Images: A Literary & Visual Arts Magazine 2019 by dccpub

Student Editors: Gina Nedwick, Ryan Bell, Alex Thomas, Jay Hendrix, Nya Harrison, and Adam Reed. Student Designers: Patrick Alarcon, Trevena Antill ,Tara Bentel, Marry Billstone, Amanda Rose Binder, Nykia Chambers, Brittany Corcoran, C. Joshua Frye, Harbey Grajeda, Sara Hadskey, Emily Kaupp, Emerald Kenzie, Bradley Ledet, Alexis Mastrianni, Jamal McCorkle, Donovan Richardson, Waldina Santos, Xochilt Silva, Chelsy Wiley.

Faculty Advisors: Tedd Walley, Gina Ferrara, Sean Munro, Allie Mariano, Abbey Wallig, Robin Johnstone, Jen Kooken, Joseph Buckley, and Brett Evans. Acknowledgements: Thank you, Dr. Sarwar, Interim Vice Chancellor of Academic Affairs, for your continued support of the magazine and Delgado Reading Series. Thank you, Ronald Russo, Vice Chancellor of Business and Administrative Affairs, for authorizing funds for the contest and featured readers. Thank you, Dean Cosper, Dean of Communication, for your financial support and encouragement. Thank you, Dean Moore, Dean of Arts & Humanities, for your financial support and service. Thank you, Leslie Salinero, Publications Coordinator, for your time and patience organizing the printing of this magazine and event posters. Thank you, Tom Dawson, Michael Santos, & Kris LaMorte, for producing Delgado Reading Series’ featured readings in the

Timothy K. Baker Theatre. Thank you, Mason Joiner, Communication Division Champion Poet, for judging The Nason Smith Lit Prize. Most importantly, thank you to all the students who submitted this year. Without student submissions, we would have no magazine. Submissions: Delgado Community College’s Images: A Literary and Visual Arts Magazine seeks submissions from current Delgado students of original poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction as well as photos, paintings, and sketches. Please visit the submission portal: https://imagesmagazine. submittable.com/submit for instructions. Submissions open on the first day of class in the fall and close at the end of February in spring. Faculty Advisors’ Note: This literary and visual arts magazine is a student run magazine. It has been a tradition for students to design the cover and interior of the magazine and continues to be. You may notice this issue looks different than previous ones. It is. However, the difference isn’t just the size. For the first time, student editors selected submissions to be published and chose the cover art. We, the faculty advisors, look forward to continued student involvement in the editing and design of Images. If you’d like to become a student editor, please e-mail images@ dcc.edu to apply.

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Table of Contents 2019 Nason Smith Lit Prize Winner

2 Words / Red, White, and Blue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Keith Laurendine Jr.

Fiction Intersections. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Kathryn Montgomery Life Before Your Eyes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Victoria Pham A Common Thief.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Keith Laurendine Jr. The Passing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Stacey Brooks 2 Images 2019

Rebecca Spano Ugly.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Briana Charlton Unusual Feelings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Zachary Parulan Pools of Light. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Bethanie Cassard I Am From. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Nicole Anderson Ode to My Wife. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1 Wallace Timothy Insomnia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Queen X Mirage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Marianne Doyle

ARTWORK BY: [ Amanda Rose Binder ]

Poems Surgical Astrologist & Your Guts are My Thesis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Non-Fiction Wombs of Origin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Kayla Judy The Best Decision. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 J. Diego Tongue Like Baby Moses. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Shaina Kaye

Interview with J. Bruce Fuller. . .................................. 32 David Cook Memorial. . ..........................................35 Contributer Bios...................................................37 Designer Bios......................................................39

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his is the inaugural year of The Nason Smith Lit Prize. This prize will be offered yearly and awarded to a Delgado student with exceptional literary talent. The Nason Smith Lit Prize includes publication & acknowledgement in Images, a $100 award, 10 broadsides posted around campus, and 2 broadsides given to the winner. Nason Smith was a faculty member and exceptional literary talent who passed in 2016. He was a devoted Grateful Dead listener so a quote from the song, “Box of Rain,” seems fitting: “Such a long, long time to be gone / And a short time to be there.” The 2019 prize is awarded to a poet. In 2020, The Nason Smith Lit Prize will be awarded to a short fiction writer. There is no entry fee, and this year’s judge is Mason Joiner, an English faculty member. Judge’s Commentary: “2 Words / Red, White, and Blue” combines a propelling rhythm, internal and end rhyme, sharp language, colorful microimagery, and restrained, economic phrasing. Though, on the surface, the poem is jocular in tone, anger

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and melancholy surely lurk beneath, and its pacing reflects the mechanical, periodic routine of its subject: the wearying tedium inundating the beleaguered American labor force and the cyclical, change-repellent landscape of American social politics, including racial injustice, class division, and broken promises. The effect is a subtle harmony between craft and theme. In the end, the poet calls on his readers’ steadfast hope, self-education, and vocal engagement to cure the toils and torments of those disadvantaged by discrimination and poverty. In four quatrains of well-metered tetrameter, the poem is written in a simple, structured form with contagious rhythm and a reliable, often highly creative rhyme scheme. Flashes of concrete imagery pervade though never enough to derail the poem’s forward momentum. With several instances of clever, powerful wordplay, “2 Words / Red, White, and Blue” is a strong, smart anthem for those Americans feeling squashed under the system’s thumb, who will not lie down.

The 2019 Nason Smith Lit Prize

2 Words / Red, White, and Blue. The 2019 Nason Smith Lit Prize Winner Keith Laurendine Jr.

Two words, red folk, news flash, dead broke. New cash, too fast, news flash, dead folk. Two words, whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s changed? Not much, gold chains. One son, one cop, one shot? Close range. Two words, white folk, fat pockets, lypo, Built rockets, make guns, no funds, tight ropes. Two words, make money. Boss man? Take money, Take land, take love. No milk. No honey. Two words, blue folk, new slaves, new choke. New hounds, new sounds, new clowns, same joke. Two words, tooth-ache. Stop lying! truth-ache. Same rules, same fools, same laws? New day. Two words, black folk, stay strong, impactful. Knowledge has no edge, love God, stack hope. One sun, one moon, few stars, new worlds. Long talks, full pages, all you need is two words.

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Surgical Astrologist

Rebecca Spano

ye look upon me with chagrin: that has no place in medicine! Science and occult may flirt like a straight man wears a pink shirt

I spotted an ad on a car: “Visiting Angels”—what for? If they visit me then I guarantee they’ll end up in specimen jars

[ Trevena Antill ]

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Your Guts Are My Thesis

Ugly

Briana Charlton

The ugly things are easy to forget. They huddle quietly on sides of roads, crumble sadly on edges of train tracks, making no noise, too used to being ignored to remember to cry for help. They hold up signs in cracking hands, or with rusted nails, bearing the only identity they will ever have because they are the ugly things on the skirts of human attentionâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;unattractive, dirty, broken, shattered, unfortunate little pinpricks that do not bleed red enough to be noticed or mended.

[ Harbey ,Grajeda ]

When did we decide they were unworthy of care, and who are we to make that decision? We built them once, loved them, rooted for themâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;we can build them up again. But instead we are content to leave them be the glare in our eyes. Why? Because they are the ugly things in a world of mirrors, where people can only care to see themselves.

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Unusual Feelings

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I feel the softness of my hair around my fingers. I feel defected when I’m criticized of being forgetful like I do it on purpose. I feel like people shouldn’t vote or participate in protests for the sake of it. I feel the thin layer of grease on my forehead. I feel expressive when around my close friends more than my family. I feel the hard chair reminding me of my non-existent ass. I feel happy as a dog waging its tail when I see her, but a bit depressed when thinking of her. I feel the warm, soothing purring on my chest, then slight stings on my limbs from my cat. I feel like mental health should be a concern more often than physical health. I feel lonely, but try to grow numb to it to avoid desperation. I feel the hot, sugary tea flowing over my tongue. I feel it coming in the air tonight, Phil. I feel it running down my throat, Mr. Wonka. I feel it around me; here, between the tree, the rock, the land, and the ship, Master Yoda. I feel it when I go to work… when I go to church… when I pay my taxes, Morpheus. I feel it now, Mr. Krabs.

ARTWORK BY: [ Shia Cole ]

Zachary Parulan

Pools of Light

Bethanie Cassard

Photography BY: [ Harbey Grajeda ]

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s midnight. The moon is full and bright overhead. You stand atop a bridge overlooking a small subdivision. The streetlights bright, as bright as their bulbs will allow. The clouds have sunken. Fog is settling, spottily blanketing here and there. The lights shine underneath these patches, giving the illusion of pools of light in the dark of midnight. Floating bodies of light over the sleepy neighborhood. Mysterious, majestic, motionless, until dawn, when the pools no longer hover here and there; their light out-shined by the grandness of the sun. Depressed at the loss of their magnificence, they sink to the ground and die. Their remnants only visible for a few hours, until the sun decides that the dead clouds have been mourned plenty, and then like a magician, makes them disappear.

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I Am From

Nicole Anderson

I am from my Grandma’s sweet cornbread her yams and macaroni and cheese every single Sunday I am from “You better be in before those street lights come on!” I am from the Chattahoochee Creek that wide as the Red River Gorge (to my 12 year old mind) where Uncle Marshal leaned back in his cracked, red-faded-to-pink plastic beach chair his face upwards toward the sky, mouth wide open, snoring like all get out while me and my brother almost drowned when trying to slide down that thick, red Georgia clay into the fast moving current

I am from the dollar that he gave us, for picking up those greasy, red shop rags, at the end of the oppressive, hot and sticky Louisiana summer days. Those shop rags that were used to wipe the sweat and pain from his calloused, tired hands I am from “I’m gonna show you what ‘NO’ means, right across your butt!” I am from middle-of-the-night neighborhood adventures when my sister and I snuck out the bathroom window after everyone had fallen asleep.

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I am from the jerry-rigged fence in the backyard, where Pawpaw worked on cars to support his wife, daughters and grandchildren

Ode To My Wife Wallace Timothy

May your pain subside Under darkened eyes and blackened skies. Lay your burden down by the bedside. The day has passed on, Its grip has been slipped. Pass gentle into that good night. Let your worries abate, Each morning, new

possibilities await. Sleep brings temporary relief. Change your only constant. Lesions block, myelin erodes, Every day, everywhere, Riddling your perfect form. Oh, how you long to lash out! Silently you suffer. I know your pain, Steadfastly I stand with you.

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Insomnia

Queen X

We are living in dome, in a bubble Force Fed lies, hoaxes, tricks, and illusions I have made the conclusion that this place is not our home We are in trouble… Like purebred stock, we flock to our abusers, and embrace our accusers Stained in blood, covered in bruises Not asking enough questions and buying their excuses See their message is very lucid… REAL EYES, realize how they lie and throw us bones to subside the things that they hide in plain sight So we take flight in the wrong direction, repping different sets in the same section No protection from them, not protected by us It’s a bust, we trust, but don’t discuss what we do to us Why we won’t build up There’s a book that they’ve taken, now religion has awakened A beast that feasts on my ignorance

But hey, I believe there’s God, and religion’s dead And inner-demons in my head Can’t conquer me, I don’t fear red But I fear our extinction Because, we are force fed, thoroughbred, misled, and left for dead…

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It’s a mirage, a facade, they leave pictures in our minds Wool over our eyes to keep us blind But the light peeks through and brings a new day If we pray we won’t be prey that’s what they say

Mirage

Marianne Doyle

The wind bit like a snake releasing a fatal strike Exposed skin raw from the wind He traveled Deep into the night the moon looming above mocking him Each step took force, a force to which his body was losing Days have passed Moons and suns have risen and fallen The wind biting never relenting The mocking of the silence begins His vision lulled him with mirages Each a promise of an end, of a drink, of a familiarity Eyes blurry from lack of sleep and filled with sand He trudges onward. Then the biting wind stops The air stood as still as church on weekday What is that sound? That madding sound! His eyes moved back and forth furiously like bee trying to get out of a closed window It was breath, the breathing of low raspy feral being, fighting to live He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know when his knees hit the sand or when his eyes became glued open A figure stood dark and hooded An arm points to an oasis The man stands strength returned a new beginning, he walks tall and strong Each step a stride towards the oasis Not noticing that, The wind that bit like a snake releasing its fatal strike Only struck the figure watching over his body.

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Intersections

Kathryn Montgomery

eaming lights from every direction invade the line of vision of young Cyrus Eves. He’s always liked finding himself entering busy cities. Surrounding yourself with people but never actually interacting with anyone was a curious thought to him. He takes in “the biggest little city in the world” one building at a time, searching for something that will spark a creative flow. He has been abnormally somber lately and hadn’t been able to create in months. This eats away at him. On the corner of the opposite side of the street, he spots a homemade jewelry booth, and without realizing it his feet start to lead him there. Junah Harris has had a knack for making jewelry since she was a young girl. Although it has never really been a passion of hers, she loves the fun of selling it on the streets. The same cluttered city that engulfs Cyrus, is her home. She made her way to Reno shortly after the murder of her parents. And throughout the time she had made this place her home, the overwhelming grief in her mind has slowly become bearable. Still, the same name lingers in her thoughts as it does every night. “Jose” she whispers to herself. This outburst snaps her back to reality and she looks up to greet a greasy young boy approaching her booth. 14 Images 2019

“Well hey there.” She calls out with a smirk. …no response. “Say, are you alright?” “FUCK OFF.” he shouts, but never looks at her. Only at the variety of crystals and rocks wrapped in wire that lay across the table. “Yeah okay, so you want to buy something or not, pal?” “This one.” He points to a small piece of wrapped malachite attached to a long piece of leather string. “You’ve got good taste; your bad attitude doesn’t go well with it.” She retorts. “13 bucks.” He rustles in his bag and pulls out a rock painted of the Colorado mountains. “trade?” Eyeballing him confused she asks, “You made this?” she takes it out of his hands and stares at it with amazement. This wasn’t a traditional painting, it

seemed that it was made with clay and dirt which made it more wonderful in her eyes. “Yes, my work.” He stares at his shoes, he had felt self-conscious. No one had ever taken a minute to looks at his artwork closely. “Yes, trade.” She smirked up at him, placing the gem in his hand. “Your work is amazing. Where ya from kid?” She could tell he didn’t have direction or home, but she felt connected to him and wanted to know as much as he would tell her. With that comment he felt warm and lit up like never before. He could feel her eyes, her soul reaching out to him. He didn’t know anything about this woman, but there was something about her that he felt safe with. “Nowhere really, family is not something I know about.” He swore he’d never tell anyone about his life, but it slipped out so easily in the presence of her.

“I’m packing up soon, you’re welcome to come along for a bite to eat if you help carry.” “Uh-sur-Sure, yes okay. I would like that.” He was unsure of the new territory he was crossing, but he was ready to test the waters. This was the beginning of the greatest bond either of them would ever experience. They are both now back at Junah’s hotel room finishing up the dinner that consisted of turkey sandwiches and mac n’ cheese. Plowing through basic small talk and ping ponging personal questions off each other, they both had learned quite a bit about one other. Cyrus found that Junah had watched her parents be killed by a ruthless man named Jose and that she wanted to publish a book about her life. As Junah discovered that Cyrus has no recollection of a family marking him as a nomad since he could remember, and that he craves to find more people that accept and show interest in his art. “You know, I’ve never had this.” Cyrus says. “Well me neither, even before my parents were gone, I never had a real grip on reality. There was never room for me back then.” “So why not now?” “Why not what?”

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“Your book, Why not now?” “Well you see, life just hasn’t slowed down enough for me to get started. And I’m my book would be missing something if I wrote it now.” “What’s that?” He says through a bite of mac. “I need to find Jose, I just want to look into his eyes. I want to stand in the wake of that bastard because may- maybe then I can get some closure. And that moment needs to be in my book.” Tears fall down her cheeks. “That sounds like you would need someone around when that happens. I could be with you if you wanted it to be that way.” He pipes up when these words come out of his mouth. The thought excites him just to speak it out loud. “I don’t ever really have anything going on.” She chuckles and pulls his hands into hers. “I would love nothing more than for you to be by my side from this point

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on. In fact, since you’re willing to help me out I want to do the same for you. I want you to sell your art at my booth, people will love it I promise.” His face represents his happiness and relief. “Yes Junah, I will. I never knew what family was but maybe you can be mine.” They both smile at each other as they say goodnight. Simultaneously they jump in to the beds that are parallel to each other in the hotel. They have been to sleep many times, but neither with a sense of hope. Tonight, was different, tonight they were drifting off with family by their side. “Tomorrow we will be anything we want, but we will be it together” Junah whispers as she turns out the light.

ARTWORK BY: [ Rebecca Grenn ]

Life Before Your Eyes

ur eyes met.

She has brown locks that reached down her back. I could see her smiling from the corner where I sat. I saw us, walking hand in hand down the pier at night, bundled up in our favorite sweaters and warm clothes. We share our first kiss. And the dates were endless: parks, movie nights, dinners. Time quickly pass and we have our first fight in the living room of my apartment. Words were thrown and doors were shut. We didn’t think we’d make it. Tears burn against our cheeks but we embraced, melting the ice freezing our skin.

Victoria Pham

The day we marry is the happiest moment of my life. Getting piss poor wasted before running off to catch our flight to, as she says, “happily ever after”. A resounding cry echoed in the hospital room. Our first-born is a baby boy. He became everything we ever wished for. Our little girl is always daddy’s little princess. In a blink of an eye, she’s laying in the hospital bed, weakly reaching out to us for her last farewell. It all came crashing down. She left.

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A Common Thief

Keith Laurendine

orses galloped along the tree line, leaving craters between the rocks and the grass. The songs of horns and war drums blasted through the forest and foot soldiers howled in the same tune. The chase has begun. Their prey, a common thief, stumbled through the bushes and leaped over an army of ants. His breath was heavy and short. The sweat on his forehead dripped and spelled out the word afraid. He clinched a glass bottle between his fingers so tightly it could shatter. Inside the bottle was a rolled up piece of paper whose contents were unknown but priceless none the less. “This is the key to my salvation.” he thought to himself “and my family will be free.” The horns sang in the empty air as if they were laughing at his pathetic escape route. Just as he leaped over a low hanging tree branch an arrow zipped past his ear nearly ripping it off. Then another arrow and another. One arrow was so close to hitting its target it grazed the thief’s arm and the bottle slipped through his fingers. It bounced and rolled and bounced and rolled until it landed in a nearby stream. The thief gathered his footing and anxiously searched the area. His brain began to freeze and his heart pounded like the echo of a war drum. “Oh Maria, I’m so sorry.” he whispered, “I thought that I could save you.” 18 Images 2019

A twinkle of light danced across the corner of his eye. He raced through the bushes and followed the light to a flowing stream. He saw the bottle bobbing up and down in the water like bait for a fish. His eyes began to shine with excitement. The paper inside the bottle flirtatiously waved to him like a seductive goddess. He smiled and staggered across the water with blood dripping down his arm to his hand. His bloody fingers wrapped around the bottle and he stared into it. With a sigh of relief he took a step forward, towards freedom. But the final arrow darted between the trees and pierced his chest. He fell to his knees and then to his back. “Maria” he called out. “I hope one day… you find freedom.” The thief searched for freedom his entire life. Now, with his dying breath, he searched for the sky hidden behind the treetops while the horns and war drums celebrate his defeat.

The Passing

ven as a child, I could always sense when something was about to go wrong. Early September 1973 was a melancholy time for my mother. I can close my eyes and see myself, a chubby pecan brown-skinned little girl with wide eyes. My mother would say as she called me to her side, “Oh look at my big eyed-baby girl,” with laughter in her voice. Lately, mother hadn’t smiled much. It had been a long time since I had heard her hearty, happy laughter in the background of our big, echoing house. She wore her mourning like a heavy coat. It was as if her heart had been ripped out of her chest, and I watched it take years for her to get it pushed back inside, but still, it was always lopsided. Strangely, the big noisy house was loud with silence. There was no T.V. or radio playing. You could only hear the dancing of the summer and fall winds through the crack of the window. Back then, I could see the seasons changing, and when the shells on the pecans would peel open on the pecan tree in our yard, that meant that mother would be making sweet pecan pies, pralines, and pecan shortbread cookies for us. For the last couple of weeks, we had seen a lot of visitors. I had noticed that everyone who came over seemed to whisper as they talked to my mother. It was almost as if, had they spoken loudly, it would have

Stacey Brooks hurt her in some way. Under these circumstances, Mother just sat on the end of the big pink and green, paisley, print plushy sofa that swallowed you up when you sat on it in the living room watching us, my sister and I, color in our Barbie doll coloring books. Nevertheless, on this particular day, our visitor was cheery and loud with a deep raspy voice.

"I could still hear him, loud like a speaker on the radio, voice shaky with no stops between his words." He stood about six feet tall, and had on a long, clear wind coat like a shower curtain. He was very fidgety, like he had to use the restroom in a hurry. “Hey, Auntie Shirley, how are you feeling?” Mother replied, very low and nonchalant, “Hey, Cochise.” He answered back happily, “Um, can I talk with you about something?” My mother looked at him with the same eyes in my head and said in a disgusted tone, “What do you need baby?” Then, she got up from the

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sofa, and I watched as he followed her down the dark brown, wood hallway, like they were fading into a tunnel. I inconspicuously followed Mother and this unknown. I could still hear him, loud like a speaker on the radio, voice shaky with no stops between his words. They entered her bedroom and as soon as my mother flicked the light switch, Cochise asked his question. “Yes, Auntie, I wanted to know what you’re going to do with Uncle Dave clothes.” Just at that moment, I could see my mother’s soft, angelic face turn hard and monstrous. I was frightened. When she answered him, her words came out powerful and penetrating. “What, this is why you came over here, to get my husband clothes?” Cochise replied like a little boy, “Yes ma’am.” My mother was silent, and her head slowly sank, like she had no control over it. Then she answered him in a fragile voice, “My husband hasn’t been gone two weeks.”

"These suits and shoes were still scented with my father’s spirit." Her shoulders dropped and she broke down crying, the same way I had watched her cry in front of that box where my father had lain. She looked at me and shooed me away, saying “Baby, gone to the front.” I turned and walked down that dark hallway, taking baby steps, as if it would have been my last time seeing my mother’s face. I didn’t 20 Images 2019

want to leave her with that man who had caused her so much pain. After a couple of steps, the door closed. I could only hear mumbling then. I wasn’t quite down the hall when suddenly, the door flew open, and Cochise came out of the room like a fox chasing a rabbit. He said his good-byes to the air, not making eye-contact with anyone, as he ran out of the hollow front door. My mother finally came out of the room and sat back on the sofa as before. I don’t quite remember how long it took her to smile, but she did, and that hearty, happy laughter filled our big, echoing house once again. As an adult now, I can relate to the connection that my mother had with her husband’s clothes. My father was a well dressed man. He wore his Brooks Brothers suits with pride and sophistication. Only the finest went on his feet, and Rubenstein’s shoe department was his amusement park. My mother wanted this ride to continue. I don’t know if Cochise realized it on that day, but he quickly found out. However, Cochise didn’t know that my father’s clothes were more than pieces of fabric that made you look and feel good. These suits and shoes were still scented with my father’s spirit. Mother was not ready to let go of his soul. I have no doubt that Cochise meant no harm, but he was not aware of his own selfishness on that breezy, early September day in 1973.

Wombs of Origin Kayla Judy

s I kneeled in the water in the dimly lit room, surrounded by faithful attendants, time moved slower than usual as I breathed and moaned through another pain. It all started this morning with the sight of blood. I was relieved to see it; tomorrow would be my mother’s birthday and I couldn’t do it then. It had to be today.

[ Emerald, Kenzie; Sara Hadskey]

When I first shared the news with her she replied with a morose “Oh no, that’s not good.” You would think I was finding out I was pregnant at sixteen again from that reply. But, alas, here I was thirty and married, in the process of starting my own business. My feet were more firmly planted on the ground... weren’t they? It wasn’t really her fault I suppose. She had suffered deep scars in her early life. Raised by a mother that struggled alone with her mental health as her husband drank himself into a stupor and violently lashed out at her and their oldest son, Richard. I was eleven when she first began revealing these truths to me. Originally, I felt special, as though I was the only one she could expose these intimate secrets to. She could see that I could harbor her truths, even at eleven… right?

of the concrete slab in the backyard of my father’s childhood home, the home that my parents now owned. The tire swing my sister and I played on hung languidly on the tree whose branches stretched their arms to cover us, blocking out most of the view of the night sky. But tonight there was no time to search the sky anyway; there were secrets to my mother’s life to explore. Little did I know just how significant this night would be. I had never met her parents. Her mother had died from ovarian cancer while I was growing in my own

“I had never met her parents. Her mother had died from ovarian cancer while I was growing in my own mother’s womb.” mother’s womb. Her father had left long before her mother became sick. He had left to marry the woman he maintained a decades long affair with while still married to her mother.

We sat outside on the old, wooden porch swing that hung over the side Delgado Community College 21

Eventually over the years, I would learn that his leaving is what led my mother to marry my father so young- sixteen when she moved into this very home with him and my grandparents; they married six months later when she was seventeen. But these were not the secrets she would reveal tonight. Tonight’s secrets were far more sinister, more earthshattering, more heartbreaking. This was one of my earliest memories of puzzling together the realities of existing as a woman, learning of the things we have to fear. My mother confided in me her most shameful secret, the one from which she could

“But, you see, the shame was not her own, although she carries it around with her the way a man carries around an old, expired condom shoved in his wallet.” never escape and neither could any of us that loved her. But, you see, the shame was not her own, although she carries it around with her the way a man carries around an old, expired condom shoved in his wallet. You forget about it just enough to never tend to the business of throwing it out, but it’s still there affecting the very shape of the wallet that sits in your back pocket and presses against your flesh as you go on about your day: in the car on your commute 22 Images 2019

to work as music plays and you chainsmoke cigarettes; at work as you sit at your desk working too hard in the hopes of validation; at home as you sink into bed immediately after a bath because you’ve got a migraine again; besides, you don’t want to run the risk of being pressured into fulfilling any “wifely duties” tonight. “It went on for years” she said. Her brother would sneak into her room at night, the oldest, Richard, the one their father reserved his harshest cruelties for. She would reveal to me that her mother doted on him; I can only suppose this was a result of the shared bond they had being on the receiving end of her father’s most violent abuse. Over the years she would reveal more details of her childhood and I soaked them all up like a sponge. I just knew I could make this better for her; after all, that was surely why she had chosen me as her confidante, right? When her parents caught him in her room one night, she was around the age I was, eleven, when she first opened these suppressed stories to me. Her parents did try to seek help, only they forgot to seek help for her. Her brother was sent to a therapist and eventually she fought him off herself during the daylight, as her father was right outside mowing the lawn. I remember that story so vividly that I have imagined the colors, smells, and textures that swirled around her as she grabbed a lamp and slung it at him, yelling, standing in her strength for that moment in time. But he had already taken so very, very much. He and her parents had already done such a great deal of damage to this young girl. Damage that would

ring through her and into the family she would create; into me, and into my children.

sink into all those feelings of unctuous grief that come along with the thought of her.

My mother is like a rollercoaster-- she glides along smoothly for a bit and then suddenly itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like dropping off a cliff as it violently shakes, contorts, and rattles along until it suddenly slows, climbing steadily towards the light only to be pulled back down again by a force far greater than herself.

For now, my child needs me. I push with all my strength to get through to the other side and at just a quarter past 11 p.m. my son is born, barely forty-five minutes before the start of the day years ago when my mother made her entry into this world from her own motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s womb as a warm, wet and fresh new beginning.

Still in the water as I worked through each contraction, I glanced at the clock; it was nearly 10 p.m., cutting it far too close. In this realm of birth both within myself and somehow outside of it all at once, feeling as though I am floating between who I was and who I am about to be. I am summoned to surrender and open to this new being that comes through me, and I think of her. Of course, I think of her, and I fight not to

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The Best Decision

his story begins when my mother came here to the US. At that time, she had already divorced my father, and she had to leave my older brother and me to look for a better future for us because in my Perú, where I am from, the economic situation was very tough. However, these difficulties that I had at an early age, in one way or another, forced me to make very important decisions that changed the course of my life. In those years, terrorism in Perú ruled the streets, people did not have enough money to support a family, and also most of the people who finished university studies could not get a good job; for that reason, they resigned themselves to having the minimum salary. One example of this is my mother, who is a nurse. 24 Images 2019

She studied in National University of San Marcos, which is one of the most prestigious universities in Lima – Perú, but when she finally found a job, she worked a lot, but her salary was not enough for us. My father was in charge of us when my mother came to this country, he never stopped supporting us, but my brother and I felt very alone, and since the first day she left, we missed her. I was 9 years old when that happened, and every time I remembered her, I felt very empty inside. One day at school, the teacher was talking to us about the family and how important family ties are. After that class, I started to cry while I was sitting in the classroom yet, then I felt two warm hands coming from behind

ARTWORK BY: [ C. Joshua Fyre ]

J. Diego

and touching my eyes. I thought that those hands were my mother’s, I really wanted that, and with illusion, I said, mother? — while smiling. It was not, it just was my teacher who wanted calm me. Years passed, and I was almost 17 years old. I was in the last grade of high school. However, I was lost, I didn’t know what to do with my life, and I had many doubts about my future. Why study? I won’t get a good job after all. It was in one of those Sundays when my father took us to lunch at the grandpa’s house. I always liked to go there because the food was great, but even more great were the talks I had with my grandfather. He is a renowned pharmacist in my hometown who has an obsession with books on the story of humanity, mysteries and UFOs. His short curly hair has is gunmetal grey. His eyes are gleaming with energy when he talks about the countless books he has read. His face can appear world weary at times also but he has the soul of a teenager. Every time he read one of those books to me, I looked at him in amazement and I paid close attention to what he was telling and teaching me. I had such deep conversations with him, that time was not enough to explore the whole universe in which we both had submerged. It was just incredible. I will never forget what he told me one of those Sundays, “Just study what makes you happy, after all, we are in this life just to be happy”. That was exactly what I did, the very next day I went to many universities asking for requirements for the career I had already chosen. Medicine is something I always wanted to study. I admire

people who save lives; they are heroes without a cape, but real. Many people, including my own family and friends, laughed at me thinking that I would not have enough intelligence to study a five-year career like medicine. That was one of the first challenges I faced. I just wanted to

"That silenced everyone who said that I would not succeed." shut their mouths, to show them that with effort and perseverance, everything is possible. The first two years at university was a battle without mercy, but I managed to win. That silenced everyone who said that I would not succeed. It was in the third year that I really started to love what I was studying. Anatomy, physiology, immunology, etc. I loved all those classes and of course, I passed them too. However, it was in the fourth year that things became very difficult, and I had to face more challenges that life gave me. I had this course in which my classmates and I had to travel to places far away from the city providing support, giving health education, vaccinating and also attending to some people who needed a minor medical intervention such as performing sutures or treating viral diseases. I loved doing that, but it was one morning when an old lady approached me with tears in her eyes and screaming dramatically because her granddaughter of only three years had swallowed something, and now she could not breathe Delgado Community College 25

anymore. The lady had her in her arms and the girl was not breathing and her face was purple. I had never felt so much fear in my life. I was in shock. I felt like adrenaline was shooting in my veins, my pupils were dilated and, on my forehead, ran a cold sweat. I could not allow the lady to see me like that; she did not care that we were fourth-year students of medical school. In her mind, we were real doctors. I took the girl to the place where my other two companions were. Fortunately, the girl had not completely swallowed the object, I knew what I had to do, so I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. We sat the little girl and made compressions under her sternum until she finally ejected what looked like a metal object. Yes, it was a coin. When I saw her breathe again, my soul returned to my body, I became calmer. We took the little girl to the hospital in the city anyways because 26 Images 2019

we didn’t know if she had any internal damage. I am aware that things could have gone very wrong if we did not act fast. That is why I am grateful to have acted quickly. This taught me what it is like to be a doctor, and also taught me that in life little things count. Little things like a sincere “thank you” from that lady who, at least for that day, we were her heroes. Time passed and after having practiced in some hospitals, having seen dying people, and things that I would not like to mention, I simply lost the fear of not knowing what to do. I do not like to say it, but yes, I became insensitive to those things. I was very excited to start the last year of my career, things were going well. My family often called me when they felt some pain. I was tired of telling them that I was not a doctor yet, and that I could not tell them what medications to take or not. To be honest, many times I knew it, but I just did not want to tell them. They never trusted me, and never gave me any kind of support when I started my career. The only thing I received from them was hypocrisy. Nevertheless, I was still standing in the fight for my dreams and looking forward to the end of the summer holidays to finally start that last year of university. The end of summer was noticed with that cold night in which my mom called me on the phone. She wanted to give some news. Is it good or bad news? I said. After a long and dramatic pause, she finally said: Yes, it is good news — doubting. In the next two hours we talked about the possibility of going to the United States,

and that she would feel very happy if I were there. Also, she told me that I would have to make a decision soon because the United States Embassy had given me a three-month time limit to gather all the necessary documentation. My mother told me that whatever decision I make, it would be fine. That was the longest night of my life. It had been ten years without seeing my mother. I did not remember her face, but I did remember her smell, and that

"Life is a collection of choices made yesterday." night I felt her smell in my bedroom. I was already with her. After a few days, I had made the decision. I would go to United States. After thinking it through, I came to the conclusion that I would not stay in PerĂş

working on what I like, but receiving a mediocre salary. Many say that money is not everything in life, but the truth is that you cannot live without money. It cost me a lot to make this decision, but I felt that life was giving me an opportunity to do what my grandfather advised me: to be happy. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had made different decisions in my life? What would have happened if I had not listened to my grandfather? What would have happened if I had listened to the comments of those who told me I could not study medicine? Or what would have happened if I had not acted quickly to help that little girl? Life is a collection of choices made yesterday. My older brother, for example, is a successful chef who works in Colombia and travels to many parts of the world, thanks to the decisions he made in his life. I still have many decisions to make. There is still a lot of ink, to this pen that I call life.

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Tongue Like Baby Moses Shaina Kaye

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later call it. I can’t remember which I was more terrified of: the possibility of Rabbi Wurem’s disapproval or the internal recognition of my own queerness to my own self. Waking up to my sexual fluidity irrevocably changed the ways I understood halacha, Jewish law, and the Orthodox culture I had elected to join up with as a child, far to the right of my liberal and unorthodox parents’ Judaism, much to their dismay. The very fabric of my life in question, I resolved to ask my queer shailahs, questions about Jewish law, as is the custom to ask one’s Rabbi as tricky situations crop up.

Just like that, after a long pep talk with my mirror, I set a date to talk to Rabbi Wurem that Saturday night after the sabbath. With a sickening feeling in my gut, I arrived at his doorstep in Queens, NY, weighing the pros and cons of reconciling my opposing identities. I prayed the ideological surgery I was attempting would be worth the anguish one day. My sexual fluidity aside, I felt that my revelation about arbitrary gender roles was as great as Sinai itself, and that ignoring my burning questions might slowly kill me. Whether or not my mentor could join me on this journey of

[ Waldina, Santos ]

“I have a shailah,” I texted him. “An in person sort of shailah.”

I avoided his calls for months and months, but now when my phone rang, I missed him too much, and besides, I was losing my mind. Though accustomed to keeping secrets, I wouldn’t carry this burden of my childhood into my emerging adult life. He was my beloved Rabbi and the only adult I trusted through adolescence. My parents, of course, the enemy. All these avoidant months I hoped my courage would increase with time, like the bones in my body had grown all my life. Unfortunately, I discovered courage did not work this way. I figured it might instead be some natural aftereffect of doing A Very Brave Thing, like a muscle that strengthens with use. I had discovered all at once, like a revelation, that I was at least bisexual and possibly lesbian. I’d never heard of such a thing, figuring it out at seventeen. I’d watched all of Ellen Degeneres’ interviews growing up. She testified in her interviews, like every other gay, lesbian, bisexual, or trans celebrity I’d heard of, “I always knew, from a very young age.” So, I chewed on it almost two years before telling anyone, worried I must be a glitch. Other than that media-narrative-to-reality disparity, the only problem, we were Orthodox Jews, whose lives embody the ancient Mosaic laws, some of which condemn “same sex behavior” as my Rabbi would

reconsidering would play itself out that night as I sat perched on the edge of Rabbi Wurem’s living room couch, too afraid to make myself comfortable on this visit in his familiar home. “The one and only, Shaina Kaye! Such a blessing to have you here this motzei shabbos. To what holy question do I owe this pleasure?” Rabbi Wurem inclined his body toward mine in salutation, greeting me with a beaming smile and a bow, but no hug or handshake because Orthodox culture reserves touch between opposite sexes for family and spouses exclusively. I returned his wife’s gentle squeeze before she left us to talk privately, somehow knowing I wasn’t there to ask about something trivial like how to kasher a treiffed up kitchen pot. To calm my nerves, I reminded myself of the day I felt most loved by my Rabbi. Just two years earlier, following my junior year of high school, I accepted treatment for a particularly heavy bout of depression in a psychiatric hospital in Westchester, where he made time to visit regularly and talk at length. He made this time despite his full time teaching at the yeshiva, his six children at home, and his managing a camp I was missing out on that summer. I remembered the wooden gazebo outside the hospital where we had sought refuge in on a particularly hot summer day for two modestly dressed Jews. I remembered how the gazebo felt like summer camp. Mostly, I remembered the acceptance I felt from him in that gazebo as I told him about the ways my family had always been falling apart. With complete faith

in my testimony, he listened. I hoped I wouldn’t lose my chosen family now too. I spoke up, “Oy, Rabbi Wurem, I feel really really embarrassed talking to you about this but it’s kinda a really big deal and so many things don’t make sense anymore and I don’t know where to start but… um…I guess, basically, the reason I came over to talk is because I realized that I’m bi…” My heart beat sped up like a car just merged onto the highway, my shame exposed. All at once, the theological discussion I had been having in my mind, in the arms of sympathetic friends, and in the secret undergrounds of queer Orthodox NYC faded fast from behind my lips. Almost everyone at the queer and Jewish support groups I secretly attended had a comingout-to-their- Rabbi story. I wanted to show up to our next monthly meeting having faced my fears too, for better or worse, but despite my bravery in starting the talk, suddenly no more words would come. Meanwhile, Rabbi Wurem nodded his head, eyes squinted closed, face full of feeling like every Rabbi wears his face when absorbing the juice of life. It looks like they care, and also like they’re consulting the Judaic library in their minds. I opened my lips intending to ask, how could a good G-D give a test impossible to pass? but before I could speak, my lips closed themselves. I could not find my voice. Imploding, I cried out inside myself a sad and familiar refrain, where am I in the Torah, where am I? With eyes wide open, Rabbi Wurem broke the silence between us. Delgado Community College 29

“Oh, Shaina, you have to know, first thing first, that you are the same Shaina Kaye you’ve always been to me. I love you the same, of course. The Shaina who wears berets,” he slid his velvet skullcap to the side of his head, imitating my vintage hats, and we both laughed. “And the same Shaina who plays guitar and loves her friends. With that said, it happens to be that a few months ago, I wouldn’t have known what to tell you about this test, but some boys in the yeshiva are going through the same thing so I’ve learned a lot being there for them.” Relief started to slow my speeding heart. Still listening but embarrassed by our prolonged eye contact, I turned my gaze to the living room’s dominant wall. There I noticed the holy books that filled it in floor to ceiling bookcases suddenly appeared less intimidating. Like most Orthodox Jewish homes, a series of austere, dark-wooden shelves safeguarded by transparent glass doors, held a library of brown leather bound texts, regularly poured over, mostly by the men in the home, but sometimes the women too, with reverence and loud arguments between study partners. Their esteemed spines were embossed like usual with gold Hebrew letters: 30 Images 2019

Artscroll Bluestone Chumash, Rashi’s Complete Commentary on the Five Books of Moses. They terrified me earlier that night, as if the wrath of our homophobic god seared His angry eyes into my questioning faith from within the commentary of the sages, long dead but alive in the books, like Lord Voldemort’s horcrux alive in the diary of Tom Riddle. Rabbi Wurem went on to tell me what exactly it was he had learned from the plight of his yeshiva boys. “When people spend a lot of time around the same gendered people, it’s only natural that these feelings come up. Studies show it happens to men with men in prison, to women with women living in drug rehabilitation programs, and even with righteous young Jews in single-gendered high schools. It’s only because these people don’t yet have someone of the opposite gender to connect with yet, and it’s very pious of them to wait until they’re ready to date for marriage, even if these feelings come up. There’s a lot of science about these feelings. In the animal kingdom, same sex attractions are unnatural and very rare. In terms of pleasure, you’re too young to understand about these things yet, but women and men really do need each other. The yeshiva boys have been in therapy with a highly sensitized professional for the last few months and they’re learning to understand their feelings. It can all be very confusing when you’re young but it’s nothing to worry about right now. Just keep focusing on your health like you have been and your friends and when it’s time to date, if you still feel confused, then there are some very

excellent therapists I would recommend, but for right now, it’s really nothing to worry about.” My worst possible fear was confirmed. My Rabbi did in fact and still does support “reparative therapy”, an illegal and unregulated therapeutic sect attempting to “repair” religiously condemned sexual preferences. I thought my heart would stop beating altogether. Noticing the horror on my face, Rabbi Wurem continued, visibly torn between his desire to maintain my trust and his commitment to halacha. I withdrew into stony silence, the leather bound spines once again raging from the gold embossed titles. My Rabbi fretted, “What did you want me to tell you, Shaina? That it’s okay? You know I can’t tell you that.” I seared inside like I had swallowed hot coals, my tongue burnt like baby Moses. My optimism of earlier seemed foolish now. My naiveté convinced me that despite the prevalent homophobia, my Rabbi, also having grown up outside Orthodox thought, at some point must’ve had the dawning, this problem with the gays, what exactly is the problem? My Rabbi, an empathic person, I expected him to understand the impossibility of the Orthodox sentiment; that the only meaningful life is an Orthodox one, yet only straight people can participate as full human beings. Where did that leave people like myself? I wondered why my Rabbi wanted to believe homosexuality a sin. Suddenly, I no longer saw him as bound by halacha, but a willing participant in its bigotry. I realized that we choose our beliefs. Whether or not these laws were divined by God was beside the point. This one belief, in particular, seemed,

to me, in conflict with our culture of lovingkindness and family rearing values. It was only until I myself burned for a woman’s kiss that I realized our ban on same sex love, a nonsensical demand. Though my parents taught me no such admonition, I believed I must surrender myself to the totality of the halacha in order to participate in Orthodox life, a way of living I mostly preferred to the pick and choose Judaism of my family’s assimilation. I had compassion for Rabbi Wurem’s ignorance. Himself, a straight man, with no need to investigate further. I saw for myself religious doctrine robbing an intelligent person of his ability to think independently, at the cost of his own goodwill, ironically the same character trait in which a great deal of energy was invested. I swore never to confuse loved ones for lifemaps again. This man and this theology I trusted with so much of my heart, they had taken me this far towards wholeness, but no farther could we go together. Our subway stopped at “Attitudes Toward Sexuality” and “Gender Roles” street. I could say I decided, but really my survival instincts decided to get out quick before the doors closed, grieve for a year, and then look for a map. “Thanks for giving me so much of your time, Rabbi.” My body stood, walked itself to the door, and stepped out into the cold February night. Without my Rabbi’s ally ship, I resolved to live out the answers to my questions. Thank god, or whoever, I did, because my journey towards the answers has proved more affirming than I ever could have imagined, my life no less sacred for the maplessness. Delgado Community College 31

Interview with Bruce Fuller

Ryan Bell

our journey at Delgado is a totally unique one. The most common hashtag used this year on Delgado’s social media pages is #beinthatnumber. A perfect example of this would be the poet, J. Bruce Fuller, who started his career right here on Delgado’s campus culminating in a Wallace Stegner Fellowship at Stanford University. On February 26th, 2019, Fuller was a featured reader in the Delgado Reading Series. After I introduced the native poet, he was met with a raucous round of applause to a packed Timothy K. Baker Theater on the City Park Campus. His poems ranged from life experiences, to the relationship with his father, and the struggle with hurricane Katrina that most natives can relate to. After his reading, he was able to stick around and field questions from the audience about his style and why he chose to pursue poetry. I was able to sit down with Fuller after the reading and pick his brain even further. Enjoy… Ryan Bell: What drew you to poetry and do you remember any specific people/poets that influenced you?

J. Bruce Fuller: I’ve loved poetry ever since I can remember, and often wrote poems as a child, though I can’t say exactly why. No one taught me to do it, or even encouraged me to do it. I think my family thought it was a little quirky, but I was a weird kid to start with so maybe they thought it would pass. I continued reading and writing poems almost in a vacuum until my mid-twenties, when I decided to enroll at Delgado and pursue English as a major. RB: Do you have a favorite poetic style? JBF: Not really. If a poem works, it works. I am drawn to quiet poems, poems that understand subtlety. I want a poem to have something at stake for the reader, as well as the speaker. I also want a poem to have a purpose for the form it takes. RB: For most poets, you have to be in a certain mood to write; what moods are you in when you put that pen to paper? Angry? Sad? Happy? What are some of your rituals in writing? JBF: If you wait on a certain mood just to write, you’ll waste your whole

32 Images 2019

life waiting. Writing is a job just like any other; you have to do it whether you are tired, happy, angry. As far as my best rituals go, I like to write outside on the porch when the weather allows. I like to write longhand, and when a poem gets to a certain point of completion then I will type it into the computer. I rarely ever draft a poem on the computer. Coffee helps. RB: Your time at Delgado and New Orleans was cut short by Katrina. Can you tell us how this affected your life and writing style?

"Katrina changed everything for me. A lot of that effect had to do with my writing." JBF: Well, the effect on my life cannot be understated. Katrina changed everything for me. A lot of that effect had to do with my writing. It is a strange thing, but after Katrina my poems changed, became more serious, became focused, became better. I ended up transferring schools and studying with a great poet named Jack Heflin as an undergrad, and the combination of those things ended up making my poems a lot better. I got into some great graduate schools and my career really started. I have always felt some guilt when I think that, as far as my career is concerned, things got better after Katrina. I got some opportunities I might not have had if there was no storm and my life path didn’t get

changed. It is a thought I struggle with. So many people lost so much, myself included, but I suppose there is some survivor’s guilt when I look at my life and realize that it turned out alright. I will always struggle with that. RB: What are some good ways to get published? Do you have a specific method you go about when sending in submissions? JBF: Do your research. Read as many of the journals you can, look at their websites, who they have published, and their submission guidelines. I keep a spreadsheet of journals and publishers with their reading periods and contest deadlines. I tend to sit down and submit on one dedicated day every few weeks or months. I find that it is easier to do them all in batches. Submissions take a lot of time and is not something that I can really do effectively one at a time, here and there. I send to the places I want to be published in; I don’t worry too much about whether my poems are good enough or if I am not good enough to be published in those places. You have to believe in your work and realize that publication is not a measure of worth. RB: Do you have any exciting projects you’re currently working on? JBF: I’m working on a new manuscript, but it is not far enough along to really know what it will be yet. It is always exciting to start a new book, but terrifying as well. I am slowly working on a few nonfiction pieces that may never be finished.

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RB: How did you end up in Texas? Do you see Texas as a better place for opportunities?

"I am a Louisianian, so to me no place is better than home, though I know deep down that isn’t true." JBF: I am the Acquisitions Editor for Texas Review Press, the university press housed at Sam Houston State University. I have been an editor in some capacity for my entire career. I’m not sure how to answer the question of whether or not it is better. I am a

34 Images 2019

Louisianian, so to me no place is better than home, though I know deep down that isn’t true. The simple truth is that there is more money in education in Texas. I wish that there were better opportunities in my home state, but for the last ten years higher education has been absolutely fleeced in Louisiana. It has caused a lot of brain drain, and a lot of our best young people are leaving for other states. I hope this course reverses in the future but I believe we will only realize it too late, and a whole generation will have gone elsewhere. Lâche pas. RB: What are some key things you’d like to tell other aspiring poets/your readers on how to better their craft? JBF: Put in the work. Put in the time. To me it is no different than learning any other craft. Nobody ever turned a piece of wood on a lathe perfectly the first time, and I feel it is the same with writing. We have romanticized the arts and writing in particular, and so many feel it is some magical process for the lucky or the gifted. I’ve learned both from my own work and from others that it takes hard work and dedication and time in the chair. It took twenty years for me to get this far. Find something you love, sit down and do it every day for twenty years, and you’ll get somewhere, I promise.

his edition of Images is dedicated to the distinguished and beloved David Cook, a New Orleans native who was a professor of English and taught at Delgado from 1990-2017. During this time, David imparted his love of literature, poetry, and the written word to his students. He worked on Images

for many years where his guidance helped bring the magazine to fruition. He was the consummate colleague and is deeply missed. David passed away in 2018. We honor him through the literary and artistic talent of Delgado students and by sharing one of his poems.

Time’s Secret

David Cook

“Fly envious Time, till thou run out Thy race…” – John Milton, “On Time” Trickster Time no longer strolls aimlessly with us Along the white summer beach Holding our hands and laughing He has been jogging out ahead of us Along the ever-changing shoreline We know he will break into his marathon run Soon enough. We look out over emerald and turquoise seas Where sky meets ocean And turn to see into the seas of each other’s eyes And see ourselves reflected there. I see myself in your eyes at the kitchen counter Of that hurricane destroyed beach house. You see yourself in my eyes sitting on the tall stool Waiting for what you knew would come in time. Now the shores of thirty years Are strewn with sun-bleached shells, broken sand dollars, Graying driftwood, wisps of seaweed. Others there were who walked the silver beach with us And now have taken other tacks. Some with us from the beginning have sailed Out past the last breakers and wave to us from there. Delgado Community College 35

We are comforted to know The shoreline over time does not hold our footprints long. Time and the surging sea wash them away.Ah, but the sea.The sea.Time does not wash away. Trickster, Time running barefoot with us Toward the next bend in the shoreline Suddenly stops and stares at us. Grins his timeless grin and slowly says “Now is the time For you to know me.” He reaches up to his face and pulls off the mask He has been wearing since we first met. He steps out of his worn clothes, They fall crumbling into the wet sand, And, And… And there is nothing there. No face of Time, No body of Time. We stand Timeless, Timeless sea breeze in our hair Looking through Time— Where he just was— Only blue horizon.

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Contributors Bios

Nicole Anderson is a lover of all things travel – new places – new experiences. As uncomfortable as it may be at times, she strives to put herself in new situations as often as possible – nervousness builds character and humility! Tiffany Ball is from Jefferson, Louisiana. She likes drawing and listening to music, mainly K-Pop. Stacey Brooks is a freshman student here at Delgado. She lives in New Orleans and decided to go back to school in 2016. She has discovered that she has a passion for writing at the age of fifty-four. Bethanie Cassard is from Bridge City, which is just outside of Westwego. She likes to sing and draw, but she especially loves to read and write. Briana Charlton is from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and moved to Louisiana for culinary school. She has a bachelor’s degree in English Literature. Born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, Shia Cole has been sketching since she was about 4 or 5 years old. Her major is Fine Arts and she hopes to make it a successful career in the near future.

[ Donovan, Richardson ]

J. Diego is a 23 years old guy who likes to read novels and sometimes write short stories. He’s from Perú. He just has two years in U.S. where he’s trying to grow as a person and as a professional as well. Marianne Doyle was born in Honduras and was adopted as a baby. She loves swimming, writing, hiking and reading. She teaches adults and children how to swim. Rebecca Green is from Marrero, Louisiana. She’s currently a student at Delgado, studying to be an ultrasound technician. She has always had an unconditional love for art, more specifically, photography. Vanessa Hanon goes by the nickname Nessie. She grew up in Lakeview and now resides in Metairie. She’s twenty-two years old, and she has had an interest in photography since she was a young girl. She loves to create and capture the beauty around her.

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Contributors Bios

Kayla Judy is a mother and business owner. She is a fierce advocate for women and families, offering support for families during pregnancy, birth, and postpartum as a doula and massage therapist. She is currently working towards her BA in English in hopes of adding professional writing to her resume. Shaina Kaye started writing at age 6, when her grandparents gave her a journal with a lock and key for Chanukah. She has been recording her thoughts and observations ever since. When she’s not writing, you can find Shaina on her motorbike, riding under the glorious live oak trees of New Orleans. Keith Laurendine Jr. was born and raised in New Orleans all my life. His favorite things are basketball, music, and reading/writing. Most things that attract him in art are usually about clouds, dreaming, trees/gardens, and thunderstorms. Kathryn Montgomery enjoys listening to music and writing in her free time. She’s Louisiana born and raised. His name is Zachary Parulan. Victoria Pham is a New Orleans girl trying to live her best life! She will always have a passion for animals and writing. She can speak at most five languages and she’s hoping to learn more! Victoria Phan is 22 years old. She loves to draw during her pastime. Her name is Kandyce Kenner. She goes by the name Queen X. She’s from Kenner, Louisiana. She has been writing poetry and realistic fiction since the 1st grade. Derek Simmons prefers to be called Sunny. He’s a bright individual who goes through hard times like everyone and finds it hard to remain positive. R Spano. Craft: Comics/Novels. Premise: surg tech student. Element: fire. Domain: Internet. Wallace Timothy is a Damn Yankee married to a Dixie Belle, raising kids, dogs, and Cain in the Big Easy. 38 Images 2019

Designer Bios Patrick Alarcon is glad to have met and worked with these people on making this magazine. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s looking forward to working on to the next project. Trevena Antill is a Future Graphic Designer who is in the Class of 2019. Tara Bentel is a New Orleans born Graphic Designer and Photographer. She will soon have a degree in Visual Communication this upcoming Fall. Marry Billstone enjoys drawing, painting and be creative. She love solving problems in a creative way as well. She is the mom to two wonderful children and enjoys every moment with them. Amanda Binder likes red, black and slimy green colors, as well as teeth, tails and tentacles too! She is a graphic design student who likes video games and comic books and she like to draw. Her favorite movies are Mad Max and The Lion King. Emily says if she were a font she would be LemonMilk. Nykia Chambers is a student at Delgado Community College who is majoring in Visual Communications-Graphic Design. Being Part of the production team for Images was a great experience. Brittany Corcoran is currently a student at Delgado Community College who will be graduating with an associateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree in Visual Communications and her certificate in Digital Photography. She has been serving for the Louisiana Army National Guard for the past 5 years. C. Joshua Frye is a New Orleans born artist/writer as well as an avid turtle lover. Harbey Grajeda Is a photographer who likes to capture memories with style and passion.

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Designer Bios Sara Hadskey has been an artist for 10 years. She loves drawing flowers and portraits. Her goal is to be the lead art director for a graphic design company. Emerald Kenzie loves photography and graphic design. Her favorite movie is Forrest Gump because for a man with an IQ of 75 he is accomplished. He is her hero. Bradley Ledet is a visual communications student who is looking forward to graduating soon. He is always trying to learn and think with multiple perspectives in order to help improve his design profile. Alexis “O.G. Derp” Mastrianni was born and raised in New Orleans. She is a Southern girl who loves to have fun, see new places, and experience new things. She is outgoing, enthusiastic and, a Pantone Know-It-All....5125. Jamal McCorkle was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana in 1991. His major is Visual Communications– Graphic Design and he does logo branding and cover art for song/albums. He enjoys traveling, talking about space mythology, video gaming, and watching movies. He believes in world peace and peace of mind. Donovan Richardson was born and raised in New Orleans. He is studying to become a Graphic Designer. To him the best things in life for him is Family, God, and Peace. Waldina Santos is 21. Her favorite hobbies are playing sports and photography. Xochilt Silva (So-Chi) Chelsy Wiley was born in Germany and moved to Slidell, Louisiana in 1996. She has always been attracted to the art world, whether it may be graphic design, photography or painting. Chelsy hopes to pursue my dreams in the art industry. 40 Images 2019

Submitted by the students in VISC 234 Digital Pre-Press of Spring 2019

Alexis Mastrianni

Amanda Binder

Bradley Ledet

Brittany Corcoran

Chelsy Wiley

Cody Frye

Donovan Richardson Emerald Kenzie

Emily Kaupp

Harbey Grajeda

Jamal McCorkle

Marry Billstone

Nykia Chambers

Patrick Alacron

Sara Hadskey

Tara Bentel

Trevena Antill

Xochilt Silva