OTW fall 2012 by Off The Wall

NOVEMBER 2012

TYLER HUNT

Popular Activists?

To View the Valley

Climbing Out of Oblivion

OMER SHAMIR

EVAN JAMES

BECCA HAMILTON

NEWS

OPINION

POETRY 8

CREATIVE WRITING 18

EDITORSâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; NOTE

ZURI DE SOUZA

Fall Term has been a busy term. If you are here for the first time, you might be feeling somewhat overwhelmed. If you have been here for a while, you are definitely overwhelmed. Sometimes it seems that at COA life goes with this absurd acceleration that corresponds to the outer world that we all talk about. Often we forget to grant ourselves time to raise our heads and look somewhere outside our minds. Perhaps we should drop down this velocity, take time to digest, ingest and excrete. Give time to time. Off The Wall has tried to record the frenzy times of this community. It is time to acknowledge and thank all those who have collaborated in one way or another to the existence of this newspaper. This second issue has received the largest amount of submission in a long time; thus the richness of the publication. And, then again, we envision a newsletter that is not only composed by student work but also faculty, staff and alumni. We believe in the inclusiveness of this space to build a stronger community. Communication is fundamental if we ought to work together. We encourage you all to use OTW to communicate and share. Now, take a break from your frenetic madness, read through these pages, and devote some time to these photographs and drawings. *Share the print copies, do not take them away, please. - OTW editors

NEWS

The Backstory of Backyard Farms BY EMILY HOLLYDAY

Backyard Farms tomatoes are sold at Hannaford and served in TAB. They are shipped on short vines in attractive cardboard boxes. All tomatoes are grown locally and are transported throughout New England. Adrienne Munger, Alex Pine and I wanted to investigate how these tomatoes grow in Maine yearround. We visited Backyard Farm’s two 42 acre hydroponic greenhouses in Madison, Maine to understand the benefits and drawbacks to this type of agriculture. Nic Helderman who is the executive vice president of the company and in charge of operating the greenhouse gave us a tour. He began working in greenhouses as a young adult in Holland where greenhouses have been vital in extending the growing season for farmers who supply food to the city. In Holland, greenhouse companies receive subsidies to improve their technology and become more efficient. By partnering with Dutch companies, Backyard Farms gains access to modern greenhouse innovations. Since his introduction to hydroponic greenhouses in Holland, Nic has helped to start up these greenhouses in Arizona, Portugal and the Middle East.

BECCA HAYDU

The greenhouse that we visited, packed tightly with tomato plants, is the largest building in Maine. In extensive, orderly rows each tomato plant is actually two plants grafted together. Nic explained that a plant with a strong root system and a plant with favorable tomatoes are combined to grow one very tall and productive plant. They are able to grow beautiful tomatoes using half as many seeds. Backyard Farms grows three varieties: Sucession, Beef Steak and Cocktail. They are planted in February and August and harvested on a six month cycle. They are bred to look like home-grown, imperfect, juicy, bright red tomatoes but are genetically modified just like perfectly round, conventional tomatoes. The apparent difference is their freshness and flavor. Backyard Farm’s tomatoes are a higher quality because they ripen on the vine and are shipped relatively short distances. The plants, grounded in rock wool, cannot absorb nutrients from soil so they are fertilized with Nitrogen, Phosphorous, Potash, Iron and Calcium. Trace elements including borox, magnesium, and zinc are added to their water. The plants are fertilized and watered 30 times each day. The greenhouse is a closed system which gives growers more control of the crops and contains the negative effects of industrial agriculture. Backyard Farms collects rain water and sterilizes water to reuse. Because the plants are not rooted in soil, runoff, soil degradation, and the absorption of heavy metals are not concerns. Conversely, the greenhouses are very energy inefficient. According to a New York Times article, “Backyard Farms... uses an amount of energy in 32 minutes that would equal the amount used by an American household in 1 year.” They ship tomatoes shorter distances use less acreage than typical monoculture farms nevertheless growing tomatoes in this region requires huge amounts of energy. Because Backyard Farm’s ecological impact is up in the air, the more pertinent question may be whether Maine is a good location for hydroponic greenhouses. Backyard Farms chose this plot of land in Madison because it is flat and because the local hydroelectric company provides them with low rates. While it

4 is easier to heat greenhouses than to cool them, the larger concern is providing light to the plants. The two out of three days that are clear in Maine do not make up for the fact that 30% more plants can be grown in the summer than in the winter. Backyard Farms purchases seeds from Monsanto and is owned by Fidelity, a mutual-fund company. They deliberately conserve resources but do so to lower costs. All in all, I feel better about eating tomatoes from Beech Hill Farm. As a college, one option is to preserve all the tomatoes that we need for the tomato off-season and forfeit eating fresh tomatoes for at least half of the year. But until then, and as long as we want to eat tomatoes in the winter, our choices are to source tomatoes from the South/ South West or from Backyard Farms. To really know how to eat responsibly, we would need a quantitative ecological footprint analysis and a study of the social implications of hydroponic greenhouses in Maine. After our tour with Nic Helderman, I am still undecided about Backyard Farms but am glad to have been exposed to monocultural agriculture that is part of our foodprint here at COA. More articles about Backyard Farms and Hydroponics: “Giant Greenhouse Mean Flavorful Tomatoes All Year” http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/31/ dining/31tomato.html?pagewanted=all “Hydroponic and Organic Plant Production Systems” http://www.cropking.com/articlehopps “The Greenhouse Debate” http://rpi-fff.blogspot.com/2010_03_01_archive.html

RACHEL WELLS

A Retreat on the Mahoosucs BY ANYURI BETEGON

To get outside your comfort zone, building up your strength.To walk for 15 miles during 2 and a half days. Cook fancy dinners, luxury lunches and quick breakfast and on top of that admire the best scenery with 7 wonderful people. During Faculty retreat Emily and I together with Nick, led a trip to the Mahoosucs. An amazing trip, 5 hours away from campus. We saw amazing views of the Presidential Range in the Whites and the Androscogin River Valley. Our first campsite was on Sargent Brook. In the way to our second campsite we saw bear steps (nothing to worry); later that day we had dinner and sang beautiful melodies in the cold night, drank hot chocolate and tea. Then the next morning we woke up at 4:15 am and started hiking at 5:15 am and very proud we got to the summit of Old Spec just on time to wait for the sun rise (thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what I will call rewarding), then finally push for 3 more miles and came back happy from our incredible adventure on the Mahoosucs.

OPINION

Popular Activists? BY OMER SHAMIR

and snacking his popcorn) will develop the same empathy for the Palestinian loss of land. So the question remains what is the role of popular culture in the political field, and vice versa? Correct me if I am wrong, but the appeal of a fictional story lies precisely in its break from reality. Avatar speaks to contemporary political concerns; there is no doubt about that. And Jenkins does not indeed, try to prove that the film can stimulate political concepts and extend peoples concerns on reality, beyond their appeal to a phony tension in the story of the film. Popular cinema creates tension for the sake of exhilaration, relief and finally, catharsis. I would like to comment on the recent article Hall and Bennett had stressed the potential of Avatar Activism . The essay which has been written popular culture for constructing the popular subject by Henry Jenkins refers to the recent interaction of position . Popular culture allows the individual just to popular culture with political activism. The filmwatch, to be a spectator without having to participate. Avatar by James Cameron has been acknowledged inter alia, as one which conveys criticism on American Therefore, the claim that a popular film can insert ‘real’ political concerns, without working against its society, colonialism, capitalism and warfare. goal, is impossible.

The article illustrates how Palestinian and Israeli activists paint themselves blue, with the intention of inspiring solidarity: using the motif of the film while extending its original meaning. Avatar has been arguably interpreted as a statement on American society. However the film goes further and is considered as part of global popular culture. “The Na’vi has been taken up by protest groups in many parts of the world, the myth has been rewritten to focus on local embodiments of the military-industrial complex: in Bil’in, the focus was on the Israeli army; in China, on indigenous people against the Beijing government; in Brazil, the Amazonian Indians against logging companies”.1 Avatar’s reference to American society is probably unnoticed by viewers unequipped with an American frame of mind, while giving them the freedom of extending the meaning and relating it to their own background. On these grounds I would like to reconsider the implication produced by the article of Henry Jenkins whose essay, Avatar Activism, explicitly treats the Avatar-inspired new forms of activism in a positive and enthusiastic way.

“The meaning of a popular film like Avatar,” Jenkins says, “lies at the intersection between what the author wants to say and how the audience deploys his creation for their own communicative purposes.” We can say then, that there is obvious acceptance that the actual meaning is being manipulated. And if so, then what is the real purpose of such usage of “popular” themes in activism? The audience watching the film is not aware of the implication and meaning of the creation. The usage of such film as a reference in political activism reduces the actual meaning of the activists “fight for rights”. Is it not just creating a “spectacular and participatory performance”? There is another misfortune that I identify in the political usage of popular iconography, which is important to pay attention to. It is absurd that political activism, one which is formed in reaction to suppression, has to use and expect motivation from those masses which normally react against dissent. The incongruous idea is that in this instance activists - i.e. suppressed minorities - try to mobilize by creating an appeal to the popular field. This exemplifies the fact that they try to become part of the ‘popular scene’. That is to say, the subordinate group is using the dominant group’s medium for their own purposes. There may be a paradox here: what happens when the antithesis use the thesis as its own motif ?

Jenkins identifies a “pressure point in the popular imagination and [seeks] to link it to larger social concerns”. The idea is to mobilize young people who commonly feel excluded or marginalized from the political process. Well, I do not think that Jenkins naively believes that a kid who feels empathy for the struggles of the Na’vi (while watching a movie The Popular” in American CultureAuthor(s): Elizabeth G. TraubeSource: Annual Review of Anthropology, Vol. 25 (1996), pp. 127-151 1 http://mondediplo.com/2010/09/15avatar

Hot Tips

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

7 RECESSION FRIENDLY!

By Allister + Erica

to make College of the Atlantic a Utopia

Overnight!

Homework Just Got a Lot More Fun! Bare is beautiful--so COA should embrace it with nude homework and study parties outside when the weather is balmy. We suggest “The Garden of Eden Street” as an appropriate event title. No one studies efficiently when they are in uncomfortable clothes, and these parties would encourage scholastic focus as well as body positivity. How to get You Closer. What’s the hangup with allowing people of various gender orientations from rooming together? The best roommate matches are almost always those who possess similar values in cleanliness, study habits, noise levels, wake-up calls and bedtimes, not necessarily those with similar genitalia. OR see: The Harrad Experiment (1973) Unbelievable Bargains! Let’s begin a buy-in co-op that purchases basic household and personal care products in bulk and distributes to its members. The co-op can provide eco-friendly laundry detergent, hand soap, dish soap, and household cleaning supplies, as well as personal items: toothpaste, shampoo, condoms, etc. We could also stock our pantries this way with staples: olive oil, flour, sugar, spices, etc. Save Time Now! COA should create a student-run online time-bank where we can help each other out in mutually beneficial ways by selling and trading both odd jobs and odd goods. More than a few people on this campus would pay a hefty price to have their dinner brought to them during particularly intense (or sleepy) study sessions, and think how awesome it would be to send an email to roomservice@coa.edu asking for a snack, only to have it show up within the hour? Let’s help each other out. Renew Your Body, Mind, and Soul Substance-free housing should be a mindful, intentional community commitment that is strictly self-determined. As it stands, “substance-free” is generally not a useful distinction, as the majority of campus is designated substance-free. The tobacco policy should be universal across campus, and alcohol and drug consumption should follow state and federal law. Common sense and respect is a better policy.

Gratitude Attitude Sometimes, a little drop of sunshine on a cloudy day makes all the difference. Let’s set up a large bulletin board in the mailroom to post only positive comments and shout-outs. Share the love! You’ve Got The Power! ACM should be a mandatory event, but scheduled at a time that is more easily attended by students--not directly before the Human Ecology lecture. Students also need a format outside of ACM to raise ideas and complaints for constructive discussion in a way that is less formal, less policy-oriented, and more inclusive. Save the Date! Less emails, more notice. Formulate a better, more functional master-calendar for COA.edu/calendar with multiple layers for different kinds of events, and the ability for all members of the community to post. Inundating students with information only clutters inboxes; information fatigue is no way to boost attendance- a more streamlined method just might. Get a Life Lift! Why not instigate a once-per-term academic symposium where students, staff and faculty can share pieces that they’ve created over the term? COA’s talent is far-reaching; it’s a shame that we rarely take the time to speciﬁcally celebrate our academic passions. Shape Up or Ship Out. The RA program needs to either be a more integrated force for community-building or removed all together. The role of RAs feels largely undeﬁned. Though they may be able to provide useful services to campus residents, this is ineffectively communicated to the student body.

BY ALLISTER STANTON & ERICA ALLEN

POETRY

ZOE MALLENA

Six Minutes untitled a day of pacing through the rain taking that to pull me out of my room cut and washed vegetables, roasted, boiled, brewed jars of tea, kept the fire going, kept our feet warm and yet still there isn’t enough real drink in this house or in any house so that maybe i couldn’t wake up or maybe we could but maybe all i need are my sheets and a warm pillow and warm feet so i don’t have to wake up or we don’t have to but the colors didn’t match and it was raining this morning and it’s autumn

- BOGDAN ZYMKA

He is there. Broken eyes, unwashed hair, Sallow skin sagging in the sunlight, On the avoided side of the pavement, With that cracked asphalt voice Excited to see you Sit down on his stair Share six minutes, Three dollars, Twelve cents, A fluff of pocket lint, A voice not ground down By cheap cigarettes, The best stand To buy a cheesesteak, A fearless discussion On how much the subway fare has risen, On Marx and Donne And the nature of a Christian, The latest news: His pneumonic wife, Photos of his only child despite Their twenty-two year Shared silence, How his stomach cancer has grown, His shirt raised Displaying the fist-sized lump Like a ticking timer fused to his abdomen, How to spend two weeks–– If that, the doc says. You promise to visit Next lunch hour. His smiling reply: “I’ll be here all week.” - TERRY PRICE

Islesford in March The sea was a green I have never seen before. You carried your phone all day, texting people from back home, which seemed strange to me. I never carry my phone, because I only go out to be alone or to be with the people I would want to text anyways. I asked you the time. You said we had 5 minutes left to the ferry and pulled your jacket closer to your ribs as I left a wake of leggings and scarves, pulling off my dress. When I stand there before the water, already decided, my body flushes crimson inside the way you suddenly overheat before you climax in the winter, ripping the covers away from your face and arching your throat for gulps of deep cool air, that is how I feel before I dive. My mind travels. I climb back up the stairs in my underwear, dripping. Stand on the pier looking out over lobster pots, wondering how much it would hurt to jump from that high, and if the fall could break me. Finding out. My breath streams out in front of my nose in long white coils, like the beard of a dragon, as I kick towards the ladder and climb up shaking. The locals seem to respect me. My classmates gape. But I honestly donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand how you could look at something that beautiful and not want to be inside it all. - CHLOE DODGE

RACHEL WELLS

Stories An old house holds an odd tale Its abandoned interior leaves no one left to tell Just what it is- but a book left open and what it says now ain’t so easy to see But on fading paper there are pictures of roses And words like fear, elation, pain, and promise Smattered amid lovely faces And somewhere after there’s childhood laughter Still swathed over a young boy’s face And death and sorrow are there, too, To balance out the scenes A procession, a confession, and a tearful face Even in there, some pictures lay Which show this dead house in a better day With life, love, and loss to paint each wall And the stories we tell (written so well) Etched in stone above it all - KRISTEN WEGNER

I know I know That out there And in here We are. They are too. We are they. When we look to the stars, sky, trees, down at the ground as we walk What fills your head, or your heart? Words, feelings… streams of thought and subtle consciousness.. I don’t want to forgot what I feel I may be destined to remember That “We” and “They” are Us. Light and energy-bound but free from all constraints Yet not really bound at all. Except bound for brilliance. What is inside is outside and what is around is within The beginning of the end is the beginning of the new Like the figure-eight… it’s true. Eternity= me and you. Not to be cliché, it’s just that science hasn’t quite got to it yet. And to Throw this thought stream into the alive atmosphere of You and I Makes it real. So yea, I’ll say it.. We are one. (And when you play with this idea, it’s actually pretty fun Because you realize you relate to everyone ) - TARI PISANO

Mine Ears Hath The time to be mine own drummer, Listening intently for beat; Finding internal rhythm, which Drives my song of the wind – Exalted and Glorious! - KATE UNKEL

untitled Blown from a puff of dust I am dirt on the wind skin on the earth, until I crumble and return. Stick your fat fingers down into the soil, let your blood pumping and the earth thumping to blur and blend, let your head bend into the sun, let your teeth dig down and your neck stretch out like a stem, your eyes open wide, your lips parting like petals, arms extended, palms up and open to take in the rays and respire wildly, pulling water and nutrients up through your soles.

I should probably also tell you that I miss you so much that my bones are weeping and bending and bowing like willow fronds and sweeping up the dust on the ground made of us, our pus and our blood and our love and the flakes of sky from above. You are so amazing, so beautiful, there is a light inside of you that oozes between your creases, but in a non-liquidy way, solid but wispy and viral like the walls that separate our senses. I want to lay with you in a field at night and feed you cherries and make up our own constellations and talk about the things that breathe inside our heads and the smell of broken seams separating at the sides of our dreams and the way our hips curve in the corner of slippery songs when we got a word or two or three or maybe just a glance, a soft-boiled glance, from the ones who inspire our midnight dances. I want to ride bikes to somewhere unfamiliar and get off and walk and walk and walk until we can walk no further, starting up conversations with everyone we meet along the way. I want to travel across the country and across the universe with you and sing on shadowed streets to passersby, you perfect and sweet and me slightly off-key. I want to sell cupcakes on the street for change and then buy cucumbers and horchata to devour on the roof of the corporate headquarters, aiming original thoughts at the heads of suited man with suited heads. I want to go on and on and then further, in every way possible, making mistakes and making magic with our voices and our brushes and our pencils and our tongues. - ZOE MAILENA

LAUREN BENZAQUEN

Some Poem About Some Fall Night The leaves somersaulted towards me yesterday Underneath the sky that screamed For attention, shining its thousands of visible bright lights The moon had come out to say “Hello” It was a pumpkin in the sky The wind was not whispering But howling, past my ears, which were now Ice cubes attached to my head Which were going to begin to melt in five minutes Once I reached my house. My nest of hair was a storm All the strands were dancing in the moonlight. And then it appeared-- the antlers ran across the road The furry body not lagging behind My fingers racing to update my Facebook status about this beauty. Here’s to a beautiful fall night. - AMBER PARSHLEY

untitled Street sentinel nods at us. Every unit that passes by gets the same standard look, it says hello, but it means something different: I am here to keep you from killing each other.

ANONYMOUS

- GRAHAM REEDER

Colegio Los Reyes Rojos, quinto de media 3. Ya no estoy fuera ni dentro de mi mundo. Es que ya no hay diferencia entre yo y el universo. El límite desapareció Yo soy él, y el soy yo. Yo soy una piedra, yo soy un cactus, yo soy la lluvia Lo que más me gusta es ser la lluvia. Pero casi siempre soy tus pensamientos Soy el reflejo del bosque ardiente en llamas a tu alrededor Soy el aire que viaja por tu garganta, soy el humo negro que quema tus pulmones Soy el incendio que dispersas por el mundo con tu mirada - KRISTEN OBER

New Teeth The first of the crystal candles alights in the east and the north. The horse a wild-eyed mare whose black, ratted mane lies stiff, and stark on her neck as though on a similar night, Chinese calligraphers gave back the blades of their brushes to her follicles: a sumi swath crowning her deer-light neck. In the afternoon, we left the rattling truck and trailer parked empty at the trailhead. Since, we have moved as a quiet, light-footed engine, swish and grunt emissions swallowed in a dark pine maw. Two summers have passed since I was last here, in this still, alpine bowl. And there in between, a rotting peak to the southwest has calved, sending towering shards of rock to split and splinter over the wildgrass. The scars of their bouncing, thunderclap trail are still barren. Around the point of a grassy finger, finned in stone, the horse lowers her head to the ground and takes in musk in the grass. I smell it too, and follow her gaze down to a fawnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s foot, roughly shorn at the fetlock, tissue polished black in the high mountain sun, skin in strands like a hanging moss from far east, where cicadas would have challenged this empty night. The foot will soon be another errant shard, a white tooth for the stony meadow-mouth around us. We, the horse and I, watch the bouldersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; shadows and step onward, lighter than we have all day. - WILLIAM KERBER

Vernal Litany Margaret said we should smell like dirt at the end of every day in spring, dirt beneath our fingernails, and sprinkled fine all over us, a second skin. We should have aching shoulders and holes in our knees where we have kneeled in worship of the soil and we should let our arms go pink in the sun, while our hair in failing braids falls down our backs. We should, she said, at the close of each day be in love with the earth, and we shall be in love; with the dirt and with our aching shoulders. We shall be in love the sweat we shed all day into our eyes as we dug into the soil, pausing only to move aside earthworms and retie our hair with bailing twine. - MAYA CRITCHFIELD

the sixth act i’m in a siren-screeching, heaving frenzy of the mundane. get up at dawn and trudge along like everyone else on the train. then you enter the scene. that was no romeo/juliet affair -just a computer screen glarea one-zero-one-zero-one look as you tell me face-to-facebook. why do we play the sixth act? living and loving are just the facts of quantum particles howling in the dark and there’s nothing to do but howl back. so, that’s the end of all that. let me just say, “three quarks for muster mark” (or whomever the fuck you may!) - NATHAN THANKI

ZURI DE SOUZA

Ode to the Stacks aplogies to Kayla and Maura oh, the stacks the “so-quiet-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop” zone. it is not the place to have group meetings whisper with your honeys or peeps or listen to music loudly (if you have headphones or not) it is not the place to surprise attack or take phone calls. it is not the place for fun (unless you enjoy quietly studying) it is also not a place for you to have a giggly make-out session (YES, everyone can hear you!) oh, the stacks the “try-to-study-while-the-room-bounces-up-and-down” zone. it is not the place for picnics ice cream socials or pie-eating contests (it doesn’t matter if reading makes you peckish) it was not the place for that audio equipment that one day it was not the place for karaoke! (not ever) it was also festive but unappreciated for the mariachi group to perform (their soulful brass, guitars, and vocals should have gone elsewhere) oh, the stacks, the “treasure-room-of-knowledge” zone. it is the place to find hidden gems and dusty tomes of lore and ancient records long forgotten (what a marvelous place, indeed!) it is a place to explore and investigate it is a place to find things to read (and we do!) it is a place that deserves respect and reverence (so let’s all be quiet and studious in this hallowed sanctum, and move the boisterous activity elsewhere.) - ALLISTER STANTON

YUKA TAKEMON

Ward 11 Insanity, what does it truly mean An imaginary taboo stamped by society to bolt fast Masters of ingenuity, purely shockingly revolutionary Thinkers who command the buoyant voice of prosperity, Make necessary to lock up With ball and chain Clasped tight ‘round their pain wrought mind, Padded rooms and jackets bind Ones whom you find taking meds Or rotting time Right away in the brick confine. Ignorance breeding institutions, Construct of the red white blue nation. Stars and stripes are what they see Bogged down in immaculate misery. Grief, anguish, trepidation Permanent patients in possession of the house, repress progression. Recession of the wand’ring mind, moaning, screeching, barren halls Ghosts of shackles stain the cells. Those who finally find the peace of mind, the chilling stroke of death recline, still far from freedom’s breeze lie. Wraiths and ghouls stalk still through Diagnosed with curse untrue Haunting now decrepit institution Where wanton ministers flaunt Power while whisking off The avant-garde elite of society Fostering their own immunity to each who asserts a human creativity in the identity of their ideals.

ZOE MALLENA

Weary windows, coagulated cinders Not a stir or din within the airy, Vacant, subterrane. The plane within which wit whittles away. The right aim of Dix and Kirkbride Corrupted within this haunt reside. No amount of time can bide a ride out Of this despised place. For within weather-beaten walls The weary of mind often break Wills too soft often flake beneath Psychosis, neurosis of a false Prognosis. Mental foundation creaks and cracks Under twisting, malforming despair And as this once stable conscious shatters Remember once more the aforementioned genius Of he whose will now fails. Once more flee to the safety of your own abode. Why should this sprite, figment of a deceptive imagination Torment you and your yet tainted life? Unless, of course, it dawns one day That perhaps, in actuality, this is the way Things really are, not just in this illusory ward And that your hollowed gourd of a life is that Of the hoard of victims with a genius flair Locked away without one care By those whose fair countenance You repent to.

- RYAN RUSSEN

Mama The leaves changing and the fruits tumbling Quiet, quiet, quiet “Mama”, she whispers Where are you? She lays next to her without touch She breathes next to her She laughs next to her But all I see is tears “Mama”, she whispers Where are you? She stares at the leaves She stares at the mirror But all is see is Mama leaving - ANONYMOUS

Coming of Age i felt struck like a gong, the day the phrase morning after became applicable to me. i sat on the toilet, and saw a smear of blood, like a stamp of validation. and i thought, this happened. suddenly, i didn´t know whether to feel dirty or more fleshed, like a vine who´s just sprouted a leaf. i felt sore from the hard ground and from sleeping with your arm twined around mine, your body like a shell to mine. i stepped into the shower and rinsed your salt from me, a precipitate of moonlight, that thing that is left when the dew dries up. - ANONYMOUS

FELICIA VON BORRIES

CREATIVE WRITING

To View the Valley BY EVAN JAMES

The Maker sees the sun rise and fall. Atop his granite peak, he can see the world, his world, glide over the openness of the horizon. He can see the wind tap its gentle fingers on the distant waters, dispersing itself across a myriad of lakes and streams, ponds and ocean. The world is a marvelous sight. His world, should be, must be, a marvelous sight. A jacket of matches lay on the stone bed near his feet. He bends and thoughtlessly reaches for a singular, unexceptional match, an undistinguished devil amongst a choir of envious angels. His bony, arthritic hand shivers at the wall of opportunity built in the passiveness of the match. Obedient to its master, it strikes a flame and proudly raises it to the tip of the cigarette, cold and indifferent. A web of nicotine and tobacco embraces the flame, as a child embraces the affection of an elder, warm, intimate, promising. The flame is quickly drawn away, like a mother fleeing her nest, and is immediately put to rest, sentenced to a life of abandonment and withdrawal. Every opportunity is missed, forgotten, and beaten. The Maker watches a snake coil itself in a crevice between a pair of small granite boulders. In its hollow, crusted with darkness and disdain, it waits, patiently and greedily. Its impassionate eyes search the stolid earth, searching out victims of its imperfections.

No moment is more vicious, no act more maliciously intended than this sedentary instant, situated between the struggle to survive and the battle to keep from dying. The snake, the custodian of such malice, carries the utmost control. It looks to strike at defective prey, an indication of an imperfect world. Covetous and hungry, it strikes, again and again, victim after victim, death unto death. Perhaps out of anger it seeks depletion. Perhaps out of self-pity it seeks reward. Regardless of reason it kills, impulsively and selfishly. All this the Maker can see. Beneath the walls of his retina, he absorbs the situation.

Irate, he rises.

Again he bends and searches out another match. With his subordinate and its flame, he stretches out towards the snake and allows the blaze to latch onto the body of the beast. The serpent, soon encompassed in the embodiment of the flame, helplessly becomes a victim of its own savage nature. As flesh turns to dust, and bone to flakes, the Maker continues to watch the unraveling and perishing of the snake. His thoughts gain depth, but also acquire distance. He somberly stares into the ashy remains of the snake, noticing the eyes had not burned. Cold and indifferent, they lay amongst the ruins of the beast.

ZOE MALLENA

19 AVERY LAM

“All this,” the Maker tells the snake, “you can not see.” He kicks the dust and bony embers and reclines against a rock overlooking the surrounding valley. The perishing of the snake means very little to him. Another pest gone. Another impurity scolded and destroyed. His thoughts and vision accept a new subject. Looking over the valley, his valley, the Maker observes the product of his being. Well below the pinnacle of the mountain the valley wrestles with an obscure light. Within this lowland, buildings combat the aggressiveness of the fire. Flames rise from the stomach of the town, branching their hunger towards the emptiness of the heavens. Subdued by the ferociousness of the fire, the town extinguishes its desire and willingness to survive. It soon includes itself within the web of the blaze, and allows itself to become submissive towards the wrath of its embers. No effort is assembled to survive the fire, nor is any attempt to cease its reign. As it consumes the town, it looks toward the surrounding countryside to further its demolition. The Maker contently looks upon the advancements of the fire. He can feel its cleansing power within the pores of his skin. He can taste the opportunity for redemption and ultimately, perfection, throughout the charred air. Most importantly, he can see the elimination of our imperfections fall victim to the army of the blaze. His soldiers traverse the ash-ridden land, seeking out survivors, demanding compensation. They raze

any foe deemed faulty, any vision coined foul. This is more than a war of aesthetics, it is a conflict of purity, in both vision and perception. No impurity is to be left standing, for this would annihilate the potential for beauty. As the company of inferno makes its steady movements across the landscape, the Maker remains upon his granite peak, high on satisfaction, delirious through excitement. He cannot sense the impending danger accompanied by the progress of the fire. Invisible, the army ablaze continues to swallow the docile earth, quickly making its way towards the impenetrable precipice. As its path ascends the slope, the Maker remains in his fix, joyous and invulnerable. Surrounded by his treasonous army, he stands ignorant. Put on trial, he is found guilty. The flames pounce. The embers release. The blaze begins the consumption of its almighty creator. The Maker, engulfed in a labyrinth of flame, quickly drops on his knees and continues his praise of the mighty conflagration. Hysterical, he cries out in utter satisfaction. Within his madness, the fire drives itself through the nakedness of his skin. Ravenous, its jaws fasten onto its prey, devouring its entire being, flesh, blood, bone, and muscle. The holocaustic predator finds absolute sovereignty in the consumption of its prey. The Maker abandons his body and slips his vitality into the jurisdiction of the fire. Obedient, he rises into the flames, dispersing his seeds across the hallowed earth.

20 STEVIE DU FRESNE

NaNoWriMo: How my journey of writing began BY HEATHER HAYDEN

In early October of 2007, my beautiful golden retriever Lady passed away without warning. The loss stunned me. As grief drowned my heart in pain, I struggled to stay connected to a world that seemed bleak and hopeless. Several long weeks passed before something came along to drag me from my depression and change my life forever. That was when Mom brought home a local magazine. The name escapes me now, but I remember one small article as clear as day. It spoke of a local writers’ group who had participated the year before in a writing challenge known as National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Taking place in November, NaNoWriMo involves the insane goal of writing 50,000 words of a novel in a single month. The writers’ group sang praises of this challenge and how much fun it had been. As I recall, all managed to complete the challenge with time to spare, with one member even writing his entire novel using pen and paper! Since I was young I had dabbled in writing, scribbling little stories about absolutely perfect characters (I now know these are termed “Mary Sues” and should be avoided at all costs) who went on all sorts of exciting adventures but always came home safely in the end. However, I had never dreamed of writing an entire novel before, nor considered myself a decent enough writer to accomplish such a task. But if these people could do it, did that mean I had a chance? I decided to find out more about this strange challenge and headed to the website. It didn’t take long to find their archive of success stories, and thirty minutes later I looked to my mother and said, “I want to do this.” Delighted that I had found something to be of interest again, my parents gave me their full

support. That Halloween I stayed up to midnight and, as the clock struck twelve, began to write. My fingers danced across the keyboard, sending words flying. As the month continued on, my initial enthusiasm never waned, fueled as it was by a maelstrom of emotions. My grief was metamorphosing into a passion for writing, and I found myself spending hours every day at the computer, pouring my heart into my story. I finished my NaNovel with plenty of time to spare, ending with over 60,000 words. A purple winner’s bar and winner’s certificate made me prouder than anything else I had ever received. I found myself longing for November to return almost before December began. Thirsty for more challenges, I started looking around and discovered small offshoots of NaNoWriMo taking place during other months of the year. I attempted several and completed a few, and with a couple more novels under my belt I deemed myself ready for NaNoWriMo when it arrived in 2008. As it turned out, I was more than ready, and I completed NaNoWriMo that year with three separate novels, which remains my record. The past few years, NaNoWriMo has become even more of a challenge as I juggle college classes and work and writing all at once, but I still manage, somehow, to write THE END before midnight of the thirtieth. This year will be no exception. With the continued support of my family and friends and my still unwavering passion for writing, I plan to complete another novel over the next few weeks. It is a familiar journey now, but still filled with exciting unknowns as I let my imagination take wing. If you are interested in participating this year, or just want to learn more about this crazy challenge, visit nanowrimo.org for more information.

Climbing Out of Oblivion BY BECCA HAMILTON

The beams of our headlights bounce and waver, following the rutted contours of the forsaken logging road. Our eyes strain and flit down the passing roadside, searching for the perfect opening alongside this abandoned way—once dangerously alive and frequented by 80,000 pounds of careening metal and logs. Now it is quiet, just our small car under the cloudy skies of midnight. We finally find a pull-off and step out into the night. We are surprised by the warmth in the air—coming this far north, we were expecting to find the cold. But the clouds blanket the forest, and we set up our tent in comfort. We lie in our sleeping bags and listen to the night world around us—insects chirp, an owl hoots its lonely tune, a solitary coyote sniffs around the parameter of our makeshift camp. The world is alive and laying in silence, we can hear its breath. Our own breathing deepens and synchronizes with the night. The next morning our silent reverie is broken by the harsh beeping of our alarm. It’s 4:30am and time to hit the trail. Katahdin is calling! We sleepily pack our gear, rubbing the night’s rest from our eyes. The clouds are still low, and the water particles float gently through the beams of our headlamps. We reach the trail head and hurriedly eat our breakfast while sitting in the car. Other hikers are doing the same and in the dark, only our headlamps give us away. We sit in our individual sterile bubbles, only occasionally glancing at the others around us, embarrassedly looking away when our headlamp beams connect in the darkness. The cloudy sky is beginning to grow brighter, as we start our hike. The world is a soft melding of grays—rock blending into ground, ground into leaf, leaf into foot. We keep up a steady pace and soon our backs are steaming from the uphill climb—our body heat made visible in the cool morning, mixing with the misty air. At Chimney Pond, we stop and check in with the ranger. “Is the Knife’s Edge closed due to the weather?” we ask. We are shivering from the brief break—our sweaty clothes cooling and pressing uncomfortably against our backs. The ranger looks at us—wet, shivering and yet smiling enthusiastically. “It is not closed yet, but you should reevaluate when you hit the summit. See how slippery Cathedral is and use discretion,” his weathered face is serious and yet comforting. We nod and begin our ascent into the clouds. The rocks are rough and covered in lichen—the green brilliant against the steel sky. We climb and our hands slowly begin to lose feeling. Our knuckles turn red and then white. We stop half-way up to put on more layers, protecting our bodies from the brisk wind that

has begun to send rain drops and shivers down our necks. A little gray bird with a white beak flits ahead of us, as if showing us the way up the mountain. We reach the summit just as the rain begins in earnest. It falls in a sideways pattern, blown by the vigorous wind. We discuss the options for our descent, but the weather is too bad and our fingers too frozen, so we decide to go down the Saddle trail, foregoing the Knife’s Edge. The decision is not easy and we are stuck in indecision for a few moments, but discretion prevails and we turn back from the beckoning cliffs and adrenaline of the challenge. On the way down, we pass other hikers on their way up. We smile and stop to chat for a moment. There is a shared connection and feeling of camaraderie on the side of the mountain—a deep respect for the land on which we are traversing, an admiration for the strength of our fellow hikers, and a quiet trust the capabilities of our bodies. At times like these, I find myself thinking about the words of John Muir. He seemed to summarize my feelings of contentment in nature when he said, “I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.” And that is what we are doing here on the side of the mountain; reconnecting the threads that keep us joined to the muddled world, the threads that keep our vitality alive. STEVIE DU FRESNE

Red light

MAYTIK AVIRAMA

BY MOISES FLORES

(...) The pink capsule kicks in. Dave is now calm, composed, ready for anything. The knocks of the door somehow sound less violent. Open up! This is the Department of National Security. The authoritarian voice reminds Dave of the stereotypical drill instructors they used to portray in old war movies. He almost feels compelled to reply Sir, yes sir! Coming! Dave shouts with his scratchy waking voice. He walks toward the door in no hurry, even though the cops knock violently. Open up or we’ll break in! Just a second! He opens the door and finds two fullyarmed officers wearing the latest in police fashion: black helmets each with a small green screen over the left eye and a microphone on the other side; black vests covered with little pockets filled with ammo, grenades and the like; enormous electric impulse rifles; black leather gloves indistinguishable from skin; belts housing smaller guns and other gadgets; and of course, heavy black boots with metal-covered toes. What took you so long? says one of the cops with that drill instructor tone. I’m sorry officer, I just woke up. Replies Dave, almost too calm for the situation at hand. The officers walk in slowly and look around, hoping to find something incriminatory. They are very tall, each one at least one full foot taller than Dave. Their heavy boots make the wooden floor creak. They turn to Dave. ID please! Certainly, replies Dave as he takes his wallet out and hands it to the officer. The cop takes the wallet, opens it, looks at the photo on the ID, looks at Dave, then back at the ID. He takes a scanner out one of his many pockets and scans the ID. The device emits a green light. The cop closes the wallet and hands it back to Dave. Residence documentation! Yes, let me get it for you replies Dave as he walks toward his desk. The cops follow him. He opens the uppermost drawer of his desk and pulls out some yellowish papers stapled together.

Here says Dave as he hands over the documents. One of the officers takes the papers and looks at them, turning the pages slowly. He hands them to the other cop, who looks at them, page after page. The second cop finally takes out his scanner and scans the document. The device again shows the green light. Ok, everything seems to be in order, says the cop as he hands the document back to Dave. Just one more thing, the cop continues, you don’t mind us inspecting the apartment, do you? Why would I mind? please go ahead. The cops open every drawer of Dave’s desk. They do it violently, throwing all the contents on the floor. They don’t find any incriminating evidence there–only pencils, pens, some typewriter ribbons and a few blank papers. They check the wardrobe. There they find only a few clothes, a few worn-out shoes, a box with a collection of old postcards from around the world, some yellowed black-and-white photographs, some handwritten letters. All of these things end up on the floor in a messy pile. Dave has become accustomed to having all of his possessions mistreated like this, that’s why he doesn’t collect too many things: a few dress shirts, a few t-shirts, a few trousers, a few underpants, a few undershirts, a few socks, a jacket, a raincoat, a winter coat, a scarf, a pair of gloves, a pair of sneakers, two pairs of formal shoes, a pair of slippers. He sometimes thinks of

himself as a cartoon character, wearing the same clothes for every episode. The policemen glance through the letters, but when they make sure there’s nothing prohibited about their content they put them back. Most of the letters are from a woman who is now married to someone else and lives outside of the Federation. Of course, the writing is cryptic enough to prevent him from getting in trouble. Some other letters are from his mother who lived on the other coast until she was killed during the bombings last year. A few other letters are written by Dave himself, letters he never sent; some thankfully, others regretfully so.

Dave looks up at the policemen. He feels a burning sensation in his stomach, spreading through his body. He wishes he could push them away, make them go, make them leave him alone. He wishes he could beat them up, gain control of the situation, make them supplicate for forgiveness. But he’s no tough man, he’s never been. At school he was always the bullied one, never the one to bully. He never was good at sports, never good at anything physical. That’s why he bears his chest scar, because he was too weak to defend himself. He was too weak to defend her. That’s probably why she left him.

I got them from the pharmacy on Union Road, I swear says Dave trying to sound calm. I got the The policemen proceed to the bathroom. When prescription from Saint Paul’s hospital. I need it they find the container with the pink capsules they ask because it helps me control my ...nerves. Dave for the prescription. He pulls out his wallet, and from it extracts a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it Please scan it again. and hands it to one of the officers, who reads it and passes it to the other, who looks at it suspiciously. Are you trying to tell us what to do?! asks one They both look at Dave. Then one of the officers of the cops violently, advancing toward Dave who takes out his scanner and scans the document. The can only lower his head. Are you telling us what to device gives a high-pitched beep that hurts Dave’s do?! repeats the policeman. Dave can feel the humid ears, and the light comes out red. The officers look at warmth of this beast’s breath on his head. Dave again. The one holding the document scans it again, but again there’s a high-pitched beep and a red No, I’m not replies Dave in a low voice. light. What?! I can’t hear you! the cop’s voice makes Dave’s pink-capsule cool quickly dissipates, his Dave’s skull vibrate. That heat from his stomach hands get sweaty, his heartbeat accelerates, he can feel grows more and more. His heart accelerates. He can it in his ears, as though his heart were in his head. He barely control the sudden impulse to head-butt the swallows loudly. A drop of sweat makes its way down cop’s face. the left side of his face and hits the ground loudly. I’m telling the truth, please... There must be something wrong says Dave nervously. Maybe it’s because I had it folded in my The policeman backs up. Dave looks up at the wallet, maybe the scanner can’t read it properly. faces of the two cops. To him they look identical. It’s as though they are clones, as though they were Mister, if you tell us the truth the punishment especially designed in a laboratory to humiliate people will be less severe, replies the policeman coldly. Are and cause misery. He has never seen any cop not these capsules illegal? continues the cop holding the wearing his black helmet. In fact he’s never seen one medicine container between his index finger and his not wearing any of the things these two are wearing, thumb. as though they were soldiers made of the same piece of lead. One of the cops looks at the other, who No! I swear says Dave terrified as the policemen nods once. They look back at Dave. Suddenly the first start walking toward him. Dave walks backwards until grabs Dave by the back of his neck and pulls him his back hits the wall behind him. I need to take those away from the wall, pushing him face-down on the capsules everyday, I have a mental condition. wooden floor. The policemen look at each other, then look at Dave. They’ve cornered him. He can feel the heat emanating from the wall behind him, as well as the heat emanating from these two enormous, fully armed killing machines.

You’re coming with us says the policeman as he handcuffs Dave. No please! shouts Dave as tears of fear and frustration start coming out of his tired and swollen eyes. I didn’t do anything

Don’t lie to us! shouts one of the policemen, spraying Dave’s face with warm saliva. Dave closes You tell that to the inspector, he’ll know if he can his eyes and looks away to the side. Where did you get believe you or not. these drugs!? continues the cop, pressing the medicine container into Dave’s face and then throwing it Dave can feel the crushing weight of that violently to the side. The pink capsules scatter around monstrous lead soldier hovering over him. the floor. The policeman makes Dave stand up and pushes him toward the door. Dave has a hard time walking,

24 his legs are weak as if about to break. He feels like he may collapse at any moment. As he advances down the hall pushed and kicked by the two cops, he can hear the searches taking place in the other apartments: glass shattering, cops shouting orders, things scattered to the floor, babies crying, men and women supplicating, explaining, asking not to be taken. Dave and the two lead soldiers walk by an open door and he catches a glimpse of a cop questioning a kneeling woman. The woman doesn’t say anything, she just looks down at the floor. Move faster! shouts the cop pushing Dave down the hall. They walk down the creaking stairs. Dave feels the dust on his naked feet. He realizes how much the handcuffs hurt his wrists. When they get to the street Dave can feel the swirling wind produced by the helicopters. He notices other people being taken from the other buildings. Only a few try to resist. He sees a skinny teenager knocked unconscious by a single blow from one of the cops. From the helicopter closest to him a big cage descends. When it hits the ground its doors open. Similar cages start coming out of the other helicopters. Each one may be able to hold at least thirty people, Dave thinks trying to distract himself. The policemen push, drag and kick the unlucky ones toward the cages. When Dave is about to be caged a woman in front of him starts running away. The policemen shout at her to stop, and some of them run after her. Stopyoubitch! shouts one of the cops as he

ANNA ODELL

shoots the running woman. The electric impulse hits her in the right leg. The sound of her flesh exploding makes Dave grind his teeth, close his eyes and look away. The woman is screaming, the most terrific scream Dave has ever heard. One of the cops approaches the poor screaming woman and hits her with the butt of his rifle. She immediately stops screaming. Dave looks at her but he can’t tell if she’s unconscious or already dead. The cops drag her into one of the cages, throwing her in violently. Dave is joined in his cage by a couple dozen people, most of them men but some women and children. All of them are handcuffed, some of them bleed, some of them cry. It’s gonna be ok, don’t worry says a young man to a little girl who presses her face against his stomach unable to hug him. When the helicopter pulls the cage upward most people fall, some on their knees, some on their sides, some on each other. Dave hits one side of the cage and falls backward. He stays like that, sitting, with his head against the metallic bars. He looks at the policemen grabbing onto the ropes that pull them back up to the helicopters. He catches a glimpse of the New Hope Complex, of its old buildings, its worn out streets. He sees the shadows of other helicopters rising, pulling cages like the one in which he finds himself. Then the gates of the helicopter’s abdomen close underneath him. Everything is dark. He can hear the policemen unhooking themselves from the ropes, they are in an adjacent compartment. Then comes the metallic sound of their steps. They walk away, maybe into a different section of the helicopter. The hum of the machine is the only sound now. Dave passes out, exhausted.

ANDERSON, PRONOVOST, MAIORANA, AVIRAMA

Words from the library and beyond

Your Friendly Neighborhood Book Ninja ANONYMOUS

He comes in the quiet of the afternoon, camouflaging himself with all the other Work Study students of the Library. He enters the stacks, gliding like a shadow between the books, taking one down here and there. Then he mysteriously vanishes in a puff of paper-scented mist. The only signs he has been through are scattered around the library, through the changing displays of the books available. He is... THE BOOK NINJA! And now he has been kind enough to leave a note for us, encoded on the back of a bookmark placed in the book drop. In our efforts to translate, it seems to detail some of his mysterious rules regarding the assembly of the displays. -The Secret Intentionality of Connections: The books are never just pulled out at random... Let there always be a link between the books, even if it is through another book in a sequence on the display. When they join together as a chain of relationships, they will be stronger. Let inspiration be the guide for the connections. Perhaps a themed dance, interesting speaker or a holiday is arriving soon... Allow the outside world to inform this most visible display of collected knowledge.

-The Panorama Mantra: The displays in the Reading Room should have titles visible from all angles of vision. Angle them carefully, grasshopper. Each of these should use either six or eight books. If six is the number used, create a stretched half hexagon on each end of the display top. If eight is preferred, place a book at each corner and at one quarter up the long sides from each end. Angle every book outwards, keeping the title two-sided and centered on top. -The Forward Symmetry Koan: For the displays within the glass case at the top of the stairs and indented in the Circulation Desk, each book must face forward, proudly displaying its nature. The Rule of Two or Three may be used here, though sometimes expanded to allow for five or seven points to catch the eyes. Try to create a point for the viewer to focus on, this is the most important part. -The Naming of Things: Do not forget, all but the Stacks displays need names to tie the seemingly disparate books together more directly. Remember to smile while naming, that the names may themselves bring others to the same expression of surprised joy. Images–– so long as they are public domain–– should be used to draw the eye, but never detract from the theme of the books itself. Be gentle and forgiving with a name, do not aim to enrage or insult. Provocation of any sort should be to thought, not to tempers.

- The Rule of Two or Three: When placing books on the ends of the stacks, decide whether to use two books–– where each is equally important to the statement the combination makes–– or three, where the central book will tie together the two books on either side. No more than these will generally fit This message will self destruct once a stable without looking cluttered. A single book looks lonely. copy is created. ––The Book Ninja

ANNOUNCEMENTS

COA Announces Holder of Stewart Chair: Karen Waldron BY DONNA GOLD

College of the Atlantic has named faculty member in literature and writing Karen Waldron as the inaugural holder of the Lisa Stewart Chair in Literature and Women’s Studies. Funds for the endowed chair were donated to the college in August by the Stewart family, longtime Mount Desert Island residents. The gift honors daughter Lisa Stewart, a remarkably accomplished woman dedicated to expanding women’s rights. A global citizen who spoke five languages, Stewart launched the successful Hong Kong investment firm Bowen Asia in 1994 at a time when there were few women leaders in that field. Says Waldron, “All of us at COA are deeply grateful to the Stewarts for the establishment of the Lisa Stewart chair. It is a great honor to be named the inaugural holder—Lisa Stewart’s legacy of leading by example and commitment is an inspiration to all of us at the college.” President Darron Collins, a 1992 alumnus of the college, audited one of Waldron’s literature classes when he first arrived on campus as president. “Her ability to coax genuine understanding from great novels—helping students make their own way through text and see the world through new lenses— is extraordinary,” he says. Adds Academic Dean Ken Hill, “COA is thrilled to finally be able to recognize Karen Waldron’s numerous achievements, her wisdom, her dedication, and her care and concern for students,

colleagues, and staff.” Since coming to COA in 1995, Waldron has taught a wide range of courses in literature, women’s studies, human studies, and more. Her courses include African American Literature, City/Country: American Literary Landscapes, Cross-Cultural Fictional Narratives by Women, Feminist Thought, Literature, Science and Spirituality, Native American Literature, and Nature of Narrative. Waldron has also held several administrative positions at COA, serving as associate dean for academic affairs from 1998 to 2003 before becoming associate dean for faculty, a position she held until 2008. From 2003 to 2006, Waldron also served as academic dean. Waldron holds a PhD in English and American literature and an MA in Women’s Studies, both from Brandeis University. She also holds an MA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Boston. Her BA, from Hampshire College, was in literature and philosophy. Prior to coming to COA, Waldron taught in Massachusetts as a visiting assistant professor at Brandeis University in English and American literature, and Women’s Studies; and as a lecturer in English at Boston College. Her scholarly publications span concepts from literary ecology to Jewish women, and authors from William Faulkner to Leslie Marmon Silko.

STEVIE DU FRESNE