illumination art
literature
The Undergraduate Journal of Humanities
essays
Spring 2010
The cover artists:
Back Inside: “Control” by Jessica Doing Front Cover: “Pop Shades” by Rebecca Li
Back Outside Cover: “Turning Point (Rebirth)” by Samuel Schlenker
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Poetry:
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Apple Crisp, Amelia Foster Every Monday Night, Kimberly Bruss Conversations with a Thin Girl, Kimberly Bruss Palette Knife, Sarah Nance Major Change, Chloe Clark The Bat, Sarah Nance Art: Portrait of a Man with Hammers, Meghan Johnson He Wasn’t There Again Today, Lauren Morrison Formation, Cara Feeney Horse of the Apocalypse, Lauren Morrison The Twins, Stephanie Hemshrot Act One, Scene Two Supper Club, Meghan Johnson If My Body was Your Canvas, Rebecca Li We’re Not So Different, You and I, Lucy Jost Self Portrait IV, Margaret Fransee Long Liners and Empty Water, Lauren Morrison Self, Margaret Durow Self Portrait, Iraq Years, Yvette Pino The Hatchling, Lucy Jost Anonymous, Margaret Durow Untitled #62, Jordan Anderson
9 9 10 10 11 11 12 12 13 13 14 15 15 16 16
Rain on a Strange Roof, Amir Tarsha On Control, Chris Dorsey
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The Land of Milk & Honey, Ryan Lehrman
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Empowering Young Voices: Girls Inc. Magazine, Jamie Utphall
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Prose: Essay:
WI Idea:
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il . lu . mi . nate
Staff
Letter from the Editor
Editor-in-Chief Layout Editor Layout Assitants
Hello, and welcome to Illumination: the Undergraduate Journal of Humanities. Another issue, another semester, but I am once again extremely proud to see this issue come to fruition. So much hard work has gone into this issue and the staff has proven to be a dedicated and loyal group who only want the best for this amazing journal. I am so proud to be editor-in-chief of these students who are so passionate about literature and art. With the volatile economy hurting everyone, Illumination was also hit by this downturn, but luckily, the journal has an amazing support system. When it became evident that money would be a topic of concern, Sarah Horvath, the Publications Committee director, and Susan Dibbell, our advisor, stepped forward immediately and helped me and the journal in any way they could. I want to extend my extreme gratitude to the Publications Committee and Sarah for making sure the journal would be able to print a quality issue. To her, and everyone that made sure the journal would be an excellent issue, I want to extend my sincere thanks. I think people often see my name under “editor-in-chief” and think I make sure all the students do their work and oversee every little aspect, and while I do act as a leader, the staff is so fantastic that it makes my name look good. To all those on staff who love the journal as much as I do and give up so much of their time for the production of Illumination, you have made this year a wonderful experience, and I thank you. One last note before you delve into the journal: a thanks to my mother and father who supported me throughout this entire year. Thank you! I encourage you to go to illumination.library.wisc.edu or e-mail us at illumination@library.wisc.edu to stay in touch!
Kate Neuens Kara Kopec Gayle Cottrill, Man Tim Lam, Kelsey Eaton Art Editor Kerry King Art Reviewers Alaura Seidl, Olivia Baldwin, Kayla Schwalbe Copy Editor Patrick Johnson Copy Editing Assistant Cailly Morris, Will Kocher, Alexis Brown, Brittany Estrada, Caelin Ross Essay Editor Paulina Schemanski Essay Reviewers Paul Waldhart, Jessica Erbs, Emily Ayres, Katie Withaml Poetry Editor Cara Dees Poetry Reviewers Hanna Schlosser, Eamon Doyle, Adi Lev-Er, Caelin Ross Prose Editor Jack Garigliano Prose Reviewers Michelle Czarnecki, Anna Wehrwein, Gregory Langen, Justin Melde, Carolyn Lucas Publicity Director Carly Ettinger Publicity Assistant Mallory Cybulski Submissions Editor Anna Wehrwein Wisconsin Idea Editor Savannah Camplin Wisconsin Idea Reviewers Lauren Wojcik Natalie DeCheck, Samantha Luterbach WUD Publications Committee Director Sarah Horvath Advisor Susan Dibbell
Board of Advisors: Al Friedman, Richard Brooks, Carrie Kruse, Elizabeth Owens, Jim Jacobson, Kathi Sell, Ken Fraizer, Mary Rouse, Ron Wallace
Sponsors Lemuel R. and Norma B. Boulware Estate Wisconsin Union UW-Madison Libraries 2
To enlighten intellectually; to make illustrious or resplendent.
Auf Wiedersehen, Kate Neuens
Mission
The mission of Illumination is to provide the undergraduate student body of the University of Wisconsin-Madison a chance to publish work in the fields of the humanities and to display some of the school’s best talent. As an approachable portal for creative writing, art, and scholarly essays, the diverse content in the journal will be a valuable addition to the intellectual community of the University and all the people it affects.
Thank You
Illumination would like to thank the following people:
Jenny Klaila, Vicki Tobias, Dave Luke, Andrew Gough, Eliot Finkelstein, Kelli Keclik, Glenda Noel-Ney, Adam Blackbourn, Stephanie Krubsack, Gary Sandefur, Nancy Lynch, Emily Auerbach, Ron Kuka, The Font Bureau, Inc., Magdalena Hauner, Kristin Hunt, David Null, Pamela O’Donnell, Chris Kleinhenz, Tom Garver, Mary Czynszak-Lynn, Paula Bonner, Lee Konrad, Bill Reeder, WUD Art Committee Special Thanks to John D. Wiley for establishing sustainable funding for Illumination and the Friends of the University of Wisconsin-Madison Library for providing Certificates of Achievement and honoraria for select literature and essay pieces.
Apple Crisp Amelia Foster
Our grimaces carved into pumpkins, sat in the sun ‘til puckered and toothless. My spoon strikes the bottom of the bowl. You core apple after apple. The world spins like a top while we barefoot navigate the kitchen. Smoke alarms stacked on the tablecloth, 1/4-cup water to steam and soften. You spread a few suds around my mouth with your cold dishwashing hand. The oven’s almost 400 degrees when the cops jump our fence. We pinch our fingers between the blinds as their flashlights tunnel through the glass. The doorknob slips in your hand. Their radios pop and sizzle. There’s a woman on the sidewalk, her blood unfurled like a fan. This poem was selected to receive a Certificate of Recognition and $200 honorarium by the Friends of the University of Wisconsin-Madison Library.
We are the only suspects: white picket fence, a peck of skinless apples.
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The summertime cowboy shaves his head on his back porch. He sits on a striped lawn chair on the other side of the fence
Every Monday Night Kimberly Bruss
with a hand mirror and a carton of milk, humming throaty songs that my father knows. His voice sounds like a hitchhiker’s, feathers stuck in sap, and it makes my thumbs tighten and throb. I tie a bandana to the end of a broomstick, fill it with rotting apples that are heavy with juice and worms, sling it over my shoulder just to feel the weight of it and it feels good— day-and-night good, earth-and-water good. Like I have created something. The air is heavy and hanging low and it smells of sweaty oak and clipped hairs and the cowboy hums and shaves until his milk is warm and the trees are black because they soak up the night and then he leaves me, sitting on the other side of the fence with hot fingers, my apples gone to seed.
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Poetry
Conversations with a Thin Girl Kimberly Bruss
Girl against girl. A division, separation, isolation. We have turned us on ourselves. We. Us. It would be much easier to blame Them. Young girl laying awake at night feeling her stomach bulge in the wrong places pushing it down, in, up, away. Pressing in hard for the hip bones. Wondering if slicing it all off, smoothing her stomach and the lines on her mother’s forehead would really hurt that bad. Takes a twilight trip to the kitchen to feel the cool weight of a knife against her abdomen. Slips the knife back in the drawer and darts back to bed on tiptoes, crying. It will hurt that bad, decides the young girl. She will eat sugared cereal in the morning and won’t return to the knife drawer for many nights. Not for many nights.
The woman’s body is a gift, wrapped tight. She must care for her body. I can be a slim woman, seeing a young, cherryfaced girl and I think to myself, God, that girl’s mother must not care about her child at all. We are only to be spacious on the inside. I do not care for the young girl. I do not care for pudge. That chubby girl with her short hair looks like the boy standing next to her. God, that girl’s mother must not care about her child at all. I can be a slim mother who gave life to a small, pink baby. My child grew into a chubby girl and her round shape was unexpected. She is not what I had in mind. Make it right for mama, baby. Make it right.
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Palette Knife Sarah Nance
“To still write a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric.” —Theodor W. Adorno When we left Frankfurt, the water had pooled in the gutters like tea in forgotten cups. Lucy held me close in bed at night, tearless and still, the heat of her hands telling me her sorrow. People here whispered in the back of trams, in the dark corners of crowded restaurants. That is how we heard what was happening. Lucy read the newspapers and put away her paints. The six o’clock voice scratching across the radio asked after God; she wanted only to know where the color had gone. At night I would trace the veins in her hands, up the back of her neck, thinking of blood, everywhere, thin as paper and smelling of talc. She would whisper strange shapes into my cheek: the color of the November night, the lines of windowdrapes and the wings of crows when her eyes were closed. How do you paint these shapes without in some small way creating them? Lucy, can you talk of war and still make peace? Once, during the night, she awoke whispering green.
Poetry
Major Change Chloe Clark it was this and that before it was something and now it’s nothing but we keep lists of silence up on our walls to take down and tear apart when the need arises for us to do something about this burst of nothing that wakes us up at night in our beds or from where we were lying on the floor staring at the ceiling like we can find god in the plaster cracks and then we want to call up someone who we might have known once and tell them that we are okay and that we are doing everything that we planned and that nothing is wrong and we will hope that they take us with a grain of salt like, the french kind from the sea, and they will ask us what is the matter, what is wrong, and we will break down into who we were all those years back and when we wanted to be everything that existed and anything that was real and how could we have made this choice and picked out something that is nothing important and we curse out what we used to believe and how could our minds have betrayed us so and then we admit that what we are planning is dangerous but not unprecedented, no we are not the first to climb this mountain and step out on the treacherous slopes and raise our arms to the sky and say that we belong here and so we hang up and breathe deep, deep, deep, and know that tomorrow nothing will be something and we will have made the right decision to be everything.
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The Bat Sarah Nance When we first heard its bony wings crumpling together like a leather bag, my body clenched tight against the mattress and I sent you after it. I thought I was having the dream again, of wings that open and close like doors, my voice thrown out before me like an invisible rock sending out ripples in a pond. Later, I lay next to you, your heat having become my heat, the weight of your body, my own. The bat had come through the walls which seemed so sturdy, smoothed with plaster up and over the edges, leaving no place for a fissure to form. We knit together, so seamless; our hair twisting along the root, our fingers laced tightly. From the corner it had flown, unmarked and weightless, slicing without a sound the air into two hemispheres.
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Portrait of a Man with Hammers Meghan Johnson
He Wasn’t There Again Today Lauren Morrison
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Formation
Cara Feeney
Horse of the Apocalypse Lauren Morrison
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Art
The Twins Stephanie Hemshrot
Act One, Scene Two Supper Club Meghan Johnson
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If My Body was Your Canvas Rebecca Li
We’re Not So Different, You and I Lucy Jost
Art
Self Portrait IV Margaret Fransee
Long Liners and Empty Water
Lauren Morrison
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Self
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Margaret Durow
Art
The Hatchling Lucy Jost
Self Portrait, Iraq Years
Yvette Pino
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Anonymous
Margaret Durow
Untitled #62 Jordan Anderson
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Rain on a Strange Roof Amir Tarsha
And the rain will fall, pool in the highway’s reaction to change, pool in the soccer fields, the parks, the playgrounds, near each and every gutter. Games will be canceled. Fear of injury. Fear of lightning. Fear of its intensity. Harder still, the windshield wipers of a new suburban phenomenon will fight futilely against the downpour. A mom will squint to see blurred red, green, and god forbid yellow embedded in a sky sighing heavy. A strapped-in baby in back will wail, her older brother will grow bored; thumbs soar from Nintendo demanding too much. Earthworms will play groundhog, feeling the air, the ground wet and crumbling, smelling, sensing, blind. Imagine lids closed against light, imagine light, imagine breathing fresh air. Windows will open, so they can hear the sound of rain on pavement, rain on grass, rain on broad leaves of Oak, rain cascading down the canopy, rain in wind. So they can see the tall trees move piously, sway as if in prayer. “Thank you, thank you,” the leaves will whisper, as if in supplication. To let the grey-white light stream in and tint their things with nostalgia. They will sit and listen. The rain will fall and they will welcome its ferocity. They might turn on some talk radio, low, and make something warm to eat. Harder still, all dust will enter a new cycle of oblivion, gone for all they know, gone forever, because it all seems clean, and fresh. Free carwash. Nothing is free. They will extol its consistency, invest in its
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promise of renewal. They will forget, for a brief flash of time, the broken printer, the boiling pot, New Year’s resolutions, TV, the new baby, the expected baby, the divorce, the funeral, the fear of. They will forget to notice that the rain is coming through the screen and getting the floor all wet. They might even forget a law, universal and cruel. That it comes down. That it will fill from the bottom up. That the rain--up in the sky, on the highest leaves, the highest hills, the mountains, the buildings--it will come
down and
pool. That this system demands equilibrium, that nothing can stay up. This is the law of all things, of everything. That these little moments, these brief teasing moments of deliverance can’t last, not here. Moments where we forget, moments of oblivion, moments of happiness, moments of toxic release, moments of fresh air, when every muscle gives way, and the ringing can’t be heard, and you are excited not anxious, about this whole big plan, what might come next, what next love, what next feeling. Moments when we are lifted. Not here, because what goes up, or comes from up, will come down and fill from the bottom
to the
top.
And when you are jolted awake, back into reality, lids snap open, you are feeling, sensing, hearing, writhing in post-coital anxiety, breathing cold wet air, not blind, not blind at all. You will feel it all around you as you doggy paddle and tilt your neck to keep your head above the water that has filled up all around you. You will kick and flail and try to stand on the kitchen table, hold on to your light fixture, but your feet won’t find what they are looking for, you will slip, you will choke and gasp and cry, cursing Him and yet begging for Him to lift you away. And you will laugh maniacally, cry desperately, close your eyes at the ceiling your nose is now touching, thinking why am I alone, thinking it strange that I am alone.
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Prose
On Control Chris Dorsey
They are strange, the things firing through your mind when you suddenly find your body traveling at somewhere between 100 and 125 miles per hour, completely untethered, just inches over a smoking stretch of road, as a high-powered bike writhes in a metallic flurry a very short distance behind you. It is not your entire life that flashes before your eyes, as myth suggests. What is actually witnessed is a very specific selection of scenes—memories recalled and rendered so vividly that they assume an all-encompassing size, blocking out all other perception and taking on such weight that the experience is often mistaken for a lifetime. I was unaware of all this, which made me very surprised to see—as I flattened out under the vaulted desert sky, with the wind whipping over me—the form of Pastor Jim Beasley. He looms at the front of the church, and none of us have ever seen anything like him in west Indiana. I am 13. Our church is mid-sized and middle-class and uneventful. Pastor Beasley is a character from the movies—this sturdily-built, sharply-dressed black man who comes at everything with a fury we only vaguely recognize as “Baptist,” for lack of a better Christian term. He thunders at us with the voice of Zeus and he is captivating. His message is full of conviction and he speaks in universal terms, as all preachers tend to, but this is different somehow. You sit there, listening, and all at once you realize he is talking about you. I look around and sense that I am not the only one who feels this. There is a certain uneasiness building. His eyes never make contact with yours—in fact, Pastor Beasley rarely looks into the audience; instead, his head is tilted at an upward angle, sending the brimstone to the walls. And still you listen closer and realize that yes, he is most certainly talking about you. As he taps the fragile pages of the Bible, splayed in his massive hand, it becomes frightening because he is speaking about you but is directing it to everyone else. It’s as if a great secret exists between Pastor Beasley and the rest of the congregation, and at its most pagan, darkened root is your lack of faith, your lack of action. It is a terrible and exciting feeling together. Every moment he is up there bellowing, I half expect him to stop dead in his words and lower his Bible. To adjust his gold-rimmed glasses with an empty hand. To stroll across the carpeting, feet sliding silently as he approaches my row. To look just over my head but not
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directly at me yet, and to say my name and gesture for me to step out. To realize that I have no option but to comply while everyone watches—watches and sits relieved that their name has not been called. To be gripped by the arm and led quietly up the aisle as the rest of the congregation turns their eyes to the floor in mute respect. To be alone in the foyer with him and to have him bend down and look at me, into me for the first time, and say: “Are we at an understanding now?” But this doesn’t happen. Not to anyone. It doesn’t matter, though, because as long as you feel there is the possibility, you do not move as long as he is speaking. After he closes his sermon, which has gone on for 20 minutes, it is quiet as everyone leaves. The mumbling and the clamor only begin once people are outside in the light. At lunch, my parents say that he is exactly what the church needs: a shock to the system. My grandparents are less thrilled and say they don’t appreciate the drama or the racket and that they’ll be staying home if this black fellow plans on preaching again. Then, that evening, the size of the congregation nearly doubles. Pastor Beasley delivers a similar message and does so with the same passion, and everyone listens in the same exhilarated silence, each person seeming to hold their breath until he dismisses them at his discretion. A week later, word spreads that Pastor Beasley has chosen to remain in town for the time being, and on Sunday all the pews are overflowing and the aisles clogged with listeners—a lot of people I’ve never seen before—some of them standing, pinned up against the walls and buzzing like a rock concert is about to start. The service proceeds normally at first. There’s the worship time, then announcements about pot-lucks and fundraisers; then the choir performs a few numbers; then everyone stands to sing a traditional hymn together; and then as the last notes ring off the walls, our head pastor climbs up to the pulpit to re-introduce our guest—back by popular demand, he says to
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a smattering of laughter and applause. Pastor Beasley shakes his hand and begins his sermon. Directing everyone to the teachings of the prophet Isaiah, he moves side-to-side along the stage, never using the pulpit, still projecting his powerful voice at the façade. I sit wedged between my parents, both of them tilted slightly forward in their seats, hands fastened to their laps. I am conscious of Pastor Beasley’s words, and although I feel like he is still talking about me in that secret voice, the others around me draw my attention—all of them sitting there with guilty, wide-eyed expressions. The sermon continues, and the longer it goes on, the more I feel immune to Pastor Beasley’s shouting. By the end, I am fidgety and tired of looking at everyone’s pursed, frowning lips and their incessant nodding. Then Pastor Beasley goes silent for a minute and leans against the side of the pulpit and everyone waits. Scattered coughs. In a voice quieter than any he has used before, he tells us that he knows exactly who is out there. He says he knows us and knows our hearts and he knows what the Lord wants and the Devil hates. He says that if anyone wants to get rid of the filth, the vices, and the chains the Devil is using to hold them down, they need to step forward. There is a rustling of limbs and immediately a third of the congregation is shuffling out of their seats toward the front, some of them almost shoving their way up. I see my friend Luke with his dad mixed in with them. As the piano starts playing, Pastor Beasley descends into the crowd. An older man approaches him first, his arms up and head down, and Pastor Beasley smiles and says quiet words to him and carefully sets his large hands around the man’s neck. As soon as Pastor Beasley touches him, right there in the middle of everything, the man drops. Like he has come unplugged. Two big men in suits, Pastor Beasley’s men, are standing behind him and they catch him as he goes limp. They knew this would happen. Pastor Beasley moves to the next person, a lady I recognize from the church office, and she goes
Prose down, too. All the air has been sucked out of the room and I can feel my mom’s hand grip my dad’s behind my head. More people are touched and they fall the same way. The big men follow Pastor Beasley and safely arrange the liquefied bodies on the floor. I have seen the Holy Ghost come down on the television before—on the Jesus channels that always managed to seep through the static regardless of how terrible an antenna or set you owned. On those programs, when It came, It would pour down on the whole congregation at once and everyone would be charged and start dancing and flailing and singing and shouting and stomping and whatever else their bodies were inspired to do. But here, in our church, Pastor Beasley and his hands only create silence. I watch as people lie there, sprawled out with eyes closed and arms raised over their heads, lips moving rapidly but soundlessly. Blankets are spread over girls wearing skirts or dresses, and pretty soon the entire front of the church resembles a giant kindergarten naptime. The music keeps playing, but no one still in their seat is singing. We all just stand there, staring at our relatives and our friends scattered in front of us. My family doesn’t talk about it on the ride home. I try to imagine what my grandparents would have thought if they’d have been there to see everything. Over the next few days, Mom spends hours on the phone with friends from church, discussing the situation in hushed tones. I keep wanting to ask her what happened and if it’s good or not, but I don’t. After school on Wednesday, I come into the kitchen and Mom is there and Dad is home early from work, and they’re waiting
for me. They tell me Pastor Beasley is speaking to the youth group tonight and they think I should go. I’m upset. I don’t want to go. A good movie is finally on TV tonight, and I’ve heard Pastor Beasley speak three times already. And I don’t want to go watch a bunch of people go unconscious all night, I tell them. They say I am still going. Luke is going too, so I’ll have someone to sit with. I tell them I don’t care, and a strange anger and a fear spikes up inside me. I start shouting, refusing. But they do not budge; they just sit there and look at me in a very pitiful way. I am in a sour mood when I get to church. A lot of kids are in attendance, a lot of noise. Even some adults linger in small groups, but they are told that the Pastor would prefer to have only the youth in the chapel. They are disappointed but they do not argue. Luke is there, and in the middle of all the buzzing I ask him what it was like. He looks embarrassed. Did it hurt? Did he feel like he was falling asleep? He shrugs and can’t think of anything to say, so I ask him if he really fell down or if he only pretended to fall down. Luke’s face goes hard and he looks like he might cry and he says he can’t believe I would ask him that. I feel crummy so I apologize. Our youth pastor comes out through the swinging doors and signals to everyone that things are beginning. As we file into the wide, empty rows, the anger leaves me and is replaced instead with that tight feeling high in my chest. The youth services run exactly like the regular services, except that it is kids occupying the seats, kids playing the instruments, kids running the projectors. Pastor Beasley stands off to the side in a row of his
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own, and he doesn’t know our songs, so he just rocks back and forth, looking happy and raising his hands to the sky while we sing. He is dressed casually in a turtleneck and slacks, somehow looking even bigger and stronger than he does in his suits. When it comes time for him to preach, I am prepared for his thundering, but he is quieter tonight. He rests on the steps of the stage and talks to us like he is talking to one of his buddies. The nervousness leaves me a little, and I can sense a sort of relaxing in everyone around me. I begin to feel like I am no longer a bad secret to be shared with others. Pastor Beasley laughs and tells stories from his time as a traveling minister. He tells us the only thing he finds more difficult than his job is the job of being a young person today with so many potentially dangerous roads ahead. He reads to us about the Israelites wandering in the desert and explains that it is faith that leads you places, and that although you may not understand why or how things will work out, the key thing is that they always do. Keeping faith is more important than anything else, he says. I like this version of Pastor Beasley, I decide. Towards the end of things, Pastor Beasley asks the musicians to return for a few final songs, and he takes a microphone and leads everyone in singing. He stops after a bit and the band continues playing. He says that he understands what we face every day and
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knows what kind of baggage we carry. The Lord does, too. He says if anyone wants to be rid of their baggage for good, they should join him on the stage. The tightness creeps back into me. As the music plays, kids press forward. It’s like you know exactly who will go up first, and you are right. It’s all the pastors’ kids, the good kids, the kids who arch their arms the same way as their parents do every week. Some of us remain steeled in our seats. We are the halters. We stare ahead, nervously fingering the benches in front of us, focused intently on the song lyrics glowing on the wall. I am fine with being a halter, but there’s a tug on my arm—it’s Luke. He wants to go up there, and his face tells me I should, too. I look away and pull my arm back, but he stands there, staring at me. His look turns pitiful like my parents and he continues tugging. Not wanting to make a scene, I follow. We move and pack in closely with the others. Pastor Beasley surveys us and smiles. His hands come down on the first person—the youth pastor’s daughter—and instantly she is out. Three other people, one after the other, all falling on command, and I am backing up, but others are pushing me from behind. Pastor Beasley is now next to me, looking at Luke and saying his low words. He softly grasps Luke’s neck, and my friend starts to shake. He is up and shaking and then he is down, caught from behind. I am looking at Luke, watching his eyes twitch, when Pastor Beasley comes to me. His largeness has grown, and he grins at me as if he recognizes me and he rests his arms on my shoulders and stands there, just looking into me. Then he closes his eyes and I close mine and feel his heavy fingers as they graze my neck. Eyes shut tighter. Thoughts shift through me like lightning, and I am trying to think of everything else in the world at once. A flash slowly expands behind my eyelids, and I breathe out and can feel myself relax, like sliding into a warm bath. When I open my eyes, the horizon has gone vertical. Reddened sunlight moves into
Prose my vision. The wind pours fast over me, and I can see the sandy peaks of the hills in the distance. They blur and then sharpen quickly into a stiff line. There is a feeling of weightlessness as I sense I am somewhere, sometime else, and around me an atmosphere builds and I am sinking into the leather of a dentist’s chair. The smell of latex and new carpeting are everywhere, and a harsh fluorescence beats down on me. My t’s become h’s as I widen my jaw and explain my situation to the masked woman above. I tell her in a shaky voice why my two front teeth are almost entirely missing, and the story gets funnier every second with the warming hiss of the nitrous. I start giggling and tell her I’m sorry, but it is very funny. She readies her instruments and looks into my open mouth and says she imagines they were very nice teeth to have. I can’t tell if she is smiling behind her mask. She says to just relax. To ignore the noise. Try not to move. As I sink deeper, my laughter degrades into a contented hum, and I consider how my teeth have always been excellent— perfect, even—up to this point. Through the anesthetic haze I watch the life of my teeth spill out in front of me. As far back as I can remember I am always the kid in class with the nice teeth. They are ideal like everyone else’s at first—clean and precious looking, like miniature sculptures. But then a separation occurs. As each milk tooth drops out, it is systematically replaced with a larger, more visible version. Mine come in without fault. Each tooth emerges straight, smooth, and gapless. There is none of the typical awkwardness. My friends’ teeth run crooked, or their bite is off and they have wire and steel forced into their mouths and eye me with bitter jealousy—a pain in their face that strangely makes me want to flaunt my perfection at them even more. I am not mean—I never tell them what I am thinking. I just smile, knowing that I have it made. The grade school me becomes intensely focused on tooth care. My parents
are thrilled, if not confused. They mistakenly think I am aspiring to be a dentist. I look forward to my scheduled cleanings; I read about dental hygiene and memorize which ingredients do what on the toothpaste boxes; I start demanding certain brands of brushes; and I will settle for nothing less than the best. Brush. Floss. Rinse. Preen. Repeat. When I am home and by myself, I sometimes spend an hour or more in front of the mirror, grimacing and distending, ensuring there are no imperfections or signs of decay to be found. At the dinner table I develop a fascination with my chewing process, wishing I could be inside to watch as my pristine incisors dissect my dinner, then pass the pieces to my molars, the granite he-men who turn everything to pulp before it is pushed down into the dark. I rinse my mouth with water after every bite, and my attention to this entire process becomes so intense that dinner conversations turn murky and far off, and fingers are constantly snapping me back to attention. As I get older I realize I do not always need to say things, thanks to my teeth. Words can be easily replaced with a bright mouthful of chompers. Verbal forwardness is unnecessary, and people assume I am confident and happy and capable when I smile at them. In the mirror I practice a careful smile that allows my lips to run along the exact contour of my gums so that each tooth is fighting to be seen, front-and-center. People tell a joke and I flash this smile and they see how sincere I am. I let my teeth introduce me to the outside world. Hello, I am teeth and I hope you like me. And for the most part, they do. My circle of friends grows, and I stay quiet and reserved, not wishing to make myself heard very often, as words tend to sit gangly in my mouth and come out scattered and ill-fitting to the situation. Since I do not speak much, others assume I possess a certain quiet wisdom, and I revel in this. When I move out and start looking for jobs, my teeth become my business card, my handshake. Some-
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times I feel as though I am secretly in love with my teeth, but I never tell anyone. Part of their magic, I imagine, relies on their never being talked about—their unspoken charm something that only functions if I appear to be completely unaware of it. Then it all catches up with me on my 29th birthday. My track record has been spotless thus far. No cavities, no corrosion, no fading. I am thinking about this as I am leaning against the bar, out with friends, acting reserved and gracious as they buy me drinks. As the night wears on and my inhibitions dwindle, I find myself jawing with strangers, huddled around games of nine ball and stuffing dollars into the jukebox. One of them deadpans at me after a particularly poor break, and I watch his words spill from his rotted, yellow mouth. It repulses me. I arrogantly make a remark about this to him, my own maw wide and gleaming, and two seconds later I am crouched on the floor, my front two gems smacked completely to dust on the tile and resting in a grainy pile on the center of my tongue. Fear overwhelms me and I bolt out of the building, hand welded to my mouth, giving no explanation to anyone, leaving a blurred trail down the crowded sidewalk. Until I can secure a proper appointment two days later, I take myself out of the equation. I call in sick to work; I do not take phone calls; the knocking at my door goes unanswered; and I sit alone, a fixed glare on my face, refusing to acknowledge my reflection and loathing everything in the universe. Even after I am affixed with a set of temporaries, I refuse to part my lips. My meals come through straws and my tongue goes raw from prodding the foreign bodies that invade my jaw. They are very temporary, assures the dentist. But they are rough and have the taste of aspirin and are tinted a terrible gray and completely unlike the rest of my mouth. My glare is only swept away by the nitrous, one week after the incident, as I wait for the porcelain veneers that will be my rebirth. My triumphant return to the fold.
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Strange noise emanates from deep in my throat and I look out through eyes jumbled with water. My dentist is smiling at me with her mask tucked under her chin. It is all better now, she says. You are as good as new. I grin stupidly and thank her with liquid lines running down my cheeks. They dry in the wind and I am staring at the yellow stripes below, broken up and running swiftly by like new candy on a conveyor. Delicious and dangerous looking. For a moment, the wisps of heat emanating from the blacktop slow and curl around my fingertips, suspending me. The sun hovers over the western hills and the sound of shattering metal is pushed further and further into the background. Things dim and a familiar feeling arises. I am face down, alone in my own bed and hung in that narrow, peaceful junction between wake and sleep. It is the night before I move to Arizona to start over. I am packed. Ready. My plane ticket is on the nightstand with the alarm set to trigger exactly four prior to departure. Nothing is left for me here. I am conscious of the bed and the room around me, but I am caught up in a dream. A girl and I are standing together in the middle of a dry, cropless field. I feel good with her. Pale, grayish-blue eyes flicker, but the breeze pushes hair across her face, obscuring her identity. A part of me wants to tell her that we are supposed to be here—that everything around us is beautiful and ready for us. But I do not say this. She takes my hand in hers and we walk, locked in step, our feet leaving nothing of our presence in the dry, cracked ground. Something that I feel, but do not hear, causes me to turn. Behind us in the distance I see a large, black funnel pouring down out of the sky. It is far away and I am not afraid of it despite its size. I look at the girl and know that she has seen the same thing and is also not afraid. We push forward and notice an isolated patch of forest to the east—stark green and jutting up out of the dust. Its slender trees are inexplicably burning, and our movement
Prose ceases. We watch the funnel as it nears the trees. It grazes their needled tips, and the fire leaps and affixes itself to the wind, birthing a violent column of light and heat that blankets the summer sky. This alarms us. As we start to run, the field begins to grow under our feet. We crisscross over the newborn grass as if to fool the flaming mass, leaping over piles of rocks and branches until we spot a withered fence in the middle of everything, and—seeing it as a source of safety—crouch behind it. She presses up against my back, sucking at the air with her pulse thumping hard and I can feel the beating inside of me. I turn, my knees still planted in the soil, and grab the back of her hair, watching as it loses and regains its color, and pull her mouth onto mine. She does not press her lips together as if to kiss, so we sit, locked together, teeth clacking, each of us expiring long, hot breaths into the other as the low rumble of the spinning inferno grows closer and louder and we are there on our own in the open. As she exhales her warmth down into me, I feel myself returning to the room, returning to the road. Pastor Beasley’s thick hands grasp my neck and all of my muscles give way. The sun drifts low and the speeding surface is there in front of me. I understand what it means to let go, and I am surprised again as I find that I am smiling in my wide and very perfect way when I hit.
This piece was selected to receive a Certificate of Recognition and $200 honorarium by the Friends of the University of Wisconsin-Madison Library.
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The Land of Milk & Honey Ryan Lehrman
The Land of Milk & Honey, so they say. But my gaze spans only across barren hills and debris-filled valleys. My nostrils can barely inhale the humid air. For this parched earth the eternal Israeli-Palestinian war persists? I see no milk. No honey. Seven weeks in a land that, as a Jew, I’m supposed to call home. When my group arrived at the inner-city Alexander Muss campus, I was skeptical: 14 kids I’ve never met and with whom I am spending the entire summer. A middle-aged man with a graying beard sat us down and lectured in an air-conditioned room that would serve as our mini-temple for the following weeks. Stained glass windows adorned the stonewalls. My mind wandered along the mortar. I better not get stuck with the top bunk, I thought. That kid with glasses who sat in front of me on the plane looked like he’s never kissed a girl before. Suddenly I was drawn back in when the speaker began talking of the violence and anti-Semitism in the world and the importance of Jewish state. “The history of the Jewish people can be summarized in one sentence,” he said. “They [the enemies] came, we fought them, and we feasted.” Three times a week my group would go on a tuyul or trip visiting historical sites of Israel. They started out pretty slow. Venture on a few tells, spell out definitions of other archaeological terms on my notepaper. It was the same dry information I had been fed in school. Back on campus was similar. I ended up with the top bunk. My roommates seemed friendly but a little strange; one of them had glasses. Headphones on. I wished Minnesota goodnight. *** Classes lasted until about noon. I would go back to bed for an hour. It was the first time my parents weren’t looking over my shoulder telling me to finish my homework. So I slept, woke, slept again, and enjoyed the summer sun. One day my roommates Michael and Ethan asked if I wanted to go into town. Across auburn-tiled sidewalks we made our way into the city of Hod Hasharon. It was a lively city. Cars bustled around roundabouts;
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Essay pedestrians streamed in and out of small stores. We decided to eat a local falafel shop. It was better than expected; for the first time in a while I was full. When we returned to the dormitories I went to check my email. I smiled when I saw two missed emails from my friends back home. Later I went to the dining hall for supper. Some mandatory group meetings before bed. Wash up. Headphones on. I wished Minnesota goodnight. *** Everyone had guns. I’d walk four blocks to pick up a gallon of milk and see a dozen armed soldiers. They wore guns like musicians wear guitars. I felt strangely safe. Michael and I studied the unification of the ancient Jewish kingdom together. We listened to Marley and Mraz. One weekend Michael and I visited Tel Aviv, a city said to have a raving nightlife. Downtown was as commercialized as the States. Yep, for Israelis, every Friday night is an end-of-the-world party…just in case. Headphones on. Goodnight, Minnesota. *** Soon the textbooks and notepaper were packed away and a new form of education enlivened us. Climb Mount Masada, float in the Dead Sea. I learned to breathe the sultry air. Swim in the natural springs. Walk on the same ground on which Saul fought the Philistines. I began visualizing the words I wanted to memorize. Images of ancient battles illuminated within me. Six weeks into the trip my group was eating lunch at a park in the heart of Jerusalem. The afternoon sun was bursting upon the grass. Next to us sat a Palestinian family enjoying their meal. Suddenly sirens consumed the air. Police cars sped passed while helicopters took flight above. We had been informed that a Palestinian Arab man was terrorizing the streets of Jerusalem on a bulldozer, rampaging civilian cars and pedestrians. My mind strayed from my teacher as he regaled us with Jewish stories on his guitar to the Palestinians beside me. How do
they see this attack? I wondered. Is this terrorist a freedom fighter in their eyes? But as if all was well and good in the world the older man in the Palestinian family rose from his patch of grass, walked over to our group and offered to break his freshly-cooked bread with us. In return we shared with him, and his family sliced watermelon. The older man’s actions answered my questioning. Throughout the chaotic conflict playing out in the nearby streets, an amazing juxtaposition had unfolded. As a cloak of danger fell upon the city, I had witnessed a few atoms of peace playing out in the park amidst a world of turbulence. Maybe the spell of Israel and its enemies is not eternal; we do not need to fight in order to feast. *** Perhaps not every stretch of Israel’s soil is abounding with the cows’ milk and the bees’ honey. And perhaps when you stare at Israel from afar you will not find the poignant civilian colors in a bleaker, war-buried backdrop. But get up close and see what they see. Live what they live. Understand that the land they call home is consecrated with undying dreams of their ancestors, an unbreakable will, and a fresh hope for human dignity. When I climbed into bed that night, I left my headphones on my desk. Goodnight, Israel.
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Empowering Young Voices: Girls Inc. Magazine Jamie Utphall
“That’s raw,” Christina says to me. I’m sketching a giraffe, outlined in purple and blue, with an extra long neck and a jovial grin. I haven’t colored in ages. “What?” I ask. I’m envious of her, of how easily doodles and haikus spill from her scented Crayola markers. She experiences none of the stopping and starting and scribbling that borders my page. She gives me a quizzical look then shifts her weight from one miniature Ugg boot to the other. “You don’t know what raw means?” She rolls her eyes, the trademark look of a seventh-grader. “It means cool. I like it. What do you think of my sunset?” Learning is always a reciprocal process, and piloting the “Kids’ Pub” project with Girls Inc. at Kennedy Heights Community Center was no exception. Sarah Horvath came to me with the idea for a “mini-Illumination” for kids over two years ago, and last semester we decided to make it happen as one of WUD Publication Committee’s many projects and events. For Kids’ Pub, we wanted to reach out to local youth by introducing them to the vast world of writing and publishing through a weekly workshop, with the end product being the kids’ creation of a fully professional, color, high-gloss magazine, similar to PubCom’s Emmy, Souvenirs, and of course, Illumination. After a few phone calls, I met with Lisa DuChateau at Girls Inc., a program for young women at Kennedy Heights. At the time I was unaware that Girls Inc. is a national program that focuses on providing community and support to young women, from late elementary school through high school, who may be personally affected by poverty, racism, classism and other cultural barriers in their communities. According to Lisa, the foremost objective of Girls Inc. is to encourage young women in all areas of their lives and support their positive development, inspiring them to be “strong, smart, and bold.” The magazine project seemed like a perfect, safe space outside of school where these young women could explore and celebrate their creativity, voice, and individuality through writing and illus-
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WI Idea trating their own published product. However fascinating the writing process truly is, nothing beats seeing your own name in the fine, slim print of Times New Roman, and we wanted to share this experience with our young, new authors. As an elementary schooler, I remember the first time I saw my name in print; it was an incredibly empowering experience. Our third-grade class made a classroom biography, and one of the school librarians typed each page and distributed a bound copy to each student. When I saw my name, I felt my words (a story about a flying pig) had been validated in some way. Therefore, I believe something changes the way students see themselves as writers, creators, and artists when their work is published. Suddenly, authorship is demystified, and students realize the voice and power they hold; we wanted to share this experience with the young women at Girls Inc., though during our first workshops it was difficult to explain to them how much power and freedom they had over what they would decide to publish in their magazine. We wanted to give them full artistic liberty and help them lead all aspects of the creative and publishing processes: from brainstorming, creating, and revising, to layout and copyediting. Looking back, I feel a few of the girls didn’t understand the extent of artistic freedom the magazine project provided them until the magazine was published. One girl asked midway through workshop, “Can we put pictures of ourselves in the magazine?” and another exclaimed, “from MYSPACE?!” While we didn’t want to curb the girls’ enthusiasm to promote social networking, we opted to include photos of the girls taken together at Girls Inc. activities: a field trip to the Shell skating rink and then at Kennedy Heights. In the end, it wasn’t until we distributed the published magazine at our release party in December when the
girls’ faces lit up that they truly understood their creative endeavor. Our work with Girls Inc. not only allowed us to provide unique opportunities and a creative space to Madison youth, but it also opened our eyes to the power and agency of voice that we may take for granted as college students. If we are to transcend cultural barriers and cease the perpetuation of harmful assumptions about human difference, we must recognize the power of voice in every human being, including the creative, bubbling voices of our young women. During one of our first workshops, we wrote chain stories, in which each writer would start the beginning lines of a story, then stop, and fold over the paper except for the very last line before passing her story on to the girl next her. Then, the next writer would continue, picking up where the previous one had left off. This process continued until all of the stories made it around the table. At first, the girls were reluctant to write. We had a short discussion on “famous first lines,” but I don’t need to tell you that quickly, the conversation digressed towards the topic of vampires and werewolves: “Are you on Team Jacob or Team Edward?” However, as the girls passed their notebooks, writing became easier, and I sensed that some tension had been released. The stuffy pressure that is too often present in English classrooms lifted, and the girls let the pages flow with markings from their gel-ink pens. At the end, we had some very humorous stories, which the girls were eager to share. We read them aloud. We were surprised, but even during this short writing activity, themes of pregnancy, rape, violence, love, friendship, and anxiety about school crushes surfaced in the chain stories. We listened, unsure of how to respond to the more delicate topics at first, but then realized that something profound had taken place. The girls were writing, and making their voices heard. Within the pages of the Girls Inc. magazine you’ll find confidence, sass, and compassion. In the end, we were proud to present the girls’ work as a collaborative effort between WUD Publications Committee and Girls Inc. We were also excited to share UW-Madison’s commitment to lifelong learning and appreciation
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for the arts with the greater Madison area through this project, and more specifically we were glad to find a way to inspire young minds about the empowering opportunities within the world of publishing and writing. We were lucky to find that the girls shared this inspiration, and together we embraced their power of voice. In the end, the magazine was not only a testament to the girls’ individual talents, but also their strong bond and friendship, fostered by the Girls Inc. program. This semester, we plan on taking a different spin on Kids’ Pub by inviting a group of students to come meet us at the Union for a full day-long workshop. Students will gain access and experience working with the technology involved in the publishing process, and they will learn about the tools and resources available to aspiring writers and artists. What Is Girl? By Kennedy Heights Girls Inc. Friends, Love, Fashion, Short-Tempered, Attitude, Responsibility, Beautiful, Shopping, Smell Good, Boys, Hot Star, Popularity, Drama, Personality, Pink, Funny, Mean, Unique, Sassy, Transformation, Puberty, Rude, Loud, Cocky, Camera-hog, Conceited, Crazy, Grown, Mature, Fabulous, Swag, Trust, Feisty, Talkative, Intelligent, Energetic, Jealousy, Hyper, Sexy, Style, Picky, Bossy, Snotty, Power, Strength, Gossip, Expert, Obnoxious, GIRL!
In 1904, past UW President Charles Van Hise proclaimed that he would “never be content until the beneficent influence of the University reaches every family in the state.” His vision became the Wisconsin Idea, a philosophy that has guided UW-Madison’s outreach efforts for more than 100 years. The Wisconsin Idea has expanded along with the university: In a globalized world, it is important for outreach to encompass national and international communities, while preserving the tradition of university involvement in local Wisconsin communities. Illumination is proud to highlight some of the outreach projects developed and implemented by undergraduates working in a variety of locations and situations. These students are fulfilling Van Hise’s mandate to make a different with the skills provided by their UW education.
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Contributors Jordan Robert Anderson had been called the greatest artist of his generation..... by his mother. Jordan throws caution to the wind. He thinks he can take down a grizzly bear with his bare hands (doesn’t want to but he will if he has to). Jordan Robert Anderson is liked by many. Jordan Robert Anderson likes you. Love and Bruises, Jordan Robert Anderson Jranderson5@gmail.com Kimberly Bruss: kbruss@wisc.edu Chloe N. Clark is currently a creative writing major. She questions the sanity of this decision on a daily basis. cnclark@wisc.edu Jessica Doing: jsdoing@wisc.edu
Lucy Jost is a student at the UW where she is pursuing a BFA and B.A. in Art History. After school she looks forward to continuing her education in the art field and traveling abroad, Italy and Ireland being at the top of her list. lucy.jost@gmail.com Ryan Lehrman is a freshman interested in becoming an English major. Besides writing, Ryan loves to play the guitar and the drums. He is hopeful that his passion for words and music will continue to bloom throughout college and his professional career. rlehrman@ wisc.edu Rebecca Li is a sophomore at UW-Madison pursuing a double major in Art and Chemistry. rli.226@gmail.com
Chris Dorsey is a senior and will be graduating this May with a degree in English. cdorsey@ wisc.edu
Lauren Morrison: lmorrison@wisc.edu
Margaret Durow grew up in various small towns in southern Wisconsin, most recently Lake Mills, where she still considers home. Now living in Madison and studying the Biological Aspects of Conservation, she spends much of her time taking photos. Her work is a way to remember her personal feelings and document the way things like sunlight, music, and close friends always inspire her. margaretdurow@yahoo.com
Yvette M. Pino served in the US Army for 6 1/2 years with the 101st Airborne Division where she had the serendipitous position of Division Painter. She is excited to finally finish her fine art undergraduate degree at The University of Wisconsin. ypino@wisc.edu
Cara Feeney: cfeeney@wisc.edu Amelia Foster: anfoster@wisc.edu Margaret Fransee: fransee@wisc.edu Stephanie Hemshrot: shemshrot@wisc.edu
Sarah Nance: snance@wisc.edu
Samuel Schlenker: sschlenker@wisc.edu Amir Tarsha is a sophomore majoring in psychology. He is from Oak Brook, Illinois. tarsha@wisc.edu Jamie Utphall (utphall@wisc.edu) is a senior majoring in secondary English education and would someday like to write stories for young people. In her free time, she enjoys baking carrot cake. utphall@wisc.edu
Meghan Johnson: majohnson23@wisc.edu
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Final Thoughts Every issue of Illumination has had a lot of help from one particular source that never gets enough credit: Wisconsin Union Directorate’s Publications Committee, better known as PubCom. PubCom has not only provided Illumination with financial support, but with endless resources. Professional staff, marketing, supplies, and countless other tools that have been utilized from PubCom to make sure the journal can be the best it can. PubCom has been a great source of professional development and leadership opportunities for many people on the staff of Illumination, but also for many other people in the campus community. PubCom houses many various journals such as Emmie, Souvenirs, and online blogs like Flash Fiction. The journals deal with assorted topics, from music to pictures and articles from people who have been abroad, all the way to short fiction pieces. There is also an outlet provided for people interested in writing and working on their creative fiction called Working Title. Along with these groups and journals, there are also events that PubCom puts on, such as the event that celebrated the release of the book The Master of Cheesemakers of Wisconsin. With this event there was not only a celebration of this great book, but also samples of the various cheeses of Wisconsin. Events like these not only demonstrate the ideals of PubCom, but also let the staff and the surrounding Madison and campus community have a good time eating fine Wisconsin cheese. Meetings for PubCom also supply committee members with chances to strengthen resumes and gain a competitive edge in the job market. These opportunities to highlight strengths give the members a jump ahead in the competitive market. If interested in Publications Committee head to union.wisc.edu/publications to see when and where meetings will be held and become involved with the many publications the campus has to offer.
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