Dragonfly Arts Magazine

Transcription

Reflections on Life, Love, Trauma and Hope
Founded in 1978, HopeWorks of Howard
County is a private nonprofit agency that works
to eliminate sexual and domestic violence in the
county by providing shelter, counseling and
advocacy, increasing community awareness,
and changing societal attitudes.
“Insight, I believe, refers to the depth of understanding that comes by setting
experiences, yours and mine, familiar and exotic, new and old, side by side,
learning by letting them speak to one another.”
- Mary Catherine Bateson
EDITORIAL COMMITTEE
Vanita Leatherwood
EDITOR
Sharon Delph
Alexis Flanagan
Dominic Goodall
Joyce Hoelzer
Patricia Parra
Rachael Pietkiewicz
Marilyn Pontell
HOPEWORKS
5457 Twin Knolls Road, Suite 310
Columbia, Maryland 21045
Phone: 410.997.0304
Hours
Monday – Friday
9:00 a.m. – 5:00 p.m.
At the North Laurel/Savage Multi-Service Center
9900 Washington Boulevard
Laurel, Maryland 20723
Phone: 410.888.8899
Hours:
Thursdays 11:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.
Web
wearehopeworks.org
Facebook
www.facebook.com/HopeWorksofHC
Twitter
http://www.twitter.com/HopeWorksofHC
24-Hour Helpline
410.997.2272
DISCLAIMER
The artistic expressions in this publication are those of the individual authors and artists and do not necessarily reflect
the philosophies, position or policies of HopeWorks.
Made possible by the Howard County Arts Council through a grant from Howard County Government
© 2014 HopeWorks Howard County
that our arts magazine is entitled
Dragonfly. The dragonfly has been a centuries old symbol for change – a special
type of transformation, one wrought from
crisis but ending in self-realization and a
deeper understanding of the meaning of
life. This experience is often reflected in the
lives of the people we serve at HopeWorks
and you’ll hear it in some of the voices on
the pages to follow. This transformation is rarely an easy one and as humans, we
sometimes feel so very limited in how to bare the intensity of our thoughts and
feelings. This struggle to create something beautiful and inspirational from the
dark places is somehow mystical and pedestrian at the same time – something
that is hard to fathom, yet a common daily occurrence.
Congratulations to each of our contributing artists who were brave enough to
articulate their own deep emotions and unique perspectives on life.
Self-expression through art gives wind to the wings of the dragonfly and we
thank these artists who were generous enough to give us a window into their
transformational journeys.
Jenn
Jennifer Pollitt Hill, MSW | Executive Director
HopeWorks (formerly Domestic Violence Center)
[email protected]
HOPEWORKS BOARD OF DIRECTORS
Michele Beaulieu, Vice-President
Jane Berman
David Coaxum
Janet Currie
Meg Dawes
Greg Derr
Marva Dickerson
Nancy Forrest, President
Robert Ott
Tracey Perrick
Sara Rubloff, Secretary
Barry Sasscer
Marni Schwartz
Shaydra Tisdale-Robinson, Treasurer
HopeWorks is Howard County’s sexual assault and domestic violence center. We are here for our clients completely.
And we are agents of change. Hope builds momentum and momentum creates change...when we work together.
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
FOR MY SISTERS by L. Solomon
PHOTO by Nisse Lee
DIVORCE, OUT OF THE BASEMENT, SOULS by Dawn Miller
3
4
HARMONY by Moniesha Lawings
PHOTO 1 by Missy Mazzullo
MUSINGS ON LEMONS by Mandy May
5
DESAFIO DEL TIEMPO and TORMENTAS EN EL MAR by Vivian Calderon Bogoslavsky
6
VERDE PROFUNDO EN EL MAR and WHAT DREAMS MAY COME by Vivian Calderon Bogoslavsky
7
VAMPIRES ARE REAL by Brooke Abercrombie
BLUE ROSE by Tonya Scales
8
PAINTING 1 by Jeanne Galanek
SOMETHING DYING by Mandy May
RED ROSE by Joyce Snow
9
PAINTINGS 1 & 2 by Yasmin Akhtar
LOVE WON by Melissa DiMartino
10
PAINTING 3 by Yasmin Akhtar
BUTTERFLY by Jennifer Grier
GROWING PAINS by Yoo-Jin Kang
TO FLY FREE by Joyce Snow
11
KNITTING, STOP PRAYING GIRLS by Jennifer Grier
SERPENTS by Sylvie Henry
BEAUTY IN THE DARK by Tonya Scales
12
ABOUT SIX, ATLANTIC DAWN by Judith Goedeke
13
FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY by Judith Goedeke
POWER OF FORGIVENESS by Suriya Kaul
14
DEVIN by Mandy May
THE MANNEQUINS by L. Solomon
15
TEACH ME, TOUCH AND BROKEN TRUST by A.L. Kaplan
PAINTING 1 by Pooja Patel
16
GRANDMOTHER’S CHAIR by Desiree Glass
PAINTING 2 by Jeanne Galanek
17
PROGRESS by Yoo-Jin Kang
18
LEFT BEHIND by Ellen Marshall
19
PHOTO 2 by Missy Mazzullo
20
SUSPIROS DE LLUVIA by Vivian Calderon Bogoslavsky
21
PAINTING 2 by Pooja Patel
22
THE REALITY by L. Solomon
23
ARTISTS’ BIOS
24
ART AS A VEHICLE FOR AWARENESS AND CHANGE
27
FOR MY SISTERS
By L. Solomon
This is for my sisters whose hearts break open with each new dawn.
For those who feel their pulse so desperate in their temples
for beating hearts bruising tremulous veins
for those wearing skin like suits of armor:
gladiators passing as sister, mother, daughter, friend,
our breasts and waistlines labeled with adjectives not seen in anatomy textbooks
our hearts and brains left unnamable, undiscovered,
we are more than the sum of our pieces
but some of our parts scream to be known as alive.
Alive.
This is for my sisters who pray in the Temple of Disbelief.
For those who worship in the Temple of Disaster, of Shame,
who pray to the goddess of Just-One-More-Day,
this is for my sisters
who can't find how to live life in the skin they were born,
who kneel at the altar
purging their life-force to uncover their hidden essence
their hearts too full of life to recognize what they
are dying for.
This is for my sisters who play Russian roulette with their bodies
believe they'll never die since they're the ones with the gun
outsmarting triggers
counting each tick on the adrenaline scale like it's the beat of a song
rocking out to the sound of heart on bone or heart on skin:
it's the game we play, praying to the god of perfectionistic sin
hoping the shroud of insecurity accentuates our lifelines
and humility compliments the tone of our skin.
She fires the blanks without a blink - living can seem so close to death,
and Control is the name Fear gives her lover
before the silence shatters.
We've all stepped on sidewalk cracks or over lucky pennies:
on the days we weren't looking,
we pushed beauty from our stomachs
squeezed it from our scars
we leave behind a hologram of who we could have been
massaging our temples as if
we could rub out our dreams
conjure the genie from the magic lamp of our mind, praying:
Love me.
Fear me.
Need me.
Beautiful.
Alive.
© 2014 L. Solomon
Dragonfly Arts Magazine 2014 wearehopeworks.org
3
DIVORCE
BY DAWN MILLER
SOULS
So ends a decade of realizations.
Such time flowed on like a river
ignored just outside our window.
Inside our cabin, the ebb and rush
between our banks was all the winter ice
and spring thaw we could handle.
Our place now becomes less ours
as the banks gush into mud
and surge downstream out of reach.
What kept us eddying around each other
proves to be no more than willow tendrils dangling
sampling the silver slipping surface.
© 2014 Dawn Miller
BY DAWN MILLER
Sometimes the soul is wounded so deep early
it cannot heal in a lifetime.
A sapling, cleft, can only grow around the blow.
Curling bark covers the oozing sap,
a century passing so an old tree stands
warped and bent as a cleft sapling.
The gaze lies idly on it
and curious fingers poke the bark where trickling ooze
wets a mark where the stroke fell deep long ago.
So souls stand sometimes,
hissing their stories to the lonely air,
baring their aged wounds.
© 2014 Dawn Miller
OUT OF THE BASEMENT
BY DAWN MILLER
Only once in a dwindling lifetime
will a ray of sunlight slip
through the basement’s gritty window.
Once, a pebble will crack the pane.
Take it then, take it.
Slip out through the crack, grab
the air, clutch at the sunlight’s
tail before it can set.
Tear your flesh on the broken glass
in your freeing.
It is worth the blood.
© 2014 Dawn Miller
© 2014 Nisse Lee
4
HARMONY
BY MONIESHA LAWINGS
I used to think loving was hard
Then I met him
That tall and quirky mama’s boy
With a heart full of love
We spent our days with
Endless giggles and nervous fingers,
Cinnamon sticks and lemonade
Walking hand in hand until
The sun became our lantern
And the crickets sang our love song in the distance.
Our love is harmonious.
An acceptance for the
Things that make us different
A celebration for that which
Makes us similar
Our hearts are full of trust
A mutual agreement that love does not hurt.
I used to think loving was hard
But now I’ve come to realize
That it is the easiest thing I could ever do.
© 2014 Moniesha Lawings
MUSING ON LEMONS
BY MANDY MAY
I read my own writing
secure a lover,
but it really read lemon.
What a convenient mistake,
a sour slip on the back
of my tongue on the
roof of my mouth
lingers a sweetness
shed from the letters
lover. How desperate I
am—we are?—
for affection…
but My skin is secure
around my ribs
caged tight about
my heart. I am safe
here in the hollow
caring of my own words,
in the starving belly.
My back aches but
my hips are strong
and I will follow
their lead.
© 2014 Mandy May
BY MISSY MAZZULLO
© 2014 Missy Mazzullo
5
DESAFIO DEL TIEMPO
(TIME CHALLENGE)
20 X 20 IN., MIX MEDIA
BY VIVIAN CALDERON
© 2014 Vivian Calderon
TORMENTAS EN EL MAR
(STORMS AT SEA)
BY VIVIAN CALDERON
6
VERDE PROFUNDO EN EL MAR
(DEEP GREEN SEA)
BY VIVIAN CALDERON
WHAT DREAMS MAY COME
BY VIVIAN CALDERON
7
VAMPIRES ARE REAL
BY BROOKE ABERCROMBIE
Had I noticed the full moon that night
Would it have tipped me off that maybe I should not have invited you in?
I felt the presence of you before I even saw you standing there
When you turned and looked at me I was not quite hypnotized,
But certainly mesmerized.
Your words or maybe the raspy, sexy tone of them lured me in
I was … unsuspecting… trusting …
Maybe, just maybe, had I paid closer attention to the reflection in the mirror
I would have picked up on the absence of your image
What I thought was you was no more than a ghost projection of me
The real you … invisible to the refracted light
But I really thought that was you standing there
Physically, intellectually, emotionally … perfect
My soul had found its mate
Maybe had you noticed the newly purchased crucifix on the wall
The extra garlic in the sauces of the meals I prepared for you
You would have known I knew who and what you were
I only allowed you to return to siphon your power as I became more
like you
Careful not to turn too much and lose my soul
Changed, but not reduced, still human to my core
Wooden stake in hand, now I hunt you…
© 2014 Brooke Abercrombie
BLUE ROSE
BY TONYA SCALES
I guess if I had noticed that you were not concerned
About my feelings, but my reactions I would have known you had no soul
Empathy and remorse only feigned to seduce your prey
My heart, which pumped the very essence of my being,
Provided no more than a temporary quenching of your sinister hunger
You so thoroughly seduced my body and my mind to keep me tethered
While you hunted for your next source
Had I not been deliriously, stupidly, devotedly in love
I probably would have sensed your first, second, third bites
You always sucked just enough to keep me alive so my heart could replenish
And you could keep coming back for more
It helped that I gave you the benefit of the doubt
After all, at everyone’s core is good. You were just misunderstood. Right?
Besides, vampires don’t exist. Right?
When I noticed my ashen complexion, my freshly washed brain,
My weakened spirit and my body ravaged with bruises and open sores
I could no longer deny the fact that I was slowly dying at your hands
I would have tasted the others’ blood in your kisses.
I started drinking, douching and bathing in holy water
Knowing I had to protect myself but still hoping maybe I was mistaken
Because vampires can’t exist. Right?
When the sun started to rise on your lies
When you writhed in pain and screamed obscenities
And sought shelter in the shadows
Hoping I wouldn’t notice the burns that the truth now exposed
But what you did not notice was that I had started to turn
My strength, my senses, my hunger as acute as yours
But my soul still intact.
© 2014 Tonya Scales
8
SOMETHING DYING
RED ROSE
BY MANDY MAY
BY JOYCE SNOW
It would behoove me to remove these lips—to make me mute,
to rip from my throat the chords of my voice that form
Visions of the Red Rose in the glass
Despite its journey it did last
So fine the beauty was within thee
Yet death becomes the edges, black the pain
Drips from its soul, salted rain
Strong be the stock upon which it stands
Empty the glass from an un-helping hand
For what is the Red Rose but me……..
Trapped inside pain and misery
Slowly wilting more as the days had gone by
Until one noticed that inside me beauty still resides.
That someone was me
Finding the strength and courage to journey on
Walking in my own rhythm and song
the horrifying words that no one wants to hear. I dream them
in sonnets, words woven intricate and articulate; when spoken
they are guttural grunting from my aching untouched
womb. My craven mouth will meekly consecrate our
decrepit love; make homage to the rot we bred. and
What of dying love? The frayed muscles of our hearts—
drowning on the flood of blood in the throat—the choking
of slipped tongues. Emotions once flushing like rouged
cheeks and tangled feet now fester with the stench
of rot and rigor. I said I meant every word and I do.
© 2014 Joyce Snow
Something is dying in this room. This is the smell
of a ten year wake. A sermon churning in my gut,
finally purged through every numb limb, something vile
pouring out every pore in piles of decay—every harbored
hate exposed. One should never crave a funeral
unless it’s already dead.
© 2014 Mandy May
BY JEANNE W. GALANEK
© 2014 Jeanne W. Galanek
9
LOVE WON
BY MELISSA DIMARTINO
Like many women who have experienced domestic violence or child abuse and even rape, my
conditioned beliefs and insecurities covered up my truest, deepest self over the years and kept
me from experiencing true joy. There were flickers of hope inside of me telling me there was
something much more to the life I was living. And, yes, there was. As I learned to let go of those
false beliefs, the natural exhilaration of my core self-manifested in the woman I am today experiencing true joy.
BY YASMIN AKHTAR
© 2014 Saman Akhtar
Out of the Muck and Mire Hope Sprung
I had a tendency to look at the world all disjointed and find there are parts of it I wished I could erase. I wished I could erase being an adult survivor of child sexual
abuse. I would have liked to cut out the belief I was a dumping ground for self-disgust and hate. I wanted to throw out the piles of shame and hurt that filled my life.
I didn’t want to be someone diagnosed with gynecological cancer.
The pain of living overshadowed my ability to live.
I didn’t love myself the way I loved and still love my son. Tien is my slice of heaven. He was my light in darkness. I would sing to him, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You
make me happy when skies are grey. You never know Tien, how much I love you, (and, in a soft, angry tone I would sing with a smile) so please don’t take my sunshine away
(waving my no-no finger). Tien would burst out with laughter. My protective mother nature believed Tien deserved to live in a safe, clean, warm and nurturing environment to grow up
in and out. I never could provide 100% in what used to be called home.
On our Independence Day, I chose love. I chose peace. I chose goodness. I chose happiness. I chose grace. I chose mercy. I chose life. I chose safety. I chose hope.
I began fighting for the life my son deserved, and for the life I would come to know I deserved too.
I believed God, “lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the muck and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand (Psalm 40:2). I believed God answered my
prayers. I believed He gave me an opportunity to bulldoze my way to a life free from the hurt and pain of yesterday.
September 19, 2011—My Independence Day
I can still see and hear the moments of our Independence Day.
My day began like any other morning. I was fighting to have normal life. I bargained to use the car and get use of our house keys. I watched my son take the bus to kindergarten,
and shortly after I went to my oncologist appointment for a post-surgery follow-up and counseling. The oncologist told me everything looked good and I was healing up great. The
oncologist cleared me to lift 10 to 15 pounds. From his office, I went to my counseling appointment, and
what transpired changed my life forever. My therapist suggested I call HOPEWorks to see if they had
space and by the God-filled opportunity HOPEWorks did have space for us.
A flood gate of walled up tears poured out of my eyes. I knew time was precious, so I had no time to cry.
BY YASMIN AKHTAR
Thirty-minutes was all it took. I packed our car with stuff I couldn’t leave behind like Tien’s
Transformer, his baby blanket, his clothes, his pillows and some of my own things. I picked
Tien up at school, and I can remember Tien asking me, “Mommy? Where is Daddy? Why is
our car packed?” I told Tien that we were going on a journey, and Daddy wasn’t coming with us
because literally there was no room in the car. I told Tien that we weren’t going to have to hurt
or struggle anymore and we are going to live in a place called a safe house. Tien perked up in
his booster seat all buckled up and we drove away from all we left behind.
Redefining Me
I always loved water lilies. A water lily is born underneath the water, inside the muck and mire at the bottom of the river or lake. And the water lily has always been
a water lily for that whole time that it was sprouting out of the wet soil, reaching up through the dark water towards the sunlight, stretching and grasping for the surface; where it then buds and blooms on the outside in the sunshine. It doesn't bud and bloom on the surface and then try to reach down below into the soil. Just like
a water lily I grew out of my own muck and mire, I embraced who I am where I was. There I found a life worth living, filled with joy, hope, beauty and love.
CONTINUED
10
LOVE WON CONTINUED
Love Manifested
Today I am rooted in who I am in Christ. I love because God first loved me. If I am born out of His love,
then I must choose to live in the love that He afforded me and express my love in everything I do for
Him. In the days, weeks, months and years since my Independence Day, I have learned what life feels
like when you live in joy. Joy comes in form of singing out unabashedly. Just like Maya Angelou, I know
why the caged bird sings. She sings because she has a story to tell. Joy is rolling down hills with my
son. Joy is something I see each day. Joy is choosing to share my story of healing and hope, and owning my story so others can discover their own strength, courage, reasons to love.
William Blake wrote, “Love to fault is always blind, always is joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.” The ugly lies I believed about myself no longer work in my
belief system. Now, I choose to love in spite of what lies before me, and by choosing love I can be
assured love wins each and every time.
BY YASMIN AKHTAR
© 2014 Melissa DiMartino
TO FLY FREE
GROWING PAINS
BY JOYCE SNOW
BY YOO-JIN KANG
For what is life but a mere stumbling block before one should pass
Having no guarantees on just how long it will last
For whom does the wind blow and leaves turn brown for
Salted rains and troubles pour
My cup runneth over………
Wishing, hoping……Praying for change
To start again, the strength to rearrange
Self- made blemishes, a past so wreck-less
Often at times I wish I could fly
Fly away leaving the past behind and not cry
© 2014 Joyce Snow
BUTTERFLY
BY J.A. GRIER
© 2014 Yoo-Jin Kang
the ticking inside
once like the falling of
a hammer or doors
slamming behind me
the sound of ending
has become the tiny
noise of flowers opening
or pages turning,
a favorite book read
over and over, the
sound of remaking,
now getting louder,
counting down
from ten to
liftoff
© 2014 J.A. Grier
first published in Newsletter Inago, Vol. 23, No 6, June 2003
11
STOP PRAYING GIRLS
BY J.A. GRIER
BEAUTY IN THE DARK
BY TONYA SCALES
Best you can ask for
is to get turned into a tree.
So be grateful for the sudden
mouthful of dirt,
the birds in your leafy hair
And you can thank your gods
he can only frot your
unresponsive bark, pushing
wood against wood,
coming in an indifferent knothole.
You surrendered the nails you
could have used inside his eyes,
© 2014 Tonya Scales
gave up the screams and kicking
and the flesh that sometimes heals.
Instead you are rooted skywards
SERPENTS
BY SYLVIE G. HENRY
I feel the serpents each silently swaying to their own rhythm as they stare me down from
her psyche, sufficiently simulating sympathy, empathy and fidelity. As she holds out her
hand swearing support, security, and serenity, I squint past the promise and sight the
sophism so apparent beyond her. I spy the scintillation of the stiletto of deception that
rests easily in her grasp. The past is prosaic and loathsome and so easily predicts what
is next. And it is intrusive yet sure. Familiar. Predictable. And the pain is well-established
and enticing. I essentially succumb, but continue to resist.
I espy an essence behind me. I spin swiftly to catch a glance of something sublimely
indescribable. I sense the roots of this immeasurable topiary soaking up lifeblood thirstily
from the gospel of stirps buried in deep History. I steal cautiously away from my prevailing
station and approach this strange desire. I know I belong there. I am the missing melody
in the symphony which plays on without me. But when I believe I have arrived, I am
stopped. I look up from the pressure against my heart and find that I have been pushed
back. I might be unintentionally unclean, soiled, contaminated or perhaps worse. I am not
yet welcome.
And I am now in Limbo. Solitary. Disoriented. Heartsick.
© 2014 Sylvie G. Henry
in humility of the virgin gift
as he finishes, panting, free to
walk away, his mind already on
another nymph-cum-laurel
who’s only crime is looking like
the way love should feel.
© 2014 J.A. Grier
first published in Liquid Imagination, Issue #15. November, 2012.
http://liquidimagination.silverpen.org/article/stop-praying-girls-by-j-a-grier/
Knitting
By J.A. Grier
These closet walls
no longer seem my friends.
Once, they were
sanity’s sentinels.
I’d sit in perfect darkness
cradling my soul.
Yet now
poor company, indeed.
I rather prefer windows, my
face a sunflower,
tipped up, drinking.
© 2014 J.A. Grier
first published in Newsletter Inago, Vol. 23, No 6, June 2003
12
ATLANTIC DAWN
ABOUT SIX
BY JUDITH GOEDEKE
BY JUDITH GOEDEKE
the stony gray sky cracks open in a slit of fierce red-orange light
a skinny little girl in shorts, all bony arms and legs,
she strides across cold blue sand and into the sea
skinned knee and tousled hair
her eyes are locked on the searing knife-edge color
smiles at me from a wooden swing
waves lap at her feet then quickly envelope her legs
she grips the thick chains that will, in a second, pull her skyward
she dives into the surf and rises, bobs through the swells,
hurry up! she seems to be saying to her father's shadow
heads straight for the light
but she is obediently still, feet on the ground
squinting into the sun
the crack widens, pours molten steel into the sea
she becomes a dot in burning water
the black and white photo, thick and glossy
swimming straight and strong
with curling white, deckled edges is shaking in my hand
toward the edge of the world
this child doesn't know what's coming
I whisper "darkness doesn't last, not completely
she reaches and kicks and pulls
February sunshine will break in, pour over you,
until she feels the weight fall away
bathe you in light the color of weak tea,
then she treads water, turns, looks back at the shore
warm you until you stop shivering"
and watches it wither in piercing, fiery light
she listens, curious but impatient
"those old wounds will bleed a little now and then
waves swirl around her like liquid embers
and you will scab over a thousand times"
she turns face up, floats
she wants to fly but the dark shape of her father is
so the blazing sky can fall into her wide-open eyes
still staring at her through the viewfinder
© 2014 Judith Goedeke
"through it all you hold on to your soul, somehow, you hold on"
just as the shutter clicks, she runs back, blurring the image
then kicks off, lets go and soars
WHAT WOULD YOU TELL THOSE WHO DON’T FEEL SO COURAGEOUS TODAY?
“Sit down. Go inside yourself. Don’t look outside for it. Look what you’ve overcome already. And some of the things no one ever knows but you. Some of the
harassment and some of the bullying and some of the neglect that you’ve come through already, and still you say “good morning.”
- Audre Lorde in an interview originally published in Attitude Digest magazine.
13
FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY
POWER OF FORGIVENESS
BY JUDITH GOEDEKE
BY SURIYA KAUL
I wished for you a beautiful death
To love is so easy, to forget is so hard
To suffer betrayal by someone we love is so painful
To forgive is so hard
To nurse anger is so natural
To let go is so hard
Yet
To heal and move on we need to forgive
To forgive is not easy, I know
But
When we forgive and move on…….
A new door opens
A door to freedom
New beginnings
A door to a limitless horizon for us to explore
We can now fly like a Dragonfly
Glide through undefined territory
With joy in our heart and lightness in our wings
We can now dance to the new rhythm of Life
When we forgive and move on….
We slowly evolve every step of the way
Only to discover
The power of forgiveness has come home to stay
Peace and calm descends upon us
We no longer feel the pain
Wishing the best to whosoever hurt us
We totally forgive and move on our way!
your face would be peaceful
and something of you would lift,
float long enough to let us know everything was okay
then like a dragonfly you would rise and drift away
a nine year old still lives a little in make believe
instead you were leaden and yellow
your breath rattled softly and was still
you just collapsed
there was no beauty
nothing peaceful
none of us was okay
I was sure you would come back
because mothers aren't allowed to die
so I looked for you after school
and at bedtime I stared into the darkness
night after night learning a little more about never
a little more about being alone in the world
a little more about my tortured father
a little more about making him feel better in bed
a little more about the possibility of being
murdered for being so burdensome
all in tiny bits, slowly, patiently
© 2014 Suriya Kaul
October is
Domestic Violence Awareness Month
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
7:00 p.m. — 8:00 p.m.
Owen Brown Interfaith Center
7246 Cradlerock Way
Columbia, MD 21045
the other day a mouse died in the garage
leaving a single drop of blood on the concrete floor
the next day a baby mouse, one inch of pink and gray softness
lay on the empty spot, breathing hard, looking up at me
nowhere to run
Candlelight Vigil
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Across the
nation, local communities will engage in various campaigns to
alert the public about this social issue.
Please join HopeWorks as we shed light on the prevalence of
domestic violence in Howard County and remember those who
have died because of it.
HopeWorks ● 410.997.0304 ● 5457 Twin Knolls Road ● Suite 310 ● Columbia MD 21045
wearehopeworks.org
14
THE MANNEQUINS
By L. Solomon
As I walk out of the department store dressing room,
the poreless, skinless mannequins mock me with their necks.
Their toothpick thighs and kneeless legs spring into cellulite-free life and kick,
adding injury to insult
as their handless arms block my path.
This, I think, is my zombie apocalypse.
I leap away, too late,
as the mannequin modeling a polka-dotted bathing suit holds me still
and the paste-toned head-and-torso shirt model rips open my chest
pulls out my feminist heart,
raises it to her toneless lips
and devours it before I can breathe.
In a second, it is gone,
the juicy crunch and slurp turn my stomach sour as I watch my intellect drip,
blood-like,
from her perfect chin.
They stare with pupil-less, judging eyes,
watch me attempt to wash the mess away
and return to their posts atop the poppy red,
nectarine, and grayed jade displays
of playful summer prints.
The perky sales clerk walks by unfazed
acknowledges the bloody puddle of feminism, intellect, and humiliation,
stands a yellow cone in front of the mess,
calls Rhonda on the loudspeaker for a "clean up in women's"
pretends not to smell the embarrassment seeping from my pores
and has the audacity to ask me, smiling, if there is something she can help me find.
I consider ordering, as if from a menu,
the self-esteem platter with an extra side of self worth,
a confidence biscuit, a self-love salad,
and whatever is the antidote for shame.
When the meal comes, I'll spread out shirts like picnic blankets,
dim the lights, light some candles, sit between the racks of skinny jeans and bikinis
and invite the mannequins to join me,
ready to dine with the skeletons from my closet.
They arrive, angry, and hungry for answers,
silent, staring, waiting:
they want my flesh.
Want me to remember the memories they wear branded on their skin
want me to release them from my histories
wrap my arms around them
bow our heads in prayer
and find an absolution.
folding chairs
want tokens to earn for 1 day, 5 days, 30
days clean
want me to introduce myself as someone
with a first name only
who can't manage to love
the only body she's known.
We sit in silence, as stories soak into the
humid summer air.
I fold up the shirts, turn on the lights,
the mannequins return to their posts and I
leave,
holding nothing in my hands.
© 2014 L. Solomon
DEVIN
BY MANDY MAY
If you would please,
stay the fuck out of my dreams.
I gave you a decade’s waste,
staying tucked under your arm
and now I wonder how strong
is that broken collarbone?
Sometimes rebreaking heals.
and You threw a tantrum in traffic,
which is so typical of you to do
and I was crying like a pile
of silk again in front of everyone.
Always in front of everyone.
I lose my voice around you;
my throat dressed in blisters
and I’ll use a needle
to pop them and watch
the cool slide of you
bleeding out of me.
I feel the hollow
hunger in your gut
for me and I’m left
full.
© 2014 Mandy May
They want meetings in basements with
15
TEACH ME
BROKEN TRUST
BY A.L. KAPLAN
BY A.L. KAPLAN
How to plant a garden
Sing a bedtime song
Fix the toaster
Gentle hugs
Loving, caring
An innocent pat on the bottom
Grows to something more
That can’t be told
Or shared
Somewhere a song became
An intimate touch
Hushed nighttime tones
Alone, withdrawn
Our secret burns within
Cries for a voice
While shame only grows
Forced silence confuses
You were supposed to
Teach me to trust
Shield me from cruel strangers
Protect me from harm
Not cause the hurt
Unveiled shadows
Dawns a new life
Healed
Hopeful
Instead I taught myself
And fixed the damage
You created
© 2014 A.L. Kaplan
BY POOJA PATEL
© 2014 A.L. Kaplan
TOUCH
BY A.L. KAPLAN
A furtive bedtime touch
Why can’t I tell Mom
Confusion grows
Dissolves trust
Broken
Lost
Silence
Brings despair
But some secrets
Need to be revealed
For healing to begin
© 2014 A.L. Kaplan
© 2014 Pooja Patel
16
GRANDMOTHER’S CHAIR
BY JEANNE W. GALANEK
BY DESIREE GLASS
on my knees
on the sticky kitchen floor
cleaning up the wreckage
sopping up
watermelon chunks
every which way
and the fractured remains
of my grandmother’s wooden chair
a gaping hole in the cabinet door
and my heart
HOW COULD HE!
picking up shattered spokes
of my precious treasure
HOW COULD HE!
How can I?
clinging to the pieces
sobbing
clinging to the memories
© 2014 Jeanne W. Galanek
“Put your hope in God”
put the pieces away
mouth
gaping
staring at the wreckage
car crashed
alcoholic venom
HOW COULD HE!
OPEN DOOR ORIENTATION
ENOUGH!
Open Door Orientation is a confidential meeting for
women survivors of domestic violence and sexual
assault who are interested in learning more about
our services. Open Door Orientation is the first step
in becoming a client in the counseling program at
HopeWorks. With notice, childcare may be available.
The Open Door Orientation is not an on-going
support group.
How can I?
GO!
police
knocking
handcuffs clasping
Male survivors and individuals who cannot attend
evening sessions, may schedule a private Open
Door appointment by calling 410.997.0304.
ENOUGH!
Mondays: 7:00 p.m.
at HopeWorks Office
Thursdays: Noon
at the Laurel Multi-Service Center
GO!
me packing
GRANDMOTHER’S CHAIR CONTINUED ON PAGE 18
17
MY GRANDMOTHER’S CHAIR CONTINUED
clothes toys children
How can I?
PROGRESS
DON’T STOP!
BY YOO-JIN KANG
GO!
packing boxes
packing pieces
packing hope
“Hope does not disappoint”
“DO WHAT I SAY OR I’LL SHOOT!”
Gun! in my face!
babies
crying!
GOD,
HELP
ME
NOW!
cops coming
handcuffs clasping
cell door slamming LOUD
New home
On my knees
Unpacking boxes
Unpacking pieces
of my grandmother’s chair
blackened
useless
pieces
How can I?
Stripping
Stripping
Stripping
filthy
film
grimy gook
stain
Fashioning new
STRONG pieces
Refinishing
Applying shine
Gleaming
© 2014 Yoo-Jin Kang
My grandmother’s chair
Better than ever before
Hope works.
© 2014 Desiree Glass
18
LEFT BEHIND
BY ELLEN MARSHALL
“Would you please step aside, lady, and let us do our job?”
All Amy could see was the glare of the lights as they strobed across his face. She only wanted to hold him, to tell him everything was okay. She was there.
The paramedics worked quickly, methodically, as they tried to find a pulse. What was he thinking, lying there, seeming to be resting? Did she notice a frown of
pain? Did he know she was there? She was always there, supporting him even during the rough times.
It all happened so quickly – the clutching of his chest, his fall forward away from her, his landing helplessly on the sidewalk. They were so close to their parked
Lexus. Why didn’t she talk him into staying at the restaurant for a while until he felt better? Should she have ignored his attempts to downplay this as a “temporary
weakness?”
Could he ever let someone else help him? Not since she met him, 20 years ago. He was so independent. She envied him for that.
It was he who mattered now, he who always mattered.
There was a time when she thought she ruled the world, at least her neck of it. Student government president during her senior year at Catholic High School; art
club all during undergraduate school, an exhibit of her photography at Harborplace, it seemed all so long ago. Amy was one of those teenaged girls that any of us
with braces and stringy hair envied. As she matured, it seemed that her beauty and self-confidence would propel her through a fantasy life.
Even as a girl, her parents and teachers praised Amy’s small accomplishments. In the eighth grade Amy entered a short story contest and captured first prize. At
the awards dinner grandparents, her Mom and Dad, aunts and uncles, it seemed her entire extended family showed up to applaud.
Her four younger sisters and brothers worked hard to live up to the standard Amy set before them. When the competition grew to the stage where there was minor
fist fighting or hair pulling, Amy let the younger sibling win.
High school was a continuation of the good life. Amy made friends quickly and managed to have a date almost every weekend. Since Catholic High was an all-girls
school, those dates were usually students at the nearby Curley High, an all-boys Catholic high school. Occasionally Amy went out with guys she met at the Number
15 bus stop, boys who went to Poly or City, high achievers like herself. “Will you ever stay home on a weekend night with your old Mom and Dad” her father would
tease. “Or is a Trivial Pursuit tournament too tame for my girl now?”
College living at St. Mary’s in Emmitsburg in Western Maryland allowed Amy to taste some of the freedom she thought she was ready for, yet kept her close enough
to sneak back to Baltimore for long weekends during each semester.
Walking across the park green that lovely spring day in 1987, she recalled how he stood out from the rest of the mere mortals in the same space. Could she ever
get his attention? Would he give her a second look? Amy knew that lots of boys passing in cars honked at her. But she was now looking at this man she could go
for. Could he feel the same? It seemed like he was walking right towards her.
Their hands brushed, they were so close. It was the first time Amy really felt a tingle at another’s touch. He turned to look at her and excused himself. “That’s
okay,” she answered. “Touch my hand anytime. Want to bump into me again?’’
His broad smile said it all. This could mean something. For the next few years they lived a fairytale love. During those years Amy never doubted how much he
loved her. He was attentive to a fault, holding Amy close when they walked, listening to every dream she shared with him. For so long she convinced herself they
were on the same path.
On their wedding day Amy stood before the priest, pledging to “love, honor and obey” for the rest of their life together. How could Amy ever stop loving this man,
this dream she was living? They honeymooned at the Atlantis, Paradise Island, Nassau. Aptly named – it was a heavenly place.
The paramedics were not getting a response. One, a woman of about 27 or 28, stepped into the back of their ambulance to get the paddles. Has it been 5 minutes
or 5 hours? Time was not measured by clocks, but by the beat of her heart. She had to pump blood through both of their hearts now.
CONTINUED
19
LEFT BEHIND CONTINUED
That first time they made love. He was so strong, yet gentle with her. They had stayed up all night talking, and then slowly began to undress each other. It felt so
natural, so right. She recalled how strong his heartbeat, as she relaxed against his chest. If only this wonderful love could last a lifetime.
Yes, he was a bit jealous of her friends. Said he wanted her beautiful self all to himself. Time with him mattered only when they were not together. In a perfect
world this intimacy should continue. Then, Amy recalled, they were a team, as close as two people could be. He even wrote her a lovely poem about how they
could both be sharing one body, one soul.
That was before cell phones and email. What do they call these- electronic tethers?
The male paramedic called into the hospital. “I’ve got a faint pulse, but we can’t stabilize him
enough to transport him yet.” The person on the other end of the conversation must have recommended another procedure. “White male, about 55 years old… Is that his age, Ma’am?”
“Fifty-four today. We’re celebrating his birthday,” she replied. Hard to believe that they’ve been
married since he was in his mid-30’s, she in her late 20’s. They could not seem to arrange to
celebrate her 38th birthday a few weeks before that night. When Amy convinced him to take time
out for his birthday celebration, she was happy he gave in.
It was only name calling at first. They argued, she thought usually about something very trivial,
and it was like something exploded inside of Dan. He called her “stupid fuck-up” and his eyes
looked straight past her. Somehow he never understood why she reacted so strongly to that name
and never apologized afterward for having demeaned her in that manner.
At this moment she needed only to think of the good times. The good memories would get her
through this nightmare.
There was the time after a particularly ugly argument when he left the house for four hours. She
was frantic, immobilized and worried that he was about to leave her. But, when he walked in the
door with two dozen glorious red roses and a bottle of wine, they found themselves making love
until the wee hours of the next morning. Good thing that her boss was so understanding when
she had to call off that day.
© 2014 Missy Mazzullo
“We are going to have to get him to University Hospital. Do you want to ride along in the front of
the ambulance? One of us will have to monitor him because his heart beat is still weak and, with all the equipment back there, you would just get in the way.”
Get in the way. He often told her she kept him from achieving great things in his career. If only she would go with him to the boss’s cocktail parties when they were
away at his conventions. If only she could enter into those conversations more comfortably. Despite her professional accomplishments, Dan told her she could
never understand the pace of his career or the intricacies of investments. What did he used to say? “It isn’t like the art museum has you negotiating corporate
mergers.” Dan was right, usually right. She never seemed to fit into his world. After all, her job as a curator at the art museum wouldn’t pay the mortgage on their
house. Dan’s salary provided enough extra money to pay for trips, to go to all the places he planned for them to visit. On their second anniversary, they went on a
helicopter ride over the Outer Banks. Amy recalled climbing into the chopper, Dan teasing her that he would throw her overboard if she didn’t behave.
Tonight she climbed into the front seat of the ambulance and remembered that she hadn’t called his sister. “Eileen, this is Amy. Dan’s collapsed on our way back
to the car tonight and we’re on our way to University Hospital. No, he complained of some chest pains when we left Chiaperelli’s, but insisted he could walk it off on
the way back to the parking lot. You better come down as soon as you can.”
Eileen was the first person in Dan’s family to ask Amy about the bruises on the back of her arm. He had grabbed her so hard, swung her around and demanded
that she look at him when he spoke to her. “You damned woman, never listening to me. You can’t understand how I feel when you ignore me, like some of the
guys at work do. You’re my wife and you need to give me all of your attention. I’ll make sure you don’t forget to listen, leave some marks to remind you what I
need.” Amy could not tell Eileen what Dan had done. She said the dog tripped her while she was walking him.
There were no children to call. Dan thought it best that they not become pregnant, that it would be more romantic if they didn’t have to worry about a child disturbing their intimacy. Amy was very angry at first, because they talked about children before they married. Coming from a family of five children, Amy knew how a child
CONTINUED
Dragonfly Arts Magazine 2014 wearehopeworks.org 20
brings life to a household. A son might even make Dan feel better about her, bring her the respect that he rarely showed her. It was
odd that in public Dan couldn’t be more loving towards her. Everyone thought they had the ideal marriage.
SUSPIROS DE LLUVIA
(SIGHS OF RAIN)
BY VIVIAN CALDERON
The ambulance was pulling into the emergency room entrance.
The paramedics rushed Dan into ICU, while Amy fiddled with the
insurance card and tried to remember Dan’s doctor’s name and
where he practiced. She was distracted, thinking, “If only he let me
dial 911 on my cell phone, we would have gotten here sooner.”
Cell phones. Yes, it was convenient to call Dan on her way home
from work to ask what he wanted for dinner. She tried not to stay
late at work, even though Dan often worked late or went out with
“the guys.” That one time her female boss invited her out for a
cocktail after they finished curating a major show, Dan went ballistic
to hear that she wasn’t coming straight home. But, Amy went anyway. Her cell phone almost blew up with his constant calling. It got
to the point where she stopped answering her phone. When she
walked into their home about 10:00, Dan was waiting for her on the
couch. “So, were you flirting with all those guys in the bar, you fat
bitch? Maybe someone else could take your fat ass out of my
bed.” Then, he pushed her to the floor and stomped on her stomach. Amy couldn’t eat food for a few days afterwards. Dan convinced her that she deserved his beating because she didn’t come
straight home as he insisted. It was no use to argue that he went
out after work, for Dan would only hit her again.
The next hour was a blur. Eileen came in and waited with her. They hugged each other, they cried, they prayed.
While they said the “Hail Mary” Amy remembered the many times she had invoked that name in panic. Dan would pull the phone from her hand when she tried to
call 911. “You’re not going to embarrass me by calling the police. I could lose my job, you bitch. Then, who will take you in? You have no one, no one but me,”
he’d insist. Cell phone? Forget it. Dan would not let her get to her purse where she kept her phone and her car keys. She was trapped and the only one she could
call for help was in heaven. Seems like the Blessed Virgin never picked up that prayer line.
Amy remembered Dan’s face as he lay on the gurney and they wheeled him away from her. It was not the face of strength she’d grown accustomed to. It was the
helpless stare, the stoniness like one of the sculptures in her museum.
His face did change as he was stumbling to the ground. Did Amy see pleading? Time seemed as unmoving as the sidewalk that caught his fall.
After a while, a serious person in scrubs came towards her. “Mrs. Warren? I’m Dr. Gabriel, the attending physician who’s been with your husband since he came in
to University. Would you sit down over here with me?”
Amy remembered the night that Dan brought her to St. Joseph’s Emergency Room. The pain in her arm returned as she thought about that horrific day. They had
had a particularly nasty fight over the way she had seasoned, or not seasoned, as Dan described it, his steak. “Any dummy can follow a recipe except my stupid
ass wife. Was your hand too weak to tip the salt shaker? God, why am I paying those gym fees? Maybe I should cook myself or better yet show you how to season
my steak the way I like, bitch.”
That was the very first time Amy stood up to his bullying. Amy picked up his plate, emptied its contents into the garbage disposal, and said, “Well, please don’t bother to eat it, then.” Dan grabbed her by the arm and swung her into the refrigerator. Her back hit the handle and she screamed. Her arm was wrenched out of her
shoulder socket; her back showed the indentation of the handle two weeks later. Amy had to wear long sleeves and a sweater to hide the damage. Doreen, their
next-door neighbor, knocked on the door to ask if everything was all right. Dan answered the door so composed, as if he had not just beaten the crap out of her.
“How are you, Doreen? Thanks for stopping by. What, Amy? Sorry to have alarmed you. She burned her arm on the stove. That must have been the scream you
CONTINUED
heard. She’s resting now. Thanks for your concern. I’ll tell her you were here.” Of course, Amy was cowering in the next room. Her back hurt so much, the pain did
not go away. Dan reluctantly agreed to drive her to the ER. He told the triage nurse that Amy had too much wine and slipped on the snow taking out the trash.
Why did the nurse and doctor who examined her seem to believe that lie?
“I am very sorry. Did all we could to save your husband. It was a massive heart attack and we lost him about 11:15. I had spoken with his internist who confirmed
that Dan had no prior heart problems, only mild hypertension. He shouldn’t have tried to walk when he started having chest pains.
“Yes,” Amy silently agreed. “If only I had not waited before I called 911,” she said under her breath.
‘What, come again,” Dr. Gabriel responded.
“Not important,” Amy observed as she stared straight past him.
BY POOJA PATEL
Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul - and
sings the tunes without the
words - and never stops at all.
- Emily Dickinson
© 2014 Pooja Patel
22
THE REALITY
By L. Solomon
Give me a moment.
Just a moment in this swiftly turning
always moving, frantically humming
over-caffeinated universe just give me a moment
to tell you one thing.
One story. One thing to say.
I want to scream it from the mountain tops
with a bullhorn the size of Nebraska,
I want to tell my story to all generations of women.
I want them to know about the night my soul was shattered and I
single-handedly
had to pick up the pieces of splintered, shattered shards,
invisible to those who see only with their eyes.
Time.
I want one moment of time for you to hear the words of a
woman, student, pseudo-writer whose
angry, wounded, soul, voice, and flame is flickering but
refuses to die.
I want my children and grandchildren and great grandchildren
to sit at my slippered feet and blanketed knees
as I tell them in the strong voice of a woman, re-formed,
the story of how I came to be reborn
through a process of my own reclamation.
I want to bless them with my wrinkled hands
and touch their young, pink cheeks as I tell them
they will always be beautiful
and hold their small, sweaty hands in my
veiny, transparent ones as I pray-to a god I somehow found to believe in-I pray they never need to rebuild themselves
alone.
Patience.
In this manic episode of a world where
time is money and money is everything
can you stop to hear the shattering of a spirit?
Can you listen to a story of
betrayal and
disempowerment and
violation and
hear the raw pain behind the poised smile?
Can you sit with someone in a pain so deep
it moves beyond the physical to the spiritual realm
and overrides any preexisting notion of god,
or would you rather go to the safety of your home
and watch a dramatized assault on ‘Law and Order’
so you can entertain your morbid fascination with the terrors of our
world
and never need to sit
with the reality?
Did you know that when a soul is breaking it makes no sound at all?
And it won’t be a clean break.
It’s not something that just heals with a little time and some Elmer’s glue,
no, souls shatter and splinter and leave shards,
hidden in the deep, private depths of a body
once beautiful and confident that now
rides the waves passively. Empty.
Like a conch shell once housing a living creature
that has since died
or moved
or been eaten.
In a world where "no means no"
is as cliché as any other
meaningless proverb or colloquial phrase,
I hold within my body an example of a time when
"no" supposedly meant "yes,"
and I was the only casualty of the subsequent war
everyone else denies ever happened.
The body—no longer drawn together by a whole, integrated soul wanders through life
angry but emotionless,
waiting to feel, wanting to run until it drops,
exhausted and broken on the outside
just so others can see the shattered pieces,
hoping to create something new from the broken parts, just
hoping to find
integration.
Give me a moment.
Just one moment for this
woman, student, pseudo-writer who is
clinging to moonbeams as the only thing she can find to hold on to,
slow down this digital age-fast forward-café mocha latte lifestyle to hear
an old-fashioned telegraph:
Fragile. Stop.
Handle with care. Stop.
This soul
is too precious
for you to touch.
© 2014 L. Solomon
23
ARTISTS’ BIOS
BROOKE ABERCROMBIE: PAGE (S) 8
Brooke Barrick Abercrombie has resided in Howard County for over forty years. She is a divorced, single mother of two. Brooke is the owner of High Note Entertainment Group which offers mobile disc jockey services and produces a video blog called "Brooke's Babblings” on YouTube. A survivor of domestic violence, Brooke
seeks to use creative outlets to educate and empower others.
YASMIN AKHTAR: PAGE (S) 10, 11
Yasmin Akhtar was a loving wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. She was patient, nurturing, and caring, dedicating her life to her family, friends, and volunteer
efforts. She always loved the arts and working with her hands. As a teenager, Yasmin would knit a sweater a day for soldiers fighting a civil war. She always found
great peace in painting, but it was not until later in life that Yasmin began to paint regularly. She appreciated nature and enjoyed capturing its beauty in her artwork.
To Yasmin, her family was amongst her greatest blessings, and her grandchildren were her greatest treasures.
VIVIAN CALDERON BOGOSLAVSKY: PAGE (S) 6, 7, 21
Vivian Calderon Bogoslavsky is a native of Colombia, South America. From the age of 12 she has been studying art with recognized artist Carlos Orrea. He has been her biggest
influence. Vivian has shown her work in collective and individual shows around the world, including Colombia, Italy, Panama and the United States. Her works featured in Dragonfly
are part of her "Prints of the Earth" collection. These “prints” can transform into multiple things; a gesture, a step, movement. They are what is and what was. What hurts and what
gives joy. As such they leave a mark, a print— forever in our memories.
MELISSA DIMARTINO: PAGE (S) 10
Melissa DiMartino was born in Florida and raised all over the United States. Melissa currently lives in Maryland with her eight-year old son Tien. Melissa is an advocate for the
homeless, people living with mental illness and speaks up and out about her journey from darkness to light. In her spare time, Melissa loves to read, write her blog, spend time with
her son, and swim. Melissa aspires to publish her own book on building her life after surviving childhood trauma, rape, and domestic violence.
JEANNE GALANEK: PAGE (S) 9, 17
Award winning for nine years at the Howard County Fair, the artist, Jeanne Galanek, is quite diversified in the creative field. A custom artist, she has expertise in
many genres and expresses pure emotions in her work. In 1979, she created a children’s puzzle/activity book for Roy Rogers restaurants. Her dream is to sell her
art so she can be a philanthropist.
DESIREE GLASS: PAGE (S) 17
Currently a high school teacher, Desiree Glass has 25 years of experience, teaching all ages from infant to adult. Her writing has appeared in The Times-Crescent,
as well as Guideposts (April 2013), Connections (Spring 2013), and Pen in Hand (Winter 2014). Desiree earned her M.A. at Notre Dame of Maryland University and
her B.S. at Salisbury University. She is the mother of three children and grandmother of two.
JUDITH GOEDEKE: PAGE (S) 13, 14
Judith Goedeke became a seeker during a tantrum at age four, and has since figured a few things out. She learned to laugh long and loud in spite of early trauma. Her life is
backward. She plays, explores her creativity and is unconditionally loved. She enjoys a large circle of family and friends, and lives in a posh tree house with Charlie. A semi-retired
acupuncturist, former teacher and poet, she is dedicated to healing.
24
ARTISTS’ BIOS CONTINUED
JENNIFER GRIER: PAGE (S) 11, 12
J.A. Grier is a speculative fiction writer, poet, planetary scientist, and astronomy educator. Dr. Grier's poems and stories have appeared in Space and Time, Microhorror, Niteblade, Prospective, Trapeze Magazine, and an anthology of the Maryland Writer's Association entitled "Life in Me Like Grass on Fire." Other credits
include the textbook The Inner Planets published by Greenwood Press, and a host of tweets, occasionally profound but usually otherwise under @grierja on Twitter. Dr. Grier contemplates various astronomy facts and speculative fictions at http://jagrier.com.
SYLVIE HENRY: PAGE (S) 12
Sylvie Henry has been working for non-profit domestic violence agencies since 2006, and has devoted her career to advocating for victims and survivors and their
families.
YOO-JIN KANG: PAGE (S) 11, 18
Yoo-Jin Kang is a freelance photographer and a student at the University of Maryland Baltimore County. She has been actively involved in raising awareness about
intimate partner violence through her involvement in on and off campus organizations. Yoo-Jin loves writing, reading, and vegan baking. She is hopeful for a future
of healthy relationships built on respect, communication, and love. Her “Growing Pains” image, reflects healing and growth during times of change and turbulence,
and shows her wearing a small gold earring with a dragonfly – a symbol of healing.
A.L. KAPLAN: PAGE (S) 16
A. L. Kaplan’s love of books started at an early age, but it wasn’t until late in high school that she began to write. She holds an MFA in sculpture from the Maryland
Institute College of Art and is the secretary of the Maryland Writers Association’s Howard County Chapter. When not writing or indulging in her fascination with
wolves, A. L. is the props manager for the local theater. Visit: alkaplan.wordpress.com
SURIYA KAUL: PAGE (S) 14
Suriya Kaul is a volunteer for HopeWorks. She has always been interested and involved as a volunteer in the social service area. Issues related to nonviolence,
women and children are close to her heart. Suriya loves to write and was excited to submit her creative work for Dragonfly.
MONIESHA LAWINGS: PAGE (S) 5
Moniesha Lawings is a 16 year old sophomore at Marriotts Ridge High School with Honor Roll status. She is also a member of HopeWorks’ Empowerment Movement Youth Leadership Program. She hopes to use her experience as a volunteer to become a leader in the community and become a social worker when she
grows up. She also loves poetry and believes that art is a good healer.
NISSE LEE: PAGE (S) 4
Nisse Lee has lived in Columbia for 14 years and has enjoyed the paths and parks that are scattered around the area. Exploring nature is one of her favorite
pastimes. She tries to connect to the world around her by sitting quietly in nature and observing her surroundings.
ELLEN MARSHALL: PAGE (S) 19
Ellen Marshall has been writing since age 14. She can get her inspiration at 50,000 feet, on the back of an elephant in Phnom Penh or on the MARC train to D.C.
Her interest in domestic violence stems from her career as a judicial branch educator with the Maryland and District of Columbia Courts. Writing has become one
of the vehicles Ellen uses to awaken others to act for social, societal and political change. Her poetry is published in Volumes 28 and 29 of Poet’s Ink and she is a
contributor to the op-ed page of The Sun. Her most recent book project is a cultural history of Ocean City. Ellen rests her slippers next to her husband’s in Gardenville, a neighborhood of Northeast Baltimore.
25
ARTIST’S BIO’S CONTINUED
MANDY MAY: PAGE (S) 5, 9, 15
Born and raised in Fredericksburg, Virginia, Mandy May relocated to Baltimore, Maryland after the end of a 10 year abusive relationship. She is now an MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore, living the beautiful life of a financially destitute grad student. She is a Writing Consultant at UB and supervises the shifts at Starbucks. Her poems have been published in Aubade and Whurk.
MISSY MAZZULLO: PAGE (S) 5, 20
Missy Mazzullo is a photographer from Ellicott City, Maryland whose work has been printed in Her Mind Magazine, The Duquesne Duke, The Howard County Times, and several
other publications. In high school, Missy bought a camera, took a photography class, and has been hooked ever since. She is a junior nursing student at Duquesne University in
Pittsburgh, PA and hopes to serve the suffering through her volunteer experiences and career.
DAWN MILLER: PAGE (S) 4
Dawn L. C. Miller holds a Master of Arts Degree in Literature. Her poetry has appeared in The Pegasus Review, Backstreet Poetry Review, Pegasus, and The Well
Tempered Sonnet. She conducts classes in poetry for the Washington College Academy of Life Long Learning and is an award winning photographer.
POOJA PATEL: PAGE (S) 16, 22
Pooja Patel is a student at Centennial High School. Pooja believes that although domestic violence is clearly a dark subject, portraying it with such color and depth allows the viewer
to approach the topic with a strong, optimistic outlook. This attitude can be incendiary and inspiring for those who suffer from abuse, thus giving them the strength to overcome the
toughest of situations.
TONYA SCALES: PAGE (S) 8, 12
Tonya Scales is an independent artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her love and enjoyment of photography led her to start her website called, “Artsy Photos” to
showcase her ingenuity and vision. Tonya home schools her two beautiful children while working on her ultimate goal to be a successful artist, sharing her talents
with the world!
JOYCE SNOW: PAGE (S) 9, 11
Joyce Snow is originally from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania but currently resides in Columbia, Maryland. She is a survivor of sexual and domestic violence. A proud
student of Howard Community College, Joyce is currently working toward her goal to become a Registered Nurse. After graduation, she hopes to work for the Veterans Administration assisting our soldiers in recovery. In the meantime she is very active in the community as a volunteer at the Horowitz Center and awaiting the
publication of her first manuscript which will be on the market shortly. She loves to write and read poetry, especially Walt Whitman’s “Leaves in the Grass.”
L. SOLOMON: PAGE (S) 3, 15, 23
L. Solomon is a long-time writer who believes firmly in the healing power of stories and words. She is committed to working towards reproductive justice, and often
addresses issues related to sexual and gender-based violence, body image, and self-esteem in her writing. Through her writing, she attempts to name and discuss
that which is often made unnamable in society-at-large. This is the first publication of her poetry.
26
HopeWork’s Art-based Programs
HopeWorks’ Community Engagement Department has quite a track record for producing programs that use art as a vehicle for awareness and change. They are the
Discovery Workshops, the I CAN WE CAN Workshops, and The Women’s Circle.
The creative arts are a means of helping people to improve and enhance physical, mental and emotional well being. The creative process involved in artistic selfexpression helps people in a variety of ways. When we create art and reflect on it, the processes increase self-awareness, initiate awareness of others and help us
cope with stress and traumatic experiences. It facilitates ending or finding solutions to conflicts and problems.
Researchers at the National Institutes for Health report that through the arts people can ease pain and stress and improve the quality of their lives. “More specifically, there is evidence that engagement with artistic activities, either as an observer of the creative efforts of others or as an initiator of one's own creative efforts, can
enhance one's moods, emotions, and other psychological states as well as have a salient impact on important physiological parameters.” 1
Staricoff R, Loppert S. Integrating the arts into health care: Can we affect clinical outcomes?: Kirklin D, Richardson R, editors. The Healing Environment Without and Within.
1
I CAN WE CAN WORKSHOP & GLOBAL EVENT—USING YOUR HAND AS A CANVAS
HopeWorks’ I CAN WE CAN Workshop is modeled after the national campaign called One Billion Rising. The campaign
calls for community members to stand up and be counted as one of the billion people rising up to end violence. During the
workshop we talk about what we can do to end violence at home, and in the workplace or at school. Big things, small
things everyone can do something. Then using their hand as a canvas, participants create artwork to inspire peace and
healing. I CAN WE CAN is appropriate for men, women and children of all ages and is presented in a variety of community
venues including schools, village centers, faith-communities, senior centers and summer camps.
Each spring, HopeWorks’ Youth Leaders host the I CAN WE CAN Global Event as part of Global Youth Service Day. Global Youth Service Day is a campaign of
YSA (Youth Service America), an international leader in the youth service movement. During this event, teens and youth groups from around the world connect with
our Youth Leaders using Skype, Hangout and Face Time to share their I CAN WE CAN art work.
“ Believe in You ”
Woman at
I CAN WE CAN Workshop
“ We need your voice ”
College student at I CAN WE CAN Workshop
“ Love ”
Two middle school girls at Art Center
“ Don’t Be Afraid ”
College student at
“ Love Yourself ”
Woman at I CAN WE CAN Workshop
for individuals living with mental illness
CONTINUED
Discovery Workshops
Throughout life we encounter times of personal stress e.g., job loss, failed relationships, illness, or struggles with life
direction. Even positive changes - marriage, parenthood, retirement - can cause tension.
HopeWorks’ Discovery Workshops are a vehicle for individuals who are not in crisis to explore issues for personal growth. Offered quarterly, each Discovery Workshop focuses on a specific topic such as examining mother/daughter relationships, self-care and stress relief, dating life after 50 , moving forward from troubled
relationships, community building or healing for the healers. Some workshops are one-day events; others are offered as a multi-session series. Programs are held
at HopeWorks and can also be delivered at venues in the community.
Through creative exercises in a group setting, participants gain insight as well as share observations and experiences to help others. Activities include expressive
writing, collage making, movement, and creative journaling.
STRESS
A Group Poem Inspired by “The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass in
Giving Sorrow Words: Poems of Strength and Solace
written by the May 2013 Self-Care & Stress Relief Workshop Group
Stress is
an unmarked car
hiding
waiting
to pull you over
to do you over
reminding you
they are after you.
The HopeWorks’ Women’s Circle is a monthly roundtable-activity group for
women who are not in crisis. Like the Discovery Workshops, The Women’s
Circle is part of our Exploring Life and Love programming. These programs
focus on enhancing emotional wellness, through the exchange of ideas, creative
activities, and connecting with others.
The Women’s Circle will explore issues such as body policing, romantic love,
mother/daughter relationships, media literacy education and constructions of
femininity. The circle will be peer lead – everyone will have the opportunity to
lead a session. At least a quarter of the meetings will be art-based including,




Creating a “Hope-Chest “ featuring cigar-box crafting
Drumming
Alliance Collage Making
Making Dream Catchers
Other activities will include book discussions, film screenings and brown bag
lunches.
The first session is scheduled to begin in August 2014. For more information
and to sign up, contact Vanita Leatherwood at [email protected]
or call 410.997.0304.
It’s the fast fast food
calling your name
too often
too late
too much
insane.
Stress puts
me on pins and needles
pins and needles
pins and needles
sting me
like nettles
like metals
stinging me sticking me
singing me unwell.
Stress is
within me
not much I can do.
It’s taking pills
and the heat
and the cold
and memory losses
and too too much to do.
Stress is an illness
I can’t control.
Stress is a wretched wire
wrapped tight
around my soul.
28
AND THE SPEAKING WILL GET EASIER AND EASIER.
And you will find you have fallen in love
with your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers,
and realize you don't miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you. And you will still flirt and paint
your nails, dress up and party, because, as I think Emma Goldman said, "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part
of your revolution." And at last you'll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than
speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”
...AUDRE LORDE
HTTP://WWW.GOODREADS.COM/AUTHOR/SHOW/18486.AUDRE_LORDE
Since 1978, HopeWorks, formerly the Domestic Violence Center, has been providing critical services to families affected by domestic violence and
raising awareness in the community. In 2010, we added to our mission comprehensive services for survivors of sexual assault and sexual abuse.
We are proud of our strong tradition of service provision and survivors will always need the specialized care our dedicated staff provides on a daily
basis. Critical also to our mission is engaging the entire community in the work of changing the conditions that allow sexual and domestic violence to
occur in the first place. This part takes all of us. Sexual and domestic violence are not inevitable realities in our world.
We all benefit when individuals are free to live self-determined lives without the threat of sexual and domestic violence – not just survivors. Parents, law
enforcement, businesses, students, day care providers, doctors, nurses and teachers, men and boys benefit. Families and friends will all be better off without these threats.
Prevention takes an entire community working together – challenging and changing the beliefs, attitudes and culture that allow them to exist. And it takes hope. Hope builds momentum and momentum creates change…when we work together.
Our community can be stronger and better and safer when we are all engaged in this work together. This is the spirit of our new name. It is a name we believe says as much
about us as an agency as it does about us as a community.
WE ARE HOPEWORKS. EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US.
ADVOCACY SERVICES
 24-Hour Helpline for callers seeking crisis counseling and referrals regarding sexual and domestic violence
 Hospital Accompaniment Program providing comfort, support, and advocacy to survivors of sexual and domestic violence at Howard County General Hospital
SAFE SHELTER AND TRANSITIONAL HOUSING
 45-day crisis shelter for victims of domestic violence and their children
 Transitional housing for up to six months
 Individual case management and educational programs and life-skill trainings
COUNSELING FOR SURVIVORS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT & DOMESTIC VIOLENCE (WOMEN, MEN & CHILDREN)
 Crisis appointments
 Individual and group counseling
 Support groups for family members of sexual assault survivors
LEGAL ASSISTANCE




Brief advice, information and referrals for victims of domestic violence, sexual assault, stalking and child abuse
Representation, consultation in peace & protective order matters, crime victims’ rights, divorce, custody and other family law proceedings
Information and support through the Volunteer Legal Advocacy Project (VLAP) staffed at the District Court daily
Criminal accompaniments to victims of domestic violence and sexual assault
ABUSER INTERVENTION PROGRAM
 Separate counseling programs for men and women to decrease behaviors of intimate partner violence
 20-week program focusing on increasing coping skills, active listening and effective communication in the context of intimate relationships
PREVENTION EDUCATION & AWARENESS PROGRAMS







Workshops and Trainings for schools, faith communities, businesses and civic organizations
HopeWorks’ Youth Leadership Projects: The Empowerment Movement & The Legacy Architects
The Legacy Workshops for men and boys focusing on the important role males can play in the prevention of violence
Coordination and participation in community events such as school fairs, health fairs and awareness events
The Discovery Workshops: Using the creative arts to enhance wellness
The Kitchen Table: collaborative discussion events for community specific populations
The Women’s Circle: a roundtable-activity group
HopeWorks 24-Hour Helpline 410.997.2272

Dragonfly Arts Magazine

Transcription

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