Amendment 2011

AMENDMENT 2011

SOCIAL PROGRESSION THROUGH ARTISTIC EXPRESSION

MISSION

amend·ment \ə-men(d)-mənt\ noun 1. an annual literary journal seeks to promote discussion on issues of equality, class, race, gender, sexuality, ability, and identity.

2. a socially progressive student-run organization that advocates for social change through artistic expression, as well as provides a platform for marginalized voices in the artistic & literary community.

3. what you’re holding in your hands.

STAFF

Editor-in-Chief David Osnoe Managing Editor Mari Pack Art Editor Cassie Mulheron Editorial Staff Kaylin Kaupish Lashelle Johnson Maya White-Lurie Robert Gibson Sarah Rodriguez Sophie Solomon Resplandy Vinay Nalli Alysha Newton Heather Grosse Greg Alexander

Production Managers Mark Jeffries Marleigh Culver Student Media Director Greg Weatherford Business Manager Lauren Geerdes Cover Artist Jasmine Thompson

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS It is hard to imagine Amendment ever having come to life without the incomparable Liz Canfield. Before 2004, in fact, this journal did not even exist. The need was felt, however, for a platform for marginalized voices. The voices of those passionate about feminism, gender issues, queer perspectives and issues that deal implicitly and explicitly with race. It is because of her hard work and dedication that Amendment has grown to encompass a circulation which includes not only the VCU campus but the Richmond community at large. We thank Liz with every page we bind together, every voice that can finally be heard and every mind that is changed by the wisdom of art.

The Student Media Center (SMC) is Amendment's home, and the faculty and staff provide immense support and assistance in the conception, production and publication of the journal. We would like to thank specifically Greg Weatherford, Lauren Katchuk and Mark Jeffries for their support over the years. Greg, the Director of the SMC has continually allowed our staff the freedom which is vital in the creation of such a work. Lauren, our loyal and loving Business Manager is the driving force (often literally) behind the tasty snacks at every meeting as well the brains behind the budget. Mark, our creative director, is always brimming with new and interesting ways to present Amendment to the community and keeps us ahead of the curve. Aiding Mark this year is Marleigh Culver, our student designer who we thank for her patience in helping to construct the 2011-2012 issue. I would also like to give thanks to Veronica Garabelli, the SMC Outreach Coordinator who provided Amendment with multiple opportunities to publicize achievements and organize events. To the Student Media Center staff, this issue is dedicated.

In casting about for submissions, we went to the ever patient Margaret Altonen of the English Department who aided our search for new content by utilizing her extensive network of writers and progressive thinkers. We thank her for her continued support.

Finally, we come down to the students who are truly indispensable in the formation of a literary journal: the editorial staff. To those dedicated members who gave of their time and energy (despite their collegiate and social obligations) I am most grateful. Firstly to Mari Pack for being an unstoppable force in helping to bring Amendment's goal of social progression through artistic expression to fruition. She has given more than any other student and I hope she knows how much that means to me. Mari will be taking over as Editor-in-Chief next year, and I believe she will only take us to greater heights. Maya and Kaylin (next years Managing Editors) were also instrumental in bringing Amendment to life with their enthusiasm, energy and positive thinking. Ladies, thank you again for everything.

I would also like to take this time to extend my gratitude to our 2009-2010 Editor in Chief Audrey Walls. She was vital to building up Amendment's staff, connections to the community and reputation.

Without her guidance, we would not be where we are today.

Finally, I thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to allow Amendment to express itself to you. We hope you find what you are looking for and are surprised by what you weren't.

EDITORIAL NOTE When I took over as Executive Editor of Amendment last year I was a completely different person. The events which shape a person often lead to dark places, however, this journal has been a beacon for me. A literary journal may seem an odd sort of guide through life's hardships but Amendment is more; it is alive and has the power to transcend the ordinary milieu and speak directly to hearts and minds.

The visceral way in which Amendment has continued to interpret our reality has kept me going during the harder points of the past year, and for that I am eternally grateful.

This year's Amendment brings to light new ways of voicing our opinions, concerns, hopes, frustrations and ideas. We are proud to present Being Gay and Christian, an essay which reviews the way in which one boy has integrated two seemingly incompatible lifestyles as well as publishing Changing Love, a non-fiction piece written by a former homosexual. While Amendment does not stand behind the idea of homosexuality as a choice to be made, neither does Changing Love, which makes the essay a unique and intriguing read.

While socially progressive in our aims, we have made an attempt to be balanced and create a sense of harmony within the journal.

Homosexuality is not our only explored theme as exemplified by such various pieces as Sizeism, a personal essay about the prejudices held against overweight individuals, Night Shift, a poem which artfully explores middle-class workers and their environments, and O Say Can You See, a poem which calls for revolution against the injustices which are built into the American system.

We bring to you a hope for a future in which minds CAN be amended: changed to reflect new ways of thinking about the world around us. We hope that intolerance, bigotry, misogyny, ignorance and hatred can all fade into our unenlightened past, however, we are glad to preserve Amendment as a bastion of open-mindedness; welcoming with open arms those who would join us in creating a new world.

Thank you friends, artists, writers and editors and a special thank you to all new readers. You are about to embark on the same journey that made me into who I am today. Amendment is always looking for new truths so if you feel inspired, please don't hesitate to submit.

Become a part of literary tradition, a part of the dialogue, and most importantly: a part of the revolution.

Forever yours, David Osnoe Editor-in-Chief 2010-2011

CONTENTS Writing Never / Poem by Maya White-Lurie 1 American Faggot / Essay by Vicente Gonzalez 3 O Say Can You See / Poem by Robalu Gibsun

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Tradition / Poem by Shivani Deopujari 11 Diane Arbus / Poem by Amy Sailer 12 Playing in the Muck / Essay by Bryan Mickens

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My Addiction / Flash Fiction by Lashelle Johnson

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Day of Silence / Poem by Conor Finley 21 The Bus / Non-Fiction by Zuhra Abbamin 22 Ownership / Poem by Mari Pack

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I Love My Son / Poem by Timothy Beavers 26 Art Child by Jasmine Thompson

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Kitty Boy

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Leading

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Number 4 31 Tragedy of the Englishman 32 Tragedy of the Englishman 33 Their Great Uncle

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The Dancer 35 Love Will Endure Persecution 36 Girls 37

Writing Sizeism / Non-Fiction by Natasha Yingling

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Circle / Poem by Kirsten Paff

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Sleeping Beauty / Prose Poetry by Kaylin Kaupish

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Night Shift / Poem by Amy Sailer

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Selah / Poem by Ryan Harris

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The Dollhouse / Non-Fiction by Marge Baja

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Matryoshka / Poem by Ryan Harris

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Church / Non-Fiction by Ashley Cottrel

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Changing Love / Essay Patrick Cowart

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Neuro Feedback / Essay by Ashley Richardson

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Flash Fiction

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Never Maya White-Lurie A forest blooms at the center of existence glistening with this morning's rain, lush with life, gold and crimson emerald and copper, richer than any gems.

Beings with full bellies, women beside women beside men beside men, lounge in the grass that caresses their skin, whispering tunes nearly forgotten, growing, entwining with their hair.

Their grinning faces greet all visitors before they wander on.

Here I can dance to the jangle of the falling stars rather than the jingle of coins in my pocket, forever celebrating reason over fear and love over loathing.

Suddenly the ground gives way, quicksand beneath my feet *** 1

*** I yell for help, and dig my fingers into the dirt desperate for a hold.

The blissful beings run to help but their hands fall short.

I wake with a start alone on a bare, bleeding mattress in my dingy one room apartment, with cigarette burns on all four walls, grime ground into the age-old carpet, and traffic screaming outside, because a woman cries out for mercy in the room above mine. â—?

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American Faggot Vicente Gonzalez I had been in Chile for at least a month; I made the decision to come here the night I came out of the closet to my family. It might have been my instincts, or maybe God. But whatever it was, it had possessed me and commanded me to escape my home and face my greatest fears. I am the youngest of seven children, all of which equally Chileno as I am. Yet I was the only one to make such a journey, and I went alone. When I look back I don't know where I found the strength to do it.

I had tried to forget this part of my life since my earliest years when I first realized I was gay, because there is no place for faggots in the nation of Chile. They call us “huecos�. Hueco means space, or room in a box or other form of containment. But in this sense it means empty, like an empty person. I traded in my soul willingly in order to fulfill a chapter of my life that I had been denying for years. Homosexual migration is common in the Latino ethnic group, particularly in Hispanic Caribbean nations and Mexico. Homosexuality is portrayed in most Hispanic nations as a threat to national character causing thousands of gay men and women to seek refuge in large urban cities in the more accepting United States. This phenomenon has come to be known as sexile (La Fountain.) I have always been gifted derogatory titles other than my actual name. However, after weeks of hearing the word hueco I had lost my sense of self completely. The only contact I had with my home were the short conversations I had with my father.

Up until that point our relationship had always been cracked and lacked the missing pieces. When I look back now I realize that he was my main antagonist for why I left. We had a very dark history, mainly because of the drastic misunderstanding we had between the two of us.

We were from completely different worlds and many of the customs he was raised to instill upon his offspring I rejected. And to make matters worse I was rejected by both societies and I often lashed at our relationship with my suppressed pain. So I found myself thousands of 3

miles away from where he raised me in the land of his upbringing. I’ve always known my father left a piece of his heart in Chile; it refused to be fully separated from its homeland. So I spent my many weeks in our country searching for it.

After several weeks I found myself in a serious predicament. Anyone who has been to my country can tell you, it isn’t hard to fall in love with. Yet at the same time I was unable to place myself comfortably in our hetero-dominant society. I told my father “So far, I have fallen in love with Chile. But at the same time, the longer I’m here the more I see it can never be a part of my life. A part of me wants to just leave before I love it more, and have to come home with a broken heart.”

There was one night, after about a month of my imprisonment that I dwelled on all the things I had taken for granted. The freedom I had found in college was as quickly relinquished as it was received and before I knew it I was falling into the nothing of a person I used to be during my closet years. I thought, if I could do anything with my gender what would it be? To be male emphasizes physical strength, power, aggressiveness, and competitiveness. To not fulfill such standards is to be a failed man (Liang.) My answer hit me like a bus.

I wanted to leap and crawl and pass my way in and out of shadows.

I wanted to be immortal. I wanted to wail and shriek at the moon. I wanted to be a cat. A black, silky, mesmerizing cat. I had spent years of my life meticulously analyzing what it means to be a boy and what it means to be a girl. I always felt I was somewhere in between. Although I am feminine, I am not a girl. I do not feel like a girl although I relate to them more than men. It's a dilemma that has always been impossible to portray to those who are not in the same state of mind. I find it easier to relate to cats. They are graceful, soft, sneaky, and poised. They live in darkness and silence. They conquer all walls and boundaries and even after falling they always land on their feet. They are feminine and womanly, yet not all of them are women. This is the memory of that 4

night, long after I made the decision, when I morphed into the animal I am today. My name is Vicente, and this is my story.

It must have been close to 9pm when I left my house. I had already begun to steadily lose my sanity. My inhibitions decayed slowly with each passing second, along with my cautious demeanor I had upheld during the previous eras of my life. Up until that point I had been living my life in fear. I existed in constant struggle with the discipline I had developed from an early age to suppress my true desires of what I always wanted. My sexuality commanded every aspect of what I was, and in fear of persecution I spent my entire life trying to discipline it into something acceptable to the world around me. Not on this night though, I had reached my breaking point. There was nothing that could stand between me and my true self. Tonight was the night I was to complete my metamorphosis. I carried with me my new flesh in the darkness of night, the energies of Halloween echoing from all corners of every block. I could feel my excitement purging from my throat. I could barley breathe I was so nervous! But at the same time, I walked swiftly and fearless. I had waited months for this night, the one night a year when anyone can be anything. A night of true freedom for all people. I had become immersed in raging adrenaline. After only a few short minutes I arrived at my destination; my friends were dressing themselves in glitter and mounds feathers. I locked myself in a room and stood before the full length mirror which was to be my gateway of liberation. I knelt on the floor, and began to unravel my new body.

I was never raised to be my father although that tends to be the tradition in our culture. Not that I never strived to inherit his demeanor, I simply concluded that my sexuality had stolen my chance to follow in his footsteps. Although masculinity is a universal concept, Latino masculinity differs from its Anglo counterpart. Latino men are expected to be macho, firm, and dominant. But at the same time Latino masculinity embodies honor, respect, and the ability to care for a family and a woman. The term for this ideology is caballerismo (Liang.) My father was one of nine children, my grandfather being heavily involved in politics. Politics and activism are not simply 5

vocations, they are lifestyles, and when the leader of a family is a politician, the family becomes entrenched in his craft. Like I said, I was not raised to be my father. My father would give me toolboxes and trucks in hopes that I would confront them with the interest that my gender implied I would. But he found himself confused when I tossed such things aside and for years he found it difficult to connect to my odd lack of masculine interests. I would never say that he was un-involved in my upbringing or that he never cared because that is certainly not the case. Latino fathers are heavily involved in the affairs of their children. Empathy and emotional involvement with children is central to the paternal instincts of Latino fathers (Glass.) But I would say that there were many years where my father was unable to emotionally fulfill my needs, mainly because he never could understand my emotions and the inner conflicts I was dealing with.

Latino culture is founded on the family and respect. Children are expected to display the upmost respect to their mothers and fathers.

Family embodies the idea that each member plays a critical role in it’s success and upon fulfilling that role, receives their entitled respect.

The term for this family structure is referred to as familismo (Glass.)

My father never cleaned the house or cooked food. He grew up during a time when women stayed at home to tend to the children and housework while the husband spent his days working long hours to support the family. Almost 3/4ths of the average family abided by this lifestyle which created a sharp contrast between the responsibilities of sons and daughters (Hakim.) Unlike his sisters my father was heavily involved in my grandfather’s activities. He traveled to many cities in our country to take part in political rallies and advocacy groups.

Politics is a man’s sport. Chile is a socialist nation of activism; oration, poetry, and debate are heavily rooted in our culture. This became my father’s world. He was raised to be his father.

Throughout my life this had been my dilemma. I had been followed by the constant failure to inherit what I always felt was rightfully mine.

I was the only son of Luis Alberto Gonzalez, yet the inheritance of his power and political drive was never given to me. I never wanted it. I 6

arrived at my destination ready to dress myself in my feline apparel. I whipped out my first item of clothing, jet black spandex along with a ripped British punk rock t-shirt to wear along with it; my new torso.

I wrapped myself in them like tissue. I covered my heart with silky dance-wear, and the power of my sexuality polluted the darkness of my fear. I claimed the power of my father with a pair of ballet tights.

Although I am one of seven children, there is only one sibling that I share both parents with. Her name is Sara. I guess you could say that if I had been born a woman I would be Sara. It’s as if God split my father into two halves and gave them two drastically different paths to follow.

I was the fag of my school and a hueco to my country. Sara was prom queen and class president, and had everything a teenage-girl could have wanted. I have never been jealous of Sara because she lived her teenage years when I was still in my early youth. But I have always seen Sara as my counterpart and we both strive equally for the same pride from our father. He had always been much more affectionate towards my sister, mainly because she was my sister, and sons are left in more solitude to develop their strength. This all changed after I came out of the closet.

I noticed it within weeks. The affection he showed towards us was now equal. It was as if Sara was my twin. I acknowledged the change once with my father, and he spoke to me of the new worry he had for my life. He knew I would face many obstacles and had developed a new sense of protection with me. Every parent wants nothing more than to protect their child from the world and after coming out of the closet, a new burden of paranoia was placed upon his shoulders. He told me, and I’ll never forget it, that he felt I needed more protection than Sara because “Sara is much stronger than you.”

I was once weak and fragile. I was afraid of the world and the harm it could inflict upon me. My life had become robotic and encaged under strict surveillance of non important persons who discriminated against what I was. Not anymore, not one more day I say. I reached into my bag and released a pair of black knee-high socks, ballet shoes, and a long shining black tail. These are my stilts, and this is my sword, and it shall flow behind me like fire. I pulled my socks as high as they 7

would allow me to and placed the black slippers upon my paws. I let my tail fall into its rightful place, and stood there sturdy like concrete as my weaknesses melted onto the wooden floor. I am fearless now; shoot me with your giants. I will blow them away like rose petals.

There is a truth about life, which has been instilled upon me since I was a child. Destiny is inevitable. It is a path that finds us and even when we are lost it makes its way into our never-ending wandering.

I’ve never known my path before. I’ve always been lost. I was thrown into the brush of life like a voodoo doll and my God has watched me play among his beings blindly since birth. He gave me everything I needed, and it would take me years to realize the weapons I had always been searching for were always within my grasp. I am a son of Chile, and its burning passion runs through my veins wildly. My history is drenched in political turmoil, hope, pain, suffering, death, and revolution. My people do not sleep. They are like raging wolves.

They thirst for liberty without rest. I am a hueco, and Ill search my homeland forever for the reservoirs of freedom that my history has promised me. I am a child of America, my home gifted to me by angels. They carried me here to save me from persecution and laid before me hope and dreams without boundary. I dream of masses, and uprisings, and that one day a sea of faggots will claim their rightful place among these peoples. I am a dreamer.

I am the only son of Luis Alberto Gonzalez, and he gave me his consent to reek havoc upon this world with our name. I unleashed my final piece of my new being, a fuzzy pair of night black ears. I placed the crown upon my head and flew into the pitch black of hallows eve.

I am invincible. I am free. I am the morning and I am the night. I am nine lives running ahead of light itself. Look at how my limbs take flight! The sons and daughters of glory are at my command! My God, release me into the violent wild! I am your everlasting servant and I promise you I will paint the skies of this nation with the stripes and stars with which you baptized me. My people are screaming for their emancipation! My name is Vicente, and I am the heir to my family crown. I am a Prince of Huecos. I am an American Faggot. ● 8

Works Cited Page Liang, C. T. H., Salcedo, J., & Miller, H. A. (2010, November 15) Perceived Racism, Masculinity Ideologies, and Gender Role Conflict Among Latino Men. Psychology of Men &Masculinity.

Advance online publication. DOI: 10.1037/a0020479 Glass, Jon. Owen, Jesse. Latino Fathers: The Relationship Among Machismo, Acculturation, Ethnic Identity, and Paternal Involvement. Psychology of Men & Masculinity. 2010 American Psychological Association 2010, Vol. 11, No. 4, 251–261 15249220/10/$12.00 DOI: 10.1037/a0021477 Hakim, Catherine. Models of the Family in Modern Societies: Ideals and Realities. London School of Economics. Ashgate Publishing Group. 2003 La Fountain-Stokes, Lawrence. Queer Ricans: Cultures and Sexualities During the Diaspora. University of Minnesota Press.

Minneapolis. London. 2009

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O Say Can You See Robalu Gibsun My friends, when a poet speaks of revolution do not be confused or afraid.

Revolution is change.

And the most natural thing in the universe is change.

And we all know “it is what it is”.

And the revolution is no rerun; THE REVOLUTION IS LIVE! Turn off the television.

Put down the remote. Step outside.

Revolution doesn’t come from SUPER BOWL FOURTY-FIVE, SURVIVOR, AMERICAN IDOL or CSI. Still, see that I’ve arrived to speak rhyme schemes to describe and define the crime scene: O say can you see— the flag’s drowning stars, bloody bars and seams?

My country ‘tis of thee— Land of lactose-intolerance, deadly diets and diabetes; Where any rebellion-to-be is an unsweetened tea party.

Your mascots truthfully speak: The YANKEES stole home from the BRAVES and EAGLES caged in coins will never fly free.

*** 10

*** O say can you see— Students pledging “one nation under God” from K-12 though the lesson is never heaven in when education is hell.

So they skip class and hop-scotch over knowledge and end up having to pop lock and drop out of college.

They missed the SHOT coming up, now they live and die by the BUCK! and buck— And the GREEN has yet to rust so in GREED they trust; Some eat the whole pie and some feed on the crust.

O say can you see— Money-hungry hogs pigging out on spoiled milk and honey— The toilets are clogged and there’s no doubt the people are plunging.

So we support political campaigns claiming, “Yes we can change!” but end up voting for warfare and hypocritical campaigns.

And the metal shards from exploding bombs aluminumb our emotions and can pain in our hearts.

O say can you see—the mothers unheard aching?

O say can you see—Our Mother, the Earth, quaking?

Children, Hurry! Start running! Hurricane Tsunami’s a-coming!

The showers are drumming! The Powers are mumbling!

The towers are tumbling! And the hours are crumbling!

O say can you see— us walking out from the under rubble of the past forever standing, hearts together, hands clasped lifting every voice and singing something because we know THE REVOLUTION IS COMING!

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And revolution is change and change is money and money is time so the revolution is a time that cannot be filmed or televised simply because, revolution first takes place when we wake up and change our minds. â—?

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Tradition Shivani Deopujari The last of your kind,

too early too soon.

Your life had just begun,

no longer defined

by the things they had done

as you tried to attune.

Lie to yourself, then;

you had always oppugned Their trust and their ways As they tried to explain.

Calm down, bitter child,

and face your own aspect.

Those days of sharp words,

relentless, not mild,

had never caused much hurt,

nor disturbed any rest.

You scarcely believed the day would be met

when night would be day, And karma would reign.

Nothing here for you now,

move forward, march on.

Think nothing of down below,

or that beautiful sound.

soon it too will be gone,

buried by rain or snow.

Carry yourself high,

let everyone know The remorse and the pain That brought you to faith. â—?

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Notes on an Early Photograph of Diane and Allan Arbus Amy Sailer A photograph is a secret about a secret.

The more it tells you the less you know. –Diane Arbus The black Of your hair and crepe neck lurch up from the white: from here the gentle pressure of his cheek to your temple hands and angles in line glint like metal: gold wedding bands or silver emulsion then: click: portrait of the couple in their studio Only to imprint it

(this sharp contrast) coaxes out each morning,

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each kitchen scene you wait at the sink elbow-deep, sleeves-drawn fingers still reeking of chemical baths, the dark room where negatives drip as you tap his cheek his good-bye kiss

latent and radiating out, past the grease-orange scuds and doorman and New York sidewalks dead-bolt doors with nudists behind Eddie Cormel, Jewish Giant or dwarves each one’s warbling delicacy warms you collapses in the way something raw and pink draws into itself finds comfort there �

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to alleys

Allures of Playing in the Muck Bryan Mickens The issue of Moral Decline has become a chief concern of many in the United States. All things considered, it wouldn’t be difficult to grasp why this problem has begun to blossom. Elevated unemployment rates, the fear that the American Dream no longer exist, and the uncertainty of the future of this Country have instilled a pessimistic attitude in many constituents. With this in mind we can better understand that the fear of lacking resources that allow upward mobility in American society has encouraged deviant behavior. By using examples such as the concept of social stratification and religious principles, I endeavor to illustrate how moral decay has managed to penetrate our society.

Means To An End Being that we live in a world of images, we as observers have no choice but to access the images of those around us. When we see a man in a finely tailored suit, the assumption that that individual has a high paying job immediately comes to mind. Since we live in a society where a person’s occupation defines that individual, we must come to the conclusion that those with the highest salaries obtain the most attention and respect in our communities. This respect may come from the hard work and long hours that such jobs require. However, this was not the case for Nevin Shapiro, a Florida businessman who was charged for conducting a multi-million-dollar Ponzi scheme which involved sixty victims. The term for a crime such as this is white collar crime which is characterized by “complex, sophisticated, and relatively technical actions” (Federal Bureau of Investigation, 2010 para.3). According to the FBI, “from January 2005 through November 2009, according to the criminal complaint filed in federal court in New Jersey (where one of his victims resides), Shapiro raised more than $880 million from his investors” (Federal Bureau of Investigation, 2010 para.3). Believing that they were giving their money to a man that would create a profit in return, the victims were hoping for the 16

resources that allow the mobility Shapiro had seemingly experienced.

Knowing this, Shapiro used the scheme to gain millions.

The question that we must ask is why would a man wish to cause so much destruction to the lives of those that trusted him to work in their best interest? According to University of Missouri-St. Louis college professor Robert Keel, “most white collar criminals are motivated by economic difficulty and greed” (Keel, 2008) In relation to this thesis on moral decline, the kinship between this statement and the fear of lacking resources meet. In American society the gap between the rich and the poor continues to expand. This thought instills fear in any hard working human being that wishes to prosper in this land of opportunity. With this fear, an urge to act causes any worker to do what they must to insure themselves that their family will not go without. However, the claims makers that protest the moral decline in America would suggest that this behavior will only become a conflagration in our society On the Outside Looking In “Business fraud is as familiar in their business context as are street crimes in poor communities” (Keel, 2008). In American society, we as constituents invest much into the idea of “hard work”. This idea gives a glint of hope to the worker at the bottom of the totem pole within her or his company. The low wage worker hopes that the sight of sweat and hard toil will appear pleasing in the eyes of the employer and result in a promotion that will bring forth a pay increase. But what if after years of attempts the worker never receives a wage that allows him to live a life of comfort? American sociologist Robert Merton has presented the term innovation in respect to the idea of his Strain Theory.

In his theory, Merton conveys that the use of innovation involves “unconventional means to achieve a conventional goal” (Macionis 170) In the case of the low wage worker, the innovation could be theft. Most often, those that embrace the idea of innovation live in communities where there are very few opportunities to ameliorate themselves. One may ask why a poor person would commit a serious 17

crime since he or she will not able to afford high priced lawyers.

The rebuttal to that question would more than likely be “if you have nothing to lose, the risk is worth the reward.” When comparing the actions of Shapiro and the low wage worker, one could conclude that deviance can be viewed as a filtering process. When the “have-nots” observe the deviant acts of those that appear to be living off of the fat of the land, they too will consider demoralizing themselves with hopes that they will be in a better position to enjoy the feast associated with a luxurious life. However, the observer must remember that those who utilize innovation are the lower rung of society. The significance of this reveals itself in the criminal justice system. Once the courts reprimand the lower class individual who attempts to use unconventional means to achieve success, the society that they return to will place the stigma of “lower class deviant” on them which will make amelioration even harder to obtain.

Symptoms of Pleasure In Thomas Hobbes essay The Leviathan (1651), the English philosopher writes that without security other than themselves, men will live a life that is “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” (Hobbes, para 9) When thinking of a political scandal such as Watergate, the constituents living in today’s American society may condemn Hobbes’ assessment. Yes, refulgence does emit itself as well, but when one uses his or her sociological imagination, it’s difficult to say that the US economy touches everyone in the same way. I feel that any sentient human being would read Hobbes’ statement as a warning to embrace a system where we feel secure beneath legislatures. However, ever though laws are enforced the population as a whole will not abide by those laws. There are various reasons for a person to invest themselves in behavior that society feels is morally wrong. A young girl may have an abortion because she feels that she isn’t ready to provide for a child. A man may decide not to attend church because he feels that prayer does little to improve the conditions of the world. A teenager may rob from a store because his mother and father do not earn enough money to 18

provide him with adequate shoes. Certainly the religious community would condemn the idea of abandoning what is considered morally right to pursue the glittering image of a better life. But the question is what does it take to prevent a person from going astray? Is prison or a life of damnation (as some Christians may deem it) worth the price we pay in order to achieve amelioration? To align the statement to my thesis on the growth of moral decline in America, we could refer back to the paragraph above regarding the hard working employee that finally decides to use innovation mentioned in Merton’s Strain Theory. What if the employee was a regular member of his church and knew that stealing was morally wrong, but also knew that his or her family needed bread to eat that night? Clearly his religious views would persuade him to not steal the much needed item, but when thinking of hungry children awaiting him or her at home, a difficult decision would ultimately have to be made. Quite possibly, the members of his or her church would counsel the poor wretch, but over the past few years, researchers have found that church attendance has declined in our society, adding on to the problem of moral decline.

Empty Sanctuary In an article by Dr. Richard J. Krejcir titled Statistic and Reason for Church Decline, he presents the reader with the percentage of those in America that regularly attend church service. In the section of his essay title More Startling Data, Krejcir notes that“20.5% of Americans frequently attended church in 1995. This number decreased to 19% in 1999, and 18.0% in 2002” (Krejcir). In the same section, Krejcir writes that “Perhaps, the “so called” Evangelists who are seen on TV, living lavish lifestyles while preaching a message that does not conform to how the average person lives or one based on biblical precepts have disillusioned many people” (Krejcir) Again, the idea of images comes into play here. The sight of those with resources being analyzed by those with little to none plays a huge part in the psyche of American culture. Multi-billionaire Bill Gates has been quoted of saying “Just in terms of allocation of time resources, religion is not very efficient.

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There's a lot more I could be doing on a Sunday morning.” Such a statement could encourage a person down on his or her luck to seek personal growth elsewhere than a church sanctuary. Not to treat Gates’ statement as the impetus for moral decline and the evidence of Americans abandoning church, but when a man with such prestige in our culture makes a statement such as this, certainly there will be those that listen.

According to the theologian St. Augustine, “There is no Salvation outside of the Church”. Some claims makers would say this is the problem. Being that we live in a society that feeds off of competition, it’s an arduous task to place religious principles in every decision that we make. What it boils down to it is that there are those that live by the philosophy of “It’s you or me” to carry them throughout their lives.

Although this thought may allow the thinker to feel secure and safe in an unremorseful world, it would be difficult to say that this thought doesn’t also settle a feeling of uneasiness inside of us all as well. Here, a dilemma occurs. The problem is whether or not we ought to insure our station in the world through wrong doing, or go about the entire process with a sense of integrity which may not achieve the results of decadent behavior. The question that we must ask ourselves is during a time of hardship, which choice is worth the outcome?

Wandering Eyes In today’s information society, no one would argue that the education enables a child to acquire the tools that are necessary to succeed in world. But like the world around them, competitions exist in high school class rooms as well. These competitions include best looking, best dress, but in reference to my thesis, best grades. On the homepage of EducationPortal.com, the reader is given the percentage of cheating in America’s classrooms through the past years. “Back in 1940, only 20 percent of college students admitted to cheating during their academic careers. Today, that number has increased to 75 to 98 percent” (education-portal.com). Clearly this conduct occurs due to everyone’s desire to get ahead in a society where financial progress can 20

be stagnant. Since no one wishes to sink into the depths of poverty, the emphasis to do what it takes to separate ourselves from the pack has taken root in high school classroom. Some may look at this as real world lessons stimulating the young population at the right time, but the claims makers would say that this activity only solidifies the decay of the world in the years to come. “'The evidence is that a willingness to cheat has become the norm and that parents, teachers, coaches and even religious educators have not been able to stem the tide,' says Michael Josephson, Josephson Institute of Ethics president” (education-portal.com). What does it mean when the authoritarian figures in the life of a teenager are unable to hinder the individual from cheating? Has the concept of doing what right abandoned our society, and if so, how do we get it back? With the economy in the horrific condition that it is in now, maybe the question is can we get it back.

Conclusion

The motif that I’ve endeavored to place in each section is that the resources that enable upward mobility in our society have influenced the deviant acts that are narrated. From the Ponzi scheme carried through by the business man living in Florida to cheating students in high school class rooms, the ongoing theme in each section is a growing fear of falling behind. We could say lets just hope that the youth turn a blind to what is morally wrong, but there does not appear to be a successful method to assure that they will make choices that are acceptably. Each shred of information indicates that the desire for resources that will provide capital is great, so great that at times the means that a person chooses to acquire them becomes devious. Another thought to ponder is whether those that carry out these acts consider them to be deviant or a means of survival in an unforgiving society. ●

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Cited Sources Federal Bureau of Investigation (2010) Another Ponzi Scheme and a Warning for Investors. Retrieved from http://www.fbi.gov/news/ stories/2010/may/ponzi_050310/another-ponzi-case-and-awarning- for-investors Keel, R (2008) White Collar Crime. Retrieved from http://www.umsl. edu/~keelr/200/wcolcrim.html Hobbes, T (1651) The Leviathan. Retrieved from http://oregonstate. edu/instruct/phl302/texts/hobbes/leviathan-c.html Krejcir, R (2007) Statistics and Reasons for Church Decline. Retrieved from http://www.intothyword.org/articles_view. asp?articleid=36557&columnid Education-Portal.com (2007) 75 to 98 Percent of College Students Have Cheated. Retrieved from http://education-portal.com/ articles/75_to_98_Percent_of_College_Students_Have_Cheated. html Macionis, John J. Social Problems. New Jersey: Pearson Education Inc., 2008.

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My addiction Lashelle Johnson I’m an addict.

It started slowly, as any addiction does. One shot as a pick-me-up or to make me feel better.

One shot a day was all I needed. I knew it wasn’t the best thing for me but it wasn’t causing anyone else any harm. But sooner than I ever could have expected, I depended on my one shot a day. If I didn’t have it, I was a groggy mess. I couldn’t focus on simple tasks without it. It was a pricy habit but, hey, I needed it.

Soon, one shot a day just wasn’t enough. I needed a shot to keep me going, another shot to calm my nerves, another to help me think, another just to start my day and another to end it.

Then I built up a tolerance so I needed two to pick-me-up, then three to pick-me-up, then four. I haven't gone past four yet. What would they think? Would they even think anything?

Should they even think anything? I'm paying their bills and keeping their kids in college.

They don't have the right to judge me. I own them. Without me, they’re nothing.

So I just walk over and ask for the usual.

"A quad latte with extra foam, please."

The man just smiles and nods as he goes to make my drink. ●

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Day of Silence Conor Finley The rainbow flag, waved high by half-fag Suffrage checklist reads incomplete The oppression of queer people is extremely discreet A day of silence for the LGBT Anonymous, invisible, we shoulder it forcibly I have no love for Christ because his house scorns me I sit alone in a classroom full of people debating personal tragedy Now we all know that nothing is perfect But why in a school system full of sex education Do we still not know shit about sexuality?

Noone told me in a lecture about the existence of bisexuality.

So I stayed silent in my struggle for identity.

This whole period of life lead in a lie since puberty.

So what now, Virginia, do we just remain seated on the bleachers?

Dear Richmond, who’s the tyrant now; firing queer teachers In the rebel city, where the old still worship the Confederate Flag Within the comfort of their living room, fire light cast on the head of a stag.

The rainbow flag, waved high by a half fag This is a love revolution; we do love peace But we break the silence; we will not go quietly and we shall be free Until then I write my words for all to see, And I shall stain your capitol my with my art, just try to catch me. â—?

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The Bus Zuhra Abbamin Many tired faces, straining, for that last smile they can conjure with what little energy they have left; but really all that remains is that great exhale of relief. “Alas, the day is through”. But it would probably sound a little less medieval and a little more like, “Finally, I AM DONE”, and/or in whatever language they may speak. But for many, this doesn’t mean the day’s stressful endeavors are entirely through. Many go home to kids needing to be fed, bathed, or a home needing cleaning.

Hell, some go home to all this and then out again to work the night shift at another fatigue inducing job. Life, it ain’t easy.

We’re all trying to make ends meet and get by. And on that 7:45 bus, I see the many hard working faces of America’s backbone.

And what warms my heart the most is the compassion all of these people portray. While one woman says “Here, I’ll do it for you” to the woman in front of her who is having trouble getting her dollar in, there’s a young man entertaining a baby, stirring the infant up from a sour mood, unbeknownst to him, he’s reducing the mother’s stress. There’s also the never ending amount of people giving up their

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seat for the old, the young, the whatever. If you’re without a seat, it doesn’t matter what your caliber is, someone is bound to give up theirs for you. The amazing thing isn’t simply how generous these people seem to be, it’s the fact that they have to be the most stressed, the most tired and anxious. This is where you see the mother hauling three, four kids all under five years old, on her own; where you see the girl in her oversized cooking uniform and her faltering make up on her beaten face, the young man in his gym clothes studying a rigorous subject, clearly trying to forward his self in education. The diversity is heartwarming, it’s uplifting.

The bus, it gets you where you need to get but teaches you that which you don’t expect to learn. But aren’t those the best of life’s lessons? Those random thoughtful moments where the essence of life is flung at you just because you’re there in that specific time and space? Open your eyes, open your ears but most importantly open your mind. We’re surrounded by people most of the time but we rarely take notice. ●

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Ownership Mari Pack In the beginning, I belonged to no one but myself.

And no one belonged to me.

Which is exactly how I thought it ought to be, frankly.

Though I think rather differently now.

You know, Darling, you never asked me how I liked to spend my hours.

Before you devoted them to a worthier cause.

Well, it might surprise you to know, that didn’t spend them cooking.

And I didn’t spend them tidying up.

For God’s sake, we live in a garden.

What is there to tidy up?

Oh Dear; You’ll have to excuse my vanity.

I was young, you know.

But I spent them by the riverside Not wasting my time mucking about Like some of us Instead, I studied my reflection

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I quite like my reflection, When I have the time to observe it.

Which isn’t often anymore.

There, I told you it was vain, but well there it is.

I won’t apologize for it.

And I liked to speak among the others In fact, there was one in particular, a charming little fellow a scraggly thing with its ears all eschew Once I asked him what he liked to be called.

He looked rather taken aback at first, But then, his ears perked up and he said: “Well I’ve always quite fancied the name Charlie.”

“That sounds lovely,” I said.

He asked me what my name was.

Well, I didn’t rightly know.

But just as I was about to consider it, you came storming in.

And you, you didn’t give me a chance.

After that it was all “Dog” and “Eve,” and “mine”.

*** 28

*** I didn’t understand.

I was, you see, so very young.

But I am older now.

And I understand what it is to belong to someone.

Which is why I’m taking the apple— and I won’t apologize for wanting one thing in all this yours, that I can call mine. ●

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I Love My Son Timothy Beavers

I don't dislike homosexuals.

Y'see my son is a homosexual and I love my son.

I just don't think that they should be kissin' an' grabbin' on each other out in public like that.

It's disgusting!

Why should I have to see that?

When I was your age they used to have clubs where all the queers would go to do whatever it is they do.

Me and my buddies used to go in there and prank on 'em sometimes: We'd get one of our friends -now I never did this part here; someone else always didso usually either Dobber or Wilkins'd act they was a queer and get one of the guys to buy him drinks.

Then he'd go back to the guys place with him and we'd all follow in our car.

He'd hang around for a bit and then tell the guy to go wait in the backroom for him.

This one time, Dobber let us all in this guys apartment and we wrecked everything from the sofa to the ceiling fan.

He came out screamin' an' cryin' and we just ran right out the door crackin' up.

*** 30

*** Now, I grew up in the sixties and we were all about getting rights for women and blacks but homosexuals were fine when they weren't out gropin' in public.

It's their choice, but they're wrong.

It just grosses me out.

I guess maybe your generation has been around it more and I was real liberal when I was a kid too but the male and the female body are physically made if you look at it to be together.

I don't know why all of a sudden the queers think it's okay to go on TV and out in public and be kissing where little kids can see.

It'll confuse 'em and they might end up queer!

Like I said, though, I got no problem with homosexuals, my son is a homosexual and I love my son. â—?

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Child Jasmine Thompson 32

Kitty Boy Vincente Gonzalez 33

Leading Jasmine Thompson 34

Number 4 Bree El Davis 35

Their Great Uncle Jasmine Thompson 36

Love Will Endure Even Persecution Anthony Reynolds 37

Girls Mari Pack 38

Tragedy Of The Englishman Rob Gibson

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Tragedy Of The Englishman Rob Gibson

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The Dancer Jasmine Thompson 41

My Broad Exploration of Sizeism Tosha Yingling Boy was my face red. My face is always a little red; I’m a big girl so all these layers are bound to generate heat. Usually I have enough makeup on to turn a blush tone into a flesh tone, but today I’m at the beach, and I didn’t bother putting on anything that would make me seem unlike the normal beachgoer. It’s a tough decision to choose between the foundation designed to make me feel beautiful (despite my weight) or the concept of fitting in by not wearing a full face in the middle of the ocean. It’s the same decision I had to make when I chose a swimsuit for the season; I could’ve walked onto the beach in a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt but instead I took the brave route, wearing a trendy tankini that fit, and dare I say, flattered: no cover-up, no teeshirt, just me. I chose to look normal, even though when I try to find a bathing suit in 3X, it’s evident that I’m not. Wearing jeans on the beach would just draw more attention to my abnormality or, God forbid, my dimply arms: I can sacrifice my dignity with a two-piece more willingly than I can sacrifice the comfort of normitivity. Unfortunately, I am not part of the in-group, and finding a bathing suit for one day at the beach was a complete carnival, resulting in me picking the best option from an exclusive group of moderately-fashionable circus tents in tacky colors and tropical prints. With this catastrophe on, I had to practice holding my head up extra high, especially with the challenge of looking semi-attractive without relying on my makeup on my hands. I found that all it takes to deflate this false confidence is one little kid telling his mommy to look at that big girl, and the year-round blush that I had planned on blaming on sunburn, grew even redder. I’ve gotten used to being the big girl, but it’s moments like these that sneak up on me and sting my jaded interior. I know that I won’t always fit in the desks at school, and that boys will usually go after my friends before they come up to me, and that I can’t skip wearing a cute outfit in exchange for a pair of sweatpants. I’m more than aware of all these things, probably more than what anyone with a healthy BMI could ever understand, 42

but I still feel the weight (pun intended) of fat discrimination bearing down on me and it’s heavy. It presses in on all angles: from society, from institutions, and even from within myself.

Society has never accepted my size. Going out in public has always demanded an unusual amount of strength to get through the most menial tasks, complete with “[pulling] my shirt surreptitiously away from the bulges of my belly” (as though I could hide in this skin) and feeling my “cheeks burn hot” when I notice someone’s abrupt discovery of my size (Murray, 2004). Little boys at the beach have always pointed at me and told their mothers to look, lest they miss out on the phenomena of a fat chick, so rare to an inexperienced young boy. It’s easy to dismiss the genuine awe of a child staring at or commenting on me but it’s the little boys that grow up and still find it necessary to point and stare that really get to me.

I know my body projects an image of an unhealthy, lazy, and diseased woman in our society, but the toughest pill for me to swallow, the one thing that gives away the fact that I’m not normal more than any other dimension of my weight, is the fact that I am seen as asexual and undesirable. Reading Samantha Murray’s article, “Locating Aesthetics: Sexing the Fat Woman,” echoed my experience at the beach: if a fat woman somehow overcomes society’s aesthetics and is able to feel confident and sexy, it is often short-lived due to a comment or action that makes her feel as though she is completely undesirable.

In Murray’s account of the “Rodeo,” this theory is best exemplified in an act that degrades fat women by turning them into “ridiculous creatures” incapable of being attractive or sexy; the Rodeo is an act involving a man seducing a fat woman and bringing her home, only to literally ride her like a farm animal, documenting the humiliation with pictures and the company of friends (Murray, 2004). Though not to this extreme, there have been countless times that I felt sexy or beautiful only to have those feelings morph into shame or embarrassment; this metamorphosis in my emotions can result from my crush telling me pointedly I have such a pretty face, or when I feel good about how I look in my new swimsuit, only to hear one little boy’s comment 43

that makes me feel elephantine all over again. As Murray also points out, sexual acts like the Rodeo and Feederism (a sexual fetish that allows men to watch fat women eat excessive amounts) turn sex with a fat woman into something “kinky or strange,” further instilling the idea that fat women are not capable of being seen as “normal” sexual partners because of their strangeness. Feederism also enforces an unhealthy stereotype that implies that all fat women are excessive eaters and gluttons. Upon careful recollection of my own eating habits, it is clear to me that not all fat women overeat. There are some genuine cases of women gaining excessive amounts of weight because of thyroid problems or hidden doses of steroids in medications. The idea of fat women who are unmanageable and lacking self-control does not always apply but the over-eater is a dominant caricature in our society. Portraits like these turn fat women into asexual sub-humans who are unattractive, undesirable, and failures of femininity because of their failure to seduce a man (the ultimate signpost of femininity in a heteronormative society operating within a masculine/feminine gender binary).

The idea that fat women fail femininity sometimes results in women’s over-compensation to appear beautiful to prove femaleness, and almost inherently, sexuality. For some women this overcompensation of beauty results from societal pressure, but for some, beauty rituals make the body acceptable to live in. Though its findings aren’t particularly surprising, a study published in the North American Journal of Psychology confirms that as a woman’s weight increases, her positive body image decreases (de Man, & Phillips, 2010). According to de Man and Phillips, this decrease in body image can be explained simply and is rooted in the way women are conditioned in their youth; girls are trained to see themselves as objects that are meant to be pleasing to men, something that fat women are not (de Man, & Phillips, 2010). Knowing that no matter what I do, I am not sexy because I am fat, I perform feminine gender roles to make myself feel more beautiful, even though sometimes this means debating whether I should give up my beauty ideals to blend in at the beach.

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Growing up, my tomboy tendencies were frowned upon in a high school stuffed wall-to-wall with mini-skirts and neon makeup sets.

I started wearing makeup and stopped wearing my hair in a bun my junior year, and though almost no one in the student body noticed, the change within myself was tremendous. As referenced in Murray’s article, I felt I was able to cultivate my body into something I found more pleasing, particularly because it pleased others. Though I was a fat child who never experienced life in a slender physique and was conditioned not to be confident because of my weight, getting tattoos and piercings, doing my makeup, and wearing my hair long has become a way for me to play up my socially attractive features and keep in touch with the rare fleeting glimpses of sexuality that I feel.

Changing my appearance to suit my liking better has become a way for me to reclaim my body and turn it into something I can be proud of; it becomes a way to reconnect with myself by making my outer appearance reflect the confident woman inside. It’s almost a coping mechanism so that I don’t feel removed from my flesh by the shame and embarrassment that makes me feel like I should distance myself from my own body because I am fat. If I didn’t have long lashes or dimples, how could a fatty like me ever be considered beautiful in our society? I rely on these features to help me fit in society, and though changing the way I look to be more socially accepted is a complete hypocrisy from my beliefs about social constructs, it allows me fleeting moments when I can step outside of being abnormal; it allows me to be beautiful.

Unfortunately, in our society, overcoming the stares and tsks from people around me in addition to my own harsh critiques isn’t the only challenge I have to face because of my weight; it is institutionally damaging to be fat. While other forms of discrimination are illegal among employers, medical facilities, and private companies, “weight discrimination remains one of the most socially acceptable forms of discrimination” (Wang, 2008). Casting aside all the too-small theatre seats and the miniscule variety of swimsuits I have to choose from, I have never felt oppression from anything because of my size the 45

way that I have felt oppression from the healthcare system. This was proven to me a year ago when studying for midterms was interrupted when I found a lump on my breast. After leaving the school’s free clinic, I had two additional lumps and an entire stock of tender lymph nodes that needed to be examined immediately. I also had no insurance, no way of paying for my emergency ultrasound and mammogram, and no way to pay for any potential treatments.

When my dad retired and my family was forced to look into private health insurance coverage, I was used to denying myself doctor’s visits when I was sick and trying to tough-out minor injuries, because all the private companies we looked into could deny my family coverage because my weight was considered a risk factor. Despite the fact that I was perfectly healthy with the exception of my weight and even fairly fit, I was still seen as too unhealthy to maintain my health. The most crucial injustice of the healthcare system is that being fat means that you are not human even to get treated for cancer, much less a sinus infection. This infuriating detail is the most dehumanizing thing about my weight. The disappointing aspect of my bulging belly and big butt is increased by the prejudice society has created around my doughy flesh and jiggley bits only to be carried over into my quality of life. I can stuff myself into that miniscule seat when I go see a movie, or wear a gaudy swimsuit to the beach, but when did it become okay for me to be considered too fat to live?

Fat discrimination is one of the biggest (again, pun intended) challenges in my life. It affects my relationships with men, the measures I take to be accepted, and even the equality I am granted in society. Trying to fit in, whether literally or figuratively, has become too great a challenge for me to continue to kid myself with the rigid concept of the norm. I am so obviously an outsider that it has become important for me to reclaim my title as the fat chick, because let’s face it: you can’t exactly hide fat to pretend to be a normal weight. Nothing irks me more than when a friend hears me refer to myself as fat and their gut reaction is to tell me, “of course you’re not!” I don’t need anyone denying that I’m fat because that’s telling me that what I am 46

is wrong. Why can’t I be fat? It’s time for other people to reform their standards, because even if I do get on a treadmill tomorrow, this excess weight isn’t melting off in the next couple days. Scoffing at me in the street won’t make me skinny tomorrow and, hate to tell you, but it’s not a great motivator to help me lose pounds either. Instead of hiding in my skin, I’m going to reclaim it, and admit my ownership of my body. The mythical norm is one that is impossible for me to conform to so it’s time that I no longer try to mould my identity into anything other than what it already is. ●

References Murray, S. (2004). Locating aesthetics: sexing the fat woman. Social Semiotics, 14(3).

Wang, L. (2008). Weight discrimination: one size fits all remedy?. Yale Law Journal, 117(8).

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Circle Kirsten Paff A white Crown Vic rounds the traffic circle, I see the car’s old spot light, a revelation of its former life.

As it passes through to the other side, I wonder if I’ll make it.

The cop drove a Crown Vic, gave me resources, shelter numbers; told me it will only get worse.

I think about my kids, money, a job; the pleas for forgiveness. But now, I’m always afraid The cop was right, but I already knew that.

The circle has cleared and it’s my turn to cross.

Carefully, slowly, I begin. ●

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Sleeping Beauty Kaylin Kaupish Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is only skin deep. Beauty is pain is beauty is pain… Beauty pageant with a beauty queen. Throw her some flowers cause she’s so damn beautiful. Beauty salons, beauty treatments, beauty products... Don’t bother her she needs her beauty sleep. Sit in your tanning bed and get that gold skin. Fill your lips with fakeness. Cover your skin with cement. Suck in your stomach to sickness. Paint your naked nails. Stifle back the wails. And pose for the camera. Pose pose pose. Click click click. Keep it up, darling. It’s getting hard to keep up appearances. Hides her red eyes with makeup.

Hides her cuts with cover up. Hides her crazed brain with that stylized hair. She forgot what it was like to be bare. If she can just keep it up a little longer, then maybe she’s finally get stronger. Don’t bother her she needs her beauty. Sleep forever and it doesn’t really matter, because she’s got dirt on top of her and worms below her. Surrounded by earth in a beautiful dress. Protected from the earthy mess. But no one can see her way down there (except for the worms) and they can’t tell her how beautiful she looks. She tried so hard, they said. But it just got to be too much. We always knew she would crack. And they found her in the bathroom with her bottle of Ipecac. Put a mirror in your coffin so you can tell yourself how beautiful you look. At your reflection for eternity. “Mirror, mirror in my casket, please tell me they lined this thing with gasket.” So the worms don’t get in. And you were too beautiful to burn, like beauty from a fairytale. Beauty and the Beast.

What a feast! Let’s play make-believe while you slowly churn. You can be Beauty and the Worm. ●

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The Night Shift at Shaffer’s Crossing, Roanoke, Virginia Amy Sailer To the tracks’ southside, The sons of Carver High pass a joint between them Before heading to the grocers where they work Restocking the hourly shelves, These not quite men.

Out front, Signs proffer EBT, Uneeda Biscuits, Paint peeling shards of bright blue.

Their mothers stop before home, needing Coffee and eggs to fry for the night’s first meal As evening slips into the mountains’ shadow.

Soon, All the men will congregate down long grit fields Laboring in Norfolk Southerns, coal-heavy Coming west. With their grind’s Sounding cries, the first wheels tense, Their backs and forearms tense, And the mighty’s brought to halt. ●

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Selah Ryan Harris I am lotus-faced, soaked in yesterday's pollen breath and God's nasal exhalations; and you are Apollo, bronzed: laurel-lipped and luminous; and I expect swollenness, erotic blooms under Zionesque appendages.

I imagine your hands chrysanthemum-soft: palms weighted with crocus vernus; I imagine your body in spring. â—?

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The Dollhouse Marge Baja I never told you, but when I was little, my mother loved to dress me up like a porcelain doll. I wore beautiful dresses with bows, polka dots and lace. When she put my hair up, it was always in elaborate ties with big plastic beads, bows, and sparkly balls.

I guess it made sense to give dolls to her own doll. She especially loved giving me Barbies. Tall, beautiful women with blue eyes and blonde hair—models. I wanted to be like them.

I always asked mom to get me dolls that looked like me.

“Momma, I want a doll with black hair. I don’t have blue eyes. Isn’t there one at the store that’s not white?”

She did try. My mom got me a beautiful brunette mermaid, and then an African American Barbie. She had black hair and brown eyes. She resembled me—almost.

When I was older, I stopped playing with dolls, but that didn’t keep me from looking at them. One day, my sister and I took a trip to Target, where we noticed Asian dolls for the first time. The store finally carried them! Of course, these girls had the same facial features as the blonde dolls. She had wide eyes, high cheekbones, and a sharp, European nose.

Disappointed, we moved on to the next aisle to look at shampoo.

Why are all the dolls based on a white outline? Maybe girls like us aren’t pretty enough to be dolls.

I wanted to be like Barbie. I wanted the pink car and beachhouse. I wanted to marry a Ken and have a perfect little daughter named Ava. 52

But I had black hair and parents who drove a black Honda SUV. We lived in the suburbs and saw beachhouses on TV. As tall as I got, my body was not going to look like Barbie’s. I could not conform to that standard.

Barbie is everything that little girls dream of being: a wife, a nurse, and astronaut, a teacher, a mother. She has outfits for every imaginable occupation, and a perfect white body with which to wear them.

At nineteen, I’m still wondering why dolls still conform to the unattainable standard of white cookie cutter housewives with long legs, nonexistent waist lines and huge breasts. Is it a girl’s destiny to strive to be Barbie, to make plastic real? To make ourselves plastic?

To be plastic, apparently, is to be better than original. ●

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Matryoshka Ryan Harris 1.

Night bled into Day – we resurrected the dark Nyx contemptuously; we exhaled the pale Helios.

2.

Between us were hours of contemplation, days writhing from an excess of Saturnalia, weeks of expelling structures and pretenses.

3.

Every morning, we woke to the stale scent of old coffee and fruit; every night, we slept to the litany of endearments and lullaby of breaths; we expired.

4.

And I kept time with your body; I counted seconds by breaths, minutes by touch; I forecasted lifetimes as weather systems, predicting courses with your promises, your eloquence. â—?

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Church Ashley Cottrell “Child, I swear if you put them jeans on you gon’ feel a little more than the Holy Ghost!” Nana always came up with new phrases to describe a butt-whipping. She hated whenever women wore jeans to church. Somehow, wearing jeans to church is the universal symbol for “You’re child is becoming a whore.” Well today, Nana would be proud. She’s all I could think about as my comfortable pantyhose made friction with the hem of my skirt. With me being away at college, it was my first time back in church all year, and I wanted to make a good impression.

After Nana’s passing about two years ago, mom and I left our cozy family church and began attending this one. What a wonderful Sunday morning to be in church; stayed up all night watching the Good Times marathon like a fool so I’m tired, while sitting on a cold bench with itchy pantyhose in a sanctuary full of people who despise one another, terrific. As I squirmed in my seat for comfort, a cold stare my mother shot at me insisted “Be still!” as if I were a three-year-old.

“May the church say amen,” the pastor’s way of catching everyone’s attention, “How is everybody doing this fine, Sunday morning? Praise the Lord.”

He’s always smiling, a hard thing to do when your wife is bi-polar bringing hell on Earth and accusing every church woman of trying to sleep with her husband. I guess it’s his reason, or inspiration, for staying at church all day. Ironically, no matter how late we arrived at church, we never missed tithes and offerings. Our deacon, who took his job a little too seriously, never failed to remind us how the church was in desperate need of repairs.

“Mornin’ Ms. Jones. Mornin’ Ms. Davis. Hope I’ll see ya’ll in Wednesday night Bible Study. Remember to bring your fans until the Lawd Financially blesses us to fix the church air conditioner.”

He’d always end his pointlessly long conversations with a bear hug and 55

a quick wink if you’re a woman under age twenty-five.

There were never too many members in our church, which is the main reason my mom continues to attend. Aside from the extra sixty strangers who only show up Easter Sunday, the comfortable average forty church members keeps her on top of the drama and gossip.

Occasionally, Ms. Alexander in the front row, along with her usual overly-fitted feathered church hat, would feel the spirit of the Lord to sing a traditional hymn. Her whiny, pitchy high notes and frequent “Woo!” of the Holy Ghost made her sound very much like Prince.

The one thing that absolutely drove me insane, other than the clicker-clat of teenage members’ texting during prayer, was the unnecessary extra hour of gathering after service ends. “Why must we stay here longer?” I would always ask. Mom ignored me, her usual response to a good question. Time to catch up with the gossip I suppose. The elders of the church are the usual first.

“Ms. Jones! Good seein’ you. And your daughter, lovely as always!

How old are you now sugar, sixteen?”

“Nineteen. I’m a sophomore in college.”

“Heavens! Already? Remember when you were a little thang.”

I barely know that woman.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Ms. Jones where’s your husband?”

My mom frowned a little.

“Oh, no Ms. Alexander, that was just a friend last service.”

“Oh.” The pastor walked over next.

“Ashley! Began to think we lost ya. College goin’ well?”

My mom threw me one of her “just say yes” looks.

“Yes sir.”

“Well good! Good! Blessin’ to have ya’ll here.”

The pastor’s wife was never too far behind him.

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“Ms. Jones and Ashley! My sisters! Love ya’ll so much. We’ve got to get together for a ladies night out. How have you all been?”

Mom always kept it short and simple with her.

“Great. And you?”

“Wonderful! Wonderful! Just trying to keep up with this husband of mine. You know, I feel the Lord is going to substantially bless you with—” In the corner of her eye she spotted pastor speaking to one of our new church members, a woman.

“Would you all excuse me for a moment?”

My mom would make her way around the rest of the congregation, returning to me every now and then, informing me of Mr. Brown’s absent wedding ring or the Taylors’ pregnant teenage daughter.

I still can’t fathom in my head why we still attend this church.

I couldn’t mistake anyone here for godly. Why am I wasting my time coming here, sitting with un-godly people, in an outfit I would never in my life wear? Why should I be trying to impress them? Maybe, I’m just as fake as they are. I can receive God’s word in the comforts of my own home, reading my bible and watching Joel Osteen on TV. Nana, I love you, but I can worship God without pantyhose. ●

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Changing Love, Quieted Down to Love, In His Love He will no longer rebuke you, Talk to Me Peaceably, The One I’m Looking For Patrick Cowart I remember the moment I saw him for the first time. Before that night I’d only known him as an online acquaintance. I’d been obliged to become his friend by the request of a mutual friend- he’d apparently been in need of some emotional support, so I had agreed to help him by talking with him online whenever I could. What shocked me was that the man I saw before me as he entered the kitchen looked quite different than the pictures I’d seen of him online. Surprise gave way to nervous attraction as I suddenly realized that I liked this guy, despite the fact that he wasn’t at all like the idealized men I usually longed for. Something about his ordinary, unassuming presence and appearance got to me more than any muscle model could have. Perhaps it was just my inexperience, but it seemed that he could be a real possibility for a boyfriend.

Fast forward five years. As I’m walking down the street, heading to class, I find myself taking deep breaths, praying constantly, to avoid getting overwhelmed by frustration. Everywhere I go, dozens of attractive men seem to suddenly appear. I sigh to myself, remembering that although they look as dazzling as gods, they’re just regular guys like me. I’ve had it up to here with chasing illusions, and the idea of going back to pursuing them is immensely unappealing. My frustration doesn’t come from feeling as though I were being denied something I really, truly want. That’s what I used to think it would end up being if I were to somehow get “converted.” My frustration comes from the fact that, despite already having been there and done that, after having had all that that road could offer me, there’s still this incessant feeling inside that defies my real experience and tries to get me to go back to that place again. But the thing is I’ve been down that road enough times now to know that no guy is ever attractive enough, no sex is ever euphoric enough, and no relationship fulfilling enough to satisfy me.

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It can’t give me what I’m looking for. I know it can’t, because I spent years of my life trying to find it that way, to absolutely no success.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop the feelings from trying to get me back. I’m a converted same-sex attracted guy, with a place by Jesus’ side at the end of the day. His life for me isn’t easy, but that’s what it is.

The truth is, when people ask for my own personal story, I often find myself answering them with Scriptural treatises instead of my experiences. When I do, I insist to myself that that’s what they should know – I care less about what they really need (or more to the point, want) to know. It’s not easy for me to talk about this stuff, about my human weaknesses – it’s like, I feel that if people saw that I still struggled with these things – that they aren’t all neatly sorted out and harmless – they might turn away from pursuing following Jesus. I’m still attracted to men – or rather, to that something that makes men so attractive to me, if that makes any sense. I won’t pretend with it; it’s not that my need for special, masculine affection has evaporated or been sealed off; it’s that it’s always being met – which (come to think of it) is actually what I wanted all along.

I know intimately the frustration of being told that “You can’t be gay and Christian at the same time.” It hurts. I don’t like hearing it, even now. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re being singled out for a crime you don’t feel you’ve committed; falling short of a standard you don’t understand. Feeling wronged by the world while they think you’ve wronged them. Worst of all – receiving the impression that you have a disease that needs to be “cured”; ceasing to be a person in their eyes, and becoming something less than human. In short, feeling like a sinner – one who “falls short of the mark.”

A word on “sin” here might be helpful. The Bible says, “For all have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God.” (Rom. 3:23) Professing Christians of all kinds don’t argue with this; human sinfulness is a basic tenet of what Jesus taught. Sin in and of itself is not so much the issue, however, for most gay people. The question is homosexuality – is it wrong? Why or why not? And if it is or is not, what does that mean for us? These are questions I’ve dealt with at various times in my life.

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They’ve have made me feel anxious and upset at some times about this cruel, awkward position I found myself stuck in; indifferent and apathetic towards the same thing at others. It’s not a pleasant place to be. In the end, however, the only way I can answer these questions is to show the answer God’s given me. I’ve ended up in a totally different place than I ever (believe me – ever) imagined, but there’s a reason for it. Trust me, I wasn’t looking for religion – and thankfully, I still haven’t found it. Religion is not a good enough reason to change – but then, that’s not the reason why I changed. And what I have in fact changed into…well, we’re going to get to that soon enough.

The idea of “You’re going to have to change” is perhaps even more threatening and alarming to a gay person than “You’re a fag, and you’re going to hell,” or even “Let’s go mess with that little queer over there.” The idea of changing alone is enough to send most of the gay community running – that included me at one point. And honestly, to a happily gay man, the idea is simply repugnant. “Change? What’s to change? I’m fine being the way I am. If you don’t like it, tough, but you better not try to change me to fit your idea of what I should be.”

Change is also the first thing most Christians think of when they approach a gay person about Christianity. The general expectation is that somehow, some way, they must change to fit a mold of a heterosexual norm. Whether they “turn straight” and (possibly) get married or not, they are at any rate going to have to give up being with men or women, as the case may be. And as for the feelings, the expectation for dealing with them can be amounted to: “Well, you’re just gonna have to pray about it.” In essence, it’s the spiritual equivalent of telling a drug addict in withdrawal to just “suck it up” and deal with the pain. To me and the majority of same-sex attracted people, this ultimatum is deplorable and unacceptable. It’s like telling someone that they’re going to have to stop eating food and somehow deal with the hunger pains, or else change their diet completely to eat something that looks inedible to them. And, to top it all off, they’re expected to thank God for this. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound like “good news.” It’s frightening and just plain unfair. I can’t imagine 60

convincing anyone that that’s what God has in mind for us with Jesus being our Lord. It’s just not “good news.”

In the end, however, change is definitely something we must look at; it’s central to Jesus’ teachings in several places. Like “sin”, “change” itself, I don’t think, is so much the issue. People make changes in their lives all the time, to a greater or lesser extent. Even deciding to go to church on Sunday is a big change for some people. The alarming question is, what kind of change is one expected to make? Is it squeezing to fit into pre-established socio-cultural norms? Or is it one of more cosmic proportions? What does this look like in a human being, or to be more exact, what does this change look like in a samesex attracted human being? What exactly is supposed to change?

A Short Discourse on My Personal Life I may be getting ahead of myself. As I’ve already said, it’s only too easy for me to avoid talking about myself when my own personal witness is called for. If I don’t, then I’ll just sound like any other person who’s shouting “Homosexuality is wrong, and you’re all goin’ to hell.” I want to demonstrate the fact that I know what I’m talking about, that I can relate. I’m not some cold, uninvolved, thoroughly out of touch religious scholar who’s writing about this issue simply because it’s “the right thing to do” or because it’s expected of him. I’ve seen a lot, and I’ve done a lot. But how will you believe me unless I tell you? It seems then, that the only thing for it is to go into detail about my own life, because in the process it may be found that my story is in some ways like others. But I will warn you – my life is unusual, and God has shown up in more overt ways than just speaking to me off the words of a page.

It may make you uncomfortable, for religious reasons or secular reasons or both. But I can’t help but speak about what I’ve seen and heard, so here it goes.

The story of my life begins before college, but I shall make this section of the story as brief as possible. I was raised in a religious, church-going family that also happened to have a large amount of things wrong with it – my siblings and I grew up having no real relationships with each other, and at least for me, I had barely even a 61

hint of one with either of my parents. Fighting and shouting at home, with exclusion and rejection elsewhere, was the norm for me; not to paint it as too bleak of a picture. There were some good times, of course, but by and large these were heavily outweighed by the bad, and it left its dark impression on me as could be expected. I came out as gay in high school to an accepting attitude at school and a nonwelcoming but non-violent reception at home, which helped lead to my further distancing myself from my family. God was not a part of my life at this time, for the obvious reason. I preferred a boyfriend to a God who didn’t want me to have one. So I left God alone and went my own way, doing my best to pursue my dream of the perfect relationship with a man. In a word, I was “single-minded” and loving it.

My personal confrontation with the question of homosexuality began when I started to seek God back at the beginning of my first year at VCU. Things in my life had gone south – in exerting my newly obtained sexual freedom, finally being away from home. I was only becoming more and more miserable, as each passing sexual or romantic encounter left me increasingly dissatisfied. Seriously, this took me by surprise. I thought everything I was lacking could be found in the arms of a (really good looking) man.

You can call me shallow because that’s what I was. I didn’t ever think it, but that’s the truth. I was all about looks and appearances. I liked to think of myself as intellectual, and I was expectably cold and calculating, but I really was more interested in the flesh – the thickly solid, tangible stuff we call the human male body. Personality was great – it helped keep things interesting – but I was seriously focused on the fleshly side of things. Everything revolved around the pursuit of physical intimacy for me – going to the gym, trying to fit a look I didn’t ever really pull off (you know, “metro chic” or whatever you call it).

Smart as I thought I was, I was not aware of the fact that I was in need of something no guy I slept with or dated could ever give me. I wasn’t trying to have a spiritual awakening-emptiness just kept showing itself in how frustrated and needy I was getting in my relationships. Something was missing, and I couldn’t deny it. I kept 62

trying to get something that remained out of my reach, and no amount of sex or romantic involvement could acquire it for me, whatever “it” was. This craving for more, for something more, was creating in me an obsessive, addictive personality. I was getting out of control with how much I was forcing things in my relationships to go further, deeper, and faster than the other person was willing to go. I got good at manipulating others to get what I wanted, to make my will imposed upon them. The flames of my lust and my arrogance got hotter and hotter, and I ended up pushing others away from me because of it all.

The situation came to a head after a very intense breakup experience, when I fell into a depression.

During that time of post-breakup shock, I feltruined. I know it may sound petty to some – after all, it was just a breakup with a “boyfriend.”

However, I had invested so much emotionally into the relationship, that when it was suddenly cut off, I was in pieces, broken and bleeding inside. My selfishness had convinced me that if I could just get what I wanted, I would be happy. It had misled me by really blinding me to how much I really needed this something, this…love. It was love that I had been looking for the whole time, yet I still didn’t understand it. At any rate, my intense loneliness drove me to seek help from outside, and since I had nowhere else to run, I chose to seek God’s help. And the first way that God helped me was to get me to examine the way that I thought.

Being that my situation was such an internal thing, I figured that the solution to my “problem” would be likewise an internal matter.

My thinking was that if I understood why I was feeling the way I was (i.e. heartbroken and horrible), I would know what minor changes to make and then everything would be better. I would eventually, somehow be “at peace” with it. But while I did acknowledge that God was the person to go to, I had severe misgivings about his views on homosexuality. Brought up to believe that his view was that homosexual behavior was wrong, I didn’t question it – I just simply overlooked it. I rationalized that such commands applied only to people “back then” in a different culture than ours. But when it came 63

to really getting down to the issues, I had to confront my doubts. I had to bring them back to him, to the God of the Scriptures – because there’s little you can do to change “Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman – that is detestable” (Lev. 18:22).

My first question was, “Why? What’s so “detestable” about it? I’m just desperate enough to hear you out on this, God, but I have to say – I really don’t like your position on this. It just doesn’t seem right.

So, if you’re willing to explain yourself, I’m willing to listen.” And so, I opened up the discussion with God, who, as it turned out, decided to show up and speak with me about it.

True to himself, God turned it around and started asking me questions-“Why do you do what you do? Why do you think what you think? Why do you feel what you feel?” he asked. “Why do you like guys and not girls?” He meant, “What characteristics about the genders prompt you to like one and not the other?” No judgment, just questions.

For me it was the most obvious of answers. I thought first of the plain physical differences. “To me, women are so round and soft and delicate,” I said with a shudder. “It’s a weakness, a delicacy, I find unattractive. Men however – well, they’re the most incredible things ever. Especially when they’re very muscular, handsome, solid – physical characteristics, true, but indicative of other things like strength, confidence, etc.” All of this I found extremely desirable. “So what brings the relationship to a sexual level?” he asked. “You have friends of both sexes – but why not have sex with the other gender, or even both?”

My reply was that the genders weren’t interchangeable – one was not as good as another, as obviously indicated by their physical forms.

“They just aren’t the same – my attraction isn’t to simply a warm body, nor am I in it for solely sexual gratification. That’s not my thing.” “So what is it then?” he asked. “It’s about relationships with men that go beyond just chatting about sports or games or stuff like that. I need something more, something deeper than that superficial crap.”

“Emotional things? There’re lots of men who have deep friendships 64

with each other, but they don’t want to have sex with each other. It must not be that. What is it then?”

At this I truly hesitate to write further, because it was here that things started to get personal. That is to say, this is where things started to get really uncomfortable. However, God is interested in what’s really going on, not in what we think or want to believe is going on. I figured God lived up in the clouds, and so wasn’t acquainted with ugly sinful realities. I was relieved yet surprised to discover that he is actually quite frank when he speaks. He tells it like it is – and he expected me to do the same. So, while it was difficult to talk with him about it at first, I figured it was stupid to set up an appointment with God only to try to hide things from him and waste his time. So I said: “Sex with men – well, the whole relationship really, but specifically sex with them – is where I go to try to find a connection to something stronger, more beautiful, more wonderful than myself. The feeling of being overwhelmed by another man is intoxicating. Being filled up with him and filling him up feels right. It couldn’t be any other way and be the same. Call it romance or something like that, but just ‘being friends’ isn’t enough – I need something more than that.

And if you were to tell me that I could have romantic feelings but not have sex, wouldn’t that make you kind of cruel? You’re the one who made me this way.”

“What do you want?” he asked, simply.

“I want what he has – somehow, to make it a part of myself.”

“What is it?”

I hesitated. “Love?”

“Can he give it to you? Has he given it to you?” he asked. “Is it ever enough?”

I had to think about it. What did I really get out if it? “I suppose I can’t quite get enough. But is that really a problem? How do you even measure that? What makes you so sure the problem is that he and I are the same gender? What if it’s some other reason?”

“The answer to that question is simple, because what has happened here is that we have come across two different desires that are mixing,” 65

he replied. “First, it is obvious that you are looking for me – God. After all, you want all these things – security, worth, provision, etc – in infinite quantities – right?” I agreed, this was true. “Then, why just settle for occasionally?” he said. If I was honest with myself, I wanted it all, all the time. So I agreed with him.

As this exchange went on, I had to realize that despite whatever views existed as to whether homosexuality, or same-sex attraction, was right or not, God’s opinion on it was supreme. I had to hope that his view would make sense if I fully understood what he does — whatever that view might turn out to be. I didn’t want to trust people’s opinions.

I found that God made sense, though, as long as I was willing to hear him out.

He was trying to show me that he wasn’t singling me out. To him, the chief issue was not my perceived orientation; it was something greater than that. The problem was that I was pursuing something that was making me miserable, something I didn’t realize, and he hated to see me like this. To him, he’s opposed to people getting in their own way, thereby getting in the way of getting close to him.

Despite this, I still couldn’t help but feel like I was being victimized.

It felt like there was a system, a “plan” that I’d somehow fallen short of, a blueprint I didn’t fit or match. It seemed to me that everyone was born able to play the parts set for them, but not me. I said, “I’m sorry God, but I just don’t meet your requirements. I don’t like women – as far as I’m concerned, I don’t think I ever will; and frankly, I don’t want to. So, where does that place me? Where does that place others like me? I’m sick of not being picked to play on the team with everyone else. I can’t want to be everyone else. God, I just can’t, I don’t know why. If becoming a ‘Christian’ means that I have to start liking women and get married, I don’t think I’ll go for it.”

He said, “Calm down, let me explain. You wrongly assume that becoming a Christian means that you have to become a “heterosexually attracted husband of women” or some such nonsense. You make it sound as if Christianity was about weddings and child-rearing. The truth is simple – it’s all about me, God. This is where it ends, Patrick, 66

but this is also where it all begins. I’m with you 100%, but you refuse to see it because you refuse to let go.”

This sounded exactly like the religious stuff that I didn’t want to hear. “Let go? Let go of what? I’m not holding on to anything.”

“Your life! Your right to choose it whichever way you want. If you want my comfort, if you want my love to make a difference in your life, if you want my life to become yours, then you must come to me, obey me, learn from me, and do what I ask you to do. Take me into you, by first giving it all up, because I take up a lot of space. All I’m asking you to give up is everything that’s holding you back, which is nothing more than your selfishness.”

In our conversations, even as he was telling me things I had wrong, he was also assuring me of his constant presence and mercy. His words were comforting, making the weight of my pain easier to bear. Still, I wondered where he was going with this. Religion? Somehow, we’d left the topic of homosexuality behind. We were getting into other territory I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to. At one point, in a moment of frustration, I announced to God, “I don’t want a Bible book club, God, I don’t want religion – I want you, the living being!”

“Then come, follow me, and I’ll show you where life and love are hid. It’s nowhere in yourself or in those men you seek to find it in.

It is found only in me, and I’m the one you’re supposed to seek after anyways. Don’t be afraid to lose things, Patrick, otherwise you’ll never learn how to gain things – because you only have so much room in your heart, and that room is precious to me.”

Well, it happened. I dropped what I was doing (being miserable with a pointless existence), and ran after God- not religion. What began was three months of the most grueling soul-searching that I had ever gone through, a kind of spiritual therapy with the Holy Spirit as the Therapist. I hadn’t seriously looked into myself before, so needless to say there were more than a few unpleasant surprises. What we found was shocking, unexpected – and biblical.

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A Word on Sex I’ve said a lot about myself, I know, but I hope that it has helped shed light on the fact that I’m not some shallow speaker who has no clue about gay sex or the gay life besides what he’s heard from his pastor or his friends in the church. I’m not slow to understand the feelings of a gay guy or lesbian girl confronted with a life that demands giving up a same-sex relationship. But one thing I haven’t shown is how the attraction itself, the desiring for another of the same sex in a specifically sexual way, to whatever extent, is wrong.

As God put it to me, same-sex attraction isn’t “godly” by definition simply because it’s not how God works within himself, and his images (humans) can’t work that way either because we are his image-bearers too. We don’t see things the way God does, we don’t think in terms of “perfect”. We live on the surface – I was fine with my same-sex relationships, and would never have looked at them as a source of my unhappiness unless God had directed my attention to them.

God explained the basic premise for love one day when I was particularly upset with his opinion of my life, and he took me back to the beginning. God’s idea for romantic love is rooted in a love of opposites- it’s why there are men and women. Ask any straight guy why he loves being with his wife or girlfriend, and he’ll say something like, “As guys we like give to women because we do not want to get- getting all the time feels like we are taking advantage of women.” Men like to meet needs because it makes them feel powerful – feel like they can pull through; there’s a strength that comes with it. At the same time, there can also be a proud mindset of “You need me”.

For a man the attraction to women lies in their weakness, vulnerability, and ability to be helped and provided for by the man – which is also carried over into the sexual aspect of the relationship.

It’s why men like buying their significant others things, and why they also generally don’t like their amours to pay for them; it makes them feel useless, because doing the primary giving is part of their love for women. As far as women go, they like to be taken care of, to be made 68

to feel like their receptiveness isn’t a burden but rather a gift from God – an ability to be loved by one for whom they’re made to love in return, in a way all her own. It’s how God shows us what he feels like towards us- as far back in the Bible as you care to go, God has always been the man in the relationship with his people, his wife. It’s because he initiates things, provides for us, and gives us everything we need. And we’re supposed to love him back and give him the best of our effort out of our gratitude, not out of obligation; all within the context of a covenantal relationship.

When you add sex to a same-sex relationship, something changes.

For same-sex attracted individuals, we’re trying to get something in another person of our gender that we are made already having and therefore do not need, rendering whatever we do have useless. With opposite-sex relationships it’s the opposite. With them, the other person is different from you and needs what you have. Oftentimes with me, I’ve pursued men because I felt I didn’t have “it” – that masculine essence I saw in them, but couldn’t find in myself or with other people.

It’s certainly true, however, that some individuals of either gender may exhibit gender-specific characteristics more strongly than others. This isn’t to say that the seed of such traits are nonexistent, though it’s easy to feel that way.

Where does all this leave one such as myself, who, in all honesty, would rather find himself in the arms of a man than a woman? Even in describing heterosexual love, I start to feel like I’m being pushed out of the game, feeling like I don’t belong.

Talking about God’s idea of romance brings up his ideas of gender identity, and I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong in “your group.” Without a right idea about who I was, there was no way I could love a woman, or a man, or anyone. My inner concept of myself was not a boy at all – it was a lovely, lithe, golden-haired girl in white – because only the best feminine substitute for me could replace the masculinity that had been lost, either by me or by others. He asked me about it.

“Why do you see yourself this way?”

“I hate myself,” I answered, honestly.

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“Why?” he asked.

“However you made me, you made me wrong, and now you’re condemning me for it. That’s why I hate myself, because I can’t hate you, because you’re perfect.”

“That doesn’t exactly sound like praise, Patrick. Why are you angry with me?”

“Because I am how I am, and – “ “No, you’re not,” he said, interrupting me. “You’re angry because you’ve been found in sin, and you’re angry at me because you’d rather blame me than you.”

“What did I do?” I asked. “Have a relationship with a guy?”

“It’s not like that at all. You know better. You know that what I’m angry about is this: when I said you’re a capable, wonderful male, born just how I created you, you tell me that you’re something else.”

“But I – “ “No, Patrick. I’m God – you’re not. You are exactly how I made you, and I won’t take it back. By your own admission, you’ve become a mixture of who I say you are, and who you say you are. I say you’re human- so you’re human. I say you’re valuable – so you are. I proved that with Jesus.” At this he paused. “But you say you’re not good enough. You say you’re not good enough as a boy, as a man, as anything – so you decided to be something else, something that seemed easier, better.”

“That’s not fair,” I protested, hot with indignation. “I did not choose to be gay, I did not choose – “ “You did choose, Patrick, but not that. You’re right, that was never your choice. But you did choose something else, something I did not want for you, even though you knew I had said don’t. You chose to leave Jesus, who you hardly knew, yet thought you did. You did that to go and pursue a man who ultimately brought you nothing but ruin.

What am I angry about here, Patrick? What am I angry about?”

I had to think about it. “You’re angry…because I did something wrong?”

“The consequences, Patrick. You think this is what I wanted for 70

you? Miserable? Unhappy? Trying to be something you’re not? I didn’t make you to live like this. I made you to live, to love, and you need to love me back – because that’s what life is all about.”

Jesus Loving God is all about loving Jesus. I didn’t understand this at first.

Jesus had been a distant, 2-dimesional religious figure to me for the better part of my life, and so I was slow to realize his centrality to the whole scheme of things.

I want to emphasize that I’m still not what people might call a “Jesus-person.” I still have difficulties with that aspect of who I am.

I think it’s because I fear that I might somehow become like a lot of the religious people I grew up around, back when I began questioning my sexuality. I have a lot of memories of being at Christian concerts or prayer nights and feeling so uncomfortable and out of place as I watched people come on stage and describe their own relationships with God. The way they would talk about God and Jesus in such emotional, vibrant, hyped-up tones of “This is who I am!” further assured me that “This is who I’m not.” Growing up with same-sex attraction in a religious environment can be a very lonely experience, and I think that that feeling of isolation and exclusion has stuck with me throughout my life even now as a disciple of Jesus. I’ll sometimes find myself thinking to myself, “Really? Am I one of those people now?” The last thing I want to become is one of those people – who, as I had perceived them, were insincere and fake.

I didn’t plan on this happening to me. I didn’t plan on coming to it later on in life, either. I had not the slightest intention of coming to God before everything in my life went sour. But Jesus had other plans, however, and decided to show me just how wrong I was about him.

He showed me this by being someone I had never expected him to be- real and kind. He talks with me about my sin, about my struggles, yet I’ve never felt condemned by him. An example of this happened recently, when I was doing some homework in a public place. I looked up from my laptop for a moment and suddenly caught an eyeful of an incredibly attractive man walking by. He wasn’t just good looking 71

though – he had a sort of allure about him that made me feel all… vulnerable. Consequently, I felt guilty and panicky – not uncommon things for me, but there they were.

Immediately he asked, “What did you see?” I said, “I don’t know.

I just feel vulnerable around a guy like that – there’s something about him that’s more captivating than beautiful.” “I think you mistook him for me,” he said. “Consider – when you add up his body parts, facial features, etc, you don’t end up with a feeling like that. That’s extra.

And that feeling doesn’t really accurately describe that man either – he’s just a man, the same as you. But who do you think such a feeling of awe more rightly describes?” “God?” I replied. “Absolutely,” he said.

“And there’s more awesomeness there than you’ve ever imagined. Don’t worry – if you follow me, I’ll take you where you want to go.”

He’s been my comforter for two years now, providing me with an endless stream of encouragement and counsel, good advice that’s never gone bad, and a hopeful outlook that always inspires me to get back up again after I fall down. Some things may never change, such as my attraction to the masculine, but my perspective on them has changed completely. God has so filled me to the core now that it’s funny to consider what life was like before Christ – the “B.C.” days, as some who I know call them.

Life Afterwards I’m now a junior in college, about to be a senior this fall; I study English, although God is bringing back my old love of art – I was going to be an art major before I fell back on my English skills, but that’s another story.

What happened after all of this? He adopted me! After I had been studying out my sin and self with him for about three months, God helped me find some godly people to study the Bible with me, in answer to a prayer/and fast I was doing expressly for that purpose!

I got met two days in to the fast by a member of a campus ministry, Disciples on Campus, who invited me out to a Bible Talk one day while I was reading my Bible in Shafer. I went, got asked to study the Bible 72

shortly thereafter, studied out what it means to be a Christian, and finally got my adoption papers signed and sealed on April 29, 2009, when I got baptized into Christ for the forgiveness of my sins, and the gift of the Holy Spirit. I have to say, it’s been the best move of my life.

I welcome anyone who would like to continue this dialogue with me; all you have to do is just email me or get in touch with me via the Internet. God’s awesome, Jesus is real, and the Holy Spirit moves like no other. Please get in touch! ●

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Neurofeedback Ashley Richardson Typical cold morning in January, I just got out of the shower and started to get dressed when I heard the garage door open and my mom come home. I was supposed to be at school, not sleeping in and skipping my first couple classes, going to school as I please. Worried, thinking to myself what my mom’s reaction would be had she wanted to come in my room for some reason and find me in there. I decide to keep quiet hoping and praying that my mom isn’t home for the day, maybe she just came home for her lunch break. I start hearing noises coming from my parent’s room, and look out my window to notice my mom’s friends van our driveway. I continue to keep quiet, my ear pressed against my cold door to try and make out what’s going on down the hall in my parents room. Oh my gosh, the noise starts turning into a screaming, frightening noise. What in the world is going on in there?

Is someone getting hurt? I hear our dog Emmitt barking and barking.

I’m getting paranoid, do I need to open my door and go down the hall to see if my mom is okay and make sure nobody is getting hurt? I’ll wait it out just a minute longer to see if I can hear any more clues as to what is going on. Weird, the noise is now starting to turn into a sexual moan and I’m hearing my mom’s name being moaned by a woman.

Is this really happening? My mom is happily married to my dad, they never fight, is she gay, am I still dreaming? The last thing on my mind this morning is how this day will have such an impact on every aspect of my life, as it crumbles right in front of me.

The Beginning-Mom's Side Near the end of my junior year of high school is when my grades started to dramatically decrease, when I started to experiment with alcohol and hang out with Nikki and her crowd. I am thankful that I was brought up in a family that was against smoking or any sort of drug, other than alcohol. I have a lot of respect for my dad in that he has never been drunk once in his life, I think that is something to 74

really be proud of.

When I started drinking, I drank about twice every weekend, and maybe occasionally during the week starting my senior year of high school. I was still a virgin before I started drinking as well, and once I started experimenting with alcohol and going to parties and such, it seemed like all my values slowly started to be thrown out the window. I lost my virginity to some guy I barely even know, while I was intoxicated, and after that I would just go out to parties and have sex with random guys, and never talk or hear from them again. It was like I lost all of my self respect, dignity, and self confidence all at once time when I was drinking. I would get behind the wheel of a car very intoxicated on numerous occasions, and I thank God every day that I never got in a serious accident, or involved with the police when I was driving drunk.

During my high school drinking years, my parents started to get concerned and always accused me of having a drinking problem because when I got older people to buy me alcohol I would have them buy me handles of vodka at a time, so it would last me a couple weekends, and I would store the vodka in plastic water bottles (so it just looked like water.) My mom found my hidden stash one time, a bunch of water bottles hidden in a stuffed animal and dumped all of my alcohol out. My mom had always warned me that depression runs in our family and to be careful because alcohol can cause or make depression even worse.

Perhaps the root of many of these problems is what happened in the middle of senior year (January 2006,) an event which cracked the foundations of my family. I was skipping a couple of my morning classes one day to sleep in, so I stayed at home in my room, as my mom was substitute teaching at the high school that day. I got out of bed and started getting ready for school to go to my last period class when I heard the garage door open, someone was home. I peeked out of my window and saw one of my mom's friends van in the driveway and thought to myself “What in the world is she doing at our house when my mom is at work?�

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I kept quiet in my room because I didn't want to get in trouble for skipping school, my plan was to stay in my room until I heard whoever was home leave, and then I would go to school. As I laid quietly in my room I started to hear screaming noises and I couldn't quite make out what was going on just yet. The dog started barking and the “screaming� noises turned into more sexual sounds (two women) coming from my parents room. I sat through the noises for about fifteen minutes as a million thoughts were racing through my mind.

When the noises finally ceased, I heard my mom and her lady friend walk downstairs and leave.

After what I heard I was so utterly confused and shocked I didn't know what to do, or what to think of what just happened. I sent a text to my sister and told her what had just happened and asked her what I should do (both of my sisters were away at college at this time). She asked me if I was sure that's what I heard, or if I'm just imagining or exaggerating anything. I told her I was pretty sure I just heard our mother cheating on our father with another woman. My sister told me the only way to get to the bottom of this would be to ask my mom to her face and I agreed. It was hard enough and very uncomfortable for me to ask my mom what happened and what I heard, but I figured it'd be best for me to know the truth. When my mom got home from school that day I told her what I had heard and asked what she was doing.

My mom told me what happened with her and her friend was none of my business, and anyway that me she didn't see it as cheating on my dad because it was with a woman. I strongly disagreed and still thought it was cheating and started to cry, I couldn't believe my ears, or even that she had the audacity to come and do this in our own home. Even though I was pretty sure that's what I heard, there was some part of me that wanted to think this was all just a bad dream that I would wake up from and everything would be okay. I couldn't fathom why my mother would ever do something like that and at the same time couldn't imagine the pain my dad would go through when he found out. This was the beginning of many secrets that started to unfold and about my 76

parents when I thought I knew these two people my whole life, my mom in particular.

My mom told my dad the same day, what had happened and from that day forward my parents' relationship slowly began to deteriorate.

It was breaking my heart seeing their marriage slowly start to break, day by day, because they were together my whole life and I rarely saw either of them really fight.

Lynchburg My mother and I's relationship was broken since the day I caught her and I wasn't sure why we could not communicate the same way we always had, not communicate at all. In February 2007, my parents finally decided that their marriage was no longer going to work out and my dad moved out of the house I grew up in. As my mother and I's relationship continued to spiral and was a constant fight, she decided she wanted me to move out of her house and attend a community college elsewhere, and my dad had offered to pay for my living expenses wherever I was to move to. From February 2007- November 2008, living with my dad was never an option because he was moving from place to place living with roommates and hadn't had his own place. At last minute we randomly chose the community college in Lynchburg (Central Virginia Community College) while one of my sister's was attending Lynchburg College for one more year. The drinking became more excessive after they made me move out and move to Lynchburg in August 2007, as this was my only escape to cope with everything.

About six months after my dad decided he was moving out, my mom staying at the house I grew up in, my mom decided she couldn't have me living with her anymore and we randomly chose a community college in Lynchburg where I'd be living with roommates, and my dad supporting me financially. When my parents both made me move to Lynchburg, I got a puppy (Zoey) and it was like I was never welcome coming home to stay with my mom, as if she never wanted to see me, and always used me having the dog as a cover up to not be able to come home. During my hardships in Lynchburg, my dad was never in a place to have me stay with him, as he was just renting out rooms at this time 77

and moving from place to place.

I didn't feel like I had a home anymore, my sisters and I were just trying to deal with everything differently so we didn't communicate, and whenever I tried to reach out to my mom when I was so depressed in Lynchburg she always rejected me and couldn't talk. I fell in love with my only friend I had in Lynchburg, Laura, who actually understood me and we got along great, despite our complicated “friendship.” This was an emotionally abusive relationship with this girl, she hid me from everyone, like our friendship was always such a big secret. We only took the same classes together so we could see each other, and that's the only time I saw her (at school) besides talking on the phone, texting, etc. She never invited me to hang out with her and her friends or anything and I never understood why. I would do absolutely anything for this girl and bend over backwards for her, every time we went out to lunch or something after class I would always pay for her. It was hard to express any feelings because Lynchburg is such a conservative and extremely religious town.

I remember one time I was on the phone with Laura while her mom was around and we always said “I love you” and stuff to each other, and when Laura said this to me her mom freaked out and asked Laura why she was saying that to a girl and asked her if she needed to take her to church. We celebrated Valentine's Day one year and I got her a huge pink stuffed animal dog she slept with, I'm sure she couldn't tell her mom it was from me. I got her flowers one random day and she didn't want them because she couldn't take them to her house. I thought my mom would be the perfect person to talk to about my issues with this girl because of my mom's sexuality now, but for some reason she never wanted to talk to me.

I had seen a few therapists in the past, and one right before I moved to Lynchburg to talk about my parent's divorce. I never really liked therapists all that much because I never thought they really helped. I decided to see a therapist while I was in Lynchburg because I didn't really know where else to turn for support. Essentially I went into therapy and told my male therapist that I wanted to work on my 78

social anxiety issues, but the more I got into it and the more I felt comfortable to open up I started talking more about my past, my confusion with my sexuality, and how hard this relationship with this girl in Lynchburg was.

He finally told me about a month later that he could no longer be my therapist, that it was against his “beliefs” for me to talk about this homosexual relationship with this girl and that he'd refer me to a women vs women attraction center. I thought this was very unprofessional for a therapist to tell you this, and didn't feel comfortable at that point going to this center and being open with a label that I am “gay” so after that I never saw him again and gave up, I didn't want to try to seek out any professional help ever again.

Depression/Alcohol When I slept all day I never really had any intentions of waking up, I felt like I never had anything to look forward to. The sleeping all the time got progressively worse after I got rid of my dog and was done with my degree in Lynchburg. I felt stuck because I was being forced to move ahead with school and my life when nothing was pulling me out of my depression and I was using alcohol to hide the pain. Once again I felt neglected by my parents (this situation was similar to when they made me move to Lynchburg) without them giving me any option with a place to stay.

I really started to push the “driving drunk” issue up to near starting therapy, I had been driving drunk all the time. Not completely hammered drunk where I couldn't even see the road but I definitely was over the legal limit to be operating a vehicle. On St. Patty's day back in March 2010, I got pulled over after leaving the bar around one or two in the morning. The cop had pulled me over because I was in the left lane at the stop light and all of a sudden changed my mind to turn right because I was on the phone with my friend and she changed her mind last minute where I was going to meet her. I popped about three pieces of gum in my mouth real fast after he pulled me over, before he got to my car and he asked me if I had been drinking.

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I told him I had a couple drinks but it was about three hours from then and he asked me to step out of my vehicle. I performed the field sobriety tests and then the officer went back to his car and asked me to blow into the breathalizer. I told him I didn't think I should have to blow in there (I knew if I would have blown in the breathalizer I would have been over the legal limit.) I wasn't even aware you could try to say no. After I told him I didn't think I should have to do that he went back to his car and just wrote me up a ticket for a “failure to obey a highway sign” and let me drive home. I was so thankful that I did not get a DUI that night and I think it was a sign that I was really starting to push my luck with this driving drunk thing.

Mother and I's relationship Before I think one of the reasons my mother and I's relationship started to turmoil after I caught her cheating was because I felt like there was a noticeable awkwardness between the two of us. I kept all the anger and hurt inside for three years because every time I would try to talk to my mom about anything we would just end up fighting, and I was scared to confront my mom about the hurt I felt because I didn't want to hurt her. It was I think a mutual feeling of tension just because I wasn't sure how my mom felt about what happened or how she thought I felt about it. I constantly blamed her for a lot after that, without ever explaining anything further about what “she had done to me.” I think there was a lot of anger that I had towards my mom that I kept inside for years, and we weren't able to communicate at all about anything.

A little bit before my dad decided to move out, I used to come home to my mom crying about how she didn't know what to do about the marriage with my dad. She said she was scared and worried about getting old and being alone but I told her she wouldn't ever be alone. It broke my heart seeing her cry like that because I hate seeing anyone I love upset about anything, especially being so close to my mom.

I think my anger was a combination of both blaming her for the divorce and more so just not understanding what had happened and why it happened. The hurt that my mom wasn't there for me anymore 80

was so deep, I was really affected by her not being able to be there for me while I was very depressed living in Lynchburg, not being able to make friends, trying to transition out into the real world without support, and even more hurt that she wasn't able to talk to me about anything. It was always a hassle when I wanted to come home and stay with my mom for the weekend, which made me feel even more unloved. Every time I would come home, or stop by her house to see my mom, we would just end up getting in an argument, she would always accuse me of being disrespectful towards her and every little thing I didn't do bothered her. Most of the time the arguments started about me not being able to come home when I wanted and stay with her on weekends, how I didn't have parents or a home I could come to, and ended with me blaming her for everything I have been through and I would always start crying and leave.

We were both stuck in an awkward phase for three years whether the awkwardness/resentment was coming from me, her, or even both of us. We both continued to fight and the lack of being able to communicate made it even worse, when we tried to communicate things would always end up coming out wrong and we would unintentionally push each other away even further every time, it was a vicious cycle for years. I wasn't sure how to go about trying mending this tension with my mom, and always wondered if we'd ever be close again. She always used the excuse that I got a puppy (Zoey) and that was the reason I could never come home because she was so poorly trained and uncontrollable. But you know what, even when I got rid of Zoey in August 2009, I still wasn’t welcome coming home and staying with my mom.

Move to Richmond After finishing up my degree at the community college in Lynchburg, I applied to VCU figuring that was the next step I needed to take in my life. I made the most painful decision I have ever had to make: to find my dog a new home. Zoey was my one and only support after getting her and raising her as a puppy a few months after moving 81

to Lynchburg. That dog is my best friend, and has truly been there for me through everything, just being by my side when nobody else was, and kissing my tears away. Zoey went everywhere with me, always at my feet, if I could have brought her into the shower with me I would have.

After a lot of hard and painful thinking, I was finally starting to look at what was best for Zoey, being that I was so depressed and wasn’t able to give her the exercise and training she needed. I decided to try and find her a new home, and do what was best for her at the time, leaving out how much I needed her in my life. It was not difficult to find her a home after putting her picture on the Internet, my emails and phone started going off right away. I met with four different families in person and after a few days, the last family I met with I finally felt comfortable with, to take good care of my best friend. I will never forget the day I had to say bye to Zoey, and that was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. My depression was at its absolute lowest when I no longer had Zoey by my side.

I knew I couldn't stay in Lynchburg and promised my dad if he let me move in with him I would only be staying with him for a semester before I moved to Richmond to go to VCU. He told me over and over again living with him was not an option past January, so once January rolled around, I knew it was time to be serious about moving back to Richmond and get serious about my schoolwork. I was very nervous at this point, as I started looking for places to live on craigs list, because I didn't feel like I had made any positive changes in my life, and as my depression continues to get worse, in combination with the alcohol to cope and still not being able to work things out with my mom. I still haven't decided for sure on a major so I just picked a couple classes to take in the Computer Science, Computer Engineering field thinking that was what I want to major in.

I found a place to live and got my financial aid all squared away, and my dad helped me move all my stuff mid-January. Well, I'm back in Richmond, as I am still having problems making friends because of my deep abandonment issues, and find it even harder to get motivation to get out of bed. I thought I was at least somewhat capable of getting 82

out of bed sometimes to go to class and stuff, so I signed up for a Computer Science class, a Programming class, and Calculus. As this semester progressed and I was getting very behind in my Programming and Computer Science class, not keeping up with the work because I wasn't doing any studying outside of the classroom. I started questioning my capabilities, as I was miserably failing every Computer Science test, and starting to wonder whether Computer Science is really what I'm interested in.

I became discouraged when I found out I was failing two classes, and I started to question how smart I really was because I had always got good grades and been successful in school in the past. Since I withdrew the three classes I had signed up for the semester prior, I knew that if I failed any of these classes that might be the end of being able to take classes at VCU, and the end of any future of being successful of getting a degree in college.

I became concerned about dropping my classes because then I would have even less responsibilities and allow me to drink and sleep even more. I told myself that if I dropped these two of my classes out of the three, and only stayed in one, I would find a job for the couple more months that I'd be living in Richmond (I was going to move back with my dad in May for the summer.) Calculus was the only class I was barely passing in and the drop deadline had already passed so I decided to withdraw from my two other classes and try to find a job. I thought about dropping all three classes, but my Calculus teacher was helping me and she knew I was smarter than the efforts I was putting in so she convinced me keep working, come see her for help and that I'd be fine.

After I dropped the classes and was only taking Calculus, I found it even harder to get out of bed and even go to my Calculus class, I honestly never really got up and looked for a job like I had planned. I was literally sleeping my life away at this point, I would take Tylenol pm, Nyquil or anything to make me fall asleep, would sleep until at least noon every day, get up shower, be awake for an hour or two and lay back in bed, the only thing I did that was effective was go to the gym.

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With so much free time on my hands, some nights I would just get drunk by myself, that was the first time in my life I had ever done that. I didn't particularly enjoy not being around people but I felt like most of it was out of my control, my depression caused me to isolate myself and not try building friendships, every time I do try to make new friends I'm so clingy at first for someone to just care about me, I have forgotten all my sense of “normal� boundaries and how to make friends. I have been having problems making new friends and building friendships ever since everything with my mom happened.

Any time I meet someone or want to seek out new friends, I am be so overwhelming and clingy to people it would always push them away. I never understood why these people didn't want to be around me or be my friend, which is bringing my self confidence to the lowest it's ever been. I just needed someone to be there for me, as I had no support system and didn't feel like anyone cared about me at all. It was a vicious cycle, this past February-the beginning of June that consisted of drinking, sleeping, and feeling worse about myself.

Neurofeedback When I first made the decision that I wanted to try neurotherapy my main goal was to get out of my depression, but the further I got into it, a combination of neurotherapy and counseling (with the same therapist for both) I decided I might as well work on everything, because a big part of my depression was that I felt like my mom didn't love me anymore. I wanted to bring my mom in for a joint therapy session in hopes to finally get everything off of my chest and start the healing process, to rebuild the relationship with my mom that we always had because I really did miss having her in my life. I was scared of the outcome of bringing her into therapy, and it pushing us even further apart or her rejecting me again but I figured I didn't have much to lose at this point.

Neurofeedback therapy is part of a new frontier in our brain understanding. It uses complex computer software and electrical stimulation (in a non-invasive way) to modify brainwave activity 84

subconsciously. Therapy consists of a series of training sessions used to monitor brain wave patterns through a computer, ideally for the brainwaves to learn new pathways for the brain to function more effectively. Neurotherapy is a fairly new, non-medicinal treatment program used to treat ADHD, Behavior Disorders, Depression, Anxiety, Sleep Disorders, Autism, Seizures, Alcoholism/Drug Abuse, Addictions, Headaches, Etc. When people consider this therapy, it's better to work with a biofeedback therapist that has a lot of experience and knows what they are doing. The people he worked with did neurotherapy for their kids with ADD, and one woman did it for her depression issues. I was a little skeptical at first about this therapy because I didn't know much about it and didn't quite understand how it really works, but as I did more research on it I decided I might as well try it if my dad is willing to pay for it, and I had nothing to lose. After I told my dad that I really did want to try this therapy he immediately set up an appointment for me to be seen with the biofeedback therapist his coworkers referred him to. It still wasn't a for sure thing that I could do neurofeedback, I had to set up an initial consultation to discuss my issues with the therapist and she would then make a decision to see if I'd be a good candidate to do this therapy.

The weeks leading up to starting therapy and counseling were absolutely awful, I had so much on my mind, sometimes I couldn't fall asleep until about four in the morning. I was still sleeping most during the day, and from doing more research about neurotherapy I had high hopes of something finally working out in my life and I could not wait to start feeling better. When I finally got started with my sessions around the end of May I was getting a little discouraged at first due to lack of improvement and no immediate results. I was trying to look for a job in Northern VA so I could start saving money before I went back to school, but that was also unsuccessful. Having little or nothing to do was not helping my depression at all.

In the first couple sessions of therapy I actually almost stopped going because my therapist told me that I couldn't come into the 85

sessions hung over and I should really try to eliminate the drinking as much as possible. I couldn't imagine how my life would be without alcohol in the picture back in the beginning of June, it was scary to think about. I was concerned about losing my whole group of friends, because all we would do is drink, and revolve all of our activities around drinking, and was also concerned with how I was going to deal with everything in general since I had been using alcohol to cover everything up for three years. Alcohol was my coping mechanism, that I used to self medicate to try and get through everything. Anytime something else went wrong (which always seemed inevitable), I would just get drunk.

I was worried that it would be even harder for me to make friends, especially trying to move back to Richmond and be in the “college town� and figured everyone around would just be drinking and want to go out all the time. My therapist kept assuring me to have trust and faith in her, and that alcohol was only making everything worse for me, also not everyone drinks and I can find other activities I enjoy doing that don't involve drinking. Trying to figure out some hobbies and what I enjoy doing that does not involve alcohol was like learning how to walk all over again, not to mention finding a whole new group of friends that have better values about life and don't need alcohol to have fun.

Now After I brought my mom into therapy for a joint therapy session with me in June, I think things are very slowly going on the right track to getting more normal with her. My expectations about the outcome of bringing her into therapy may have been a little high, I was hoping the damage she caused me would just go away and we would be back to normal right away but that is very unrealistic. The hurt is always going to be there but I really do forgive her, it's still going to take me a very long time to gain my trust back in her but it was big step to bring her in and a good start to trying to make things better.

It has been a little tough since I moved to Richmond to go to 86

school and am further away from her because she doesn't like talking on the phone, but I'm trying to still work on things and just keep reminding myself to “live in the present.� With my parents situation now since they are getting older and since they were living a lie pretty much their whole marriage, I guess they want to be able to for once be and do what makes them happy, and I do just want them to do what makes them happy.

I haven't ever been able to tell my mom how I feel about everything because I was always scared to hurt her feelings and I know she is very sensitive, but I think it's important for me to express these things to her so she knows. I also wanted to get her side of things about the divorce since I recently heard my dad's. After everything that happened (me catching her cheating and then the divorce) I was trying to deal with all of that and she made me move to Lynchburg, and was no longer present in my life, both emotionally and physically.

You always grow up thinking that your parents are these perfect people but in reality, nobody is perfect and everyone makes mistakes.

I'm fearful of ever getting as close to her as I was growing up because I'm scared she'll leave me again. It took until recently to be able to communicate and express my concerns to my mom about being scared to get too close in fears of her leaving me again. She has told me more than once that although we cannot predict the future, andwho knows what will happen- she doesn’t think she will ever go through such a dramatic change in her life that will make her incapable of being there for me.

It's been hard trying to think back to life before I started drinking and remembering hobbies and things I actually had fun doing, that don't involve alcohol, it is sort of like learning how to walk all over again. I distanced myself from all of my friends that actually had goals and were doing something with their lives other than drink, so my whole group of friends for three years pretty much revolved around Nikki and people who would go out and get drunk with me.

Now I am learning how to make friends all over again, and seeking out the type of people who really care about me, show that they 87

care about me.It's hard finding friends in a college town that have hobbies other than going out and partying and the drinking scene, so I'm still trying to figure out where to find “good people” and things I enjoy doing.

My therapist has saved my life and inspired me in many ways, she is the only therapist I've had that I know truly cares about me. She's helped me cope with all of the hurt by supporting me, and offering counseling as much as I need to deal with and face the hurt and anger that was built up instead of trying to cover it all up by using alcohol and she continues to help me grow as a person every day. The combination of biofeedback and also counseling with her have turned my life around. My therapist is like another parent to me and I love her, my mom, and my dad more than words can express. She knows me inside and out and I feel that she really understands what’s going on with me. I can call her whenever something happens and I trust her opinion, even if it’s the harsh truth, I trust that I am in her heart and she gives me advice on what’s best for me. She's inspired me so much I am considering a career learning a lot more about the brain and how it works and doing something similar to what she does because I think I would get great satisfaction out of a job that really helps people like she helped me.

I'm still not completely on my feet, after being that depressed for three years, but neurotherapy/biofeedback has definitely pulled me out of a lot to where I can now get out of bed and function like a normal person and live my day to day life. The combination of my inspiring, understanding therapist and neurofeedback made me want to get out of bed, want to stop being so sad, and want to try and fix things with my mom and accept the divorce. For the first time in my life I am working 40 hours a week, focusing on improving my relationships with people, and developing a relationship with my dad, and improving the one with my mom. I have a stable support system with both of my parents now, and my therapist as I grow as a person and get back on my feet. For the first time in my life, I’m building a relationship with my father, and we actually say “I love you” to each other, 88

which we never did before.

Just eleven months ago, I never thought I'd say that things in life are absolutely wonderful. Coming from a college student's point of view who has been through it a lot, makes me want to reach out to people and help them through whatever they may be going through. I can safely say that I am no longer in my major depression (which lasted and kept getting worse for three years). Things happen out of my control to make me depressed about the situation, but with all the counseling and neurotherapy I have done, definitely have learned much better ways to cope and be able to talk myself out of the depressing situation, rather than let myself spiral into my vicious cycle of deep depression again and negative self-talk.

To read more about my journey, and heartbreaking story I encourage you to read my book “Smile, Like You Mean It� that I plan on being published in the near future. I wrote this book in hopes to inspire the lives of others struggling with depression to not give up, and that there is hope out there.

In my book I further discuss my struggles, the normal ups and downs in life, but aside from all of that: the miracles that can also happen in life and save you when you are least expecting it. I reveal at the end of my book, the number of miracles and things that all started to turn around when I had no hope, but one miracle in specific that will finally start to bring the relationship with my mom and I closer again: Zoey is back. â—?

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Flash Fiction GREG ALEXANDER Well, it's no penis.

It doesn't fuck everything, and they end up in sarcophagi and miracles come out of it, instead of protein.

It's reliable, and size? Pretty much not an issue.

The penis, though? You can use it all month long. It's pretty painless.

Vaginas are too difficult.

It must be tough having a vagina.

I guess you ladies just have some shit luck.

GREG ALEXANDER My raging erection for the free market compounded my tepid sexual life. Indeed, romance was difficult with no money, but the free market dictated that my dick would taste nothing. Not that it would have tasted anything anyway. The main barrier to intercourse was not having enough money for the main barrier of intercourse.

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GREG ALEXANDER This is the highlight of my day.

This is the nadir of my existence sighing heavily, I toll on my left side, close my eyes and face infinity.

I am an island, and I have no imports.

I do not ship to anyone but the Kleenex Peninsula. I am at peace for but a moment, having shipped off my cargo, but I am filled with existential dread.

What if I never diversify my trade routes?

SAMUEL ROOTS When I met you I saw the battle scars of what seemed to be a constant intake of nicotine. We talked for long hours at night. I knew your insecurities, you knew mine eventually. I assumed wrong: It was the Uppers that made you so down.

JOE WOODS He screamed on the Senate floor saying that he wanted more protection for "MARRIAGE," "BIBLICALLY DEFINED." He screamed on the bedroom floor saying that he wanted more penetration for our sacrilegious bodies intertwined.

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JOE WOODS I went down to the tattoo parlor today.

There was a long, philosophical conversation, but I was persuasive. The tattoo artist, a woman, eventually agreed: Yes, I have a penis.

Yes, What I do with my body is my own perogative.

And yes, I have every right to want my penis to look like a dragon.

I have never felt more beautiful.

DIEGO MOSTAJO Fuck you, you left, I never needed you. You came back and expect me to like you? I'll admit you're great but you are no longer my father.

You've lost your chance, you've done terrible things. I have to love you, but I truthfully mean it when I saw I'll be the complete opposite of you. I'll be the best father for my children and I will be better at being a husband. I guess I should thank you though, I've found an identity that I cherish.

DIEGO MOSTAJO Coca leaf, it's so wonderful. Bolivia has plenty of it. I was only seven years old when my grandmother offered me some. What a wonderful feeling. All you did was chew on it for a while and then repeat with a new one. I miss that, I miss being so young.

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ANDREW ADERE I find vaginas beautiful they look funny they feel funny they're all wet and they smell weird.

However, I love interacting with vaginas.

I love the look on a woman's face as she reaches orgasm.

As I stimulate her clitoris.

I love the feeling of a vagina around my eager penis.

And in this, I do find beauty.

ANDREW ADERE My parents were divorced when I was young. I remember interminable nights of shouting, watching the shadows move in their room through my open door as I tried to sleep.

When they told me, it took everything I had to not breathe a sigh of relief, to say, "finally."

I've comprehended once, for a bare moment, years later, the life I missed. The loving family I did not completely have according to society.

But fuck that, I get two christmases and some peace and bloody quiet.

FRANK MOSS At the intersection of orientation and identity there is a man. He's selling hotdogs, made of God knows what. The Better Business Bureau has been notified.

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LASHELLE JOHNSON I try to be a good boyfriend. Really, I do.

Bitch said I can't eat bacon around her, though. What the fuck kind of stipulation is that? "You can have this delicious pootang, right here...but no bacon."

What kind of self-righteous bitch says I can't have bacon? Or ham? or anything delicious?

Shit ain't right.

LASHELLE JOHNSON He asked me to clean up. To "clean up."

If he would, "clean up," I would.

If he would groom his shrubbery, I would. It's winter, I'm cold.

"It would just be nice," he said.

Well whoop-de-fuck, I'm glad you're so invested in this one part of me.

I hate you.

PAIGE & SARA hands trembling, my papers get written. anti-socially, my homework gets perfect grades. without my prescription my life is â—?

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