Breakwall A Student Produced Literary Journal at Cuyahoga Community College.
Vol. 4 • Spring 2013
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Breakwall
Volume Four • Spring 2013
The Cover Anja Jankowsky Looking Ahead
Acknowledgments Breakwall would like to extend a special thank you to the Cuyahoga Valley Career Center, Bill Delgado, and the senior Graphic Imaging class for making the printing of this publication possible. The Breakwall staff would
like to thank the staff, faculty, and administration of Cuyahoga Community College, specifically Dr. Belinda Miles and Dr. Michael Schoop, for their support. Breakwall assumes all responsibility for the content of this magazine.
Staff & Contact Information Selection Committee Darlene Bartos Joshua Greer Lauren Mangan Victoria Stanbridge
Brian Hall
Faculty Advisors Jack Hagan
Liberal Arts—English
Creative Arts—Journalism
Liberal Arts—English
Daniel Levin
Creative Arts—Photography
Lindsay Milam
Liberal Arts—English
Jennifer Skop
Design Editor Steve Thomas
Breakwall MLA 223-S 2900 Community College Avenue Cleveland, OH 44115 (216) 987-4544
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Contents Poetry Section Dashawn Black Why Do We Worry
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Portia Booker Tag, You Were It
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Daniel LaGuardia Mermaid
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Judy Mackenzie Untitled
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Mario Manney Night Cactus
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Dierdre Ruane Bicicleta Cash in Hand
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Taylor Schmidt Abigail
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Claire Whiteman Hand with History Multiple Contrasts
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Prose Section Jacqueline Diaz The Protector
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Alice Jones Granddad’s Love
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Theresa A. Mullins Go Light Your World Murder at Twin Lakes
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Larry Remar Riding the Wind on Thanksgiving
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About the Contributors
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Submissions & Guidelines
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Irma Burgos Un-Caged
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Jacqueline Diaz To My Lamb Window Watching
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Quianna Howell Better Days
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Joel Mills Once More, Here We Are 4 Selfish Sacrifice 4 Molly Stambaugh A Doll’s House Raquel Tyus-Wilbon Express Yourself Photography Stephanie Decker Girl Mark Holz EH/MH
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Anja Jankowsky Looking Ahead
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Jennifer Kiern Untitled Untitled Untitled
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Why Breakwall Breakwall is a title that will call up personal images and memories for the many people familiar with a Lake Erie breakwall. Metaphorically and symbolically, this title also connotes a need for people to break down the barriers, or walls, of separation, ignorance, fear, and so on. Breakwalls are strong objects that are meant to withstand storms and the furies of nature, and they help keep the calm and rough waters separated; in fact, they help create the calm water on the shore, provide safe harbor for boats, and breakwall lighthouses were once beacons of light providing safe passage for ships. In a community as diverse as Cleveland and its surrounding areas, these metaphors and symbolic images certainly apply.
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Poetry
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Tag, You Were It Portia Booker
Hit by a smile and smooth talk, I could not let you run away. Faster than me by experience, I kept up through my curiosity. Your purposely colored skin, Dime sized bullet holes in your ears Handcuffed me. You tagged me, I was it. Now, you tagged someone else. They are chasing you, Hit by your smile and smooth talk, All I can do is wait, For another tag.
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Why Do We Worry Dashawn Black
We share the same feelings Hoping and bleeding nothing will Come between us Why this why that wishing We could go back to make it perfect Make it special praying night And day saying to ourselves Not to make a mistake maybe We don’t want to lose it maybe We’re scared to even choose it Or to start a new one but no one Knows why this feeling of being Loved is so strong that it gets us High over and above all things on earth This is why we are in a hurry To be with that person who completes our story But somewhere near the climax we always worry…
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Once More, Here We Are… Joel Mills
As I stare into those deepening globes, A warmness, a familiar fondness fills me. She stares back, we both know there is an Unspoken word on our lips. More so, an action not yet taken. Why won’t one of us take the next step? Perhaps unsure of how the other will react? We return to glancing into one another’s eyes, Not really sure how we’ve gotten here. Will we kiss? No, yet another embrace and familiar warmth… Of laughter. The game (Of emotions) starts again. This continues on for a few seconds at first… Then minutes pass… Finally an hour has passed. Here we found each other staring once more. More words are exchanged. All the while we’ve gotten closer. Yet again, why is this happening? She turns away wanting to rest, though I don’t Want her to, I reluctantly let her have her way. Again, we stay in this embrace for a time. Laughter ensues, and we begin again. More time passes and we finally realize That time will not wait for us. We begin to part, though for a few seconds… The game ensues, than realization strikes us once more. Finally a knock at the door. We part down our separate paths and both left In wonderment of what transpired…
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Express Yourself Raquel Tyus-Wilbon
Too many times throughout life we feel as if we have to dummy down to what someone else believes or thinks we should be or do. You should express yourself, say what you feel, by all means please be tactful, but don’t be afraid to let someone know what you are thinking or feeling. Think about it and see if it’s worth your time, because time is of the essence and it is not to be wasted on nonsense. That would be your call, however, if you feel that this would do some good, even for yourself, then by all means do it. Never keep your feelings suppressed because of what you think someone may think of you. You never know: That person may respect you simply because you did say what you thought or felt. Express yourself, let it all hang out. Do your thing.
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Selfish Sacrifice Joel Mills
Regardless of what I do, Or what I say, I will continue to live everyday As I did yesterday. People that wish happiness for Me are often the ones who Rid me of it. To make each of them happy Would be like becoming an Empty vessel. Devoid of all emotion, only Left to please them. If any compensation, the days Sometimes remain tolerable Through faded moments of Happiness. Though only brief, I remember And cherish them with all the Zeal I have left within me after All other satisfiers have been Drained from me. Who’s to say who has the Right to be happy and who Doesn’t? No person can be completely Happy, but that doesn’t mean Their life is never ending Sorrow. Sacrifices need to be made by All people involved. Never force the ones you care For to make needless sacrifices. Just as you would share happiness With those you care for… Partake in their sacrifices, Drink in their sorrows, Indulge in their fears… Don’t make them give up everything Just for you.
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Better Days Quianna Howell
We hold each other up...support We kiss it and make it better.... Better than it was before when we were hurt From Past lives not knowing what would come of our future You and me....we....Live for the moment The here and now the hereafter ‘cause after the storm We can say that we are still here Still standing, bending, not breaking for nothing or no one We will forever see the sun The dark days are behind us now You ask how? Simple In my veins your love was injected therefore we are connected In me you are unfolding living....laughing....breathing Our hearts beat in unison I feel what you feel...I think what you think I taste what you taste You inhale I exhale We are one....So our best days are yet To come
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To My Lamb Jacqueline Diaz
I love you most At times like these When you try to be serious and I can’t help but laugh at everything. I love you most At times like these When I try to fall asleep and you talk endlessly about anything. I love you most At times like these When I wake up and poke you until you open your eyes And you insist your alarm says 15 more minutes. I love you most At times like these When I am sick and cranky and you lay on the floor next to me insisting I need the whole couch to stay warm. I love you most At times like these When I am running late and you run my coffee out the door. Most importantly the times I love most are all the times I have had since you said “Shut up and stop yelling at me. I do love you too.”
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Un-Caged Irma Burgos
I watched the cage rising then falling. The sound developed from its continual rise and fall seeming to squeak and crackle made me wince. I sat at the side of the aged container. The spots, brown like the rusting from time and the elements, I smoothed over with my loving hands. The greasy like substance became absorbed the more I tenderly worked it into the weathered shell. All the while knowing the assiduousness would never change a thing. The damage was done; there would be no undoing. I stared at a nearby container of liquid that silently dripped, dripped, dripped. Like a leaky faucet that nearly matched the pace of the rise and fall of the cage. Time continued to deteriorate what once had so much strength. I recalled how in my childhood during play, I dangled from all sides of what once was so strong. Remembering the ability to carry and hold the weight of me. I fell asleep to the sounds that had somehow become comforting to hear. Upon awakening due to the thunderous silence I wept. The cage no longer moved. The dripping had slowed to a stop. The motionlessness brought sorrowful relief as I wiped away tears and disconsolately kissed my dad goodbye.
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Window Watching Jacqueline Diaz
The old man sits at the bus stop and sighs. Between meticulously checking His watch and his pants, he realizes he is not moving. Time has been passing him by.
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A Doll’s House Molly Stambaugh
Our ornamental furniture provides necessary sustenance in this half-house: privacy sentenced to the guillotine to provide for prying eyes. Our hallways are lined by the reflections of never- ending dead-ends: We are by definition enclosed in this gilded prison, destined to go through domestic motions exacted by the demanding delicate hands of God.
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Photography
17 TITLE: Girl PHOTOGRAPHER: Stephanie
Decker
18 TITLE: EH/MH PHOTOGRAPHER: Mark
Holz
19 TITLE: Looking Ahead PHOTOGRAPHER: Anja Jankowsky
20 TITLE: Untitled PHOTOGRAPHER: Jennifer
Kiern
21 TITLE: Untitled PHOTOGRAPHER: Jennifer
Kiern
22 TITLE: Untitled PHOTOGRAPHER: Jennifer
Kiern
23 TITLE: Mermaid PHOTOGRAPHER: Daniel
LaGuardia
24 TITLE: Untitled PHOTOGRAPHER: Judy
Mackenzie
25 TITLE: Night Cactus PHOTOGRAPHER: Mario
Manney
26 TITLE: Cash in Hand PHOTOGRAPHER: Dierdre
Ruane
27 TITLE: Bicicleta PHOTOGRAPHER: Dierdre
Ruane
28 TITLE: Abigail PHOTOGRAPHER: Taylor
Schmidt
29 TITLE: Hand with History PHOTOGRAPHER: Claire Whiteman
30 TITLE: Multiple Contrasts PHOTOGRAPHER: Claire Whiteman
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Prose
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Murder at Twin Lakes Theresa A. Mullins
It was a cold and blistery Halloween night. The fallen leaves were twirling in the wind as the young English college professor Matt Sedwick made his way toward the village bar and grill, Tavern on the Lakes. He lived so close, on Overlook Drive that he had decided to walk instead of drive, but was rethinking that decision as he stepped through a small pile of leaves and it made a rustling sound. It’s too cold, Matt thought to himself. He wondered what the anonymous man on the phone had to tell him. Matt has been wondering about the truth behind his father’s disappearance that took place twenty years ago. Matt has always wondered if his dad had succumbed to foul play and hoped the man will shed some light on it. The man insinuated that something more was going on with the president of the nearby college than him receiving bonuses in one hand while raising the tuition for the students with the other hand at the time of Matt’s father’s disappearance. “What does that have to with my father disappearing?” Matt wondered as he stepped inside the tavern and was greeted by Pink Floyd asking if anyone was out there. Matt looked around the dark atmospheric tavern. He didn’t see an older man with a Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt on so he went up to the bar and asked for a Bud Light on tap. The tavern looked just like it did in the 1970’s. It was depressing. This is why he liked to frequent the bars up in the city of Kent. Matt took his mug of beer and went to sit at a corner table so he can see who was coming and going. As the time passed, Matt did some people watching. Some people were dancing and some were just socializing. The music had changed genres and was now playing Patsy Cline’s ‘She’s Got you’. Matt saw a couple get up and leave. They looked like a happy couple who were in love. The woman was all smiles and giggles. Matt looked at his watch and realized that he had been sitting there for about an hour and was contemplating on leaving when a scream was heard and Dan Berlin, an old high school classmate, ran in and screamed at the bartender to call the police. A man was dead in the water. For the first time that day Matt forgot about who he was supposed to meet. The music on the jukebox stopped abruptly and everyone got up to run outside. Matt somehow made his way to the pier that was at the rear of the bar and pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He saw a man lying face down in the water with a large knife sticking out of his back.
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He looked back up to see the woman and the man he had watched leave the bar a few minutes earlier. The woman was no longer smiling, but crying into her boyfriend’s chest. Someone in the crowd took a fallen tree branch and turned the body over to see who the man was. Matt sucked in his breath. The dead man was wearing a Steelers sweatshirt like the man Matt was supposed to meet tonight. Matt stepped back from the crowd. He needed air. He needed to think. As he was standing off to the side of the crowd, he heard the sirens of the State Patrol. Being a small community centered on a state route, they didn’t have their own police department. The State Patrol always got called in when someone dialed 9-1-1 and sometimes there was a State Patrol car sitting on the side of the road, waiting for out of town speeders. Yes, Matt was right. The first two cop cars to pull into the lot were State Patrol cars, but the one behind it was unmarked. Matt didn’t know who it belonged to. The driver to the unmarked car got and stated yelling, “Homicide!!! Back away and let us through” To the State Patrol officers he yelled, “Don’t let anyone leave until they have been questioned. Start with the person or persons who found the body.” Matt tried to move close enough to the scene to hear what the detectives were saying. He stopped when he heard one of the detectives say, “According to the man’s DL, his name is Paul McConley. He’s fifty-four years old and he lives at the Pinewood Apartments in Kent. What was he doing out here?” The one that seemed to be the lead detective replied, “That seems to be the question of the night. My guess he was killed for wearing that tacky Steelers shirt.” Matt silently stepped away and tried to leave, but was stopped by the burly State Patrol man and was questioned. Matt was asked about where he had been for the evening and if he knew the deceased. Matt told the officer that he had just come up to the Tavern for a drink after a night of grading horrific English papers. Matt never once mentioned that he was supposed to meet a man wearing a Pittsburg Steelers sweatshirt. Finally, around midnight, Matt was allowed to leave. Matt wondered to himself as he made his way back to his family home on the lake, “Would I be considered a coward if I just drop this whole inquiry into my father’s disappearance, or would it be a smart move? I sure don’t think this McConley fellow was killed just because he was a Steelers fan, although one would want to rid the world of the Steelers and their warped fans.” Matt walked home with his hands crammed into the pockets of his Pea coat and with his head hung down in defeat. The night air had gotten even chillier since he had ventured out. Winter was on its way, and it had brought murder with it to the sleepy town of Twin Lakes.
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Riding the Wind on Thanksgiving Larry Remar
On Thanksgiving morning, I ventured out for my annual journey to downtown’s Erie Street Cemetery to pay homage to the two American Indians buried there: Joc-O-Sot and Oghema Niagara. The cemetery, Cleveland’s oldest, is situated across the street on East 9th Street and is identifiable by its rectangular stone façade. Born in Saukeenuk, Iowa, circa 1800, Joc-O-Sot, the Walking Bear, was injured in battle during the Black Hawk War. He eventually settled in Cleveland and led fishing and hunting expeditions, was introduced to the theatre and visited England for an audience with Queen Victoria. Becoming ill while in Europe he began his long voyage home to Saukeenuk, knowing he was going to die. His trek brought him only as far as Cleveland, where he died of uncertain causes and was buried in 1844. Oghema Niagara, Chief Thunderwater, was born twenty-one years later on the Tuscarora Indian reservation, near Lewistown, New York, to an Osaukee mother and a Seneca father. Thunderwater became a vital link in relationships between the Indians and their counterparts in the United States and Canadian governments, at times travelling thousands of miles. He also sought for better and more equal rights for the Indian people. He was a participant in Buffalo Bills Wild West Show, with whom who he crisscrossed the U.S. and Europe with, and he listed Kit Carson among his many friends. Being a proud and prominent member of the Pioneers Memorial Association, he fought to save the Erie Street Cemetery from being relocated or desecrated, saying that a “terrible disaster would befall Cleveland if Joc-O-Sots body were ever to be touched.” But his crowning achievement was when he helped to incorporate the Supreme Council of the Tribes in 1917 and began operating the Council Sanctuary out of his seventeen-room home at 6716 Baden Court on Cleveland’s near West Side. The Council Sanctuary was developed to help the destitute and needy by providing people of any race with food, housing clothing, and medical services. Chief Thunderwater opened up his home to anyone in need. The Chief, Oghema Niagara, died on June 10, 1950 after a long and productive life when he was eighty-five years old. He is buried alongside his friend, Joc-O-Sot, The Walking Bear; a man he had never met. It was apparent to me during my visit to these two historic men that when Hurricane Sandy reared her ugly head and ripped through Cleveland that she paid her own visit to the cemetery. Although no tombstones or memorials were
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disturbed, about thirty yards from where these proud men rested, a fifty foot tall maple tree now rested. The fierce velocity of Sandy’s wind snapped the healthy maple off at its roots like a twig and she left in her memory the trees broad branches, now penetrating the earth and straddling six well weathered and worn headstones which were incredibly left unscathed. Like Chief Thunderwater, she came to Cleveland from New York. At this point I nixed any plans for the day and decided to just ride the wind to see where I’d end up and that’s how I met Linda. As I was exiting the cemetery she was rummaging through one of those large, round, cement and stone trash receptacles scattered throughout the city. She emerged with an aluminum Coke can, peeled off the pull tab and deposited the can back into the garbage. Linda, as it turned out, is from Lancaster, Texas. She was swept up by a whirlwind romance that rode her into Cleveland, but the relationship soon waned and she landed in a women’s homeless shelter. She explained to me that she collects the aluminum tabs and then donates them to the Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital where they’re used to “help pay for insulin and dialysis for the kids.” “Do you know where the House of Blues is?” she asked. “They got a free Thanksgiving dinner for folks who got no-one and ain’t got nowhere to go.” She seemed a bit disheveled and disoriented, but also harmless and lonely so I began showing her the way. As I guided her to East 4th Street she continued along on her quest of collecting pull tabs. She stopped at every garbage can along the way, snapping off the pull tabs and placing them into her tattered purse. We arrived at the House of Blues as the clock was nearing 9:30 and 4th Street was a ghost town. Just as I was getting ready to move on with my day, thinking maybe either her information was incorrect or imagined, she asked me to stay. I began feeling sad for this colorful woman and where her life had taken her: across the country and away from home; a recently failed relationship; no family or friends to speak of and all on a beautiful thanksgiving morning—I decided to stay. As more people began rolling in around 10 a.m. I overheard conversation that the “House” would start serving at 11 a.m. I felt bad that I began doubting Linda’s story, but now she was emerging from her somewhat introverted shell and I felt thankful that I had stayed. At 11a.m. the doors swung open to welcoming employees there to greet streams of guests. Once inside we were also greeted by the aroma of Grandma’s kitchen and the sight of handsomely appointed buffet tables manned by a host of “House” employees at the service stations. They were dishing up all the usual Thanksgiving fare; turkey with all the trimmings, treats and tidbits as well as fountain sodas, hot coffee and cold water.
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As I neared the end of the buffet line my hands were already full and that’s where I met Isaac Mullins, who appeared to be ten or eleven years old. “Would you like a piece of pumpkin pie?” he asked with an infectious smile. I told him that I would love a piece of pumpkin pie. Noticing that my hands were full Isaac and his infectious smile escorted me and my pumpkin pie to a seat. He politely asked if I needed anything else. I told him that I was fine and thanked him as he dashed back off to his pumpkin pie work station. I people-watched and slowly enjoyed my meal. The Richmond Heights Church of the Nazarene band entertained the guests with live music. The talented quartet, which included a violinist, injected a seasonal vibe into the air that was warm and inviting. I spoke with Ali Sedivy (pronounced alley) who is the brand marketing coordinator for the “House.” She has been employed with the company for five years and she was helpful, informative and engaging. She told me the “House” has been providing this service since 2005 and in addition to what I saw going on inside today they also were providing an additional 1,700 meals to be served through seven different outside agencies. The “House” was operating as a full service restaurant with dozens of employees on hand, all volunteering their time. I told Ali that it appeared to me it must be a really cool place to work, because everyone giving up time on their own holiday seemed to be really happy to be there. All in all it turned out to be a great day. I found that they had the Cambridge Room on the Euclid Ave. side open with additional guests and more live music. I made some cool new friends, and shared a meal with some great people. I realized that the same thing was happening all those years ago at Chief Thunderwater’s house, as he lived to help the needy every day.
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Go Light Your World Theresa A. Mullins
I sat outside on the terrace that was off my room in the cabin I shared with other missionaries and watched the sun rise above the jungles of South America. On the table next to my cot was a tape playing “Take Your Candle, Go light Your World”, the latest recording from my home parish’s choir up in the States. It was nice of Sister Mary Elizabeth to record the choir singing the hymns at mass and send them to me. I lifted the chipped ‘I love My Scottish Terrier’ coffee mug and took a swallow of the strong Columbian coffee. It’s been two months and I still couldn’t believe I was back here in this beautiful country and in this vocation. My life had completely changed four years ago when I volunteered to spend a whole summer in Peru with Columbian Volunteers USA and International, a missionary organization, and found myself working under Sister Margret Mary of the Franciscan order. I had always felt I was called to do so much more than I had been doing with my life and just didn’t know what it was. I went through life volunteering from one project to another, never being fulfilled. I tried helping out at the Food Bank, feeding the poor through the church, and helping out at the Domestic Violence Center, but I always left feeling that what I did just wasn’t enough, and I also wanted a better relationship with God. I felt like my light was going out. Then one day, while I was having lunch on the campus of the community college I attended one of my classmates told me about this missionary group that took volunteers to South America during the summer. I went home and googled the group. The next thing I knew I was filling out the application and I had been accepted. I spent eight weeks in heat that I never fathomed possible and without running water. I helped bring up water from the river every day. The village was small and made up of the very poor, the poorest I ever seen anyone be. The people of the village did not know what a cell phone was or what having a Facebook page meant. Electricity was hard to come by up here in the mountains and everyone got their electricity from generators running on gas, and we had to conserve it as much as possible. I helped out at the village school house assisting Sister Margret Mary who was teaching the children English. I finally felt like I was making a difference, especially when one of the young girls, Isabella, threw her arms around me and said “Thank you,” in English. I also learned a lot from the villagers and Sister Margret Mary. The villagers taught me how to weave and make pottery. Sister Margret Mary imparted her wisdom on me. I sensed that she had the closeness to God that
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I was seeking, and I sought her presence and guidance every day. I also felt the presence of the Lord out there in the mountains. Sometimes in the early mornings before I had to go get the water from the river, I would go to the top of the nearest hill and amidst the trees I would pray. I would always think of the song “Here I am, Lord” and sometimes I would just repeat the words “Here I am, Lord” over and over as a prayer. It was there on that mountain one morning when I finally heard what the Lord was calling me to do all my life. I knew what I had to do when I got back home to the States, and I have never been happier since. I had found my inner peace with a deeper relationship with God. Thinking I better quit daydreaming and finish writing this letter to my mother back home in Ohio, I pick up my pen. My mother is still adjusting to my new way of life down here in South America. She’s not too happy that I am spending a year down here with “uncivilized” people. I have to send her a letter every week or she would worry and think the worst. I couldn’t have that happen, now could I? As I was putting the letter in the envelope and sealing it, there was a knock on the door. “Yes?” I called out while I walked back inside. “One of your students is asking for you,” replied the young female voice. I smiled. It never fails. Even when there is no class a student will request tutoring and usually brings a book with them. “Okay, thank you Mellissa. Give me a moment. I’ll be out in a minute.” I set the letter on my small dresser to be mailed later when I went into the big city and walked over to my cot. I picked up my coif and veil off the bed and put it on. Now, I was dressed properly in my habit attire and was ready to meet the day. I opened the door and walked through the community room and outside to a see a dark skinned girl in pig tails waiting for me. She had one of the First Reader books the missionary hands out to the children. She saw me and a big grin appeared on her face. She ran over to me, threw her arms around me said, “I love you Sister Marie Therese,” in broken English. I hugged her back and said, “I love you too my dear, Lúcia.” Moments like this I knew my light was shining brightly and I was making a difference.
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Granddad’s Love
Alice Jones My two brothers, Gregory and Ricardo, and I all grew up within the confines of The Department of Children and Family Services. Because of her alcoholism, however, we were placed in and out of our mother’s home on a regular basis until we reached our adulthood years. Our mother battled alcoholism. She was an awesome functioning alcoholic, a great mom who loved her children and always made sure we had our basic needs met every day. Through it all, with God’s help, my brothers and I were able to stay together as the only family we had known. In my 30s I decided to try to find my family on my father’s side, something I had thought about doing. I had this desire since I was in my late 20s. I began my search by looking in the White Pages of our local telephone directory where I located the first of several people with the last name of Eppinger. My heart began to race, and my nerves were on edge as I picked up my telephone to dial the number for my possible cousin or aunt. After a few rings, a woman said hello. I introduced myself, telling the woman I was the daughter of Grady Eppinger Jr. Did she know him? I wondered, because to my great sadness the woman began to raise her voice at me, asked me not to call her home again, and hung up the phone. My mind became confused; I felt devastated-confused, horrified, and ashamed for being such an inconvenience to someone and upsetting her like I did. I got myself together and looked at the second person’s name in the directory. Dreading being yelled at a second time, I began to dial the phone. I heard it begin to ring. I thought about hanging up, but then I heard a man’s voice answer and say hello. I gave him my name and explained why I was calling. To my delight, he told me he was my father’s brother, and when I asked him if I could come and meet him, he said yes and proceeded to give me his address and we set up a time. As the meeting day got closer I began to get more excited. When the day arrived, I drove to Uncle Jody’s home with my birth certificate in hand as proof of who I was. I also had daddy’s death certificate with me. Uncle Jody was outside on the porch waiting for my arrival. We began by introducing ourselves to each other again, and I immediately showed him the documents I had brought along. We began talking to one another like two familiar friends. At the end of our visit he gave me my father’s sister’s phone number and encouraged me to call. We said our goodbyes and I was
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on my way. A day or so later I phoned my Aunt Delores. I again introduced myself and she knew who I was since Uncle Jody had called her and informed her about me. She was tickled to be reunited with her niece. After a few phone calls and visits, my aunt decided to throw a small family reunion. This is where I met my brother Michael, my first cousin Wanda, my cousin Mark (Wanda’s son), and my sister Darcella. It was a pleasant get together. My family came around and introduced themselves to me one at a time. Everyone appeared to be pleased to meet my acquaintance. We ate some great food, laughed, talked, and got to know one another as a family. At the end of the meet up all of us were saying our goodbyes and giving each other nice hugs. I noticed that all of the hugs were sufficient except my sister Darcella. She gave me a standoffish type of hug. I still left my aunt’s home feeling happy I had found my family. In August the family annually had a large family reunion at which I met some more of my relatives. This is also where I met my Granddad and second Grandma (Grady Eppinger Sr.and his wife Elmira). I took it upon myself to try and keep in touch with my immediate family members after the family reunion. Granddad and Grandma were always glad to hear from me by phone, and Granddad made sure every family reunion year I was contacted by my aunt to inform me that he was coming to town. Eventually Granddad could no longer drive, so they chose other forms of transportation to get to Cleveland from Macon, Georgia. I learned to drive and purchased a car, so this way when Granddad came to town I could make sure I saw him. I put forth great efforts to keep in touch with the others, but they didn’t seem too interested. I would try on a few occasions to call my sister. She was always too busy doing other things to take time to talk with me, even for a few moments. I called her on four different days and times. She was busy. At this time I cut my ties with her. My brother Michael and I would run into each other periodically on the streets of Cleveland. We would talk. He would give me a contact number. I’d call that number, but it would be changed or disconnected. He didn’t have a permanent residency at the time. So I laid that contact of a family member to rest, too. All I could be thankful for at this point was when Granddad saw me. He had joy in his heart and a Cheshire cat’s grin on his face. I could no longer call to Georgia because Granddad had become hard of hearing. I had to yell into the phone so he could hear me. This put too much of a strain on my vocal chords. My Grandma was an o.k. lady. She wasn’t my original Grandma which saddened me. My original Grandma had passed away. Last but not least, my aunt and cousin stayed in touch for a while longer, but our relationship became distant. I was the one trying to keep in touch
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with them for roughly four years. They each may have called me on the phone twice, and they never took the time to come visit me, although I did take time to go see them on numerous occasions. I was on my way to work one morning when I received a call from my cousin Wanda. She was calling to let me know that she and my Aunt were on their way to Macon, Georgia to Granddad’s funeral. I was in shock ! I asked her, “Right now?” She said yes. Wanda explained that they hadn’ t been able to find my phone number. That’s why she was just now calling me. I don’t remember the rest of our conversation. I remember later on thinking about how I had just talked to my Aunt not more than a week before this phone call, but hadn’t heard anything from either of the ladies for more than a week. At this point I thought it was in my best interest to cut my ties with them also. I was grateful to have met my Uncle Jody and My Granddad, two of the best family members a girl could have. I also became aware more than ever that I have the best mom and brothers in the world! My mom was a very loving, respectful, kind and quiet person who loved us. She never recovered from her alcoholism and eventually passed away in 1982 of liver disease. My brothers love me with all of their hearts unconditionally. I see and talk with my brother Gregory at least once a week. If I miss a week he will call me and give me what for. My youngest brother Ricardo we haven’t seen or heard from in many years. I love and respect my brothers forever and ever unconditionally. They are all the family I need. Talking to people in my every day endeavors, the subject of family comes up occasionally. When I tell people it’s just me, my two brothers, and my mom as a family, sometimes they ask, “Don’t you have any aunts or cousins?” When I answer them no, they sometimes suggest I must have relatives out there somewhere. I tell them I do think about finding my relatives on the Jones side. But it’s too common of a name. I don’t feel like going through that. This usually quiets them down and we move on to another topic. In my world of family ties I know I need to leave well enough alone.
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The Protector Jacqueline Diaz
It seemed to always be raining in Capitol City. The air smelled slightly acidic as the rain began to fall causing the reflections of the floating street globes to become fractured blurs in the puddles. Elsa pulled her trench coat tighter around her slender frame to conceal her black United Territories Uniform and paused to adjust her sunglasses as she glanced up at the street globe. It flickered for a moment before it finally held its light. Elsa’s chin length shaggy hair blew in the wind as she raced down the stairs from the United Territories Security Building with her foot ending with a heavy splash in the puddle at the bottom. She turned to admire the ruins of what was once the great monument of the Sitting President. How amazing it must have been to live in the times of the great founders she thought. Even though she worked for the government, she had a soft spot for the resistance. She shared their vision for freedom, but she also understood that the government had to keep control for the public safety. She dashed across the street to the Washington City Diner, the grand re-opening sign floating proudly above the door. She had missed her late night talks with Franklin. She only had fifteen minutes until the next security report was due to come through the tubes, but she wanted to see him. She heard the familiar faint cling of the old rusty bell as she pulled open the door and glanced around. “Working late again, Elsa?” “Stop giving me a hard time, Franklin.” Elsa laughed as she sat at the bar stool and grabbed two sugar packets from the basket on the counter and began shake them. She didn’t know what it was exactly about him, but he always made her feel safe. Maybe this was what it was like to have a father? “How do you stay open when no one is ever here?” Franklin turned to the coffee maker and grabbed a mug from under the counter, “People are here during normal business hours. You only come when normal people are sleeping. Don’t the government give you guys coffee if they make you work so long all the time?” “They do. I’d just rather see a friendly face. How much do I owe you?” Elsa ripped open the sugar packets and dumped the sugar in the coffee. Franklin slid her a spoon, and she stirred it quickly and took a sip. Franklin waved his hand and leaned onto the counter, “What they got you doin’ over there so late? You look pale. You gotta be sure to take care of yourself.” Elsa smiled as she looked into her coffee mug, “I love that you remodeled this to look like the traditional diners of the twentieth century. I was so happy to see you re-opened last week. Can you imagine what it must have been like to live back then? Everyone so proper? Good old fashion romance?”
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“The government treating people with different skin tones differently, not letting people get married for one reason or another? No thanks.” Franklin turned and started wiping down the counters. Elsa waved him off as she took another sip of her coffee, “Oh, Frank! You know that’s just a myth.” Franklin tended to side with the resistance, while Elsa loved to engage in discussion, her job was to enforce the revoking of freedom of speech in the United Territories Act of 2215. Franklin looked up quickly at the far corner of the diner, and he turned and lowered his voice again, “Elsie, they got you brainwashed over there? Why, when you were just a babe people could talk. They could-” Elsa put her hand up as she quickly set down her coffee and reached into her pocket. She hit her alarm silencer. “Frank, that’s enough.” She couldn’t have him getting in trouble again. She glanced around quickly to make sure no lights were flashing. She raised her voice slightly, “Jokes like that aren’t funny. You don’t need another inquisition on your record. Thanks for the coffee. It was good to catch up.” Franklin stood back up and gave her a faint nod to show he understood as she made her way back out into the rain. Elsa glanced up at the United Territories Security Agency Building. She loved the way it looked at night. It stood silently, a large black pillar with most of the windows closed off by rouladen shades. The building looked magical as it silently blended into the night sky. As she crossed the street she couldn’t believe it was only three years ago that Commander Guilden marched up to her in the University of Cleveland Library offering her a job in the military surveillance division. Who could have ever thought that little Elsa Fairchild, orphaned at the age of three, no family, could become the Head of the Department of Domestic Surveillance? She flashed her badge as she entered the building and made her way through the five security check point system to the transportation corridor. She stepped on the platform and placed her hand on the security keypad and waited for the Security Authentication and Request Analysis System (Sara for short). “Voice Authentication in progress. Please state your name and rank.” “Elsa Fairchild. Director of Surveillance. Territory 7-14.” “Authentication Completed. Welcome Director Fairchild. How may I assist you?” “Requesting transportation to my office.” There was a slight pause. “Request granted.” The platform shook slightly and began to move. Elsa leaned back onto the hand rail and took off her sunglasses. She preferred the dim light of the building. She rubbed the inside corners of her eyes. It seemed like forever ago that she could go outside and the light didn’t give her a headache. She let her agents head home early tonight to enjoy the Winter Celebration with their families, but she
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was used to being in the building alone on holiday weekends. It was expected that agents without families worked through them. The platform came to a halt at the end of Corridor 7-14. She walked past her assistant’s desk and down the long hallway to the corner office, and again placed her hand onto another security keypad. The door to her office slid open, and Elsa turned to hang her coat on the wall rack right inside the door and sat at her desk. Her office was modest at best with the focal point being the wall of screens. The top row had only three large screens across it while the bottom was mixed between several smaller sizes. She set her sunglasses on her desk and leaned back into her chair. “Sara, please turn security screens on and print Johnson’s report.” She began to unlace her boots as the screens slowly turned on showing several locations. The small bottom screen directly across from her desk showed the Washington City Diner. Elsa liked to keep an eye on Franklin. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt responsible to keep him safe. Elsa glanced at the tube. “Where is Johnson’s report?” “Report not yet received.” Elsa sighed and kicked off her boots under her desk. She glanced at the time on her small desk screen. 4:30. People would be arriving soon for the day shifts. Where the hell is Johnson? She sighed. “May I have my cot please?” Her cot slid out from between the two bookcases behind her desk. “Would you like the windows opened?” “No, thank you. That will be all for now. Please shut down the lights and screens. Wake me when the report is received.” Elsa settled herself on her cot. This was going to be another long night. “Night shut down in progress. Request received. Good Night Director Fairchild.” “Good Night, Sara.” *** “Code Yellow. BEEP. Code Yellow” Elsa awoke to the yellow alarm light flashing from all four corners of her office. All her screens flashed on as her rouladens flew open. She lept from her cot, her eyes squinting, and shoved her desk chair out of the way. She began franticly typing on her keyboard. “Sara, print the Code Yellow Report. Cot away. Rouladens closed please.” “Requests processing. Commander Guilden requesting entry.” Elsa quickly looked at her reflection in the blackened window and combed her chin length shaggy hair. Her green eyes quickly shifted to hide her concern. She glanced at the clock. 6:00. She finally replied, “Request granted” Her office door slid open, and Commander Guilden stopped in the doorway. She quickly saluted as the door closed. “What information do you have, Fairchild?” “Completing the downloads now, Sir.” Elsa walked toward the large screen
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and pointed, “It appears we have had a severe breach in the U Command Center in Quadrant 176.” She turned and pointed to the lower small screen, “They managed to bypass the security system and made it into the restricted area.” Commander Guilden stroked his chin trying to hide his concern, “Fairchild, I need you to gather all the information you can in the next twenty minutes. This is top priority. I am sure you understand that the utmost discretion is needed. The Security Council is waiting for your debriefing in Conference Room C.” “T-t-the Council? But Sir my team-” “You have your orders.” “Yes….sir.” With that Commander Guilden left. After the door closed, Elsa sank into her chair. She had only debriefed the council one other time. The mere thought of doing it again mortified her. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edges of her chair. The Commander tried to hide it, but she caught the look of fear on his face. She wondered if she had enough time to call in her team. And where the hell was Johnson’s report? “ Code Yellow Report completed.” “Thank you, Sara.” She stood and walked to the tube and picked up the small chip and placed it in inside her cuff. “Sara, please request transport to Conference Room C.” “Please wait. Request in progress.” Elsa walked to her desk and began to lace up her boots. She didn’t even have clearance to the U Command Center let alone know what could possibly be located in Quadrant 176. That required extensive technological training, but she heard rumors. She recalled a conversation she had with Franklin before he was forced to remodel. He said something about a rumor that the Resistance had something important in that building. What was it? She tried to put it out of her mind. This was outside of her scope. All she needed was to analyze the report. Her thoughts then drifted to her upcoming presentation. She worried this meeting with the council would again end in blank stares. “Director Fairchild, please make your way to Debriefing Room 84.” “Sara, I requested transport to Conference Room C.” “Understood. My request was deferred. Please make your way to Debriefing Room 84. Please Confirm.” Elsa was confused. “Confirmed.” The door to Elsa’s office slide open and she was greeted by a man in uniform. She glanced at his badges and saw he was a Lieutenant Colonel. He saluted her. “Director Fairchild.” she nodded. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel DeMitchel. I will be escorting you to your debriefing. Are you ready?” “Yes.” She paused. Sara didn’t notify her of an escort. “Is this escort necessary?”
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“Just following orders, Ma’am.” Lieutenant Colonel DeMitchel turned and began to walk down the hallway as Elsa felt a heaviness in her chest as she glanced at her feet. “Ma’am?” Demitchel asked without looking back. Without answering, Elsa picked up her head and walked towards the end of the hall. “It is probably best to not keep the Secretary of Defense waiting longer than he has to.” Elsa paused. Demitchel placed his hand on the security pad. She never reports to the Secretary of Defense. She saw a flash of red on the screen. Sara didn’t respond, but the platform door opened. Demitchel stepped to the side, “Shall we?” Elsa reached toward her belt for her clicker and paused. “Of course.” She stepped onto the platform and Demitchel followed her. The doors closed as they both looked straight ahead. “Just as soon as you tell me your real name.” The doors closed behind them. Elsa turned to rest her back against the rail. The platform shifted. Elsa looked the man up and down. He may be a good foot taller than her, but she knew she could easily defend herself. He didn’t respond. “You know they will notice I am missing in a few minutes and come looking for us.” “Franklin sent me. He wanted to make sure you were safe.” He stepped and rested next to her on the rail. “I promise you that you will not be harmed.” “What’s your real name?” “James. James Demitchel.” He stuck his hand out. Elsa ignored him. “How do you know Franklin?” The doors opened. “Just follow me. Your questions will be answered in a minute.” Elsa followed James down a wing in the building she had never been too. The lights on this side were bright, and she had wished she grabbed her glasses. They stopped in front of Room 84. She went to place her hand on the security pad, but James pushed her to the side. “Trust me. It is better this way.” The door slid open. The room was small and barely fit the large conference table and eight chairs. Elsa placed her hand over her eyes. A familiar male voice said, “James adjust the lights for Elsa.” Elsa turned and saw James press a button on his cuff and the lights dimmed. “Is that better?” Elsa uncovered her eyes. Her eyes slowly began to adjust. James took a seat next to a blonde woman leaving the chair next to the door for Elsa. They were in uniforms. Franklin sat at the head of the table. “Elsa, please, have a seat.” Franklin gestured to the open chair. Elsa took a step toward the door and put her hand in her pocket. Franklin stuck his hand up in a panic, “Please. Give me a minute to explain.” Elsa hesitated. Could she trust him? She looked around. “They have to know I am missing by now.” “If you will just take a seat, we can explain.” The blonde lady said. Elsa
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looked at her badge. She was in security too, but not nearly at Elsa’s rank. “I have information about your father.” Franklin said calmly. “What do you know about my father?” Elsa placed her hand on the back of the chair. “Ah, now we have your attention” The man sitting next to Franklin said. “Leave her alone Johnson.” Franklin said, “Elsie please take a seat. I can explain. We only have a few minutes left. Do you still have the report on you?” Elsa nodded, “You have two minutes. But then I am hitting my clicker.” “I can’t get into too much detail by now because as you know everything is recorded no matter how much we try. Elsa, your family has been in hiding. They had to give you up as a part of their deal with the government. Your family has a long line of service to guard something very special. The government in 2215 took that very special… thing and moved it into Quadrant 176. At that time the government gained a lot of control and changed more than you know because you can’t remember” “I was barely three in 2215 how could I remember?” “Let me finish. Your mother, died, protecting you. Since then your father has been trying to get what was taken back. He finally succeeded. There is now a large battle coming. He asked us to protect you. You need to come with us.” “I – I- I am not going anywhere with you.” Elsa stood up. “What you did is illegal. I-I” “Call the screens.” “If I call the screens they will know where I am. They will come here.” “That is a risk we have to take. Elsa you have to come with us. Don’t you think they know who you are? There is a reason they picked you for your job. Call the screens, play the video.” Elsa sat at the table, called the screens, and placed the chip into the drive. There was what appeared to a large room that slowly came into view. The aerial view in night vision showed a man enter and walk over to a wall. He put his hand on a security keypad and a drawer opened and he lifted something out. “That’s – that’s a child.” Elsa muttered. Franklin smiled. “Is – is- that another child? But?” Elsa looked at Franklin. “What is the meaning of this?” “If you want to know more we need to leave. Now. Elsa this is what you were born to do. You are a protector just like your mother and father. You have been protecting me, and you don’t even know why.” Elsa glanced back at the door and then quickly ejected the chip. “James. Can you take us out the emergency evacuation route? We will have to hurry.” They nodded. Elsa looked at James. “Can you make it so Sara changes my location?” James nodded and hit a few buttons on his cuff. “That should give us a few extra minutes.” The doors slid open and Elsa began to follow them back toward the platform. “Well. Here we go.”
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About the Contributors
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Dashawn Black is a student at Cuyahoga Community College. Portia Booker is a Cleveland native who bathes in artistic ideas. She is majoring in Journalism Mass Communication. Aside from school, Booker holds two jobs. Booker has many different hobbies which include writing, photography, and playing her guitar named Charlie. After Tri-C, Booker plans on attending Kent State for journalism. Irma Burgos is a student at Cuyahoga Community College. Stephanie Decker is a student at Cuyahoga Community College majoring in the field of photography. She was born and raised in Strongsville, Ohio. She has always had a love for photography and prefers to be behind the camera. Her other interests include paintball, scrap booking and writing. Jacqueline Diaz resides in Cleveland, Ohio, with her fiancé and four rescue kitties. Ms. Diaz has studied Creative Writing in New York City, Germany, and Seattle, Washington. She is currently completing her degree in Education and Public Relations. Her favorite authors are Jane Austen, Sam Shepherd, and Anais Nin. Mark Holz is the owner of the online education company CEUnits.com, a professional real estate developer, and an aspiring photographer currently taking classes at Tri-C. Mark has been married for almost 15 years, and has three children ranging in age from 12 to 7. His family has a profound impact on his photography. Quianna Howell, from Cleveland, Ohio, is not only a full time student, but she is also a full time mother of two. She has been writing poetry since the age of seven years old. Writing is a great outlet for her. She also loves music as well as dancing or simply put, if it has a rhythm it is right up her alley. She is currently pursuing an English creative writing degree and hopes to add a Psychology degree to that as well. Anja Jankowsky grew up in former East Germany. She moved to the U.S. in 1997 and has lived in NYC, California, and, for the last 11 years, Shaker Heights. Anja is a website designer. She is currently studying graphic design and photography at Tri-C. Visit Anja’s website: www.pixelpoise.com Alice Jones is a student at Cuyahoga Community College. Jennifer Keirn is a freelance writer and photographer who loves uncovering the stories that hide beneath everyday life. Her writing has appeared in Cleveland Magazine, Lake Erie Living and other publications. Her photography studies strive to complete life’s stories through visual image and written word. Visit her online at jenniferkeirn.com. Dan LaGuardia is a photographer/film maker from Cleveland, OH. While attending school part time, Dan is also beginning to enter the world of visual arts professionally as well. In 2013, he has founded both his own company, Dan
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LaGuardia Media, and a building development partnership that will be opening renovated artist studios and event space this spring. Judy Mackenzie has been interested in photography since getting a used camera as a gift. Her main interests are landscapes, wildlife, and ruins. In her travels, she always has a camera in hand. As a boy growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, Mario Manney was exposed to a great diversity in cultural upbringings. His mother GioVanna from Italy married an enlisted soldier James Manney of German and Irish descent and kept their heritage strong through their three children. Working for United Airlines the last 20 years has allowed him to travel the world and expand his passion for photography. Joel Mills is an otaku and a gamer who writes in his free time. His poetry and short fiction works take their inspiration from various anime, manga, and games. Currently he is pursuing a career in nursing. Theresa A. Mullins is a graduate of Tri-C and Kent State University. She is enrolled in a few English classes at Tri-C to help move on to the Master’s Degree program at John Carroll. She is currently writing more short stories and more poetry. Larry Remar is a student at Cuyahoga Community College. Deirdre Ruane simply thanks her parents, John and Julia Ruane, her neverending source of support and inspiration. She also thanks those who made these photos possible, the Cleveland Kings (cash in hand), and her Aunt Teresa, who turned a second trip to Mexico from dream to reality, gracias por todo. Taylor Schmidt is a student at Cuyahoga Community College. Molly Stambaugh is a current student at the Eastern Campus of Tri-C. She plans to pursue a double major in Literature and Environmental Science. Her favorite writers include Gabriel Garcia Marquez, T.S. Eliot, and Ernest Hemingway. Some of Molly’s other interests include gardening, backpacking, travelling, and playing her piano. Raquel Tyus-Wilbon is a freelance writer who has published work in The Voice, Tri-C’s student newspaper. She is currently attending Tri-C studying journalism and theatre. She is a student ambassador for the college, a staff writer for The Voice, and has launched her creative freelance writing website at www.kelwrites.com. Transplanted a year ago from California, Claire Whiteman is exploring the new sights of Ohio. Her inspirations are her two amazing children, life experiences, color and light interplay, and interesting people. She is pursuing a Masters in counseling with a specialty in art therapy and hopes to travel more soon.
51 Please answer all questions on this form. To submit your work, follow the directions on the Call for Submissions.
Submission Form Contact Information: Name Mailing Address Phone Number City, State, ZIP Email Address Which Tri-C campus do you attend?
Metro West
East
Westshore/CCW
Submission Information: List the title(s) and genre(s) of your submission(s). Please be sure that only the titles of your submissions appear on the copies you are submitting to the editorial committee. There is a maximum of 3 total submissions per contributor, regardless of genre. Genres include prose, poetry, drama, feature articles, art, or photography. Title of Submission Item (if submitting artwork, indicate the medium used, such as digital photography, acrylic paint, etc.)
Genre
Submission #1 Submission #2 Submission #3
Biography: Please include a 50-word biography with your submission. If your work(s) are accepted, this biography will be featured on the Contributor list. If you do not include a biography and your work(s) are accepted, your name will not be listed on the Contributor list. Use thirdperson point of view when composing your biography. Statement of original work: I hereby state that all works submitted are my own and previously unpublished. I grant the editorial committee permission to use my works for publication and promotion of Breakwall, which may include publication on the future Breakwall website.
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Date
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Call for Submissions Breakwall is Cuyahoga Community College’s creative and literary arts publication. This publication is a high quality, easily accessible creative outlet for students to showcase their talents in the arts (poetry, fiction, drama, essays, feature articles, photography, graphic art). All Tri-C students, current and former, are encouraged to submit. Each contributor may submit up to three pieces, in any combination of genres: Prose/Drama/Feature Articles: 3,000 words maximum per piece; one-act plays are appropriate for the size constraints of the publication. Please double-space submissions. Poetry: 1,000 words maximum per piece; please submit in the page layout you intend. Artwork and Photography: Only black and white submissions will be accepted. Please save as .jpg file (quality of 8) with a resolution of 300 ppi. The image size must be 11� as its highest or widest dimension. All pieces must be submitted in electronic and paper format: turn in both the electronic files and the print copies of your work(s). Save all text
files as .rtf documents and all visual images as .jpg files on a flash drive or CD-ROM. The drive/CD must contain all submissions plus a 50-word biography of the contributor, written in third-person point of view. Submissions will not be accepted through e-mail. Only submissions that are complete and follow all guidelines will be forwarded to the selection committee. Selected works reflect the aesthetic judgment of the selection committee and no work is guaranteed publication. Please double-check for grammatical and typographical errors prior to submitting your work. The editors are not responsible for publishing errors contained in submitted items. The editors use a blind submissions process. Therefore, do not include your name on the submitted entries-include it only on the Submission Form where you list the title(s) of your work(s) and your contact information. In early spring 2014, selected contributors will be notified of the intent to publish their work(s). Anticipated publication date is late spring 2014.
Submission Deadline: Friday, December 13, 2013 You may submit your hard copies and drive/CD in one of two ways:
Mail:
Breakwall, c/o Lindsay Milam MLA 223-S 2900 Community College Avenue Cleveland, OH 44115
In Person:
Lindsay Milam MLA 223-S Metropolitan Campus (216) 987-4544