June/July 09

MAGAZINE

INTERVIEW WITH DESSA:

CUTTING INTO THE LITERARy GENRE

through the eye

of the storm stereotypes of

hip-hop

JUNE/ JULY ‘09

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A WORD FROM THE EDITOR

Put a Little (Hip) Hop in Your Step Why, on the coattails of such lovely and idealistic themes such as Dreams, Health and Wellness and Concepts of Community, would you plan an entire issue around a specific segment of the urban pop music scene (and one that, for that matter, has done very little good in promoting healthy body images of women)? Seem like a leap? Well perhaps, but hopefully not as far as you think.

I chose the theme of this issue two summers ago after I attended an international festival hosted by Intermedia Arts called B-Girl Be, a gathering of women in hip-hop from around the world working to make an impact in a traditionally male-driven industry. I met passionate graffiti artists and emcees, athletic and inspiring b-girls (break dancers), attended performances of spoken word (and fell in love with the art) and sat in on a few open forum discussions about women’s increasingly prominent (albeit controversial) role in the hip-hop scene.

Now let’s get one thing straight. I grew up in a small college town in Iowa listening to classic rock and folk music. If there was a local radio station airing hip-hop music, it was certainly viewed by many to be evil as it lured innocent youth into a brazen, sexy world where women’s bodies are exploited and men are puffed up to idolize gang members. So the desire to plan an issue of Alive Magazine around hip-hop and spoken word grew not from a long-standing love of the genre, but an all-consuming sense of urgency to shed light on the powerful voices of the increasing number of women whose artwork adorns city walls and whose poetry speaks straight to the heart of issues too delicate to touch.

In this issue, we’ll introduce you to Desdamona, the spoken word artist who founded the B-Girl Be summit, address some of the stereotypes associated with hip-hop, bring you the written form of Sierra DeMulder’s spoken word poetry and also offer stories related to the broader understanding of spoken words in “Here With You,” a reflection on the difficulty of language in translation. We’ll take a look at the digital transition of music media, giving more people the ability to DJ their own playlists or radio stations, plus introduce our newest column, “Flex: Sensible guidance to strengthen your mind and body” with an article offering creative ways to incorporate dance (hip-hop or otherwise) into your workout routine!

As you peruse this issue, I hope you’ll hear the strength and beauty of these women’s voices and let their passion infect your vision and opinion of hip-hop. After all, the sweat, the heat and the rhythm of summer is unfolding all around us. What better time than to pop in your earbuds and put a little bounce in your step?

JENNIFER DOTSON EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR

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2 Put a Little (Hip) Hop in Your Step

by Jennifer Dotson | photography by Michele Ebnet

a word from our editors

I grew up in a small college town in Iowa listening to classic rock and folk music...

DISCOVER

6 Poetic Confidence

by Rachele Cermak | illustration by Tiana Toso

what makes you come alive?

I took a breath and started to read the page that was filled with words printed in Times New Roman but written with a determination that no font could translate.

GROOVE

9 Expanding Influence

by Rachele Cermak | photography by B Fresh Photography and Michele Ebnet

music, dance and other inspiring sounds

MEND

picking up the pieces when life falls apart

EXPLORE

Desdamona also has a passion for helping the next generation grow into a positive, proactive group.

12 Cuts and Romance

by Janelle Bakke | photography by Michele Ebnet How could she do this to herself? Deep down, I understood why she might have done such a thing.

I had read Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar.” Twice.

16 Líbí Se Mi Praha

by Liz Larrabee | photography by Kirissa Grams

tales of travel and adventure

MUSE

Upon seeing that my preconceived notions of college escapades in Europe were not at all what I actually found in Prague, I was too intimidated to step beyond...

18 The Summer

by Sierra DeMulder | photography by Kristina Perkins

original poetry and fresh lyrics

The summer my parents lost their marriage like so many magnets kicked under the refrigerator, my cousin and I...

GLIMPSE

one-sentence answers to our favorite questions

SPEND

19 Glimpse

by Alive readers

What is a diva? I believe a diva is a women who accepts her flaws and flaunts her beauty. They can walk into a room and command attention without doing anything...

25 The Cost of Going Digital

by Sarah Bodeau | photography by Jenny Williams

where to spend your money wisely and effectively

TASTE

Unfortunately, vinyl sales probably aren’t enough to compensate record stores for the revenue lost to digital...

28 Simple, Scrumptious Summer Entertaining

favorite dorm recipes, snack ideas, and cafeteria creations

by Alennah Westlund | photography by Jenny Williams

In the intense summer heat, I often find myself looking for a fresh and simple, yet tasty summer meal to share...

table of contents

H D V N E U Y S T

THINK

table of contents

Z A B R C flex

W M I L

GAZE

art for art’s sake... and your viewing pleasure

AIM

inspiring successes, curious ambitions and unique interests

30 Hidden Language

by Kirby Montgomery

When I think of hip-hop I think of passion, movement and colorful expression. Trinidy Combs and Lamonte Thunberg, the hip-hop dancers I photographed...

36 Her Turn with the Saw:

Cutting into the Literary Genre

by Emma O’Brien | photography by Kii Arens and Michele Ebnet Dessa has been able to fulfill the dream...

BELIEVE

finding God in unexpected places

MISTER life from his perspective

40 Always With Us, Always Among Us

by Jessica Zimanske | illustration by Tiana Toso

After spending multiple seasons admiring its beauty, I now know that my love affair has not really been with the chapel, but with God, whom the chapel represents.

42 Children of the Rains

by Michael Toso | illustration by Tiana Toso

You sing the song as you walk along, and more likely than not, your song will find its companion. Another Djerma youth’s whistle will join yours…

CONSIDER 44 Stereotypes of Hip-Hop news-related stories relevant to you and your world

FLEX

sensible guidance to strengthen your mind and body

WONDER answers to life’s hard-to-ask questions

MISCHIEF

tales of fiction, truth, shenanigans and friendly foolery

IMAGINE

how would you change the world, if given the opportunity?

LISTEN

perspectives on life from someone older and wiser

by Courtney Still | illustration by Tiana Toso

Hip-hop has established itself as a means of stepping outside of the box, and is a definitive voice amongst other genres.

46 It’s Time to Dance!

by Kaylee Laudon | illustrations by Michele Ebnet

But these workouts can be deceiving – you’ll be having so much fun that you won’t notice you’re getting a full-body workout.

48 Here with You

by Sharon Bangsund | illustrations by Tiana Toso I began to realize what a gift it is to be bi-lingual and explore different sides of your personality in other languages and words.

50 Who’s Got the Jell-O?

by Lisa Teicher | illustrations by Jenny Williams

Our house could have been featured on the “Real World” with all of the drama and odd occurrences. My senior year became the most chaotic, life-changing and difficult year...

52 Through the Eye of the Storm

by Adrienne Johnsen | photography courtesy of NASA

It was as if Patricia’s words let me see through the eye of the storm, and the pain of the people... was made real.

54 Keystrokes to Emancipation

by Donna Penticost | photography by Jenny Williams

It is as though someone else is typing while I sit there, reading my life story as the words appear on the screen.

read. share your story. join the movement.

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www.ALIVEMAGAZINE.org

The most effective way to show your support is to become a member, pledging a monthly sustaining gift to Alive Arts Media (a 501(c)3 public charity) to continue the programs that create valuable opportunities for young women.

To join, visit www.alivemagazine.org/membership.php or email jamie@alivemagazine.org. While you’re at it, sign up for our street team to help publicize submission deadlines and issue releases to the young people you know!

Alive Magazine is created by young people around the world. We review submissions every Monday, so send your story or artwork to be considered for publication to contribute@alivemagazine.org. For more information about how your writing or artwork can be considered for publication in a future issue of Alive, check out www.alivemagazine. org/submissions. The next submission deadline is July 15, to be considered for the issue theme, Knowledge is Infinite. We look forward to reading your submission!

We were founded on an audacious vision: That a new generation of women – given the opportunity, access and vehicle to do so – could change the world. The bi-monthly production cycle of Alive Magazine is fueled by our internship program, where college-aged women design layouts, work with writers and publicize Alive Magazine. To apply for an internship with Alive Magazine at our headquarters in Minneapolis, Minn., visit www.alivemagazine.org/ internships/index.php.

ALIVE MAGAZINE: JUNE/JULY 2009 PUBLISHED BY ALIVE ARTS MEDIA, INC. Executive Director Jennifer Dotson Managing Editor Nicolle Westlund Development Director Jamie Millard Public Relations Director Lisa Teicher Executive Assistant Abby Zimmer Poetry Editor Kelin Loe

Assistant Editors Rachele Cermak Adrienne Johnsen Courtney Still Graphic Designers Michele Ebnet Tiana Toso Jenny Williams Public Relations Cheyenne Kirkpatrick Kaylee Laudon

Founder and Board Chair Heather Scheiwe Board of Directors Janelle Schulenberg, Vice Chair Jim Scheibel, Development Judy Jandro, Treasurer Martha Franke, Wellness Advisor Heather Mattson, Secretary Development Committee Jim Scheibel, Chair Greg Schlichter Justin Daley Rachel Smoka

Alive Arts Media, Inc. | 1720 Madison St. NE, Ste. 300 | Minneapolis, MN 55413 p: 612.284.4080 | info@alivemagazine.org | www.alivemagazine.org

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by RACHELE CERMAK ILLUSTRATION by TIANA TOSO

I sat at my sticker-laden laptop inside the Black Dog Café at 5:35 p.m. on a Monday. Most of St. Paul, Minn., becomes a ghost town after 5 p.m., so I was surprised to find there was much commotion inside. Among the tabletops of computer screens lay an assortment of plates, coffee mugs and magazines. I waited anxiously. I couldn’t remember his name.

More attentive to my surroundings than my e-mails, my eyes latched onto a man. I vaguely remembered him, but I wasn’t sure if he was the same man from the Artists’ Quarter I met a week ago. I looked down and kept clicking away. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a paper sign placed on a table to my left. “BHCCOS,” it read. I quickly Googled the acronym.

“Brutally Honest Constructive Criticism on Slam hosted

by Matthew Rucker will be held Monday, March 16, at the Black Dog,” read the Web site.

Well, at least I was at the right spot. And, at least I now knew his name.

Writing has always been a release for me. During my first dose of depression in eighth grade, my counselor told me writing would help organize my thoughts. All the way up until my senior year of high school, words became a positive way to vent my teen angst. But throughout all of those years, I was never able to put form behind it.

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I had always felt poetry was fluffy, too rule-driven and boring. I just didn’t belong with the craft. I wrote as though the words would someday be lyrics and, judging by what was on the Top 40 Charts, I didn’t have to try very hard to complete a “song.”

Then a part of my soul changed. I wasn’t angry or depressed anymore, so what came out of the pen wasn’t an explosion of emotions. In fact, it actually became hard to write because I didn’t know what to record if the ink wasn’t being bombarded with tears during the process.

I learned that some sort of form must be applied to channel my words and motivate me to continue to share my perspective.

That’s when I was introduced to hip-hop. Not Chamillionaire or Sisqó one-hit-wonder hip-hop, but true, bold, brilliant lyricism right in my own backyard of Minneapolis. I went to shows, listened 40 times over tracks on my iPod and learned. This was the form I was craving. This was exactly how I wanted my words to flow.

That right there, I would think to myself. What she’s doing. I want to be able to do that!

I have never been a musician, though. My love affair lies with the words. I wanted to perfect my form of self-expression and dispel the played-out lyrics and redundant rhyme schemes my notebook had been plagued with. Then I came across slam poetry. It is the most raw, intense experience of exposing your heart you’ll ever go through. This is where “performance” poets can die or flourish. I asked myself, Do you think you can really grow to be so talented that you can lead and compel an audience with only the tone of your voice and the words your tongue releases?

Confidence – a word commonly plastered on the posters in high school health classrooms. Gaining it has always been an internal battle for me. Some days I feel invincible; other days, I take every innocent comment as a personal attack. I realized that no matter how much I paid attention or how well I learned to write, if I couldn’t find an undeniable belief in myself, I’d never be able to reach my goal of sharing my perspective with an audience.

I WANTED TO PERFECT MY FORM OF SELFEXPRESSION AND DISPEL THE PLAYED OUT LYRICS AND REDUNDANT RHYME SCHEMES MY NOTEBOOK HAD BEEN PLAGUED WITH. I started attending more slam competitions than hip-hop shows. I watched as the poets took to the stage. I watched the way they moved, how they calmly collected the words they were about to use to entrance the audience. I sat close in hopes that the confidence they emitted would somehow soak into my skin. But it didn’t.

No, this kind of confidence can only emanate from my heart and, luckily, that’s also where my passion lies. I realized that if I can write with passion, the words would inevitably be laced with confidence. The more I believe in my piece, the more strength I will have while reading it, I thought to myself.

I sat at the Black Dog in front of Matthew hoping that I could learn to perform like those I admired.

“First step: Be conversational – lose track of all things confining. Rhyming does more to hurt a poem than help it, unless you know how to use it right,” Matthew said.

What? I thought that poetry was all about rhyming.

I mean, that’s how songs are written. Once I heard this, I knew all of my poetic attempts needed serious revision.

“Make sure you have something to say for at least two and a half minutes,” Matthew continued. “In fact, just write something out that’ll take five minutes to speak and then cut.”

Well, that wouldn’t be too difficult; I’m always getting in trouble for talking too much. In kindergarten, I was the one who always got the red card for being too social.

“Memorization is not all that important,” he told me.

“Project your voice, but don’t yell. Revise constantly.

Respect your audience. But above all else – you need to have confidence in yourself.”

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I intensely worked on revising my first piece. I made sure to attend every slam-oriented event that I possibly could, and I always stopped by the Artists’ Quarter on Monday nights for a chance to talk with Matthew about revisions.

After one of the open mic nights, we had a minute to talk. I could already notice that my choked up, dry throat, twisted-gut feeling wasn’t as apparent while I was reading as it always had been. I took a breath and started to read the page that was filled with words printed in Times New Roman but written with a determination that no font could translate.

“I don’t feel connected to it,” Matthew said afterward.

“It’s too rhyme-driven still. Make it more conversational.

Include more images, and maybe that’ll help let the audience in.”

Wow. Really? I thought. But I didn’t get offended.

Instead, I listened. I knew that to get better I needed to apply every concept that someone critiqued me on.

Every ounce of feedback is an opportunity to learn, and disregarding would only be cheating myself.

I REALIZED THAT IF I CAN WRITE WITH PASSION, THE WORDS WILL INEVITABLY BE LACED WITH CONFIDENCE. A month went by, and there was another scheduled date for the BHCCOS workshop. I attended, and once more it was only him and me. I had written a new piece to give my mind space from the original poem. After I read both, Matthew noticed a pattern in my writing style.

“You’re giving a narrative, only telling the audience what happened but not showing what you felt,” he said. “You can’t be afraid to be naked on stage. You need to expose everything you don’t want to because that’s what the audience thirsts for.”

It made perfect sense. I was only gaining the confidence to speak about situations, not to express how I felt during them. But the odd part is that, in life, I have no problem telling someone what I think.

Then it hit me. I never have had a problem sharing my opinion when I’m talking about what someone else is feeling, but to share my honest secrets requires a whole new level of confidence.

I sat at my computer and revised for hours. Nothing would come out right. Each line was too narrative. I didn’t know how to describe how I felt about something that I had tried to repress. I wondered how my father, my mother, even my stepbrother, would feel if they were sitting in

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the audience. I kept pressing backspace so my cursor would delete what I could never share face-to-face. My previous writings were all meant to stay safely on the pages of notebooks, but this one was being written to be performed. That thought put my mind in a shell.

THESE PEOPLE CAME HERE TO HAVE A POET’S VOICE CARESS THE BACK OF THEIR THROATS SO THEY CHOKE UP, FOR THE POET’S VOICE TO TICKLE THEIR IRISES SO THEIR TEARS WELL – THEY CAME HERE TO RELATE. It was the night of the Soap Boxing Grand Slam. The Artists’ Quarter was lined wall-to-wall with bodies. Seven poets were competing to be on the St. Paul slam team that would go to nationals. No one forgot a word, no one put emphasis where it shouldn’t have been; they ripped their chests so far open that with each breath they exposed the vocabulary skeletons surrounding their hearts.

As I watched the audience’s response I finally understood what Matthew meant. I can’t be afraid of being naked on stage. These people came here to have a poet’s voice caress the back of their throats so they choke up, for the poet’s voice to tickle their irises so their tears well – they came here to relate.

I went home and stared at my computer screen. I wrote every line to answer the question “why?” instead of “what?” People want to connect and learn from those around them. The audience would be more critical of me if I didn’t share my emotions. The knowledge of this helped me gather the confidence needed to share my perspective through poetry.

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Rachele Cermak, editorial and Web development intern

expanding influence

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by RACHELE CERMAK PHOTOGRAPHy by b FRESH PHOTOGRAPHy AND MICHELE EbNET

On the first Monday of every month, the Artists’ Quarter in St. Paul, Minn., hosts a slam poetry night. I watch Desdamona, tonight’s featured poet, prepare to address the audience. An hour earlier, as we sat in the Great Waters restaurant, she told me she’d be performing new material that nobody had ever heard before. She felt a little nervous because it had been a while since she performed without all of the bells and whistles incorporated with music. But tonight presented the perfect venue to promote her new spoken word album, “Inkling,” scheduled to be released in May. As she took to the stage, she emitted pure confidence and composure, a true veteran of the craft.

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Desdamona has been performing spoken word in the Twin Cities since 1997. Her first encounter with a St. Paul mic was at a local bar called Jazzville.

As she recalled the night, she said that she was one of only four people performing. She had shared one poem and one hip-hop song. That night a man named Black Power insisted that she come back because the next week, more people would be at the club and they needed to hear her. That was her first introduction into the world of performance poetry, she said.

“WHEN A KID REALIZES THEIR VOICE IS POWERFUL, THAT THEY CAN DO SOMETHING, THEY CAN CREATE A CHANGE, AND THAT PEOPLE WILL LISTEN TO THEM, IT JUST DOES SOMETHING FOR SELF-ESTEEM.” -DESDAMONA

Before moving to the Twin Cities, Desdamona grew up in Mount Pleasant, Iowa. Small towns may be stereotypically known for rambunctious teens getting into trouble, but Desdamona never took part in the negative distractions that could have slowed her down.

Instead, she stayed focused on the creative outlets her school had to offer like dance, choir and band, anything that allowed her to express herself.

“It’s so easy to get lost in all the things that are going on, and to have that creative outlet, it can help ground you,” she said. She advises that everyone find a creative outlet because it helps form the person you are by boosting confidence and self-esteem and promoting consistency.

Desdamona said that being consistent has helped her overcome some of her career struggles. One of the biggest obstacles in her career was getting over the desire to want everyone to like what she does. She knows that even if others don’t like what she does, if she’s consistent, at least they’ll respect her.

“I can’t make someone like me. I am who I am,” Desdamona said. “You either take it or leave it. It’s important to learn not to be upset over it. We don’t all have to get along but we also don’t have to be mean to each other.

And, at least let each other live.”

Standing on the stage, the room became silent as she spoke. The first piece she read wasn’t exactly what I had expected from her. As she warned, she was going to switch it up tonight.

The words caressed the audience softly and a round of applause filled the jazz bar’s dimly lit air.

Being a woman in hip-hop and spoken word, said Desdamona, gender has definitely been a factor in her career.

As a woman, people assume she’s always in the background. When on stage with a man, people automatically think she must be his wife or girlfriend instead of his musical partner. At shows, sound technicians treat her differently because she’s female.

“Hey, I’m a professional,” she said. “I know what I’m doing… I’m here and I’m getting paid to do this. It’s not like I have to shove it in someone’s face, but it shows that we’re just not on the same plane.”

This frustration has motivated her to work with young women to build their skills so they can collectively contribute more to the hip-hop scene and the overall community.

Desdamona spends a lot of time going into schools to teach and lead workshops for youth.

“When a kid realizes their voice is powerful, that they can do something, they can create a change, and that people will listen to them, it just does something for self-esteem,” she said.

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Desdamona also has a passion for helping the next generation grow into a positive, proactive group. This is part of the reason she helped found the B-Girl Be summit in the Twin Cities.

The festival, which operates through Intermedia Arts, was conceived in 2005 and brought together women who practice the four main elements of hip-hop: breakdancing, graffiti art, emceeing and disc scratching and mixing. The festival hasn’t been held since 2007and has an unknown future, but has influenced young women three years in a row.

“More male supporters were there,” she said. “Here [in Minneapolis], guys were like, ‘Can we come if it’s all girls?’ And I’m like, that’s such a silly question. Am I invited to your shows?

Yes. It’s not like because it’s all guys on stage that only guys can come. But over in Berlin it wasn’t even an issue.

There were tons of guys there and totally into it. I thought, ‘Wow, I wish we could see this in Minneapolis.’”

“I never wanted B-Girl Be to last forever,” Desdamona explained. She said she wanted it to build a female identity in the scene. And now that it’s happened, she wants to see some of those younger girls start to do their own thing.

While B-Girl Be isn’t around in its original convention, the founding members are further developing the portion of the summit that focused on creating curriculum to bring into schools. But with the tough economic times, everything is at a bit of a standstill, Desdamona said.

One festival that is going strong is the We B-Girlz Berlin festival. Desdamona was asked to be a performer at the show in 2008. Many of the same artists from B-Girl Be were there, and people couldn’t stop talking about the Minneapolis event. Desdamona expressed excitement about the buzz and was surprised by the audience turnout at the Berlin event.

The gender barrier isn’t the only problem Desdamona can see surfacing in the Minneapolis area.

Negative competition between performers occasionally rears its head.

It’s one thing to have competition that motivates someone to push herself and do better, said Desdamona, but it’s another to trample over your peers because of the fear that there is limited opportunity.

Desdamona’s next goal is to travel more, whether it be because of her music or in support of her other endeavors. In late April, she went to Seattle to attend the Langston Hughes African-American Film Festival where a film of B-Girl Be was featured. She is currently planning to go on tour and play in New York, Seattle and California, but no dates are set yet.

“IT’S SO EASY TO GET LOST IN ALL THE THINGS THAT ARE GOING ON AND TO HAVE THAT CREATIVE OUTLET, IT CAN HELP GROUND YOU.” -DESDAMONA

With the release of “Inkling” in May and big plans to travel in the near future, it seems as though none of that enters her mind as she recites her piece, “Miss America,” to a crowd of local slam poetry enthusiasts. As the last breath is exhaled and the end of the night draws near, the 40 or so people respectfully hoot and holler for a woman who has done so much to make a name for women in the scene.

She smiles because she receives these sounds as a symbol of praise, admiration and respect for everything she has done in her career. And I cheer loudly to thank her.

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Rachele Cermak, editorial and Web development intern

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C uts& R omance

by JANELLE bAKKE PHOTOGRAPHy by MICHELE EbNET

Anna was not the type of person I would typically associate with, until we got to know each other better.

We shared two classes, Freshman Debate and General Science I, both utterly boring subjects to anyone soon entering her 15th year of life. One day, as we were working together on a project, she turned to me and asked if I wanted to hang out with her on Friday night. Tonight was the product of my response, and from the looks of it, the night could be nothing short of a mischievous adventure.

“Frank is going to pick us up in 10 minutes,” Anna said as she pulled on her red and gold Harry Potter vest. Her long, dark brown hair fell over her shoulders as she picked at the contents of her homemade Bohemian bag. Anna’s face could be distinguished by its heart-shape, small nose and round cheeks, her lip ring protruding curiously from the pale skin beneath her bottom lip. She had pierced it a few weeks earlier, shoving an earring through the fleshy interior of her mouth.

“It hurt a lot when I put it in, but it’s pretty much healed now. It’s fine. My mom was angry about our Christmas pictures though,” she said to me as she continued to rifle through the contents of her room. Outside, I heard the wind shudder and howl against her delicately thin second-story window.

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I looked around her room and noted the bold red walls, black trim and ceiling. She hadn’t picked her clothes up from the floor; sweaters and jeans fell scattered like heavy, soggy leaves. A huge “Edward Scissorhands” poster covered the wall to my left and another of The Used on my right. Her three-disc changer sat in one corner next to the large bed covered in more clothing. After Anna made a few more shuffled movements, we walked down the creaky stairs to the living room window. I could see Frank’s green Chevy Blazer outside. Frank was a friend of Anna’s, someone I was unfamiliar with as well.

The two of us walked into the frigid weather and I slid into the back of the vehicle; the coolness of the vinyl seats made me shiver. I was excited. I rarely left the house, and spending time with someone so connected to the people at school made me feel like a part of the whole. Among all the adolescents in my high school, I didn’t know any of the upperclassmen and couldn’t seem to understand any of the other freshmen. Everyone considered me too serious, too focused. I felt Anna could provide me with something I lacked: tact, social alignment, approval.

“Where’s Lex tonight?” Frank asked.

“The skating rink. He’s with Alyssa at a hockey game,” Anna answered with little inflection. I sensed the topic

made her angry and uncomfortable since she looked out of the window impatiently.

Frank backed out of the driveway, and Anna put on some loud music. They began to discuss the musical artist with passionate overtones. As we turned onto Watertown’s Kemp Avenue, the stores’ holiday decorations gleamed and sparkled like iced cakes in a bakery window.

Anna meticulously noted the precise whereabouts of Lex. She later told me that when their relationship ended, it was hard for her to let go. As the wreaths whipped past the windows and stopped spontaneously with each red light, I could see the concern in her face.

After several holiday episodes of “South Park” in Frank’s living room, he brought us back to Anna’s house and left. We had picked up a copy of “American Beauty” from Blockbuster a few blocks from her old white maison so we went down to the basement to watch it. I took advantage of the wireless Internet connection to check my newly formed MySpace account. Anna’s screen name was cutsandromance. I was a little confused by the photo of a red pair of scissors cutting a tongue on the profile photo page, but we were about to start the movie so I didn’t ask about it.

I FELT ANNA The basement COULD PROVIDE ME was small, but WITH SOMETHING finished. Photos I LACKED: TACT, SOCIAL from disposable ALIGNMENT, APPROVAL. cameras littered the computer desk, and a space heater in the corner kept the area warm in the midDecember chill. An old sofa occupied the back corner. The walls were painted bright blue and yellow with black handprints and sloppily painted names like “Alicia” and “Alissa” below. It was creative.

I cut the lights and we sat on the blue couch in the corner in front of an ancient, 24-inch screen. The movie illuminated the trash scattered around the room: a few Coke bottles, some cans and chip bags. I looked over at Anna in the light of the television. I envied her bone structure, her Irish heritage, her face. She was pretty.

the time. He reminds me of the boy with the camera, too. Sometimes I get upset.” Her voice was flat and precise. Anna said it as if she were lightly making a decision, but even with my lack of experience with the opposite sex, I knew these decisions were worth much more to her than she made them sound. Suddenly, she sat up and rolled the fabric on her long sleeves upward, each roll scrunching upon another, a staircase.

I didn’t move, or speak. It was grisly, macabre, horrible. Like a loaf of French bread, diagonal gashes rose out of her skin, dark brown, scabbed over. Some of the gashes were still a little red, some of them quite deep. I shuddered, nearly vomiting from the sight of Anna’s arm. Besides the occasional emergency room trauma show my mom watched during dinner on the Discovery Channel, I’d never seen anything like it.

“I… I don’t do this all the time, just when Lex finds another girlfriend. Joe takes the razors away from me. He counts the marks on my arm to keep track of them. Now that I can drive by myself, it’s easier to get more, though. I make money.” With a monotone voice she rolled the sleeves of her nightshirt down slowly.

Anna climbed out of bed and shut the lights off, pausing at the window.

“It’s starting to snow.” She crawled back under the pile of blankets on the outside edge of the mattress. I continued looking at the pale orange glow through the small pane opposite the bed.

We stayed up late, talking in the dark. We whispered what seemed like confessional initiation rites to a secret hero cult – where we grew up, what traumatic experiences we survived, who died, who didn’t, who we knew and who we didn’t like. Gradually, Anna drifted off to sleep.

“The boy with the camera – you see the world just like him, I think, even if he is a guy and you’re not,” she whispered.

“You can see behind things.” She didn’t break her stare from the screen.

After the movie, we laid underneath the black ceiling in her room upstairs. The hour was late, and the three-disc changer spewed out loud, raucous music.

“I should get past Lex. I mean, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Joe. He writes me poetry and talks to me all

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I could hear her breaths rising and falling like feathers.

The blasting, confused screamo continued, and I looked up into the dense black ceiling. I never adjusted well sleeping away from home. The air outside the bubble of covers was cool, and my nose twitched with the lack of heat. Anna – Anna’s arm – kept me awake, as if a sharp metal edge was slowly peeling my eyelids up. As the winter light eased in through the window, Edward Scissorhands held his jagged fingers above my head. How could she do this to herself? Deep down, I understood why she might have done such a thing. I had read Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar.” Twice.

her hair up. I could never wear my hair up; it looked too plain. She was happy, glowing against the obscured light coming in from the frost on the driver’s side window.

“I love Joe. Our relationship is becoming more serious.

I walked to his house. his father was angry with him. We just sort of happened to fall in love.”

I wasn’t expecting her to say that. I had barely taken a seat in the vehicle. We weren’t even talking about Lex or Joe or anyone in general. Her openness surprised me, but then again, she had seemed comfortable sharing before.

From the way she spoke of Joe, I really envied her. I never had to make that type of decision before, and Maybe I would pierce my lip. Maybe I would start picking my knowledge of dysfunctional relationup on her thrifty style. Maybe I would shred my ships consisted of Lifetime movie maraoversized, button-up shirts and wear dresses. thons. Since both of us were only 14, I Maybe I would fall in love with someone like wondered if this was too early for that Joe. But I wouldn’t do that to my arm.

SHE TAUGHT ME kind of relationship. I was concerned THAT PEOPLE ARE for her. I’d often heard those types of A few days after Christmas, Anna picked CAPABLE OF CHANGE relationships were hard on the emome up in her newly purchased white Honda FOR THE BETTER tional complex.

Escort, and we drove around for a while.

IF THEY WANT TO Nearly 15, her new South Dakota driver’s CHANGE FOR THE School resumed two days after Anna’s permit gleamed from the card case between BETTER. birthday, in January. I wrote her a poem, the two bucket seats, and even though she since I didn’t have any money for a gift. couldn’t drive at night, she used her newfound She wasn’t in school though. On January freedom to cruise around our small town. She 4, Anna was in Debate, and class, as usual, was wearing her sandwich shop shirt and visor with dragged on endlessly. Mr. Leighton explained

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concepts of strategy and rhetoric while I drew intricate pictures in my notebook.

It was a good thing Anna was in class, because I could give her the poem. As we split into discussion groups, I cunningly made my way across the room toward the fresh, colloquial speech she shared with her friends. I handed her the text.

“Thanks.” She had a gleam in her eye, crafty, clever.

“Happy birthday. How was it?” I asked.

“Joe has a serious relationship with Carly now. And I tried to kill myself.” She grinned.

She was grinning, like she was proud of it. Grinning, she reminded me of the Cheshire cat sprawled leisurely across a high branch with multi-gradient, gaudy purple stripes. Her face displayed her emotions, but her body was just a body, slowly vanishing into the background.

Suddenly, I was afraid of her. In fact, I didn’t know if I even believed her. Why didn’t she tell me or call me?

Anna and I were close friends for a few years afterward, until senior year. We keep in touch now and then. Her friends were never mine, but I realized in time I didn’t need them; I could only be there for her. The smiles, the winter car rides, the conversation, the arm – I never forgot to remind myself that she would do what she wanted to do. I, too, would do what I wanted to do.

Sometimes I think about how different we became. She finally did meet someone she loved, and someone who loved her – I noticed that this occurred right after she started loving herself. She taught me that people are capable of change for the better if they want to change for the better. The horrible cycle of self-destruction I saw in Anna can be broken in time and with encouragement from loved ones. Anna also taught me to help the people in my life who trust me. And I know that if I started down a road riddled with destructive behavior, the people who I keep as close confidants would be the ones to help reign me in.

Janelle Bakke, contributing writer, is pursuing a B.A. in English honors at the University of Minnesota. She delights in reading and hot beverages.

I didn’t know if I mattered much to her as a friend. I also didn’t know how to react to her excitement. At the end of class the bell rang. I packed up my papers, and walked out into the dim hallway. The 1960s décor of the high school surrounded me like a sweaty basement, and the thudding feet and speech around me ceased to matter. Gray lockers coated the walls. I walked outside where the January light hit me in the face. It was cold, all white and gray. I didn’t know what to feel with a multiplicity of confusing questions swimming around in my head. What could I do? She was in school and her friends were obviously not interested in contacting me. Would this happen again? Would I ever understand why? I didn’t know.

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by LIZ LARRAbEE PHOTOGRAPHy by KIRISSA GRAMS

Líbí Se Mi Praha

I have been a traveler at heart ever since I can remember. My parents are the same way and infected me with the travel bug very early on. I remember countless family road trips: crossing state borders, counting license plates and trying to see as many places as possible on a cheap budget. I learned tricks and games to pass the time, how to use the right combination of coupons and discounts to get the cheapest prices possible on hotel stays or tourist attractions and, most importantly, I learned how to ignore my need to use the bathroom long enough to make the 50 to 70 mile journey between rest stops.

Once I began college, I knew I would have the opportunity to study abroad and that meant the chance to travel and experience things I had never seen before. I also knew I was willing to do whatever it took to make that happen. I hit the ground running and researched every program that my school approved, finally settling on a spring semester in Prague, Czech Republic. I wasn’t completely sure why I chose Prague, but I knew I wanted to be outside of my comfort zone and be immersed in a new and unfamiliar culture. I also wanted the ability to travel to other places, so the Czech Republic

seemed to stand out, even though I knew absolutely nothing about it.

Everyone talks about culture shock when you stay in a new country, especially if you are staying for an extended period of time. Before my departure from the United States, I was convinced that there was no way this would happen to me. After all, I was an experienced traveler and understood that cultural and linguistic differences were something to be studied and appreciated, not something to be afraid of. Culture shock also hits different people at different times, so while my new friends were missing home, failing to recover from jetlag and expressing their distaste for the local cuisine, I was perfectly content where I was, which made me assume I had escaped it. However, once I got over the high of being in a new, exciting place – after all, I was the stereotypical college student living the dream of traveling in Europe – the frustrations and difficulties of being in such a different culture finally settled in.

Even though the Czech Republic is a major, centrally located European city, it was vastly different from my home in Minnesota. For one thing, it was much darker and more solemn than I had expected. Whenever I thought of European adventures, I always imagined colorful buildings full of neat, square windows with equally colorful shutters lined up along a glistening river while the sweet smells of local restaurants wafted through the air, carried by the gentle breeze. In the distance, a man in traditional garb, sweetly singing and paddling a boat down the water would add to the serenity of this scene.

And there I would be, relaxing on a café terrace, sipping on a steaming cup of espresso and speaking of poetry and art with some local Czechs – in Czech of course, a language I would pick up easily while living there.

In reality, Prague is a bit of a dichotomy. It has wonderfully beautiful architecture that has been there for hundreds of years, spared from the ravages of World War II bombings. However, not far from these gorgeous gems are tightly stacked, grey stucco office buildings and apartments, tangible evidence of the country’s communist past. Strange as it is, the stark contrast of this CONVERSATIONS city’s landscape only adds to ARE PERHAPS WHAT I its charm.

MISS MOST ABOUT

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THE UNITED STATES.

...CULTURAL AND LINGUISTIC DIFFERENCES WERE SOMETHING TO BE STUDIED AND APPRECIATED, NOT SOMETHING TO BE AFRAID OF. The many years of communist rule the Czech Republic has experienced are not only evidenced in the architecture, but in the people as well. In Minnesota, it’s very easy to start up a conversation with someone you have never met; such a conversation will usually begin with a comment about the weather, and may very well end in a new friendship and plans to meet for coffee. This was what I was accustomed to, but is the polar opposite of what I encountered in Prague. At the beginning of my journey, I admit I didn’t pay much attention to the Czech people, but was instead consumed by my own world of exploration. Once I began to actually take in my surroundings, I realized I could tell who was a tourist and who a native by just looking at someone. Because of their warridden and politically volatile history, the Czechs tend to be much more reserved than people I had encountered in the United States. It was very strange for me at first because I would only get short, one-word answers if I spoke with someone, and very, very few smiles. It’s not that the people here are cold; it’s simply a difference in culture and social norms.

All things considered, the hardest thing for me to grasp here in the Czech Republic has been the language. I am a right-brain thinker. I have always been drawn to more abstract things, and language is what attracts me most.

I have become bilingual after many years of studying Spanish, and it was something that came fairly easily to me. Because of this ease, I assumed that I would be able to pick up Czech with little problem, especially because I was immersed in the culture and language while living here, as nearly no one speaks English. I was also delighted to find out that my program included a two-week intensive language class, and I was excited to dive right into the language and begin speaking.

However, I was in for a rude awakening, as Czech is unlike any language I’d ever heard before. There are sounds that are nearly impossible for non-native speakers to say; even some Czech children must go to a speech therapist in order to learn how to say these sounds properly. There is also a striking lack of vowels – a favorite phrase the Czechs like to make foreigners say is “strč prst skrz krk,” meaning something like, “stick the finger in the throat.” The phrase can be heard in pubs across Prague. I have studied and studied, but I can only retain simple Czech phrases that help me get around on a day-to-day basis. It’s better than nothing, but I wish I were able to formulate my own

sentences, express my own thoughts and have a real conversation with a local resident.

Conversations are perhaps what I miss most about the United States.

It has been easy to fall in love with this alluring city. In the beginning I was just a confused tourist, dropped in the middle of a strange new country, a perplexing language and an eclectic culture.

Upon seeing that my preconceived notions of college escapades in Europe were not at all what I actually found in Prague, I was too intimidated to step beyond the borders of my comfort zone and was at a complete loss for what to do with my time here. But Prague drew me in with its enchanting spark, and I have begun to look beyond face value by developing adoration for Prague’s hidden beauty. The Czech Republic will always be an inseparable part of me, and, despite defying all of my expectations, Prague will always feel like home.

Liz Larrabee, contributing writer, lives for wilderness camping and traveling the world. She is working toward becoming a clinical psychologist.

Kirissa Grams, contributing artist, is a fine arts student at SCSU. She's currently planning her postgraduation endeavors pursuing her career in Berlin, Germany.

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by SIERRA DEMULDER PHOTOGRAPHy by KRISTINA PERKINS

The summer my parents lost their marriage like so many magnets kicked under the refrigerator, my cousin and I named trees after babysitters we never had. We lived in our bathing suits, washed our hair in pond water and sunburn.

(Once, my mother slammed the screen door so hard, I comforted the hinges.)

I taught my cousin how to make face paint out of spit and dirt. She taught me to swim underwater.

(Once, I found my father weeping on the bed they did not share anymore.)

On the green carpet of summer, we played until the cicadas, dressed in dusk, called us to dinner. We kissed goodnight and I ran home barefoot on the dirt road in the dark.

(Once, I sat between my parents and placed their hands in my lap like a seatbelt. I do not remember this.)

To this day, walking at night on that creaking road still reminds me of wolves.

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Sierra DeMulder, contributing writer, is a spoken word artist from upstate New York. She enjoys cranberry juice, goosebumps, and feminism.

Kristina Perkins, contributing artist, attends Drexel University and is focused on planning Clapperclaw Festival in Minneapolis, Minn.

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A PROJECT TO ADD INSIGHT TO THE VIEWFINDER. Picturing Everyday Beauty is a project of Alive Arts Media that aims to extend our perceptions of beauty beyond physical appearance to reflect the depth of character and lively spirits of everyday people.

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FREESTYLE A LINE/VERSE.

CHARLIE DEZIEL, 30

Hometown: Escanaba, Mich.

MORGAN STILL, 13

Hometown: Appleton, Wis.

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How are words powerful in your life?

I use them to express myself and my feelings in everyday life. If you express yourself by how you dress or the art you make, somebody might misunderstand, but everyone can understand words.

Freestyle a line/verse.

I’m going to quote some beat poetry from “So I Married an Axe Murderer”: “Woman. Whoa-man. Woooooo-man.

She was a thief. You gotta believe.

She stole my heart and my cat.”

LENORA MAGEEHOWARD, 21 Hometown: South Minneapolis, Minn.

What is a diva?

I believe a diva is a woman who accepts her flaws and flaunts her beauty. They can walk in a room and command attention without doing anything but walk in the room. But a diva also makes others shine with her and does not forget that she is not the only diva in the room but brings the diva out in others.

EVERY WOMAN IS A DIVA.

WHAT IS A DIVA?

BECCA BIJOCH, 22 Hometown: Maple Grove, Minn.

Do you like hip-hop music?

Absolutely. When I’m in the mood there’s nothing better than a good jam.

SHANNON GREAVES, 22 Hometown: Gainesville, Fla. What images come to mind when you think of hip-hop?

Graffiti, turntables, breakdancing and good vibes.

What is your impression of the hip-hop industry?

It represents political issues and a lot of racial tension issues and also speaks about happy things to hear about that make you laugh. Basically, speaking your mind, what’s real and what’s going on in the world.

WHAT DOES SPOKEN WORD MEAN TO YOU?

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GENEVIEVE JOHNSEN, 23

Hometown: Rochester, Minn

What does spoken word mean to you?

I think of it as speaking your thoughts in a passionate manner.

CAROLYN BRUNER, 22 Hometown: Kansas, Neb.

How are words powerful in your life?

It’s like the expression by Shakespeare: “the pen is more powerful than the sword.” Words have the power to linger and you need to be careful what you say. I think this is why women seem to have more problems than men, because they fight with words.

KATIE SCHANK, 24 Hometown: Eden Prairie, Minn.

How are words powerful in your life?

Words are powerful because when another person is able to express their feelings or emotions about who they are it defines themselves concretely.

HOW ARE WORDS POWERFUL IN YOUR LIFE? 23

DJ O’NEIL, 25

Hometown: Minneapolis, Minn.

SARA SAJADI, 22 Hometown: Eagan, Minn.

What is your impression of the hip-hop industry?

I feel a huge majority of the industry is focused on demoting women and their bodies. Even if the music has nothing to do with women, females are often on cd covers, in videos, and on stage for performances, rarely respectfully clothed or portrayed as weak and needing a man.

How are words powerful in your life?

There’s the written word of God that directs most of my life. It’s stuff that I meditate on and act on. I would like to think that it directs my activites, relationships and work. And there’s promises in it. That’s something I can trust in and put my hope in.

WHAT ARE YOUR STEROTYPES OF HIP-HOP/SPOKEN WORD? JENNIFER FINSTAD, 25 Hometown: Milwaukee, Wis. What are your stereotypes of hip-hop/spoken word?

I don’t hold any sterotypes about hip-hop or spoken word but many people believe it is all about shooting people, killing cops, getting high, making money and having sex. Even though there are themes in hip-hop that may hold some of those ideas, the music is more than just the words to many that listen; there is a beat, a driving force behind the words that give the words more depth.

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S 12:23 PM

Vinyl 8-track Mixed tape Playlist

> > > >

by SARAH bODEAU PHOTOGRAPHy by JENNy WILLIAMS

Long ago, before playlists and party shuffle, there was the tape deck. The tape deck brought portable music to the masses. It took time, it took planning and it took elbow grease, but for almost no cost, people could finally compile their favorite songs from records and the radio.

Sure, the tape deck’s predecessor, the pioneering reelto-reel, could also do this, but reel-to-reels were bulky and couldn’t be played from your car stereo. The 8-track, which also preceded the tape deck, was travel-sized, but it couldn’t be tailored to a person’s musical taste.

It wasn’t until the tape deck that people were finally able to show off their vast musical knowledge in nearly any environment.

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I made my first mixtape when I was 12 and couldn’t get one song I had heard on the radio out of my head.

I was going through my oldies phase and the song was “Last Kiss” by J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers. I could have bought a CD with the song on it, but who wanted to pay 13 bucks for one track? So, for the next two days, I sat with my finger poised above “record” on the tape deck while the radio played. While I was waiting, I recorded other songs I liked, and it didn’t take long to fill an entire tape. The transitions were choppy and I would often get a few seconds of DJ talk, but it was my own hand-selected radio station.

Now, with digital music, making your own playlist is fast and easy. You aren’t restricted by time limits or a set song order. Arthur Bernhardt, 23, likes digital music for the variety it provides. “You never know what you’re going to like next week, next month,” says Arthur. “It’s only a buck instead of a whole album at the store.” With podcasts or streaming audio sites like Pandora, it’s easy to find new artists and songs that you like. And it’s cheap. When you can’t find a free and legal MP3 to download, you can use services like iTunes to buy one for just over a dollar.

The biggest change that accompanies the digital music trend is that people no longer have to buy a ton of albums for just a few songs. In January of 2009, USA Today reported that the Nielson Company’s 2008 numbers showed an increase in total music sales, but that 70 percent of those sales were digital, single-track downloads. That left album sales – records, cassettes, CDs and full-album digital downloads – plummeting for the fourth year in a row. For local music stores, whose profit depends on full-album sales, this could be a devastating trend.

Emily Brian, 22, has been working at the Electric Fetus music store in Duluth, Minn., for a year and a half. The Fetus is an independent business that has stores in Duluth, St. Cloud and Minneapolis. Unlike Arthur and most young consumers, Emily doesn’t buy digital music. “I feel like I’m a traitor if I do that,” she says. “It’s taking us down.

Some months are really great and some months are really bad. Overall, [sales are] on the downturn.”

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Does that mean local stores will turn to online sales to stay in business? The truth is, most indie stores don’t have the money to do that, and even if they did, it would go against what they stand for. “We have enough money to pay our employees, but I don’t think there’s space for [going online] in our budget at all,” says Emily. “I don’t think that would even be in the plans, and if we go online… we’d become just like Best Buy.“ COMPANIES WILL NEED TO MOLD THEIR BUSINESS PLANS TO FIT OUR DIGITAL SOCIETY IN A WAY THAT CAN STILL GENERATE PROFIT. There is a growing group of consumers, however, who are incorporating more hard copy, full albums into their music libraries. What used to be a niche market reserved for audiophiles and pawn shop junkies is becoming vintage and cool. Sales of records, or “vinyl” to those in the know, finished 2008 at a 17-year high, according to the same USA Today article.

High school English teacher Brendon Hertz, 23, was raised on a steady diet of vinyl thanks to his funk-loving father, and he has stayed true to his roots. To him, listening to records is a social activity. “Records force you to change the music every 20 minutes,” he says. “You have to flip a side, or you have to pull a record off the shelf. You look at the records and talk about them. Whenever I’m listening to records, people are around.”

Although there is some evidence that the sound quality of vinyl is scientifically better than digital, most people have

a hard time hearing that difference without expensive equipment, and even a used set of good speakers can cost thousands of dollars. Rather, young people are getting interested in vinyl because it plays into what Brendon calls “that whole new kind of hipster emergence.”

Emily agrees. “It’s like the people who bought [the records] originally are selling them back and all the cool hipsters are buying them. A lot of the vinyl we sell to younger people, 35 and under.”

But, as Emily points out, many young people think, “Why would I want to buy a record when I can’t listen to it in my car?” They may like the idea of vinyl – the larger album covers and lyric booklets, the tactile process of playing a record and the social aspect – but ultimately they may still want to have all of their music on their iPods. That’s why many companies are including digital download coupons with vinyl purchases. Buyers can have the complete, hard copy album as well as the mobility that digital music provides.

WHAT USED TO BE A NICHE MARKET RESERVED FOR AUDIOPHILES AND PAWN SHOP JUNKIES IS BECOMING VINTAGE AND COOL. Does this mean that all independent music stores are going to fail? It’s possible, but it isn’t inevitable. We are living in a time of media upheaval where formats are changing drastically every day. Companies will need to mold their business plans to fit our digital society in a way that can still generate profit. Larger companies like Apple have already done this. Like Arthur says, “iTunes is the Wal-Mart of music. It’s that convenient and that easy and that cheap.” The challenge for indie music stores will be entering that market as competitors to the MP3 behemoths. And that prospect almost makes a girl yearn for the days of the tape deck.

Sarah Bodeau, contributing writer, is living and working in the land of Paul Bunyan, chain saw carvers and plaid flannel. She loves gardening and her dogs.

Unfortunately, vinyl sales probably aren’t enough to compensate record stores for the revenue lost to digital music. Although there are people like Brendon who are willing to spend hours digging through bins for just the right record, most people don’t go out of their way to buy vinyl. Emily says, “We had a vinyl room and it was really, really unsuccessful.

People come to the store and don’t assume there’s a downstairs, but as soon as we brought 80 percent of our vinyl upstairs, our vinyl sales have gone up 30 percent in a month.” As encouraging as that sounds, it just shows that the average music buyer still views vinyl as a novelty rather than a main music source.

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Simple, Scrumptious Summer Entertaining

by ALENNAH WESTLUND PHOTOGRAPHy by JENNy WILLIAMS

The sun is shining, your tan is sinking in and suddenly you remember that you are the host for your weekly gettogether with your friends. Those relaxed, sunglasses-shaded eyes transform into a tense, worried gaze. What will you make for dinner?

In the intense summer heat, I often find myself looking for a fresh and simple, yet tasty summer meal to share with my friends. After searching through cookbooks, newspapers and magazines over the years, I have tested countless recipes, looking for the perfect meal to whip up for a casual summer party.

Finally, I decided on my own creations.

Len’s Fresh Summer Salad Serves 5 to 6 2 medium apples 10 large strawberries ½ cup walnuts ½ cup dried cranberries 8 ounces of carrots ½ head of iceberg lettuce

Makes 1 gallon

½ 9 ounce bag of spinach

3 cups water

Your choice of a variety of salad dressings Cut up the apples into small chunks, the strawberries into thick slices, and the carrots into thin slices. Shred the lettuce into generous leaves.

Pour the lettuce and spinach into a large bowl and toss them together. Then add apples, strawberries, carrots, walnuts and dried cranberries. Toss all together while making sure to leave a variety of ingredients on top to show off the beautiful colors.

The next step is your choice. With this salad I suggest a raspberry vinaigrette tossed with the salad. The other option is to purchase a variety of dressings and give your guests the choice. With such great flavor in the ingredients of this salad already, I even recommend skipping the dressing!

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Mom’s Sweet Tea

8 plain tea bags 1 cup sugar Put water and tea bags in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil. Remove from heat and steep for 15 minutes. Remove tea bags. Add sugar and stir until dissolved. Pour into 1-gallon container. Fill with cold water. Refrigerate.

To serve, pour into your favorite summer glasses and top with a lemon slice!

With this simple summer meal, you’ll never have a hungry summer night again. But these recipes are just a great start. Once you get comfortable with them, add your own little twist! By the end of the summer, you’ll be the permanent hostess, ensuring that all your friends enjoy a delectable dinner.

Individual Summer Zest Pizzas Makes 6 to 8 individual pizzas ¾ cup warm water 2 teaspoons active dry yeast Pinch of sugar 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon salt 2 tablespoons olive oil Additional flour and oil 1 cup mixed peppers (red, green, yellow) 1 cup cooked shredded chicken ¼ cup shredded mozzarella cheese 2 to 4 tablespoons chopped fresh herbs (parsley, basil, oregano) 2 cups spinach *Note: If you like your pizzas loaded with toppings, go for it! But you may require more ingredients than the recipe calls for.

Put the water into a large bowl, stirring in the yeast and sugar until they dissolve. Let it become bubbly. Then stir in the flour, salt and olive oil. Mix it until it’s smooth, thick and sticky.

Spread a little flour on the countertop and turn the dough out. Knead it with floured hands, turning the dough over to the middle and pressing outward. If it gets sticky, just sprinkle some more flour.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Roll out the dough with a rolling pin, making individual pizzas about 3 to 4 inches across and 1/8 inch thick. Put the pizzas on oiled baking sheets and top with about 2 teaspoons of olive oil. Then top with veggies, chicken, spinach, and sprinkle with cheese. Finally, sprinkle with herbs and very lightly with coarse salt. Bake about 15 minutes or until nicely crisped and brown. (Be sure to check frequently – you don’t want them to burn!)

Alennah Westlund, contributing writer, is an überorganizer who color-codes her planner and hopes to one day accomplish every task on her bucket list.

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Kirby Montgomery Kirby Montgomery, contributing artist, is an up-and-coming professional photographer from Duluth, Minn.

When I think of hip-hop I think of passion, movement and colorful expression. Trinidy Combs

and Lamonte

Thunberg, the hip-hop dancers I photographed, paired with a background of artful graffiti made this subculture come to life. Their dance duo is called “Hidden Language.�

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by EMMA O’bRIEN PHOTOGRAPHy by KII ARENS AND MICHELE EbNET

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I came across the newly published book, “Spiral Bound,” in the last place one might think to look for a collection of witty and desperately honest essays, poems and short stories by a young burgeoning female philosophy major – a hip-hop record store. Such a venue is not at all unthinkable knowing that the author, Dessa, moonlights as a rapper in the local Doomtree crew. It is through her involvement with Doomtree, a Minneapolis collective of five rappers and four DJs/producers, that Dessa has been able to fulfill the dream of publishing her writing. Although in her raps she has claimed, “I’m not a writer/I just drink a lot about it,” her first published work proves otherwise.

At Sebastian Joe’s in uptown Minneapolis, Dessa and I sit over strong coffee (her) and a chocolate malt (myself) and discuss her dual careers as writer and rapper. I start out with a basic question, “How did you start writing?” and get a basic answer in return: “I’ve always really dug prose.” Our conversation becomes more comfortable then, with my questions diving deeper into the specifics as Dessa dives deeper into her past.

“When I was really, really little, like before breasts little, my mom had this really, really world-class voice,” Dessa begins. “She could do note-for-note Whitney [Houston],” Dessa proudly states, explaining that it was her mother’s amazing singing while washing the dishes that first instilled in Dessa a desire to make music. As she moved on into her school years, Dessa developed a love for writing short stories, though she was unaware that such a format could be considered “real” writing. It wasn’t until graduate school, she admits, that she became aware that there was more to the world of professional writing than novels. It was with this realization that “smarmy tongue-in-cheek essays” counted as a viable genre that Dessa first had hopes of publishing her writing.

Her transition into performance came through a fluke encounter with a poetry slam one lonely Valentine’s Day. Impressed with this method of performing poetry for an audience, Dessa entered the next month’s slam and promptly won. Unbeknownst to her, it was the qualifying slam for the national finals. “I kind of stumbled into it and made, inadvertently, a big commitment on my first night,” Dessa says, laughing. But her trip to nationals, and the chance to hear the country’s best slam poets, made a deep impression on her artistically.

It was shortly after that experience that P.O.S., Doomtree’s most well-known member, encouraged Dessa to try her hand at rapping. “He was like, ‘Why don’t you rap like you write?’ and I was like, ‘You can do that? This counts?’”

Dessa admits that she struggled at first to overcome the preconceived notions she had about writers and rappers in order to be able to see herself as either. “Novelists seemed like certain kinds of cats, and rappers seemed like certain kinds of dudes.”

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Through Doomtree, Dessa released her first album, “False Hopes,” in 2005. Though she has contributed to songs on other Doomtree members’ albums and on crew albums, her first solo CD has just five songs. “I lucked the hell out in that I got to coast for years on 15 minutes of music,” she concedes. But Dessa offers a much-needed feminine touch to the otherwise all-male rap crew, and the assets she provides to Doomtree are a part of what keeps them ahead in the rap game.

Doomtree has also provided Dessa with some serious scaffolding as she’s embarked upon her various ventures.

She speaks of the roles her crew plays as “life support,” “professional support” and “aesthetic or artistic support.”

When Dessa decided she wanted to self-publish a book of her writings, she turned to her crew for guidance.

“I asked Doomtree, ‘Would you guys be willing to put the Doomtree stamp on a work of literature?’ and they said,‘Sure!’”

At first, the rapper/writer had her qualms about the project. “I wasn’t sure it was a good look. I worried that self-publishing was associated with some serious stigma,” she admits. She also wasn’t entirely sure how to go about self-publishing a work of writing, though Doomtree has been self-publishing CDs for half a decade. It took a great deal of individual drive, and the help of crewmember Paper Tiger, who designed the book, for Dessa to plan out a publication and marketing strategy for “Spiral Bound.”

Dessa hopes that by publishing under the Doomtree label, her book will gain a bit more exposure and credibility. “I would say it’s definitely less [exposure] than if it was under the Random House label, but more than if it was under the Dessa label… it doesn’t look as self-published.” She is confident that Doomtree is an appropriate enterprise on which to rest the hopeful success of her writing career. “People know the name Doomtree,” Dessa

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explains. “P.O.S. has done this fantastic job of making that a trustworthy name for art… I’m hoping that the Doomtree name will maybe help establish a legitimate DIY grassroots hustle in the literary world.”

The venture into book publishing with the creation of Doomtree Press is just the most recent leap the crew has made beyond the small box of rap music. Doomtree has grown into an artists’ collective, widening its focus to include sound arts, mixed-media pieces, interactive album art, digital media, music videos and promotional shorts, and now literature, on top of the phenomenal rap lyrics, beats and live performances its been known for. With a range like that, Doomtree’s members must maintain a work ethic high enough to effectively hustle their plethora of crafts, and so far, they’ve been able to chew what they’ve bitten off.

“I did the best kind of grassroots publicity campaign that I knew how to do,” Dessa says, noting that the books can be found in record stores like Cheapo, Electric Fetus and Fifth Element, as well as bookstores like Magers & Quinn and St. Paul’s Common Good Books. The majority of her book’s sales, however, have come from Doomtree’s Web store, where the crew members virtually peddle their albums, clothing and other paraphernalia.

Reviews of “Spiral Bound” have been positive for the most part, with the Minneapolis-St. Paul Star Tribune calling it “profound and moving,” and the Minneapolis City Pages acknowledging Dessa’s “dazzling literary debut.”

“I’m encouraged by some of the generous reviews that have come out so far,” says Dessa, betraying a sense of relief that, yes, people do value her life’s work. “I think it’s every artist’s secret conceit that all you’re going to get is, ‘This changed my life!’” she laughs. The positive response has been very affirming for Dessa, who admits she struggles with self-doubt at times.

While “Spiral Bound” has taken Dessa down a new creative road, she has not thrown in the rap towel. In fact, a new album has been in the works for some time now. The track list includes songs with beats by Doomtree members Paper Tiger,

MK Larada, Lazerbeak and P.O.S., but the album will have a very different vibe than her previous work. “It’s like church music for whiskey-drinking secularists,” Dessa summarizes, adding that the album, much of which will be a capella, has “sad and melancholy” harmonies and lyrics about “death and loss of faith and all that jazz.”

Like her move to literature, Dessa isn’t sure how this new sound will go over with Doomtree fans, old and new, and she admits it’s a bit terrifying to have an entirely new sound. But if songs like “If & When” from one of Doomtree’s recent group albums are any indication, her new style is very befitting of a rapper-turned-author.

So how then does Dessa, who excels at telling stories through her songs, make that choice between rap song or short story, lyric or poetry? “Um… if the words at the end of an idea rhyme easily, that would nudge me towards rap music,” she says as she laughs rather embarrassedly, adding that she rarely holds her poetry to standard rhyming conventions. But as she elaborates, she reveals that in her writing, song or otherwise, she puts a great deal of thought into what sorts of ideas compliment each genre.

Rap music, she explains, is a “collage of similes,” a gathering of tiny, self-contained poems. Words often shoot by at an alarming rate in hip-hop, leaving a listener just enough time to catch a two-line image but not the time it takes to process a complex idea over stanzas and stanzas. As an example, Dessa gives a line from “The Wren,” a song she co-wrote with Doomtree crewmember, SIMS: “It’s not vengeance, it’s not bloodlust/Justice is just a rule of law/Hold down the magician, the beautiful assistant/should get her turn with the saw.” She liked the idea of that image, but wasn’t interested in developing it further into a poem or story, so the line was destined to become a rap lyric.

In a way, the line from “The Wren” summarizes the role of women in the hip-hop genre. Women have been a necessary ingredient in rap music since the start, but often in a background role like the magician’s assistant. But why should the assistant be content to remain the magician’s silent

servant, and women content to remain silent props in men’s rap videos? “There is no faculty for lyricism that dudes have but girls don’t,” Dessa maintains.

Consequently, Dessa would rather not be acknowledged as anyone’s favorite female rapper. “Just have me be your 10th favorite emcee. Or bump me off the list!”

While Dessa believes men and women rappers should be evaluated by the same criteria, she also worries that sometimes women are just as guilty of reinforcing negative gender stereotypes as men are. Hip-hop is very competitive, and some female rappers attempt to prove their toughness by repressing other women just as much as male rappers do. This “exaggerated hypermisogyny,” as Dessa calls it, is something that female rappers must work to refute while listeners learn to judge rappers not by their sex but by their abilities.

The release of “Spiral Bound,” Dessa hopes, will attract the attention of some folks who may not recognize her from the Doomtree lineup. As a promoter, she knows she must find ways to get her writing out to an older readership. In the back of her book, Dessa has included a list entitled “If you enjoyed ‘Spiral Bound,’ you might also like…” The list includes such sophistications as the radio program “This American Life,” books by Annie Dillard and Malcolm Gladwell and whiskey amaretto on the rocks (fine taste for a broke rapper).

But Dessa is not concerned with being placed into any specific category. “This is such a back-of-the-hand artist thing to say,” she comments. “Ready?” With a twinkle in her eye that suggests it has taken her years to accept her current view, she says to me, “I’m just not that interested in the lines.”

Emma O’Brien, contributing writer, majored in history and urban studies and her thesis on Minneapolis hip-hop has been published by Columbia University.

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BY JESSICA ZIMANSKE ILLUSTRATION BY TIANA TOSO

very day we encounter a myriad of people in the workplace, in our classes or in our neighborhoods. We walk or drive by numerous buildings and sites that have become a part of our daily routines. At the rate that we travel through life, we often are able to see things only at face value. Friend. Parent. Church. School. By taking a second look at the people and places that are etched into our lives, we may find that more lies beneath the surface.

The chapel on my college campus has always been a place of comfort for me. Inside this nearly 100-year-old structure, I have repeatedly poured my heart and soul out to God asking for guidance, peace and forgiveness. My faith life blossomed when I began to attend services my freshman year. The chapel spoke to me in a way that my church at home did not. This was my spiritual home, and as I transitioned into the next chapter of my life, I received support from my peers sitting in the pews around me who were also passionate about their faith and spirituality. I found a genuine relationship with God amidst the beauty of the chapel, and it has been a true love affair ever since.

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The chapel, composed of russet-colored bricks and brilliant stained glass windows, stands proudly in the central part of campus. The grandeur of the structure is matched only by the beauty of the marble, bronze and oak inside its walls. I have walked past the chapel at least 10 times a day since my first day of college. The window in my sophomore dorm room even looked right out at the chapel, allowing me to soak in its presence as I worked through novels and term papers. In the winter, the chapel was covered in blankets of snow, and I wondered how it could look so beautiful amidst such a grey and weary backdrop.

One such winter evening, with the chapel surrounded by mounds of fresh snow, my friend Tim and I embarked on an adventure that impacted my faith life in a profound way – we spun doughnuts in his big Chevy truck in a few parking lots. At each location, he would throw the truck into park, say, “Here we go!” and reverse with the steering wheel cranked all the way to one side. After a few runs, Tim gently told me that the experience might be more enjoyable if my eyes were opened. I obliged, for the most part, and took in the exhilarating spinning and swerving like a sky diver in the midst of a free fall.

My light-hearted, yet daring, experience in the passenger seat of Tim’s truck led me to wonder what other parts of my life had more meaning and depth than what I previously thought. The beautiful chapel immediately came to mind. After spending multiple seasons admiring its beauty, I now know that my love affair has not really been with the chapel, but with God, whom the chapel represents. God’s greatness far surpasses my academic accomplishments, my social life and my future career, just as the chapel sits proudly above the other buildings on campus. God’s love is constant and unconditional. Even if I feel like I cannot face God, he always meets me with open arms, just as the chapel consistently beckoned me to walk through its doors. It took nearly four years for me to open my eyes and see the chapel for what it really was.

BY TAKING A SECOND LOOK AT THE PEOPLE AND PLACES THAT ARE ETCHED INTO OUR LIVES, WE MAY FIND THAT MORE LIES BENEATH THE SURFACE.

No questions, no judgment and no criticism. My life may seem stressful or even out of control at times, like the adventure in the truck, but I can also feel safe in the same situation when I surrender my will and plan for life to God, who knows my heart and future. God always leads me on the right path and gives me stability for the journey. God takes me on adventures every day, testing me to build my faith and trust.

I MAY STRAY FOR MONTHS, YEARS OR AN ENTIRE LIFETIME, BUT GOD STILL TAKES ME BACK EVERY TIME. The most profound thing I learned with Tim that night was that God constantly brings events, people and experiences into my life to remind me to “open my eyes.” He shows himself in glorious sunsets, meaningful conversation and intense prayer. God wants me to enjoy the ride. He wants me to face the unknown with my head held high and eyes focused on him. His guidance will always see me through the uncertainties and complexities of life. And God, just like Tim, promises to always drop me off safely.

It is easy to think of God as a far-off being, guiding me from a distant place. He is not physically walking next to me as I go about my day, and he is not a phone call or a text message away – he is so much more than that. If I truly open my eyes, I will be able to see him as I walk to class, as I drive to work and as I spend time with friends.

I found God amidst a simple daily walk and a night of spinning doughnuts in the snow. Even in the chapel, a beautiful place of worship, I discovered something deeper than merely a place to frequent every Sunday. He is engrained in every aspect of my life. Living with my eyes open will reveal the pieces of God that exist amidst everyday experiences and will allow me to truly invite him into my life.

Jessica Zimanske, contributing writer, enjoys vanilla lattes, dreaming about owning a Summit Avenue mansion and having season tickets at Target Field.

During this gradual period of reflection brought on by my time spent in the chapel, my experience with Tim made me think about the times in which I have put my faith life aside due to a busy schedule, a hectic workload or just outright laziness. Yet, my concept of time is not the same as God’s. I may stray for months, years or an entire lifetime, but God still takes me back every time.

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children of the rains

by MICHAEL TOSO ILLUSTRATION by TIANA TOSO

We are in Anza’s garden, watching the sun become enveloped in a cloud of red dust as it sinks over a mangled screw palm. These Harmattan winds signal the season called thirst, which is followed by the season known as hunger. Farmers who have not grown enough millet to last the year, or who have sold much of it to pay dowries for their sons’ weddings, struggle to make ends meet.

We view what’s left of Anza’s millet harvest. Thieves broke into his granary, and while they didn’t take everything, he is disheartened, and the conversation has taken an unusually somber tone. Anza stares out into his garden and says that stored millet is what gives his mind rest.

When you have a sack of millet in the corner, he says, your wife and kids sleep soundly at night. You sleep soundly because they sleep soundly. As we watch the last rays of sun through broken millet stalks, Anza speaks in a quiet, measured tone. “Nda wayno go ga kun ni ga, wa tun ga di, a go ga tun windi kulu bon (You think the sun sets on your compound alone? Stand up and see how it falls on the entire village).” It’s a Djerma proverb so succinct, no other words will follow.

In my life, I have seldom been accused of coming up short on words. Learning Djerma didn’t change that, but it’s taught me the value of spoken word. Discovering, memorizing and learning to call upon just the right proverb, at just the instant it lends itself to a situation, changed my life in Falmey, Niger. These ageold sayings encompass much of what makes the seemingly threadbare Djerma such a poignant language. Like a proverb, there are few words, and each and every one has multiple meanings. This is the power and weakness of spoken word: If you choose your words selectively, you can silence your enemies, embrace your loved ones and tell a fanciful story to toddlers in the same breath. Do it wrong and risk alienating potential friends.

The Peace Corps’ Land Rover dropped me off in the village in late October. Falmey was teaming with youth, and the harvest was about to begin.

There is no formal economy

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to speak of in Niger, and with desertification growing worse each year, most young men travel south to cities like Cotonou, Accra, Lagos and Kano to work as street hawkers or day laborers. They work until clouds begin to gather above the Sahel, and then they follow these clouds home to begin the harvest.

There are two different names for such travelers. Kurmizey (a term much like the biblical reference to the prodigal son who left his family only to return home empty-handed) are the sons of Djerma farmers who travel across the Sahel, down through the savannahs to the seacoast in search of work, only to return for the season of rains and harvest each year. Taabusizey are children of Kurmizey, born in a foreign land, fruits of a prodigal son’s harvest, who are sent home to be claimed by their families in their fathers’ homelands. The difference in these names is important.

To have been born in one place bestows a meaningful, grounded sense of identity – a check, payable in full, for as long as your family is known there. To be born in a foreign land, and sent home to people who are supposed to be your family can be painful. A Djerma folk and hip-hop poet, the late Moussa Poussy, sang a song of lament and hope, titled “Taabusizey.” Moussa wove old farmers’ songs of longing for their children’s return with the rebellious songs of youth ready to leave for greener pastures. The song, introduced to me by a good friend late in my service, changed my life.

Children of the rains, prodigal children: give birth and send your children home/We are leaving, until we come again/Father mustn’t look for us, Mother mustn’t look for us/Those that searched for us were belittled/The water of belittlement catches one in the eyes/The automobile is leaving, Mother is crying/The guitar and its strings should never separate/The old kokoroba-made hoe leans against a kokoroba tree/The sleeper and his millet spoon are sleeping underneath the granary/Wild millet is waiting to become porridge, the family awaits its arrival/ And this millet drink left in the sun must speak of its place and look to the sun/For if it ferments and turns to poison, it will be the family who dies It’s a song for when you travel to a foreign place and the bright city lights hit you for the first time. It’s for when you first taste Coca-Cola, learn to eat foods other than millet, baobab leaves and peanut sauce, and you don’t know a soul in the world because you can’t speak the language, you begin to whistle this song. You sing the song as you

HE AND I WERE FRIENDS BECAUSE OF THAT KNOWING STARE I WOULD CATCH OUT OF THE CORNER OF HIS EYE, AS SOME PASSER-BY MAKES COMMENTS ABOUT MY “FOREIGNNESS.”

walk along, and more likely than not, your song will find its companion. Another Djerma youth’s whistle will join yours and you are no longer a stranger in a strange land - you have found someone to look after you and for you to look after.

My friend Yaye taught me the song shortly after I finished my two-year Peace Corps service. He insisted that I learn it, that I know the words elders sing from their fields as clouds gather on the horizon. They sang, “Rain clouds gather and bring your children home for the harvest.”

Elders and children sing to one another from across the savannas and cloud-filled skies that separate them.

Yaye’s mother is a Fulan herder, and his father is a Djerma farmer (two ethnic groups that fight each other with machetes during the harvest season when cattle graze on farmers’ fields). He was born in Falmey, and often travels south to Ghana to find work. The year I came to the village, he married. The week before I left, he and I slaughtered a sheep for his son’s naming ceremony.

In a West African Muslim village, a naming ceremony has nuanced, important meanings, many of which will last a lifetime. An unblemished sheep is preferred, but if your family cannot afford one, a goat is sacrificed instead.

Children named with the blood of a goat will grow up with the nickname “goat’s child.”

Yaye understood who he was because of the parents to whom he was born. I think his travels helped him think of himself as something else. I think seeing himself through a stranger’s eyes changed the way he saw his village, as well as his role in it. Yaye speaks the pidgin English spoken in Accra, but we only conversed in Djerma. He and I were friends because of that knowing stare I would catch out of the corner of his eye, as some passer-by makes comments about my “foreignness.” We connected not only because of our time together, but because he knew what those comments were like.

Yaye was born in Falmey, but has traveled to other countries. Anza was born into a fixed community, with an innate identity he will take to his grave. Yaye is a stranger in his own village, because of whom he was born to, and because of what he chose to become. These men of different ages, different backgrounds and languages, get along with the only white foreigner in the village. They were my best friends.

Anza’s proverb taught me to count on others as I contemplate my own suffering. Yaye taught me that we aren’t who we were born to be, but who we become. They each did this in their own time, in their own subtle way.

We use words to name children, to identify our families, to specify our ethnic groups, to describe those who are not like us. There is also life, how we live it and what we do to earn who we are. There are the songs we sing to welcome our lost ones back into the fold. These aren’t just words, just syntax attached to arbitrary meanings; they are our names, our identities, our families. These things are understood, but voicing them makes a difference.

Voicing an unspoken understanding changes the nature of a relationship. It could even change the world.

A Djerma proverb says, ”Life is like a mango: Just as it becomes ripe, it falls from the tree.” The power of this proverb rang true in my life. Just as I began to learn the power of words, I packed to leave Falmey while the third season of rains fell down around us.

Yaye taught me to sing Moussa’s song, “Taabusizey,” and as I sang it for my age-set before leaving, I realized that Yaye wasn’t teaching me this song so that I could find a Djerma friend in the United States. That was the fanciful story for the toddlers. Yaye was silencing those who had mocked us for being different, because some had never left themselves, because some of them had never sung the song in a foreign land. Yaye’s gift to me was a word to associate with a precious time in my life. He was wise enough to know that it isn’t the spoken word alone that matters, but the layers of meaning you can unfold beneath its sound.

At the time of publication, clouds will be gathering across the Sahel. Farmers will be singing the age-old song to the clouds, that they would speed the coming of rain’s children. I’ve been living in the United States for a while since my time in the desert, and it’s been too long since I’ve seen the rains fall. I leave for Falmey again in November.

Michael Toso, contributing writer, has degrees in art and community health education and has been nominated for a second tour with the Peace Corps in 2009.

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STEREOTYPES OF HIP-HOP

When you think of the role of women in hip-hop, what comes to mind? Maybe it’s a rapper accompanied by a posse of women back-up dancers, maybe it’s a distracting style of clothing or a quick beat hiding lyrics that objectify women. While we may not consciously acknowledge them, our reactions to the hip-hip culture often contribute to the mold into which women are placed as we ignore the creative effort behind the music. Whatever our image of hip-hop, we should ask ourselves: How much of this is a stereotype of the culture and how much is truth?

HOW MUCH OF THIS IS A STEREOTYPE OF THE CULTURE AND HOW MUCH IS TRUTH? It is crucial that, in keeping up with the hip-hop culture, we understand that these women artists are making use of the hip-hop genre as an outlet to express who they are and what experiences they’ve had. If we get caught up in the image, only placing women as backup dancers rather than acknowledging their contributions to the art form, we might end up disregarding the individuals behind the hip-hop flavor.

On a similar note, while it’s easy to see the image of a woman in a popular hip-hop video as fashionable even if they are in the background, it’s important to be aware of the inequality of gender roles that usually goes unnoticed. Women involved in hip-hop should not be defined only in terms of their interests or profession, but by who they are and what they want to share through hip-hop.

The issue of what to do to counteract stereotypes of women within the hip-hop community has begun to generate much discussion. The Hip-Hop Association is promoting the Womanhood Learning Project, a study being conducted to consider the position of women involved with hip-hop. The study also compares those positions to the negative portrayal of women in the media. Researchers are searching for an answer to the question of where women stand within a genre traditionally dominated by men.

Toni Blackman, Freestyle Union founder and director, is leading the movement toward the development of a well-defined role and strong voice for women. She wants to help give young girls opportunities to become artists and activists through workshops and performances. Toni has created educational programs, such as Freestyle Union, that are meant to develop leaders who will encourage a positive attitude toward the hiphop community. This group looks to “elevate the level of hip-hop by promoting ‘freestyling,’ the free improvisation of lyrics, which requires tremendous verbal and intellectual agility” according to the Echoing Green

Web site, which features this program. Young women struggling to be a part of this industry are empowered by this organization and encouraged to hone their natural talents.

Even the New York Times has recently publicized this tension between the real hip-hop culture and what the media portrays. In “Protesting Demeaning Images in Media,” the Times described some of these battles, stating that rallies have been organized in New York to ask companies that produce hip-hop music videos and other media to establish “universal creative standards” and to “censor potentially demeaning imagery and language.”

Hip-hop videos sometimes present viewers with an unrealistic view of the artists they portray by focusing on provocative clothing and sexuality. Rather than accepting the image that is portrayed on TV or in magazines, maybe we should be considering the underlying messages and whether or not they are healthy to advocate.

This renovation of hip-hop in the media seems to be pushing its audience to maintain respect for the tradition of hip-hop and the beauty of women aside from physical appearance and sexuality. If you go beyond the harsh language and revealing clothing found within hip-hop, the true talent and passion that is the soul of this genre can be uncovered.

Hip-hop has established itself as a means of stepping outside of the box, and is a definitive voice amongst other genres. It encompasses a distinct style of dance, music and art, proving its versatility. Its beauty is born from its inventiveness, and this is something to be preserved in a world of individuals eager to share their talents. It would be unfortunate to see it become limited by a stereotype that says those who want to express themselves through hip-hop need to act or dress in a particular way while also giving women secondary roles.

THE DEGRADATION OF WOMEN THROUGH A BLIND ACCEPTANCE OF WHAT WE HEAR OR SEE IN THE MEDIA SHOULD NOT BE TOLERATED OR IGNORED. The degradation of women through a blind acceptance of what we hear or see in the media should not be tolerated or ignored. After considering the current status of hiphop, an attainable goal would be for us to be aware of what messages we are sending and what stereotypes we are allowing to grow even by singing along with a seemingly harmless song on the radio. We should work to empower talented women in the hip-hop community, not predetermine their roles, and rid hip-hop of related negativity while preserving its powerful message and bold essence.

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Courtney Still, editorial intern

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flex

It’s time to

DANCE!

by KAyLEE LAUDON ILLUSTRATION by MICHELE EbNET

We all know that in order to be healthy it is important to get the right amount of sleep, eat nutritious food and exercise regularly. It is not easy to admit, but in the midst of a busy day, we tend to sweep our workouts under the rug. It can be hard to find the time and motivation to get up and move.

For most, life is made up of a weekly routine. You have your busy days when you feel like you cannot stop for anything. Then you have your relaxing days when you take time to do the things you need to get done. Somewhere in that weekly routine, it helps to include exercise. This could mean a slow walk with a friend, riding your bike or running around the park. Being healthy is an important aspect of life, and finding a method that works for you makes your efforts gratifying. The idea is that exercise can be enjoyable and temporarily take your mind off of all your other worries. It should not be something that feels like a second job.

Dance workouts solve this problem and provide numerous options when it comes to exercise. They can be done at home or in a group class at a gym or a studio. They

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are exciting ways to get cardio workouts while having a little fun. But these workouts can be deceiving – you’ll be having so much fun that you won’t notice you’re getting a full-body workout.

BEING HEALTHY IS AN IMPORTANT ASPECT OF LIFE, AND FINDING A METHOD THAT WORKS FOR YOU MAKES YOUR EFFORTS GRATIFYING. One dance workout you may choose is the Zumba.

According to ocregister.com, the word “zumba” is Colombian slang for “buzz like a bee” or “move very fast.” This dance is a mix of Latin dances and some hiphop and swing moves, according to health-and-fitnesssource.com. It is fiery and upbeat and will leave you feeling spicy and energized.

Remember that it’s also important to prepare your body for exercise. Shapefit.com recommends remaining hydrated, eating the proper nutrients, wearing layers of clothing that can easily be removed as your body warms up and stretching at the beginning and end of your workout to keep limber and avoid injury.

THE CONCEPT OF ALWAYS TRYING TO IMPROVE IS WHAT MAKES DANCE SO CHALLENGING. To keep things exciting, explore all types of dance workouts.

You’ll pick up new moves you can show off to your friends.

You may not pick up all the dance moves right away, but keep practicing. Once you master the basic moves, you can easily add additional ones that will work your body even further. The concept of always trying to improve is what makes dance so challenging – and there’s always room to advance.

Dancing is a great way for anyone to stay fit. The Better Health Channel’s Web site states it has a wide range of physical and mental benefits, like increasing your muscle strength and endurance, improving coordination and flexibility, helping your balance and increasing your confidence. If you’re tired of the same old grueling workout, these options might be your cure. Take the “work” out of workout and dance your way to fun.

If you’re not into Latin dancing, you might consider hip-hop. This style can be quite tricky and will feel like a workout, but you’ll have a blast at the same time, moving to the funky and upbeat music.

I have done hip-hop before, and it’s not easy. The movements are quick and precise.

Fortunately, I have learned to not be afraid to try new things and that it’s OK to laugh at myself. Just have fun with it!

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Kaylee Laudon, public relations intern

Ballroom dancing is another unexpected way to get your heart pumping. It consists of quick moves, spins, throws and dips. The balancing work and constant concentration can make this style of dance a challenge, according to healthand-fitness-source.com. I took a ballroom dancing class in college and found it entertaining because most of the time you have a partner. Working together can teach you a lot.

Your new moves will impress your friends, and you can act like an expert while watching “Dancing with the Stars.”

If you want to stay closer to typical forms of exercise, check out aerobic dance. Health-and-fitness-source.com describes aerobic dance as a mix of dance moves with aerobics either on the floor or on an aerobic step. While aerobics can be difficult and somewhat daunting, the dancing component adds some choreography to make it interesting. Don’t underestimate aerobics dance – it will leave your legs and buns burning.

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W HERE WITH YOU

by SHARON bANGSUND PHOTOGRAPHy by TIANA TOSO

I am five years old, running down a dirt road in Tanzania.

The oversized blue sandals that my mother bought for me to grow into go pat-pat-pat as I run home. I hear snatches of Swahili conversation as I run past my neighbors, a language that my young ears have grown accustomed to.

Suddenly, my foot slips in my sandal and I go tumbling into the dirt and dust. Crying, I pick myself up and run to my mother with my skinned knee. I grow more upset as I make my way home and no one speaks the one word of comfort that I have come to expect while living here in Tanzania, the one word that makes everything better.

My mother takes a cool washcloth, wipes me off, puts a bandage on my knee and kisses it better as I sob and tell her what happened. My story finishes in a wail: “And nobody even said ‘pole!’”

A look of understanding sweeps across her face. She gathers me in her arms and whispers, “Pole, sweet girl,” in my ear.

I heave a shaky sigh and lean into her. That is all I need to hear to make my world right again.

At the age of two, I moved with my family from California to Tanzania, where I lived until I graduated from high school. Growing up in East Africa, I was surrounded by the Swahili language and quickly learned that there are some words (and emotions evoked from those words) that can never be translated literally into another language. Often, the depth of what is being communicated becomes lost in translation. Upon moving back to the United States at the age of 18, I received some odd looks as various Swahili words that had become a part of my daily vocabulary would slip out at the right time, but directed to the wrong listener.

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The word pole (PO-lay) is one such word. It is an expression of sympathy, roughly translated into, “I feel for you.” It conveys the idea of standing alongside someone in that moment, rather than standing on the outside looking in on someone else’s experience. More than simply saying, “I’m sorry,” pole says, “I’m here with you.” It is the truest expression of sympathy because it covers every situation where sympathy – or solidarity – is called for.

Walking by a stranger who is cutting grass in the hot sun, you could call out, “Pole na kazi!” (Pole for your work!)

You may later pass a friend in the rain and mutually greet each other, “Pole na mvua.” (Pole for the rain.) More importantly, it can be used as a single word, directed toward someone in physical or emotional pain, when there are no other words to say.

When I returned to the United States, I felt a hole in my life when pole was no longer a part of my daily vocabulary.

I found I could no longer use it in the many and varied settings that had been so natural to me for the past 16 years of my life. When my college roommate’s grandfather

IT IS THE TRUEST EXPRESSION OF SYMPATHY BECAUSE IT COVERS EVERY SITUATION WHERE SYMPATHY – OR SOLIDARITY – IS CALLED FOR.

passed away, my English words felt empty as I sat next to her. When someone had a cold, stubbed her toe or received a poor grade on a paper, everything else that I tried to say felt forced and inadequate. I felt detached from everyone and out of place, as though I had lost a way to connect with them. It caught me by surprise how much the use of one word, or lack thereof, affected how I interacted with my community and how I felt.

As I slowly realized what I was missing, I remembered a conversation I had had with one of my closest friends in high school who was from the Netherlands. We had attended an international boarding school together where classes were taught in English. It was required that all non-English speakers take lessons in their mother tongues. Those of us who spoke English as a first language learned Swahili. My friend said that she felt differently when she spoke Dutch as opposed to English or Swahili.

She claimed that she felt more intimately connected with the person with whom she was speaking.

IT CAUGHT ME BY SURPRISE HOW MUCH THE USE OF ONE WORD, OR LACK THEREOF, AFFECTED HOW I INTERACTED WITH MY COMMUNITY AND HOW I FELT.

that it could be shared with those whom I cared about.

I finally felt at home when one of my American friends would throw out pole to me. It linked me with my home in Tanzania, while connecting me with my new friend and the moment that we shared together.

Since graduating from college, I have remained in the United States and now work with refugees. A number of my Somali colleagues speak Swahili, and again, in the midst of a cold winter, I find that I feel warm and comforted when pole is dropped into the conversation. It never ceases to amaze me what great power a single spoken word can hold and how it can transform a situation.

My transition into a student at an American university was the first time I experienced what my friend had been trying to explain to me. I had never been so conscious of speaking one language fluently. Although we had spoken English in high school, we frequently incorporated Swahili words into our everyday conversations. I began to realize what a gift it is to be bi-lingual and explore different sides of your personality in other languages and words.

Now, eight years after returning to the United States, many of my girlfriends have added pole to their own vocabularies. We all know, in our lowest (or sometimes simply dramatic) moments, what we most need is an arm around our shoulders and someone to say, “Pole – I’m here with you.” For me, it’s as good as my mother kissing my scraped knee.

As I became closer with a few friends in college, I taught them the meaning of pole. It occurred to me that I did not need to lose this word, this emotion, this connection, but

Sharon Bangsund, contributing writer, enjoys the thrills of traveling, cooking, swing dancing and creating music.

She claims the world as her home.

49

M

who’s got the jell-o?

by LISA TEICHER ILLUSTRATION by JENNy WILLIAMS

I grew up in a town of roughly 800 people who were all white and mostly Catholic. I was surprised after I had attended college for three years that my knowledge of other cultures hadn’t diversified, and I hadn’t spoken to a black person once in my entire life.

By the time I reached my senior year, I was ready to shake up my outlook on the world. I made the decision to rent a house with five people, three of them perfect strangers, two of them black men. Our house could have been featured on the “Real World” with all of the drama and odd occurrences. My senior year became the most chaotic, life-changing and difficult year of my life.

When I first arrived at the house, my boyfriend and I began unloading my furniture from a U-Haul I had rented.

It wasn’t longer than two minutes before a large group of guys began grabbing boxes and moving the heavy pieces of my bedroom set up the stairs. I felt awkward and uncomfortable at this act of generosity. I wasn’t quite sure why it bothered me and quickly brushed off the feelings, deciding it was nerves having to do with moving to a new location.

As the semester began and everyone settled into their schedules, I began to notice a number of incidents that frustrated me in the home. I grew up in a tiny town where crime was unheard of, but we were still told to lock our doors every night.

Here my roommates avoided locking the doors, and I quite frequently came home to find the door hanging wide open.

There was also a constant stream of visitors that moved through our

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house. It wasn’t uncommon to wake up in the morning to find strangers sleeping on our couch or someone rifling through the fridge for some food. This type of behavior bothered me, and I thought it was rude for people to think that they could just sleep on someone’s couch or eat someone’s food without asking for permission.

Then there were the attitudes and general conversations among my two male roommates and their friends that surprised me. Relationship disputes were vocalized for the entire neighborhood to hear right on the front lawn. I also always knew how well I looked on any particular day based on comments like, “Whoa, looks like you had a rough night,” or, “You’re looking good today.” The blunt and straightforward way my roommates and their friends verbalized their opinions was slightly shocking to me, given that I was raised to find a polite, non-insulting way to speak with others.

My mounting frustrations came to a halt one night in early spring. It was a Saturday and as usual, everyone had places to go, friends to see and new people to meet. I decided to make the journey down Sixth Avenue to hit up one of my favorite spots.

On my way home after a night of fun, I remembered that my roommate had said he was going to have a “few” people over. I wondered if anyone would be there by the time I got home. As we approached the house, I was surprised to find that from the outside it looked pitch black. No sounds were coming from inside.

As I opened the door to my home, I had a strange sensation that there was something I was missing.

Apparently my gut instincts were accurate because when I opened the door my eyes met a room that was filled wall-to-wall with people. There was even a guy standing at the door asking if I had any identification.

My roommate, Devon, rushed to the door saying, “She’s good, she’s good. This is one of my roomies.”

Devon to better understand why he showed such a lack of concern for things that worried me.

Our house had been turned into a full-out dance party.

There was a full sound station with a well-known disk jockey from downtown spinning hip-hop tracks. All of the furniture in the living room had been moved out and shoved into a nearby bedroom. There were black lights, strobe lights and every kind of light you could imagine. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

The conversation I had with Devon is one that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. When I asked him why he chose not to lock doors he said, “When you lock doors it’s true that you are keeping a potential intruder out, but you are also keeping a lot of other people out at the same time. People who may be in trouble, or unable to make it home. I don’t ever want to think that on a night I chose to lock a door that someone was in need and didn’t get the help I could have provided for them.”

From the outside, our house looked completely empty with all of the shades drawn and lights turned out. I realized when I got inside that every window had been covered with a thick black blanket and that no one was allowed to walk out the front door for fear of being seen.

As I gazed at the scene of absolute chaos, four guys took to the dance floor and began doing the Soulja Boy dance that I had seen on MTV. I was amazed at the skill and coordination these guys had.

Devon grabbed my arm and dragged me into the middle of the floor. I kept saying, “I have no rhythm and everyone is going to laugh at me.” Instead of answering my concern, he replied, “Do you have the Jell-O?” My mind raced, trying to figure out what exactly he was asking me. As I racked my brain and tried not to trip over my own two feet, Devon said, “Don’t think about how you’re moving.

Just move like you have Jell-O flowing through you.”

Needless to say, we came to the conclusion that, no, I did not have the Jell-O. What I did have was a newly found appreciation for a different culture. I’d never been to a party and seen so much togetherness. There were no wallflowers or people looking lost. Everyone was a friend.

It was at this moment that I realized what I had been missing out on. I also decided that I needed to speak with

It was at this time that I knew I needed to examine the situation and to begin to have a different outlook toward my roommate and his friends. I began to realize the sense of security and openness they provided one another by opening their homes and being willing to care for people in need.

I also realized that I never had to wonder what my roommates thought of me. The open opinions that they voiced were refreshing. It was nice to always know exactly where I stood with each of them and that if they had a problem, they wouldn’t avoid the issues.

I learned a great lesson by living in that house for my senior year. When I hold emotions in and try to avoid difficult situations, I am closing off a part of myself from the rest of the world.

So maybe a little noise, an open door, a constant flow of people and learning to let the Jell-O flow weren’t so bad after all.

O

Lisa Teicher, public relations director

51

I

through the eye of the storm by adrienne johnsen photography courtesy of nasa

ED U RN H C DS N. U O RAI L T I C K O SP T

I relaxed on my living room couch, the fury of the storm safely contained inside the frame of my television. On the coffee table, my water glass had left a ring of condensation atop a satellite image of the hurricane in the newspaper, an ironic microcosm of the real flood held within the swirling mass of clouds. I flipped the channel.

While news programs provided around-the-clock coverage of the destruction inflicted by Hurricane Katrina, I observed with only slight interest, simply impressed by the strength of the storm. Reporters in raincoats spoke gravely about the daily increasing damage in New Orleans, but phrases like “largescale evacuations,” “broken levees” and “state of emergency” were only background noise to me as I waited for sitcoms to begin.

Louisiana seemed so far away.

TH

Y OR .

T R AS IT W HE UT B AS N , N I I ON OT M IT H ERELY A RECITAT W P DEE M O ROSE UP FR

After that summer, images of destroyed homes and reports of horrendous conditions in the Ninth Ward were pushed to the back of my mind, eventually hidden under a shuffle of more lighthearted memories.

They didn’t resurface until three and a half years later when I learned that poet Patricia Smith would be performing at my college. The fliers around campus announced that she would be reading selections from her most recent collection of poetry, “Blood Dazzler,” a book about Hurricane Katrina and its effects on the people of New Orleans.

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AND C O

A B O VE T H E

CIT Y, DA NT R IN UE D

Trees bent at impossible angles, and debris littered the water rushing violently in the streets. Disconnected power lines and shattered storefront windows were pounded with the force of the wind, and deserted neighborhoods slowly drowned under murky waves. Above the city, dark clouds churned and continued to spit rain.

AT

I had heard that Patricia Smith, poet, author and playwright, was well known for her commanding performances and striking verses. I had never been to a reading before, however, so I took my seat in the audience, uncertain of what to expect.

I wouldn’t have been able to pick Patricia out of the crowd, had she not been sitting in the front row next to the podium. She wore jeans and an inconspicuous green blazer, and she chatted casually with the people around her. I raised a brow, beginning to doubt that I would get to witness one of the award-winning performances she was famous for.

After she was introduced, Patricia moved to the front of the room and graciously thanked everyone for attending. She opened “Blood Dazzler,” flattened the crease and took a step back from the podium, seeming to gather her thoughts. Then her calm expression became strained. Her brow furrowed, her eyes closed tightly and her mouth sank into a pained frown. She began her first poem, her tone serious. It was not merely a recitation, but a story that rose up from deep within her.

OF SE S LEN HE HE ND T HT S, A UG CU RO FO INK. T H N TO SHR ED TO EI ER AM RTED LT Y C TA L SS EN N U EE

THE FACES T H DISTANT N AT I H AD EWS DISTANC E I H CAM ONL AD ER Y S FE AS E LT S U EN BE DD FI TW

That night, Patricia’s poems told the struggles of Katrina’s victims – a mother and her son waiting for an evacuation bus to arrive before the storm made landfall, families forced onto rooftops while they prayed for rescue to come, elderly residents of a nursing home who drowned in the floodwaters. The faces that I had only seen filtered through the lenses of distant news cameras suddenly came into focus, and the distance I had felt between us started to shrink.

I looked down at my own copy of “Blood Dazzler” sitting in my lap. As I listened to her recount the stories of the storm’s destruction, the satellite image of Katrina on the book’s cover – the photograph that had been on the front page of the newspaper years earlier – began to swirl. The once stagnant picture of the hurricane that I had let settle in the back of my mind had now become animated. It was as if Patricia’s words let me see through the eye of the storm, and the pain of the people who had been caught in Katrina’s path was made real.

As the audience rose to its feet with applause after Patricia’s performance, I finally began to understand that Hurricane Katrina was much more than just a segment on the evening news. It was a devastating storm that had changed lives forever – destroying homes, displacing families, separating friends, and erasing lives with its powerful winds and relentless rain. Patricia’s poems changed the narrative of Hurricane Katrina by giving voices to the voiceless, and by sharing their stories with those who had before simply flipped the channel.

O

Adrienne Johnsen, editorial intern

53

L Keystrokes to Emancipation

by DONNA PENTICOST PHOTOGRAPHy by JENNy WILLIAMS

I sit in Dr. Glick’s office, not expecting this final therapy session to be pivotal, but hoping he can rescue me from the fog that I’ve been struggling through since Mom died. Dr. Glick, a nice man, always listened to the issues of my childhood, my mother and my life in general. Each was discussed thoroughly, which allowed him to get a better idea of where I, the crazy lady, was coming from. I experienced a gamut of emotions as I described being raped, molested by countless men, beaten and humiliated by my mom’s boyfriends and husbands.

“Mom” – as if she can really be called that. I felt guilty for wanting to strip her of that title, as she’s the one who brought me into the world, but I also can’t stand referring to her by a term that should elicit heartwarming memories of baking cookies and unconditional love. Being a mother myself by the age of 19, being married to a daily drug-user and still burdened with the fact that I had been raped at the age of nine, I can’t justify calling her “Mom.” She dosen’t deserve it.

She was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer two months earlier and had been in a downward spiral ever since. I went to her home every other day to bathe her, sit with her and selfishly and silently pray she would tell me how sorry she was for all I’ve endured and how much she really loved me. That day never came. I was called to her bedside and diligently sat with her for six hours until she took her final breath and left me forever.

That was the final straw in my already fragile state. I was on my third marriage (I put too much faith in the phrase, “The third time’s a charm”), and my four children were not getting along with their stepfather. The interactions between them were reminiscent of my painful childhood memories and it caused me to tumble down into a horrendous depression, immobilizing me as my tortured soul screamed.

For days, I sat on the couch, not showering, not talking, but simply staring straight ahead at my kitchen walls. If anyone spoke to me during these few days, I simply don’t remember it. One afternoon, staring at an Alex Colville painting of a woman looking back at me with binoculars, I began to laugh hysterically. How funny it was that this woman had been staring at me, through bloody binoculars, as though I were miles away, when I was sitting directly in front of her. My laughing soon turned to heart-wrenching sobs, lasting hours, until, emotionally drained, I passed out on the couch. When I woke up, my head was clear but my eyes were swollen shut. I realized once again that I needed professional help. I believed in it – it had helped me before.

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UNTIL NOW, I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SPEAK OR WRITE ABOUT MY PAIN AND HER ROLE IN IT. MY GUILT FOR THE ATTEMPT SHE MADE ON HER LIFE THAT DAY HAS PLAYED A LARGE PART IN MY INABILITY TO SHARE THIS STORY.

Sometimes during our appointments I caught Dr. Glick’s expressions as I divulged the horrible events of my life and wondered why a professional seemed shocked and dismayed. Had he not heard similar, even more tragic stories? He waited patiently as I cried, always digging deeper for the courage to continue, so desperate to rid myself of the torment. I came to realize that I could point to my mother as the source of my painful childhood memories, but she had even more to do with my issues as an adult and my overall views on life, love and relationships.

Now, in my final counseling appointment, I hear him give some unexpected, yet familiar advice, advice I haven’t heard in almost 20 years. After he tells me that I would benefit from a new treatment called trauma therapy, he hits me with what he must have thought was a new idea. ”Donna, you have a book here, a fascinating life story that needs to be told. In all my years in this field, everything I learned tells me I should be sitting across from a drug addict, an out-of-control alcoholic, a woman who sells her body to feed whatever habit takes away her pain.

However, I am sitting across from one of the most puttogether people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting,” he says as he smiles and sits forward in his beautiful, overstuffed leather chair.

I’m a little taken aback. My first therapist gave me the same suggestion, but I could never bring myself to put anything on paper. I tell him this, trying to explain my thoughts.

“You know, I did try it when it was first suggested to me.

I would get out my pen and paper and write down such things as ‘Raped at nine years old by family friend. Mom didn’t know, wouldn’t believe me.’ Unfortunately, all the horrible events would come out the same way – nothing but the facts. No flowing story, no narration, no hooks – nothing. I thought it was useless. Who really wants to

read this type of story anyway? It’s painful, it’s brutal, and it’s horrendously sad. I just gave up.”

“Do me a small favor, Donna,” he said. “Every night after dinner, write down three complete sentences relevant to your life story. They don’t have to be perfectly structured; they just have to be relevant. Give it three months, and see where it takes you. Will you try it?”

I surrender and stick to the program set out by Dr. Glick.

The first week is the hardest. Sometimes I sit staring at my computer screen for hours on end, trying desperately to write down just three sentences. Each night that week I curse the psychologist for having me agree to this silliness. The sentences, when they finally show up on the screen seem tedious and uninteresting – just three dangling sentences. I am an adult woman of four children grieving the loss of a woman who never loved me – how can I do this?

The morning of Mother’s Day starts with a trip to my favorite coffee shop. Mom had been cremated in January and, because I feel uncomfortable having her presence in my home, I had placed her small pink urn in a cup holder in the back seat of my car. A few days before Mother’s Day, my son Zach had jumped into the backseat and happily said, “Hi, Grandma!” I asked who he was speaking to, and he quickly pointed to the urn with a big smile on his face. Hastily, I grabbed it and placed it in the front seat cup holder. Now, driving away from the drive-through, I attempt to place my coffee cup in the holder but the space is taken by my mother’s urn. Frustrated, I begin to cry uncontrollably and scream at the urn.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! You’ve done so much damage to my soul. You’ve left me here forever lost, never to experience the unconditional love of a mother. The unconditional love my children have for me is my reward for living through hell with you!” I sneer at the small urn.

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“I needed you! I loved you through all the abuse I suffered, because you were my mom. I protected you when you should have been protecting me! I held you while you cried and you repeatedly shunned my tears. I don’t miss you, Mom. I miss what I never had or never will have – a mother’s love.”

I never hated her. I never wanted to disappoint or hurt her because I loved her, needed her, craved her approval and attention. And that’s why it hurt so badly – because of who I am, not who she was. If I had been anything like her, I wouldn’t have given her lack of love for me a second thought.

Returning home, coffee in hand, I turn on my laptop and begin to write. It is as though someone else is typing while I sit there, reading my life story as the words appear on the screen. My pain raw, my heart broken, it unexpectedly hits me: It’s not my fault.

Suddenly my previous inability to write vanishes and my life story unfolds clearly in my mind – my mother’s death has finally released the guilt I have carried for needing to expose her failure as a mother. My mother was just not capable of being the mother I am to my children.

An event from years ago plays out in segments in my head, as though it’s trying to force me to remember. I had confronted her one day about all the abuse I had suffered as a young girl and demanded to know why she never protected me. Later that night, I had gotten a call from the hospital. Mom had attempted to commit suicide and they were pumping her stomach. Until now, I haven’t been able to speak or write about my pain and her role in it. My guilt for the attempt she made on her life that day has played a large part in my inability to share this story.

With all the hurt she caused me, I could never knowingly hurt her again, even though in my heart I knew she was ultimately responsible. Her death is my release.

Several hours later, I have completed the first six chapters of my book, “Tangled Intentions.”

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Since I’ve let go of the built-up anger, guilt and unrelenting pain in my heart, I have been writing. My memoir, it seems, was just the beginning. Short stories, poems, dribbles and drabbles flow easily from my head onto the paper. Writing in general is a new passion. Or maybe it’s a love, a dormant love that was waiting for something or someone to flip the release button. Aside from interactions with my children, I have never felt such joy and calm. It feels familiar, as if I’ve been writing all my life. When I am away from it, I yearn to be doing it. I take impromptu vacation days on mornings I simply can’t walk away from my computer.

I have spent more time than I care to admit feeling inadequate, yet unable to discern why. I have had my fair share of dark moments when I couldn’t shake the anger or envy I had for someone with a far brighter and happier life than mine. However, since I have been writing, all these feelings are now as foreign to me as another language. Writing has been the therapy I have always needed, and it continues to fill the void I have tried my entire life to fill. With each piece I write, I truly feel another layer of discovery unfold for me. I no longer dread revealing my fears; I want to understand and learn to better cope with them. “Donna” has been both a non-fiction and fictional character depending on what crisis or joy is happening in her life. Writing has helped me work through issues with friends, supervisors and even my children. Writing is my healer, my confidant, my liberator.

This is my writing life. I believe in fate, and I believe we are put on this earth to learn, not only about the pleasures life has to offer, but its challenges and hardships as well.

The challenges and hardships of my life have brought me to this place where my pleasures await in writing of all I have learned and crave to share.

Donna Penticost, contributing writer, works for a Toronto radio station, though not as an on-air personality. She is a mother of four and hopes to one day publish her memoir, “Tangled Intentions.”

staff&interns

Jen Dotson, executive director, is fairly certain that life is best viewed through a lens of imagination. As such, she lives in a world where playgrounds are meant for adults and cartwheels are a commonplace occurrence on city streets. She takes her greatest inspiration from her 92-year-old grandmother who taught her that the most effective way to get a new perspective on life is to climb a tree.

Nicolle Westlund, managing editor, thinks that “Island Caretaker” sounds like the best job in the world, especially if the island is off the coast of Australia. In her limited free time, she can usually be found watching an episode of “Gilmore Girls” or singing along to the soundtrack from the musical “Wicked.” She wishes she knew how to surf, but thinks her intense fear of sharks may prevent her professional surfing career from becoming a reality.

Jamie Millard, development director, agrees with Demetri Martin and thinks that “when you get dressed in the morning, sometimes you’re really making a decision about your behavior for the day. Like if you put on flipflops, you’re saying: ‘Hope I don’t get chased today.’” Jamie grew up in Dallas and attended the University of Minnesota, where she received her degree in English.

Abby Zimmer, executive assistant, is a St. Joseph Worker living in community with five other women in Minneapolis. She enjoys taking the time to bike to work, to walk to local coffee shops and to read into all hours of the night. Abby looks forward to exploring the city’s bike trails this summer.

Lisa Teicher, director of public relations, has a passion for the arts and an obsession with Irish dancing and music. She has the ability to change any rock song into her own operatic version. Lisa also finds pleasure in the simple things in life such as jumping in rain puddles, taking afternoon drives and smelling fresh laundry.

Kelin Loe, poetry editor, graduated from St. Olaf College. She moved from the contented cornfields of Northfield, Minn., to the lakes and questionable urban planning of Minneapolis. Everyday she writes, reads and prepares to move to the east coast, where she will enter a Master of Fine Arts program in poetry come next autumn. In addition to reading poetry for Alive, she interns and takes classes at the Loft Literary Center.

staff&interns

Rachele Cermak, editorial intern, spends hours at her computer and loves it.

Whether it’s managing Web sites, writing blog entries or just updating photos on her profile, she is constantly posting information to the Internet for the world to see. When she needs human interaction, she enjoys going to shows and supporting the local hip-hop scene.

Michele Ebnet, graphic design intern, graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts from St. Cloud State University. Her passions lie in traveling the world and seeing beauty in any form of design. She can easily find humor in awkward situations and often daydreams about exploring the Mediterranean while selling her art on the streets.

Adrienne Johnsen, editorial intern, is studying English and religion at Hamline University. A seasoned people-watcher, she spends most of her time observing and contemplating the world. Adrienne enjoys playing softball, laughing too hard at jokes, looking at old family photos and yelling at the TV when watching “Lost.”

Cheyenne Kirkpatrick, public relations intern, grew up in Minnesota but continues to be utterly shocked by the weather. She is studying media communication and psychology at Crown College. She loves to write and has a habit of smiling and singing to herself. She thinks the world would be better if people were transparent with each other.

Kaylee Laudon, public relations intern, is a graduate of St. Cloud State University.

She looks forward to the changing seasons, would rather eat a salad instead of a dessert and enjoys a rainy day lounging in an old pair of sweatpants. She grew up dancing but secretly wishes she could be a boxer. She thinks the world would not turn without love.

Courtney Still, editorial intern, is close to graduation with a degree in English from Bethel University. She loves to spend the afternoon in a bookshop, discovering new authors. She also enjoys old movies, museums and playing guitar. Her passions include poetry, creating inspirational works of art and learning through everyday experiences.

Tiana Toso, graphic design intern, graduated from Luther College with a degree in art. After college, she worked as a video editor, freelance wedding photographer, and later pursued an additional degree in digital design at the Art Institute International. She is a lover of nature, swing dancing and learning about different languages and cultures.

Jenny Williams, graphic design intern, is addicted to spontaneity and believes that new experiences make life worth living – and good people to share them with is what makes those experiences unforgettable. She dreams of using her creativity to enhance a good cause. That, and to drive around the country in a RV taking unique pictures.

Our mission at Alive is to create opportunities for every young woman to discover her voice and realize her full potential. At Alive, we cultivate strong communities of men and women dedicated to reforming not just the media, but also the culture that surrounds young women.

Our focus is clear, but our impact broad. Alive affects change in four key areas: Cultural Reform: • 75% of teen girls 15-19 agree that society tells girls that attracting boys and acting sexy is one of the most important things girls can do.

Despite the harsh reality this generation of women face, they are, at large, a population of digitally savvy, well-read, deep thinking, articulate individuals who are burgeoning with leadership ability. As a community, we are capable of changing the messages that are aimed at these young people. By affirming their talents and dreams, and encouraging them to take ownership of their lives, members of Alive represent powerful segments of a larger population who together, have the power to shape our culture.

Creative Expression: • When asked to rank its importance in making them feel loved, 86% of women responded “doing something you really love to do.”

In a world that does not always take time to acknowledge the transformative powers of art and storytelling, Alive affirms the value of creativity. Through one-on-one, holistic editing and enthusiastic mentoring from Alive’s staff, we aim to build self-confidence in young women’s creative talents.

Media Reform: • 81% of women in America strongly agree that “the media and advertising set and unrealistic standard of beauty that most women can’t ever achieve” (Dove Real Beauty Report).

Today’s teenage women are tired of being talked down to, talked about, and targeted only as consumers. Rather than wait for existing leaders in the industry to present healthy images and relevant content to teens and young adults, the women who participate in Alive Magazine choose to set an example themselves of the media they wish to see.

Leadership Development: • While women make up 46.5% of the workforce, they represent only 12% of all corporate officers.

Integrating mentorship in every level of our business model, Alive helps to hone leadership skills in young women around the world. By connecting interns in our program with community members, and every writer with our interns, we help young women identify and develop their professional skills.

For me, words are a form of action, capable of influencing change.

Their articulation represents a complete, lived experience.

-Ingrid Bengis

Alive Arts Media, Inc. 1720 Madison St. Ne, Ste. 300 Minneapolis, MN 55413 Change Service Requested