Lit 2013

Lit

a narrative non-fiction magazine

A SPECIAL PUBLICATION OF THE ITHACAN

Lit

SPRING 2013

editor’s note Once upon a time, the stories would begin. They would be filled with elaborate places and passionate characters that became imprinted in our dreams. Storybooks were filled with wonder.

Lit is a different kind of storybook. Its pages are home to beautiful places and passionate characters, but they come from our world, from our town. In this storybook, words are more than a series of letters. They become images and faces, young boys and backpacks, old women and tea cups.

Lit is a magazine where journalists have a space for true storytelling. The following is a collection of stories written by senior journalism majors in Professor Todd Schack’s Narrative Journalism Workshop.

The students spent a semester immersed in the cultures of their characters. The words they wrote took the form of their characters’ hands, leading the students along as the stories wrote themselves.

Here you will find journalism that thrives in the details, that is told not through facts and figures but through images and faces. Here you will find journalism that lives in the pages of a storybook.

Your Editors,

&

staff KACEY DEAMER co-editor EMILY MILES co-editor Emily fuller design editor ERICA PIROLLI assistant design editor STEPHEN SHULER designer RACHEL WOOLF photo editor

KIRA MADDOX copy editor KYLA PIGONI copy editor ALEXA d’ANGELO proofreader ROSE VARDELL proofreader Kelsey O’Connor editor in chief Michael Serino ithacan adviser

Lit spring 2013

table of contents

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8 8

12 16

24 27 The Beautiful Hundred 4 16 A Woman’s Right: In Search of the Orient The Ladies of Cadet Land 8 24 Woodland Creatures an excerpt from “A Natural Education” Friday Nights with Christ 12 27 The Fiddlin’ Folk an excerpt from “Americana”

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part one stories

Lit spring 2013

The Beautiful Hundred words by art by SHAZA ELSheshtawy MERDINA LJEKPERIC DINNERTIME

It’s dinnertime. The nurses and aids put their newspapers down and close their books. They start their routine rounds, door by door.

“Pat, time to wake up.”

“Melba, you can finish ‘Dancing with the Stars’ after dinner.”

“Can someone help me put Peter in her wheelchair?”

James, the resident chef, moved between the dining room and kitchen as he set the tables, taking moments to think and stroke his modest ginger beard. In the yellow, chintzy kitchen, he took a spoonful of sweet potato-corn chowder. After diagnosing the pot of bubbling deep orange soup as “crazy delicious,” he ground a tiny crack of pepper on top.

“Not too much, because the residents can’t take a lot of abrasive spice ... But just enough to keep things interesting,” he smirked.

Most of the seats in the dining room start to fill up.

James set the last bowl of chowder down, adding a dollop of sour cream on top and a cheddar biscuit on the side.

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“It’s baby food,” Pat snapped under her breath.

Carol slouched over her bowl, looking at Pat consume her meal with ease. Carol’s bandage around her forehead concealed her furrowed brow but didn’t hide her tearing eyes. Her hands shook violently each time she tried to grasp her spoon. It was her second dinner back at The Old Hundred since her surgery. The staff was worried she wouldn’t survive. But since her return, she hasn’t said a word.

Olga, the main nurse, noticed Carol’s struggle. She rushed over, and in her thick Eastern European accent, she attempted to alleviate Carol’s frustration.

“Carol, let me help…” Olga picked up Carol’s cutlery and began to cut the biscuit into small, mushy pieces.

“Here ... Here we go. Now for the soup…”

By now all the seats in the dining room were full.

Cutlery clanked against bowls and plates, old eyes looked down at their meals or stared vacantly into space. Olga and James, the youngest in the room, were the only ones attempting conversation.

Dinner is enjoyed silently. Their time at The Old Hundred does not need to be marked by energy and noise.

THE BEAUTIFUL HUNDRED They don’t need to chit chat and create new bonds with each other. They have had lives full of energy and experiences. They have nothing to prove and nothing more to cultivate for the “future.”

THE OLD HUNDRED

The Old Hundred is an assisted living community for the elderly, tucked away in Ithaca N.Y. It’s umber wooden bones creak beneath the youngest and oldest feet. The home is an old soul, dressed up with chintzy wallpaper and curtains. Grandfather clocks sway silently next to bookshelves, heavy with classics and frayed yellow pages.

Burgundy bricks lead to a polished doorbell that croons a sweet melody, summoning a nurse in purple scrubs, carrying a stack of newspapers and books.

“Come on in girls. Some of the residents just woke up.”

Two sets of old and happy eyes caught ours. We introduced ourselves with a slow wave. Smiles mimicked the ones in the silver frames on the fireplace mantel behind the oak wood dining table. We shook hands, young skin against old, as light leaked through the glass windows.

One sat in a wheel chair, a thin tube resting above his upper lip and curling down onto the floor, weaving through oriental carpets and into another room. A dainty chair was an uneasy home for the other. She perched restlessly on the edge, pressing her hands together, elbows on the table.

Little treasures and photos dotted the space, exhaling an old life of memories and stories into the present one that only seemed to breathe in silence.

It’s a warm home, adorned with pastel faux flowers and ferns, rustic mirrors, bold bookshelves and serene green walls. It welcomes you with the smells of freshly prepared breakfast and the cozy embrace of over-stuffed chairs, sitting you down and introducing you to all who have made her their last home.

The residents move in and out of the small spaces slowly, often with help. Very little sound follows.

Few doors are open. Most are shut. The home’s hospitable public spaces are situated in stark and direct contrast from its private rooms. The bedrooms are secretive, only to be shared if the door is left open for us to peer into the limited square foot vessel of privacy. Otherwise, we peek into these private lives with the smallest of remarks.

“That’s Peter’s room. She’s in the hospital this week.”

“…Carol is taking a nap right now. She’ll wake up when her husband arrives … They’re inseparable.”

The silence and privacy of The Old Hundred should not overshadow its subtle wit.

Melba’s door is wide open. Peering in, light trickles onto the cream carpet and a washed out pink and beige bed set that looks as if it had been precisely, even surgically, applied over the bed frame that only just fit in the narrow room. A small TV weighs down a rickety wooden table, collecting dust and no attention. A few magazines drooped

on a smaller table next to a large, over-stuffed chair. Here, Melba sits, engulfed by her chair and her room’s silence, smiling and watching the atmosphere around her without a peep. Her room’s presence was modest compared to the public spaces of the home, but was by no means subtle.

Where it lacked in elaborate adornment, it made up for in feeling. Only a few items here or there spoke to her past life and her interests. But there was nothing fancy or decorative about the space. Her room was silent.

When the door was shut to her private world, a capital, italicized THINK LOUD! hung on a crisp piece of paper on her door. Melba’s witty smile seeped through the walls.

This old soul’s bones may creak. Its warmth and character dance around with each crooning doorbell, even if parts of its identity feel silent. But the home’s message is loud. The layers of stories permanently smile like the photos on the mantle and like Melba’s cheeky grin. The Old Hundred breathes quiet but thinks loud — waiting to finish its stories.

MELBA

Melba is petite with wispy short gray hair and fine wrinkles. Each time her blue eyes catch the family portrait by her bed in her small room in The Old Hundred, she grips the frame and smiles as she reads the names of her six daughters in the order that they appear in the photo: Rosemary, Elise, Margaret, Sarah, Catherine and Susan.

When she goes to read her husbands name, she prefaces it with, “Rick died three years ago, but I miss him every day.”

Since being diagnosed with Parkinson’s, Melba has left the large plastic bin full of stationary she would use to write letters to her family untouched. Now, the TV is usually on during the day as she sits in her big armchair next to a stack of worn novels.

She has a few newspaper clippings scattered on her desk, all of them pertaining to Newfield, where she lived with her family and was a teachers aid before her move to the Old Hundred in 2011.

“I-I think about m-my life in Newfield still,” she says, stuttering. “It’s hard to believe that time has p-passed.”

A car zipped down the main road, hurling warm gusts and wisps of freshly mowed, wet grass into the summer air. Annie’s soft canine fur was already tangled with patches of green as she ran back and forth, wrestling with Rosemary’s long blond pony tail, both giddy with the innocence of play and youth.

Their white, two-story house in Newfield, N.Y. sat nuzzled in the middle of a half-acre lawn, perpendicular from New York State Route 13. Today, balloons swung in the breeze and kids ran giggling amok, the occasional car passing by the scene. It was little Rosemary’s twelfth birthday.

Rosemary and her new yellow Labrador friend Annie

Lit spring 2013

THE BEAUTIFUL HUNDRED were inseparable from the moment they met a few hours ago. Melba and Rick exchanged smiles from across the party-buzzed lawn, they knew exactly the gift their rambunctious daughter wanted for her special day.

“Mommy! Please … please come see this! What happened?”

Melba stopped washing the dishes and hurried outside.

Her youngest daughter, Susan, gripped her hand.

“What’s wrong, hun?”

“Why isn’t Cherry moving?”

A wave of dizziness washed over Melba. This was the third pet to be hastily left on their lawn by a scared and guilty driver. The third time, raw flesh and blood would pool onto their property and damage all six of her daughters — and herself. It was becoming too much.

“Alright, everyone, let’s circle around the table!

Rosemary… stand… stand here birthday girl. Melba, do you have the candles?”

Once everyone gathered around the table in the Nye’s backyard, the candles were placed one by one onto the vanilla cake with lemon icing and rainbow sprinkles.

Rosemary could not stand still. Annie plopped her two front paws on the table, wagging her tail animatedly, a pink, slobbery tongue licking Rosemary’s arm, cooing Rosemary to miss her birthday song for another chase around the yard.

Melba still has not forgotten the first pet that her daughter Elise found dead across the street.

It had been several hours since they had seen Rover, when they let him out for playtime. Rover loved to scour the bushes behind their house, chase bugs and lay on his side panting after a good run. Rover usually spent a while outside. But it eventually led him to cross Route 13, the busy street cars zoom down, where he was hit. The driver laid Rover’s body out of the way of traffic. When Elise went looking for Rover later that evening, her 6-year-old heart couldn’t handle it.

Elise was hysterical. Melba cradled her, hushed her, reassured her. Melba repeated this five more times to her other daughters, but Elise was too upset to want a pet ever again; Melba felt helpless.

The Nye’s never worried about this curiosity becoming dangerous. But their home was on a major road. Melba wonders now if they were naïve or too wrapped up in their everyday lives to make that connection. Especially when it happened four more times with new pets.

Once Rosemary carved out the first slice of birthday cake, she darted her eyes through the crowd. Rick had

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to force Rosemary to socialize and eat her birthday cake instead of playing with Annie. Rosemary crossed her arms and bitterly listened to her dad.

But her nerves did not settle. When the guests left, Rosemary began to frantically look for Annie.

“Annnnieeeeeeeee!?” she squeaked uncertainly.

Melba’s heart sank again.

The next day Annie was buried next to Cherry, Rover and Daisy. The mourning period permeated their white house.

“I c-c-couldn’t take it. Our family couldn’t. I… I don’t know why we let this happen four times.”

Melba paused to look at her collage of family photos on the windowsill. Her Parkinson’s disease seeped out, slowing and shaking her last thoughts about the losses her family witnessed.

“I-I said to the family, no more. No-no more pets. It is too much.”

THE LIVING ROOM

The room smells like potpourri and dried lavender.

Two over-stuffed, dark gray velvet couches sit in front of white-trimmed windows that light up the dark blue wallpaper and mahogany entertainment center. Scattered across the room are playing cards, a stack of board games and faux flowers. A huge oriental carpet warms the space.

Today an old black and white film is playing on TV. Pat sits on a plush brown recliner, wrapped in a blanket and staring right at the screen.

Olga walked into the room carrying a cup of tea. She caught a glimpse of Pat’s expressionless face.

“Pat, how are you doing this afternoon?”

Pat slowly turned her gaze away from the TV toward Olga. Her eyes widened. In a wispy shrill, she replied “cr-ee-e-e-e-e-py.”

Olga laughed and sat down, shaking her head as she opened a newspaper.

PAT

Pat has big, round blue eyes that always look shocked under her short and thick gray hair.

Her eyes widen when she picks up her most prized deck of cards that live on her nightstand. As she boasts about how she’s won every card game since moving into The Old Hundred in 2011, she shakily lays out the cards and starts a game of solitaire. She says it’s more rewarding playing by herself since “playing with the other ladies is like playing with babies.”

Olga will come in periodically to check on her. Pat abruptly turns her head away to look out of her small window each visit. “Time to take your medicine, Pat,” Olga

THE BEAUTIFUL HUNDRED says, gently handing over a mix of white pills for Pat’s Parkinson’s. Heavy with disdain, Pat abruptly blurts out, “the sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be done!”

Her demeanor stiffens even more when she leaves her room, manifesting into sharp remarks that bite into most of her social interactions.

“You’re useless at picking movies.”

“That book is disgusting. Why would anyone want to waste their time with that?”

“Quit whining. Your voice is horrible when you whine.”

“Why don’t you just mind your own business?”

But her eyes soften when she looks at the picture of her deceased husband, William, housed in a golden picture frame next to her favorite playing cards by her bed. Pat gets upset when she talks about him. She regrets that they did not have a healthy marriage.

Cold rain washed down onto the street outside of a small convenience store in Trumansburg, N.Y. Condensation built up on the windows inside. A slender young blonde woman rang up the seventh pack of cigarettes of the day, the third bottle of coke and second candy bar. She began counting down the hours till her shift would be over.

“I said excuse me, ma’am.”

The woman was abruptly shaken out of her daydream. Her wide, blue eyes looked shocked, her gaze turning right toward the tall, dark-haired gentleman standing in front of her.

“Yes…sorry…may I help you?”

“Actually,” he answered, “aside from ringing up these cigarettes here, could you do me a favor?”

“Certainly,” the woman said curtly, uneasy with the prospect of a favor.

“Would you join me for dinner?” he asked.

Pat was never good at hiding her astonishment. She was also never good at knowing when to be ladylike.

“Only if you pay. I’m not made of money.”

“I’ll take the rib-eye. The lady here will take–”

“The chicken parm,” Pat interrupted.

“Great, they’ll be right up” smiled the waitress.

William looked at Pat from across the table and then poured himself a glass of red wine and took a long sip. His hair was grayer than it used to be. They sat in silence until their food arrived.

“Some anniversary,” snapped Pat.

She was washing dishes furiously when William came home from work.

“You’re home late tonight,” said Pat. William kept silent and sat down in the other room.

She followed and began picking up her playing cards

from the oak coffee table.

William watched her nervously tidy the room around him. He stood up, walked up stairs and shut his office door.

Pat sat on the couch in the living room and started her third game of solitaire that evening.

The next morning William moved his last suitcase and box with his office supplies out of the house. Pat never saw him again.

BEAUTY DAY

Curling irons wrapped around Melba and Pat’s hair.

Olga and two of the other aids decided to make today Beauty Day.

“When they get their hair done, it’s like a grand occasion,” said Olga as she wrapped Melba’s thinning gray hair around the piping hot curler. “Something to cheer us all up on an ordinary day.”

Melba primped her fresh curls in the large mirror in the hallway, her hand shaking slightly. Pat watched Melba and began to mimic her.

“Th-th-hank you,” Melba stuttered softly to Olga.

“Of course my darling.”

“You look-k g-great, Pat,” Melba said, turning to Pat, who was still fixing her hair and staring blankly at the mirror.

Pat responded abruptly, “I’d look better with a cup of tea.”

A few minutes later, James came running out of the dining room with a pot of hot water and enough mugs and tea bags to go around. James prepared the tea as one of the two aids wiped drool from Melbas shaking mouth while the other put away the beauty supplies from the day. Olga left the room to tend to Carol, who needed help getting into bed.

They all moved to the living room, where Olga rushed in only minutes later to join them. They sat in silence as they sipped their tea and watched the room get darker with the setting sun. James collected the empty cups and went back to the kitchen.

“Melba, I hear one of your daughters is visiting tomorrow!” Olga said excitedly.

“Y-yes. She’s a phy-ysical therap-pist-t…” Melba replied, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster through her fatigue.

“And I’m queen of The Old Hundred!” Pat blurted out.

Melba asked to be taken back to her room. Olga sat up and started to help Melba slowly off of the couch. They walked over to Melba’s room with arms around each other, passing Melba’s THINK LOUD! poster on her door.

Pat sat in the room and stared at the black TV until Olga returned and helped Pat back to her room too. It was time for bed.

“Just Wednesday…” Olga sighed when she closed Pat’s door as she was leaving the room.

“Beauty Day lightened up the mood a little... yes. Just a beautiful Wednesday without a worry about tomorrow.

Lit spring 2013

Ladies of Cadet Land words by art by kara loveland EMILY MILES

It wasn’t until the moment she stepped off the plane and into the fog at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport on July 2 that Cadet Clare Lowery finally realized what she had gotten herself into four years earlier.

“I knew I was making a huge sacrifice; I was signing my name to something I really didn’t know much about, so it was kind of scary.”

When she first joined the Army ROTC, Lowery didn’t know much about the program. She knew the big things, like that her entire Elmira College tuition would be paid for, room and board included. She also knew that she would have to take special classes and wake up at the crack of dawn three days a week for physical training.

She even knew that she would have to wear those

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horrid Army Combat Uniforms.

But it wasn’t until later that she learned her leadership, development and assessment course was not like the rest of her junior year ROTC courses. Not even a little bit. It isn’t even a course, really. It’s more like a mini boot camp. In Washington state.

At the end of his or her junior year, each cadet is assigned to one of 14 regiments indicating when to report for LDAC (el-dack). During the summer months, Sea-Tac becomes packed with cadets in khakis and polos carrying two huge army-green duffle bags, as more than 6,000 cadets make their way to and from Fort Lewis.

Located between Olympia and Seattle, Fort Lewis is in the upper left corner of the United States. Lowery had

THE LADIES OF CADET LAND never been so close to the Pacific Ocean. From what she heard, it rained a lot in Washington. The days would be long and showering would be rare. Like, once every three days, if that.

“I hated not showering. Two people from your platoon have to be awake at certain times during the night to monitor everything because we’re pretending we’re the real deal, so my friend Kathleen and I would go to the bathroom and pluck our eyebrows and wash our faces and just get as clean as possible. Any opportunity to just overly clean yourself, you take.”

The 29-day training camp would essentially have no indoor plumbing, no privacy, no home cooked meals and, worst of all, no technology. Communication with the outside world is only permitted via two sheets of paper and two envelopes.

She had come a long way since freshman year; no longer could she forget to show up to early morning PT or get by without knowing what was going on. LDAC was serious. LDAC decided your future in the Army.

There was no getting out of this one.

Sitting in the airport with full-face makeup, dressed from head to toe in J. Crew, Lowery was less than enthused.

Who wants to spend a month of the summer before

senior year living in barracks completing hypothetical missions and competing against 6,000 other cadets?

“There are LDAC horror stories where it rained literally every single day. For three years it was just this big, dark cloud at the back of my mind. I was really nervous.”

While the departing cadets, those who’ve just completed LDAC, are stuffing their faces and getting drunk in an overpriced airport bar, those who are on their way have a look of boredom or disgust on their faces as they examine the provided sausage in a can, bread in a bag and TGIFriday seasoned potato chips that are the Army’s version of lunch.

Cadet Shannon Roemer remembers her arrival vividly. Scanning the crowd, not knowing what to do or where to go, was intimidating. She looked around and spotted a clueless boy whose outfit matched hers.

Thankfully, he was also headed to LDAC.

They made their way to baggage claim and were greeted by officers in ACUs who instructed them to get their bags and go check in according to their assigned reg.

“Shannon Roemer.”

The woman in charge of the 11th reg. cadets glanced at her before referring to the stapled packet of papers in front of her. “You’re not on my list.”

Oh my God, great. The very first thing we’re supposed to do, the first order I get and I can’t even do it right.

“Oh, wait. You were switched to 12th reg. Go wait over there,” the lady said, pointing toward the line of cadets outside.

Phew. “Thank you, ma’am,” Roemer smiled with relief.

Roemer and Lowery are best friends. Not because of ROTC, but because Elmira is such a small school and everyone else is crazy. They have other friends, but they don’t know or care about anything ROTC related and apparently that is all Clare and Shannon talk about.

How could they not? ROTC is a huge part of their lives.

At ROTC functions, they do not separate. The younger cadets make fun of them, saying they are always hanging on each other and flirting with the sergeants — to which Lowery responded with: “We’re not … but we kinda are.”

As an outsider, it’s difficult to understand just how much of a sacrifice ROTC is and how time consuming it can be. Cadets in ROTC have to earn their scholarship; it’s more than just a few extra classes, a month in Washington and several four-day training exercises. It’s a long-term obligation.

Despite hating LDAC at times and knowing the huge sacrifices they were about to make, Roemer and Lowery both requested to go Active Duty after graduation. Had they not been successful at LDAC, it’s possible that they could have been put in Reserves.

LDAC was no joke. But it taught both girls that they were taking ROTC way too seriously. It’s not like it was the real Army — it was just cadet land, a place for cadets to get a heads up. It’s also where everything started to fall into place and began feeling natural. Neither of them thought it would be that fun or that they would be that successful.

But when making the decision of whether or not to go Active Duty, cadets have much to think about. Not only will they miss out on certain aspects of life, but they could also potentially be putting their lives on the line for their country.

But Roemer always knew she was in it for the long haul.

“I come from a military family, so I knew I wanted to make a career out of it, definitely. I don’t really see myself getting out; I think I’ll be a lifer. We always say we will both marry people in the army,” Roemer joked.

Lowery had a harder time understanding what she could be missing out on. She found out about her first assignment right around the time she found out she would soon be an aunt. She leaves for LDAC a week after the due date, but it’s a decision she’s happy with.

But it’s more than just missing out on milestones with friends and family. The biggest sacrifice could ultimately be a life. Civilians don’t think about death in the same light as cadets and soldiers.

The cadets compare being afraid of death to little kids being afraid of monsters before falling asleep. It’s scary to think about, but once you’re dead, you’re dead.

There isn’t anything to be afraid of. And once kids fall asleep, the fear of monsters vanishes.

Lit spring 2013

THE LADIES OF CADET LAND

“I have a weirdly casual outlook about it, but I know it’d be way different if I were actually being shot at. Point is I don’t want to die. I love my life, family, friends and especially myself !” Lowery said.

LDAC was an eye opener for all of them.

After 45 minutes on an old, disgusting bus, the cadets reached Fort Lewis and were immediately instructed to dump all of their stuff out onto the dirt so a TAC (teacher/assessor/coach) could ensure that every item on the packing checklist was accounted for before giving out room assignments.

In many ways, LDAC is like any other summer camp, except for the fact that every activity the cadets partake in is thoroughly evaluated. Each cadet is competing against each other, especially if they are trying to go Active Duty.

Also, like most summer camps, the boys and girls had separate living areas. Lowery used this to her advantage. She would half jokingly threaten the male officers, saying that if they ever came into her tent while she was naked that she would get them in trouble. She didn’t even really care if they saw her, she just didn’t want them to see that her area was a complete mess.

“That was an advantage to being a girl. And because there were way less of us, we had more time to take showers and stuff.”

“I pretty much had a shower once every three days … it wasn’t bad. I’m not weird like Clare though; I’m not insanely girly. But it bothered me when we were waiting in line for showers and girls were like ‘Oh my God, this girl is taking forever,’ and being catty,” Roemer said, rolling her eyes.

While cattiness over boys and popularity is essentially unavoidable among most groups of 20-year-old females, ROTC girls have a unique type of drama.

“A lot of drama with girls our age is over boys, and that’s basically taken out of the equation in our circumstances.

No one wants to fuck you when you haven’t showered in weeks and you’re wearing a dirty, baggy uniform with dirt and face camo in all your pores. So there’s not really competition for male attention,” Lowery laughed.

But that doesn’t mean she didn’t make an effort.

Lowery rarely goes a day without makeup, so to last an entire month was a seemingly impossible task.

“I would always put black camo paint right above my eyelashes so it looked like eye liner, it was really funny. We just had time to kill so that’s what I always did.

You can’t throw anything out.”

Mundane female hygienic routines became sporadic luxuries. In civilian life, females don’t think twice about shaving their legs, putting on makeup or using feminine products. Women expect to partake in these activities and see them as a necessity rather than a privilege.

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“The one thing I did do was shave my legs. I had to shave my legs, even in the field, it made me feel so much better when I knew I was clean everywhere. It was the only way I felt like a girl there,” Roemer added, sheepishly admitting that she was in the minority.

“The worst was when I had my period. We would get in trouble if there were tampons in the port-a-potty, so there were days where I had to walk around with a dirty tampon in my pocket,” Lowery said.

“Ewww.”

“And for weeks there was like dirt underneath my fingernails. So that was a pretty traumatizing experience,” Lowery said as she inspected her perfectly manicured, light pink nails. Technically, girls aren’t supposed to wear nail polish to ROTC functions, but if it’s light enough, they can get away with it.

Hygiene in LDAC did not exist. The port-a-potties reeked of shit and piss. The people reeked from rain, sweat and bug spray. When your only outfit choice is one of two sets of ACUs, nothing smells good.

Every so often dirty ACUs were sent away and cleaned. The ONLY items that were allowed in the gross green laundry bags were clothes. Roemer learned that the hard way when her platoon sergeant was waving her military ID in her face.

Roemer stood there, silent. Sweaty palms. Ready to shit her pants. If they were overseas, her ID could have been stolen and copied. But they weren’t overseas. So how bad could this really be?

“Maybe I should call your daddy and let him know what you did,” the giant sergeant taunted.

Fuck. It was her dependent military ID from when her dad was deployed last year.

“Maybe we can let Daddy decide your punishment.

What would he have to say about this?”

Roemer was terrified. As it turned out, her punishment was to recite the two paragraph, seven-lined Cadet Creed in front of her entire 43-person platoon.

Over the course of their month stay at LDAC, the two girls had to realize that dirt under their fingernails was not the worst thing that could happen. The cadets participated in potential real life scenarios in order to prepare for combat. They got gassed. They explored unfamiliar territory at night. Alone. They competed individually and as a team.

Every move they made was evaluated.

Most 21-year-olds spend the month of July binge drinking by the pool, staying out all night and sleeping all day. But ROTC cadets aren’t like most 21-year-olds.

Cadets like Lowery and Roemer have chosen to spend their summer essentially at Hell on Earth, rather than the beach or bar. Surviving LDAC takes a special kind of

THE LADIES OF CADET LAND maturity. Maturity that even Clare and Shannon might not have had prior to boarding the bus to Fort Lewis but certainly would gain by the time they laced their boots for graduation.

It’s kind of hard to hear you, I’m at Mully’s!” She began crying with excitement.

“Aw you bitch, I wish I was there! I’ll be home soon! Have I missed anything good?”

So when July 31 rolled around and Lowery was given her phone back, she was shocked when she realized she didn’t even mind the month-long disconnect from the outside world. She actually found it to be rather liberating.

Nonetheless, she immediately turned on her cellphone and rejoined the world of social media. She went into her contacts and typed in M-o and clicked the one that said Mommy with little emoji icons next to it. It was late in New York and her mom was probably asleep, so a quick text would suffice: “I got my phone back!”

Lowery called her best friends back home to see what she had missed out on while she had been away.

“Hello?” her best friend shouted from the other end of the phone.

It was just after midnight and all her friends were at the bar. Lowery wasn’t jealous. She was just ready to be home and get the fuck out of the state of Washington.

“Carrie! Hi!”

“OH MY GOD! BEAR?!?” her drunk friend screeched. “You got your phone back?! COME HOME!!

Carrie stumbled through a few half stories about the latest mid-summer drama. “Dan and I are officially dating, I can’t wait for you to meet him! Robbie is coming to visit, but Tierney wants to break up with him.

And Kath is still annoying.”

“Obviously.”

“And Mark still hasn’t come out yet, ugh!”

They laughed.

Once Lowery hung up with her friends, she sat down, put her headphones in her ears, closed her eyes and turned on “The Veldt” by Deadmau5. She listened to the drums and maracas and just thought.

I. Am. Done.

This was her final night in these circus-like tentbarracks. Her final night sleeping on the top bunk.

Her final night of feeling dirty and having to scramble around in order to get a good spot in line for one of the few girls’ showers. Her final night of sneakily plucking her eyebrows and putting on makeup after peeing in a port-a-potty. This was her final night.

Tomorrow she will graduate.

Lit spring 2013

Friday Nights with Christ words and art by EMILY MILES Today’s college students are tomorrow’s world leaders. Imagine the changes the world would see if every one of the 110 million college students had an opportunity to hear and respond to the gospel every year.

–Cru Mission Statement

I find Dani in the middle of Cornell’s Ho Plaza wearing safety glasses and a black North Face jacket. She is hammering away at a bouncy wooden board and laughing as two students hold the roof frame still for her. As usual, she notices me approaching far before I’m ready. She grins and waves me over with her hammer.

Dani is a member of Cru, a Christian faith-based student organization at Cornell. Today, Dani and a group of Cru members are building roofs with Habitat for Humanity.

“You made it just in time! You can grab a hammer if you want.” She beckons to a young, strong guy with nails tucked behind his ears and blue eyes. He hands me a pair of gloves and a heavy silver hammer with a red handle.

“There’s about five of us here today I think,” Dani explains mid-hammer. She pauses to glance around and count with her gloved finger: Sam, John… “Yep. We always try to volunteer with other campus organizations when we can.”

12

“Nothing more Christian than building houses!” The strong guy exclaims, smiling widely.

I grab my hammer and strong guy braces the frame.

Born of Water

Jesus answered, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God. John 3:5, King James Version (KJV).

The first time I met Dani was at the Starbucks in Collegetown. We arranged the meeting via Facebook, seeing as Dani is the social media coordinator for Cru. Her warm brown eyes caught mine right away and we moved easily to a pair of leather chairs near the window as we shared quick introductions. I let my Chai Latte get cold as she begins to tell her story. She didn’t order anything.

FRIDAY NIGHTS WITH CHRIST

She thinks it’s important to start from the beginning.

Her mother and father decided to leave their Unitarian Church when Dani was 5 years old — she thinks it was something about a pastor leaving and the community falling apart. After that point, her parents did little to bring religion into their household in Visalia, California.

It wasn’t until middle school that she became involved with church again on her own terms. She remembers riding home with friends after school and then going to youth group. I remember doing the same. The tension breaks when we both agree that those nights were fun and social and free. “Don’t forget the cute boys in the band,” she reminds me.

By high school, she started attending a Christian church regularly. Without her family’s encouragement or participation, she was ready to be baptized by the time she turned 18.

She tells me of the waves on the beach and how they caught her white sundress. She remembers looking over to her friends and family gathered near the water as she leaned back on her pastor’s strong hands and he dipped her hair in that salty Pacific water.

It was the summer before her freshman year at Cornell University.

“One of the first things I did when I got here was look for Christian student organizations. I knew I had to find a place to keep going. But I wasn’t worried. I felt strong with Christ by my side.”

She found Cru almost immediately.

“You should really come to Real Life this week. There’s music and worship and lots of friends. It’s really wonderful.”

Dani jots down a Cornell email in my notebook and smiles.

multiplying disciples who launch spiritual movements.

In the year 2011, Campus Crusaders for Christ received $673,185,000 in donations internationally and worked with 78,660 students in the United States alone.

More than 300 students regularly attend Cru worship, small group meetings and prayer sessions at Cornell University.

Real Life

The next time I see Dani is amidst a crowd of 200 hundred Cru members, glowing under the professionally designed, heavenly ceiling lights of a large auditorium in Goldwin Smith Hall. Students are weaving through the narrow, carpeted aisles, stumbling and shyly tripping between a few half-open movie theatre seats.

The walls, lined with wood slats like piano keys, start to vibrate as a jovial bass player tunes his instrument. The twang of a guitar cuts through the chitchat.

There is a folding table at the front, stacked with empty nametags awaiting hastily scrawled names in black or blue or red sharpie. Cru is always welcoming new members.

“Is this your first time at Cru?” Sarah, a friendly blonde student leader is ready to make my nametag. She’s happy to meet me. There are more than 60 students who take up leadership positions within Cru, anything from running social media to coordinating group worship. Dani says group leadership is a really important part of Cru.

I join the stream of people creeping in from the lobby as a Cru student leader walks to the middle of the stage and starts to talk over the chatter.

“It’s Friday night! Welcome to Real Life!” los angeles

She waits for the audience to stuff their backpacks under the seat and take off their snow-covered winter coats.

In 1951, President Harry S. Truman led the charge She begins to tell a story about her elective global conflict in the Korean War and formally called the end of the war class…it has little merit to her engineering degree. with Germany. J.D. Salinger published “Catcher in the

“But then I realized that terrorism and human vioRye” and the U.S. government started nuclear testing in lence is a manifestation of human brokenness, brokenness Nevada. Patti Page released, “Tennessee Waltz,” a slow without Christ.” country ballad that topped charts for 13 weeks. CBS de She talks quietly, but convincingly — her arms gesturbuted its eye logo on TV and a young Christian movement ing out to the audience. began in Los Angeles.

“It’s really overwhelming without the gospel. Despite

A white Christian couple founded Campus Crusaders all of these atrocious acts, we have a greater hope to look for Christ in 1951 at the University of California at Los forward to.”

Angeles. Bill and Vonnette Bright recognized that stu One of the student leaders, Joana, comes to sit with dents needed a special kind of religious space on college me. She remembers me from last week, but not my name. campuses. The organization has targeted college campuses She’s wearing an off-white cable knit sweater, black jeans since then, with the hopes of spreading Christianity and black winter boots. Her glossy black hair is pulled among energetic groups of students around the world. back, showing her slight smile, curved at the edges.

Now, Campus Crusaders for Christ International,

The speaker steps back from the front of the stage and also known as Cru, is a religious 501(c)(3) with 27,000 staff a wave of music engulfs the room — first the lone guitar, members and 225,000 volunteers serving with 1,516 minthen a piano, soft vibrations of drums, and a violin. There is istries around the world. In fact, Cru has ministries in 191 a motion to stand, and we all do. different countries. McDonald’s is only in 119 countries.

A boy in a flat brim hat and Varsity sports jacket Its mission: Win, build, and send Christ-centered

raises his hands toward the high, lofted ceiling. His eyes

Lit spring 2013

FRIDAY NIGHTS WITH CHRIST are closed, but far in front of him, lyrics scroll across a wide screen — it covers the entire far wall.

Joana sings without lyrics. Her eyes are closed, hands clasped in front, slight smile on her face. Her knees gently bob with the music as she occasionally greets friends around her. She sings well, delicately, in harmony with the audience.

You are the everlasting God.

The front row of students clap along — they are here for the music.

An African American girl with long braids sings along as she drums passionately.

You are the everlasting God.

People are still slipping in the back door, calmly moving into the audience, cleats and binders in hand from soccer practice and bio-lab. A friend reaches out to the baseball player. He smoothly lowers his hand from praise right into a hug. He’s done this before.

By the third song, nearly every spot in the 350-seat auditorium is holding a singing Cornell student. The doors close and we are now separate from the rest of the campus.

The singing subsides. A layer of soft music continues.

A young woman rises from the front row of the audience and steps forward. She takes the microphone and begins to tell a story. Joana points to the woman and back at herself and mouths I know her. I’m beginning to think Joana knows everyone, but later she will tell me it happens easily if you are committed to Cru.

“…and as I walked across campus, I realized something…”

Heads nod. Eyes close.

The speaker walks. Paces. Reaches out to the congregation, up toward God.

“…and I realized…”

Seats move. Some stand and reach toward the speaker.

“…God’s will was too big for me to understand.”

The congregation is enlivened, responding to the emotion. They allow the power of his words to move through them. The low, melodic music pushes higher into a crescendo — each instrument joins in, strumming, beating, urging their way into the song. A group of singers ascend from the stairs and join the band on stage, the lyrics they sing once again projected on the screen behind them. The lights dim as a shadowed mass of young, swirling Christians grasp onto the sound around them.

Joana’s eyes are still closed. She sings with a smile.

A Home for Christ

Joana’s Korean parents always knew she would be involved in religion on campus, but she didn’t expect to be leading a small worship group on Thursday nights and attending Real Life every Friday.

“It was just the idea of community that I didn’t have back home. I felt alone in my search for Christ. But Cru has shown me something completely different.”

14

Joana Choe is from Southlake, Texas, an affluent suburb outside of Dallas Fort-Worth. Born into a Christian family, Choe attended church throughout her childhood.

She remembers Sunday school and Easter pageants and youth group on Wednesday night. But she also remembers sixth grade, how awful things seemed and how for the first time she doubted God. She remembers asking herself over and over again…does he even exist? Is it our Christian God, or Islamic or what? And if he does exist, why isn’t it better now?

And then something happened after middle school, Joana is not sure what clicked, but she was ready to commit to her faith. She thinks she just matured, she says matter-of-factly.

Now as a sophomore pre-med student at Cornell, Joana is confident in her ability “to live for Christ,” despite being involved in other non-faith-based organizations, studying for exams and maintaining friendships.

“I just want to be able to make a home one day…a home where I can invite friends and neighbors over for dinner and just sit and talk — and I don’t want to be afraid to talk about Christ in that space. I want to make a home for Christ in my life.”

“First you’re praying, then you’re praying naked.”

Tonight at Cru, there is a special event. A group of “experts” has been gathered for a Christian dating panel.

Robin, an Asian guy wearing a green, long sleeved American Eagle shirt and matching sweatpants, passes out blank 3x5 note cards for students’ anonymous questions.

“It’s so hectic tonight!” He throws his arms up and strains to keep his voice down. He’s giddy.

Students all around me start scratching down lines of questions, some glance to their neighbors cards, more hesitant than others.

JW is one of the adult staff members working for Cru. Wearing a casual black button down shirt and brown pants, he moves to a podium, picks up the mic and opens the discussion.

“To put it simply, sex is a gift from God that is to be enjoyed in a Christian relationship. And think about it, we are literally worshipping a God who created the orgasm.

How awesome is that?”

JW and his wife Stephanie have worked for Campus Crusade for Christ since 2001. They have travelled to work on college campuses across the country and globe as part of their life mission for Christ. On the Cru website, their profile puts it simply: We love hanging out with college students talking about our awesome savior Jesus.

A younger white girl sits across the aisle from me wearing a baby blue turtleneck and khaki pants that sit just above her brown ankle boots. Her purple Jansport backpack sits open at her feet, filled with binders and loose paper. She pulls out a clipboard, folds down the desk

FRIDAY NIGHTS WITH CHRIST

“But sometimes mistakes are made. Know that there is redemption and you are forgiven. Reach out to a sister and get help because it is hard to heal on your own.”

The women in the room join in a collective silence.

Joana’s eyes are fixed on the speaker.

After a pause, JW moves to the podium.

“As we like to say, first you’re praying, then you’re praying naked. You have to remember that she could be someone else’s spouse, you know? Before you’re married, you are brother and sister in Christ,” he said.

Stephanie tries to settle the conversation. “If the Lord is

former Cru staff member.

JW opens the first 3x5 card and smiles. He was waiting for this question.

“This is a very popular question, I’m glad we have it: So panel, who’s job is it to initiate the relationship and under God, who should have more control, if any, in a relationship?

JW’s wife Stephanie is very pregnant with their fifth child. She is first in line.

“It’s your husband’s job to take initiative and lead you to God. Men are courageous and we need to respect that, we don’t want to hurt them.”

She says she’s a feminist, but biblically, it just doesn’t work like that.

The other women on the panel nod in confirmation.

Even Barrett agrees. He’s the older-brother-type on the panel, relating most to the young men in the audience.

Stephanie passes him the mic and he puts his hands up, preparing the audience for a big talk.

“You gotta man up! Be good to your woman. God will guide you when you’re ready.”

“But guys can be dense,” Wes said. “Sometimes we just need some clues.”

Joana turns to me and whispers, “So true.” We share a smile.

Larry’s girlfriend takes the mic and gets serious. The room goes silent.

not in your relationship, you will fail. It’s that simple. He has to be there.” Even from my seat 12 rows back, I can see the tears in her eyes.

Some people are fidgeting, but Joana is still. Her eyes are focused on the speakers. She looks serene, leans forward with her hands tucked under her legs, smiling quietly as the speakers step aside and student musicians take their spot on stage.

The girls sitting in front of us hang their heads, the girl across the aisle bends at the waist and rests her elbows on her knees. Her long brown braid falls over her shoulder, nearly to the ground.

And I know I am weak, I know I am unworthy

Here I am at your feet in my brokenness

Complete

A blonde girl deeper in the audience holds her hands in a prayer in front of her lips, clutching a silky scarf. The boy next to her remains seated with arms lying on his legs, palms up.

Oh how he loves us

Wes is crying against the back wall, his hand shielding his eyes. Joana looks at me and chuckles carefully. Her eyes are glassy. online

attached to her chair and writes the date at the top of her paper. Her glittery purple hair clip shines in the light as she bends her head to begin taking notes. She sits alone and twirls a long, brown braid hanging over her right shoulder.

She didn’t write a question.

“But how do we talk about this stuff in a house of worship? That’s why our panel of experts are here.” He motions to each and gives brief introductions.

First, his wife Stephanie; next, Barrett, a tall, blonde Ph.D student who is in a serious Christian relationship; Larry, a Cru leader from DC, and his girlfriend; and Wes, a

To experience this story beyond these pages, visit theithacan.org/32435.

Lit spring 2013

A Woman’s Right: In Search of the Orient words by art by Merdina Ljekperic Emily miles

16

A woman’s right: In search of the Orient

It’s 1893. New York City’s Grand Central Palace is the stage for the World’s Fair Prize Winners Show. The Algerian female dancers of Cairo Street Theater take the stage, and the dance du ventre is on display — literally “the dance of the belly” in French.

A reporter from the New York Times writes:

There were four dancers. They came upon the stage one at a time, wearing the dress of women of the Orient.

It was modesty itself compared with the average ballet girl’s costume. One was Stella, a tall, shapely blonde with a face that might well captivate a soothsayer or a potentate.

The next was Zora, a little, plump, black-eyed thing with a “tenderloin” cast of features. The third was Ferida, the wife of an Eastern medicine man, a dancer of renown in the Orient, so it was said, dark, with a hardened face and a supple form. The last was Fatma, appropriately named as to the first syllable.

The New York Police Inspector sits in the crowd at this particular 9 p.m. showing, and everyone knows it.

He’s the public face of the city’s very public crackdown.

When Ferida comes out to give the finale of the show, she captivates the audience with her undulations, until Inspector Alexander S. Williams stands up in the middle of her performance.

“Stop that!”

She hesitates for a second, but then dances on. He demands it again.

“Stop that! There can be no more of this thing here tonight or any other night.”

Ferida scrambles off the stage.

The women were soon arrested for indecency. In the end, they only had to pay $50 fines, but the “offending movements” of their “Hootchy-Cootchy” dance remained the fascination of Western eyes.

By mid-afternoon, the venue was packed. Hundreds of dancers — and a few obedient husbands — weave their way through endless booths of beading, feather and gold, merchants of shimmer and shine.

They won’t lose her though.

A head of thick, maroon hair falling down a petite frame, June Seaney’s never lost in a crowd.

Her troupe enjoy their last day of a two-day trip to the Rakkasah Middle-Eastern Folk Festival and Fantasy Bazaar by dashing through the array of local and international vendors that have come to sell their finest threads to the most passionate oriental dancers on the East Coast.

Led by June, the 12 dancers drove four hours on Friday morning from their home base in Ithaca, N.Y., to Somerset, N.J., to take part in the annual fair.

June is their instructor and their muse, but she’ll never admit to inspiring them any more than they inspire her.

At about five, the crowd begins to thin out. Something catches June’s eye. She darts to the stand of a good friend, Ali. Ali has been selling his ornate Egyptian styles to June for as long as she can remember, and this piece is particularly “over-the-top.”

“It goes with your hair!”

June looks out the corner of her eye and picks up the edges of her thin, red lips into a darling smile — but not without a hint of pride.

“Of course it goes with my hair.”

It’s a sumptuous, two-piece belly dance outfit. Feathers of deep red and turquoise detail flow out of the center of the bikini top that is embellished with a crystal medallion, surrounded by diamond-shaped smaller ones. The red velvet straps are adorned with jewels around the bra line and up around the neck.

The red velvet makes up the skirt, revealing its intricate details of purple and black with gold swirls all over, giving it a remarkable shimmer. A ruffled slit climbs high up the left leg until it cinches just before it needs to.

Another large crystal medallion adorned with feathers sits at the top of the slit, and starts a chain of smaller medallions than goes across the waist.

June’s eyes light up. “Way cute.”

She takes it into the bathrooms for a quick try-on.

The festival is held in what is usually the Ukrainian Cultural Center. A mosaic covers an entire wall, and in front of it sits the stage. They’ll perform three times over the weekend, but June and her troupe are equally excited to see dancers like Fahtiem, Suzanne Del Vecchio and Leila Haddad.

“Such a name dropper, June”

June swoons over the costume.

“Oh my god, it looks good on you,” Olga and Jackie confirm.

Ali drops the bomb.

“Six twenty-five.”

Six hundred and twenty-five dollars. June can’t afford it.

“Welllll, for you June, five — ”

June still can’t afford it. She begins to back away as Olga chimes in.

“We’re here!”

June shrugs away her irrelevant comment, wondering what she’s even talking about, as June is clearly having a moment of despair.

“No June, we’re here. We can help you.”

June shuts down Olga. She turns to Carol.

“Oh, isn’t Olga so sweet to say that?”

June can’t shut down Carol.

As June turns away from the booth, Carol quickly “shakes down” all the girls.

The long, red locks walk away defeated, until her group of 12 sisters “appear out of nowhere,” surrounding her.

Carol lifts the outfit in her arms, presenting it to June.

June immediately breaks down in tears. She cannot

Lit spring 2013

A woman’s right: In search of the Orient understand why they would do this for her. She embraces the girls and then turns to embrace Ali, pausing through sobs to forgive her for getting make-up all over his shirt.

She says she won’t take it until the payment plan is finished.

Ali reassures her.

“No, June, take it.”

June finally pulls herself together enough to stop the tears, but not before running into her friend Emut, the

and the sign from her old studio, leaning loud and proud against a white wall: The Moonlight Dancer Studio of Middle Eastern Dance.

As her body swiftly dances and her thin red lips remain ever-curved in a smile, her age is lost. Not that she would ever reveal it anyway. She’s been dancing professionally for 20 years, but her road was long — guided often by the fate alone.

In 1983, the performance of a belly dancer in a Greek

Turkish Qanun player, a classic, Turkish string instrument.

He extends his arms and cries out to her lovingly.

“Oh June what’s wrong?”

“They made me cry. They gave me money!”

His head cocks. His brow furrows.

“Is that a bad thing?”

restaurant in Baltimore finally set her off on the path of eventually putting a metal fabricating business behind her, along with the husband it came with.

A new hobby, she thought. But her instructor, Carol, saw in June exactly what June wouldn’t admit to herself for years earlier — this woman should be dancing, always. As Carol began step away from the dance, she built up a place for June. Whether she knew it or not, June was being prepped.

“Maybe, not even intentionally. I think it’s just because

Her living room opens up into a bright, square space — empty save for a few potted plans, a full shelf of books

18

A woman’s right: In search of the Orient she’s a good person,” June squeaks with a knowing smile.

June had a large studio for three years — an instructor’s dream, she thought. She always wanted it to be a place for community, but she never felt they quite made it.

“That was my dream, and it wasn’t until I brought it into my house that it happened.”

June almost always dances with her class, providing guidance when necessary, with the sweet, delicate high pitch of a young girl’s voice.

“The drum is telling youuuuu. You gooootta listen for the drum.”

Although a number of instruments go into the creation of the music, at the very core of this dance is the relationship between the dancer and the drum.

Most drum solos are improvised, making the connection between the drummer and dancer essential. This understanding is the “call and response.” The drummer plays a rhythm, and the dancer responds and sends one back.

Either can follow. Either can lead. In mutually recognizing the beats, the rhythm becomes predictable, and a few movements become a coherent routine. It’s a dialogue of its very own language and it’s very own culture. It is improvisation of the moment, with centuries of planning behind it.

Emily walks through the town on a crisp day right on the precipice of autumn, just as the first few leaves have changed and the first cool breeze sends a small shiver down her unsuspecting spine. A lace shawl with a long fringe hangs all the more heavy on her shoulders, awaiting its true purpose.

She enters a bland brick building and maneuvers through the maze of workout machines until she reaches the door and opens it into the haven she’s waited for.

Warm. Bright. Infinite. Mirrors surround two sides completely and ceiling lights fill every inch of the room.

She takes off her shoes and feels the clean, smooth hardwood beneath her toes. Her sweater falls to the ground, and her shawl swerves down her, like a snake on a branch, until it reaches it’s resting place on her waist. She’s ready to join her sisters.

Tessa Meyers brings an innovative style of belly dance to students like Emily. Tribal Fusion Belly Dance, although rooted in the classic Middle Eastern dance, has developed into a style of its own: an American interpretation and possession of old oriental style reworked, restyled, and modernized.

Of medium height, with curves in all the right places, Tessa dresses in simple black clothes to dance, with a splash of color maybe from a waist scarf, but always from her loose curly blonde mane and a twirl of purples and blues tattooed from her left shoulder down to the dimples of her back.

Mesmerized by Ithaca’s belly dancers since she was a little girl, Tessa found herself disillusioned with the “gaudy” over-the-top costumes of the American Tribal

Style belly dancers.

It was on YouTube where she discovered a simpler, stripped-down style that fit her. After college, she uplifted and went out to San Francisco to follow the dance now known as Tribal Fusion and its creator, Jill Parker.

After a few years with Jill, she’s now back home in New York, exploring her favorite part of dance: teaching.

“I like performing, but I just like sharing it with people. I like finding a community within it and bringing people together. Watching people blossom and having those “ah-ha” moments that are sometimes far and few between but are really, really rewarding. “

They all line up, women of different ages, shapes and sizes. The seven of them share knowing smiles. Each walks to their spot, letting their heels sink into the hardwood floor beneath their feet, and focusing on their reflection, aligning and realigning posture.

The room is bare, save for a radio in the corner that becomes a part of them as much as the floor beneath their feet, the wraps planted around their waists and the unity between them in the room.

With a light hand over the radio, Tessa charges the room with sound and energy. The room is no longer a shell. It’s full and dense with the beat. dumTEK - TEKdum - TEK.

This is the most common rhythm, the Maqsum. The right hand hits the drum — dum. Then, the back of the left hand follows — TEK.

dumTEK - TEKdum - TEK.

The music is both her partner and her teacher, driving the lesson with her. The music leads the room. The music is the room. It reverberates off every corner, off every wall and bounces to their bodies, which they shift, swirl and shake, and toss the beats right back.

“You’re learning how to accept the feminine and curvy aspects of your body, but you’re also learning how to control them.”

Body movements take other definition. Hips don’t just shake. They pop up, out, down and in. Switch sides.

Up, out, down and in. Arm’s don’t hang or extend. They lay out leisurely on air. It is not the butt that shimmies; it is the rapid back and forth knee movements that ignite it. The chest goes out, around and in. Every body responds differently. Some flow like a stream, others cut sharp and solid like a rock. Neither is wrong. The rhythms welcome both.

Can we try and do this all at once?

“I think it’s important to feel that control over our body.”

Feet move.

“Maybe in other aspects of your life, we don’t feel control.”

Knees bend.

“Maybe you have trouble losing weight...”

Arm up and out.

“….or you’re just that girl like I am, and you just can’t

Lit spring 2013

A woman’s right: In search of the Orient not eat the cookie if it’s in the cupboard.”

Shoulder form.

“Or maybe I can’t religiously go to the gym…”

Chest strong.

“…but I know I’ll religiously go to dance practice.”

And a head held high.

“It’s about being a woman and being comfortable with your own body. The movements are flowy and subtle, but they also have a strength to them. I think it’s exciting, especially in the way our culture is right now.

I think it’s really exciting for women to just be a woman once in a while.”

Emily’s outside again. The shawl climbs back over her shoulders. The fringes sway in the breeze, but not nearly as beautifully as they did on her hips.

Sol Bloom was the American businessman who brought his “Algerian Village” to Western exhibitions and coined the term “belly dance.”

“When the public learned that the literal translation was “belly dance,” they delightedly concluded that it must be salacious and immoral. The crowds poured in. I had a gold mine,” he wrote.

Fast forward more than one hundred years later, when students still walk into June’s class hoping to learn how to dance for their boyfriends. Although these teachers are quick to correct the roots of the dance, they’re quicker to purposefully address the liberty of a woman’s expression.

Tessa reflects back on her years.

“When I lived in San Francisco, I worked as a stripper, because there was a part of myself that I wanted to explore. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

Anyway you want to explore your body is fine. “

She pauses to gather her words correctly, but she speaks with conviction.

“I just think it sucks that when women wanna explore that part of themselves, they feel like belly dance is the most appropriate way to do it, even though it’s not, because it is an art form.”

June’s overwhelming passion for sharing the culture is interrupted by its first noticeable pause. She hesitates.

“I just say, ‘lets just learn the moves first. Let’s just do the moves and the learn the dance and see were we go.’”

She’s careful to couch her next few words — her modesty not letting her admit the difference she’s made in these students’ lives.

“For me, and I can only speak for me — though I’ve seen what it has done for some of my students — I have better posture, more self-esteem, and you know, you just feel good about yourself. You feel much happier.”

She relaxes.

“And usually by the end of that, they no longer say ‘I wanna dance for my boyfriend.’”

20

June sits tall again, ready to speak with certainty.

“Women have a right to be women. We’re not out there trying to entice men, and women being women can dance with joy to the music and it takes that sexual part away.”

Women have a right to be women.

She stands barefoot, with an exposed stomach undulating forward in a less-than-modest top. Ornate beading all over her, gold coins hanging from every point and swords held strong in her hands, one over her head.

She’s the exotic belly dancer as the West knows her, but she’s actually the belly dancer the West has created. When Fatma came to the World’s Fair at the turn of the century, this image was more foreign to her than ever to us.

Known in Egypt as Raqs Sharki or in Turkey as “Dance Orientale,” the “Dance of the Orient.” It was danced in everyday clothes, reflecting its modest roots as the folk dance of the Romani — better known as gypsies.

“They had full clothing on! But they didn’t have corsets like western women did. So, their movements were SCANDALOUS!”

June throws up her hands and widens her eyes as she exaggerates the last word, before letting loose into an incredulous chuckle.

Then where did the lavish decoration, seductive tones and revealing bedlah outfits come from? Hollywood and Paris, of course. The East sent their dance West, and the West tossed it back reused and renamed — where it was gobbled up.

“They would see these in Hollywood interpretations and Orientalist paintings, which came up with all of this.

Everybody wanted to be more like a Westerner.”

“They’ve been part of my life forever,“ the words just fall out of June’s soul. “Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve known about the Romani people — the gypsies.”

She smiles wide, lifts her shoulders and scrunches her eyes.

“I always wanted to dance like them.”

There are more than 12 million Romani throughout the globe. Misnamed gypsies ostracized around the world, who have cultural variations but maintain cultural and linguistic similarities.

Oriental dance is said to have its origins as a birthing dance in Egypt, but there is no doubt that Romani tradition and migration have preserved it. Russian, Macedonian, Turkish and Spanish Romani dances are all a part of June’s repertoire — and many will call her one of the best in the country.

After years in professional dance, June’s able to fully immerse herself in the dances that first inspired her — Danza Romani. In this class, bedleh outfits are left behind for long peasant skirts, full Russian skirts, gold Turkish vests or red squares kept interlaced in fingers — all depend-

A woman’s right: In search of the Orient

ing on the country of origin.

Carol and Anne are here today, dancers she’s been with for years. Friends. Best friends. They want to start with the Macedonian Cocek (pronounced cho-chek) — a solo or line dance developed throughout the Balkans that includes a lot of back and forth footwork and twirling handkerchiefs. The red squares are handed out, and the Balkan brass chimes in.

June wonders about the day they pulled her old studio apart as a group. She wonders why they didn’t argue or bicker or disagree. Why too many cooks weren’t in the demolition kitchen, but the answer hits her quickly — rather bluntly.

“We dance together, of course we can move together, because we dance together.”

Dressed head to toe in a black camisole and black tights, no muscle is missing, no extra pocket of flesh appears, no bulges and no softness. The epitome of fitness. A new student is in Tessa’s class today.

Just as Tessa moves to begin the lesson, a nervous groan emerges from the back of the room.

“Is this your first class?”

With a staccato exhale of words, she responds, “oh-h-h, yeah.”

“You’ll be fine,” Tessa reassures her.

“You do yoga, so you’ll be fine,” says the friend who dragged her here.

Her muscles contract all over, making isolations impossible. When one hip goes right, the whole body goes with it. Her body moves like the string on a bow, it all must lean right or it all must lean left. Her knees are locked tight, rendering her shimmy a tight ball of tension, as if it takes all her might to slowly push one way, P U L L it back and P U S H the hip out the other way.

Her eyes move quicker around the room than any part of her body as she looks for everyone’s steps, afraid of falling behind.

“You’re doing great,” Tessa reassures her.

The new girl lets out an incredulous sigh through the small seam of a sarcastic smile. She’s following the steps!

Why can’t she get it right?

Because her foundation is wrong. Her use of her body is of another language, of another form. But in this room, she is faced with equal and opposite mediums of beauty and strength. They’re as well trained as she is in

Lit spring 2013

A woman’s right: In search of the Orient

Sol Bloom. The man who created the dance du ventre. His autobiography discusses his “gold mine,” but in it he writes:

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As a matter of strict fact, the danse du ventre, while sensuous and exciting, was a masterpiece of rhythm and beauty; it was choreographic perfection, and it was so recognized by even the most untutored spectators. Whatever they had hoped to see, they were enchanted by the entertainment actually place before them.

Almost at once, this dance was imitated in amusement parks all of the country. As it became debased and vulgarized, it began to acquire the reputation that still survives the today — the reputation of a crude, suggestive dance known as the “Hootchy-Kootchy.”

It is regrettable that more people remember the reputation of the danse du ventre than the dance itself. online

their muscles and joints, but their interpretation is as foreign to the Western woman as the music that inspires it, the instruments that create that music and the language that names them.

The beauty of belly dance, however, is not in its Orientalism but in its reliability. For at its core, it speaks the language of a woman’s body. When she’s stripped away of yoga and technical perfection, her knees will naturally drop into a bend, her shoulders will fall back, and her hips will sway. Not because she’s a dancer, but because she’s a woman. And it’s really exciting for women to just be a woman once in a while.

To experience this story beyond these pages, visit theithacan.org/32436.

part two excerpts

Lit spring 2013

Woodland Creatures an excerpt from “A Natural Education”

words and art by KACEY DEAMER

There is a traffic light in Enfield. The four way stop just outside of town boasts a gas station with homemade ice cream on one corner and the elementary school on the other corner — just past a dilapidated motel.

Next to the school there is a soccer field that borders acres of forestland. The forest follows a creek bed from the road all the way back to the nearest farm, about 40 acres away. The land is not quite flat, not quite hilly. For months, white powder covered one inch of ice, which covered the rest of the natural world. But the end of January brought a

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disturbance to the snowy blanket.

Petite footprints followed a pair of larger boot prints from the school’s parking lot, across the field, into the forest’s colorless winter heart.

There were eight of us in total. The five boys who never missed a class, the two instructors and myself.

We were bundled beyond recognition, failing to keep warm from the blustery January weather. But we didn’t care.

“The wild waits for no one,” Lauren, one of the in-

WOODLAND CREATURES structors, told the youngest student as she wrapped a wool scarf around his face.

“There are no snow days out here.”

“What’re we shooting, and can I bring it home?”

Ben eyed the archery equipment, his eyes wide. The other kids were excited, but Ben had used a bow before and he knew this was his chance to shine.

“These look a lot different. Not like my compound bow, that’s what I use when we hunt.”

In Enfield, it’s not surprising that a 13-year-old is familiar with a compound bow and can shoot and dress a deer. In fact, many of the kids involved in this program worked, hunted or fished on the family farm since they were old enough to walk. The Primitive Pursuits after school program was designed to take familiarity with the outdoors and expand upon it.

Zach and Lauren explained to the group that these wooden bows are handmade tools — not weapons — and are more akin to what the program teaches. Their speech was muffled by the dribbling of basketballs and 7-yearold’s cheers in the gymnasium next door.

The boys were not convinced. Only five came to class today, and the girls were still waiting for the snow to melt before joining the class again.

Michael, a 12-year-old boy who had not yet grown into his name, reached for the atl-atl — a modified dart that reaches nearly five feet in length.

“What’s this thing?” The wooden tool stood far above him.

Zach and Lauren led us from the Enfield Elementary School to the soccer fields on the other side of the parking lot. Still covered with a foot of hardened snow, we stepped in each others footprints until we reached the edge of the woods just a few hundred feet from the school. Prior to the students’ arrival, Zach and Lauren had built targets from recycled cardboard.

No live targets, much to Ben’s dismay.

I had been with the class for three weeks, and the boys club was finally starting to warm up to me.

“So are you more of a Pocahontas or a Katniss?”

Trevor joked as I stepped up to the shooting line for my turn with the bow and arrow.

I missed on my first try, but the boys were encouraging. I missed again, but hit the tree about six feet farther than the rest of the targets.

“Bull’s-eye?”

I turned back to nods of approval.

Ben looked me over and congratulated me, but slyly noted his expertise as he stepped up to the line.

“You should point your toe next time.” He glanced

Lit spring 2013

WOODLAND CREATURES

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toward my feet. “Cool boots.”

Ben was of average height for a 13-year-old but had not yet lost his baby fat. He joked with me that he was staying warm for the winter. His blonde hair stuck out in all directions from the wool cap his grandmother knit him. The heavy ski jacket he wore was just a bit too tight and a bit too puffy as he raised the bow and pulled the arrow to his chin.

Miss.

Brow furrowed, cheeks reddened, he lifted the bow again. The other boys could tell he was focused and instantly silenced as if on a golf course. He readied the arrow again.

Deep breath. Release.

The arrow nicked the edge of the nearest target. It was close enough to a bull’s-eye because the boys shouted praise and clapped Ben on the back. His cheeks reddened for a different reason.

many survivor shows he watches.

Lauren then announced to the group that they would in fact be building a fire.

As Zach led the group across the field, Lauren walked in the back with some of the younger kids.

“I haven’t ever lit a fire.”

“I’ve never actually used a match before.”

They shared with her nervously, still hoping to get to light the fire but nervous at their inexperience.

Lauren thought of a new plan, smiled at the kids, then jogged up to Zach.

“What if we do the group exercise today?” she whispered as Ricky, always at the font of the line, tried to catch the conversation.

Zach nodded. It was set. They would all work as a group to build a fire. No one would be singled out. Not this time at least.

The students each approach the class in a different way.

Some are looking for the “Man vs. Wild” experience. Others are hoping to show off the skills they’ve grown up using. A few are there just for something to do after school in a town that’s greatest offering is farm land.

Lauren knows them all, and knows when they lose interest or when she needs to pull back the reins.

On her first day, right after Thanksgiving of last year, Lauren introduced herself to the students not as the lunch monitor — which is how they had known her for the few months before — but as their new Primitive Pursuits educator.

She was terrified. She had no sense of their skills or experience.

They were hesitant to accept her, but Lauren is the type of person you can’t help but instantly like.

At an average height, she was tall enough to have a commanding presence with the students but not so tall that they craned their necks to make eye contact. Her soft brown hair was hidden under a large pink knitted cap that edged toward her eyebrows. Bright blue-green eyes looked out at the kids.

They twinkled. She had a strategy. Her motivation was social development as well as education, and in this rural landscape Lauren was determined to build relationships between the kids and work on team building exercises they may not have in their daily lives.

Fire building was the answer.

The first session after winter break everyone was excited to get back to class.

Ricky, a lanky 15-year-old, was welcomed to the group. He came prepared with a fire kit and other gear. The younger kids were impressed and immediately looked up to him. He stood nearly a foot taller than the rest. One of the younger boys asked him how he made the fire kit and Ricky delved into a story about an episode of one of the

Ricky stood out from the other kids in the Enfield program, not just because of his height or age. He didn’t go to school with the rest of them.

He always had a utility knife with him, sometimes more than one, along with other survival tools. He took the class seriously, and while he wasn’t the more effervescent of personalities, he had a presence that made you pay attention when he did contribute to the conversation.

He had done Primitive Pursuits in elementary school, but it’d been a couple years. He remembered the skills he learned, he learned new ones in the interim from his own motivation. But it was exciting for him to come back.

A teacher of his at BOCES, Michelle Nolan, had suggested he join the class.

She knew him well, and knew outdoor adventures and wilderness survival skills used to play a bigger role in his life.

In Primitive Pursuits, he could shine.

She knew he needed it, even if he didn’t himself.

Michelle was right.

Ricky would always arrive almost half an hour before the rest of the students, who arrived on the bus from Boynton Middle School around 4:15 p.m. each Friday for class.

He would hang out with Lauren and Zach asking about the plan for the day.

He would show up ready to go and always with something to talk about. Usually it was some extreme survival situation that he knew all of the answers to, or some skill that he was eager to practice.

“If we do fire building, I brought my kit with me. And we should talk about saving coals, for purifying water.”

Ricky had an influence on them. Almost every session Lauren and Zach would have a plan, but they would check in with the students to see if there was a prevailing interest in something different they would accommodate.

Ricky was almost always accommodated in some way.

The Fiddlin’ Folk an excerpt from “Americana”

words by art by alexander violo durst breneiser

There are not many places in 2013 where a young man can wear a ratty, old, yellow Carhartt beanie, a full beard, a brown, wool knit sweater and a torn up pair of Levi jeans accompanied by a set of L.L. Bean work boots — not the fashionable Timberland style worn by fashion savvy hip hop artists, but waterproof, thermally lined get-ups that are perfect for hunting and ice fishing — and not stick out like a sore thumb.

At Bound for Glory, the longest running folk radio show in U.S. history, this young man would fit right in.

The interior of One World Café is overflowing with beards of all sizes, sweaters, fuzzy hats and other interesting wardrobe choices that would all appear grossly out of place if the café didn’t host live folk performances from 8 p.m. to 11 p.m. on Sunday nights.

It actually has an aura more befitting a pub in the Maritimes than an Ivy League administrative annex.

Standing room only, rows of folding chairs, wooden chairs and stools, and not one is empty. A myriad of faces eagerly await the performer. Joe Crookston is a folk singer and self-described troubadour with roots in rural Ohio but has been a resident of Tompkins County since 2011. He is performing for the seventh time at the Bound for Glory concert series on East Hill. He is also a veteran of several performances at the State Theatre on West State Street. There is an overflow of the audience into the inner sanctums of Anabel Taylor Hall.

The quintessential Ivy League building, an imposing stone exterior and large rooms with high vaulted ceilings, Anabel Taylor Hall is placed snugly between the imposing

Lit spring 2013

The fiddlin’ folk Cornell Law School and vintage Cornell Cinema.

With the distant groans of a pipe organ, the building is the home to a chapel and the Cornell interfaith department can clearly be made out as Crookston mounts the stage.

Tuning his rosewood six-string, the tall man shakes his head back and forth finding the perfect sound, an action that brings the crowd to an abrupt silence. Tall and well dressed, with a purple oxford and dark patterned jeans, and a mop of hair on his crown, he is running through his final preparations. The bespectacled barista, who has been working behind the bar at the café — more a glorified coffee kiosk than an actual eatery — flicks off the lights and promptly shuffles to her seat. The overflow crowd in the hallway jockeys for a position to get a solid view of the stage. The show is about to begin.

The singer reaches out and grabs the microphone with a careful firm grip, “I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight, I really enjoy the shows in the Ithaca area and hope y’all enjoy the sets tonight.”

A cacophony of applause, hoots, hollers and whistles echoes throughout the café.

“I’d like to introduce my good friend, the talented Mr. Peter Glanville, who will be joining me tonight.”

More applause, more whistles.

With the audience focused on Crookston, Glanville had snuck onto the stage. Though the stage sits in the middle of the café with no backdrop, it’s as if Crookston’s partner had magically appeared from the wings.

The musical guest, donning a green oxford with faded jeans, a mirror image of the main attraction minus his well-groomed and closely cropped haircut, runs through many of the same preparations as his partner.

Then it happens, the same way it has since a Sunday evening in September of 1967, when Phil Shapiro made the first broadcast of the Bound for Glory concert series. Nearly 46 years later and with more than 1,200 shows completed, a fuller chest, thicker glasses and a much thicker beard, Shapiro is still tucked in the back left corner of the venue.

“Good evening and welcome to another edition of Bound for Glory. Tonight we are lucky enough to have local favorites, Joe Crookston and Peter Glanville. They will be performing sets at 8:30, 9:30 and 10:30. To all those in the audience and all those listening at home, enjoy the show.”

Instantaneously, Crookston and his companion are at it. Glanville stoically plays his riffs while the troubadour bounces around the stage, as one would imagine a drunk rooster.

Closing out the second set, Crookston’s movements once again bring about the image of drunken chanticleer.

The lyrics to a song revolving around a rooster getting into the moonshiners stock help to convey this image too. A jovial piece of music that is overflowing with

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nostalgia of a bygone era, where one can readily imagine the distinctive aroma of corn mash fermenting, the bright starlight and the subtle roar of crickets on a summer night in the expansive farm country surrounding the Finger Lakes.

Then it is over. The audience trickles out and volunteers stack chairs. This is the same way it has been done for nearly 50 years.

Some nights at Anabel Taylor Hall are less crowded than others. This is by no means a reflection on the talent of the performers. Bands from substantial distances away often fail to pull in the same volume as local favorites like Crookston. This is particularly the case when winter weather turns the steep grade of Buffalo Street into something resembling the bobsled track at the Lake Placid Training Center.

One snowy evening in late January was a perfect example of this. The Pettis duo hail from Alabama, and when they performed, there were plenty of empty seats in the café.

They still put on a show, and those who braved the snow were in for a treat.

Grace Pettis has the uncanny ability to aptly describe her songs clearly and concisely — something Shapiro doesn’t mention specifically but alludes to several times in his routine pre-concert speech to performers. He gives this about an hour before they take the stage and the show goes live.

Throughout the show, she gives quick asides, referencing her connectivity to her art.

“This one, ‘Gypsy Song,’ is my mission statement and this one, ‘Life on the Edge of the World,’ is my life in three and a half minutes.”

Then, she is in the midst of her music again, gently swaying in her black dress with blue polka dots, perfectly following the rhythm laid down by her acoustic guitar.

Alternatively, prior to one song, she goes into great detail regarding the backstory of her handiwork.

Years ago, on the side of US-183 North, in the midst of the farmland and gently rolling terrain characteristic of the Lone Star State, Grace serenaded a couple of cops.

“I was pulled over outside of Abilene, [the speed limit in the area in question for anyone wondering is 85 miles per hour] and when the Texas State Troopers found out I was a singer, they asked to hear a song.”

The audience holds its silence, remaining attentive, waiting to hear how this run in with the law ended for the sweet songwriter on stage.

“Will you tear up that ticket if I sing for y’all,” the slower, more poignant Alabama drawl of her father replacing the watered down southern accent she had picked up as an undergrad at the University of Texas.

“Only if we like it,” retorted the elder lawman. This brought about a chuckle from his young accomplice.

“So I got my guitar out of the trunk and sat on the

The fiddlin’ folk grill of my car and sang about Abilene. I guess they liked the song since they tore up the ticket, and the young cop bought my CD right then and there.”

With a flick of her wrist, accompanied by the subtle and rhythmic movement of her fingers across the course strings of her acoustic, a soulful melody emanates throughout the café.

The melody transcends time and space. It takes the audience from the frost hewn windowpanes of a stone building in Collegetown late in January, to warmth that can only be found deep in the heart of Texas. But not the state in a contemporary sense, the Texas from back in the day, the one Dino croons about midway through “Rio Bravo.”

The song itself is about a girl working a dead-end job at a gas station with a dismal homelife. However, her romanticized dreams of escape, encapsulated by the lyrics,

songs have been covered by Garth Brooks.

“After that, my concerts became filled with men wearing oversized cowboy hats. It was a little frightening at first,” Pierce joked during his first set.

Nevertheless, Grace’s talent, vocally and instrumentally speaking, and her familiarity with the crowd is at the same level as her father’s, a man who has spent 25 years of his life as a travelling musician.

He is a gifted performer, one who is very much at ease being the center of attention in any music hall. His songs evoke deep emotional feelings, in a good way, the way folk music is supposed to do.

Two songs in particular did this in an extremely successful manner. “Veracruz,” a romantic yet sorrow filled ballad about a balmy evening in the Caribbean, harkens back to another time. In doing so the song evokes the competing feelings of hope and insecurity in its listeners.

create an idealistic backdrop to the quasi-depressing lyrics.

My momma loved the sound, she named me Abilene.

With that, a dusty cow path replaces the pot-holed two-lane road running northwest from Austin. An unpaved thoroughfare that is a highway in name only — one bereft of a cute girl serenading highway patrolmen with funny hats and large sunglasses. This new place is one that is the exclusive domain of desperadoes and Texas Rangers with amusing mustaches.

It is important to clarify that Grace is not alone on stage.

For the concert’s entirety, she is accompanied by her father, Pierce Pettis. In fact, it is probably pertinent to mention Pierce is the main attraction. He too is a singersongwriter. To boot, he is the one who has been at it for nearly three decades and is the one of the duo whose

The subdued lighting reflects brilliantly off the glossy pale face of Pierce’s perfectly tuned guitar.

Well the train whistle blows, blows me clean away,

back to old Mexico, and sometimes I call your name.

Another excellent piece of Pierce’s is “Little Blue Bird,” a melody where the pitch is slightly off. This is on purpose. In the mold of Warren Zevon’s voice in duets with Stevie Nicks, or the collection of alternate takes from The Rolling Stone’s album Exile on Main Street, this subtlety heightens the meaning of the song. The lyrics tell a beautifully cliché story. A self-deprecating tune about trying to make it as a musician, centering on a hipster café, often frequented by modern minstrels, in the middle of Nashville.

Another set closed out, another sign off by Shapiro, another show in the books.

Lit spring 2013

Lit SPRING 2013