Accolades - SFCC Student Writing Book

Table of Contents Poetry Winner The Web After Pablo Neruda by Doug Bootes................................................ 3 Runners-Up My First Love by Martin Herrera...........................................................................4 Memories by Marie-Claude Krawcyzk...................................................................5 Honorable Mentions Struggling with the Calm by Dave Cecil............................................................6 About Trees, I Think by Doug Boote...................................................................8 Wolf Haibun by Libby Hall................................................................................9 Good Morning, Little Baby by Isabel McGowan...............................................10 Away by Aragon Smith.......................................................................................11 Souvenirs by Aragon Smith................................................................................12 My eyes tell lies by Antonio Herrera..................................................................13

Fiction Winner She lives in an abandoned elevator by Dana Garza.........................................14 Honorable Mentions The elevator by Neda Vesselinova.......................................................................16 Taking The Risk by Natalie Walden...................................................................17

Personal Essay Winner My Mother’s Hands by Heather Burrell.............................................................20 Runners-Up The Naked Me by Dave Parlato........................................................................23 Colorology Contrast by Jennifer Love................................................................25 Honorable Mentions Clifford Heinz by Christa Swanson....................................................................28 The Tengo Song by Dioly Piedrahita.................................................................30 Hope and Faith by Allene Sewards.....................................................................33 Susan Dugan: A Friend and Mentor by Maryellen Doyle..................................35 The Escape by Anastasija Bilnova.......................................................................37

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Academic Essay Winner The Tell Tale Heart: A Deception of Insanity by Aragon Smith........................40 Honorable Mentions The Quest for the Holy Grail: Traditional Legends and Monty Python by Neda Vesselinova........................ 42 Getting a Handle on Plastic Shopping Bags by Daniel Ellis-Green..................47

The Santa Fe Community College Student Writing Awards are given out annually. All students enrolled in at least three credits in either the fall or spring semesters are eligible. Interested students submitted their work, which was then judged by a group of judges selected from the staff at SFCC. The places were determined on the basis of the judges’ rankings. In addition to being published in Accolades, the authors were invited to give a public reading at the SFCC Student Writing Awards Celebration. Winners and runners-up also received monetary prizes.

The Student Writing Awards exist to celebrate the diverse voices of SFCC students and to recognize the already-present talent of these still-developing writers. This recognition also provides encouragement to the writers to continue their pursuit of original written expression.

The Winner and Runners-up in each category are also eligible for the Richard Bradford Memorial Creative Writing Scholarship.

The Student Writing Awards are directed by Daniel Kilpatric. The following people were essential to making The SFCC Student Writing Awards and Celebration happen: Shuli Lamden, Colleen Lynch, Justine Carpenter, Janet Berry, Kathy Romero, Deborah Boldt, Kelly Smith, Casey Frank, Kate McCahill, Michael Lehrer, Matt Borst, Jennifer Bleyle, Kay Bird, Laura Mulry, Dorothy Perez y Piriz, Ken McPherson, Margaret Peters, Sandra Lucero, Miriam Sagan, Julia Deisler, Marci Eannarino, Bethany Kilpatric, Dorothy Massey and The Collected Works Bookstore, all the instructors who encouraged their students to enter, and all the students who entered but did not receive an award.

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Poetry Winner Doug Bootes

The Web After Pablo Neruda You question me, why is spider woman tickling silk with needles for feet?

Sand holds the answer, I respond.

You beg of me, what are the hoodoos searching for from castles of stone? What are they looking for?

I can only say they are searching for you.

You ask me, who do coyotes serenade, whose bones do they scatter in moonlight?

Watch, listen, wait, let the four seasons ebb and flow.

You demand answers about wolves running free unaccounted,

And I reply by describing How an elk with an arrow in its hip slowly dies.

You inquire about the roadrunners tail, Which fans out on salt desert flats?

Or you see in the stars the patterns that flow

In the rabid construction Of the needy and lonely cholla, you’ll read my horoscope now?

You want to comprehend lightning over mountains of sage?

The ghost of the puma that stalks?

The buzz of a rattle coiled tight, unwinding

Like the wisp of a river descending?

I want to tell you that the desert knows these things, that each

grain of sand

is an infinite sea, impossible to hold, silent,

and bees carry the magic of hummingbird prayers

seeding their secrets in arroyos of gold

I am nothing but the bats scattered in night, sprung from their cave

Bouncing in darkness, invisible,

swinging off slivers of moon, twirling in infinite void.

I wandered far as you do, interrogating

The rocks for clues

And in my sleeping bag, I woke up naked, My only companions, scorpions chanting the wind.

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Poetry Runner-Up Martin Herrera

My First Love You came into my life , just a teen.

Decades passed , Love at first sight , the way you sparkled, when the light hit you, just right.

You were plastic and steel ; sexy.

1CC with a half inch, 22 gauge needle that made the world safe.

Piercing flesh, enter vein.

Blood bursting into chamber , red crashing Into white, opening a parallel universe.

Grinding on me like a stripper with a sucker, into a hypnotic dance, better than sex.

Prom time; we danced every dance in that shooting gallery.

I graduating high school you asked if I would give up my girlfriend for you?

And I said” yes” In my 20’s.

We had it down. You slowly came inside of me, with a jack of the plunger ,instant gratification.

Life spiraling out and the high cost of low living takes hold, we laughed at fools trapped with jobs and school, we were free.

A world, of cockroaches crawling on oblivious people.

Then you asked if I would give up my family for you?

And I said “yes”.

I turned 30, no candles to blow out.

Degradation, humiliation, hopelessness , darkness, violence, tired, fired, no game left.

Cold, dirty gas station bathrooms ; our new home.

Cheap tile, John sucking the blood from the plunger ; oozing down the sides of his mouth, as the cockroach crawled across his chest.

You asked if I would die for you? After taking a breath; I said “yes”.

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Poetry Runner-Up Marie-Claude Krawcyzk

Memories

When bent by the weight of time my shoulders will long for the earth, and when each wrinkle in my face will have filled with memories, I won’t regret and I won’t grieve.

I will remember and rejoice.

I will look at my reflection, and I won’t see an old woman.

Each earned wrinkle will take me on a wonderful journey in time, and my eyes will be a magic gate to the lost kingdoms of childhood.

I will cherish my memories, all of them without shame.

I will be free to recall the sweet mistakes that I made, and I will be wise enough to laugh about the tears that I cried.

And when it will be time to go, I won’t be sad or bitter.

It will feel so good to know I’ll be part of someone’s memories, a sweet mistake and some tears preciously kept in a wrinkle of his face.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Dave Cecil

Struggling with the Calm Desert Lights of Green thru the Vision of Night Body aching, fever burning Gone by morning’s dawn When will it end you’ll succumb Tomorrow Tomorrow never comes unless permanence accepted Put the loved ones in the past Forgetting Loved Ones—Forward Thinking White—faced, grabbing, Abdomen Swelling—where is the end Swelling, swelling Lucent red is pooling through little blocks of gray and brown Sweat filling Soaking Water streaming down pores of grimy sweaty skin That sand, that sand with salt With hundred foot flaming Standing naked with black surrounding Remembrance is a curse Closure distant, never near All that’s left is Blue pinpoints of the sky connecting hope far away Grasping Sand—Laced with Salt The Smell of sulfur fades with rise of Innocence burning Innocence screaming Scrambling and jumping through barriers of windows and doorways How Long, How Long Rising—Growing Silently screaming with sweaty palms Grasping, Standing, Waiting One step, two step Flames play shadows with darkness of children Smiling, Willing Calmness and fear so Trapping, Suffocating Live by second yet don’t fall 6

Yelling, Screaming, high pitched screaming Calmness looks yet what the future holds Don’t do it, don’t fall, fear so Trapping, Controlling Don’t release, hold calm Those intensely blue pinpoints with the darkness offering hope so far away Headaches the smell of smoke Don’t think, Don’t Think of Home Cracking palms, burning ears Closure is a cruel, cruel hope Closure is none Sand aplenty But those intense blue pinpoints in the sky connecting hope far away Empty faces, looks of shock, confusing It’s not me, it can’t be Yes it is Love is calm Love is calculating Love is not letting the pin be pulled by innocence to start the fuse Survival some might say Hero—now there’s a curse word Hero this, hero that They say fours the fire team And, No! Doesn’t stand for hero You do the math Plastic indifference People are dying What matters the opposite The feeling, that feeling Calmness—fear that could drive you Crazy, Trapping, Phobic The tight place miles deep in blackness The stomach of the earth’s crust Can’t move, no help but still breathing—don’t go there But those intensely Blue pinpoints in the sky connecting that hope so far away Grave stone on a green hill glistening Medals seen from far off Son is dead lost forever, life goes on Miss you, Heart aching of past remembrance Promise will keep though frail frame shakes with sadness Yes! Those intense blue pinpoints of light connecting hope far away 7

Poetry Honorable Mention Doug Bootes

About Trees, I Think When I think about trees my mind narrows, defining space and what will fit there.

So I think about fiery leaves falling hand in hand with time to alter the course of a river, or reminisce about eons of sunlight poured over wood floors in diagonal shafts waiting for snowflakes of dust to drift.

Dust trapped in space forms rainbows of rivers which in turn form forests of stars floating uncertain in silence divisive.

When leaves of stars in the forest gently drop, whispering secrets of who we once were, it sounds like the lightening of dawn’s expectant glow, reminding lost birds they need only to sing louder.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Libby Hall

Wolf Haibun

Remember Ho-Ti? Silver grey and white Alaskan timberwolf. A big fella, he stood thirty-two inches at his shoulder. Such a silly boy. Always laughing. He grew quickly from a clingy pup to a playful adult. We play hide and seek at the foot of the mesa. He can’t stay hidden. He peeks out from behind the pines. “See me. Here I am.” When I return home he jumps seven feet in the air in sheer joy and excitement to see me again.

I play tapes of wolves howling so he can learn to speak wolf. He loves to sing along, eyeing the door. He looks confused. “Where are they?” We howl together wondering if they will come. At night we sleep side by side. We are almost the same size but he’s taller. His heavy paw thumps across my side. Silken thick fur. He smells like winter.

Poised over gopher hole.

Movement so fast fools the eye One gulp, gopher gone

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Poetry Honorable Mention Isabel McGowan

Good Morning, Little Baby Baby’s breath against my chest, a bond of love so pure.

Arms wrapped around a life so blessed, of this I am sure.

Inspired by love – this new life has emerged.

My son’s heart now beats with the rhythm of the earth.

One soul was made when two souls merged.

What a gift to behold – a life of priceless worth.

These thoughts flutter through a mother’s mind as dawn begins to peek through the darkness.

This precious child is a symbol of love and life intertwined.

My newborn is confirmation that life is not limited but endless.

I catch a glimpse of my baby smiling by the light of the rising sun.

Good morning little baby, your journey has just begun.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Aragon Smith

Away Away, that slow, small town of seventeen Lies deep in the middle of nowhere. Wolves warily Gaze from around corners of the small stone and log Cabins that nearly vanish into the surrounding wood.

Nothing stretches on into nothingness from Away.

Wherever one’s gaze may wander from Away, the forested Mountain peaks dominate under the clear blue sky.

The only sign that man may walk here is the rutted road, Quickly lost into the depths of trees, eagerly, and Swiftly claimed by the empty wilderness.

Here, the hand of man dares not to touch the Woods, vast, dark, mysterious and untamed.

Slowly, as the sun slides behind the rugged mountain ridges Shadows come to rule silently, and softly clutch the Delicate illusions of control away from the minds of men.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Aragon Smith

Souvenirs On the edge of the mountain, by the old dirt highway Squats the run down relic of our richer, more Vibrant days. Swiftly in the summer twilight, Travelers move past, willfully blind to its presence.

The tin roof has slowly slid down between faded, Crumbling brick walls. A once proud sign exclaims “Gifts! Souvenirs!” dangling from a single nail.

Weathered and worn, sagging, sodden, half rotten Boards guard the doors and what’s left of the windows from The predations of small boys.

Once, we gathered our Seventeen souls every evening inside for a shot of Whisky and to argue, brag, sing, and share life.

Now alone, in the dusk, I pocket a small, handmade nail, Pull my hat down low, and stroll toward the lights of home.

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Poetry Honorable Mention Antonio Herrera My eyes tell lies/ my lies tell my eyes/ to feel this way/ to kill this pain/ to in my sane/ to sin my vain/ I dry my crying eye/ why die while flying high/ I try to hide my sigh/ I put up this wall/ can’t hear you call/ cant fear you all/ they say turn that frown into a smile/ but I say I’ve been down for a while/ lower than low/ nowhere to go/ stuck in my mind/ need luck to find/ people say no pain no gain/ but with pain no fame/ holds me back like I’m gonna fight/ but I need to fight to make things right/ so let me go to obtain my sight/ I need to grow to take over with all my might/ see the future block the past/ free the creature shock the cast/ cause my life is a movie and god is the director/ I’m nice then moody and odd but I’m the corrector/ projecting my cerebrum/ expecting my freedom/ from this nightmare called my mind/ some I might scare but I’m kind/ I stare but I’m blind/ meaning I see with my mind not my eyes cause looks are deceiving/ I see what I think and think what I see my own images is what I’m receiving/ I’m playing tuga war with my mind and heart/ I can’t go anymore it ends before it starts/ deep down in my core is breakin apart/ making a spark/ igniting the fire/ I’m fighting but soon I’ll retire/expire/ down goes me but not my entire empire/ I want to leave peace with the ones I inspire/ me the one you admire/ all your souls I want to acquire/ me floating to heaven with the sound of the choir/ higher and higher/ gods hand is what I desire/ acceptance is what I require/ I am the sire/ I’m the truth and you’re a lying liar/ I want to be the angel on earth/ to end all the pain that’ll hurt/ change the same/ cause we need change to get out of the rain/ we’re crowded with fame/ leaving the unsung heroes to blame/ and I’m the one that still hasn’t sung/ time will come/ to hear the words created with my tongue/ that will influence the young/ to make sense of the world that’s hung/ by the string that I hold/ cause I will soon be in control/ but I will use my powers for good/ I can do, not shoulda, coulda, woulda and I will be understood/ in this journey called life I will prevail/ I will come against challenges and wont fail/ but the insecure beast is holding me back/ my heart is pure but its molding and starting to crack/ I’m sometimes sad and mad/ I was wishing for the happiness i could have had when things went bad/ but im glad/ to push play in my life, no more trying to rewind/ I need to unwind/ this tangled mess that im in/ I need to find the angle to point me in the right direction/ that will bless me and the rest in sin/ I need to establish a start before I have this smart, art, heart/end/

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Fiction Winner Dana Garza

j. doe She lives in an abandoned elevator in an abandoned building in an abandoned part of the city where the store fronts are boarded up and covered with graffiti. It feels more like an urban ghost town then the bustling Harlem of the west it once professed to be.

She claimed it as her own when she found the elevator doors open and the top of the lift peeking out at the fourteenth floor, suspended above the twelfth. There was just enough room for her slim frame to enter but not for much else. She had been looking for a safe place for shelter scoping out abandoned buildings, warehouses, under bridges, and in aqueducts, but most were too dangerous in their design or filled with other street kids and junkies. She didn’t use drugs or alcohol and didn’t like people all that much, so she kept to herself. She was surprised no one had already staked a claim on this building. Before setting up home, she made sure she wouldn’t be found; so she scouted out the place for a couple of days. No one but the rats came and went. While wandering around the building she found a set of keys that didn’t look like they went to any regular doors and established that they opened and closed the elevator doors. It was settled: home sweet home.

She stole candles, a flash light, and batteries from the five and dime to light up the place, made a bed out of some scavenged sofa cushions, and a nightstand out of a cardboard box. She collected magazines from the free rack at the library and wherever else she could find them and covered the walls and ceiling in spring time greenery. Green grass from rolling hills, ancient forests, manicured lawns, and shrubbery from magazines like Conde Nast, Travel & Leisure, and English Gardens. She had never seen such greenery in her life. The candle light reflected off of the glossy greenery and made it radiantly incandescent.

She had tried so hard to forget her past that she managed to forget it completely. All she had was the moment. She wanted for nothing. She got all the food she needed from the food bank; clothes and blankets from the shelter. A generous donation of art supplies at the shelter gave her plenty of paper, sharpies and water color pencils so she didn’t have to steal those. She didn’t like to steal, but it’s difficult to find such treasured and necessary items.

She drew pictures of mystical creatures and fantastical worlds and hung them up amidst her garden. She was happy then and her contentment grew into something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. If she had known it before she would have known it was joy she was feeling.

She left her sanctuary very little these days and when she did not for long. The only things she needed to replenish were food, batteries, and candles. She never ate much; having learned at an early age to go without made things last longer.

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One day while wandering about the building she heard someone yell at her. She didn’t use her voice much these days, and she wasn’t about to use it now.

Before she bolted away from the voice she turned to get a glimpse of its origin.

He was a sturdy man built like an ox who looked like a construction worker complete with boots, a tool belt, and a hard hat to prove it. She knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her so she ran. Not to her elevator for fear of being found out, (she always made sure the doors were closed whenever she left it), but out and onto the street and down an alleyway. By the time she caught her breath her heart had caught up to her. She didn’t know what he was doing there, but it didn’t look like he was staying. She killed time in the park until dark and went back only to find that all the entrances had been securely boarded up. That didn’t deter her. She climbed up onto a dumpster positioned under the emergency stairs and hoisted herself up. By the time she got home she was exhausted and hungry.

She opened up a can of Dinty Moore stew, ate it and fell fast asleep, exhausted from her day. She dreamt of lying in tall grass, the blue sky above with the wind giving a cooling breeze under the hot sun.

If she had come and gone from the front she would have seen the sign posted by the city for over a week now, but she always went out through the service dock where there were a lot less eyes to see her. Even if she had seen the sign she wouldn’t have been able to read what it said, and she would have ignored it with a front of indifference to hide her illiteracy. And even if she could read it-- what was she to do about it? She had nowhere else to go; she was home. So when the wrecking ball came early the next morning, it didn’t manage to wake her before the building turned to rubble and she was forever entombed in her eternal spring.

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Fiction Honorable Mention Neda Vesselinova

The elevator doors closed. Laura and Michael hadn’t had any time to their selves during the funeral service. Their sixteen year-old friend was killed in a car crash, and they were his best friends.

Laura looked at her reflection in the scratched elevator walls. She almost didn’t recognize herself; she had black circles under her eyes and no life in her face. The past two weeks had been torture.

The elevator was playing obnoxiously happy music. Laura was trapped in this dumb box and her friend Kevin was in a coffin. She wanted to scream or punch something.

Laura stared into the walls again and saw Michael standing awkwardly, looking at his feet. He was now her only best friend. They had had their best times and their worst times together, even though they have only known each other for three years. If Michael died…no, she wouldn’t let herself think that.

He was there, standing beside her now, and that is what mattered.

What would happen once they got off the elevator? Would they continue on with their lives, holding on the past’s memories? Life is too short, Laura realized.

“Michael,” she said, her voice crackling.

He turned to her, relieved that the silence had been broken.

“After all of this, I just want to make sure that we’ll stay friends.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Just, just because.” And Laura stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his starch white shirt. She could hear his heart beating as he pulled her closer. Laura felt a rush in her body; a passion.

Without much thought, Laura lifted her head and pressed her lips against his.

Michael was taken aback, but he eased into the kiss. Laura didn’t care that his lips were chapped or that her cheeks were wet. All she knew was that she was happy, which was such a relief. Laura didn’t care if the elevator’s cords snapped or that she just went to her first funeral, for she was kissing her best friend while she still could.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped. Michael pulled away and the elevator doors opened. Laura looked into Michael’s eyes, took his hand, and they walked out of the elevator and into the real life.

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Fiction Honorable Mention Natalie Walden

Taking The Risk “The only English words she knew were diseases”, but that mustn’t deter her from making contact with the young American woman she saw everyday at the bus stop. The city was just returning to some semblance of normalcy after what was for her a lifetime of war. Saraya was 24 years old. The Soviets had attacked her country, Afghanistan, in 1989 and since then there had never been a moment of safety for the women of her country. Today she was standing at the Bus Stop as usual Covered by her Burka from head to foot. Underneath, her modest slacks and blazer were making her prickle with heat but would allow her to work with her patients among the male doctors at the women’s hospital in her hijab, not this blue covering. Dr. Amati was more liberal than most having realized that the nurses and medical students could not be effective fully shrouded.

Saraya had been caring for the sick and abused women of Kabul for five years but with the departure of the US military the hospital had lost it’s major support as the military had made a point of supplying them. The new order were not organized enough to pick up the slack yet and though other agencies could wait, her patients could not. She had to contact with someone who might be able to help.

The word was that this tall, elegant woman wearing respectful clothing, moved among the men aiding the new government and had access to homes of the elite Afghani. She had caught the attention of the Women’s alliance because unlike so many others she did not try to westernize traditions. She focused on women’s needs and how to help them within the limits of Koranic Law. She had an uncanny way of working her way into the truth of a family. Was the patriarch respectful and lawful himself? How did she do it? I must learn from her.

“Oh the Haven of those arms of his, and she was very tired” but that fatigue would not get her back to him any faster. She had said good-bye three months ago, packing one bag and carrying her laptop. He had begged her to stay in Paris. “Let me care for you” He had said. “Our life is wonderful. We are so good together” All the words a woman wants to hear but words that constitute a trap.

The life as Mrs. Someone or Madam Doctore. She could not fall into that trap no matter how luxurious it was. It would be the same cage she had committed her soul to open for other women and here she had been tempted by the western version, a man’s world, a woman’s place. But she had not gambled for how hard it was to make any difference. She had accepted his one gift. The most beautiful Hijab she had ever seen. It was a dark blue with a touch of green, a deep sea blue cashmere, so light that even on the hottest days she felt protected and cooled by it’s weight, color and the memory of his arms.

The NGO she had come out to Kabul to join was ostensibly a government training organization, helping the Afghans develop democratic social services.

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The old system had crumbled during the war with the Soviets and when the Taliban took over any semblance of social organization was gone and the ancient tribal ways were implemented. Susannah had been chosen carefully to observe and report on the life of the women of Kabul, but after 3 months she had as yet not been able to connect with any of the poor local women. Their world was isolated and protected from westerners by their men. She herself had been had been living under what felt like house arrest. She spoke with the male members of her team, went to government meetings, but so far she had not even been given an opportunity to speak. Her point of view was shared, as she wrote all the briefs presented by the team, she was the strongest writer, but her name had never been included. It would be worth it if she could make contact.

She had begun to be able to differentiate some of the women moving through the streets even in their nearly identical Burkas. There was one woman she noticed everyday at the bus stop. There was something about the way she carried herself under the yards of fabric, a purpose, a curiosity and caution.

Susannah had to take the chance, so she had told the office that she would be late having made the decision that today she would follow the woman to her destination.

“I know she has been watching me too” she convinced herself.

The two exchanged a fleeting look as the Blue clad woman stepped on to Bus #5B. Susannah slipped in behind her following up the stairs of the dilapidated bus.

She made her way through the crowded bus trying hard to be inconspicuous.

It was complex for her to negotiate simple tasks like moving across town on a bus.

On the one hand people had become used to foreigners and tolerated a woman out and about not in a burka and unaccompanied by a male family member, but there was always the risk that a fundamentalist man would be offended by a woman alone and create a problem for her. She could feel her anxiety rising, she had no idea where she was going and she knew that her safety depended upon not being noticed. Susannah drew herself into as small a space as she could.

“Think invisibility cloak” She thought to herself and negotiated her way to the back of the bus so that she could watch her unknown companion and depart with her without raising suspicion.

It would be difficult for her if she were caught making contact with someone out of the normal channels. Sent out of the country. Kept in the compound with no freedom to move about but not arrested or physically harmed. She was not sure what would happen to the Afghan woman. Susannah had heard horror stories but she hoped that was all they were “stories”.

The electric wires clicked overhead and miraculously the bus continued through town without a power outage. This one line still had its cables and the whir of the electric engine relaxed her a little, though the bus jerked to a stop every few minutes. They were heading to the outskirts of the city moving up to higher ground and from her seat she could see through the haze of dust and pollution the scars of war. Some buildings were being rebuilt using the remnants of destroyed structures. Some progress. But the mass of humanity clustered in 18

this brown bowl between the mountains was struggling so hard to reconcile ancient thought with modern influence.

“What are humans doing to each other and this planet?” She thought to herself.

She brought herself back to the present and to the woman two seats up and across the aisle. Why had she singled this woman out to follow? Was it her stillness? There was no way to tell how old she was though one of her shoes was showing. Though it looked very practical, even comfortable, the kind of shoe one wore when you were on your feet all day; it was of good quality and reasonably new. This woman was not poor. Even her Burka was in good repair though there was a stain down one side that looked like it had been cleaned numerous times, but still could be made out.

The bus was laboring up the hill. On either side of the road buildings were either gone or walls were missing, everything usable had been removed and to Susannah they reminded her of the Anasazi ruins that had been so much a part of her childhood in New Mexico. Class field trips that seemed like another lifetime, on another planet. They don’t call it adobe here but the color is the same however, instead of ancient history these ruins are the scars of war and lives arrested.

Susannah’s uneasiness was growing. This barren neighborhood with no trees, just a few tufts of grass fighting for life among the fallen bricks, was completely unfamiliar to her. As they crested the hill the bus began to slow for a stop. She noticed the woman begin to rise and with a quick glance out the window Susannah saw a dilapidated but large building dating from earlier colonial days, shuttered windows and a wide door. A quick read of the sign over the door told her they were at the women’s hospital. A flash of excitement and dread collided in her gut. This could redefine her time in Kabul. This hospital is ground zero for women’s issues in Afghanistan. The training center for midwives to help stop the devastating and unnecessary lose of life in childbirth and the treatment center for the horrible abuses imposed on women for the simple reason that they were female and at the mercy of their male family members. In some households women still ranked lower than livestock and behind this façade there would be the evidence of this attitude and those who had been lucky enough to make it to help.

Susannah worked her way to the front of the bus and down onto the street.

Her guide glanced back at her and then walked up to the door and rang the bell.

Susannah was behind her as the door swung open and they stepped into a world of horror and hope.

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Personal Essay Winner Heather Burrell

My Mother’s Hands

My mother comes into the darkened room and pulls the patchwork quilt up to my chin. I have already tucked myself in, as it’s past midnight and there’s school in the morning. I’ve been waiting for her, wide-eyed and sleepless. Her clothes and hair smell like a cloud of fried codfish, but I breathe right through it and into her neck, which is dewy and sweet with the Chantilly Lace she spritzed on at dawn and which has since paled from her clean sweat.

The ghosts of Clorox and other cleaning agents waft into my eyes and burn hot from my mother’s hand as she smoothes the blanket over my back, the fabric crackling as it snags her broken skin. I am seven.

Three years later, she brings me into work with her. And though I didn’t know it at the time, my mother was raising me to be a caregiver. …

“Cherry, like the pie,” is how my mother introduced herself to her customers. A waitress by day and a mother by night, she has made a life out of serving others. “There are people who can make the creation of poetry or leadership of a large university or corporation seem loathsome, and then there are people who can make the job of porter or waitress seem a good and useful thing,” writes Joseph Epstein, in his essay (241).

I saw my mother, a good and useful person, making the job of waiting tables appear respectable and dignified, character-defining, benevolent, and at its most rarefied moments, blessed. I was not taught to ask what defined good work- it was simply modeled for me. I was not raised to ask if work was something I really wished to do, or enjoyed doing, or should enjoy doing. We simply worked because we were working people. There were no silver spoons and the world was not an oyster- but I didn’t know that, and I didn’t mourn it. To me, the world felt as full and fat and rich as butter.

I became a busser -and my mother’s saving grace- the same week she came close to strangling a new co-worker whose work ethics had driven her to the brink of good sense. Her nemesis consistently showed up late, ornery and inebriated, and then disappeared into the freezer. The walk-in freezer served as more than storage for frosty perishables; it was the hideout for underage employees, a quiet place to linger with a joint, a clandestine corner for steamy kisses, and a safe, soundproof cell to cool down with a long scream. My mother’s difficult coworker would never have been able to keep up with her, but he barely tried.

The establishment, Tesuque Village Market, was known for its talented French pastry chef and addictive green-chile turkey burritos. All day, every day, the restaurant was slammed. My mother would rise at 4:30 AM to be at work by half past five, in time to wipe down tables and chairs on the patio. But the 20

early hour was worth securing the patio. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of summer or the dead of winter; the tables on the patio were always the first to fill, and therefore the most sought after by the waitstaff. And so it came to be that weekends, school holidays, and summer breaks commenced with silent drives at twilight, as I willed my tired eyes open to the purr of the engine and the scent of Chantilly Lace telling me we’re on the way to work.

Work came naturally to me, but speed came with practice. It took me thirty minutes to get everything so clean I could see my reflection flicker in the tabletops when I stood in the center of the patio to admire my work. Each table would be set up with neatly filled sugar containers, sparkling glass bottles of ketchup and mustard, and polished silverware rolls. I started each ten-hour sprint like this, over the course of three years. On the rare occasion that the Department of Labor dropped by for an inspection, I was shuffled into the freezer like a stowaway.

I never stopped working, often times holding down three or four jobs.

I had no idea that my career as a waitress, a server, and ultimately a caregiver would start when I was ten and continue throughout my life. When I started cleaning houses at fifteen, I began to wear thick rubber gloves to protect my sensitive skin. I was a home-schooled and God-fearing Christian at the time, and if cleanliness was next to godliness, what better avenue could I achieve both than through bleach? I protected my hands as best I could, remembering the beauty of my mother’s hands, soft and silky, pale and glowing pink. Her nails were as strong and lustrous as those having been recently manicured. But that was a long time ago, and years of labor have since aged her tapered fingers and tender palms.

By sixteen, I could bus tables, hostess, serve, cocktail, and cook. I would also moonlight as a housekeeper, a dog-walker, a housesitter, an au pair, a wood-stacker, and a snow-shoveler. I excelled at diplomacy and found myself relied upon to smooth over tensile situations. If a customer grew upset or impatient, I would smile and say, “Good food takes time!” Once, when I was a nanny, the lady of the house told me she believed my heartbeat was the only thing that could calm her children and lull them to sleep.

The years passed, measured by the various caregiving jobs I have worked.

Rarely did I question or contemplate my calling. Things are different now, and I find myself wondering who I am and how I got here. Jon Kabat-Zinn writes, “It may not mean that you will change what you do, but it may mean that you may want to change how you see it or hold it, and perhaps how you do it” (Kabat-Zinn 80).

When I started taking college classes, I felt lost. Even as a child, I had never identified as a student. As a grown woman, I felt like an impostor. My momentum faltered, and my first instinct was to head for the nearest exit. But I called Jon Kabat-Zinn to mind again, and his book “Wherever You Go, There You Are”, and I knew that leaving the campus wouldn’t help me retrieve my sense of direction.

Now I have a clearer understanding of why I panicked. When I’m in the classroom, there is no one for me to take care of, besides myself. That shift in 21

responsibility required me to totally reorient my position in the world. And it was no longer the world as I knew it. I have found that the education I am receiving does not discredit my work experience, nor my mother’s valuable lessons, but I am not surprised to find myself drawn to the Culinary Arts and Early Childhood Development programs, as both lend themselves to my nature and upbringing.

Sometimes, when I am in class, I look down at my hands. Although I had kept them sacredly protected, I see my years of contribution to the workforce.

I may not have known it at the time, but in each job I did many good and useful things.

I am my mother’s daughter.

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Personal Essay Runner-Up Dave Parlato

The Naked Me

Helen Reddy, of “I Am Woman” fame, the singer that I accompany on electric bass in the early seventies, becomes bored with flying commercial. So her husband-manager, Jeff Wald, makes other arrangements.

We show up at the airport, walk onto the runway. Our plane, a Jet Commander, privately chartered from George Carlin, the comedian, is built like the Oscar-Meyer-Wiener-Truck with stubby wings. I name it “Jeff ’s Folly.”

No one but God seems to have known about that mysterious storm in the skies above St. Louis on that dark, rainy night, the eighteenth of September, 1973. When fear, the sheer red hot terror of flying is forever stamped onto my subconscious mind like a brand onto the hide of a cow. The storm never appears on our radar. No warnings come over the radio either.

Our plane slams into a bumpy patch of sharp turbulence. Gone before my elevator stomach settles. We fasten our seat belts. No one speaks. We wait, alert, to see if there will be more buffeting. Nothing. We return to our game of Scrabble. I’m winning by over one hundred points; so Helen and Jeff have totally lost interest. “Now don’t tell me you guys are going to behave like sore losers just because I’m winning for a change.” They completely ignore me.

Minutes later, we slam into turbulence that’s so strong it feels like the plane is trying to fly underwater. Then, over the edge of a waterfall, like a roller coaster. A steep dive now. Gaining momentum. Free fall. Dark. Rain streaks my window. We continue to pick up speed.

Everything not bolted down tumbles and bangs about. The descent of the plane, screaming through the storm’s resistance, creates the sickening whine heard in World War Two black and white film footage of wounded planes, plunging, burning, crashing, exploding upon impact. Heat blasts from air vents.

Water forces its way around the rubber seals of the windows. Flexible plastic strips begin to peel off the interior structure, drooping like exhausted party streamers.

“I’m too young to die,” screams Paul Cowsill, the roadie. Jeff grabs Helen and holds her like a desperado shielding himself from the law. I think of Heather, my new baby daughter. Not even a month old. I hardly know her. She enters. I exit? No, this can’t be happening. I place my head between my knees, begin to hyperventilate.

So fast is the vertical fall of the plane, it’s straining to shear apart laterally.

No one will ever be able to determine, from the cremated remains, how many of us were on board.

I’m angry! Flash! My life is over! Plucked out of the sky by a mysterious storm in the dark of night. Like a gust of wind, my mind lets go of the anger. What’s it going to feel like to die. Instantly. Any second now. My body violently torn from me. My me without a body.The naked me.Who is me? I surrender. Relax. Accept 23

my impending arrival, the terms of my imminent death. I close my eyes, craning my neck for even a small glimpse of the “other side” before we smash through it like a plane breaking the sound barrier.

I start to feel the plane inching its way out of the dive. “Maybe we’ll make it,” I say to myself. “Yes, maybe our pilots will make it.” The shaking of the plane is fierce. But we do make it. We do manage to pull out of the dive.

I’m emotionally shattered. Exhausted. We fly another twenty minutes before landing. I’m unable to speak. Pieces of conversation stick in my mind.

Helen says, “I was never worried because I was Joan of Arc in a previous life.” Jeff says, “What bothered me was that with sixty thousand in cash and forty thousand in jewels, I couldn’t buy my way out.”

We wait inside the terminal, confused, suspended in shock’s inertia. The pilots appear and announce that once the weather clears, we can take off again.

No response. Just blank stares. A brilliant bolt of lightening strikes the runway. The vivid flash blinds me. “There’s your answer,” I say as the rumble of thunder dies away.

The revised plan: a six hour rest in a local hotel followed by a commercial flight to Los Angeles. When I get to my hotel room, I make a call to Judy, my wife, explaining that I will be arriving later than expected. No reason to worry her with why.

Resting on the bed, I put a quarter in the “Magic Fingers,” something I’ve never done before, thinking it will relax me. I drift into a dusky sleep, the images of the near crash parading about on the mobius strip that is my mind.

Abruptly, the “Magic Fingers” shuts off. I stop breathing, startled by the stillness.

I awaken to my death, enter a silent, floating realm where I can’t sense my body anymore. I’m afraid to try to move.

When I arrive home, I sit in the rocking chair for days, staring out the window, mumbling, “Am I supposed to be here?” And then, “I am supposed to be here!” Back and forth. Over and over again.

As I rock, cradling Heather in my arms, she sleeps peacefully. I think her naked me is still mostly on the “other side” simply dreaming of being here, in her body, on “this side.” When I close my eyes, I glimpse her naked me laughing with joy, offering a lily to my naked me.

At some point, during the thirty second, thirteen thousand foot fall, the multiple g-forces, the sickening whine, the blasting heat, the seeking rain, the screaming and yelling, the hyperventilating with my head between my knees, the waiting for the grand splat, I fell in love with the naked me.

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Personal Essay Runner-Up Jennifer Love

Colorology Contrast

Turquoise has always left me with a sense of tranquility. In its presence, I find my emotions lie somewhere between the sentimentality of purple and the brash chaos of red. This color also serves as the diplomat of the Southwest: a stone local silversmiths use to combine Mexican and aboriginal Southwestern traditions to sell to appreciators of its aesthetic value; and the color of water, a metaphorical oasis to weary travelers throughout the history of migration within the United States. And while the blue hue of aquamarine may be my birthstone, it’s the blue-green of turquoise that I will forever wear with pride- for its history, its beauty, its power, but the most important reason has little to do with the color itself…

Turquoise is the blur I’ll never forget seeing flash by on my second day of teaching on the easternmost pocket of the Navajo Reservation. I figured it was a student in a hurry; but the circular shape formed by our school’s Hogan made it difficult to run quickly, so I thought I might possibly be hallucinating. At an attempt to rate my sanity, I asked my students if they had seen someone running down the hallway. The only response was a giggle and many blank stares.

I tried again, “Um, did you guys see someone in turquoise run down the hallway?” Finally, the only student to provide me with any oral responses thus far, Mina, responded with, “Oh! That’s probably just Toby, he always wears that teal sweatshirt.” Immediately following Mina’s very reasonable explanation, Alvin added, “shiiiiii… he’s crazy. No, Ms. Love, like really crazy…” For the first time, although not the last, my class of very special students, with learning and emotional disabilities, nodded their heads, in unison. Unfortunately, a consensus on Toby’s craziness was not what I had envisioned as our unified moment of clarity.

Toby moved into my math class one week later. Watching the turquoise flash about my room was just the color my pale pink room and black-sweatshirt-obsessed students needed. Toby acted like Richard Simmons on stimulants, constantly in motion, his eyes and arms consistently moving with pulsating energy. Little did I know that almost everyone Toby had encountered had tossed him aside simply because of that incessant energy. Despite his unresponsiveness in his original math class, I came to find that throughout the year, Toby was the first student with an answer and to pop up when I needed an errand run, and the only student to ask for extra work. This helped him become the only student my first year to demonstrate 80% mastery of the on-grade-level work I gave him.

Toby’s behaviors outside of my classroom, however, grew more erratic.

He threw a brick in the window of the Continental Divide Post Office and was charged with a federal offense. When his language arts teacher asked to speak with him in the hallway, he bolted out the door and ran to his favorite tree at the 25

Continental Divide (about 7 miles away) in twenty degree weather. At least he had his sweatshirt on. He got in two fights a week after that; and to this day, I have no idea why he decided to punch a girl in face before getting on the bus or call one of the skinniest kid in school “an ugly fatso.”

However, I believe pain leads us to burn beautifully, or burn so hard we just char; and I think Toby was trying to express his pain in the best, or maybe just the easiest, way he knew how- so he could keep burning on the brink of charring. I cannot relate to many things my students encounter, but as an orphaned ward of the state, I can speak to their feelings of abandonment and a sense of never pleasing those who take you in to raise you. Toby’s great-aunt and great-uncle assumed guardianship of him as a baby, raised him, and certainly wanted the best for him. However, there was never enough food at home. He always wore the same clothes and rarely had a shower. Most disturbing, was my first meeting with his great aunt when he tried to explain why had shouted explicatives at his teacher, and she yelled, “Shut the F*&@ up, you’re just retarded anyway.” He immediately shut down, but meekly attempted to defend himself at the same time. His great-aunt made it clear that they believed he was uncontrollable, and thought he was in the special education program because he was “retarded.” He looked tired and defeated while he tried to explain his struggles to his aunt in Navajo.

Soon after that meeting, they sent him to boot camp in the middle of the school year, in hope that he would be “reformed” by someone who could “handle him.” When Toby came back to my class after Christmas, he was bigger and stronger than when he had left, and his turquoise sweatshirt no longer flapped around his body like a spare pair of wings; it now looked like it was made for him.

His focus and motivation were clear. On the second day of his return, he asked Mina out, and was now the only seventh grader going out with an eighth grader.

Toby seemed to be figuring out what he wanted.

When I visited his family’s trailer to tell them how well he had been performing since coming back to school, no one answered the door. I went around the back, saw a hooded-turquoise figure smoking a pipe. I knew it was not the smell of tobacco that wafted toward me. Toby, looked up, eyes red, body relaxed, and he greeted me ever-so-smoothly with, “Oh, hey Ms. Love…” We sat and talked about why he felt he needed to smoke marijuana when we was only twelve years old. In his responses, I heard the same rationalizations I’d convinced myself of when I started smoking cigarettes right around the same age. Despite the New Mexico sun, closer to us, at 7,200 feet of elevation, Toby held his sweatshirt closer; and the sun’s heat made our conversation a very tough one to hold for long, but invariably, Toby told me he’d give real consideration to quitting.

I reported him to the counselor for support; but his aunt and uncle had started locking the door on him, forcing him to sleep outside, because of their arguments, his eating too much food, and his sometimes erratic behavior. As a result, he came to school exhausted, unmotivated, and often hysterical. Mina came to me, worried that he was going to commit suicide. His teachers continued to send him to my classroom because he refused to work, and made threats like, “I’m 26

just going shove a pencil through your eye” to his social studies teacher. After that incident, we spoke on the decaying wood that I liked to call my portable’s, “balcony,” and he told me, “It doesn’t matter what I do, my auntie hates me anyway…I guess I am just stupid.” Thankfully, we talked it out, for that day, at least, and he said he’d keep trying at school.

A few days later, Toby wasn’t in school. He never missed school. This was a kid who thought after-school tutoring was a reward. Generally, he wanted to be anywhere but home. When I called his aunt, she told me they’d turned him over to child services because they couldn’t handle him. Unfortunately, I don’t speak Navajo very well, and she didn’t speak English very well, so that was the extent of the conversation. After returning a week later, Toby had definitely lost weight; and his turquoise sweatshirt was smelly and more brown than turquoise. He told me about the foster family he had stayed with, and was determined that he was either going to run away or kill himself. Despite seemingly therapeutic conversations with him, he still seemed completely hopeless about his home life.

As my class of boys and I sprinted into May, we built cities out of cardboard and celebrated a variety of successes. But Toby did not get join us.

He became a ward of the state of New Mexico. He was put into a rehabilitation hospital for marijuana. Now, he stays at a behavioral health center in Albuquerque.

When I was able to find him, I approached a gaunt boy in a straight-jacket. Little did I know, trained doctors and nurses had developed the same juvenile opinion about Toby that my students had on the second day of school, “he’s just crazy.”

When I entered the room, the first question I asked Toby was, “Hey, where’s your turquoise sweatshirt? I never saw you without it, not even for a minute.” He looked up, staring at the sterile ceiling in a daze. He told me his great aunt found out she had stomach cancer, had started going to church a lot, told him he would go hell, and she then she died, only a few weeks after finding out about the cancer. Then, he told me his great uncle was still drinking and no one knew where he was. Finally, he looked right at me, and responded to my inquiry about his sweatshirt. He said something like, “Shiiiii, Ms. Love, that thing was dirty! And my aunt never liked that color on me. When I get my new family, I’ll get another one. It’ll be clean and I don’t think they care what the color is.”

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Christa Swanson

Clifford Heinz

The first person I knew who committed suicide was Clifford Heinz.

It was a long time ago. I was young and lived in the University of Chicago area, called Hyde Park. It’s now known as being the home of Barack Obama. At the time it was mostly populated by students, radical thinkers, artists and the first crop of hippie drop-outs. I was new to the neighborhood but found that I fit in fine. I soon found a boyfriend, Mike Davis, who was, in his own way escaping the “bourgeois” lifestyle of his parents. “Bourgeois” was a big word in our vocabularies at the time.

Mike had gone to UC so was more into the scene than I was. He had a bunch of interesting, smart friends, who soon became mine. In truth I think I liked his friends almost a little more than I liked Mike…but that’s another story.

One of them was Gene Chesroe, a tall, charming fellow who had once been a stock broker. His family had changed their name from Chesario to Chesroe, Mike said, which intrigued me. He had a smooth “I’m not what you think I am” vibe that I found mysterious and somewhat sexy. I don’t know what he did for money at that time. None of us had real jobs if we could help it.

It was through Gene that we knew Clifford. To tell the truth I think I only met Clifford in person, once. But he was a familiar part of our life, due to the stories Mike told about him, that he got from Gene. Clifford was known for two things. One, his family: his great-grandfather had founded the Heinz Catsup and Soup empire and had made a fortune. He had handed it on to his son and then his grandson, who, according to the tale, was a playboy wastrel type. That was Clifford’s dad.

Clifford’s other claim to fame in our little world was that he had graduated from Dr. Bruno Bettleheim’s famous Orthogenic School. Dr. Bettleheim was a local legend, whose groundbreaking theories on child psychology were highly regarded in the field of mental health. Clifford, as the story went, had been privileged to large amounts of money growing up, but not much in the way of stable family life. He was crazy as a loon. Yet, having graduated from the school and let loose in the community, he was considered one of Dr. Bettleheim’s successes.

“Crazy” in that time and place was seen as not-such-a-bad thing by those of us who were trying to escape our families’ values and Clifford found his place in that neighborhood of the weird and wannabe wild. I think Chesroe sort of took him under his wing. There was a third to that group, whom I’ll call Myron Hirsch as I can’t remember his real name. He was the only one of the three who seemed like a normal guy—had a business, wore suits, cut his hair and was said to have a wife.

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Clifford was at one end of the freak-to-straight spectrum and Myron at the other. In my mind, the further along one was towards the freaky end, the more appealing he was. Myron once made a pass at me, all stuffed into his three piece suit, and I was repelled. But--back to Clifford.

I don’t think I ever had a conversation with Clifford. I don’t know if he ever had conversations with regular people, and although by my family’s standards I was far from regular, by his standards…well I was probably not even on his radar screen. And although I may have only seen him once I remember the scene vividly.

We were in someone’s apartment, probably Chesroe’s as it had modern light wood furniture and Guatemalan wall hangings--better things than most of us could afford. Mike and I arrived after the party had started. Everyone was high on something, probably acid which was still legal at the time. Gene was there, maybe Hirsch and a few others whom I don’t remember.

The only one I clearly remember was Clifford. He was high as a kite.

I don’t know how he stayed in his body. He was small-boned, delicate, had lanky, light-brown hair that fell over a heart-shaped face. He was telling us something, enunciating the words with great care as if each one were of cosmic importance--something about taking a walk…outside…along a curb…pointing the way…with…his nose. It made no sense, of course, but I fell into something like Instant Like for him, if not actual Love. He seemed like Peter Pan or maybe a Big Fairy, a giant winged creature, translucent, almost transparent, who had descended to the Earth plane… maybe to bring us a message from Beyond… something that he never could quite deliver. Or maybe that we were just too dense to understand.

Two weeks later he was dead. According to Mike, he’d been at Chesroe’s and put in a call to his father in Las Vegas. He told his father he was going to shoot himself. No one knew what his father said but Clifford just put down the phone, picked up a gun and put a bullet into his head.

We never heard what happened exactly after that. I don’t know if there was a funeral or anything. All I knew was that Chesroe suddenly got married to a young ballerina he’d just met. Myron divorced his wife.

Mike and I eventually went our separate ways and I left Chicago. I haven’t thought about Clifford in ages. Well, maybe, there were times…and I’m almost ashamed to admit this...that there have been times, in burger joints where there was a bottle of Heinz catsup on the table that I’ve thought of him.

How terrible, I think now, that such a common object, a thick glass jar filled with cheap, red sticky stuff, would remind me of such a rare beautiful creature.

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Dioly Piedrahita

The Tengo Song I remember when I was a young child living on a farm in a small town called Guapi in the jungle of Colombia. My sisters and I used to play jump rope in the dirt next to the river. We used a handmade hemp rope that was for tying up the hammocks and as we played we sang different songs. My favorite song was the TENGO song:

TENGO, TENGO, TENGO

tu no tienes nada

tengo tres ovejas

en una cabaĂąa

Una me da leche

otra me da lana

y otra me mantiene

toda la semana

I did not realize, as I was laughing, jumping and singing, that my life was going to change and that I would never go back to living like an innocent child.

Life is like that. Things change. We often have no choice and we have to learn to adjust to what life gives us.

I was thirteen years old when my mother got very sick. It was a difficult for me that I will never forget. I had to grow up all at once. I had to leave my childhood.

It all started when my mother was pregnant with the last of her thirteen children.

During this pregnancy she got fat and developed diabetes. The first twelve children were all born at home and were healthy. However, because of my mother’s diabetes and weight, the doctor insisted that she deliver the last child in the hospital. For whatever reason, the last baby was not born healthy. Darisol was born with Down’s Syndrome. Then, after some months passed, my mother became very sick.

The first thing we noticed was the swelling in her body and her pain.

She could not work at all. Then her skin began to blister and peel away. The doctors treated her in the local hospital but did not know what to do for her.

After two weeks, the doctors finally told my father to take her back home because there was nothing left to do. He was told that she was going to die. My father did not accept this. Instead, he used all the family money to fly my mother to the big hospital in the capital of Cali, Colombia, where she could get better treatment. He was not going to let her die. She made it to Cali and ended up staying in the hospital for more than a year. During this time I had to take over the job of being a mother. I learned what it was like to have responsibility and to take care of children.

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Really, it was not a decision that I had to make; I was the oldest daughter in a family of thirteen children, so it was expected that I would be the substitute mother to my siblings. I took care of my five younger brothers and sisters. My father continued to work to be able to buy us food, clothing, and everything we needed as a family. He had to work extra to help to pay for my mother’s medical bills. Therefore, the work my mother had been doing then became my work.

At this time Darisol was only two years old, and she needed a lot of attention. Because she had severe Down’s Syndrome, she was unable to talk or walk, which made it more difficult for me. She could only moan when she needed something and I had to guess what she wanted. Also, I had four other younger brothers and sisters to take care of at the same time. It was so much work, but I never complained.

First, there were the diapers. We did not have disposable diapers, so I had to find torn pieces of cloth to use. When the diapers were dirty, I would go to the river to wash them along with all the clothes for the whole family. I can still remember smacking the clothes on the rocks in the Guapi river, and sometimes my hands would bleed after hours of washing. Later, I would hang the clothes on a wire line to let them dry in the hot sun.

Cooking was the other big job I had to do. We had no running water so someone had to go down to the river to bring it back in large wooden containers carved from Calabaso trees. There was no stove, so we used coal or firewood to make a fire in an adobe pit in the corner of the kitchen. Sometimes the coal was wet, and it would take a long time to dry before we could light a fire to cook. I had to boil water to make rice or vegetables. I had to clean the fish and take off their scales before frying or boiling them. I made juice from local fruits such as Maracuya or Lulo. I would grate the raw fruit and then add water and sugar to make it sweet. After serving lunch or dinner for twelve or more people, I had to clean the dishes. Occasionally, one of my siblings would help me, but most of the time I did the work myself. By the end of the day, I would be exhausted, and I felt that my body did not belong to me. Before, when I was jumping rope for hours and hours, I never felt as tired as I did working around the house cooking and cleaning.

I never thought about how hard my mother had worked for us when she was well. It was only after she went to the hospital, and I started doing her work that I began to appreciate her. I am not writing about this because anyone should feel sorry for me. I was happy to help my family, and I felt bad for my mother. It was not her fault that she got sick. The entire year that my mother was away from the family, I could not go to school. However, I probably learned more at home than I would have going to school. I learned to be responsible. I learned how hard my parents worked to give me and my siblings everything we needed. While my mother was in the hospital, I realized that I had not told her every day how much I loved and appreciated her. I learned that life is short and that we should give our best to those who are around us.

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My mother returned home after more than a year away, but I continued to cook and clean and take care of my family. I did not have time for playing anymore. Only at night before I fell asleep would I dream about singing the TENGO song while jumping rope: TENGO, TENGO, TENGO, tu no tienes nada tengo tres ovejas en una caba単a.

Una me da leche otra me da lana y otra me mantiene toda la semana.

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Allene Sewards

Hope and Faith

As I lay in my bed shaking with tremors and feeling like I was on the verge of death, I shouted to myself, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take!” Trying to detox myself at home was so difficult. Everything hurt: mind, body, and soul. This wasn’t the first time I had detoxed. Not by a long shot. But I knew deep down that I wanted it to be the last. I couldn’t live my life like this anymore, if what I was doing could even begin to be called living. I was a drug addict, and I needed help. Finally accepting this, I felt a deep sense of relief come over me. Being a drug addict didn’t mean I was a bad person. It just meant that I had lost my way somewhere on this path of life, and I needed some help to find my way again.

The feelings of relief didn’t last long. For one thing, I was still crashing from my last stretch of methamphetamine use. I had already slept for the most part of three days. I think I was on day four or five, which meant that the last traces of the drug were pretty much gone from my system, and yet my body and mind were screaming for more. This made it almost impossible to think of anything else. I was so scared, but I had made my decision. It was time for change, and change took action.

With every ounce of courage and strength I could collect, I pulled myself from my bed towards my bedroom door. I opened the door and walked through, feeling like a bear emerging from a long winter hibernation. My mom looked up at me from her morning coffee and the book she was reading with the pained expression on her face that I was all too familiar with. The last year had not been easy on her, having to watch her daughter waste away in front of her eyes. She looked back down at her book, expecting me to pass through the room on my way to the bathroom as I usually did, without speaking a word. I had become a ghost to my family. My presence acknowledged, but not part of.

“Mom,” I whispered.

“Yes,” she replied, with a faint look of surprise.

“We need to talk,” my voice cracked as I walked over to the couch and sat down.

She rose from her chair and came to sit next to me, putting her arm around me and drawing me close as she looked into my eyes and saw the tears. I knew then in that moment that she still loved me and would do anything in her power to help me. She had not given up on me, no matter what I had put her through this past year. I was sobbing now.

“I need help mom,” I cried. “It’s time for me to go to rehab.”

“Oh, thank God!” my mom exclaimed with relief. “Your dad and I have been talking about this for some time now. We didn’t want to push you. We’ve been doing some research, and statistics say that it’s much better if it’s the person’s 33

choice to go to rehab, rather than being pushed into it.”

“Well, I’m ready to go,” I responded. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore. I want a better life than this.”

“Of course you do, honey,” said my mom, who now had tears in her eyes. “That’s all I want for you too. We will get through this. Together. I promise.” We were both crying as we sat there and just held each other for a while.

After some time had passed and our tears had begun to subside, my mom said, “Let me call your dad and have him come over. He will know what to do.” My mom got up, went to the phone, and dialed my dad. The conversation was short and I wasn’t really paying attention to what was said. I did hear her say that she would see him soon, so I knew my dad was on his way. Another wave of relief washed over me. My dad always knew what to do.

I was lapsing in and out of consciousness when I heard my dad’s car pull up in the driveway. I was fully awake as he walked through the door and ready for the next steps that I would need to take. I stood up and rushed into my dad’s arms. “Everything’s going to be ok, sweetie,” Soothed my dad as a new wave of tears started to stream down my face. “Don’t worry, your mother and I will do all we can to make this as easy as possible.You just need to have a little faith that everything will work out in the end. Find that faith and hold on to it tight,” he said.

The rest of that day was a blur. I was still going through withdrawals which made the things I needed to do that day no easy task. Within no time I was put on the phone with Hoy Recovery Program. I had to answer what seemed like a million questions about all kinds of things. The telephone felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds and it took all my strength to make it through that phone call. The next day I was on my way to the doctor’s office to have a physical and a tuberculosis test. I needed both of these before I could be admitted into the rehab center.

A week later, I was settling into my portion of the room I shared with three other girls. I was nervous and excited at all my new surroundings. This wasn’t going to be easy, but I knew that I could do it.

I had done the hardest part. I had faced up to the fact that I had an addiction, and I could not overcome this problem on my own. I would work hard, and get everything I could out of rehab. This problem would not define the rest of my life. I now had the chance to live my life to the fullest, and I would do just that. As I thought on these things I felt something new, a feeling that I had not felt in so very long – hope.

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Maryellen Doyle

Susan Dugan: A Friend and Mentor

It is stunning to discover that a woman of such importance in my life would pass away without my knowing, months after the fact. How could this happen? I picture death stealing her away in the dark of night, or would sunshine have been closer to her truth? I think the latter, but I believe one’s demise is seldom of one’s choosing, and anyway none of that matters. Not to Susan, or me, right now.

One day near the end of August 2010 I was wandering around the school, not understanding why I was there, and becoming convinced that I didn’t belong in this bastion of youth. I had given thought to perhaps taking some courses, but changed my mind after I saw so many people I didn’t know. Someone directed me to the West Wing elevator, which would lead me to my car, and an escape from confusion. I stopped, not seeing any outside windows or an elevator, and wished I could faint, but didn’t know how.

There was no one to ask in the hall and as I was standing in the doorway of an office with a woman inside, I entered. I said, “Please help” and she led me to a chair and brought me a glass of water. I wondered if this lady had seen others in such a state. Ms. Dugan (I’d noted the nameplate on her desk) said that we would talk after I rested a bit. She returned to her work and I noticed there was no one else in the rather large room. That was a relief as I was convinced that I looked disheveled and a little loco, and that these people had never met me and didn’t know what a nice person I was. Ms. Dugan took a seat beside me after ten minutes or so and asked if there was something she could do, or get for me. I told her I thought I might register for a course. She offered that the registration area was around the corner, and that we could go there together. I nodded yes, even though I wanted to bolt. The lady in the window was courteous and friendly, and asked what I was interested in taking. I told her I’d like to try some Spanish, something easy, as I always wanted to speak the language. I chose credit over audit – to prove I was serious, intelligent, and ambitious. She said there was one opening in Beginning Spanish and that the professor was the head of the department! “Destino,” said Susan, and I suddenly realized I was fated to be here. The window lady then asked how I would like to pay – and because I had previously noted that I’d left my wallet at home while foraging in my bag for lunch money – I said I’d have to come back later. Susan pulled a small purse from her pocket and offered a few bills to the clerk. I was mortified. Not only could I not find myself around the place, but had no I.D. or money in my possession. I no longer wanted to faint – I just yearned to disappear. Susan acted as if this happened every day – I shouldn’t worry about a thing – and isn’t it wonderful that I got this outstanding professor? One of her favorites, she said, adding that I was not to tell anyone she said that. I was signed, sealed, and delivered. OMG! 35

Anyway that was our introduction, and as I took classes in the West Wing, I passed Susan’s office every day I was in school. She always seemed happy to hear my tales of professors, homework, and the awesome nature of being in school after a very long interval. When I received a scholarship she was there to remind me of her declaration of Destino.

My heavy schedule in the Fall of 2012 kept me in the Witter and Health Sciences Buildings and I was too busy to do much socializing. I didn’t know anything until the services had been held, the flowers wilted, and life had gone on. I’m sure that Susan went gently into that good night and probably didn’t rage against the dying of the light. That was her persona. She left important traces of having been here, one of which was the turnaround of my life during the past two years. I will never forget her intelligence, her knowing that I belonged here, and her caring – as long as I live.

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Personal Essay Honorable Mention Anastasija Bilnova

The Escape

I wrap myself in the warm and soft blanket. It feels like I am laying on a cloud. The sun is already high in the sky, but I still can’t get out of my bed. I slowly open my eyes and look around the room. The thick, black curtains don’t let the sun in, but it seems that only one brave beam has reached its destiny. I watch the dust dancing in the light. It feels like I am a bear, and I’m waking up from the long and deep winter sleep. I stretch my body, still wrapped in the blanket, and I hear my bones saying, “Good morning.” I reach for my pillow and lean it towards the cold wall. Still being sleepy, I sit down in my warm bed and gaze at my sleeping dog, Poppy Seed, laying next to me. Her jaw is wide open, and I can see her sharp teeth. I feel that I woke up today different; my life has changed. I am twenty-six, and I am strong and independent. But it wasn’t the same a year ago.

I sit in the patio holding a fresh hot cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in another. I usually don’t smoke, but I saw the pack of Marlboro Reds on the table, and it caught my attention. The cigarette tastes bitter, but I feel good holding the fumes inside my mouth. It makes me dizzy, and I feel relaxed. I think of my ex-boyfriend,Victor. I know I should have ended our relationship sooner, but I was not ready to let it go.Victor and I could talk about anything and everything. We were such good friends. Of course, I loved him so much too. I believe, detaching myself from the person who was controlling me, saved my life.

The smoke of the cigarette slowly rises into the sky. It reaches up and fades. I stare for a minute at the shapes of the fumes. It took me to the day when my boyfriend,Victor, put a hand on me.

I still vividly remember the night when my life changed. It was a warm Saturday November in 2012. I slept that day till the sun was high in the sky.

Because I had to work later on that day, I needed to be rested and have lots of energy. That sunny weekend the restaurant I worked at had New Mexico Gas and Oil events. As I expected, the night was filled with running around the tables, taking orders, refilling drinks. I was sweating as I was working hard. My coworkers and I didn’t have any incidents or feel any stress. To my surprise, everyone was in a great mood. At the end of the night, my friend Nicole, suggested that we would have a drink. “Why not?!” I thought in my mind.

Victor and I pulled my silver Honda into the parking space close to the Starbuck’s coffee shop in downtown Santa Fe. To my surprise, it was very quiet.

The streets were empty, and only the colorful signs looked lively. When I got out of the car, he hugged me, and we turned towards the majestic gated door. We entered the bar called “Milagro 139”. Immediately, my eyes found the familiar faces; it was my friends: Nicole and Mandy. They already held cups in their hands with the stress-releasing drinks. Nicole handed me one, “It’s your favorite, my 37

friend! Let’s celebrate!”

The night began when we cheered each other with our plastic cups.

Our faces were covered in smiles and laughs. We were funny and careless as we posed for the camera. The drinks began to warm our bodies and brains. The music became louder and the lights brighter. My legs began to move, and I realized I was dancing. I always loved to dance. I closed my eyes and felt the rhythm of the music, and I felt the happiness filling my stomach and brain. My friends, Nicole and Mandy, joined me immediately. We were dancing with each other and touching our warm bodies. The great company and the music were taking over. The outside world didn’t exist for us. We were enjoying the moment.

Suddenly, I felt a burning gaze into my eyes. I realized, my boyfriend Victor didn’t feel the same way I did. I came closer and gave him a warm kiss. I could see darkness in his eyes. He looked inpatient and worried. I tried to hail him with kisses and affection, but it was too late. His blood was pumping faster into his veins, and I could see the ticking bomb. As soon as my friends left us on the dancing floor, the night became my nightmare.

Victor looked at me and yelled with controlling voice, “We are leaving right now!” I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I was not ready to leave. I had such a great time. However, nothing could change his mind - not my kisses, nor my hugs. He was a boiling pot that was going to spill in a second. I wanted to wait for my friends to come back so that I could say goodbye to them, but he grabbed my arm and pushed me closer to the door. He kept insisting on leaving.

When I still stood like a tree on the dance floor, he took me outside from the back door with great force. I felt warm tears run down my cheeks. He held me tight while we went to the car. The words came out into the war. He let out as many swear words as he knew. Our voices echoed in the street. My legs were lacing with on each other, so I couldn’t catch up with his fast pace.

Finally, when we reached the car,Victor let me go. I calmly sat in the passenger’s seat, waiting for my escape. When he turned back for a second, I didn’t want to miss my chance. I opened the car’s door widely and ran as fast as I could.

Suddenly, his big strong arms grabbed me and lifted me from the ground.Victor carried me back to the car like a killer’s victim. I screamed for help and punched his strong back, but he had no mercy. I was trapped like a little bird in the cage.

The car engine began to moan when we were driving home. All I could think in my mind was how should I escape this situation. What should I do? Different ideas came to my mind. I decided to jump out of the car. My shaky hand found the button to open the door. The road was spinning fast, but I didn’t care. “My escape is here!” I murmured. But Victor was fast as an eagle grabbing his treasure, and he pulled me from my hair. “Shut the fucking door!” he screamed. As I was crouching under my seat, I could see the trees swirling. I cried all the way home.

The car stopped. What’s going to happen next? I don’t want to leave. I shivered like a leaf from the wind. He dragged me out from the car to his nest. My scalp was hurting from him pulling my hear. I mustered up all my strength to resist. I begged and screamed to leave me alone, and give me some space. The anger was blinding him. My try to escape just fired up his power and control. I bit his arm 38

and punched his face. His hands sunk into my neck. I felt warmth coming into my head, and everything around became unclear and dizzy. After a while, I felt strong punches into my face. In that moment, I gave up on myself, and I couldn’t fight anymore. I believed I would die. Then the miracle happened – he stopped. I heard the knock on my door, it was the police. My life was saved and Victor was taken away.

I went to my cold bathroom. I gazed in the mirror in the dark. I was scared to turn the light on because I knew I could be hurt by my reflection. I closed my eyes and I saw my boyfriend’s back. He was going towards the police car with his hands handcuffed behind. The last thing I saw was his brown eyes. He was looking at me with fear and obscurity. I felt as someone was putting needles in my heart. The sound of the sirens moved away and blended with the sound of the waking city. I was left with the huge hole in my soul. I felt a cold wind touch my feet. I trembled when I thought about him coming back, and it was then that I knew my life needed to change.

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Academic Essay Winner Aragon Smith

The Tell Tale Heart: A Deception of Insanity

“It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; … For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this!...” (Poe 37). From the very beginning of the short story “The Tell Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe, the narrator deceives and attempts to mislead the reader. In order to lead the reader to a certain conclusion, the narrator repeatedly claims insane and crazy things, and then claims that he is not really crazy. The narrator is clearly a ruthless, cunning, cruel man, and regardless of how he proposes the idea to the reader, the narrator is attempting to get away with murder. Is the narrator truly insane as he would lead the reader to believe? It becomes clear with closer observation of the evidence that, there is a different truth that is being deliberately obscured. The narrator is not truly crazy as he claims, but rather he is a liar attempting to hide the truth of his vicious murder of the old man.

Within the very first paragraph the narrator claims that he can hear “…things in heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell” (Poe 37), yet insists that he is not mad. With the insistence of something clearly and obviously unnatural, the narrator is introducing the idea that he is crazy to the reader very deliberately. The narrator states an idea that points to insanity, and then immediately claims he is not insane in an attempt to lead reader to the conclusion of insanity. Those who are truly insane do not usually recognize their insanity without assistance, usually from a professional attempting to help. A convicted serial killer who denies their own insanity is all the more chilling, because they do not recognize how they are “wrong” or different from the rest of society. By using this setup, the narrator is deliberately steering the opinion of the reader towards the idea that he is insane.

The use of repetition of this point attempts to further misguide the reader.

Further evidence of the narrator’s attempt to carefully guide the reader’s perception of him, is shown with further repetition of the claim of insanity followed by denial. The narrator states in the third paragraph: “Now this is the point.

You fancy me mad... week before I killed him” (Poe 37). By reinforcing the idea that he truly loved the old man, yet spent weeks plotting his murder, the narrator is indirectly claiming insanity. Yet the narrator carefully states “You fancy me mad...”(Poe 38), the narrator is clearly guiding the reader along the perception that he must be insane. In the middle of this all, the narrator attempts to claim that his cunning plot and preparations mean that he is not truly crazy at all. By constantly directing the reader towards the conclusion that the narrator must clearly be insane, a cunning and guileful obfuscation is being perpetrated upon the reader.

Near the beginning of his tale the narrator exclaims, “I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this!” (Poe 37). The narrator appears to have made up this information on the spot, implying a ruthless and cunning cover-up. As if to say “Why…why, AHA! I’ve got it, the evil eye! Yes! That’s it for sure!” This information stresses the fact 40

that the narrator is clearly lying, when combined with his later claim that it was the heart that fueled his fury, clearly shows that the narrator is changing the motive of the murder in the middle of his story. “And now have I not told you that madness … It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage” (Poe 38). In this paragraph, the narrator fully switches his story, showing that he is at best an unreliable source for information about both himself and the murder. It is no longer the eye that is his excuse for the murder, but now it is the beating of the old man’s heart! From this point on, nothing else is mentioned about the “evil eye” that supposedly drove him to murder the old man, only the beating of the heart is mentioned as driving him into madness. At this point the reader has been given several subtle clues that point to the fact that the narrator is untrustworthy, and a liar.

As the tale of murder continues, the narrator claims, “I then took up three planks from the flooring...deputed to search the premises” (Poe 39). The narrator’s statements reveal how he disposed of the body, and took his time to make sure that he left no trace. This statement clearly demonstrates the ruthless, calculating manner in which the narrator slew the old man, and gives the reader an insight into his cruel and savage nature. Within this statement, the narrator claims that by the time he finished disposing of the old man’s corpse it was 4 a.m. If the reader was to believe the statements of the narrator, it took the police hours to respond to the neighbors’ complaint of the old man’s scream. This simple fact shows again how the narrator is liar, and untrustworthy. If the neighbor was close enough to be woken up by a scream, this would imply that the home is within a town or city, where the houses are at least somewhat close together. Why then, should the reader believe that it would take hours for policemen to arrive? If the neighbor was woken by the screaming, and then reported it to the police, reason would state that the police would come quickly to investigate, yet the narrator had time to carefully dismember the corpse, rip up the floor, hide the body, and then clean up!

While there is not necessarily any evidence given that points toward the truth, the evidence shows that there is a gallingly large hole in the narrator’s tale.

Together, all of the evidence clearly supports that the narrator is not really insane as he claims, but rather, the narrator is deliberately obfuscating the truth about his cold blooded, cunning, premeditated murder of the old man. While the narrator may deny that he had any desire for the old man’s money, or any hatred towards the old man, it is nearly impossible to say whether or not this is the truth.

Throughout the whole tale the narrator shows himself to be a liar, and there is no mention of what relationship the narrator has to the old man. Are the narrator and the old man related? Is the narrator heir to any of the old man’s wealth or property? Is there any way for the narrator to benefit from the death of the old man? Regardless of where the truth may lie upon this issue, it is clear that within the setting of the tale (early 1800’s), then, as now, there is capital punishment for murder. While insane people were often committed to asylums in that time period, murders were usually hung. The narrator’s benefit for convincing others of his insanity is to preserve his own miserable life, which the narrator does deliberately, cunningly, and convincingly…almost.

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Academic Essay Honorable Mention Neda Vesselinova

The Quest for the Holy Grail: Traditional Legends and Monty Python

GOD: Oh, don’t grovel. One thing I can’t stand, it’s people groveling.

KING ARTHUR: Sorry.

GOD: And don’t apologize. Every time I try to talk to someone it’s

‘sorry this’ and ‘forgive me that’ and ‘I am not worthy’. What are you

doing now?

KING ARTHUR: I’m averting my eyes, O Lord

GOD: Well don’t! It’s like those miserable psalms; they’re so depressing.

Now knock it off! (Monty Python)

King Arthur is a legendary king of Britain. His actual existence is disputed by historians, but his literary presence endures to this day. Monty Python’s version is a modern take on a long line of stories and legends inspired by King Arthur and his knights. The British comedy group loosely follows the traditional storyline, creating along the way a chain of comical absurdities and historical mix-ups. Traditionally, the Grail is the most divine object in the Christian world and only the very best men can have a chance of seeing it. The hero King and the Holy Grail are not to be treated lightly, but require the highest admiration and respect. Precisely because the Arthurian legends are so idealistic and lofty, Monty Python’s irony and satire have a good basis. Humor thrives on contrasts and therefore the lack of humor in old texts is the perfect breeding ground for creating some.

Sir Thomas Malory wrote Le Morte Darthur in the fifteenth century, a book that “many considered the standard “‘history’ of Arthur” (King Arthur’s Knights). In the book Arthur is the son of Uther Pendragon and Igraine. His birth is arranged by Merlin, a sorcerer. Arthur becomes king at a young age after he fulfills a prophecy by pulling out a sword from a stone: “Whoso pulleth oute this swerd of this stone and anvyld is rightwys Kynge borne of all Englond” (Malory 8). King Arthur is the “perfect” king who is kind and just.

King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table live in the castle of Camelot. The Round Table is a group of equally respected knights; it is considered a great honor to be part of the fellowship. The fellowship’s main idea “was the love of God, men, and noble deeds” (King Arthur’s Knights). The knights would go on honorable quests, the most famous of which being the quest for the Holy Grail. The Grail is a cup used by Jesus during the Last Supper and later to “collect Christ’s blood and sweat while Joseph tended him on the Cross” (Britannia). St. Joseph is imprisoned afterwards without any food, and it is only by the Grail providing him with food and drink that he survives. The Grail is taken to the Great Castle of Corbenic to be protected by Joseph’s descendants, but the 42

location of the castle is forgotten. In the King Arthur legends, “it was prophesied that the Grail would one day be rediscovered by a descendant of St. Joseph: the best knight in the land, the only man capable of sitting in the mysterious Siege Perilous” (Britannia). The Siege Perilous is a seat at the Round Table that can only be filled by the knight who draws a sword out of a floating stone (Malory 499). Sir Galahad is able to pull out the sword and so he will be successful in finding the grail. Events are determined in Le Morte Darthur by almost formulaic reasons that aren’t questioned by anyone in the Arthurian world.

As with any popular story, there will be parodies (a satirical or humorous view of something). In 1975, the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail was produced by a group of British comedians. While a very silly version of old British legends may not seem to have any legendary or historical context, Monty Python and the Holy Grail does. By adding humor and modern sensibility to a well-known story, the movie takes history one step farther and transports it to the present. In one scene, King Arthur is talking to some peasants who ask how he became king, “The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. THAT is why I am your king,” to which one of the peasants replies “Listen, strange women lyin’ in ponds distributin’ swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony” (Monty Python). Nothing is taken at face value in Monty Python; even dirt digging peasants will pose elaborate questions.

The Knights of the Round Table, as described in old sources, are King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, Sir Geraint, Sir Gareth, Sir Gareth, Sir Gaheris, Sir Bedivere, Sir Galahad, Sir Kay, Sir Ector, Sir Bors de Ganis, Sir Lamorak, Sir Tristan, and Sir Percival (King Arthur’s Knights). Of those Sir Percival, Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, Sir Bors, and Sir Galahad vow to go on the quest for the Holy Grail. In Le Morte Darthur, King Arthur does not go on the quest. From the very beginning, each knight goes on his own adventure.

In Monty Python’s version, King Arthur originally is looking for knights to join him at his court in Camelot. He encounters and invites (in order) Sir Bedevere, Sir Lancelot the Brave, Sir Galahad the Pure, and Sir Robin the-notquite-so-brave-as Sir Lancelot. There are also other knights, but they meet their deaths without having their own adventures, and are only named once: Sir Bors, Sir Gawain, and Sir Ector. In the traditional legends, Sir Lancelot is the first knight to join Arthur; Sir Bedevere follows shortly after. Also, in Le Morte Darthur, Sir Lancelot is Sir Galahad’s father, but this isn’t addressed in Monty Python. In Monty Python, King Arthur leads the quest as all the knights advance in a group.

Later, the knights split up and go in different directions (with Sir Bedevere accompanying King Arthur) and face their own challenges.

As in Monty Python, the knights in Le Morte Darthur go their separate ways. Sir Lancelot comes across a tournament of black knights against white knights. The black knights are losing, so Lancelot helps them because it would be more honorable if they win. But they do not win. His defeat is explained to 43

him by an old lady: the white knights are good and the black knights are bad, and since Lancelot chooses their side for glory, he will share their sins. Only the purest of knights will succeed (Malory 537).

Monty Python’s version of Sir Lancelot’s tale is different, but in both Lancelot is vain and desires glory. Sir Lancelot gets a note that is a cry for help from someone who is being forced to marry, and Lancelot assumes it’s from a damsel in distress. When he goes to the castle, killing many guests and guards on the way, he finds out that the letter writer is a boy named Herbert. Herbert’s father is enraged, but after he finds out that Lancelot is from Camelot, he tries to marry him to the girl who was supposed to be Herbert’s wife. Repeated throughout this scene Sir Lancelot gets carried away and starts killing people.

His lust for bravery is harmful. Near the end of the film, after crossing the Bridge of Death, Lancelot is arrested and so he doesn’t continue the quest. This could be because he sinned, which is the reason for why he couldn’t find the grail in Le Morte Darthur.

Sir Robin is a character who doesn’t have an opposing character from traditional legends. Sir Robin is riding through the forest with his minstrels when he comes across a three headed monster. Rather than standing up for himself, Sir Robin runs away when the monster’s heads start arguing among themselves.

His minstrels sing about how “brave, brave Sir Robin, bravely ran away” (Monty Python). The Knights of the Round Table are considered to be noble, just, and brave, but sadly Sir Robin lacks all bravery.Yet his character feels more human than traditional heroes who rarely, if ever, display dubious qualities.

Sir Galahad the Pure is another glorified knight that gets into some comic trouble in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He has been trekking through the forest and he sees a castle with the picture of the grail illuminated above it.

The castle, called the Castle Anthrax, is home to “eightscore [hundred and sixty] young blondes and brunettes all between sixteen and nineteen-and-a-half ” (Monty Python), and all ready to challenge his chastity. Unfortunately, what he thinks is the grail is really their grail-shaped beacon. Sir Galahad is resistant at first, but when he finally decides to stay, Sir Lancelot barges in and rescues him from “great peril.” In the traditional sense, this can be interpreted as Lancelot acting as the father figure. The temptation of women seems to be a popular theme in Arthurian legends as knights should always be kind and chivalrous, but at the same time chaste and pure. This certainly is a dilemma, or in Monty Python’s version – an eightscore-fold dilemma. As Zoot, one of the women, says to Galahad, “You would not be so ungallant to resist our hospitality. We are… cut off in this castle with no one to protect us.” A similar scenario plays in an old Arthurian novel, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Gawain is lying in his bed when the lady of the castle comes to talk to him, and when they finish, she says “‘If Gawain were as good as his name, with every courtly virtue lining his heart, he’d never have stayed so long with a lady and left her unkissed: courtesy cries out against him!’” (Sir Gawain 97-98). In both versions of the quest for the Holy Grail, each character faces a personal challenge. In Sir Galahad’s case, the women of Castle Anthrax challenge his vow of chastity.

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“When such a man arrived in the form of Galahad, the son of Lancelot, along with a miraculous, though brief, vision of the Grail itself, a quest to find this holiest of relics began” (Britannia). Sir Galahad’s story in Le Morte Darthur is different in both themes and actions. Galahad’s purity is honored and he is rewarded by finding the Grail and becoming a king. His character is not challenged nor questioned, as it is in Monty Python. In Monty Python, Galahad considers the temptation and ends up being thrown into the Gorge of Eternal Peril, which could be interpreted as a cause-and-effect situation. Galahad’s story in the traditional legends is idealistic and almost predetermined.

After their separate journeys, the knights and King Arthur in Monty Python rejoin. After a year of traveling, they find Tim the Enchanter, who then directs them to the Cave of Caerbannog (a fictional place existing only in this movie) where there are runes that tell the location of the Holy Grail. The cave is guarded by a Killer Rabbit that murders Sir Bors, Sir Gawain, and Sir Ector, three knights that have no story in the film (unlike the traditional stories). The rabbit is destroyed and the mystic runes are revealed. They translate to “Here may be found the last words of Joseph of Arimathea. The Holy Grail may be found in the Castle of Aaarrggh” (Monty Python). After more challenges (in which Sir Robin and Sir Galahad are killed and Sir Lancelot is arrested), King Arthur and Sir Bedevere find the Castle of Aaarrggh. Unfortunately, the final attack is stopped by twentieth century police force, and the quest (and the movie) ends.

Religion is a major theme in Le Morte Darthur. The Holy Grail is connected to Jesus, but it’s more than that -- whoever finds the grail must be pure and free of sins. This quest wasn’t made by King Arthur; it was made by God to test the Knights of the Round Table’s “saintliness”. Sir Lancelot proves to be sinful, so he cannot find the grail, however his son Galahad may because he is pure. The knightly code that all of the Knights of the Round Table embody is chastity, unselfishness, and modesty rather than honor. In Monty Python religion has its part in the story, but people’s quirks are what propel the plot.

The idea of purity vs. sinfulness isn’t a theme in Monty Python’s version, but religion is mentioned. When faced with the Killer Rabbit, King Arthur decides to use the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch. A portion is read from the Bible and the descriptions of the feast and food are similar to those in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. In Monty Python, the Bible reads “And the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths, and carp and anchovies, and orangutans and breakfast cereals, and fruit-bats and large chu-” (Monty Python). In Sir Gawain “…Rare and delicate dishes were served, and venison in great slabs, and so many platters that there was almost no place to set them in front of the guests, broths and stews in overflowing abundance…and beer and wine flowed free” (Sir Gawain 60). Monty Python continues to make fun of the repetition in the Bible when reading the instructions on how to use the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch: First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, 45

being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in my sight, shall snuff it.

Each of the knights in Monty Python commits a sin: Sir Galahad almost becomes unchaste and Sir Lancelot kills many people unnecessarily. Sir Robin runs away from a monster, because he lacks bravery. Bravery is normally associated with knightly code, but in Le Morte Darthur, it is better to be humiliated than honored.

Le Morte Darthur is a book that bears the features of its time – the high style, the serious tone, the dramatic subject matter. A text like that does not easily translate into the modern point of view. In fact, the archaic language invites comedy. Monty Python supplies the missing part – the low style, the parody, the all-too-human failures, the absurd, the contradiction. It’s a kind of an intellectual quest that does not minimize or profane the story; it just ponders over the silly, untold part of it. Where Le Morte Darthur seeks the absolute, Monty Python aims for the absurd. Small, arbitrary things (“Ni” has pure, unquestionable authority) can have as much power over us as grand, divine things. Even God is annoyed at how pompous people are, how one-sidedly they approach him. Monty Python’s God is not unlike us -- he’s irritated by small things, and he does not want to be depressed and bored. And yes, this is something completely different.

The old tale and the modern viewpoint coexist, but they also clash.

The knight kills the high-brow historian, and consequently the police intercept the quest and alter the outcome of the story. It’s a legendary story that keeps on getting rewritten with some good laughs along the way.

Works Cited: Currin, Nathan. King Arthur’s Knights. 2001. Web. 22 Sep. 2012.

“King Arthur in Legend: The Holy Grail.” Britannia. Britannia Staff Article, 2011.

Web. 22 Sep. 2012.

Malory, Thomas. Le Morte Darthur. Ed. Stephen H. A. Shepherd. New York: W. W.

Norton & Company, 2004. Print.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Dir. Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones. Perf. Graham

Chapman, John Cleese, Eric Idle, Terry Gilliam, Terry Jones, and Michael

Palin. Michael White Productions, 1975. Film.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. New York: Signet Classics, 2009. Print.

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Academic Essay Honorable Mention Daniel Ellis-Green

Getting a Handle on Plastic Shopping Bags

A group of school-age children in Santa Fe, New Mexico, have joined together to try to convince the City Council of Santa Fe to follow the example of other cities like Los Angeles by banning plastic shopping bags (Grimm). It may be easy to cast a cynical eye upon such efforts since plastic shopping bags are just one component of the global environmental crisis. However, the passionate commitment of these children renders the issue worthy of a second look. On closer examination, one realizes that the proliferation of plastic shopping bags has led to more unsightly litter on city streets, problems in landfills, and the further degradation of earth’s already-stressed ocean environments.

Before taking a closer look at some of the specific impacts of plastic shopping bags, a little background information may help place the issue in its proper context. Plastic shopping bags were introduced in the United States in the 1970s by the oil industry. They did not catch on immediately, but today an estimated 100 billion plastic shopping bags are used annually in the nation. It takes about 12 million barrels of oil to manufacture these bags each year. Bags are typically used for 12 minutes before becoming trash. Due to the extreme thinness of the plastic, recycling of the bags is impractical. Indeed, fewer than 5% are recycled, so the vast majorities are discarded: either carelessly discarded to end up in city streets, stuck in trees, or washing into waterways and eventually the ocean; or more deliberately discarded where they will remain in city landfills for hundreds of years due to their non-biodegradable properties (Clapp 317 - 318).

In the film American Beauty, a plastic shopping bag dancing in the wind is captured by a student’s video camera and turned into visual poetry. A single bag isolated thus in the context of the film’s themes of isolation and misunderstanding is quite different from an average city street, where several dozen such bags might blow around on any given day. Litter on city streets has always been a problem, and now plastic shopping bags show up just about everywhere. Some social commentators in other countries have taken to referring to plastic shopping bags as visual pollution, and the phrase can be applied to the situation in the United States as well (A.T. 359). Plastic shopping bags are prone to catch in the branches of trees and remain there more or less indefinitely, like unwelcome and out-ofseason Christmas decorations. They collect in corners of vacant lots and cling to fences along roads and sidewalks, unwittingly creating banners of allegiance to American consumerism. They are visual reminders of a culture of disposability.

With 100 billion plastic shopping bags being used and discarded every year, it is not difficult to imagine a time in the future when plastic shopping bags will no longer merely accentuate our visual landscape, but instead will completely dominate it.

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Plastic shopping bags that are disposed of properly cause at least as many problems as their wind-surfing counterparts do. Plastic shopping bags that make it to a landfill are likely to be there for several hundred years to come, some filled with other waste that will also take longer to break down thanks to the protection of the bag. According to Environmental Politics, plastic shopping bags do not biodegrade, but will instead break down into smaller pieces in a process known as photodegradation. This process can take as long as 1,000 years. The smaller pieces can be mistaken as food by wildlife, and the impacts on the animals, the soil, and the water are not yet fully understood (Clapp 318). It is known, however, that the chemicals from which the plastics are made cause great harm to life, with links to cancer in humans and other mammals (Boughton 168 - 170, Groopman 26). In addition, the bag’s natural tendency to collect and hold water can create problems wherever the bag ends up. For instance, mosquito larvae only need a quarter inch of water in which to reproduce and grow. Combined with rising global temperatures, there is a risk that diseases such as malaria, which have been more prevalent in tropical climates, will now spread unchecked into the northern hemisphere (Clapp 318).

Many plastic shopping bags are finding their way from land into the oceans. This may well be the biggest concern surrounding this issue. Consider that water covers three-quarters of the earth’s surface, and that roughly half of earth’s species live in this water (Oceanography). Plastic shopping bags that end up in the oceans and seas will certainly have an impact on fragile ecosystems that have already been pummeled by oil spills, mercury, lead, and other carbon-based toxins (Sheavly 301 - 303). According to the United Nations, a stunning 46,000 pieces of plastic fill in every square mile of the ocean (Action). In a memorable scene from the film Addicted to Plastic, Captain Charles Moore of the Algalita Marine Research Foundation analyzes water samples in the Pacific Ocean, which contain a staggering ten parts of plastic debris per one part plankton and other naturally occurring organisms. In other words, the stuff that belongs in the water is outnumbered ten-to-one by stuff that is not supposed to be there. An article for Environment Complete points out that plastic shopping bags floating in the water can look like jellyfish to sea turtles. Unfortunately, the turtles cannot regurgitate a plastic shopping bag once it is swallowed. The sea turtles slowly starve to death because the bags leave them feeling permanently full. This phenomenon also affects seabirds and many other varieties of sea mammals (Sheavly 303). One only has to consider the food-chain to realize that all of this does have an impact on anyone who eats seafood. If diners knew that their meals had eaten some plastic before being served to them, they might want to know more about the health implications of ingesting these chemicals. It is a global problem, which can make it seem insurmountable. Even so, there are those who have decided to do what they can.

In April of 2008, Santa Fe City Councilor Chris Calvert proposed attaching fees to the use of plastic shopping bags to discourage consumers from using them. While other cities such as Seattle had managed to put such fees in place, Calvert’s proposal was unsuccessful (Boyd). Now, four years later, the 48

Business and Quality of Life Committee in Santa Fe, identified by the Albuquerque Journal as a Citizen’s Advisory Committee, has brought the matter back to the City Council. The new proposal goes further than the one from four years ago, and stipulates that plastic shopping bags should be banned from stores altogether. Paper bags would be allowed, but would cost 10 cents each (Hay).

This was the news that inspired a group of Santa Fe elementary school children to get involved. The group, which calls itself the Go Green Club, fashioned one huge plastic bag from several dozen discarded plastic shopping bags. They then entered their large bag in the recent Recycled Santa Fe Art Festival. The scale of the piece was meant to convey how lots of little bags have turned into such a big problem.

While working on the project, the children discussed how even if production of shopping plastic bags came to a halt today, there would still be several trillion discarded bags across the globe. The local effort is a relatively modest one, but if a similar effort were made in all cities, it would be a good start to help reducing the problems that plastic shopping bags cause on city streets, in landfills, and in the ocean. Even so, it seems safe to say that fans of the so-called plastic bag scene in American Beauty are in no danger of running short of real-life performing bags to divert them on breezy days.

Works Cited “Action Urged to Avoid Deep Trouble in the Deep Seas.” UNEP. United

Nations Environment Programme, 16 June 2006. Web. 9 Nov. 2012.

Addicted to Plastic. Dir. Ian Connacher. Bullfrog Films, 2007. Film.

American Beauty. Dir. Sam Mendes. DreamWorks SKG, 1999. Film.

A.T. Tolmay, et al. “Photodegradation: A Solution For The Shopping Bag ‘Visual

Pollution’ Problem?.” South African Journal Of Science 97.9/10 (2001): 359.

Environment Complete. Web. 10 Nov. 2012.

Boughton, Barbara, Michael Stefanek, and Ted S. Gansler. Reduce Your Cancer Risk:

Twelve Steps To A Healthier Life. n.p.: Demos Health, 2010. eBook

Collection (EBSCOhost). Web. 10 Nov. 2012.

Boyd, Dan. Journal Staff, Writer. “Shopping Bag Tax Proposed; Paper or Plastic

May Get ‘Green Fee’.” Albuquerque Journal (NM) 10 Apr. 2008: 4.

NewsBank. Web. 10 Nov. 2012.

Clapp, Jennifer, and Linda Swanston. “Doing Away With Plastic Shopping Bags:

International Patterns Of Norm Emergence And Policy Implementation.” Environmental Politics 18.3 (2009): 315-332.

Environment Complete. Web. 10 Nov. 2012.

Grimm, Julie Ann. New Mexican Staff, Writer. “Students, Policymakers Look

for Plastic-Bag Ban in Santa Fe.” Santa Fe New Mexican (NM) 13 Aug.

2012: C1. Print.

Groopman, Jerome. “The Plastic Panic.” New Yorker 86.15 (2010): 26-31. Literary

Reference Center. Web. 10 Nov. 2012.

Hay, Kiera. Journal Northern, Bureau. “Activists Want To Bag the Bags; Santa

Feans Look At Issue Again.” Albuquerque Journal (NM) 02 Oct. 2012:

NewsBank. Web. 10 Nov. 2012.

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Hay, Kiera. Journal Staff, Writer. “Law Would Reduce Number of Plastic Bags.”

Albuquerque Journal (NM) 30 Sept. 2012: 1. NewsBank. Web.

10 Nov. 2012.

“Oceanography.” The Macmillan Encyclopedia. Basingstoke: Macmillan Publishers

Ltd, 2003. Credo Reference. Web. 10 November 2012.

Sheavly, S., and K. Register. “Marine Debris & Plastics: Environmental Concerns,

Sources, Impacts And Solutions.” Journal Of Polymers & The Environment

15.4 (2007): 301-305. Environment Complete. Web. 10 Nov. 2012.

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