• Anthony Yeboah
  “This I Believe”
• Betty Stoneman
  “Ataraxia Impossible”
• Betty Stoneman
  “Fragments of Insignificance”
• Carl Williamson
  “Never Judge A Book By It’s Cover”
• Christopher Williams
  “Doors, Whores, and Feather Dusters”
• Colton Bybee
  “A Sailor’s Journey Alone Across the Sea”
• Emma Miller
  “Nice Girl to the Rescue”
• Glory Shekinah Stanton
  “Can’t We All Just Get Along”
• Jacee Bawden
  “The Mountain Inside”
• Kenzie Anderson
  “Determination”
• Kimberly Carter
  “Split Ends”
• Lauren Horsley
  “White Knuckling”
• Mary Green
  “My Mother and the Tinker Child”
• Megan Mullineaux
  “Love and Marriage”
• Sean Sweeney
  “A Night’s Tale”
• oqwi7Limbo
  “51473”
• Haley Spangler
  &Different Shade Of Regret”

  
      I believe in life. I believe in my breath.  I believe in my physical body, from the organs it is made of down to the smallest cell that makes it function.  I believe in my senses, things I see, things I feel, things I taste, things I hear, things I touch and emotions I feel. I believe in the systems that makes it function like my nervous system, respiratory system, digestive system and reproductive system.
     I believe in nature, the air, water, plants, animals, sun, moon, stars, sand, mountains, clouds, ocean and the sky.  I believe in death. I believe in the mind; whatever I can conceive and believe I can achieve. I believe variety is the spice of life, like ups and down, birth and death, day and night, love and hate, joy and sorrow, hope and despair, compassion and anger, peace and war and wealth and poverty,  it is all part of life.
     I believe in change as nature changes through seasons, like my son being born five years ago and every day watching him grow and develop to become the boy he is now. I believe in flexibility like a chameleon will adapt to its environment, in my fellow human beings and the human race.  I believe civilization and technology.  I believe in imagination, creation and knowledge.  
     I have seen all of these things since I was a kid, including a vision in my mind.  I have never known for sure my waking up the next day will be guaranteed or knowing what happens when I sleep but I  still believe I will wake up even though I do not know how that will happen, the same  applies to the numerous things I have achieved in my life, like living in America, even when I did not know how to get here I always felt I was going to live here.  I have learned to believe in life and accept it for what it is.  I will accept what life throws at me and appreciate it as an experience of life.  I believe in life.

relinquishing of your existence
from the spaces you inhabit
in the well guarded chambers
of admiration and desire
releasing of vivid recollections
striking facial expressions
each charming and captivating
reflections of personality
transgression of attraction
has proven impossible
ataraxia impossible
insomnia opening a portal
in my discontented mind
a realistic dimension of hell
malicious illusionary images
tease with glimpses of possibility
upon eager lips and fingertips
until you turn dismissively
leaving me to insignificance 
transgression of fascination
has proven impossible
ataraxia impossible

Bruises seeping
justified by her inaction
an action of being bad
punishment fulfilled
little girls deserve
degradation
he doesn’t remember
Insignificance

Hiding in the dark
justified by her inaction
on a cold tiled floor
locked bathroom door
violation
he doesn’t remember
Insignificance

Errors repeating
justified by her inaction
mistaken affection
chemical paralysis
self hate perceived
depredation
he doesn’t remember
Insignificance

Beauty fleeting
justified by her inaction
reality unforgivably
flawed by imperfection
desire for magazine
attraction
he doesn’t remember
Insignificance

Memories built upon:
Each a portion of:
Taught to recreate:
A picture of a life of:
Wishes to forget:
Demonstrations of:
insignificance

       I was stereotyped as a drug dealer because I’m black. I was dressed in jeans, tee shirt and sneakers. I also had a bandana tied around my head, and one hanging out my back pocket. I was also wearing sunglasses.
       The incident in question happened in a place on the outskirts of Atlanta. It was in July of 1998 in Woodstock, Georgia. I was working for a company out of Duluth, Ga. called W&W Builders. The company mainly built new Burger King restaurants on the east coast from Florida to Connecticut. I was part of the construction crew that did all the concrete work for them. The crew I worked consisted of my father, Carl Sr., my brother Jermaine, and my cousin Jimmy. We were staying close to the job site while we worked on the new store.
       It was a Friday evening, and we were just getting off work. Jermaine, Jimmy and I decided that we were going to drive to Atlanta for the weekend to visit friends. So, we got dressed and went outside. As we were leaving the parking lot, the police stopped us. They were about eight of them, and they had two drug sniffing dogs with them. They instructed us to get out of the car, and put our hands up. We were handcuffed and told to sit on the curb while they searched the car.
       The police took our ID, and ran a nationwide check on all three of us. In the meantime, the other police searched the car. They searched the inside of the car and didn’t find anything. They went around the car and once they tried to check the trunk, it wouldn’t open. We explained that the lock was broke, and we couldn’t get in the trunk neither. We hadn’t been able to open the trunk for six months. Naturally, they didn’t believe us, and suggested that we must be hiding something.
       They kept trying to open the trunk, and when they couldn’t get it open after multiple tries, so they called another K-9 unit. All this time, we were handcuffed. We kept insisting there was nothing in there, but our words were falling on deaf ears. Finally, they told us they were going to tow the car to the police impound yard so they could use tools to open it. They kept telling us they had probable cause because the police dog stopped at the trunk, and there had to be drugs in there. After an hour, they finally took the handcuffs off and let us go. They said that we came back clean, but they still towed the car.
       I can understand some of the reasons why we were detained, but I still feel we were unjustly targeted by the way we dressed and the color of our skin. I know that drugs is a serious problem in this country that affects our youth in more ways than one. Not only is drug use on the rise among the young people, a lot of them sell it too. Everytime you look at the news, the media is constantly showing drug related crimes and drug use. The perception in America is that all young black men are either drug dealers or gang bangers or both. This is far from the truth. There a quite a few young black men in today’s society that are doing positive things with their lives. A lot of them are getting and education and going to college so they can become a productive member of society, as well as in their community.
       After this incident, I did some reflective thinking about this particular situation. I also did some research into the city and the area we stayed in. I found out the area was known for a lot of drug activity. About three months before we were detained, law enforcement and the DEA made a big drug bust, and a lot of the people they arrested were people from out of town.
       I understand now that the police weren’t targeting us. With so much drug activity in the area, they were just trying to make sure the streets was safe for the residents of the community. Being cautious and protecting the citizens is law enforcement’s main goal. I understand that and I realize it’s not a black or white thing. It’s protection for the greater good of the community as a whole.

       “GET OFF MY BLOODY PORCH!” This had been a common response as Elder Lindstrom and I knocked doors in the dreary English winter. I could feel in myself rage that wanted to manifest itself and let that person behind the door know that he was going to burn in hell. No sooner had I thought that and Mathew 26:41 trickled in to my mind “the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak” as if to rebuke me from saying anything nasty. I smiled to control my temper and take my mind off things.
       ”Why don’t you go home and date that girl in your picture?”
       ”What girl?” Lindstrom replied.
       “You know the one you’re with and you’re both covered in paint.”
       “Who? Maddi?”
       “Yeah, her she’s really cute.”
       This tended to be the topic of conversation with Elder Lindstrom and myself, as we would knock doors in the cold. Belonging to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormonism) I had always been taught that when I was 19 years old I would be encouraged to serve a chartable two year mission. As a child my life plan was graduate high school, serve a mission, and get married. Those things had been engrained in me at a very young age. As a Mormon missionary we would leave our families, friends, and girlfriends; being exhorted by our leaders to focus strictly on the Work of God. We would be assigned to a foreign land to teach people about Jesus Christ and the Restoration of the Gospel through Joseph Smith the Prophet. Often times we would get paired up with another kid that we didn’t even know and would live together for at least six weeks. I know some people would think that putting two 19 year olds together would lead to nothing but trouble. At times, there was trouble, we tried our best, but by no means were we perfect. Things like talking about women, or cussing out a jerk from behind a closed door, were not encourage practices while on a mission. These rules and expectations helped me gain a lot of knowledge about life and the human experience that I could not have received if I had not served my mission.
       From my time in England the greatest thing I learned was that we all have hungers for what we want and at times these “hungers” conflict with what our conscience tells us is right. In the LDS culture we call these hungers the “Natural Man.” It’s like seeing a piece of cake and debating within yourself if you should eat it, knowing full well you’ve already had three, now you’re just being a glutton; or meeting a girl in the nightclub and wanting to take her home then you think to yourself, “I don’t know where or who she’s been with, is this a good idea?” Even on a tender side the ability of a mother to deny herself sleep to tend to an ill child. She could easily go to sleep but her love for the child and responsibility that comes with being a mother leads her to value her child’s needs more than her own. By most people standards we were crazy being out in the cold; I sometimes wondered if I was crazy myself. We had a duty to do though, one that needed to be done. We knew what we believed, which helped us to do our very best to try accomplish what we could. Often denying ourselves of things that are freely given rights to most human beings in this case of knocking doors in the winter we denied ourselves of warmth and comfort. We could have gone home or not gone out at all but we denied the human tendencies of being comfortable to accomplish a greater good.
       It was another cold day in the ghettos of England the weather was very wet and rainy; this kind of cold took your breath away due to the wind chill. I had never experienced a cold like this in my life. Growing up in Utah where winters are filled with snow you’d think I’d built up tolerance against cold, but I soon realized there were two very different kinds of cold, the dry cold of Utah, and the wet cold of every humid country! As a missionary it was particularly hard to knock doors in the winter. You were bundled up like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters, wearing a scarf muffled your speech that made it difficult for people to understand us. The English in the winter were very impatient; I guess I would be too if I saw two kids dressed in dark colors, at night, (it always seems to be night in England due to the sun not coming up till 10 AM and going down at 4 PM) letting all the heat out of my house, talking about a religion that a majority of people think is a cult.
       A year prior with another companion named Elder Hickman I was in a little village just north of the city of Nottingham. It was a cold winter evening and rain had begun to poor down on us. I could have easily been upset or angry with God due to the torrential rain. This day was different though. I was determined and focused on the work of God.
       We walked up a large hill heading to a particular street called Kew Crescent. All the reports of Kew Crescent were very negative. Allegedly, It was the worst street in town; the people who lived there were associated with vermin; drugs piped out like sewage into the rest of the village. I pondered these things as we headed towards the street. Normal people would never want to go there by choice; we went, feeling it was the place we needed to be, ignoring the fears that crept into our mind. , trying to focus more on the welfare of others then of ourselves.
       The water began to run over the curb due to the poor drainage system of the town. My fleece jacket was what kept me warm and the blue paper thin poncho (that was more like tarp) kept it from getting wet in all the rain. Hickman and I didn’t speak much on the journey toward the street that the rest of the town thought of as Sodom and Gomorrah. All I could hear was the rain smacking against the hood of my poncho. As we approached the street I asked myself what side of the street we should knock first. Left side came to my mind. “The left side is where we should start.” My companion agreed. We approached the first house. We got to the first door and knocked, a lady opened the top window.
       “What do you want?” in a very British Chavy accent.
       “We’re talking with people about Jesus Christ.” I replied, “Ummm could you come back later?” Translation: don’t come back and if you do I just won’t answer the door. We were kind and told her we would love to come back although I didn’t feel it was going to go anywhere. On to the next door.
       I knocked the red painted door, a gold 2B nailed to it; I remember the wood being very smooth. Suddenly, I heard a key turn and a man answered.
       “Hi my name is Elder Williams this is Elder Hickman, we came to tell you about how Jesus Christ restored his Church through a prophet can we come in?” Immediately I thought why did you invite yourself in? Are you crazy! He’s going to think you’re a total weirdo and slam the door in your face!
       “Sure you can” the door opened wider to let us in.
       I was shocked I wasn’t sure what to say or how to respond nobody had just let me into their house before. “Um thanks a lot sir. What’s your name?” Things went smoothly with Steven and he accepted everything we taught.
       Fast-forward, I’d moved from the villages outside of the city of Nottingham into the heart of the city. “Shottingham” is what the kids called it mostly due to the high rates of gun crime in the slums of the city. Winter time again and my thoughts had drifted from the work of God, to the: I’m cold and I don’t want to be outside but I’m out here anyways so try to take my mind off it. As Elder Lindstrom and I discussed our various friends of the opposite sex that we would hope would give us the time of day to send us a letter; we spotted a very interesting looking man.
       He was holding a feather duster and dusting the iron bar fences of the ghetto slum we were door knocking. Lindstrom and I looked at each other gave a bit a smile as if to say this guy is a nutter; Lindstrom knew what I was going to do. I was going to stop and talk with him. “Dude he’s holding a feather duster! He’s crazy! Don’t talk to him.”
       “Elder Lindstrom he needs to at least have the opportunity to hear what we have to say” I’ll be honest, I wasn’t just thinking about this man’s eternal welfare; I was also thinking of my current situation of getting the hell out of the cold. I was exhausted and freezing, tired of being on my feet standing in puddles. I wanted to be inside in a warm house; at least I thought I did. Sadly, these were very selfish thoughts I realize now that this man could have been holding machete and I still would have invited myself into his house, because I had become so preoccupied with wanting to be in a warm house and comfortable.
       “How are you sir?” I said with a smile. He kept walking. I didn’t think much of it; I’ve had many people ignore me and act like I had never been there, let alone like I had ever taken a breath of existence. At one time this upset me, I’d gotten used to it though.
       He suddenly stopped. “Who are you guys?”
       “We’re missionaries, we help people. Could we help you with something?” He let out a laugh. He went on to dust me and Lindstrom with his feather duster. That was the first time I had ever been dusted and I didn’t really know if I should thank or just laugh at him. Although I think he left more dust on me because that house hold object was filthy!
       “I have a friend you could help, she’s a prostitute, addicted to crack in a really bad way, do you think you could come over and speak with her and try and get her life on track?” He’s inviting me into his house! This is awesome, I’ll be able to get out of the rain right now! Delusional I thought he was just like Steven. In reality though comparing Steven to this guy is like comparing Barack Obama to Ted Bundy. The whole getting dusted with the feather duster thing should have been a large red flag, but I ignored it.
       I of course said “Yes we could come and see her.” This to the dismay of Lindstrom who at that time probably wanted to take that feather duster and stab me in the throat with it. Lindstrom hated working in the ghettos, on countless occasions prior I had to explain. “This is where we have success because people are humble and will listen.” He didn’t buy into my ideology but so far I was right; we’re going to the guy’s house to teach him and his prostitute friend. What could go wrong?
       We followed the man home; as I stared at his door it reminded me of something from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The windows were broken out and covered with plywood. He opened the door and invited us to enter; we walked up the stairs to find his home in shambles. This wasn’t the first time I had been in a disgusting home so it didn’t really faze me at first, but eventually it got to me; the cat feces on the floor, disorganization, Bob Marley blaring in the back room. Then I saw what made this house the weirdest house I had ever been in. He (or someone) had glued things to the top of the ceiling, not just anything. Coins, figurines, dolls, glass bottles, even a lamp, all upside down glued to the ceiling I thought I was in a fun house. At this point I began to be a bit fearful and second guess coming into his house; the rain became a lot more welcoming than this crazy place. We continued into the living room to see two couches, one with a blonde woman laying down sleeping, the other he invited us to sit down on. Not sure if I wanted to, but I did to be polite. I didn’t want to upset the man and give him any reason to end my life right there in his living room; he easily could have just ripped off one of the glass bottles from his ceiling and cut me up.
       “That’s the woman I told you about, go ahead and wake her up.” I took a stand right there “I’m not waking her up. If anyone is waking up her up you are.” I had watched enough Discovery Channel to understand that drug addicts are unstable and that me trying to wake her up could end with me having my hand bitten off. As he woke her up I soon realized that her biting my hand off would have been a bit difficult considering she had as many teeth as an infant that was two months into the teething stage.
       As she stirred awake struggling to keep her eyes open she asked “Who are you?” Her voice was raspy; not sure why could have been multiple reasons with her background. A thought came to my mind whatever you do don’t tell her you’re from the Church. As I leaned over to tell Lindstrom what not to say he blurted out “We’re from the Church!” he looked at me and saw a look of dismay on my face. His facial expression was one of confusion asking: what? Did I do something wrong? I looked back at the prostitute and saw what became pure anger and rage. Her face turned red, what was left of her teeth began to show, her face scrunched as if she smelled all the cat feces in the room. “THE CHURCH! THE CHURCH! DO YOU KNOW WHAT GOD HAS DONE FOR ME? ABSOLULTE BULLOCKS! SO SOD OFF!” She didn’t just stop with the shouting; she came running toward us.
       “LINDSTROM RUN!!” we took off down the hallway I felt her right behind me. As we ran down the stairs of the fun house we reached the door.
       “LINDSTROM OPEN THE DOOR!”
       “I CAN’T IT IS STUCK!” I saw him pull and began to panic a bit but I was too afraid to look behind me in fear of getting shanked with some object most likely a feather duster. Lindstrom mustered all his strength and let out a loud grunt and the door flew open. We fled to the wealthiest part of the city to feel safe and catch our breath.
       The Feather Duster experience is a prime example of how our bodily needs can impair our judgments if we’re not careful. My want of taking care of myself put me and Lindstrom in danger. I tried to tell myself I was doing a good service in order to rationalize going into a home that was not a safe place to be.
       As humans we are subject to certain emotions, wants, and needs, hungers if you will that pull on us. Trying to control certain appetites can be difficult but there will be times where we’ll need to cage them. When caging those hungers we’ll be better able to look for, and assist in helping the needs of others. In one instance I was concerned for other people and not worried about myself and good things happened not only to me, but to Steven. With the Feather Duster I put us in needless jeopardy to meet my needs. The quest for warmth led Lindstrom and I into the home of the Feather Duster and a crack craving prostitute not great company for wanting to find comfort.

Blue. Shimmering light stretching towards me pulling me deeper in and farther away from what's wanted most. luring me in, enchanting my thoughts with friendly tilts, rocking me back and forth. my mind is clear from the scent of sea salt easily passing through my head. 
whoosh. The wind keeps me company, it is my lover, keeping me sturdy and adrift. It whispers secrets in my ear, telling me stories about all the places it has chilled or made a balloon run away from an individual's hand. 
Though I do miss my family I feel as if I am centered, transfixed, and mildly daft. What's it to everyone, with their tight sturdy struts on land, if I'm able to skip on a boat? What's there to worry about if I'm nowhere to be found?  

       When I began middle school in my small Indiana hometown of Middlebury, it was the thing to do to have a boyfriend. I believe the term we used back then was “going together”. The first time a boy, Troy Miller to be exact, asked me to “go” with him I was so caught off guard I asked, “Go where?”
       Although I desperately wanted a boyfriend, having one meant that I would be in major violation of one of the rules at my house, which was absolutely “no dating until age sixteen.” Here I was, only thirteen years old and a boy wanted to “go” with me. This was every attention junkie’s dream, well a thirteen year-old junkie anyway. How could I possibly wait three more years before accepting such a proposal? If I didn’t “go” with the totally hot and completely popular Troy Miller, it could ruin my status for the rest of my middle-school career. By the time I turned sixteen I would be a social outcast. I might even die before then and would have never known the pleasure of having a boyfriend. I told the young basketball star I would get back to him by lunch. I had much to consider.
       Because of my aspirations to be a “good girl”, the last thing I ever wanted to do was disappoint my parents. I was the daughter on the honor roll. I was the daughter that didn’t complain about going to church, in fact I even enjoyed going. I didn’t wear my skirts too short or my eyeliner in the slightly slutty way my older sister did. Blatant rebellion did not pump through my veins. But by the same token, getting to do what the other girls were doing—“going” with a guy, well that notion excited me. So, I did what any other good-girl wannabe would do; I looked for loopholes.
       I reasoned that since neither Troy nor I were old enough to drive, our relationship would not actually consist of going out on real “dates”. No, we would merely sit together at lunch, pass notes to each other in study hall and call each other every night. Of course I would attend his games and cheer him on too. Besides, my parents never said I couldn’t “go” with someone; the rule was no dating, and as I have just established, this clearly this was not dating. By lunchtime I was sitting with my new boyfriend making googley eyes across the mac ‘n cheese in the cafeteria. “Cool,” he said when I told him I would accept his proposal.
       At the first basketball game of the season Karen Horsley, a cheerleader, was giving me slightly crusty looks. I never really cared much for Karen. She was a bit snooty in my opinion. Some would even go as far as to call her a “Witch”, spelled with a capital “B”. Of course, “good girls” like me would never say such a thing, even if it was true. And although I wasn’t one to gossip, I will say that Karen earned that title when she started those rumors about Becky Smallmen catching Mono from some poser she made out with behind the bleachers at homecoming. Karen was also said to be the cause of Andy & Nicole’s break-up when she snuck over to his house one night, to give him a mixed tape she made for him, or so I heard anyway. The worst however, was when she walked right up to the slightly chubby Sharon Donovan during lunch on pizza day, handed her a diet tips article from Teen Magazine and said, “It looks like you could use this more than me.” Yep. Although I would never be caught saying that word, I did slightly agree that Karen Horsley was a “Witch” with a capital “B”.
       I heard from Tiffany Bonet that Karen was madly in love with my new boyfriend, the great Troy Miller. Rumor also had it that she was planning to ask him to go with her, but that he had foiled her plan by asking me to go with him instead. So now, not only was I the recipient of my new boyfriend’s affections, but I was the object of envy too. And just when I thought the dream of an attention junkie couldn’t be further glorified.
       In just a manner of two short weeks however, I discovered that Troy was rather shy and quite boring, actually. I told him one morning on our way to homeroom that I was breaking up. I will say that although I felt relieved from the burden of carrying that relationship, I was a bit hurt that all he did was offer a slight shrug of the shoulders and a simple, “Okay” in return.
       By second period the rumor mill was in full operation and news of the break-up had spread like wildfire. Additional news had also surfaced, hitting me smack-dab in the face. Apparently, Karen had not given up the dream, revitalizing her Troy Miller mission and was planning to pass him a note in study hall. I felt sorry for Troy. As mind-numbing as our relationship was, he didn’t deserve to be with someone like Karen, someone mean-spirited, someone who was a “Witch” with a capital “B”. No, Troy deserved better. He deserved a nice girl. He deserved a good girl. He deserved someone more like…me.
       I set in motion plans to win Troy back and knew that I had to get to him before Karen could. Like a thirsty blood-hound on the hunt for a fresh cadaver, I found Troy amidst the sea of jocks in the hallway between classes. Tugging at his shirt sleeve, I quickly led him to a corner of lockers and retracted the break-up. Although I would have preferred a little more excitement than what he displayed, his simple shrug and “Okay” was all I needed to hear.
       Just before 4th period I headed to the locker room for P.E. and saw Karen coming towards me from the other end of the hall. She had obviously heard the news. She glared at me. I glared in return. I could almost see her nostrils flare and the steam coming from her ears. My heart was pounding through my chest, knowing I would have to walk past her and fearing what was about to come. As we drew closer to each other I caught my breath in my throat. Then passing the same point, she heaved her shoulder into mine; the nerve! I hurled my stack of books to the floor and turned to face her as she threw the first punch. I grabbed her fist mid-air and pushing her away, I went for the hair. Girls always go for the hair. We had this mean, nasty, drop-down, drag-out cat-fight in the middle of the hallway without having said so much as one word to each other.
       Students encircled us with chants and cheers while the art teacher rushed to break things up. The Principal took us into his office and the interrogation began. Neither one of us said a word. I didn’t know what Karen was thinking, but I knew the last thing I wanted was for my mother to be called down to the school because I had gotten into a fight with some chick over some dude I wasn’t supposed to be dating in the first place. All I could think about was the disappointment I’d see in her eyes over the fact I had broken a rule, and a big one. The principal finally broke the silence, and to my relief sent me back to class.
       The thing that was ridiculous about the entire situation is that a week later, Troy was still boring, and I ended up breaking up with him again, this time not caring about Karen. Looking back I laugh—cringe even at the incident, at myself; just who did I think I was? Nice Girl to the rescue, saving nice guys everywhere from “Witches” with capital “B”s!

Why you lookin’ at me like I’m beneath you?
You don’t know me, and I most certainly don’t know you!

Your prejudices toward me concerns me
Because of previous experience you “predict” my life’s story

Somehow I’m a heathen, a thief, and a nobody
But who are you to choose and say my category

You put yourself in a position of authority 
Yet, you lack an open mind to my racial diversity

And then you have the ones who claim to “know” their place
You quote Malcolm X “I’m not black I’m brown” like we’re really a different race

Your ignorance is entertaining to me 
I listen and shake my head and simply say “I disagree”

How is it that you feel threatened by me?
Is it because I’m a woman, or black, or intelligent? You tell me! 

For so many years “my” people fought for rights
And you think I’m going to let you come and diminish it overnight?

Ha!! I laugh at the thought of you even underestimating me 
Because of your stupidity and ignorance I’ve already won victory.

The craziest part is that you see no wrong in what you say
And really that’s no different than being black and in the KKK

You hate my culture as an African-American
But yet you’re “pure” because you’re just plain African?

It’s people like you who give us a bad name
Calling us Kaunda Kenta and when you look in the mirror we’re the same

You think we’d work together to succeed and help each other
But you’re stuck in your way that your culture’s better

I am black, brown, African-American, and Negro
And at the end of the day that’s just plain old me though

I can’t believe we’re racist against each other
Have we learned nothing from the good book, to love one another?

I’m going to pray for you my brother because you’re a lost soul
Maybe one day you’ll find something that will hopefully make you whole

But in the meantime…In the words of Rodney King “Can’t we all just get along?”
Because at the end of the day we’re all still human beings
	

"The glory of the sport is born at the moment when the game and the person become one, when all the complexity of one's life finds a moment to emerge in the game." 
---Timothy Shriver, Ph.D.

	It was December 2nd; we were down one point with two minutes left to go in the basketball game.  It was only a pre-season game, yet a fiery start for my senior year.  My eyes were stuck to hers, knowing she was going to pass that ball at any moment.  The ball was in the air, it was traveling to her wide open teammate.  I reacted, sprinting towards the ball.  The opponent knew I was going for the steal, she reacted as well.  We both got to the ball, going full speed at the same time; then it happened.  I’ve been playing basketball ever since I could walk.  It was all coming back to me, spending hours and hours in the gym, either watching my brothers, or playing myself.  The trophies and state rings shimmered more than they ever have before.  My dad’s voice kept replaying in my head, “just play hard and have fun.  If there is not a smile on your face, then you’re going to be sitting right next to me on the bench.”  I have put blood, sweat, and tears into this sport and I’m not about to have all my hard work go to waste my senior year.   
	While my bones thrashed together every roll against the hard, cold gym floor was brutal.  Finally, I stopped against the chilly brick wall with Richfield High School printed right above my head.  I knew this was going to be a harsh outcome.  As tears started to stream down my face, I grasped my shoulder tightly. 
	Soon I arrived at the hospital in the x-ray room.  The technician forced me to lie on my side.  “That hurts like hell,” I screamed.  “She never swears there has to be something wrong,” My mom said as she paced outside the room.  My team started to file in the room.  They had won the game!  My excitement of the great news soon changed as I saw the fear and disappointment in the faces of my teammates after they looked at my x-ray. “The results were obvious,” claims the doctor. “Your collarbone is broken and it is the worst I’ve ever seen.  I am so sorry, but you are going to be out for about six months.  There is no way you will be able to play the rest of your senior year.”  This was a dagger to my heart, yet determination in my soul.   
	 The next day I was on my way to the surgeon in Provo.  One thought kept running through my head, “What if they cut open the wrong side?” My mom explained to the surgeon that I was so worried and reminded them to do the left collarbone.  The anesthesiologist shoved the IV in my hand, and then I was getting wheeled to the operating room.  I was fading in and out as I saw the doctor leaning over me. 
He questioned, “Now it’s the right one correct?” 
Fear trembled over my face, and I was out. 
	After the one hour surgery and a seven inch rod in my collarbone I started to come to.  The doctor was in the room, my glazed eyes looked up at him. “You did my left shoulder right?”
	“Yes, we did the right one” he snickered.  My fear escalated until I looked down at my left collarbone and noticed the huge white bandage.  I let out a relieved sigh as the doctor left the room. My blood pressure finally reached a point where I could go home. 
	Every pill I would take I had a reaction to.  So I figured I would just take the pain instead of dealing with the reactions.  The couch was my best friend for about a week.  After a week I was ready to get back onto the court.  I started going to practices so I wouldn’t miss a thing.  This was my senior year, no matter the risks or what the doctors said, I was ready to get back on that court.  I didn’t play basketball for 15 years to give up now.  I was ready.  Michael Jordan’s voice kept replaying in my head, “Some people want it to happen, some wish it would happen, others make it happen.”  I needed to be there for my team, and that is exactly what I did.
	On January 14th I pleaded with my doctor to sign the okay to play form. 
	“I have never signed a release form this early.  The recovery time is supposed to be six months.” 
	“I can do this, I know I can”
	He signed it and I was off to practice.  That form felt like it was a get out of jail for free card in monopoly.  I threw the door of my school open, dropped the form off at the principal’s office, then off to the gym I sprinted.  I could not contain the excitement as I entered into the gym.  My teammates hugged me with a sigh of relief.  The next few days of practice were brutal, but it was my choice, so I sucked it up and tried my best. 
	My first game was against our rivals, Emery.  The announcer called my name, and the crowd went wild.  Yes, I did it.  A relief/fear filled my body.  I was not supposed to be playing at all.  If I got hurt even worse, I was done for.  I started to play timid.  Then realized that was not what I was out on the court to do.  From then on I played my hardest for my team.  Even though the pain was almost unbearable, I could worry about that after the season.
	The season did not go as well as planned.  However, my senior year was a success because I was determined enough to be there for my teammates and myself.  I still deal with the pain of not waiting until I was completely healed.  I am not able to lift my heavy backpack at times without my whole shoulder throbbing.  However, to me, I would not change one thing.  It was my decision and I knew I would live with those consequences for the rest of my life.  I am not back to my full potential of how I used to play basketball and probably never will be.  The fact that I can say that I do have determination in my soul is better than leaving my senior year with regret of not playing.  

Iʼm pondering while waiting in line for the roll as the cool air creeps through the ceiling vent; my yoga class is about to start.
        Soft & hard
		Pink & brown
			Point & flex
I am stepping from the hardwood floor to my pink yoga mat, stretching my toes straight out in front of me that are recently freed from my constricting shoes.
        Short, tickling hairs
                Wispy, clean-feeling
                        untraditional, unique
The urge to cut my hair flows through my mind like the cold air that surrounds my body.
        TUBES TAPED TO NOSE, PALE SKIN
                NO HAIR, WHEELCHAIR,
                        DEATH, LOOMING
I have hair. I have lots of hair, I think as tiny strands tickle my neck and greet my
forehead while I am in downward dog. Chills. Time passes.
        Empowered, motivated
                Energized, excitement
                        Empathy, thoughtfulness
Arms going up in a big circle; cold air flurrying about, back to prayer; head down, eyes closed, “namaste.” I am sitting, hands in prayer position.
        Make the world better,
                Be the change,
                        Improve lives!
Shoulder length is awkward.  It feels as though thousands of little paint brushes tickle my neck.  A never ending battle to have my hair positioned just right so it wonʼt distract me, when that task alone is quite distracting.  I want to cut it off.
        UNHEALTHY SKINNY, YELLOW
                HURTING, PAIN
                        HUNGRY, NEEDLES
Iʼll get passed the awkwardness.  It will grow soon.  Just ignore it.
        Peace...focus
                Strength...time
                        Faster...faster
Ponytails, Iʼm always wearing them and want something different with my hair.  What else can I do with long hair?
        Thought-provoking
                Different, stylish
                        New, old
I like this look.  A messy bun with a piece of curly hair on the side. It works well.  Iʼm walking to class.  I see him, an indescribable level of irritation arises. Iʼve never been this upset about someone before.
        DRAMA, ANNOYANCE
                BUILDING UP
                        CUT IT!
The smell of hair dye permeates the room.  Should I do this...maybe itʼs not long
enough.  Nope.  Itʼs long enough.  I can do this.  Here she comes with sharp, sparkling scissors in her hand.  Second thoughts race through my mind.
       Silver...SNIP!
                Blades...SNIP!
                        Short...SNIP!
A weight is lifted.  Ten inches of my hair is gone.  It feels good to be different.  Itʼs all the way up to my chin!  “Can I have bangs?”  Oh, yes, it was worth it.  Something has changed; this feels better.
       A child, her peers
                Acceptance, no more questions
                        A smile...hair.

I write
a start
I light
your heart
I fight
this thing
White Knuckling

I drink
you in
I blink
begin
I link
our skin
White Knuckling in

I take
a leap
I fake
you keep
I break
a vow
White Knuckling now

I grip
you run
I slip
undone
I hit
the ground
White Knuckling down

I wake
not there
I ache
despair
I wait
on you
White Knuckling through

I plead
you're deaf
I bleed
what's left
I need
this fill
White Knuckling still

I've tossed
amends
I've crossed
your bends
I've lost
a friend
White Knuckling ends

	I love my mother, but my feelings for her have changed throughout my life, from unconditional love as a young child in Limerick, Ireland, to frustration in my teenage years as she endured abuse and hardship living with an alcoholic spouse, to anger in my young adulthood when I realized my siblings and I were the negative product of their very broken relationship.  Over the decades, I’ve learned to empathize with my mother as I have matured and faced the challenges and joys of motherhood myself.  As time goes on, my memories seem to focus more on the love that my mother had for us children and the fond times we had together.  
	I remember as an innocent seven year old, growing up in Ireland, my whole world was my mother and that is all that seemed to matter.  I would often watch the reflection of my mother’s face in a small oval mirror in our living room as I waited patiently on the couch to go on one of our many bus outings to the shops in the center of Limerick.  I watched in admiration as she brushed her long, black, shiny hair and gathered it up into a long pony tail.  “She is so beautiful,” I thought as I regarded her jade eyes inset in her perfectly white porcelain skin.  She never wore make up; She didn’t have to.    
	Her formal education was cut short as my mother started her family at the age of 16, over in England away from the curious eyes and chattering mouths of the neighbors.  She had been warned by several people not to get involved with my father because he was “a no good for nothing”; Even his own mother warned her against him.  My mother was stubborn and immature.  She married my father and                                                                                                                                                                    the children came one after the other.  By the time my mother was twenty-three, she had five children under the age of five.  
	In the years that followed, two more children were born, for a total of 5 girls and 2 boys, and my mother had a heart big enough to love us all.  Everyone else’s needs came before hers.  On rare occasions, when my father was home, he was treated like a king and our house was his palace.  She waited on him hand and foot and humbly served him his meals in the living room in front of the television with, “can I get you anything else,  love,” before she left again for the kitchen.  My mother usually served all the children at the kitchen table.  Often she didn’t eat because she wasn’t so hungry.   My dad had a nice cut of meat with potatoes and vegetables.  He would often criticize the food or the way it was cooked and before long we would find the dog happily chewing on the last bit of bone from a supposedly overcooked pork chop.  I came to the conclusion that that is just how men are.  They seem to be happier when they are out working and golfing.  The house itself took on a happier feel when it was just my mother and us kids. 
	My mother would keep us entertained with used boxes from cereal, crackers or milk cartons and cut up pieces of paper fashioned into play money, and we would play “shop”.  She would line up the empty boxes on the living room couch as our inventory.  One of us would be the shop keeper while the rest would be the eager customers.  Every night she would sit on our beds and tell us a story that she made up in her head.  She had quite a sense of humor and we couldn’t get enough of her stories that made us laugh uncontrollably instead of quieting us for sleep.  
During the summer before my ninth birthday, my younger siblings had scattered throughout the neighborhood and had obviously convinced several of the neighbors to let them in to play with their children.  I was glad for the peace and quiet.  I grabbed the ball and headed outside.  
        “Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,” I chanted as I slapped the ball against the grey bricks at the side of our new house on a humid July afternoon.  Most people stay in one house for a long time, but our family liked to move.  I decided it was all my mother’s idea since my father never spent much time in any of them.  
 	It was common for us kids to leave in the morning and stay out most of the day.  We counted ourselves lucky if we ended up in some kid’s house until their mother would kick the lot of us out at which time we would head for our favorite hangout, the construction site of a new school.  We loved to play, running in and out of the concrete forms of unfinished rooms and halls, like rats in a maze.  My mother never questioned where we were going, as long as we were out of the house for a while.  
	I was locked in concentration with the rhythmic sound of the ball against the wall when I heard “letch try dish house” and “you take dat side of da road and I’ll take d ‘other side.”  The ball froze in my hands. I held my breath while simultaneously my brain registered the thick Irish brogue of the TINKERS!  
	The tinkers or “traveling people” as they liked to be called were true natives of Ireland who, through history, were forced to adopt a nomadic lifestyle through no fault of their own.   They were craftsmen (who worked in tin), roaming to find employment, poor tenants and laborers evicted due to unemployment and famine.  Their spirits were too restless and wild - like the horses they kept - to ever settle down.  I had heard stories, rumors and legends of the tinkers, and was cautiously intrigued.  It was common to hear, “you’re not leaving this house looking like a tinker,” if you tried to leave the house with a dirty face or uncombed hair.
	I had seen tinker kids before by the side of the freeway, their caravan pulled off in a grassy strip.  I watched from the car window enviously as they freely ran and danced with blackened faces                                                                                                                                                                            
heads barefoot around an open fire.  Clothes frantically flapped in the wind from a make shift clothesline overhead like freedom flags.   At school I once saw a crowd of little tinkers being ushered in the back door of the convent, presumably to be fed.  It was a common fact that big tinkers made little tinkers beg for money because they would get more sympathy and money from the settled people.  I’d often seen tinkers downtown speaking harshly and cursing at each other.  
	I quietly watched, unnoticed from behind the wall as the smelly tinker headed toward our front door.  The stench of stale smoke and filth crept into my nostrils as I continued to carefully examine the stranger.  His jagged dirty blond hair was tightly cut with two bright blue eyes peering out from his muddy face.  He picked at the dirt under his fingernails, waiting a moment as if trying to compose a sad story that would pull at this person’s heart strings, or maybe to muster up the courage to beg.  As I listened to the chime of the doorbell, I wondered how my mother would respond to this child.  Soon my mother’s kind face appeared.  
	“Would ya have a few pence, Misses?” the child begged.  
	“I don’t, love,” my mother responded truthfully.  
	“Tis so hot today, Misses; would ya have a cup of water then?”  I watched in horror as my mother turned and disappeared into the house. 
	“She’s not!” I thought in disbelief “going to let the tinker drink out of one of our cups!”  She was and she did.  
	My mother could never let anyone suffer if there was something she could do to help.  She seemed to have a peculiar compassion for people and animals imprisoned in circumstances beyond their                                                                                                                                                                      his sleeve afterwards, and gently handed the cup back to my mother with a grateful “tanks so much, Misses”.  The door closed as the tinker ran to the middle of the street and shouted to his companion “da woman in dat house is very nice, she even gave me a drink of water”.   They went off down the road, the little tinker continuing to praise my mother for her kindness and his good luck for knocking on her door until they turned the corner and I could see them no more.

	Divorce, the word alone drips with failure.  How difficult is it to love someone and to allow that person to love you back?  Seeing as over half of all marriages in the United States end in divorce, I’d say it’s more trying than it seems.  Many who venture into the state of marriage, and shortly thereafter into the state of divorce, often do so when they are too young and naive to understand the complex and downright bizarre expectations of matrimony.  And so it was for me.  His name was Jakob; we were twenty years old; and I was pregnant. 
	The pregnancy, although unplanned, was not unwelcomed.  We were happy to be together, and we were happy to be having a child together; but marriage was not part of the equation.  We both felt marriage was an archaic, impractical institution, and we would stand on principle no matter what our parents said.  No moral or religious argument could persuade us to reconsider, which is why my parents presented a financial argument:  We would be given a budget of $15,000 dollars for our wedding, and we could keep whatever we didn’t spend.  And so it was that Jakob and I began planning the least expensive wedding in history.
	I spent the morning of our wedding throwing up.  This was not nervousness or “cold feet.”  It was a pregnancy-related illness known as Hyperemesis gravidarum.  If you look this term up in a medical dictionary, it is defined as "unrelenting, excessive pregnancy-related nausea and/or vomiting that prevents adequate intake of food and fluids."  It is every bit as fun as it sounds.  I had purchased a green dress for the occasion, as white hardly seemed appropriate, and a pair of the most ridiculous high heels I have ever owned.  As I teetered down my mother’s staircase to Debussy’s Claire de lune, praying I wouldn’t vomit or faint, I was every bit as green as that dress.
	I maintained that bilious hue for the entirety of my pregnancy.  This became my regular excuse for treating Jakob like a servant, and an incompetent one at that.  Not only did I expect him to do everything I asked, I expected him to listen to me complain about the way he did it with patience and sympathy.  It is entirely safe to say that this represents an all-time low for me as an ethical human being.  I could make a million excuses, every one of them true, but they would be excuses nonetheless.  The truth of the matter is that I was abhorrent and he tolerated me admirably. 
	This episode in our relationship proved to be impossible to overcome.  There is only so much vomit and condescension a romantic relationship can endure, and we had reached our limit.  Together we had a beautiful daughter, and for a time Jakob and I were terrific friends and parents, but that was all we were.  Our daughter slept between us in our bed every night, likely to mask the fact that neither of us had any desire to share a bed.  We had to acknowledge that our marriage no longer resembled the type of relationship either of us considered a marriage.  It had become an awkward roommate situation, with our baby girl literally in the middle.
	If divorce alone drips with failure, then divorce when children are involved drowns in it.  Not only have you failed at marriage, you’ve failed as a parent as well.  It is often noted that children long to make their parents proud, yet rarely noted how much parents strive to make their children proud.  As we stood at the crossroads of divorce and considered the appropriate course, I wondered how our daughter could ever be proud of two quitters.  Would she ever understand?  Would she be able to forgive us?
	At first, these thoughts nagged at me; then they tortured me.  The loneliness and unfamiliarity of my new status of “separated” began to take its toll.  Late one night I called Jakob in tears, and asked if he thought we had made a mistake.  This was as close as my pride would allow me to get to asking him to come home.  Jakob was calm and confident as he reassured me that our decision was the right one.  He was happy and it was over.
	Divorce was inevitable.  It loomed like death at a funeral; affecting not only us, but everyone who came near us.  It seemed to encompass every conversation that took place within earshot.  One evening, as I sat silent at my father’s dinner table during one family get-together or another, I overheard my Aunt discussing her own divorce that had occurred years before I was born.  I began to listen intently.  I adore my Aunt, and although I knew she was a widow, I had no idea she was a fellow divorcee.  She explained that for her, the experience of losing a spouse to divorce was even more painful than losing a spouse to death.  “When your spouse dies,” she explained, “the relationship continues.  But when you divorce, the relationship ends abruptly, no matter what your feelings are.”  
The effect of this statement was immediate and profound.  I recognized that I had become so intent on perpetuating the relationship, I never stopped to consider how I felt about Jakob.  Exactly what relationship did I want to preserve?  Jakob and I were terrific friends and parents, but that was all we were.  Neither our friendship nor co-parenting had to end because our marriage was ending.  Our relationship was only a marriage on paper.  I realized that within that type of marriage, we weren’t “quitters” or “failures” unless we stayed together. 
	How difficult is it to love someone and to allow that person to love you back?  It’s not difficult at all.  Love is simple; but not all love is marriage.

The patient, showing symptoms classic of
anorexia, is now being confined
to solitary.  His capacity—
both cognitive demeanor as well as
corporeal utility—without
coercion, has deteriorated,
displaying blatant disregard for his
welfare and that of recognized mores,
despite the misguided dissent that is:
starving himself for ideology.
In my gifted opinion, I suggest
we cook him: others can feed on the corpse. 

				
lay down
a    slice of
paper.				it's as fresh as pine.

punch out 
your words
			and
			 it

			bleeds out 
			recog nition
	carving
	lines to
	spell   your
	weakness             they
					thieve the
					sight  that
				      lives     inside
				      snatching at every corner
"i know this"
your paper says,
"i remember."

but it sounds so good
	but it looks like happiness
	but it sings like butter
		sweet 
		            heartache
		melting
   		            on
		your sanity

					like
				    a candle-wax cast
				    on
				    your finger
				    fitted to every
				    whorl
				    and wrinkle
his	iconic
	gaze
	might	take
	my	breath
	        but how long
	        can I keep it
	        up for
until I
until I

crack?

put out your secrets, dear. they harm you locked up in there,
and            cause        damage         trying       to         escape
and         live        on        inside