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Legacy

1993

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1993

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Reflexions of our world

Legacy

1993

It's not often we are allowed a glimpse of what others see when
they look in the mirror. This Legacy provides that rare glimpse. In these
pages, real people have laid bare their real selves with revealing and
sometimes brutal honesty. They look into the "mirror" of their writing
and uncover their identity— their view of themselves and others.

My hope is that you will read with an open heart. Let others share
their most powerful emotions about God, love, death, politics, growing
up, and the world around us. May this Legacy inspire you to search
your own "mirror."

Brenda Keller, editor

Jhe Writers CJub held a poetry and prose contest in December.

Prizes were given for each category: First prize~$50. 00; Second prize—

$35.00; Third prize~$15. 00. Many of the entries^ including the winners^

are distributed throughout this Legacy.

Special thanks to/oJin Durichek for the use of the computer-aided

publishing lab, to our contest judges, and to the following people who

helped in special ways:

Beverly Camp David Smith

Carol Pettibone Donald Sahly

Patricia Keller William Wohlers

Elaine Janzen Debbie Suarez

Floyd Greenleaf Tanya Cochran

Contest Judges

Pamela Harris, professor,

SC Communication Dept.
Melissa Hefferlin, artist
David Smith, chairman,

SC English Dept.
Mark Kennedy, columnist,

Chattanooga Times;

UTC writing instructor
Sheila Draper, secretary,

SC Testing and Counseling

Writers Club officers

Greg Camp, president
Lori Pettibone, public relations
Brenda Keller, Legacy ed\ior
Calvin Simmons, fundraising
Acela Baglaj, fundraising
Helen Pyke, sponsor

McKCEUfiRARY
1 SoutNniOoliptfSM
CoOefadale. IN 37315

l(f

Love is- - . /

Something in the wind that blows.
Something in the heart that knows.
Something in the mind that goes
Boink.

(/7

—James Dittes ^^P^_ —John

Ringhofer

Only three words

Touch me once more to secure my dreams.
To keep me from receding into darkness.
Whisper sweetness in my ear to dry the tears.
As a mother reassures her lost-but-found child.

Let me hear my name pour over your lips.
Like a newborn mountain spring.
Allow these moments to asphyxiate your soul.
As deadly poison attacks vitality.

Release the strength to make us real.
And breathe that which unlocks forever.
I dare not see honesty in your face
Until you honor me with enduring words.

Say you love me.

—Tanya Cochran

5 3^^

L / She Sat, He Sat

/U3

She sat
On the cool, concrete bench

Anxiously buttoning and unbuttoning her buttons
To make sure the buttons were buttoned
And

Watched the brilliant leaves
F
a
1
1
Scattering and littering
The heavily congested sidewalk
And waited for him
To rush by
But
Notice her new Fall dress.

He sat

On the icy, concrete bench
Nervously snapping and lonsnapping his snaps
To make sure the snaps were snapped
And

Watched the intricate flakes
F
a
1
1
Sprinkling and decorating
The heavily congested sidewalk
And waited for her
To hurry by
But
Notice his new Winter jacket.

He came and went.
She came and went.

And now they only wonder.

—Tanya Cochran

Third prize winner, poetry

Answers in Snow

Night falls, oh wanderer.

Whither are you bound?
Snow falls in patient light;

Clouds drift lazily in and through one another.
Light dims as the sun nears his rest.

Filling the air with violets and roses-
Light oils crushing the azure spirits of day.

And opening the brilliant light of night.

Families of otter wrap and curl themselves
In the knot of warmest family love.

Foxes entwine deep in their dens-
Warmth of family staving off winter's touch.

Deer yard in the midst of forest glades.
Does, fawns and stags together.

Lonely wolves call out to one another

And the high places and valleys echo with their song.

Mighty oaks standing naked in the forest night

Are cloaked in warmth by coats of ice.
Maples proudly lift their arms to the sky

And embrace the snow that falls to greet them.
The Cottonwood flashes her prismatic coat;

Delicate fringes of ice decorate her linnbs
Through the lonesome whispers of the wind

They tell each other of those who dwell in their shelter.

Spruce perfumes the quiet air

His spices are sweet and gladly mingle with
The essence of cedar, clinging to each zephyr.

They spread their promise of spring to
Pine that lets no load overburden him;

He lets his problems fall away and leaps for the sky again.
In silent majesty, noble hemlocks nod at the peace;

Their approval is felt by all who breathe the light of day.

I am he who dwells herein.

My life is caught up in this peace.
Though intruder I surely am, I am loved.

The harmony of nature is the song in my heart.
I am not a wanderer, noble moon and sibling stars,

I turn the pages of this book.
And reading these ever-flowing lines of beauty

Find the thing which it is my life to seek.

In this song of nature, I find myself;

For here I see my Master's face.

-Ralph Waddell

The Actor

Sometimes Tm glad I'm an actor
So I can hide the way I feel.
Sometimes Tm glad I can fake it
So I never have to be real.

You'll never know how I'm feeling
You'll never see me cry.
You'll never be able to detect it.
When I'm telling you a lie.

You'll never have to share my hurt
You'll never really know me.
You'll never reach deep down inside,
and set my feelings free.

Yes, sometimes I'm glad I'm an actor
So I can hide the way I feel.
Yet, sometimes when I'm really hurting
I wish I could be real.

-Lori Pettibone

Waves

Waves crashed against the shore.

Lightning flashed across the sky.

Wind blew strong

through the trees

as we sat by the lake's shore.

We talked of joy and love,

pain and loss.

We dropped our masks.

Unafraid, our true selves to show.

But too soon

came time for leaving.

We replaced our masks,

so others would not see

and went home.

But I still hear the waves

and feel the wind on my face.

—John Lamb

Masks

—Peggy Burrows

All around me I see masks.

Automations

Who know me less than I know then\.

Where am I?

I feel as a watcher

An alien

Inside I am empty.

A husk

Empty and barren of life.

Where are you?

I see, I hear, I smell, I taste

But I feel no life.

Don't do this to me!

Where are you?

Where are you who knows me

Better than I know myself.

-Ralph Waddell

A Quiet Moment
With A Perfect Lover

Deep in contemplation.

We stood for a timeless while.

Your arms might as well

Have been tight around me

For the nearness of You,

Which, until now

Has been an enduring secret.

Mothers with children.

Mothers without.

And some that should have been.

All passed us by.

Some may have wondered

Why I smiled so long.

The most contented,

with the least reason to be.

We strolled or didn't stroll.

As we felt or didn't feel.

So inclined.

The wind as Your fingers

Through my hair.

The sun Your smile.

Oh how warm it was!

You were everything that could satisfy.
And all nature seemed pleased.
That we were—
YOU and I.

—Donna Denton

&IP.1_ WITX ft-UTE
(7) low.— r ti'v^i^/^^"-

I am not the creator
of the music
artfully performed
Nor am I the conductor
who keeps rhythm
and flat pitch in tune.
They call me the performer-
how wrong they are.
They may never know. . .
I only read the notes.
God makes the sound
move in your soul.
He is the Creator,
Conductor,
Performer;

Call me an instrument
and I might agree.

~ Wendy Carter

-John Ringhofer

—Sabine Vatel

Childhood is...

Childhood is getting excited because Daddy wants to talk
to me and then having him tell me he's leaving me. It's trying to
please everyone when there's an extra woman in the family your
mother hates.

Childhood is loving your mother and loving your father
and feeling guilty about it. It's being terrified when your mother
falls and cuts her knee—afraid you are going to lose her, too.

Childhood is living out of a suitcase every-other-weekend.
It's missing your friend's party because you have to visit your
dad.

Childhood is crying yourself to sleep but not knowing
why. It's waiting for Daddy to pick you up to go swimming and
him not showing up.

Childhood is seeing your mother cry night after night and
trying to comfort her. It's not knowing what love is and being
scared you don't love your father.

Childhood is wearing sunglasses to hide the tears when

your parents are in the same room.

Childhood is thinking this is normal.

-Shelly Neff ,

Yesterday You Rushed Through Me

Yesterday you rushed through me
shaking and roaring
crashing and splintering
raging, deafening, overthrowing
overpowering and pounding;
You changed me.
More slowly now,
you gently
roll
and turn
ble
tingling
freshly

ding,
rippling;
You soothe me.
Tommorrow
will
you
tr
i

ck
le,
bar
e

vis
i

ble,
sp
ea
k
in

8
quietly to

my heart?

I will

listen--

for you

Are the voice

of many

ters.

—Jennifer Schmidt

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One Happy Day

The sun is shining brightly
and you are here beside me.

Birds are singing;

children screaming,
and bees are buzzing loudly.

I watch the water speed
through iridescent leaves.
Colors changing.
Rainbows forming,
and shining through the trees.

And it's our happy day,

but all I feel is pain.
Memories changing.
Doubts are forming.

My love—just words I say.

I bittersweet, old poem,
and a painful, fleeting home

remind me you

are fleeting, too.
One happy day on loan.

—Thomas Duerksen

Our Emotions
Collide

I love to

hold you close
Where our emotions

collide
And the birds

sing
And the daffodils

bloom.

—Thomas Duerksen

Photo by
Sean Pitman

Second prize winner^, poetry

A Psalm to God the Father

I had an embarrassing moment today.
My trousers split apart at the seams
And introduced to the world
A flaming red pair of boxer shorts—
My red boxer shorts.

I stiunbled through a gauntlet of laughing peers
I hurried home and slammed the front door shut.
But my embarrassment and my shame snuck in anyway.
I broke into tears and I called to my God:

"Holy Father, sovereign Lord,

You know all things and see all things.

Surely you see my embarrassment.

Surely you know^ my shame.

Surely you heard my so-called 'friends'

When they saw my red boxer shorts

And sneered and chuckled out loud."

And as I cried I felt His arms draw^ around me.

As I fell silent I heard Him speak in a colossal whisper:

"My dear son, I am with you always.

For where you run, I am in the wind that follows;

When you shout, I am the resounding echo;

And when your pants split apart

I was there. I saw your red boxer shorts

And I chuckled too.

For I am a part of life—not apart from it.

I run and sing and shout and laugh too.

My precious son, my tender loved one.

Let me live with you— I gave my life for such a privilege.

And I will.

I will soar with you up on my wings;

I will swoop down and lift you up

When your whole life splits apart.

And I will nestle you on a high place forever. . .

FOREVER.

When I had heard this, I thanked the Lord.

I got up from my knees;

I wiped the tears from my eyes

And I put on a new pair of pants.

—James Dittes

A
an

cuteandcuddly
adorable

and

lovable

bunny
these

All
words

that

have

been

dumped

onyour head Youare
vivaciousrambunctious
playfullyignorantflipping
incirclesenergeticallyand

leapingfuriouslyhopping

runningrunningscreechto
ahaltsniffingtheairthe
grasstheearthmyhandthen
offagainhoppingandhopping
runningrunningsp ringof f allfours
asiftoclickyourheelsandthenfreeze— still
nomovementearsoockednosestillnomovementnone
listeningtonothingwaryofsomethingandthenenergy
takesoverastreakofbrownflashesbyrunningbecause
youare freeandyouwillcontinuehoppinghoppinghopping
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hopping hopping hoppin^>oppin^x)ppingend

hopping hopping hoppin^oppin^x)pping

hopping hopping hoppin^oppin^Topping

-Deana Abdel-Malek

H,':^r

Simile

I rush out and see

the dark, black sky
Flowing across the universe

like your long, black skirt

when it is hugged by tlie wind.
I run back inside

but your eyes shine

like the delicate blue carpet
laughing up at me.
Outside, the silhouetted trees

beckon me,

and taunt me,

like your long, slender fingers.
And all the smells

smell like your perfume. . .
And all the sounds

sound like your voice. . .
And every footstep

is you beside me. . .

You have permeated my senses,
and have conquered my soul.

—Thomas Duerksen

First prize winner, poetry

Don't Pass IVIe By

Don't pass me by

in your red Ford truck—

Didn't you notice my

new suede cowboy hat?

Don't you hear my

radio tuned to the

guitar station?

Fm seventeen and all

decked out

in my natural look—

Can't you just slow down,

take a glance
one is all I
need.

Drawing by Andrea Saldana
and Sean Pitman

Don't pass me by!
Don't pass me. . . bye.

—Jennifer Schmidt

A Flower Will Grow

I movint the burden of sorrow upon my shoulders.
And say good-bye.

My hands are clasped tightly around our friendship-
It's so hard to let go.

I must bury our friendship as one buries a seed
Li the earth.

Our memories I will nourish, and a flower will grow
In place of my pain.

I remember on our first date you wore satin and flowers.

As you do now.

You were so calm compared to my awkwardness.

We are still acting out our roles.

No tears fall, no smile breaks as I gently brush

Your cheek with my hand.

Yet my own face is ravaged

with pain.

Why? Why can't you show me

Your emotions?

How is it that you hide your fear

Of the xinknown before you?

You always said that I was strong— I am weak

In comparison to you.

So set is your jaw. So stiff

Are your shoulders.

Is that determination?

You once said that you could never leave

Someone you love.

Yet it seems so easy for you

To go now.

I implore you not to desert me.

But your ears hear me

No more.

You say not a word
As I pour out my heart-
Just stare with those vacant eyes.
Tell me you'll stay.
Just let me embrace you.
Once more.

I won't make the same nustakes.
I promise.

Is that a flicker of second thought?
Did your chest just heave
With a sigh
Of regret?

Show some emotion.

Cry! Scream! Laugh.

Do anything

But look at me with those empty eyes.

I know you still love me—

Please. . . PLEASE. . .

Don't leave me.

A tear rolls down my cheek.

I catch a last glimpse

Of your unseeing eyes.

As the casket

Closes

On your cold

Heart.

—Deana Abdel-Malek

Mixed Metaphor

I can't escape the

sound of your smile
the sight of your voice the
smell of your embrace
the taste of the way
you laughed at death.

Now it laughs at you

but I feel no humor.

—Brenda Keller

Second prize winner^ prose

Please Don't Leave byEncAakko

It's a cold, misty summer Minnesota morning. Last night's rain left
beads of water droplets on the car, making it look cleaner than it is. The
arrangenrents of the northern excursion have been completed: pay for
the marriage license, reserve the church, and a dozen other things a
couple will need for a wedding. The car's trunk is crammed with
luggage, the Mr. and Mrs.-to-be are anxious to leave, for it's a long
drive back to Tennessee.

The young woman knocks on her parent's bedroom door to say a
final good-bye to her sleeping father. He coughs, sneezes, and then the
bed creaks loudly as he gets up. A metallic sound of a belt buckle being
hastily fastened is heard from behind the door. The bedroom door pipes
a tiny mouse squeak as it opens.

Her father looks the Norwegian that he is: pale blue eyes, ruffled
gray hair pushed back over his head, white t-shirt, baggy faded blue
pants and the thick gray wool socks which are poking out from under-
neath his trousers. He shuffles out of the bedroom and hugs his daugh-
ter.

The father gently strokes his daughter's hair while looking deeply
into her big, blue eyes. He kisses her on the cheek. His large v/eathered
hands show a life of hard work and discipline. They contrast with his
daughter's soft, smooth, flowing red hair. Those pale blue eyes search
her own eyes and seem to ask, "Are you sure? Do you really want to do
this?" In that moment he sees their entire father-daughter relationship.
He remembers the first time she could walk and say "Daddy." Oh, how
that had made him feel so proud. He recalls the birthday parties,
picnics, and summer vacations—all of the good times. She gently
touches his face, which momentarily disturbs his reflections. He wishes
time could stand still. "Don't leave," he thinks. "You can't,. . . at least
not now, not with him, not with this guy who's going to take you, my
baby, away. Why do you have to get married? There are still so many
things I want to share with you, my princess." His pale blue eyes blink
and then he realizes that time cannot stand still—she is leaving.

He hugs her, and kisses her, again and again. The sight of his
beautiful daughter is etched forever into his memory. He will never
forget this moment: the smile on her lips, her kind blue eyes, the soft-
ness of her hair, her gentle touch, and her sweet feminine scent. The
daughter returns a kiss and hugs him, "I love you Dad." He slowly
recognizes that she is no longer his little girl, but rather a mature young
woman, soon to be married. A different kind of proudness swells in his
heart, causing him to smile.

—Peggy Burrows

Changes

hurdling me

against a wall.

Knocking the breath

out of me.

Making me fall into a confused

slump

in a comer,

groping in the

dark

for answers to

the questions

that keep haunting me.

Smashing my easy,

little girl

fantasies and dreams,

forcing me out of

my now safe

corner,

to make

life-long decisions.

—Heather Ty dings

Third prize winner, prose

Th e M i r rO r byUsa Clark

It's a silver picture frame in which all the world at one time or
another is seen. An image appears and is gone. Yet these few clips of
events, of emotions, of life, are what the world is made of.

The picture now is motionless. Chairs are arranged in an orderly
fashion, the mauve flowers in one coordinate with the blue stripes in
the other. The couch squats between them, stretching its arms, beckon-
ing. A tall plant stands to the right of an end table. Its shiny silk leaves,
brushing against the side of the blue stripped chair, give the appear-
ance of reality. Neatly stacked magazines, their covers dulled by
thumb prints, the comers curling back from the pages, add color to the
dark end table.

Soft blonde hair fills the picture and a girl moves through in slow
motion. Two large blue books lie flatly in her arms—a pencil is grasped
in one hand. Balanced on top of her load is an open notebook. As she
passes through the frame, her lips move silently, repeating the same
movenients over and over.

An older woman rushes through. The lined forehead is topped by
graying hair. She pauses and looks around. Shaking her head slightly,
she absently straightens an arm cover on the couch and hurries on.

A tan, leathery face appears in the frame. He slowly sinks onto the
couch and places his left foot on his right knee. The dark brown shoe
moves slowly back and forth. A hand passes over the short-cropped
sandy hair. His eyes dart frequently over to the right of the frame,
down to the watch on his wrist, and back again. Suddenly a blur of
long red hair and denim goes by and the room is empty again.

A loud noise breaks the stillness. It moves steadily toward the
frame. At first, only a long silver handle can be seen, moving back and
forth. Lint and dirt particles disappear under the bar at the end of the
handle. Then a hand appears, then a hunched-over girl, pushing the
handle back and forth. The noise stops and the girl tugs at a chair,
rearranging the spotless room, wiping invisible dust particles from the
end table and restacking the perfectly-stacked magazines. The roaring
begins again and the bent-over girl and silver machine are gone.

Laughter spills onto the picture. White teeth, red lips, heads tipped
back so the gales of merriment can spill more easily from them. Tennis
rackets in blue covers swing from bare arms. Brown legs show under
short skirts. Ponytails blow by the silver frame.

The couch and chairs remain motionless, shedding the emotions
that have rippled over them. The silver frame continues to reflect
blankly everything it sees.

Mirror World

In the mirror world
we see ourselves
as images of stars
and actors.

In the mirror world
all flaw is hidden
and what we see
is what we think
we are.

—Lori Pettibone

—Sean Pitman

True Image

I am nothing without you,
yet you curse me
for your problems.

I never lie to you,

but you shatter me anyway.

Why do you blame me,
when all I am is a
reflection of you?

—Brenda Keller

Fir<ifpn'7f ivinnfr. prn<;e

On Lake Melissa byAndyNash

Like Garrison Keillor, I grew up in a small town in Minnesota.
Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. Population 7,106. Actually, my town used to
be called Detroit, Minnesota, but due to postal complications with
Detroit, Michigan—people would write "Detroit, MN" on envelopes
they thought were bound for the motor state, and our postman had fits
trying to find 176th Street-the city council added the word "Lakes." A
wise decision, for each summer since, thousands of tourists, most of
them from Fargo, flock to the town where they are sure to find lakes.
"What are you doing this weekend, bud?" "Hey, we're going up to
Detroit Lakes!" "Detroit Lakes? Sounds good, I'll come too." And like
a caravan in search of the nearest watering hole, in they come. "Gonna
go to D.L. They got lakes there." And they invade our lakes and splash
around for the weekend and go home to Fargo.

They find most of our lakes, but not all of them. Not the best one.
A good thing, I suppose, or our summer home on Lake Melissa may
not have been my favorite place in the world, after all. But the way
things worked out, it is just that. . . .

My mom gives directions the best. "Yeah, it's six miles south of
town, down 59, not on the golf course turnoff, but the next one. Take
South Melissa Drive one and eight-tenths miles and look for Riverside
Place Resort on the right. Our place is just after the resort office. It's a
cedar A-frame with an orange door. Either the Jeep or the yellow
Corvair will be parked out front. We'll probably be down by the lake,
so just walk right in, get changed—the bathroom's the second door on
the left— and meet us at the dock, okay? See ya then. Bye."

And so, as you pull into the driveway of my favorite place in the
world, you see three things: a yard, a lake, and a cottage.

Our yard is a proud yard, not one of those neglected yards you
find in town with the humiliating plastic flamingos that peek out over
the uncut grass. Our yard begins boldly inches from the concrete
basketball court near the street and wraps itself around the cottage,
careful not to run onto the small, white rocks beneath the porch, down
to the sandy beach where the whitefish lie dead. Here, the yard re-
verses its path and aims for Orlo Gilbert's yard, but, as it senses Orlo's
fertilized grass, it feels inferior and decides to stick to the original plan
and wraps on back to the concrete slab. Out of love for our yard, I
unlock the shed door each Thursday morning and bring out the big
International lawn mower. I mow in circles. (Orlo mows back and

forth.) The yard cordially accepts the free haircut because it loves the compli-
ments on Thursday evening when we drive tiie croquet hoops into it. . . .
Smack! My dad's black croquet ball careens into my blue ball, knocking it clear
across the yard and down into the gentle ripples of Lake Melissa,

As I scamper down the sandy bank in pursuit of the runaway ball,
my dad gazes out to the soft colors of the lake which are being sliced
by a lunatic jet skier too close to shore. "Hey! Getoutahere!" yells my
dad, who yells only when he is concerned about his family's safety.
Angel, my little sister and her friend, Nicole, are playing "Marco Polo"
out on the orange swimming raft. The jet skier motions that we are
number one and flees. I see Angel pull herself up on the raft— the same
raft that my dad and I take out every fall, except one time the lake
froze early and we had to wait for the sun to melt off the ice before we
could wade out together to get it, prompting the biggest argument we
ever had— and we are glad she is okay.

The lake itself is deep in the middle, great for bass fishing, but
shallow and mushy around the edges. (The church joins us for
whiffleball Saturday night and, when we all get hot and jump in the
water, everyone remarks how mushy and gooey the bottom of our lake
is, and I wonder what they want us to do about it.) When it has not
rained much and the lake is low, we push our boat out past the muck
because we do not want to bend the stainless steel prop which cost a
lot, you know. It already has a few nicks on it. Anytime there is glassy
water on an evening my dad is home, I ski. Angel and Nicole tube.
And the boat paces back and forth in front of our A-frame cabin on
Lake Melissa until Mom comes out onto the cedar porch and rings the
big brass bell, which means it is time to eat.

Back inside our cottage, we take turns pouring the white dressing
on our salads while Casey, our West Highland White Terrier, and
Gypsy, Angel's pet raccoon, chase each other around the bar stools. The
evening is cool and quiet, and Orlo drops by "to see how you folks are
doing" and to tell me to clean the beaches in front of cabins two and
three in the morning because he will be in town. I decide how late I can
get up and still be done by the time he gets back as I turn on the
television. "Not that stupid show again," says Angel, referring to the
"Great KX Hole-in-One Show," my favorite. And, as Casey scratches
the door to go out and my parents talk about taking the Jeep over to the
Flea Market Sunday with Burgesons, I am content with our life on the
lake, never dreaming that a financial crisis will force an auction next
summer where we will have to sell our favorite place in the world, piece
by piece, at an opening bid of five dollars.

Unnoticed

Walking down the empty beach

toward the dying sun
Alone.

Dancing, playing, laughing behind,

friends watch me leave
Unnoticed.

—Thomas Duerksen

The Iron World

Gates of iron close with a resounding clang.
What was once vibrant
now lies cold and lifeless.

Memories of laughter echo through corridors

of a hollow heart while

gray replaces rainbows and

questions replace answers.

Life is no longer a playground,

but a prison.

The blackened night acknowledges only
the harsh realities
as gates of iron close with a
resounding clang.

—Michelle Codington

Through A Dark Glass

by Sabine Vatel

"Mama, what does nigger mean?"
Mama raised her head from the papers she was correcting. She shoved
them aside slowly. Her face hadn't changed, but Marjorie could tell
that her movements were now calculated and careful. Kiki must have
sensed something because she stopped coloring her project and looked
worriedly at Mama. Marjorie came near the table and leaned close to
Mama.

"Where did you hear that, Marjorie?" Mama asked her.

It must be a very bad word, Majorie figured. She had known it was
bad. When Yannick had spat it out at them, his stare had been hateful,
and he started to run fast away from Marjorie and her friends. When
far enough he had turned and yelled it again, "Nigger black. Nigger."
Erika, a nrst-grader and Kiki's new-found friend turned and kept
asking, "What did he say? What did he say?"

Erika's eleven-year-old brother, D.J., stared away long after
Yannick had disappeared around the corner. Suddenly he shrugged his
shoulder and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

"Bah! Never mind that." He said while looking down.

"He said Nigger." Marjorie smiled at the way Erika's accent made
the "r" roll. "What's that?' Erika insisted. She raised her chin toward
her brother and almost tripped over the sidewalk cracks as she walked.
She kept bumping against Kiki who was right behind her. Kiki rolled
her eyes and moved in between Marjorie and D.J., where it was safe.

"He doesn't know," she told EriKa. The little girl shook her head
and made her orange pony tails dance around her head.

"Uh-huh. D.J. knows all kinds of stuff." Erika said stubbornly.
"Don't you, D.J. ?"

D.J. ran his fingers through his sandy blond hair. Marjorie thought
he looked shy all of a sudden. Their eyes met, and he averted his
quickly. Marjorie didn't understand the sinking feeling inside her.

"Nigger," Erika said pensively.

"And stop saying that." Her brother snapped. His eyes hurriedly
went from Kiki to Marjorie. Marjorie almost stopped in the middle of
the sidewalk. She was now terribly aware of D.J. and Erika's lightness.
And Yannick's too. It never dawned on her as much before, and she
stared down at her dark arms. Whatever Yannick had said had to do
with her, her dark arms, and dark face. . . .

Marjorie felt terribly empty. Mama. Mama would know what
Yannick meant. Someone was pulling her sleeve. She looked down.

"Byyyye!" Erika said as if she was trying to wake her up. D.J. was
already walking away from them toward his street. He shifted his
schoolbag over his other shoulder, and he stopped to tap his foot.

"Come on, Erika."

Erika hopped to him and almost tripped again. Kiki rolled her eyes
and opened her mouth. Marjorie nudged her younger sister's side with
her elbow before she had time to say anything. D.J. hardly looked at
them when he said good-bye and turned to leave.

"Where did you hear that, Marjorie?" Mama asked again. Marjorie
hesitated. She looked at Kiki. Mama followed her gaze.

As if she didn't want Mama to think it had come from her, Kiki
blurted out, "Yannick said it."

"Who's this? A boy or girl at school?"

"A boy," Marjorie said. "He's one of the old ones. Older than D.J.,
even."

Kiki joined Mama and Marjorie at the table. "It's a bad word, isn't
it. Mama?" She asked as she pulled the chair.

"It n\eans ignorant," Mama said. "And it's used by ignorants."

She looked at each of them carefully as if trying to find the right
w^ords. "Some people don't like other people because of their color.
They don't realize that we're all the same inside. There are people who
don't like us."

"White people," Marjorie said.

"Some of them," Mama continued. "They think White is better
than Black and think it would be better if we weren't around. . . ."

"But why?"

"Maybe because they're afraid of people different than them. That
makes them do and say horrible things. Long ago Black people were
made slaves and put into chains and were treated worse than animals.
Some White people think it should still be that way."

"I hate them, then," Kiki said as she raised her chin defiantly.
Mama leaned closer to her and watched her intently.

"You mustn't hate, child. Hate has suppressed our people for a
long time. Hate killed thousands of Jews. . . ."
What are those?"

"Who. They are people someone wanted to destroy because they
were different than he was. Hate and fear made Yannick call you a
nigger. You are not niggers. You are people and God made you, too.
You're not above them. They aren't better than you are. You have a
history. You have a future, too. Don't let no one. . . ." Mama looked at
Marjorie, too. Marjorie held her breath.

"... No one keep you from succeeding because you are Black.
Because you're girls. I push you to have good grades in school because
you sometimes need to be better than the rest because you will have to
fight to prove you're good. To force the world to see you beyond your
color. That's just the kind of world we live in, children."

Marjorie stared at the lines in her hand. "Why does it have to be
that way? Why do they want us to be ashamed to be Black?"
Mama looked away. Everyone was quiet. "I don't really understand
it myself," Mama whispered after a while.

Marjorie bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

"People like that need glasses. Mama," she finally said. "Real dark
ones so they can't see any color. Then they'll see that we feel the same
and play the same."

—Sabine Vatel

"How can you write if you can 't cry?"

—Ring Lardner
29

Work It Out

Don't wear me out
talking about your
soapbox stands and
your bandwagon plans.

You tire my ear

and to hear is a gift,

in fact this rift was created

because you've traded

ignorance to prove this world
is decaying. But there you
stand, preaching and praying
not reaching me or the

issues you care most
about. You scare me.
I don't want to
hear your shouts.

I wish you'd just go
work it out.

—Jennifer Schmidt

Inmate for Life

My body is a temple

No, a prison

for my convict self.

A straightjacket of

raw flesh

holds myself inside.

My body is a jail

LETMEOUT!

Threescore and ten

until parole.

—Laura Duke shire

A Captive
A Prisoner

A Servant
A Slave
I was told I was born a free man
Under a sky of red, white, and blue
But the banner has turned cash green
And imprisoned me
In the bonds of time.

-Scott Walker

Brick by Brick

Standing behind a wall.
It has been built brick,

by brick

by brick.

We laughed at the world's masons.
Our hands knew not that skill.
But now I turn to you,
And face a brick,

by brick,

by brick,
wall.

When were we apprenticed?

We are the image of those we mocked.

Our eyes blinded, as we stacked brick,

by brick,
by brick.

Stand up.

Turn around

And face your wall.

We are all bricklayers by trade.
Societies, towns, relationships
Have been built brick,

by brick,

by brick.

We have the power

To demolish our walls.

Yet we choose to live in the houses

We have built brick,

by brick,

by brick.

-Deana Abdel-Malek

"We have a natural right to make use of our pens as our
tongues: at our peril risk, and hazard. " -Voltaire

^endy Carter

words paint such beautiful pictures

in my head
i like the world in there
i pick the colors

and the shapes
things go where i want
i am the artist
i am the master

when the words escape my head
they're not ready
and they embarrass me
when the words are forced out
the colors run

and make a big, ugly splatter
i have to be patient
and wait until the paint dries.

—Sonya Nyrop

Imaginary
Childhood

I used to be a child pretending

to be grown up.

I used my credit cards,

played with my bank account,

and paid my bills

as if it were all part

of some big game.

"Look at me," I would say

"I'm quite grown up now."

but inside

I was still a child.

Then overnight , it seems

I became a grown-up

pretending to be a child.

I had myself convinced that I

was still a child

and that

I would never grow up.

Then I came face-to-face

with someone the age I imagined

myself to be still.

And she looked up to me

as if I were old.

And I realized how different

we were.

She was young and free.

I w^as grown and

mature.

And my imaginary

childhood

ended.

—Lori Pettibone

-Sherrie Piatt

Transposed byBrendaKeUer

The woman sits alone in the middle of the darkened room. The
dusty piano in front of her provides her only company. (Or so she
thinks. . . .) She touches the yellowing ivory keys of the old Steinway
grand, placing her foot, clad in an aging slipper, onto the tarnished
pedal.

Unnoticed, a man in the comer shadow watches with intense steel-
blue eyes. He surveys the piano's dusty, chipped cabinet; its cracked,
worn keys; and the bench's pale, velvet cushion, threadbare as his own
balding crown. "There is nothing unusual about this instrument," he
decides.

His focus shifts to the woman seated on the wobbly bench. Her
white hair, a faint whisper of the past, is gathered and restrained at the
back of her head by a faded yellow ribbon. She wears a yellow, flower-
print housedress which spans her frail form from neck to shins. It
appears glued to her skin, as to a doll in an attempt to prevent the
fragile china bones from collapsing into a meaningless heap.

Dirmned by the weight of years, her gray eyes bulge slightly from
thin sockets. Her paper-like hands, outlined by rounded veins, rest
timidly on the keys, as a butterfly lights on a finger. "There is nothing
unusual about this woman," he decides.

Now her hands begin to w^alk up and down the steps of the
keyboard. First hesitantly, then gradually gaining confidence and
accelerating. At last her fingers dance gingerly, daintily, into a
Beethoven Sonata. Effortlessly, her fingers now translate the beautiful
sounds, which seem to flow from the most secret and forgotten places
inside her heart.

The melody reminds the man of days long past. He closes his eyes,
imagining a young, pretty girl, standing barefoot on a whitewashed
porch, long brown hair swirling in a soft breeze. . . .

As the music crescendoes, the man turns his attention again to the
woman before him. She sits with eyes closed, body swaying with the
music's intensity. Suddenly, the wrinkles in her face seem not so deep
now, and her hands seem vibrant with youthful energy.

The man stands motionless, as if unable to tear his gaze from the
scene. What has changed?\\e wonders. His focus shifts from the woman
to the piano, then back to the woman, then back and forth until the
distinction blurs.

His eyes stare intently, unblinking, seeing the woman and her
instrument for the first time.

-Sherrie Piatt

When I'm Blue

When I'm blue
i sit on a bench
tickling ]<eys
of ivory
and ebony;
i see your face
as my soul soars
through the clouds.
I think of you.

--Thomas Duerksen

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