View
214
Download
0
Embed Size (px)
DESCRIPTION
Fall 2009 Collegiate Scholar
Citation preview
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
Table of Contents
2
Art Peering...........................................................................................................................3 My Old Chair..................................................................................................................4 Untitled..........................................................................................................................5 Ireland in Silence............................................................................................................6 In the Garden.................................................................................................................7
Poetry To My Altair...................................................................................................................8 The Book Plague............................................................................................................9 Winter’s Quarry............................................................................................................ 11 Barcelona.......................................................................................................................13 Seven Days of Angels.....................................................................................................15
College Life Path of Stepping Stones................................................................................................17
Pop Culture Cooking Relationships...................................................................................................21
Short Story Birthday in Ecuador......................................................................................................24 Living with the Enemy..................................................................................................31 In an Emerald................................................................................................................34 Finding my Wings.........................................................................................................42
Political Detroit’s Depression......................................................................................................51
Autobiography Stuck in the Middle........................................................................................................57 In My Grandmother’s Kitchen......................................................................................61
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
3
“Peering”By Elisabeta Pindic
University of North Carolina, Charlotte
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
4
“My Old Chair”By Ann Rummelhoff
University of Wisconsin, Madison
7
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
“In the Garden”Stephanie Butcher
University of Nevada, Las Vegas
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
8
To My AltairBy Catherine T. Nguyen
University of California, Los Angeles
IOn summer nights, a river flows, Silver through darkened skies.See there, Altair and Vega fair,Their stars on either side.
Behind these stars is a love storyThat deeply moves the heart.Of lovers who see one anotherYet still remain apart.
Altair was a handsome farm boyWhose charm lay in the flute.A man of music and of letters,His mind quick and acute.
Evening came; the day takes leave,The night serenity lends.Then a maiden of immortal kindFrom Heaven’s halls descends.
Fair Vega whom Heaven adoresWas skilled in weaving arts.Embroidery her hands perfectWith silk pure as her heart.
Each night they met in secretBut little did they know,The Jade King watched from high above,A frown creasing his brow.
IIMy daughter, he’s of mortal kind.Your love cannot go far.His life will end, with it his love,And you with empty scars.
My heart I have given him, father.My will takes not it back.Death and time can never part us.Certain I am of that.
Your Highness, though I am but mortal,My love remains undying.All manner of trials I’ll endureOr face eternity trying.
So let it be as you both proclaim.A test I will put forth.A river I place between you two,Impervious its course.
Prove to me that love endures,That faithfulness stays true.And in the completeness of time,This ordeal I’ll remove.
Yet, even the Jade King was saddenedTo give lovers such harsh trial.Thus a bridge one day each summerUnites the two a while.
An allegorical poem based on the myth of the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
9
The Book PlagueBy Elisabeta Pindic
University of North Carolina, Charlotte
Books! Books! Everywhere books!No need to go far for one simple look.
A pleasure indeed you shall findWhy, you’ll be half-way through in no time!
At home, the library, or schoolNot to wander would make ye a fool!
Go out, read your favorite style,Pages are richer than that remote control dial.
See the epidemic of pervasive books! Contagious, thick and rugged in looks.
Observe the novelty, syntax, diction of eachAll set out just for you to beseech.
Symptoms and side effects, you can be assured,Never proved so creatively secured!
Regard the myriad of words breeding one tale,Now heed the many letters all eyes come to hail.
How many words can one author compose?How many more letters do you suppose?
Bound in every work are characters and plot, The prospects are endless--how does one opt?
To far away lands of fantasy and heroes you’ll soar,
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
A world of imagination knocks right on your door.
Kings and elves and lovers and fiends,All beget a fancy now to your dreams. Sail away with fantasy, fiction, or folk
Or learn (be learned of the) with the Balkans, Bourbons, and the Baroque!
Come, marvel at the art of this life wonder,Never has there been such a worldwide hunger!
10
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
11
Winter’s QuarryBy Nicholas Planty
University of Rochester
True cold bites the softest cheekStinging winds desire a taste, as well
Tight boots constrict chilled feet
sinking into white quicksand
Beautiful, yet deadly,
the gleaming barrel
Brown, petrified mapslead past
clinging tree mushroomsBound
to their forest home, as I am
to mineA twig snaps
Thunder responds
Pheasants flutter
The white void consumes all but the fire of
fallen needles
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
Freezing, aching handsbecome frosted beggars
Nippy, painful earsdemand surrender
The rabbit rests warm in his burrow
12
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
BarcelonaBy Rylee Tomlinson
Mississippi State University
Dancer of the Sardana,Home to the Catalans,
Beautiful, humid, happeningcity
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, forI have heard of the horrible Castilian kings;
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: yes it is true, for I have seen the tortures endured by the people from King Joan
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: yes, the Ciutadella was not kind to Catalans.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this great city,
And give them back the sneer and say to them:Come and show me another city with heads lifted high,
singing, dancing the Sardana,
Happy to be free of anarchists, POUM, Castilian kings, Felipe, and Franco
Fierce as a war affected child, a sly, cunning fox, poor, hungry, captured, recovered, succeeding, failing, success!
13
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
Under the Spanish sun, million population, gangsters,Laughing the all-knowing laugh of a wise man
Watching over children.Proud to be the Dancer of the Sardana, Home to the
Catalans, successful at last. Barcelonans.
14
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
15
Seven Days of AngelsBy Erlina Ortiz
Temple University
On the First day
The sky is opening up a trick
Brilliant white falling softly
Angels tumbling from their beds
On the Second day
The morning glow and glory
Shine on the flat fresh surface
Of huddled sleeping angels
On the Third day
They begin to dance away
Their acrobatics twirl towers
On the still cold sidewalks
On the Fourth day
They are tired from their
Trespasses into this tumultuous
World, they’re wet, they wilt
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
16
On the Fifth day
Each flake is purely stained
Delicate piles of disaster
The skin is smooth and hard
On the Sixth day
The world has wearied them
No fun, time to dance back
Invisible they fly away
On the Seventh day
We are glad they are gone
Slippery dances at our feet
Still we look to the sky and wonder
Will they return?
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
17
Path of Stepping StonesBy Megan McSwain
Middle Tennessee State University
“I’d like to be an actor,” said a black boy with a southern accent. “That’s my goal.” He and two
others were discussing their dream careers. I couldn’t contribute to the conversation. I didn’t
know what my dream was.
It was the fall semester of 2007. I still hadn’t declared a major. And I had one general
education class left to take.
We were all waiting in the advising office. Quickly the three other students disappeared
through a maze of cubicles with their separate advisors.
I looked to my left and saw a religious propaganda pamphlet.
“Even Mr. Nice Guy sins, but if you repent you can be born again!” it read. “God makes a
contract with no loopholes.”
I was to meet Carla Hatfield. She was the one in charge of advising “upper-level”
students, or those who put off declaring a major for as long as they could. She was going to help
me decide my classes, my future.
I was 30 minutes early for my appointment. I knew I should have brought Henry David
Thoreau’s Walden along to help pass the time.
Instead, Mr. Nice Guy and I were left to wait.
A small, boisterous woman came in and started talking to some of the cubicle-concealed
17
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
18
people. She wore a sweater that threatened to swallow her. Then she turned in my direction.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said.
It wasn’t until we were out the door and following the blue arrows that lined the walls to her
office when I realized she was Carla Hatfield. I had seen her photo when looking up her contact
information. She seemed to look different in person.
We walked into another advising office. It was small. Only three or four cubicles could fit in
there.
Carla’s desk was cluttered with pictures of children, and lined with papers and tennis
paraphernalia. She pulled up an ACT career wheel on the computer. It looked like the color wheels
I used to use in art class. I sat behind her, waiting for the page to load. Her tennis ball keychain
was swaying as it dangled from one of the file cabinets.
The career wheel had pie-shaped slices that, if clicked, would direct to various occupations
based on a personality characteristic.
Point and click. Point and click.
I’d pick an occupation that sounded interesting or like something I didn’t think could
actually be a job. Carla would then inquire about my picking careers on the wheel.
“What made you want to click on that?” she’d say after every job description was read.
Her eyes were dark. It was hard to tell the iris from the pupil.
“I was just curious,” I’d say.
That would never suffice. She liked to find some deeper meaning to my choices, to discover
my interests. She liked using her psychobabble on me. She boasted about taking a couple of
psychology courses in college, but that doesn’t constitute her as the next Freud.
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2008
19
What about criminologist? she asked.
No, but I think graphology is interesting.
Ooh, what’s that?
The study of handwriting.
She wrote “graphology” on a small pink papered notepad. She had picked this up a couple
of times before. She was probably shrinking me again.
Time ran out of our advising session. I had to make another appointment with her so I
could hopefully have classes to take for the next semester. Registration was soon approaching.
With the enthusiasm of a scientist on the edge of a cure for cancer, she told me we would
venture into the career wheel once more when we met again. We would find a place for me in the
world of majors.
I left her with a skeptical smile and exited the doors. I hoped she was right.
A couple of days later I faced the career wheel once again. We had narrowed the wheel
down to one section: creative.
“What would you label yourself, if you had to?” Carla asked.
Not creative. It seems almost pompous to declare yourself as creative, almost as if you’re
saying “genius” accurately describes you.
Click, click, click. Pick, pick, pick.
More slices from the career pie had been eaten. We had ruled out any kind of hands-on
creativity, like actual art. In my middle school art class, my art projects never turned out how I
had visualized. When my squirrel-shaped teapot turned out looking more like a bear, I realized
art was not my forte.
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2008
20
Carla and I honed in on language. The search for my interests was becoming more specific,
more promising, more real.
“What is it you like about language?” she asked. Could she even talk without question
marks?
“Do you like foreign languages, English?” she prodded.
“I like reading,” I said. She stared. “And writing, I guess.”
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought the sudden jolt of light in her eyes might have made the
iris discernible.
Foreign languages were interesting, but not something I wanted to pursue. English was
fine but nettled with formal grammar and sentence structure. That left journalism to stand alone.
Carla encouraged me to “feel out” journalism.
“You can build on the skills you currently have with writing,” she said, smiling. “Just think
of these journalism courses as stepping stones.”
Stepping stones.
Perhaps it was just a way to ease me out of her office forever. I wasn’t complaining. I
wouldn’t be taking just one measly English class for the next semester. I would have a regular
class schedule and a major picked out.
I had a path.
Equipped with stones.
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
21
Cooking RelationshipsBy Grace Kiyabu
Cornell University
Television programs, photography, and internet websites pertaining to food receive close
attention in today’s society where new styles and methods of preparation are constantly created.
However, novels cannot be forgotten as they also uniquely integrate food to spice their plots.
The preparation of food plays crucial roles in the development of Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of
Maladies. In “Sexy”, Lahiri incorporates food and more importantly cooking into the relationship
between Miranda and her lover, Dev. Cooking, both its absence and presence, reflects Miranda’s
desire for connections while highlighting her carelessness and guilt.
The preparation of food parallels Miranda’s desire to build a relationship. Miranda and Dev’s
affair pushes Miranda to satisfy Dev, which she does by going “to a deli and [buying] a baguette and
little containers of things Dev liked to eat, like picked herring, and potato salad, and tortes of pesto and
mascarpone cheese” (93). In buying the food for Dev, Miranda reveals her strong desire to cultivate
a relationship with him, despite the moral consequences due to his marital status. Miranda always
buys the food instead of cooking homemade dishes, indicating the superficiality of the relationship.
Like ready-made food, the product of the relationship offers immediate satisfaction. Just as she
does not spend the time and effort cooking the food, Miranda does not build her relationship with
Dev gradually.
Miranda’s intense desire for instant gratification leads to carelessness. From the preparation
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
22
of junk food and the fact that “after lunch they made love, on sheets covered with crumbs” (94),
Miranda’s carelessness emerges. This routine persists week after week, and the lack of care defines
their relationship. Like Miranda showing no concern whether she makes love with Dev on crumb
covered sheets, there is no concern for consequences of their affair.
However, as the story proceeds, food, which symbolized carelessness in the beginning,
also symbolizes guilt. Miranda eats lunch with Laxmi at a new Indian restaurant where Laxmi
discusses the status quo of her cousin’s marriage. Similar to Dev, Laxmi’s cousin’s husband also
has an extramarital affair. Moreover, when Laxmi describes her cousin’s situation to Miranda, it
makes Miranda “feel the way she once felt in college, when she and her boyfriend at the time had
walked away from a crowded house of pancakes without paying for their food” (97). Miranda’s guilt
begins at this Indian restaurant, as she associates the guilt with the stolen pancakes. There is a clear
metaphor between the stolen pancakes and Dev, whom she is “stealing” from his wife. Miranda’s
realization of her immorality and slow revival of moral consciousness, triggered by this guilt which
food directly symbolizes, terminates the relationship between her and Dev.
Towards the end, when Dev routinely calls Miranda before coming to see her, Miranda is
watching a cooking show. Still paying attention to the preparation of food where “a woman pointed
to a row of apples, explaining which were best for baking” (109), Miranda tells Dev that he should
not come over. This is the first time in the story that cooking directly appears. Miranda watching
this cooking show while rejecting Dev thus indicates how her desire for a superficial relationship
no longer exists. Cooking requires several processes, including creating the recipe and carefully
choosing and putting the ingredients together. Similarly, the growth of a healthy relationship
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
requires time and care. Miranda seeks to change her way of life through pursuing a relationship that
is more morally conscientious and allows for the actual preparation of food rather than cultivating
a relationship that is solely product based.
Lahiri uses cooking to illustrate a clear change in the kind of relationship Miranda desires.
Miranda evolves from being a careless lover who seeks instant gratification to a more ethical person
who desires the discovery of a more meaningful relationship. Since “Sexy” ends with the final scene
of Miranda’s new engagement to cooking, there is indubitable hope that Miranda will continue
carefully cooking her own “recipe” of what a worthwhile relationship is for her: the perfect blend.
Works Cited
Lahiri, Jhumpa. “Sexy.” Interpreter of Maladies. New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1999. 83- 110.
23
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
Birthday in Ecuadorby Cintia RomanRice University
No matter what, they always carried it with them.
“So are you coming to the game on Friday?” my younger sister, Paulina, asks my mom at dinner.
“Sí...ehh…¿cuando empieza el juego?” my mother inquires.
“It’s at seven, remember? Wait, pa-lina,” I turn to my sister, “or is that when we have to be
there?”
“No, we get there at six-thirty.”
“Who are they playing this time?” my dad asks excitedly.
“SACS- so it should be pretty exciting.”
“Oh cool! ¿Ya echaste sal en el arroz?” My father, changing the subject, asks my mother.
“¿Todavía quieres más??” she asks, laughing at his usual request for more salt.
As a child, I was accustomed to these conversations of a jumbled language- English and
Spanish as one. It never occurred to me that they were in actuality two distinct spoken words. I
realized this when my friends did not understand what my mom was saying when she talked to
me. Or maybe it was in school when I thought learning the colors in Spanish was dumb, and the
kids who struggled must have been slow.
Either way, it was natural to me.
Our life at home is unique to say the least; Spanglish at its finest. My mom talks to us
in Spanish, but we answer in English, and my dad talks to us in English, but my parents talk
to each other in Spanish- only sometimes it will be in English too. Confusing, I know. But it’s
24
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
comfortable.
My parents always carried it with them.
Living in Texas has been a relatively smooth transition for my parents due to the high
percentage of Hispanics, especially in our hometown of San Antonio. Or rather, my hometown. I
am not quite sure if this would be the same term my parents would choose. My parents were both
born and raised in Ecuador- a small, beautiful country in South America, toes dipped in the warm
Pacific Ocean, sitting nestled in between its bigger brothers, Colombia and Peru. This is where you
would find the rest of my family.
Visiting Ecuador has always been an exciting experience for me, but there was always a
degree of discomfort when it came to the communication. I would not call it a language barrier
per se because I understood Spanish completely. Actually speaking in Spanish was the issue, and
conversely, my family there had trouble speaking English.
For this reason, there was a distance, beyond just the physical. Of course, I knew they
were my family, but they were not like my family. At times, it became hard to form that bond that
you see other families have with their relatives. My cousins did not live just around the block,
and my grandparents were not just a phone call away. And I never thought twice about it. On
grandparent’s day in elementary school, I never felt left out. I never felt like I was missing out by
not spending time making arts and crafts with my grandmother or drinking chocolate milk from
the small cartons with my grandfather. It was just understood.
I knew I had all these cousins, aunts and uncles- all these people who had seen me growing
up whether through the occasional visit or through e-mailed photographs. All these people who
filled up those lines on the “Draw your family tree” project that say “grandparent”, “cousin”,
“aunt”, “uncle.” They were names on a line, faces in a box. I did not know them. Ecuador was
25
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
there, the United States was here. The space between our homes, I felt, defined the space between
our potential relationships.
For Christmas of 1996, we took a visit to Ecuador. For some reason I can never remember
the plane rides or the lines in airports, which I am sure were quite long and tedious. I do
remember, however, the heat. It was December, and it was hot. Leaving the airport, I looked
curiously at the hoards of people pressing sweaty palms against the airport doors waiting
impatiently for their passengers to come out. Dark skin, dark hair and dark eyes- a physical
appearance quite similar to my own, yet they remained foreign. I took a deep breath of this sweat
infused air to prepare for the two weeks ahead of meeting new people (all family of course) and
gluing to the sides of my sisters.
We were in the house of my tía, my dad’s only sister, on the day before my birthday. My
Tía María (a fun name to say, might I add) had the most peculiar home. The house itself was
split in half inside, with each half inhabited by a different family. The most peculiar part about
it was that the two halves were mirror images of one another. If you were to look from the front
yard into the two houses, you would see two twin staircases side by side in the middle, with only
a wall serving as their partition. Further in, you would see twin long hallways that stretch far
back into twin living rooms, followed by twin glass sliding doors leading into twin backyards.
From the second floor, you can see the pool appropriated to your side, but a simple glance to the
right would reveal its counterpart pool in the neighbor’s backyard. The house was like the womb
of a mother, holding her two children warm inside. Unfortunately, I cannot recall ever meeting
the counterpart child. I only knew our side, the left side.
It was my seventh birthday. I probably was having some sort of mid-adolescence crisis
26
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
27
because I can remember my dad sitting me down at the table in this unique home to talk about
why turning seven should be exciting for me.
“Do you know how important the number seven is?” He asked, sipping on his cup of coffee, a sweet
and powerful scent that reminded me of my own home.
“Not really,” I replied, attempting to look older with my similar mug. My mug of hot chocolate,
that is.
I have never been one to like coffee. The taste just never seemed pleasing unless it was
doused in cream and sugar. And then it was not so much coffee as it was a cream and sugar drink,
with a hint of coffee for flavor. But coffee was such a pertinent piece of our family’s home, and
apparently, my tía’s home as well. The scent, however, is rich and tantalizing. The smell of coffee
was the smell of my dad peacefully getting ready to go to work. It was the smell of a carefree
Saturday morning where my mom lets us all sleep in, only to wake us with the music of Sarah
Brightman blasting throughout the house. It is such a grownup thing- drinking coffee. All my life
I have seen those who drink coffee as parents, teachers and people in commercials. Even today,
people will offer me a cup, and offended, I think, “How old do you think I am?”
But on this day, in the left side of this house, I was only seven, and coffee was not my
concern. My concern was why should this birthday be any better than my other birthdays? Why
should I feel like its my special day, when I am not even in a place I can call home?
“How many letters make up the keys of a piano?”
“A, b, c, d, e, f, g,” I count on my fingers, “…seven!”
“How many continents are there in the world?”
“Seven!...I think.”
“Yes, and how many days in the week are there?”
“Seven, duh.”
He went on to list that there were seven ancient world wonders, seven deadly sins, and how
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
28
all opposite sides of a dice will add up to seven. A smile spread wide across my face- I was seven. I felt
as if I might as well have been crowned queen of the world. Perhaps turning seven in Ecuador could
be just as good as any other birthday in the United States.
A visit from my family to their native country was a special occasion. A special occasion that
required the attention of my parents from morning to night, bouncing from family home to family
home, meal after meal after meal. Later on in the week, on one particular night, my parents went out
for dinner, leaving my siblings and me under the watch of our grandparents.
As the night grew darker, the earth began to come alive. Winds stretched their arms wide and
joined hands as they swayed in a vigorous dance over the city. The sky was a disco ball of sporadic
light, and the thunder turned up its deep bass.
I have always been terrified of storms, especially during the nighttime. I flat out refuse to
talk on the phone or take showers, for fear of being electrocuted or stranded in a dark shower with
shampoo in my eyes. My dad would say, “It’s just the angels bowling in heaven.” My mom would add,
“Yes, and God has to take pictures of them too. But when they lose, sometimes the angels will cry.
That’s all it is.”
However, on this night, they weren’t there beside me to chase away my fear with silly stories. I
hated that I could not talk to them and that I was left not knowing when they would return. I thought
about finding my sisters, but instead of interrupting their TV viewing session, I opted to sit in a room
and try to preoccupy myself. The windows began to shake and clatter with each slap of the rain.
Strange shadows darkened an already dimly lit room. What made it all worse was the fact that I was in
an unfamiliar place. Yes, it was the house of my grandparents, but it was still unfamiliar to me. I did
not feel that certainty that if all went wrong, at least I knew where I was, where I lived, and where to
go.
It was getting late, and my parents were still not back. If I did not have them to hold on to, who
else was left to keep me safe? It was hard not to think about it, and soon enough, I began to cry in
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
29
helplessness. Abuelito Alfonso- my grandfather- walked in wondering why this little rain (to him,
at least) would be so frightful.
He was wearing these long pants that reached high across his midsection, tucking in a
light button-down shirt, open at the collar to let his skin breathe in the hot air circulating stiffly
in the room. His hair was a light gray forming an upside down smile across the back of his head,
delicately combed back in a style reminiscent of his youth in Spain. He addressed me in Spanish
to not be so afraid. I struggled to translate his words quickly in my head, on account of the added
colloquial lisp I was unaccustomed to hearing in my own home. He sat down next to me and put
his arm around my shoulder and spoke his words of comfort. I can still smell his powerful scent-
a strong mix of cigarette smoke and a day’s worth of arduous sweat slowly evaporating from the
rough hairs on his arms. As he spoke, I watched the flashes of light illuminate the pale walls and
listened to the deep rumbles that ran richly through a familiar path.
“Ay mijita, no llores,” he implored. I could not help but allow a smile to escape the corners
of my quivering lips.
I have always loved how Spanish can make a word more meaningful with a simple ending.
It was not hija, as in daughter, nor was it mi hija, as in my daughter. It was mij-ITA [me-he-ta], an
affection word that could roughly be the equivalent to “honey”, “dear”, or “my dear little child.” It
was that little ending that added a touch of love, a touch of familial connection. He addressed me
in a way my parents did; he spoke as they spoke.
He was not just anyone else’s abuelo- he was my own, my abuelito. His warm grasp around
my calming body was so familiar, like he had been hugging me everyday of my life. He was holding
me as my parents held me. He was holding me because he was my family, not another cutout
face glued hastily to a poster. I supposed being in that room with that rainstorm was actually no
different from being in my parent’s room with our Texas rain.
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
My parents had always carried Ecuador with them.
In that moment, I did not care I was not in San Antonio. I did not care that my birthday
song would not end with a “Happy Birthday”, but with a “Cumpleaños feliz.” My family tree felt
thicker, stronger. Perhaps distance does not mean separation.
It was then when the broken rain became a smooth shower; the room was no longer
dim, but only a soft glow; the heat blew warmth. And a faint scent of coffee seeped from my
abuelito’s breath.
30
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
31
Living with the EnemyBy Elizabeth Linn
California State University, Northridge
Journal Entry - 1 January, 1942
A Country under Occupation is a sad, depressing and dismal state of affairs at best, but at
the turn of a new year, there is a poignant sense of despondency mixed with a faint glimmer of
hope that someone somewhere will come and save us from this ever present darkness that has
taken over our beloved land. Before they came there were promises of protection, aid and a swift
defeat of the German army – in fact, many felt the Germans were “no real threat to Holland” – my
how wrong they were! Certainly it would seem to me - and I, dear diary, am no military strategist
- that Hitler’s swift occupation of much of the continent of Europe would certainly suggest the
possibility of a real threat. Days, weeks, months and years have gone by since the day they arrived
and it seems the allied forces are no closer to defeating them than the day they first arrived.
Everyone I know is living in a constant state of fear. Food is scarce now and it seems that
all of the supplies that come are kept to feed the German soldiers - forgive me for saying this, but
it makes me sick to think that there are people starving – children starving – and all that food is
being wasted on men who are no better than animals. God knows it would be better to use the
food to feed the animals, and then at least we would have some livestock that was healthy enough
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
to breed. Heavens listen to me go on. If anyone ever found these pages I am afraid it would be
off to the Commandant for me, my dear diary.
Just when you think you have things figured out, they throw something new at you
– curfews change at the drop of a hat; one day you are allowed books, the next you are not;
sometimes music is ok, the next a certain composer is on the banned list – especially if he
or she is Jewish or of Jewish descent. Keen attention must been paid to these rules, for the
consequences of breaking them are disproportionate to the crime for one and horrific for lack of a
more descriptive word.
Let me give you an example that has broken my heart. My nephew plays the piano, fairly
reasonably. Now, he was giving a small concert for a group of friends – nothing big or fancy, just
a small gathering of people. On a whim, he started to play the anthem of our beloved Country.
People were moved beyond words! Quiet reverence; tears of pride and a renewing of human
spirit flowed through the room as his finger flowed across the keys. Right as the piece hit the
crescendo (I am not musical but I think that is what Nephew had said one time), in burst a whole
regiment of soldiers – guns primed, shouting “Raus! Raus!” (I swear that is one of the only words
they know – well that and “Juden Raus” or “Verbotten”). Shots ricocheted around the wooden
rafters as the soldiers barreled their way through the crowd.
32
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
Those who resisted were beaten, dragged to the street or shot. Unbending and unyielding
to cries for mercy or pity the Germans are cold, automatons – obeying mindless orders and killing
at a whim. Vast amounts of lives have been lost since they came here; mostly our good friends
who happen to be Jewish, those who help them in the underground, those who are different in
any way or do not wish to conform to the cruelty being forced upon us – for that you risk you life.
Wilhelm, my nephew, is in Germany now – apparently he is in one of those labor camps – we
have not had word officially but have heard through the underground network that he was taken
there on one of the transports that left a week ago – Christmas Day – can you imagine they even
transport prisoners on Christmas!
“Xenophobia” – that is what I have decided I have – it is racial intolerance – I do not think
that describes me or my feelings towards the Germans actually, although it is something that the
Nazis have managed to take to a whole new level and meaning of the word. Yet I fear for myself
that in all of my resistance and in all of my struggle to understand this extremely dark side of
human nature we are exposed to on a daily basis, part of this darkness is reflected in my own heart
and resonates through my being to the extent that I comply to their demands and live within their
rules. “Zeig Heil” – that is their cry – I wonder if they know who it is they are praising?
33
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
34
In an Emerald By Kaitlyn Davis
Johns Hopkins University
Anna pulled aside curtains of long branches, lightly moving the twigs to reveal more jade
like stalks. While playing on her porch, she’d heard a door open and feet scuffle, noises from the
townhouse next door, and decided to explore. The tall, dense. leafy wall of hedges blocked the
neighbor’s house from her view. But she hadn’t meant to go so far in; she was just curious and
decided to push a few stalks to the side, trying only to catch a glimpse. Nothing could be seen, so
she kept inching forward until she was standing in the middle of a green sea with no notion of how
to get out. She felt as though she were trapped in an emerald gem: in a beautiful prison. She kept
moving forward, pushing and pulling against the branches. Tiny twigs scratched across her face,
leaves entangled themselves in her hair, and the ribbons of her dress trailed behind her, trapped
in the foliage. Her curiosity had given way to a desire to escape and Anna spurred forwards. She
could hear the crackling of breaking twigs and the munching of her shoes stomping on leaves, and
she fought on.
Finally, Anna reached her hand out and met no more pesky twigs. Excited, she jumped
through the opening and caught her ankle on a branch. Twisting in midair, she landed in wet grass
with a thud, dirtying her dress beyond repair. She looked up at the clear blue sky above her and
a smile stretched across her face; she was glad to be in the open air again. After standing up, she
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
began to clean herself off by pulling at the little stems in her hair and plucking the bush leaves that
had attached themselves to her knotted brown tresses.
“Excuse me.”
Anna straightened immediately and turned slowly towards the sound. A boy stood there,
with his weight resting on one leg and his head cocked inquisitively to the side. He had shaggy
black hair, a deep brown skin tone and next to his feet stood a stack of pristine white paper,
ruffling slightly in the breeze and held down by a rock. He was holding one bright piece, luminous
in the sunlight, and it was tightly folded together in the shape of a triangle.
“What are you doing?” Anna stepped a little closer to him. She had never been so alone
with a boy, her mother was usually around, and in school, she only played with her friends. During
summer, the hedges of her vacation home usually held her trapped.
“What am I doing?” he asked Anna while looking at her strangely.
“Yes…with that paper?” She was hesitant to talk with him, wondering if she should just fight
her way back through the hedge.
“Making paper airplanes,” he said, while slowly creasing the sheet with his thumb.
He didn’t ask why she had come, and Anna didn’t know what to do. She stood for a
moment, looking at the boy, watching him fold the paper. Behind him stood a town house, just like
hers, with a small wrap around porch and peachy walls. They were standing in his small backyard,
and Anna felt comforted in its similarity to her own.
She looked at the boy again, who had ignored her to work with his paper, and sat down
35
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
next to him to watch what he was doing. Surely her absence would go unnoticed for a while,
she assumed, and focused her attention. He folded one side, then flipped the paper quickly
around and folded again, flipped again, folded again, and suddenly he held a perfectly formed
plane in his hand. Anna had no idea paper could fly. He handed her the plane and she watched,
mesmerized, as he grabbed another sheet and started to fold again. This time when he finished,
he lifted his hand close to his eye and suddenly thrust it forward, releasing the plane. The paper
sailed at Anna, frightening her and skimming past her face. After the initial shock, she laughed
and retrieved the plane as the boy looked on, shaking his head. The next time he loosed one into
the air, she snatched it up in her ready hand and they both smiled.
The boy worked quickly through the stack, and a mountain of airplanes piled on top of
Anna’s lap. Each one was different; their unique styles created different flight paths. Some raced,
others slowly arched, and some gradually circled in little loop-d-loops towards her open hand.
When he was finished with his work, he held a plane out to her and told her to try. Anna took
it, held it close to her eye and launched it forward, forcefully. It spun to the ground and lodged
there, nose first. She picked up a new one, and again it sunk. The boy walked behind her, covered
her hand with his and showed her what to do; telling her how to fix her eye on the target and
imagine the air passing under the wings, forcing the plane higher. This time, the plane soared.
Anna laughed, and then smiled nervously at the boy. He lightly held her hand, and she could feel
the heat from his skin even after the boy sat back down with a grin. Anna picked up a new plane,
and decided to try by herself. The little white airplane left her hand and flew right into the boy’s
lap. She laughed, and then bit her lip and paused before grabbing a new plane. The boy looked
on, and smiled encouragingly.
36
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
“What’s your name?” he asked, separating the planes into two piles as he spoke.
“Anna,” she replied as she watched his hands quickly move, flying through the air like one
of his planes. “And yours?”
“Landen.”
He filled his arms with one of the piles and walked over to drop the planes on her lap, and
then walked back to his place. She tilted her head to the side questioningly, but he would reveal
nothing.
Suddenly, he grabbed one of his planes and threw it straight up into the air as high as he
could. Without stopping to see where it went, he threw up another and another, barely pausing
for a breath. Anna quickly caught on and threw all of her planes into the air. The little white
planes swiftly disappeared in the glare of the sunshine. Anna looked up, waiting for them to come
back down.
Landen moved closer to her, looking up as well. He made Anna a little nervous with his
nearness, and she felt her heart pound in her chest. They both straightened their heads, holding
eye contact briefly before a white plane fell between them. Anticipating more, Anna looked at the
sky, and tiny white specks began to appear. She flung her arms out to the side and spun around.
Planes slapped against her hands as they dropped, and Anna laughed as the sky fell all around
her. The more she spun, the faster her laughter came and the faster the planes seemed to fall. She
spun and spun, and when streaks of whiteness no longer surrounded her, she fell on the grass in
a heap, crunching planes and leaves below her. Her body shook with laughter, and she rolled to
37
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
the side, unable to stop herself. Landen was still standing, but she couldn’t see his face. The sun
was caught behind his head, silhouetting his features, but she knew he was looking down. Anna
laughed more, her sides beginning to ache, and continued to roll on the ground, but she watched
as Landen walked around her, picking up the planes that had scattered across the yard.
When he had finished, Landen sat down beside her and began to fix all of the planes that
had been crushed under her weight. Quiet now, Anna rolled over to watch him work. The brilliant
white paper, in pearly against his bronzed hands, highlighted his every movement. Slowly, he
smoothed his fingertips along the creases, crisping each fold. She took one of the planes and
began to work along side him, following his movements precisely. While running her hands along
the fragile plane, she noticed that her own fingers nearly blended with the paper. Landen reached
out to help her, his hand touching hers softly, and Anna giggled while catching his eye for a brief
moment. Flustered, she broke the contact and picked up a plane, letting it soar aimlessly across
the yard. The white sheet drifted along the hedges, visible against the deep myrtle backdrop as it
fell slowly towards the ground and sifted to a stop in a deep patch of grass.
“Anna!” Jolted from her thoughts, Anna looked into the bushes, trying to spot her mother
across the way. “Anna Marie!” She jumped up and raced back towards the hedges, stepping
through the small hole created by her fall into Landen’s yard.
“Bye!” Anna called back, turning her head quickly for one last look at Landen. He was
sitting quietly on the grass with his head turned to watch her go, surround by his paper airplanes.
Reaching her hand through the hedge, she again separated the sea of green before her.
38
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
“Anna! Where are you?”
“Coming, Mom!” Leaves scrapped her face as she forced her way past large branches
and tiny twigs. Through little breaks in the shrubbery, she could see the side of her home. Her
mother stood on the front stoop with her hands on her hips, and an apron around her waist. Anna
stumbled out from the hedges, slowing herself to step as quietly as possible, but her mother’s head
whipped towards her anyway. Bowing her head, Anna walked over to her mother.
“And where were you, Anna Marie?”
“I lost my…my ring and I needed to go look for it in the… the hedge.”
“Inside the house now, young lady. Clean up and then come downstairs, dinner is almost
ready,” her mother ordered while smacking Anna’s bottom with a spatula. Anna knew her mother
wasn’t really angry with her, but raced up the steps regardless. Once in her room, she opened
her curtains and peered out the window, trying to see into Landen’s yard. The hedges stubbornly
blocked her view. Anna could see nothing of the yard or the boy she expected was still sitting there
surrounded by pile of paper airplanes.
Reaching into her pocket, Anna pulled out her own remnant of the afternoon, a crumpled
plane, and pressed the folds to make the paper fly again. She looked up at the vanity mirror
before her, and was caught by surprise at her own reflection. Leaves were still tangled in her hair,
and even little twigs were caught up in the twirls of knots. Faint pink scratches lined her cheeks,
dragging from the corner of her lips all the way to her ears. Her summer dress was caked with dirt,
smeared with grass stains, and spotted with little holes. She admired herself, pleased in some way
by the untamed look she had brought home. Moving from the mirror, she grabbed some tape from
39
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
her drawer and stuck the little white plane to her pink wall.
Anna washed her face, changed into a clean dress, and walked back down the stairs. Her
family was already sitting for dinner, and she took a seat beside her older sister. Her mother was
bringing the food in from the kitchen, her father was still in his coat and tie, and her sister sat with
her university boyfriend’s pin gleaming from her chest. Anna sat up, matching her sisters posture,
and listened to her family speak. Her father was working on a new case and he droned on about
his workload. Anna’s posture slowly slackened as she tuned her family out. She looked out the
window, imagining a pearly paper plane drifting past her windows and thinking of the boy who
might have thrown it.
“Anna?” She turned towards her sister who had poked her in the leg.
“What?”
“Are you alright? You’ve been staring out the window for about a half an hour.”
“I’m fine, I’m just tired is all.” Anna replied on automatically, and finished her turkey.
Once their plates were cleared, Anna helped her mother clean the dishes. The radio played
softly, slow tunes that matched the quiet tempo of the evening. She sang along as she washed and
tried to clean out the dirt still under her nails.
When her work was done, Anna left the kitchen, climbed the steps and walked back to her
room. Looking at her wall, she noticed the paper plane reflected blue in the darkness, catching the
moonlight. She opened her window, letting in the cool summer breeze, and curled up under the
covers of her small bed.
That night, she dreamt of paper airplanes, hundreds of them, filling the air and fluttering
down to reveal a tanned boy with dark hair folding more paper in his hands. She woke feeling as if
40
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
she were still there with him in the sun. Not yet wanting to wake, she reached her hands above her
head and arched her back, stretching. She heard a breeze sweep into her room, ruffling her things,
and tentatively peered around her room. Her waking eyes adjusted, growing stronger, and she
smiled and laughed at the surprise; sitting right there on her chest was a paper airplane, bright in
the light of the morning sun.
41
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
Finding My WingsBy Marissa Standfast
Florida State University
Sitting here on this graffiti-covered park bench in the middle of the “Windy City” I see
dark clouds veiling over the sun. I can sense the corners of my chapped lips forming a distinct
frown. I need the sun now, this time of day especially. Almost mockingly, the red numbers of a
digital display in front of a Bank of America across the street blinks the time 2:30. It’s the peak
hour of my day. I need this time so I can ensure a lunchtime meal for my stomach, which keeps
interrupting my thoughts, reminding me of its basic human needs.
If I gaze into the conveniently placed bike mirror of a fellow bench-sitter, a college-aged
kid of about 20, my empty stomach might prove to be a less-significant matter. The signs of
aging on my face are truly apparent--- my dark brown, grayish facial hair patching around and
below the thin line of my mouth. I don’t even want to start with the rather disagreeable grime
and stench of my body, as well as the drooping rags covering my lanky, haggard shape. Maybe
sometime this week I could sneak into the public swimming pool showers after my shift out here
on this noisy, automobile and pedestrian-ridden street corner. Despite the weather, Randolph
Street’s people are bustling and lighthearted in their step. The energy is almost electric. It is
42
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
contagious. Maybe it is my newly crafted cardboard sign with Sharpie-scrawled letters, or the lazy
flow of traffic that makes the people seem so at ease and friendly here today.
If this mood keeps up, I will get my lunch in no time…as much as an hour to an hour and a
half. That seems hopeful enough.
Things weren’t always this way for me -- the worn, ragged clothes, the disheveled
appearance, the need to rely on others for my own well-being. Outside of this Chicago park bench,
this sidewalk, this street---- I used to have a life, and even a home. I remember everything so well.
Back then, in my old life, everything seemed so right and easy. I had a steady job as an owner of
a local, prosperous breakfast and lunch joint called “Calkins”. A warm meal was never a question
back then.
“Sunny side up?” My wife would ask me before each morning’s ravenous, hurried rush of
people came in. I wouldn’t have my eggs any other way. There was something comforting about the
runny yolk and my capability to always mix the egg’s white outside and yolky center together. This
occurrence was routine for me--- I knew it no other way. As a boy, things were always handed to me
in this sort of way. I remember being five or six with my father at a large department store. Walking
through one of the squeaky, checkered tile aisles, an orange plastic ball caught my eye. As soon as
my gaze was fixated hypnotically on this object, one swift movement of my father’s hand proved for
me that this desired thing was now mine. As I peered at my delicate reflection illuminating from
this ball, I came to discover the shiny rubber material composing this object was just a fallacy. It
43
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
was supposed to shine brighter. When I arrived home, I spent hours attempting to make this
object undeviatingly gleam. Even in childhood, I preferred a consistent lifestyle that was always
under my control; yet I’ve discovered that life is not always as shiny and perfect as we try to
make it.
A quick, surprising tap on the shoulder pulls me into reality again. It comes from a
middle-aged, red-haired woman that is carrying a large King James Version of the Bible across
her chest. She hands me two rectangular green papers with George Washington’s profile on the
front without a word, and prances away before I can manage a “Thank You.” I glance at this
small contribution to my lunch investment and stuff the two worn bills into the front pocket of
my grungy, plaid, flannel shirt.
Awakened from my certain daydream by this woman, I feel the mist of a light rain on my
skin. I am moved to relocate to the safe shelter of the bus stop across Randolph Street. I grab
my large trash-bag of necessities and then play a body-maneuvering game through the mass of
BMWs, Nissans, and Toyotas to the opposite side of the road. Before settling down and getting
myself comfortable, I stop to notice a gray and blue-colored pigeon on the sidewalk in front of
this transparent, plastic-encased shelter. This pigeon is not one’s usual feather-clad friend. This
bird seems unperturbed by my quick movement onto the sidewalk, and seems to be looking up
toward my face with hopeful eyes. I want to tell him I have nothing left to give him, although
I wish I did; even two or three breadcrumbs would do. But the look on his face is not one that
44
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
displays hunger; it exhibits feelings of bewilderment. I imagine this bird wants to be something
else. Something more pure. Maybe it longs to be a white, peaceful dove. Doves belong in society,
while pigeons do not. They are dirty, old things that just scrounge around for yesterday’s scraps
or scavenge and beg for food from a nearby human. To be a dove, is this pigeon’s ultimate wish.
I reach out to touch this other being I can finally relate to. But before I can feel his soft
exterior, he flies away like a whispering current through the wind.
The steady pit pattering of cold rain against the transparent hood of the bus shelter keeps
in time with my thoughts. These thoughts keep buzzing through my brain like a steady electric
current about the past, thoughts mostly surrounding my wife, Victoria. I miss her with all my
heart. I miss her pleasing sweet pea-flavored scent, her sun-kissed hair, her freckle-splattered
face, the curve of her body.
I clasp my right hand around the rusted, aged charm that’s in the shape of a heart. For a
second, I feel a frenzy of emotion take over me… so strong that I can almost faint. I open up this
3-dimensional item by screwing off the lid and then place a little dab of the sweet aroma of sweet
pea with a tiny hint of wildflowers on my wrist--- my wife’s signature scent... it is enough to keep
me going, just for the day.
When the restaurant closed-down, all hell broke loose with mine and Victoria’s marriage.
Her parents never liked me from the start. Whether it was my simple-mindedness, or my distinct
Southern accent … they never were pleased with me. They thought Victoria could do much
better. “Victoria,” they would say, “You could have any man.” And she could have had any other
45
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
man. A man with an extra summer cabin, a man with a certain charisma about himself and vigor
for politics, any man, in her parent’s eyes, would be fine except for me. Out of spite and love,
Victoria chose me. “They” would hold me responsible for her decision for as long as I lived.
Finally, they got to her. I remember the way she looked when she argued with them on
the phone about me, about our mutual “unemployed” status at the time. The golden locks of her
hair swayed back and forth as she shook her head with her hands acting as a second narrator.
I watched through the sliding glass door, while her feet were dangling through the chipped,
painted blue railing of the porch, sitting upright on a low-resting lawn chair. I will never forget
this image because she left me soon after.
“I just can’t stay, Marshall, why can’t you see that?” Victoria was packing all her
belongings up in those hideous, flowery suitcases that I loved only because they were hers.
Every item that she was attempting to put in her bag, I kept consistently taking out. Her face
was starting to turn a little red; I loved it when she got all flustered like this. “I guess you don’t
understand… I am really leaving. With all my belongings or not.”
The dove looks into the murky puddle and stares at his reflection. He suddenly realizes
he’s not a dove, and he’s never been; he has always been just a pigeon.
I’ll always keep looking for her. That is my life’s task now. Adopting the lifestyle of a
nomad, I thought I could make it alone staying with friends or crashing at a one-night motel
every once in a while, from city to city. After a couple of months, I ran out of money. Becoming
46
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
a vagabond was my only option, every day I still remain in search for her, because I know there
was more reason to her leaving me. Even though some days I feel like a hopeless, friendless bum,
I realize that there is meaning to my life through my search of Victoria.
A day at Lincoln Park with the one I love. We sit there, in the cold mid-February
afternoon. A wooden kitchen bowl is placed between us, containing scraps and breadcrumbs
from the restaurant. Pigeons surround us, waiting to be fed. Victoria always gave them more
than enough. She was too kind. However, she never wanted to stay for long. The pigeons would
have to figure this out some day.
Splattered raindrops covering the exterior of the diaphanous plexi-glass bus shelter don’t
block the view of my certain wistful sight---flashing neon pink and green lights above my head
read: The Café Papillon. In my romantic daydreaming, the plastic Solo cup I forgetfully place
next to my side is filled with 3 more dollars since my encounter with the shy, kind Christian
stranger. This means redemption for my hunger. As if in response to this just-discovered
epiphany, my stomach gives a long, loud growl.
Satisfying my ravenous appetite with a ‘croissant-wich’, fruit, and fries, I watch the people
pass by on the damp street. I’m sitting outside under an umbrella-covered table on the porch
of this favorite little independently owned café. The wide assortment of people that walk, bike,
and drive by pacifies my jumpy sort mood. I am pleased to see such people living in complete
and pure harmony at this moment in time. Business-clad men with black umbrellas march
47
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
along with briefcases towards the gleaming, high skyscrapers in the distance, or their otherwise
gleaming expensive cars--- Mercedes, Jaguars, Audis. Alternatively-dressed teenagers with their
slim-shaped eyeglasses balanced along their noses, books in one hand, coffee in another, lounge
in small, mostly dry corners, benches, and tables nearby. Older couples, with raincoats and
goulashes hand in hand, browse nearby shops… never buying items, never looking for anything in
particular. They seem content with one another.
It’s 3:45. I realize this after I take advantage of the opportunity of a clean bathroom in “my
café”, and glance at the circular, plastic clock on the decoratively adorned pillars in the interior
of this cozy place. But I have already lost interest in the clock, its arrows…the time. My eyes are
glued to the back of a longhaired blonde in the corner of the room, a coffee cup at her side; that
just has to be my wife. Scanning the room, I pretend to engage myself in some of the merchandise
that this tiny café sells, little trinkets that I balance from one hand to another, yet my attention is
still on the blonde. I need to see her face.
After a long moment of my speculating and touching of ceramic as well as plastic coffee
mugs, coffee bean packets, CD albums, and handcrafted bookmarks… the blonde finally grabs
her yellow, patterned handbag and shoots up from her spot in the back. I can’t get a glimpse of
her face, there are too many heads, bodies moving to and fro, blocking my view…these blurring,
mobile Chicagoans need to get out of my view of this woman.
She pushes open the wrought iron door of the tiny coffee building to exit---- “Shit,” I think.
48
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
In the mish-mash of movement surrounding me, I squeeze myself through a maze of people, and
hurry out the same door that she just stylishly gaited from.
To my astonishing luck, she is stopped at the end of the block, petting a grey-haired
stranger’s friendly chocolate lab puppy. Something offensive catches her sense of smell----me.
As she turns, I have to do a double take on her face. Her features include freckles, a wide, cat-like
grin, and a small pointed nose. She looks like my wife, but her features don’t match correctly.
Freckles scattered across her face are in the wrong position, and her eyes are a deep brown instead
of blue. It’s not her. Deception is the worst kind of rejection. Letting out a heavy sigh, I walk
quickly away from her, imagining my past life, flying high to immeasurable, extravagant heights,
in my dreamland as a dove.
I feel a wave of regret. Of things I didn’t do in the past when I had her. She wanted kids,
and I objected. “A huge responsibility,” is what I would always say. How selfish I was. Always
nitpicking things that irritated a man with too large an ego. He was too lucky to realize all the
things in his life that he took advantage of every day.
I spend the rest of my day in the green, wet grass of the local park staring at the clouds that
drifted by, making up shapes out of these gray beasts. One particular cloud shape captures my
attention: a steel-colored bird, wings outset into the expanse of an infinite, blue sky. I fall asleep
to the sounds of motors and the reprimanding reflections of my own conscience. The last image
through my mind before unconsciousness overcomes me is the fluttering of ivory-colored wings in
a ready pose for takeoff.
49
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
50
I wake up sweating with grass sticking to my sides in the dark moonlight, missing her. This
torture can’t last forever. I can’t go on like this. I must wake up from this horrible nightmare and
stop wallowing in my own self-pity. I must gather myself together, and come to the conclusion that
things change and people change, either because they are convinced of a certain reality, or because
they just can’t go on living with constant disapproval from others.
Abandoning the need to live dutifully, and searching for something that isn’t there anymore
isn’t the answer. I will overcome; I will make a new life for myself even though Victoria is not going
to share it with me. If she comes back, she comes back, if not, then it isn’t meant to be. People go
through this kind of internal struggle all the time. I’ll live through this; this pigeon is going to be
okay. One day I just might find my dove.
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
Detroit’s Depression By Robert Guttersohn
Wayne State University
“Let Belva stay! Let Belva stay!” a crowd of about 30 people chant while picketing in front
of the Wachovia Securities building in Grosse Pointe Woods, Mich. With red noses and knuckles
and against the cool, fall wind, the demonstrators struggle to hold up banners with the words
“Moratorium Now!” written in large, black letters.
The purpose for the demonstrators organizing, Belva Davis, is a middle-aged, black woman
living alone in her eastside-Detroit home. Davis fell behind on her mortgage while working as a
substitute teacher in Southfield, Mich. Due to this, the servicer of the loan, Ocwen Financial, sold
the home to themselves in a sheriff sale, an appeal filed by her attorney said.
Around October of 2008, Davis said she found steady work and was once again able to
make her monthly payments. But Ocwen financial refused to reinstate her mortgage unless she
was able to come up with an immediate payment of $19,000.
Over the summer, Wells Fargo – the master servicer of her loan – took Davis to court to
have her evicted from her eastside Detroit home. In August, the court ordered in favor of Wells
Fargo. Davis’ lawyer, Jerry Goldberg, immediately filed an appeal.
Within days of the decision, the mortgage company had dumpsters sent to Davis’ home
despite their knowledge of her pending appeal, the appeal filed by Goldberg stated.
51
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
“They did this in the middle of the day, while I was at work,” Davis said. “They were
being sneaky and intimidating.”
Today, Davis continues to fight for home. But she is not alone.
Sadly, her story is only one of thousands in Detroit.
True, life is hard right now for most Americans; life is even harder for Michigan
residents that face the highest unemployment in Michigan.
But living life as a minority in Detroit is almost condemning.
This came to light on Oct. 7 when 35,000 Detroit citizens showed up at Cobo Hall
civic center, the Detroit Free Press reported. The people showed up to fill out applications
for a portion of the $15.2 million dollars in federal funds geared toward helping people avoid
foreclosures and eviction, the paper said.
But of the 35,000 people that came, only 3,500 will receive any money. This shortage
of recipients created havoc in the civic center as those desperate for the cash began to push and
knock over others in front of them, the papers said.
Before the housing crisis began last year, Detroit residents were already in the midst of a
long recession. Because the city – excluding its suburbs – is well over 80 percent minority, the
condition of the city as a whole is a good indicator of the condition of minorities in the area.
According to the department of labor, in September of 2008 – just before the financial
crisis began – the city’s unemployment rate was already at 16.6 percent while the tri-county
area that surrounds Detroit – Wayne, Oakland and Macomb counties – averaged 8.7 percent.
As of July of this year, the city’s unemployment rate was a staggering 28.9 percent. The
tri-county area’s rate averaged 17.7 percent.
52
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
In 2005, the U.S. department of housing and urban development performed a study that
compared cities’ income to the income of their suburban counterparts.
The study found that for every dollar a Detroit resident made a person in the suburb made
$1.88.
In 2008, Michigan’s poverty rate was 14 percent; Detroit was at 33 percent, according to the
U.S. Census Bureau, which made the poverty line an annual family income of up to $21,384.
Detroit residents, particularly African Americans, were deeply hurt because of the ailing
auto industry and the predatory lending, said Abayami Azikiwe, editor of the Pan Africa Newswire
and organizer of the Michigan branch of the Moratorium Now coalition.
A Sept. 13 story in the New York Times said black people were targeted by mortgage
companies with subprime mortgage loans. According to the article, a study done by United for a
Fair Economy in 2008 showed that nationally “blacks lost $71 billion to $93 billion in home-value
wealth from subprime loans. “
“They were definitely targeted, nationally” Azikiwe said.
But in Michigan, the numbers speak for themselves.
According to a study done by the Center for Housing Policy, the top 19 zip codes in the state
of Michigan with the highest amount of subprime mortgages were areas in which minorities are
the majority. Fourteen of the 19 zip codes were in Detroit.
Gleaners Community Food Bank of Southeast Michigan is a non-profit organization that
provides food to homeless shelters, soup kitchens and other aid groups around Detroit. Anne
Schenk, spokeswoman for the food bank, described the organization as a buyer between retailers
53
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
and aid groups. Through this, the organization has general oversight as to how much food is being
ordered by relief organizations in the area.
“It’s probably the worst hunger crisis we’ve seen in our history,” Schenk said in an interview
with the Free Press.
In a phone interview, she said that in fiscal year 2008, the company moved 28.6 million
pounds of food to aid groups in Detroit; in 2009, the number went up to 30 million pounds. These
numbers are expected to increase, Schenk said.
“We are expecting demand to go up by the end of the year,” Schenk said. “It’s hard to put
numbers on hunger but poverty is the best indicator.”
Schenk said that unless unemployment benefits are extended for another 13 weeks, many
people will be coming off it before the end of the year. Most of them will be unable to find work
and will be relying solely on the places Gleaners Food Bank supplies.
Longtime residents of the city are not the only ones struggling to survive.
According to a study from the Human Rights Institute of Georgetown Law, there are 4.5
million Iraqis displaced around the world since the U.S. led invasion. Because of the high number
of Arabic families that migrated after the Gulf War in the ‘90s, the majority that come to the U.S.
as refugees migrate to Detroit, it said.
“This refugee crisis is unlike most we have ever seen,” said Sister Beth Murphy of the
Archdioceses of Detroit’s refugee resettlement office.
She works in a small building on the eastside of Detroit working to create a new life for
displaced Iraqis.
54
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
A newly-arrived refugee is given three months of job-training workshops, six weeks of
English classes and given eight months of financial support, which includes food stamps and
access to Medicaid, Murphy said.
But the English classes are inefficient, the wage support comes to about $5 a day per adult
and social services are under-manned and under-funded, the Georgetown study found.
The study said that the Lutheran Social Services of Michigan, which aids refugees in finding
employment, received just enough funding to service 300 refugees in 2008. The LSSM wound up
servicing 1,200 that year.
According to Sister Murphy, the high unemployment numbers in Michigan have caused
the services to be backed up with native Michigan residents and refugees looking for assistance.
Therefore, some refugees will go months without receiving financial support.
And the pay is not retro-active either, she said. The eight months of wage begins the day
the refuge arrives in America, regardless if they have received any money at all.
To add to the problem, there are talks in congress of cutting Medicaid to refugees
altogether, Sister Murphy said.
Yet, every one of the refugees that steps through the door of her building were displaced
because of the “U.S. invasion and the consequences of the aftermath,” she said.
The Georgetown study said most of the displacement occurred after the bombing of the
Al-Askari mosque in Samarra that brought Iraq to civil unrest in 2006. As the Sunni and Shiite
religious factions fought against themselves, the Christians were forced out of Iraq and into
neighboring countries of asylum.
55
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
But the refugees soon found that their lives were no better in asylum either – where they
were not allowed to work or to be educated, Sister Murphy said.
Even as many people in the state of Michigan continue to lose their jobs and homes, Sister
Murphy still believes it is important to invest more into refugee social services.
“There are 14 million refugees in the world right now,” Sister Murphy said.
As people continue to leave the state, “refugees and immigrants are the only ones coming
to Michigan. They are human capital,” she said.
“We need to invest a little for their future,” she said. “By doing so, we invest in our own.”
56
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
Stuck in the MiddleBy Abbie Harper
Miami University of Ohio
As she sat there, finally ready to open up, to tell her mom how she really felt without
holding back, Abbie couldn’t help but hesitate. Still trying to convince herself that this was normal
and that teenage girls told their moms how they felt every day, she drew in a breath, ready to
reveal herself for the first time, but after a few seconds of fruitless self-encouragement, she simply
exhaled instead. She had been waiting for the perfect moment, and she wondered, could this be it?
She wasn’t sure, and being silent for so long had made opening up all that much harder. She kept
pushing forward, though, trying to break through the emotional barrier she had never intended
to build. She formed the sentence in her mind, knowing exactly what she was going to say and
predicting her mother’s response.
Over the years, this had become customary for every semi-emotional comment she had
ever made. Since childhood she had been extremely self-conscious, not about her body, hair, or
physical appearance like most girls, but instead about her inner-self. She had no idea why she was
so turned off by emotions. Maybe it was growing up playing every sport offered to her, surrounded
by girls who frowned upon dolls and dresses and only noticed boys who posed a possible threat
to their co-ed basketball team’s undefeated record. Or maybe it was her stoic father’s constant
57
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
reminder of how shameful it was to “wear your emotions on your sleeve.” Regardless of the cause,
she became the very epitome of “hard,” the only one of her friends who didn’t cry in chick flicks,
who had never had a long-term boyfriend, who didn’t greet others with hugs and felt awkward
touching anyone without sufficient reason.
And now here she was, ready to open up, to say for the first time what she really wanted
to say. Once again she opened her mouth slowly, knowing that for her this was completely
unconventional, and however minute it might seem to others, for Abbie, this was a really big deal.
As she began to form the first word of her revelation, in walked Evan, her seven year-old sister who
always seemed to be aware of nothing and no one but what she wanted at that particular moment
and who could help her get it. Now, Evan wanted to read her library book, and considering seven
year-olds aren’t exactly fluent readers, she was going to need her mother’s help. Ignoring the fact
that her older sister was clearly about to say something, Evan barged in and stole her mother’s
attention.
“Mommy…Mommy…MOMMY!” Unable to ignore Evan’s relentless nagging, the mother
looked away from her always-forgotten middle daughter, telling her “it’ll just be a minute,” and
then they would talk. And just like that, the perfect moment was gone. Abbie knew it would be
much more than a minute before they would get the chance to talk. In fact, Abbie knew that the
conversation she had finally been ready to have might now never take place at all.
Discouraged, Abbie got up and made her way to her room down the hall. She sat alone on
her bed, as she often did, and let her mind wander. Lately she had begun to desire that friendship
with her mother that most girls her age had. She was getting ready to leave for college, and time
5858
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
was running out. She couldn’t help but think that it really was…well, hell…being the middle child.
No other word to describe it. When she was younger, she saw it on TV shows all the time—the
infamous “Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!” constantly being repeated on her favorite program. She’s so
dramatic, Abbie used to think.
But that opinion had changed. She could understand Jan Brady’s frustration now. Her own
older sister, Lauren, was the family favorite—actually, she was more like the world favorite. People
always talked about her “big heart,” how she was so compassionate and loving. They would then
feel the need to console Abbie, praising her with, “Oh, you made all A’s? And you say you were in
the paper yesterday for your basketball game? Wow, that’s great Abbie…really.”
You’d think these accomplishments would be enough to win their affection, but they would
immediately turn their attention back toward Lauren. She was the funny one, the one everybody
liked. Abbie could see it in their eyes. When they looked at Lauren, admiration radiated from their
faces; it was impossible not to notice. When their glances shifted to Abbie, their eyes went blank.
It was as if they were waiting, anxiously anticipating the moment they could talk to Lauren again.
No matter what she did, Abbie never measured up. The attention was either being demanded by
Evan or awarded to Lauren.
Sitting there alone, Abbie began to get angry, angrier than she normally got when she
thought about these things. She was important too. She had done everything right. School,
sports, friends—she had it all. She knew her family loved her, but she wanted them to show it, the
way they did with Lauren and Evan. She had had enough. No more being ignored. No more being
forgotten.
59
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
She got up from her bed and marched toward the living room. As she entered the room
where her mother sat still reading to Evan, she realized the emotional barrier within her had
begun to degrade, with every thought of self-assurance destroying another cinder block of
hardness. She squeezed in between Evan and her mother, and they both looked up in shock—
Evan’s originating out of anger for Abbie’s infringement on her time, and her mother’s out of sheer
curiosity. Abbie wasn’t fazed by their expressions; she turned to face her mother as a feeling of
ecstasy rushed through her body like a drug. This was a high she never could have comprehended
until now. Finally, after all these years, Abbie was claiming her share of the attention.
“Mom, I want to talk to you.”
60
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
In My Grandmother’s KitchenBy Erin Horton
University of South Carolina
In my grandmother’s kitchen, my cousins and I wanted to be big. The symbol of adulthood,
ironically, was not sitting with my parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents at the dinner table,
but instead at the counter that divided the added room with the large freezers and washing
machine from the rest of the weathered kitchen. The kitchen air was always thick with heat from
some stove, and the buzzing fans over the counter helped cool anyone below it. Several times,
I fought with my sister and cousins over a stool at the bar, myself usually winning. The other
winner, most often my older cousin Travis, would sit with me at the winners bar—the goal of the
ambition to grow.
My first time on the stool was very thrilling to say the least. The cool brown leather
and worn legs elevated me to the point that I felt like I was floating. My own legs were happily
thumping against the side of the counter. I was suddenly given the outsider’s view of my family,
who were bustling about, filling plates. Closer to the stove than my grandfather, I could easily
snatch the flat, crispy corn bread that we both loved so much. I could sit and eat my food without
anyone asking me to move or pass them the salt. I could have a conversation with my bar mate
and no one else as I sipped my cavity-creating sweet tea and ate at least eight butter beans. The
61
The Collegiate Scholar - Fall 2009
most required of me as a new “big kid” was to say prayer before we commenced eating and talking.
Nothing more needed. “God is Great, God is Good…”
With my promotion came the satisfaction of my younger cousins watching me jealously as I listened
to the adult’s conversations, lounging on my reddish-brown seated stool. I could now gloat about
being sophisticated enough to sit at the bar while they, the unworthy, were banished to the metal
high chair with a dirty yellow cushion, a favorite of all the little kids. Because of my new seat, I
was also now privy to the antics of the older kids, who went four wheeling in the fields and forests
while my mother had told me that I was too young. With my place in the kitchen, I was formally old
enough to go play in the fields. With my unspoken initiation, I was allowed on expeditions of cow
skeletons, old houses and sheds, and to the dilapidated hay house.
The air in the kitchen was always filled with the laughter and talk of children and adults
leaving us all with a feeling of contentedness and closeness. The closeness I felt was the closeness of
being an adult, and then worthy of discussing “important matters” such as children and news with
my parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. The closeness, I now realize due to my growth and
the sudden lack of it, was one of family, happiness, and frivolity, the way a family always looked in
those pictures in the fifties—of people at dinner. That image has disappeared now, along with the
rest of humanity, but it remains in my grandmother’s kitchen. The stool has lost its symbolism with
the incorporation of new members by marriage, and the loss of old family. Nevertheless, our family
remains together and warm, like those aged stools at the bar.
62