Defiance

Defiance Operation Insubordination Publishing Co. 289 Oakleigh Woods Ballwin, MO Copyright Š 2010 Defiance All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this magazine or portions of it in any form whatsoever.

Operation Insubordination edition April 2010 OPERATION INSUBORDINATION is a registered tradmark of Operation Insubordination Publishing Co. For more information please contact the Operation Insubordination at (636) 484 0083 or operation@insubordination.net Designed by Maggie Parato Manufactured in Hope's House 10 3

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Executive Editor: Hope Bretscher Contributing Editors: Allyson Keth-Reifsteck, Andrew Reilly, Maggie Parato

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Rebellion. The stereotype of teenagers. Resisting authority, going against the norm,

breaking rules, laws, and standards. A coup d'état, an overthrow, a revolution. Faced with these types of rebellion, the staff members of Defiance have never rebelled. But once we delved deeper into our pasts, we reformed our definitions of rebellion. To us, rebellion is a shift in perspective, a conscious change in actions or thought, a reversal of policy or manner.

In our daily lives, we’re faced with thousands of decisions. To study, to play COD. Homework, or sleep. Although many decisions may appear trivial, what we do each day is important. These decisions influence our future as well as the people around us. Changes in our daily lives are each waves in a pool of water. Water waves, or sound waves, we are all intertwined and interlocked. Each decision, each reversal, each rebellion, sends out an earthquake effect. Our worlds’ leaders, Gandhi, Dr. King, each made a decision to rebel against society. Although your personal decision, COD vs studying, may not seem to have a significant impact, in some area of your life or your little world, it does. These rebellions are each important and each carry significant impact.

No matter how varied your rebellions, your revolution has an effect. Some revolutions may be loud, public. Other rebellions are silent, very personal. Although these may go unnoticed, they have an incredible personal impact and therefore will subtly send waves of impact. In our last section, Dissonant, we analyze the failed rebellion. A horribly awry revolution may cause massive carnage, but it acts as a precedent and an example, at hopefully its seismic waves will make contact elsewhere and lead to a harmonic revolution in the future.

So today, learn from our rebellions. We hope that our harmonious rebellions will inspire you to analyze your life and make change for the better and in this issue we hope that you too will widen your eyes and explore the important rebellions that happen each and every day.

Hope Bretscher Executive Editor Letter to the Editor

Defiance April 2010

1 Meet the Writers

Loud

5 The Pushover

By Maggie Parato 6 Risky Business

By Andrew Reilly 7 "The Most Dangerous Game"

By Richard Connell 9 Mars' Fury

By Hope Bretscher 10 Revenge

By Allyson Keth-Reifsteck 11 Love Struck Dreamer

By Andrew Reilly

Harmonic

17 Letting Go

By Allyson Keth-Reifsteck 19 The Pitcher

By Robert Francis 20 How To Speak

By Maggie Parato 21 "I Have A Dream"

By Martin Luther King, Jr. 25 Oak, Peonies, and Flan

By Hope Bretscher

27 Rebellion: West County Style Photo Essay

Silent

33 Here and There

By Hope Bretscher 39 "Deal or No Deal"

By Nikki Giovanni 40 Concealed Smoke

By Andrew Reilly 41 First They Killed My Father

By Loung Ung 43 Dormir Colinas

By Hope Bretscher 45 Hero on the Track

By Andrew Reilly 47 A Rose

By Allyson Keth-Reifsteck

Dissonant

51 That Doesn't Matter

By Allyson Keth-Reifsteck 53 Death of Marat

By Hope Bretscher & Maggie Parato 55 Expect the Expected

By Maggie Parato 57 "38 Saw Murder, Didn't Call the Police"

By Martin Gansberg

61 Guest Writers 63 Works Cited

What is a time that you broke the rules?

When I was 7 or 8, my older brother Luke and I used to sneak into the kitchen while my parents were out. We’d take cherry tomatoes, and throw them into the ceiling fan while it ran on high. Tomatoes were flung every which way and often splattered all over the cabinets. It was and is highly entertaining.

Being smart kids, we always cleaned up the tomato juice and ate the smashed tomatoes, returning the room to normal condition by the time our parents returned home.

Hope Bretscher

What keeps you from rebelling now?

Today a few factors inhibit me from rebelling. My parents and general rules and laws factor into orderly conduct, but I think a more important influence on my actions are my goals and aspirations. I’d like to attend school for many more years and hopefully be able to get a job that I love and has a significant impact in some area of society.

I’d like to save the world!! This though could mean rebellion, and I hope that if I ever encounter injustice, I’ll have the courage to face it down.

Meet the

Allyson Keth-Reifsteck What is a time that you broke the rules?

On my 12th birthday my cousin, who is my age, and I wanted something adventrous to do. My grandpa drove his Miata that day to my party and I had always wanted to go for a ride in it. My cousin and I thought it would be a good idea to pretend to drive it. She got in the drivers seat and I got in the passagers seat. We were pushing buttons and pulling levers when all of the sudden the car started backing up. Without thinking, we both jumped out and ran to the back of the car to push it forward. That did nothing, which caused us to start screaming. Soon enough, my grandpa came to our rescue with the keys.

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What keeps you from rebelling now?

My faith is the center of my life and I am involved in my youth group. Over the years, I have met some amazing people who have greaty influenced me though the teachings of the Catholic faith. Sticking to my belifs keeps me out of trouble.

Andrew Reilly What is a time that you broke the rules?

When I was really little, one thing my mom told me never to do was to run away and hide in any store we went to .

One day, I ran away and hid in a circular rack of jeans.

When my mom found me, she was not happy at all.

What keeps you from rebelling now?

I am the oldest kid in my family and I have 3 younger siblings. I feel it is my job to set a good example for them and by rebelling against any rules set by my parents or the law, I would be showing my younger siblings that doing that stuff is normal or ok.

W r i t e r sMaggie Parato What is a time that you broke the rules?

When I was six or seven, my whole family decided we wanted to go swimming. There was only one problem: our neighborhood pool was already closed. We went to the pool anyways and hopped the fence to get in, even though my mom had a key. My brothers, sister, and I jumped into the pool with our clothes still on and swam with my mother keeping a close eye on us.

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What keeps you from rebelling now?

I don’t rebel because I don’t want to be like my older brother, David. David enjoys breaking rules and defying authority, which has landed him in a lot of trouble with my parents and the law over the years, and I don’t want so much pressure on me like David had. If I follow the rules and keep my toes in line, my life will be stable, unlike David’s. I would much rather be quiet and reserved than loud and outspoken.

Rebellion, to me, is seeking attention and causing a scene, which I never seem to be capable of doing. I’m afraid to rebel and of the attention and consequences it causes.

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The Pushover “Listen, Big Shot, I don’t care what you promised—lose the clown and school bus routine or I’ll make sure that storyboard is never approved!”

Rob shoved past his manager and trudged back to his cramped cubicle.

Papers flooded his desk and there was another stack waiting by the chair. Post cards from the new selling location were everywhere: taped to the computer screen, stuck to the walls, and a few were used as coasters for his massive collection of coffee mugs made by his kids.

All Rob wanted was to get out of the suburbs. He had been to his fair share of little league baseball games and ballet recitals, and he had had enough. The city would be something new and exciting, and his storyboard for the new location could certainly take him there. But the vein on his neck continued to stick out, and his voice always seemed to rise at the sign of any conflict: his wife sending in the over priced cable bill late, his daughter asking for the car and to go to a college party, or receiving a hefty speeding ticket because he was late to work.

But while he did have a temper, he never did anything out of the ordinary. Rob was a pushover with a temper: he yells, but never in a way that would scare his two beautiful girls or his gentle, carefree wife.

Rob was already hours behind in 5 L oud

his work, when the overweight, balding manager placed even more papers on to the colossal stack by Rob’s desk without so much as a glance toward him. Rob clenched his hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. Sweat began to slowly drip from his forehead. The manager had taken advantage of Rob for the past 18 years. Underpaying and overworking Rob, the manager knew that he would never leave, that he was a pushover. The whole office knew that Rob could never start his own company and compete with other lab equipment distributors. There was no way.

No one believed in him.

“Quit looking at those cards and get back to work, boy,” the manager said in such a tone that anyone’s skin would crawl.

Rob tightened his fist again, making him look visibly angry. He shifted in his chair as though he were caught in a straightjacket.

He was truly very angry, and everyone, including the manager, could tell.

It was over as soon as it happened; Rob punched his manager square in the nose. Blood gushed everywhere and the entire office came out of their cubicles to come see the show. Rob didn’t say anything. He simply took his collection of coffee mugs and left, without saying a word, and tipped over his stack of papers as he walked away.

-MP

RISKY BUSINESS Gramma looked up just in time to see the toddler squeeze through the fence as he escaped from her supervision. No more nap time, those countless hours in a secluded playpen. He needed out. He needed…to play. Passing through the fence, the toddler found himself facing an apparatus. Monkey bars, swings, and slides towered over him: every kids dream. On the prowl, Gramma lurked behind, closing in until her head emerged over the fence. A smile radiated from the toddler, seeing his successful avoidance.

Where to first?!

He dashed towards the swing set and plopped onto the swing. Laughter escaped as it flew him to the sky, but the yelling of the frenzied Gramma pursued not far behind. He was an astronaut, flying his way to the stars.

3…2…1…LIFT OFF! he thought, launching himself from his ship. Landing, he hit with a thud. Just as he got up, he could see his Gramma barreling towards him, her face contorted with worry and anger.

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“Get back here now, Bobby! Right this instant!”

“Uh oh,” he sighed, “no more fun.”

Without hesitation, the toddler took off again. This time, he wasn’t so lucky.

Gramma lunged and swooped him up off his feet and into her arms. His laughter morphed to cries for liberation, but the clutch was too strong.

They walked up the driveway. A car pulled up as their feet crossed the threshold into the toddler’s prison.

“Honey, we’re home!” the toddler’s parents cried with excitement. “Have you been a good boy?” Smiles shifted to frowns as they saw Gramma’s petrified expression. As a punishment, Bobby was relocated into his playpen. His imprisonment became finite, but a grin spread from ear to ear. The risk was worth it.

-AR

The Most Dangerous Game

By: Richard Connell

"Perhaps," said General Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rains. ford, and it is the hunt."

"You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. " That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw."

"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."

"Did he charge you?"

"Hurled me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute."

"I've always thought," said Rains{ord, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."

For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."

Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"

The general nodded. "The biggest."

"Really?"

"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."

"What have you imported, general?"

Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"

The general smiled.

"No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."

This piece is about a shipwrecked hunter who meets a rebellious hunter by the name General Zaroff on an island in the middle of the sea. Instead of hunting the local animals, General Zaroff has begun to hunt the shipwrecked persons who find themselves washing up on his island. He finds that animals, compared Ltooud humans, are just to easy to hunt. His rebellion to the laws of man (killing other men/women) make his rebellion a one of the loud sort. -AR

The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.

"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society."

"But what game--" began Rainsford.

"I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation.

May I pour you another glass of port?"

"Thank you, general."

The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army--it was expected of noblemen's sons--and for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed."

The general puffed at his cigarette.

"After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed.

"They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind.

Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."

"Yes, that's so," said Rainsford.

The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy L oud the problems of the chase."

"No doubt, General Zaroff."

"So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."

The general lit a fresh cigarette.

"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing ut his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."

Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on.

"And that was?"

The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success.

"I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.

"A new animal? You're joking." "Not at all," said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes--there are jungles with a maze of trails in them, hills, swamps--" "But the animal, General Zaroff?"

"Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits."

Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face.

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."'

"But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean--" gasped Rainsford.

"And why not?"

"I can't believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."

"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

"Hunting? Great Guns, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."

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Mars'

Frustration, building like a wall-That encloses a city—is isolating, Not protecting, is hurting, Not helping.

I want to yell, to scream, to unmercifully destroy The harsh wall.

But I will not. I will never.

Mars is sitting in my heart Raging fuming thriving His fury comes out through my feet.

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Rhythms flow through my toes, Bangs Are my solace.

Heels shaking with emotion My toes cramped and taut with focus I fly A mad woman’s dance A nymph of turbulent noise Leaving craters of trebles in my wake.

You will not silence me.

Leap-click soar Up Over Your silence and your degradation Why? Why do you taunt me?

Question my desire?

Smash my confidence?

You leave me in shambles, in tears, Mars reemerges, molding together my dreams In his fury pulling me together.

Leaving all my frustration Pulsing waves of fury. -HB

REVENGE She continued to sip the coffee.

While she was drinking, holding the cup in both hands, she began to make that sound again. I couldn’t help but stare at this beautiful woman as she made ugly sounds. Heart racing and head pounding, nerves consumed my whole body. I knew it was my fault.

Everything was my fault. Panic fled my mind: my plan had failed.

I thought back to my high school days. I was never Mr. Popular, but I made the most out of those long four years. Brad, the star of the football team, was dating my dream girl, Maya. After noticing the unbreakable stares I would direct towards Maya, he discovered my feelings for her. To Brad, this was humorous. He knew that an average guy like me could never date a girl like her so he took it upon himself to let the whole school know that fact. To this day, the memories still haunt me.

As I flashed back to reality, the sound grew louder and louder. People began to stare. All I could do was sit back and watch it happen. She was now shaking

I could no longer watch the woman I love die. intensely, and sweat poured off of her red face.

The coffee cup fell from her hands and crashed onto the floor. From across the coffee house, a man raced to her side. I knew there was nothing he could do to help. My mind was spinning. How could this be happening? Unable to filter this tragedy, I left the coffee house; I could no longer watch the woman I love die.

That night, on the news, I witnessed the story of how Maya was poisoned. Brad was at the scene trying to save her, but nothing could be done.

Within a few hours, the police showed up at my door. I was under arrest for Maya's Murder.

Only one sentence could muster out of my mouth.

“It was supposed to be Brad”.

-AK

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Love Struck Dreamer

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“I’ve got something to tell you, old sport,” I said, confidence building with each second. “Your wife doesn’t love you.” For years I have waited to utter these words to Tom’s face, his woman-juggling hands too close to my sweet Daisy. Oh, Daisy. . . how radiantly she glistened now standing in front of me, the very image of the girl from my past; the time for her to be mine so close at hand. I could just imagine the life we’d be able to live, just like it used to be. The starry nights alone were justa precursor for what I saw for us.

“You must be crazy,” shouted Tom, trying to retake control as it shifted from his fingertips.

“She never loved you, do you hear?” I cried. My heart raced from revealing my intermost thoughts! The excitement…just keeps building…my dream is finally coming true before my very eyes and the future becoming clearer and clearer by the minute.

"You’re crazy!" Tom bellowed back at me, more forcefully than before. His fists tightened. He couldn’t accept the fact that his wife truly belonged with me. All I wanted her to say was that she loved me, wanted me by her side. That she never loved him, but only me since the day we met.

Visions of the past flew by and I remembered the happiness I felt being with this girl. Back then I could not be the person she deserved, but now, money is no object. That one night I took her even though I knew our love wouldn’t last. I have the chance to make it right.

"You never loved him", I stated with confidence. How could she say she never loved him, with hesitation?

My brain couldn’t comprehend what could have caused her to hesitate. What could this mean?! The love of my life still was not fully committed to me, but 12 L oud

still partly to that pompous rich boy. She loves me, and he is definitely not the man for her. I felt as if my heart hit had my toes, lying shattered, as if stomped all over. What went wrong? Did my love for her not mean enough?

“Oh, you want too much!” she cried. What was going on?! The entire situation had turned on me, but I couldn’t understand why. Maybe the chance wasn’t gone yet.

“Daisy’s leaving you,” I explained, hoping maybe her mind would turn. Oh, how I hope she would change her mind and become the girl I once had: the girl I once held in my arms ever so close.

“I am, though,” she said faintly. Hot dog! Keeping my composure would ensure my handling of the situation and keep Tom looking vicious and crazy. If only I could exploit that anger and force him to do something he would regret and push her even farther from his hypocritical grasp.

“She’s not leaving me,” he hollered louder even than before. His anger just fed my confidence, but it was short-lived.

“Please! Tom! I can’t stand this any more,” she blubbered, throwing herself into Tom’s arms. My head and eyes drooped in defeat. No amount of change or money could return what I longed to retrieve from the past. No matter how hard I tried, Daisy wouldn’t be able to leave Tom. I still wasn’t good enough and I don't know if I ever will be.

“Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over,” Tom explained, victorious in the fight.

He was right. My plan had backfired.

-AR

Be the Change.

RECYCLE

1 out of 6 trucks in the US is a trash truck. Since Americans tend to drive with one person in the car, the entire population of Western Europe could fit into the cars in America.

Americans wear off their tires in 2 weeks of driving enough rubber to make over 3.25 million new tires

Every year Americans throw away enough styrofoam cups to circle the earth 436 times.

To print the sunday paper 550,000 trees must be cut down. The amount of plastic used yearly could shrinkwrap Texas. In an average lifetime an American will throw away the equivalent of 600 times his or her body weight in trash.

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E ach day america ns

thr ow aw ay an ave rag e of 4.5 po un

ds

The average office worker will use over 500 disposable cups each year. Each styrofoam cup will be sit in a landfilll for over 500 years.

The plastic spoons, forks, and knives that Americans toss each year would circle the globe 300 times. 1/3 of all trash in landfills is packaging materials. The trash disposed of each year could fill enough garbage trucks to stretch halfway to the moon.

Ta n k M a n

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The Tank Man is known for standing in front of a line of tanks trying to enter Tiananmen Square to stop the protests. Even though he was unsuccessful, Tank Man made an impact that day. He was only one person trying the stop a line of tanks. Tank Man’s effort demonstrates a loud rebellion, an act that everyone can witness and leaves behind significance.

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H armonic

Harmonic

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Letting Go

Everyone walked into the dark gym.

The curtain that parts the gym into two touched the ground as we all shuffled onto half of the gym floor.

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Once everyone found a place to sit, Rob, the youth minister, stepped up to the microphone and described our next task for this retreat. “Everyone has felt hurt in their lives; we all need to let it go. Right now I challenge you to write a letter to anyone who has hurt you. Explain why they have hurt you.

Explain how they made you feel. Explain to them that you forgive them. Once you are finished, I have another challenge for you: burn your letter. Let go of all the hurt built up inside, and, most importantly, forgive.�

Paper and pens were sent around and I secluded myself from my group of friends; Annie, Philip, Tara, Brian, Emily, and Cameron.

Instantly I envisioned of all the hurt I held inside. The thoughts rang in my head, causing my eyes to water, and I knew I had to get them out.

Writing my pain came naturally; words flew out of my mind as if I had memorized the lyrics to this neverending song. Within minutes, my paper was filled with memories.

Friends betraying me, parents not believing me, and my own mistakes.

As I was wiping away my tears, the curtain in the gym rose. The scent of matches and candles escaped from under the curtain and gradually filled the remaining half of the gym.

Beneath the curtain, four pathways made out of lit candles formed a cross on the gym floor. In the center, a large tin bucket sat on the floor filled with more candles and sand.

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It was breathtaking.

I could no longer concentrate on my letter; I kept my eyes fixed on the flames. All around me, people got up and walked down the paths to burn their letters.

Thick and heavy, tears streamed out of my eyes as I realized it would soon be my turn.

I decided to take a few more minutes to spell out my final thoughts.

When a majority of the group had finished, I stood up and hesitantly moved towards the path of candles as if they were calling me closer and closer while dancing before my eyes.

During this walk, everything around me silenced. I could no longer hear others crying or whispering. My mind focused on my challenge. I wanted to forgive, but was I strong enough to let go of all the angry feelings inside of me?

My steps shortened as hesitance overwhelmed my mind. After what seemed like minutes, I arrived at my destination; the bucket.

Before I put my letter in, I turned around to glance at the aisle for reassurance. Witnessing these candles, a sign of God’s presence, made me realize that I could do this. I spun back around to face the bucket once again.

With my head down, I knelt beside the tin bucket and observed the ashes of all the previous letters burned. I knew it was my turn to let go. I slowly lowered my letter into the bucket and watched it go up in flames. Immediately, chills spread their way through my body. I saw every last piece of my letter engulfed in flames until nothing was left. The flame that stole my letter got smaller, and smaller, and smaller. I could now only see the little black and grey pieces of dust which used to be all my hurt.

Even though all I did was burn words, I no longer felt any pain. I kept telling myself that all of the anger that was built up in my head was now nonexistent. I forgave. I stood up, took a deep breath, and calmly glided down the same path I took to the bucket. My feet were much lighter this time.

Joy swept across my face since the shackles of resentment lost their hold. My grasp on forgiveness lifted the burdens, allowing me to move forward.

-AK

The Pitcher By: Robert Francis

His art is eccentricity, his aim How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,

His passion how to avoid the obvious, His technique how to vary the avoidance.

The others throw to be comprehended. He Throws to be a moment misunderstood.

Yet not too much, Not errant, arrant, wild, But every seeming aberration willed.

Not to, yet still, still to communicate Making the batter understand too late.

I decided to put this poem in our IP because it describes a "harmonious rebellion". The pitcher aims to be different and misunderstood. He's rebelling against the obvious way one would normally pitch, but in a way that he should rebel. This poem describes the art of rebelling against anything, not just how to throw a baseball. -MP

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How to Speak School had been in session for a week and Abby hadn’t made any friends. Not even someone to share her markers with.

Abby was the new girl. Always moving and starting new schools, she forgot how to make friends, how to talk. She wore glasses you’d swear were from the eighties and her shirt was always tucked into her underpants, which always seemed to be visible whenever she sat down. She never spoke. Not even when the teacher called on her for the answer to number four on the homework.

Abby just whispered in a voice so quiet God would have to ask her to speak up.

Slouching in her seat, hiding from the eyes of her classmates, she stared at her desk, trying to be unnoticed.

“Okay, class, time for lunch!” the teacher said.

As the class formed a single file line, Abby crept from her chair to remain unheard and unseen. She tiptoed to the back of the line and left with her class to go to the cafeteria.

It was a jungle. Kids were everywhere, and there was no place for Abby 20 H armonic

and her brown sack lunch. About to make a break for the bathroom, she glanced up. A spot was open in the very middle of the cafeteria. The spot was between two girls who looked like they collected stamps and pressed flowers; they were both a little overweight, wearing pigtails and some variation of mom jeans. This is it, Abby thought, I just sit down, I ask to sit, and I sit.

Abby marched over to the table, a look of determination on her freckled face. http://www.flickr.com/photos/snatched/4095968122/

“Hi. Can I sit here?” she asked in a scared voice.

“Yeah, sure. What’s your name?” one of the girls asked.

Abby sat down and pulled out her sandwich from her brown sack lunch. “My name’s Abby,” she said with a faint, sincere smile.

-MP

I Have a Dream

http://www.msc.navy.mil/sealift/2007/February/graphics/KingPhoto.jpg

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. H armonic

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.

Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregabeginning. And those who hope that the Negro tion and the chains of discrimination. One hundred needed to blow off steam and will now be content years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material business as usual. And there will be neither rest prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granstill languished in the corners of American society ted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so will continue to shake the foundations of our nawe've come here today to dramatize a shameful con- tion until the bright day of justice emerges. dition.

But there is something that I must say to my In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to people, who stand on the warm threshold which cash a check. When the architects of our republic leads into the palace of justice: In the process of wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of and the Declaration of Independence, they were wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our signing a promissory note to which every American thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitwas to fall heir. This note was a promise that all terness and hatred. We must forever conduct our men, yes, black men as well as white men, would struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, We must not allow our creative protest to degenerLiberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious ate into physical violence. Again and again, we today that America has defaulted on this promismust rise to the majestic heights of meeting physicsory note, insofar as her citizens of color are conal force with soul force. cerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed check which has come back marked "insufficient the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust funds." of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is today, have come to realize that their destiny is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insuf- tied up with our destiny. And they have come to ficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, our freedom. We cannot walk alone. a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no We cannot turn back. time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to

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There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

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Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama

little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

We will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.

With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning: My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride, From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that: Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. Luther King, Jr. gave his “I Have a Dream” speech to thousands of civil Dr. Martin

rights demonstrators. The speech highlights their plight and encourages the people to work for equal rights. His speech is iconic in American culture and represents a harmonic and peaceful movement. Albeit “I Have a Dream” is frequently referenced and quoted I decided to include the entire speech because few of my peers have read the whole speech. Such a moving and important speech should be read in entirety. -HB

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Oak, Peonies and Flan They enter the dining room, just the

oramas, and then science fair projects. The peeling two of them. paint on the walls was covered with new wallpaper, Surveying the space, he remembers and the paper coated in grinning photos of the chilthe day that it all began. dren. Finally the layers of Elmer’s Glue fell off, and Over 25 years ago, they sat, staring the table transformed into the location of late at each other over dry mashed potatoes, trying to night studying and a worktable for a prom dress. speak naturally, to smile genially, to eat the bland All too soon its pockmarked surface was stacked food before them while ominous clouds of discomhigh with mountains of graduation announcements. fort swathed the table.

And now, over 25 years During later, the table is the location the meal that his parof twelve centerpieces. Meticents had arranged, right ulously designed and each in the middle of the with name placards beside soupy flan, he and the them, the vases wait to be girl were told, “Meet placed on the tables tomoryour Fiancée.” row at his oldest daughter’s And over wedding reception.

25 years ago, they He takes a deep looked upon each other breath and tries to prepare for the first time with himself to hand off his daughdistrustful eyes and ter. What advice will he give strained smiles and her? He never experienced tried to imagine spendthis, doesn’t know what a ing every dinner in the wedding filled with love illusion of a relationmeans. ship.

But then he takes anAfter the other breath, absorbs the wedding, their dinners aroma of the room. The oak were quick, rushed, and table, carefully cleaned every silent. Back then, the night. The family dinners room looked different filled with laughter. The than it does now. A nerves of parents struggling to massive oak table, help their daughter but not acwhose size was only actually do the project themcentuated by a too selves. The brownies and hot small muslin tablecloth, dominated the room. The chocolate they’d get up and make at 12 or 1 am pair sat silently, at opposite ends, staring at the peel- when the kids were up studying. The crisp smell of ing paint and sparse walls. They had inherited the new fabric and the tender care that his wife put inhouse, the room, and the table, whose austerity to the prom gown. And today, he smelled the and unfriendliness eventually—and luckily—gave flowers, peonies and verdant fronds that sat in the way to soft shag carpet and the frantic air of new vases. parenthood. The era of padded table ends and He smiles, and discovers what to say. plastic plates began. The sad oak table, cracking Marriage is an adventure. Love, whenever it begins, and chipped, became covered in diaper bags and makes every valley worth it. baby food, and dinners became dominated with And over 25 years later, with a deep baby talk and shy laughs in exhaustion and pleasure. breath and the sweet smell of ardor, he gazes, lovA few years later, the prime centerpiece became diingly, into the eyes of his wife. -HB

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Gandhi's Salt March

"I must make it clear that what I desire is the end of this government and not of those who govern" - Gandhi

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In 1930 Gandhi wanted to organize a peaceful event to protest British rule. He analyzed the British rule and government. To fund their colonial rule, the British imposed a salt tax and made it illegal for any nongovernmental agency to sell salt. Salt was an essential element in the Indian diet, needed to keep workers in the tropical climate hydrated.

After sending a letter to appeal the salt tax, Gandhi organized a 240 mile and 23 day long march from the city Sabarmati to the coastal city Dandi.

The procession began with only 75 people but grew to be over 2 miles long. Upon arriving at Dandi, Gandhi picked up some salty mud and boiled it in seawater, then sold the salt. Thousands of others in the coming months followed Gandhi’s lead and an illegal salt market began.

The furious British Government arrested over 60,000 people including Gandhi himself in the following month. Gandhi called his march Satyagraha, a combination of the Sanskrit words Satya, meaning truth, and Agraha, resolution. This march represented a great step in peaceful civil disobedience, and marked the decline of the British power. Gandhi’s leadership brought about the downfall of British rule through harmonious and peaceful ends.

Rebellion: West County Style Jay-walking, speeding, rolling through stop signs, and driving on the wrong side of the street are common acts of rebellion that many par take in. But why? Americans do not like obeying simple laws and think that they know how to handle themselves.

Andrew was the driver ofthe day.

Speeding, are people too impactient or do they love going fast?

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* Please note that no laws were broken in the making of this page, we found ways to work around them.

Weight Limit: 75 Pounds

There are many opprounities at the mall to have fun and not obey the rules.

Please do not tap on the glass, it irritates the dogs.

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Emergency Exit Only

Riding backwards on the esclator.

Playground equipment is designed for children 5-12 years of age.

The girls decided to participate in TPing Andrew.

Their adventure started at 9:30 p.m. on a Sunday night.

Gathering Supplies

Andrew's Car!

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TPing In Progress

As teenagers we feel that rebellion is not necessarily a revolt. Any breaking of the rules or going aganisnt the norm can be classified as rebellion. With the help of Chesterfield, we demonstrated common acts of rebellion.

Finished Product

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Si le nt

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T

he dirt is red—vibrant, thick, rebellious red.

The bus we ride in stirs up clouds of red dust, dressing the bushes in red overcoats, until no green can be seen. Driving here is moseying. The route is not as the crow flies, nor as the road runs, but as a curious child scurries back and forth and in all directions. The driver chases down the smoothest possible path, yet even when avoiding the largest ruts, the ride seems more horseback than machine-driven.

As we pass schools, churches, homes, children run out and wave, yell, dance. Here, strangers are respected, honored, revered.

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After a hard day’s work, we return to the base camp to play with neighborhood kids while waiting for dinner. A half-inflated kick ball in hand and a gaggle of girls around me, I become the slow American struggling with the intertwining n’s and g’s of Kikamba, with accented syllables that stick like glue on my tongue.

As I call out each girl’s name, I toss the ball in her direction. Sombuo is gorgeous; her gentle eyes light up when the ball comes her way.

Mary is greedy; she dives for the ball even when it’s headed to another girl. Grace cautiously stands farther away, but receives the ball each time with

and There a shy but elated grin. They try my name too: “Ope! Ope!!”

We stand beside the well and are forced to take a break when a cow strolls in to take a drink. Around the camp, roosters crow—they pay no heed to the time of day or night. As Sombuo and the others drift away to another game, I notice a young girl standing alone, gently bouncing a baby boy strapped to her back. She can’t be more than six, yet here she stands, hunched over by the weight of her baby brother.

“Witawa ata?” As I inquire about her name, she shyly shifts her weight to the other foot, and the boy on her back whimpers.

“Nitawa Bet.” I gently take her hands and hold them out, palms up.

“Miss Sue.” I clap mine with hers.

She is still apprehensive, unsure of what to do.

She easily finds the rhythm though, and begins bouncing her brother to the beat.

“Miss Sue from Alabama.” I repeat the action. This time there is more recognition in

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her eyes, and by the next line, Bet understands the motions to a song that is gibberish to her.

The baby boy snivels.

“They call her Miss Susanna. ” Her brother’s cries have escalated. Dejected, this tiny girl, barely old enough to attend school, must curtail our childhood game to play parent to her baby brother.

The smell of rice and a chicken stew wafts out of the white canvass tent. The cook shoos kids away and carries in a large plate of mangoes, dripping with their sweet aroma.

Next come avocados, in large slices, fresh from the giant green trees that spot the hills. With hint of lime dribbled over the top, soft and nutty in flavor, and green like the trees that bear them, the avocados are delectable.

I continue playing with the kids, grabbing their hands, which are prematurely rough from work. Another little one climbs on my back and links her arms around my neck, snotty face beside mine. I bounce her around, humming in her ear, pretending to drop her. She smiles and laughs.

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“Dinner!”

The call goes throughout the camp, and the tired adults emerge from their dorms ready for the evening meal. The area kids melt away. They frown at having to end games undecided. Some don’t even look at the food in huge plates before us, but their bony bodies and shoeless feet tell me that their grumbling stomachs wish they could join in the feast.

As I devour the delicious food, I clear my plate of everything, ensuring that not even a bite of food is thrown away, and praying that the leftovers are delivered to the people who need them most.

It is early afternoon halfway through the week, and Charlie and I decide to try the most labor-intensive job: trenching. We discover two picks and start down the trench path, slowly walking in the foot-deep crevice. Though few kids are at the worksite, Muthin emerges wearing torn flip-flops, a red plaid shirt, and a shredded brown jacket. And though he’s only about thirteen, every day he appears in the same attire, never a school uniform.

“Wimuseo!” I call out to him. He giggles at me.

“Wimuseo Ope.” We play our language game, attempting to communicate through actions and the few Kikamba words I know.

“Kii kitawa ata?” I point at the machete Luke carries as he goes to cut the roots that impede progress.

“Kiyange” Soon we run out of questions to ask, so instead we make up games that need no language. A few branches plus mud chunks becomes a competition to see who can hit the mud the farthest. Muthin’s skills far surpass mine, and we

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laugh together as I repeatedly swing the branch and make no contact with the dirt chunks.

After becoming coated in a fresh layer of red dust, we decide through made-up sign language to head to the vanguard of the trenchline.

While in route we play a lawless game of tag, no rules, no meaning, and no purpose except to elicit smiles and laughs.

When we begin to work in earnest, I feebly try to dig into the earth; however, my pick barely pierces the earth. But in his eagerness to please and with hands hardened by previous days spent like this, Muthin’s hoe blade swings up, and then slices the air, cutting branches from above and wedging itself deep in the thick soil. With amazing skill for one barely a teenager, Muthin has already perfected the trade that he spend will the rest of his life doing.

While driving into Machakos, we stop to walk around the small market town Tawa. Racks of clothes hold American hand-me-downs; a booth where a man sharpens hoes and machetes emits harsh screeching; in the muddy gutter of the street a man sleeps in a wheelbarrow. Down the street, a small restaurant has running water, squatty porcelain toilets, and electricity. In our eagerness to use the toilet, we rush in and don’t absorb our surroundings. Upon exiting the store I notice the small TV. Extreme Makeover Home Edition plays on its screen. Is this how they imagine American homes?

Mansions with the newest gadgets and technology, each child a themed bedroom, pools, gazebos?

Muthin, on right, sits beside his friend as he waits for the Americans to catch up while climbing a local mountain.

One evening we reflect on the day’s experiences. My mom, embarrassed, tells her story. A woman was showing her how to cook. In a separate hut from the house, one large pot over a wooden fire. Rice, cassava, beans, whatever is ripe.

“How could I help you?” My mom asked, and the translator passed the message down.

“I need a cow for milk.”

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The Nine

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http://realitywanted.com/images/blog/deal_or_no_deal.jpg

By: Nikki Giovanni My class is not sure That I should apply to Deal or No Deal They think I am lucky After all I am teaching Them They know I am smart they are For example learning yet They don't want to see me Make those greedy mistakes And push beyond The envelope The banker is neither friend Nor foe He's a machine To think you can beat him Is to think you will win At Vegas or love

But I persist My dream is a red dress Above my knees High-heel red sandals And me coming ove the top The music booming Hi Howie I will say With a lovely smile I don't want to play the game I want to be it They were born forty years after me Yet I am younger I know you cannot go Through life Unless you are willing For love or money To make a fool Of yourself Where else does the ecstasy lie

This piece is about a women's determination to rise above the doubt he students have for her about finding success in a TV game show. Her rebellion is one where she goes against the strong urges of her kids to not risk embarrassment by failing. It would fall into the silent thread because she S ilent doesn't say anything to her kids. -AR

The smoke cleared and I could see the smoldering end of the cigarette. The brilliant orange light vanished, as if cowering, into the thin paper roll that encompassed the tobacco. I inhaled and the smoke crept into my mouth and ambushed my lungs. The poisons burned as they dripped down my throat, peeling layer after layer of the soft insides. The light at the end of the cigarette burned brightly again, but was lost in the billowing gray smoke that floated ominously, shrouding the cigarette from view.

The same process continued; the sleek tube disintegrating little by little. With every puff, the effortless arm motion brought the cigarette away from the stinky pit where it resided. The body lay in waste, moldy with the stench of the stale smoke. A quick flick discarded the evidence and the butt struck back to its original position.

With the last draft, the butt sailed through the air and wedged itself between the small cracks in the cement, unnoticed by any seeing eyes except for the stream of smoking death creeping for the sky. The final blow was dealt as the foot buried it. The tobacco became a solid piece in the dimpled cavity where it crept after facing defeat. The last of the smoke died out and the butt disappeared from sight; the white, creamy color of its wrapper matching that of the pavement. Abandoned and forgotten, it lay in its own filth.

-AR

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FIRST THEY KILLED MY FATHER The Death of My Individuality The sun breaks through the haze and invades the country with sweltering heat http://kmir.images.worldnow.com/images/8674835_BG1.jpg

Trucks roar into our city Khmer Rouge Soldiers They want us Seven day walk Hungry, belly hurts Everyone has to honor and sacrifice for Angkar I don’t understand It is good for the family to be separated We have to save our strength to go on It is the only way we will survive http://images.suite101.com/1678068_com_pol

The killings have started She’s not going to live I watch Pa’s figure get smaller and smaller One soldier’s face darkens and he raises his rifle We cry

I think how the world is still somehow beautiful Even when I feel no joy at being alive within it -AK

a daughter of cambodia remembers

L O U N G

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Before the soldier even approaches, Ma has gathered all our bags and put them in a small pile in front of our family. The soldier picks up our bags and begins to throw our clothes onto the pile.

His hand reaches into one bag and pulls out something red-my breath quickens. A little girl’s dress. He scowls as if the sight of such thing turns his stomach, then balls up the dress in his hand and throws it on top of the pile. I follow the dress with my eyes, focusing all my energy on it, wanting desperately to rescue it from the pile. My first red dress. The one Ma made for me for the New Year’s celebration. I remember Ma taking my measurements, holding the soft chiffon cloth against my body, and asking me if I liked it. “The color looks so pretty on you,” she said, “and the chiffon material will keep you cool.” Ma made three identical dresses for Chou, Geak, and me. All had puffy sleeves and skirts that flared above the knee.

I do not know when the soldier finishes dumping all the clothes onto the pile. I cannot take my eyes off of my dress. I stand there, with Ma and Pa on either side of me. My insides are tied up in knots, a scream claws its way up my throat, but I push it all down. “No! Not my dress.

What have I done to you?” I scream in my head, tears welling up in my eyes. “Please help me! I don’t know if I can handle it anymore! I don’t understand why you hate me so much!” I grind my teeth so hard the pain in my throat moves up to my temples.

My hands clench in fists; I continue to stare at my dress. I do not see the soldier’s hand reach into his pocket and retrieve from it a box of matches. I do not hear his fingers strike a match against the side of the box.

The next thing I know the pile of clothes bursts into flames and my red dress melts like plastic in fire.

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"A scream claws its way up my throat"

In this memoir, Loung writes her horrific memories from the Cambodian genocide. One of the most painful experiences Loung suffered through is described in this exercpt. Silently, in her head, she yells for answers and hope. While her precious red dress goes up in flames, Loung keeps compouser on the outside. At that time Loung was a small child but she understood that she needed to be obedient and let what ever happened happen. -AK

I stride past the beaded doorway to check on the young American couple outside. ¡puf! If they’d only finish their drinks and be off, I’d be free. Done for the afternoon, done for the weekend.

“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig. It’s not really an operation at all,” the man tells her. She looks uncomfortable, wistful.

As if some revolting aroma wafts just above her face, she stares at the hard wooden floor.

“Then what will we do afterwards?” she finally gazes at his face, challenging his wavering confidence.

“We’ll be fine afterwards.”

The man continues speaking—trying to hold her gaze, but soon fails, sulks, and retreats to stare over her shoulder. He sits uncomfortably.

All my other customers have left, and these two alone hold me back from the exhilaration of fresh air. But why are they fighting?

They both appear to be wealthy. She has gold and jewels dripping from ears, neck and fingers; he clearly isn’t worried about squandering cash on untouched drinks.

“And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy?”

Some personal fiasco is unfolding.

She sits, squirming in guilt; he frowns, focusing on floating dust.

“Lucia!” The sharp call from my boss forces me to abandon their conversation and step farther into the restrictive shade.

“And you really want to?” Her revolted reply, to some unheard comment, wafts indoors. Finally something intriguing is happening in my tired town, and I am missing it.

“Lucciiaa, mi quirida. Stay another two weeks! Into the summer. You know there will be more tourists, more tips.” He perpetually pesters me to stay in town longer. But summer calls my name just as sharply as the thirsty tourists. I’ve been planning carefully, and in one more

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week I will have enough money to escape to the city. No more dusty hills and Americanos arrogantes. They come here fleeing the city, seeking obscurity in the most bucolic location. But our

peaceful exterior is really just a guise for a land of endless boredom. I want to be someplace that isn’t just “chaaarming”— someplace that people stay long enough to see past the train depot.

After thoroughly convincing my boss that no, I do not want to stay longer, and no, I do not care if my English will get more practice, I drift back to the couple. The crisis continues to unfurl as their two drinks sit, still full to the brim.

“I don’t want you to do it if you feel that way,” the man pleads with her, manipu-

and he misses. A flash of anger contorts his face. His persuasion is failing. But what is he persuading her to do?

She stands on the edge of the platform,

of their freedom. Even in their distressed state, they have the freedom to zip in and zip out, one train to the next, to face exhilaration, danger, passion.

again staring into the lonely hills and wringing her hands. He sits in the chair, elbows on knees, head in

I start to enter and see the man wave for two more beers, so I drift back behind my curtain.

hands.

“Doesn’t it mean anything to you? We “We can have everything,” he pleads

with her. A business deal? Negocios? But it must have

could get along.” So someone else is involved. A business partner? Competitor? Enemigo?

gone bad. For even here, when few can understand

And with that the man snatches a grimy knife off the table, twirling it in his hands.

The knife. An enemy. The “operation.”

It takes a minute for the first realization to hit me. Innocent, maybe guilty, some individual lives in danger.

It takes even less time for my second realization. Although I pity that individual, I don’t care.

I don’t have time to be bothered with any dealings with La Policia. Besides, what guilt in this is mine? Even if I speak up, what could be done? I have no evidence. And they haven’t even decided to go through with it yet.

But mainly, I don’t care.

I don’t really care if it appears on the headlines in the newspaper. Some child might stand on a street corner yelling about the death of some politician, some mobster. Or maybe it will be a silent death, cries echoed on no streets, in no dank alleyways.

But regardless, I don’t care.

At least this couple is faced with action.

They make decisions. They are not stifled by heavy air hardly stirred by the whisperings of the townspeople.

Inside, their drinks in hand, I take a deep breath, inhaling the musty smell of the beer, and gulp down my distaste at their actions.

I do not care.

English, they hide their words. They won’t name names, be specific.

One week and I’ll be entering the excitement of their world.

“It isn’t ours anymore,” she replies snidely, bitterly.

I am stuck between their drama and my freedom.

“The train comes in five minutes.” I smile and set down their drinks. The man still grasps the knife but skillfully slides it onto the table as he reaches for the beer. The girl shyly smiles.

Do I rush to clear the drinks, gently

And I walk away from their scheming

pressuring them to leave? But something dark entrances

but pause one last time to stare at the hills, curled up

me in the doorway.

and blanketed in monotone trees. In this tired and

“Could we have another beer?” She finally returns to sit, and I wait for my cue. I’m jealous

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forgotten town, even the hills sleep. -HB

Hero on the Track

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As I sat on the track, I stared off into the distance towards the starting line, reminiscing. Race day caused my stomach to jump in excitement. The red, rubbery track underneath me smelled extra rubbery on the hot days as we sat in front of Coach Shepherd before our daily workout. The scent brought memories of meetings past, those memories flowed back into focus as our great shepherd stood erect before us. This tall, balding but whitehaired man would open his folder and begin his spiel, herding his sheep into his field of knowledge.

“Those who fear facing failure, seldom face success,” he reiterates whenever possible. The sun shone behind him, making him seem holy standing in front of us: the messiah of the track in short shorts with a stopwatch around his neck. He would go on to explain that going above and beyond what is comfortable is the key to success. By staying in your comfort zone, there is no improvement without stepping out. Thoughts like these are the inspiration that drive my desire to run.

I get asked a lot, “How do you enjoy running?” All I can answer is that I feel like I’m good at it, but the herding into the right mindset was all my coach’s doing. Almost as if he now controlled my every thought.

Do you see the crazies that run on the roads in the blistering heat and biting cold weather? Well, I’m one of those crazies. When I run, I can feel my insides fighting, telling me to stop and rest, along with all my muscles battling for a break; but I have to continue develop; to move up the social ladder on the team and reach the top. In order to improve, I have to face my fears: those discomforting activities. His advice also rings true in my head. Like an alarm clock, Coach woke me up to what I need to be successful. Not only 46 S ilent

does it relate to running, but to life in general.

I can remember one run in particular. It was a scorching day during the summer at the beginning of a new season: a new start. My feet dragged along, as if bricks had replaced my shoes. It was a Monday and everyone knows what that means…tempo run. A fast run that pushes your willpower to keep going even when you feel you can’t continue. We were underway and my body was a machine, feeling nothing. My movements were swift as Baxter Road flew by and Clarkson Road became my new enemy. For as far as my eyes could see were ascents that seemed unconquerable; my legs froze, begging me to stop, and I almost gave in. In the distance I saw Bryan and Nick. At that moment, the unmistakable image of our distinguished shepherd pulsed in my head. “Those who fear facing failure, seldom face success.” Instantly, my legs broke free of their shackles and I knew I had to continue. I couldn’t let obstacles stand in my way of reaching the success on the other side.

All my thoughts have stemmed from Coach and his words of wisdom. Before, I took his words for granted because I was a hotshot who thought I had the world at my fingertips, but as more people came into sight during races, a thought finally clicked.

My actions are the only ones that halt success and any unwillingness to push myself obstructs me from getting stronger, as both a runner and a person.

All the knowledge returned to me, like a cow prodded into a barn. My blindness to the vast resources I had been handed in order to succeed in life, little did I know, were already in the palm of my hands. I could use it at my will, whether it be for improving my self in running or in the classroom. -AR

A

colorful picture rests lightly on top of her tan skin. Around this mysterious work of art, the once clean skin blossomed into a deep red and purple. Encased in the colors of bruising, a rose lays on her right ankle. With a red flower, green stem, and five thorns, this rose symbolizes her independence. She could not keep her eyes off the new addition to her body. Glancing at the rose brought back the detailed memories of that long hour in the green chair.

The slight buzzing of the needle replayed itself over and over in her head, like a song. The scent of disinfectants and latex gloves lingered in her nose. She vividly remembers taking a deep breath when she saw the needle progress toward her thoroughly sanitized ankle. A sting spread throughout her entire body when the first mark was made near the heel of her foot. The immense pain made her question this decision. Would being permanently marked define me?

Would this experience lead to other conflict and disapproval? Would I like the image for the rest of my life? Still feeling the pain, there was no turning back.

To clear her mind, she took another deep breath and concentrated on what was happening. Momentarily, she was mesmerized by the up and down movement of the needle as it pressed into her skin. Focused on her surroundings, the pain faded with every stoke. Soon enough, the design was complete. AK S ilent

A Rose

Nelson Mandela http://www.stanford.edu/group/ccr/blog/release-1990.jpg

http://www.canarias7.es/blogs/losolvidados/nelson_mandela_return_to_cell.jpg

From the years 1948 to 1994, South Africa's black citizens were under the restricting and violent rules of the apartheid. According to apartheid, Blacks, Coloreds (people of mixed races), and Indians were not allowed to live near whites, vote, or be actual citizens of South America. Nelson Mandela, a political activist against the apartheid, followed the beliefs of Mahatma Gandhi and particiapated in non-violent resistances against the governement. Along with over 100 other activists, Nelson Mandela was arrested for treason against South Africa.

Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years. Although he was in prison for so long, the people of South Africa still saw him as one of the most important leaders in the fight for equality among all citizens of South Africa. When Mendela was released from prison, he negotioated with leaders of South Africa to hold a democratic election in 1994 for the presidency of the country. Mandela won the election and restored peace and equality in South Africa. http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/oct/14/bidding-war-nelson-mandela?rssid=20822

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That Doesn't Matter: Daisy's Perspective "You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”

I looked at Tom with a scowl on my face.

“Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.”

I stormed out of the room and Jay followed. Neither of us said a word until we reached the car.

“Give me your keys, Jay,” I demanded.

“Daisy, calm down for a minute.

Everything is going to be ok. It was just a small argument.”

“JAY, I want to drive! Give me your keys, now!”

“Do you even know how to drive?”

“That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what you say, or what Tom says, or what any man says, I’m still going to!”

He finally tossed the keys to me, at which point we got in his sporty yellow car, and I started the engine. As I pulled out of the parking lot, Jay explained how his car worked. I was too busy to listen and besides, it could take hours to learn all the functions of this car. I kept driving along and tension was lifted off my body. The conversation from the hotel room slowly drifted out of my mind. That feeling did not last for long.

Suddenly, Jay broke the silence.

“You love me more, I know you do.

You were just saying that you loved Tom because you didn’t want to hurt his feelings, right?”

“Jay, I’m not having this conversation again. Please stop.”

“No! I want to know. You know that I will do anything to make you happy. All I want to know is that you love me more than him and that you always will.”

I told him to stop but he kept insisting that we talk. We were now both yelling and I stopped concentrating on the road at the ash heaps, a disgusting waste of life.

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http://www.instablo

“Daisy, I think you should slow down now. You keep accelerating and now is not the time for that.”

“Jay, I can drive how I want. Maybe I want to go faster.”

Well, I did go faster, and faster, and faster. Jay’s face turned red in disgust.

Jay shouted, “Did you ever love him?”

I accelerated even more. So much frustration was built up inside of me and I wanted to scream. The truth was pounding in my head. I couldn’t keep pretending any more. I turned to Jay and shouted, “YES! I loved him!”

I was going to explain myself but as soon as I was done shouting at Jay, I heard a thump. I screamed and my foot jammed onto the accelerator until it touched the floor.

Something was under the car, and it felt like we just went over a large bump in the

ogsimages.com/images/2009/05/28/great-gatsby-rolls-royce_wV4Tm_48.jpg

road. But instead of just feeling a bump, I heard a crack.

“Jay, what was that?”

“Stop the car, Daisy!”

Jay turned around to look back at the road.

“Daisy, there is something laying in the road! You need to pull over!”

Why would I pull over? It was probably just an animal or something. There was no need to pull over. It would just waste time.

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“Daisy, I think it’s a person! We need to turn around. Maybe there is something we can do to help.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look back. Jay kept mumbling. I couldn’t stop. If it really was a person, what would happen to me?

We were both ok, the car was most likely ok, why stop? But what if someone saw us?

What if the car that only Jay Gatsby would own is re cognized? What if someone is following us right now?

Sticky and wet, sweat rolled off my face.

“Jay! What are we going to do?” I shrieked.

“You need to pull over, now!”

“I can’t! Do you know what could hap- pen to me if anyone finds out? My reputa- tion could be ruined. How can we cover this up?”

Tears were running down my face, but he just wanted me to pull over. That’s not happen ing. I kept drivi- ng until we finally reached Jay’s house. When we arrived, we sat in his driveway, speechless.

After what seemed like hours, He broke the silence by saying, “If this is traced back to my car, I can say that I was driving. I can say that it was dark and I couldn’t see anything. I will say I thought it was an animal so there was no need to stop the car.”

That plan might actually work. I would be innocent.

-AK

Death of Marat Painting by: Jacques-Louis David

Words express your ideal, Freedom, a Revolution.

Words of terror, rebellion, change, Too much for Girondists to handle.

Hiding in the sewers like a coward, But still writing, protesting.

Hiding the hunger for control, Too much power.

The need for change increases, With struggles for power in France.

The need for violence increases, As the Jacobin take over.

With power comes violence, Deaths, murders.

With your power comes your death And your unread Letter.

-MP

During the French Revolution, the moderate Girondists and the extreme Jacobins both struggled to overthrow the failing French Monarchy. In the ruling body of France, the small majority of wealthy aristocrats comprised over 2/3s of the ruling body. The average citizens, struggling through a depressed economy and horrible living standards, had no representation over their country. The people revolted. The Girondist party represented the middle class population and they fought for a moderate revolution, but the Jacobin party fought for complete overthrow and revolution. Jean Paul Marat, a journalist, started the newspaper L'Ami du Peuple, the friend of the people, that reported a very issonant liberalDand revolutionary side of the news. While he hid in the sewers to protect his life, Marat

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/aa/Death_of_Marat_by_David.jpg

What happens if last words Dis In Te Grate Unheard Unfelt Ineffective.

If tired lips slowly close with words still Stuck To the tongue If last wishes float Into the air No one is around to listen.

What if your final decrees Are smothered by machines Cut off by cries and screams Marat’s letter, ignored in desperation, In grief, fury, Disintegrates Falls into blood.

-HB

contracted a painful skin disease that forced him to spend most of his time in a warm bath. One day Marat sat upstairs writing from his tub, a Girondist Charlotte Corday tricked her way into his home by saying she was a Jacobin sympathizer. Once upstairs, Corday stabbed Marat and silenced one of the bitterest voices of the revolution. The Jacobins used this event as justification to begin the bloody Reign of Terror, during which thousands of people were convicted of sedition with a false trial and executed by guillotine. Marat’s writing incensed the people into blind fury and his death caused the death of thousands. A rebellion that began with intentions of creating a more representative D issonant government ended with thousands of innocent civilians dead.

http://www.newscientist.com/blog/lastword/2008/11/track-challenge.html

Expect the Expected I leap out of bed, nearly wetting my pants from the sound of my alarm clock. It read 7:30. In the morning. On a Saturday. This is how every weekend begins from August to November and March to May. I put my lucky sports bra on, then my red shorts, blue spandex top, and the team shirt. Walking into the kitchen, I find my mom already making pancakes without the maple syrup that only slows me down. I skip brushing my teeth, like always, and braid my bangs into a clean, perfect ponytail. I grab my bag and latch my giant yellow watch to my wrist as I walk out the door. With various Linkin Park songs blasting at full volume in my car, I race down Mason Road,

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trying to get to school on time.

The bus is waiting for us when we all get there, like always. Coach Sander, sipping his always-in-hand Slurpee, waits outside for the last of us to hop on. There’s only one baton in the coach’s bag this time. Normally we would bring a baton for every relay. This time we only needed one.

Almost every spot open, I sit by myself and immediately blast my pump-up music again and anxiously wait until the bus pulls up to Central’s track. As soon as we arrive, the four of

us jog to the bathrooms, stretch in complete, awkward silence, do our dynamics, and go to the bathroom again.

Four days before, I was attempting to leap over hurdles with the rest of the JV crew. My season was done. I ran my last race and was ready to prepare for the upcoming cross-country season.

Easily earning medals and dominating my other JVers, I coasted in track. I worked hard, of course; in fact, I worked my ass off, but I never had to actually worry about a race before. Not like now, when I have something to prove.

I knew there was the slight chance that I could keep going. That I could run one more race, but it was only talk, a rumor. The slight chance came true after practice was almost over. I had to sprint to catch up to the other girls, my new 4x800 team, who had just left for their run after Sander told me the news.

In a normal 4x800 meter race, the second fastest runner starts the race with the baton, then hands it off to the third fastest girl, who then hands it off to the slowest, and then the baton goes to the fastest girl, who makes up for the places lost by the others.

At the next practice, I could hear my teammates whisper questions when we all found out the order for the race: Claire, Laura, Jordan, and me, the slowest. I could feel the stares and confused expressions plastered on their faces. Was this some sort of joke? I knew I was improving, but there was no way to shed over ten seconds off my time, like the coaches wanted me to. And the others knew it too.

But Sander believed in me, which is why he put me as the last runner instead of Claire. My teammates, however, did not believe in me. They knew I couldn’t do it, that I got lucky with my quick times and quick improvements. Everyday they would ask if Sander was serious, if the order was right. It was.

We finished stretching on the track at the 300 mark. My nerves set in and panic hit me head-on like a freight train. It was time to jog up to the starting line. Sweats off, and we’re ready to go.

I stretch and jump in the air as high as I possibly can to stay loose while Claire starts the race.

All we needed was fourth place to qualify for sectionals. We could do it. I knew we could. The gun went off and so did Claire. As she rounded the last corner and came to the final

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stretch of her last lap, we were in fourth, just as everyone had hoped. The baton then went to Laura, who kept our place and handed the baton off to Jordan. Everything and everyone was running smoothly until Jordan came up on her last lap. Two hundred meters to go and suddenly we’re in sixth place. It wasn’t until after the race that I found out that Jordan fell, tripped by another girl hungry for our fourth place. But I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know what place we were in. I just wanted to run my race.

I did my last jump to stay loose as Jordan came down the 100 meter stretch. This was it. This was my moment. I clutch my watch as I wait in line, waiting for my turn to get the baton.

Fifty more meters. My heart’s already pounding and I feel like I’m about to throw up all over the track. I stretch out my arms and begin sprinting when I feel the baton in my hands.

This is it. I run as fast as I can, trying to catch up to another girl, trying to prove that I can compete. But no one’s around. I finish my first lap too slow, gasping for air and the will to hold on. The backstretch of the second lap hits me. I close my eyes to avoid the pain as my legs continue to get heavier and heavier and I continue to run slower and slower. It’s over. I come around the last curve to the home stretch. We’ve already lost our spot, our place needed to qualify for sectionals. I reach the finish line in a disappointing 2:46, more than five seconds slower than my best time.

Trying to maintain stability and not collapse on the track, I find Sander moments after the race. I did fine, he said. A little slower than he had hoped, but I did fine. Just fine.

I didn’t want to do fine. I wanted to do amazing. I wanted the unexpected to happen. I wanted to prove my teammates wrong. But I didn’t.

Ever since I set my personal record in the 800, Sander expected me to improve every time I raced.

I had to run with girls who ran at least ten seconds faster than my best time and they wouldn’t let me forget it. I wasn’t ready. I now know the unexpected doesn’t always happen when you want it to. I know my limitations, restrictions, what I can really do. I can still try my hardest, aiming for unreachable goals, but I know that dreams don’t always come true, and that’s okay. I’ll just train harder, run faster, and never give up.

-MP

38 Saw Murder Didn't Call The Police

By Martin Gansberg

For more than half an hour 38

respectable, law-abiding citizens in Queens watched a killer stalk and stab a woman in three separate attacks in Kew Gardens.

Twice their chatter and the sudden glow of their bedroom lights interrupted him and frightened him off. Each time he returned, sought her out, and stabbed her again. Not one person telephoned the police during the assault; one witness called after the woman was dead.

That was two weeks ago today.

Still shocked is Assistant Chief Inspector Frederick M. Lussen, in charge of the borough's detectives and a veteran of 25 years of homicide investigations. He can give a matterof-fact recitation on many murders. But the Kew Gardens slaying baffles him--not because it is a murder, but because the "good people" failed to call the police.

"As we have reconstructed the crime," he said, "the assailant had three chances to kill this woman during a 35-minute period. He

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"Not one person telephoned the police during the assult; one witness called after the woman was dead." returned twice to complete the job. If we had been called when he first attacked, the woman might not be dead now."

This is what the police say happened at 3:20 A.M. in the staid, middle-class, tree-lined Austin Street area: Twenty-eight-year-old Catherine Genovese, who was called Kitty by almost everyone in the neighborhood, was returning home from her job as manager of a bar in Hollis. She parked her red Fiat in a lot adjacent to the Kew Gardens Long Island Railroad Station, facing Mowbray Place. Like many residents of the neighborhood, she had parked there day after day since her arrival from Connecticut a year ago, although the railroad frowns on the practice.

She turned off the lights of her car, locked the door, and started to walk the 100 feet to the entrance of her apartment at 82-70 Austin Street, which is in a Tudor building, with stores in the first floor and apartments on the second.

Genovese, now trying to make her way around the side of the building by the parking lot to get to her apartment. The assailant stabbed her again.

"I'm dying!" she shrieked. "I'm dying!"

The entrance to the apartment is in the rear of the building because the front is rented to retail stores. At night the quiet neigborhood is shrouded in the slumbering darkness that marks most residential areas.

Miss Genovese noticed a man at the far end of the lot, near a seven-story apartment house at 82-40 Austin Street. She halted. Then, nervously, she headed up Austin Street toward Lefferts Boulevard, where there is a call box to the 102nd Police Precinct in nearby Richmond Hill.

She got as far as a street light in front of a bookstore before the man grabbed her. She screamed. Lights went on in the 10-story apartment house at 82-67 Austin Street, which faces the bookstore. Windows slid open and voices punctuated the early-morning stillness.

Miss Genovese screamed: "Oh, my God, he stabbed me! Please help me! Please help me!"

From one of the upper windows in the apartment house, a man called down: "Let that girl alone!"

The assailant looked up at him, shrugged, and walked down Austin Street toward a white sedan parked a short distance away. Miss Genovese struggled to her feet.

Lights went out. The killer returned to Miss

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Windows were opened again, and lights went on in many apartments. The assailant got into his car and drove away. Miss Genovese staggered to her feet. A city bus, 0-10, the Lefferts Boulevard line to Kennedy International Airport, passed. It was 3:35 A.M. The assailant returned. By then, Miss Genovese had crawled to the back of the building, where the freshly painted brown doors to the apartment house held out hope for safety.

The killer tried the first door; she wasn't there.

At the second door, 82-62 Austin Street, he saw her slumped on the floor at the foot of the stairs. He stabbed her a third time--fatally.

It was 3:50 by the time the police received their first call, from a man who was a neighbor of Miss Genovese. In two minutes they were at the scene. The neighbor, a 70-year-old woman, and another woman were the only persons on the street. Nobody else came forward.

The man explained that he had called the police after much deliberation. He had phoned a friend in Nassau County for advice and then he had crossed the roof of the building to the apartment of the elderly woman to get her to make the call.

"I didn't want to get involved," he sheepishly told police.

Six days later, the police arrested Winston Moseley, a 29-year-old business machine operator, and charged him with homicide. Moseley had no previous record. He is married, has two children and owns a home at 133-19 Sutter Avenue, South Ozone Park, Queens. On Wednesday, a court committed him to Kings County Hospital for psychiatric observation.

When questioned by the police, Moseley also said he had slain Mrs. Annie May Johnson, 24, of 146-12 133d Avenue, Jamaica, on Feb. 29 and Barbara Kralik, 15, of 174-17 140th Avenue, Springfield Gardens, last July. In the Kralik case, the police are holding Alvin L. Mitchell, who is said to have confessed to that slaying.

The police stressed how simple it would have been to have gotten in touch with them. "A phone call," said one of the detectives, "would have done it." The police may be reached by dialing "0" for operator or Spring 7-3100.

Today witnesses from the neighborhood, which is made up of one-family homes in the $35,000 to $60,000 range with the exception of the two apartment houses near the railroad station, find it difficult to explain why they didn't call the police.

A housewife, knowingly if quite casually, said, "We thought it was a lovers' quarrel." A husband and wife both said, "Frankly, we were afraid." They seemed aware of the fact that events might have been different. A distraught woman, wiping her hands in her apron, said, "I didn't want my husband to get involved."

One couple, now willing to talk about that

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night, said they heard the first screams. The husband looked thoughtfully at the bookstore where the killer first grabbed Miss Genovese.

"We went to the window to see what was happening," he said, "but the light from our bedroom made it difficult to see the street."

The wife, still apprehensive, added: "I put out the light and we were able to see better."

Asked why they hadn't called the police, she shrugged and replied: "I don't know."

A man peeked out from a slight opening in the doorway to his apartment and rattled off an account of the killer's second attack. Why hadn't he called the police at the time? "I was tired," he said without emotion. "I went back to bed."

It was 4:25 A.M. when the ambulance arrived to take the body of Miss Genovese. It drove off.

"Then," a solemn police detective said, "the people came out."

38 people saw Catherine Genovese be attacked three different times and deliberately did not call the police. The reasoning behind everyone's choices was, "they didn't want to get involved," "we thought it was a lovers quarrel," and "I was too tired." The hesitances of these 38 people lead to the murder of Ms. Genovese. It would have been simple to call for help, but everyone choose to do nothing. -AK

Kent State University Shootings

http://www.virginiawestern.edu/faculty/vwhansd/HIS122/Images/KentState_dead4.jpg

In the 1970's, the US was in the midst of the Vietnam War and President Nixon promised to bring it to an end. But instead we invaded Cambodia. In protest, college students at Kent State University held an anti-war rally. The National Guard was called in to keep control of the rioting crowd. To everyone’s surprise, the guard began to shoot into the crowd killing and wounding some students and protesters. The rally had “failed” in the sense that little good came of what they were hoping to do.

We used it for the dissonant example, because it is one of the best examples of a failed rebellion.

http://www.psywarrior.com/KSnatguard.jpg

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Guest Bio

Loung Ung was born in 1970 in the city of Phnom Penh. Her family was of the middle class and consisted of 7 children, Loung being in the middle. When she was five, the Cambodian genocide began forcing the Ung’s out of their house.

Over the years, the family was moved to various work camps and four members were murdered by the Khmer Rouge soldiers. Once the genocide came to an end, Loung and her older brother escaped to America and started a new life to earn money for the family they had to leave behind in Cambodia.

Now, Loung is the successful author of First They Killed My Father and Lucky Child.

http://www.uic.edu/depts/owa/loungung.gif

Robert Francis was born on August 12, 1901 in Upland, Pennsylvania. He was the valedictorian at his high school and later graduated from Harvard in 1923. After grad school at Harvard, Francis moved to Amherst, Massachusetts to work on his writing. By teaching high school classes and violin lessons, Francis was able to continue writing and publish many volumes of poetry.

http://www.library.umass.edu/spcoll/umarmot/?page_id=974

Richard Connell was born on October 17, 1893 in New York and died November 22, 1949 of a heart attack.

He was an accomplished writer with many works such as novels, plays, short stories, and screenplays. “The Most Dangerous Game” is his most famous work and has remained popular since its publication because of its unique detail in adventure and suspense, a characteristic rare in short stories. http://www.spokenink.co.uk/img/authors/Connell.jpg

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graphies Yolanda Cornelia “Nikki” Giovanni as born on June 7, 1943 in Knoxville, Tennessee. Through her career, she has published many poetic pieces where she focuses on topics such as the African-American identity and cancer.

She is a lung cancer survivor. Through her career, she has earned many awards including 3 NAACP image awards in literature and the Langston Hughes award for Distinguished Contributions to Arts and Letters. As a college student she attended Fisk University, Columbia University, and University of Pennsylvania for graduate school.

http://charlotte.creativeloafing.com/gyrobase/Content?oid=61306

http://waffledesigns.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/martin-luther-king-jr.jpg

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was born on January 15, 1929. Leading marches, mobilizing people, and acting as a leader for peaceful civil disobedience, he is revered as the father of the Civil Rights Movement. King is also renowned for his speeches and writing. He delivered over 2500 speeches and published 5 books.

Using litotes and parallel structure, King was a rhetorical master. His most well known works include the “I Have a Dream” speech, and his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” King delivered “I Have a Dream” from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on August 28, 1963 before thousands of marchers. Sadly King was assassinated on April 4, 1968, but his legacy and words resonate throughout America today.

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Martin Gansberg was born in 1921 in Brooklyn, New York. He was a reporter for the New York Times and became famous for his article “38 Saw Murder, Didn’t Call the Police” in 1964.

Gansberg was married for 48 years to Agatha Miller and they had two children, Alan and Judith.

Works Cited Alwin, Virginia. “The Most Dangerous Game.” Currents in Fiction. New York: Macmillan Pub., 1974. Print. 39-58.

Book of Nonfiction. 2nd ed. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1983. Print. 96-99.

Carson, Clayborne. "Martin Luther King Biography, Timeline and Quick Facts." MLK Online - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Speeches, Pictures, Quotes, Biography, Videos, Information on MLK Day and More! Web. 16 Apr. 2010.

French Revolution Profiles." The New Book of Knowledge. Grolier, 2010. Web. 22 Apr. 2010.

"FRONTLINE: the Tank Man: the Memory of Tiananmen." PBS. WGBH Educational Foundation, 11 Apr. 2006. Web. 24 Apr. 2010.

Gansberg, Martin. "Martin Gansberg, 74, a Reporter And Editor for 43 Years at Times - Obituary; Biography NYTimes.com." The New York Times - Breaking News, World News & Multimedia. 04 May 1995. Web. 17 Apr. 2010.

"Garbage, Trash & Waste Facts - Solid Waste Management - Environmentalists Everyday." Solid Waste Management, America's Solid Waste Industry - Environmentalists Everyday - Green Waste Disposal, Landfills, Green Energy.

Environmental Industry Association, 2010. Web. 24 Apr. 2010.

Graham, Scott. "The March to Dandi." Emory University---English Department "Where Courageous Inquiry

Leads" 1998. Web. 24

Apr. 2010.

Greenfield, George. "Loung Ung : Activist, Author Loung Ung for Cambodia." Author of First They Killed My Father & Lucky Child.

A Cambodian Genocide Activist, and Lecturer. - Loung Ung. Loung Ung. Web. 17 Apr. 2010.

Haberman, Frederick W. "Martin Luther King - Biography." Nobelprize.org. 1972. Web. 16 Apr. 2010.

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