the Lost Cause? Valerie Anthony72 oA Letter Never Sent to my Daughter? Dr. Ernest MarshalloWoman's Work? Lynne Rupp Shannon73 oBustinTs Island? Karen BeardsleeSPRING/FALL 3

r 2 844 a SS ie ee P30 Af 2? .¥This Road| stop somewherewaiting for you.Walt WhitmanLeaves of GrassThis morning,no cars behind,no cars ahead,the road curves likea question markbut so familiarthat | seeonly daydreamsand thenyou"on the wrong sideof the roadtoo close:| can seeyour browneyes, browncoat, extendedarm, emphaticthumb;| can seefear; you are not me:| pass you by;now you become evenless me: a blur inmy rear view mirror.Once, at a stop-light|saw facessO close | couldnot not stop;three young boyshitched a ride,all brown, alll4 REBEL 1990lt

ih Ae ns esas th cr oe " "" ee an F . ~ a aom ans ATONE LI IRIE AL GRA IRL CELE 8 ee eaesurprised, shy;when | let them out|saw the twoin the back seatcrunched up,unwilling, afraidto move my whitetote bag.On sidewalks alsolooking takes toomuch time, effort,there are too many of you.Yet, here | amon this pagehand outstretched,reaching for some thing:if you must blur past(encased in metal),pass on by:lam too hardto know.Rita RogersETE he ene COT emir tl iS us) be A eee asSPRING/FALL 5

~ Pt RIVE ne Deerebem callious pauto | CAN rf oTHAT WAS AN ORIGINALDEMETRIUS ANTIOCHUS /OPno - Ohare""""""_| A KEY TO FABULOUS WEALTIA SECRET KEY TO A SECRET OtIN THE LOST CITY OF PANO-HONLY YOU AND| PROFESSORSTEELE KNOW ITSLOCATION, ANDIKNEW ANNESKIDNAPPING (@WOULD BRINGAT LEAST ONE ééoyfY>"~__va aeYFceM74 amam)NXENGTD)L/aeSS,WHAT IT CONTAINED WASTHE TRUE TREASURE...oNOW, IF YOULL BE KIND .ENOUGH TO MAP OUT OUR COURSE...TKaOOOH... LOOK AT THOSE SiLINES, THOSE SWEEPING CURVES!|-e>.a a PUT TOGETHER, DO YOU REALIZE THATNOWHERE ... NOWHERE ELSE IN THEPF ,. Word WILL YOU SEE ANYTHINGBUILT LIKE THAT? , l\\ye |ia) |||~2. \4 4I'VE NEVER SEEN ANY THING SO WELL ey /et Ocame XY DDSAMO) J ene)wii i atl )\ |WEIN ys!ten eens aTiina""An original page from Dashiell Varium and his Tenth Planet Airmen, by Micah Harris and Jeff Parker. ©1990 Harris and Parker.saa0es" OS2a\ a \ ee 1} \ SS =& @\eye Ff\# \)hn (oe timoMs, Aho!A= y PY LVF |A v4 ,"" 2 /Ls ¥)45 \=H. MynxY: Ss("s-o ~. 4fi{w Oy» y ks' \ DrWAS iN a ~, x YOer iteWHMhiaw 2)| rtsLAN\| 4o

""__"éVadCOMICBOOKSby Jeff ParkerSelling Qualityor Selling Out?Using the term responsibility presupposes a pertinent question for the industry: Do the comicbook 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 mediumfrom sources such as Rolling Stoneand Mtv, and the overwhelmingsuccess of the movie Batman, com-ics readership is growing at a rapidrate. Long-time comics fans andcreators have been waiting for thiskind of acceptance for years, andare now able to benefit from publish-ersT new willingness to sink moneyinto the field that has traditionallymaintained the bottom of the literarytotem pole. The question now iswhether the comics creators are ableto live up to the responsibility.Using the term responsibil-ity presupposes a pertinent ques-tion for the industry: Do the comicbook creators and publishers havearesponsibility to their readership tobetter their medium? In other words,should better stories and art be apriority, and should better talent beencouraged in the comics industry?Of course they should.A utilitarian viewpoint saysthat the publishers are, after all, busi-nesses, and should get by with aslittle effort or expense as possible inmaking their product. Inthe instancesof the Big Two publishers, Marveland D.C. fans are already pouringout their pockets for what thesegiants produce, so why try to im-prove upon it? In many cases thesebuyers are self-styled ocollectors?who buy the books to slip into amylar bag until its price value goesup, thereby justifying their rationalefor being acomics fan. Interestingly,this type of publisher and this type offan are suited perfectly for eachother. Neither care about the work,ideas, and aspirations of the artistsinvolved with the book, and both aremore or less oin it for the money.?Still other fans are perfectly happywith the complacency reinforced bythese publishers, seeking no morethan to follow their favorite charac-ters through the various books,regardless of the quality of the storyor treatment of the character. Whyshould the publishers tamper withsuccess?Perhaps because they havean obligation to their medium andtheir readers. Comics are just nowgetting out from under the dubiousreputation of being a print waste-land, and encouraging mediocritywill quickly make sure that this is apassing phase rather than a trend.More importantly, these publishershave a responsibility to the fans, toencourage them to become sophis-ticated readers, and present themwith higher quality books.This is not to say that allcomics Marvel and D.C. print areworthless bits of bird-cage liner. Itis perfectly safe to buy and enjoyyour copies of X-Men and Teen Ti-tans without your brain turning toroyaljelly. The problem comes whenthese kinds of books are touted asthe be-all, end-all of comics. The in-dependently published TeenageMutant Ninja Turtles is not going tochange any readerTs life anytimesoon either, and doesn'ttry to. Mostof the popular fan titles like these aremore or less marketed, rather thancreated in any artistic sense. As atype of mental junk-food they arefine, and can be fun to follow.However, few of this titleshave any of the timeless appeal, asthe old Scrooge McDuckadventures,drawn by the legendary cartoonistCarl Barks. The duck stories have aquality in them thatis rarely matchedby todayTs comics, owing to the caretaken in the art and emphasis onvalues in the stories. Today thistradition has been carried on by artist/writer Don Rosa, who goes to lengthsto recapture the spirit and feeling ofthe Barks stories.The difference betweenBarks and the average comics crea-tor of today is probably more simplyexplained by the fact that he had alove for what he was doing, whereasthe majority of todayTs comics pro-fessionals are merely paycheck-motivated. It is true that the majorpublishers do not offer generousterms in the way of creator-owner-ship, which can sour creators, butDisney never gave Barks ownershipeither. Still, the result of what he putinto those stories is that his name isindelibly linked to the duck charac-ters by fans to this day. A sourfootnote to this is that Disney hasjust relinquished the publication ofthe duck stories from current pub-SPRING/FALL 7

RIGHT ! OUR VISITOR4S A PLANET!THAT ASTRONOMER WAS ) HOLD ONTO EACHOTHER! WETREBEING BLOWNCarl Barks never let Donald and the boys sit still for long. Their adventuresstill inspire fans today. ©1961 Walt Disney Productionslisher Gladstone, and will not beusing artist Don Rosa. Disney alsoplans to scrap the use of originalBarks art for the covers, opting for amore glitzy type of package thattheir management feels will makethe book more attractive to newreaders. Not only does this givelong-time fans a slap in the face, butit also provides another example ofhow poorly the business mind ap-preciates art.Perhaps in a medium thatis so famous for biting the givinghand, all that a creator can reallyhope for is to be rememberedfondly. While a relative flash in thepan, the E.C. comics of the fiftiesare still put on pinnacles for thehigh-quality work that went intothem. The art of Al Williamson,Frank Frazetta, Wally Wood, ReedCrandall, and Jack Davis from thepages of magazines such as WeirdScience-Fantasy and Tales fromthe Crypt still influences artistsand amazes _ fans today. Thecomedy of writer Harvey Kurtzmanhelped shape our societyTs senseof humor from the beginnings ofMad Magazine. For a while thesemen lived in what was virtually anartistsT colony, doing the work theyenjoyed most for the benefit ofthemselves and each other, get-ting by on embarrassingly low pay.This certainly isnTt a testament tosmaller salaries, but it should helpillustrate the difference made bycreators who do work for the rightreasons.It would be ideal that thecreators who put the most careand work into their comics be themost highly rewarded monetarily,but this is far from so. John Byrneis Currently one of the highest paidcomics professionals in the U.S., andundeservedly so. Gaining acclaim asartist on X-Men, Byrne acquired astrong fan following and a reputationas a ore-vamper,? jumping from comicto comic to boost sales as Marvelneeded. Lured away with even moremoney by D.C., Byrne reconstructedthe Superman mythos, in a much-popularized attempt to clean upmuddled continuity and put the Man ofSteel back on top.What he actually did was stripthe character of any charm " themeek Clark Kent was gone, Lex Lu-thor reduced to a fat, manipulativetycoon, and Bizarro, Supergirl, Krypto,the bottle-city of Kandor and morewent the way of the buffalo. An effortto bring orealism? to popular Americanfantasy resulted in a castrated ver-sion of a modern myth. But as allinsincere plannings, these newthreads are unraveling even now, andmore and more elements of the oldSuperman are working back into thebooks. Byrne has since returned toMarvel and to his bouncing creatorStatus.This past year C.C. Beck, crea-tor of Captain Marvel, passed away.Beck largely did only the Big RedCheeseTs adventures, and assertedbefore his death that he was veryproud of that work. Many comics fansfondly remember those stories, andthink of Beck whenever they arebrought to mind. Not too long agoD.C. put out a Shazam! mini-serieswith exceptionally poor art, severalgrades below the Beck standard.THE MEDICO SAYSI'LL HAVE TO TAKEIT EASY FoR AwHiLe!" WHAT ABOUT APRIL...AND SLUGGER 2PAT, OLD SOCK,WE'RE DOCKING.IN HONGKONG SOON-AND I HAD A. WIRELESS FROMSMYTHE ~ HEATHERSTONESAYING HE'LL HAVETHE WELCOME SIGNour !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 1990FUNNY.... APRIL'S SOGRATEFUL THAT HEWOULONTT LEAVESANJAKS ISLANDWITHOUT HER=THATSHE'S TAKEN HIMHMMM.,..HE'S NOTCUTTINTYOu out,IN TOW! ... NOWHE'S HER SLAVE!NOPE... HE TOLERATESME... BOY- OH-BOY! I'MGONNA GET To SEEAPRIL PLENTY WHENWE LAND AT HONGKONG!TO CONGRATULATEMY CAPTAIN ON THERESCUE...AND DEETHINSISTED ON COMING!1/ HE HAS HEARD oFTHE LOVELY LITTLE =AMERICAN GIRLREFUGEE, I'L WAGER!Ald |

aidandnasdationmicrvelloretedich-upnofstripthetiveoto,orefortcan/er-allandoldthe1 toatorea-ay.tedtederyANSindareigoiesralrd.Perhaps even worse was an attemptonce again to bring orealism? to thecomic, and rid the Captain of hisosilly? cast. Gone was Mr. Tawnythe talking tiger, Captain Marvel, Jr.,Mary Marvel, Mr. Mind, the worldTsonly criminal genius worm, and more"inother words, all of the fun. Whatis the rationale here? Why are thepublishers trying so hard to makefantasy realistic?Pick up an average issue ofX-Men, The Punisher, and what-ever else is selling big now, andyou'll find comics that are so grimand devoid of humor or fun that yourwrists will be longing for razors. Theproblem is that the comics worldtoday generally has a twisted con-"oo a AW;ITTS O73IN YOUR YkGEST INTERESTYTO STAY AWAY BELIEVE ~*FROM TENREC ME, \'M THEFOR THE TIME BEST FRIENDBEING AJACK HASRIGHT NOW...AND PROBABLY £YOURS,~TOO...means Sag AE OILY BT MS EEcept of what omature? comics are intheir quest to become accepted tothe growing readership. They be-lieve that comics have to foregotheir Sunday funny-page roots andbe near-morose to be consideredadult and mature. This idea filtersinto the independent comic publish-ers, who feel the need to depictgraphic violence and sex to beomature.? Naive journalists reinforcethis mind-set by promoting only thesebooks and proudly exclaiming to therest of the world that ocomics havegrown up!?This is a gross distortion ofthe truth. Mature comics are onesthat donTt insult their readers by pro-viding merely what sells, or what isTHE COUNCIL VOTES SOON ~~oNOW TO FILL THE VACANCY CREATED{ PLEASE WHEN GOVERNOR GORGOSTAMOSam EXCUSE DIED, AND THERE'S MUCHME Z PREPARATION TO BE DONE...A I'M NEEDED THERE.; I'M SURE YOUARE, GOVERNOR...AND | STILL DONTTTRUST YOU.AV ECA \,y MAYBE THE YA \SUN 15 MAKINT MYHEAD A LITTLE FUNNY, 4SAMBUKS ARACTINT SKITTISH, TOOAND IT ISN TAME THEY RECONCERNED WITH.». BuT | FEEL LIKE I'M A\BEING FOLLOWED...\~M WAY TOO SMALL TO SGWORRY ABOUT, HUH, GUYS 2 \JUST MINDINT MY OWN_BUSINESSeo eRE a SSA i ~ S\N)ZF ao WX_-Ny)4 ~~.The dinosaur age returns in Xenozoic Tales. Creator Mark Schultz follows in thetraditions of Frank Frazetta and Al Williamson while still bringing to it a quality all his own.© 1989 Mark Schultzvb ee ARR OAR aa4: WRG See Bee SN a eC ee ad i aeAl Williamson art. ©1955 Bill Gainesexpected. They have well-com-posed stories that eventually endrather than continue for more thanayear to maintain sales to readersdesperately awaiting a conclusion.They have art that aspires to a goalother than imitating Jack Kirby, NealAdams, Arthur Adams, Bill Sink-iewicz, or whoever'Ts style is in vogue.If all this makes the comicsworld situation look hopeless, itTsnot meant to. There come someshining achievements, such as theMike Baron and Steve Rude teamon First ComicsTs Nexus. Thisaward-winning science fiction comicis rich in story and art, and shows aclear love for the book by its crea-tors. Steve Rude shows in all of hiswork careful attention to story-tell-ing, body language, and concise,clear imagery that gives the storiescredibility. And while the storylinesmay have a serious tone, Baron andRude still occasionally let loose withthe humor, doling out some equallyeffective comic relief.Another book that showsan unprecedented concern for qual-ity is Kitchen SinkTs Xenozoic Tales.Writer/artist Mark Schultz follows inthe tradition of aforementionedgreats such as Wood, Williamson,and Frazetta, and brings personalityto his characters as well as treatingthe reader to fantastic visuals. Theback-issues are now compiled in abook-size format entitled CadillacsSPRING/FALL 9

and Dinosaurs. The independentpublishers also put out many com-ics that are more alternative in na-ture, with some of the best humor tobe found in print. Two very promi-nent books of this sort are BobBurdenTs Flaming Carrot, and DanielClowesTs Lloyd Llewelyn. Bothcomics feature offbeat humor thathas previously appealed to cultaudiences, but with the growingacceptance of comics, may yet gainmainstream readers.Other good choices maycome from the new collection ofClassics Illustrated, which has re-turned from extinction to attract someof the best talent the field has tooffer. At least one notable adaptionis Bill SinkiewiczTs treatment ofHerman Melville's Moby Dick.But latest releases are notthe only good comics available. Sev-eral classic strips of the past havebeen compiled and re-issued for awhole new audience, and the fanswho loved them before. Flying But-tress is reprinting the entire run ofMilton CaniffTs Terry and the Pirates,an adventure strip of the thirties andforties. Caniff's delightful blend ofaction, romance and humor makesLy oUaI HATE PEOPLE WHO DON'T LIKE COMICBOOKS --MATE ~Em! THE woRLp 16FILLED WITH WITLESS CREEPS WHOWOVLDN'T RECOGNIZE AN INTRINGIC-ALLY DYNAMIC NARRATIVE ART-FORM |IF IT SMA rTHE race JT MACKED'EM IN| Personally I feel dorry ~>for Kim: most performerswowld rather BURN IN HELLthan follow my ack edines WAITRESS !¢; ARE.MY RAINS eeeA WA HA""Left: Lloyd Llewellyn, with a message for people who don't like comics. Right: HowlinT Thurston, anotherof the odd Daniel Clowes repetoire.for endearing characters and atime-less comic, which will make youwish he had never left it to createsteve Canyon. Terry and the Pi-rates will still be good long afterTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hasgone 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, andis still considered by many today to be the master of comics illustration. ©King Features Syndicate10 REBEL 1990©1987 Daniel ClowesAnother classic comic re-printed in spectacular color by Fan-tagraphics is Hal Foster's originalPrince Valiant. Foster's work isbreathtaking, as the writer/artistspent roughly sixty hours a week oneach Sunday page. Foster's art-work, influenced by the great Ameri-can illustrators, still serves as atextbook for artists today.Listing all of the qualitycomics of today and the past can'tbe done in such little space, and toattempt 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 ofthe reader " to sort through thequagmire to find these good comics.When enough people start exercis-ing this scrutiny, the publishers willbe forced to print comics based onthe contentTs worth rather than salesprojections and markettrends. Thenthe average mature people will beable to sit in public and read a comicbook without having to explain guilt-ily to others that they are collectors.

x)saadherry SPlayground Songs of New York CityCLOAWy NSA) See SOc!Blue Pie, Cherry SkyINk ON paperMiranda Golden Newson

"_"""" Ve ~Ww = = est"_"_"_ we "_" SS ee i Wiel12 REBEL 1990

oRef-f-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-rightturn only,? | say, thumping the roof ofmy mouth with my tongue. | soundlike a truck revving up.Momma turns her frosted hairaround from the front seat of theBuick. oBoy, you better quit rollingthose ~rTs right now, or you won'thave a tongue left in your head to roll~emwith.? She glares at me and |tryto stop.| canTt help it. Some words getin my mouth and they donTt want toleave. They remind me ofthe streambehind the house that | dam upsometimes. The water bubbles allaround and after awhile, itjust slamsthrough the rocks and mud ITve builtup. | try to roll my rTs quietly in thebackseat. It vibrates my taste budsthe faster | go.| feel bad it bothers her. |just like to sit with my head hangingover the velour armrest in the frontseat between her and Pop. Popnever notices it. HeTs on his thirdCold 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 onlyhad one cup of Cold Duck, and BigDaddy didnTt answer the phone thismorning when she called to tell himwe were coming. HeTs always thereinthe morning.Also,sheTs queasyfrom readingher r-r-r-ro-Momma won'tlet me use allmance novels my allowancein the car.TheyTredumb. On comics.| r-r-r-readcomic books. She says |oHot Stuff, The PearsLittle DevilT is on't live inmy favorite. .Hehasablich. reality enough.fork and hegets mad allthe time. Heblasts peoplewith fire fromhis tr-r-r-r-Reality doesn'tsound rightwhen you rollident, and he ItSF.canflyandturn ,, meeinvisible. | R-r-r-reality.have a clothtail Aunt Jackie made me out of redsatin she had left over from her Hal-loween costume. | used to wear it allthe time, but now that |Tm in fourthgrade, | only wear it when ITm play-ing by myself. Which is lots now thatwe've moved to Charlotte.| buy all his comics with my al-lowance. | get two dollars everyFriday, but Momma won't let meuse all my allowance on comics.She says | don't live in realityenough. Reality doesnTt sound rightwhen you roll its r. oR-r-r-reality.?But Big Daddy buys me comics and| hide them at his house. ThatTswhere we're going now, to see BigDaddy. He lives in Durham, wherewe used to live. When Big Mommadied, Momma and Pop had a lot ofarguments and then we moved toChar-r-r-r-lotte.I'm in fourth grade there. |miss my old school. | played soccerthere. My best friend Tim Burtongot everybody on the team to startcalling me Hot Stuff, cause he wasmy favorite comic book. | donTt knowthe kids at this new school, andtheyTd probably think | was dumb if| told them to call me Hot Stuff.They donTt even have soccer there.I'm glad weTre going home. Ittakes three hours to get back to Dur-ham. | put all my stuff in PopTs tennisshoe box. He calls it my orations.? Hetells me, oGet your rations in yourSPRING/FALL 13

footlocker and get it in gear!? whenwe get ready to go somewhere. Myr-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 havea notebook and a big pen shapedlike a rocket that writes in five differ-ent colors. Big Daddy gave it to mein my stocking last year.We're not too far from BigDaddyTs. He lives off the highway,near to the tobacco plant. When |look outside the car window, it lookslike thereTs a big blur running along-Side us, keeping up with us. | pre-tend itTs Hot Stuff, flying with us, butheTs invisible, so all | can see is hisblur. You can only see his blur whenyour 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 andMommaTs resting her head on theheadrest. | take out all the comicsbut one, and shove them under theseat. When | get to Big Daddy's, |'llwait till Momma and Pop are un-packing in their room and I'll get thenew Hot Stuffs Big Daddy hides inthe closet for me and sneak 'em outhere. They never notice that | havemore comics than ITm supposed to.They all look the same to them, but| can tell Tem apart just looking atem. Big Daddy helped me figure outthis plan.| love going on the r-r-r-r-roundswith Big Daddy. ThatTs what he callsgoing to the shopping center nearhis house, oGoinT on my rounds now.?We go to Kerr Drugs, to the barbershop, to the Seven Eleven to getcomics, to the Fast Fare to see ifthereTs any comics we missed andthen to the grill to eat. Everybodythere knows Big Daddy. He canTtdrive, so he walks down there ever-r-r-ry day. The girls at the perfumecounter at Ker-r-r-r-r-r-r drugs flirtwith him and the old bald man atPascal's Grill gives him coffee free.Every time | go thereTs newgirls at the perfume counter. He hasto introduce me every time. oY'all14 REBEL 1990met my boy? ThisTs SondraTsyoung'un, Robbie Lee!? They smileand say how handsome | am. | justwanna get to the Seven-Eleven.ThatTs where the Hot Stuff comicsare.Big Daddy looks at the nakedmagazines while | get my comics.He thinks | donTt see him, but | foundsome in his closet once. | guess BigMomma didnTt like him wasting allhis money on naked books any morethan Momma likes me wasting it oncomics, and he had to sneak Temhome too. But now that Big MommaTsdead, he don't have to sneak aroundanymore. He still does though.| love buying comics. | use mymoney, but Big Daddy always asksme, oYou got enough for your funnybooks?? If | do, | tell him yeah, butsometimes thereTs alot and! have toSay, oWell, | r-r-r-r-r-r-eally needthese thr-r-r-ree, too, Big Daddy,?and he'll give me five dollars. HedoesnTt ever ask for the change, so| keep it and buy Fig Newtons. | canmake one Fig Newton last for 45minutes. | timed it once. | just suckon it real slow and it turns to mush inmy mouth.ThatTs how Big Daddy eats,too. When we getto the Gr-r-r-rill, hehas to chew his food into mush. HedonTt have his teeth no more. Once| asked him why he never got falseteeth like Mama Jane, my othergrandmother and he said, oBoy, theLord figured | don't need teeth nomore. You want me to be the one totell God Almighty He made a mis-take??So when we go to the grill, hejust gums his food into mush, likeme and my Fig Newtons. We go tothe counter, right next to the cashregister. The counter has a big burntspot right there and | like to pretend| got the wrong food once andblastedthe counter with my pitchfork. But |always get the same thing. Theynever get it wrong. | have a hot dogwith mustard and chili, large onionrings, and Coke. Big Daddy gets acheeseburger and his free coffee.He steals my onionrings all the time.If he steals a lot, or | catch him, heahas to buy me another order. ~He chews up his food and the o"gets his coffee and washes it dowfHis hands shake sometimes, an othey always shake when he picks Uhis coffee cup. He says itTs nerves gNer-r-r-r-rves... ~o...0n my nerves, Robert LeBraxton! | am going to pop you rigf ~upside the head! Now sit back an ,be quiet. We have about ten minutes left to drive and ITm not going tsit here and listen to you roll yourlike a runaway freight train! Do younderstand me?? MommaTs mainow. Her eyelashes are blinking likcrazy, and sheTs halfway turnetaround in the front seat.oITm sorry, Momma. | canTt hellit, sometimes. | just canTt stop once| get an r-r-r-r in my mouth.?oYou can so help it. Now btquiet so your father can drive.? Pof 4mumbles something. SheTs not matat me really. | can tell.| canTt wait to get there. BilDaddy should have a bunch of nevcomics hidden in the closet for méThere's a little vent in the closet ifMomma's old room, and thatTs wherwe hide my comics till | can sneat~em out. Nobody even knows itthere but me and Big Daddy.| love that room. ThereTs nothing 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 fall her furniture with her to CharlotteThereTs two big windows in it and théwindows have really dusty curtainsWhen you shake Tem in the afternoon when the sunTs shining in theré.it floats around and looks like |ittlélight particles. LightTs made out 0!particles, we learned that last year ifscience. | like to pretend the surbeam is a force field and | have tdrun through it without touching anyof the particles.|can't wait to get there. Momméand Pop are going to a football gaméand then out to dinner. Big Daddybabysits me, even though ITm reallytoo old for a babysitter. He says, oLe!~em think ITm sittinT you. We all needsomebody takinT care of us, boy, n@> TFSS . ee ek SS. eS. SS29 . 2 e. SP SS 2. ee. SSSS =

>matter how old you get. Hell, half theni the time | think they stick you with me toit dowles, alldicks U}e¢ 90 to Fast Fare to see if thereTs anynervert Let=n mifing likturnetn'thellp onelow bt2.? Potot matre. Biof nevor méoset Ifwhefésnealws itTs nothboaréto saysay |a toolirlotténd thétainsaftertheré:> |ittléout Oear if» SUITive {0g anyymmégamédaddyreally oLelneedyy, nobabysit me.? So | donTt mind. | justwant to get my comics.Once we leave the grill, we'llmore comics | need. | love the comicrack at the Fast Fare. It squeakswhen you turn it. | turn it and look outthe big Fast Fare window. | can seethe grill and the drug store and thehighway to the football stadium, the, road to the cemetery where BigMomma's buried and the highwayback to Charlotte. There are littlesparkles all in the pavement andwhere the road starts running intothe sky, you can see big blackpuddles. Pop says thatTs the reflec-tion of the sky, but | donTt know whythe skyTs reflection is black insteadof blue. It looks like Hot Stuff blastedthe highway back to Charlotte, so |don't got to go back.We finally get to the turnoff toBig DaddyTs. | put the cover back onthe footlocker-r-r-r-r, and make suredriveway. Some of the rocks aregrey, some are white. ThereTs sandand little sparkly bits underneath therocks. | put my forehead up againstthe window and it makes a blob offog on it.| turn my head sideways alittleto see what's happening. PopTsreading a piece of paper. MommaTsgone inside. | can hear her pick upBig DaddyTs kitchen phone and startto dial it. He has a dial phone, not apush button like ours. Every num-ber, even the one and the two, takealong time to r-r-r-r-roll back to theirStarting point. The receiverTs realheavy. ItTs black and it weighs abouta ton. | used to not be able to pick itup, but ITm a lot stronger now.PopTs walking back to the car.oRob,? he says. He hunches downon the gravel next to my open door.He smells like his thermos of ColdDuck. | never see him sit on the floor.He always leans on his front toesand bends his knees to talk to me. |keep looking at the rocks in themy old comics won't slide driveway.vten we gu enna ee eedriveway at Big Daddy's. think I'm Daddy to the hospital.Once bag > eae sittinT you. te came by = neCarport, Pop shuts off the ours ago.? | see thevara iF chad and We all need note in his hand. Shecoughs a few times before somebody didnTt even sign it, but |stopping. Momma's al- ote could tell it was herready out of the car and takinT care handwriting with the bigfumbling for her keys. Pop Of US, BOY, loops for the oS? infinishes off his Cold Duck. no matter MommaTs name.oDaniel! Daniel come oWhile we were inhere! 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? HeTsnot supposed to go to the game. Ishe at the hospital? PopTs out of thecar, the thermos laying on his seat.Momma's leaning up against thescreen door. It squeaks like a comicbook rack. She's crying and she stillcan't find her keys.My throat hurts. The insides ofmy nose are burning, like | have tosneeze and can't. My door is openbut | donTt want to get out. | hold onto the silver-painted plastic doorhandle and look at the gravel in theShe came by and foundBig Daddy. It sounds like heTs hadaheart attack or a stroke.? | knowwhat a heart attack is. Big Mommadied from that. | never heard of astroke before. The gravelTs gettingblurry. | donTt move my eyes. ITm abig boy.Pop rests his arm on the door.oDo you know what a stroke is?? |shake my head, but my eyes don'tmove. | stare at a big white stone.oSometimes, old peopleTs bloodvessels donTt work properly andsomething happens to the ones intheir brains. It paralyzes part of theirbody or all of their body.?oIs Big Daddy dead?? My voicesounds 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 apuddle and fly off.oNo. We donTt know how seri-ous this is. Your mommaTs callingJackie now, and then we'll probablyhave to go to the hospital.? He looksback at the screen door thatTs stillhanging open. oThough | donTt knowwhat we'll do with you, or how we'llcatch up to the Hoffmans to tell themwe can't meet them...? Pop takesoff his glasses and wipes his fore-head with his Duke sweatshirtsleeve. He doesnTt want to be hereeither. He wants to go to the footballgame, not the hospital.| want them to go, too. | want togo inside and find Big Daddy on hisLa-Z-Boy watching cartoons anddrinking his coffee. | want him tosmile when | run in to hug him and |want to go on our r-r-r-r-rounds.oRobbie?? I'm getting out ofthe car. | have to get to the closet.oRobbie, are you alright, son?? | nodmy head. Pop follows me across thecarport and into the house. MommaTscalmed down. | guess sheTs talkingto Aunt Jackie. | didnTt wipe my feeton the mat but nobody notices. Popwipes his though, and heads for therefrigerator. MommaTs writing stuffdown on napkins. | walk down thehall to the ir-r-roning boar-r-rd r-r-room.It's too early in the day for theforce fields. | walk over to the TV cartand drag it and the TV to the closetdoor. |Tm big for my age, (four feet,three inches) but | still have to usethe TV stand to get to the heatingvent.The closet door is a brownwood stain color. The third slat be-low the doorknob is missing. Whenwe played hide and seek, | alwayshidin there, so! could see Big Daddylooking for me. | open up the door.The wind from the door makes theSPRING/FALL 15

light switch chain move. | yank ittwice and it comes on. | climb up onthe TV stand.The heating vent is white metaland itTs missing all its screws. | canpry it off with my fingernails, evenwhen Momma _ cuts them to thequick. One of Big DaddyTs shoeboxes is in there. ItTs a grown-upshoe box, from BelkTs, one that BigDaddyTs loafers come in. ItTs tan andhas a green lid.My heart is beating really fast.He would've known. He would'veKnown what to get me. Hot Stuffcomics. He would have gone yes-terday on his r-r-r-ounds and knownwe were coming today, and askedthe black girl at the counter, oHey,sugar, my boyTs cominT to town to-morrow. Y'all got any ~Hot StuffT funnybooks?? and she would've said, oYessir, Mr. Maxwell. Here they are righthere,? and she'd pull ~em out andhe'd buy them. He would have knownif there was something wrong withhim.| get down off the TV stand andput the shoebox on the ironing board.| feel my nose burning again. Hewould remember me. | take off thelid.TheyTre old. TheyTre the ones |brought last time, so | could smugglenew ones in. TheyTre old. He forgot.oTheyTr-r-r-r-re old!?The box is lying on the floorunder the flaking paint of the win-dowsill. | donTt know how it got there.| feel like | did the time | was four andput a fork into the electric socket.Momma and Pop are standing in thedoorway screaming. No, itTs justMomma. Have! gone unconscious?oRobert Lee! What inthe nameof God are you doing?? She looksscary with her mouth open and hereyes so wide. SheTs pointing at thewindow, 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 andcut me. | start hiccupping and | knowitTs just me crying.Pop has a white aluminum canin his hand. He looks scared too, butMomma won't move so he can getin16 REBEL 1990the room to get me. She finally stalksin and puts her hands on her hips.oMy father is off dying in the hospitaland you're in here breaking win-dows! Do you have an explanationfor this, young man? If so, ITd bemore than delighted to hear it.?| canTt talk right. One of the oldHot Stuffs is near my foot. | pick it upand try to explain. oThe-theyTre old.They-r-r-r-r-r-r-re old!?She stomps toward me andbackhands me. My cheek burns likemy nose. Worse. ITm really cryingnow. oI told you to stop doing that!Don't you have any compassion forme? DonTt you see what ITm goingthrough?? Pop comes over andhunches down. No, he sits. On thefloor. With me. He hugs me and | cryand cry. His sweatshirtTs gonna getall wet and snotty, but | donTt care.oDaniel, it does absolutely no goodfor me to punish him when youTreright there to reinforce his negativebehavior,? Momma says. ITm notbeing negative. ITm just sad. WhyisnTt she? Pop just hugs me andignores her.oFine. We have to go to thehospital. When you feel you're readyto go, | willbe in the car waiting.? Sheleaves. ITm glad. The first shafts ofthe force fields are creeping over thewindowpane. Pop lets me go andlooks at me.oRobbie, | have to take yourmomma to the hospital. Do you wantto go?? His beard is showing. Henever shaves on the weekend.oUhn-uhn,? | tell him. He looksconfused.oRob, | donTt wantto scare you,but this might be the last chance youget to see your grandfather. Are yousure??| think about it. oDo | have to??oNo. Not if you donTt want to.Stay here. You're too young to getinto see him without a pass anyway.It's just that | Know how much youlove Big Daddy, and | know he'llwant 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.?aeHe hugs me again and stands upHe holds his hand out and pulls méup too. oI love youson. Your momméloves you too, sheTs just upset righnow.? | nod. oI'll call you if anythin¢happens and then I'll come get youSO Stay near the phone, okay?? | nolagain. He takes off his glasses an¢wipes them again. | canTt tell if heTsbeen crying or not. oIf the Hoffmanscall, tell them what happened.? Hépicks me up and hugs me again. Héputs me down and goes outside. |hear him start the car and then | hea!the wheels grinding down the gravedriveway.| sit back down. | rest my headagainst the leg of the ironing board:| look at the open closet at alMomma's old dresses and BigDaddyTs coats. | look at the box 0!comics on the floor. | look at thésunTs force fields. They're little, bulthey're growing. Gr-r-r-r-r-rowing:That sounds good.G-r-r-r-r-r-rowing.

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18 REBEL 1990The Order of Disorder| drive slow to the grave. It is a windows-down warm day, almostnoon, out on the blacktop, out of town. Slash-slash-slash, the yellow lineflashes like an old movie past my car, past the old houses with old nameson 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 inmy rear-view, only it is me who's moving. | think this, and the PinewoodMemorial Cemetery is there to my right with its brick and hedges entranceand white columned monument rising up in the center.| am here in my fatherTs house.The road reaches in around the graves circle-like, momentumtugging softly as | coast by the flowers, anda green rope-taut tent with wilt-ing arrangements underneath. Too fast in the curve, and tugging turns topulling, pulling, pulling past the markers till I'm there .. . and | stop.This is a place that never seems quite familiar, all the clean cut andsmooth granite, the grass so short itTs unnatural and the silk or plastic plantsfaded by the sun. Out of the car, everything is like a ruler, straight, and youwonder if the weather ever really changes at this place. Miles off, a sirenwails lunch time so the farm workers can take their lunch, and | rememberwhy ITm here.A few minutes later and | am trimming with a knife the styrostuffbottom that holds together an arrangement my mother ordered from theflorist. ItTs always too large and too square to fit in this round hole. So | fixit. When there are enough shavings to tell me itTs ready, | remove the oldflowers, only they won't come out, theyTre stuck. A little harder, a bettergrip, and my arms get wet when they come free; the vase has collectedwater. | 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 isa hollow space beneath the base for Storage (when you won't be coming outfor a while), and inside, cob webs and webs and little black spiders, and onebig 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 thembecause 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 themarble, almost to the brass plate with all the letters and numbers which alsomust be brushed clean gingerly with the palms of my hands. When | amthrough, it is neat, orderly, well-kept.All this time, | have not even read the grave.Todd Lovett

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PacifierCoupons, xerox, pastel, and oil on woodMarshall B. Riddick20 REBEL 1990

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rige@s Fin 8,raeOs &oSongthatThey SingOR McKimmie workednight-shift in the same factory whereher mother had worked every sum-mer a generation ago. It was then,as now, a flat-roofed, cinder-blockbuilding, though through the years ithad grown new cinder-block wingsthat spread outward as the shirtbusiness had prospered. The plantwas a natural extension of the cot-ton mill for which the town, BrownsMill, was named, and indeed, forwhich it had come into existence.Out from the factory, in all di-rections, stood the old mill houses,constructed by mill owners to rent totheir employees. Nowadays, de-spite being owned by individuals,including mill and factory employ-ees, and being painted variousshades 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, andtwo front doors, vestiges of theirduplex origins.On one nearby street corner,vines had taken over the remains ofthe obsolete company store, wherepaycheck was often spent beforereceived, as ifin symbolic obeisanceto the command oDrink Pepsi? stillfaintly embossed in the weave of thescreen door. On late October har-vesting days, highways and yardsfrom town to the outlying fields weredotted with fat cotton snowfall fromcarts piled too high on route to proc-essing.Of all CharleneTs mother had22 REBEL 1990by Rita Rogerstold her about those long-ago daysas shirt inspector at the factory, oneevent stood solidly fixed in her mind.Its telling had become a bedtime fa-vorite: one Summer morning in 1945the factory bus, along with otherearly traffic, had become trapped ona fifty-foot high wooden bridge whosemiddle supports had partially col-lapsed, leaving a two-foot gap. Thebus stalled, and riders, includingCharleneTs 16-year-old mother, hadto jump the gap. Charlene often triedto picture her young mother leapingfor her life, leaping courageouslyover a chasm that exposed thewhirling water and rocks far below,then, onthe other side of the red clayembankment, reporting brightly toher work station to pursue her searchfor imperfect shirts.Her mother was very sick now.She could barely shuffle one foot infront of the other. She had a nerv-ous disorder that was slowly degen-erating her muscles, starting withher feet and moving slowly upward.lt was a particularly frightening con-dition since, even in these earlystages, her mother never knew whenher muscles might give way. Shehad fallen quite often and was fear-ful of not being able to get back upagain or, worse, of breaking a bone.Understandably, she had becomehousebound. CharleneTs AuntSarah, a fairly healthy widow exceptfor occasional bouts with her arthri-tis, had recently moved in with them,and helped take care of her whileCharlene was at work.Charlene rather liked her jolWhen 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, somethinhumorous 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 ParkelRidge Baptist College, majoring |religion. She had been drawn to thé "school by one of its professors, Dlsaac Myerson, who had preachérevival services at Charlenechurch.That service had been a turfing point in her life. There she h@received her first osign,? a personsignal from God as to what he wantéher to do with her life. As Myers0earnestly described his early mifsion work in Venezuela, Charlefhad witnessed a halo of light eménating from him and surroundifthim, and she had felt the power ¢his words and had gone forwattjoyfully dedicating her future to GodTservice 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 v0umes of church history " AugustinéAquinas, Luther. And Dr. Myersofwho had been so enthusiastic wilCharleneTs decision at churcllturned impersonal and businesslikTin the college world.But most disillusioning of awas her experience with Jay, a taented music major. She first notic@him as he played the violin for moring chapel services. She had nev@heard anything like it. His playimhad swept her away to another timand place " no music had ever #moved her before. Charlene sawTas another sign. They dated for!few months and got along wel

er jolat shcheesheg jokre Wa~AS ju:thinckettr turr walis laéChathintarkefring |to thérs, Dachéenea turlie harsonéyantéfers)y misarlen-eméindinwer ¢wareGod:gan!ess ¢lies °Deask voistingorsolfe} witvurcl!sslik!of 4ataoticemortnevélayinvr timver 9!saw!1 for!welthough Charlene was a littledisappointed in his sarcasm overthe church.oTheyTre all fakes,? he said,opreachers, choir directors, organ-ists. TheyTre either in it for money orbecause they couldnTt make it some-where else.?He was getting his degree justincase he didnTt get that lucky breakin the real world. Charlene thoughtwith her influence he would change.One chilly fall afternoon, theywent to the chapel steeple to study.There were soft chairs and largewindows, and from all directions thesun seemed to pour in as ina green-house. Below someone was prac-ticing oA Mighty Fortress Is Our God?on the pipe organ and Charlenecould feel the notes go through herbody.oYou didnTt really want to studydid you?? Jay asked and drew herclose to him.She shook her head and hap-pily placed her notes on the majorprophets on the glossy Victorian endtable. They began kissing, andCharlene felt herself grow weakerand weaker, and the organ musicvibrated through them, and the sunenveloped their bodies in warmth,and Charlene let everything go.o| love you,? she told Jay. oIlove you.?Yet, when it was over, she wasOn late October harvesting days, highways andyards from town to the outlying fields were dottedwith fat cotton snowfall from carts piled too high onroute to processing.mortified. It was awkward having tore-dress in the glare of sunlight andawkward not to have anything to sayand awkward to walk down that longflight of marble stairs with the middleof the steps carved smooth like thepalm of a hand.She suddenly didnTt want to bewith Jay anymore, and though hetried two or three times to persuadeher to go out with him again, sherefused. He was hurt. But shecouldn't explain or change her feel-ings. Itwas as if someone had died,and things would never be the sameagain; she felt nothing for him or forher studies. She just couldnTt con-centrate. Then when her motherbecame ill, she took that as a signfrom God that she belonged at homeand dropped out.After that, no more signs cameto her. She sometimes wondered ifshe had misinterpreted. Or had Godgiven up on her?At the factory, they had kiddedher at first " acollege kid! Thatfirstday, the personnel secretary askedher to touch her toes to check herback strength and agility, then sheand another potential employeeraced fingers on a wooden pegboard, placing one peg in front of theother, on and on, until they finishedthe row, then onto the next row, upand down. Charlene had won.A big, bulky machine actuallydid most of her work. She just stoodthere and fed it pockets and posi-tioned the shirt in the right place; themachine tucked under the raggededge and sewed the pocket to theshirt " neat little upside-down tri-angles along the top corners. Arollerarm swished out the shirt when itwas done.Some nights, like this one,though, things were not so simple. Ithappened every few weeks, itseemed: some unfathomable grem-lin would enter her machine andthere was nothing in heaven or hellthat she could do to exorcise him.She looked over at the pocket-seweridentical to her own and to her friendBarbara producing sewed pocketsat admirable speed. She was one ofthe few at the factory who exceededproduction.oBarbara, help!?oWhatTs the matter? It stillbreaking needles?? Barbara pulledthe lever to interrupt her machineTsrhythm and, as it spit out the shirtfront, she walked over to Charlene.Sure enough the tip of the needlehad broken so that the eye was nowtwo jagged teeth that chomped holesand puckered up the shirt.oThatTs the third shirt ITvemessed up. ITm getting real sick ofthis.?oWell, youTd better go aheadand call George.? The regular eve-ning shift mechanic had phoned insick again. As usual, George, a daymechanic for the cotton mill, was oncall.o| hate to. HeTs always so"you know.?oDonTt mind his attitude,? Bar-bara said. oRemember, he gets timeand a half for coming here.?Charlene did repairs whilewaiting for George, snipping andunraveling triangles that were sewedtoo high on the pocket, then sewingthem back on. She was discour-aged " her triangles never lookedquite as neat as the machineTs. Theunrepairables, such as the threepuckered earlier by the machine-demon, were tossed in the remnantbin to be sold as seconds. The firstof every month, Charlene, along withother employees, lined up to get firstchoice at these sec-onds, sometimesbarely distinguishablefrom first quality "maybe a grease markor slight tear of the shirttail. The company soldthem for fifty centseach, quite a bargainsince many employees, in turn, soldthem at yard sales for two or threedollars. Charlene wasnTt quite sureif that was legal or not, but no onesaid anything when women walkedout with garbage bags full of slightlydefective blue chambray workshirts.George arrived finally andopened up the back of her machine,Compo #3. oDonTt see anything thematter. Just dusty.? He picked upSPRING/FALL 23

the blower and swished air aroundthe machine like acalm,experiencedfireman hosing down endangeredproperty. Good mechanics werethe indispensables in the shirt fac-tory business and their dispositionscertainly showed it, Charlenethought.She was getting impatient. Shetried to get George to look her in theeyes. oDust canTt break needles,?she said. He was still blowing dust.She walked over to the waterfountain 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 sawGeorge still fumbling around insidethe machineTs innards. He grinnedat her.oMight be your bobbin,? he saidwith a slow deliberation and smile inhis eyes that showed he knew hewas right.He took the bobbin out andturned it over in his palm like it wasa dead insect. oWell, well, look howit's bent.?He gave it to Charlene, part ofit bent out like a pouting lip. oWonderhow that happened?? she said. Shefelt her face heating up. It was thekind of problem she should havecaught without George. But,doggone it, why shouldshe feel guilty?MachineTs fault. WhenGeorge was out of sight,she gave it a little kick.Damn machine.TonightTs work " onlyfifteen dozen lousyshirts!Charlene always hoped for agood night. But in her heart sheknew, smooth-working machine, ornot, it didnTt really make much differ-ence. She knew she would probablynever even meet the production ratewhich was based on top speedsthroughout the industry. Those fewwho could exceed that rate, likeBarbara, got nice bonuses.CharleneTs factory specializedin blue chambray workshirts, al-though occasionally, a Sears orderfor knit shirts broke the monotony.24 REBEL 1990Charlene hated doing knits, though.They puckered if you so much aslooked at them the wrong way.At 8:30, Charlene and Bar-bara took their thirty-minute break,facing each other at one end of thelong table in the employee lounge.The room was lined with standardconcession machines: LanceTscheese nabs, peanut bars, coffee,7-up, Nehi, and Pepsi. To CharleneTsleft, several smokers huddled to-gether, sliding matches to each otheracross the table, then the plasticoVisit Grandfather Mountain? ash-tray. One woman alternately blewsmoke upwards then sideways asshe discussed her kidTs latest prob-lem: the teacher had said he wasnTttrying, but she had heard, through afriend whose daughter had had thesame teacher a year earlier, that theteacher was moody and often yelledat the students for no reason. Shehad made up her mind to speak tothe principal about her.Another pointed her cigaretteat Charlene: oThat gal had to wait anhour and a half for George. Honey,you better go on a little trip withGeorge. Then he might come alittlefaster to your machine.? The otherslaughed.Charlene tried to ignore her.Outwardly, she was disgusted bywhat she had heard about GeorgeTsolittle trips? to the closet or to theladiesT restroom with whoever wouldoblige him. Part of her knew thatwas an exaggeration, but the otherpart was fascinated by these womenwho could sink so low.Barbara gave her a don't-let-them-bother-you look as she tookher boysT latest pictures out of herwallet. oCharlene, look. Aren't theysweet fellas??Charlene, who had just takena bite of apple, agreed with a nod of>= eeeher head. They really were sweékids, especially for boys " politéhardworking. She babysat for Balbara sometimes on weekends ar.they never gave her much troubléexcept when she tried to get themt!goto sleep. But really, she didnTt tftoo hard. She enjoyed their company. Last time, BarbaraTs brothéhad dropped by to see his nephewsOut of high school, Jake had worke!several years in the cotton mill as~fork lift driver and was almost pramoted to shipping-receiving foréman but, when offered the job, quto become anightclerk at 7-11. Balbara 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 skirtchaser if there ever was one, a nevgirl-friend every month. But that nighwith the boys, he had seemed diffefent, more real. He had watched théWinnie-the-Pooh special with themand when Tigger sang his song, héjoined in, inthe same voice, dancingand bouncing " othe wonderful thingabout Tiggers, Tiggers are wondefful things . . .?Then he wrestled with the boyuntil they were too hyper to go tsleep, so they had all stayed up wit!Charlene turned and saw the top of her machinebehind the empty bundle racks; its rolling-pin arm wasup in the air, giving her a silent fingerless salute.the late movie and ate popcorn andDoritos, all five of them cruncheétogether on that sad, sagging plaiécouch that was BarbaraTs bed. WhefBen got ready to leave, Charlenésaw him to the door. He surprise?her by grabbing her hands too famillarly.oGet out of there,? was all hésaid in an uncharacteristically serOus tone, but then he laughed andkissed her forehead. She just shookher head at him and shrugged. Héwas a puzzle!Barbara told Charlene later tha!

he had asked about her, but Char-polite lene wasnTt sure she wanted to getBal involved with his type. He was tooa ant good-looking for her anyway. Yet,oul there was something about him.sna She looked at the picturesin'tth Barbara had handed her, all threebe 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 muchill AS" like you. Men need to have sonsst ple who look like them, or act like them.BarbaraTs husband had justtaken off one day five years ago, nowarning, only six months after theyoungest was born. He sent spo-radic support checks, one monthfrom Nevada, the next from Alaska.This time, it had been almost elevenweeks since she had heard fromhim.sweéb, qui|. Bal:craz)pons! knev| skirta nevtnigl But Charlene didnTthave muchdiffe to brag about in the man departmented thf cither. She had never even known_ her father. Before she was born heleft with a woman he met at a bar,and died several years ago fromprostate cancer, an old manTs dis-ease, mourned by another family,and not by hers. She had to say thisfor him, though, he had kept themoney coming in, enough thatCharleneTs mother, after inheritingher parentsT house, didnTt have toworry over finances.As for boyfriends, besides Jay,she had dated her high school sweet-heart on and off until last year. Theyhad simply tired of each other, atleast, thatTs the way it seemed toCharlene. Anyway, he had left for adiesel mechanicsT school in Nash-ville. Itsurprised Charlene how muchshe missed him. Barbara often triedto get her to go the Fiesta Room atthe Interstate Holiday Inn, but shecouldn't yet get up the nerve.Barbara's stories of traveling phar-maceutical salesmen frightenedCharlene.oTry some of this.? Barbaraoffered her some raspberry yogurt.oNo way,? Charlene made aface. She couldnTt stand anything sosweet this time of night. She took»r thalincingI thingyndef> boysgo ttp wit!inevasn and1cheéplaidWhelirlenéyriseefamilall hé/ sell1 andshook1. Héanother bite of apple, then her lastslice of cheese, then a sip of coffee.Ugh, too strong at the bottom.On their way back from break,Charlene glanced at the postedworksheet next to the orange andblue oUnions-We donTt need them?poster. Employee #83 worked hermachine day shift" 85 dozen! Hey,thatTs more than ITve been getting intwo nights, she thought. oShe proba-bly messes up the machine beforeshe leaves it to me,? she told Bar-bara. oHow can she do so much withsuch a screwed-up machine??oDay shift really works themachines. But then they got fourmechanics working full time,? Bar-bara said.CharleneTs machine did all rightthe rest of the evening, but when thejanitor, Henry, flicked the lights tosignal fifteen minutes clean-up, she'dfinished only ten dozen more.Somehow she couldn't get the rightrhythm tonight. Her floor supervisorreally emphasized establishingpace, suggesting that she and Bar-bara race against each other. Butthere was never enough immediateincentive to prompt this competitionin either of them. And they felt justplain silly faking enthusiasm for theirbosses.The manager, too, was big onways to boost production. WhenCharlene first came to work, twoyears ago, he had played JamesTaylor, Kris Kristofferson, and oth-ers over the intercom. Charlene andBarbara had sewed and sung along.Sometimes she still sang the bitsand pieces of the songs she remem-bered:oThereTs a song that they singwhen they take to thehighway,A song that they singwhen they take to the sea,A song that they sing ~bouttheir home in the sky. . .? *The music had helped to passtime but apparently had done little tospeed the making of shirts. It wassoon replaced by elevator-typeMuzak, oscientifically proven effec-tive,? the bulletin board notice hadproclaimed enthusiastically.Charlene kept thinking howunfair it all was. Machines. Every-one else seemed to be having agood night. Barbara had finished atleast 80 dozen.She watched as Barbaraplopped her big cloth purse on top ofher machine and searched throughits depths of hair brushes, bananaclips, tissues, food coupons, miscel-laneous receipts, bobby pins, pen-nies, powder compact, and lipstickgloss for her car keys. oCharlene,can you clean up for me, ITve got togo by Big Star before it closes??oSure, go ahead.? Barbara withthose three ever-hungry boys wasalways running out of milk and bread.She had to go the store every day.As Barbara was nearing theexit, Charlene called out to her, oTellJake he can call me sometime.?Barbara gave her a look ofdisbelief and kept on walking to-wards the door. Charlene hadshocked even herself. The state-ment had come out before she hadeven thought it through. It wasnTtlike her.Charlene started the clean-up;she didnTt mind doing it for someoneelse. She was one of the few work-ers who didnTt have the responsibil-ity of husband or children. OnlyMama and Aunt Sarah.She pictured her mother sit-ting there in that fat brown recliner infront of oLittle House on the Prairie,?her lap full of baby blue and pinkcrocheted granny squares, herwalker within easy reach. The walkerwas only a precaution, her motheralways said, she didnTt really need it.By the time Charlene gothome, Mama would already beasleep; Charlene would peek in ather, the crack of light from the hall-way skimming across her sleepingface. Sometimes, Charlene wouldpull the covers back over her shoul-ders from where they bunched atthe foot of the bed, or smooth backher hair from her face.Charlene usually had a hardtime getting outofthe factory mode.Even inher sleep, when it finallySPRING/FALL 25

came, she saw only blue pocketsand her hands putting the pockets inthe clips and mashing the buttonsthat brought the pockets down onthe shirt front and the needles sew-ing the triangles and the pocketedshirt front being spewed out...Charlene hadn't told any oneyet, not even her mom, but she wasSaving up to pay adown payment ona double-wide mobile home; shehad already picked out the one "sunken tub, cathedral ceilings, fire-place.She took the blower andcleaned under the two Compos--buttons, dust, and bits of thread flewup and settled near the neighboringbutton-hole machines. When shehad finished, Charlene tried in vainto brush the thread and lint from hernavy blue work jacket, then shelooked around and saw the line form-ing ready to punch out time cards asthe clock made its slow journey to12:30. Usually she was second orthird to leave. But tonight shewanted to be last.She looked around. No onewas paying any attention as she feltin her deep pocket, and, moving her26 REBEL 1990scissors and comb to one side, shetook out the bent bobbin, thenpopped it into the machine. She feltgood. Tonight, she had done some-thing. Number #83 would break fourneedles, she hoped, maybe tear upfour shirts.She punched out. Twelve-thirty-four indented red on her timecard. At the door, Charlene turnedand saw the top of her machinebehind the empty bundle racks: itsrolling-pin arm was up in the air,giving her a silent fingerless salute.She imagined the commotion Mon-day: a day mechanic jabbing themachineTs insides with screw driv-ers and #83 cursing it and kicking itin 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 racingof her pulse. It was a sign. It had tobe a sign.oHenry, wait a minute. | forgotsomething.? He sighed, leanedagainst the opened exit door andgave his weighty ring of keys a tired,clanking twirl.Charlene ran quickly to hermachine, reached underneath, antook out the bent bobbin, then thre!it away. It landed softly, like a piedof lint, in the huge trash can full ¢paper and cloth fragments. Thnew bobbin, still three-quarters fuof #3 light blue, fitted securely intplace.Outside, asummer shower haleft its glimmering sheen on thdarkness of the asphalt. Pools 6water filled the uneven spots ansmall potholes of the pavement an!made a meandering path tCharleneTs dented white ToyotéThe largest of those puddles milrored an undistorted reflection 4factory lights, lights that left a haz!pinkish glow on the night sky f0miles in every direction. SuddenlyCharlene felt an overwhelming childish urge to jump smack dab in thémiddle of that puddle. She didneven look to see if anyone watwatching. Both feet landed togeth@and the splash of water went wotderfully upward and gave her a lukécool, refreshing, partial drenching:~James Taylor

h, an1 thre!1 piedfull ¢Thars fuly inter hayn thols ¢'S afnt antth toyotés milion ©1 haz)ky {0denlychildin thedidn» wasyethéwort| lukehing:ws ewe ee ewWith LongwoodcutDavid Walser YarbroughSPRING/FALL 27

On ORAS LE MENT IT OC NUntitledlithographCCE Walker28 REBEL 1990

Sop eee Ie we WALISLE 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 mSSS =In Every MirrorAn Interview with Julie Fayphotograph by Joseph Campbellby Debbie Freebam 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 lightcooled by a green lampshade simulates the outdoors. Her desk is a reservoir ofbooks since there is really no more room left on the shelves. About the additionalmountains of books on the floor, she says after finding the one she has beensearching for, oITm in the process of moving.? Fay is moving into anew home besidethe Pamlico River in Washington, North Carolina. She commutes daily to ECU whereshe 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 sheis reminded of an earlier home in southern Californiawhere she spent her early childhood. The memory ofCalifornia is summoned by the similarity of landscapesbetween the two places. She has also lived in Arizonaand Connecticut.Landscapes are generally important to Fay andher poetry, such as the dramatic landscape of thePamlico River; her roots as a poet are in Connecticut.Remembering her first writing attempts as a youngsterthere, she begins:o| was a voracious notewriter as a kid. And afriend and | wrote a novel together which | hope neversurfaces. One thing | wrote that did surface was a noteto a friend. A teacher found it in the hallway and sent meto the guidance counselor's office. | had written it withall small ~iTs.T, The guidance counselor asked me if ITdever read any e. e. cummings. | hadnTt, so | went to thelibrary to get a copy of his book. After | read it, | thought,~|can do that.ToOne time | wrote a paragraph while looking outa classroom window atthis big maple tree. Allthe leaveswere coming off of it. | saw that the tree could be asymbol for my experience. In the same way it had lostits leaves, | had lost some friends. | assigned values tothe sunshine, roots, leaves, and branches, and it workedfor me. | found it the other day when | was unpacking.It's terrible. All the stuff | wrote then was terrible, butyou'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 thetwo must walk hand in hand. She describes one expe-rience in particular that influenced her:owas very young, living in California, and reada book. . . an anthology. . . that exposed me to manydifferent genres: poems, short stories, essays. | soonexpanded the realm to include many of the writers thatlater influenced me: Cummings, Hemingway, Frost.Then, later, Plath, Shakespeare, rock ~nT roll lyricists,Roethke. Robert Creeley was perhaps one of the mostimportant influences.?A couple of poems from her book of poetry /nEvery Mirror begin with walking. oAll Our Lives? openswith the line, oAt dusk we walk the property.? Anotherpoem entitled oProvengal Laundry? describes walking ina mountain village called Coursegoules, oa perchedtown few touch completely.? Ms. Fay explains thatwalking is an important part of her writing process.oWhen | write, | walk. | can be at a stage inwriting a poem and then I'll go walk it for a couple ofhours.?The creative process involving walking mani-fests itself through FayTs poetry in many ways. Herpoems are vitalized by kinesthetic imagery, giving thefluctuating landscapes an intimate, tactile quality. Fay30 REBEL 1990achieves this vividness by weaving the landscape righthrough the hands of the poemTs personas. For example, the persona in oConnecticut Summers? remembers that when she was ten years old, she ocollecte!wings/ that fell from maples,/ ~helicopters,T/ and from thtbarn loft/ threw them to watch their falling// like gir!trying on the graceful moves/ of their mothers.?oMy husband asked me. .. heTs Hungarian, antat the time didnTt read English very well . . . if my poemwere political, and | just laughed. How can yolseparate the politics from the person and the poemsTFeminist? No one really likes labels applied to his or héart. | find it odd that no one ever asks men if they'fémale-ist."One editor sent back a manuscript of mine wit!a long letter of praise attached to it. He had been sennearly 700 manuscripts and could choose one to publish. | was among the last two or three he was considering, but he chose to publish the other one. He wrotéat great length about how fine the book was, but that théexperiences were mostly female. | donTt think an)professional rejection has wounded me as muchas tha!one. This is someone who is a very well-respecteépoet, a very well-known poet, and someone | would ca!a very ~machoT poet, kind of a Norman Mailer amongpoets. He writes about hunting and fishing and motofcycles " traditionally "male" subjects. | write abou!love and death and violence in the world and am calleétoo 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 myexperiences as a woman. Did anyone ever ask Twain~Why are you writing about a young boy? Why not 4young girl?T "In hernewest book, Portraits of Women, scheduled to be published in 1991, the poems employ 4persona whose life is different from Ms. FayTs in manyways, proving the notion that a poem's speaker is no!always the poet. While she waits for its release, two newbooks are circulating at publishers: Hole in the Bonéand Heading for the Sky, and a fourth is underway:Another she just started is a biographical portrait ofHannah Duston. As Ms. Fay explains it, Duston was 417th 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 fullySatisfied. In ten years, when looking into her ownprivate mirror, she would like to see, oA woman who i$content.?When is she content that the writing process ofa poem is completed? oI know. ItTs a very physicalfeeling in fact.? She explains how there is a sense 0pleasant exhaustion and you just okind of get chills.?

e righor exmemlectet .;4m th from Bicentennial Bastille ,> gitk (a sonnet sequence from Heading for the Sky )al The emblem of the week and month and yearbe is birds in flight. They stand for freedom, rightsos of man. Renaud, the protest singer,~ yor re-designed the logo so the flight'see of mig jets instead, the words Ca suffatory comme ci (he often twists the verbs around)ney emblazoned underneath and then apar-t theid, debt, and colonies. Last week, aroundae ) BastilleTs tall green column, the Third World: seu rallied: Nicaragua, Palestine,: pul Nouvelle Caledonia, banners unfurledee , and carried through the streets, solidarity linedwig up for miles. Meetings at Mutualite- followed. This week, the Grand SeptsT banalitiessit 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, leadingmong the First String in a round of smiles " crustyee Mitterand. George and Maggie flanked him."_ Next to them the other ones " the Kraut,alle : the Wop, the Jap, Kanuck " all there to thank himpint 0 for his hospitality. Inside the out-ually side-letting-in pyramid (which canTt be saidof m) of the Grand Sept group) hot air rosewail! and steamed the glass. Past PeiTs peak, the dreadnot 4 blimp " the fattest spy there ever was "wheezed, nosed above the streets of Paris,a security-secured to snare usoynany unsavory characters in the mobis no which Thursday stormed the Bastille Opera.»new Exotic glass wings, it nests on the cob-Boné bled place. Opening night. Paparazziway: perched on the mezzanine with distinguishedait O! guests. Helicopters rested below like dogsvas 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 ofsicalse of Julie Faylls.?SPRING/FALL 31

32 REBEL 1990~ow @ = ee hee a ee 2 esDream StateColor Paper and color pencilValerie Madden

SULIOJ [PUOTIIPR)Rhyme, meter, and pattern have lost their hegemony " and thatis good " but they have not lost their effectiveness. . .When oneoption is discredited, as free verse was earlier in this century andas formal verse is now, poetry runs the risk of becoming limitedand narrow. American poets were right to rebel against ~thetyranny of the iamb.° But ~freedomT can tyrannize as much as theiamb, and therefore our principal aim. . . is to help foster a morebalanced view of poetry, one that recognizes that both traditionaland open forms are indispensable resources for contemporarypoets.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

BellsWe will lie in wait for the sound of bellstinkling softly in the moonlightOn, 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 silenceas 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 lightreminds 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 bellsthat 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 silenceand 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 Beardslee34 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 bedFor too long, my dreams become erratic:Lovers waft & wane & come again, yet| cover the whole cot so they won't fitTheir narrowing deceits into my head.| guess you could say ITm resigned fo if:| lie cold and flat on the narrow bedAnd cover the cot so no one else fits.Joseph CampbellSPRING/FALL 35

36 REBEL 1990Marble Tables| still donTt understand my motherwho cried for a broken marble table.But to me, my sister, and my brothers,she said love was the gift that enabledher, and us, of course, to always forgiveangry husbands and angry fathers,who in drunken stupors seemed fo liveto break marble tables and any otheruseless thing " like children.| guess itTs okay for a father that missesbarroom brawls to hit five kids and thenwake hung-over mornings to wifely kisses.We stayed because she loved him, and |was supposed to love, but not ever to cry.Mary ParrishThe Day After Divorcelt rains, | donTt expect him home today,Not to the big windowed bedroom where clothCovered boxes strewn across the floor layOpen, 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 newOr that the cat in the corner knowsSomething is up, or rather, heTs not fed.He volunteers to stay off of the chair.| pad to the banister, lie my headAgainst the dark wood at the top of the stairsAnd 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 slateyour roots could not grow in methey 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 DanielSPRING/FALL 37

ee _How | Became an Ecofeministby Kit KimberlyW... | was 18, | read The WomenTs Room andbecame a feminist. The book confirmed what | had longsuspected -- that the limitations, controls, and restric-tions | chafed under were, in fact, arbitrary and had nobasis in logic. | was a girl and therefore was expectedto act in certain, prescribed ways, regardless of the factthat | 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 theneighborhood children (mostly boys) that | interactedwith. When pubescence and adolescence came on me-- although | had always believed the restrictions | facedwere personal, that my inability to be like oother girls?was in some way my fault -- | continued, perversely, torebel against parental and societal expectations, untilthe kids in the neighborhood refused to play with meanymore. | didnTt act like a proper girl. | turned to alter-native forms of interaction, but continued my rebellion inother, more subtle ways. It was not until | read TheWomen's Room that | discovered there was a name forthe restrictions | rebelled against -- sexism --and for myrebellion -- feminism.| spent the next ten years honing my perspectiveson feminism. Throughout high school and into college,my raised consciousness helped me to identify sexismin my personallife. | built a network of friends whose per-ception of the world validated mystemmed from the same source and therefore moved tothe same end. Or so | thought.The first hint | had that this was not so was at ameeting where | brought up the idea of some kind ofaction 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 onlywith 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 minorityissues were more important at that time. | lookedaround the table. We had no minority members in ourgroup, while fully half of the group was female. Itseemed to me that an issue which had a direct andimmediate effect on at least 50 percent of our organiza-tion was timely as well as crucial, and deserved at leastsome discussion. | said as much, and was accused ofbeing divisive, not a team player. | dropped out of thegroup 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 genderbias, 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, whoseholistic political perspective | had always admired andtried to emulate, moved to Washington state. David hadlong been concerned about environmental issues; onenight he called, very agitated about what he termed theomurder? of the Old Growth forests.| am a country girl (pardon the expression, femi-nists --ocountry woman? just doesn't have the samering). | grew up on a tidal river of the Chesapeake Bay,surrounded by acres of pine forests. | went to camp inthe mountains of North Carolina where | fell in love withthe very different but equally compelling woodlands ofown, and who did not make me Only at few upturned stumps andfeel that the character traits andidiosyncrasies which defined my QOUGeS remain, and the rich topsoilpersonality 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 nottry to put the proverbial lid on me.| might have remained at this idyllic state indefinitely hadnot my principles challenged me to put personal ideol-ogy into political action.The first political action | participated in wasfor human rights in Central America rather than womenTsrights in my own political arena. | saw the two as intrin-sically connected, and it didnTt seem to matter so muchwhat the issue was; progressive political action all38 REBEL 1990the Blue Ridge Mountains. When David, an extremelyclear-headed and well-educated individual, told me thetrees were being omurdered,? it struck a chord. oYouhave 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.TSo thatTs what ITm trying to do.?Well. David, who had since changed his name toeeSTEER ep ar

Gaia in order to reflect his commitment to the Earth,was working with the Sierra Club on a program toprotect the National Forests, and | decided to go outthere and see what was what.The Olympic National Forest is enchantingand everything David/Gaia said that it would be. Hugetrees, incredibly huge, nurture the most lush, fertile en-vironment imaginable. Douglas Firs are the largestand can reach a height of 300 feet and be severalhundred years old. When one of these trees dies, itdoesnTt decompose quickly but remains where it is forsometimes centuries. These dead trees, called nurselogs, host whole communities of insects, lichen, ferns,shrubs, and other trees.One nurse log towered over my head forten feet or more, and stretched down the mountainas far as | could see, its top and sides covered with amyriad of growth, including another Douglas Fir aslarge as the one that hosted it. Before me stood a lifeform which dated back at least 1000 years, maybemore. And in that moment, the forest spoke to me too.| saw evidence of the murders my friendhad told me about. Clear-cutting is the method oflogging used most often in our national forests, and itis the most damaging. It cuts all growth, underbrushand trees, to the ground, subjecting the land to allelements. The topsoil runs off with rain or just blowsaway; the animals who lived there are left with nohabitat and the land is barren for years after theloggers have gone. You can't imagine the feeling ofdriving down a narrow mountain road, surrounded byforests so rich and green you can practically feel themgrowing, and coming upon an area about an acre widewhich is almost completely bare. Only a few upturnedstumps and gouges remain, and the rich topsoil isgone, leaving nothing but red clay. It looks like theEarth is bleeding.Thus began my commitment to environmentalissues. 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, itwon't do any good if we can't breathe the air and drinkthe water. But the environmental groups | worked withseemed to be as patriarchal as any of the other politicalorganizations | had been exposed to. None of themseemed to understand, as | did, that exploitation andoppression 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 seemedto me, the obvious parallels. | found that | could notcommit myself to a movement which still used gender-biased terminology (chairman, spokesman, man thebooths) allowed mento dominate and control its agendawhile women did the paperwork, and refused to recog-nize or even entertain the idea that the oppression ofwomen and the oppression of the Earth were intrinsi-cally related. oOh, for GodTs sake, is that necessary??they said, annoyed, when | corrected their terminologyfrom omiddle man? to omediator.? oThat's so trivial.? Butit 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 definedecofeminism as the philosophy that exploitation ofwomen 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 ofhow they can benefit the system. The same soci-political and economic structure which has broadenedenough to allow women and minorities into it will alsoallow the forest to continue and the species not to beannihilated if it can be shown that these organisms willdirectly benefit the system. It is not enough to allowwomen to participate in the current system if they canadapt to it; such a paternalistic, controlling perspectivedoes not recognize that women and their contributionsare essential to the society at large, whatever system isin place. Likewise, it is not enough to value the forestsbecause they provide wood for building, paper, and jobsfor loggers. Even if the forests did not provide thosethings, they are essential to continuation of life -- all life,not just human life -- on the planet. Ecofeminism is analternative value system which says that nothing ismore valuable than anything else, that each person,animal, plant, and even mineral on the Earth is essentialto the whole.As an ecofeminist, | can participate in any politi-cal, social, or environmental action which works towardfull participation for any segment of the world populationwithout feeling that | am diverting my energy from an-other, more important issue. Because ecofeminismencourages me to use and develop whatever qualities| discover within myself, | can be loud, strident, andassertive without feeling | am somehow less feminine.| still become incensed with the white-male biasedlanguage and methods that are endemic in some of thecauses | believe in. Ecofeminism has made me awarethat the way things are done is as important as the endresult -- that the end does not justify any means, andthemethodology used has a far-reaching effect on theworld at large.As | become more attuned to the principles ofecofeminism , | find once again, as with The Women'sRoom, a validation of my concerns and experiences.Ecofeminism and the community that supports it helpme to live in the world as it is, and as | am, while workingtoward the full potential of both.SPRING/FALL 39

So 2 8: @ PoA C4. PF oe CeeaNeverTrust a Bipedby Chris Glass| had never thought about trea-son. The government never held anyparticular appeal for me, but | neverthought about bringing it down. Let'sface it" it canTt be done. All we have tolook forward to is the four year vote, thegrand opportunity to oust one assholeand replace him with another. But! canTtvote anymore, even if it mattered whowins. The end of one presidency startsit all again, and the bureaucracy easilyprotects itself, the machine canTt bestopped.Why does everyone put so muchfaith in the president, anyway? Pup-pets, all of them, figureheads with stringswaiting to be pulled. Like the one whowas in when they hauled me off " |never trusted him, not even during hisdays on the House of UnAmerican Ac-tivities Committee. We were asking forarrogance when we elected him. ItdidnTt bother him a bit when they cameand got me, the agitator from within, andsent me away. He had enough things todo, his own crimes to conceal. | didnTtknow what was happening; | met her atthe fish store. How was | to know theCIA was watching her?| had stopped by the Fish Hole, asmall store filled with tanks of tropicalfish. My Oscars, Talbot and Warwick,were tired of eating regular food " theyneeded some meat. | walked aroundthe store, looking in the tanks, figuringI'd get another fish as well.oThey're beautiful,? | heard frommy right. oSo beautiful.?oYes, they are,? | said. | turned tosee who had spoken and saw a womanstanding about five and a half feet tall, alittle taller than |, with long, straight redhair.oThey just swim around, in theirown universes,? she said. She pushedher hair away from her eyes and looked40 REBEL 1990atme. oThetimeis right to buy fish. |sawit in the stars.?oHow are they aligned??oIt's not in the alignment. ItTs thefeeling | get from them.? She looked atthe tanks again. oLast night, | sat nakedon the beach and meditated, looking tothe stars and then closing my eyes.?oAnd the feeling was aquatic??oA tension had been building upinside of me,? she said, her eyes waxingdistant like she was crawling inside ofherself, oand when the moon was straightoverhead it burst, and | felt so relieved,and in my mind the stars said ~Fish.T "oMaybe it meant that you shouldgo fishing.? She may have heard me, |donTt know.o| walked to the ocean and swamuntil the sun rose. It was wonderful.?She seemed to focus on the tanks again.oThey're so peaceful. | want to get atanktoday, but when | asked that salesmanover there a question,? she said, point-ing with her eyes at a man with greasyblack hair, slick enough to slide on, ohelooked me over and walked away.?| did the same, starting from thefloor, going up her legs, meeting hershorts just under the hips, gently curvingover her chest, and finished at her eyes,noting the absence of both shoes and abra.oHeTs such a prick,? she said asmy eyes were somewhere on her legs.o| Know | shouldn't talk like that, but if wejust said whatTs on our minds and didn'tbother hiding things, weTd all be so muchhappier.?| told her | felt the same way, butshe didnTt need to know what | wasthinking. | helped her pick out a tank, allthe rocks and chemicals to go in it, toldher why, and she got some goldfish andneon tetras to take home. | bought aBlack Moor and some goldfish myself,but | didnTt tell her that mine were food.oYou still havenTt told meyour name,? she said.oJon.? Back then, it wasnice to say only my name, no numberbehind it.olll need some help setting all thisup, Jon,? she said, looking at me with bigblue eyes. oWould you come over to-night and help get me going??oI'd love to.? | couldn't believe shewas actually writing down her addressand handing it to me. oWhen should |come by, Ashley?? | asked, reading thename from the paper.oWait until after dark. ThereTssomething about the night that fasci-nates me, brings me alive. Do you everfeel that way??oYeah, every night.? She smiledand walked away, leaving me clutchingher address in one hand, a bag full ofwater and circling fish in the other.By the time | got home, | wasecstatic. Derringer, my dog, part collieand part setter, greeted me at the door,wagging his tail. | had picked him out atthe animal shelter during grad school.The eyes did it to me, those big black,sad eyes -- it was like he knew he wasgoing to die, looking at me through thebars, not barking like the others. | tookhim home right then, even though |couldn't afford him, and ate rice andnoodles for a year and a half. Afterschool, | bought a house; | still had a lotto pay on it, but it all went to the bank, nota landlord, and the payments weren'tthat bad. Another twenty years and itwould have been mine. | wonder wholives there now since the state providesme with room and board.My one hundred gallon tank wasbuilt into the wall and | dropped thegoldfish in there, watched them scatter,and then put in the Black Moor. | namedhim Othello, the Moor of Norfolk. Talbotand Warwick came alive, snapping up

athe goldfish whole. The smart ones hidamong the plants, even though they'dget theirs soon enough.The sun hung long after | wasready to leave, casting light while | waitedimpatiently for darkness. The daydragged on like the summer had; | wa-tered my plants, played the cello in frontof my fish tank, sending the bass notesvibrating to them through the floor, andplayed with Derringer until it was goodand dark. DidnTt want her to think | wastoo anxious. oTake care of the place,Derringer,? | said when | left, patting himon the head. oItTs all yours.?lt was a small house, close tocampus. The front rail barely hungtogether, the old and twisted nails show-ing between gaps of wood. The failingporch light didnTt do its job well -- | nearlybroke my neck going up the stairs. Afterchecking the address once more to makesure | was right, | knocked on the door.oCome in,? | heard from inside.| did. Incense assaulted me, jas-mine, | think, and speakers mounted onthe walls relayed gentle Indian music. Itwas dark inside, too,with candles burningin each corner, andone lamp, a blanketdraped around itsshade.oWhereyou?? | asked.oDown here.?From the floor.And she was, wearinga one piece bathingsuit with a bandanna wrapped aroundher head, her hair in a ponytail, her legstretched 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 theceiling. My eyes couldn't help staring ather leg, all the way up --oTo know myself, through mybody,? she said. | looked away and sawher fish tank, sitting on a table by thewindow. oDo you want the tank to stayover there??oYes.? She brought her leg slowlydown and stretched the other one infront of her.oI'll need to wash the gravel.? |took the bag into the kitchen, turned onthe light, and saw a picture of PresidentNixon on the wall, arrayed with darts.oYou know you could go to jail for this inaresome countries,? | said, and pulled a dartout of his nose.oYou're not against us, are you??she asked, swinging aleg back and forthin front of her, then the other.oNo, not me.? | jammed the dart inhis neck, covering my mistake, andturned on the water.oIl wasn't catching any of thosevibes from you today,? She twisted hertorso, giving me a shot of her breast insilhouette, the skimpy top exposing bareskin around the outer curve. | wanted topull those strings tied behind her neckand let gravity take over, but | kept myhands in the water.oItTs important to listen to yourfeelings, Jon. When | met you | knewyou were special, that you had thatsomething. So many people | meet aresimple -- they're not interested in thingsof the mind.?My mind had nothing to do withwhy | was there, but | feigned otherwise.o| know what you mean. Just the otherday --?o| think you know what itTs like toconvey 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 straightoverhead it burst, and | felt so relieved, andin my mindthe stars said, ~Fish.T "in your karma -- ITm sure our biorhythmsare in synch. | can tell.?That was a little too much for me,so | stayed in the kitchen, getting thingsready to set up the tank. | wasnTt surewhat to say -- | didnTt meet people likeher in the symphony.oThank you so much for doingthis,? she said, stretching her arms aboveher head, arching her back, thrustingout her chest and all onitto see. oITm nottoo good at setting things up, and itwouldnTt have been fair to those poorfish to die tonight while | slept.? Sheexhaled deeply, lowered her arms, andlooked at me. oIf | sleep tonight.?oAre you an insomniac??oOnly with company,? she said,smiling. oThat can wait a minute, canTtit? 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 untuckyour shirt,? she said. oYou've got to beloose.?| kicked off my shoes, sat down,and crossed my legs. She pulled off herbandanna, letting her hair fall down.oTake some deep breaths,? shesaid, olike this.? She breathed deep, herbreasts rising and falling. | started to saysomething, but she stopped me with anupheld hand. oIn silence, fora moment.?She touched my hands, runningher fingers all over them, stopping at thetips. oCalluses,? she said. oDo you playguitar??oCello.?~I've never met anyone who playedcello before.?oI've been playing since gradeschool.? She still held me by the hands.oIt's someth"?oYes, | can feel it.? She grabbedme by the shirt, looking me in the eyesbefore closing hers. oUrge me.?With what? My mind? She leanedforward, her mouth opening slightly, hertongue sliding around her lips in eageranticipation; wewere almost touch-ing when her facetwisted and shesneezed, coveringme with spit andphlegm. Shesneezed again,and again, got upand moved to-wards the kitchen,sneezing. Abouteight or nine sneezes, in all.| stood up. oWhat was all thatabout??oI'm not sure.? She wiped hernose and watering eyes with a towel,walking cautiously towards me. Shestopped a couple of feet away andpointed at my shirt. oAre those doghairs??| looked down self-consciously.oWell, yeah.? She sneezed again andbacked away.oYou'd like Derringer,? | said, step-ping towards her. oI can never like him,?she said, moving away, oor ever seehim. His hair makes me sneeze and itchand gives me a headache -- | can feel itnow.? She raised her hand to her head.oYou've got to go home and shower andchange and get all those hairs off youbefore you can come near me again.?| put on my shoes and left.SPRING/FALL 41

oDon't keep me waiting,? she saidbefore the door closed behind me.Like always, Derringer was at thedoor, but | walked past him, went to thebathroom, and immediately took ashower. | found a shirt way in the backof my closet, and stood in front of the fishtank, brushing off the dog hairs whilelooking to see if any goldfish were stillalive. | didnTt see any, but at the bottom,almost blending in with the gravel, lay ahuge, round eye. Had to be OthelloTs"Talbot and Warwick must have gangedup on him. Such are the fortunes of theMoor.| held a private wake for Othello,flushing the remnant of the Moor downinto the intricate sewer system; the eyestared at me, swirling round and roundbefore disappearing. Stepping out ofthe bathroom, | almost ran over Derrin-ger. oAlot of good you did,? | said, scold-ing him in a voice all too stern. oKeepwatch on my fish.? | looked back at himas | shut the door " if only | never had.He stood there, holding his head at anangle, cut-ting into mewith implor-ing eyes,tearing atmy heart,butcouldn't pethim. Mylibido wasin the way.to tell them that.Ashley if | did.Ashley must have heard my carbecause she met me at the door. Shehad pulled on a white t-shirt, the outlineof the swim suit pushing from under-neath. Random hand prints of paintdecorated the shirt"| wondered if theywere her hands.oITm not sneezing, so youcan comein,? she said. She had guests. One guywas at the window, testing chemicals inthe filled fish tank; another guy was light-ing incense stuck in a plant on the table,and a woman sat on the floor, leaningagainst the couch, drawing.oThese are my friends,? Ashleysaid, coming up from behind me. oThat'sJulian, with the glasses and the matches,and Lorraine, and Drew over there saiditwouldnTt take him long to set up the fishtank, so | told him to go ahead. HeTssuch a help. Everybody, this is Jon.?oHello,? | said, feeling a little un-comfortable. | knew | should have let42 REBEL 1990my hair grow.Drew looked up from the tank longenough to nod at me. and Julian satdown beside Lorraine, who kept draw-ing. Ashley sat down with them, motion-ing for me to sit, too. Drew stayed at thetank, so | sat down, figuring | might aswell let him finish what | had started, if hewanted to so bad.oMy cousin just got his draft no-tice,? Ashley said. oHe doesnTt know ifheTs going to go or not.?oHe shouldn't have to go half wayacross the world to fight and die in a warthat heTs got nothing to do with,? Juliansaid, walking into the kitchen.oWe've got to get behindMcGovern,? Lorraine said. oHe'll endthe war.?Julian walked back into the livingroom 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 afterNo way was | about to go in the streets and let thecops swing their sticks at me, but | wasn't goingI'd never get anywhere withputting 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,? Juliansaid, throwing a dart. Lorraine stoodand threw hers. oAnd peace with honor,?she said.Drew threw his without saying any-thing and missed. oWhat can you do butvote and wait for history to sortit all out??| asked.oThe historians are a long waysbehind, man,? Julian said. oWe've got toact now, hit them hard and make themlisten.?oIt's up to us,? Ashley said.oWhat can we do?? | asked.oJon,? Ashley said, touching myarm, owe know a guard at the NorfolkNaval Base and Air Station who'll leavethe gate open for us.?oOnce we're in,? Julian said, speak-ing with zeal, owe'll plant a bomb bigenough to blow the place sky high, andthen issue a statement protesting thewar. We've got to make them see wedon't want anymore people dying.?oWe've got contacts,? Drew said.oIt'll start a nationwide reaction.?oWhere are we going to get abomb, 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, soit'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 lookedback. oYeah, let's doit,? | said, and threwmy dart, sticking itin the corner of NixonTssmile. |knew | didn't have to worry aboutgoing to Vietnam because one of mylegs is shorter than the other " theyTdhave only called on me if Ho Chi Minhmarched on San Francisco, and | didn'tsee that happening any time soon. Noway was | about to go in the streets andlet the cops swing their sticks at me, but| wasn't going to tell them that. I'd neverget anywhere with Ashley if | did. I'd getsick when they went to the Naval Base.Let them think what they wanted then.The next three months wereheaven " | virtually lived with Ashley,and Julian, Lorraine, and Drew cameover often. While Julian worked with hisexplosives and Drew read political phi-losophy, Lorraine sketched our faces,drawing mushroom clouds around them.She said her dad had been stationed inJapan after the bombs had gone off.| was thinking too much of Ashleyto worry about Derringer. | didnTt playwith him much because of AshleyTs al-lergies, and I'd leave him in the backyard with enough food to last a few days.He'd sit at the chain link fence, looking atme before | left, probably wonderingwhy | wouldn't take him.oJon,? Ashley said, oweTre goingtonight.?oTonight?? | said. oI didnTt knowwe were going tonight.?| wouldnTt have been there had |known.oIt's time to rise in arms againstour oppressors,? Drew said, a little tooheartily.oI've been waiting for this moment" I'm so excited,? Lorraine said.Julian stood up and cleared histhroat. 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'sa special military meeting up in D. C.and the wing of the building we're gonnablow is empty. We'll sneak in, put thebomb under a desk or something, andbe back here by the time it goes off. Anyquestions??| had some, but hesitated. Ashleylooked stunning in her black outfit. If |backed out now it would be the end ofus. It was only one night " it would allbe over soon.There was a knock at the door,loud and simple, and | knew who it was.Only percussionists and cops knock thatloud, and it couldn't have been a drum-mer. They bang out rudiments andparadiddles, but cops hit the door hardand simple, with an urgency behind it,trying to establish their authority beforethey even getinside. | ran to the windowand saw five police cars outside, withcops crouching behind open car doorsin riot gear, their rifles pointing to the sky.Drew opened the door and thefeds were in, lots of them, dressed inbrown suits with their guns out, theirpointy black shoes clacking on the hard-wood floor. Two of them held walkietalk-ies, buzzing with static, and a man witha mustache spun me into the wall,searched and cuffed me beside Ashley'sgoldfish. My heart pounded in my ears,racing in my chest"I| wanted it to burstand 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 camein last, and stopped in front of Drew.oNice work, Todd,? he said.oThank you, sir,? he said. Be-trayal. Treachery. oCut that recorderoff,? 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 " ithad been hiddenin his hair. They tossedme into the back of asquadcar, slammedthe door shut behind me, and put Ashleyin the other side. Surrounded by thickglass and wire mesh, | couldnTt hearanything as we rode, and was onlyvaguely aware of AshleyTs sobs. Thepassing headlights grew larger andblurred by, fading into my past as myworld changed and there was nothing |could do to stop it; | merely watched mylife unfold as if on a television screen "| wasnTt a participant, had no control, noinfluence.ee ns ATTN TR MG MeeAnd so here | am. Been in herealmost a decade, got at least anotherone left. They played some tapes at mytrial and got me for conspiracy, withintent to commit treason against thegovernment 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 yearsto my term. Something | said about jus-tice, but | watched myself do it. Like |wasn't even there.ItTs not that bad, really. After a fewyears the warden figured | wasn't muchof a threat to society, and almost be-lieves me when | tell him | didnTt knowwhat was going on, but heTs still fulfillinghis part of the deal in holding me pris-oner of the state. It wasnTt his idea. Itgives me time to think. And no one liesto me anymore.But ITm lying to Derringer. Hestands in my mind, killing me with hiseyes like when | left that last time anddidnTt even scratch behind his ears. Itwas like he wasnTt even my dog at theillustration by Michael LangSTe GER ARLIN MERTEN ET EAR Te eeeend. Faithful like always, he wanted tobe, but | wouldnTt let him. The feds sentall my things to my parents in NorthCarolina, but Derringer went to the ani-mal shelter. | think of him; we're playing.| throw the Frisbee and he runs andcatches it, but before he comes backheTs in acage, with that same look in hiseyes. He knew he was going to die.They didnTt notice the fish, andwhen they came back three weeks lateronly the two Oscars were alive, bits offlesh scattered on the bottom. | can stillsee the fish, though, when the tank wasfull. | was close to their brightness,watching them for hours; now all | haveare my four walls, bland and empty,lifeless. Through my bars, past thetwisting barbed wire, | watch the sea-sons change, from green to the colors ofautumn, grey in winter, then back togreen. The sky is blue, clouds floatacross, and then itTs blue again " ITmpassed by, left behind on the wrong sideof the fence. As my years idle away |stay, moving nowhere, going nowhere.SPRING/FALL 43

» """ ae ie r a ea See : 2 DTU nawoea a Ali A I iat = gt i i at cai alata ape~ee |DeSotophotographKaryn M. Jones44 REBEL 1990

Your World| wonderif you ever really noticed metrailing behind as you churned the earthdwarfed in deep footprintsin your garden at the bottom of the hill.Later, | plowed my fingersthrough your short wires of hairor held it straight up "but you were uneasy in my barber chairand dreamed of sittinghunched overthat 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 woodspulled annoying questions from meand you never held my hand.Aqua-Velva spilled on my legruined the smell of the land for you,and | was sent up the long gravel drivewayto change.But you stayed in your gardenat 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 asleepin your world without touch,where hair stays in placeand no one asks questions.Doug SmithSPRING/FALL 45

W Pendby Linda ClarkThe ride to JohnTs parentsT house seemed long.But, it always did. John turned left at the corner wherethe restaurant with the giant plastic fish on top stoodguiding us.oIt's starting to get warm,? he said.oYeah, itTs always unseasonably warm on mybirthday,? | answered. It was difficult to know how todress in mid-March " one day itTs cold like Februaryand the next warm like May. The night before was coldlike February, and so we wore sweatshirts JohnTs mombought us for Christmas. We were already feeling verywarm and would find no relief at the house. JohnTsmother always kept the heat up too high so we wouldn'tcatch something. JohnTs mom is like that. Alwaysworried someoneTs going to catch something. Shealways watches Donahue, Oprah, Geraldo, or anythingelse that has bizarre illnesses on it. Her latest kick wasa man in West Virginia who got cancer from eatingKlondike ice cream bars. They were marked down atFood Lion and she was sure that was the reason. Shebought some anyway because they were such a greatbargain.As John turned the last turn at the Sweet HomeBaptist Church, | saw the trees that signalled their drive-way. They were very tall, taller than the telephonepoles, and they never had any green. If they were notright next to a phone pole, | might have thought theywere phone poles. The three of them stood there like alight house, guiding us home. | always wondered whatwould happen if those trees got cut down " would wenot know where to turn?John shifted into second and we turned up thedriveway. We looked at each other and sighed. Weknew we were in for a long day.o| wonder what today will be like. | wonder ifyour dad will say anything??oHeTs just quiet. If he doesnTt have anything tosay, he doesn't say anything.?o| Know, but | wish he would talk more becauseheTs so sweet and funny when he does. "oMy mom talks so much though that he canhardly get anything in anyway.?He did not exaggerate. She was always talk-ing. That morning, when we called to tell her when we46 REBEL 1990fe ioe a aos eewould get there, she told me about their neighbor,Luller, who had started to plant her garden, but had towait until there was a crescent moon because then thewater would pour out of it and make her plants grow.Luller was always doing things like that. I'llnever forget when | first met her. The first time John tookme home, | made the mistake of telling his mother that| liked collard greens. From then on, we had collardgreens every time we visited. Luller cooks creasygreens; creasy greens are weeds " they grow close tothe ground and you see them everywhere, and Lullereats them (| guess lots of people do, | had just neverheard of it). On our way home from that first visit, we hadto stop at LullerTs so she could give us some ocreasys,?as JohnTs momcalls them. Fromthen on, whenever shewould say anything about Luller, she always felt theneed to explain that Luller was the one who gave me thecreasys.When we got inside, JohnTs mom was on thecouch watching ACC basketball.oJohn, State won this morning. DaddyTs sohappy. | donTt like that Yankee coach they got though.What's that book?? She pointed to a book John broughtfor his dad to read on chaos theory.o| brought that for dad to read. | think he'll likeit. 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 wifelike me,? she said trying to make a sexy face. Voluptu-ous is not the word to describe JohnTs mom. SheTsabout 45 and overweight. She wears her hair in a opixiecut, thatTs what they used to call it? and seldom wearsanything other than house dresses. She does have afew double knit polyester dresses she saves for trips totown to shop every Friday. She smokes menthol Doralcigarettes and scratches her back with her special backscratcher " a corncob on the end of a stick she got inthe mountains in the 70s " which she refuses to go tobed without.oWhat did you do last night?? she asked, notwaiting for an answer. oWe stayed up and watched thebasketball 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 orsomething. | declare heTs always running here andthere; itTs awonder he ever sees his son. We're havingturkey roast and pintos and GrannyTs bringing deviledeggs 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 pickedup the BrendleTs catalog sitting on the coffee table andstarted to study it as if it contained all the answers to allof lifeTs questions, leaving me all but alone with hismom. He and his father both do that to me " read ordo something, anything, so that she won't talk directly tothem. She never waits for me to respond so | had timeto think about what | had to do when | got home. She toldme about her visits to the doctor, about Granny's visitsto the doctor, and Vicki's refusal to go to the doctor, andabout Luller" the one who gave me the creasys " andall her troubles with her son. His name is Don or Dean" she never can remember " and heTs been drinkingagain. Last time he got drunk he took his bb gun out intothe 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 andget drunk and shoot things with that bb gun. ShedoesnTt understand it. Vicki's got female problems (shetells me this after John goes into the bathroom to smokea cigarette) and won't go to the doctor to save her life.She stopped talking and got up to put the FoodLion buttermilk biscuits in the oven.oJohn, come pop the tube for me,? she called.SheTs afraid to break open the tube of biscuits becauseshe heard of awoman who hada heart attack when oneopened too hard. 3Bandit, their dog, started barking as Vicki's carcame up the driveway. Lee pushed out of the car andran up to the house. HeTs 12 years old. His cheeks arebright red all the time " almost like kids who haveasthma, but he doesn't. He ran in and gave us both bighugs.oRoberta, there was a dead possum on theroad 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 buttermilkbiscuits, oI didnTt know if you had any.? She's almostpanting 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 walkedtoward 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. Shewatches the news every night so she knows about everycrime 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. | knowshe worries like Granny, but doesnTt want us to know.JohnTs dad walked in the room and turned upthe thermostat. He sat down in his chair, picked up thebook John brought for him, put on his K-Mart readingglasses, and started reading the book without saying aword to anyone. He nodded and smiled, so he wouldn'tappear 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 reallyadmired his dad because he only had a 8th grade edu-cation, but had gone on and became an electrician. Heexplained how he built the heating system for theirhouse and that he could fix anything.Whenever John really likes something, or isvery excited about explaining something, he gets thiscertain smile on his face. The ends of his lips sort ofstretch outward and a tinydimple appears low on hisleft cheek. The first time |saw that smile was when hewas talking about his father.John and hisdad both getthat same It was reserved for very spe-: cial things.grin when | saw the grin onJohnTs father after we hadthey talk visited a few times. He wasexplaining about this birdabout the they had seen in the yardnew birds that they had never seenbefore. Both JohnTs parentslove to watch the birds thatseemed to love their yard.There were hundreds ofthem sometimes. JohnTsmom makes a special mix-ture of lard, peanut butter,and sunflower seed. His dad puts piles of it on theirfence posts and the birds love it.Every birthday or gift-giving holiday, JohnTsfather gets a bird book from us. He keeps track of all thebirds he sees in them. And he looks forward to showingthem to John when we visit. John and his dad both getthat same grin when they talk about the new birdshighlighted in the books.Even though JohnTs dad doesnTt talk, when thefamily was together, there was never a lack of conver-sation. Granny said that we should all be careful nowbecause the heat was starting to come back and a heatstroke could creep up on us and we'd never know it.This compelled Vicki to tell of a man at their church whodied 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 andchuckling to himself. Lee told John about his scouttroop. And that he had been elected school president.oYes, first it was John who was in scouts andpresident, now itTs Lee,? Granny said with that pride inher voice only a granny has.highlightedin the books.SPRING/FALL 47

oIt's a regular dynasty,? JohnTs mom said,echoing GrannyTs pride.oWell, Debbie, open your presents!? Vicki saidout 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 openand read each card and wave the bills.As | thanked everyone, JohnTs mom an-nounced that dinner was ready. She leaned out theback door and hollered for JohnTs dad to come for dinner(or is it supper, | never can get that straight). We waiteda couple minutes and Lee decided that we should notwait for him " he was hungry, as usual, and wanted toeat right then. After much discussion, we decided thatJohnTs father would be back in a minute and went aheadand fixed our styrofoam plates.oLee, | made some green pickles for you. Justthe way you like them,? Granny said.Lee looked at the flourescent green pickles inthe mason jar and whispered to his mother, oMama,thereTs bugs in there.?Vicki answered loudly, oThat ain't bugs. ItTs theglue 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 likeyour Mama said,? Granny explained. Lee took a few ofthe pickles out of the jar and sat down, muttering abouthow he wasnTt going to eat pickles with bugs in themeven if she did wipe them away.Granny asked where Mel was and JohnTs momyelled for him again.oHe always comes when | tell him foodTs ready.He'll be in,? she said, wiping some pinto juice up with herbiscuit.oWell, | hope he ain't had a heat stroke. ThisMarch weather is strange that way. Cool one minute,hot the next,? Granny said. oYou kids better go look forhim after you eat.?oThat's a good idea,? Vicki agreed.oITm sure heTs fine,? John said, getting annoyedwith his family, yet grateful for the chance to escape tothe woods behind their house. We all ate our supperand watched ABCTs Wide World of Sports. GregLouganis, the diver, was on. JohnTs mom talked abouthow sad it was he had turned to drugs.oRoberta, ITm worried about Mel. You kids gofind him. If heTs lying on the ground, donTt move him. |heard on the radio that you shouldnTt move someonewho is hurt and fallen down. You just run back and callan ambulance,? Granny was beginning to panic. Sowas JohnTs mom.oThis just isnTt like him. | think he had a feverlast night. What if he had a heat stroke or just passedout or what if a tree fell down on him. You better gocheck to see if heTs ok,? she said.oOkay, okay, we'll go find him, but calm down.48 REBEL 1990HeTs probably just walking around or something. Calmdown,? John said clenching his teeth.oWell, you never know. You just never know.LullerTs husband went out to weed his 'mater gardenand dropped dead. You just never know,? his mothersaid, her voice shaking, and her eyes starting to water.We went outside and walked toward the woodsbehind their house. We passed by the old tractor, acollection of used tires, a rusted set of box springs, anold Coke cooler JohnTs dad was going to make some-thing out of, and an old wagon wheel John was sure wecould make something out of.oHe has been gone a long while,? | said.o| Know, but he probably isnTt very hungry andwanted to enjoy the nice day. | donTt know why every-one assumes somethingTs wrong,? John answered.We heard a rustle near the skinny creek about10 yards in front of us. There was JohnTs dad with hishead of white hair, lying on the ground, looking up intoa tree.oWhat are you doing?? John asked him.He just pointed up at two birds making theirnest. We explained that everyone was scared some-thing bad had happened to him and he better get insideand tell them heTs okay.o| wish they would find something to do besidesworry,? he said.When we got back to the house, everyone wasstill worried and full of questions. Even Lee had startedto worry, even though he said he knew everything wasfine. JohnTs dad fixed his plate and everyone got backinto watching the diving competition.Granny, Vicki, and Lee left to pick Randall up atchurch, and | helped JohnTs mom clean the kitchen.When we were done, | called to the family room to Johnthat it was time for us to go. He didnTt answer, so | wentin 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 hisdad lying on the ground, looking up at the same twobirds JohnTs dad was watching earlier. They were stillbuilding their nest. They skillfully wove pine needlesand dried grass together. Occasionally they included apiece of blue yarn which must have come from the oldafghan by the wagon wheel that JohnTs mom threwaway because it was oholier than a priest on Sunday.?oWhat kind of birds are they?? | asked. | didnTtKnow a titmouse from a chickadee. | looked at JohnTsdad.oWhippoorwills,? he said, with that special smile.

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INTROVERSIONprismacolor on paperSCOTT HUMPHRIESopposite page:City NightsWeavingJanette K. Conrad-Hunt80 REBEL 1990

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Order-chaos-orderoil on CanvasPaula V. Goodnightopposite page:season's Greetingsoil, acrylic and geesso on canvasJack Jennings92 REBEL 1990

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Untitledpencil on paperCCE Walkeropposite page:Loveacrylic and tobacco twineLisa Daniels56 REBEL 1990

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hs See -| can seethat Delores isgettingangry, but I'm notbacking down.| think it's strangethat she doesntask me why| don't likethe pancakes.DOWNTOTHEMALLby Valerie Anthony60 REBEL 1990oExcuse me, but are you ahousewife?? A woman approachesme from the side.oYes, | am,? and | think tomyself ~who else would be at a mallin Augusta, Georgia at 10:00 a. m.on a Tuesday morning?T | lookaround. Housewives and seniorcitizens, thatTs about it. Housewivesfor peace and quiet, seniors for noiseand conversation. The mall gives usthe pleasure of change, a differentsetting than the one we face at home.For some reason there aremore septagenarians than usual.Seventy-year old women in theirwarm-ups, happily sporting Reebokstheir children gave them for Christ-mas. | know theyTre just like mother,caught between tradition and thetrends of today. ItTs so difficult towear socks and not hose, so theyput on their LTeggs knee-highs un-der their sweat socks. ItTs the properway to do it, besides, wearing socksreminds them of World War II, whenthey couldn't get nylons, when theyhad to draw seams down their calveswith eyebrow pencils.TheyTve formed a commu-nity within themselves. When theweather started getting bad, back inNovember, they appealed to the mallmanager and got him to open thedoors early, at 8:00 a. m., so theycould start mall laps. The food martcaught on to what was happeningand WendyTs started selling break-fast. Now they stride, five abreast,past Casual Corner, turning aroundat Sears, arms churning, cheeksflushed, from eight to ten or eleven.| suppose they'll disband in thespring, but | hope theyTll stay to-gether. Walking in the mall, with itsartificial air, may not be the Olympictraining grounds but | think friend-ship and mobility are more impor-tant at 70 than fresh air.Ignoring the woman with thequestions and clip-board, | watchthe walkers and smile at each oneas they stride by me. When | bringSullie to the mall in his stroller, theystop and tickle him, tell me heTs toopretty to be a boy. That's why |never come to the mall on a week-day morning when FrankTs got a dayoff. It would only take one womancalling his son pretty to make himcut SullieTs curls off.| left Sullie with Mama to-day. FrankTs driving to Waco to de-liver some boat trailers and won't beback for four days, | just had to getout of the house by myself. | de-cided that Frank needed tube socksand my sisterTs birthday is inacoupleof weeks, enough reason to go tothe mall. | donTt really need anexcuse though, because Mamaloves keeping Sullie. SheTs boughthim one of those Johnny Jump-Upsand Frank hung it in her yard fromthe live oak. When Sullie gets tojumping in it, he gets excited and hestarts to snort. Mama sits in herlawn chair with her sweet tea andwatches him. Before long, he getsher so tickled that she snorts.| turn my attention back tothe woman with the questions andnotice her purple clipboard and redmarker. She repeats a secondquestion to me and it finally con-nects. She asks, oDo you mind an-swering a few questions? We'redoing a marketing survey.?| have nothing but time thismorning and | answer, oShoot.?She smiles at me, overlyfriendly like the preacherTs wife onthe sixth day of revival week. oThisis a questionnaire about the thingsyou buy in the market. We are tryingto determine which pancakes home-makers prefer. Would you be willingto participate in a taste test in ourtest kitchen, which is located righthere in the mall??She sounds like the roboton oLost in Space,? but, despite mymisgivings, | follow her into a con-verted store/office next to Montgom-ery Wards. ThereTs gold lettering onthe glass door ~Consumer Testing,Inc.T and itTs propped open with acement block. A woman is sitting ata desk just inside the room. Shesmiles at me, both women mustpractice smiling in front of a mirrorevery morning before they prop thedoor open. ThereTs a baby strollernext to the desk and a toddler about

two years oldis using it for a balancebeam. HeTs got apretzel hanging offhis ear, the big mall kind that comeswith nacho cheese.| read the name tags onboth women, Charlene and Delores.Delores has the purple clip-board,Charlene mans the desk. Charlenetells us, oBooth number five, testseven eight oh.? | follow Deloresdown an artificial hallway created byoffice dividers and the back of a re-frigerator. | study her from the back.SheTs got on bell-bottom pants anda shiny shirt, plastic imitation-leathersandals and a chiffon scarf in herhair holding up her pony tail. Foraminute, | think ITm in a time warp.Could this be 1962? Not even the K-Mart sells polyester bell bottoms anymore ... where did she get them?We sit down, across fromeach other at a small round plastic-topped table, the kind they have inbars, too small to hold anything buta couple beer bottles and an ash-tray. Delores is facing me and ourknees just about touch. ITm afraid ofkicking her foot and hurting her toewhere it sticks out of her sandals.Delores starts talking to me,asking me questions. She looks meright in the eyes and for some rea-son, it makes me nervous. No oneTsever asked me about pancakesbefore. As a matter of fact, | neverreally thought about pancakes be-fore. Pancakes are like oatmeal,they exist without much intellectualdiscussion. But hereTs Delores, penin hand, watching me intently. Isshe looking for the inner truth... thesoul of pancake preference? Shebegins with inquiries about my ap-pliances and my home. | noticemost of my answers are either oB? oroD? and | figure ITm being categor-ized. | hope the statistician whoreads the survey doesn't die of bore-dom. A oLeave It To Beaver? womanwho stays at home, how droll.Madison AvenueTs got me pegged. |know pancakes, ITm the ace con-sumer who a/ways does what's bestfor my loved ones. A modern-daymartyr, clothed in my love of domes-ticity, apologizing for staying home,while relishing it and all the perksthat come with it.oHow many times a weekdo you eat a complete breakfast?Not just coffee, a true meal? Oncea week, three or less, four to fivetimes a week, every morning? Re-member, weTre talking a completebreakfast.?| answer her, oFour or fivetimes, depending on FrankTs schea-ule. When heTs not home, | donTt eatmuch except a bowl of cereal.? OnFridays, Frank eats in town with hisbrother Lester and LesterTs crew.TheyTve been eating together eversince their dad died. ItTs their me-morial service to a man who thrivedon sausage and greasy eggs, Win-stons, strong coffee, and sweet rolls.| let Frank get away with it once aweek, as long as he doesn't try it athome.Delores is staring at me. |keep forgetting to an-swer her questions andjust let my mind wan-der. | apologize and tellher I'll pay more atten-tion. She begins herquestions again.7 ore, Pegoing to bring out somepancakes in just a min-ute.T Please drink thisglass of water and eatDressed likeAunt Beaand Miss Clara,in stockingsand heels,no Reeboks,this cracker to clear your carrying substantialhold a piece of meat in her backteeth, clenched, but it changes whenshe turns to me after heTs gone.oI'll be right back with thefirst sample.?| hear beeps and | figure ITmabout to get microwave pancakes. |am trying to have an open-mind, butthe idea of a microwave pancakedoesnTt thrill me. You can buy pan-cake mix that only needs water, itdoesnTt get much easier than that.She brings me a pancake on a pa-per plate. ThereTs no butter onit, butshe gives me a small cup of waterypancake syrup and aplastic fork, noknife. The pancake is aestheticallyperfect in every way, too perfect,and | start to eat it. | want to like thispancake and | try to keep an openmind, but | canTt. My palate knowscarpet when it tastes it. As ITmchewing | wonder if the physical per-fectness of this pancake isnTt whatAmerica hasgotten to. Itrepresentsmore than justconvenience. Itis ogearedtothemodernwoman,? pro-viding the kindof breakfastmother used tomake with thespeed of thepalate. We will test T eighties. |limag-three separate types of purses with ine the box haspancakes. I'll get the the words oallfirst sample.? heavy Clasps, natural? orAs she gets up ' - owhole wheat?to leave, the toddler they ve just prominently dis-waddles in. He has the begun played on thepretzel in his mouth bynow and itTs getting kindof pasty and turningbrown from. beingdropped on the floor. There are littlepieces of dough between his fingersand theyTre squishing out like Play-Dough, sticking his fist together. De-lores looks at him, oJoshua, go findMommy, thatTs agood boy. .. you letMiss Delores do her work... go findMommy ...GO Joshua.? Her smilemakes her look like sheTs trying toto shop.front. Thesemicrowave pan-cakes demon-strate our Supe-riority over June Cleaver,technologyTs one-up from the daysof the shirtwaist dress and pearls inthe kitchen. AmericaTs kitchen isefficient, quick, and doesnTt evenneed Mom. | can provide a bal-anced breakfast for my family with-out being home, and all they need isone finger to push the microwaveSPRING/FALL 61

button. I|panic...am| becomingobsolete?After ITve forced myself toeat about half of the pancake, De-lores takes the plate away and givesme more soda crackers and water,asking me to clear my palate again.| hear beeps and in a minute and ahalf, she brings another pancake ona paper plate. Same scenario as thelast, 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, arethey trying to emulate MomTs littlefoibles? Probably.| cut into the pancake withmy fork. This oneTs alittle bit better.Fluffier, a smidgen of flavor, butthereTs a pocket of flour that didn'tget mixed to the batter and it sticksto my teeth. Now thatTs more likehomemade, | think to myself. Aftertwo bites, Delores takes the plateaway from me and we repeat thewater/cracker process before shebrings out the third and final pan-cake.| wish | could tell you thatshe 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, itis another piece of styrofoam, cor-rect in size and shape, pleasing tothe eye, but flavorless as an enve-lope. | am both jubilant and re-morseful. Pleased that my place inthe kitchen has not been taken overby the technology of extruded mate-rials, but saddened because | knowwomen will buy these pancakes andchildren will believe in them. Thesame children that will grow up andorder imitation crab salad, neverrealizing what we've done.Delores brings back theother two pancakes and sits down.She shows me where numbers arewritten, under the pancakes, on thepaper plates. oWhich do you prefer,number 385 or 287??o385.? It was the least de-plorable.Then she asks, oWhich doyou prefer, number 287 or 134??oNeither, those are horrible.?62 REBEL 1990o2 Re > teoYou have to choose be-tween 287 and 134. Pick from thosetwo samples please.?oNo. | won't tell you | likesomething when | donTt. ItTs nothonest and it'll lie to the manufac-turer.?oPlease answer the ques-tion.?| can see that Delores isgetting angry, but ITm not backingdown. | think itTs strange that shedoesn't ask me why | don't like thepancakes. It must not be on hersurvey. She flips back to the firstpage on her clipboard.oWell, if you won't answerthe questions in the way in whichthey are posed, we will have to nul-lify this survey. Is that what youwant? After we've gone to all thistrouble, you're not going to cooper-ate, correct??Delores gets up too fastfromher chair and it tips over backward.When she bends down to pick it up,she drops her pen and then herglasses fall off. All this stuff fallingdown is making her clumsy and alotangrier.| scoot my chair back andfollow her down the artificial hall-way. SheTs walking ahead of metoward the propped-open door. |feel bad about not liking number 287or 134, but | always tell the truth,always. Delores talks to the womanat the desk and they both shaketheir heads and look at me. | walk onout the door, back into the malltowards Montgomery Wards. | stillhave to buy those tube socks.| turn to look back one moretime as | enter Montgomery Wards.ThereTs Delores, back to the win-dow, still shaking her head and talk-ing to Charlene. Joshua has hispasty face smooshed against thewindow and itTs all blurred and wet-looking, kind of runny and yellow.| see something on the backof DeloresTs pants and | walk back tothe window, hiding a little behind acolumn to get a better look. Sureenough, thereTs JoshuaTs pretzel,Stuck to the seat of her pants.An hour later, ITm still laugh-ing about JoshuaTs pretzel. | walkdown to the other end of the mall, tothe gourmet coffee shop. ItTs lunchtime and the geriatric joggers havebeen replaced by the serious shop-pers. These women, some of themtowing reluctant husbands, are rest-ing at GardnerTs Coffee Emporium,gearing up for their next battle withthe sales force of stores with nameslike oThe GrandmotherTs Shoppe?and oNannyTs Boutique.? Grand-mothers at the mall, out for the realstuff: linen shorts with matchingEton jackets, miniature bow-ties;percale and smocking, tights withlace on the rear and black patent-leather Mary Janes. No parent inAmericacan pick out Sunday schoolfinery like these women. They know,they know in their hearts, that themeasure of their love walks downthe center aisle each Sunday, cloth-ing the bodies of those miniatureMichelin tire men called grandchil-dren. In this decade of aerobicizedbodies, there is nothing finer thanthe view of a toddler's chubby legscoming out of the hem of one ofthose glorious outfits from oNannyTsBoutique.?| negotiate the othershopperTs bags and sit down at atable next to two women in their latesixties. Dressed like Aunt Bea andMiss Clara, in stockings and heels,no Reeboks, carrying substantialpurses with heavy clasps, theyTvejust begun to shop. | canTt helpmyself, | tune into their conversationlike it's National Public Radio. | ameager for their constructive report-ing on the state of the universe.o| mean it, Lucinda . . . shehas gone back to college. _Leftthose children with Elliot during theday .. . moved his office into thebreakfast room. They havenTthadadecent meal in weeks, everytime |go over there, the TVTs on or somekind of machine they call Nintendo.We're just sick about it . . . just sick.| tried to get her to let me sendMarsella over to clean once a week. begged her... do you knowwhat she said .. . said, ~a cleanhouse is not one of my priorities,

2 REO BOW EG Deen eeERODE LR I ae RCL RRL RG I Tt ot AAG LLL BLOF SIRE DRE. FI EERIE BILE ELLEN ERNE TAS BIerr aes SO TS nroMother, and as long as Elliot doesn'tmind, donTt worry about itT... Don'tworry about it! WeTre just sick aboutit.?oOh, | Know what you mean.When Connie and Michael got adivorce, everything | ever taught herwent flying with the wind. She gaveDeborah her own key to the houseand those children come into anempty house after school and doyou know that Connie doesnTt gethome until a half an hour later! | triedto 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 Figurethat. | made them a Jell-O salad lastThursday and when | went backover yesterday, they hadnTt eveneaten it. . . hadnTt touched it.?oThatTs nothing . . . wait untilyou hear this. | went over to cleanout the refrigerator for poor Elliot. .. you wouldn't believe what theyleave in there for weeks at a time,and what does a man know aboutcleaning anyway . . . | opened thefreezer door and do you know whatshe had in there . . . microwavepancakes. | mean it. Microwavepancakes.?| got up from the table andthrew away my coffee cup. | wonderwhat my mom would say if she sawmicrowave pancakes in my freezer.Would she measure my domesticworth by the products in my freezer?Was that what | was doing, just alittle while ago? Did | really want mycharacter to be measured by mydomestic triumphs? I'll have to askFrank when he gets back from Waco,heTs got all the answers.SPRING/FALL 63=a eae TENA TsOFT 0! aig Alte! i Ser Mink «6 ap alas vo Se .adwc

by Nathaniel MeadAs the devestation 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, bringglobal famine by the year 2000.he Brazilian natives call them othe Invisible People,? a mysterious, fleet-footed Amazonian tribe depictedin the movie, The Emerald Forest. Uniquely well-adapted to life in the tropics, the tribe refers to the white manTscivilization as othe Dead World,? for from their perspective there could be no life outside the rainforest's rich greencanopy. Beyond this oedge? the desolate expanse of gravel and cement appears to them as a world where no treeswill 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 rainforestTsperiphery, 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 milesof rainforest are cleared by oslash & burn? methods each year " an area the equivalent of Maine or over half thestate of California. Half the worldTs five billion acres of rainforest are already gone; the rest could disappear ina few decades. As the devastation continues, entire species of birds and other creatures are lost forever, andadramatic change in global climate has been forecast " one that could, in theory, bring global famine by the year2000. 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 oabundant vegetation is a natural paradox for the trees themselves grow on impoextremely thin layer of stored-up nutrients suitable only for trees which thrive on therainforest. The treesT thick blanket of green covers most of the rainforest. penetrateof sunlight streaming down through gaps in the vegetation. At such spots, seedsground germinate and plants quickly take root. In a naturalfollowed by the larger shrubs, then by the trees.Beneath the rainforest's lush green canopy, plants and animals live ineach other's materials completely " excepting a small amount left over to mof life forms and the intensity of their competition ensure the ecosystemTs stcounterfeit paradise.? Theverished topsoil " from anmoist, sunny conditions of thed only occasionally by flashesthat have accumulated in theprocess known as secondary succession, weeds areexquisite collaboration, recyclingaintain the soil. The great diversityability.64 REBEL 1990

This delicate fabric is easily unravelled by humanity. Since the tree roots in a rainforest are generallyshallow, bulldozers can push over even the largest of trees. Along with the low cost of land, this has made therainforest a choice target of exploitation. When cattle ranchers or farmers cut down and burn the trees to createclearings for pastures or crops, the unprotected soil is quickly eroded away by the first few pelting rains. Withintwo or three years the land becomes sterile, and the farmer then moves his family and livestock to another areato begin the cycle again.Left to itself, the average rainforest might recuperate in a century or two, depending on the extent oforiginal clearing. But ifthe clearing is continually extended deep into the forest, topsoils at the border rapidly erodeand sterility begins to spread. The biomass base weakens, the air becomes hotter and drier, and the odds for fullrecuperation dwindle to near-zero.It was the rainforest's illusory reserve of fecundity, perhaps, which kept people from saving the onceforest-covered country of Madagascar, which is now 75 percent denuded (SPR Charter, Man on Earth). Aftercenturies, the native Africans are emerging from human exploitation of their forests. Throughout Africa, therainforests are retreating because of population pressures and oslash & burn? agriculture for cattle, coffee, andcotton " a wave of defoliation that has made drought and famine commonplace occurrences. South America may,in a very short time, follow suit.Greed and NecessityThe primary causes of rainforest destruction are polar opposites of our world of economy: overabundanceand abject poverty. In Africa and South America, assaults upon the rainforests are partly the result of shortagesin food, fuel, and grazing land. But the enormous pattern of devastation is all too commonly blamed on theounfortunate realities? of Third World economic conditions. The assessment is comfortably anonymous " andit 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 and1978, for example, an area the size of Maine was converted to 336 cattle ranches in the Brazilian rainforest underthe direction of a single developmental agency. By 1980, the development of such ranches had accounted formore 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 landyields cheap hamburgers"that is, burgers for AmericaTs fast-food chains. The U.S. now imports 90 percent ofCentral AmericaTs beef exports " about 132 million pounds " though this accounts for less than 2 percent of ournational 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 ImperativesMost 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 whichSurvive each year only because they can migrate to the warmer habitats south of our borders. It is a bitter tributeto Rachel Carson in her Silent Spring that her warnings of the 60s are now coming true " the songbirds, sourcesof 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 awayby the tide of indiscriminate development. Of the five million Indians that occupied Brazil, only 5% survive. Mostdie because they lack immunity against common diseases transmitted by whites, such as tuberculosis. Accordingto recent reports, about 45 percent of a given Indian population die within two years of initial contact with outsidersltis a bitter tribute to Rachel Carson in her Silent Springthat her warnings of the '60's are nowComing true -- the songbirds, sources of music in our woods and suburbs, are fastdisappearing.SPRING/FALL 65

represents life and prosperity to these native rainforest dwellers is going up in smoke. What happened to theIndians 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 besought, and soon. What steps can we take to put an end to the genocide, help stabilize the climate system, andpreserve the tremendous wealth of the rainforests?The answer may lie in our collective power as consumers in a free market system. Perhaps the mosteffective way is through the choices of foods you buy and eat. Refrain from consuming burgers sold at fast-foodchains, most of which give sanction to the burning of rainforests. (To date, Burger King has stopped buyingAmazonian 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 topreserve the rainforests. Groups like the Rainforest Action Network, the Rainforest Alliance, and the New ForestsProject are working hard to support small, indigenous economies and protect the rainforest and its resources. Benand JerryTs has begun selling ice cream containing rainforest-grown Brazil nuts " a product which requiresconservation rather than cutting of rainforest trees (Sierra Club, Bankrolling Disasters).Lessons from the Emerald ForestIn addition, direct remedial action may be taken by learning from the rainforest dwellers themselves. Thenative Amazonians understand secondary succession " the sequence of plant species that appears after a virginrainforest 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), theycarefully choose which trees to cut, which to leave as stumps, and which to spare. They fell the fast-growing treesto burn their wood for fuel, but they donTt touch those trees that provide food, medicine, building material, or othervaluable commodities. They may leave certain flowering trees because they are beautiful or because they supplynectar for mellipona bees, which produce their honey. Inthe remaining space, they may plant maize, squash, andbeans, 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,, theyhelp stabilize the carbon cycle even as other trees are burned for fuel. When the farmersT soil can no longerproduce 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 runninga desperate race against time. When these natives go, they will take with them a profound tradition of rainforestmanagement dating back at least to the ancient Maya of the Yucatan. Their methods offer an ecological modelfor industrial nations like the United States, where decades of chemical monoculture have eroded soil, depletedfertility, and contaminated our food, air, and water. If we heed these ancient lessons, the Amazonia may owe asmuch 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 3SPLIT Se woe wee atin ee TOL ONL . eri PELE Fo OTT F EY o7 ee bad TeiSMite ae pease s tS ae 4 fmUntitled # 2photographJohn GibsonSPRING/FALL 67

Contemplations on the Lost Cause, While cleaning out the filing cabinetsof Southern aristocracy,| found your family tree.Sullied by bank foreclosuresAnd opportune acreage,Midnight raidsAnd dangling ropes hung high from oaksYou claim you marched to Selma,sang freedomTs tune and followed the man,Our, NO. >.You locked the doorAnd hid behind shuttered windows,Watching as the futureTrampled the lawnAnd picked the roses.The season is hard to hide,Time replaces the pastIn favor of reality.ll.Your grandmother told me she sawYoung black girls as they passed her yard,Heads lifted, filled with thoughtsOf education and lunch counters,bus rides and the National Guard.Your grandmother told me she was proudOf those young black girls,Until one stopped, on her way to the bridge,Lifted her skirtAnd 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 annualat the back,same page as Earl's.They live in a mobile homeThat was part of her divorce settlementIn 1956.He works at the munitions factorysheTs a beauty operatorat EllaTs Hair Emporium.HeTs got two boys from his first marriage,OneTs serving five years for armed robbery,The other married Linda SpeckAnd they have four kids,under the age of five.Her son Ronnie joined ROTCin high schoolThen followed LBJ to Viet Nam,His pictureTs on the coffee table,His nameTs On a wall in DC.Her daughter leftin 1965Calls once a monthAnd 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 BAnd his with a 72 under O,Because thatTs when he met her,in 1972.Valerie H. AnthonySPRL ad gS ARES RST BR RIN IF PTSPRING/FALL 69

° a ee> oae *) 74,~owSel alee eee edTTT,veSeeetr8%aaera?EAT ALDER AE ONAN EET EMER EIGN AEN PI EI TE ee OS te OM AERA RIT RIEape EIT aes

DONALDS TY GASB IBA MIF BTUntitledphotographRenée Riceopposite page:The Frog HuntInk on PaperTom LewisSPRING/FALL 71

A Letter Never Sent To My DaughterDear Stephanie,The dogwood we've both enjoyed in springis still there in the yard next door,ItTs tinged with crimson now,to show some secret wound left by youleaving 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,DadErnest MarshallSS asWomanTs WorkHung by my belly on the edge of thetub, | scrub and scrub until | cleary away the scum you said would never comeg off. And thatTs not all ITve done today.~>THa!While you were at the office, | calledthe psychiatrist and said | wouldn~t becoming in " ever again because wehad solved our differences, | finallyfound happiness in a pair of rubbergloves, the kind mother wore, | always shunned.Lynne Rupp ShannonT%-72 REBEL 1990

S-DSRS TeoBustinTs IslandCrossing the ice on BustinTs Islandto the rock in the bayTs semi-middle.Boots and parkas this timeand three pairs of footprints leftin the brief covering of snow behind us.Stepping onto the rock by wayof the water made ledgeWe sat down to rememberdolphins jumping in the distance,seals sunning their bellies,a shower heating on the hill by our cabinin the evening yellow lightAgain on the rock.In the stillness of that dayAfter the snow quieted the leaves,We spoke in hushed voices " Waiting "Coming slowlyWalking with confident ease across the iceto the other side of the bay where the bellowsof other waiters echoedThat moose was so close| could feel the heat of his breathtouch the muscle of his flankthe velvet of his flaring nostrils.We stopped "Our fingers itching to know "My fatherTs facebreaking into wonder "and mine.Karen BeardsleeSPRING/FALL 73

HushedMore than a watercolor| donTt wash off; oil base onlySinking in your foldsOf skin.In the lewd semi-darknesstake your warm body limpCowering, coveringAn exhaled endearment.No red sloop adorns yourHarbor. | am not the sneaking,The lying to get away toSmoky motel rooms,Flashing neon, thereTsNo Vacancy Here.Lying on the rea-checkered blanketUneaten grapes squashedBeneath our backs, | am not your alibi.Lover only, friend.Loving you thenIls planting seeds on fallow ground.Scraping at hard earth, | sowKnowing nothing may grow.What grows may die.| plant nonetheless.Deborah Price Griggs74 REBEL 1990

ByDr. BeverlyMerrick; \: ~PsPe| riPhotograph by Dr. MerrickA. he leaned forward on the roundfeedbag plumped up over the lip of thecanning tub, Catfish, Man of the Woods,slowly turned the bill of his cap embossedwith 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 tome!?Catfish said he awoke the nextmorning to the sound of awomanTs voice,which said: oCatfish! Look here!?He opened his eyes. There by hisshoulder a womanTs hand held a fluores-cent globe the size of agolf ball. It litup theroom of his one-room cardboard shack.Catfish finally managed to whisper, oWhatis it??The hand disappeared.But there was no doubt in his mindwhere the voice had come from, and forwhat reason.oThank you, God,? he said, then gotup, smoothed the wrinkles from his cottonpants and craggy face. He took a long icydrink from the bucket, then leaned for-ward and poured another dipper over theback of his head. A lick and a prayer, andoff to church.The grinding battery of his ancientChevy 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 Churchof Christ in Glenwood, West Virginia.After morning services, he turnedthe Chevy back up Union Gap. Hundredsof cars were inching up the winding track.s Trouble= PlaguesGod'sMedicineManHe shifted down in low gear, and it was anhour before the overheated Chevy madethe last turn.Catfish was plumb out of sorts. Hehad planned an afternoon of brewing peachbrandy in the lean-to.oNow, when | finally gothome...carswere parked everywhere. | pulled over toalittle elm tree. Only place to park.?He climbed out and asked, oHeh! Isthere something wrong??First voice he heard:people in the world is here.?More than a thousand people madea pilgrimage to the shack of the herb doctorthat Sunday in May of 1975 " as he tellsit"the result of an Associated Press storyabout his cures.And they still Keep coming. At lastcount, Catfish claimed 65,000 have soughthim out on Union Branch near Glenwood,including people from 38 countries. Theyare met with a greeting he always useswhen he talks about his cures: oNow, here,let me tell you right. If you want some of thishere bitters, if you come on Thursday or onFriday, you got a chance to get some, if |got it.?He speaks swiftly, almost incoher-ently, running the sentences together. Hischoppy words sound like an ancient incan-tation.lf he has herbs on supply, he hurriesto his makeshift lean-to and grabs oa poke?(brown bag) or acardboard box, and startssacking old bleach bottles filled with springwater and such concoctions as sassafrastea or juice of slippery elm bark. And thisoAll the sickSPRING/FALL 75

~ eeeT2... 7-2aoeo_~~ eeeafternoon, he adds a plastic milk jugof peach brandy.His cheeks are as ruddy as theamber liquid. For the life of him,Catfish looks like a workman, whohas just stepped out of one of thecorner bars near the plants that thriveup and down the Ohio River, flowingseveral miles to the north. Hiscrewcut above the weathered face,flannel shirt and grey cotton workpants seem to confirm that he is aplant worker. He will tell you, afterhours of rambling on about herbs,that he had once been a generalhandyman of sorts, working part-time jobs for nearly 30 years.Of course, that was before hehad become the herb doctor visitedby the Kennedys.That was before he had dis-covered there is a real fascination ina person describing himself as beingborn in one-half of a chicken coop.From half a coop to cardboardshack " and 65,000 visitors. It isalways important for Catfish to speakabout his origins in fractions and hisfame in thousands.Humble origins are not incon-gruous to thespecter of anaging charac-ter leaningforward on hisfeedsacktalking con-vivially aboutthe way hehas changedthe world.BornClarenceGray 63years ago inJackson County, West Virginia, helearned herb doctoring between theages of eight and 12, from his grand-father, Abner Dillon. It was a legacypassed down through a great-greatgrandfather, John Dillon, who hadlived with the Cherokees.The young Catfish had walkedthrough the woods hunting herbswith his Grandfather Abner. Theycombed the hills when ginseng, themost profit-making of the wild roots,76 REBEL 1990A series of missivesfromonecancer suffererfrom Greenville, NorthCarolina, reputes thatshe had been kept alivefor years and yearsthrough Cattfish's herbs.sold for $3 apound. His grandfatherdied shortly thereafter, and Catfishfound himself on his own. Still, peoplecontinued to seek the healing powerof herbs at his grandfather's houseonremote Trace Fork Road betweenRipley 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 yearwas $25 apound. Ginseng nowsellsfor more than $150 a pound.And, among the pilgrims seek-ing out Catfish these days are thehopeless, with illnesses such ascancer and conditions such as blind-ness, and the curious. And, whenthe curious are writers and report-ers, they go back where they comefrom and spread the gospel aboutCatfish " faster than any word ofmouth. Then the people start com-ing to his shack in hordes again tosee the man called the last Ameri-can medicine man by C. Paul Luonoin AmericaTs Best! 100 (1980).CatfishTs be-all-to-end-all cureis a bitters recipe made from 10herbs, which he farms out of themountains. Verifying his claims ofhealing power are let-ters from pilgrims tapedto cardboard scrapswallpapering his shack.Catfish points to firstone, then another, andreads through themquickly, his voice as slip-pery as elm bark. Hehas repeated his chantoften and knows it byrote: oFellow, here...92 and one half yearsold, right here, pain byhis shoulders . . . tooksody all his life. Asked me what todo. | told him to double it.?The herb man likes to speak ofhis Kennedy connection. EuniceKennedy Shriver came once to talkto him at the nearby HuntingtonFarmerTs Market, where he had setup shop. She consulted him abouther latest pregnancy. The baby hadbeen turned wrong in the womb. HeSays Shriver later sent him an invita-tion to come to D. C.oThe Kennedys wanted me toset up shop there.?To verify his claim he points toa round Kennedy campaign buttontaped to one of the letters pasted onthe wall.Another pilgrim was Vida Blue,who was going through a no-winseason.But the convert Catfish likes totalk most about is a country-westernsinger. He speaks of her in con-spiratorial whispers, extracting ablood pledge that her name will notbe used. She had come to Catfishbecause of problems with her voice.She ended up staying the night withCatfish in his padded orug bed,?hidden away in acorner of the lean-to.Catfish claims his mixture ofbitters has a secret ingredient thatincreases sexual potency. This isthe same man who said he was ososhy of women? that he had courtedhis wife for eight years before hehad enough courage to ask her tomarry him. His wife had been gonefar back as he could remember,otook the little ones with her.?A letter from the singer hangslike a Picasso above his one pieceof furniture, the stained and lumpysofa, where he can talk to it in thedark. The letter thanks him for all hishelp. Catfish cured her of course.However, the most interestingtestimonials are those from peopleowho are given up to die.?oThereTs hundreds of themthings all over this house,? Catfishsaid of the letters.A series of missives from onecancer sufferer from Greenville,North Carolina, reputes that she hadbeen kept alive for years and yearsthrough CatfishTs herbs. The doc-tors had discovered cancer of thethroat and lung, sent her home todie. The total cost of CatfishTs pro-longed treatment was $150 for 600bags of bitters.Incidentally, the pilgrims haveshown their gratitude in spontane-OUS ways.By CatfishTs telling: oOnce therecomes alady in and she hugged and

kissed me all over my face and allover my neck and pulled my sleevesup on my arms, kissed me on myarms, and she said, ~My gawd! Mygawd! ITd kiss you all over if youdidnTt have no clothes on. You don'tknow what you've done for my hus-band!ToWell, I'll tell you the rest of it,?Catfish said, his eyes darting fromletter to letter.oShe said she wanted ahundred more bags of bitters andthat she wanted them right now! Andher sister wanted fifty bags! Now,the next five people (listening in)wanted a hundred bags a piece afterher tellinT her story. Heh! Heh!?He reaches behind him as headjusts his seat on the canningbucket. Pulling open the folds of aletter, he points to the words, oCat-fish, youTre a man of God!?According to the herb man, ifsome pilgrims need help and hedoesnTt know about it, God revealstheir ailment to him. One particularconversation with God, as relatedby Catfish:oCatfish.?oYeh.?oWrite ( ) here and sendherbs to her to have her baby.?oGod said it again. . . threetimes. And | said, ~Okay, God.T. . .And | sent the bitters " and shewas!?Catfish said he would rathertalk with and about God than aboutbitters. Some people stay on lateinto the night, sitting on his batteredcouch while he rocks back and forthon his feedbag. A woodfire cracklesin the old stove to drive out themountain chill. Along piece of tinfoilwrapped about the stovepipe is theonly shield against the cardboardwalls. You wonder if it won't all go upin smoke " quickly " one nightwhen Catfish is stretched outsmoothing out the folds of thesingerTs letter.Catfish said heTs not worriedabout burning up.oIf God wants this place, he'llburn it.? He breaks into the song,oGod will take care of you... ,?following this with the old hymn,almost ancient, but sacred to themountain people: oLife is like amountain railroad . . . with an engi-neer thatTs brave... you must makethe run successful . . . from thecradle to the grave. . . . You know,people come to my house for herbs,Start talking about God.?He puts another slab of woodinto the cast iron stove. The roomsoon grows uncomfortably warm,as he spins out along yarn about allthe people saved in New Martinsville,West Virginia, after having read hisletters of inspiration there ina Churchof Christ.When a reporter came fromPM Magazine and asked Catfish,oAre you a Moses?,? the herb manhanded him a flyer entitled oHealthyWords of Wisdom.?The religious tract tells peoplethat the Earth is going to pass away;but before that happens there'shomilies for the home: a recipe onosody? cures, the effects of sugar onthe blood, a list of the foods peopleshould never eat.The flyer prescribes the bittershe sells to cure people after theyTveeaten pork, salt, cabbage, vinegar,cranberries, store-bought tea, oys-ters, carbonated beverages, grahamcrackers, potatoes, ofish that don'twear scales,? and tomatos, too...ocause tomatos Cause cancer, ul-cers, hemmroids (sic)... .?The cure is four baggies ofherbs (with ginseng) for a dollar.However, in the Biblical tradi-tion, his herb doctoring has not beenwithout its trials. One warning camein the form of a letter.oLady wrote me. ~Dear Catfish.Bec.a.r.e. ful,T her letter said.~ThereTs somethinT goinT to happento you. Catfish, donTt go into thewoods alone.ToNow, next day, here comesthese men from Washington.? Herefers to the time the Smithsoniansent someone to offer him $3,000 tosetup a booth at the AmericanFolklife Festival inthe Capitol (1976).Catfish refused and, among otherthings, told them that theyTd ojustmake $10 million off him?: oPiddleon it. Bring the White House overhere!?With the wisdom that comesfrom reflection, he says, oThey wastrying to get it fixed up to a placewhere | got to pay sales tax, incometax, have licenses. But God savedme. And they ain't got me yet. Andthey ainTt about to get me either.?God also helped him when hewas known as the Sassafras King.A winter flood on the Ohio Rivertrapped catfish under the ice in thebackwater hollows. People camefrom hundreds of miles around,waiting for the easy catch after thehigh water receded. Catfish out-lasted them. He pulled enough cat-fish out of the ice and the mud tofeed Dupont plant workers for amonth. The plant manager saw himwith the daily washtubs of fish andtagged him with the name Catfish.The sheer numbers of peoplevisiting the humble shack keepCatfish from going out into the nearbywoods to collect herbs, where thereTsover 900 to choose from. He talksabout the demands on his time. Hesaid he had 14 heart attacks insevenyears but the herb pipsossowadoctored him up.He is equivocal about what willhappen to his herb business someday.oThis is turrible, turrible. .. .Too big a mess is goinT on for onefeller to handle, but still ITm workinTon it. Daggone. | tell you what. | betthis here stops me. Stops me frombeing able to help people. | got$15,000 worth now about ready togrind in the next few weeks and thatwill last ~til February ... and that willprobably be the end of Catfish, Manof the Woods.oNow, here | am jumping outof a tree at 60 years old... .?SPRING/FALL 77

David Walser YarbroughArt DirectorLinda ClarkAssistant Editor"" """ as * *Tracie ClarkProse Editor

Self Portrait MonotypesLynne RuppShannonPoetry EditorLT Fb ht afin iJoseph CampbellEditor

PatronsMs. Hilda CampbellMr. James CampbellSponsorMs. Carolyn HendersonI want to help provide anoutlet for student expression bysupporting the Rebel, EastCarolinaUniversity Literary-Art Magazine.I have enclosed my tax-deductiblecontribution of :$250 Benefactor$125 Patron$50 SponsorPlease make checks payable toECU /Rebel and return to: Rebel,Mendenhall Student Center,East Carolina University,Greenville, NC 27858-4353.80 REBEL 1990THEENDLESSHORIZONSOFWwT OOKWe do not understand all there is to know abouthow color does what it does, but we do know thatcolor enhances your message, gives your sales pitchgreater impact, and insures better return on dollarsyou invest in printing.When you want to make the most of color, haveyour printed pieces produced by the CarolinasT qual-ity color printers. WeTre known as Theo. DavisSons, in friendly Zebulon.THEO. DAVIS SONS, INC.PRINTERS - LITHOGRAPHERSP.O. Box 277 e Highway 97 WestTelephone 919/269-7401 Fax 919/269-5647Zebulon, North Carolina 27597

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