Breakwall - Volume Six - 2015

Vo l u m e S i x / Tw e n t y - F i f t e e n A Literary Magazine Published at Cuyahoga Community College

Breakwall / Literary Magazine

Breakwall

Volume Six / Twenty-Fifteen 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.

Cover photo by Jesika Orahoske

Many Thanks:

• Cuyahoga Valley Career Center, Bill Delgado, and the senior Graphic Imaging class for making the printing of this publication possible.

• The staff, faculty, and administration of Cuyahoga Community College, specifically Dr. Michael Schoop and Dr. G. Paul Cox, for their support.

• The Associated College Press for honoring the fifth volume of Breakwall with a 7th place Best in Show Award at the National Media Convention, held in Philadelphia in November 2014.

Breakwall assumes all responsibility for the content of this magazine.

This volume is dedicated to Bill Delgado, without whom Breakwall would never have been printed. We hope the ink stains on your fingers are soon replaced with grape stains.

Staff:

Design Editor Steve Thomas Selection Committee Sarah Minch McMahon Kyle Selenas Jessica Smith Angela Wolfe Faculty Advisors Jack Hagan, Creative Arts—Journalism Brian P. Hall, Liberal Arts—English Daniel Levin, Creative Arts—Photography Lindsay Milam, Liberal Arts—English Jennifer Skop, Liberal Arts—English

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Poetry

05 07 09 10 13 17 18 20 24

05

SUUAD MAFARGEH MIME PALESTINE

Photography

TABLE OF CONTENTS 44 26 Prose

NATALIE GASPER THE BEAUTY OF WOLVES: A SESTINA FOR WAR TO END ENZO ZACCARDELLI IF THE DECEASED COULD SPEAK PART II: THE CYCLE OF GENOCIDE

PAULA DIFRANCESCO

KAREN GENCO

JENNIFER GORE

49

JUDITH KHANER

SARAH LEHMANN

Contributors

KEVIN MCCANN

JESIKA ORAHOSKE

ARFIL PAJARILLAGA

VIRGINIA REEVES-RICE

TREYSHAUN DANIELS SNOWFLAKE PALOMA DEFREEZE UNTITLED

RYAN KERR A LADDER AMONG ROCKS

RYAN COOK

JACQUELINE JAMES P. O. W. DE’ANGELO GREENE BABY DADDY

45 47

59 61

DANIEL NEBELSKI ILLITERACY: SOCIETY’S POISON CHRISTY RODGERS MY BUDDY

BIOGRAPHIES

THE SELECTION COMMITTEE

Submissions REBEKAH SPURLOCK IVANA TOUSLEY

INDYA POWELL WORK IN PROGRESS NOTE TO MY EX

DAVID WASIELEWSKI

ERIC WETHINGTON

RAQUEL WILBON SHE MOTIONS

MICHAEL WHEELER

ROBYN WHITE

62 63

58 62

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS SUBMISSION FORM

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POETRY

TREYSHAUN DANIELS SNOWFLAKE PA LO M A D E F R E E Z E UNTITLED N ATA L I E G A S P E R FOR WAR TO END T H E B E A U T Y O F W O LV E S : A S E S T I N A D E ’A N G E LO G R E E N E BABY DADDY JACQUELINE JAMES P. O . W .

S U U A D M A FA R G E H MIME PA L E S T I N E I N D YA P O W E L L NOTE TO MY EX WORK IN PROGRESS RAQUEL WILBON SHE MOTIONS ENZO ZACCARDELLI I F T H E D EC E A S E D C O U L D S P E A K PA R T II: THE CYCLE OF GENOCIDE

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Mime / Suuad Mafargeh It was she who intimates the world with her beauty, enamored by her smile as they surround her congruity.

Selfless in her effort to please those who give her nothing in return.

She is as luminous as the rays in which cast down and burn.

Content with the sound of laughter but itis never her own, an orchestrated masquerade, she forsaken and torn.

In the late hours of the night is when she unveils her identity, her shrilling cries echo off of the four walls where she continues to lie helplessly.

Darkness lingers as the pain seeps through the ducts of her somber eyes, her heart envious for the life of the woman who lives joyously in disguise.

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Palestine / Suuad Mafargeh Do You Ever Wonder‌ What it is like to have bombs dropped on your home while your children are sleeping, where peacefulness is now bombarded with silent weeping, where rockets spark the night sky and their vengeful intentions begin as vigorous attacks, they crave the gore as they stand amused at the fact that the limbs of your father are no longer intact.

Do You Ever Wonder...

What it is like to watch helplessly as death creeps upon your own, and your hands are covered in the blood of your mother, where sleepless nights anxiously await the demon’s calls as you try to protect yourself under the polluted waste and rubble, where missiles scour through your precious air as you count down the second with no time to spare?

Do You Ever Wonder...

What it is like to have bullets penetrate through the womb that bears your unborn child, where every street in your city lies bodies in piles, where white phosphorus burn right through your soul, and the actions of those behind the apart-held wall cannot be controlled?

Do You Ever Wonder...

Why they call this a waging war?

It is but a massacre, a genocide where innocent lives are unable to defend themselves from this bloody galore, A blasphemous ritual used to blemish our spirit, deathly endeavors that blind the world from these Zionist secrets.

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P.O.W. / Jacqulin James I’M A PRISONER OF WORDS UNSAID JUST LONELY FEELING TRAPPED IN MY HEAD… I TRAPPED MYSELF FURTHER, EVERYTIME I STAY QUIET I SIT UP TO SPEAK BUT, I STOP AND STAY SILENT AND NOW I’VE MADE MY OWN HARD BED INSIDE THIS PRISON OF WORDS UNSAID...

P.O.W. IS WHAT I AM, NOT A PRISIONER OF WAR BUT, A PRISONER OF WORDS. I AM SCRAPING THIS COLD HARD WORLD FOR A PIECE OF MYSELF. THEY PUT ME IN JAIL AND LOCK ME AWAY, MY HANDS WERE CUFFED BEHIND MY BACK, I WAS SHAKING BUT, THESE BARS OF STEELARE NOT OF MY MAKING I AM A PRISONER OF COMPROMISE A PRISONER OF COMPASSION A PRISONER OF KINDNESS I AM A PRISONER OF EXPECTATIONS I HAVE NEVER FORGOTTEN WHAT I WAS TOLD, BY MY SOUL SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE PUITING A GUN TO MY HEAD, AND IT’S SO COLD but THERE IS NOWHERE TO RUN...

I TOLD MYSELF YOU’VE CAGED YOURSELF BY HOLDING YOUR TONGUE.

Breakwall / Literary Magazine

I AM A PRISONER OF WORDS UNSAID. JUST LONELY FEELINGS LOCKED AWAY IN MY HEAD, IT’S LIKE CONFINEMENT EVERYTIME I START TO SPEAK I STAY SILENT. NOW I’VE MADE MY OWN HARD BED, INSIDE THIS PRISON OF WORDS UNSAID.

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Baby Daddy / De’Angelo Greene What’s happenin’ little man Is what you would say to a young boy walking down the street Mommy where’s daddy?

From a child whose father they have yet to meet Coming up in my neighborhood All the other kids and I would watch shows that were looney Tunes that would make us laugh and ask our parents if we could get that toy Story A journey of the lost back home to a zone they know as their own As I’ve grown So has the pregnancy rate All these ladies swelling up before they could even get a date No sweetheart That guy isn’t who you want to be your baby’s father Wait You love him?? “Changing your mind?”, nah, not me I wouldn’t bother Time passes by, baby pops out Where’s baby father???

Baby crawls, stands, walks, runs, jumps Eventually turning to mom, “Mommy, where’s my father?”

Now 1, Do you lie???? or just tell baby to go play?????

While in reality Since baby was unborn Baby’s father has been in prison And won’t get out until Baby’s 18th birthday

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The Beauty of Wolves: A Sestina / Natalie Gasper There is nothing more beautiful than the unbridled power of a pack of wolves.

They spend much time running as a group, always following their leader because it is in their nature to do so. It is not natural for these creatures to see the so-called beauty of domestication, as they have no reason to follow mankind. While we may have great power, humans so often choose to run in the face of danger, unlike a wolf who will always fight. Understanding wolves gives one a deeper insight into nature.

Just imagine the freedom of running alone in the woods with a beautiful sunrise there to power every step along the path being followed.

But few things that are wild ever follow a path. Especially not a wolf, with his keen instincts and powerful muscles. Sometimes solitary in nature, these animals will stand alone on a cliff, howling at the beauty of the moon, wishing to run

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alongside her. Watching them run can be an eerie sight when they follow the scent of deer. Such a beauteous thing, to witness a pack of wolves as they succumb to their more violent nature of being hunters. No match for the power in their jaws, their prey will undoubtedly fall. The true power of wolves lies in the strength of their spirits, always running like they are the pure heart of all nature.

Kings of their world, it is hard not to follow them and do as they do, for a wolf is superior in his beauty.

There is great beauty, fierceness, and unrestrained power to be seen in the eyes of a wolf, as he so freely and graciously runs, following only his wild inner nature.

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For War to End / Natalie Gasper Help them start a movement For the fear of War. He has shown no mercy In his quest for gore.

He’s a fearless foe who never rests For them the time precedes the cause.

Leaders, he’ll destroy your men with his claws.

Mighty like a dragon With a heart of ice.

If he comes to power They shall pay the price.

Lacking courage, means, the will to fight They are guaranteed to lose.

In the ashes, one man can see a fuse.

War’s always looking for his prize His soul collection’s growing bigger No one stands a chance against his evil mite.

One man looking to the skies He feels inside a renewed vigor Like a phoenix, from the ashes, born to fight.

Standing tall He found his strength in a pile of ashes The time is now to unite all men.

Who died before, in their names he smashes War your poison’s finally reached its end.

Men throw down their weapons To embrace their friends Peace and calm abound them They have made amends.

Now the time has come to understand War must never reign supreme.

From the ashes, rose a beautiful dream.

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If the Deceased Could Speak: The Cycle of Genocide / Enzo Zaccardelli What more could be done, to a people like us, Who are whipped and yet flourish, Who are despised and yet nourish?

No-one could predict the horrors we’d face, Determined to create a perverse master race, Lies were disguised to blend in with science.

From the fringes of Great War they formed an alliance, With nations who also lusted for power.

At center was a man who would not cower.

So began our next tribulation; They restricted us to ghettoes and planned liquidation.

In these ghettoes they fed us small rations, And retained us until we were devoid of passions.

When the time came, so did the trains; Thoughts and opinions ran through our brains.

Boxed in a cart, filthy and cramped, Shipped like cargo, passaged and stamped.

I hug my mother, I’m so afraid They open the doors, our faces dismayed.

The Brightness of the sun was a vicious antic.

At first, it was chaotic and frantic.

Then, my family was tom and divided.

All our fears then coincided.

I scream and I shriek for my mother’s embrace, But as I scream the lines move apace.

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The last time I saw her; her face etched in my mind How can these smirking faces have been so maligned A few hours later I realized the horrors my mother underwent When I was told what those smoke stacks meant.

They rounded the Cattle, they butchered the Sheep, Frantically, naked bodies were burned in a heap.

Dozens tossed into a single mass grave.

Immediately they forced us all to shave, Carefully, planning out the logistics They had to take away our human characteristics, So that we’d be easy for eradication, Subjected to medical experiments and humiliation.

We were the worst of those deemed inferior, Dead on the inside, comatose on the exterior.

A living Nightmare, corpses were walking.

Creeping in, The Reaper Azriel was stalking.

In no time the death toll was millions Few were soldiers but most were civilians And after, people claimed no knowledge that this was occurring Others took action but guns were deterring The War ended, but it was not the guilty who paid, Again, we were deceived and betrayed.

Men given refuge for their destructive information, While saying we would be given our own location.

People paid for another continent’s crimes I’d rather relive that atrocity a hundred times, Than to see my grandchildren benefit from our affliction, No, do not use our slaughter to try to justify an illegal eviction.

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My grandparents reaching the end of their lives, Reminiscing about their old olive trees.

Before they were abused and brought to their knees Something I’ll never know – I grew up in a refugee facility The Camp grows larger, threatening sustainability.

I hug my mother, I’m so afraid The World stays silent, about the blockade.

Like dangerous animals, blocked in with barbed wire Like a rich man’s food, left to age and expire.

Lacking adequate water, how can this be for defense?

Settlers become wealthy at our expense Their prejudices run amok among the news stations Passing hate down onto future generations.

We have become a symbol of persistence Lies are told that we never had coexistence.

The predator takes lives and plays as the victim, Claiming they’re just, carrying out God’s dictum; From planes they infect us with deadly White Their allies not willing to indict We’re kept behind such a massive wall Lacking wealth, we’re mocked like Saul.

My people are blamed for our own deaths Gasp for air in our last few breaths For the last few decades are lives have meant little Making up reasons for acquittal.

Breakwall / Literary Magazine

Look at the Land that was ours Laughed while our homes were burned like cigars.

We just yearn for A Right To Return to our homes and streets Which were seized by unholy elites. Those who resist are labeled extreme, For standing up to an oppressive regime.

The majority want to live in peace But if we wave our flag we are abused by armed police. At first, atrocities never seem depraved, But history will see the truth of how they behaved. So speak up now for those who can not, Or when it’s your tum no-one will be left to protect you from being shot.

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Snowflake / Treyshaun Daniels When it first begins to fall, it’s as harmless as a baby’s touch.

So delicate and beautiful, yet cold.

Each flake with its own unique structure sets it aside from the others.

Formed and fallen from the same cloud.

Departing from home not knowing where their journey will end.

Never saying goodbye as if they know once they touch the surface of the earth, family awaits them.

What exactly is the purpose of these beautiful frosted tears from the clouds?

Maybe it’s to cover the earth in a crystallized blanket.

Maybe it’s to glisten in the sunlight to give you that warm feeling inside just to remind you that you can find a bit of happiness in the coldest of times.

Maybe, just maybe it’s meant to bring us together as a family despite color, race, or age.

Whatever its purpose is, it’s divine sent.

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Untitled / Paloma DeFreeze I want you to put me on top of the world, And make me feel like I’m the only girl.

Show me how special I’m to you, And that you’ll always be there at my rescue To have my back when I feel no one else has it.

To give me a helping hand without me asking for it.

To get on one knee and share half of everything with me.

Brighten my days with sunshine instead of pain.

Paint me a rainbow instead of drawing a cloud.

Show me what real love’s supposed to scream out.

Help me to focus on the good and never the bad.

Love me on your Worst days, and show me that you won’t forget to care, even when you feel the end of the road is near.

I want you to water me like a flower, so that I won’t wilt and die in front of your eyes.

And when you look at me you think about the good times, and I give you the strength to move forward.

Mr. Right is what I waited for, for a long time, and I never came as close to that until now.

I hope you won’t let me down.

Time is short, but I want to make it last with you.

The keys to my heart are hard to unlock, but I gave them to you.

Your love that you carry for me should inspire you to do great things.

Like everyday greet me with a smile, and ask how was my day.

Make my frowns wash away and my smiles run, making up for yesterday.

What you couldn’t get right then get it right today.

Real love is hard to find because it’s so rare.

Rarity is the best compared to what you had multiple times.

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Try experiencing something new.

Love me like today was your last day of life, and cherish each moment that I spend with you when we are apart, and know that someone like me is hard to find.

Realize the good things before they’re taken away from you.

Make up for every yesterday.

Keep fighting in what you believe to be one day will be yours.

Don’t give up a fight because it’s too difficult.

Stick to the main ground you said you would stick to.

Look inside instead of looking on the out.

Appreciate the good things that we have now.

Love is like a weapon. It can pull the trigger on you at any time and make your heart bleed, with heart ache.

I want growing, unconditional, nonstop love that gets bigger and wider with the pump of your heart beat.

Take notes on what I’m trying to say, and set a goal of never letting me go, but remain to stay.

Take me for what I am; I have plenty to offer.

Warm love that you don’t have to run out here and chase because the real thing is right here.

And you don’t need to go out and search if all you have is there.

No worries or doubts, kind a like a heaven you never been to, where the afterlife is good, and you can be whatever it is you want to be, having no regrets, and that everything was done for a purpose and a meaning.

That at times we just can’t explain, but we hope that those special people still remain in our lives.

Everyone needs that special backbone to stand up, even if we stand alone, with no one.

We can’t control our feelings, we can only control them with time.

Real love can sometimes be offered once in a life time.

Treat things with a meaning and hold the ones we care about close, because one day they can leave, and you’ll be stuck at the last minute not remembering anything…

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Work in progress / Indya Powell Brainstorming is the calm before the storm I think Over think Write a few lines down Cross out most of it Just to write the same thing over again At this point I’m beyond editing stage Thinking faster than My hand is able to write Mind switching to auto pilot Ink gliding across each page like A plane on a beautiful cloudless day My mind is the confident pilot heading in right direction Not concerned about anything except a safe landing The safe landing is the finished product of course I’ve envisioned exactly what needs to be said Still working on the best way to say it

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Uh oh Something happened Alarms going off Words start to collide Where did all this TuRbUlEnCe come from?

Instead of making it to the run way I’ll probably crash Then burn Finally Enough is enough The crumpling of papers has begun They turn into missiles Aimed at nearby targets around my bedroom No more paper No safe landing My mind was pilot My pen was plane Trying to organize thoughts on paper Was the ultimate disaster

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Note to My Ex / Indya Powell Don’t try to tell me what to wear How to style my hair Even how appealing I am if I do or don’t Wax down there Don’t lecture me about staying in my place When we share a space Then throw a fit If I won’t submit Even though you were never ready to commit I am a woman All woman My own woman Don’t tell me to stay home and raise the kids Cause that’s what Your momma did I don’t intend on filling that role Just give me the luxury of choosing my own gender role Stop watching porn for “motivation” Expecting me to be that acrobatic I’ll do what I can But our sex life may never be that dramatic

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I am a woman All woman My own woman My “no” does not mean yes You better respect me or else If I can’t tell you what to do Don’t try to tell me You aren’t always right You tend to think irrationally I have dreams of my own Fears to face Being oppressed by any man would be such a waste I don’t want to cook and clean religiously In a relationship things should be 50/50 That means Dividing the work load equally If we were in it together We should have done it together That’s the reason our always Wasn’t forever For I am a woman My own woman And proud of it

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SHE MOTIONS / Raquel Wilbon As I lie here and try Try… to realize why you Left us behind to die, I and your seeds.

I thought you were mine, but you left me with sores In my heart that have become benign I suffered in pain, so severe I Became numb…feeling like a bum My pulse beating slow like the sound of a small drum ba…ba…ba…

Left like a crumb for insects to feed off of Instead of me flying like a dove and receiving love, love that’s so Gentle it flows into my spirit and my tummy like honey As we lay, I suddenly say, isn’t it funny?…I am no longer A dummy, I can create my own milk and honey With all of this commotion, you concoct a potion Which produced she motions Which has now been cast into the depths of ocean No more, it is insane for me to stand in the rain, or Live in pain when I can enjoy the sweet taste of a sugar cane No more potions, or commotion, there is now lotion applied to those she motions.

PHOTOGRAPHY

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R YA N C O O K PA U L A D I F R A N C E S C O KAREN GENCO JENNIFER GORE JUDITH KHANER SARAH LEHMANN KEVIN MCCANN JESIKA ORAHOSKE A R F I L PA J A R I L L A G A VIRGINIA REEVES-RICE REBEKAH SPURLOCK I VA N A TO U S L E Y D AV I D WA S I E L E W S K I ( C O V E R ) ERIC WETHINGTON MICHAEL WHEELER ROBYN WHITE

Robyn White

Ivana Tousley

Jennifer Gore

Jesika Orahoske

Judith Khaner

Karen Genco

Kevin McCann

Michael Wheeler

Ryan Cook

Arfil Pajarillaga

Rebekah Spurlock

Virginia Reeves-Rice

Paula DiFrancesco

Sarah Lehmann

David Wasielewski

Eric Wethington

PROSE

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R YA N K E R R A LADDER AMONG ROCKS DANIEL NEBELSKI I L L I T E R A C Y: S O C I E T Y ’ S P O I SON CHRISTY RODGERS MY BUDDY

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A Ladder Among Rocks / Ryan Kerr I am not prone to physical altercations. In fact, I’m guessing most people who know me would agree in describing me as meek. As far as tempers go, I have a pretty long fuse and am conscious of keeping it in check. I take pride in this fact, so the few times I violate my efforts are memorable. The occasion I am about to describe to you was not significant because it was the first, nor would it be the last. It is merely one that was a necessary step in a relationship I hold dear to me today.

My childhood was classic by design, my father’s design. He refused to have cable television in the house, despite my brothers’ pleas. Cell phones were not even allowed to cross my mind until I was sixteen, and I was among the last of my friends to get a video game system, a Nintendo 64 while everyone else was getting Xboxes, mind you. We moved out of our old house and into our current one because he wanted us to have a big yard to play in. And did it fit his vision to a tee! It was a full acre yard with an apple tree in the dead center. I don’t mean a crabapple tree. I mean a legitimate apple tree, one I climbed and ate apples in for hours until my belly ached. A pond surrounded by woods directly behind the property was only icing on the cake.

My childhood summers were spent as they were meant to, given these circumstances. It was not uncommon for my brothers and me to venture into the woods late morning, coming back only for dinner and then trekking back out as soon as we got all our vegetables down. Naturally, competition between my older and younger brothers was high, and this height was only furthered by the fact that we were so close in age, two brothers, one year apart on both sides, me being in the middle. These summers were spent pedaling hard on bikes trying to keep up and climbing trees, reaching for the branch others wouldn’t dare to.

One of our favorite ways to spend our days in the woods was to build shelters, tree houses or lean-tos mostly, with anything we could find. This caused the main part of the woods we built them in to become somewhat of a mess until the cops were called and we had to tidy our glorious trash kingdom. That’s one thing people don’t realize about boyhood. It is essentially training to be homeless.

We found a pile of landscaping rocks across the pond from where we were building our latest structure. This couldn’t have delighted us more. It was these types of discoveries that we lived for, but it was a long way to carry these heavy rocks that we didn’t even really know what to do with. We did think twice about taking them, as they may or may not have been on the border of someone’s backyard property. Ultimately, we decided to get the job done quickly.

Billy, my older brother, who could carry at least two at a time, soon got frustrated that my younger brother, Danny, and I could only carry one. Every trip back and forth, the rocks got heavier, and our words to each other soon

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matched the heat of the sun that was beating down on us. I, trying to calm Danny down from Billy’s aggro barrage of words, attempted to make a bit of a mockery of the situation. In hindsight this was probably not the smartest thing I could’ve done. Puffing my chest out and showily flexing as Billy passed with two or three rocks did make Danny laugh, but only because he was smart enough to see where this was going.

He warned me with a wary grin, “Just stop. Don’t push it.”

I knew I couldn’t match Billy in physical work, so I brushed it off and continued my antics. The starting pile was getting satisfyingly small when, as I was bent over the pile picking up another rock, Billy met up with me. He ignored the pile and stopped squarely in front of me. I unbent to look at him. After an uneasy two-second pause I ironically said, “I’ll take that one,” pointing at the largest rock we’d all avoided so far.

Unmoved, Billy stated flatly, “You’re a pussy,” and slapped me in the face, hard. My ears rang, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the words or the hit. Nothing registered. I stood there frozen. Meanwhile, he carefully chose another two rocks and continued off with them. I went red. My vision narrowed. Instead of picking up another rock, I chose a rung from a ladder that was among the pile. I don’t know where the rest of the ladder was. It didn’t matter; I didn’t need it. I pounced onto Billy’s back like a malevolent jack-in-the-box, one arm like an anaconda around his neck, the other bludgeoning the top of his cinder block of a head with the rung. Again and again, I smacked his scalp wielding the rung. Rocks tumbled from his hands and onto his feet, while he proceeded to sound like a cat coughing up a fur ball. He instinctively reached up and tried to scratch at my face.

I made a sad attempt at trying to catch his fingers in my open mouth, chomping air.

We flailed and struggled like this for long enough when he smartly jumped up into the air and fell backward, all his weight coming down hard onto me, a move which if performed by one of the Ninja Turtles would’ve prompted a bad shell pun. All the air from my enraged lungs quickly escaped me. Purple faced and coughing, he crawled away from my writhing body, alternatively holding his head and clutching his neck. What I would’ve given to cough. I tried to grab at air my deflated lungs refused to receive. Every second felt like a lifetime.

We both recovered while inching our ways away from each other the best we could. Billy eventually came to rest on a decomposing fallen tree, facing me. I rolled a few times and ended up staring at the passing clouds and blue summer sky. We both stayed this way for a good fifteen minutes in silence, letting the emotion and pain bubble, fizz, and dissipate. Danny must’ve gone home.

Neither of us said anything to our parents. The only evidence of the incident was the grimace on my face from taking a sharp breath for a good two weeks after and the pillared goose egg on his scalp. We eventually moved these rocks into our yard where my father used them to line a flowerbed. I still occasionally see them there after all these years and think about the day we found them. It wasn’t our proudest moment, and I realize this story doesn’t do us any favors, but I wouldn’t take it back. I’m glad it happened because now these are the moments we laugh about. Today my brothers are my best friends. Although this incident did not define our relationship for more than a day, I believe this type of natural evolution is necessary for brotherhood to slip from competition into

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collaboration. You could say we have climbed a long way and that this story was a proverbial rung on the ladder that got us there. We all know the stupid places we came from because we came from them together.

Breakwall / Literary Magazine

Illiteracy: Society's Poison / Daniel Nebelski I invite you to imagine with me for a moment that you cannot read. Recall all the joyous, poetic, and triumphant tales you may have read from your youth, late at night and under sheets glowing from the light of your hand held flashlight. Reflect on the passages that inspired, moved and even quenched your thirst for culture, history and art as you were exposed to new ideologies and philosophies. After cognitively reveling in delightful anecdotes and memories of time spent with print, forget everything you know. Forget the prose and poetry, filled with virtue and wisdom, you memorized as a youngster. Forget the rich descriptions and stories you read while following your favorite artists, athletes, authors, musicians and leaders. Ditch the vivid details you read of historical accounts of days past. Remember, you cannot read. Perhaps your literacy skills are so poor that even the letters, words and phrases on these pages are like abstract symbols, foreign and stirring anxiety within you. If this is an uncomfortable scenario to contemplate, you are not alone. There are around 45 million people in the United States that are functionally illiterate and according to studies done by the Center of Urban Poverty and Community Development and Case Western University, 66% of Cleveland, Ohio residents cannot read above a sixth grade level. More often than not, illiteracy is overlooked. As we continue into the 21st century, it is becoming increasingly vital to examine issues that lie at the foundation of many of society’s problems. Illiteracy is a threat to the culture and society of modern American life.

In many cases, illiteracy is passed along by parents who cannot read or write. In fact, uneducated young women are four times more likely than those with a secondary education to have a child before their nineteenth birthday, potentially creating life-long dilemmas for both her and her child. Six out of ten households in America don’t even buy a single book in a year and 44% of adults do not even read a single book in the same time frame. Tonight, millions of adults, in America, will not be reading bedtime stories to their little ones. They won’t be reading because they can’t.

In 1992, a National Adult Literacy Survey, by the U.S. Department of Education, estimated that 44 million adults in America couldn’t read well enough to read a simple story to a child. This can lead to a limited ability to obtain and understand information later on in life. Not to mention, one’s ability to empathize, understand and express oneself becomes terribly diminished through the lack of exposure to literature.

Unfortunately, many adults drop out of school before completing their secondary education and it is all too common that their young ones will follow suit. Because parents with limited or no reading skills often are not able to provide the needed support for their children to do well in school, their young ones often start behind their peers and find it difficult to catch up. One in four children in America grow up without learning how to read and children who don’t read proficiently by 4th grade are four times likelier to drop out of school, reducing their access to lifelong learning and professional development and costing $240 billion in social service expenditures and lost tax revenues.

Difficult living conditions and poverty can contribute to illiteracy, creating a nasty double-edged sword. Among those with the lowest literacy levels, 43% live in poverty. Three out of four people on welfare cannot read and 20% of American read below the level needed to earn a living wage. According to the National Institute for Literacy, twenty-seven million

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Americans cannot complete a job application. As a result, most people at lower literacy levels have lowers quality jobs and lower incomes.

The only way to eliminate illiteracy is to start directly with those who have been affected by illiteracy. Together, a community can achieve much towards diminishing illiteracy and its causes. Volunteering at your local library is a great place to begin. Many libraries have literacy programs or work together with locally sponsored programs to support literacy. Through one of these programs you may have the opportunity to tutor an adult who is learning how to read. You can also tutor a refugee or recently arrived immigrant, helping them to assimilate into our culture and gain acceptance through literacy.

Holding a book drive is a fantastic way to bring the community together and share the love of reading. Book drives are great because neighborhoods can engage together in many different ways, meeting new people and making new friends. Families can spend time participating together in worthy and purposeful endeavors. The best part of the book drive is donating all of the lovely manuscripts to those who would not otherwise have access to such materials. Unwanted books generally do not exist. With organizations like Books for Babies and Better World Books, families and children are provided with books to enrich their lives and expose them to more culture through print.

Even reading just for twenty minutes a day can be edifying and enlighten readers to more words, ideas, and styles of communication. Whether you enjoy reading and regularly turn pages, or you are just beginning, reading at least a few pages of print every day can be rewarding, especially reading with family. Read to your little ones. Share with them the great stories and classics of our time, rich with values, virtues, principles, and inquiry. They will be elevated by these experiences, inspired to believe in themselves, driven to follow through with their questions, and motivated to pursue their dreams.

Another great idea that is beginning to gain attention is the Little Free Library movement, in which locals install a small bird-house sized enclosed book case for passers-by to peruse through, take a book, and leave a book. The main idea is “take-a-book, leave-a-book.� Some even have journals inside where readers and lenders can share notes and ideas with one another. This is a great investment for communities and public parks, bringing the love of reading to the youth and neighborhoods.

While the cost of literacy obviously has more to do with time and effort, the benefits can really exceed any of our expectations. While statistically the benefits of literacy can increase the GDP, lower crime rates, boost wages, and promote overall equality in social and political discourse, the real advantages are that of communication on a deeper cultural level. We live in a world where clear, concise, and thorough communication is vital to succeed.

Being able to actively participate in society and work towards progress is freedom at its finest. The most beneficial aspect of literacy is freedom, personal and social.

Breakwall / Literary Magazine

Illiteracy is a threat to the culture and society of modern American life. Children are growing up not learning how to read. Families are succumbing to poverty and poor health. Youth are still dropping out of high school and unemployment still affects many with low literacy levels. There are many ways in which an initiative can be taken to combat illiteracy. Time and effort are our best friends and it is important to be patient. We can make a difference in our communities and strive towards progress one day, one project, one person, and one book at a time.

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My Buddy / Christy Rodgers When my brother spotted the Bronco parked in the driveway, we were still two houses away. He let out a whoop and took off running towards the truck. Just as he reached it, a brown hand reached out from inside and threw open the passenger door. My brother jumped inside and slammed the door shut. As his dad pulled out of the driveway, Buddy waved his chubby little hand out the window and yelled, “Bye Chrissy, bye Trina!” to my friend and me who still hadn’t quite made it to the house yet. His grin took up half his face and his little almond-shaped eyes looked closed, he was so happy. I was happy for him. I hadn’t seen my brother this happy in a long time. Today was the day he had been waiting for, the day he would go to live with his dad.

Buddy is my little brother. He’s younger than me by three years. We played together, fought together, even slept in the same bed. Looking back, I realize he was my best friend. Back then, though, I always felt responsible for him. I walked Buddy to school, I made his sandwiches, ironed his school clothes, picked out his box haircut before school. I even remember my mom putting a screaming little Buddy on my lap and telling me to change his diaper.

I was the big sister and he was my other half, whether I wanted him or not. Don’t misunderstand, I loved having someone to play with, to sympathize with about bullies, but I also liked when he went to his dad’s on weekends.

Then I’d get to have my mom and my Grandma all to myself.

Buddy went to his dad’s every single weekend, come rain, sleet, or snow. Technically, Buddy and I were halfsiblings, though it didn’t feel that way. We had the same mom, but different dads. My dad was a deadbeat. Buddy’s dad was an all-star. Buddy’s dad had a ‘good’ job at the steel plant. He bought or gave my mom money for all Buddy’s school clothes and Christmas gifts. He picked Buddy up every single weekend on Friday and brought him back on Sunday. If Christmas fell on a weekend, then special arrangements had to be discussed and worked out between Buddy’s dad and my mom. On the other hand, my dad only showed up every few years.

It was big deal if he bought me a treat off the ice-cream truck. He would always set a date to come back later that week or the next and take me somewhere. When that date came, my mom would dress me in my prettiest skirt and blouse; she would tame my long, thick hair into braided ponytails with barrettes dangling down my back. Lastly, she would look me over meticulously with one eyebrow arched up as she pinched an invisible piece of lint of my shoulder or licked her thumb and wiped something off my face. When she was fully satisfied that I was presentable, she’d let me sit on the porch to wait. The day would drag by with no sign of him. As the sun went down, I would have to relocate to the living room window and continue my vigil there. My mom would call, he wouldn’t answer. My mom would try to get me to leave the window, change my clothes, but I would have none of it. I believed he would come if I just stayed ready. He would call hours after he was due to arrive to say he couldn’t make it. I would cry and tell him it was ok; my mom would snatch the phone and scream at him, crying and cursing. Then I wouldn’t see him again for years.

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What Buddy and I had in common was our mom. She loved both of us to pieces. She didn’t have it easy, being a single, young mom with disabilities. She was only fifteen when I was born. She suffered from cerebral palsy, dyslexia and schizophrenia. She was functionally illiterate and got by on public assistance and SSI. None of that that affected the way she cared for us, though. When she got her benefits, she always took Buddy and me downtown. We looked forward to the RTA bus ride, the bakery on Ontario where she’d buy us creampuffs, corned beef for lunch, then on to Woolworths for goldfish! You couldn’t tell us that our mommy wasn’t the prettiest, nicest mommy in the world. She hugged and kissed and tickled us all the time, sometimes rolling around on the floor with us. There was a lot of love in our house.

Buddy and I had another relative in common, and that would be our darling grandmother, whom we both adored. She lived upstairs in the two-family duplex that she and my mom rented in the Glenville neighborhood.

She, like most grandmothers, held our little family of four together. She helped our mom with everything. Our mother was her only child and she bore her late in life so my grandmother doted on her. Our mom lived alone for short periods of time, but she always came back to my Grandma. Grandma also gave Buddy and me that special kind of attention that only grandmothers are capable of. She made each of us feel like we were her favorite.

Our lives were pretty normal up until around 1988. That year, my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. She was sixty-three years old. When Grandma got sick, everything changed. You see, our mom was grown (24) with her own house, but things couldn’t get too out of control with my Grandma living upstairs.

That all changed when Grandma got sick. Grandma was one of the first people in Cleveland to receive the new “radiation treatment” for cancer. She was featured on a local news segment. However, instead of getting better, she got worse. The treatments left our usually charismatic and fun-loving grandmother weak and nauseous.

Her beautiful, dark brown curly hair just fell out in handfuls. She lost too much weight. She went from being a “redbone” to a pale walking skeleton. She worked at Silverman’s Discount Store, where she had been a cashier for almost 20 years, for as long as she could. She was in the hospital for weeks at a time and my mom was left unchaperoned. While Grandma was hospitalized, she’d call from the hospital every morning to wake Buddy and me up for school because our mom’s medication made her sleep very deeply. She did her best to assure us that everything would be fine. We didn’t know it at the time, but she would be dead within thirteen months.

For years I was convinced that it wasn’t the cancer that killed our Grandmother, it was the chemotherapy.

Being that it was the eighties, it didn’t take long for our grieving young mother to be lured in by the cheap new drug that was taking over our neighborhood. All of a sudden, it wasn’t unusual for the young drug dealers that my mom used to chase off our front steps to be sitting on our couch when Buddy and I came home from school. There were ‘parties’ at our house all the time. Strangers drinking beers and smoking at our kitchen table after dark. It seemed like strangers were always making themselves comfortable at our house. Mommy was different, laughing and hanging out with the strangers instead of us. Grandma was gone. A cloyingly sweet, dangerous smell permeated our house. Our monthly family outings downtown were a thing of the past. Out of all of these things, the change that had the biggest impact on our lives was the constant hunger. There was

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never any real food in our refrigerator anymore, not even at the first of the month.

Buddy and I did the best we could. I felt more than ever that it was my job to take care of Buddy. I ironed his clothes, used my imagination to invent our dinner and snacks from what we had. We cut the blue veins and hard edges off the ‘government’ cheese to get to the soft yellow part. We ate peanut butter straight from the jar because we had no bread. When we had bread, we had no peanut butter, so I’d make mustard, mayonnaise or “sandwich spread” sandwiches. We ate uncooked spaghetti noodles after school. Our only staples at home were the plain yellow or white generic packages that my mom got from the free food pantries. We figured out pretty quick that the senior citizens on our street would give kids change for going to the store for them. We used our quarters and dimes and nickels (sometimes dollars!) to binge on chips and candy and pop from the local corner store.

Things started to come up missing around our house. First were things we didn’t really miss, like the microwave. I hardly ever cooked anything, so I just thought it had broken and Mommy had thrown it away. Next was Buddy’s little mini-boombox that we listened to at night. A while later, our little 13 inch black & white TV that we had in our room came up missing. By then, my mom had started staging ‘break-ins’ to explain the missing items. She was waiting after school one day to show us the broken window in the back hallway. She explained how the ‘robbers’ must have gotten in through here and taken the socket wrench set that Buddy’s dad had bought him.

It was Buddy’s most prized possession. Strange to me at the time was how she behaved as if she needed to convince us, show us proof. As I looked through the broken window at the glass on the ground outside, I knew for sure that what kids were saying about my mom was true. My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Flannery was a science fanatic.

During one of our class projects he’d taught us that glass always falls on the opposite side of the impact. Despite everything that had changed, that was the moment my resentment towards my mother began.

My mom kept up a nice charade for a while. When Buddy’s dad came to pick him up, the house would be clean and the strangers would be gone. When he brought Buddy back on Sunday, same case scenario-the house would clean of debris and people. Until one day, Buddy’s dad showed up on a weekday. He’d shushed Buddy and me by putting a finger to his lips as he walked in the front door. We’d smiled and pointed to the kitchen as we tip-toed behind him, thinking we were playing a game. Suffice to say, he was not happy. To me he looked like a super-hero or an avenging angel; his nostrils flared as he took in the scene of my mom and the low-life addicts sitting at our kitchen table that was cluttered with beer cans, bottles, ashtrays and junk. My mom was facing the other direction and didn’t even know he’d used his key to walk in the house. When he finally spoke, in that quiet but powerful way of his, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. I wasn’t close enough to hear what he said; he didn’t yell, but I assume whatever he said must have been motivating. Within seconds, “aunts and uncles” were stampeding out the door. He cleared out the house and the next night was the first of many when he would bring clean underwear, undershirts, and socks for Buddy and me (mine were borrowed from Buddy’s cousin) to wear to school. He would take the dirty clothes with him when he left. The only problem was he worked long hours and couldn’t come every day or stay for very long. He needed help.

That’s where my formidable Aunt Dorothy came in. She is my Grandmother’s sister. She lived around the

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corner from our house. Actually, her house was directly behind ours. I don’t know who called who first, Aunt Dorothy or Buddy’s dad, but they became a team. I remember looking up from my desk one day to find Aunt Dorothy whispering at the door with my fourth grade teacher. Shocked, I got up to use sharpening my pencil as an excuse to make out that quiet whisper. I could only make out pieces because they were talking so low. Aunt Dorothy was saying something along the lines of, “...my grandniece...is in pretty bad shape...grandmother passed...always wrinkled like that...Chrissy’s hair...my phone...call me...dirty clothes again.” My little 10 year old self was so offended! “How dare she say that when I made sure that I combed me AND Buddy’s hair (his high top was about five inches tall by now) everyday?” I thought to myself. I also ironed our clothes. I ironed them on them on low heat with no steam after I kept burning myself, but “I DID iron them, everyday” I thought but didn’t say. I wouldn’t realize until years later that a cool, dry iron didn’t actually work on cotton. Same with my hair. My long, thick black hair that I was so proud of needed to be combed, but that hurt, so my childish logic said a soft brushing would be just as good. As I patted my hair, I looked up just in time to see Aunt Dorothy’s long-lashed jet black eyes looking right at me. I jumped and she motioned me to the door. I dragged my feet as I walked over. I was always a little afraid of Aunt Dorothy. She minced no words and seemed mean to me, with her long jet black hair and wicked witch mole on her cheek. When I got close enough she told me to get Buddy and come around to her house around 6 p.m.

When I told Buddy we had to go around to Aunt Dorothy’s that evening, he asked “Why?” but I had no answer. We both knew where she lived because sometimes, our two homes loaned things back and forth, but we weren’t usually allowed off our street. Besides, Aunt Dorothy had never come to school, let alone summoned us to her house. We didn’t know what to expect.

Imagine our surprise when we arrived at Aunt Dorothy’s house and she served us a big, hot, steaming dinner!

Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, mixed vegetables, a big hunk of cornbread and a tall, cold glass of red KoolAid! Big Food (as we started calling real meals)! This became our evening routine. We went over to Aunt Dorothy’s every day for dinner. We would fill our bellies, then fill our pockets so we could take some to our mom. Though we were young, we could tell that Aunt Dorothy wouldn’t take kindly to us taking food home for Mommy. One day, she told us we were spending the night. We started leaving for school from Aunt Dorothy’s, then after school we’d go to our house until six, then back to Aunt Dorothy’s for dinner and sleep. I thought it was the best of both worlds because we’d get to play with our friends that we’d known all our lives on our old street and get to play with the kids we knew from school on Aunt Dorothy’s street. Then came the day when she told us not to go home after school, just come back to her house. She gave me a key and told me to get us both a snack when we came home and then we could play outside until she came home from work. There would be a list of chores for us to complete, then we could play outside as Aunt Dorothy’s 80 year old landlady kept an eye on us from her upstairs porch.

It was different living at Aunt Dorothy’s house, good in some ways, not so good in others. She insisted that we wash up every day, and bathe every other day. There was plenty of food, we never missed a meal. We could even have breakfast before we went to school if we wanted. We had our own room, but we shared a bed. Aunt Dorothy lived

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downstairs in a two bedroom duplex and the room we shared actually belonged to her son Steve. He was serving time in prison. Her home was clean and tidy and she made sure we were, too. There were no strangers there, ever.

Some things stayed the same, though. Thankfully, Buddy’s dad still picked him up every weekend. Thankfully, because Buddy wasn’t adjusting very well. At seven years old, he was the baby of the family and was used to being indulged by my Grandma, his dad and our mom. Aunt Dorothy indulged no one. She wasn’t a hugger or a kisser and she definitely wasn’t a tickler. She was stern and direct and didn’t care if she hurt your feelings while telling you what she thought you needed to know. Buddy cried every almost single day. His most famous plea was, “Can I call my Daddy?” Buddy and Aunt Dorothy would get into arguments because she would try to stop him from calling his dad in the morning before he went to school. Aunt Dorothy would fuss saying, “You gone get that man fired, callin’ his job day and night!” Buddy would just stare her down with his mean little almond-shaped eyes as tears rolled down his face.

Eventually, Buddy’s dad promised Buddy that he could come live with him, but he had to wait until the end of the school year. Buddy counted the days until the last day of school. As did I. Not because I wanted rid of Buddy, but because I’d begun to rebuild my 10 year old life as best I could and his crying reminded me of things I didn’t want to think about. There was food to eat (Big Food!), our clothes were clean, and I’d even made some new friends. Other than a few bullies who harassed me about things I had no control over, life was good. I wanted life to be good for Buddy, too. If living with his dad would make him feel safe, then that’s what I wanted for him. So when the last day of school rolled around and that brown Bronco pulled out of what I’d come to think of as “our” driveway, I waved back and yelled, “Bye, Buddy! See you later!”

I didn’t see my brother for again for 13 years. Within weeks of the last day of school, Buddy’s dad’s phone number was changed to an unlisted number. Aunt Dorothy and I had never realized it or thought about it, but we didn’t even know where Buddy’s dad lived. Somehow, contact was made again that Christmas. I remember Aunt Dorothy saying to Buddy’s dad, “I didn’t expect you to take him away and never bring him back to see his sister.” It was the first time I’d ever seen Buddy’s dad look chastised. They came to visit the weekend after Christmas and stayed about 30 minutes. I hadn’t seen Buddy since June. Conversation was stiff and awkward between us. What I noticed most was that Buddy had picked up a ‘proper’ accent. He didn’t speak like me anymore.

We exchanged gifts, I gave him a watch. Aunt Dorothy had purchased it and said it was for me to give to Buddy.

It was either gold or black and it sat in a box on cotton. I remember it because it seemed so inappropriate. Buddy was my partner in crime, my playmate, my confidante, my little baby brother, why would I give him a watch for Christmas?

Within a month, the phone number to Billie’s dad’s house was changed once again to an unlisted number. I didn’t speak to or lay eyes on again him for more than a decade.

Years rolled by and life went on. Aunt Dorothy, her son Steve and I moved to a new house, but always kept the same phone number in case Buddy ever tried to call. I stared extra hard into the faces of light skinned teenaged boys with almond-shaped eyes. When asked, I told strangers and classmates that I had a brother, but didn’t know where

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he was. I imagined myself feeling ‘something’ if anything ever happened to him. God help the person who attempted to classify me as an only child. I put an 8 x 10 picture of him as a toddler on my dresser. It stayed there until I moved out.

One day, Aunt Dorothy came home from an outing with Steve to tell me they had seen Buddy’s dad while out driving. They had forgotten to get his phone number but had left ours with Buddy’s dad. Most shockingly to me, they also had a description of Buddy’s “brother” who they both swore looked like “a little white boy.” I was livid! Not only had they seen Buddy (and I hadn’t), but how could they have forgotten to get his phone number? Also, this business about a “white” brother left me unsure. I’d remind him of who his “real” sister was. That call never came.

My mom finally kicked her drug and alcohol habit in 1997, the same year my first child was born. By the time I moved out on my own at nineteen years old, my mom had become my best friend. We were very close, laughing and joking and acting silly like we did when I was small. We were like sisters. We talked and confided in one another, but we fought like cats and dogs, too. One of the things we argued about often was Buddy. Now that I had a child of my own, I judged her harshly for not having found him yet. She had managed to find out that the name change forms that Buddy’s dad had presented her with before Buddy moved had actually been legal documents terminating her parental rights and granting Buddy’s dad full custody. Even though she loved and missed Buddy, she feared that he hated her. Add to that, she didn’t know where to begin to look.

My mom, of course, blamed herself for Buddy’s absence from our lives. Shamefully, I made it no secret that I blamed her as well. It wasn’t as if she didn’t care or didn’t want to find him. She was ashamed. Mom was also afraid that if she went to the authorities that her past indiscretions and old arrest warrants would be dragged into the light and she would face prison time. Regardless, my mom always acted like it was only a matter of time before she ‘found’ Buddy. She always celebrated Buddy’s birthday with a cake and candles and tears. She would blow out the candles as tears rolled down her face. She’d cry and reminisce out loud about baby Buddy, toddler Buddy, and adolescent Buddy. She would beat herself up about her drug habit and her mental illness, her failures and finally how Buddy was probably better off without her, ‘a crazy, crippled, junky for a mother’. I would rub her back and cry with her as I tried to comfort her. When she quieted, we would remind ourselves that ‘Tony’ would never let anything happen to Buddy.

Though no one said it, we all had begun to think maybe we would never find Buddy.

That all changed when she contacted 1800-US-SEARCH after seeing one of their commercials. She paid seventy-five dollars and was given Buddy’s dad’s Cleveland Heights address. Seventy-five dollars may not seem like a lot of money, but my mom’s only income was SSI. After paying bills, she only had about $25 of disposable income each month, so it was a huge sacrifice for her. When she showed me the letter she had received with Buddy’s information on it, she said, “Chrissy, when you get your car runnin’, we gone go to this address and see if we can find Buddy.” I smiled a big smile, but on the inside I was terrified. What would he think of us? I had four kids at 23; I was a college drop-out.

My mom had been clean for years, but the effects of the drugs had left her ravaged. Her hair was gray and her health was failing at 38 years old. He hadn’t heard from us in years, what if he thought we abandoned him? What if he just didn’t want us interrupting his life? Shamefully, I put off acting on my mom’s info.

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My procrastination didn’t last long before Aunt Dorothy took charge. She called me and announced that TOMORROW she would be coming to pick me up so we could “go see ‘bout Buddy.” I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

The next thing I knew, Aunt Dorothy, my cousin Rocko (Steve’s teenaged son), and I were sitting in the driveway of a beautiful mid-sized Georgian Colonial house on a main street. We left my mom at home, just in case there were hard feelings. Aunt Dorothy told me to go to the back door and knock. My little cousin saw how nervous I was and went with me. Through the door, I could see a short, overweight, white woman with her back to us washing dishes.

My heart was racing as I wondered if this was the right house. Rocko raised his hand and tapped his knuckle against the screen door. The lady turned around, startled. She approached the door with a nervous smile and said, “Hello?” with a question on her face and in her voice. I thought to myself, this must be Faye. I suddenly remembered that when we were little, Buddy had said that his dad had a white girlfriend named Faye. My eyes took in that room and the woman in it hungrily. She had shoulder length brown hair that seemed to be in need of a wash, and her face looked pasty and doughy (Buddy’s mom?). The kitchen ‘looked warm and cozy and smelled clean. When I finished my scan of the kitchen, I looked the lady straight in the eye and said,” Hi, I’m Buddy’s sister, Christy, is he home?’’ Something flashed across her face so quick, that if I had blinked, I would’ve missed it. She smiled bigger and exclaimed, “Oh, I know who you are! Buddy will be SO glad to see you! He’s missed ya’ll so much! But he’s not home right now, he had to stay after school. He’s going to be so happy when he finds out you were here!” I was totally caught off guard, thinking, “This makes no sense. Something smells fishy.” At that moment, Faye struck me as insincere. My face was stuck between a smile and a frown. I asked if I could leave my number for him. She said, “Of course” and made a show of putting the paper with my and Aunt Dorothy’s phone numbers on it in the center of the kitchen table (where Buddy does his homework?) We thanked her and went home to wait for Buddy’s call.

No call the first day. Or the second. No call that week or the next. The call never came. First my mom said, “He probably doesn’t want anything to do with me.” As time went by it became, “I bet that white BITCH never gave him the number!” Either way, we never heard anything. My mom started saying maybe we should go over there again and”...this time I won’t leave until I hear HIM SAY he don’t want to talk to me!” I calmed my mom down and told her one day we’ll try going over there again. To myself I thought, maybe he just doesn’t want to see us. At the same time, I remembered the weird vibe I got off of Faye. I brushed it off and thought, well, this gives me time to make ourselves presentable. I imagined driving up to their house in a nice car with my mom in the passenger seat wearing a stylish hair-do and new clothes, walking right up to the FRONT door and...That’s where my daydream ended because I had to deal with real life, not fantasy.

My mom’s health was getting worse. She was constantly in and out of the hospital. I was responsible for organizing her medications and appointments. I took her to her different doctors and ran her errands and did her shopping. I also worked full time. I started thinking, if Buddy was here, he could help me with mom. I’d immediately feel guilty for wanting anything from him other than himself. Would he even want to help my mom when she hadn’t been much of a mom to him?

Then, the unthinkable happened. On the day before Mother’s Day 2004, my mom suffered a massive heart

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attack and died alone in her apartment. She was forty years old. It was the most horrendous day of my life. There are no words to express how those days were for me. I emerged from my fog a couple of days before the funeral with an uncontrollable urge to find Buddy and get him to that funeral. I felt like even though it hadn’t been voiced, my mom’s last wish was to be in his presence.

It was like my ‘94 Ford Escort drove itself to Buddy’s dad’s house because I had no idea what the address was, I had only visited that one time when Aunt Dorothy drove. I was sitting in the driveway, but I still wasn’t sure if it was the right house. It looked like no one was home, but something told me to check the backyard. It looked as if someone had been cleaning, getting rid of junk and clutter. There were boxes piled up near the trash. I started going through them.

The first thing I pulled out was a small wallet sized photo of a black girl in what looked to be a prom dress. I turned it over and there was an inscription on the back, “To Buddy... From Deborah.” That moment, I knew God had brought me there. I put the picture back and went back to my car. I grabbed the notebook that I kept in my purse and started writing.

Twenty minutes and eight pages later, I put that letter in the mailbox and drove off, praying that I would hear something.

I ran some errands and got home late. My husband had a strange look on his face. I asked “What?” He told me Buddy had called. I immediately started smiling and crying at the same time. We hugged and praised God. Then he went upstairs to give me some privacy as I called Buddy back. To hear his voice, a man’s voice! Indescribable.

We talked until almost five in the morning, filling each other in our lives. It was awkward at first, but soon the conversation and questions just flowed. We talked about our past together (Buddy didn’t remember much), our separate lives growing up (Buddy played sports in high school and was in the local newspaper often), and the present (I was married with kids, Buddy was a sophomore in college). We talked about our mom. He said his stepmom treated him like a step-child. No hugs and kisses or tickles. She acted as if she were afraid of him. Buddy explained to me how he thought his step-mom (Buddy’s dad and Faye were actually married) had stolen the piece of paper with my phone number on it. He said when his dad got home from work (he worked long hours), they told him about Rocko and me corning by. He said his dad told him to wait until the next day to call because it was so late.

The next morning, he put the paper on his dresser and went to school. When he came home, it was gone. He said she was the only one home during the day. He said he looked for that paper for weeks! I felt such relief to know that he didn’t hate us. I only wished that my mom could have shared the experience of talking to him.

I finally ‘met’ Buddy a few days later when he attended the funeral with his girlfriend. I could tell it was pretty awkward for him, but he allowed virtual strangers (relatives) to fawn over him and hug and squeeze him.

I introduced him around, and even though it was supposed to be a solemn occasion, I couldn’t stop myself from beaming with pride. He was a big man, at least 6’4’’, heavyset, and Oh, so handsome. He was quiet and didn’t say much, but his shy smile drew people to him. I’d soon learn he wasn’t shy AT ALL. Buddy and I took the next summer to get to know each other. By get to know each other, I mean we got all our friends together at Buddy’s bachelor pad and partied every single weekend. My husband was understanding and watched the kids while on Friday or Saturday nights I lived out my college-party fantasy. That summer, Buddy and

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I had deep conversations, got into jams we had to help each other wiggle out of and forged an unbreakable bond.

We realized we were total opposites when it came to everything except morals and food. We swore that we would always be close and that we’d always have each other.

Years have gone by, and we don’t hang out every weekend anymore. We barely see each other once a month if that. Conversation is sometimes stilted and there are some awkward moments, but on the other hand, my kids worship him. We text almost every single day. He never lies to me and I trust him more than anyone else in the world.

He is more than my closest living relative. He will always be my baby brother, my confidante, my Buddy.

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CONTRIUTORS

Breakwall / Literary Magazine

R YA N C O O K PA LO M A D E F R E E Z E N ATA L I E G A S P E R JENNIFER GORE JACQULIN JAMES DITH KHANER S U A A D M A FA R G E H DANIEL NEBELSKI A R F I L PA J A R I L L A G A VIRGINIA REEVES-RICE REBEKAH SPURLOCK D AV I D WA S I E L E W S K I MICHAEL WHEELER RAQUEL WILBON TREYSHAUN DANIELS PA U L A D I F R A N C E S C O KAREN GENCO D E ’A N G E LO A L A N T E G R E E N E R YA N K E R R SARAH LEHMANN KEVIN MCCANN JESIKA ORAHOSKE I N D YA P O W E L L CHRISTY RODGERS I VA N A TO U S L E Y ERIC WETHINGTON ROBYN WHITE ENZO ZACCARDELLI

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Ryan Cook is a Tri-C student and is majoring in photography. He began taking pictures as a teenager and continues to pursue this with the intention of getting a degree in photography. This is the very first publication of one of his photos and he is very pleased to have his work displayed with his fellow classmates.

Treyshaun Daniels is a freshman at Cuyahoga Community College, majoring in business. In addition to his work as a poet and photographer, Daniels is also interested in music and dance. After graduation, he plans to continue at a fouryear college and major in electronic engineering technology.

Paloma DeFreeze is a third-year fashion design major who plans to transfer to Ursuline College in Fall 2015. A member of student government at the Eastern Campus, DeFreeze not only enjoys poetry, but also music, drawing, and pageant competitions. She is interested in keeping physically fit through biking and exercise.

Paula DiFrancesco was born in Fortaleza, Brazil and is married with two children. She has been living in Cleveland, Ohio since October of 2005. She decided to study Photography at Cuyahoga Community College in 2014 when she got her first DSRL camera. Her favorite type of photography are portraits made on location and within the studio.

Natalie Gasper is currently attending CSU and is on the creative writing track. She works part-time creating and painting sets for Olmsted Performing Arts. In her free time, she enjoys riding her horse Icon, reading, and writing her fantasy book. She wants to thank her mom for her continuous support.

Karen Genco is a native Clevelander and has earned her degree in Business Management from Tri-C. She recently returned to the college to expand her knowledge in photography. Karen is a 3rd grade tutor at a charter school and she mentors young mothers at her church.

Jennifer Gore is a photographer from Norwalk, Ohio. She loves taking pictures of all kinds, especially of eagles. She spends a lot of time bird watching and photographing in Sandusky and Huron. She has been continuing her education in photography at Tri-C. De’Angelo Alante Greene was born on April 1, 1994, in Cleveland Ohio. He is the 7th born in a family of ten. He started writing as a distraction whenever he would get bored, and writing later on became a hobby.

Jacqulin James is the mother of four successful children. After suffering the loss of her son and mother just 39 days apart, she decided to continue her education. Her life-long passion is to help others through her writings, experiences, and education.

Ryan Kerr is much like the self he wrote about in his essay. While he enjoys writing, his favorite form of storytelling is visual. He is pursuing his goals in this area and plans on becoming an animator. No matter the medium, he will continue to tell his stories.

Since her retirement from public school teaching in 2008, Judith Khaner has focused on her love of people and places through photography. She is a Tri-C photography student and an instructor of digital photo books for the Tri-C Encore program.

Sarah Lehmann started her photography career in a dark room working with black and white film; she now works in the digital field as well. Taking black & white photographs incorporating nature is one of her passions. She wants to challenge the minds of each viewer to allow different interpretations.

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Breakwall / Literary Magazine

Suaad Mafargeh is a student at Tri-C, attending college straight from ECOT (Electronic Classroom of Tomorrow) where she did early graduation, getting her diploma in 11th grade. She hopes to get a Master’s Degree in English, her favorite subject. Poetry is a passion of hers and always says, “Poetry is the color of the blind, the music of silence.”

Often found exploring unsavory situations, Kevin McCann prefers to wind up in the wrong place at the right time.

Dividing his time working as a photography coordinator in the commercial world, Kevin has a knack for finding beauty in what the real world left behind.

Daniel Nebelski is an aspiring wordsmith and polemicist currently attending classes at Cuyahoga Community College with the goal of transferring to Cleveland State University to double major in biology and mathematics.

Photography makes this young-hearted camera jockey nervous. She carefully experiments with technique drawing on the dérive and feeling its power in the objects of the space. Currently Jesika Orahoske is working on a 365-dailyphoto-project in 2015. It will continue to expand the constant battle she has following her creative instincts.

Arfil Pajarillaga is a student currently at Cuyahoga Community College pursuing an Associate of Arts degree, with intentions to further pursue a Bachelor’s in Photography at Cleveland State University. This past February Arfil was one of two students selected to have a private portfolio review of his photographic works with visiting British conceptual art photographers Adam Broomberg and Oliver Chanin. He is passionate about the arts, with a strong focus on photography, filmmaking, and music.

Indya Powell is a journalism major who loves to write about everything around her. She is most inspired by life’s journeys, love, and happiness. She will graduate from Tri-C in May 2015 and transfer to Cleveland State University.

When taking a break from writing, she enjoys reading, cooking and working out.

Virginia Reeves-Rice is an alumni of Tri-C and Cleveland State University, but her profession is master homemaker and caregiver. Her first brush with art making was stringing wooden beads in kindergarten. These days her favorite pastime is taking art and photography classes for fun and recreation.

Christy Rodgers is a full-time student at Cuyahoga Community College who is working towards an Associate’s Degree in Nursing. She works as a caregiver at a group home for men who have developmental disabilities. She lives in Cleveland’s Glenville neighborhood with her husband Robert, their four children, and two cats.

Rebekah Spurlock is a second year PSEO student from North Olmsted, Ohio and a December 2014 Tri-C honors graduate. Currently staff photographer with Ballet in Cleveland and recital intern at Beck Center for the Arts, Rebekah is completing her dance training at Beck with upcoming appearances in two ballet ensembles at YAGP-Pittsburgh.

Ivana Tousley is a student at Cuyahoga Community College studying photography and graphic design. When it comes to photography, Ivana enjoys shooting documentary, nature, and children. In the years ahead, Ivana plans to finish her education at Tri-C and start her own business creating photographs for others to treasure.

David Wasielewski has been taking photos for a short time but has had an eye for defunct settings all of his life.

David finds it fascinating there are so many places that people can feel isolated, not only from humans, but also from a moment in time.

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Eric Wethington is finishing up his degree in Photography at Tri-C. He has been in the photographic industry for over 21 years working at Dodd Camera. He is an active member of the Cleveland Photographic Society and does regular presentations for other local camera clubs. Eric has had several images in exhibits at the Cleveland Institute of Music and Brecksville/Broadview Heights Community Center and a solo exhibit at the Barberton Gallery of Fine Arts.

Michael Wheeler is a dedicated father, husband, veteran of the United States Navy, pastor, and avid photographer. He is currently working toward his degree in Photography at Cuyahoga Community College and is also the Senior Pastor at Galilean Baptist Church.

Robyn White’s photography passions are widespread. She has a small portrait photography business, enjoys taking landscape photographs just for fun, and uses documentary photography to explore a variety of topics. At the core, though, she enjoys using her photography skills to explore sociological concepts of inequality, culture/consumption, and identity.

Raquel Wilbon is a published writer, playwright instructor, poetry judge, and award-winning poet. She has been a staff writer and an associate editor for the college newspaper, The Voice, and has previously published poetry in Breakwall.

She plans to continue her education at Cleveland State and earn her Bachelor of Arts degree.

Enzo Zaccardelli is an aspiring historian, anthropologist, activist, and boxer. He is fascinated by the different cultures of the world. Enzo has an interest in tasting different cuisines and travelling the world. He spends his time balancing school, practice, and a social life. He believes the world needs to be changed for the better and is devoted to doing so.

The Selection Committee:

Sarah McMahon graduated from the Visual Communications/Photography program at Tri-C in 2009. She then went on to The University of Akron and graduated in 2013 with a Bachelor's in Fine Art Photography and a minor in Art History. Sarah loves photographing the people of the world around her. She lives in Aurora with her husband, Brian, their son, Liam and their dog, Harley.

Kyle Serenas is a sophomore at Cuyahoga Community College, majoring in Paralegal Studies. He studies experimental literature and writes mainly in that genre with other work in literary analysis. After completion of his degree and leaving the college with the founding of the Tri-C Creative Writing Club at Western Campus, he intends on studying mechanical engineering, with aspirations of law school.

Jessica “J. Ann Marie” Smith is a first year film student at Cuyahoga Community College Metro Campus. In addition to her film studies, she writes and performs spoken word. She is also the Associate Editor and Chief of the Voice News and plans to start her own production company after graduating.

Angela Wolfe is the Editor-in-Chief, and Advertising and Marketing manager for The Voice newspaper, Metro campus.

She is also the producer of The Voice News television Flash Cast. Angela is set to graduate in the spring of 2015 with a degree in Marketing and International Business. Post-graduation, she hopes to follow her entrepreneurial spirit and open a family-run business. In her spare time, she enjoys photography and spending quality time with her family.

Breakwall / Literary Magazine

Call for Submissions

2015-16

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 pixel per inch. 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 2016, selected contributors will be notified of the intent to publish their work(s). Anticipated publication date is late spring 2016.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: FRIDAY, DECEMBER 11, 2015 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 Via Email: Lindsay.Milam@tri-c.edu

If you have any questions, please contact Lindsay Milam at Lindsay.Milam@tri-c.edu or at 216.987.4544.

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Submission Form

Please answer all questions on this form. To submit your work, follow the directions on the Call for Submissions.

CONTACT INFORMATION: NAME MAILING ADDRESS PHONE NUMBER CITY, STATE, ZIP EMAIL ADDRESS Which Tri-C campus do you attend?

Circle One

Metropolitan

Western

Eastern 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 third-person 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.

Contributor Signature

Date