Folio 35 by HFU Folio

FOLI035

Table of Contents

"Leaf " by Caitlin Scofield

"Dia de los Muertos" by Stephanie Koszarek

Faculty Adviser Liz Moore Co-Editors Jennifer Gregory & Jenna Spadaccino Social Media Director Erin O'Neil Marketing Team Bridget Bowne & Ashley Brendle Supporting Staff Amanda Bates Rita Cappetti John Fischer Jessica Gallagher

House of Mirrors................................p . 1 Bridget Bowne Emptiness; Heartache........................p. 2 Ashley Brendle Decisions..............................................p. 3 Kaitlin Cannon Dark Horse...........................................p. 4 Eileen Cohen Message to Young Women................p. 5 Kathleen Fastiggi InkBug.................................................p. 6 Shelby Francks Desire of a Thought............................p. 7 Jennifer Hanna Nightfall; Halloween Haiku.............p. 7 James Huber, Ph.D, LMFT ARose...................................................p. 8 Regina Johnson Gamal...................................................p. 8 Martin Malloy Beach Party for Women Only..........p. 9 Nancy Oppenheimer Untitled................................................p. 9 Ray Pine Jimmers................................................p. 10 Donna Rafter Floating................................................p. 10 Arlene Sturges Four Poems on Words and Letters.............................p. 11 Dianna Sand The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemÂ porary artistic expression. The Journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family University community. Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the University community and must be e-mailed to the following address: folio@holyfamily.edu. ÂŠ 2012, Holy Family University, 9801 Frankford Avenue, Philadelphia, PA, 19114

Dreamscape; October Nights; Maybe November; Even the Sweetest Things Must End.............................................p. 12 Brittany Sullivan Never Grow Up..................................p. 13 Shannon Sweeney Living Within Society's Confines.............................p. 14 David Young

Parenting a Child With a Disability: Trusting Along the Rough Terrain.............................................p. 16 Geralyn Anderson Arango, Ed.D The Girl With the BlackBackpack ..........................................p. 19 Kaitlin Cannon Great Feeling...............................................p. 22 Rita Cappetti Volunteer Teaching in Costa Rica ...............................................p. 23 Alexa Cawley Therapy Dog................................................p. 29 Patricia Dilisi Woman With the Alabaster Jar................................................p. 30 Kathleen Fastiggi Mother Mary ofJesus the Good Shepherd: A Heart With noBorders .........................p. 31 Sr. Angela Cresswell, CSFN, Ph.D Night's Eye...................................................p. 33 John Fischer Forever in the Shadow ..............................p. 34 Connie Flynn After .............................................................p. 38 Shelby Francks Letter to Someone Lost.. ..........................p. 41 Jessica Gallagher Janine Katherine .......................................p. 42 Jennifer Hanna Ellen's Story...............................................p. 45 Susan Kearney COD ...........................................................p.48 Allison Jenkins

Windows to God.......................................p. 54 Christina King Work.in' at Mickey D's..............................p. 57 Carol E. Latchum-Smith What You Don't See .................................p. 61 Annie McNulty October Classic.........................................p. 64 Tom Perri Untitled......................................................p. 68 Ray Pine Thin Spaces................................................p. 69 Janice Showier Racism Made Simple...............................p. 72 Kezia Singh Out ofthe Darkness ................................p. 73 Laura Suarez The Collapse ofTime...............................p.75 Jacqueline and Stephen Turner Best Friends...............................................p. 79 Nicholas Weber TheBrotherhood......................................p. 82 Ashley Woodmender

The Lone Tree....................................................................p. 86 Bridget Bowne Revolutionary War Reenactor; The Daily Grind................................................................p. 86 Nancy Bradley Celtic Cross; Unitarian Church.............................................................p. 87 Nancy Bradley . ...................p. 87 Autumn; Cherry Blossoms....... Ashley Brendle ................p. 88 Rifles; Winnie the Pooh Tree.. Calurn Colton Ghibli............... ........................................ ....................p. 89 Patricia Dilisi Night's Eye.........................................................................p. 89 John Fischer Free Love in Athens, Greece; St. Joseph and the Christ Child.....................................p. 90 James Huber ........p. 91 Live, Life, Love......................... Nicole Levy What We Forgot.............................. .........p. 92 Annie McNulty Corners of Italy-Roma.................................... .......p. 92 & 93 Gabriel Medina-Plaud Waxwing; Wolf......................................... ...............p. 93 & 94 Thomas Rooney Letting the Light In.................................. .......................p. 95 Sara Szymendera St. Michael the Archangel............ ........................ .........p. 98 Stephen Turner ........p. 99 Images of Longwood Gardens.... Michael Ziegler

FOLIO 35

Message to Young Women KATHLEEN FASTIGGI

If you only knew what we went through, If you only knew what we wish for you, If you only knew how much we want to understand, for you to find the right words. First and foremost, you have a soul. You have a mind. You have your place in this world. You are more than the size of your breasts, the color of your eyes and skin, and the fullness of your lips. The borders of your life are not deter mined by the roundness of your back side. You are not your vagina. You are your thoughts. You are your capacity to learn and to work. You are willingness to be compassionate. You are your determination to be just and to expect justice. You are not solely the giver of orgasms. You can be so much if you realize that relationships are not soap operas and that life is sweeter when you are not the focus of thoughts, of glances, of conversations. You do not have to be the center, but you must have a center. That center is the strength you have built to do something positive. You can do so much that others before you could not. You can vote.

You can open a bank account. You can hold a job and be pregnant. You can hold office. You can study any subject that consumes your passion. You can buy your own house and car. You can determine your life. Do not believe the old myths or be seduced by the new ones. There are no princes. It is unfair to hold someone else totally responsible for your financial support and happiness. We cannot make another person feel what we feel and do what we want them to do all the time. There is no perfect house with a picket fence for every woman. You can make your home with what you have wherever you are. One does not have children to be loved. Having children is the greatest gamble you will make with life, and you will often feel unloved and full of fear and confusion. People are not meant to be happy all the time. Being depressed, confused, bored, and frightened is normal. These states can be opportunities to ask yourself important questions and will not last forever. Do not ask God for favors. God is not like us. We cannot define God; we can only experience God. Yet through experience we can know that God is a source of grace and strength.

Above all you need women friends. Men are different, and it is unfair to assume they can read your mind or look at the world the way you do. Some things you call corny are important old stand by's. Manners, for one, are necessary. Above all, learn to seek serenity. It is a worthwhile journey.

Ink Bug SHELBY FRANCKS I settle, Anticipating ''.Are you ready?" I smile. I'm gone. Inside the pain, Into every entrance and exit ofthe needle I am lost in ink. Deep in the cracked chair, Behind neon signs Lost in Green soap. I'm gone into the repetitive noise that lulls Inkbugs like me into the calm.

I'm gone, If only for an hour, I am lost in tiny punctures. ''.All done, take a look:' Reluctantly, I return. I look. Beautiful and stinging, A comforting feeling. A part ofme. Forever.

FOLIO 35

Desire of a Thought JENNIFER HANNA

My restlessness is a symptom of loneliness. What probably will be is not what could, A self fulfilling destruction, you can't know. Fear is fear. Posing as wisdom, it wreaks of cowardice And grasps the hands of solitude. What we've been separate is what we've been together, Nothing. Representations of an emptiness filled bubble beyond reach. Physical manifestations fail against fantasy, And wanting what we don't grants no peace. Frustration pulses in my eyes and my throat clenches with thinking. The beating in my ears stops as I begin to breathe, And what once fluttered has gone still. What could have been has rotted. Giving up is bitter emancipation.

Nightfall JAMES HUBER, PH.D, LMFT Night fell like a feather and all around the downy dark only silence made a sound.

Halloween Haiku Young count dracula craves candy not blood so smiles sweetly - fangs a lot!

A Rose REGINA JOHNSON Once a perfect bud Of hope Nurtured by the sun And rain A circle of thorns Crowning Light and life when He Arose

Gamal MARTIN MALLOY From poverty I rose to serve the Puppet of the western lion, until David's star landed to the east heralding yet another infidel scion.

To protect me from the eagle The bear becomes my friend. But I seek thunder and lightning And this the bear will not always send.

Dutifully we marched across Sinai To destroy the infidel The Puppet sat and watched As so many good men fell.

I wish to unite my brothers And we attacked the infidel once more. Within six moons, however, The infidel takes so much more.

With soldiers unencumbered By the chains that bind a king I removed the Puppet from his throne To ancient glory the masses sing.

As brothers turn into rivals My dream of unification is dead. My nation is in shambles My people must be fed.

The Lion has lost his strength And wallows in self-pity. We expel him from our land, Take his precious locks and our ancient city.

With deep regret I leave the stage Giving my people's hopes to a trusted friend He will make peace with the infidel And to his grave peace shall him send.

The brinksman is outraged, The lion and infidel scurry To which I readily respond, "May they choke to death in their fury".

FOLIO 35

Beach Party For Wot11en Only NANCY OPPENHEIMER

Tree house above a glassy lake, driftwood fire glows on the beach. Bubbling champagne, music in the mouth, delight in peaceful night. Old friends, new friends sit on logs, skip rocks, talk. Glowing embers, fire whorls rise to stars in night's glimmer. Moonlit lake women in droplets of night sun swim in skins of water,

Ophelia's weeds in their hair, bare skin cloaked in dark. Wood spirals to ash, murmuring idyll broken by goodbyes. Presence, a memory like smoke, like our hostess, cancer's prey, before lake waters washed away our footprints.

Untitled RAY PINE I can taste the floor and it can feel my words the quiet discourse becoming the pulse of my flat lining obsession hands searching for contrast avoiding the texture of sheets to find comfort in the apathy of cheap rugs stained with disillusionment

They grasp and pull and bathe in salt and love so sweet I brush my teeth and close my eyes so that on this floor on lonely nights I can dream of you

Jimmers DONNA RAFTER ...still mourning ... The soul gently weeps while flashes of life dampen the spirit. The heart aches to face yet another day without his sonshine.

Floating ARLENE STURGES She makes a new life Lives an old Wishes she could be so bold As to force IT to unfold Gran has a place She feels a race To make it happen To make it roll. It It What is the great it? She cannot make IT breathe. No breath Death Elated Belated. What now Great One?

PA..ďż˝E

FOLIO 35

Four Poems on Words and Letters DIANNA SAND

All of my letters strike a pose ... Some with Os Some with toes Some with a nose Some with a hose And so ...I suppose ... with all of my letters ... anything goes.

If I think a word, it has no certain shape: an idea rushes in just aching to escape. If I say a word, it rolls 'round in my mouth: gets caught in my teeth, comes spilling out. If I hear a word, well, that's another story: I can build and connect: an allegory! If I write a word, now I'm communicating ... I can see it and say it without hesitating: I can shape and mold, it's no longer in abeyance. Writing: A sensible conveyance.

Fun with words ... Some folks have fun with their food and some are amused with their nose and sometimes in a light-hearted mood some may even tickle their toes.

But, I prefer to play with my words, their letters, their shapes, and their sounds, with rhyming and timing and all kinds of miming and making them sing in rounds. You see, my words are all inside of me ... most times they want to shout! They bubble up and struggle up until they finally spill out: they dribble in droves, or they boil all over, in poetry or prose they just take all over. A squiggle and scribble, a wiggle and wriggle ... THEY'RE HAVING A JAMBOREE. Before I know it ... Hey, ... my words are playing with me!

I hear them dance and prance, and romance, across the page. I see them harmonize, recognize, and synthesize at every stage. They shove, and posture, and jockey for position. They bounce and trounce until a poem comes to fruition. WORDS! They are wonderful things.

Dreamscape

Pf\.CE

BRITTANY SULLIVAN I've been walking in my sleep... It seems as though you only exist in my dreams, and I've been trying to find my way back to you.

I've searched every fantasy. Even walked through my deepest fears. Always calling your name...

October Nights Last night I fell asleep in your arms. Nestled so deeply into you that I got lost, And you kept me warm. Never once letting me go.

Maybe November

and waking up just before you answer. I've endured days of this torture and I'm beginning to forget things: Your face, your voice, your smell Never knowing if you'll come back to me and if I'll ever feel your touch again.

But one day I will lie down and sleep dreamlessly because I will not know what to look for anymore...

And I've always wondered; Would you have ever let me find you?

Your scent still lingers in my hair for days after you've gone. I can't get rid of the smell of you, nor do I want to. I could wait forever for you to give me your heart, As long as you keep kissing me the way you do; I can't get enough ofyour taste. So keep time on your side ... The only thing I'd ever need Is to be in your arms.

Even the Sweetest Things Must End The butterflies in my stomach have turned into wasps. Stinging me whenever a thought of you enters my mind. You are absolute torture ... And I domt know how much more I can take.

FOLIO 35

Never Grow Up SHANNON SWEENEY

I could hardly wait to grow up Though I was told to be patient. They always wished I'd stay little forever, never grow up. Words of wisdom given but quickly ignored, Don't wish your life away. Just try to never grow up. Couldn't wait to move out someday. Finally be on my own. They said though you want to please try to be patient Don't wish your life away. Just try to never grow up. Suddenly tomorrow became today and that went all too fast. I should have listened. Never understood what they meant. No longer can I keep up with the calendar pages. December is all that is left now. New Year's Resolutions to be made again. Missing the simple way things were, No longer are summer nights spent sitting on the grass, Catching fireflies and talking to friends. Or spent at the shore in the scorching sun, Running in the surf and collecting sea shells with everyone as waves crashed on shore. Wish we'd wait to grow up. If only we could stay little a while longer. Try to be more patient. There's a long way to go. Life happens, When we grow up.

PA4E

Living Within Society's Confines DAVID YOUNG November 14'1,: Paper due Professor, what is it to you? My life is on a deadline Dictated by man. And I confine. I do the best that I can To satisfy every requirement. I abide. I am obedient But why? Traffic lights tell me to go or to stay-put. My every move is governed. My foot is on the break And I respond to the signals in front of me Proceeding with permission. One thing then another No intermission No party after the show Children have bedtimes: "Why are you still awake when you should be asleep?" "I am not tired" "I don't want to hear it" I don't want to hear it! Time-Outs & Detentions Deadlines and Suspensions Parking Violations Taxes and Denied Pensions My life is a prison. The physical obeys but my mind defies. I am placed in a box Confined. This isn't new. November 14'1,: Paper still due.

P)>....c;E

Parenting a Child With a Disability: Trusting Along the Rough Terrain

GERALYN ANDERSON ARANGO, ED.D

he essay "Welcome to Holland;' by Emily Perl Kingsley, is familiar to many parents of children with disabilities, especially children with Down syndrome. The piece relates the experience of rais ing a child with a disability to planning a dream-come-true trip to Italy. You make hotel reservations, buy tourist books, per haps learn a little Italian, then purchase your plane ticket and off you go. Just be fore landing, however, the flight attendant announces that you are circling the run way to Holland. Holland? No, Italy, you say. I'm going to Italy! Kingsley writes of the devastation and shock of this abrupt change in plans. When you realize that you aren't going to get to see and do the things you dreamed of in Italy, it is confusing and heartbreak ing, but in time, you adjust. You begin to let go of what you expected and try to open up to what is before you. As you visit, you learn that though it lacks the splendor of Italy, that land you dreamed of visiting, Holland has its own beauty and its own magic. If I were to add a detail to both the Holland and the Italy of Kingsley's essay, it would be that though each place has beauty and magic, each also has its own rough terrain as well. My son Nicolas was born with Down syndrome. He is both dream-come-true trip and rough terrain. In Proverbs 3:5-6, the Lord begins by re minding us to trust in Him with all our hearts and lean not on our own under standings. These words are there to guide me along the small and large challenges of parenting a child with a disability.

Nicolas, now 13, might best be de scribed as a survivor. I believe in my heart that had he been born 10 years earlier, he would not be alive today; medical tech nology needed time to catch up to Nie, and people's expectations haven't always kept up with him either. Nie survived the intimations and outright verbal state ments that his life was not worth saving as the genetic specialist told me the news of his Down syndrome in my 18'h week of pregnancy. She then asked in her next breath when I would be aborting him. My husband Al and I received the message early on that this child's life, if he lived, was going to be a detriment to our own. I had been sent for an ultrasound be cause my belly was larger than it should have been at 18 weeks. The technician, gazing at the monitor as she moved her device around my belly, simply put her equipment down and walked out of the room. Al and I were left by ourselves in this darkened space to let our thoughts run wild. Why did she leave like that? The attending physician entered now. He informed us that what had shocked the technician away from her monitor was the sight of the thickened flesh on the back of a baby's neck that suggested that there might be a problem. "It could be Down syndrome;' the doc tor said, resuming the ultrasound and gazing into the monitor, "or nothing at all:' Furrowing his brow and turning to us, he added, "Or something not condu cive to life. Would you like an amniocen tesis to find out for sure?" Al and I knew we wanted this baby who would be our second child. We had mis-

FOLIO 35 carried only months before. Did it matter what this baby would have? No. Did we want to know anyway? We did now. The doctor performed the amniocen tesis, inserting the long needle into my belly and drawing out the necessary fluid for testing, then sent us home to begin the wait to find out what, if anything, was go ing on with our child. I had been a special education teacher for several years, but I wondered whether my teaching experi ence prepared me for the lifetime com mitment of parenting a child with a sig nificant disability. Trust in the Lord, trust in the Lord. Try not to lose your mind... The other news, information not veri fiable through an ultrasound back in the 1990's, was a baby's gender. We already had a daughter, and my husband some times mused that it would be fun to have a son. Amniocentesis would reveal this as well, and we could look forward to some gender-specific shopping for what we hoped would be a healthy baby. We also remembered with guarded optimism that the doctor said the information on the ul trasound could mean nothing at all. Still, there was the third possibility to anticipate, that of a child who would not survive. I could feel this baby just start ing to move in my womb. How could this little one possibly die inside me? The wait for a diagnosis of this baby was the longest ten days of my life. Al and I could only hold on tightly to this roller coaster car slowly ascending the hill of anticipation as we waited for the results of the amniocentesis we consented to out of fear alone. There was nothing to do but wait and pray. But pray for what? Again, the invitation was to trust in the Lord and lean not on our own understanding. It seemed especially relevant now that we found ourselves understanding so little of what was happening.

At the end of the ten days, we received the phone call we had awaited for what felt like ten thousand days. Our baby would live, and would have Down syndrome. It was now time to get ready. We also found out that our baby would be a boy, a little brother for his big sister. It was now time to shop. About a year ago, I came across a note I wrote at the beginning of our ten day wait. Surprised to find this scrap of pa per tucked into a book, I saw the date, November 7 of the previous year, and the opening, "Dear Lord:' I tried to recall what I could possibly have written as I be gan to read what I actually penned that day: Dear Lord, You know the anxiety that's in my heart right now. The news we got yesterday dis turbed and frightened us. Will our baby be "normal?" Will our child have Down syndrome? Will our child have some other chromosomal abnormality - one that will lessen the quality of his life or not give him a life at all? Where is faith at this time? Mine is fail ing me. Despite the odds, I choose to see the negatives and to feel betrayed by you, as though somehow I'm "better" than all of this. I'm sorry. I want to do better. Dear Lord, I lift my fears up to you. I ask that you bring my family and me peace these next ten days as we wait, and that if it be Your will, give us a physically and mentally healthy new baby in March. I wish to let go of that which I cannot control, and ask You to bless it and let Your will be known to us. And if it's all a big mis take, that would be really nice, too. Cradle this child in Your arms. Heal any sickness that he may have. Stroke his hair, cuddle and caress him the way I hope to someday. Bless her abundantly and give her health. Hold this baby's family close. Give us

P)>..c;E strength to understand and to follow, to trust and to keep believing. Help us to hear the positive voices that are You, giving us peace. I let go of my fears for this child and ask You to let Your will be done and for our acceptance of it. Love, Gerry The first time I read this letter, its con tents surprised me. I expected to read an impassioned plea for a "normal" baby and nothing more. I could still remember my rage when the genetic counselor took the phone from the nurse and advised me to terminate the pregnancy before I had even been able to share the news with AL "Normal" seemed to be all that mattered. What I read on that little sheet of note book paper, however, had much more to do with fear trust, faith and just really wanting to have this baby. In the end, I believe I got what I prayed for. We did have that second child we wanted so much. Though the trip to Italy was indeed detoured to Holland, even as I read what I'd written I could see myself asking the Lord to walk with us on the rough terrain toward our dream-come-true destina tion. Our life with Nicolas continues to be a dream trip peppered with rough terrain, with friends we would never have met in Italy, with teachers who believe in our child and teachers who do not. Our trip has had long seasons of health as well as times of life-threatening illness for Nie, who battled respiratory and neurologi cal issues not typical of Down syndrome. There have been steps forward and steps back for Nie and our family. In letting go of our own understandings, we put the future in God's hands and trusted Him for what was to come. He held our family close and still does. He guided us toward

the people and places that have developed those understandings, as He promised. The rest of Proverbs 3:5-6 contains the reminder to "in all your ways acknowl edge Him, and He shall direct your paths:' The Lord directed us to Holland, not Italy, and I believe that He walks this path with us daily. Holland has rough terrain at times, and does not possess the grandeur ofltaly. But Holland is a nice place too.

FOLIO 35

The Girl With the Black Backpack

KAITLIN CANNON

often find myself staring at her picture. Her blue eyes always capture me in a staring match that I can never seem to win. The tears falling from my eyes usually awaken me from my trance then I return her picture to its spot on the table, right next to the flowers I buy fresh every week. I am reminded of her passing every day. Time does not seem to heal my wounds; instead I feel they have grown even larger. I cannot seem to find anything to fill the void in my heart where my daughter, Sar ah, previously stayed. As I get ready for work, I peak into her room on my way to the first floor. The pictures she drew have faded from the sun, but I can never take them down. Sarah was always upset when we did not have her pictures on the wall. I kept the room exactly the same; just in case she ever came home even though in my head I know that is impossible, but my search for her will never cease. I will always have hope that one day I will get her back. My morning routine is finally over. On my way out the door, I always yell: "See ya later princess! In my head, I can hear her tiny voice yelling over the television in the living room: "In a while crocodile!" The nor mal sadness I feel when leaving the house does not immediately engulf my mood. I feel different today, like it will be a day of change. I look through the faces in the crowd as I wait for the train to arrive so I can sit in a cubicle all day. Some of the regulars smile in my direction, but I try not to make eye contact. I like staying invisible. I have al ways excelled at fading into the familiar faces of a group. I have never been com fortable with interaction between strang ers sometimes that becomes dangerous

for me. The sign-in sheet at work is al most full as I scribble my name and then I work through the maze of partitions to my cubicle. I am already dreading the slow, familiar day. Finally, the end of the day nears, just ten more minutes and I am free to return to my life of solitude. The crowded train is the most I have interact with people all day. The minutes click on as I silently count down to the moment when I can fi nally look at her picture again. My drone existence has destined me to drift through life without thinking about anything but Sarah. As I finally descend the escalator stairs, I notice her. She is rushing as she carefully maneu vers through the crowd at Market East Station. She moves like a dancer graceful ly avoiding collisions from the Conven tion Center doors to the train schedule screens. Her blue eyes scan the screens for a second to find her track then she pro ceeds forward, I follow her to track 4A, same as mine. She grips a notebook so tight her knuckles turn white. The book must hold her deepest secrets. She finds a seat on the red metal bench and falls into her own reality. She does not bother to remove her black backpack from her back which prevents her from sitting com pletely against the cold metal. I do not think she feels it; anyway she appears lost in her mind, population of one. The loud speaker interrupts my thoughts, "4:45 to Trenton, now arriving on track 4A:' Abruptly, she stands and I momentarily lose her in the throng of commuters fight ing to be first in the line. She turns into the less crowded car and selects a seat closest to the window. I decide to stay across the aisle to better watch her. This

time, she frees herself from the backpack and places it in front of her feet. Her note book finds her lap and she begins to write furiously. She writes so quickly and so focused that to the outside world it looks like a purge, the words need to be gone from her mind immediately. I have never been so intrigued by a to tal stranger before. There is a connection I cannot explain. We had yet to make eye contact, but I feel like I know her, if only by her surface. We are leaving Suburban Station then quickly arrive in 3Q th Street. She never looks over at the two commut ers that slide in next to her. She does not notice the passing the stations or scenery. She has taken the coveted window seat and refused to take advantage of it. Most riders push their way through the crowd so they can sit in the seat that will never force them to acknowledge the people around them. They watch as each neigh borhood rapidly passes them by as the train speeds to their respective destina tions. This girl is different. She takes the seat to avoid human con tact for a different reason. She cannot be interrupted. Something needs to come out of her and she is not going to stop until she is satisfied. She sits completely entranced by the thoughts pouring out of her and onto the page. Her two seat part ners leave at the North Philadelphia stop. Her next seat partners slide in beside her. The passenger slides in too far the seat and bumps her arm, but the girl fails to even glance in his direction. She is young, maybe college age. Her brow furrows as she glances absently out the window for a second. She turns her head slightly to look across the aisle then it hits me. She looks like an older Sarah. I bet if she had a daughter, she would look exactly like my lost daughter. As I formu late a plan, she plunges toward her note book as the pen meets the page with the words she has to ponder for a moment. I

PA..c; E 20 think about her in my life. Where is she from? Where is she going? What could be so important to her that the words need to be written while sitting on a crowded city train? How do I convince her to be come my wife and have my child? These inquiries plague me but I have a nagging question that I fear may never be an swered. Why did it take me so long to find her? The more I think about it the more I need to take her in my arms and make her everything I have ever dreamed. I have to shake myself free of my own thoughts and bring my attention back to my fu ture sitting so perfectly across the aisle. She keeps fixing her long, dark hair that appears to be more of a nuisance than a fashion statement, but it does not bother her enough to break concentration to reach for a hair tie. Sarah always did that! The conductor announces the next stop, "Bridesburg!" She does not make a move to leave. A smile comes across my face, there is still time. Her seatmates exit the train. I have to fight the urge to stay in my aisle. She is alone, but that's how she prefers it, maybe she even needs it that way. I hope she real izes she needs me too soon. She still has to get her words out and I cannot bring myself to jar her. No one else on the train seems to notice her, but I do not mind one bit for she is mine. She is as anonymous to them as they are to her. The Tacony stop is being announced. Her pen never slows. She has written five pages already. I cannot help but count each hurried flip of the spiral notebook. I am beginning to wonder about the words in her notebook. I just know her thoughts are important without reading a single word, but I cannot tell what she is writing about. I feel the significance of her words across the aisle of the R7. I can just tell she is smart. I would choose nothing but the best for Sarah. We are approaching my stop, Holmesburg station, as I silently

FOLIO 35 pray we have that in common. The con ductor yells, "Holmesburg;' through the car. She finally looks up from her page with glossy eyes. She struggles for a mo ment then finally rejoins me. The note book and pen return to their bag for a much needed rest. The girl rises and waits in line for her turn to exit the train. Her face has changed. She no longer looks distracted. The need to write is gone. She steps out onto the platform and the transformation from panicked to peace ful is complete. She must have worked out her problem, but I have not worked through mine. I still need to talk to her. She puts her ear buds in and turns up the music loud enough for the rest of us to hear Rihanna sing about breaking dishes. She hustles through the crowd toward the stairs leading to the street. I keep her in eye sight as I try to catch up to her. She turns left toward Rhawn Street, I follow. As I break into a power walk to catch up to her, suddenly I feel a hard tug on my arm. I try to wriggle loose without look ing to see who has grabbed my arm. The grip is too tight. I yell her new name: "MELISSA!" There is something shining in my face blocking my view. Finally, I hear him speak: "Richard, I am Detective Matthews and you are under arrest for the murder of your wife, Melissa and daughter, Sar ah:' He keeps speaking, but the words are swallowed into the traffic noise. I lost her, again. They ruin everything! "Richard, you have eluded the police for too long. It's been six years, but justice will finally be served. Get in the car:' My head rests against the cold window as I try not to cry. I am defeated. The cold bars hold me in this place. I spend all day thinking about the moment. She is out there alone. Melissa is probably lost without me. She never could do much on her own, without me who knows what would have happened to her. I bet she

thinks about me just as much as I do. She has not visited me, but I understand. It would be difficult for anyone to see their knight trapped like an animal. I dream about the day we will be reunited. One day we will be. I will make sure of that.

Great Feeling RITA CAPPETTI

he greatest feeling in the world is when your mother is screaming at you telling you that you are "a piece of freak足 ing shit''. It's an even greater feeling to have her screaming and yelling at you telling you that your dreams are worthless and you will never make it. In response just a sigh, thoughts run through your mind her words you can't deny. You think of all the mistakes you have made in your reckless life and realize, you made a million mistakes already, and there are more than that still to come. But through it you realize that you will be a bigger success than anybody in your fam足 ily thus far. College is about to begin, you are the first that will go, and you know you will be successful.

You will study then later become a teach足 er, making not much money, but doing what you love. What's going to push you through school is unfortunate; instead of motivation you get slurs hissed at you, con stantly being cursed out by the ones who " love you the most''. You know their words are wrong and you will prove to them one day that you are not a piece of shit, a lifeless loser, nor someone who has no future. All you know is success is in your future, no doubt about that. You can and will over足 come any obstacle thrown your way, and you will prove to everyone, what you don't need to prove to anyone. That is that, you are great and you will make it!

FOLIO 35

Volunteer Teaching in Costa Rica ALEXA CAWLEY

y eyes were pinched tight, fingers were squeezing my armrest, and my skin was turning damp. I turned my head to the window so that nobody could see me so disoriented. What was happening? I've been through the rockiness before, and I was fine. This was different. I felt alone, and vulnerable to everything. Mu sic only made the pain worse. I could not shake everything off that I had left. My boyfriend and I ended our five year relationship only two weeks prior to this moment. I felt that I lost my best friend. It did not help that three hours prior to my flight, I found out he was intoxicating himself instead of seeing me off (typi cal male). Not only that, I did not know where I would soon be living. After I moved in with him, my family sold our house and they went their separate ways. My mother was currently moving into a very small house, perfect for herself. The last thing on earth I wanted to do was live with my family and endure their inevita ble drama. School would start in less than a month, and I still needed books and a loan. I had little money, and I could not turn to my family for financial help. I specifically remember I was dying to talk to my younger sister, Brieanna, but she had just become a marine. Even now, she is one of the very few people who un derstand my crazy family, and the way I think. We understand each other, and I was desperate for that comfort. Previ ously, my future was well planned out because I would soon be settling down. Now, I felt completely lost. How could he do this to me? Will I ever meet anyone who brought me as much happiness as he did? Where will I live? How

can I pay for anything when I'm broke? Do I need to take a semester off of college? There were times when I cared too much, and other days when my care cup was empty. During a time when I should have been overjoyed, I felt cold. My flight finally landed around 9:00pm (four hours behind schedule) in San Jose, Costa Rica. Now, I could safely open my sore eyes. Reality set in. Was I really in Costa Rica, alone? I had never experi enced flying on my own, let alone travel for weeks to another country. I was sur rounded by Costa Ricans, and everyone I knew speaking English on the plane vanished. To my luck, there were numer ous signs in English, so I made my way to retrieve my luggage and headed for my driver. This was the moment I dreaded since I hit the sign up button on the Cross Cultural Solutions website: getting in a van, alone with a stranger, for one hour until we reached our home base (living quarters). I read that the number one way sex traffickers found their victims was through offering rides from the airport. In addition to my research, I should not have watched the movie Taken for the first time, two months prior to my depar ture. The way I felt my life was going, they should just get it over with and throw me in their trunk already. Instead of locat ing my ride through the chaos of foreign strangers outside the airport, I stared out of a window until I saw him. He was a short, friendly looking man holding a sign that said Cross Cultural Solutions. If he tried kidnapping me, I was pretty sure I could take him. I thought, "I could be sex trafficked, but not tonight" and made my way to his van.

Cross Cultural Solutions is an organi zation that allows you to teach abroad and help address critical global issues in Africa, Asia, Eastern Europe, and Latin America. In my case, Costa Rica was in need of volunteers to teach English in their low income schools. Tourism plays a central part in Costa Rica's income base; it earns them more foreign exchange than their notorious bananas and coffee com bined. With this being the case, it is im portant that every citizen know English. Underprivileged schools cannot afford to pay English teachers, therefore, they hire volunteers. Teaching disadvantaged students was something I came to be pas sionate about. I spent an entire year work ing 2 jobs and fundraising, while attend ing Holy Family University full-time. I was determined to raise $3,500 any way I could, no matter how challenging my life became. "Pura vida!" my driver exclaimed. Pura Vida? This welcoming man did not speak any English, so I took it upon myself to use some of the Spanish I had been study ing all year in preparation for the next two weeks. Without much thought, I said, "Las noches en Costa Rica muy frio. Bring proper la ropa!" If you Google-translated this, I'm not sure it would make much sense. He looked at me a little funny (sim ilar to the face I made following his pura vida statement) and offered me the front or back seat. When we began our forty five minute drive to Cartago, I reached in my bag and said, "Yo tengo gummy bears. Have some:' At this moment, he burst out laughing, and we shared gummy bears. For the first moment in what felt like for ever, I was laughing, comfortable, excited, and ready for action. After forty-five minutes of driving over hilly roads, swerving around hor rific drivers, and passing through a me diocre version of "gangster's paradise;' we

PAc;E 24 finally made it to the home-base. It was a vibrant, delightfully decorated, well or ganized, small living community of vol unteers. I was blown away by the artwork on the walls, and the lively colors that possessed each and every sector. The left of this one-level abode was designated for men and the right for women. Our home-base included a kitchen, an eating area, small lobby, and 2 bathrooms. We cleaned up after ourselves and washed our own dishes. Displeasingly, we had no choice but to take cold showers, and there were only two toilets/mirrors for ten girls to share! Our rooms consisted of bunk beds, a rack for our clothes, and our own safe for our private documents. There was little to no privacy. I arrived past curfew, so most volunteers were asleep. After my tour, I lay at ease in my top bunk. I had been so stressed out that I got zero sleep in two days. Needless to say, I slept like a baby. Much happened my first two weeks in Costa Rica. As much as I would love to discuss my endeavors around town, such as: getting lost at night and trying to find my way home (I have no sense of direc tion); getting stung by a plethora of sea urchins and having a stranger pick urchin legs out of my back and feet; playing and running from stray dogs; shopping; the food, etc, I would much rather stick to what affected me the most: Shenandoah. I had no idea that this school and its stu dents would teach me so much about life, and change my perspective on foreign and underprivileged society, forever. Previously, I mentioned that tourism is Costa Rica's number one source of in come; therefore, it is important that all of its people know English. Shenandoah is a low income school open for low income families who cannot afford to put their children through a traditional school sys tem. Shenandoah relies solely on volun teers to teach English. Not only that, they

FOLIO 35 combine kids from the ages of 1-8 in one social setting. Administrators can only af ford to pay three teachers, none of whom speak English, do their best to teach these kids according to their age groups. It was day three when my first alarm quacked at 6:30a.m. (I enjoy ducks). I had breakfast, and was on my way to Shenandoah Valley by 7:30a.m. Pulling up, the driver negotiated a steep hill, and there we were. The walls of the school re vealed a mural of children sitting in front of a rainbow. The door to enter the school was locked by a green gate. Upon enter ing, the first thing I noticed was the beau ty in the colors that shaded each wall. For such a small, low-funded school, it was admirable. Shenandoah reminded me of the 90's. It was filled with chunky paint ings and letters, old school computers, and old-fashioned toys, and furniture. The school contained four rooms: 1) Kitchen. This was where the students had lunch and where their lunches and book bags were held. 2) Computer room. This room contained four computers (no internet access), toys, a round table with chairs, and a small comer where students learned from their teacher. 3) A small play room for the infants. 4) the most stunning room of all, the Main room. The moment I laid eyes on this room, I was enchanted. Never had I seen anything like it. This room had no walls; instead, a fence. Beyond the school, there existed a forest. The leaves of the trees flourished in the fenced-walls, and through the leaves unearthed a small stream, and wildlife. Birds flew in and out of the classroom, as well as butterflies and questionable creatures I did not recognize. The flowing sounds of the stream were emanating and peaceful. The kids enjoyed the turtles that wandered in, and observing the caterpil lars tum into butterflies. I was welcomed with and echoing of, "Pura Vida!" Neither the children,

nor teachers, knew English. Though I was told not to by the teachers, I initially tried speaking Spanish to them. I'd walk around with my Spanish dictionary, try ing to piece sentences together. I spent my first day trying to learn their names, and their learning styles. The atmosphere of the school was unorganized, and un ruly; I almost had a hard time taking the school seriously. One of the teach ers would take a group of students, ages 4-8, and teach them the same lesson. The older kids appeared bored, and it seemed like they were viewed more as babysit ters than students. The teachers frequent ly used them when they needed an extra hand, which was often. My heart went out to the students who wanted to learn, but couldn't, because their teachers were distracted by kids who would cry, fight, or had disabilities. If the teacher could not hold their at tention and teach them, how could I? As days passed, I got to know many of the students. Alexander was the trou blemaker, and needed constant attention. Every chance he got, he was in my face trying to make me laugh, or he was trying to outshine the kid standing next to him. He would do anything, as long as some one was paying attention to him. Her mana had beautiful, long, dark hair, and the smile of an angel. Looks are deceiv ing though, because she definitely had an angry side. Like Alexander, her person ality demanded attention. She constantly wanted me to hold her, and even though she knew I did not understand her, she would tell me stories in Spanish all day. Nicole was the little diva. She flirted with all of the boys, loved trendy pink cloth ing, and thought she knew everything. Nicole and Hermana got along well. They both loved to see what bracelet or neck lace I wore, or what color glitter I'd have on my eyes the next day. Ramses was the adorable child who you never desired to

set down. He was so innocent, and he questioned everything. They are only some of the many students I got to know. Though their personalities varied widely, they all had one thing in common: they enjoyed learning. I began planning, hard. My mission was in full effect. I wanted the kids work ing together in groups, but I wanted them to be able to work at a pace and a level that was appropriate for their age. I no ticed that they were much more calm and eager to learn when the material was age appropriate. I would work at Shenandoah from 7:30a.m.-2p.m., get back to home base, and come up with more lessons for these kids. Our home-base had a special room for school supplies. It consisted of everything from markers to paint, and rice to buttons. I spent a lot of time in this room trying to come up with fun and easy ways to learn English. By the end of the day, I was exhausted and it was almost time to put my lessons to the test. Time sped quickly. I had them do everything from make cars and puppets, to learning letters and numbers through dancing. I had them work in rotation. Each project incorpo rated the use of English. I would take one level of kids and have them work on the computers while another group played, and the third group worked on my project. By the time the rotation ended, it would be time for lunch, and they would work with their regular teacher afterwards. I as sisted her. What was nice was that this be came routine for them, and getting them to work became much easier. These les sons put a lot of pressure on me because the students constantly looked forward to what project I had in store for them. I would not let them down! With my growing attachment to these kids, I was affected by their lifestyles. For one, it became frustrating that we would work on a project and the following day

PACE 26 the kids who started the project would be gone, and new kids would show up. I tried asking their teacher about this, but trying to understand her broken Eng lish was difficult. She told me that most of the kids came from broken families. Sometimes their mother's could not get them to school; other times they were seized by their grandparents and sent to other schools. Some of the stories I over heard about previous students were heart wrenching. These kids never played duck-duck goose, so I started the game during their free time. For some reason, Alexander never wanted to wear his shoes. I would always yell to him, "Alexander! Zapa tos !" Repeatedly, I told him he could not play until he put them on. When Al exander was chosen, I noticed he could never tag another kid because his shoes got in the way. I found out that some times kids are forced to wear shoes too large for their feet so that they will fit into them later. It saved their family money. Alexander's shoes had already looked so used, that I could not fathom him hav ing to wear them until his feet actually grew into them. I watched him run and run, but never get anywhere. I felt awful and sickened of myself for putting him through that humiliation. Additionally, I noticed he wore the same yellow shirt, day after day, and continuously wore dirt on his face. Alexander acted out all the time by stepping on turtles, kicking other kids, and hugging my legs as if they were gold. Through Alexander, I quickly learned the phrase, "No le pege!" Don't hit. I later learned that his mother was a prostitute, addicted to drugs, and he was raised by his very elderly grandmother. The time he spent in Shenandoah was the only playtime he had. It was a struggle each day when he left. For Alexander, I believe it was because he enjoyed the company of his classmates and teachers.

FOLIO 35 For me, it was a struggle due to the fact that I couldn't bare it to see him cry, and I was uncertain of the household he would be returning to. I never heard his grandmother greet a person with "pura vida. " There were two kids, a boy and a girl, who shared a relationship worth noting. They acted as if they were brother and sister. If they were apart for longer than twenty minutes, they cried for the other one. The boy would hold her hand if an other kid was quick to run up on them, and they whispered to each other all the time. Right away, I noticed the way they stared at each other. He bossed her around like a slave, and I never knew what to make of it. Later, I found out that the little girl had a sexually abusive father who ran out on her family, and no siblings. I am unaware of the boy's background. During one of my lessons, young Na than kept running off the carpet. I thought that something did not seem right about him, but I was not sure. I ran after Nathan to gather him in my arms, when all of a sudden he started screaming. I picked him up, and somehow he grew ultra powerful! With one hand he slapped me (hard), and with the other he knocked off my glasses. When I put him down, he made the tight est grip on my neck. Honestly, I might have shed a tear if no one was watching! As it turned out, poor Nathan had a dis ability, and I had many encounters with him similar to that one, ever since. I was displeased that he was not getting special attention for his exceptionality. He was not getting the most out of lessons, and he was a danger to other students. In assisting the teacher, I was given some pretty awkward jobs. For example, she would hand me boxes of toys and ask me to clean them. Since the school was so open to nature, all types of dirt, creatures, and plants had to be cleaned and maintained. While washing the toys,

I would screech because I had spiders the size of my palm, and the thickest cock roaches I had ever seen, popping out. When you can uncover every contour of a cockroach in one glance, you better grab some Raid, fast! At one point I asked my self, "Did you seriously pay to do this?" Then I would look around at the forest, the kids, the old-school computers, paper airplanes, dirty everything, and realize how much I enjoyed being with them, and how I wished I could help more. It was refreshing to see these kids playing real games, and not fighting over the tele vision, Wii, or electric cars. I wished the kids I knew in my own country played more like them. Before I knew it, it was my last day. I worked hard. I also blast and had forgot ten about everything I left at home. I felt like I was never going to meet kids like these, or teachers like the three I worked with. They told me they would continue the routine I devised and that they would continue our songs and dance routines. My last day was beyond disheartening. Many of the kids would not quit tugging at me, looking up at me through their in nocent eyes, begging me not to leave; es pecially Alexander and Hermana. I gave out special goodbye stickers to all of the kids, and they presented me with pictures and unusual objects at the end of the day. I remember watching them play, observ ing their creative masterpieces, and si lently commending them on all the Eng lish they learned. I had to be strong for the kids, but I too, wanted to cry because I did not want to leave. I wondered what would happen with their families and if they would be all right. I also wondered if they would remember me. Most of all, I knew I would have to do something similar again one day, whether it was vol unteer work or a career move. I left with a new perspective and objective in life. It has been a little over a year since I vol-

P.h-.c;E 28 unteered in Costa Rica. Since then, I've written to the kids, and sent them pictures of our time together. I have a new appre足 ciation and outlook on other cultures, and I would prefer to work with underprivi足 leged kids in other countries, than go on a 5-day cruise. I currently live with my mother in that tiny house, and I am okay with it. It is just a house, and I have a new appreciation for my family. I make ends meet as I always have, and live by the oldest cliche, never judge a book by its cover. Life never stops moving forward, and time heals all. I do not have my life planned out as I did earlier, and that is ex足 actly my heart desires. I am too young to settle down. I feel that Costa Rica was only a taste of what I am capable of, and so I want to do more. I plan to work overseas for a year beginning in 2012. Afterwards, I will go where the wind takes me. I am do足 ing exactly what I am passionate about, and I would not have it any other way. Thank you ninos! You changed my life, and taught me the true meaning of Pura Vida! Pure Life!

FOLIO 35

Therapy Dog PATRICIA DILISI

Example is not the main thing in influenc ing others. It is the only thing. - Albert Schweitzer

ugust 2004 was a time of stress. I was a care giver for my 90 year old mother, a stroke victim. I had just put down our beloved family dog of 12 years and I was giving a large bridal shower for my daughter. Did I need a dog now? NO. Did I want one? YES. I decided to start looking for another cocker spaniel just to ease my sadness. I would take my time, choose carefully. Top breeder Bettie Campbell caught my attention on the AKC web page. Bettie and the puppy I purchased opened a door in my life. She understood my need for a sweet dog. A dog that would relieve stress, not cause it. We talked by phone several times and she gently promoted one par ticular dog in the October litter as a good match for me. I brought Ghibli Grace home on Dec. 21, 2004. Ghibli began accompanying me on my daily visits to mother' s house and our of fice. Mom was so happy to see and hold the puppy. Caring for a parent is a dif ficult job. This dog put joy in my life on many frustrating days. My daily trips to our office, to help with paper work, give our staff the opportunity to pet and play with Ghibli and break their stress on busy days. Weekly training built a foundation in good behavior. She received her AKC Canine Good Citizen certificate on June 11, 2005. Mother entered a nursing home in 2006 as her health deteriorated. Ghibli made my mother's transition to assisted living

more comfortable. Nonstop tail wagging gave joy to every resident. The memory of my proud mother slowly walking hold ing on to Ghibli's leash and her walker, showing fellow residents "HER DOG", is a treasure. Ghibli and I were daily fixtures at Pit man Manor so when the sad day came for mother to enter Health Care, Ghibli and I were considered a welcome team. We pushed mom's wheelchair to therapy, the hairdresser, outside for some sunshine. The three of us greeted everyone we saw along the way. Mother passed on January 25, 2008. I left that afternoon sad, however Ghibli left, as always, tail going crazy, making people smile, who never smiled, enticing residents to pet her, kisses for the staff, giving joy to all. I knew that day our visits to the Manor would continue. Every Monday Ghibli and I visit Pitman Manor and especially all the residents on Health Care 3. Most are in wheelchairs, many no longer speak but they respond to Ghibli. Sitting Ghibli on my lap helps residents look into her soulful eyes and run their fingers down her ears. I see blank faces transformed, fragile hands reaching, and nurses delighted with posi tive reactions. Let Ghibli's story offound voluntary thera py inspire dog owners everywhere.

P)•..<�E

Woman With the Alabaster Jar

KATHLEEN FASTIGGI

hat secret did she discover? W hat truth did she realize? How did she journey from a simple gesture to this dramatic, tender, and humble ceremony? One thinks nothing of washing the feet of an infant or an incapacitated, older par ent. Would one wash the feet of a per son one's own age of a different sex? In a world where she was nothing, she walked among this gathering of men and dared to touch a man lovingly. She removed the sand with her tears; she dried each foot with her exposed hair, and she gently re moved the roughness with her precious oil. Why did she do this? Did she perform this act because she felt Jesus was an earth ly king? Did she assume others would tell this marvelous and shocking story, and she would become well known? Or was there a profound purpose? Had she heard of Jesus' women followers, equals as an audience, validated as possessing the understanding of Jesus' revolutionary message? Had she discovered that Jesus spoke even to a Samaritan woman? That he saved an adulterous woman from re vilement and execution? That he raised a dead woman as well as a dead man? Had she realized through Martha and Mary that Jesus proclaimed women's right to a meditative life? Did the courage and faith of the woman with a hemorrhage inspire her to approach Jesus in so intimate a manner? Perhaps, it was all this and more, thus eliciting further guesswork. Had Jesus voiced truths within her heart? If so, an intense aloneness disappeared. Was she in the powerful throes of sin and social isolation? Was she one of the millions

who only require a simple exposure to kindness and encouragement to live? We will never know. Yet, we can see her, a new creature, as she walked with such determination into that room toward the object of her reverence and her gratitude.

FOLI035

Mother Mary of Jesus the Good Shepherd: A Heart With No Borders SR. ANGELA CRESSWELL, CSF N, PH.D

t happened in 1975. Two young Holy Family of Nazareth religious, one Afri can-American /Cherokee Indian and the other, Puerto Rican, stood together in the lower church of the Basilica of the Nation al Shrine in Washington, DC. reveling in the excitement of the Congregation's 1oo•h anniversary celebration. Approaching the two sisters, their former novice directress pretended to be a stranger. ''.And how did you two come to join a Polish Congrega tion?" Their faces registering momentary surprise, the young professed turned to her and responded simultaneously, "We didn't know it was Polish!" This unan ticipated retort brought instantaneous laughter to the three. Granted, this was not exactly true, but the reality was that Nazareth's cultural roots presented no ob stacle for two of its minority members. Certainly, every foundress of a religious congregation has an ethnic background. Ah ...but our foundress was indeed unique. Frances Siedliska did not deem her Polish heritage superior excluding other cultures. Like Jesus there was no room in her heart for racial discrimina tion. The l 9'h century was not friendly to Negroes and Indians in America. Yet Frances, Mother Mary of Jesus along with her contemporary and successor, Sister Lauretta, not only rescued some of Amer ica's most despised from orphanages, but welcomed them into the Congregation. Stella Charleston, mulatto, Laureta Brah land, American Indian, Julia Dorsey, and Alma Mosely, both mulattos, were four minorities among the pioneers in Naza-

reth America. Adopted, raised, and educated among the sisters, they accompanied Mother Mary or Sister Lauretta to Europe at an early age. Each of these sisters with the exception of Julia lived in Poland, France, and Italy becoming fluent in one or more of these languages in addition to their na tive English. Imbued with Mother Mary's own love for God Nazareth became a permanent home for these courageous women. Nazareth opened its doors to its first 'colored' vocation in 1898 with the en trance of Sister Mary Ann, (Stella/Grace). Sisters Priscilla, (Laureta), Ismaela (Julia) and Miriam, (Alma) followed in 1908, 1914, and 1916 respectively. Sister Mary Ann remained in Europe enduring the horrors of a concentration camp during World War II before living out her final days in Italy where she died in 1963. Sister Priscilla died in New Mexico from tuber culosis inl931. Sister Ismaela, daughter of a Polish mother and Negro father, lived her vowed commitment until 1963 when she died in Chicago. Sister Miriam would finally end her days in Philadelphia in 1965 where she is buried in the cemetery on the grounds of Nazareth Academy. Three other mulatto children claimed Nazareth as the home of their child hood during the early days of Nazareth in America although they did not enter the Congregation. In 1967 I met an African-American Nazareth religious, Sister Robert LaRoch ester. As is true of her predecessors she is blessed with a mixed heritage - French

Creole and Choctaw Indian. She too, was no stranger to the congregation having been taught at St. Peter Claver's in Brook lyn, New York and Little Flower in Wad ing River, Long Island before entering Nazareth in 1955. Teacher, house mother, school nurse, cellist, X-ray technician at Nazareth Hospital in Philadelphia, this deeply spiritual woman guided my earli est steps to Nazareth. She made it clear to me from the beginning that Jesus was the reason I was coming and the reason I would stay. In 1972 Sister Robert (Bar bara Jean) responded to the Lord's call to continue living the consecrated life as a contemplative and she carried her Naza reth heart to Baltimore Carmel where she continues to serve as spiritual director. I'm intrigued and deeply touched as I re�d the necrologies of my four soul-sisters. I suspect my life as an ethnic minority in Nazareth bears ginormous differences to theirs despite our commonalities - a na tive of Chicago, a musician, and linguist. I imagine when we meet in Heaven I won't be a bit surprised to learn that they have kept a prayerful watch over me these past 40 years. Witnesses during their life-time relate that they never forgot their people. The legacy of a heart without borders continues to permeate the Congregation of Mother Mary of Jesus. I muse on the occasion of our 125'h year in the United States and I imagine her smiling in wel come to those daughters coming from many different cultures who have found family in her Nazareth: Vietnam, Syria, Trinidad, Philippines, Puerto Rico, Italy, Belarus, and Australia and Ghana. "So how did we come to join a Polish Con gregation?" Simple. We are practicing for life in Heaven, where hearts are pure and Love admits no borders.

FOLIO 35

Night's Eye JOHN FISCHER

he Moon lingers above the earth; the watchful eye of the celestial sky. It lords over the darkness of the night like the sun rules over day. Its small glimmer of light pierces the shadows to make way for life. It watches over all that lies beneath it as the Sun moves on to other parts. In the encompassing dark it hangs, one tiny white light in an ocean of black, a beacon of safety in the ominous night. It is the dark guard足 ian of the evening, gazing down to fend off the lurking shadows, the light's enemy. But the moon is still a friend of the darkness. It walks with the shadows and only stays to keep them in check. It is as much a friend to them as it is to the people it watches over and sheds its light on. It shepherds its flock of rampant shadows so that they leave un足 scathed the innocent life below. However; the Moon has a dark side. Its cold glare is one formed from ages of an-

ger. It watches over a people that fear its ar足 rival. Night; the pitch-black darkness that ravages the minds of millions, the Moon's associate, its partner in crime only arrives when the Moon is lingering above. It feels the scorn that is cast upon it and echoes the icy attitudes, a fair trade; a bitter chill for the ignorance of its beauty. The chill of the night flows from it down to the Earth, the only bit of revenge it is al足 lowed to have against the people it is sworn to watch over; a people it is made to care for who curse its shining moments with light of their own. They ignore its elegance and grace as it reflects the Sun's golden beams back like a silvery mirror. Yet, even with its anger, through the shadows and through the clouds that blanket the planet, it watches, gazing down, giving light to the dark planet.

PA(;E 34

Forever in the Shadow CONNIE FLYNN

s I was tying my silky, pink ribbons, I could hear the sounds of a drum. This familiar sound was several point shoes hitting the floor. I began to stretch, but took a peek between the crack of the opened door. I could see Molly in the center of the floor, embracing her class mates with pirouettes and tour jetes. I was so blessed to have Molly as my big sister, but somehow I always felt as if I was liv ing in her shadow. I only hoped that when she started college, she would quit dance, and I could fulfill her role. Unfortunately, Molly decided to go to a community col lege and continue dance. Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of her and all her ac complishments; I just wish I had her tech nique. Although I'm not as talented as Molly, I think we both share the same amount of appreciation for dance. I'll never forget the day when Molly brought home her first pair of point shoes. She wore them all around the house, and continuously looked at herself in the mirror. I asked her repeatedly "Can I try them on? Can I try them on?" Molly continuously replied "No Sophia you're too young, but someday when you're older, those point shoes will be waiting for you:' And surely, Molly was right. I had a strong passion for tap, but I was so in terested in wearing the point shoes too. I began taking ballet classes for three years, and once I was ten, my dance teacher ap proved me for point class. Molly was so proud of me, and anxiously waited to see my performances. She helped me practice at home, which I think is the reason for our strong sisterly bond. There's one phi-

losophy we have always lived by which is, knowing we can escape our troubles just by tying that last pink ribbon. When Molly's class finished, I entered the room with smiles and applause. I was so honored to say that the girl in the center was my sister. I never found anything wrong about her technique, it always seemed perfect to me. Before Molly left, I couldn't help but tell her how great her turns were. "Hey Molly, those pirouettes looked fabulous! Do you think you can help me practice them sometime?" I asked. "Sure Sophia, but I still have so much work to do. I mean didn't you notice my foot wasn't pointed all the way...gotta fix that:' Molly replied. "For real Molly? You're way too hard on yourself. I'll see you when I get home;' I said, as I waved goodbye to her. "Let's begin, four demi-plies, followed by four degages in first and fifth position, twice around; soutenu turn and repeat to the other side;' said Ms. Jen. This was something I looked forward to hearing every night. It was that escape from real ity that made me feel as if I was in another world. I could forget about all my prob lems, and just clear my head. This place was considered a second home to me. "Okay, is everyone ready?"asked Ms. Jen as she was about to start the music. It was the same routine every night, yet it never felt old. I never wanted to lose that anxious feeling I felt when tying that last pink ribbon on my slippers, and dancing all my troubles away. Sometimes I hated when class finished. I knew that once I went out those doors all my problems would return.

FOLI035 "Balance, balance, soutenu and leap; balance, balance, soutenu, and leap;' I continued to say this in my head as I was struggling. "Straighten your knees Sophia;' said Ms. Jen. "Watch your arms as you do your bal ances Sophia;' shouted Ms. Jen. I started becoming frustrated with my self, and only wished I was as gifted as Molly. "Straighten knees, full arm movement;' I continued to say this in my head, as I felt the sweat dripping upon my body. "Okay class, tomorrow we'll try to add another jump into that combination. Have a good night everyone;' said Ms. Jen. As I walked out of the classroom, I could already feel the tightness of my feet. The red, bumpy blisters were forming on the edge of my toes. This was the life of a dancer that I always dreamed of. Before I left, Ms. Jen approached me. "Oh no, I know I didn't do my best to night, but please don't bump me down to a lower class;' I said to Ms. Jen. I wasn' t going to say that Sophia. I know you're a terrific dancer and will get it soon, don't worry. I just wanted to have you give this envelope to Molly. I meant to give it to her earlier but forgot" said Ms. Jen. "Okay, I'll give it to her as soon as I get home;' I said to Ms. Jen. When I got home, I found Molly do ing homework. I handed her the envelope and told her about the trouble I had in class tonight. "Oh my God!" shouted Molly "What, what is it?" I asked. "Juilliard is hosting an intense ballet Pointe program during the summer. Ms. Jen was notified by someone from Juil liard, and she suggested I audition. It says that only thirty people are nominated, but only one student can be recommended by one dance teacher;' she replied in an ex-

cited tone. "Molly, that's great! This is your time to finally show the world your talent;' I said. ''.Are you crazy Sophia? I'm not entering it;' Molly said. "Molly, are you crazy? You can't just reject an opportunity like this. You and I both know you would get picked;' I shouted. "I don't know Sophia ... maybe ... I'll think about it; but for now I'm going to bed. Goodnight;' she said. As I tried falling asleep, I could only think about Molly dancing at Juilliard. If she was gone, then I could take her spot at dance. People would finally recognize So phia Green as a "wonderful and graceful dancer;' rather than "Molly's little sister:' "How could I encourage Molly to fur ther her dream so I could accomplish mine?" This thought continued to cross my mind as I tossed and turned in bed. The next morning I woke up to Molly clicking away on her computer. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Nothing ...just getting ready to leave for school;' Molly replied. I fell asleep for five more minutes and when I woke up, Molly was already gone. As I got ready, I could see something flashing on her computer. It was the ap plication for Juilliard. I began reading the requirements: one minute dance piece ballet/Pointe only, must be in dance at tire, no jewelry and must have hair pulled back. "What if Molly didn't make it; would Miss Jen get mad at her, and perhaps let me fill her shoes instead?"; "What if Molly did in fact make it, and Ms. Jen bumped me up to Sophia 's class to take her spot?" I said these thoughts to myself as I con tinued reading the application. Once I finished, a thought crossed my mind that I didn't even consider until now- what if Molly didn't go through with this audi tion and Ms. Jen decided to nominate me.

I had to do something. I had to discour age her from entering this competition. That night, I approached Molly at the dance studio after her class finished. "Hey Molly, I know I was pressuring you last night about doing it, but I know it's your own decision and I'll be behind you with whatever you decide to do:' "That's so sweet, Sophia, and that re ally means a lot to me now, because I don't think I'm going to do it:' she said. "Oh really;' I said in a curious manner. "Yeah, I'm just very busy right now;' she answered. I tried to hide the smile that I knew was beginning to form on my face, 'Tm sure another opportunity will come your way;' I said to her. "You never know Sophia. Enjoy your class;' she said to me. When I entered class, I tried to stand alone, secluded from others incase Ms. Jen would want to offer me the opportu nity where no one else could hear. "Let's begin at the barre, four demi- plies, followed by four degages in first and fifth position; then combre over side to side, soutenu turn, and repeat on the other side;' said Ms. Jen as she started adjusting the music. I found my spot at the barre, and made sure to show Ms. Jen I was just as talented as Molly. After the first warm-up, I could already feel the bandages ripping off from my blisters, and the barre that was becom ing slimy from my hands. At least this ef fort would show her I'm a true dancer. There were only five more minutes of class, and I could no longer see myself in the mirror. The sweat compiled from every student gave the mirrors some fog giness. I could no longer tell if my legs looked straight enough or if my arms were bent. "Nice arms, Sophia, but be sure to hold in your center;' said Ms. Jen. I was ecstatic by Ms. Jen's compliment

PA4f 3 6 on my arms. I eliminated the fact that she corrected my center, but there was still hope that she'd ask me about the audition. "Okay class, all of you are certainly improving. Be sure to practice over the weekend and I'll see everyone next week. Goodnight;' said Ms. Jen. This was it; this was going to be the moment where Molly would be living in my shadow. I began taking off my shoes slowly, and waited patiently for Ms. Jen to approach me. Several moments had passed, and suddenly I heard, "Have a good night Sophia; maybe Mol ly can practice with you over the week end;' Ms. Jen exclaimed. "Oh, oh thank you Ms. Jen .. . and yeah ... maybe I'll ask her;' I replied. As I was driving home, so many thoughts started crossing my mind. "Why didn't Ms. Jen ask me?" Maybe Molly told Ms. Jen she'd think about it, and that's why Ms. Jen didn't ask me. I sped home trying to avoid red lights at all costs. I had to ask Molly. "Molly, Molly, where are you?" I screamed, as I walked through my door. Molly walked out of the kitchen, "Hey So phia,what'swrong,areyouokay?" she asked. 'Tm fine. Did you tell Ms. Jen you weren't doing the audition?" I asked as calmly as I could. "Yeah, she said it was fine:' Molly re plied. "Oh ... okay, I was just wondering;' I answered, trying to act as nonchalant as I could. I quickly ran upstairs to our room. What was I going to do, there had to be a solution. I looked again at the application, and thought of an idea. "Come on computer, hurry, hurry;' I said to myself. I often found myself talk ing to my computer, my invisible friend in a sense. "Loading, loading, come on load!" I shouted. "Finally, perfect tim ing;' I said, as I heard Molly coming up

FOLIO 35 the steps. "Hey Sophia, how was class tonight; how were the balances? Ms. Jen told me you had some trouble last night;' Molly asked. "It went a lot better tonight, and Ms. Jen thinks I should practice with you this weekend;' I replied. "Okay;' said Molly. A couple weeks passed, and I was fi nally feeling much more confident in my self. My technique was improving, and I had both Molly and Ms. Jen to thank for that. I decided I needed to get away for the weekend; I needed to do something for me. I took along some things with me and put them in a bag. I told my family I would be staying at my friend's house for the weekend even though it was a lie. I tried to find Molly to say goodbye but she was nowhere to be found. "One roundtrip for New York City, please;' I said to the teller at the train sta tion. My mind was racing, and my body was shaking, but behind that was excite ment. I still couldn't believe I was doing this. As I sat on the train, I continued to think about living in Molly's shadow for my entire life, and it disturbed me. It was time that I do something once for me! "Our next and final stop, Penn Station;' said the conductor. I started feeling nervous, and contem plated on catching the next train back home. When I arrived at Penn station, I quickly ran to the bathroom so I could check my hair and make-up. I hailed for a cab and was on my way. From a distance, I could already see the tall building rising up into the New York skyline, 155 W 651h street. It sounded just like another anonymous address but to me, right now, it was the center of my world. When I entered the building I ap proached the woman sitting behind the desk. "Hello, my name is Molly Green; I'm

here for the audition:' "You're Molly Green?" she asked. "Yes;' I hesitantly answered. "How could she possibly know I wasn't really her?" I thought. "Oh really, you're Molly Green?" said a voice coming from behind. As I turned around I could see the ha tred burning out of a young girl's eyes. I never saw such a disturbed look before in my life:' "Molly, I can explain;' I pleaded as I ran to try and catch up with her. I knew ev erything I did was wrong. I knew that af ter this event I would continue to live in Molly's shadow not only now but .......... forever.

After

PJ>...(;E

SHELBY FRANCKS

ometimes I wonder if she thought about what she was leaving behind, if with her last jagged breath she had an epiphany and realized she had changed her mind. Other times, I wonder if her last words were "Emma, why didn't you see? Why didn't you help me?" Judith says that I will "kill myself " if I keep thinking that way. Thank you for the empathetic choice of words, Judith. Judith is the therapist my mom chose for me because she thought I couldn't handle myself anymore. Truthfully, I think they thought I didn't know how to be alone and would follow Sarah where she went. Judith keeps the walls of her office adorned with diplomas in shiny wooden frames, as if she needs to prove to me that she's educated enough to tell me how to live my life. Ev ery Thursday, I sit on a lumpy couch, star ing at Judith's achievements, as she fires questions at me to ascertain how "I feel about everything todaY:' Judith comes equipped with Dr. Sul livan, who has a prescription pad per manently attached to his hand. He has a pill for every new issue he seems to find within me. Ativan for the "panic attacks" I have ever since it happened, Ambien so I can sleep through the night and not wake up screaming from the nightmares, and Zoloft for what he likes to call "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder with depressive tendencies:' All of the disorders, all of the pills, all of the comforting words, lumpy couches, boxes of Kleenex, shiny diplomas on a wall, all of this says 'Tm telling you that I'm sorry you found your best friend dead, but all you are to me is a paycheck:' If they listened to me for one second they would realize that I was not crazy, I didn't need

medication, I needed someone to look me in the face and tell me that life will go on, and this was not my fault. When I speak to Judith or Dr. Sullivan, they don't hear me, they hear another statistic and find anoth er mental health term to scrawl on my file. As long as I can remember, there has been Sarah. She was my rock, my solitude, and the one constant that I always had to count on in my life. Our mothers were close friends, and Sarah and I were born within months of each other. As children we lived on the same street, our mothers were together always and so were we. We always used to ask why God didn't make us sisters, and our mothers said it was because we were too much for one fam ily. We played from sun up to sun down. Sarah was the brave one, always willing to go on adventures, making up wild stories. She was my Peter Pan, and I was her lost boy. We had walkie-talkies so we could communicate even after it was time to go home. There was never a time when Sarah was more than a walkie-talkie away from me. Sarah had it rough, her father left when she was young, she didn't really re member much about him. Her mom had to work two jobs to make ends meet. Sarah spent many nights having dinner at my house. About after five years after Sarah's fa ther left, her mother, Cindy, developed a dependence on alcohol. It was subtle at first, wine a few hours too early in the day, one too many beers at a party, but it progressed. Soon, she was missing days at work, spending thirteen hours in bed with a bottle. It wasn't long until her addiction made her violent. She began to scream at Sarah a lot, for anything that bothered her. When screaming no longer sufficed,

FOLIO 35 she became physical. Sarah would come running to my house in the middle of the night crying, sometimes bloody, and I would let her sleep in my bed. At first this happened a few times a month, but after a while it became a few times a week, and Sarah stayed with us almost every night. I was only ten years old, but I felt that I made Sarah feel safe, like I was her refuge. Four years later, Cindy, in one of her alcohol induced fits, decided to take a drive late one night. During that drive, she drove over a sidewalk and into the front of a house. She was pronounced dead on the scene, with a blood alcohol count almost twice the legal limit. It was very late when the phone rang, a shrill intruder in the night. Sarah and I had been sleeping. I tiptoed downstairs, and found my mother crying into her hands. "What's wrong?" I asked her, and she looked at me, and stated simply, "Cindy is dead. Sarah is living with us now:' She walked out of the room, cursing under her breath about Cin dy being an "asshole mother, stupid drunk bitch." I thought my mom was mad, and I ran upstairs to warn Sarah, but I found my mom kneeling next to my bed, bent over Sarah in a protective stance, talking to her in a calm, hushed voice. I don't know what they were saying; it seemed too intimate a moment to creep any closer to listen. As they spoke, my mother stroked her hair as Sarah cried, my mom cried, too, but I don 't think anyone was crying for Cindy. It was surprisingly easy for my family to legally adopt Sarah. It had turned out that Cindy had made a will, just a few months before her death. Perhaps, she had one moment of clarity and realized the road she was travelling and where it led. On her will, she named my parents as legal guard ians of Sarah in the event that anything should happen to her. It was a grave situ ation, but Sarah and I were finally sisters, even if only on paper. It seemed only natural that Sarah lived with my family full time. She had stayed

with us so much, and we already shared everything else, and it seemed right that we now shared a room as well. I had always assumed, that even amidst all the tragedy in her life, Sarah was doing well, that she was happy. Most of the time, it seemed she was. She always expressed how grateful she was to be living a normal life. Some times, I would catch a look in her eyes that was something I had never seen before, something of deep sorrow and longing. It was on rare occasion that I saw that look; it was something that Sarah tried to keep very well hidden. So well hidden, I guess, that I usually forgot it even existed. We lived with my parents for another six years, and when we were twenty, moved into a small, one bedroom apartment close to the college we both attended. Our bedroom was fairly large, with two small closets on either side, as if it had been in tended to be shared. I don't know why we even bothered to have separate closets. If I couldn' t find something of mine, it could be found in Sarah's closet, on her, or in her car. We borrowed each other's clothes so often that we decided that we had joint custody of our wardrobe. She always joked that she would take my vintage leather jacket in the divorce. "G>

It's been four months, and still, every time I close my eyes the sight of Sarah's face haunts me. It was April when it happened; I had just finished my last class before Spring Break and ran home to celebrate with Sarah. I called for her when I opened the door, but she did not respond. I opened the bedroom door; maybe she was listen ing to her iPod and couldn't hear me. I didn't know what I was looking at when I saw her. She had a blue tint to her skin that I had never before seen, her eyes blood shot, a large bruise developed around her neck, and her tongue swelled out of her mouth. To me, it didn't look much like a release, it looked grotesque, painful, and terrible. I stood still, staring at her for

what seemed like an eternity, wondering if I was imagining the whole scenario, or if she was just playing a cruel joke on me. My mind clicked, and I started screaming "SARAH!" I ran toward her, trying des perately to detach her body from the rope, clawing at it until my fingers bled and fi nally, she fell, limp and lifeless into my lap. I hadn't noticed that I was still screaming until my downstairs neighbors, Andy and Dana came bursting into the room. "She's gone, she's dead;' was all I could sputter out between the gasping sobs escaping my body. Dana ran to call the police while Andy tried to pry me away from Sarah. I fought as hard as I could, clinging onto Sarah, in the struggle I had given Andy a blow to the face, which later turned into a large black eye. He succeeded in pulling me from her, and I collapsed, lost in a river of tears, screaming for Sarah. Throughout every bad thing that hap pened in my life: heartbreaks, insults, bad grades, fights, anything, I felt like Sarah was the only person I had. She was the only person who would never leave me. I didn't need to speak to communicate with her; she could tell how I was feeling just from a glance. I had always felt that Sarah supplemented the strength that I lacked, and through her, I was brave. I always thought that she felt the same way about our friendship, that I was her only beacon in her dark life. I tried to be her rock, to save her from everything that she had to endure, but deep down, I knew her scars would never go away. "G\

The days after I lost Sarah are a loud blur, faces moving in and out of my life, speak ing to me in kind tones, flowers, baked goods, and cards. I went to her funeral, but none of it seemed real. I couldn't even get myself dressed that morning. I was twenty-two years old, and my mom had to brush my hair for me and select my outfit. I had barely been sleeping, unable to step foot into the room Sarah and I shared, the

PAGE 40 room in which she took her last breath. I had been sleeping on the couch, some times the living room floor. I wouldn't be asleep long when I'd hear something, and think it was Sarah's key in the door, her phone ringing, or her laugh drifting in the room. I was living out a laundry basket so I didn't have to go anywhere near our room. I shut the door when I returned to the apartment and had not opened it since. "G\

I couldn't even bring myself to look in a mirror, all I saw was a blonde- haired, green-eyed Judas. I had developed large bags under my eyes, I knew because every one seemed to comment on them. It didn't bother me; at least I looked something akin to how I felt. I had stopped existing; I had become a permanent cushion on my couch. My electric was turned off, my heat, and my water. My parents finally in tervened when they knocked on my door and saw the eviction notice. They paid my back rent and moved me back into their house. I refused to pack up our room, in stead, I moved slowly through the other areas of the house, placing our items in boxes. I hadn't washed Sarah's coffee mug since she left, it still had an imprint of her lipstick on the rim. I sat on the kitchen floor, grasping that mug, tiny and pink, with a butterfly painted on it, and I cried. I cried for hours, and no one disturbed me. They moved around me, carrying boxes out. Finally, I was the final piece of luggage to remove from the apartment.

FOLIO 35

Letter to Someone Lost JESSICA GALLAGHER

o say that you've changed my life does not give due justice to how you've af fected me. Even now, after so much time has passed I still feel your presence, hear your voice, see your smile and it tears me apart. You were my rock. Knowing you were there kept me grounded. Just know ing that I will never again be able to hold your hand in mine or feel its warmth hurts me more than you will ever know. You taught me how to love the night; a wondrous time in which magical things could happen and things that could nev er exist in the light of day would thrive. Walking with you in the dark I felt I had finally found home. With you I had a place to belong, to be myself. Now you're gone. Walking in the dark which once brought solace, now only brings distress. The sounds which I used to consider a sooth ing melody are now sounds of pursuit to my ears. I no longer feel safe where I used to be most comfortable because you are no longer here to protect me. You taught me how to laugh, to laugh so hard I forget myself and my problems as tears of joy ran down my face. With you I could always be myself without fear of judgment. You helped me stand tall when all I wanted to do was run and hide. Now you're gone. Laughter is contained now and when it does escape, it sounds hollow. Tears still flow from my eyes, though now they seem to take pieces of my heart with them. I feel as though I have lost my base and without it I'll topple over. You taught me how to love; to feel so deeply for someone else that their happi ness is all that matters. Just knowing I had

made you smile would send a warmth through my body. More importantly you taught me how to accept love. You let me know it was okay to just revel in the com fort of your arms, to let you take care of me. Now you're gone, but you taught me that love goes on. Because of you I know that pain, which was once so intense I thought it would tear me in half, only made me stronger. You absence from my life, once a gaping wound has scarred over. I know I'll never again feel the warmth of your hand in mine, or see your smile which seemed to dim the stars. But I do know that I still love you. As time goes on the night grows lighter and the laughter comes easier because I know that even though you're gone you still love. Love Always, The One Still Here

Janine Katherine

PA(; E 42

JENNIFER HANNA

have never met anyone who loves music as much as Janine. It is the constant love in her life. She always thinks about and always notices it. On the phone the other day, she said "I was at the Roosevelt Mall yesterday. I like it there. They play good music:' I have been to that mall hundreds of times and never noticed that they play music. Janine has been to many concerts and gotten a lot of backstage passes. She will travel alone, long distances, to see a band she likes, and will enter endless con tests to win tickets. Recently, Janine was at a meet-and-greet for one of her favorite bands in Maryland. She asked the band to play at our ten-year high school reunion next October. She also made the band Valentines. Janine is thoughtful in that way, she sends me a Valentine almost ev ery year. To Janine, there is a song for everything and she knows all kinds of music. She also knows details of the lives of the mu sicians. I don't really know much about music, but Janine never held it against me. She recently invited me to a concert and I declined. She had just been to a concert alone and will go to this one alone. Janine is like that. She is secure enough to do it alone. She will most likely meet people there, possibly even the bands. Ja nine's guts worry me; she ends up in some pretty dangerous situations. At the same time, I know that I do not really need to worry. Janine always lands on her feet. She says that she has nine lives, because her middle name is Katherine, Kat for short. Janine's stripper name is Kat. I should have known that friendship with Janine would be anything but ordi nary. A mutual friend introduced us in Gym Class, in the tenth grade. Janine's

first words to me were, 'Tm running away to my dad's tonight:' It is twelve years later and we have had our difficulties, but we remain good friends, and Janine remains one of the most unique people I have ever known. A few years ago, Janine had an apart ment not too far from where I live. We got together on a regular basis for dinner or a movie. We were Bank Tellers at different branches of a bank that now barely exists. Janine called me and told me that she quit and that she wanted to take me out for my birthday. We met at the Roosevelt Mall for shopping. After a while, I realized she was buying me a lot, and I asked if she had gotten a new job. She told me that she was "doing bach elor parties:' Janine had done stripping here and there, to make ends meet. She is very beautiful and has a naturally terrific body. She never did well at the strip clubs. She would get nervous or drunk and do poorly on the stage. Bachelor parties were easier because they are smaller crowds and it is more one on one. I did not like my friend's job, but I did not want to judge her or lose her. A few months later, after she came to the bank and made a very large (in the thousands) cash deposit, we got together for shopping and dinner at the Neshaminy Mall. We had eaten the same dinner at the same pizza place many times. We each got a pepperoni slice and a coke. Janine put Parmesan cheese on her slice and I dipped mine in ketchup. She said that she was doing really well, but she had been getting into drugs. She called it self-medicating, and said that it helps with the job. I said, "If you are doing so well on money, why don't you slow down with stripping:'

FOLIO 35 "You think I make all of that money for stripping?" she asked me. Nai:ve as I was, I had to ask her where the money came from. I honestly could not imagine what she was about to tell me. 'Tm doing more stuff, like sex and blow-jobs for it:' Then she told me, "the money is really good, and I make $400 to $500 and hour. And some of the guys don't want me to do that much:' She went on to explain that she does "outcall:' The Madam would call Janine and tell her if she had an appointment. Ja nine's driver would pick her up and take her to the client's home, or his chosen hotel/motel. The driver would wait out side while Janine went to work. The cli ent would pay Janine, who would pay the Madam later. Janine also worked for a Madam in Center City, out of an apartment complex. She would take a taxi to the Madam's, and wait. Clients would come and go. It was safer and the Madam was nicer. In ad dition, Janine could pick her own work schedule. I do not even know how to describe how I felt at that point. "I don't want a normal life;' Janine would later tell me. She was a prostitute. How could I look at her the same way? How could I talk to her? How could I let her buy my dinner? A few months went by and we saw each other every once in a while. I distanced myself from Janine. Eventually, I could not deal with it anymore. I could not rec oncile being friends with a prostitute. I told Janine that my boyfriend found out what she was doing, and he did not want me to see her anymore. That never happened. It was all me. She still does not know that. We talk now and she is under standing about the situation. That is just how she is. She would never judge me or cut me out of her life. I have not told her because I do not want her to know what sort of person I am. We stopped talking for a few years.

Luckily, I realized what a mistake I had made and contacted Janine. She was living in Maryland. Janine is the sort of person who will just get up and move somewhere she has never been. When she wants something, she goes after it and finds a way to make it happen. If it involves pack ing up and moving, then she packs up and moves. One of the most influential pieces of advice I have ever gotten was from Ja nine in our last year of high school. She said to me, "You can't just sit around and wait for things to come to you. You have to go and get them:' A few months later, Janine moved back here though. She moved in with an old college friend in South Philly. We talked on the phone and emailed. She was done with prostitution and had been through rehab, after almost dying in a car accident and an overdose. She was trying to get her life together, but had trouble finding a job. Ever since I have known her, Janine has always had times of depression. I never thought much about it. Looking back, there is a definite pattern. Janine gets very depressed for days or weeks. She does not get out of her bed or even answer the phone. For a little while, this went on. Soon, her friend in South Philly had kicked her out. Over the few years we did not speak, she had gotten bad on drugs and prostitution and had burned many bridges. For a few weeks, she stayed with this friend and that friend. Eventually she turned to her old driver. He hooked her up with a Madam and Janine started living and working out of a hotel. Next, she moved in with her child hood friend's boyfriend, who incidentally is a drug addict and has an arrest warrant for robbery out on him. He has stolen hundreds of dollars from her and has no job. He even stole the rent money. She is prostituting again. I will not abandon her this time. Janine's told me that her current Mad am, "Is such a bitch, she said that if I call

out sick I owe her money because she has a baby to take care of' She tried to get a new job to earn more money, to get her own place. She met with a man who had her sign a confidentiality contract and then asked her to perform oral sex on him. He offered to pay her. I suppose it was an audition. She refused. I suggested Janine look through the newspaper and fill out applications at the mall. She wants to, but her behavior lately is very erratic and she cannot seem to focus her consid erable energies. Lately, Janine is partying and constantly going out. She is up and out all-night and sleeping all day. A few weeks ago, we went to a bar. After just a few minutes, several men were vying for Janine's attention, as usual. Janine has a way about her, it is a sexuality that effortlessly comes across and attracts people. She is very boy-crazy and meets men very easily. But, she stops seeing them if they are after her "for the wrong reasons:' Recently she really liked a man named Robert and went on several dates with him. He tried and tried, but she would not sleep with him, because she was not ready. Janine wants to be loved. Last Saturday, we were out to dinner with some other people. Janine could not sit down for more than a few minutes at a time. She had to go and smoke, she had to talk to the server, she had to use the bathroom, etc... She really was quite fran tic. I wondered if she was on drugs again. However, she just had a visit with her Pa role Officer. She had to keep clean. I start ed to think back over the last twelve years. Janine had always struggled with periods of depression. That I knew. What I failed to notice was when she was the opposite, the partying and frenzied conversations. She has never been a normal girl. Ja nine will walk out of a movie, or be so dis gusted to the point of not being able to eat, over hearing someone chew. To this day, I will not snack while on the phone with her, though she says it is fine. Janine will

PA(;E 44 notice the smallest detail of the most insignificant thing and be relentless about it. It can be a bit annoying. Janine is a very intense individual. Words are very dear to Janine. I have often thought her atten tion to detail and careful usage of words would make her a great writer. Her heart is in music though. It gets her through every situation, high or low. Janine is the moodiest person I have ever known and music helps her deal with it all. I have been thinking lately that per haps, there is more to it. Maybe there is a reason Janine cannot settle into a nor mal life. Maybe there is a reason for the extreme ups and downs, the lack of focus, the depression and partying. Then I re membered something Janine told me a few months ago. When she was in rehab, the doctors diagnosed her with Bipolar Disorder. She dismissed the idea. She mentioned it so insignificantly, that I had not thought twice about it, until now. She told me that the doctor was wrong, that she is not Bipolar. She says that she has known people with that disorder, and she is not anything like them, and she did not want to take any medication. I think Ja nine may be wrong. How do you tell your best and oldest friend that you believe that she has a mental illness?

FOLI035

Ellen's Story SUSAN KEARNEY

y name is Ellen - Ellen Slight, and the year is 1920. Today my oldest grandchild, Eli, asked me a question that I answered in the only way I could; I lied. I am not sure why I feel troubled by this lie, but suddenly I do. Maybe it is my age and the shame I have kept hidden for so long. Maybe I just long to shed the mask that has been my so-called reality for the past 50 years. Eli wanted to know about his "Scottish'' heritage. The question I am troubled by is this: Is it finally time to tell him, my family, and myself the truth? Eli loves history, and today he asked about my parents and my childhood. Just as I told his father Sam many years ago, I said that they died during our voyage from Glasgow to New York in the year 1855. I recalled that I was merely two years of age at the time, and remembered noth ing of the journey. The truth is I was four and the horrors of that dark, dank lower chamber of the ship haunt me to this day. While the memories are vague, I do recall the crying, the fears, and the darkness. The smells were as unbearable as mother's constant wails. She was pregnant at the time and the trip was hell for her. Despite the memories, I have not allowed myself to feel sympathy for her for years. Today, however, her pain is suddenly very real. When I met Sam, I was 20 and just be ginning to make my own life. For the first time, I was, outwardly at least, free. I was seemingly alone in the world, so I created a story that kept me alone and isolated me from my real family for the remainder of my days. Simply put, I was too ashamed of my family, my past, and myself so I told my future husband Sam a tale. The Irish are truly gifted storytellers! I said that my mother's sister, Aunt Ellen McGuigan

met the ship. She raised me until I was old enough to work in a textile mill in Kens ington. Then, she too died. My story killed off Aunt Ellen and all my past. In truth, I was born in Scotland to Irish par ents, but I wanted to be seen by the world as Scottish, not Irish. I needed to be alone and free from my Irish past if I hoped to hold onto such a wonderful, handsome, and well-estab lished man as Samuel Slight. The year was 1874 when Sam came into my life. He was the son of a prominent Protestant businessman in fashionable Frankford, and unfortunately for me, his family had nothing positive to say about Catholics; especially those hordes of recently arrived poor Irish Catholics who had invaded and changed their precious new section of the city of Philadelphia. By 1876 I was preg nant with our first son, Walter; but we did not marry until 1877, however, that's an other story. The truth, you ask? Facing my truth is like visiting an old attic where everything has been yellowed, colored by time, and is encrusted in a fine coat of concealing dust. My tale is one full of youthful rage; how ever, I am not sure with whom I am most angry: my mother, my father, or myself. The only truth I told Sam was that I was born in Scotland, but it was in 1851 not 1853. My parents were Michael Kearney and Mary Ann McGuigan of County Ty rone, Ireland. My story is in many ways like millions of other first-generation Irish famine emigrants. In other ways, it is mine alone. Mother's aunts, Ellen, Rose, and Cath erine McGuigan were the first to flee the awful famine that invaded Ireland in the late 1840's. They left Ciogherny in the

Parish of Donaghedy in early March 1849. As a child, I never could understand why mother called their send-off party a wake. Mother's aunts resurrected into a new life in Philadelphia after their ship, the Eliza beth, completed its journey from Belfast to New York on May 4, 1849. Mom used to tell me that they were luckier in Tyrone than in many other parts of Ireland. In much of Ulster, the people at least ate oatmeal and had some income from their flax industry. However, after a few consecutive years of famine, it simply became too difficult to endure and more emigrations followed: mom's parents, Terrence and Elizabeth McGuigan left in 1850 as did dad's brother Thomas. They too went to Philadelphia. According to Aunt Rose, it was a better place than New York or Boston; there was more room and better living conditions. My dad did not have sufficient funds to purchase a voyage to the United States but Mr. James Ogilby, a very generous and kind landlord who had been known to pe riodically donate money to aid the starv ing poor, purchased passage for myfather from Derry to Glasgow. Dad was lucky enough to get some work and after a six month stay, he was able to purchase pas sages for his wife, himself, and his new born child named after mom's Aunt Ellen: that is, me. We journeyed from Glasgow to New York, and early in 1855, finally settled in the Port Richmond section of Philadelphia near dad's brother Tom. I remember the early years as mostly be ing happy. Life in our new city was so dif ferent. We lived on a crowded street near the busy railroad tracks. In Clogherny I had had endless rocky fields to roam and play. All I needed to avoid were the old ruins and the quarry where the men worked. Otherwise, all 800 plus acres were my world, open and unrestricted. Here the streets were tiny, dirt-covered, and full of horse and other animal drop pings. The trains ran down nearby Lehigh

PJ>...CE 46 Avenue and the noise from the nearby Philadelphia and Reading Coal Yard and W harves was constant. Dad worked everyday as a labourer on the rails, doing whatever odd jobs he could to help establish life for his family in this strange, new world. I remember mom as always pregnant. My sister Mary was born only days after our arrival, but she died two months later. The rest fol lowed rapidly: Elizabeth in 1855; Francis (named for dad's father Francis who had stayed in Ireland because of old age) in 1857; Terrence (named for mom's dad) in 1859; Mary in 1861; Michael in 1862; Catharine in 1863 and Willie, the baby in 1866. Baby Michael, like Mary, died at four months of age. Only this time, I was old enough to understand the tears and feel the loss. We buried him in the new cemetery at St Anne's Church on a cold December day between Christmas and New Years. It was the saddest Christmas of my childhood - until 1868. Philadelphia did not usually live up to its name "The City of Brotherly Love;' when it came to the Irish. Life for us was hard outside our small community of Port Richmond. Dad had been out of work because of the bitter cold winter, and in truth, the New World had lost much of its luster for him. He wanted to go back to Ireland. When he was feeling low, he would drink too much, and when he would drink too much, he was difficult to live with. Often he was sad, melancholic, and prone to "disturbing the peace" as much as one could disturb the peace in the noise of the city. One night in a drunken stupor, he stood in the street singing an old Tyronean bal lad. I only remember the final verse that went like this: "Far away I hear you calling, Motherland! still dear to me; When the autumn leaves are falling I'll be back across the sea,

FOLIO 35 Tramping through the mist that gathers Down from Sperrin's summits lone To the homestead of my fathers On the uplands of Tyrone." Needless to say, mother was outraged and embarrassed. She threw him out and told him to sober up. He took refuge with Un cle Francis, his brother who had emigrated in 1857 after their father had passed away. Francis had a young family of his own and was helping his mother Mary and sister Margaret, so he was not about to put up with much of dad's nonsense. For the next week, my parents fought incessantly. Finally, mom took what little savings they had amassed since dad had threatened to take it and go back to Ire land with or without her. She went to Frankford, a more upscale, recently de veloped area of the city, where her brother Patrick and mother Elizabeth were living. Here she promptly rented a house. She re turned, gathered us children together and we moved out of the only home we had known in the New World, our house on Salmon Street in Port Richmond. At the time, I was 16, the oldest, and the one most hurt and embarrassed by my parents' separation. I knew many whose parents fought and whose dads drank, but I knew no one whose parents had separat ed. I was angry with my father, but I was outraged by my mother's actions. What right did she have to take us from dad and declare him as much as dead? I remem ber wondering why he too did not merit a wake? I wanted independence so I found a job as a house servant. That lasted for about six months when I decided to find dad. He had temporarily relocated to the far side of the city to work on some rail proj ect and was living in temporary housing. I made my way there. It was a rough en vironment not suited for a young, single girl. By day, the men worked. By night, they drank and looked for fun which in-

eluded women if possible. By day, I kept house for dad and some others who had come out from Port Richmond; by night, I longed for the companionship of people my own age. I met a young man named Patrick Bergen whom I thought I could trust. Unfortunately, I was wrong. By late 1869, I was pregnant and alone. Patrick vanished quickly when he learned of my predicament. Dad simply told me to go back to mom, but I knew I could not do that. I went to Father O'Connor, a priest I knew from St. Anne's, and he saw that I was taken in by the new ly opened House of the Good Shepherd for Wayward Girls. I was called an inmate and forced to labor as a seamstress until my child was born. There, I delivered the only one of my six children who was born female and who I would never hold as my own. When I walked out of the House of the Good Shepherd, I left everything that was Irish, Catholic, and my past behind. All I carried with me to my job at the textile mill in Kensington where I met Sam was my anger. In 1885, my mother died; my father passed away less than one year later. He never got back to Ireland, and I never got to either one of their funerals. I do not know how much of this I can and will tell my husband, children, and grandchildren. However, now, I do know one thing for sure: I no longer muse at the idea of a wake for reasons other than physical death. Today, all too painfully, I have come to know that the loss of one's roots, family, and past is a very real form of death and deserves to be mourned.

COD ALLISON JENKINS Off. Dark. On. Light. Off. Dark. On. Light. Off. Dark. On. Light. Off. Dark. On. Light. He hesitated. He had lost count. Off. Dark. On. Light. Off. Dark. I think that made six. "Shit;' he said aloud. He slowly flicked the tiny switch upwards into the "on'' position once again and, with a great huff of breath, walked back over to his bed. He sat down, closed his eyes, and began the ritual. This was his morning, every morning, since he was five years old. Has it really been seventeen years?, he thought with disdain. Andrew buried his head in his arms that were now resting on his legs and stared at his feet. He felt cramped. His tall frame made it uncomfort able to position his body this way. His comfort didn't matter though. The ritual did. Then, he began to count: "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten ... ten toes. Ten tiny toes:' Each morning, without fail, he would count his toes like a new parent dot ing on his or her brilliant shiny addi tion to the world. And every day, he would start out with a new anagram. "Ten tiny toes. This is gonna be a good one:' he shared aloud. The timbre of his voice resonated throughout the small room. His mind began to work like a ma chine, attempting to create all possible variations of the eleven letters until he could find one that he really enjoyed. 'Intent, yet so'. That doesn't really make sense ...'teen into sty'? That's actually pret ty good. Ooh. Wait, no. I got it. 'Sentient

toy'. It's perfect. Concise, decent letter displacement, cool meaning. Starting the day as a sentient toy. With ten tiny toes. He emerged from his arm-cocoon with his back aching. Grinding his toes firmly into the beige carpeting, Andrew stood up. He strode to the light-switch, lack ing luster. He didn't want to move there, he had to. He didn't want to do the ritual, but if he went to leave the room, his feet would stop moving. He would be glued to the plush carpeting, never to move again until he decided to turn off the lights five fucking times. Of course, there was also the fact that he was meeting his new thera pist today. He was dreading that like he was dreading the plague. " Okay,fivetimes.No more,noless ... focus:' With this, he plunged the room into total darkness, only to immediately fill it with light once again. "I feel...bad;' he said slowly. Andrew let the words roll around in his mind, try ing to search for what he really meant. That was usually the answer that he was supposed to come up with next. What is bad, though? What is good? After being trapped in this never-ending prison of his own mind for such an extended pe riod of time, he had lost most of his sense of judgment. But over those eight and a quarter sessions in the past two months, Andrew started to feel something strange, overwhelming. "Well...;' she said probing, "what ex actly does 'bad' mean?'' Her bright blue eyes searched his: she was look ing at his heart. It made him feel strange. Extremely uncomfortable. Shifting in his seat, busying his hands,

FOLIO 35 he spoke without a clear end in sight. "Bad. I dunno. Do you know what bad is? I don't think anyone really knows. Is it bad that I can't wake up without counting my goddamn toes? Is it bad that I have to tap all the sides of a door frame before I go in a room? Or before I leave it? Is it bad that I can't go ten minutes without cracking my left index finger? Or is 'bad' something deeper? Like the fact that it's impossible for me to find any meaning in relationships? I mean, I have friends. I have family. I've had girlfriends. But is it bad that I can't find any meaning in them beyond the superficial need to be surrounded by people?! Of course it is! And that>s why we>re here. You're the therapist and I'm the crazy person! You listen and you fix me. Do it. Fix me!" Andrew crossed his arms tightly, pouting like a child. Naomi did not yell, she did not lecture. She didmt even break her sweet smile. "You are so normal, Andrew. YoU>re so normal and you domt even realize it." Meditating on this idea, he felt an abrupt relief. The weight was lifted and the itch was scratched. His anger was unprovoked and unnecessary. It's not her fault, he thought. If anything, she's saving me. Her simple statement continued to wash over him like layers of cool rain. A smile broke across his face like sunshine breaking through clouds. He felt entirely flawless. He stood up slowly after their hour had passed. Though his lower half was asleep after sitting in such a strange position for so long, it was as if he had just sat down. Time passed so quickly when he entered that sacred brownstone; he didn't have to worry about applying for school loans, finding a good job after his impend ing graduation, or searching for a cheap apartment. He could lose himself in this hour, in her smile. He felt comfort in her questions about his well-being, her silent

nods at his introspection, and her loud laughs whenever he made a particularly good joke. He felt complete within this room. Naomi rounded her large desk, crack ing her knuckles and flashing her red nails. It was a quirk of hers that Andrew had noticed over the past month or two. He had come to love it, as he did with all of her intricacies. She placed a hand on his shoulder and displaying her perfectly white and straight Chiclet teeth in a heart-wrenching smile. "You're making real progress, Andrew. I hope you keep what we talked about in mind;' she said earnestly, squeezing his shoulder tightly. Andrew enjoyed being called normal. It felt strange, sure, but did that make him appreciate it any less? Hell no. Talking to her was like a vacation from himself. It was almost as though she turned off the tiny part of his mind that wanted to ritu alize his life. He thought carefully about his relation ship with Naomi as he left her office: if people were days of the week, he was just another Monday. Naomi, on the other hand, was Friday and Saturday wrapped up in Christmas and Spring Break: all festive, happy, and joyful. She was so in credibly bubbly that he could almost taste the sweetness in her saccharine smile. Suddenly, he was intensely aware of the movements of his feet on the wet, shiny sidewalk. He felt like the sentient toy, see ing and tasting and smelling and hearing and feeling, but still a slave to the whims and whimsies of someone else. He always felt this powerlessness, but he usually attempted to put it out of his mind, focusing on the thousands of other questions that roamed aimlessly in his mind: Was the JFK assassination really a con spiracy? How exactly do you make tuna salad? Who on Earth still finds Two-and-

a-HalfMen funny? If a person is cross-eyed AND dyslexic, do they end up reading ev erything okay? Does the Earth end some where? Where did it begin? If sign makers go on strike, is anything written on the signs? Should you really focus on covering your neck in the event of a mountain lion attack?! Why is the word "abbreviation" so goddamn long!? The deluge of thought wasn't having its normal effect. Flooding his mind with these random questions like Naomi had taught him wasn't helping at all. He real ized that his anxiety had been channeled into his walking speed: he was nearly three-quarters of the way home. Even this comfort did not appease his mind. The tension was building within him like the molten lava of a volcano just about to rupture, like an itch on his leg that he was desperately trying to ignore. It's mind over matter, Andrew, he thought. You don't have to do the ritual, Andrew. You are stronger than your OCD, Andrew. You can do this! Over and over again he repeated these phrases, a Bud dhist monk focusing on his mantra. Nao mi gave him the idea. After several min utes, he furrowed his brow as a light sheen of sweat began to build there. He felt like he was winning this battle. His lips twisted into a slight smirk. That's what it's all about anyway, right? Little victories. A pit began to knot in his stomach. His smirk transformed into a grimace. The need pulled away from him. In a wave of emotive worry that was stron ger than any physical blow he had ever received, Andrew realized that it was his destiny to tick, to ritualize. Who was he to evade destiny? Every Shakespearean protagonist has tried and it worked out like shit for them ..., he thought casually. Stomping up the stone steps leading to his parents' two-story colonial, he in dulged wholeheartedly. After wiping his

PA�E 50 feet on the welcome mat, he rapped the doorframe with the backside of his left fist, clenched tightly. He closed his eyes and relished in the feeling. A cloud of calmness enveloped him. His entire body tingled with hap piness as though all of his nerve end ings were screaming "WHY WOULD YOU EVER WANT TO GIVE UP THIS GLORIOUS FEELING!?" Andrew's con science wanted to hate itself; he wanted to feel like he had failed. He knew that Nao mi wouldn't be happy that he didn't fight the feeling longer and he did not want to disappoint her. However, the pure, un adulterated pleasure that raced through his body and mind upon touching those thin pieces of wood surrounding that large mahogany door outweighed all con sequences and feelings of inadequacies. He felt entirely flawless. "Guys, broccoli looks like tiny trees;' Andrew noted, confident in his assess ment of the cheese-dipped vegetable. His eyes were intently focused on his plate. The contrasting colors of the green and the yellow and the brown reminded him of the autumn. It was his favorite season. He was attempting to distance himself from his parents questioning glares. Their eyes felt like lasers, honed in their target: Andrew and his broccoli. ''.Andrew, please stop it. We're trying to have a serious conversation with you;' his mother pleaded. The steel and navy and murky violet bags under her eyes be trayed her. Andrew knew she wasn't get ting sleep. He knew it was because of him. 'Tm just trying to compare a common cabbage derivative to the wondrous cre ations that provide us with oxygen. Seri ously though, I feel like a dinosaur right now!" he exclaimed, attempting to lighten the mood. He searched his father's cold gray eyes ...he was not pleased. Okay, stop messing with them, Andrew. "Listen, I'm making a lot of progress

FOLIO 35 with Naomi. We talked a lot and things seemed good, okay? I'm really starting to like her;' he finished, genuinely hop ing that this knowledge would mollify his parents. Just as he had hoped, a light jumped into his mother's eyes. Her smile seemed whiter and the circles under her eyes seemed to retouch their discoloration. "Really?" she began happily, "That's great, Andrew! I mean, I don't mind having you around, but lately...you've seemed .. .I dunno, more mature! It's so lovely!" she concluded, nearly bouncing out of her seat. "Yeah, well. Don't go all crazy, okay? I'm still a twenty-something with no job and no social life;' he said, smiling at his mother's evident excitement. His father, after seeing such an im provement in Andrew's mother, relented. His eyes softened and he addressed An drew for the first time that night: "Kid, we're just trying to help you out. We need you to socialize and to be normal for once:' Immediately, he realized the implications of his words. They didn't of fend Andrew, but his parents were always concerned with his feelings. "Hell, you are normal! I just meant that ...;' his fa ther sighed, "we want the same things you want, right? You want to have a place of your own, right? You want to be able to do things on your own, right? Isn't that what you want?" Andrew knew what the face his father kept making meant. He was looking for a response: a reassuring one. What do I want, though?, he questioned silently. Her face popped into his head. "Yeah. Sorry;' Andrew muttered qui etly, staring once again at his blue china plate-home to the world's smallest trees, drenched in the most unhealthy cheese sauce man has ever seen. "How many times do I have to tell you? You never have to apologize to us. We love you. Always will;' he guaranteed. It

was rare to hear such sentimental words from such a stoic man. Andrew felt his heart ache at the thought of always act ing like such a child, of disappointing them. My entire life is just a screw-up. I just want to make them proud once. He simply couldn't let them down. In truth, Andrew was genuinely happy to see Naomi at his next session. His par ents had set them up a while ago, after his mother met her through a friend from work. He was hesitant to meet her at first. Andrew generally disliked social interac tion: phone calls, answering the door, and small talk while riding elevators all made him feel physically ill. All in all, Andrew thought as he washed his hands for the third time, Naomi and I have a natural connection. Her eyelashes batted in time with the beating of his heart. Something about her made him feel completely at ease. He was always the best version of himself, the most comfortable version of himself, around her. It stunned him, especially because she was so incom prehensibly beautiful. It's not that Andrew was not familiar with women. He had a number of girl friends over those twenty-two years. All of them ended in tragic disrepair, how ever, one way or another. Sophie, the stunning redhead with the shimmering green eyes? Too many freckles. They cov ered her entire body and often gave the illusion of movement, freaking Andrew out. Eventually Sophie found someone more appreciative of her unusual mela nin-displacement: a modeling company in Dublin. What about Kelly, the girl with the tattoo of the massive fire-breathing dragon sprawling and wrapping down her right leg? Andrew just couldn't bring her around to meet his parents for fear of their heart attacks. He heard that Kelly had met a biker at a local bar and was liv ing quite happily now, the Old Lady of a

particularly successful Hell's Angel. How about Christina? Sweet Christina, who visited the retirement home twice a week and visited the adoration of the Eucharist every single night? Once she found out that Andrew was a non-practicing Uni tarian, she dumped him on the spot. It turned out she had won the Young Peo ple's Mother Teresa Award this past No vember. They had all moved on. He was still stuck. None of them were like Naomi, though: the understanding, considerate, and car ing girl of Andrew's dreams. The sickly yellow color of the anti-bac terial soap was beginning to bother him. Withdrawing his wrinkled and soaking hands from the spray of the sink, Andrew dried his hands on the soft cotton towel to his left. He studied himself carefully in the mir ror. He had seen quite an improvement since he began to see Naomi, those eight or so weeks ago: his eyes looked more full of life, his unruly dark hair began to lie nicely, and the circles under his eyes were gone. The relatively lanky man look ing back at him smiled happily and, for the first time in his life, Andrew felt like he was strong. I will stop. Now. This is it. Never again. That next day, Andrew was woken by the chirping of the birds. More techni cally speaking, Andrew was woken by the artificial birds chirping from his alarm clock. The bright red analog numbers read "8:30" clearly. He had no wishes to acknowledge that fact, though. He buried his head underneath his navy blue comforter and dreaded sitting up. Andrew felt so sure that last night would be his final ritual. Already, he felt the need to count, to wash, to crack the shell that Naomi had provided him. He felt so lost without her words of encouragement. It was like he was a bird that was learning to fly and someone had pushed him out

PA�E 52 of the nest. Fly or die. Fly or die. Fly or die. He decided to fly, once and for all. Andrew threw off the covers, turned over and sat up, placing his feet flat on the floor. Already it began. The fight was in progress. Digging his toes into the carpet, he pushed off the bed with both hands. Ev erything took considerable effort. Putting one foot in front of the other, he walked slowly to the door. He wasn't looking at the light switch. He wasn't looking at the doorframe. He would not look at his toes. He would not give up. The world was spinning in slow mo tion and his legs felt like molasses. Nearly a foot from the door, he was halted. An drew was stuck to the floor, glued to the carpet by his insecurities, his thoughts, his ritual. He couldn't do this, he wasn't able to. What on Earth was I thinking? I'm just Andrew, the kid with OCD. Who do I think I am? Naomi's face came to his mind. She touched his shoulder and he could almost feel the warmth beneath her touch. In one quick motion, he yanked his right foot off the carpet. There's no glue now and there never was. He ran. With the wind blowing through his hair and still in his Batman pajama pants, Andrew ran sixteen blocks to Naomi's. He ran into the waiting room and ran past the secretary. Some people laughed, but he barely heard. Her cheer ful laugh, free from judgment and con descension, was resonating in his mind. He ran to her office, knocked on the door, and waited for her to answer. He heard the shuffle of papers through the thin walls and soon enough, the door cracked open. Naomi's eyes widened in surprise. He smiled instinctively. "Andrew, we don't have a meeting sched uled until 1:30. Is something wrong?" she asked genuinely. She sat down quickly and picked up a notepad. She seemed worried, like she thought he was in mor-

FOLIO 35 tal danger. He was as far from danger as he had ever been. "Go out with me:' The words flew out of his mouth before he had a chance to over think them. He had caught her off guard, but her words were prepared. '/\ndrew, I'm your therapist. It's not smart to mix things like this, especially when you're making such strides;' she ra tioned. 'J\s of this moment, I'm withdrawing from treatment;' Andrew stated boldly. Andrew could tell that she wasn't ex pecting something that. He took it and ran with it. Putting his hands on the desk, he spoke. "Listen, I know it's only been a couple months, but you've changed me! That first morning when I came to you Oh my God, that sounds so cheesy. Stop it, An drew. Okay, focus. Anyway, this morn ing I didn't count my toes and I didn't do the doorframe thing. I fucking ran here. That's why I don't have decent clothes on and that's why I don't have shoes. Yes, my feet are killing me and yes, people laughed, but I just wanted to see you and tell you and the least you can do is let me buy you a drink. Please, Naomi. You're probably the only person that I've ever re ally wanted to be with. Nothing is forced between us and I just .. .I think I love you. Please, Naomi. Just say yes:' He waited for her to say "Yes, Andrew, of course!': but she never did. She didn't say anything at all for a very long time. Andrew's palms itched; he wanted to wash his hands. 'Tm afraid you've misinterpreted our relationship, Andrew. Any romantic re lationship between us has been fostered in your own mind:' she said, slowly. His heart fell to his stomach and stayed there, sulking. "While this is fairly common, you can't let this affect the progress you've made. A whole morning without rituals? That's an

incredible feat you've accomplished!" she said, excitedly. Andrew realized how greatly he loved his version of her, the version that would only discuss his day, his activities, his in terests. She would ask the perfect ques tions and tell him such clever jokes; the version of Naomi that laughed at all of his corny jokes and gave him such hope was so lovely in his mind. Did he bother to know her outside of here? Did he even know her favorite song? What were her parents like? Indian or Italian food? What was the defining moment of her life? What made her decide to want to help poor bastards like Andrew? She was such a beautiful creation in his mind. But that's the only place she'll ever be: in my head. She didn't like him. She didn't want him. Those thoughts echoed in his mind, the silence of the room overpowering, deaf ening even. He wanted to storm out of the room, call her the foulest name imagin able, and never see her again. His voice would be his brush; profanity would be the paint. Naomi would be the canvas. He wanted to punch through a wall and kick and scream. And yet, he wanted to kiss her. After spending seventeen years of in dulging his impulses, he finally decided to quit. "Thanks, Naomi. I'll see you soon:'

Windows to God CHRISTINA KING "Let the avenue to this house be rendered difficult and gloomy by mountains and mo rasses. Let the doors be of iron, and let the grating, occasioned by opening and shut ting them, be increased by an echo that shall deeply pierce the soul." - Dr. Benjamin Rush, Quaker reformer, 1787

November 20'h, 1842: The creak and thud of the lock has repeated in my mind a hundred times now. I have no way of knowing how long I've been in here. My best guess is about nine hours. All I know for sure is that they brought me here in the locked carriage at noon and now I sit in complete darkness. No light pours down from the skylight, my "window to God;' as they say. That slit in the arched ceil ing paired with the raggedy old Bible that sits by the bare iron bed frame is my only means of entertainment, and apparently my only hope for salvation. I wasn't born a Godless thief. If mama was alive she'd have my neck. But I'd steal that horse again if I had the chance. The Quakers who run this place can't fathom what it's like to be a poor farmer. And when that rat bastard Bailey stole three of my chickens I had to make him pay. I never thought the blockhead would actually turn me in. Two and a half years for a goddamn horse. They let me have a good look at the outer walls of the place as we rode in, probably to scare me. Looks like one of those old castles in England, but from what I hear it's not as bad as the prisons over there. Once we got to the gate they put a black hood over my head. I heard the warden give the guards my number. "Silas Alderman, number

D-4168:' That's the only thing they said to each other, or me, and the next thing I saw was my cell. The first thing that hit me was the stench. As a farmer I'm no pansy when it comes to foul odors but this is far worse than any cow dung I've encountered. The damp air is saturated with the unbearable reek of raw sewage. I haven't heard a single sound in nine hours other than my own breathing. It feels like these walls are getting thicker, the stones like little guardsmen, trapping the cold damp rancid smell in here with me. "Thrown into solitude... [the prisoner] re flects. Placed alone, in view of his crime, he learns to hate it; and if his soul be not yet surfeited with crime, and thus have lost all taste for any thing better, it is in solitude, where remorse will come to assail him.... Can there be a combination more powerful for reformation than that of a prison which hands over the prisoner to all the trials of solitude, leads him through reflection to re morse, through religion to hope; makes him industrious by the burden of idleness..." -Alexis de Tocqueville, French politi cal thinker and historian, reporting to the French government from Eastern State Penitentiary in 1831 "Merry Christmas:' I heard the muffled whisper through my hood as the guard led me by the arm back to my cell from where ever it was that I was taken to saw wood for a brief period each day. First came the shock that he actually spoke to another guard in my presence. Then came the star tling realization that I've only been here for a little over a month, my knees nearly gave out. Once I heard the creak and thud I wait ed a few minutes before using my fingernail

FOLI035 First came the shock that he actually spoke to another guard in my presence. Then came the startling realization that I've only been here for a little over a month, my knees nearly gave out. Once I heard the creak and thud I waited a few minutes before using my fingernail to scratch a tal ly of each day I've spent here into the layer of rust on the underside of my bed frame. They'll never look under there, so long as I don't give them a reason to. They got pretty pissed when they heard me whis tling on the second day. Cost me three meals. I never thought I'd miss the pound of bread that is anonymously shoved into my cell once a day through the tiny wooden feeding door. That was the day I broke down and started reading the Bible. It was my only distraction from the hun ger, and the deafening silence. Since then I've spent most of my time reading. Hear ing my own voice in my head, reading God's word, is my only escape from the nothingness; the only thing that keeps me from screaming just to hear something. Just to hear myself again. But I still don't see God when I look up at that slit in the ceiling. Just the heaviness of the clouds, pressing down like a weight over this mis erable place, squeezing me in tighter. Every once in a while a minister reads his sermon while pacing through the cell block. The sound of his voice is a welcome relief from the cloak of stillness that suffo cates me. Almost as soothing as the birds I sometimes hear chirping from my exer cise "yard" - an extension of my cell with out a roof. If I lay on my back my body takes up roughly half its length. The best part of the yard is the sounds - air, wind, birds. "In its intention I am well convinced that it is kind, humane, and meant for reforma tion; but I am persuaded that those who designed this system of Prison Discipline, and those benevolent gentleman who carry

it into execution, do not know what it is that they are doing.... ! hold this slow and daily tampering with the mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body; and because its ghastly signs and tokens are not so palpable to the eye,... and it extorts few cries that human ears can hear; therefore I the more de nounce it, as a secret punishment in which slumbering humanity is not roused up to stay." - Charles Dickens, writing about his trip to Eastern State Penitentiary in 1841 The tally on my rusted bed frame tells me roughly one year and three months have passed since they took me from my farm. If my makeshift calendar is accurate, nine months separate me from freedom. This is my second winter at the prison and I truthfully don't know which is worse: the trapped, sweltering heat of summer, or the raw frozen air that becomes mind numbing by mid January. As I readjust my thin frayed blanket to cover as much of my body as possible, I notice one of them scurry across the floor again, its long naked tail disappearing into a tiny hole in the corner of my cell. For weeks now they've been scampering in and out through the small, dark opening in the stone wall. Rats of all colors and sizes, darting around in search of food, screech ing their claws across the floor as they go. I hear them screeching and squeaking behind the walls more and more often. The sound scares me. A few nights ago I was woken by a slight tug on my blanket. I looked down to find a tiny pair of beady red eyes glowing in the darkness, staring back at me with a hungry craze. -ci',

"He's been talking to the rats at night again. Third time this week" "I don't know what else to do with the bastard. We've withheld his meals, taken

away his work hour, he just doesn't re spond anymore:' "We can't just let him continue to break the rules. He's disturbing the other pris oners. The next thing we know they'll all be seeing imaginary rats and babbling to themselves at all hours of the night:' "Maybe he needs more motivation to keep his mouth shut. Sometimes they become immune to the same old punish ments. If he starts up again tonight just come get me, I'll take care of if' -6,

The pale morning light was just begin ning to seep in through my skylight when I turned over, only to feel the familiar shooting pain fire down my spine. The same pain I wake up with every morning after sleeping on the metal grate that is my bed. As my eyes began to adjust I realized that the floor was moving. Hundreds of them! All fighting with each other! Eating each other alive on the floor of my cell! The sound of their little nails scratching, their screeching squeals of war pierced my skull. They were different this time. Angrier! Like little demons. I knew that they would come for me any second. As soon as I began screaming for help an unfamiliar guard flung the door open, stormed into my cell, stepping on the sea of rats without even looking down, crush ing their tiny bodies with his boots! He forcefully yanked me from my bed and thrust the black hood over my head be fore dragging me with him. The freezing February wind was shocking as I realized we were outside. I whimpered in pain when the shack les tore into the skin on my wrists as the guard chained me to the outer wall of the prison. Then he disappeared. I began to panic. Was he going to leave me out here to freeze to death? Forget about me? Let the rats find me and eat me alive? When I first felt the blow of the icy water on my back I thought I had been shot. As he re-

PA�E 56 lentlessly dumped three buckets full of freezing water on me my lungs stopped working. I couldn't even breathe, let alone make a sound. My legs buckled and the chains were the only thing supporting my weight. It felt like hours had passed when another guard found us, unchained me, placed the hood over my head and walked me back to my cell. The first thing I did when he removed the hood was look for the rats, but by the time I returned there was no trace of them. Before he left, the guard took my blanket with him. It's been hours and my body still hasn't stopped shaking. As I lay on the bed frame, shivering violently while watching the last traces of sunlight fade from my window to God, I've become numb. "I believe that very few men are capable of estimating the immense amount of torture and agony which this dreadful punish ment, prolonged for years, inflicts upon the sufferers." - Charles Dickens writing about his trip to Eastern State Penitentiary in 1841 "D-4168 kicked the bucket last night. Probably caught pneumonia after John son doused him:' "Another one huh? I wonder when they'll realize this place produces more crazies than it fixes ... course then we'd be out of work, right George?" "Hmph. Aint that the truth:'

FOLIO 35

Workin' at Mickey D's

CAROL E. LATCHUM-SMITH

esse drove past the college every day in his used car, headed for work. om the neighborhood to the city to the 'burbs; the historical campus had the rep utation of heralding students into a world of elegant higher knowledge and the as surance that, once admitted, the secrets of an upper-class education would be theirs. It wasn't Jesse's world. The college campus had so many build ings it reminded Jesse of an ancient and wondrous civilization; towering grey buildings, classrooms and student labs, shining silver in the sunlight like a mul titude of ancient medieval castles. He had never been inside the campus, not once, but he knew it well. Springtime, driving to work with the windows down, the scent of delicious, wild honeysuckle growing ecstatically beside the long road intoxicated his senses. Fall, the freshmen arrived with too-clean backpacks, bewil derment, confusion, and hope. Jesse had the hope but his was secret and deep. He never spoke of it at work, sliding on his apron, smiling hello or good morning to his boss or his customers. In his mind, he didn't flip burgers for a living; he sat at his assigned desk in a classroom at the college and turned to the next page of his Chemistry book, eyes eager, hungry for his professor's next question, his opinion. It would be his, Jesse's, until he got his "A:' He shared an apartment with some of the guys from the neighborhood and was the only one with a legitimate job. Aand a shit paycheck. He got his share of junk mail but he never tossed the college cata log. He had a two-year stash hidden in his sock drawer like a ten-year old with hidden porn. Each semester he studied

the catalog, printed on cheap dissolvable paper. His dream was to go to college. And only that college. In his mind he elected another math course; he was good at math; economics II and heck, get art history out of the way. WithTthat decid ed in his imagination, he put the catalog back in the drawer, deep under the socks once more. One day. He knew he would go to college one day. He was never a good standardized test taker. In his neighborhood, teachers passed kids like him through to gradu ation only to be rid of them. Get a di ploma that didn't mean shit. He knew his "in'' to college had to be that of a nontra ditional student. Take two courses, study every minute he wasn't working, and pass. "Congratulations, Jesse. Take two more courses. Someday you'll pass go and col lect two hundred dollars:' One afternoon he cut the little "send me an application!" part of the catalog out and sent it off with a postage stamp. The application arrived in a huge white enve lope. "Col-lege?" his roommate mocked. "Been thinkin' it a long time:' "You ain't said nothin':' ''.Ain't wanted to. Time weren't right:' "Is now?" "Yeah:' And because it was Jesse, it was dropped. Jess always did think different. He needed letters of recommendation. Three. It took a week for him to nerve up enough to ask his boss to write him one. "You leaving to go to college? And said nothing?" "No, nothin' like that. Just wanted to

take a couple of courses, try it on, you know? Work comes first though, Mr. James. Can't pay bills with no book:' Mr. James studied him a moment. The look he gave Jesse changed and he nod ded briefly. "Give me that form, son. When you need it by?" "Thursday be good:' "I'll do it todaY:' Jesse, surprised, smiled. The completed application was mailed from the neighborhood post office. Two dollars, fifty-two cents correct metered mail. "You goin' to college, Jess?" "Hope to:' Hope to. And when the letter from the col lege came nearly a month later, he held it unopened till he got to his room. He shut the door, "click;; he sat on the bed. Closed his eyes. Please, he thought, please and ripped open the envelope. "Congratulations. You are accepted as a part-time student for the Fall semester which begins Sep tember 4, 2007:' The wild honeysuckle would still be fresh and alive when he walked onto campus for the first time. He was going to college. So now he was a freshman. He couldn't afford preppy clothes or even the requisite college sweatshirt, so he didn't max out his loan credit card pretending. He made it a habit to park in the boonies of the huge parking lot; he with his beat-up car, was ashamed to park next to the sharp, sporty wheels everyone else owned. He aced his first two classes then his second two in the spring. He knew he'd get good grades yet even he was sur prised. The more he learned the hungrier he was to learn. "How're your grades, Jess?" Mr. James asked, after his first year as a freshman. "Honors, sir:' "G.P.A.?" Jesse smiled, a real smile. "3.75, sir:'

PA�E 58 Mr. James nodded. "Summer I and II? Don't take more 'an one class each term, hear? Too much. You'll burn out:' Jesse wondered how he even knew of the internal debate to take two "light" classes each semester. But he took Mr. James' advice and aced Summer I and IL And today, four years later, May 7, he was graduating. As he drove his old car from the neighborhood through the city to the campus for the last time, his aca demic gown on a hanger draped in dry cleaner plastic, his cap, swathed in home grown Saran Wrap, carefully placed on the torn passenger seat, he didn't dream of his future and its endless possibilities; he saw his past. Will Mama cheer when I have my di ploma, he thought bitterly. Dear Mama. Though too young to have words, he remembered his Mama. He remembered sitting on a dank floor, baby legs splayed out, wearing that sagging stinking diaper. He held an empty cereal box. He couldn't let it go until . .. if ever. His belly was huge; he was hungry. He was hungry every second. The hunger was alive and it clutched his heart and throat. He looked into the empty cereal box, the torn plastic inside, always empty. He had no words as his huge, dark eyes found Mama huddled in the corner, sit ting knees up on the stinking, dirty floor. Her cheeks sucked the pipe, sucked it dead. Tears rolled down his face in the famil iar dirt path, off his chin to the floor. He held the box out to her. She looked away. She stood up on skinny legs, walked past her son and out the door to score more crack, the jones already in her strong. The shifting sunlight of the projects soon disappeared and he was alone in the dark, the dank of the filthy room. He squeezed his cereal box, hid his face in its cardboard and breathed but there was no cereal, never would be, and he cried.

FOLIO 35 He sat in his filthy diaper all night and through the next day, mute. Mama never came back but her dealer and his friend did. "Aw, that bitch, left her kid in stink. Girl, get me a blanket to cover homeboy so I can pick him up:' ''.Ain't nothin' but trash here. What kind of woman she be to do dis?" "She walkin' dead. Tried to sell home boy for pipe twice. Cried like her ripped. Turned her down. Now I gots him any waY:' "Lemme picks him up. He stinks like old man piss and dry-up shit. Now, don't be crying on me, child. Can't handle that:' Jesse bobbed in her arms. Gently, she pressed his head onto her shoulder and he breathed in the scent of her, the child woman wearing her cheap perfume. He, of no words, gave her his heart. His eyes closed and he held this stranger as he'd never held Mama. Dealer drove through the chill night rain to the inner-city hospital and child woman held Jesse. His stink was bad but she held him like no one held him ever. Maybe ever again. Dealer stopped outside the ER. "Take him out, leave him. Shit, haveta fumigate damn Lexis causa' him:' Child-woman got out of the Lex, both she and Jesse were instantly drenched. Cold. She sat Jesse down onto freezing cold cement wearing only his filthy dia per. Icy rain ran through his hair onto bare shoulders, naked chest. Child-wom an propped him up against the wall of the ER. "Nurse come soon, stop cryin' now. I gots to go:' Child-woman turned away, walked away. Opened the door to the Lex, slid inside, door slammed shut and she was gone. Rain slanted behind the awning, slapped him hard on the face. He had no words but his icy hands balled into fists. Head down. Rain, like fistfuls

of ice, hit him over and over. Malicious ly, it seemed to say, "Your Mama's gone, she don't love you. Girl-woman held you sweet, you felt safe. She gone, too. No body here but me, the rain, and I freezing your skin. I like how cold you tremble. Tremble, homeboy. Where dat nurse? Nursie? She don't come neither. Are you hungry? Are you still hungry?" Jesse started to sob. He was still sobbing when a black nurse came to rescue him. Then foster homes, one after the other. Suddenly he realized he had driven into the campus parking lot. He going to grad uate. He found his parking space, alone, separate, in the boonies. He could have parked by the Campus Center; as a mem ber of the graduating class, he was one of themcreme de lamcreme. He choked on a laugh. It was hard to forget and not easy to remember. He stepped out of the car, carefully picked his academic gown off the hook, leaned over to get his cap. If his hands only shook a little, it was because Mama would never know where he was. He walked across campus; it really was a beautiful school. His school. In two hours, he would be an alumni. He smiled at his classmates now, rivalry over. "Hurry now;' Mrs. Whiteside chided. "Get in line:' Jesse smiled. Was getting in a neat line extra credit? The chattering was endless. Lady grad uates held bouquets of roses. The guys, with nothing to lean up against, tried to stand straight without fidgeting. His classmates talked about their celebration parties. "... and a huge bowl of potato salad, of course. I was mixing the mayonnaise and egg when my mother shrieked, 'Colette, your dress!' I almost lost my sleeves in the potato salad!" Everyone laughed with her; Colette was smart and a real charmer.

Jesse managed a smile. "How about you, Jess?" she asked. "A family food-out after graduation?" Friendly eyes; innocent question. "No. A family celebration today. The bash tomorrow:' He smiled, lied easily. Everyone smiled back. A family celebration? At some five-star restaurant? The picture of it was vivid. He, in cap and gown; shiny new shoes (two full Mickey D paychecks); clean, old clothes underneath that no one could see. Mama, sitting beside him, legs crossed, sucking on the pipe, eyes sunken. Mama, who'd sold her soul to the pipe years ago; Mama; who left him to starve, alone in the dark, night after night after night. God, he hated her, and his hate was mixed with hunger and wordless grief. She must be dead. He hoped so. She and the pipe she fed morning through night. This ... "Jesse to earth: it's almost time;' He blinked twice. Everyone smiled. He had been voted "Most likely to find a cure for cancer:' But cancer had all forms, didn't it. As the overhead lights dramatically dimmed, the graduates quieted. The fuÂ ture lay ahead of them. No, there were no parties for Jesse today. After graduation, he'd drive through the city and back to the neighborhood. He had the afternoon shift flipping burgers. Oh, there might be a celebration burger from Mr. James, on the house. He might wonder, wearing his apron, if his acaÂ demic garb of three hours' ago had been a dream. But it was real. It was real because of the icy fresh potato salad Colette was having for her party. Did potato salad go in a real crystal bowl? Probably. He was hungry; he was afraid he would always be hungry. But someday he would eat icy fresh potato salad from a cut crystal bowl. One day.

FOLI035

What You Don't See ANNIE MCNULTY

ood morning sweetie!" A smile creeps over my face when my mom says my favorite word. Sweet! The morning is the best, waking up to a cup of tea and two pieces of toast. I roll out of my bed and felt the floor beneath my feet, so nice and soft, so I pinch it with my toes. I started to walk over and I giggle. My room is simple, just the way I like it. My small bed is against the wall in the corner on the same wall as the door. The dresser is next to the window. It's as tall as me, but shorter than my mom. As I walk towards the door, I feel the bed end and then the door should be three steps away, there we go. "Sweetie, come have your breakfast so you can get your bath. Lorelei is taking you to school todaY:' It sounds like my mom is in the kitchen. "Honey! Lorelei is taking me?" I scream and jump as I say this because I get to sing on the way to school! Honey is a word I love saying. Just like the word 'sweet'. "Yep, Grandma's car isn't working to day, so Lorelei's getting up extra early to come see you and take you to school!" She tells me this as she is making sounds in the bathroom, its echoing sounds around; It has to be the bathroom. Lore lei is my dad's sweet love. They are going to get married, and I get a chameleon! I think I'll name him Hector. "Mom, where are my lotions?" I ask my mom. "They are on the couch, but you aren't allowed to play with them until you are ready for school:' They are nice and smooth, and I gave each a name. Clara,Trina, Lily, Charles,

Brad, and Jada. Each lotion is different. Lorelei bought me Charles and Brad from the Dollar Store; they are for boys. Clara, Trina, and Lily are hand sanitizers, rasp berry, green apple, and lavender. Jada is Love Spell from Victoria's Secret. Each of them have their own smell. They make a fun sound when I hit them together; all the stuff sloshing together in their bottles. "Skylar, bath time:' Ahh my mom is calling me. "Can we turn the TV on so I can hear it from the bathroom?" My mom clicks the TV on; I followed the wall on the left to the back where the bathroom door is. The wall is all bumpy. I don't really like bumpy, smooth is better. Smooth, smooth, smooth. I wonder where Jada is. She has a seam, and she is taller than the other ones. I ran along the wall back to the couch where my mom said my lotion friends are. It's a big couch. I think I can sneak to the escape to get my lotion but I have to be speedy. "Hahaha speedy" I love saying that word. I like 'S' words. "Skylar!" 'Woops' with my mom screaming, I grab my love spell and run back to the wall. It is a lot more fun with my friend Jada. I really hate baths. When the water gets in my eyes, ears, and mouth, I hate it. It's like a cotton ball is in my ear every time wa ter gets in it. Not being able to hear ev erything is terrible. Mom has to wash my hair. I just hate my head getting wet. "Sweet bag!" I hate it so much! "Skylar, your version of curse words is still cursing:' I can hear her smile as she says, "crazy girl." She let me keep Jada with me, so it's not

sooooo bad. Now that my bath is finally over, I jump onto the couch and find my lotions; my mom is clinking dishes to gether in the kitchen. Jada and Charles are best friends and mad at Brad for try ing to steal Lily from them. The lotions are fighting with each other: Charles: You are so sour Brad, Lily is ours and you can't have her! Brad: Lily wants to be friends with me, not you two swift covers! Hehe, I can't get yelled at for saying my adult words when she can't hear me! I hear the click of the door and that creaky noise. One of the doors close in the room. "Hey Shorty it's me! How ya doin' hon ey!?" Lorelei is here! "Sweetie!" I scream and continue jumping, jump ing, jumping. I know whenever Lorelei sees me she gives me a huge hug and spins me around. "You ready for school Sky?" Lorelei asks me. I think I hear her laugh as she says it. Sweet! She picks me up, spins me, and it is the best ever! We spin a few times and then she stumbles a little bit and we both fall on the floor laughing a lot. "Hey what's with the lackluster hug? You better give me a real hug!" I hug her as tight as possible. She kind of smells like vanilla, and a fruit. It's not an apple smell... "What perfume are you wearing?" I ask her as I am hugging her. I don't like not knowing it. ''I'll tell you if you use your cane the right way today with very little attitude miss:' Lorelei always asks me to use it. "Rahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!" I hate using it! I started to jump; it makes me happier when I'm mad. "Skylar?" Lorelei keeps giggling, but I know she won't give up. "Okay, but you owe me a solid!" Yes! Now I can get her to do something for me later. Hmmm ...

PA�E 62 "Haha, alright, it is fresh vanilla and Plu meria lotion:' I knew it! I am so glad she told me. "Alright Sky, bring your cup and plate into the kitchen and I'll get all your stuff for school!" Lorelei tells me, at least when she tells me to do something it's not an noying. "Uhg, fine. You can't honey before you honey" I really wanna watch that Winnie the Pooh movie! ''.Alright there, Pooh. Tell me Sky, are you a teenager yet because boy oh boy you have the attitude:' "I am 7!" Why does everyone always bring up age? "I just want to be 22 years old!" I don't want to be told what to do. Lore lei doesn't get told what to do. I wanna be like that. Uhg! That is sour; all I want to do is watch Lazy Town! That would be sweet. It is always after the Fresh Beat Band in the morning. My cup and plate is a little heavy but to get to the kitchen. It's five steps from the end of the couch to the dining room table and around the table, three steps until I get to the counter. "OW!" One chair was out facing the other way, sweet bag! "G\

"Bye Mom, have a good day sweetie!" That's from one of my favorite movies. "Bye Lovie:' My mom gives me a kiss on the cheek after she says that."Thanks for taking her Lore:' My mom and Lorelei are talking now, that's boring. I went over to the door and started to open and close it. I love the whooshing sound. "No problem Tina, you know I don't mind at all. Did you hear back from her teacher, Mrs. Trast?" I keep swinging the door back and fourth, it keeps giving me more whooshing. "Yep, she hasn't been wanting to leave class for her mobility lessons with Ms.

FOLIO 35 Lee:' My mom moves and I hear the chair at the dining room table when she keeps talking to Lorelei.I leave the door because I know if I slam it closed I'll get yelled at. I sneak over to where I left Jada on the floor in front of the couch. Charles is on the couch; maybeI can get him too. "Why? Did she say?" Lorelei gets a little quieter, weird. I found Jada, now to find him. "That she doesn't want to be away from her friends. She says that no one else has to, so she shouldn't have to:' My mom sniffs as she says that to Lorelei. Got him! Now to get back over there and I will have them with me in the car. "Okay, hopefully today goes better. I'll see you later:' Lorelei opens the door and my bags jingles. "Okay Sky, get your cane for me?" -<f.,

Yay! I climb into my seat behind hers; she always lets me slam the door. Lorelei got in the car and then the music came on. And my hair starts whipping around my head. After a few songs, my ears hurt NEEEEEUUUUUUUUMMM when: MM! I clap my hands over my ears. "WHAT WAS THAT?" I ask Lorelei, I hope she heard me ask. Wow, that was re ally loud. "It was a plane, Short-stuff' Lorelei replies. "Where was it?" "In the sky:' Lorelei coughs a bit. "How do you know it was a plane and not a big animal or a car?" What if it was something next to the car? Like on roller coasters. "Well it didn't sound like an animal, it was too loud; it wasn't a car because it the sound was coming from above us. I could see it in the sky too:' Lorelei tells me this, but it's different. "Oh, Why couldn't I see it?"

I know I am blind, not visually im paired. That's why I get mobility classes, to use my cane the right way, even though it isn't fun. I read Braille, but the other kids don't. My friends at school are just like me but they don't use a cane or read Braille. I don't like having to do different things from my friends. "You are special Skylar, just like every one is special in his or her own waY:' She sounded weird. "Is that why I use a cane and no one else does?'' "But why can't I see what everyone else does?'' "You see in a different way Sky. You see inside your head:' Then I heard her snif fle, "But you are still a sweetie!" "But ifI see things in my head, does that mean it isn't real for anyone else?" I want to see real things. "Well in the wise words of JK Rowl ing, "Of course it is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real? " "Who?" I asked. I don't know who that is. "Ha ha never mind:' She laughed and switched the song to Lazy Song by Bruno Mars. Oh man my fa vorite part! I started to laugh and to sing Lazy Song with Lorelei, my world of lo tions, singing in microphones and playing guitars, joined me until we got to school.

October Classic TOM PERRI

incent Hawes stepped down from Frank D'Angelo's front porch and be gan his short walk home. He had stayed longer than he intended and was anxious to get home to check on his wife. Newly fallen brown leaves crunched under his quick steps, as the autumn sun's golden light glared off the windshields of the nearly unbroken row of cars lining the narrow city street. Vincent had lived a long life and was still very healthy for a man nearing his mid-seventies. He was thin, energetic, and always dressed styl ishly, in an old man kind of way. His house had been paid-off long ago, his children were grown and gone, but they visited of ten, and the grand-kids were always there for weekends and holidays. He tinkered in his garden, he read the newspapers, and he spent many lazy afternoons with other retired friends talking about base ball or politics. He was a charming man, so happiness came naturally to Vincent Hawes. "Were you at that God dammed bar again?"' The years hadn't been as kind to Mrs. Hawes. She was significantly over weight and had a different ailment for every day of the month. Something was always hurting her or causing her some kind of discomfort. Perhaps giving birth to four children had caused her mala dies; the boys alone had been a handful to raise. ''Ah, no dear;' replied Vinnie. Everyone called him Vinnie. "I was talking to Petey Myers and Frank D'Angelo on Frank's porch:' "You better not smell like beer;' Mrs. Hawes contemptuously added from the kitchen where she had been slamming

eating utensils into a drawer from an avo cado colored sink strainer. "No dear, no beer. The World Series starts tonight:' "The world what?" Mrs. Hawes said raising the pitch and power of the word "what" to achieve maximum force and ef fect. "The series dear, the series;' implored Vinnie. He was met with silence, and then from the kitchen, "Pfffft, so what?" They had been married a long time, exactly fifty years. In fact, their children planned a big anniversary party for them on the upcoming Saturday night. They wanted it to be a surprise party, but every one agreed it was best not to surprise Mrs. Hawes with anything. It was her sickness; it made her volatile. No one knew exactly what this sickness was but it had some thing to do with her nerves, and everyone knew it was there. Their new color television flickered away in the living room with no one watching. Vinnie ignored it. Instead, he picked up the newspaper and seated him self on the couch. It hadn't been a bad fifty years, he thought to himself. He met his wife in 1928, and they married in October of the following year. Their children were all born in the l 930's, except Freddy; he was born in December of 1941. The kids were too young to remember the Depres sion or serve in World War II and too old to get caught up in the maelstroms of the '60's. Vinnie had picked up a job with Good year as a press operator in the Spring of '37 and worked there until his retirement in August of '74 at the age of 68. It wasn't

FOLIO 35 a bad job, boring maybe, but in a lot of ways he liked it. Vinnie sank into the couch as his eyes scanned the newspaper. "Hey, look at that:' he called out to the kitchen, "Jack Klugman 's coming out with his own line of popcorn:' His wife spat back, "I don't want any God damn popcorn, why the hell would I want popcorn?" Vinnie gently tried to explain, "No, I don't have any popcorn, it's Jack:' "Then why the hell did you ask me if I wanted popcorn when you don't have any popcorn?" The angry voice had cut him off in mid-sentence. Vinnie tried again to explain, "It's Jack Klugman, the guy from the 'Odd Couple: he started a popcorn company:' He hoped that mentioning a television show would engage his wife's interest. She liked to watch television. "Yeah, odd couple:' she muttered loudly enough for Vinnie to hear. He ignored her and continued to scan the pages of his newspaper for a few more minutes. "I think I'll do some work in the gar den:' Vinnie announced holding an open hand to the side of his mouth in an effort to make his voice carry to the kitchen without shouting. As he folded the news paper and stretched his back, his wife ap peared in their small living room. "Would you like some lunch first?" Now there was something in her voice, some thing gentle and warm. It was the voice of the woman he had fallen in love with more than fifty years ago. He looked into her eyes and there she was. Her face showed the years, but Vinnie only saw a porcelain doll: pretty, fragile, and breakable. Her eyes were deep and innocent. They were the eyes of the nineteen-year-old girl he couldn't live without. They were the eyes that saw him and the children through the worst of the Depression. They were the eyes that could see him like no other

human being could see him. She was still in there; he just didn't get to see her as much as he would like. He moved to take her in his arms but thought better of it. He was afraid it would set her off. "Sure, anything you make is fine with me:· he said cheerfully, "Just give me a holler when it's ready and I'll come back in:' "Don't do too much in that garden. You're not twenty anymore:' He loved to be cared about and easily forgot the unearned hostility heaved at him a few minutes earlier. After all, he was use to it. It had been this way for a long time, but it was getting worse. It wasn't exactly a bad temper or even an ill temper. It was something else, something more. It was an inner lurking anger that reared its ugly head without warning or provocation. It was unpredictable. It was vile and unacceptable; it was a force of nature. Out in the garden, Vinnie picked up an ancient hoe. God knows how old it could be. He found it years ago in his mother's garage after her death. The long wooden handle had an old-world feel to it. They don't make things like this in America, he thought to himself. It certainly must have come over from Italy with his mother's family. The iron spade at the end of the handle felt like a ball of lead when he tried to hold the hoe out in front of him. He liked this piece of agrarian history; it made him think of his mother. Maybe the years had softened his memories, but in Vinnie's mind the woman had been a saint. There was nothing she wouldn't do for her family. She was a selfless woman from a world that just didn't exist any more; the same world as that garden hoe. Vinnie drifted in his thoughts and al most forgot what he had come out to do. It wasn't his age that did this; he had always been a day dreamer. Age had just added a sweet nostalgia to the life he remembered.

He actively enjoyed his memories, or at least the new nostalgic version of them. The ballgames, the birthday parties and anniversaries, the people he knew, the people he had worked with, his children, and old neighbors vividly marched in a remarkable parade of dulcet shadows in his mind. Gone from his consciousness forever were the disagreements and argu ments, the rainy days, the bruising strug gles, and the failures and fears. He some times felt the toil, but he had persevered and his memories were worth the effort expelled to make them. He cherished his memories and preferred reminiscing to watching television. It had been his life, and he was still here to enjoy it. But Vinnie knew that television was something different to Mrs. Hawes. It was her comforter and her confidant; it was her best friend. She laughed when it laughed, and she cried when it cried. She talked to it when no one else was home. She talked to it when everyone was home. She turned it on as soon as she woke in the morning, and it stayed on all day. The constant noise from stale laugh tracks along with the dissociated sounds of game shows and dramas seemed to fill her soul or at least drown out whatever else was in there. Sometimes, she would watch the local news and become intently interested in some story talking about it as if she were personally involved. Vinnie thought back to when Mrs. Hawes had become interested in the Wa tergate hearings. They were televised and she watched them every day. She was ob sessed by the whole affair. Vinnie thought it was strange because she really wasn 't terribly interested in politics prior to that, but he was happy that her attention was on something they could talk about to gether in the evenings. He smiled remem bering the night Nixon resigned, not that he had any particular dislike of the Presi-

PAc;E 66 dent, but Mrs. Hawes cried that night, not because she had any particular fondness for Richard Nixon, but because she hated when a show didn't have a happy ending. Vinnie pushed the dirt in his garden around for a few more minutes then caught a glimpse of the paperboy com ing towards the front of the house. Vinnie didn't know why, but his wife hated this kid. At the sight of him, she flew into a rage. He came around every Friday after noon to collect for the week's delivery of the paper. If Mrs. Hawes happened to an swer the door, she berated the hapless kid. According to her, the paper was always in the bushes, or it didn't come on Thurs day, or the coupons were missing from Sunday's edition. Vinnie didn't know if these were valid complaints or just part of her sickness because the paper always seemed fine to him. She would then hand the silent paperboy the weekly two-dollar charge, she never tipped him, and then she'd slam the door shut. Vinnie dashed towards the front of the house dragging the heavy garden hoe be hind him. He hoped to intercept the pa perboy before his wife became aware of his presence. "Over here BillY:' Vinnie called out to the twelve-year-old boy. He worked his hand into his pocket and pulled out three one-dollar bills and counted them into the kid's hand. "See ya next week;' Vinnie said with his soft smile that could convince the world of its own goodness. "You gave that kid a dollar tip, didn't you? I saw you do it. Unbelievable! I can't believe it:' The smile slipped as Vinnie felt an uneasy rush of panic spread through his body. His wife had seen him give the extra buck to the paperboy and had come out to the front porch in a growing rage. "Don't you listen to a word I say?" The venom and disgust delivered with these words caused Vinnie's mind to race.

FOLI035 "I told you to never give that little bas tard a tip!" The fury was building. "You just don't listen! I might as well be talking to myself' It was getting ugly. ''.Am I right?" she sputtered with a barely contained rage. ''.Am I right?" she seethed with an indignation indescribably out of proportion. ''.Am I right?" she demanded with an anger that didn't seem to be a part of this world. Vinnie couldn't answer. There was no answer. If he agreed, she would belittle him. If he disagreed, she would explode. If he said nothing, she would continue her tirade. The truth is Vinnie didn't really understand what he was being asked; it was a question with an answer that didn't matter. "You're not listening now are you? You cock-sucker:' Vinnie was listening. He heard it. He knew Billy heard it. Hell, half the neighbors could have heard it; she screamed it at the top of her lungs. It was vile. It was uncalled for. It was ugly and unnecessary, and it was meant to be all of these things. It was the meanest thing, said in the meanest way, that she could have said. Her harangue continued, but her words tangled in Vinnie's mind, and, the truth is, the words no longer mattered. His hands tightened around the thick wooden han dle of the old garden hoe he was still hold ing. He saw himself lift the heavy tool and shoulder it as if it were a baseball bat. Then in a frightening scene that seemed to play in slow motion, he swung it at her head. The blood, my God, the blood was ev erywhere, splattered on the house, splat tered on him. There was no hiding this. No one would understand. He was guilty. He felt guilty. His mind flashed through a thousand different thoughts: the cops, the kids, the grand-kids, the neighbors, and the newspapers - what would they say about a man who could do such an un speakable act. His hands shook, and his

heart pounded. He lowered his eyes to the ground, and his head wilted until his chin nearly touched his chest. When he looked up she was gone. Re ally gone! She had stomped back into the house once she realized that Vinnie wasn't listening to her. The garden hoe was still resting in the hand that had dragged it from the yard. There was no blood. There had been no crime. A sense of relief filled him. Such a terrible thing, Vinnie thought to himself, how could I do something like that to the woman who has stuck by me all these years? "I could never;' he whispered. The autumn sun rode low in the sky cast ing harsh shadows across the Hawes' modest front porch. "Vinnie, your lunch is ready;' Mrs. Hawes called as she emerged from the shadows and reappeared on the porch. Vinnie knew no one under stood. They saw her tirades and they saw her anger, but they couldn't see what he saw. They didn't know the woman he had fallen in love with all those years ago. She would show herself only to him now, and not too often, just enough to fill his mind but deny his hands.

Untitled

P "'-CE 6 8

RAY PINE

t's fantastic how the authors of a gen eration can define the period in which they live so eloquently. We're presented with the idea that the meaning our life has is taken from our own perspective; we draw our own con clusions about our actions and their effect on the world. This is a level of responsibility that be comes radically dangerous when applied to everyone equally due to the throwaway nature of our society. Everything is quotable. Digestible. Sum marized. Catch phrased. Tattooed. Poignancy lost to fast food philosophy because no one has the attention span to read an entire book. Words replace feeling because no one has the heart for expression. The only meaning left is what you bring to it and the 21st century is famous for everyone being everyone else while being someone else ironically. What do you bring to it? Someone wants the Cliffsnotes version of you while you judge them based on what size cappuccino they order or if they take skim or whole milk and your first thought is, "I hope my John Varvatos jacket looks as good to everyone else as it does to me:' because you've become so self consumed that you've already forgot ten that jerk and his coffee. You've bought in and sold out in the hopes of maximiz ing some imaginary bottom line while churning out one look after another in the belief that it can lead to an acceptance that you already know this world can nev er grant you. There is a spiritual void, an under whelming zero found in the middle of the

number line that is representative of both the infinite and the nothing. The void has become what is necessary and real while the things we've surrounded this space with have never carried any true value outside of what we've assigned to them. Theological debates aside, discovering the truth of our spirituality is one of the ingredients that separate us from simians; a defining characteristic of humanity. The importance of this isn't in finding our true Creator but in discovering the very rea son why existence must have a meaning beyond itself. If the world is what we make of it why is everyone making it so miserable for themselves? If the meaning we bring to it is the meaning it takes why is there a shortage of love and harmony? We're a cacophony of voices screaming for something but we have no direction for our desire. The refuge found is that we all "want" yet have found nothing worth wanting. It's time to assign a value where value truly makes sense. It's time to want something more for ourselves.

FOLIO 35

Thin Spaces JANICE SHOWLER

'm so glad that you're here;' my sister whispered to me in hushed tones. "I can't even get her to sit up anymore:' We were in our parents' foyer, and while Syl via whispered, her words sounded hollow and reverberated in my head. "I think you need a break. Sorry I couldn't get here before this;' I apolo gized, pushing fear down my throat as it tightened. Since our mother's final hos pital stay, Syl and I shared our mother's care. My husband divided his time be tween our home and my parents' home. He understood my need to be with Mom as much as I could. With some nursing training, Syl was on call most days while I taught as an adjunct English professor at a number of universities during the week. I came at night, often sleeping on the couch next to my mother's hospital bed where she would quietly pray, "Oh, God, please take me:' Worn and weary, Syl brightened. "If you're sure . . . I need to pick up a few groceries. Will you be all right?" she asked. I was confident that I would. But I would not be all right. The wraith in the hospital bed in the living room rattled my sensibilities. This stranger was not my mother but a skeletal imposter beneath stark, white sheets. I rubbed my eyes; I was sure my mind was playing tricks on me. "Mom?" I attempted to mask my terror because she could penetrate my thoughts, share my skin. Our mother, like our father, had been hospitalized that Christmas in 1996. She had turned eighty on November third, outliving all but one of her six siblings, two of whom died at ages 45 and 48.

Surviving her first heart attack at fifty, several strokes, and considered no can didate for surgery by her primary care physician, she suffered from dementia, induced by over-medication, and was fi nally weaned from seven pills she took several times a day. I even constructed a chart with samples of the pills, doses, and times to administer to help Dad moni tor them with her. "I don't know why I have to take all these pills;' she often com plained, but then acquiesced that they were probably keeping her alive. But not without consequences, conse quences starkly apparent this last journey . . . . Vomit the color and consistency of coffee grinds convinced her that atten tion must be paid because she was prob ably bleeding internally. The ambulance company refused to transport her be cause they claimed they were not paid, so our neighbor, Sylvia and I, put her on a chair and carried her down the steps to the foyer. We transported her to the hos pital ourselves, feebly joking that she had a "queen's seat" ride fitting for the Queen Mum. And the last stay disoriented her. First, she was intubated; later, when her condition improved, she was moved to the physical therapy wing of the hospital where she fell several times. Uncover ing her bruises and looking at me quiz zically, she reported, "I don't know how I got these:' Not red, but purple badges of courage, I thought, for a woman who es chewed hospitals, doctors, and pills most of her life. Recalcitrant, frustrating the hospital staff because she would not "co operate;' she wanted to be home.

"Would we be able to move her from her wheel chair to the commode? Would we be able to bathe and turn her in her bed to avoid bed sores? Would we be able to feed her?" staff members prodded Syl via and me when we met with them to discuss Mom's progress and desire to be home. We would, we were confident. So against their wishes that our mother stay longer and their concern for us as care givers, our mother came home. Sylvia was so confident that we would mange ourselves she told the staff that we would not need their home care. Thankfully, they insisted that we accept that help. "I never thought I would see my kitchen again, " Mom announced when she ar rived at the back door of her old colonial home. I remembered the first day we saw our Somerton home, the day we made set tlement, and the first March snow storm when our parents feared we could not af ford to heat its many rooms. How drafty that kitchen, added on to the house by the previous owner and built over an old well. Drafty-but also warm from Sunday din ners of Yorkshire puddings and beef pot roasts and gravy bubbling on the stove. So familiar but so surreal. She was not the mother of those kitchen scenes. In fact, I lost her by degrees for almost twen ty years . In the first of many hospital trips, after her first heart attack, she had said that when she looked up at me, my eyes like those of a deer caught in head lights, she could not leave me. She was not afraid of dying, but she was afraid of hospitals-giving birth to two of her four children at home-"without even an aspirin:' Her mother had not vis ited her in the hospital when I was born, ready to be transfused because of Mom's RH factor. "I thought I had a horrible dis ease;' she told me when Dr. Duggar told her that it would be wise if I were born in the hospital because of possible mixing of our blood. How frightened she must have

PACE 70 been then; how frightened to be intubated on that fateful night when, anguished, I prayed so long. And now it was January 11, 1997. Mar tin Luther King's birthday. Her wedding anniversary. The hospice worker arrived and nudged Mom to try to sit up in bed to eat. Like a rag doll, she collapsed to one side of the bed and, then supported by the worker, slipped to the other. Jarred by the sight of her body's disobedience, I ex cused myself to fix a cup of tea for us both in the kitchen. The image of her ashen pallor, the skeleton so clear through the transparency of her taut, thin skin rose up again in the steam of the tea kettle. I shook my head as if shake the image from my consciousness. I returned to the liv ing room where my mother was seated unsteadily in her wheel chair, the worker looking pleased with herself, and waving her good-byes as she headed out the door to her next patient. Wheeling my mother into the kitchen, I positioned her across the kitchen table from me. How many mother-daughter conversations we shared over that table, over several cups of English tea. Chiding her about not "raging against the dying of the light;' I told her that she was mistaken to think that God would simply steal her away in the night like some scorned lover. How nai:ve to think so! "You don't know how hard this is;' she offered like some wafer, sipping some tepid tea. "No, I don't, Mom. Tell me:' Her silence was deafening. As if to encourage her to talk, I moved her wheel chair to her favorite spot in the adjoining dining room, positioning her face-to-face with me as I sat in the rocker by the ca thedral window she so loved, the cathe dral window where she kept her plants, the cathedral window where she watched the birds in the feeders she and my father propped in secret places, hidden from the

FOLI035 squirrels and protected from neighbor hood feral cats. And then it happened. Looking outside the window as if she saw the scorned lover or perhaps her own mother who would be her guide, her eyes grew wide. Knowing that hearing is the last sense to leave as the spirit does, I whispered in her right ear that she was, indeed, courageous, that I would miss her, that I loved her. In fifteen minutes, at 11:11 a.m., Mom was gone. I wish that I had closed her mouth. I wished that I had, wished, wished, oh, I wished. I remembered how hard I prayed that she would live after this last hospital trip. She did live, but not really. She died that night, and now I wished that I had prayed that I could have let her go so that she would not suffer as she had-for me. The night before she died, she had a dream. The grandfather clock my father had bought for her for their sixtieth wed ding anniversary "broke" and "couldn't be fixed;' she claimed. "She knows;' I thought, ''.After many dress rehearsals, it is finally time:' In reflecting on her death, now fifteen years ago, I am grateful that she could tidy up my world for me as she always had: with my bedroom, with my laun dered and ironed clothes, with my hair prepared in rags to train my long ring lets she painstakingly twirled and tied. Grandmother Manning, her mother, was not with her when I was born, having suf fered such a stroke as my mother's. How tortured my mother was not to have clo sure with her mother, to show her mother her new baby girl-Janice, named for the Greek god of good beginnings and for a neighborhood child who wore her hair in ringlets.

In those "thin'' spaces the Irish revere when they have a glimpse of another uni verse, I know that my mother wanted to give me this final gift of her passing over in space and time.

PA(;E

Racism Made Simple

KEZIA SINGH

hat is racism? Racism is defined by individuals. Friendship looks past racial boundaries and focuses on thing, character. If people would stop defining others by categories, and instead focus on their characters, think about how differ ent this world could be. I had an opportu nity to catch a glimpse of what this world could be like if people defined others by their character alone, and not their race or boundaries, while passing by a grade school playground, one fine sunny spring morning. On that particular afternoon, the sounds of children experimenting with different words reached my ears- "Spic, Nigger, Chino, Hindu body odor, Retard, Lame, Coward... On and on the list went, and as I began to wonder how these children could use so many of those words at once, I looked at the group of children using those words, and what I saw next forever rendered my racial point of view. For there in a corner of the playground, a cluster of children had gathered in a semicircle and were taunting five children. I later learned more about the charac teristics of the children, which I will re count now. One was a Hispanic boy with a limp, another was an African American boy with a hearing problem, the third was a bright eyed Chinese girl who stuttered, the fourth was an Indian boy who wore the same clothes to school every day, and the fifth was a White girl in a wheelchair. These five children had all decided to stand against another child who made fun of them because they were "different:' As a result, sides were taken with a majority of the students agreeing that since the five children were different from them, it was okay to treat them as outcasts. Now these

five children had to defend themselves against a group of children. My heart broke as I watched the pained look on the five children's faces as they began to try to defend themselves. Pres ently, a teacher came out and stated that recess was over. She stood like a protec tive mother hen next to the five children who were being taunted, and apologized for the behavior of the students. As soon as she was finished speaking, the Chinese girl spoke, I can still hear her sweet voice ringing clearly in my head, "T teacher, th-they think that we are cl-differ ent, but I have dreams just like them:' She then lifted her chin defiantly and said, "I am g-going to be a s-speaker who travels 'round the world:' The other four, quickly piped up and stated their future dreams as well. Next the teacher, looked down at them with a beaming smile and stated, "I believe each one of you can do what you said, just con tinue to believe that you can do it. And do not let anyone tell you that you are not ca pable or special enough:' With that said each of the students put their arms around each other and headed back towards the school. I don't know what became of those children, but I do know that they taught me a valuable lesson. As humans, we should not define others by their race or what we consider limited abilities, instead we should learn to un derstand that people define themselves by character and abilities. Those things help mold and shape our world for better or for worse, and it can all begin with friendship.

FOLI035

Out of the Darkness LAURA SUAREZ

"In the United States, a person dies by sui cide every 15 minutes, claiming more than 34,000 lives each year."

0(5\

here are certain moments in life a person should never have to go through. Moments that are so heart breaking, a person is left trying to piece together something that may never be whole again. "What are you supposed to do when you go to sleep one night having everything and you wake up the next morning find ing the most important thing in your life is gone and you can never, ever have it back, " these are the words my nineteen year old sister said to me as I asked to her tell me about the past five months. June 6, 2011 changed my sister Mi chele's life forever. She was awoken by the shinning of flashlights in her face by the police officers who had entered into her boyfriend's house. She was soon to learn that at some point in the night her boy friend took his own life in the back yard, while she was asleep in his bed. I was the first person she called. I remember receiving the phone call, in almost a dream state. I could barely inter pret what my sister was trying to say, as she cried to me in the phone and told me she needed me. I could not get to her fast enough. My heart was racing, as I jumped into my car. The words my sister mumbled to me were numbing my body like the rush of cold water. "Laura, BJ killed himself, please, I need you. I don't know what to do..." o(s',

"Suicide is this country's 10th leading cause

of death, and is often characterized as a response to a single event or set of circum stances." o(s',

As I stood by my sister's side, in the liv ing room of BJ's home, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. Michele was questioned and harassed by police officers and investigators. I knew it was standard procedure, but I felt an imme diate hatred towards insensitivity the en forcers seemed to have. "How dare they ask if SHE was involved?"BJ lived with his grandmother, and she was no where to be found. Michele did not have her number, and the officers could not track her down from her morning errands. My sister and I both feared for when they did. His grandmother's heart break would echo in the silence of the empty home as she learned about the death of her grand son. 0(5\

''Men are nearly 4 times more likely to die by suicide than women. Women attempt suicide 3 times as often as men." 0(5\

Michele and BJ had been friends for a few years. She was eighteen when they began dat ing. Eighteen when she lost him. Eighteen, and in her second year of col lege. Eighteen when she shut down from love. It is crazy to think how one moment can alter someone's life, but from that summer Monday in June of 2011, my sister has not been the same person. She witnessed a

tragedy that most people in their adult life would not know how to handle, yet alone emerge from without help. My parents pressed the issue of seeing a "doctor" to help Michele. I know they were only try ing to help. Perhaps they were scared that they would lose her. She refused. -<§,

"Nearly 1,000,000 people make a suicide attempt every year." -<§,

In the months that passed I saw Michele change. She went through all the personal stages that an individual is entitled to dur ing a period of grief. She was withdrawn. She was angry. She was sad. She looked at life differently; relationships differently. I am sure she has unanswered questions; we all do. "Why did he do it the night I was there?" "We had a good night." "No, I don't think he thought about the consequences." "I realized one day that it was not my fault. Of course there were things I could have done, but it was not my fault." My sister is one of the strongest people I know. She found a way to cope with her loss, and emerge with an even stronger outlook on life. "I want to raise awareness." Of course, I worry about my little sister. She is my best friend. I know how often she visits his grave. How long it took her to acknowledge that she is single. How she still writes on his Facebook wall, whether it is song lyrics, movie quotes, or simply how her day went and how it would have been better if he were there with her, "Sometimes you have to be apart from people you love, but that doesn 't make you love them any less. Sometimes you love them more. " Maybe it is her way to cope with what she has lost.

-<§,

PACE 74

'Although most depressed people are not suicidal, two-thirds of those who die by sui cide suffer from a depressive illness. " -<§,

As I talked to my sister, she made it clear that her story needed to be heard. "I feel suicide is a taboo topic. Everyone is afraid to talk about it. They don 't want to think it exists. But we should talk about it. It will save lives. " My sister told me about AFSP, Ameri can Foundation for Suicide Prevention. She said she learned about it through her roommate Stephanie at school. Colleges do make an effort to bring forth this ta boo topic. "It is a organization that spon sors a program called 'Out of the Dark ness, 'which is a community walk to raise awareness about suicide. " By participating in this program, a person will be walking with thousands of people nationwide to raise money for AFSP's vital research and education pro grams to prevent suicide and save lives, increase national awareness about de pression and suicide, and assist survivors of suicide loss. -<§,

"The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention has been at the forefront of a wide range of suicide prevention initiatives in 2011 -- each designed to reduce loss of life from suicide." -<§,

Michele told me that she wasn't able to attend the walk this year, but she has been researching how to fund her own walk and start a team for an annual walk the following year. "Bringing people togeth er, is the best possible solution. " -<§,

"Why we Walk: To Honor a Loved One To Raise Awareness To Support the Cause" http:!Iwww. outofthedarkness. orgl

FOLIO 35

The Collapse of Time JACQ!JELINE AND STEPHEN TURNER

aint Michael the Archangel has been with his people throughout the ages and witnessed breathtaking transforma tion and tragedy. He appears in both testaments of the Holy Bible. The archangel is often depict ed wearing a luminous suit of armor, with powerful wings and a sword that is poised to slash the reptilian throat of a sneering Lucifer. He plays a leading role in Chris tendom by watching over travelers and healing the sick. The archangel has also been described as the merciful angel of death. This luminous patron began watching over a new parish in the Pennsylvania community of Kensington in 1833. This growing district in Philadelphia, near the Delaware River, was originally called "Shakamaxon" by the Lenape tribe. The once tiny village hosted the signing of the great treaty between William Penn and the tribe 150 years before. Seen in the chapel of the church, in the morning light shining through the jewel tones of stained glass, the archangel is ac tually Christ triumphant, promising his weary flock a new day absent of tears. St. Michael's Church grew rapidly as it ministered to more and more Irish immi grants. They came to America to survive and escape extraordinarily harsh - even deadly - agrarian conditions at home. Beginning in 1845, a fungus began to smother the Emerald Isle. The potato famine gripped the land, while the British observed from across the Irish Sea. The ruling aristocracy pro hibited the education of Catholics and did not allow the Irish to own the property they farmed. Time-honored traditions of

the agrarian life were disappearing and a million Gaelic people would flee the ver dant island they so loved. Entire Irish clans immigrated to the Dela ware Valley, and all sought jobs. Some families earned just enough to pay for their food, rent, clothing and offering on the Lord's Day. St. Michael's Sunday school charged no tuition for pupils. As they worked, most were sheltered from the sun and surrounded by their kith and kin. They toiled 14 to 18 hour shifts six days each week. Girls worked in textiles, needlework, and domestic service, while boys worked in the more dangerous jobs, such as printing. These little children had no protection from the dangers of heavy and sharp machinery. Equipment whirred along at fast speeds. Children as young as four were favored for this work because of their smaller hands fit into cramped spaces. Fingers were often severed and lives were lost. It was rare for businesses to do anything to improve conditions. These industrial serfs faced claustropho bic conditions to earn their daily wage. Winters were bitter and their fingers be came less agile. The buildings rarely had any kind of insulation. After the start of the summer solstice, Philadelphia then as now, was oppressed by a combination of excessive heat and smothering humidity. After several children fainted and ma chines broke-down in mid-July 1856, even factory foremen realized the cir cumstances were unbearable and planned to give their workers a day off on Thurs day the 171h . News of a special excursion train char tered by St. Michael's spread quickly on

Wednesday evening. It was scheduled to depart the next morning at 4:47. The des tination was Fort Washington, in Mont gomery County. General Washington en camped troops there in the winter of 1777 and had them build huge bond fires atop Camp Hill. The glow of the amber flames deceived the Redcoats as they approached in darkness from Chestnut Hill. They as sumed that a great force of the Continen tal Army and local militias had converged upon the summit. The American dream lived on. Long suffering parents in St. Michael's Par ish agreed to send their little ones into the fertile valley of the Wissahickon Creek, which was known for cool breez es, swathes of grass, streams, and gentle shade trees. Father Daniel Sheridan told them that he would personally supervise with the help of the older children. The North Pennsylvania Railroad Company assigned Henry Harris to be the engineer on this rare excursion to the Wissahickon Station. North Penn named many of the stations and engines in honor of indigenous tribes. The locomotive was called Shakamaxon, recognizing the roots of Kensington. Cohocksink Depot was lo cated where the Delaware tribe had once seen a "pine grove:' Harris prepared the boiler and confirmed that there was enough anthracite for the long 14-mile journey. The train 's engine was known for low steam pressure, so the coal supply was essential. The locomotive was ready to pull out on time from the terminal at Master Street and Germantown Avenue, but there were delays. Directing older children in front cars and the youngest in the back took 23 minutes longer than expected. Harris was accustomed to making up time on his trips and the "Picnic Special" al lowed him to skip station stops. He hoped that he could get to Fort Washington by 6:00 a.m. to allow another train to pass.

PACE 76 Because of so many passengers, the en gineer found that twelve cars took much more time to gain momentum than normal. Youngsters John Sloan and El len Clark were among the many Sunday school students who were ready to spend the day at Shaeff's Woods. Every car was packed with more than 100 eager chil dren. Passengers breathed in the humid air, thick with black sooty fumes bellow ing from the iron horse. The lads and lasses watched out the small windows as the scenery slowly changed from factories cloaked in dark ness to the faint outlines of farm houses at dawn. They saw only one opposing railcar pass when the Skakamaxon pulled over. The new tracks were laid in a single line. Trains carefully followed schedules to move aside onto the occasional safe areas - a second set of rails designed to avoid crashes. Keen awareness of time was criti cal to make this system work. Yet, North Penn did not have any standard way to keep time, although some engineers had pocket watches. No two whistle-stops looked at time in the same way because it was a local matter. Each station's clock was set to the time in that community. Most towns used some form of solar observation. After looking at a sundial, a central dock was set to show that time, often on steeples. Many people without watches listened for church bells every quarter hour. And prayers were marked in the morning, at midday and in the evening with the Angelus bell. Those with precise pocket watches set them by looking at the chro nograph in their jeweler's window. "G\

Each town had a local ecosystem - which revolved around their own sense of time. Anyone who trekked to other places mea sured trips in days and hours, not min utes. Differences were inconsequential and perhaps too abstract for most people

FOLIO 35 - other than mariners and stargazers - to ponder. For centuries, astronomers wondered whether sunlight traversed the hemi spheres as the Earth turned. Around 150 AD., Ptolemy first drew maps that showed the Earth had a curva ture. Fast forward to 1609. Galileo assembled lenses that enabled his telescope see four moons of the planet Jupiter. This discov ery supported the Copernican theory that the Earth is round and revolves around the Sun. This theory did not mean much in the United States until 1856. This rail journey on July l 7'h proved that there was a need for time zones and exactitude to organize the world's tempo ral intervals. Today, the Earth is vertically divided into 360 degrees with 24 zones. In 1856, each town's time could be as much vary by 15 minutes from the towns around it. In a way, each community had its own time zone. Some were ahead and others behind. At some point, logistical mayhem was inevitable, especially with minimal use of the telegraph by North Penn. William Vanstavuren was the engineer of a city-bound train, which was standing by at Wissahickon Station. The excursion train was due to arrive at 6:00 a.m. and allow his Aramingo pass on the single set of tracks. He waited and saw no sign of the Shaka maxon. Without policies for unscheduled excursion trains, Vanstavuren had to guess how to handle the situation. At 6: 15, the Aramingo and its twenty passengers departed southward. He did not know that excursion train was approaching an s-shaped stretch of tracks that wrapped around Camp Hill, where Washington's bond fires once raged. The engineer of the Shakamaxon, thought he could use a "siding escape"

to avoid any trouble. But, just past Camp Hill Station, there was a blind curve. Har ris violently blew the train whistle to warn Vanstavuren, but neither was aware that sound waves are distorted as vehicles ap proach each other. The Doppler Effect was postulated only 14 years earlier and was another abstract theoretical enigma that suddenly became relevant. The Aramingo approached the same blind curve and could not hear the Shakamaxon's warning. At 6:18 a.m., the black rockets collided and time collapsed. The impact of the boilers unleashed an unearthly sound. The blast violently sucked the oxygen from the surrounding countryside and shattered glass in nearby buildings. Jolted by the explosion, a lo cal widow gathered torn sheets and pet ticoats to use as bandages. Mary Johnson Ambler walked two miles by herself and told people along the way to tear shutters from buildings to use as stretchers for the injured. The petite Quaker woman was the first to arrive. This scene of suffering seemed Biblical and surely St. Michael was pres ent in his many roles. The healer was with Mrs. Ambler as she aided the injured. She carried several wounded children to her house, where she was to nurse them until they were well enough to leave. After following the smoke to its source, firefighters from Chestnut Hill at last reached the burning trains. They saw a babbling brook below as a source of sal vation. The tributary meandered through the valley to the Wissahickon Creek. Stream water from the Sandy Run filled buckets. A brigade passed the water 25 feet up Camp Hill to the burning wood carcasses of the railcars. People from the area filled carriages with buckets to help quell the inferno. The healing waters also quenched the thirsts of the living and near dead. The arriving nurses and physicians of

The Sisters of Charity Hospital crossed the Sandy Run and climbed Camp Hill to see blistering burns, gaping wounds and splintered bones exposed. This sacrifice of the ages spilled the lifeblood of promising lives away. The spare carriages from neighbors then transported a hundred wounded children to St. Joseph's Hospital in the city. Over a thousand escaped with memories they would take to the grave. Sixty people perished, mostly the older children. Reverend Sheridan was among those taken by St. Michael, the angel of death. News spread rapidly. Word of the pic nic train tragedy reached Kensington and horrified parents borrowed horses and carriages from their wealthier neighbors to make way to their children amid the chaos. The next day, The New York Times am plified the impact of the crash. Sudden ly, the hidden risks of industrialization became visible. The collision was heard around the world and initiated sweeping change. After the "The Great Train Wreck of 1856", manufacturers used less wood to produce railcars. Railroads began to make the investment in two sets of paral lel tracks and they better understood the Doppler Effect. Telegraph communica tion and standardized time became es sential. In retrospect, society had moved head first into the industrial age and did not imagine how many things could go wrong at once. As our own information age and glo balization transforms society and leaves many behind, we have yet to know just how many things can go wrong as time compresses.

FOLIO 35

Best Friends NICHOLAS WEBER

t was a rainy Tuesday morning in the middle of August. The humidity in the air was enough to suck the air right from my lungs. It was going to be a rough day. School was less than two weeks away and I anxiously awaited the start of the new foot ball season. It was senior year. I grabbed my bag and shoulder pads and began my walk. Kim's corner store is where we would meet; it was an equal distance from both of our houses. We didn't live in the best of neighborhoods. I had moved to the neigh borhood after I finished sixth grade. My father, a real estate broker, and my mother, an elementary school teacher, had separated, so I decided that I would rather live with my mother. We sold our big house in Pine Valley, a suburb of the city. My mother opted for a more "urban'' setting and accepted at teaching position at the lo cal school. I didn't want to be here, but that all changed when I met my best friend. The majority of the homes around us were Sec tion 8 homes. Nearly everyone was on wel fare. It didn't matter, we were best friends. I arrived at Kim's, but he wasn't there yet. I went in and bought myself a Gatorade and a soft pretzel. The bell on the store door chimed. Mike finally arrived. "Running a little late today?" I asked him. His voice had a dull, lifeless tone to it "Uhh ... yea I had to take care of something:' I disregard ed his response and continued on our way. We began walking down the street, stride for stride next to each other. We had known each other since seventh grade. My first day at Jefferson Elementary I met Mike. I sat next to him and the rest was his tory. We would hang out and I would help Mike with his homework. As we got to know each other I learned how hard Mike really had it in life. I was lucky enough to

have a supportive, semi-stable family in my life; even though my mother and father were separated, they always made me their number one priority. Mike wasn't so lucky. His father died unexpectedly of a heart attack when he was ten years old. His older brother went to the dentist one day to have an abscess removed. They found cancer. His brother had two little boys; the mother of the two was hooked on meth. He lived for a year, eventually lost his eye, and then it spread to his brain. Mike's family had ex perienced more hardships in a three year span than some do in a lifetime. Mike's mother, Shay, took custody of her deceased son's children. I met Mike after all of these unfortunate events had occurred; we were only 13 years old. Shay, Mike, and the two little boys lived in extreme poverty. Shay worked multiple low-paying jobs but she couldn't seem to escape the poverty trap. We walked down a few blocks, past the Northwood projects. A group of mischie vous teens stood on the corner smoking a joint. "Wassup Mike!?" one of the teens shouted as we drew near. Mike gently nod ded his head as to acknowledge the young man, although he seemed to do so reluc tantly. "Who was that?" I proceeded to ask Mike. "Just some guy I met at party..." he responded. "Oh okay;' I said sensing that he didn't want to talk about the subject matter anymore. I knew something was wrong. Why couldn't I come out and ask what was the matter? He had been my friend for years now, yet I felt as if I didn't know him. A perfect stranger. He wasn't himself today. We continued our walk to practice. Mike's grades suffered immensely. I could tell he was troubled and angry, and who wouldn't be after all that had happened to him? But he never showed it at school. Mike was the popular kid. He was the cap-

tain of the football team; a fierce lineback er. You could see the aggression pouring from him as he flattened our opponents. I wish I could be as good as he was at foot ball. My morn told me I should become more involved at school, so I joined the team. I knew I could hang out with Mike even more if I was on the team. His grades were holding him back and he wouldn't be allowed to play if he didn't pass math. He barely made it out of grade school but that's what I was there for. I tutored Mike, helped him with his homework, and made sure he could play. If Mike wasn't playing for the team, showing up at practice seemed kind of pointless to me. We both graduated grade school and attended the same Cath olic high school. Mike received a scholar ship to play football for the school and my father paid for me to go. We walked past the bus terminal. We could have easily taken the bus the rest of the way, but we enjoyed our daily walk together. We walked through rain, sleet, snow, and today, the oppressive humid ity together. Mike found refuge through football; maybe that is why he treasured the daily walk to morning practice so much. He could release all the anger he had pinned up inside of him. In Mike's mind, God had screwed him over. We went to Catholic school. Mike lost any sense of religion he had left. He handled his bleak situation rather well, if that was even pos sible. Mike closed himself off, but would vent from time to time to me. I treasured our walks equally. It was an outlet for me. To know that I was a shoulder for Mike to lean on gave some meaningful purpose to my life. We walked down the block where our school was located; the football field could be seen behind the school in the distance. The school was on a semi-tree lined street, as some of the trees had been cut down to make way for the new housing projects. There was a playground across the street notorious for drugs and gang violence. Mike walked briskly ahead and nodded to

PAc;E 8 0 a group of men sitting on the park bench across the street. I jogged with my equip ment to catch up to him. "Hey Mike, slow down Speedy Gonzalez!" I shouted. Who were those guys? Mike never introduced me to them. I caught up to him. After practice today I was going to help Mike prepare for the SAT. He needed to pass the SAT before the year was out, so I helped him get a head start and convinced him to take it during the summer before school had started. With school only a few weeks away I wanted him to pass this test. He was going to come over my house to study and stay for dinner. We always studied at his house or the school library. I was excited that he was finally corning over my house. "So you're definitely corning over tonight!?" I asked excitedly. "Yup;' Mike stated. "You're going to show me how to tackle properly today right?" "Yup, I gotcha;' said Mike. Mike was the star on the football team, I wasn't quite as good. The senior game was fast ap proaching and I really hoped to do well, my mother and father would be attending the game. Mike had a few scholarship offers from some Division I universities. That's why I wanted to help him pass the SAT. He deserved to go to college. I hoped I could attend the same college as him; we could even be roommates. Practice couldn't end quickly enough for me. Mike was corning over to my house for dinner. He was going to meet my mother and my father said he might even make an appearance. Mike had become like a broth er to me. I was the only child, so I rarely had anyone else to play with. It was nice having someone else in my life. Practice finally concluded and I scurried to put the tackling bags away. Mike was talking with the head coach while I waited anxiously for him to finish his conversation. A black se dan with tinted windows pulled up next to the football field. Mike finished his conversation with the coach and reached down to pick up his helmet. ''.Are you ready to start walking

FOLIO 35 home?'' I asked Mike. "Ohhh yea..uhh I gotta run somewhere real quick but I will be over later. That cool with you?" he said. "Sure no problem, see you in a little bit!" I stated and began speed-walking home as Mike entered the black sedan. I made it home and proceeded to take a shower. I brought the SAT prep books down to the dining room table and my mother began preparing dinner. I looked up at the clock. 4:00 PM. Mike should be here in a little bit, I thought. I turned on the television and began watching a movie on HBO. The movie ended and I flicked through the channels. "Good evening, the top story of the night ..." I heard the an chorman state. I immediately glanced at the clock. 6:00 PM. It was getting late, but the summer sun was still up and shining. I figured Mike was just running a bit late. Dinner was finished cooking, so my moth er kept the chicken and string bean casse role wrapped tightly in foil in the oven to keep warm. I called Mike to see if he was on his way. No answer. I sat back down in the recliner and watched TV anxiously awaiting the arrival of Mike. The sound of the second hand ticking was synchronized with the beat of my heart. I was beginning to worry. Did something happen to Mike? Who was the man in the car? The hours passed and there still was no response from Mike. Maybe there was a situation he had to handle at home; there was a lot going on with his family. I grew tired and fell asleep in the recliner. I just wanted to hear from him; I wanted to know that he was okay. He wouldn't just skip out on me like that. He would talk to me about it later. I wasn't mad at him. I was concerned. The next day we followed our same rou tine. During our walk I asked Mike, "Is everything okay? I didn't know what hap pened to you yesterdaf' Mike responded "Yea, sorry about that something came up. Is tonight iight?" I wasn't mad, I was re lieved. "Sure, sounds good;' I said to Mike. We eventually made it to practice. Practice concluded and we walked home together.

'Tm just going to run home real quick to get showered and change my clothes then I'll be over;' Mike said to me. "Okay I' ll be here" I responded as I walked through my front door and Mike continued on his way to his house. I quickly showered and dressed while my mother made dinner. I came downstairs and sat down in the recliner. "Mike should be here around 5 Mom;' I exclaimed to my mother. "Okay dear, dinner will be finished by then;' she responded. 5 oclock passed. And so did 6 and 7. Why wasn't Mike here? I decided I should go check on him at his house. "Mom can you drive me to Mike's house?" I entered my mom's car and strapped on my seatbelt. We began driving toward Mike's house, it wasn't far but I did not want to have to wait any lon ger. As we were driving I noticed a group of teens walking down the street passing a joint back and forth. One of the teens in the group was Mike. I lowered the win dow as my mother slowed the car. ''.Are you coming over tonight?" I said with distress as I leaned my head out of the window. Mike glanced over as one of the teens in the group shouted "Who the hell is that?" Mike shrugged his shoulders and contin ued walking. Why did my friend ignore me like that? He was like a brother. I did everything I could to help him in school and stay on the football team. My mother drove back home. We ate our cold dinner. When we finished I sat in the recliner and turned on the television. "Good evening, the top story of the night. .." I closed my eyes as a single tear escaped and rolled down my cheek.

The Brotherhood ASHLEY WOODMENDER T7 neeling at the base of the memorial, l�y hand brushes along the granite wall, feeling every engraved letter, slowly forming names. My eyes fill with tears. "Thank you;' I whisper, "Thank you for making a difference in the lives of us Americans. Thank you for making a dif ference in my life and pushing me in the direction of helping the community:' "G\

On Saturday, July 12, 2008, I arrived forty-five minutes early for my first fire fighting class. Doylestown was a far drive so I did not want to be late. This class wasn't just an ordinary class; it was something I waited for. Eighteen years is a long time to wait for a class, but it was my dream and my dream was right in front of me ... I could almost touch it. Ever since I was little, I had been amazed by the wailing sirens and the big red fire truck that carried Santa on it every Decem ber. Then September 11th 2001 happened and so many people were killed. I watched the funerals of the fallen firefighters and saw how close their bonds were. All I kept thinking was: I wanted to become a part of this brotherhood. I parked in the front parking lot, clearly facing the entrance. My hands were on the placed firmly on the steering wheel; my keys were still in the ignition as I sat in my car forty-five minutes trying to figure out if I had enough strength to actually get my butt out of the car. As I sat star ing at the window, I watched a tall, skinny, lanky looking man walk by my car, who looked at me as he passed. A crowd of men started forming a group in front ofthe double doors, slowly smoking their ciga rette as they stared through my windshield and into my eyes. I finally decided I had enough of waiting, got out of my car, and

walked into the building. I stared at the white board in front of the doors, trying to figure out where I belonged and finally I saw it. .. Room 206 Fire One, written in red. Now Fire One is not just any ordinary class; it prepares firefighters for real-world experiences offirefighting. It goes over ev ery type of scenario and tests you on your knowledge; it's halflecture and halfhands on learning. Firefighting is a skill learned, practiced, and perfected. Without this class we cannot go into burning buildings. Why would someone want to even do this? Every Saturday till the end of the year was dedicated to this class. Every Saturday from eight to four; one hundred and fifty hours of this class. I was not sure I could complete this class. I walked into the room and saw a tough group of guys there. They had tattoos and muscles bigger than my head; I was in timidated. I took a seat in the back of the room, hoping I was unnoticed. I kept look ing around the room trying to calm myself, taking notes on who the cutest was and what everyone's names were. I looked at these guys and thought: I don 't think I can do this, I'm not sure if I am emotionally capable or physically capable to compete with these guys. Our instructor for this one hundred and fifty hour course was a man named PJ Fortuner. He stood about six feet and weighed roughly three hundred pounds just by looking at him. He looked like an over stuffed teddy bear. He had a deep ac cent from Scranton Pennsylvania. As PJ started the class, he looked around the room and looked straight at me. His piercing stare caused me to think he had laser vision and if he did , I'm sure I would have bore a hole in me. My face turned

FOLIO 35 bright red and my eyes frantically darted around trying to find another object to look at. Finally, I looked back at him. "You must be AshleY:' "Yes that's me ...How did you know?" "You're the only girl on my list so I kinda put it together unless you wanna be called Jim:' "No... Ashley's good:' After that moment, all eyes were on me. I was the only girl in the class. How could I ever be able to do what these guys were do ing? I'm 5'4 on a good day and weigh only 120 pounds. And these guys were about 6'0 and weighed about 170 pounds with a muscle mass of 15%. There was no way I would be able to get through this experi ence and survive. "Okay guys, you can stop staring at the pretty lady;' PJ said. I guess that's how peo ple from Scranton talk. I stared back at PJ and thought to myself, this is going to be a long couple of months. -<f,

It was obvious that being a woman was go ing to cause some problems in this class room full of testosterone. Since I was the only woman in my class, I had all the guys staring. There was one who made it quite obvious that he wanted in my pants. This guy's real name was Dave, but his actions earned him a nickname of Surfer Dude. He was blonde with wavy hair and wore those stupid little seashells around his neck. To top it all off, he talked like Crush from Finding Nemo. Now Surfer Dude was a couple fries short of a Happy Meal. He would often shout out the most random comments and try to get my attention from it. He tried to participate but no one could take him seri ously. He kept calling me Dudette. He was more of a distraction than anything. It was obvious that this brotherhood was not the right move for him. He provided a crucial moment for me ... to never give up because I'm a pretty woman. Surfer Dude dropped out after the mid term and no one has heard from him since.

-<f,

The lecture part of the class wasn't as bad as I thought. It was based on a thirty-four chapter book with pictures and vocabulary words. Being the bookworm that I am, I read and studied hard and took great notes and I passed. Now the hands-on part was different. There were various operations that we had to perform in order to pass the class. The first is to put all your gear on in a min ute. This means boots, pants, coat, gloves and helmet. The instructors were picky about the minor things such as you had to have all your fingers in the gloves and we couldn't begin the drill with our shoes already off. Then once you had done that, you had another minute to put on your air pack, mask, and breathe air. Now this air pack weighs about fifteen pounds and swinging it around is never a good idea. This was a hard part for me to perform. My 120 pounds couldn't seem to get enough momentum to put it on my back without getting my one arm caught in the straps or hitting myself in the head. Sometimes I mustered enough momentum to swing it over my shoulders and parts would go fly ing and hit other people. I was frustrated. Let's just say, everyone stayed away from me when it came to this drill. Another hands-on learning experiment we had was to stop a sprinkler. The in structors gave us two wooden wedges that looked like door stoppers and told us to place them together to form a rectangle in between the sprinkler head and the roof. The sprinkler was running, full blast, and it was my turn. They had a ladder set up underneath the sprinkler and told me to go for it. I had the two wedges in my hands ready to go. I climbed the ladder to the top and started fumbling with my wedges. The sprinklers had so much power that my wedges kept being pushed out of sprinkler. I was using all my strength to push them together to stop the water. Then, I looked up to see what I was doing and SWOOSH! I got hit in the face with a burst of water,

and it knocked me off the ladder. I came out of the building soaking wet with tears forming in my eyes. I slowly looked around at my peers and they slowly stood up and started clapping for me. It was the biggest confidence booster I ever had. Getting hit in the face with a stream of water wasn't the worst part of the day. The worst part was I ended up losing one of my contacts in the process and had to drive home, from Doylestown, with one eye shut so I could see the road. Ladders are another hands on drill, and they are the heaviest objects I have ever had to lift. One of our drills was to set them up against the side of a building and take them down in a matter of seconds. There were all different types of ladders: an attic ladder, thirty-six-foot extension ladder, and a roof ladder that had hooks on the ends of it so it can hook on to the peak of a house. We did this drill for three hours. I was winded by the first set but the guys kept going and en couraged me to continue to push forward. I was partnered with the guy whom I call Smiles. All he does is smile; he never seems to have a bad day. Anyway, Smiles and I were bringing a ladder down, and I was on the end walking it down when -all of a sudden- Smile dropped the ladder right on my head. I fell to the ground. I yelled and screamed a lot of inappropriate comments, called him a lot of bad names, and swore I would never be partners with him again. After Smiles dropped the ladder on my head, I had a new partner whose name was Jim. I can't give Jim a nick-name; he didn't do anything to deserve one. Jim had the physical strength to lift the ladders and I had an easier time of guiding the ladder down. Final time came fast. We went from still learning to taking the practical hands-on part of the test. We all helped each other. I put on my gear in under a minute and managed not to hit anyone and passed. Jim and I were partnered for ladders and we passed. Everyone in my class passed Fire One.

PA�E 84 Graduation came on one of the snowiest days in December and from that day for ward we all had our nationally certified certificates in our hands proud to show anyone that asked. We could now enter a burning building and not be held back from it. Graduation was the last time I ever saw any of them. And I thank them for helping me achieve and not give up. Now we are forever in a secret society of fire fighters, The Brotherhood. .(§,

Four years later, I still have never seen the men I went through Fire One with, but we all know the bond we share is as strong as family. We are part of this brotherhood that will continue to look after one another. As I stand at this September ll th Me morial wearing my class A uniform, I look around at these men surrounding me, knowing that we all have gone through the same things. We may not all agree on the subject, and we all come from differ ent walks of life, but knowing that we have brother's lost in the collapse of the Twin Towers is enough to make us family.

...·.·�

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"Revolutionary War Reenactor" by Nancy Bradley

"The Daily Grind" by Nancy Bradley

FOLIO 35

"Celtic Cross" by Nancy Bradley

"Autumn'' by Ashley Brendle

"Unitarian Church" by Nancy Bradley

PACE 88

FOLIO 35

"Night's Eye" by John Fischer

FOLIO 35

"Live Life Love" by Nicole Levy

PAï¿½E 92

"What We Forgot" by Annie McNulty

"Corners ofltaly-Roma'' by Gabriel Medina-Plaud

FOLIO 35

"Corners of Italy-Roma" by Gabriel Medina-Plaud

P),..Jï¿½E 94

"Wolf" by Thomas Rooney

FOLI035

"Letting the Light In" by Sara Szymendera

P),..J�E 96

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"St. Michael the Archangel" by Stephen Turner

FOLIO 35

"Images of Longwood Gardens" by Michael Ziegler

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Holy Family

UNIVERSITY