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er his ninth birthday when he finally realized she was a real
rson, too. Up until then, she'd just been there. In the way. The obnoxious
little sister, always drawing on his addition homework with her magic markers.
He'd gotten the rollerblades he'd been begging for the last few months and
while he scraped up his knees and face on the driveway, he watched as she did
the same with her brand new bicycle. She was five. The training wheels were
never put on; she refused. Every day she fell, and she fell, never crying when
she hit the cement. Flinching and ignoring the sting of scraped skin, she'd
climb back on the bike, the pink streamers of the handlebars matching her
pink Osh Kosh BTGosh overalls. Sandy blonde hair a mess under her helmet,
she was more determined than maybe he'd ever been"up until then, at least
Five years of her around, and she was just a background fixture. But one ? _
afternoon she raced past him where he stumbled to keep his balance, pedaling .
down the driveway and onto the sidewalk, never wavering, never losing her
balance again. She'd gotten it right. She did it on her own. She was real.
Now he calls her from the road, every afternoon or dusk or
evening"heTs never been sure of the distinction, perhaps itTs when
the sun sets, but itTs summer and heTs speeding through time zones,
faster and faster, and he isnTt sure what to believe anymore.
oAre you there yet?� Her voice comes strong over the phone line, despite
the crackle of the bad connection. Somewhere in Oklahoma, his phone
died or lost reception or both, and in a fury or a panic or something akin to
desperation, he threw it out the window. Now he searches for payphones and
quarters, or he calls her collect. oDo you even know where there is yet?�
oNo,� he answers, and sheTs thousands of miles away, but he can almost
see her roll her eyes. Even though theyTre not kids anymore, even given
the circumstances, old habits die hard: big brothers will always annoy
their little sisters. oITm in Flagstaff, Becca,� he concedes, fingers tracing
the payphone cord, a nervous tic he developed miles and miles ago.
62
oWhat's it like?� she asks. He doesnTt know it, but an entire wall at home
has been dedicated to tracking him on his sardonically-dubbed spirit quest
ever since she came home two-and-a-half months ago to find his manic
message on the machine, the one he left as an explanation, as an apology.
Neon Post-it notes litter the living room wall, composing a makeshift
map of his cross-country desperation. She thinks itTs not fair. She should
have been the one to run first.
oKind of beautiful. Not as hot as I thought itTd be. Got in last night,
and it was fucking cold. Rolled up my windows and everything. Not as
hot as Albuquerque, thank God. | just canTt get used to the desert.�
oThatTs what I heard, gets really cold in the desert,� she answers,
slapping a pink note with oFlagstaff, Day 71� on the wall, right where
sheTd imagine it to be. oChester, Day 0� is ages away on the other side
of the room, and it stings. oWhatTs taking you so long, Sam?�
The line crackles again, and sheTs about to ask if heTs still there when she
hears his voice, distant for the first time despite the distance. oITm not sure.�
Three semesters shy of completion, he quit college at twenty-one and
moved back home to take care of both of them. At seventeen, Becca was more
determined than ever and she was smart. She was so smart it was ridiculous.
She loved all the things heTd hated in school like chemistry and biology and
would one day have chances heTd never have with his incomplete liberal arts
degree. One day sheTd save the world and fix people that were broken. He
moved home for her to give her those chances. He moved home for her so she
could go to school and spend hours studying in the library in the afternoon.
He moved home for her so that he could be the one to take care of their
mother, so she wouldnTt have to. So Becca wouldnTt have to be there for all
the heartbreaking moments, so she wouldn't have to be the one to try to talk
their mother into a mastectomy, to talk her into trying one more medicine,
one more treatment, one more, damnit, this could be the one! He moved
home so Becca didnTt have to be the one to listen to their mother say no.
So close he can almost scream, he gets stuck in Bakersfield (Day
83) over a weekend when his tire blows on a Saturday afternoon not
even ten miles from the end of Highway 58. He spends an hour in a
laundromat for the first time since Texas, wearing nothing but his
boxers while he washes the three changes of clothes he has with him.
He calls home from the motel that night, feeling much too clean
on the surely dirty sheets. Their conversations are longer now, but
much more awkward. HeTs been gone too long; sheTs been far too
cm
careful. She asks him if heTll be back by September and he promises, yes.
Promises, he'll be back in time. Promises, he wonTt let her down.
But itTs August already, and even when his car is fixed he lingers a few
more days, practically an apparition in a town full of ghosts and history.
He strikes up conversations with anyone that meets his gaze and he
melts into the city only to realize that between lunch and dinner trips to
In-N-Out Burger, heTs losing much more than just time. He checks out
of his room and gets the hell out of town as soon as possible, and hours
down the road, he realizes he can still smell the city in his clothes.
They spent his twenty-third birthday at home; sheTd been too tired
to go out. oMommy�, he called her at four, when Becca was born, and
oMamaT, at twelve, when he hugged her the night she told him Daddy
wouldn't be coming home. oMom�, he whispered, all he could think to
say on the cold January afternoon, tucking the blanket up under her
chin as she stared out the window at the snow falling from the sky.
She looked up at him, green eyes bright as ever, and brushed his sandy
blonde hair out of his face, her hand shaky but her touch soft. And she
smiled and asked him if sheTd ever told him what a miracle the snow was,
what a miracle he was, and his sister was, and how they were the one thing
she'd miss when she was gone, even more than the snow or the sunshine of
spring or the gorgeousness of a cloudless summer day. And she asked him if
he'd like to hear the story of how her world changed this exact day, twenty-
three years ago, and how the sky opened up with snow just as it did now.
strong hands with her frail ones, and Becca brought them hot chocolate from
the kitchen, he knew it would be the last birthday they'd spend together.
o| just wanted to see what drove Jack crazy,� he admits, his voice tired
and small as he claws at the phone cord. ItTs after midnight on the west
coast; itTs closer to four where she lays in bed at the other end, confused
and ill. ItTs the second week of August, day 94. For the first time in her
life, sheTs beginning to doubt him. oI didnTt even plan to end up here.�
He spent the day at Big Sur, chasing a dream that was never his to begin
with. But Jack had been right: The ocean was everywhere you wouldnTt
expect it to be, a truly overwhelming sound he hadn't been able to block
out. It was beautiful in a way he couldnTt completely process just yet.
oYou're an idiot,� she chastises, her voice sharp and tired and
unforgiving. oI canTt believe you. You know, I get it. I do.� But she
doesn't because logic and science are the only things that make sense
iil
And as she covered his
lez
64
to her and there is nothing logical about anything heTs done since
May. oItTs bad enough you're running from the entire world. I canTt
believe you're trying to recreate something out of On the Road.�
oIt's not. I'm not,� he argues, but there's little fight
in him. He doesnTt even correct her to tell her that sheTs
thinking of the wrong book. ItTs not like it matters.
oHe was crazy before he did any of that, Sam, donTt you get it? And
you re not, no matter how hard you try. You're just being irresponsible.�
She knows heTs hurting, but so is she and she just wishes he would have
taken her with him. She canTt stand the apologetic neighbors and has
trouble falling asleep in a house that was once so familiar, that now
plagues her with a thousand happy memories. Summer hasnTt been
kind to her either. She isnTt sure sheTs going to be able to head upstate
for college at the end of the month, isnTt sure about anything.
It's the first real fight they've had, ever. ItTs bad, so bad because heTs traveled
across the country and still hasnTt found what he was running from or running
to and he gives in and breaks down for the first time since it happened.
For the first time since he took cinnamon toast to their motherTs room and
couldnTt wake her up no matter how hard he tried. H
Never thought Mom wouldn't be there, how could she do this? He gave up
everything to take care of her, she stopped trying and sheTs gone. Doesn't that
hurt Becca too? Doesn't it kill her? Isn't she so mad, because thatTs what heTs
been running from, how mad he is. ItTs the last thing he should be feeling.
He wonders why she hasn't said anything for a few minutes, but
then he hears the operator say, oplease deposit fifty cents for the next
three minutes,� and he knows itTs pointless and doesnTt call back. On
the other side of the country, she waits all night for him to call again,
even tries to call him back, but there's nothing. SheTs not okay either.
The day of the funeral was a gorgeous May day and he knew she would
have been happy, if only for that. The eulogies left him impassive aside
from the sickness in his stomach and it was during the procession from
the funeral home to the cemetery that he got the urge to flee, the urge to
get out of there. He couldn't watch them bury her. It would make it real.
Instead of turning into the cemetery, he kept driving, kept driving
and didnTt stop, didnTt even register what he was doing until he was
two counties away. The first gas station out of Virginia, he changed out
of his suit from the funeral in the bathroom and put on a t-shirt and
pair of jeans that had been in his backseat for God knows how long.
cm
It had been late in the day when he'd finally gotten on I-40. He'd
rolled his windows down and turned his music up, going at least 90, too
afraid of what would happen if he slowed down for even a moment.
oWhere the hell are you?� She asks, frantic, not because itTs the end
of the third week of August and sheTs sure at this point that he won't be
home when he promised, but because sheTs afraid he won't be home at all,
because he hasnTt called since California, and sheTs terrified. oI'll be home
soon,� he evades, wanting to keep the conversation short because heTs
running low on quarters and didnTt call collect this time. oAre things good?�
HeTs calm, no longer rushed and desperate. Something has changed.
ItTs the first time heTs asked all summer, because before, she
did all the asking and she isnTt sure how to respond. oI think So,�
she says, surprised of her answer, surprised of the truth.
Left with a dial tone at the other end of the phone, she doesnTt get a chance
to apologize for before, and oDay 104�, she writes on the post-it, with a big
question mark. She isnTt sure where to put it on her makeshift map, so she
leaves it on the post-it pad and hopes that he'll keep his promises, all of them.
Almost three full months ago he fled town like something out of one of
his favorite novels only to find that nothing heTd ever read or seen could have
prepared him for what he would or wouldnTt find. He spent three months
crossing the country, losing himself for weeks in the Midwest, unable to get
out of the desert until the rains came, finding bits and pieces of someone he
used to be in cities scattered across the country. No destination in mind until
he was already on the other side of the country, he'd just known he had to get
away, had to chase himself down. And when he was nine and his sister was
five, he realized she was just as real as he was. When she was seventeen, he
gave up everything he had to make sure she didnTt lose sight of everything she
wanted. When she was nineteen, he left town on the one day she needed him
the most because after years of protecting her, he had to save himself this time.
Day 110, and heTs dressed in the suit he left town in, three monthsT worth
of facial hair on his chin and the darkest tan heTs ever had on his arms. He
made good on his promise. ItTs barely six a.m. when he walks into the house
they grew up in, and sheTs asleep on the couch in front of the TV. For the
first time in a few years, she looks like a kid. Her guard is down and that
determination isnTt there. She looks small and unsure, clutching the pillow to
her chest. ItTs enough to break his heart but when he sees the map of Post-its
1¢
on the wall he realizes the only personTs heart heTs been breaking is hers.
HeTs reliving his own trip"St. Louis, Day 11, and Day 44, Abilene, the
smells of the cities, the way it felt when he took the exits into towns, windows
still down, music still up, alive and rushing into everything at sixty miles an
hour"when he hears her voice from behind him, tired with sleep. oItTs early,�
she says. When he turns to look at her, sheTs rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
oI know,� he answers, oAnd ITm very, very late.�
ItTs the last day of August. oNo,� she counters, rising
from the couch and wrapping her arms around him in the
| tightest hug she can manage. oYou're right on time.�
They pull away, and he turns his attention back to the map
sheTs made for him, a tangible creation of a blur of sweat and
sun that was his summer. He wants to tell her everything he
saw and did, everything he didnTt tell her on the phone.
Leaning against him, his younger sister no matter what age she is,
her voice is hushed, hesitant. oI didnTt think you were coming home.�
The faintest trace of a smile on his lips, he ruffles her
hair and takes in the country he traveled and the days he
didnTt lose after all. oFor a while there, neither did I.�
66
nd
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LITERARY MAGAZINE
ARTS
NICHOLAS THIGPEN
cm
The Sixth Day
What came to mind was the maple Bonnie and I planted when
we first moved into our west Texas home. oDonTt dig the hole too
deep or too narrow,� they said, oand donTt shake the dirt from
the root ball or you'll be using the trunk for firewood.�
We planted it for the kids we never had. We planted it for them to
climb on and explore, for them to play pirates or hot lava or tea party
or whatever they could dream up. We planted it for our grandkids, our
great grandkids, and their great grandkids. It is a magnificent tree.
I switched out the second propane tank for the third. Two to go.
I checked the lines and couplings for leaks and found none. The
remaining two tanks sat snug in their ropes, bound to the side of the
dark wicker basket where I had tied, untied, and retied them almost a
week ago. Their flaking red paint exposed the cold metal underneath;
it had begun to rust. They looked like a pair of dirty fire hydrants.
I checked the sandbags slung over the side, hanging like
dead men at noon. They had not shifted during the night, still
positioned like bombs to be dropped on Dresden. The GPs said
I had not gone too far so I left the bags where they were.
I took a swig of water from the large plastic jug. My supply
was down to the final third. I knew because Bonnie had marked
it with a red pen that read, oTime to turn around.�
The thought of returning home was both warm and tragic. My trip
has been wonderful no doubt, but everything comes to an end. Besides, I
missed the fresh morning biscuits and endless rows of corn. I missed the
sweet smell of hay and the baked potatoes dug out of the garden just a few
hours before we lather them up with warm butter and wolf them down.
The sun peaked over the horizon. With nothing between it and me,
the rays shone with an unmatched intensity. I fished my shades out
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69
of my breast pocket and settled them on my nose. Much better
After my eyes adjusted I looked down at the warm quilt
wadded up by my feet. Ma made it for me before I could tell
my hands from my ass. It still smelled like mothballs.
Below, I saw a river snaking through the subdivisions like a trapped
copperhead. I thought about what Texas was like a few hundred
years ago, barren yet full of life. Now it is full of concrete. As I looked
down, I envisioned families dragging teepees behind them in the dirt,
others building cabins, now they make the land into golf courses. Golf
courses in the middle of the Texas desert. Stretches of land that take
hundreds of thousands of gallons of water a day to maintain just so
they can cut a four-inch hole in the ground and put a ball in it.
| Hormel chili for breakfast today. Cold and right out of the can,
just the way God intended. I ate slowly. There was no need to rush
with food or anything else when you were floating a few thousand
feet above the earth in a basket the size of an elevator. When I was
done, I licked my spoon clean and put it back where it belonged.
My elevation was rock steady at forty-five hundred feet as
it had been all night. | lit the glow plug and purged the new
70
| propane tank to make sure everything was in order. The fire
raced up the inside of the giant balloon, as it should.
ia
I was never much for knitting so I brought four blocks of poplar up here
to carve and help pass the time. The first block became a carrot and at ughty
fine carrot at that. I spent the first two days shaping and detailing the long
root and was very pleased with the outcome. It was smooth, yet wrinkled,
with a great mass of foliage on top that resembled a wooden tou ipee
After the carrot came the bear. Sitting on his haunches, the bear
was wise and strong, content to just observe and be present. His
a eT a TT
wooden arms hung by his sides ready for a big hug and his head was
slightly cocked with one ear hanging lower then the other, giving the
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animal a rather comical expression of boyish wonder and curiosity.
Beside the bear sat the goose, oGrandmother GooseT I liked to call
her. She was gentle as a lamb as she sat v varming her invisible eggs.
Her curved beak and long neck stretched high above her round body.
The night before I carved her, I dreamt of crawling under masses
of soft, warm feathers escaping all sensations, save comfort.
[ picked up the fourth and final block, studying the swirl of the
grain, looking for what was hidden underneath the surface. I once read
cm dl z 3 4 © 6 at 8 S| 10 iil lez Ls: 14 ls
that the Renaissance artist Michelangelo, instead of simply carving
marble, used to release the figures trapped inside. I whittled the corners
and edges off so I could feel the knife in the wood. It still cut well
but could stand to be sharper. Again, no need to rush. I set the block
down for further evaluation and picked up the sharpening stone.
Back and forth, back and forth, the blade slid on the stone keeping the
angle constant, evenly maintaining the edge. I peered over my left shoulder
and was greeted by a formation of flying ducks heading south for winter.
They honked ohello� and I honked back, glad to have some company, even if
only for a brief moment. After they had sailed by, I returned my attention
¥
to the task at hand. Back and forth, to and fro, constant angle, even edge.
I thought of the rocking horse sitting in my woodshop at home. It rocked
as evenly as a grandfather clock ticking away the seconds. I was damned
go
roud of that rocking horse. I made it a few years ago from the most
beautiful cherry I had ever come across: wood so pretty it would be a sin to
paint. I looked at my creation and saw happiness and art. When I showed
TS
it to Bonnie she grew sad and said she did not want it in the house...
I looked at the poplar block with no corners and edges and thought of
carving a horse. I whittled away the rounded corners until I had a nice cylinder.
I thought of the well at home, the well I had tried to build myself with some
rented equipment. After a day in the library I thought I could build a well ina
Sahara sand dune. I imagined the short stone wall, the cute little roof and the
bucket going down light and coming up heavy and full. My attempt at digging
lasted about an hour; by that time I had gotten dirtier then a pigTs armpit and
successfully severed our underground power lines. Bonnie gave me hell since
he had just been to the market and stocked the fridge. We laugh about it now.
w 4
I checked the elevation, no change. I checked the eps, I had hardly budged. I
felt the block of wood in my hand, the smooth surface broken up by the ripple
of knife marks. It felt solid as I tossed it back and forth, one hand then the
next. I brought it up to my nose and took a sniff. I stuck out my tongue and
gave it a taste. Bringing it back to my lap, I took out the knife and notched it
three times down the side. The stability of a triangle, the strength of three, the
ls
I had a job as a waiter when I was in college, when I met
Bonnie. She was pregnant three months later and lost it three
months after that. We never knew if it was a boy or a girl.
I looked at the wood with the fresh notches. I slowly cut three horizontal
rings deep into the surface. It reminded me of a totem pole. I rolled the
work between my palms and stretched fingers. It felt nice and even.
Bonnie never got pregnant again. We tried all the natural and scientific
| i methods to no avail. The doctors studied her inside and out. Her diet, her
family history, they even made her collect stool samples; they really did a
number on her and could not find anything wrong. I jerked off in a cup and
they said I was cherry. That was that. No babies for us and no explanation
known to man. In the middle of all the madness we planted a maple tree.
I touched the knife to the block. It felt good. It was right. It was
sharp. I carved the word oNate� under one of the rings. I cradled
the wood and studied the letters. My gaze moved lazily around the
basket. The carrot, the bear, grandmother goose, and Nate. I set
the statue beside the other three and drew them in as one.
I checked the eps and the altimeter. I checked the sandbags and the
- propane tanks. I checked the blanket, the spoon, the wood carvings,
and the clouds. I scratched my head and sighed. Untying the release
cable, | opened the top of the envelope and began descending.
10
cm
Osa Aa STENRT
prea venamy
yy
3rd
NICHOLAS THIGPEN
AR
TS + LITERARY MAGAZINE
d rock
[remember a longt
me to sleep. She used t
ing changed.
dumpling and lambie pie. ~The
Some hot shit he turned out to be. Fi ree months ago with empty
pockets, a face full of bruises, and two ratty kids. What a son of a bitch. He
said it would be better this way. A month later Mom took off after him.
I sat fidgeting on my wooden chair, watching BobbyTs crusty scalp move
side to side as he aimed the squirting ketchup onto the last of the stale bread.
Two minutes ago I was scraping off mold before Bobby could come into the
kitchen and complain. Even without the green fuzz, he probably won't eat it.
While my mind was busy with thoughts of mold, mildew, and my brother,
my idle hands found their way into my nose, scrounging for a worthy
prize. Now that we had no electricity for the fans, the arid smell of fresh
dust was everywhere, and there was a never-ending supply of dry prickly
boogers always ripe for harvest. My finger dug deep to get behind a big
one. I frowned when I saw the bloody thing that came out. As I wiped it
under the table I thought of the school librarian lecturing us about the
hairs that come out when we pick our noses and all the germs we'll breathe
in without them. At least I donTt eat my boogers like Bobby does.
As my brother played with his food, I thought about what to do
with myself today. The first few weeks, we were on our own I would
wake up with this motherly instinct to clean things, then I would plop
down in front of the TV and never start cleaning. Now the house was
beyond salvaging. With the well water acting up, no electricity, and no
one to pick up after us, we lived in a stink of shit and dirty dishes.
With the open windows and piles of filthy plates, cups and silverware,
came the South Carolina bugs. The kitchen was infested with buzzing, black
houseflies. Flies upon flies upon flies in our food, tickling our eyes, trying to
crawl down our ears, plus we slept in a bed of roaches and mice. At least the
crickets could break the silence; itTs funny what I have to be thankful for.
gs like sugar
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We had stopped going to school since Mom wasnTt there to drive us,
and had yet to find anything to occupy the vast amounts of time we
suddenly had on our hands. For a while we giggled and screamed and ran
through the house naked, we ate all the fudge in MomTs hidden stash,
we used to think it was fun" that part of the vacation was over.
I got up from the table searching for something with any entertainment
value. My eyes rested on the broom in the corner that hadnTt been touched
in eons. I shuffled across the wooden floor and wrapped my grungy fingers
around my new weapon
: Sensing my
shenanigans, Bobby jumped from his perch, knocking bread and ketchup off
the table, and bolted out the back door. Without a dragon to slay, I twirled
the lance above my head and targeted the nearest stack of dirty plates.
WAAOOOOMP!
Plates, dirt, food, and a colony of flies smashed on the floor with
a tremendous crash. Before I could assess the damage, I abandoned
my weapon and darted toward the back door, my only refuge from
the pissed-off flies and the putrid stench of rotting food.
Bobby greeted me outside with an |-didnTt-do-it look on his face which
made me giggle a bit considering it didnTt matter if we burned the place
down. I couldnTt remember the last time | had let out a good laugh.
oWhat'd you do that for?� Bobby whined.
I shrugged and kicked a dandelion with my bare foot. The sun blazed
as I waited for my eyes to adjust. oI guess we can't go in the kitchen
for a bit,� I said thinking of the plague of flies and moldy stench.
oWell, what are we going to eat?� Bobby was always whining, owhyTs it so
hot? WhereTs Mom?� As if I had the answer to any of his stupid questions.
oTll go catch us a big olT coon and we'll fry it up with some
corn and maple syrup.� I'd never cooked a day in my life.
Bobby harrumphed, put on his pouty face, and started walking around
the house looking for a safe way in. The seriousness of my brotherTs
_ question slowly entered my brain. We had been able to live off Ramen,
canned goods, and well water for a while but our resources were running
pretty slim, plus we were sick of eating the same shit, day in and day out.
My dreams were haunted by food, real food, stacks of sweet strawberry
pancakes oozing with melted butter and sticky syrupy bliss, a dozen
fried eggs, plates full of greasy bacon and a gallon of cold orange juice.
Later in the day, after longing for fried flounder and peppered catfish, |
decided I should test my luck in the fishing hole. Though it sounds nice, I
actually hated that place because itTs where Ralph would go to get drunk.
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from the house that even a shrill yell couldnTt travel the distance.
He would come stumbling out of the woods with a quarter bottle of whiskey,
a few crappie and fiery bloodshot eyes searching for either someone to love
on or something to yell at. In either case, Bobby and I made it a point to be
invisible, leaving Mom to the mercy of whatever wrath he felt like dealing out.
After digging around the tool shed for a bit, ITd managed to find the old
bamboo pole Ralphy liked to use. He said it had good whipping action, I
never knew if it was a threat or just a comment. Lucky for me, there was a
few feet of line and a rusty hook rigged up and ready to go. Thanks, Ralph.
Since I'd never done much fishing, my stepdad liked to be alone when he
went. I couldn't think of anything else I needed to bring, so with the old pole,
two bare feet, and MamaTs straw hat, I headed off to the watering hole.
The thick, summer air hung still while mosquitoes feasted on my body,
like kids at a Viking smorgasbord. I could tell by the look of the sun, that it
was past midday and should be cooling off soon. As the birds chirped and
the leaves crackled under my feet, I thought of nothing; it was nice to have
an empty head. When I arrived at the little pond it was clear why Ralph liked
to come here. It was surrounded by birch and whispering pines so thick I
couldn't see twenty yards past the edge of the water, plus I was far enough
inding a I discovered the wood was soft and full of little
red centipedes and grey roly-polies, neither of which would fit well on the .
hook. After digging for a bit and thinking about going back to the house for
some roaches, I found what I was looking for. An earthworm that could have
easily been mistaken for a small snake appeared near the bottom of the log.
Just waiting for me to come along and pluck it up. I broke it in four pieces,
speared one on the hook, and wrapped the rest in a big green leaf for later.
I was feeling pretty confident as I dropped the line in the water. A
fish was sure to bite, this worm was so big and juicy, I'd bring home a
bass we could eat on for a week. | imagined wrestling a catfish so big
we wouldn't even cook it. I'd call the newspaper, and they'd write a long
story about a pretty little girl catching such a big fish and give us tons
of money, and Bobby and I would buy a beautiful house in a big city and
live happily ever after eating fudge and laughing about the fish Ralphy
could never catch. I grinned as I watched the line for the first tug.
Sure as the sun is bright, as soon as that hook hit the bottom, the line went
taut, the pole jerked forward and I yanked with all my might. Unfortunately, my
excitement got the better of me and my big tug left me with an empty hook and
no fish. With my heart pounding, I dug in the leaf and pulled out another piece
of worm. After spearing the wiggling creature and wiping the guts and blood on
my shirt, I tossed the loaded trap into the water and waited for the next hit.
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Minutes felt like hours. The sun had hardly moved since I got here
so I figured my lack of patience was getting the better of me, but I'll
be damned if it doesnTt seem like every fish in the pond suddenly
lost its appetite for worm. With my frustration building, I lifted the
hook out of the water only to find it gleaming in the sunlight and bare
as my own two feet. I haphazardly snatched another worm chunk,
loaded it up, and sent it out into the depths of the warm water.
There it sat, just long enough for me to think about checking my bait
again, and before I could draw up the line, the hook was sucked up by an
unfortunate creature. I pulled it out of the water, slung it onto a pile of
dirt, and I found myself one crappie richer then I was before. This fish
really lived up to its name. It was no bigger then the palm of my hand and
was ugly as a beaten baby, but hell, I'd caught one. |
: 4 I watched as the creatureTs life disappeared,
the eyes glazed over, and the limp body stiffened. I walked over, picked
up the slimy fish, and said a short prayer to a God I didnTt know.
oWhat are we gonna do with that?� Bobby and his damned questions again.
oItTs supper,� I said as I dropped the fish on the filthy table. The stench
in the kitchen was worse then ever, but at least the flies had died back
down and resumed their normal routine of buzzing near the sink. The
plates remained untouched, strewn about on the dusty wooden floor.
I searched around the rubble and found the cleaver I had been playing
with the other day. I didnTt really know where to begin or what I was
doing, but I didnTt want to hear any more complaints from my brother.
Without turning from the fish, I told Bobby to find some oil and flour.
He just stood there squirming like he was going to pee his pants with
anticipation. I didnTt even notice. I was too busy gathering my strength
and taking aim at my target. Before I was satisfied, I breathed in a lung full
of air and took a mighty chop at the tail. My aim was a little off, and I was
left with two even halves of a crappie and a big mark in the kitchen table. |
exhaled and quickly shot Bobby a look before he could say anything, then
returned my attention to the mess I was making. Guts, blood and more
guts trickled out of the decaying corpse onto the tabletop. I never would
have imagined so much liquid could fit in such a small body. Mom would
have shit herself; Ralph would have turned the cleaver on me. Bobby and
I watched in silence, no doubt sharing the same miserable thoughts.
The more I looked at it, the more depressed I felt. The blow had angled
the fish so I could see the grisly look of death and sin deep in its eyes.
Those lifeless eyes, black as smoke at midnight. They never blinked or
faltered their gaze. They churned my stomach and filled my lungs with
all the hatred and disgust this life had taught me. Acid pumped through
my veins. I saw my knotted fingers wrapped around the cold metal
and thought about how the blade would feel buried in solid flesh. How
easily the edge could end life. I turned and eyed Bobby with his pencil
neck and his soft ribs. His stupid mouth flapped open and closed like a
broken toy. I swung the knife again. With a sickening thunk of cracking
bones and spewing entrails, the blade smashed into the fish head.
Later that night, I sent my brother outside with a bag of |
clothes. When I was sure he was out, I dragged our mattress
into the middle of the house and set in on fire.
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Why so smug, Mr. King?� came the hesitant voice of Father Time who stood
tall and frail in front of the blackboard. The heads that were previously focusing
on the chalky proof now turned to look at Joe King, the acclaimed opurveyor
of science� of Westin University. He whisked his hair from the front of his
face and sat up quickly, in complete knowledge of his widespread attention.
There used to be laughter whenever heTd inject his beliefs into the lectures,
but over time they began to realize that perhaps he was right about what he
was saying. There wasnTt any laughter the day he proved his teacherTs proof
wrong about GodTs existence. Joe had a knack for peeling away the layers
of the various proofs that Father Time hypothesized on the chalkboard.
oWell, if we truly did live after death, how could we possibly be able to
sense anything?� he said as he folded his arms on top of each other across
the desk. The heads turned to Father Time, who shuffled his feet towards
the door, collecting his thoughts. The dayTs discussion, about whether
reincarnation is possible, had been boring for most of the students to
this point. But there was always that lingering hope that Joe King would
raise his hand and administer life into the dull lectures. He continued with
his speech, mouthing every word with precision and care. Each person
turned back to Joe King and burned holes into the back of his head.
oI mean, our bodies do not transcend any type of path that our soul
would. How can they? We bury those bodies underneath the very soil
that we walk over. Unless youTre telling me that we gain another body
after death, then thereTs no way that we'd be able sense our surroundings.
Without eyes, we cannot see where we are going or who is with us. Without
our ears we cannot hear anything, whether it be the voice of God or the
voice of our deceased grandparents. And to say that we communicate using
some sort of electric impulses"well, how do those impulses travel? We
do not have a body, no brain to sense any rhythm with. And if we could
send electric impulses, then what prohibits that ability right now?�
Father TimeTs eyebrows dropped with fatigue. oWon't this kid ever shut
up?� His mind built up an argument, taking information from the different
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filing cabinets of his brain. Joe King quickly sat back in his chair, satisfied
with his dispute. His hands shot behind his head, where he held his short
curled hair in his palms. His eyes flickered quickly to the corner of the
room, and his attention was stolen temporarily from Father Time.
ig Each panel was almost a foot in size,
so the spill was quite large. The thought of water flashed through his head
quickly, the visual image of a loose pipe. After class heTd tell Father Time,
who~ notify a janitor or someone. It wasnTt any of JoeTs business. Father
Time drew in a long breath and expelled his attack on Joe KingTs philosophy.
oThe religious view of death is resurrection, of both the mind and the body.
But to say that the same matter that makes up your body now would live on
after death is false. The matter of your body is constantly changing, throwing
away the filth and birthing new matter. Perhaps the soul can resurrect
itself in a new place, such as your souls starting here, on Earth. Maybe
your soul continued its journey on Earth. Maybe your soul will conclude in
Heaven, or perhaps your soul cycles itself and lives again in this world.�
Joe shot up from his arched frame, erecting his body in the seat. His eyes
lit with fire as he began to anticipate the victory. With his knife and fork in
each hand, he began his tirade. Father Time could only sit down in his chair,
content with his own dispel of information. HeTd had enough of this little
shit, this kid who always felt that it was his duty to question every single
remark that he'd sound off. Even the slightest unbelievable statement would
spark an onslaught of intellectual performance. Father Time had once loved
his craft, his art of lecturing these bits and pieces of intellectual education.
But this kid took all that heTd ever once loved and kicked it into the sun.
oLet's put this into perspective: the humanTs mind cannot grasp certain
amounts of information. When our bodyTs computer is processing too much
data, we tend to feel faint and heated. This is a headache. Some people
find that their ability to sponge information wears them down, leading to
death. So tell me, how can we possibly live forever when we are not able
to even grasp one lifetime's worth of memories? How are we able to go for
infinity without a migraine if we cannot go one month without one?�
As if in an art gallery, the heads shifted from one piece of art to another.
Like a courtroom, the silence was overbearing on the two debaters. It was
worse for Father Time, who felt like he was in a cage being whipped. Father
Time, the nickname for the aging professor of philosophy. Ever since five
years ago, when he suffered his second stroke, heTd joke around calling himself
oFather Time�. To his dismay, the name picked up and now every student in
his classes would call him the name. Father Time drew in his breath once more
and looked to young Joe King, who sat in his desk with the presence of a god.
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oYou are appealing to the idea that the brain transcends the
connection between this world and the next, but I never said that
the brain lives. WeTre not sure about how the soul exists. Or where it
is. Still, your mind is able to intelligently construct ideas and beliefs
about flowers, mothers, and colors. When you see a pink flower,
the statement of oa pink flower� comes to your mind, right?�
Joe bit his lip in bliss, acknowledging the fact that Father Time was
spewing out bullshit now. He had no idea how to back up these ideas, he
only knew how to profess them to the uneducated mass that sat in the
classroom. Well Joe King, the opurveyor of science� at Westin University,
would shine a light into this darkness. He began his banter in accord
with Father Time, and then quickly shot into a different direction.
oWe do not know where the soul is. Or what it is. Or how it works! To say
that it can live on after death is completely immature and stubborn. You
know nothing about this concept of the soul yet you are so completely able
to define what it will do in the future. Thousands of years ago, the concept of
stars worked in the same way. But they werenTt stars back then. They were the
eyes of gods. They were watching us. Protecting us. But oh, suddenly we look
at one and wow! ItTs a planet! ItTs a body of rock just like our own! The point is,
itTs daft to make conclusions on things we know nothing about. My evidence
is our own history, our own decisions on ideas that we know nothing about.�
2
The sound of footsteps passing outside the classroom was
the only sound wave to break the silent barrier. One kid at the back
of the room let out a loud owhoa�, which sat thickly on the air above
the pupils. Joe King felt the silence and loved every moment of it. His
eyes shifted from Father Time to the corner of the room once more.
He sat up straight, his eyes fiercely held not in awe, but in concern.
The blemish had grown! JoeTs eyes followed the stain, which had spread
from the corner to the center of the room! It was only six feet from
where he was sitting, on the right side of the classroom. It was strange
though as the substance didnTt look wet. Nothing was dripping and
nothing was too bizarre, other than the fact of how fast it'd spread.
Something strange... the rate it had spread meant that it should
be spreading a foot every minute! It wasnTt moving right now, it had
stopped its pace. Joe had strained all his thoughts on this spot that he
JidnTt notice Father Time go into his refute. The growing monstrous
blot on the ceiling was all that Joe King could concentrate on.
_ Man was built far superior to any living thing that has ever preceded
it. We are able to make logical decisions. We have built a language that is
brilliantly designed to accustom every single concept of the universe.�
84
Father Time looked over to Joe, who was away in his own thoughts. He took
this chance to continue his lecture and free himself from this horrible dispute.
Maybe a few drinks tonight would help heal his wounds. Only ten more classes
until Winter Break, which meant a new class of manipulative little minions.
oBut, we must move on.� Joe King frowned deeply upon hearing
this, acknowledging his inability to control how they structured the
lecture. If it was the teacherTs command to continue the lecture, it was
the studentsT response to listen. Perhaps Joe someday would teach a
few classes, just to spite the manipulative spirit of Father Time.
The lecturer rambled on for a few more minutes until King remembered
the lively stain on the ceiling. His eyes swept the classroom, realizing the
whole ceiling was sick with this disease. He shot out of his desk, knocking
over his books and pencil. Father Time abruptly stopped the lecture and
turned around to scream at whoever had interrupted him. The other students
looked with equal wonder at who and why someone had screamed. They saw
young Joe King, standing against the wall, pointing above them to the roof.
only taken up a different color, but it had taken up a life form. The roof
sagged with weight, bouncing up and down. Everyone immediately
rose from the seats, screaming with anxiety and fear. Father Time
only sat with thoughtful eyes, his mind running across fields.
oWhat is it?�
oGet out! Everyone get out!�
oIs it going to fall?�
oOh my God! Oh my God!�
The sound of screeching desks and shoving bodies was all they heard.
Then came a large cracking noise, followed by a strange blip blip blip.
Without warning, the brown monster came shattering to the floor,
crushing bodies against the floor. Grunts administered as heads cracked.
Dust flew in all directions as the ceiling imploded under the weight.
Doors in other classes began opening instantly, teachers erupting
from their rooms with concern. The noise had shaken the whole
building! They ran to each other, counting heads and asking questions.
Within a few seconds, it was apparent that Father Time wasnTt in
attendance. They bolted down the hallway, three doors down, where
dust was filtering out from underneath the door. A red liquid also slowly
poured from underneath, telling the story of what had happened.
The first teacher grabbed for the door handle and turned the
handle. He tried to open it, but too many bodies were massed at
the door. They began to slam their shoulders into the door, but to
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no avail. Students and teachers huddled around the door, looking
through the tiny rectangular window. The dust was still flying about,
attempting to rest on the mass of bodies and plaster on the floor.
oThereTs someone!� shouted one of the teachers, who instinctively
began to bang on the door. They shouted, calling out for one
student who stood alone on the other side of the classroom.
oThatTs Joe King!� shouted out one of the kids behind the teachers. They
began calling his name, but he only stood like a gargoyle, looking upon
the death and destruction that had just happened inside the classroom.
No one saw any brown monster or liquid on the plaster. The only color, other
than the white dust and ceiling plaster, was red liquid seeping between the
ceiling tiles. That catalyst of the destruction had left as quickly as it had come.
But they did see young Joe King, the opurveyor
of science� of Westin University.
They saw Joe King crying,
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Over 18 BILVION diapers are consumed per year.
This is 82,000 tons .f plastic.
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I sat, cramped in a small trailer next to my three older male cousins
a pop-up table in the corner. There was not enough space for my
~ire family in the trailer so the extended relatives sat outside. |
ked around at the small home and thought to myself, oI must make
re of myself than this.� My three cousins were your stereotypical
ood olT southern boys, who just made it out of high school.
One of my cousins turned to me and asked, oSo what grade are you in again?�
oFourth.�
oHow're your grades?�
oThey are good.�
oI bet theyTre all ATs.� My three cousins laughed and commented on 133
how they had never seen an A in their lives. They did what they could to
get by, like watching a movie instead of reading a book. They were not
jealous but proud of their only girl cousin, who happened to be smart.
oYeah, but itTs more than that. I am considered academically gifted
, and get to take special classes.� My enthusiasm for school bubbled
r, and I launched into a detailed explanation of projects that I was
loing and books that I was reading. Around my country relatives,
my accent was not noticed or commented upon. Only around non-
Southerners did I find myself questioning my pronunciation of words.
My three cousins allowed me to go on for a few minutes. A shared
nk expression that denoted their lack of understanding was
d on all three faces. One of my cousins, Kel, finally spoke.
~We're proud of you, but ITm afraid we just aren't following your
choolinT. I mean we had one type of class for everybody at our school.
Charlotte must have some fancy classes or somethinT. Out here in the
cun-tree, we just donTt have stuff like that.� My cousins grew up in Holly
idge, about an hour away from Wilmington. They are part of my dad's
e of the family, which originates from Rocky Mount, North Carolina.
ey quickly changed the topic while I sat there in silence. How
could they not be interested in school? I prided myself on achieving
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good grades in school and already planned to attend college one
day. Why did they want to remain ignorant country yokels?
Every time my family makes the four-and-a-half hour drive down to the
eastern part of North Carolina I experience similar ignorance from both
my mom and dadTs side of the family. My parents always make sure to
point out my relatives as examples of what can happen to someone who
does not have a college education. They explain to me that they were first-
generation college graduates, and that I must continue the tradition.
I was an innocent middle school, sixth grade girl. I stood in my
classroom on a warm summer day conversing with a boy from my class.
For whatever reason, | decided to talk to this boy named Stephen. I was
not overly fond of him as a person because he was often loud, causing
classroom disruption over something unimportant. Plus his name wasnTt
pronounced phonetically; the eTs in his name were short and said with
an oif.� However, I was known to be quiet, friendly, and nice. I obviously
could not break this established expectation, so I talked to him.
We were discussing something unimportant, when he stopped in the
middle of the conversation. Stephen exclaimed in a voice loud enough for
the entire class to hear, oYou have the biggest Southern accent that I have
ever heard.� Everyone turned around in the class to stare at me, and I was
suddenly embarrassed by something that I had never noticed before. I had
always thought that my Southern accent was normal or mild compared to
a lot of people I knew. I guess I forgot that I was in Charlotte where many
people were not from the South. I was comparing my accent to my Southern
relatives from the country, many of whom spoke with more of this trait.
I assumed the issue of my obig� Southern accent was over. The next day
as I was standing in the lunch line, I noticed Stephen talking to two or three
girls. I overheard the conversation and realized that he was telling them about
my accent! I could not believe it. No one had ever had a problem with my
Southern accent in the past. Stephen proceeded to say, oIn all the years that |
have lived in Charlotte, I have never met anyone with an accent like AshleyTs.�
Well, in all the years I had lived in Charlotte, no one had ever commented on
my accent. | assumed that he was from the North and clearly had never heard
someone with a strong Southern accent. He was an outsider to the community
of the Southern dialect. I felt that since he was not familiar with the dialect,
he really should not have commented on my accent. Everyone else agreed with
him in the lunch line. They all turned to me and encouraged me to pronounce
certain words that they knew would probably demonstrate my accent. |
wanted to clam up. Why was | the only Southerner around when I was ina
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region of the South? I caved in to the peer pressure and pronounced the words.
te
Say several.�
oServe-al.�
oSay tobacco.�
oTobacca.�
oSay library.�
oLie-berry.�
Everyone said, oAgain. Again.� After about the third time saying
the same word, I was done with this game. I felt humiliated.
Everyone giggled, as though I was a circus anomaly.
This event propelled me towards correcting my Southern dialect. I was
suddenly aware of how many words in my vocabulary had an accent attached
to their pronunciation. I mentally documented anytime I discovered that
a word | thought was pronounced a certain way, was in fact pronounced
another. I kept a mental inventory of those words and practiced saying them
correctly on my own. | wanted to sound intelligent and be able to converse
in ostandardized� English.
Debate was an organization that helped me hone my speaking skills
to a more ostandardized� form. Debate was the one setting where my
Southern dialect did not affect the way that others interacted with me.
As one of the few females in a predominantly male division of the Debate
tournaments, I found myself respected after I gave one speech in my
Chamber. I had chosen the Congressional event at the Debate tournament
because it was a more professional and realistic mode of public speaking.
In the rooms where we competed, called Chambers, everyone was expected
to dress in formal business attire and refer to one another as Senator or
Representative. Before we arrived at the tournament, we all received packets
that detailed the resolutions or bills that we would debate in the Chamber.
Other male teammates from my school respected my ability to speak on
an award-winning level that equaled or bettered their performances. Every
tournament | put on my professional identity, assuming the role of the
well-prepared and well-spoken Congresswoman. I prided myself on my
ability to present speeches in a clear, and to my knowledge, accent-free
voice. In the past year and a half, I had trained myself to adopt a voice
that could pronounce words with little to no accent. My voice was deeper
and carried with it an air of authority. I was not to be trifled with.
And it was with this confident attitude that I presented my speeches in
my Chamber at Harvard. Yes, the best high school debaters were allowed to
enter the halls of the famed institution that represented the societal standard
igo
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of high-quality education. After a time where each person struggled to gain
the right to present his/her speeches, the session of Congress was over and
we all took a break. I usually took control of a chamber quickly, and was
disheartened to discover that no one really appeared to be a leader in our
chamber. We were the best debaters in the country, all holed up in one room,
vying for the right to proceed to the next level of debate. A girl from my
chamber came over to me after the session and peered at me with a look that
definitely did not convey the normal competitorTs air of perusal. She looked
at me as though I were just the cutest stuffed teddy bear she had ever seen.
She remarked in a clearly Northern accent, oYou just have
the cutest Southern accent. Where are you from?�
I thought that while I maybe had not articulated my
point as well as possible, my voice had at least been unaccented.
She stood there waiting for my response while I struggled to recover from
my dumbfounded shock. I mumbled, oNorth Carolina. Where are you from?�
oNew York City.� She looked satisfied that her assumption that I was
from the South had been confirmed. She walked off with her friend
while I was left to figure out how my speech had been Southern.
She had meant the comment as a compliment, actually liking my accent.
If the comment had occurred on the streets of Boston, then I probably
would not have minded, but the fact that my Southern accent had managed
to creep into my speeches disrupted her good intentions. My Southern
identity and my professional identity were supposed to remain separate.
I asked other people from my school about this comment and soon found
myself angry over the supposed compliment. She must have thought
my speeches were Southern just because she was from New York. She
clearly had an accent too. Her accent influenced her speech as well. She
had probably never been to the South and heard a real Southern accent. I
chalked the comment up to ignorance and grew angry over the idea that
Northern speech was superior to Southern. Who were Northerners to
dictate the correct pronunciation of words, when many of them had accents
as well? Shouldn't they strive to rid their accents from their voices? No,
only the Southerners had to worry about being viewed as incompetent.
I did not proceed to the second round of debate. I thought that I had
presented strong arguments in my speeches, but it was so very hard to
tell. Could the judges understand what I was trying to say? I hoped so.
The next day, I received my feedback sheets from the judges. I had excellent
scores on my speeches. Most of them were near perfect. The deciding factor for
winners most likely dealt with the judgesT memories and personal preferences
on participation in the chamber. I guess my accent had not hindered my
speeches at all. No written comments were made about my accent. I just lived
with that inevitable fear. I must have failed to make myself noticeable enough
in a chamber where every word counted and everyone fought to be heard.
It was a bright, sunny day. I walked hand-in-hand with my boyfriend
of two years, Brandon. BrandonTs family was from Ohio. Brandon
always said, oI was born in the South, but am Ohio raised.� He did not
have much of an accent, but if there ever was one, it was Northern.
We walked into the mall past a family. The people in the family were
carrying on in loud Southern accents, laughing and yelling.
oJimmy-Anne, wereTs your mama?� yelled one man.
oTalkinT to that lady from her work.� Jimmy-Anne
pointed in the direction of her mother.
oWell, you had better go and tell her to come along. We ain't
waitinT much longer. Everybody's gettinT impatient.� Jimmy-
Anne ran over to her mother to deliver the message.
Brandon shook his head, cringing as he did so.
oWhatTs wrong?� I asked him.
oI canTt stand their accents. ItTs grating to the ears.� Brandon replied.
oWell, what about my accent. ItTs Southern. Does it bother you?� I
was concerned. I had always tried my best to eliminate this problem,
and here it was again. Just when I thought that it could not get
worse. My boyfriend, of all people, must only tolerate my accent.
Brandon stopped walking and turned my face up to look into his eyes.
There is a difference between someone with an educated Southern
accent, and someone with a redneck accent. And yours is clearly not redneck.�
I smiled brilliantly. Finally, there was someone who understood
the difference in Southern accents! I felt that all my hard work had
paid off. I realized that I never really had a problem with being from
the South; I just did not want to be viewed as unintelligent.
I turned to Brandon. oWant to go to the the-ate-her later on?�
Brandon smiled and shook his head over my obvious
mispronunciation of the word theater. oWhatever you want.T
I still speak with a Southern accent in my day-to-day life. I no longer
feel as though the world is against my speech. However, I am able to
recognize the appropriate situations where my formal speaking voice is
needed so that others can better understand me. Everyone is not from
the South and may struggle to understand certain words. I do not think
that all Northerners view Southerners as illiterate. Instead, the Northern
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dialect is faster moving with more emphasis on vowels. Southern speech is
slower and more drawn out. To a Northerner, anyone who does not speak
quickly must have some sort of learning deficiency. Yet, Southern society
does not feel the need for the imminent rush in speaking because we are
more concerned about people's feelings and emotions. This difference in
dialect extends into a difference in regional ways of life. | have learned
to understand these differences in society and incorporate these ideas
into how I view my accent. Speech-giving always requires a degree of
professionalism which includes speaking in a ostandardized� way that
everyone can understand. It does not mean that anyone who does not
speak this way all the time is any less educated. I have realized the distinct
difference between my professional identity and my Southern identity.
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AMANDA SCOTT
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As I stare at the light brown maple piano that rests against the blank
wall in my house, my eye jumps back and forth in reaction to the sunTs
random reflections off its wooden surface. Everything is silent while I
sit on the pianoTs matching bench. The smooth feeling of the black and
white keys on the tips of my fingers causes my mind to wander to a time
almost eight years earlier when I did not sit on this bench alone.
My grandma used to sit next to me and play the harder portion of oHeart |
and Soul� while I played the easy part. This tradition was repeated multiple
times during my visits to Virginia, which helped seize my persistent begging.
complex and ear-appetizing melodies filled the room every time her fingers
[loved watching my grandma play music. It had always amazed me how such
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touched those keys. I thought of her talent being somewhat related to speaking
a different language and beyond my skill level. She lived in an apartment by
herself because my grandpa, Bill, had passed away a decade before my birth.
The apartment air was filled with the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume
permanently lodged in my memory. Jane, my grandma, was a short woman, a
trait most of the Scotts owned. She was in her sixties with a body composition
that had become less thin over the years. Her head was covered with short
gray hair, the kind of gray hair that is soft, shiny, and reflective of more than
one value. Most days, she wore dressy shirts with knee length skirts, hose, and
short heels that matched her outfit. She never left the apartment without her
| complementary earrings and necklace, most frequently pearls. | had concluded
that her favoritism towards formal attire was a product of the life she had
presenting herself as a teacher. Being her granddaughter, I knew the other side
of her closet. When she did dress casually, it was in stretch cotton pants, flat
slip-on shoes, and a t-shirt. She must have had every color because her apparel
always coordinated. The accessories stayed with her regardless of her outfit
genre. The final touch that completed her look was red lipstick. Unlike a lot
of people, she looked classy and elegant when her lips were colored. She had
other appealing traits that were placed beneath the surface but easy to find.
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She was blessed with characteristics that were apparent in her mannerisms.
Her strength and wisdom were admirable in themselves. She handled
problems alone without concerning others. The love she displayed for
her family was inspiring and made me proud to be a part of it. She could
be intimidating or timid depending on situations. Her ability to portray
opposite attitudes so appropriately was an aspect I grew to admire.
The last day our family sat with my grandma in her apartment was
not an ordinary visit. We had come to return the unfailing support all
of us had repeatedly received from her. Sometime in the previous years,
a stomach aneurysm had unfortunately afflicted my grandma, leaving
removal as the only option. After one more oHeart and Soul� duet, it
was time for her to make her appearance at the hospital for surgery.
When it was my turn to say goodbye, I stood beside the white hospital
bed trying to imitate the strength I saw in her. My eyes seemed as though |
was looking through a camera lens where all the surroundings, except Maw
Maw, were out of focus. I told her everything would be fine, knowing the
outcome was out of my hands. The unspoken possibility of complications
made it undesirable to leave her side. No matter how many times I was driven
to repeatedly say, oI love you Maw Maw,� she appeared calm. ITm sure her
unworried exterior expressions were more like a charade intended to ease
my doubts. What turned into my last conversation with my grandma also
became the beginning of a month blurred with tears.
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Unlike many of the days prior, I remember everything about May 7, 1997
vividly. The portion of the hospital that had practically become our home
for a month was in the shape of a hollow square. The opening in the middle
was filled with a beautiful garden area which purposely contradicted the
dreary mood that never seemed to leave the inside of the brick building.
I sat in the garden that day as I had many times before, on a handcrafted
wooden chair waiting and soaking my thoughts with sadness. Before my
retreat, the family had been told that all hope for my grandmother's survival
was diminished. Shortly after the heartbreaking news, I was instructed,
oYou, your brother, and your cousins wait outside.� Their words had been a
guide, which led me back to the garden that day. I gazed inside the window
as my parents, aunt, and uncles set off through the electric double doors
that I hated. I knew what they were doing once the doors closed, making
the left at the corner and going to room three to be with her during her
last moments. I was only twelve at the time and had firmly decided that I
detested this part of life 1 was being introduced to. Although I sat in the
garden with my brother and cousins, we were each alone, speechless from
grief and confusion. | wanted so badly to cry, but it seemed the previous
month had already drained all the tears my eyes could produce. | stared at
the diverse colored flowers and clean-cut bushes for what seemed to be an
eternity. Patches of fresh green grass were divided by a brick path with an
outer layer constructed to match the building. I was upset and the scenery
around me seemed to mock my situation. Regardless, I allowed my eyes to
follow the pathway until I realized it led nowhere. The warm air was filled with
nothing, except the occasional chirp of a bird to break up the heavy silence that
overwhelmed the compacted area with no intention of vacating any time soon.
I tried not to focus on reality by letting my mind take me to a happier time.
ly let my thoughts wander to the day my grandma received her
I willing
seventieth birthday present. I was ten at the time, and somewhat unaware
of how much my dad's surprise would mean to her. For about a year, my
mom had been driving a white Mercedes with a tan leather interior. My dadTs
determination to make that birthday one to remember brought him to his
decision. We were scheduled to meet my grandma at the halfway point between
Mooresville and Newport News. My parents were meeting her in order to drop
off my brother, Clay, and me. Every summer we repeated the ritual of spending
one week in Newport News with my grandma. Unlike usual, this time we drove
two cars because one wasn't making the return trip home. My dad had decided
to give the Mercedes to his mother. My uncle rode along with her, but she
thought it was simply for the company. After three and-a-half hours, we arrived
at the McDonaldsT meeting point. Since she had beaten us there, my dad didn't
have to wait any longer. When she stepped out of her old red Toyota, a look of
confusion claimed her facial expression. oWhy did you drive two cars?� It took
her a minute, but after observing the smiles on her family membersT faces; she
: . She must have hugged my dad twenty times. She directed jokes towards
her other son for being an accomplice. As I smiled and looked at the mascara
that had come loose from her lashes, I knew how grateful she was. I had
instantly become proud of what my dad had done. His purpose was becoming
clearer with each hug she gave him. She had given him so much when he was
younger, even though she didnTt have much money. The thought of repayment,
which was the carTs concept, meant more than the actual car did. Until that
moment | never understood, the concept of happy tears. I didn't want to stop
thinking about that time, but reality insisted on interrupting my memory.
Suddenly, the shroud of quietness that had covered us was lifted by a grief-
stricken scream. The deep and distressed voice was unmistakably familiar;
it was my dad. His reaction meant only one thing; life support was cut off.
Ten hours later we were forced to say goodbye. While I sit at the
piano, it is hard for me to believe it has been eight years since she left
us. The details that have been stored in my memory sometimes give
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the illusion of the event being more recent. Even though the month
leading to her death was consumed with bad memories, it cannot
overcome the good birthday times and oHeart and Soul� moments.
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ARIELLE BRYANT
I was self-absorbed, staring at the little strings of fuzz that rebelled against
my hair in the reflection of the black window. I always supposed they made
them tinted just so you could look at yourself when pumping gas. The strands
sprang out as if to say they would refuse to lay like the rest of their peers that
were well-mannered, or at least as much as they could be, and shaped into my
curls. They flew out at the grey humidity as depressing leftovers from that dayTs
relentless rain slid off the sides of the gas station roof, and onto the cheap
gravel parking lot. It was the kind that never felt nice under my feet and made
me shudder when the arches of them went unevenly into the damp rocks.
I had come to terms with the stubbornness of my hair, in fact, sometimes
I whole-heartedly agreed with its flashy red disagreement; in a way it suited
me, I suppose. Disgusted, I glared into that black, tinted window when my
subconscious hit me (and now is when | make that dive, until my brain shifts
and catches with a click into that one hundred percent, morbid beneath-the-
earth feeling).
I pray at gas pumps. I run my hands deep into the cold current that chugs its
way through the hose into the metal handle, tapping into my veins. I poison
myself with thoughts of unaccomplished things; and those truths I always knew
about myself, but never really wanted to think about. Just to be honest, just in
case I was stupid with the gasoline and got myself killed in some horrific and
newspaper-making way. oTeenager dies in beautiful gas station explosion!� oAll
that remained were her shoes, glued to the same spot she always stood, looking
at herself in the window.� I screwed the lid to the valve until the raspy click
rned with an ugly growl. I placed the hose back in its rightful destination and
ntemplating my own, marched to the front of the car while sliding my fingers
the damp, freckled windows making a belltoll trail in the dew. My hand
hed the door handle.
at down in the driverTs seat, glancing over at him for a second, apologizing
of time if my carelessness killed him in a blast of stupidity. The funny
s, he didnTt seem to mind, or maybe it was that he didn't take me
sly, or maybe he was happy with himself in a way I wasn't.
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He smiled, I smiled, and with a sarcastic laugh, I thought maybe it would be
better to explode with a grin, a flash of pearls, than to implode with a frown.
I flipped up the sun visor and fixed the unfixable fate of my hair. I couldnTt
quite get it the way I wanted, those frays of static red dancing around my
skull in a mournful sway. Then for a moment, I closed my eyes and prayed. If
that is what youd like to call it. If praying means the same thing to everyone
I suppose the world joined me in this exact instant. Shutting our senses for a
second, still dug deep into our subconscious voice. Letting go of everything, to
free ourselves of guilt while we turned the keys and readied for that confetti of
body parts that I had convinced myself would inevitably come some day.
The ignition clipped my eardrums, and I gasped at the silence"as if
surprised that God would sound this way.
With a full tank of appreciation and relief, I turned the gears, the wheels,
and my brain back to reality, back to the highway.
ARIELLE BRYANT
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LITERARY MAGAZINE
The early afternoon light comes through diffused; itTs bouncing off the brick
and barely fitting into the room as it inches past the fire escape. His fifth-floor
perch receives all of the aromas that the building can squeeze out. Someone
elseTs breakfast burrows in our lungs, the coffees clink and rattle with the black
chatter in the street, we are barely stirring; quietly spooning and sneaking
skittish kisses between the sheets.
As Iam closer to the wall, heTs the first to lift himself from the cot. I follow
the living religion with a curvy obedience and finger the tattoo of a burning
cross, nailed to his back as he sits there rubbing his face and flipping open a
phone. He tells me the time and groans, taking a moment to reach back and
stroke the fire sprawling out from my head in a mess of morning curls. I kiss
the ink and it sizzles on my lips. The flames are perfect and permanent on his
spine. I imagine him a romantic arsonist, the same who struck the match on my
tongue, the one I set my life aflame for and the reason I go to ashes at his feet.
ITve got this curse you see, loving so pure and whole-heartedly that I barely have
the blood to keep the rest of my body functioning.
He asks me, o What do you wannaT do?� Then, with my mind still fascinated
on re-tracing the black heat on his back, I speak without thought (an ability
I most have smoked away). oBe with you�, I say. He pauses and turns for a
moment to reveal that grin, the smile ITve never seen him give. ItTs sick and
sweet, twisted at the edges and in the corners of his lips I sense a long-awaited
happiness even he was surprise to know still existed. Oh my ellipses, my
Cheshire, my lonely jester; it is in your thinness that you evade my grip. As
we kiss, I feel Harlem wheeze its last karmic moan from the ashtray on his
windowsill. It crawls out from itself, budding clover green until I leave the city
ill, and with a fire burning away at me on the inside.
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164
Remember that day we were under water?
You wore your sunglasses in the car
so that the light made streaks on them;
gold and citric.
(They made me think you wanted to be home)
Now I know where you belong,
or sometimes I catch you ripping the peels from
oranges, wishing it would bring you closer
to the sun.
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MELANIE GNAU
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You declared, oIam no longer in love�
* the way you declared, oyou have too much white clothing,�
matter-of-factly throwing Easter dresses
and worn-winter-white sweaters into the bathtub
with steaming hot water and three packets
of Kelly Green Rit dye.
Sunday I scrubbed the queasy, green ring around the bathtub
drain with your toothbrush (and Ajax).
But nothing stilled the sound of
I hate green! and 167
I still love you!
resonating from thg tile.
ik 0 Aare er A em
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LATASHA JONES
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I
I am not sure what it mearig
But itTs hard you see
To wear the lye and live a lie
My hair, you see
It is not straight
Rather, itTs coiled tightly
Stubborn at times
More often than not
Standing fluffy
Astute
I run away from it
Afraid, I guess
It is mine, yes
But, I do not know it
And it does not know me
I turned it down
Way back in my single digit days
Back when, I told myself I wanted to be white
Back then, I needed it to be
Straight, long hair was beautiful to me
The epitome of it all
And I wouldTve settled for wavy and short
Just to get away from my tight stubborns
Living with the lye
I lived with my lie
That one day
My mane would be long
Luscious
Like hers
She was white
I was not
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But back then
I could not discern the difference
I could have her long locks, I thought
If I tried hard enough
They would be mine
And then, my head could shine
Be proud to be long and fine
Not tight and stubborn
HowTs it I hated my coils so much?
Still, afraid
Not ready
To take on the extra baggage that comes
With wearing natural tresses
Men today
Then tend to stray
Away from the beauty of
Stubborn coils
Maybe they think
She will be as stubborn as her name
But anyway, is it true?
That oIam not my hair�
Yes, maybe.
No, even more so.
Lam it
It is me
Living with the lye
Iam, still, in a lie
I guess that I still hope
Deep down inside
That I too, will have those long tresses
Luscious & thick
But even if my mane does reach that point
What does it mean?
Does it really matter?
It would not be mine
The lye did it
And it would still be a lie
Today, I still live within the boundaries of the lye
And the lie that itTs created
Ashamed that I wear it
Afraid to let it go
Iam a brown-hued goddess
And I am running
From the most distinguishing attribute that I own
Stubborn coils
They are mine
They are hiding behind the lye
Reaching out for attention
Being burned away & damaged
A means to assimilate me into the masses
Not as a neo-soul love or a wannabe naturalists ethnocentric
But, an appeased Negro
Trying to fit in
One day, I guess
I will let it go
Tomorrow
Maybe today
I do not know
Afraid
I suppose
That some asinine man won't look at me twice
Assuming I am stubborn like my coils
Iam, maybe
But my hair, sorry Arie, it is me
[am it
An extension of my personality
Sorry Arie
We are one
And right now
It is struggling to be free
To breathe the truth and not the lye
But.
i
Am.
Not.
Ready.
Afraid, I guess, of what they will think
Will I still be beautiful underneath?
All I know is nt ITm kind of incomplete
Running from my stubborn roots
Afraid of what you'll think
Yes, Iam pro-black
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But fam pro-be-myself as well
Tam ot sure who that is anymore
I guess that is why
I still liv with the lye
In this lieo
Afraid to be T
They say it doesnTt matt Pe,
What your hair is like
That itTs who you are
That determines who you are
That is a lie
And that is why
Black women today
Are afraid
To be judged by their hair
So we rush
And schedule
Time to hide our roots
They say that nappy
Is not negative
That itTs about how you use it
But its inception was not positive
So its use will not be either
And itTs just like saying onigga�
You canTt say it unless you are it
You canTt say it unless you have it
Dictionary.com even thinks so
oUsed in derogatory reference�
oTo the hair of black people�
oOften�
oOffensive�
Damn right.
So Iask oWhy?�
Why are these coils
Offensive to you?
It is, after all, just hair
And it is hated so much
Anda Madam Walker
Capitalized on that odium
And became who she was
Because stubborn coils
Were not white
They were black
The tighter
The blacker
She was born free
And freed black women
From their stubborn coils
(Or so she thought)
But it is not her fault
But then again, it is
Tight coils burned straight
Original state altered
Black women were not freed
They became captives of their hair
Simple, it seems
But we are our hair
Itis we
> Tight coils are offensive
Se
They suggest due than you know
And mean less than tou'd think
Your hair is an extensi , of you
And the lye is just an extension of
Cultural erasure
| NATHAN T SNEAD
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the sun begins, to descend
I find it is the right time
to stretch my yawn and say siesta.
The couch calling, my pen falling
from my fingers. They sleep in Spain
every day from 2 to 4. Oh God
thank you for the pillow. Proof God
exists and loves us to descend
to fuzzy dreams, of coastal Spain.
Where we sit on terraces and time
sags as we drink to the sun falling.
Cool wine takes us to Siesta.
The dark-haired serving girl says si-esta
bien. We say, oh yes God
wants to watch our glasses falling.
We leave the terrace to descend
the long stair to the sea in time
so my friend can ease his pain,
in the azure sea that laps at Spain
on sandy shores where we siesta.
Afternoon becomes a land of forgotten time,
and conversations with God.
Another skin of wine has descended
in the arms of the falling
175
ls
wind. What a way to spend fall
warm water relaxing at a spa in
heaven. Who is Isabella to make mercury
descend?
Did I invent her in my siesta
dream. Isabella, is she the God-
dess of propelling time,
or just pouring wine in a dream of time?
I smell reality and the sun has fallen.
Awake again face licked by my Dog
I stare at my wall poster of coastal Spain
Remembering the world of my siesta
Home again sad descent
Maybe next time [ll stay in Spain
Never falling out of my siesta
Thank you God for my sleepy de
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index
Aiken, Corinna
Baldwin, Sarah
Bartlett, Travis
Bibb, Mary
Braxton, Jessica
Briggs, Benjamin
Brooks, Aaron
Bryant, Arielle
Clark, Megan
Countertop Hero
Daly, Andrew F
Detwiler, Kareena
Dudley, James
Enojado, Shawn
Fineman, Jeremy
Gillespie, Ian
Gilreath, Ashley
Gnau, Melanie
Hegler, Sarah
Holland, Whitney
Jones, Latasha R
Kelischek, Stefan
Mason, Jaymee
McNeely, Jessica
Miller, Kristina
Sits ee ee drawing, 54-55
PONG PIE oa ccn eerie cere textile design, 208-209
POI oo ss ee book arts, 24"25
TR oe oe fiction, 60-67
BOLI digital photography, 44-45
Thanatopsis ....... ee ee eee printmaking, 188-189
ST music*, 129
IG Lee .... music*, 129
I Ws Never Gadd at PIsTiing ...0.c..ccceecenenosrosee poetry, 164-165
Way Pidrlet: RONGISS ANCE |i. sccc sacs ciececnienees non-fiction, 150-151
PES Eee I oo nieces ee non-fiction, 146-148
Pelee Weenie ee metal design, 122-123
Fe ras eee music�, 129
Wirhem re music*, 129
Py A OE I ois eset printmaking, 186-187
PE SCP CIE) once crore te eee printmaking, 182-183
Py OPUS IEE) oc ccc vecccecnetcnncoecsvacvenss printmaking, 184-185
ST ee eee eee ore graphic design, 96-97
PCI PCIE Bae ooh vcg cen ecsveseecncocsonies graphic design, 94-95
fs eee ae " a eae illustration, 108-109
Sree ......--. Llustration, 104-105
Pepe bane... sculpture, 196-197
PGE FICCI ccc cen reece cert senceenions digital photography, 42-43
OG) ge 9) Se er ere illustration,110-111
pee 8. graphic design, 100-101
ig ci Sas a Gener | ove neue Gn iier meena mre digital photography, 46-47
eee, tsrt"o~(o~istsSC@wSC*o(;R ceramics, 34-35
PO is ee, C-
a ee metal design, 124-125
Bre Ca poetry, 166-167
rs film art*, 88
Pati City Linits Pegi o.. enc cenescecenenervss graphic design, 98-99
TE IG igri ec POee, 100-175
I ei wood design, 224-225
ge 2 traditional photography, 216-217
EN i traditional photography, 218-219
BOGE A book arts, 22-23
BaGh Wit DOP SINE BOK occ cscencscrersevnsseces book arts, 20-21
Weegee Clie... book arts, 26-27
cm
Nettles-Coates, Sydney
Ofalt, Jessica
Outcalt, Amanda
Parker, Matthew
Pitts, Christopher
Sailors, Holly Ann
Salisbury, Bethany
Scott, Amanda
Sheppard, Austin
Simmons, Toby
Simmons, Toby
Snead, Nathan T
Sujjavanich, Peerapon
Sullivan, Owen
Talley, Isaac
Thigpen, Nicholas
Tuomi, Gregory
Tyler, Jana
Vasil, Jamee
Walker, Elizabeth
Walker, Thomas James
Watson, Michaelé Rose
Webster, Michael
| Wooten, Chris
| Wrenn, Ashley
Zouhary, Caleb
SOOT TI So snd anes sevens textile design, 202-203
FG ices te een textile design, 206-207
PG in rc textile design, 204-205
GODT oars i sine drawing, 52-53
ABTAE ES TO FI eset reiseiasyces painting, 160-161
SRT IE as tics tosses metal design, 118-119
Morgan Remained Dry After the Rain.......... painting, 158-159
Untitled a os drawing, 56-57
IN DBs crcneniicistame eee animationT, 15
Wonderful Word ic animation�, 17
Alphabet GAR oiiicccteco sie film art*, 90
RoutineT nn ca film art*, 91
URE TTD nc animation�, 16
Gis Gd FONG oo drawing, 50-51
Vous oF Ce RAE etic illustration, 106-107
WAC FIO vei es ss non-fiction, 140-145
MOG Acer sculpture, 198-199
SOMO OUI vos rssc ice sculpture, 194-195
BOARD cocci film art*, 89
Wh oe animationT, 14
WING poetry, 176-179
MICTD: An Exploration of Spoken Word ....... interactive design*, 114-115
POT CP BOOT OF opie metal design, 120-121
AV oe painting, 154-155
Apave te Css fiction, 68-73
CO oa fiction, 74-79
CONSENT ICEING FANIAEY sss eee digital photography, 40-41
Fe Sa en ROR ce ee traditional photography, 214-215
BVOC TAIIOIOY oo traditional photography, 212-213
WEA oe wood design, 228-229
Mine non-fiction, 132-139
Arbbrowiog Marple Bart) oacccsossngovscossvsvesenertivcees wood design, 222-223
Pa OT no a wood design, 226-227
eT eg eee SSIS Fal EPP EOE e Oe ceramics, 30-31
ON a ee painting, 156-157
ier aes a sculpture, 192-193
Meact Ma at Bia BOs sicce-arccessrsnsocssoncivs>s textile design, 10-11
OM a ceramics, 32-33
NS I cs ee ceramics, 36-37
lez
Julian Blackburn
Catherine Coulter
: | Stephanie Dicken
A
i | Ira Varney
| ed
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232
John Hoppenthaler
Yice Irizarry
Erica Plouffe-Lazure
Edward Jacobs
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233
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staff
Chris Schwing
Amber Josey
Courtney McAuley
James Porter
Craig Malmrose
Henry Stindt Photographic
Paul Isom
Yvonne Moye
Janet Stancil
Kate LaMere
Craig Malmrose
Lisa Beth Robinson
Ylce Irizarry
production notes
Theo Davis Printing
2,000 books and DVDs
Komori Lithrone S40
Cover: Reich Paper Clear CT 105#
Text: Neenah Environment PC100 White 804
Chaparral Pro, Avant Garde Gothic
copyright
Rebel 51 is produced by and for the students
of East Carolina University. Offices are located
within Student Publications in the Self-Help
Building. The contents are copyrighted 2008
and 2009 by Rebel 51. All rights revert to the
individual artists and writers upon publication.
Contents may not be reproduced by any means,
nor stored in any information retrieval system
without the written permission of the artist or
writer. Printed with non-state funds.
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paper consumption
total
1,400 Postcards
400 Posters
250 Liability Forms
250 Important Date Sheets
1,500 Flyers
500 Entry Forms
726 Copy Editing Pages
2,000 Books
£S,70.,012
95,354.25
97%
238
special thanks
Joe Baricella
Julian Blackburn
Catherine Coulter
Stephanie Dicken
Vicky Fanberg Emerge Gallery
Holly Garriott
Joseph Grubbs-Hardy
Genevia Hill
John Hoppenthaler
Paul Isom
Ylce Irizarry
Edward Jacobs
Stephanie Koch
Kate LaMere
Craig Malmrose
Harrison Metcalf
Yvonne Moye
Erica Plouffe-Lazure
Frank Pulley
Lisa Beth Robinson
Lacey Siva
Janet Stancil
Gunnar Swanson
Ira Varney
Henry Stindt Photographic
Theo Davis Printing
University Printing and Graphics
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