VOICES by Voices Literary Magazine

VOLUME 2 ISS U E 1 FALL 2010

VO L UM E 1 IS S UE 2 AUT UM N

VOICES VOI CES The Literary Magazine West Valley The Literary Magazine of WestofValley CollegeCollege

VOICES LAURA SYLVAN

Editor in Chief

DRU CARTIER

Assistant Editor

ERICA LAMONT

Assistant Editor

MOLLY CAHILL

Copy Editor

Advisors JANINE GERZANICS SUSAN SCHULTER

VOICES is published each fall and spring and is produced by students at West Valley College. Current and former students, alumni, faculty and staff of the college are invited to submit their work for consideration. We accept original fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry, literary criticism, opinion pieces and art on a rolling basis. Submissions and questions may be directed to editor@voicesmag. org. The views expressed in VOICES are not necessarily those of its editors or staff. West Valley College is not responsible for the contents of this magazine. No portion of the contents may be reprinted without written permission of the editors or originators. All rights reserved. Copyright ÂŠ 2010 by VO I C E S Literary Magazine Printing by California Printing Services, San Jose, CA

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P OE T RY Hummingbird

CATHERINE WOOD PHIPPS

The Wandering Bhikkhu

JAKE DEOME

the perpetual lazarus

B. ALEXANDER

The Practicing Ballerina

BRENDA NORRIE

Strange Laundry

LAURA SYLVAN

the spider

B. ALEXANDER

22nd Street

JENNIFER DAY

He Said, She Said.

STEVE DOBOS

Paradise

CARLEEN GEHUE

Morning Messages

CARLEEN GEHUE

Love is a…

DRU CARTIER

Push

LAUREN BULLENE

When

STEVE DOBOS

Monsters Under My Bed

SHAWNTAE STRICKLAND

I am a Word Vampire

CATHERINE WOOD PHIPPS

Censorship

ERIN CABALLERO

FICT I O N The Centerpiece

Halcyon: Two Hours on Wednesday

LAURA FONES

Hurricane

SHAY MOSSING

Middleton Road

THOMAS BURNS

The Diagram of Order in the World

MARKUS ROBINSON

INTERVIEW

PAULETTE BOUDREAUX

F O L I O

An Interview with Mike Tinoco

LAURA SYLVAN

Beneath the Surface

MIKE TINOCO

The Earth is not a Cold Dead Place

MIKE TINOCO

Food for Thought

MIKE TINOCO

A RT Canadian Roots

ERICA LAMONT

I Don't Know

MAC CAHILL

Triangle

MAC CAHILL

Late Bloomer

MOLLY CAHILL

Last Chance

MOLLY CAHILL

The Academy

BENJI REHA

Purple Palace

CARTER YU

Say That Again

MOLLY CAHILL

Toe Jam

MOLLY CAHILL

Simple Pleasures

ARIS MILLARE

Hey look! A Jabbawockee

ARIS MILLARE

Hong Kong Lights

CARTER YU

CREAT IV E

NO N - F I CT I O N

The Breast Exam

LITERA RY

IRENE SURBER

A N A LY S I S

Through the Eyes of a Child

MIKE TINOCO

The Mariner’s Fortune

REBEKAH CHUNG

The Mechanism of Perpetual Indeterminancy in “Popular Mechanics”

MIKE TINOCO

OTHER VO I CE S Third World Feminist: Beneath the Veil

EILEEN LEWIS

India’s Celluloid Prism: Making Sense of War in India

WILLIAM TRESEDER

L E T TE R

F R OM

T H E

ED I TOR

The word that comes to mind as I read through these pages is diversity—not the overused and politically correct version of diversity—but rather as a diversity of voices representing our dreams, fears, hopes, and visions of where we have been and where we hope yet still to go. Paulette Boudreaux’s fictional offering, “The Centerpiece,” takes us back to the time in childhood when the veil of innocence is lifted, and we are reluctantly initiated into the mysteries of the adult world—a passage that is mixed with fear and wonderment. Carleen Gehue’s poems “Paradise” and “Morning Messages” speak to the claiming of independence with the selfawareness of a young adult. Irene Surber’s creative nonfiction piece, “The Breast Exam,” brings vulnerability to a difficult topic, leavening it with the lightest touch of levity. New to this edition are two articles under the flag of “other voices”—social and political analysis pieces— which I am especially pleased to include. “Third World Feminist: Beneath the Veil” by Eileen Lewis takes a look at cultural assumptions surrounding the wearing of the hijab. William Treseder’s article “India’s Celluloid Prism: Making Sense of War in India” examines the connection between India’s film industry and war, and the media manipulations behind the emergence of a new national identity. VOICES as a magazine—as represented by the efforts of our editors—also has hopes and aspirations. Changes are in motion, with plans to have future editions open for submissions from community college stu-

dents outside of the West Valley campus. Even as the magazine stretches beyond the borders of our college, VOICES will continue to highlight the artistic and academic voices of our community. VOICES is also pleased to have chosen a logo for the magazine, a large live oak that grows on West Valleyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grounds. The image, which can be seen on our copyright page, is apt not just because it physically represents our beautiful campus, but because the live oak is a tree that is known to remain green, or â&#x20AC;&#x153;live,â&#x20AC;? all year round. The image was created in pen and ink by one of our original editors, Christine Krause, and will continue to be used to link the heart of our community to all future editions. Finally, I wish to add a personal note of gratitude and thanks to Janine Gerzanics, who as an educator, mentor and friend, has been a stalwart supporter of VOICES since before it even had a name. Not only has she nurtured and supported my efforts to launch this magazine publication into existence, but she has given the same tireless support to countless other journalism and English students toward the fulfillment of their own educational dreams. She is a font of energy, positivism, and a phenomenal amount of information and insight on Shakespeare and all things British literature.

Hummingbird CATHERINE WOOD PHIPPS

" " " " I am bound by no vessel save the honeyed blossom. No heart is as sweet as its nectar, no chalice as deep. It alone is my love, my companion, my sustenance. For I belong to no man. Hence my song can not be heard, for it can not be sung.

CATHER INE

WOOD

P HIP P S

The Wandering Bhikkhu JAKE DEOME

The road is his home His pots clanging with each step Chanting with his pack With dust on his feet And his hair matted with dirt Beauty is hidden At midnight he sleeps Leaning against an oak tree Acorns hit his head He wakes with the sun Meditates until breakfast Nourishing his mind By noon he is gone Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lost with no direction Praising the Buddha Service to the mind Is the meaning of his nights The world is a dream No leaves or carrots Growing in the ground, the mind Creates these visions He wanders the world Searching for truth, beauty and The path of Buddha 2

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The Centerpiece PAULETTE BOUDREAUX

It was their whispering that woke me, summoning me from my dreams to face a drama that had begun to unfold while I slept. My parents’ hushed urgent voices pushed through the stagnant night air and penetrated the plank wall that separated their room from the one I shared with my younger brothers. Their voices saturated the empty spaces in our room like the pungent smell of ozone collecting in the air before a thunderstorm. “Hurry up Gene,” Momma hissed. Her whisper cracked in the middle, exposing a tight, serpentine voice. “This one’s different than the others. I can’t tell how much time I got.” Fear rose in me like a tiny dark ball. In the silvery darkness, I scanned the nooks and crannies of the room where I slept, seeking a hiding place for my imagination. I looked into the dull shadow of the big ill-painted dresser where our clothes were kept; into the corner beside the rickety rocking chair that used to belong to our grandmother; at the foot of my bed beside the marred wooden trunk that had belonged to our great-grandmother; into the bed across the room from me where nine-year-old Roy Anthony and seven-year-old Earl, slept. I listened to the adenoidal breathing of my two-year-old brother, June Bug, who slept beside me, his tiny dark head lolled carelessly in the folds of his pillow. I stared into the dark cave of his open mouth.

PAULET T E

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In the other room, Daddy mumbled something and the bedsprings on his and Momma’s bed sighed with relief. Daddy’s booted feet clumped across the wooden floor on the other side of the wall. The front door whined open, then closed, and Daddy was gone into the cool fall night and I was relieved. So I wasn’t going to hear drama between Momma and This was how it often was between Daddy after all. My fear receded. Momma moaned and began panting, us, her mouth closing down around dog-like. I gazed at the ceiling above me certain secrets, her eyes warning me and pictured her body, swollen big with to move on to something else. the baby that had been riding low in her stomach for about a month now. “Babies move around,” she had said, irritated when I pointed out that her stomach looked different. When the baby was first growing there, her belly had been high and round like a volleyball. Now it looked more like a smooth oblong watermelon lying on its side. “How come babies move around?” I had prodded. “Babies ain’t none of your business,” she told me, her 11-year-old girl-child, and refused to say anymore. This was how it often was between us, her mouth closing down around certain secrets, her eyes warning me to move on to something else. When each of my brothers was born, I had been sleeping, or at school, or some place else out of the way. This had been fine with me since I had never been especially interested in knowing much about the arrival of babies, except why Momma kept bringing home brothers and not one sister. It occurred to me then that maybe she was about to have the baby that was none of my business. The front door hinges whined again. “The taxi-cab will be here directly,” Daddy said, breathless. He had probably run along the dirt road of the Quarters out to the nearest pay telephone at Watkins’ Grocery Store a half mile away, then back home again. I imagined him standing in the doorway, sweaty but calm, puffing and holding his chest like I did when I was winded. “What you think?” Daddy asked. This time he didn’t whisper. “You may as well gone get Maddy up. She big enough now. I can tell her what to do,” Momma answered. The light from my parents’ room crept across my face as the door to me and the boys’ room opened. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep as Daddy tiptoed in. His shadow spread over me and June Bug. “Maddy,” he whispered, his voice

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rising from a strange hollow place in his chest as he leaned over the bed. His breath, with its sweet metallic scent, brushed my cheek. “Maddy,” he said again, lifting my hand from the cover and shaking it, as if he were introducing me to something. I groaned and tried to turn away from him. The fear I sensed in the folds of his voice and the desperate pressure of his fingers on my hand had made my own fear return. I didn't want any part of whatever it was Momma thought I was big enough for now. “Maddy, we need you to get up,” Daddy said, squeezing my fingers more aggressively in his calloused palms. “Come on now. Get on up. Your mama needs you.” My heart beat wildly in my ears, as I sat up, crawled out of bed, and followed him into their room. Momma sat on the edge of their bed wearing a green spaghetti-strapped summer dress with tiny yellow flowers on it. She had always warned me against wearing summer clothes after the first frost, yet here she sat on a chilly October night, dressed for summer. My fear fanned out around me like a shield. Momma’s coarse black hair was pulled back into a nappy ponytail at the base of her neck. The harsh glare from the bare light-bulb, hanging from the ceiling, made the tiny beads of sweat on her forehead sparkle like jewels against her dark skin. Her face was puffed and swollen as she hunched forward over the baby in her belly. She looked up at me suddenly with fierce, almost angry eyes. “Maddy, I’m fixing to go to the hospital,” she said, reaching toward me. I went to her reluctantly, afraid of the fierceness. Her cold damp hands clutched mine as I faced her. I bit the inside of my cheek when she trembled and squeezed my fingers in a crab-like grip. She shut her eyes and bent forward over her stomach again as if listening to something the baby had to say. Her cheeks quivered and she growled low in her throat then began panting like an animal, and I knew that the baby was tearing at her from inside. I glanced back at Daddy. He stood in the doorway, shoulders slumped in useless bewilderment, hands thrust deep into his pockets, staring at Momma. My 12-year-old friend Esther had told me that babies tore through their mothers’ flesh when they were ready to be born. “The mamas scream and holler and they bleed like pigs on killing day,” she had said with the air of authority. I had listened attentively, sure it was one of her lies. I didn’t want to believe her, but she had been insistent. “That’s why ladies have to stay in the hospital so long

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after they have a baby,” she explained. “They have to get sewed back together. When they gets home you can see the lines on they stomachs where the skin growed back together.” Esther had extracted a promise from me when she chanted, “We ain’t never going to have no babies, right?” Back when the weather was the right for Momma’s spaghetti-strapped summer dress, Esther and I sat in the breezy shade of a weeping willow tree near the Harvest Quarters creek and went gone so far as to make a blood and spit pact to seal the agreement. I allowed her to prick the palm of my right hand with the hungry point of a pin. I watched the tiny crimson bubble of life rise, anxious to cover the hole the pin had made in the middle of my palm, while she pricked her own palm. Then we spit in our left palms and stared at each other, awed by the power of the ritual we had set in motion. Esther crossed her arms at the elbows and extended her hands toward me, “Gimme,”she demanded, and I reached out obediently, clasping her hands, my right palm to her right palm, my left palm to her left palm. “Blood to blood, water to water…” she intoned quietly and closed her eyes, shutting me out of the darkness and desperation that made her so hateful toward her future. “Are you listening to me Maddy?” Momma's voice cut into my remembering. Her eyes were like shiny black and white marbles. “Sorry sugar,” she said, shaking my hands playfully. “Don’t look so scared. Everything is going to be fine. Daddy’s about to take me to the hospital so I can deliver this new baby. But I need you to look out after the boys, specially tonight and tomorrow morning ’til your daddy gets back home. Then you going to need you to help him and Mother Parker take care of the boys ’til I get back home. I’m gone be at the hospital for about a week.” Momma was talking rapidly as if she was watching grains of sand hurry through the narrow neck of an hourglass and knew her time for talking would soon be up. I watched her mouth, not wanting to face the fierceness in her eyes. “Everyday after Daddy goes to work, you gone need to make sure the boys eat something,” she continued. “Then make sure Roy and Earl wash the duckbutt from their faces and comb the BB shots from they heads and put on good school clothes. Then take June Bug next door to Mother Parker’s as the rest of y’all head to school. At the end to the day, y’all come on home like you always do and you pick up Junie Boy on the way. Then wait for your Daddy to get in. The most important thing, you’ve got to take care of your brothers. Promise me you’ll do this.”

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Momma’s fingernails dug into my palms as if she and I were making a pact like Esther and I did. She flinched and her body went rigid as she arched her back a little, making the thin fabric of her dress draw tight against her huge belly. Her belly was no longer round and smooth. It was knotted and lumpy. I stared at the unmistakable shape of the curled desperate baby beneath her flesh. A hard ball of terror rose from my guts to my throat and I was suddenly hotly aware that something frighteningly significant was happening to her. It went beyond Esther’s dark warnings about how babies got born, and beyond my fears. So I held on to Momma’s hands, wanting to enter into that place where she seemed to be facing pain without fear. “Promise me you’ll take care of your brothers,” Momma repeated, shaking me a little so that I looked up into her eyes. She narrowed her eyelids, pressing the sharp point of her pain into me. “Promise me.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I promise,” I said, and to my own ears I sounded like an angry child. Momma let go of my hands and leaned back on the bed, bracing herself with her arms. She closed her eyes, dropped her head back, and began to pant. I backed slowly toward the door and bumped into Daddy. He put his hands on my shoulders and dug his fingers into my flesh. I turned to look up at him. His mouth hung open. His tongue was pressed against his bottom teeth. He had put the baby there, but he was helpless now that it wanted out. His eyes were focused on Momma, so I turned my gaze back to her too. Her spine was curved in a graceful arch. The rounded outline of her breast and her belly rose like a lumpy mountain range at her center. Her breath was steady and shallow, moving in and out of her throat with the rhythmic precision of girls twirling a jump rope. As I watched, her image slid away from me like an object seen through the wrong end of binoculars. She became a miniature work of art, a glass figurine that could be won as a prize at the State Fair. As this image was singeing itself into my memory, I was floating in a silent landscape alone with Momma. Awe washed over me like a warm sparkling liquid, slowing the thumping of my heart and calming my breath. For a few breaths I was suspended in a closed world with Momma. A world that women like Momma knew—a world that I might someday know. The moment passed, as such moments must. Momma returned to herself, exhaling a long slow breath of satisfaction and relief. She lowered her head, sat up straight, looked at me, and smiled, a co-conspirator’s smile that enveloped me

PAULET T E

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in the white-hot experience of pregnant womanhood. Her eyes, dark fiery slits of charcoal and ivory beckoned, calling me to acknowledge her world—a place of exquisite pain and joy. Did you see? she seemed to ask. The palms of my hands burned with the imprint of her fingernails. Of course I had seen, I had even felt the inside of her world. How could I not? Her world had been slowed down and magnified for my benefit, and it was still hovering around me like a foreign landscape. In this foreign world I was aware of everything: the muffled heartbeat of the baby; the quiet heat of the pale yellow light cast by the light bulb hanging from the ceiling; the tinny tick-tick-tick of metal pieces colliding to pass time inside the clock on Momma’s dresser; the slow gravity of the paint peeling in ugly patches from my parents’ metal bed frame; the quick rush of blood inside my own veins; the stoic fear hidden in Daddy’s heavy breath which brushed the back of my head each time he exhaled. “Gene,” Momma said, turning her feverish gaze away from me. Daddy grunted, released his grip on my shoulders, and moved toward Momma. I tumbled back to a heady reality, bloated and dizzy with new knowledge. I had seen enough. I wanted to get away and come back when Momma was no longer moving in and out of pain with animal beauty, and the baby was nicely swaddled in a soft blanket, peering out at me with vacant, dim eyes, humbled by its own helplessness.  I did not see a birth that night. The taxi came and I stood backlit in the harsh light of my parents’ doorway and watched Momma, leaning on Daddy as they made their way along the river of light flowing from our house to the road. Daddy had one arm around her shoulders. His free hand held together the front edges of the fuzzy, dark-blue mohair sweater he had draped over her before they headed out of the house. She held a small battered black suitcase in one hand. Between the front porch and the taxi, another spasm overwhelmed Momma and my parents stopped in the middle of the yard. Momma dropped the little suitcase and gripped Daddy’s arm with both hands. I imagined her fingernails digging into his arm, initiating him into the pain of what was happening to her now that the baby wanted to come into the world. Momma stood with her knees apart and slightly bent, her spine curved and gaunt like an Indian’s bow. “Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus…” she begged voraciously. 8

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Standing like that my parents became one object, a fountain centerpiece, connected as solidly as if they were pieces of metal welded together. Her hungry incantation was the water, blown upward from her throat and sent cascading back down, enclosing them in a world that excluded me. I was seeing a hint of the unnamable thing that had bound them together and compelled them to create—me, my brothers—this new baby. Watching my parents, their bodies connected and communicating in a language only they seemed to know, I wanted to run forward and put myself in the middle of that little world they had made and disrupt it. They were too much of a mystery to me in those moments—as fathomless as the origin of the stars winking in the dark canopy of the night sky above them. That felt unbearable to me then. I wanted to see them as I always had—simple, transparent, ordinary grownups—not as a lifegiving centerpiece out of which I had been carved and set forward in the world. I wanted them back the way they were before Momma decided I was big enough to let me see her in labor, big enough for her to ask me to take care of my brothers. Momma’s pain stopped and she and Daddy retreated into their separate selves. But they still moved as a unit, leaning on each other, their steps matching, their heads bowed, into the taxi, into the darkness beyond the reach of our front porch light and my gaze.

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the perpetual lazarus B. ALEXANDER

I. –excuse me, sir? “Excuse you, boy!” “Boy, etherized before me, can you tell me all the names of the stars in the skies?” “The streetcorners of the universe you occupy?” –no, sir, but i do not remember much, but i do remember the pearls that were her eyes “Pearls, boy? You think you know something about the ocean?” “Boy, have you sank yourself low” “Low, low, to the bottom” “Where you will find the Leviathan, the perpetual” “Lazarus, back from the dead, given no choice” “Given no choice to rest among the dead.” –i know lazarus, sir, and i know what he says: “I am Lazarus, come back from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

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II. –but i have heard lazarus, repeating himself over and over and over again “I am LAZARUS. I HAVE COME BACK. I SHALL TELL YOU ALL.” –but i must flush my ears, for i have rested in the languid pools the languid pools of the pearls that were her eyes and these were which i learned of the Ocean where i perpetually drown, smiling wide after the mermaids sung each to each (but not to me) and as i speak to my body, i can’t help but move to ask it the overwhelming and eternal question of Baudelaire: “Where would you like to go?” “Where would you like to go?” “Where would you like to go?” and the body replies, of course in irritation: “Anywhere, anywhere out of this world!”

III. –and it is here, sir, in the pearls that were her eyes i have come to somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience and i find myself opened by her tiny hands (smaller than any snowflake or raindrop) and i have found my place out of this world

B. A L E X A N D E R

The Practicing Ballerina BRENDA NORRIE

With one hand on a bar The other, on an outstretched arm, is reaching Fingers are gracefully bending All the while extending Music is humming distantly in the background And is inspiration for the dancer Calf muscles retract And her foot begins to flex and point The count is taking its time But it still reaches to eight

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Strange Laundry LAURA SYLVAN

So many unmentionables agitating in the washer, soft underwear with fragile elastic, fading flowers on silky battered cotton thrashing against sturdy white briefs with proud pocket openings big enough to thrust through a fist. Our home had strange laundry, pillowcases and linens with rust-colored streaks everyone knew to soak first in icy water and then to scrub by hand so that our sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s secret, that nightly she carved by hand into her legs and arms, leaving open weeping whispers against the sheets, would remain unmentionable.

LAUR A

SY LVAN

the spider B. ALEXANDER

“eek! a spider!” she shouted jumping with passions i’d never seen before, “get it out! get it out!” she sung in a voice i’d never heard, i kicked her out instead; i’d hoped for her to stay, but this act: i could not allow for her to continue unaware. i told her, “come back later.” she pouted, but i knew it was well-deserved; besides, when she left, i spent the night drinking and smoking with the spider. he had some tough times, but boy was he funny. it was good to catch up. 14

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Halcyon: Two Hours on Wednesday LAURA FONES

There’s a break between my classes, from eleven to one, during which I perform a ritual. Every Wednesday I leave campus, go to my car, turn the ignition, and drive to a single-story motel in the in-fill of Brea. This motel is run by a silent Indian man who copies credit cards onto carbons and keeps duplicates of client driver’s licenses. What’s surprising even to me is how ordinary he is; how unmoved by the goings-on in his establishment. His traditional views must rankle against the business of renting rooms by the hour. But perhaps he’s of a low, low caste; an Untouchable. And, instead of shoveling waste in the equatorial sun of India, he and his compatriots have found better work in letting rooms at competitive rates. In the parking lot, I recognize a Toyota Avalon. I loathe the days when I arrive first, left panting in the sun-saturated cabin of my little Honda. A thousand things keep my lover busier than I: meetings with grad students, donors, or other faculty. I imagine myself very small in the scheme of his life; a minor character in a tapestry, like the fox or the rabbit, not even a member of the hunting party, and meant to signify an unimportant virtue. The door of room one-oh-eight is ajar: a kind of invitation. 

LAUR A

FONES

It begins the night before we meet at the motel. I take a long bath, dissolving myself in sharp-smelling beauty products and shaving my body with Spartan precision. Afterward, I rub talc on my skin so that it becomes a funereal white. There’s something barbarous about it; wanton and strange. Room one-oh-eight: we’ve been here before; also, room one-oh-four, room one-twelve, and room one-oh-nine which smells like dead cigarettes. There is a mirror bolted to the ceiling, one that replaces the headboard, and one covering the whole left wall. There is no Gideon Bible in the bedside table. My lover jokes that the silent Indian man knows his clientele. I find him, the lover, recumbent on the bed. He’s poised on the dull, brown comforter with a library book about Renaissance drama. Being a professor distills an academic to his purest form. Like shaking hands with determinism, you become exactly what you are; inert and nose-deep in critical publications. He closes the book and smiles at me. “Hello,” I say. He kisses me, perfunctorily. “Hello, my dear.” We could make small talk but we are immediately on the bed. He pulls back the comforter to prevent soiling it, as a courtesy. We kiss; we slither out of our clothes; he watches my body in the overhead mirror; I chuckle at our dissimilarity. We make a serpentine shape, head to pelvis, on the starchy sheets. It takes many minutes to finish: his body is unwilling. But I persist with him, I force him, and he obliges. “You’re so pretty,” he exclaims. I nuzzle into him purposefully. “I’m not sure how much to trust a postorgasmic man.” “A post-orgasmic man is more trustworthy than a pre-orgasmic man.” “I think you’re the exception to the rule. I can think of no state in which you’re trustworthy.” He clucks and pretends to be hurt. His eyes have a simple kindness that is easy to trust. We lie together and I ask him questions. He loves to answer them, loves to talk. He tells stories about his family and speaks reverently about his pet. He demands very little of me because I never seem to know enough; I can never impress him. “How was Kentucky?” I ask.

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“It was nice to see old friends. And it’s beautiful. But I did forget how many deer carcasses there are on the road in summer.” “Hunting season?” A pause. “No. Road kill.” His flashes of disdain are withering. “Californians don’t understand such things,” I explain.  It has been a year of talk and sex. Occasionally he will mention his wife and occasionally I will mention my fiancé. But our situation is static. It is a habit and a rite, made up of banal conversation and quotidian lust. I cannot remember life before him. That life existed in some disparate époque, on a plane of heaven. Its denizens spoke another language.  “You’re so agreeable,” I say. “I like to think so.” I run my fingertips over his back. He’s much darker than me, a honey brown, the product of English blood and shirtless gardening. He tells me that his skin is Adamic, like red clay, like the first man, and I roll my eyes. “Maybe too agreeable,” I continue. “Clearly you’ve been over-loved.” “Ah, well there’s another reason for my agreeability,” he says. “I smoked a lot of pot in grad school.” I laugh sharply and push against him. He pulls me in. “You’ve had a decade to get it out of your system.” “It made me so paranoid. But, also, really laid back.” “How nice,” I touch his face. “Still, I wouldn’t object to a little fire in you.” It begins again. Terrible white heat runs under my skin. The second time is slower. Our bodies move together fumblingly, overlapping like tectonic plates, creating tremors. “Oh, baby…oh, babe…oh, God!” We never use our names. I don’t know what to call him. Any name I give him sounds like an invocation.

LAUR A

FONES

In a kinder world, he would suffer from similar frustrations: the incapacity to name his lover, the torturous days between this and the next one, the nagging fear that he is being tolerated and not loved. Incongruously, he declares, “I was loved too much as a child. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me.” My face is red when I say, “No, darling. You’re exactly what you ought to be.”  Someday we will stop meeting. The affair will end. And I look upon that future with the dread reserved for death.  Grudgingly, we leave the bed. He turns on the shower and I go to the vanity. Twisting my hair into a bun, I look at his body in the mirror. It is terribly thin, with subtle signs of wear, and very beautiful. “Is there soap in there?” I ask. “Yes,” he replies. “Bring the shampoo.” I pick up the little bottle, with its innocuous beige label, and step into the shower. “You always wash your hair when we’re here. Why is that?” “I saw it in The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” he explains while lathering his black-grey hair, “The man’s wife detected his infidelity because she could smell his mistress’s odeur on his hair.” “Married to a bloodhound, was he?” “The book doesn’t say. But women do have a distinct smell…” Our bodies touch under the hot water, insisting that I feel desire. “We are such pungent creatures,” I remark. He covers my body in soap; I do likewise. We kiss and scuffle and betray childlike dependency. I leave the shower first and recover a towel. I hand it to him and he refuses it. “There’s only one large towel,” he points out. “That’s odd.” “You should use it. It’s not the chivalry of Sir Walter Raleigh, but…” “Knew the man, did you?”

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“…I’m not that old.” “Remind me what he did.” “He’s famous for laying his coat over a puddle.” “Of course,” I say sheepishly, “My English history between 1500 and 1700 is muddy.” “You should have stayed in my class,” he chides. He kisses my lower back and I shake my head. “I never liked your classes very much.” “That’s harsh.” “You know you’re brilliant,” I towel off, “and you just like captive audiences.” He sighs. “You know me well.” “I should be so lucky.” Somehow we become dressed, and the press of departure is in the air. Our imagined feeling of equality shrinks. Absent our customary nakedness, the age gap, the moral gap, the gray gap extends. I declare that I must go to class. He declares that he must return to his office. We are impossibly ordinary if we escape each other. I open the door, because I want to leave last, and he pushes out of it. Our relationship rests on a knife edge—a divided world of intimacy and distance—that makes every send-off uncertain. “You there,” I call him across the parking lot. He shields his eyes from the sun, “What?” I yell out something ageless; an unambiguous phrase. “What was that?” He’s too far away to hear me. “Never mind.” I blow him a kiss and get into my car.

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22nd Street JENNIFER DAY

Shoes hanging by their tails, patterned soles, like rubber mazes, twisting lazily with the warm city breeze, so unaware. A man stands beside his pirated CDs, the radio cracking as the music whispers in and out like it’s breathing—panting under the heat of the sun against the streets. It smells like a market would smell, the fresh aroma of just-picked vegetables mingles with the patient fruits sitting still in their stalls. The sky is white like the candle-wax flesh of a young coconut. A little boy hops over the worn out cracks in the path while his father checks out a cell phone and repeats “barato” until the bell rings of the bakery door and the smell of sweet golden empanadas wafts outside it draws me in. The store is cool and the fans wind like clocks overhead. The asphalt glitters through the glass door and a young women takes my money for some sweet bread. The people-littered street crowds around me, a fence shines colorfully against the hooded black figures rested against it like tired shadows. A man shouts at me yet all I catch is “no place here” and I wonder if it would have made any more sense had I heard the rest, but he hobbles off without my money, speaking just as quickly to himself, as if, not to forget. I feel that persistent breeze tickle my neck softly and I meet eyes with a woman who wears her makeup like a second face. She smiles at me and I smile back.

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She returns to thumbing the papers in her cart then, oblivious when I am gone. There are two dollar stores across from one another and this is the busiest part of the street. A family passes and a little girl with pigtails points into a butcher shop, curious, but her mother pulls her away and back to the three other children hopping over the cracks. I peer through the dusty windows to see it abandoned. I pass a shop with ivy-like plants in painted pots and chipped china with a sign that reads “20% off” hung in red. A figurine saint, perhaps it is Mary, smiles at me hollowly with chalky eyes from under the awning. I don’t smile back. I hear a radio purring in and out and let the 2 o’clock sun kiss my hair. The tied up shoes ring like bells against the cloudy ash-blue sky, and I tread back down the pavement to my car because by now, both my footsteps and this street have faded away into tomorrow.

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He said, She said. STEVE DOBOS

He glanced. She winked. He smiled. She giggled. He bought. She sipped. He drank. She left. He followed. She moaned. He grunted. She sighed. He apologized. She yawned. He slept. She disappeared. He waited. She called. He yelled. She explained. He listened. She apologized. He proposed. She accepted. He worked. She laboured. He fathered. She mothered. At least, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s how it was told to me.

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Paradise CARLEEN GEHUE

I can’t wait For my life of men to be over The day I step off the dock To sail across the safe sea of women With my rainbow flag flying high Is the day my life truly begins It’s not that I have anything against men As men Their personalities their politics their fantasies Their loves their hates their fears I don’t have a problem with any of that It’s their standards of living I do not accept I do not accept furniture made of pizza boxes or cinder blocks I do not accept sloppy joes or pigs in a blanket as a meal And I do not accept walking into their room and with a mixture of disgust and morbid fascination asking the question: what is that smell? And being forced to wonder: did the cat really run away or did it die in here? No, it will not be like this in the home I will create for myself There will be no tripping over shoes in the middle of the floor No porn stashed in drawers No 4 AM video games No sports on TV And the thermostat will never be lower than 72 degrees The cap will never be left off the toothpaste No body hair in my good soap

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Or shaving cream crusted in the sink There will be no dribbling around the toilet rim Or leaving the seat up so when it’s dark I fall in No. In the place I create for myself The air will be thick with the scent of home and nature And not smelly nature like fungus and skunks But those of flowers and trees honey and bees Cocoa baked into cookies because I was feeling a little down and in my world chocolate heals And maybe I can’t take that to the bank but I can take it to bed Where no one has eaten crackers Or clipped their toenails But with my down quilt and my Egyptian sheets Decorative pillows and Yes, my bunny Mr. Snuggles A place where candles are scented And body butter is not sexual Where the majority of movies are chick flicks I will not hesitate to evict The male influence And they can knock But I won’t think twice To deny them access To this paradise Because I can’t allow an Eden so sweet To be corrupted by nasty-ass feet And I have to remind you I don’t hate men I just don’t want to live with them EVER again

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Hurricane SHAY MOSSING

We got the warning, it was time to go. The hurricane was moving steadily towards us. It would reach us by night. Our boarding school was no longer safe enough for us to stay. The buildings and their possessions had been safely secured. Heavy duty tape could be seen on all the windows in an “X” shape to hold it together in case the glass shattered. My mom went with me to my dorm to pack. I picked one of my favorite bags. It was black with white plastic trim along the sides. I’m sure it could have passed for a bowling bag. I carefully selected some clothes, a photo album of my family, my favorite paint brush, and my entire sticker collection. These were my most valuable possessions that I knew I could not live without. As I packed my box of Oreos I looked around my little home. I would miss my floral covered single bed, my antique desk with all its little knick-knacks. I would miss my huge oak dresser with the big stereo my brother had bought me last Christmas. I might never see them again. My mom braided my hair as we had some time before our transportation would arrive. I asked her if she would be coming with me. She said she would be joining me later as she had to stay behind to make sure all the animals were safe and secure. Our school housed several animals. We had three dogs and plenty of cats. We had some baby roosters and an iguana. My mom and I had ferrets

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which she had named “Trouble” and “Double Trouble.” My mom was not only the governess to all of us but she also took care of everyone’s pets. Though I was only ten, every small child knew the seriousness of the situation. I was very worried for her. I could imagine the hurricane coming towards her while she made a desperate attempt to shield our animal family. I would not be able to stand losing her… I gave her a big hug as I tried to put on a brave face. She told me that everything was going to be all right. I really hoped she was right. As we were getting ready to leave my room I mentally said goodbye to all that I owned. We walked along the upstairs passage and down the stairs, passing the pool filled with lawn furniture to keep them from blowing about. We passed the second building on our left, heading towards the front end building where we usually ate in the big dining room. I had been looking around remembering all the fun times I had. I remembered doing front flips in the pool and racing my bike with my friends to see who was faster. I wanted to hold on to these memories, just in case all my physical reminders were blown away. Some of my schoolmates were in the entertainment room watching a movie while others waited outside near the front entrance anticipating the school bus that would be arriving soon. I did not feel like watching a movie. Besides, I was the type who always wanted to be first in line for anything, which, in this case would include a window seat near the front of the bus. I watched the dark gray sky; it looked menacing enough even without the gradual increase of wind speed. I looked around and could see a crowd of excited faces. I had to admit even though this hurricane could be devastating, I felt excited too, if I didn’t think about what I would lose. It was like going on a really fun field trip that I got to pack stuff for. I could see the bus in the distance barreling down the road. I got in line as fast as I could. I sat down and looked out the window. I waved to my mom and said one last goodbye to my home. I felt a small pang of nerves as I saw my mom walk back into the building. I so hoped she would be all right. Our shelter was twenty minutes away and the wind was howling and smacking with such force as to make the windows shake. The room on wheels was filled with palpable tension as if some insidious snake was slithering in our midst. Everyone was quiet except for the occasional whimper that escaped someone when a gust of wind banged the bus. Outside I could see palm trees swaying all in one direction. Trash cans were overturned, garbage was flying about. We

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could feel the bus sway a little here, a little there. The light of the day had almost extinguished when we arrived at the shelter. I imagined everyone making a silent prayer of thanks as they stepped onto solid ground. We were going to stay in one of the largest and oldest hotels in the city which was being used as a temporary shelter. With its concrete structure it was considered the safest place to be. We were brought to the massive auditorium to spend the night. I took my things to the far right wall and unrolled my sleeping bag next to Assie, a good friend of mine. I scanned the room and could see a sea of colorful sleeping bags being unrolled by various familiar faces. I opened my bag and took out my box of Oreos. As I ate, I thought about this beautiful hotel that I was going to spend the night in. I had been here several times before for a less distressing reason. I usually spent Thanksgiving or Christmas here with my mom and my step-dad. I always loved seeing the reddish orange and gold decorative carpet that seemed to stretch on for miles and the four elaborate chandeliers hanging in neat rows overhead. The stage was also impressive with its hand crafted stage props and high-tech electrical gear. Parents came in and out, briefly saying hello before going back out to work on making the hotel as safe as possible. I wished my mom was here doing the same. Hours had gone by and she still had not arrived. I was getting worried. I decided not to think about her for now and just read my favorite Archie comic. I had just finished reading the part where Veronica steals Archie away from Betty, when I saw my mom coming towards me. I could feel the relief swell within me. I jumped out of my sleeping bag and gave her a big hug. She would be safe. She explained everything she had done for the animalsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; safety. They were secure in one of the indoor animal rooms at the school. They had plenty of water and food to keep them happy. I felt good that my mom had done what she could but happier to see her here. My step-dad came in a little while later to see us. It was a very strange night. No one slept. The room was filled with excited conversation. We all played games of various kinds. I read some more comic books. They always seemed to keep my mind off things. It almost felt like a gigantic party with a tinge of doom lurking in a corner. Mainly because every time someone opened a side door, which led out to the pool below, the wind and rain would rush in and scream at us. The next morning we found out that the hurricane had missed us but that we had d the dangerous wind storms that always accompany them. We were told it was not yet safe for us to go home but we could now go outside. We were head-

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ing to the next building over which held a large dining hall when I surveyed the damage. There were palm tree leaves and trash everywhere. Several trees were half uprooted, one of which had mangled an iron fence. The church across the street had some broken roof tiles that had fallen. It was like a hand had shaken a scale model of a city up so strongly that all was in disarray. We got home that night and I went straight to my room. My mom came up with me and we sat on my bed. I gave her a hug. I told her that I had a good time but that I was happy it was all over. She stroked my hair and told me that hurricanes would never harm anyone who properly prepared for them. I understood.

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Morning Messages CARLEEN GEHUE

I woke in a strange bed In an even stranger place Expecting to be greeted By a not-so-stranger’s face On the pillow beside me There should have been a head But when my eyelids lifted A note was there instead Upon opening it read “Make yourself at home” And I did I took a shower that was hotter than mine With shampoo that smelled sweeter than mine I wore a t-shirt that was softer than mine Not because of cotton But because it was yours In it I listened to your music that was quieter than mine I read your books that were smarter than mine And read your poetry that was well better than mine And I made myself at home Not because you asked me And not because I loved it But the morning you awakened And felt you weren’t mistaken For not shaking me awake

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GEHUE

And asking me to leave Instead you let me sleep But you had to go to work And do what you must So you forgave the past night’s lust And with a note put your trust In hopes I would remain To make your home my own And I stayed I blush as I’m confessing But the point that am stressing Is our night truly was a blessing And I’m happy that I stayed But time goes by And things don’t work out And soon our home Became just another house And though I wasn’t badly burned There were lessons that I learned Even now as I slip outside Of a bed with a stranger Sleeping on the other side And though I cannot see their face On the pillow I will place A note I hope they will find comfort And I have everything they’ll need Because upon opening they’ll read “Make yourself at home” And I hope they do

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Middleton Road THOMAS BURNS

“Do you realize that everyone you know, someday, will die?” —The Flaming Lips

My name is Miles Miller, and I am going to die. That’s all I can think about right now. You can’t blame me. Me. Spinning out of control in my car. What is “me” and “my” and “I” going to mean when I’m not around anymore. I find myself constantly waking up day after impending day, but I’m never really awake. Today, I woke up and got in a car accident. Yesterday, or two days ago (things are a bit unclear to me now), I started this spiral into nothing. And I don’t mean the car accident. I woke up at my dining room table to the sound of my doorbell ringing. The table looked the same as it always did: littered with books. Books about anatomy. Books about the nervous system. Books about your brain and how you are just a DNA robot. On auto-pilot. I was studying because I wanted to become a doctor, but I was sleeping because my brain told me I had to. I wasn’t in a position to argue. The doorbell shouted a second time. Against every fiber of my being I begrudgingly got up, crawled to the door, and looked through the peep-hole. Two misshapen men in suits were standing outside. Tiny toes to wide waists to tiny heads. I opened the door, and to my surprise, they were completely normal looking. I hadn’t completely woken up yet. Not only were they normal, but they were familiar, they were the family lawyers that we had had for years. Since I was young. Since my parents divorced. “Hello Miles,” said the lawyer on the right. “We have some unfortunate news for you,” said the lawyer on the left. What? T HOMAS

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Am I getting sued or something? The looks on their faces said this was serious. I wasn’t getting sued. I invited them into the dining room where they sat with me at the table. When they told me what happened, they sounded like they were describing what they had done that afternoon, or what they had eaten for breakfast. “Jack and Ellen, your parents, are dead.” My parents were dead. Both of them. Died in a car accident. Yesterday. They were on Middleton Road, which was the route we took to go to our family cabin. They spun out of control into a tree, causing the engine to explode. Yesterday, they woke up and their car exploded. “Why were they even together?” I asked. They told me that they didn’t know, that some of the details weren’t clear. “We’re very sorry Miles; we know this is a lot to take in.” “Have you told Mari yet?” I asked. “No, we’re really only obligated to tell the nearest family member. In this case, it’s the firstborn child. You.” Mari is my twin, we’re the same age. “You’re three and a half minutes older than her.” That was all I needed to know. I thanked them and sent them out the door, and retreated to my couch. The lawyers left, giving me their condolences. Now, this next part is a little weird. All I could think about was death. “Of course, Miles, you just heard your parents were dead. Everyone would be sad.” I wasn’t sad. Well, I was sad, don’t get me wrong. I loved my parents, but the overwhelming feeling wasn’t sadness. It was fear. Fear of death. One day, I’m going to get into a car accident. One day, I’m going to get cancer. One day, I’m going to get stabbed on some city street. One day, I’m going to be old and unable to move in my death bed while my family is all around me. Each one of those things scared me equally because it meant that I was going to die. “What’s so scary about that,” you ask? What happens when you die? Who really knows? The loss of your entire being is thoroughly terrifying if you really think about it. I’ve grown rather fond of myself and everything I’ve done, and I hate for it all to go to waste. I love my family. I love my friends. I love my girlfriend. Someday, we might even get married. Someday, I’m going to wake up and die that day. After I was able to piece myself together having been shattered all over my dining room floor, I went to my sister’s house. I had to tell her. We don’t look exactly alike, but you can see the resemblance. We’re fraternal twins. She’s slightly shorter than I am, with dark hair and green eyes. She’s just as horrified to find out about Mom and Dad as I was. We were in the kitchen of her apartment, her son watching Peter Pan in the living room. “Why were they

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together?” I don’t know, I told her, the details weren’t clear. She told me that she needed a moment, and that she needed to go to her room. She drifted with her head down, around the kitchen corner, through the living room, trying to hide her face from her son. While waiting for her to come back, I noticed something on the kitchen table. Something you have to understand is that Mari does models. She’s an architectural model maker, specializing in residential. When someone wants to build their nice little home, in their little neighborhood, to keep their little stuff there, she’s the one that makes an even littler version of the house they’re going to build to make sure it works in real life. On the table was a model of a house. I hadn’t looked at one of her tiny pieces of art for years, so I decided to go check it out. I looked in the tiny house, at all the tiny hallways, and all the tiny rooms. I began to imagine tiny furniture, and tiny people there, living their tiny lives. The universe doesn’t notice these tiny beings in their tiny world any more than we observe the life of the ants we accidently step on. That’s all I could imagine looking at the tiny house. I hadn’t completely woken up yet. In the next room I heard Peter Pan say, “To die would be an awfully big adventure.” I left before she could come back out. I had to. I didn’t want to talk about it, and I felt like she needed the time to herself anyway. That evening I decided to go visit Cecilia, my girlfriend. Cecilia and I have been together for three and a half years as of a month and a half from now. We met at a stop-light. I was at the front of the line in the right-most lane at one of In the next room I heard Peter Pan those lights that takes what seems to be say, “To die would be an awfully big an eternity. I sat there waiting, radio station scanning, and people watch- adventure.” ing. None of these things did me much good until BLAM. My car shook around a little bit and I was pissed. I looked out my window with a face that clearly had “business” written all over it. To my surprise, there weren’t any cars behind me. All I saw was this smallish girl getting up and trying to pick up her bike. “I hit your car!” she yelled. Yeah, I’d noticed. She scrambled over as fast as she could with everything and said, “I’m so sorry, my brakes went out for some reason. I think I left a dent by your license plate!”

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I wasn’t really worried about it. That car was a piece of shit. I had backed into things so many times, I probably wouldn’t even be able to tell where she hit it. Just to be safe, we exchanged information. I decided to give her a call a couple of days later, but it wasn’t really to discuss road hazards. Since then, we’ve always been great friends. Even greater than friends more often than not. I told her the news and she was genuinely sad to hear it. She really liked my Mom. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry.” I let it all out, “They weren’t even that old! They were in their late 50’s. It’s not like they should have been dead any day now.” You think you have all the time in the world, when really you don’t even have a notable fraction of that. “Well, you can at least take heart in the fact that they knew the Lord.” What the hell does that even mean? These clichés. That’s not what I’m looking for. Me, I don’t really know what I believe. “I’m just trying to let you know that we don’t just wither away when we die. Our eternal souls…” I don’t want to hear it, Celia. I left. I went home and slept. I slept for what felt like days. I worked at St. Mary’s Hospital, as a medical intern. They’d advised me to stay home today for grieving reasons, but I didn’t want to sit around anymore. For this shift, I was on-call. That means I had to wait around until someone needed me so I could go help them with a patient. Walking into the hospital, past the receptionist, and back to the many rooms I began to look at the people that we were caring for. First I saw Room 101, Mrs. Peterson. Cancer. Then I saw Room 102, Mr. Chan. Heart Failure. Then I saw Room 103, Miles Miller. What? No, I must’ve seen that wrong. Yeah, it was Mr. Douglas. I continued down the hall. Room 104, Miles Miller. Room 105, Miles Miller. All I could imagine was myself in all of these rooms. I had a virus. I had liver failure. I was going to die. I hadn’t completely woken up yet. I needed to go. I set up a hiatus with the internship with no intention of returning. I worked around dead and dying people for so long, it had never fazed me until that day. I left the hospital and made my way over to a 24 hour café called Maggie’s. I went there when nothing else was open. The host greeted me and walked me over to a small booth near the front windows of the restaurant and let me know what their current specials were. It was 3 a.m., so not many people were there. There was me, a couple in the far corner, a few guys that were probably here because the bars had closed an hour prior, and a girl sitting a few booths away from me. She seemed familiar.

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“What would you like to have today?” Eternal life. Eternal happiness. The promise that a day will never come that my DNA robotics stop working. “I’ll have a dinner salad with Italian please,” is what I really say. Unable to do anything but think, my eyes wander. The girl, the couple, the guys. They’re all so happy. Don’t they realize that one day they aren’t going to be here? How can they be so happy? Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice coming from a few feet away. “Miles Miller?” I look away from the drunken men and see the girl that I “What would you like to have had recognized was now standing closer today?” Eternal Life. Eternal to me. “Do you remember me?” she asks. happiness. The promise that a day After I look at her for a second, I realize will never come that my DNA who she is. It all came back to me. Audrey Milles robotics stop working. was an old friend of mine. She eventually became an old girlfriend of mine, but soon I’d figured out that she wasn’t the one for me. I hadn’t seen her for nine years. We met because our names were so close. We used to joke that if we got married, she’d only have to change one letter in her name. Back in high school she was my first kiss. She had short auburn hair, hazel eyes, and porcelain white skin. She was more beautiful than I remembered her being. I felt fifteen again. I wanted to be fifteen again. Care free. Job free. I invited her to sit with me and we started catching up about life. She was a photographer now, working for a family portrait company. She showed me some of her pictures. It was what you would usually expect from something like that. Backgrounds of blue or green shades textures. Backgrounds made up of picket fences played off of the families with the smiles that you couldn’t tell were genuine or not. They were all looking off camera somewhere, as if they weren’t really trying to pose, but all happened to look, like drones, in the same direction. I told her about what had happened with my parents the day prior, and she gave me her condolences like everyone else did. Eventually, she invited me back to her apartment and I decided to go. We got there, cracked open a bottle of wine, and started reminiscing about high school. It was exactly what I wanted. I was back, getting rides to school. Being half the age I am now. Soon enough, we had gone through the entire bottle, so she asked me to go grab another bottle out of the kitchen. One of my choice this time. I happily obliged and waltzed my way into the kitchen and picked what I thought was the best. Then big bad ole fifteenyears-young me walked back into the living room to find her frowning and look-

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ing at my phone. “Your girlfriend sent you a text.” How do you know that’s my girlfriend? “It says, ‘Baby, I’m sorry about how things went last night. I just want to let you know that I love you and want to be there for you in any way that I can’ and some other shit about being preachy.” The jig was up. Instantly, I snapped back to reality. At least, the reality I was living in at the time. Today I woke up and totally blew it. If I can’t survive the future, and I can’t live in the past, then where am I supposed to go? I left Audrey’s house a little sloshed and drove to a convenience store near her house to buy a pack of cigarettes. No, I don’t normally smoke. I haven’t smoked since I was seventeen, but I felt the itch. I hadn’t completely woken up yet. It didn’t make a difference anyway. Whether I died of lung cancer or a shark attack wouldn’t matter when I was dead. Where could I go now? I didn’t want to sleep, but I didn’t want to be awake either. I got on the freeway and noticed that the next exit led to Middleton Road, the place where my parents died. Middleton Road was a dirt road up on a big hill. It led up through the mountains to the family cabin that my dad owned. The place that my parents died in particular was near a cliff side overlooking the city. I lit up a cigarette and started toward the final road my parents travelled. As I drove, my life flipped like a scrapbook in my head. I had been here many times throughout my life. With my family, or just my dad. It was a very familiar place, but it had a very dark tint to it this time. I thought about my childhood. My teens. My early twenties. All of it was pretty good, when I think about it. And what more could I ask for? Maybe there was something I was missing here. Maybe I just needed to realize that― Just then, a deer ran out in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes but the dirt just made the car slide onward. As my car swung toward the animal, it jumped out of the way. I regained control of the car and kept driving. Maybe I just need to realize that dying isn’t the wor― Holy shit―my lap is burning! My cigarette had fallen out of my mouth onto my lap, and I hadn’t even noticed it. It had burned through my jeans onto my leg. I grabbed the fire stick and threw it out the window. I lost control of the car once again. This time, the car started spinning. My name is Miles Miller, and I am going to die. Right now could very well be that time. Who knows what tree waits for me to come spinning into it. Spin-

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ning and spinning. The only thought I have is “What the fuck have I done with my life?” Nothing. By now I was a womanizing, med school dropout that “just because” was going to die eventually. Everyone died eventually, but you don’t see them acting like this. As the world screamed around me, so did my life. What have I done that amounts to anything? Just to be able to change. Just to be able to see Celia again. Just to be able to make a difference before I go. Suddenly, my car screeched to a stop. A tree that had been knocked over had caught my car and cushioned the fall off of a nearby cliff. My car was mostly fine, though; one of the branches had punched its way through one of my windows. I got out of my car and could hardly stand. My back really hurt. I felt like how one would imagine those cartoon characters feel after they had a piano dropped on them. From where my car spun out, I could see the most beautiful sun rise coming from behind the city. I had been up all night! I couldn’t believe I was alive. I slinked past my car and rested with my back up against the tree, slumping down for a moment to breathe and think. Sitting there, I noticed something etched into the tree next to me. Sideways writing was engraved on the overturned top half of the tree. I turned my head so the words were upright. It was a heart shape with “Jack + Ellen” inscribed in it. My parents. It dawned on me as to why they drove together that day on the way up here. This is where they were coming. They were getting back together, and they were coming up here for a romantic afternoon. Mom and Dad, they had it figured out. I needed to get up. I climbed up the horizontal tree trunk and used my car as a hand rest to keep myself up. As I leaned, the car began to move. I quickly pulled myself back but was still forced to stumble forward a little bit. My car and the tree went crashing down the cliff side. I was left half hanging over the side, still on my feet. I was just that close to flying off of the cliff in my car. I sat down, car-less, and more sure of myself and what I needed to do. My legs dangling over the drop-off, I watched the sun rise. I was awake.

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B UR NS

Love is a . . . DRU CARTIER

What is a gift, But a tangible thought, A doo-dad, a trinket. What is a gift, But a pleasant moment, A gesture, an acknowledgement. What is a gift, But a beautiful sunset, A sky on fire, a serene view. What is a gift, But a hand to hold, A heart to share, a love affair.

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Push LAUREN BULLENE

They were the parents that pushed, That made you go to Chinese School, Instead of sleeping in on Saturday Morning. They were the car that no one wanted To be assigned to ride in to the field trip. Because they were the parents that pushed. Their luxury car should have made them The obvious first choice of rides, With their key fobs and button start engine. The eighteen speakers and fab sound system Begged to blast Radio Disney, turned all the way up But you had to sit in silence because they were the parents that pushed. On your Graduation Day you walked the stage With extra cords, awards, and ‘honors and distinction.’ But they barely smiled because you weren’t Valedictorian. They taught you never to settle for less than your best. You learned to work hard and not expect a free ride. You were well prepared for life on your own Because as a child you had parents who pushed you.

LAUR EN

B ULLENE

When STEVE DOBOS

When I was five years old You were only three Everywhere that I would go You would follow me O I remember Yesterday Can you hear me From far away When I was twelve years old You were barely ten And what I did to you Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d gladly do again I pulled your hair and ran away Then you chased after me O I remember How it used to be Graduated high school Started a career Fast cars, fast women And drinking beer But you were always Right by my side I knew that some day Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d make you my bride

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That was thirty years ago Our children grown and gone And so for you, my love Again, I sing our song A song of laughter A song of tears A song of good times Throughout those thirty years Or so it was until The dark and cloudy day The christmas eve when cancer Finally took you away But I know our love Will never end As long as I Remember when When I was five years old You were only three Everywhere that I would go You would follow me O I remember Yesterday Can you hear me From far away O Can you hear me While I pray

ST EVE

DOB OS

Monsters Under My Bed SHAWNTAE STRICKLAND

Monsters hiding under my bed Those crazy voices bouncing in my head. It’s just like the skeletons in my closet Holding my life in their pocket. I try to vanish the liar in my thoughts But it has left my mind to rot. My heart has been left to despise As I see a fire living in its eyes. It’s burning this fear within me I try to turn on the light switch so I can see. But in this darkness of my room Locked in by the anticipation of doom. The monster is trying to show its face So, I run away within this daze. But the door is locked in front of me I’m crying for its face I begin to see. My parents never come, because they must not know But even if they did, they wouldn’t show. I’m screaming blood-soaked tears down my face But the monster continues his suicidal chase. It finally catches up within And I feel his transparent anger on my skin. Now the fear has turned into a hate I know now, the monster is controlling my fate. Monsters under my bed, something I can’t see The monsters under my bed finally captured me.

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The Diagram of Order in the World MARKUS ROBINSON

So there came a time, near the beginning of creation, when all the animals in the world came together with plans on drawing up a diagram of order, for God deemed it so. After little deliberation, it was decided that the king would be the lion, for he was biggest and strongest and could rule the land with an iron fist and upon the lowest rung of life would consist insects and creatures, which crawled along on their bellies. So it came to be that the spider would eat the fly, upon such circumstances that the spider could catch the fly in its web; the wolf would eat the lamb, upon such circumstances that the wolf managed to pluck a lame one from the pack. When it was time for the Lion and Man to meet, it had already been decided that the Lion would eat Man upon such circumstances that Man was caught in the Lion's den. Life went on and then Man started to think. “It’s not fair that the Lion is the king just because he is the biggest and the strongest.” So, he thought and he thought; day and night the human thought. And finally he had an idea. He walked proudly over to the Lion’s den, stopping just outside the entrance. “Lion!” he cried. “Lion! Come out please, I must speak with you!” The Lion majestically stepped out with his strong, powerful legs to survey his land. He stood there for a moment before addressing the Man. “Man,” the Lion bellowed. “Why have you come here? Do you not understand that I may kill you where you stand if I deem it so?” MAR K US

R OB INSON

“No, my king, you mistake my intentions,” pleaded Man, “I have come here with a gift for you.” The Lion looked at Man and was intrigued by his offer. “Go on,” said the Lion nodding. Man smiled and proceeded. “I have thought long and hard these past nights upon finding the right way to honor you. And after thinking long and hard I have come up with the greatest gift to give that has ever been offered. A castle!” Man paused to sense any excitement from the Lion and there was. “It will not be just any castle, but the biggest, strongest castle ever, worthy enough for a lion who rules with an iron fist.” The Lion began to smile. “This sounds fine,” the Lion bellowed once more. He was so very pleased to have such a great castle erected in his honor, but could not help but ask Man: “How do I know that your intentions are good and just?” Man looked the Lion, dead in the eyes and said, “For you are the king of all the land, and in turn you are my master.” This satisfied the Lion, but as a final show of honor Man bowed his head to the Lion. “Look Lion, I bow my head. I am vulnerable to you.” “Ok, Man, you may go and when you return you may build me this castle.” The next day Man came back to the den with tools in hand. He called out to the Lion once more. “Lion!” he cried. “Lion! Come out please, I must speak with you!” The Lion majestically approached the entrance of his den, with his strong, powerful legs and surveyed his land. The Lion bellowed, “Hello, Man. Have you come to build my castle?” “Oh yes sir, but before I do I have something to tell you. On my return home I got to thinking. I thought and thought, I thought long and hard. And finally I had an idea. It might be the greatest idea ever, my king.” Man paused for signs of approval. The Lion seemed to be intrigued. “I will make your castle entirely out of iron… Yes, strong iron for the biggest, strongest leader there ever was.” The Lion began to smile. “Make it so,” bellowed the Lion. But yet again the Lion was overwhelmed with the need to ask: “How do I know that your intentions are good and just?” Man looked the Lion dead in the eyes and said, “For you are the king of all the land, and in turn you are my master.” This satisfied the lion, but as a final show of honor Man knelt before the Lion. “Look Lion, I kneel before you. I am vulnerable to you.”

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The Lion was satisfied and ordered Man to build this great iron castle. Man went home and worked on his masterpiece. Days went by and Man did not return. Weeks went by and the Lion became restless. By month′s end he had lost faith in Man. One day Lion was in his den tending to his young cubs when he heard a voice. “Lion!” it cried. “Lion! Come out please, I must speak with you!” Lion ran out with his strong, powerful legs under him, to survey the Man. “Man, how happy I am to see you. I had begun to wonder if you would ever return with my gift.” “I have,” Man smiled, “I have indeed built your castle.” Man paused to sense any excitement from the Lion and when he saw that there was he continued. “And indeed it is not just any castle, but the biggest, strongest castle ever, worthy of a lion who rules with an iron fist.” The Lion began to smile and jump about like a young cub. “So where is it, where is my castle?” the Lion eagerly asked. “Well,” said Man, “I built your castle and then I got to thinking. I thought and thought; I thought long and hard. And finally I had an idea. What good is a great castle if there is nobody around to admire it?” Man looked at the Lion′s face as it searched for an answer. “Um…I don’t…” “No purpose at all, my Lord!” Man proclaimed, cutting the Lion off abruptly. He walked closer to the Lion and began to speak again. “I will tell you Lion, that I have done such a great job on your castle that I wished to look upon it every morning when I wake. I wish to be the one who admires it, oh king. Please grant me this wish.” The Lion was so thrilled with the prospect of seeing his new residence he agreed to Man′s wishes. “There is one thing though,” Man said in an abrupt tone. The Lion looked at Man with excitement, half listening to the dealings of Man. “You must bring your whole family: all relatives, all mothers, all fathers, all sons, all lions.” The Lion was shocked. “Could it be that Man had built a castle that was so big and so powerful as to hold the whole Lion clan?” the Lion wondered. But as it was, excitement would overtake logic and soon enough his family was off, along with his whole species toward the castle as Man led the way. They traveled over hills and between valleys. They traveled along the coast and then into the dry inland. They walked for hours and soon some of the lions became thirsty.

MAR K US

R OB INSON

“Man!” the Lion shouted up ahead, “Man, I need to speak with you! We must stop for water!” Man turned his head still keeping the same cadence. “We must not stop, for we are almost there!” he shouted and snapped his head around not breaking stride. The sun became the highest thing in the sky and soon more of the lions became thirsty. They walked about, tongues wagging; their manes so luxuriously thick it seemed to suffocate them in the sweltering desert heat. “Man!” the Lion shouted up ahead, “Man, I need to speak with you! We must stop for water!” And, again Man called back, “We must not stop, for we are almost there!” The evening came, but the heat stayed and brought with it humidity. This was more than the lions could bear. Many of the cubs were being nudged along by the noses of their fathers. There was an incident even, when a lioness collapsed upon the desert floor and refused to move from exhaustion. A male lion proceeded to grab her by the tail and pull her onward. Again the Lion shouted up ahead, but this time with the urgency of a dying man. “Man!” the Lion shouted. “Man I must speak with you! My family needs water!” Again, Man called back. “We must not stop, for we are almost there!” Sure enough, directly around the ridge lay the Man's house and next to it stood the castle. The Lion and his clan gazed at its construction. The walls were made of the tallest iron bars they had ever seen, laid in succession only inches apart from each other like metal railroad tracks spanning a five acre radius around and back unto itself. The roof was a series of wooden planks, with long iron load bearing pipes criss-crossing their way under the entire span of the castle′s roof. That was it. And in the midst of the dry dirt floor of the castle was a pool, filled to the brim with water. The pack of lions could not help themselves, spilling through the entrance of the castle towards the watering hole. The Lion, still outside the castle, stood in shock and then his face turned towards Man. “Is this it?” the Lion asked with a hint of anger in his voice. “Is this a joke?!” Man looked at the Lion with innocence in his eyes. “My lord, I assure you this is the design that others in your great kingdom will know you for. It will become your great symbol! I assure you, king, that this castle is fit for a strong powerful being such as yourself; and by week′s end you will stand as the envy of Zeus even.” Man paused and licked his lips, searching for more to say. “I have worked for months on the structure, and I know it may not be so much to look

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at from the outside, but I implore you to not disregard your castle until you step inside.” Man looked at the others through the bars as they all surrounded the pool, lapping up the cool liquid. “Look at your family Lion. They are all ready to call this new place home.” “But…Man, why do you keep calling this a castle?” the Lion looked at Man as if his eyes could see into Man′s soul. “Please Lion!” Man pleaded. “Just step inside. If it is not up to your liking then you and your family may take your leave.” The Lion doubted him, but was too tired and thirsty, and before he knew what came over him, he realized that he was heading in the direction of the castle gate. At the gate the Lion stopped one last time and turned around, for yet again he had to ask Man: “How do I know that your intentions are good and just?” Man looked the Lion dead in the eyes and said, “For you are the king of all the land, and in turn you are my master.” And as a final show of honor Man laid upon his belly, before the Lion. “Look Lion, I lay at your feet. I am vulnerable to you.” To this the Lion turned and entered the castle. When the Lion was inside, Man slammed the gate behind him and quickly locked it from the outside, using an iron lock and key. The Lion whipped around looking at the gate, then the lock, then at Man. Anger overwhelmed the Lion at first, but soon it was drowned out by a harsh laughter. Man′s laughter. “I thought and thought and thought; day and night I thought; I thought long and hard. And finally I had an idea. I would build you a castle to honor you Lion. One that was the biggest and the strongest, for a lion, who ruled with an iron fist.” Man smiled at the Lion and all Lion could do was stare back out upon the vast land. When Lion′s legs became weak he laid down with his family. Man′s family would grow and grow and soon mankind over-populated the world. Sometimes, Man would bring his wife and young to see the Lion and his family as they walked back and forth in their cage. The children would point and laugh as Man would tell the stories of his conquest. One day Man grew tired of the lions and killed them all.

MAR K US

R OB INSON

An Interview with Mike Tinoco

PHOTO BY MOLLY CAHILL

From beatboxing, to poetry, to social justice through teaching— a West Valley College alumnus shares his journey

Mike Tinoco was making a name for himself in the beatboxing world well beyond the backdrop of San Francisco’s music scene. He was traveling the globe doing shows, being contacted by television producers, and was featured by MTV in a mini-documentary about beatboxing. He even starred in a McDonald’s commercial. Adept in

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the world of music, academics had not come as easily to him. He struggled through middle school and much of high school and confesses he hated to read. But a turn at West Valley College resulted in a change of direction in both his career and life goals. Having recently graduated from San Jose State University with honors in Eng-

If I am really going to go for working with kids in the inner city, I want to be in the belly of the beast—which would be LA.

lish, he is now headed to UCLA this fall for graduate studies. LAURA SYLVAN: Your current plans

are to become an educator for inner city students and students at-risk. How does the Teacher Education Program (TEP) at UCLA reflect these goals? MIKE TINOCO: TEP is a program that

prepares educators to teach for what they call social justice. Think of it as social activism—helping students see themselves as valuable members of society. It is about really integrating the students’ culture and their personal backgrounds into the classroom and making that connection between text and themselves as individuals. It is not like the old traditional classroom where you read things in isolation without any context.

LS: Working with inner city youth is

certainly not a run of the mill career objective. What attracted you to this program? MT: It was a long journey. The simple

story is that I went through some hard times while growing up. I hung out with the wrong crowd and constantly got into lots of trouble. I struggled throughout middle school and high school and almost repeated my sophomore year. But I had a few really good teachers who mentored me indirectly and a little bit directly. And I think I carried that with me for the longest time. It wasn’t until I started college at West Valley that I was able to reflect back and realize those teachers really made a difference. The more I thought about it the more I realized that having someone who inspires or

MIK E

T INOCO

mentors a student really goes a long through stuff, talk to me.” You just felt way. I wanted to bring that to students comfortable around him. who are in the same position that I had At the same time he knew how been in—or even worse situations. to control the classroom with an The reason I chose UCLA is that iron fist—he maintained respect— when it came time to looking at differhe wasn’t afraid to show you he was ent programs— pissed off Reading literature allows us to I narrowed it whenever we down to Berkewere out of understand and interpret the ley, UCLA and world creatively, imaginatively. line. We all Stanford—I deliked him and cided that if I am really going to go for I think he helped me even though I working with kids in the inner city, I didn’t realize it at the time—I was want to be in the belly of the beast— fourteen years old. He helped me rewhich would be LA. alize that school was worth coming to and I always went to his class. I never LS: Was there a teacher from your skipped it. I did actually okay in his high school or middle school expericlass; I ended up getting a B+. And I ence that really made a difference? tried. And I think it was because he helped me see the value in learning MT: Yes. There was one teacher in what I was learning. The more and particular, Jesse Ortega. He was my more I considered teaching, in an inSpanish teacher freshman year. It ner city or with disadvantaged kids, wasn’t like I was buddy-buddy with I would think about my experiences him; we never hung out outside of with that teacher. He really had a proschool or anything. But the way he found impact on me. presented himself and carried himself in the classroom really stood out LS: Do you want to teach high school and was different from other teachor other age groups? ers. And what I mean by that is that he was genuine with us. He treated us MT: For the longest time I have with respect. He told us, “Hey guys, wanted to teach high school, and I know I am not your friend and I’m I am still leaning toward teaching not your parent, but if you ever need high school. But what is interesting someone to talk to, if you are going is that it was in middle school that I

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had the most trouble—personal problems and academic problems—horrible. So at this point I am reconsidering because I am wondering which students I might be able to relate to a little more, connect with more. LS:

Why English? You said you weren’t a stellar high school student, and yet you were drawn to become an English major. MT: It is funny you ask. To be hon-

est, I didn’t like to read when I was a kid. In fact, I hated it. Partly because my mom would force me. She would sit me in a living room chair and force me to read—for an hour-and-a-half or two hours—abridged versions of British and American classics, and then she would quiz me on them! It made me hate reading even more. For the longest time I didn’t read. In my early teens I didn’t read for pleasure—forget it. And right before I started West Valley I was at this crux: I was working at a job at a mortgage company and I was really lost in what I wanted to do and teaching was in the back of my mind thanks to my high school Spanish teacher. I thought, maybe I could teach, and I began reading again. As for choosing to teach English, literacy is so important. Reading literature allows us to understand and

interpret the world creatively, imaginatively. My ultimate goal as a future teacher is to help students selfreflect, become critical thinkers, form opinions, and stand by their ideas. By helping students strengthen these skills through reading and writing, students will, hopefully, better understand their place and importance within the world. While I believe it's very important that students enjoy reading, I think it's okay if some (or many) students don't become ardent lovers of literature. Students can still find the value of a story's theme or message without necessarily being absorbed by the work. The main focus for me is to help students build their literacy skills and their ability to think critically. LS: You do a lot of academic writing

as part of your career path, but is writing something that appeals to you as an artist? MT: To be honest, not really. Which is

somewhat bizarre because when I was first interested in pursuing English, I felt I was a decent writer and that I had some story ideas. But I would say more that there is a musician inside me that when I am not beatboxing, I try to express or experiment with in my poetry. So when I am not beatboing, poetry is the writing outlet for me.

MIK E

T INOCO

LS: How did you start beatboxing? MT: I got interested in beatboxing back

tor to help underprivileged students, I put beatboxing on the back burner. Now it is more a hobby again. I do it around the house. I don’t intend to pursue it at as a career; in fact I don’t want to any longer.

in high school when I heard this beatboxer named Rahzel. I heard him on a cd once and it just blew my mind. He was beatboxing and singing words at the same time. It was something pheLS: Do you feel there is a connection nomenal that I had never heard before. between beatboxing and your poetry? At that time in high school I was going through some really tough times, so I MT: As far as connecting beatboxing really stuck with beatboxing. I started to poetry or even English, quite simply practicing and I did it for fun around it is a form of expression. Poetry has a my friends. It was this stupid, weird, more obvious connection to beatboxfreak talent. And a couple years later, ing because of the rhythmic aspect. my senior year in high school, I joined Poetry, at least more traditional poup with a few guys who were beatboxetry, has a cadence and a rhythm to it. ing in San Francisco and doing a few I consider myself a traditional poet. I small shows. It often like to use Beatboxing has really made me started to grow meter and have and became a it be exact, bea good drummer—without the monthly event. drumsticks. But most importantly, cause I hear I kept netit. I have that working and beatboxing is a form of expression internal drum eventually my and it is something that you don't and I hear it hobby turned and I try to articulate in words. into a semiadhere to cerprofession that I pursued throughout tain metrical forms. And it is fun. To most of my undergrad years. I was me that is the real art: to have fun beatboxing and doing a lot of shows— with poetry and see what you can I went overseas a few times and I did do with a sonnet or villanelle. Beata couple of commercials and it was my boxing has really made me a good bread and butter for a while. When I drummer—without the drumsticks. started really considering becoming But most importantly, beatboxing is a a teacher and working as an educaform of expression and it is something

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that you don’t articulate in words— you just express and feel your music.

in beatboxing—what was behind that decision?

you do the new Lady Gaga? I just got tired of that. Teaching is where I can impact lives, whereas beatboxing is really more about the artist. So I am back where I started. Beatboxing, just for fun, in my room.

MT: I don’t know if I really empha-

LS: How will you know that you as an

LS: You walked away from a career

sized how difficult it was to have an academic career focused on teaching— and to have this other part my life, this artistic side. I had so many golden opportunities in beatboxing. But it really boiled down to what makes a lasting impact. I have friends who are beatboxers and I don’t really talk to them as much anymore. Some are doing really well—good money—but they seem so narcissistic. I don’t mean to sound pompous myself, but there is so much ego involved. Which can be true about many artists in general. But with beatboxing in particular, you are the front man, you are the only entertainer on the stage and all eyes are on you. The more I went to shows with other beatboxers, especially overseas to conventions and competitions, the more it was really about the spectacle rather than the music. Mainstream beatboxing is concerned with the commercial aspects and the latest hip hop beat—can

educator have made an impact on others? MT: I don’t know. It might not be in-

stant gratification and I don’t expect it to be. What I hope is that maybe someday down the line a student will come back to me and say, “Hey, Mr. Tinoco. I wanted you to know that you helped me.” It doesn’t have to be that they chose to go to college; it could be that they just chose to go down a better path than they would have otherwise. 

MIK E

T INOCO

Beneath the Surface MIKE TINOCO

I stand upon the merging point, where clouds float gently toward my feet and electric blue hues stream across the boundless sky. The liquid mirror seems indiscernible from the vast expanse beyond my atomic presence. As I glance at my reflection swaying off the mirrored lake, I can almost feel my heart pulsing with the rhythmic currents. But when I dip a single foot into the water, it is then that violent ripples distort my image; a lifeless submerged fish—its iridescence stained black from pools of murk and streaks of oil—steals my reflection, and I can no longer see myself. As the water settles, a sudden dashing shadow lures my eyes. I lift my head and watch as a hawk soars toward the sunset, far away from this lake—far, far away from my human presence.

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The Earth is Not a Cold, Dead Place MIKE TINOCO

Despite the wounded years upon its face and youthful beauty lost to hasty time, the aging earth is not a dying place. A stirring wind still tries to find and trace the lines where brooks once flowed and melted rime, despite the wounded years upon its face. Though the sun that used to pierce its way through space is now a fading glow that barely shines, the aging earth is not a dying place. An ancient oak, its base engraved with Grace, still stands (without the limbs we used to climb), despite the wounded years upon its face. An acid deluge pours with steady pace and nearly wipes away the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sublime, but the aging earth is not a dying place. The broken webs from threads more strong than lace no longer have the swarms of life to bind; yet, despite the wounded years upon its face, the aging earth is not a dying place.

MIK E

T INOCO

Food for Thought MIKE TINOCO

As sizzling patties cook against the bars of father’s grill, the sounds of laughter, toys, and barking dogs surround the lawn with joy. Preparing plates inside, she cracks ajar the kitchen window, looking on the yard so full of precious life. She calls the boys inside to set the table; father, poised, adores the scene and smiles toward the stars. They start to eat their meal when breaking news across the set announces tragic death: “A girl was murdered after walking back from school.” They shake their heads, releasing breaths, and grieve about the harmless life attacked. The sapid feast resumes with violent chews.

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Canadian Roots ERICA LAMONT

Lost wax process, solid cast bronze sculpture West Valley College Foundry

I Don't Know MAC CAHILL

wheel thrown,low fire glazed, kiln fired

Triangle MAC CAHILL

wheel thrown, saggar fired

Late Bloomer MOLLY CAHILL

Canon EOS Rebel xsi lens: Sigma telephoto 70-300mm

Last Chance MOLLY CAHILL

Canon EOS Rebel xsi lens: Sigma telephoto 70-300mm

The Academy BENJI REHA

Purple Palace CARTER YU

Canon XTi

Say That Again MOLLY CAHILL

Canon EOS Rebel xsi lens: Sigma telephoto 70-300mm

Toe Jam MOLLY CAHILL

Canon EOS Rebel xsi lens: Sigma telephoto 70-300mm

Simple Pleasures ARIS MILLARE

Carousel, Pier 39, San Francisco Canon 5d 15mm f2.8 1/100 sec

Hey look! A Jabbawockee ARIS MILLARE

Dancer: Randy Bernal from Jabbawockeez dance crew Canon 5d 17-40mm f4L 1/200 sec

Hong Kong Lights CARTER YU

Canon XTi

I am a Word Vampire CATHERINE WOOD PHIPPS

Feeding on plasma of meaning taste I spill tender nuclei in my haste. Mad yearning drives my desire A word vampire I submit to the mire. Cursed cross of silver rhyme Meaning with no clotting time. And my thesaurus becomes my vein I suck on it with quiet shame.

CATHER INE

WOOD

P HIP P S

Censorship ERIN CABALLERO

The bloodhounds hit the pay-dirt of the American people’s fear and hurt, but no one heard the screams. The bloodhounds never got the scent of the trail of yellowcake uranium, but shut the fuck up, it’s all liberal blibber-blabber and jibber-jabber, just left-wing traitor delirium. The bloodhounds were sent on a fact-finding mission of the highest and driest edition, but tread softly, my fellow Americans, you tread on treason’s trickling ground. It’s censorship, Lady Liberty’s sewn-shut lips and her broken hips, a tilted concept of unity and safety on a bad acid trip. Sing a song of sedition, a pocketful of smart-ass reply—open the envelope and don’t give up hope, because the truth will be found in this noble expedition, my sweet little treasonous lullaby.

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The Breast Exam IRENE SURBER

Called by lots of names: speed bumps, fun bags, handfuls, flotation devices, melons, titties, mountains, boobs, and bodacious tah-tahs. My best friend calls hers “the girls.” Whatever one chooses to call them, they are breasts, a part of every woman’s anatomy. Breast tissue is made up of pectoral muscle, fibrous tissue, blood vessels, nerves, lymph vessels, and fat. Whether your breasts are small and perky tits or large bazonga melons, finding a lump or other change in your breast can cause you to lose your breath. Anxiety, fear, and stress will affect your overall health. Don’t worry! Try not to stress. Most breast lumps are benign. That means non cancerous. Woops. I said the dreaded word. Make an appointment. Get checked out. Checking in is routine. I hand my insurance card over the counter and fill out the usual questionnaire to update my history and the symptoms I’ve been having. And then, I wait. Elevator music from the eighties is playing in the background of the carpeted waiting room. It is exactly eighteen minutes that pass on my smiley face watch. A blond smiling technician dressed in kittens, head to her toes, hands me a paper gown. Pamphlets are provided to me with information about breast exams. Glandular tissue usually feels firm and fibrous, like a rope, or bumpy like partially smashed potatoes. The surrounding tissue is softer fatty tissue, and the contrast

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of these tissues can often feel more dramatically different during or before your period due to hormonal influences on the breast. But then I remind myself, I am just here for a routine checkup. I don’t have any reason to be worried. I’ll get through this test and be on my way. I have to go over to University Arts and purchase more charcoal pastels and workable fixative, over to Office Depot for ink and paper for my HP printer, and then pick-up my son and daughter from school. We have things to do. While reading on a wooden bench in my cubby behind a curtain, the crackling of blue tissue paper sounds in my ear as I turn the pamphlet over. I feel exposed to the chill air on my chest because the paper gown opens in the front. Exposed and alone waiting in the cramped little cubby behind the curtain, I dread the pancake press of the Mammogram. Breast tissue may be described as being composed of nodes called lobules that join together to form a duct that can produce milk. These lobules are adipose cells that often separate and can be felt upon self-examination. These lobules or ducts can get inflamed or infected. In eight out of ten cases, studies have shown, breast cancer occurs in these lobules called the mammary ducts that help to lubricate the nipples for nursing mothers, preventing chapping of the skin. But I don’t have that capability of producing milk any more. My mammary ducts were already disconnected in nineteen ninety-eight. My oncologist, Dr. Jeffery Guttmann, had two surgeons remove the Fibroadenomas and sent them to a lab for testing. Waiting in my blue tissue paper gown that opens in the front, I am frustrated. My breathing causes the tissue to rustle and its sound and my anxious thoughts are my only company. Do they have to put us in such a small closet? Is it really necessary for them to leave us in here for so long alone with their educational pamphlets? This is too much time alone to think. I feel my breasts getting larger by the second and the space I’m in closes in on me. A mammogram, or mammography, is an x-ray technique that highlights changes in the shape of breast calcifications. The technician or doctor can see abnormalities that can be missed by a physical examination. When an abnormality is detected, an ultrasound or fine-needle aspiration may be ordered for scheduling by your doctor. Resisting the urge to scream after waiting in my paper gown, the technician comes to escort me to the x-ray room. The room is chilly and sterile. She tells me to relax, and then directs me to stand on the yellow line next to a strange looking

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breast press. The paper of my gown crinkles as her cold hand reaches through the opening. She lifts my breast and positions it on the cold hard platform, and then sucks in her breath, expelling it quickly. I’m scared already, but her reaction makes me stiffen with fright. She says to me, “Sorry, we can’t perform this mammogram today. You need to go back to your doctor and get your orders changed to have a diagnostic mammogram and breast ultrasound instead of this screening mammogram.” If there is redness or yellowing that form lines on the surface of the breast diagnostic test other than a screening mammography, an x-ray needs to be scheduled. These are signs of an abscess, or infection of the mammary ducts, or early signs of breast cancer. An ultrasound may allow a doctor to directly visualize the abscess, infection, or tumor deep within the breast. Redness or yellowing of the breast surface must be checked right away because of the possibility of it being a symptom of a form of breast cancer. Antibody, adjuvant care, archived tissue, Biopsy, biotechnology, biologic therapy, Core biopsy, clinical trial, chemotherapy, Duetal carcinoma, DNA, doxorubicin, Early-stage breast cancer. These words spin through my mind and are mixed with fear and dread of the not yet known. Paper tissue is crumpled into a ball. I toss it into the waste bin. Waste. Time. Tissue. Emotions. Life goes on, and there will be more time spent with the sound of tissue crinkling.

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Third World Feminist: Beneath the Veil EILEEN LEWIS

A doe-eyed Indonesian school girl donning a veil walks down a crowded street in downtown Monterey. Some people openly gawk at the young girl wearing this politically and culturally charged symbol; others avert their eyes as she walks onward carrying her satchel full of books. If we could tune in and hear their thoughts, what could the passersby possibly be thinking? “Poor girl, her fundamentalist Muslim father has forced her to wear that oppressive veil.” Another one thinks, “Other.” Someone else even discerns, “Terrorist.” Nativism and xenophobia have always been present in certain portions of the population here in the United States. Anti-immigration sentiments against Muslims, especially, have increased since September 11th. Uninformed individuals in the West—both liberal and conservative—have a tendency to misunderstand Islam as a whole. They tend to perceive veils as symbols of oppression and subordination for “Other” Muslim women. We make our existences easier by jumping to strategically essentialize the Other, by believing that a religion that spans transnationally must be monolithic in nature; in reality Islam comes in many forms and is a part of many cultures from fundamentalist Islamist life in the unforgiving mountains of Afghanistan to Islamic feminists chatting together over Japanese takeout in SoHo. There are many different views, laws and opinions on hijab, also known as veiling. Having a knowledge of diversity within

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transnational Islamic culture and religion can help us to antiessentialize a vast culture. Yet we still tend to pity the “poor, helpless victimized Islamic woman,” whom we assume was forced to cover up, without even taking into consideration that wearing the veil may very well be a choice, and perhaps to her symbolizes empowerment, defiance and individuality. What’s lacking in the above scenario by the passersby is a curiosity—and in particular, a feminist curiosity. As posed by the venerable feminist international relations theorist Cynthia Enloe, we must keep in mind how much or how little issues and their outcomes can be attributed to a patriarchal system by keeping all women in mind and taking them seriously. If a critical thinking feminist walked A third world feminist differs from past the Indonesian girl, the feminist a first world feminist because she may have asked, “Was it her choice to has a different set of issues in her wear the veil, and does it empower her? What is the veil as symbol? Is it oppres- life—there is really no true universal sion? Who views it how and why? Are Woman experience. there different feminist stances? Is this postmodern relativism taken too far and should it be seen universally as oppressive? Is the veil a spatial boundary condemning women to a literal virtual private sphere while in public? Am I essentializing her? Am I essentializing myself?” Antiracists, ecofeminists, white western feminists, feminists of color, lesbian feminists, young feminists, third world feminists and all combinations thereof may pose different questions. A third world feminist differs from a first world feminist because she has a different set of issues in her life—there is really no true universal Woman experience. For some women in certain countries, gender equality may be higher on the agenda than economics, or violence against women. It is incorrect to assume that all women from all parts of the globe want and need the same sets of rights. Feminist scholar Uma Narayan refers to Sucheta Mazumdar in explaining some of the problems that arose during the U.N. Decade for Women (1975-1985), suggesting that many feminists from the North did not have a good understanding of ethnicity, class and international politics and came off as patronizing towards the women of the South, who sometimes had different ideas. We cannot essentialize a universal third world feminist frame of thought, either—there are many debates within. For example, third world feminists have debates over the veil as either suppressing female sexuality because it’s covering up seductive women’s EILEEN

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bodies, or as liberating women because the veil does not reduce a woman to her sexuality. The Muslim veil is a complicated and highly-discussed contentious issue. The veil or hijab literally means “protection” in Arabic (Tohidi 65). It’s a symbol of politics, culture and identity. Islamic women from all socioeconomic backgrounds wear veils (Tohidi 66). The veil is a representative symbol that is interpreted differently by many; to some, it is a symbol of oppression and subordination under a patriarchal system while kept in the traditional female private sphere of existence; to others, it means protest, empowerment (for example, the Iranian Revolution), solidarity and defiance against patriarchy and an anti-colonial struggle (Vasuki 31). Yet to others, the veil represents backwardness. This notion stems what Isabelle Gunning calls “arrogant perception,” the assumption that the colonialist standpoint is the correct and only standpoint without taking other factors into consideration such as culture and gender and agency. The veil is very political. In 1958, the French army unveiled a hundred Algerian women in the name of modernity and progress (Vasuki 35). In France, the secular concept of laïcité does not allow women to wear hijab in schools. From my experience in the West, many people equate the fundamentalist Taliban burqa with hijab. Nadja Al-Ali notes that women in Iraq are harassed into wearing the hijab (she is cautious in noting that this is due to the structure of society during war and not necessarily Islam itself) (Al-Ali 171). But the fetishised veil has also carried other meanings and to different groups. Women’s rights advocates in Tunisia want to keep the veil as part of their culture and have it not be representative of Islamic militarism (Tohidi 75). The choice to wear the veil and not have it represent Islamist culture is something that proves the women have agency—that we cannot universally and monolithically essentialize that all Muslim women are forced to wear it. Uma Narayan would say that through cultural relativism or universally essentializing women of the South as total victims through a gendered lens—uneducated, impoverished, and ignorant—we begin to enter the dangerous territory of cultural essentialism and forget that women have agency. But Narayan also points out that when attempting to avoid universal essentialism of women, it can often emphasize cultural-specific generalizations thus turning the matter into an issue of “Western” and “non-Western” cultures, and in this case, Islam. This goes in step with colonialist assumptions about the differences between the two “worlds,” as

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we saw earlier in the Monterey scenario (Narayan 87). Also, cultural essentialism can make the values, worldviews and practices of socially dominant groups misrepresent the values of all members of the culture, seeing as Islam is not monolithic (Narayan 88). This can lead to the notion of an “average third world woman.” Narayan importantly argues that a historically informed and antiessentialist feminist must see cultures as fluid and changing rather than rigid (Narayan 94). Attention to social change will enlighten the concept of “selective labeling,” where dominant groups determine what is cultural preservation or cultural loss that suits their agenda such as male politicians trying to guide the lives of women with his own agenda in mind (Narayan 94). So, is hijab empowerment or oppression? Individually, hijab can be empowerment through choice or seclusion due to imposition (Tohidi 67). The feminist theorist Nayareh Tohidi presents the case of women in Tunisia. The hijab can mean that she has chosen to join the Islamist movement, or that relatives have forced her to wear it. Hijab can also mean that she is participating in a moral community of Muslims and culture, or rejection of the West’s moral corruptions. It could mean being in a safe place while in the public sphere by declaring sexual boundaries or a shield where she can dare to partake in high profile social roles, or it can be imposed. To avoid being identified with the fundamentalist Islamic movement, some Tunisian women have made a cultural choice and switched to wearing the safsari, a traditional head garment similar to the veil (Tohidi 68)—it’s all a matter of agency. Another feminist theorist, Haideh Moghissi, deconstructs the veil argument and presents from another third world feminist perspective that hijab is a tool of oppression rather than empowerment, and believes there are limits in postmodern analysis (Moghissi 42). She gives the example of Iran, in which the male-dominated government implements mandatory veiling (Moghissi 43). And intimidation and coercion in Algeria, Jordan and Egypt is commonplace. The argument that hijab dismisses class distinctions is wishful thinking and these societies are not egalitarian and untouched by globalization (Moghissi 45). The veil does not protect women against men’s sexual advances. She comes to the conclusion that justifications for the veil are factually inaccurate and politically conservative and destroys the feminist concept of women’s agency. To defend the veil contributes to defending fundamentalism and oppressive Islamic regimes and by default endorses the fundamentalists’ solutions to modernity (Moghissi 46).

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Moghissi hints on the concept of selective labeling by privileged people in societies of Muslim women speaking out for other poorer women. She draws on the fact that there is a mistake in the post-colonial scholarship on Islam and gender by postmodern relativism which dominates western feminist thinking, which creates a failure of distinction and therefore causes human rights losses to women in Islamic world (Moghissi 47). My reflection of hijab is more complex than I would like it to be. If it were me walking down that street in downtown Monterey passing by the young girl, I would not have thought twice about it because I grew up in a Muslim area in Bangkok. It was a very common occurrence seeing veiled women and I never thought of it as being misogynistic or a choice; I took it for granted and that it was part of the religion. I did wonder, though, how I would have felt if I had to wear a veil and cover myself, and I wouldn’t have liked it because of my Western upbringing and my ideas of fashion. The Muslim school girls wore their school uniform skirts at full-length, while the other Thai girls wore their uniforms a few inches below their knees. Now that I’ve studied the matter, many questions have arisen in my mind, especially about agency. When imposed on women, I view it as a physical condemnation to a permanent private sphere of inopportunity. It has been imposed upon some women who, like Al-Ali stated, are coerced and threatened into wearing the veil by brutal Islamist movements. The veil is not the burqa, which I view as abhorrent because it represents extreme Islamist patriarchy, violence and oppression. It is important to make that distinction. Then, there are other women who choose to wear for many reasons—modesty, beauty, independence, rejection of Westernization and pride in their religion and their culture. I am supportive of the matter if this is the case. This research on veiling has brought to light that there are many different ideas within transnational third world feminism itself, and that feminism isn’t an imported Western phenomena that does not apply to Muslim, third world or “Other” women. There are women’s rights groups and transnational NGO’s that Muslim women have started without the help of Western women. Third world women are not monolithically victimized, and you cannot essentialize any type of feminism—there are debates within all forms of thought and theory. What truly bothers me is the arrogant perception and essentialization of the unknown or something one knows little about. It is a problem when colonizers such as politicians, governments and those with power selectively label and use

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their power to put down women further with their own interests in mind. To really understand the matter, questions, thoughts, ideas and solutions with women in mind must be taken into consideration. This is how people will be able to understand the veil in different lights. Nobody will win an impossible debate, but discussion will help educate people on the matter and to ask questions with a strong feminist curiosity that may help them antiessentialize and bring them to a different understanding that views women as individual people.

WORKS CITED Afary, J. (2004). “The Human Rights of Middle Eastern and Muslim Women: A Project for the 21st Century.” Human Rights Quarterly, 106-125. Al-Ali, N., & Pratt, N. (2009). What Kind of Liberation? Women and the Occupation of Iraq. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bodman, H. L., & Tohidi, N. (1998). Women in Muslim Societies: Diversity Within Unity. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers. Moghissi, H. (1999). Feminism and Islamic Fundamentalism: The Limits of Postmodern Analysis. New York: ZED Books. Mohanty, C. T. (2003). “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses.” In R. Lewis, & S. Mills, Feminist Postcolonial Theory: A Reader (pp. 49-75). New York: Routledge. Narayan, U. (Spring 1998). “Essence of Culture and a Sense of History: A Feminist Critique of Cultural Essentialism.” In U. Narayan, Hypatia (pp. 86-104). Nesiah, Vasuki. “The Ground Beneath Her Feet: ‘third world’ feminisms.” Journal of International Women’s Studies 4.3 (2003): 30+. Expanded Academic ASAP. Web. 5 Dec. 2009. <http://find.galegroup.com.library2.csumb.edu:2048/gtx/start.do? prodId=EAIM&userGroupName=csumonty>.

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Through the Eyes of a Child MIKE TINOCO

Through an explication of Seamus Heaney’s poem “The Railway Children,” Tinoco illustrates how the poem’s form and language are intertwined elements that synchronously establish meaning. Specifically, Tinoco suggests that the poem’s interlaced form and language reinforce the notion that children’s observations of their surroundings help them understand the world and, ultimately, themselves.

The imaginative minds of children are sometimes taken for granted. Children often have few worries and obligations in life, and, as a result, they have the mental freedom to observe the world insightfully and without bias. Moreover, children invariably observe imaginatively without even acknowledging their doing so—it is simply their nature. Adults, on the other hand, are frequently so consumed by what occurs within the confines of their own lives that they don’t take the time to step back and observe the simplicities of everyday life. In Seamus Heaney’s poem “The Railway Children,” the speaker pensively reminisces about an instance in his childhood when he and his friends compared themselves to the size of the grander world. On the surface, the poem presents children being adventurous and enjoying the small wonders of the world. But the deeper essence seems to be that childhoods are sacred and that observations of children help define who we are; they shouldn’t be forgotten as we age. The poem is arranged into four tercets (three-lined stanzas) and a final line that stands by itself. Each tercet shifts in meaning and gradually builds toward the core essence of the poem, which is exemplified in the final line. These short stanzas establish a sense of fluidity that is easy to follow visually, and their simplicity is also appropriate for seeing through the eyes of the speaker as a child. Although there aren’t any end rhymes or a consistent metered flow, certain vowel

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sounds are repeated throughout. In the first tercet, the speaker describes a time in his childhood when he and his playmates ascended upon a manmade hill: When we climbed the slopes of the cutting

We were eye-level with the white cups Of the telegraph poles and the sizzling wires. (lines 1–3)

This tercet not only shows action of the children and describes the setting—it puts us in the shoes of the children to see what they see. Several long “i” sounds permeate this stanza, which puts an emphasis on the “eyes” of the children. We can easily envision what it is like scurrying up the trench-like hill; however, the speaker uses the words “slopes” and “cutting” to show that this risen piece of ground is not natural—it is an artificial construction made by man. When we hear these particular words, we think of steep and sharp inclines that require exertion to climb. In essence, the first line establishes a sense of moving upward, and we then level out by the second line. However, as soon as the children reach the top of the “cutting” where they level out, they are not “eye-level” with the beauty of nature, but rather, they are met with an obstructed view of vertical “telegraph poles” and “white cups.” The stanza’s lack of descriptive white clouds or a beautiful blue sky sets a tone of artificiality; the language illustrates a manmade setting instead. The stanza and sentence end with “sizzling wires,” which gives a feeling of intense heat and a hissing sound, as opposed to the harmonious sounds of birds or wind—again, a description that intensifies the image of manmade constructions being atop the natural world. The poem takes a slight shift in direction in the second tercet. Here, the emphasis is no longer on the children’s climbing and the overall setting, but on the children observing the quality of telephone wires. At this point in the poem, there is a developing pattern that will carry throughout the rest of the poem. The first stanza specifically focuses on “we”—the children—whereas the second stanza focuses on an object—in this case, the telephone wires. The speaker describes the shape of the wires as “lovely freehand [that] curved for miles / East and miles west beyond us” (lines 4–5). The speaker compares the telephone wires to beautiful, hand-drawn lines that a person creates when doing freehand—a method of drawing that is generally done without artistic restrictions. This suggests that manmade technological innovations can have a beautiful quality, even if they are present among the beauty of nature. However, the word MIK E

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“freehand” also connotes a sense of unrestraint, and the speaker illustrates the extent to which these wires “curve.” The wires do not end their reach on the other side of town or beyond a hill; they’re described as nearly infinite, extending beyond either side of the speaker and his friends. This image of telephone poles and wires expanding “east” and “west” shows the extent to which technology spreads. The word “miles” is ambiguous—the wires could be extending for just a few miles or to each end of the country. Nonetheless, it is clear that the child speaker is observing a manmade technological innovation that extends far beyond what the eye can see. Furthermore, the line about wires “sagging / Under their burden of swallows” (lines 5–6) implies that technology and nature establish a distored image of beauty. The word “sagging” suggests that the wires are sinking low—an opposite image of the ascending nature of the first stanza. Moreover, the wires are nearly personified when the speaker says that they carry a burden. While the word “burden” literally means to carry something heavy, it also has negative connotations; specifically, the word stirs up images of old, worn out cables that have nearly reached the end of their lifespan and are tired. This “burden” is due to the “swallows” that rest atop of them. The speaker specifies “swallows,” as opposed to crows or larger birds. Swallows are small, migrant birds that are beautiful to look at, yet they seem to not have a place in the world of overwhelming manmade constructions, specifically technology. The contrasting image of “burden of swallows” and “lovely freehand” underscores how the children see non-harmonious beauty in the natural world alongside non-natural constructions of man. In the third stanza, the poem shifts from the children’s observation of the telephone wires to the thoughts of the children. Like the first stanza, the emphasis here is on “we”—the children—but in a different manner. On three occasions, the speaker uses the words “we” to illustrate the importance of the thoughts of the children: We were small and thought we knew nothing

Worth knowing. We thought the words traveled the wires In the shiny pouches of raindrops (lines 7–9)

The vocabulary in this stanza is somewhat different than the language in the preceding two stanzas, as it is the first instance when we are presented with the word “thought.” The presence of this word is especially important in the first line;

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had it been omitted, the meaning would have been altered by suggesting that the children’s thoughts were still insignificant. It is almost as if the speaker implies, “We thought we knew nothing worth knowing at the time, but looking back, we did.” In essence, the speaker seems to suggest that his childhood observations were worth something, even if he didn’t acknowledge it at the time. Also worth noting is that the first line of this stanza is enjambed to the second line, where the words “worth knowing” are immediately followed by a full stop. This is the first instance in the poem where terminal punctuation occurs in the middle of a line as opposed to at the end of a stanza. In one sense, the full stop prompts the reader to stop and think about what is “worth knowing” or what constitutes knowledge. In a more abstract sense, though, the words “worth knowing” are visually juxtaposed with the phrase “we thought” of the following sentence. In effect, this juxtaposition underscores that the “thoughts” of the younger speaker and his friends during their childhood was and remains “worth knowing.” The second line of the same stanza details how the speaker and his friends thought “words traveled the wires.” An interesting visual element is the length of the aforementioned enjambed line; it surpasses the length of all the other lines in the poem, as if the words in the poem are traveling a great distance along the line—just as the words would travel along the wires. For the first time in the poem, there is also a reference to weather, with the word “raindrops.” These raindrops are described as magical, as the children believe them to carry words as opposed to the telephone wires doing the work of transmitting information. Furthermore, the raindrops are described as “shiny,” which alludes to images of intense brightness or radiance, particularly from the sky. This image of illumination from above, being contained within tiny water droplets that fall to the earth, seems to highlight the children’s belief that the traveling words are the work of a supernatural power. Up to this point, we have a seen a contrasting, back-and-forth pattern between “we” in stanzas one and three, and a description of the telephone wires in stanza two. Essentially, the speaker has established a gradual, zooming-out effect of the things being described. Specifically, in the first stanza, we see an image of children climbing on large hills. In the second stanza, the focus is on the descriptive nature of the telephone wires. And in the third stanza, the focus is on the children’s smallness and their thoughts. In this stanza, the object of focus is on the raindrops and the children’s miniaturization compared to the sky: “Each [raindrop was] seeded full with the light / Of the sky, the gleam of the lines” MIK E

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(lines 10, 11). The speaker describes the beautiful quality of raindrops and how each one contains the radiance from the sky. The word “seeded” implies that powerful light is planted in each raindrop, which will cause them to multiply— perhaps an allusion to springtime or a replenishing of the earth. There is a brief reference to the telephone wires again but in a more appealing manner; the light the telephone wires reflect from the sky is described as a “gleam,” which creates a far more appealing image than their previously “sagging” nature. Aside from describing the raindrops’ being “seeded” with light from the sky and “the lines,” the speaker further says that the raindrops also contain “ourselves / So infinitesimally scaled / We could stream through the eye of a needle” (lines 11–13). The children appear to be seeing their reflection in the water droplets that are on the wires. By comparing themselves to the larger world, they see how small they actually are. The line “so infinitesimally scaled” is the shortest line in the poem—a visual element that reinforces the notion of scale with respect to the children and the larger world. The final line of the poem contrasts with the first line. “Climb[ing] the slopes of [a] cutting” and “stream[ing] through the eye of a needle” evoke two entirely different images. The former illustrates exertion and moving upward, whereas the latter establishes a sense of free-flowing movement that descends. The final line is also visually set apart from the other lines in the poem; not only does it stand alone in its own stanza, but it is the only sentence that is one line long. The flow of the text “streams” along the line just as swiftly as a water droplet would fall “through the eye of a needle.” This reference to a needle’s eye is the most powerful image in the poem, as it underscores the meaning behind it: children have a natural connection to nature and understand that there is a world much bigger than themselves. The title of the poem “The Railway Children” suggests that the speaker and his childhood friends were an adventurous group. Perhaps they traveled along railroads to other places and observed various elements of life according to their imaginative worlds. The speaker of the poem recounts, in a contemplative manner, the things he and his friends observed when they were children. There is almost a slight tone of sadness, as he seems to want to be in the mindset he was in as a child. The message that the speaker conveys is clear: our childhoods are important, and as we age, we shouldn’t let rationality and wisdom conflict with our early perceptions of the world.

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The Mariner’s Fortune REBEKAH CHUNG

“Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all her own mischance…” —Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott

The role of the artist in society was a question that would be heavily examined in the Victorian era, when the time came for some things to endure and others to be left to the past. To the Pre-Raphaelites, the artist communicated depth and spirituality, while “Art for Art’s sake” was the creed of James McNeill Whistler. Tennyson suggested that the artist has no place in society at all. Even before Victoria’s reign, however, Samuel Taylor Coleridge was already pondering this age-old question and had formulated a presumptuous theory of his own.

Humankind is never satisfied to be ordinary. Dostoyevsky examines this concept in Crime and Punishment, following the agonizing rationalizations of Raskolnikov, who kills an old woman to prove to himself that he is beyond normal moral standards. Rostand’s “Hercule-Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac” resolves to be “in every matter, always, admirable!”—often beyond reason. Joseph Conrad’s Kurtz is enamored by the power he finds among the natives of the African jungle, to the point that he loses his humanity in the midst of it. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, however, believes he, as a poet, is extraordinary. In his epic poem, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” he paints a haunting picture of the immense power and responsibility that lie in the title of “poet,” and he masterfully establishes the concept of poetic genius. R EB EK AH

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In Coleridge’s poem, the titular character undergoes a punishment which, while horrific, seems unfairly mild in comparison to the fates of those around him. The ancient Mariner’s fellow sailors do not seem to make as terrible a mistake as he does; however, their punishment is more severe than his. The Albatross itself is innocent, a bringer of good luck that loves the sailors and comes to play, yet it swiftly becomes a victim. This creates an element of discrepancy that Coleridge uses to assert the set-apart, superior duty of the poet as opposed to the more mundane lives of the common people, and says that the poet’s crucial mission is dearly paid for. Also, the ancient Mariner’s responsibilities and his fate are different from those of the other sailors, and by that assertion Coleridge implies that his responsibilities and fate are, in the same way, different. The ancient Mariner’s sin is a disrespect and coldness towards the world around him, which lead him to feel revulsion towards the creatures of the sea and to shoot an albatross—long held to bring good luck to a ship—without apparent reason. Not simply dispassionate, the Mariner actively abhors the living things he sees: “The very deep did rot: O Christ! / That ever this should be! / Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs / Upon the slimy sea” (426). He shows no appreciation or regard for nature, for the spiritual aspects of life, or for the fears and superstitions of his fellow sailors. Like the wedding-guest, he wanders through life without seeing it, and thus he abuses it. He has not yet learned his lesson or undertaken his duty of taking that lesson to others, and so he floats through life without much thought. When he kills the Albatross he gives absolutely no reason or justification—he He shows no appreciation or just did; he did not think: “…‘Why look’st regard for nature, for the spiritual thou so?’—With my cross-bow / I shot the Albatross” (425). No further explanation aspects of life, or for the fears and is given to this subject. The sailors, on the superstitions of his fellow sailors. other hand, are strongly superstitious. could almost argue that they have Like the wedding-guest, he wanders One made the greater mistake because they through life without seeing it, know a vague superstition and ignore it, and thus he abuses it. whereas the ancient Mariner is ignorant. Yet though they feel the fears and negativities of life very deeply, they do not necessarily understand the finer, more beautiful points of it, and they tend to follow the route of least resistance such as when they make the ancient Mariner their scapegoat, hanging the Albatross

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around his neck. In many ways they are like children, unwilling to own up to their faults, easily frightened by adversity, easily swayed from their beliefs; thus they easily fall into partaking of the crime of the ancient Mariner. They rebuke him initially, yet immediately afterwards they decide he was right to kill the bird: “Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, / That made the breeze to blow … ’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, / That bring the fog and mist” (425). It seems safe to conclude, at least, that all are equally guilty. The Albatross, on the other hand, has committed no crime, yet it is shot down amidst its playful capers above the ship. Death, then, is not determined by moral goodness. As long as a man is living he has the chance to mend his ways, to atone for his sins, to try to fix what he has broken. Living also allows one to learn and grow. The Ancient Mariner, who committed the actual sin of shooting the Albatross, is claimed by a figure known as “The Nightmare Life-in-Death” (428), which initially calls to mind the concept of a terrible deathlike state of life, in which one cannot die. However, such an existence might better be referred to as “Death-in-Life.” This suggests that the fate of the ancient Mariner is something slightly different and perhaps more positive. Either situation is one of neither fully life nor death, but the name “Life-in-Death” itself is almost positive, as if a sort of life and experience is being had despite the deathlike state that the mariner finds himself in. The Mariner’s brief period of punishment aboard his ship and his penance—the drive to tell others of his experience—are all he pays to continue living. During his life following the ordeal he is able to redeem himself and become a wiser man: “…Which forced me to begin my tale; / and then it left me free…I know the man that must hear me: / To him my tale I teach.” (437) Though he suffers for a time under the curse of the Albatross’ revenge, he survives to learn a valuable lesson and pass it on to others. The poor sailors, however, are not so lucky or favored. Death is the end, the ultimate finality, where there is no turning back, no forgiveness, and no second chances. The common sailors are not given any chance to correct their apparently smaller error of approving the Albatross’s death. While death may seem a welcome escape next to the tortured state the ancient Mariner goes through, it is important to look at the Mariner after the main events of the poem. “O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!” (437) he cries, and his request is granted. Some mercy is shown him while they are swiftly eradicated, never again mentioned. The sailors, on the other hand, have no chance at being “shrieved”—having penance laid on them—to amend their mistake. Also, their R EB EK AH

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future may very well be even worse than what the ancient Mariner suffers: “The souls did from their bodies fly,— / They fled to bliss or woe!” (428) For men who simply nodded at another’s crime and were led astray, or at most were guilty of the exact same crime, this mercilessness of fate seems terribly unreasonable. Even if their sin equals that of the Mariner, it seems they simply don’t matter enough to be allowed continued life because they lack something. The Albatross, too, lacks something that the ancient Mariner must possess. The only difference between the ancient Mariner and any other sailor is that he is a representation of Coleridge’s “artist.” This is also the advantage he has over the innocent Albatross. The concept of the poet, given a special ability to gain insight on the world on a more spiritual level, is deeply ingrained in Coleridge’s philosophy and his view on poetry. At the time when Life-in-Death cries “The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!” (428), the Mariner knows nothing. The Mariner is chosen, then, even before he gains the advanced understanding through his experience that makes him needed by the rest of the world—he is born into that status of being different. “Artists are born, not made,” seems to be the statement conveyed through the ancient Mariner’s unusual fate. Even while he is just as blind as—or more blind than—his fellow sailors, he is chosen and won by Life-in-Death, while Death takes the rest of the crew; none of the other sailors can go through the same experience, nor can any creature of nature. In the process of the poem, someone must make the mistake of scorning and abusing nature, nature must be scorned and abused, and someone must die as a result so that the criminal can see and understand the consequences and can amend his views. The Mariner is given a time of surreal terror during which he learns to appreciate the world around him, but the cost for his lesson is the death of the Albatross and his fellow sailors (not to mention the sanity of the Pilot’s boy in Part 7). That their collective death is necessary to effect the curse on the ancient Mariner suggests that his understanding—the poetic genius—is worth the lives of those two hundred men and one seabird. The importance of his mission is such that others are sacrificed for it. The ancient Mariner has a special appointment that makes him especially important to the common man. Because of this mission he is given, the lives of others are compromised. Yet the Mariner does suffer, and his suffering calls for appreciation by the wedding-guest he detains—that he has come through such agony so that he would understand what others need to be shown. We poets are geniuses, says Coleridge, and we go through hell to teach you what we know. He

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not only asserts his importance, but he warns the reader to heed him, just as the ancient Mariner grasps the wedding-guest so insistently so that he can tell his story. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” says that people die, the poet groans, and even nature is forced to pay its price so that the reader can gain insight on the colossal significance of what the poet has discovered, and thus he would do well to listen closely.

WORKS CITED Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. M. H. Abrams. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2000. 422–438.

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The Mechanism of Perpetual Indeterminacy in “Popular Mechanics” MIKE TINOCO

By examining how Raymond Carver’s use of minimal language operates in “Popular Mechanics,” Tinoco argues that the text establishes a sense of indeterminacy—that is, that there is no single, stable meaning. In particular, he suggests that the text’s indeterminacy simultaneously reinforces and undermines traditional gender roles, thereby leading to perpetual contradictions in meaning.

In contemporary American relationships, it seems that relatively few couples are fortunate enough to experience untainted bliss. One frequently hears about everincreasing divorce rates, domestic abuse, and single parents who raise children. While the underlying causes behind failed relationships widely differ, the inability to communicate effectively is often perceived as a common factor. American short story writer and poet Raymond Carver examines the effects of failed communication in “Popular Mechanics,” a story about an alienated couple on the verge of separating. The couple’s inability to reconcile their differences and communicate efficiently culminates with a tug-of-war over their child, the outcome of which is left open-ended. While some critics have noted that the form of “Popular Mechanics” is elliptical in nature and that the story illustrates the destructiveness of dysfunctional relationships, few, if any, have examined how Carver’s distinct use of minimal language establishes a sense of indeterminacy. Indeterminacy refers to “gaps” in a text, that is, details not clearly explained that allow for multiple interpretations (Tyson 174). One renowned Raymond Carver critic in particular, Arthur Bethea, suggests that the elliptical writing of “Popular Mechanics” does not establish “significant indeterminacy about the story’s meaning; the ellipses only serve to magnify the unreasonableness of the parents’ actions” (Bethea 97). I disagree with Bethea’s assertion and feel that Carver’s minimalist writing in

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“Popular Mechanics” does establish significant indeterminacy. In particular, the spare characterizations of the man and woman challenge traditional gender roles, and, as a result, the story’s ostensible patriarchal ideology is simultaneously reinforced and undermined. Carver’s distinct style of writing, which is commonly considered the exemplar of minimalism, is characterized by a “flatness of narrative tone, extreme spareness of story, an obsession with the drab and quotidian, a general avoidance of extensive rumination on the page, and, in sum, a striking restraint in prose style” (Saltzman 4). Literary minimalism emerged in the late 1970s and was a departure from the postmodern metafiction of preceding decades in which writers—such as John Barth, Kurt Vonnegut, and Donald Barthelme—“blurr[ed] the line between fiction and reality” (Taormina). Metafiction authors would often break out of a story’s narrative and comment on the writing itself or directly address the reader. In contrast to the authorial intrusion and commentary apparent in metafictional works, minimalist writers “attempt to present experience rather than talk about it; the story focuses on the experiences, without editorial comment by either a narrator or a character observing the experience” (Hallett 2). In Carver’s writing, the smallest details can provide maximum effect for the reader since the reader’s engagement with a text helps dictate a story’s meaning. Although some would argue that the story of “Popular Mechanics” seems to call attention primarily to the implied harm the couple inflicts on their child, Carver’s spare language also signalizes the bending of traditional gender roles. In cultures where patriarchy is privileged, men are often cast as “rational, strong, protective, and decisive” whereas women are considered “emotional (irrational), weak, nurturing, and submissive” (Tyson 85). A surface reading of “Popular Mechanics” may yield an interpretation that supports a patriarchal ideology, but by closely analyzing the story’s spare language, the following analysis will illustrate how traditional gender roles are bent. The patriarchal ideology that seems to operate in “Popular Mechanics” is, on one hand, validated by the spare characterizations of the man and woman. Their emotional responses to each other, in particular, foreground how this ideology appears to permeate the story. The first character introduced is the man, who is “pushing clothes into a suitcase” and about to leave the house (Carver 123). His packing of the suitcase—which illustrates a physical removal from his domestic environment—suggests that he possesses a degree of control since he is the one leaving. When the woman is introduced, she is presented in a stereotypical MIK E

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manner: she is in distress, extremely emotional, and in apparent need of the man’s attention. For instance, she angrily screams at the man, saying, “I’m glad you’re leaving! I’m glad you’re leaving!” while he simply ignores her and continues packing away his things (Carver 123). The man’s silence conveys a degree of reticence and emotional detachment from the situation, and the woman’s use of the word “glad” highlights a tone of sarcasm, presumably intended to mask her emotional pain. One could argue that, realistically, the man would be just as angry as the woman; however, his being stoic and collected during this moment of distress underscores the ingrained patriarchal notion that men are inherently rational and calm. Although there are no adverbs or narrative descriptions ascribed to the characters’ dialogue, the punctuation marks at the end of their sentences reflect their emotional states. For instance, the woman’s heightened emotional behavior is reflected by the seven exclamation marks that appear in her dialogue. The man’s sentences, in contrast, have only full stops, which, one can infer, reflect his calm (albeit disturbing) demeanor. The story’s apparent patriarchal ideology is also reinforced by the fact that the woman is portrayed as the instigator of the couple’s physical altercation, which ultimately leads to implied By its very essence, darkness renders harm to their baby. After the woman tries to get the man to brightness opaque and leads to a unsuccessfully speak to her and look her in the eyes, lack of clarity; the only way to have she “notice[s] the baby’s picture on the a sense of clarity is to maneuver bed and pick[s] it up” (Carver 123). The moment the woman takes away the through the obscurity in a slow picture, the man “look[s] at her” and manner, one step at a time. immediately demands that she “bring that back” (Carver 124). In essence, the picture seems to have some significance to the man since it is among the items he intends to pack in his suitcase, a receptacle often used to carry possessions. Thus, one can infer that the picture of the baby—which is merely a representation of the infant at a particular moment in time—is an object over which the man claims ownership. The apparent significance of the baby’s picture is reinforced by the fact that the man acknowledges the woman only after she takes it away, and it is her seizing of the picture that precipitates their physical fight. The man’s predatory behavior and the woman’s victimization further support the story’s patriarchal ideology. The characterizations of the man as

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dominating and the woman as frightened and weak place the two individuals in traditional gender roles. Although the man doesn’t appear to yell at the woman (which one can infer only by the full stops and absence of adverbial tags), he has an overbearing presence which frightens her. After he physically approaches the woman, who at this point holds the baby in her arms, she immediately acts as a protector of her young. She holds “the baby over in a corner behind the stove” (Carver 124), physically away from the man who is characterized as a threat. That the woman hides in a corner of the kitchen and not in a bedroom perpetuates the notion that the kitchen is a “woman’s place,” the environment in which a woman is supposed to sustain her family through cooking. The man’s masculinity is emphasized by descriptions of his aggressive nature: he “tighten[s] his hands on the baby,” tries to “break her grip,” “push[es] with all his weight,” and “grip[s] the screaming baby” (Carver 124–125). These descriptions illustrate the man’s resorting, stereotypically, to physical force in order to possess the baby. The man doesn’t attempt, at any point, to reason with the woman; rather, he uses the force of his hands and body—gripping, tightening, breaking, and pushing—in order to have the child, who is treated more as a possession than a person. While the story seems to reinforce a patriarchal ideology by the aforementioned characterizations of the man and woman, Carver’s minimal writing style simultaneously undercuts that ideology. In the opening paragraph, the narrator describes the outside weather as “getting dark” and subsequently states that it was “getting dark on the inside too” (Carver 123). While, on one level, the darkness sets a dismal tone to the story, it also seems to stand as a guide for how we are to read the story. By its very essence, darkness renders brightness opaque and leads to a lack of clarity; the only way to have a sense of clarity is to maneuver through the obscurity in a slow manner, one step at a time. Similarly, the spare vocabulary throughout the story prompts us to pay particular attention to how we derive multiple meanings through the story’s indeterminacy. The behavior of the man and woman challenges the story’s apparent patriarchal ideology since the minimal language suggests that they are both stepping outside of traditional gender roles. Although neither the man nor the woman refer to the baby by its name (they invariably refer to the infant as “the baby”), the man is the only one who refers to the baby using the gender pronoun “him.” The word “him” establishes a degree of familiarity—a connection—between the man and baby that the woman doesn’t reciprocate. The man’s reference to the infant as “him” suggests that the man is more nurturing than the woman. Indeed, the MIK E

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woman refers to the infant as “this baby,” and the narrator subsequently states that “she would have it, this baby” (Carver 125). Although the statement “she would have it, this baby” is stated by the narrator, it is narrated in a manner that appears to render audible the woman’s determination to win the baby, as if the woman’s thoughts are amplified. The word “would” in this context—a modal variant of the verb “will,” used to express deliberate action—is an implication that the woman feels determined to have the baby since the narrator doesn’t perform any action. All other characterizations of the man, woman, and baby are presented as objective information, and the narrator does not comment on the characters’ thoughts or emotions. Furthermore, the word “it” in this context is significant, as “it” is a gender neutral pronoun often ascribed to inanimate objects. The association of the woman’s having “it, this baby” suggests that she thinks of the baby more as an object rather than an actual human being. The woman seems to be more concerned with keeping hold of the baby—as a means of leverage over the man—rather than being nurturing toward the child. In this sense, one can interpret the woman as stepping out of the gendered role of the nurturing mother and stepping into a position of power. By using the baby as leverage, the woman essentially challenges the man’s power—his physical domination—by exploiting his emotional attachment to the baby. In contrast to the woman, the man repeatedly says that he wants the baby, and his having the picture of the baby on the bed seems to indicate that his desire is genuine. The man’s desire is exemplified by his twice telling the woman, “I want the baby” (Carver 124). While the word “want” in this context isn’t emphasized by any intonation that would otherwise be evinced by punctuation or adverbs, the fact that the man repeats what he says suggests that he has at least some desire to act as protector of the child. However, like the woman, the man attempts to satisfy his desire through selfish, irrational means. His physically taking hold of one arm of the infant while the woman pulls on the infant’s other arm—thereby placing baby in great distress and physical harm—undermines the man’s desire to be the exclusive nurturer for the baby. As a result, both the man and the woman remain at odds with each other, perpetually going in circles until they inevitably reach the breaking point. The title of the story, “Popular Mechanics,” suggests that the couple’s altercation is representative of an aspect of American culture. The word “popular” refers to what is widespread and prevalent, and the word “mechanics” refers to the intrinsic nature and functioning of things. The title also seems to be

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a play on the American handyman magazine of the same name, which examines contemporary science and technology. As a short story, “Popular Mechanics” essentially diagrams the couple’s turbulent relationship—with minimal, objective details—and leaves it up to the reader to derive interpretations through facts in the story. While a close reading will yield the interpretation that this story seems to reinforce a patriarchal ideology, an even closer examination of Carver’s minimalist language will show that this ideology doesn’t fully hold true due to the story’s indeterminacy. Perhaps Carver is suggesting that, regardless of the gender roles that men and women place themselves in, communication is necessary in order to reconcile differences; otherwise, devastating damage could ultimately be inflicted on the parties involved—including those outside of the relationship.

WORKS CITED Bethea, Arthur. Technique and Sensibility in the Fiction and Poetry of Raymond Carver. New York: Routledge, 2001. Carver, Raymond. “Popular Mechanics.” What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Ed. William Cain. New York: Vintage Publishers, 1989. 123–125. Hallett, Cynthia Whitney. Minimalism and the Short Story—Raymond Carver, Amy Hempel, and Mary Robison. Lewiston, New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1999. Saltzman, Arthur M. Understanding Raymond Carver. South Carolina: University of South Carolina Press, 1988. Taormina, Agatha. The Postmodern Novel. Northern Virginia Community College, 16 April 2008. Web. <http://www.nvcc.edu/home/ataormina/novels/history/ metafiction.htm>. 04 Dec. 2009. Tyson, Lois. Critical Theory Today: A User-Friendly Guide. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge, 2006.

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Indiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Celluloid Prism: Making Sense of War in India WILLIAM TRESEDER

In this essay, Treseder examines how Indian cinema has shaped and been shaped by recent cultural, political, and societal changes in India. In particular, he suggests that film is a powerful art that is not only a form of entertainment, but an influential phenomenon that can shape the arena and mold identity.

Following the Second World War, India earned its long-sought goal of national independence. Peoples of various cultures, ethnicities, and religions celebrated the occasion and looked forward to a new future of self-determination despite the painful split and accompanying immigration of Hindus and Muslims between India and Pakistan. Stagnant economic growth, widespread poverty, malnutrition, and other factors exacerbated the territorial tensions between these neighbors: within twenty-five years war broke out twice along the border in the mountainous Kashmir province and once in Bangladesh. Thousands of casualties on both sides along with millions of dollars of equipment were decimated by airstrikes, artillery barrages, tanks, mines, rockets, and rifle fire. After each warâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s end, no territory had been gained by India and the long-standing dispute over Kashmir with Pakistan was not resolved. Modern wars rarely finish with desirable results from a national perspective but this pair of conflicts cost much for the participants, both economically and socially: their fledgling governments could scarcely afford the price. And what about the civic cost of these wars? How was national and individual grief expressed? What sort of cultural outlets were used to justify these sacrifices? Indians at the time naturally looked to mass media as one of the available avenues for information on these horrible wars. All eyes and ears were directed toward those voices that promised an end to the bloodshed and meaning 96

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to the sacrifices already made. Surprisingly, in the late 60s and early 70s there was almost no response from the cinematic industry that had already established itself as the largest organ of mainstream Indian culture. In an era when domestic movie production was approaching 500 per year, only one war film was produced following both the 1965 and 1971 Indo-Pakistani wars1 (Pendakur 61). Neither of these movies cracked the top ten list in terms of box office revenue, and in each case the war was depicted as a backdrop for a separate story: war and its costs was not the subject. Fast forward thirty-five years and at least one major film about the Indo-Pakistani wars is produced annually. Some of the biggest stars have appeared in this extended series, beginning with the films that quickly followed the third Kashmir conflict in 1999. Powerful forces acting within India have shaped issues as far-ranging as civic representation, cinematic funding, national identity, and—as I argue—future military policy. These structural changes will be investigated first to better explain where the film industry fits into this changing picture and what can be learned from the recent history. This paper rests on the hypothesis that these sweeping changes can—to a large extent—be traced, explained, and used to better understand cultural responses to periods of national tragedy and personal loss, and also to gauge a population’s willingness to engage in future wars. Although the repeated Indo-Pakistani conflicts in the middle of the 20th century were important events, it was trials in the domestic arena that initiated the cultural shifts in question. Less than four years after the conclusion of the 1971 conflict, India found itself in the grip of another crisis, this time a domestic challenge: then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi suspended elections for two years in what came to be known as the Emergency of 1975. Of the varied fallout from this test of India’s democratic institutions, two main reactions concern this argument. First was “the re-emergence of urban, modernizing, media-exposed, middle-class India as an important player in Indian politics. This India sees commercial cinema as the form that has become particularly expressive of middle-class sensibilities and aspirations” (Lal xxiv). Concern over Gandhi’s actions led many in this rapidly growing class to engage passionately in the political process, using all the means at their disposal. As this group began exercising greater control in the late 1970s, film was becoming more acceptable as a mainstream cultural tool. Cinema was opened up to the middle class as “their” form of entertainment but more importantly as a valid medium for expressions of concern over public policy, including war. The question of how conflicts would be viewed by the InWILLIAM

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dian people—and therefore the contours of the political debate—was beginning to expand into the film industry. The second reaction to the Emergency of 1975 was actually a set of complementary developments. These included “the growing role of the media, the increased attractions of populism, and the decline of ideologies of all hues.” Each of these is now familiar to the Indian political landscape but represented an important shift at the time (Lal xxii). While these ideologies—including post-colonialism as a sort of non-British or non-Western identity—lost some of their sway over the general population, politicians either reinvigorated an old ideology or crafted a new message. This message was disseminated through the normal political channels but increasingly their promoters looked to film as well.2 Because this message needed to appeal to a broad group of Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs, it had to be inclusive and multicultural: politics at the national level needed to reinvent what it meant to be Indian and give fresh significance to this identity in a changing world. To accomplish this, national leaders were forced to use all available forms of media. Before moving past this crucial point, the failure of early Indian identity politics must be addressed because it is key to understanding why there arose such pressure for representative media on the national level. “The secularist selfrepresentation of early Indian nationalism provided a post-colonial promise of progress and political utopia” that proved unsustainable (Dirks 143). The strain of partitioning India and Pakistan, compounded by repeated bloodshed and divisive propaganda, acted as “a fundamental challenge to the claims of universality and citizenship that nationalism has used to justify itself” (Dirks 143). The Indian people saw clearly the cracks widening in these flimsy political constructs, but there was little indication of this tension in film. In particular, the growing (and anxious) middle class saw little reason for self-sacrifice given the Indian government’s inability to imbue national threats or challenges with any real significance. It wasn’t until recently the Indian government began its “perilous attempt to reenchant the nation and reconstitute the grounds of culture (read national) identity” focused on an inclusivity orbiting this new concept of India (Dirks 135). In short, the Indian government was failing to prove the relevance of a national identity to an increasingly engaged yet skeptical middle class. We can now look more closely at how the contemporary Indian film industry was affected by a rising Indian middle class, a changing populism, and a dearth of coherent national identity.

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One of the noticeable features of early Indian cinema was its unique sources of funding. Manjunath Pendakur notes that “producers have historically resorted to raising the money from private investors who come primarily from construction, jewelry, and assorted trades” as well as organized crime syndicates from various large cities (Pendakur 68). There was also funding from the local and state governments to sponsor their regional film industries. To the extent filmmakers relied on such unorthodox sources they were forced to shape their message away from popular sentiment and toward the arbitrary tastes of their patrons, to whom the pain and suffering of the Indo-Pakistani wars were not necessarily of interest. Many films were produced dealing with issues confronting a post-colonial India, yet they represent more of the lasting themes such as poverty, social rigidity, and wealth distribution; the episodic and unthinkable sacrifices of war were not an area of concern. Despite the huge infrastructure (i.e. job market) and overwhelming popularity of Indian cinema, it wasn’t until 1998 that the Indian federal government—as a sort of culmination of the previously discussed middle class movement toward accepting and incorporating cinema—officially recognized “film as a legitimate ‘industry’” with the accompanying “institutional financing [for] producers, distributors, exhibitors, [and] any business connected with film” (Pendakur 68). Previously the only government funding available was from the states, which tended to fund films dealing with regional issues and culture rather than the overarching problems of India as a nation-state. These changes in public policy immediately freed filmmakers to explore other themes and styles that were previously too difficult to fund, among them newer forms of nationalism focused on providing an inclusive identity and justifying controversial governmental actions like war. Even while the Indian film industry was still unrecognized by its own government, its very structure and scope were evolving at a fast pace. Ashish Rajadhyaksha explores the development of Bollywood from “a domestic film product which has comparatively few options for merchandising its products to an entire international enterprise”(196). One of its new exports is “the export of Indian nationalism itself, now commodified and globalized into a ‘feel good’ version of ‘our culture’” (198). Even if the government did not expend resources honing a coherent identity for its people, Bollywood acted in their stead, guided by expanding profits to construct an appealing image of India. As the number of films produced annually has climbed to upwards of 1,000 and Indian cinema achieves an ever-greater status in the world, its products become tailored to the WILLIAM

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international appetite for its films (Pendakur 61). With this global appeal comes the concern of the way these films portray India to a foreign audiences. Their impression of the nation will be influenced by Bollywood blockbusters, and the conscientious national government looks to fund films portraying India from a position of strength. Thus, what were originally genuine (or at least reflective) cultural expressions are now often constructed to fulfill a contrived national image formed on the global stage. Most “domestic” films effectively become balanced between the needs of projected external strength and internal importance. This tension—the simultaneous push for global and local relevance—reflects the need for a compelling model of the Indian citizen in an uncertain globalized world. The boy in Wisconsin and the boy in Calcutta are being told the same thing about what it means to be Indian. The considerable changes outlined above are reflected in the growing genre of war films. Their very existence as movies indicates a substantial shift in the selection and funding process, their continued success domestically speaks to their relevance in modern India, and their themes and messages convey a powerful nationalism. Border, the most popular film made in 1997 and the front runner of this modern wave of war movies, constructs an appealing story of public service and military glory. The film traces four Indian men from various backgrounds who are all stationed at one of the border outposts attacked during the 1971 IndoPakistani conflict.3 They represent a cross-section of Indian society, including a Muslim, a Sikh, and the son of a war hero from the 1965 border war. The only common theme is their love of India as exemplified through military service; the film explicitly portrays patriotism The boy in Wisconsin and the boy in as a “madness” commanding the hearts of all the men, even to the detriment of Calcutta are being told the same thing their wives and families. The men are about what it means to be Indian. also pious and rewarded for their piety: during the film a small temple dedicated to a Hindu goddess is the only building the Pakistanis are unable to destroy with their artillery. Each character knows (or must learn) how to subordinate their own desires to the needs of India. The selflessness also extends past the soldiers on the front, powerfully conveyed by one man’s mother who lost her husband in the previous war and cried so long and hard she went blind. Later in the film her fears of losing her son are justified, but this sacrifice is portrayed as a necessary one, reinforcing the patriotic theme. Crucially, the war is not presented as with-

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out cost in terms of lives, equipment, and money; rather, the film attempts to give meaning to the fallen soldiers by highlighting their service to the nation. Dialogue and symbolism also strongly influence the message of Border. At one point a soldier who is celebrating his release on leave to visit his sick wife and child is admonished by his superior officer for deserting his men in their time of need. During the savage (and illegal) Pakistani shelling of a nearby village, one Muslim man is astonished when a Hindu officer rushes into his home to rescue his Koran before it burns, and even kisses it properly before returning the holy book. This compassion and magnanimity is demonstrated again when several Indians refuse to shoot a wounded Pakistani, instead giving him water and even crying when they found him dead after the fight. “Hail, India!” is uttered by the men over thirty times during the final forty-five minute climatic battle against the Pakistani aggressors, including by an enlisted Sikh warrior who jumps on top of an artillery round to protect his men. One of the last scenes of the film is of an officer who—riddled with wounds and praying to the Hindu temple goddess for strength—single-handedly destroys a tank by running up to it and blowing himself up with a mine. These scenes suggest the increasing significance of the Indian nation-state and its importance to the lives of its citizens.4 Three years after Border, a film was produced dealing specifically with social costs of war. Mission Kashmir, the third highest grossing film of the year, traced the life of a boy named Altaaf whose family was killed—probably accidentally, although this is left open—by Indian policemen. He discovers the killer’s identity as a young man and becomes radicalized as a Kashmiri separatist. Eventually he has to foil a plot to foment another conflict between the Hindu and Muslim populations in Kashmir. Much of the film deals with his need to keep the moral high ground vis-a-vis the terrorists with whom he previously worked. Significantly, the protagonist is a Muslim Kashmiri, demonstrating the inclusiveness of the new India. Altaaf’s dedication to protecting the population, despite his personal grudges, also brings up the theme of personal sacrifice. Mission Kashmir was a thoughtfully produced film where the accidental horrors of war are shown in their full light, and it is only a strong national identity which overcomes the sectarian bloodlust and saves the main character. Another popular war film following Mission Kashmir was Lakshya. Made in 2003, the movie featured many of the same elements of the earlier movies—explicit patriotism, military virtue, and Indian benevolence—but added in a story of personal growth. A young man named Karan from an upwardly mobile merWILLIAM

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chant family finds meaning in his life after joining the military with some of his friends. His initial enthusiasm wears off and it takes a painful learning period before he embraces martial culture, thereby earning the respect of the woman he lost during his younger days. Karan embodies all the positive traits associated with soldiers in these new war films and proves his loyalty to the nation by leading a special forces team up the sheer face of a cliff to recapture a border stronghold from the Pakistanis. His reward for this service is a devoted wife and the promise of a successful future.5 This added message focusing on individual growth and upward mobility appeals to the middle class audience as their impressions of war and military service are shaped; they are shown how these sacrifices add value to both citizens and the nation as a whole. There are many other examples beyond Border, Mission Kashmir, and Lakshya of the new Indian war film, and they all share the characteristics outlined above. Beyond the imagery and themes of the films, it is also crucial to understand how the financial arena influences the changing content in these new films. In fact, the funding for these movies exemplifies how important was the shift of resources to the national level. Although Border was produced immediately before the 1998 policy changes regarding cinema, its production team had many close ties with the Indian Ministry of Defence. This allowed them de facto national level funding before the rest of the film industry.6 Mission Kashmir, produced by Vinod Chopra’s company of the same name, and Lakshya, produced by Ritesh Sidhwani and his Excel Entertainment firm, followed the lifting of the national-level ban on funding and were partial beneficiaries of federal money. This new financial resource refocused what had been more parochial content to bring the whole nation into sharp relief. The Indian government, acting in its new role of film subsidies, expected either implicitly or explicitly to see national concerns addressed by its beneficiaries. Thus a new expectation was placed onto producers, one that would be particularly poignant in the symbolic and thematic arenas. Drawing from the particular characteristics of these new war movies, it is easy to see several powerful elements of the Indian national character as conceived by the filmmakers. This model was built to address the needs of its primary audience—the growing middle class. First, this new civic model is intensely patriotic, up to the point of superseding the family, the traditional source of authority and legitimacy. In films like Lakshya with a more individual focus this is obvious: Karan is effectively “raised” by the military and only reunites with his father after going through the crucible of war. Second it places emphasis on re-

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sponsibility, tradition, and respect, although this is only expressed in military or filial terms. This is evident in the patriotic speeches strewn throughout all Indian war movies, and often accompanying a scene where an inferior Hindu officer is berated by his superior, often a Sikh. The challenge to authority turns into a careful Using a visual medium, these films explanation of the citizen’s relationship present the emotional dichotomies, to the nation. Faith also factors into the third element: while it allows for the re- perfect timing, powerful symbolism, spect (indeed, encourages the practice) of and simplified relationships other religions, it breaks from the modnecessary for building up the ern Indian tradition of strict secularism to favor Hinduism. In this, Mission Kash- identity receptive to the national mir is notable for having a more nuanced vision of a resurgent India. depiction of Muslims; generally they are Pakistani and often violate the Laws of War by killing prisoners or not wearing uniforms. Lastly, there is a sense of maintaining the moral high ground, especially vis-a-vis the Pakistanis as mentioned in the previous example: they must be the aggressors but are treated benignly when in an inferior position—even if the Indians don’t expect the same treatment in return. Although it could mean their death, they must remain true to the proud traditions espoused in each of these films. Taken together, these elements of patriotism, traditionalism, inclusiveness, and benevolence provide a clear sense of what it means to be Indian in a world where the old model has been discredited. They are inclusive within the domestic sphere, stern but fair in dealing with their enemies, devoutly religious, and— most important—totally dedicated to the preservation and continued expansion of “Mother India.” This holistic model presents itself within the two overlapping media most suited to its message: cinema and war. Using a visual medium, these films present the emotional dichotomies, perfect timing, powerful symbolism, and simplified relationships necessary for building up the identity receptive to the national vision of a resurgent India. Essentially these films provide a roadmap to the younger generations as they look for the nation’s relevance in a more accessible modern world. This is only magnified by the construction of a battlefield environment, with all its masculine bonds, moral simplifications, and justified violence. These two synergistically breed the perfect forum for identity construction as conceived by modern Indian cinema. Such tailored content can then WILLIAM

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be produced by Bollywood and its regional counterparts thanks to a renewed federal interest and sympathetic public policy. When the films are released the middle class then absorbs the messages focusing on their contemporary concerns: security, globalization, and politics. A very important shift occurred during the interregnum between the 1971 and 1999 Indo-Pakistani wars. Changes in the political, social, and economic spheres laid the groundwork for an explosion in military-themed films dedicated to the construction of a pan-Indian identity needed to present a coherent and appealing future. These movies can dramatically affect the average citizen’s perception, and they now comprise an important component of national cinema in India. As the nation continues to deal with challenges domestically and from abroad, these citizens will be the ones electing and putting pressure on the officials deliberating whether or not to send that next wave of men to war.

FOOTNOTES 1. 2. 3.

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Prem Pujari (1969) is a love story with the 1965 conflict as a subplot, Hindustan Ki Kasam (1971), an anemic version of the 1971 conflict. Normal political channels include speeches, rallies, pamphlets, public education, radio, and television. The Battle of Longewala was one of the most famous of the 1971 war. A small Punjab regiment was able to successfully defend their border outpost against a sneak attack by a much greater Pakistani tank battalion. The regiment had to hold out until dawn when the Indian Air Force struck the Pakistanis and forced their retreat. Although the rhetoric does not change significantly during the film, the level of sacrifice goes from mere selflessness to a sacrifice of one’s life to preserve Indian land and protect fellow soldiers from harm. That is, the real costs continually increase even if the rhetorical strength does not. There is a very interesting use of the concept of a mission in this film. Karan ends up declaring Romila (his future wife) his next “mission.” This I took to be a nod to both his newfound self-discipline and maturity, and an easy way of folding in more of the patriotic rhetoric.

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J.P. Dutta (director and producer) and O.P. Dutta (his father, the screenwriter) were close family friends with various high-level military officers and so enjoyed the unconditional support of the ministry. They also had access to military equipment and vehicles normally unavailable to civilians.

WORKS CITED Border. Dir. J.P. Dutta, Perf. Sunny Deol, Raakhee Gulzar, and Jackie Shroff. JP Films, 1997. Dirks, Nicholas. “The Home and the Nation: Consuming Culture and Politics in Roja.” The Bollywood Reader. Desai, Jigna and Dudrah, Rajinder, eds. Glasgow, UK: Oxford University Press, 2008. 134–146. Lal, Vinay and Nandy, Ashis, eds. Fingerprinting Popular Culture: The Mythic and the Iconic in Indian Cinema. New Dehli, India: Oxford University Press, 2006. Lakysha. Dir. Farhan Akhtar, Perf. Amitabh Bachchan, Hrithik Roshan, and Preity Zinta. Excel Entertainment, 2004. Mission Kashmir. Dir. Vidhu Chopra, Perf. Sanjay Dutt, Hrithik Roshan, and Preity Zinta. Destination Films, 2000. Pendakur, Manjunath. “In the Throes of Change: Exhibition, Production, and Distribu- tion.” The Bollywood Reader. Desai, Jigna and Dudrah, Rajinder, eds. Glasgow, UK: Oxford University Press, 2008. 55–71. Rajadhyaksha, Ashish. “The ‘Bollywoodization’ of the Indian Cinema: Cultural Nation- alism in a Global Arena.” The Bollywood Reader. Desai, Jigna and Dudrah, Rajinder, eds. Glasgow, UK: Oxford University Press, 2008. 190–199.

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C ONTRIBUTO R

N OT E S

B. ALEXANDER is a soon-to-be former student. PAULETTE BOUDREAUX says, “I write stories to make meaning. That is a primary point and purpose in my life—the making of meaning. So when I am not writing, my life is like a dry fountain, only theoretically useful. I have been writing my whole life. As a child I wrote stories and poems, then I got a B.A. in Journalism from Northeastern University and worked as a journalist and PR writer for years, then turned back toward creative storytelling and received a master of fine arts degree from Mills College. Now I’m part of the English and creative writing faculty at West Valley College. I am primarily a novelist who has published in literary journals such as Equinox, Acorn Whistle, A Room of Her Own, and In the Margins. This piece in VOICES is an excerpt from my second novel, Mulberries.” LAUREN BULLENE is currently a student at Sonoma State University. During fall 2009 she took a semester off from SSU and attended West Valley College. She used this time to take classes in subjects that she is passionate about, including creative writing and geography. Lauren is a geography major but has always been interested in writing and poetry, which stems from her fascination with music and her appreciation of lyrics. Lauren is grateful to have come from such a supportive background and for having a sister who encouraged her to keep writing.

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THOMAS BURNS, a Los Gatos native, is a proud student of West Valley College. He is primarily a student of music. Since graduating Valley Christian high school in 2006, he has found the beauty in the art of story and applied this to writing fictional prose as well as screenplays. His major influences are Charlie Kaufman, Chuck Palahniuk, and Orson Scott Card. ERIN CABALLERO is a Bay Area native and current student at West Valley College. Her alma mater is San Jose State University where she received a degree in reporting-editing journalism with a double minor in health and political science. She has been published in San Jose State University’s Spartan Daily. Erin has travelled abroad to France and she says that her writing style has been greatly influenced by her passion for listening to rap and hip-hop music. She considers Eminem to be one of her favorite artists and credits his work with providing inspiration. Erin is currently writing her memoirs and credits her creative writing teacher, Susan Schulter with being a major influence whose feedback has helped her grow as both a student and a writer. MAC CAHILL began creating ceramic art work as a high school student at Milpitas High School. He credits his high school teacher for his motivation to explore ceramics and during his senior year he began taking ceramic classes at West Valley College. Mac recently joined the Marine Corps, and while he hasn’t had time to do art work since then, he hopes to start up again soon. MOLLY CAHILL is currently pursuing a degree at Kent State University’s School of Journalism and Mass Communication. She has worked on the staff of West Valley College’s The Norseman and KSU’s The Daily Kent Stater. She currently splits her time between her hometown of VOICES

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San Jose and where she attends school in Ohio. She has traveled internationally to Greece, Turkey, and England. She loves photography and would like to someday travel the world taking pictures as she goes. DRU CARTIER is a West Valley student and member of Alpha Gamma Sigma and vice president of the college’s Inter-club Council. Dru has two children, toddler aged, and a wonderfully helpful husband. Her interests include editing, writing poetry about simple pleasures that are over-looked in day-to-day life, customizing import cars, jogging, drinking deadly amounts of coffee, and generally enjoying this life. She currently interns with Poetry Flash, a Berkeley based publication. Dru says “I find inspiration through the crashing waves of the ocean, little fingers of my children wrapped around mine, and events in everyday life.” REBEKAH CHUNG’s favorite quote is “The madman is erudite,” a line by Cyrano in Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac. To her, the quote represents her take on life—to live madly, unreasonably in everyone’s eyes but her own, but to do it with intelligence and finesse. She is a disciple of history and a lover of literature who dreams of writing bestselling novels and riding horses, who revels in the feel of a keyboard—piano or laptop— against her fingertips, the smell of the sky after a storm, the taste of words, and the sound of languages wellworn by time. JENNIFER DAY is a young woman; her brain swimming with possibilities and her hands perpetually trying to keep up. JAKE DEOME is an English and journalism major at West Valley College who will be transferring to CSU

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Sacramento in the fall. Jake was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. He is an outdoorsman, and uses his experiences in his writing. His favorite authors are Jack Kerouac, John Steinbeck, and Albert Camus. His favorite poets are Gary Snyder, Walt Whitman, and Pablo Neruda. STEVE DOBOS is a student of mathematics at San Jose State University. He has designed video games for such companies as Nexon. His spare time activities range from writing poetry to teaching ballroom dancing. LAURA FONES is a current student at West Valley College and holds a B.A. in European Studies from CSU Fullerton. She was published for the first time in 2001 in the poetry anthology titled The Path into the Light. She has since published short fiction and academic articles in award-winning journals. This spring, she starred as Heidi Holland in West Valleyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s main stage production of The Heidi Chronicles. Laura also speaks French fluently, having lived near Paris during high school, and speaks German tolerably. She has travelled extensively and intends to pursue a graduate degree next fall. You can visit her personal website at www.laurafones.com. CARLEEN GEHUE has always had high ambitions of world domination (still looking for that perfect chair from which to rule!). A fun loving instigator from day one, she would leave the bathtub to run naked in the backyard, but only in the Canadian summers. Moving to California at the age of seven brought warmer winters, beach fun and favorite pastime of boogie boarding and playing in the waves. She is currently a student at West Valley College, but no one can say what the future holds for this passionate, fun-loving, and occasionally spastic young woman. VOICES

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ERICA LAMONT enjoys the challenges of being a Creative and Technical Writer—an Editor and a Researcher—an Artist, an Inventor and a Maker. Her recent artistic interests often combine intense research with flames and experimental sculptural design as she explores the worlds of photo manipulation, needle felt, found art, metal work, fused glass and her newest goal—the creation of lamp work beads. Having written for and edited several publications back home in her native Canada, Erica is now happy to be involved with the editorial and technical aspects of publishing VOICES, the Literary Magazine of West Valley College. She graduated from West Valley in Spring 2010. EILEEN LEWIS was born in California, but grew up in Thailand, travelling extensively throughout Southeast Asia. Extremely politically active, she currently attends CSU Monterey Bay and majors in global studies. Eileen has previously written for the Sacramento Valley Mirror as a journalist and film critic and has been published as a winner of the Olympiad of the Arts for her creative non-fiction piece “On Jellies.” In her spare time, Eileen likes to play the Irish tin whistle and tend to her goldfish. She also speaks fluent Thai and claims that while she consistantly burns toast, she can whip up an authentic gourmet Thai meal in a matter of minutes. ARIS MILLARE became a photographer by accident. His second year at UC Santa Cruz he picked up a DSLR in a trade involving an old computer and a new surfboard. As it turned out, he just wasn’t made for surfing. A friend took notice of Aris’ ability to capture the ordinary in extraordinary ways through the lens of a camera and pushed him to develop it even further. After a year of being a casual shutterbug with his then aging camera, Aris decided to jump into the craft head-first

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and purchased his first professional camera. He took that hulky thing with him everywhere. Aris is heavily influenced by the cinematic styles of Alfred Hitchcock and Wong Kar Wai, but his biggest influence is his good friend and mentor Mark J. Sebastian. SHAY MOSSING, a West Valley College student, has been focusing on English and computer applications. Passionate about arts, she hopes to learn as much as she can about painting, sketching, and writing. Some of her most treasured achievements thus far include having held a nine foot alligator when she was a young teen, skydiving at the age of eighteen, becoming a certified scuba diver, and hiking nine miles through rough terrain. Shay is also a published author in VOICES Literary Magazine! BRENDA NORRIE is a current West Valley College student after a three year hiatus, and has decided to major in English. When sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not concocting smoothies for customers at Jamba Juice, her free time is spent rock climbing, figure skating, dancing, running, cycling, and blogging. Her artistic persona also allows her to model as a part-time job, and she would love to see that career blossom in Los Angeles after graduation. Her last summer was spent in New Zealand where she participated in thrill-seeking activities such as bungee jumping and zorbing. She also volunteered time at an orphanage in Mexico with her churchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s young adult group. You can view her blog at nekkid-kiwi.blogspot.com. BENJI REHA is an aspiring student at West Valley College. He has a history in the performing arts with musical theater, choir and dance. He looks forward to transfering to a four year university and majoring in photography. VOICES

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MARKUS ROBINSON is an aspiring writer and movie reviewer residing in San Jose. An English major at West Valley, his biggest writing influence is Gabriel Garcia Marquez, whose short stories continue to inspire his writing. Markus was published in the first issue of VOICES and is proud to be published once again. He dedicates his short story to Nicole Ashland, his amazing girlfriend and devoted editor. SHAWNTAE STRICKLAND says “I have been writing, for as long as I could remember. Poetry, stories and songs have always been a part of my life; they are my breath. I am a sophomore at West Valley College and I intend to major in psychology, because I want to become a children’s therapist. I find my inspiration through everything. The twinkle of stars in the skies, hearing a child’s laugh, seeing someone cry—all of these are daily inspirations that inspire me to write. I believe it takes a lot of ‘ugly’ to see all of the ‘beauty’ in the world, and that has been my greatest motivation to never stop writing.” IRENE SURBER is a West Valley College student. LAURA SYLVAN fell in love with the short story form as a child through reading issues of Cricket, a children’s literary magazine. She would sprawl out on the cold basement floor of the town’s public library and dive into “entire unknown worlds tucked inside a perfect crystallized form—the stories were absolutely irresistible.” Her current influences include a wide range of authors and poets, naming Mark Wunderlich, Charles Baxter, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Louise Erdrich. “I look for that moment when one’s perspective is forced to change, a truth is revealed.”

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MIKE TINOCO is a bookworm/beatboxer/future educator who recently graduated from San Jose State University with a bachelor’s degree in English with honors. He previously attended West Valley College, where he was inspired to become a high school English teacher to help raise the standard of public education, particularly for “at-risk” and underprivileged students. He will continue his own educational path through graduate study at UCLA, starting in the fall of 2010. WILLIAM TRESEDER is a West Valley College graduate who transferred to Stanford University. At Stanford, William is a science, technology and society major with an emphasis on technology, innovation and social stability. He recently took a leave of absence from Stanford to return to the Marine Corps and deploy to Afghanistan as part of a Civil Affairs unit. His work will be population-centric operations focused upon addressing the fundamental “drivers of instability” in Afghan society by strengthening local governance capacity. Upon return to the United States and completion of his undergraduate studies, he will pursue further opportunities in overseas development work. He has written articles appearing in several local newspapers including the San Jose Mercury News, a San Diego Reader blog during a prior deployment to Iraq, and several op-eds for the Stars & Stripes. CATHERINE WOOD PHIPPS has spent a lifetime in pursuit of the arts, from watercolors, mosaics, photography, to the revival of old Victorian crafts. Born in Lincoln, Nebraska, one of twelve children, she and her siblings were encouraged to dabble in a variety of art forms from the time they were very small. It was in the late 1970s that she discovered a passion for writing poetry. Catherine and her teacher husband, Edward, live on a VOICES

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small working acreage in northern California which they lovingly call “Little Eden.” It is here, in the mild temperate climate among an exquisite variety of flora and fauna that she pursues her art and writing. “Writing poetry provides an opportunity to play, ponder and perseverate with words. It allows me to be the child and the adult, the thinker and the player. The creative writing classes at West Valley College were so fun, and incredibly inspirational thanks to my professor, Susan Schulter. She helped strengthen and hone my skills as a writer, and was the impetus behind my writing a first novel.” CARTER YU graduated with a B.S. in Information Systems, but has always had a passion for art and design. His hobbies include traveling, current events, nature and sports. He hopes that capturing nature’s beauty through photography will inspire others to conserve Earth’s precious ecosystem.

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The body text in VOICES is Palatino Linotype, named for the 16th century calligrapher Giambattista Palatino and derived from the humanist fonts of the Italian Renaissance. The strokes suggest a broad pen nib. The title and headers are set in a mid-century font, Optima, which is a flared sans serif. Both Palatino Linotype and Optima were designed by Hermann Zapf.

Cover art by ARIS MILLARE Simple Pleasures Carousel, Pier 39, San Francisco Canon 5d 15mm f2.8 1/100 sec