Issue No. 1 September 2012

Transcription

Issue No. 1‌‌‌‌‍‍‌‌‌ │ September 2012
Friends and Colleagues,
I’m pleased to introduce
the first issue of the Excelsior ReView, showcasing
the creativity of Excelsior
students, alumni, staff, and
faculty. Here you’ll find poetry, prose, photography, and
more - all original work appearing here for
the first time.
The editorial team worked hard to select
the work you see here. I stayed mostly
out of it, but I did ask one thing: that all
work be selected on merit. As a result, not
all submissions made it into the ReView.
Those who made the cut should be justifiably proud; those who didn't are invited to
keep trying: review.excelsior.edu.
So sit back and enjoy the creativity of our
College community. And please give us
your feedback-- we're listening: review@
excelsior.edu.
Sincerely,
Dr. Scott Dalrymple
Dean, School of Liberal Arts
Cover
PointyTurbulance
Mark Mollenkopf
Graduate, BS ’11, Maryland
Chief Warrant Officer
A two-dimensional design with 3D depth
where the human domain (the leopard
skin background) is overlaid with powerful
points of Light depicting human emotions
varying in intensity, color, and strength. This
turbulence represents the striking nature of
human emotions as they dominate humanity’s
perception and influence how we feel, act,
and behave.
Dimension: 1024 X 768 Pixels
Software: GIMP (GNU Image Manipulation Program)
Contributors
Art
22 Canucit
Valerie Arena, Faculty, Pennsylvania
36 Ask Mountain
Thomas Ask, Graduate, MALS ’02, Pennsylvania
4 In My Head
Noah F. Caust, MBA candidate, New York
39 Galopagoose
Jennifer DeWald, BS in nursing student, New York
46 Tiger
Scott Grzybowski, Graduate, BS ’97, Florida
19 Mother and Child Eddie Rodriguez, AS in nursing student, North Carolina
Essays
5 A Strong Hand to Guide Me
Patricia Crisafulli, BSL ’12, AA ’83, Illinois
24 The McChrystal Effect
Mike Strickler, MALS Candidate, California
Functional Art
7 Clogs
Michelle Morning, AS in nursing student, Washington
31 Darth
Theresa Murray, AS in technology student, Maryland
Music
8 Minutemen Remix
David Sherman, Faculty, New York
Photos
33 Detail: Mission District Mural
Donna Aitoro, Staff, New York
49 Avalanche Pass
Holly Bickel, BS in Nuclear Engineering Technology Student, New
York
37 The Shoot
David Broad, Graduate, BAL ’78, currently MALS Candidate, Georgia
44 Hero Comes Home
Jennifer Dauccio, BA in English/Literature Student, New York
50 Mt McKinley
Flora Duke, AS in nursing student, Alaska
10 Charles River in Fall
Aaron Falardeau, BSL Student, Massachusetts
13 Jelly Fish
G. Jay Julian, Faculty, Pennsylvania
30 The Hummingbird
Laurie Kenny, Graduate, AS in nursing ’99, currently BS in
nursing student, Connecticut
20 Hidden Skull
Kinisha Watkins, MS in nursing student, Indiana
Poems
9 Suppression
Rochel Abraham, BSL Student, New Jersey
32 The Narrow Path
James Caudill, Graduate, AS ’76, North Carolina
38 Ancient One
Robert Galin, Graduate, BAL ’84, Colorado
45 Academic Seasons
Susan E. Mason, Faculty, New York
48 Arkansas Spring
Kenneth Salzmann, Graduate, BS ’81, New York
21 One Wish
by Judy Unekwe, Associate in nursing student, Texas
Short Stories
14 Mountain Pose
Sarah Louise MFA, JD, Faculty, New Mexico
35 On the Wall
Brain K. Myhre, BSL Student, Maryland
40 Birthday Party
Marianne Sciucco, Graduate, AA in nursing ’98, New York
Videos
12 My Exploration & Design of Virtual Worlds
Dr. Jim McDermott, Faculty, Texas
Issue 1
September 2012
David Seelow
Editor-in-Chief
Hem Borromeo
Photography Editor
Scott Dalrymple
Editorial Advisor
Ross Acevedo
Poetry Editor
Darren Walsh
Advisor
Bethany de Barros
Prose Editor
Ron Milos
Managing Editor
Nancy Scala
Video Editor
Larnice Tetreault
Designer
Stephen Tytko
Editor
Mark Kenyon
Art Editor
Michele Dutcher
Editor and Production
David Sherman
Music Editor
The staff of the Excelsior ReView
wishes to thank one special person
who, without his vision, the ReView
would not exist. The Excelsior ReView
is the brainchild of an Office of Information and Technology Services staff
member, Ron Milos. From concept to
the proverbial press, ReView has been
lovingly led by Ron and created by an
all volunteer group of Excelsior staff
representing the various schools and
departments – from nursing to marketing, grants to online education &
learning service.
Call for Submissions
Download a PDF version of this issue.
Disclaimer: Any opinions expressed by the author(s) are solely their
own and in no way reflect the policies of nor are they endorsed by
Excelsior College.
The Excelsior ReView is accepting
submissions for its second issue.
Please read guidelines, requirements,
and formats before sending material.
Inquiries may be directed to
[email protected].
Art
Essay
A Strong Hand to Guide Me
by Tricia Crisafulli, Graduate, BSL ’12, AA ’83, Illinois
The sign on the path, not much bigger than the
kind landscapers leave behind after treating a suburban lawn, read: “village.” The arrow pointed to the
right, not that there was any question of the way to
go. The lodge where we had lunch sat atop the mountain. The only direction to go from here was down.
Our American friends who hosted us in Rwanda,
where we had arrived just the day before after 21 hours
of travel, asked us if we wanted to drive or walk. “It’s a
real goat path,” they warned us jovially. “Walk, of course,” I told them.
The words “goat path” were neither descriptive nor
metaphoric. Goats, some tethered, some roaming free,
munched the lush vegetation along both sides of the
path—sharply angled, deeply rutted, and slick with
mud from the morning rain. Nonetheless, who could
resist the invitation of a meandering path through the
green hills for which Rwanda—the “land of a thousand
hills”—is known? Of course, Rwanda is also known for
other things, especially a brutal genocide in 1994 in
which one million people were killed in 100 days. But
its presence is one of continued peace-building and the
potential for prosperity, which had brought us there, my
friend/co-author and I, to research a book on the subject.
Despite the fact that I am an avid runner and an occasional hiker, my first steps down the goat path lacked
the confidence of my cloven-hoofed companions. Falling
Dimension: 18"x 24", Media: oil, Sharpie on canvas
In My Head
By Noah F. Caust, MBA candidate, New York
4 • Excelsior ReView
review.excelsior.edu
September 2012
September 2012
would not have done more than bruise my ego, but
muddy pants I could do without. Down the steepest
parts I clung to branches and dug my fingers into the
ground as I eased my way along. I could blame jetlag or
the fact that, having lived in Illinois for nearly 20 years,
I am more used to level ground; whatever the reason, I
was no longer sure of where to put my feet. Suddenly
being “grounded” took on a different connotation.
Before long our approach had been spotted by the
village children. They swarmed us as they nimbly navigated the way in bare feet or flip flops, giggling at our
antics and pestering us with a dozen questions from
their well-practiced English lessons. “How are you?
What is your name? How are you today?”
A humble cluster of small buildings and tiny farms
no bigger than a large garden marked our arrival in the
village. Now the path forked and rose again toward the
home of a respected elder whom our hosts wanted us
to meet. The first step was a stretch for my short legs.
As I heaved myself upward, a hand clasped mine. “I’ve
got you,” a voice said. A boy of ten or eleven, his English
as strong as his arm, guided me up the path.
I refrain now from saying anything endearing about
the child for fear of making him seem trite or, worse
yet, cute. What struck me was not how charming he
was as if placed by central casting for me to have my
very own “Out of Africa” moment. Rather, I was struck
by the surefootedness of a boy who knows where he
is going. He walked with the confidence of one much
Excelsior ReView • 5
Functional
Art
older, neither afraid of strangers nor intimidated by
them. And why should he be? This was his home, his village, and the path he walked each day. I was the one who
was slipping and sliding, unsure of where I was going,
and needing a strong hand to guide me.
Many more trips to Rwanda, dozens of interviews
including with the president of the country and his
administration, and conversations with others in the
U.S. have followed that day on the path, all part of
our efforts to bring to life the complex and fascinating
story that is Rwanda today: where a million people have
been lifted out of poverty, compulsory education has
expanded from nine years to twelve, health insurance is
available to all, the economy is making a slow turn from
subsistence agriculture toward technology, and women
account for 56% of parliament. Throughout this journey, we have been guided and informed, absorbing facts
and putting them into context: what has been done and
its significance, and what remains on a very long and
daunting to-do list for a country in a hurry and a democracy in the making.
Patricia Crisafulli received a B.S. in Liberal Studies
from Excelsior College in May 2012. A writer and published author in Chicago, is she is the co-author with
Andrea Redmond of the upcoming book Rwanda,
Inc: How a Devastated Nation Became a Model for
the Developing World to be published in fall 2012 by
Palgrave-Macmillan.
Media: Acrylic on leather
Yet the image that has stayed with me, through writing and rewriting, is that of the young boy—James is
his name, I later learned, who extended his hand and
helped me up a path I could not walk by myself. It is
his road and I, a visitor and outsider, have the privilege
of being on it with him, but only occasionally. This is
James’ path—his and his country’s. It is up to them in a
spirit of self-determination and self-reliance to mark the
way and define the destination.
Clogs
by Michelle Morning, AS in nursing student, Washington
I take the already used shoes from the doctors and nurses and refurbish them with a paint job. In return, they give a
financial donation to a local children's cancer center of their choice.
September 2012
September 2012
Music
Poem
Suppression
by Rochel Abraham, BSL Student, New Jersey
But poverty of mind triumphsAs he can not feel all this intensity…
Clump of dirt shot at little boy’s head.
Fountains of tears well up inside.
But snickers deafen his will to cryYou’re a baby if you do, They say.
So he gulps a piece of air,
Tries to breathe, turns and runs…
And tooWhen he scoops up grandson,
Staring into his bright blue eyesYearning just to dot a kiss on his tiny noseBut staring blanklyYears of numbing the pain.
And he learns never to cry.
Challenge changing with the times,
He’s tenAll grown up,
Big hair, big smile,
A wink in the corner of his faceWishing to talk to Samantha.
Of golden locks, and rosy cheeks.
I love you!
He screams over the backyard fence,
And an echo of a thousand voicesMock him.
Click Here to Play
Minutemen Remix Length: 2:49
AndYears of paralyzing any form of joy.
For if a man can’t cryCan a man truly laugh?
And he learns never to show his love.
Minutemen Remix
by David Sherman, Faculty, New York
Part of a score written for a documentary film entitled “Minutemen” that featured new air and computer technology used by the military in the fight against rogue governments and terrorists. Recorded in New York City with a
80-piece orchestra.
September 2012
So growing old,
Squashing feelings down his esophagus,
To linger in his heart,
To dance inside his brainJailed to his insidesWhile he’s yelling desperately to channel it all…
Years bring moments of utter pain,
Trials biting at his soul,
Sickness, death, poverty.
September 2012
Photo
Location: Woerd Avenue boat launch, Waltham, MA 2011
Charles River in Fall
by Aaron Falardeau, BSL Student, Massachusetts
Picture of my Jon boat docked at a bend in the beautiful Charles River.
September 2012
September 2012
Video
Photo
STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) Quest Lab Virtual World, Video Length: 5:03, Dimension:
1024 x 786 Pixels, Software: GIMP (GNU Image Manipulation Program)
My Exploration & Design of Virtual Worlds
Location: Bermuda – Atlantis aquarium, Camera: Nikon D80, Lens: AF-S DX zoom – Nikor 18 -55 mm, Focal Number: f/5, Exposure time: 1/60
ISO: 100
by Dr. Jim McDermott, Faculty, Texas
[email protected]
The Excelsior ReView has provided this creative window for sharing ideas and creative content with our associates.
My background is in science and engineering. I reside with my family on the central Texas prairies where we live in
the natural world every day. Historically my research at Texas A&M was on virtual world interface and its impact
on learning. Feel free to contact me anytime and I would be happy to answer any question I can regarding virtual
worlds and their use in education. This video is a brief window into a virtual world scenario which can engage our
students in experiential learning.
September 2012
Jelly Fish
by G. Jay Julian, Faculty, Pennsylvania
September 2012
Short Story
Mountain Pose
by Sarah Louise MFA, JD, Faculty, New Mexico
Vertigo: benign, positional. I like to say it that way. Reminds me of Star Trek’s Captain Picard ordering his favorite beverage – tea: Earl Gray, hot. Anyway, it’s what I’ve got and it gives me stories to tell.
I’m thirty when it starts, one September morning
when I’m walking home from the public swimming
pool. The carbon monoxide and diesel fumes I inhale
along the way, together with the chlorine I’ve been
swallowing for the last half hour, add up to a dizzying
combination. I get as far as the metal fence that runs
along the far end of my backyard when I’m pulled off to
the right as sure as if that side of my body is magnetized
or the hand of God has reached down and yanked me
over for a chat. The whooshing sound inside my head is
all I can hear. I manage to hang on to the fence, chanting
“You’ll be OK, you’ll be OK” under my breath looking
like a broad daylight drunk to the Asian neighbor lady in
the next yard. I can tell from the way she goes on watering her parsley patch - the size of a welcome mat, she is
as desperate to avoid eye contact as I am to make it.
Ten or fifteen minutes pass before I can let go and
meander across the lawn to the kitchen door. I go to
bed for three days, which is how long it takes to get my
equilibrium back. That was a few years ago. The neighbor lady is probably a grandmother now. No doubt she’s
aged well, partly because of the parsley, which must
have proliferated into enough welcome mats for every
house on the block. Instead of lemonade, her grandkids
sell dime bags of the healthy green garnish and use the
money to buy boxes of frozen corn dogs at Walmart.
Their mothers serve them with pickles and soy sauce
and pray at the family altar for the first killing frost,
though they love their own mother very much and also
pray for her long life.
I don’t know. I left town to go to cooking school.
Japanese: $5000 sushi knives, blowfish. That didn’t last
long. When you drop one of those knives it shatters like
a porcelain vase.
*
Or maybe it starts when I’m 11. One minute Mom is
hauling me around the kitchen by my hair and the next
thing I know I’m sitting in the middle of the oval dining
room rug wondering how I got there. That scared her
and she was nice to me for almost a week, until it happened again and she decided I was faking it.
*
I’m crouched on the stone floor near the front door,
tying the dirty laces on my Reeboks. Strips of setting
sunlight coming through the half open blinds of the
window behind me are full of dust. Minnie the cat is
watching my feet, muscles poised to spring out in my
unpredictable path. I’m about to take a short weave to
the Park. Weave instead of walk makes me smile.
I swivel slowly to face the door and pull myself up by
the knob. So far so good. Some days I’m as well balanced
as the next person. Other days, I have a whole different
perspective on life.
It’s Halloween and there’s a party at the park for the
kids. Trick or treaters never come to my street, since
most of the houses are empty and for sale, so the only
way I get to see them is finding a bench in the park
and watching them bob for apples or ride the merrygo-round. The place is packed. A lot of witches, vampires and cheerleaders are milling around. A tiny turkey
wearing a lobster bib and drooling rides by on the shoulders of a man dressed like Ollie Dragon – the turkey’s
September 2012
grandfather, I figure. My favorite is Dolly Parton, especially after one of her foam boobs drops into the apple
barrel and floats away from its owner. Friends tell me
my sense of humor was arrested in early adolescence. I
don’t remember laughing at all when I was a kid.
My dad was a baker. Every Halloween he came home
with big trays of chocolate éclairs for the event. In those
days people didn’t worry about razor blades in the
goodies, though we did get skeptical looks from a few
parents. Eclairs weren’t the kind of thing you could toss
in with the rest of your loot. They required thought and
resulted in some hesitant little hands. That was dad all
right, planted in the doorway dressed in his spotless bakery whites, a let’s get down to business look on his face.
Good times came with a price.
*
I’ve been doing yoga again. They say it’s good for your
balance, all kinds. The teacher's name is Renee. She’s
serene, sixtyish with snow white hair and perfect posture, but lithe, flexible. She moves through the positions as though she’s made of warm wax. Mountain
Pose, Downward Dog, Warrior, Child, Cat. A soothing
CD plays in the background, a cross between Gregorian
chant and Enya.
The yoga class is in a spare room at the community
center, next door to Poncho Villa High School. Outside
our windows, the marching band is practicing for the
homecoming game on the football field. Instead of
being annoyed by this, Renee asks us to invite the sound
into our yoga experience, the way we’d welcome good
friends into our homes. A few months ago I would have
snickered at such a suggestion, but love changes things.
*
I move a lot. That’s always a mystery to the friends
I leave behind. They wonder why a person who has so
much trouble walking a straight line would want to go
be a stranger someplace. I don't tell them it gets harder
September 2012
as I get older or that I cry a lot when I get where I’m
going.
When I moved to this town, I cried enough to replenish the deplete reservoir. It’s New Year’s Eve, the sun
has set, the hotels are full, and all I can see from the
driver’s seat of my yellow Datsun are fast food joints and
discount auto part stores. Where are all the centuries
old adobe buildings I’d seen in Ansel Adams photographs
from the forties? I’ve been lusting after the Southwest
since I took an anthropology course in college about the
Hopis and Zunis. Have my romantic impulses got the
better of me one more time?
I wind up at the Blue Cactus Motel and Pottery
Emporium, ringing in the New Year with the TV set on
mute and a pint of tequila. It’s a sorry night but by midafternoon the next day things are looking up. I find the
old center of town, St. Francis’ Cathedral at one end and
the Coyote Café at the other. I buy myself a coffee and
take a seat at a table on the roof of the Café. The sun is
bright and even though it’s January and there's snow on
the foothills behind the Cathedral, I have to peel off my
jacket and the sweater underneath. People are walking
around the streets in shirt sleeves, posing for pictures
and browsing the sidewalk vendors for turquoise jewelry that matches the color of the sky. Home at last, my
every nook and cranny is shouting.
Within a week I’ve rented an adobe casita with stone
floors and inlaid tile in all three rooms. I land a job at
a bakery on Burro Alley, owned by a couple of women
with big plans. They put me in charge of the bread and
don’t care how many batter scrapers I drop. If there’s a
place more heavenly, I don't think I’d be able to stand it.
*
Renee came to the Southwest from central New York
State. She was used to big bodies of water, tall trees, and
flat land. The contrast threw her permanently off kilter.
She likes to say that the red rock canyons, flowering cactus and cold mountain streams set her at a 90° angle to
her old self. Any time she wants she can wave at who she
used to be while keeping on with who she is. Along with
yoga, trout fishing has become her passion and her livelihood. I’ve been to the workshop behind her house. She
spends hours there every day when she’s not teaching,
tying flies that are famous in these parts for their beauty
and complexity. I want to tell her I’m in love with her
for those very same qualities but I can’t get the words
out. It’s like each one is stamped on a tiny self-adhesive
square of vinyl stuck to the inside of my throat.
*
There are two dreams I’ve been having ever since I
can remember. In one of them the faces change according to where I’m living and who I know, but the action
is always the same. Since I met Renee the dream goes
like this. She and I are having a relationship whose exact
nature is unclear.We have a fight, she calls an old partner
and asks, “Do you still love me?” The answer is a slice of
deep fried potato shaped like a cupped hand and covered
in something red. I have no idea what this means. Is the
red stuff blood? If so, whose? Has the hand been abusing
Renee or does the red stuff indicate what torture it’s
been for the partner to be without her? Maybe it’s just
ketchup. I mention this dream to Renee. She says she’s
just had one where she asked a former lover the same
question. She also says, “If there was something between
you and me, you can bet I wouldn’t be calling somebody
else.”
*
Mountain Pose looks like this: stand tall, legs together,
arms over your head reaching for the heavens. Suck in
your stomach, stretch your torso, breathe deeply. Your
feet should feel rooted in the earth, the energy rising
through your spinal column and radiating from the top
of your head and the tips of your fingers should make
you feel as holy and imposing as Everest.Your purpose is
clear, your motives are pure, you do not waver.
I practice this position every day. I can usually hold
it for two or three minutes. Once I held it for five, out
behind my casita at sundown. The smell of sage is especially strong in the early evening. In the waning light, the
Sangre de Cristos look purple, the snow on the peaks a
pale rose. The sight makes me want to genuflect.
*
The Corn Dance Bakery, where I work, supplies bread
to most of the big restaurants in town.We start baking at
two a.m. and we’re finished by eight. I spend the morning delivering – I drive and Diane unloads.
Diane’s one of the owners. She’s a black woman
from Atlanta, a rare bird in these parts and she loves it.
Sometimes we talk about what a change this is for her.
“My mother taught me to be a very careful little black
girl,” she said once. “Polite was good but invisible was
best, specially when it came to little white girls.” The
bane of her existence was a blonde who lived on the
next block. For years Diane had to walk by her house on
the way to school and the girl was always waiting for her
in the middle of the sidewalk, arms and legs stuck out,
so that Diane had to step into the road to get around her.
“Keep your eyes down and don’t say a word,” Diane’s
mother said every morning. To this day Diane hates anything yellow.
“I can’t blame Ma,” Diane says. “She was scared and
she wanted me to live through my childhood.”
Once in awhile Diane comes to yoga class. She tells
me it’s obvious Renee has the hots for me. It’s her way
of telling me it’s O.K. to go after what I want, even if I
list a little to one side on my approach.
*
The second dream I keep having is about watching myself float through space with my arms around
an enormous white pillow. It is, of course, completely
silent. There are no other objects in the darkness, which
September 2012
is also complete, though I have no trouble seeing myself.
The biggest impression the dream leaves on me has to do
with the texture of the pillow. It feels like nothing else I
have ever touched, nothing that words can describe, but
I know that as long as I hold onto it I'll be safe.
*
It’s nearly Christmas, my first in this otherworldly
place. Renee has gone to New York to visit her boys one’s a cop and the other’s an interior designer. Before
she leaves I give her a card and tell her not to open it
until the 25th. On the front is a warmly lit adobe house.
A cat is sitting on a corner of the flat roof, two dogs
are playing in the snow. A gibbous moon draws the eye
toward the far horizon. The message inside is Happy
Holidays – Looking Forward to More Time Together in
the New Year, Love, Me.
The folks from the bakery are coming to my place
Christmas Day for a few hot toddies and a Star Trek:
Voyager fest. None of us have family in town and twenty
four hours of commercial free Trek reruns is just the cure
for the blues. All the best episodes will be on, including
the one where Captain Janeway and the Borg queen vie
for Seven of Nine. Diane’s a real sucker for the Captain
– brains, beauty, charisma. If she could find the likes of
her in black skin she’d die a happy woman, or so she says.
*
Sometimes I wake up dizzy. It happens less and less as
I get older but it usually means a day or two in bed without turning to the left or right because that makes the
spinning worse. It also means, hard as I try to resist, an
overwhelming urge to pack up and move on, as though
the vertigo will disappear if only I can find the right geographical location.
I could take a lesson from Minnie the cat. Occasionally
she gets an abscess at the base of her tail. She spends a
few days growling and running away from herself, but
then she’s better and goes right back to feeling at home
September 2012
again.
*
Before Renee goes to New York I invite her to my
casita.We’re sitting on the floor, the coffee table between
us, eating popcorn and drinking hot cider. There’s a fire
going. Joni Mitchell’s Blue is in the CD player.
We talk about family, not the ones we have but the
ones we used to wish for when we were kids. My dream
was that I’d turn into an orphan and be adopted by the
big Irish Catholic family down the street. There were six
children. Bobby, the oldest girl, was a cheerleader at St.
Patrick’s. We were friends for awhile, until she found
out I wasn’t really a cheerleader too. Our schools used
to play basketball against each other, and one afternoon
I ran out of excuses for not being at the game. Bobby
asked a girl on our squad where I was and that’s when
the jig was up. I can’t remember why I thought she’d
only be friends with me if I was a cheerleader. At the end
of that school year, I decided to run away from home. I
went to Bobby’s house and her mother, a tall brunette
wearing a matching shirt dress and a pearl necklace, took
me upstairs to her bedroom. We sat down on the bed
and I told her my story. She gave me a good long hug,
then told me she was sure my mother loved me and was
worried about where I was. That made me cry because
I knew I’d have to stick it out at home for another six
years, until I was eighteen and old enough to move out.
The loaded gun in Dad’s sock drawer often made me
wonder if I’d live that long.
Renee’s parents weren’t bad, just indifferent. What
she wished for was some excitement in her life, a father
who yelled NO once in awhile, a mother who cheered
her on and told her it was important to play the violin
or learn how to spell. Parents who knew how to hug
and kiss each other like they were in love when she was
peeking through their bedroom door. Real feeling of any
kind.
Art
Blue came out in 1971. Renee and I both remember
hearing it for the first time. I was with my best friend,
who taught me everything I know about music and food.
Renee was already a mother. “That record used to make
me wish I could have my twenties back, or at least play
the piano,” she says.
“I was in my twenties when the album came out,” I say.
Renee smiles. “Play it again,” she says.
I walk to the CD player on my knees and push the
repeat button, then over to Renee’s side of the coffee
table without getting dizzy. I shift into lotus position and
admire her profile. The fine lines at the corners of her
eye and mouth begin to deepen the way they do when
she laughs or has something big on her mind.
“What are you thinking,” I ask, topping up Renee’s
cider from the warm carafe and adding a cinnamon stick.
Minnie jumps onto the table and rubs the side of her
face on Renee’s chin.
“That things take me by surprise lately,” Renee says,
petting the cat’s back.
“Like what,” I say.
“Somebody threw a rock through the window of my
workshop last week. I jumped when the glass broke.
That's the part that surprised me.”
“Anybody would’ve been spooked,” I say.
“I was tying a fly. The hook went right through my finger.” She takes a sip of cider, pausing to inhale the sweet
spicy steam. “That's never happened before either.”
“Let me see,” I say.
Renee gives me her wounded finger, still a bit red and
swollen. I close my hand over it, careful not to apply any
pressure.
“That must have hurt,” I say.
I could drink a case of you, Joni sings.
Renee turns toward me. She moves slowly, extending
her legs on either side of me.
Steady, I say to myself. Steady.
Dimension: 3'6"x 4', Media: oils on canvas
Mother and Child
by Eddie Rodriguez, AS in nursing student, North Carolina
My version of “Mother and Child”, by Gustav Klimt.
September 2012
September 2012
Photo
Poem
One Wish
by Judy Unekwe, Associate in nursing student, Texas
Written shortly after my mother died from cancer.
I wish you would have seen past your ill feelings...
Past your pride and prejudice.
I wish you would have let me help you...
I wish you would have known just how much I loved you, how much I adored you.
How much you got underneath my skin... how much you drove me crazy...
I wish you could have looked at me and seen me as the woman I am, instead of the young child I once was.
I wish you would have known the impact your words had on my life...
I wish you could have felt how little you made me feel.
I wish you would have known, through the window you peeked at me through....could have saved you, had you
only opened it.
I wish I could have spent more time talking with you…I wish you had wanted to know me.
I wish I had more stories of your life to tell my children.
I wish you could have seen how much alike you and I were...
I wish you could have seen that it was I, of all your children, that wished to carry on your legacy.
I wish I could have stopped your pain....
I wish I could have talked you into another way.
If you had just opened an ear, and listened to me...
If we had been close, and talked regularly.
Location: Florida, Camera: Nikon D80, Lens: AF-S DX zoom – Nikor 18 -55 mm, Focal Number: f/5, Exposure time: 1/60, ISO: 100, Original color
with no post processing.
About life, and love... And all of our dreams.
We would have cherished every moment of weakness, every last laugh...every last smile.
I could have lay down next to you at night, waking at every little sound you made...
Brushed your hair...kissed your face.
Hidden Skull
I could have given you the love and care you gave to me for so many years.
by Kinisha Watkins, MS in nursing student, Indiana
I will miss that time I never had with you...
I was taking pictures of items that had encrusted with sea shells on the beach. I did not realize that it had a “skull”
look to it till after the photos were developed and we were turning them upside down.
None of this you will ever know.
But there could have been so much more, between you and I.
And that...
I will always wish for.
September 2012
September 2012
Art
Digitally enhanced image of the original artwork. Dimension: 24''x 48'', Media: acrylic on canvas
Canucit
by Valerie Arena, Faculty, Pennsylvania
September 2012
September 2012
Essay
The McChrystal Effect
by Mike Strickler, MALS Candidate, California
In December 1969, when young soldiers like Tim
O'Brien slugged through sweaty Southeast Asia jungles
with peace signs inked onto the things they carried,
Mick Jagger stepped to the microphone in London's
Olympic Sounds studio to lay down the b-side track of
Honky Tonk Woman.
It wasn’t a particularly sticky song he recorded that
day; some say its inspiration came from a disappointed
Italian soda fan in a small Minnesota drug store. Yet it
seemed to capture the essence of initial optimism and
eventual disillusionment synonymous with the 1960s,
followed by a resigned pragmatism in the chorus that
rang well into the mid 1970s when the last of our
Vietnam veterans finally came home.
Whether the Rolling Stones meant for it to or not,
the song You Can’t Always Get What You Want defined
a national attitude of difficult and resigned change as
America struggled to embrace her fighting men just
home from war. The question then on everyone’s mind
mirrored the lyrics of the song: were these defeated soldiers what she wanted, or what she needed?
Some 40 years later Rolling Stone magazine helped
end the career of Army General Stanley McChrystal, the
commander of all U.S. and NATO forces in Afghanistan.
The operative word here is helped because McChrystal’s
perspectives seemed to have done him more damage
than reporter Michael Hastings could ever have done by
writing them down.
The commander of all allied forces in the world’s hottest war zone had committed the cardinal military sin:
he publically and openly contradicted the commanderin-chief on his application of military power and foreign
policy; in essence, the soldier challenged the citizen on
the proper application of his deadly art. How could he
have been so egotistical, so shortsighted…so stupid?
The answer may surprise you.
This is the story of a modern-day military leader who
proved to be both a resounding success and absolute failure, based very much on ones perspective. In it we follow the perception and reality of what we believe about
leadership in war, and what we do with it in application.
That duality is the story of General Stanley McChrystal
- leader, anarchist, citizen and soldier.
You can’t always get what you want
A soldier defying a president is not without precedence. During the American Civil War President
Abraham Lincoln went through a number of unsatisfying general-in-chiefs before settling on Ulysses S. Grant.
Most notably was Major General George B. McClellan
who, like McChrystal, openly defied the president. After
being relieved by Lincoln, first from command and later
the entire Army of the Potomac, McClellan stood for
President on the Democratic ticket in 1864 opposing
him. His party’s anti-war platform harmed his chances,
post Gettysburg then and with the Confederates in full
retreat, and he lost handily. Still, how did a disgraced
commander win enough favor with Americans to be
nominated as commander-in-chief? Because regardless
of Lincoln’s perspective, McClellan was the most popular of that army's commanders with its soldiers, who felt
that he had their morale and well being as paramount
concerns.
In 1998 the movie Saving Private Ryan proved to be
the highest grossing domestic film in America that year.
September 2012
The story follows a small company of Army Rangers
through post D-Day France in search of the final remaining brother of four Ryan’s serving during the war, and
is based loosely on actual events of the Civil War and
WWII. That is an important factor: the situation in the
movie is an actual part of America’s history; a story that
had been told often enough, and with enough purpose
and energy, to interest screenwriter Robert Rodat, television producer Mark Gordon, and Academy Awardwinners Stephen Spielberg and Tom Hanks.
The need to search for and find one soldier among
many - as Hank’s remarked playing Capt. John Miller
“finding a needle in a stack of needles” - is part of what
we value as Americans; it’s something we believe in.Thus
we understand and support General George Marshall,
the Army Chief of Staff in 1944, as he takes action contrary to the considered recommendations of this senior
staff to “send someone to find him, and get him the hell
out of there.”
The action that follows earned the film nearly $500
million in revenue and 11 Academy Award nominations, including awards for best director, best cinematography, best film editing, best sound editing and best
sound – all those things that help us visualize a most
cherished of American ideals: a deep belief in the
value of the individual. Combat leaders understand
that ideal - McClellan understood it, as did Marshall
and McChrystal - because it is part of their ethos.
Manning and Curtis define leadership as social influence, which is what Spielberg and Gordon had in mind
in making the film. If, as the authors claim, leadership
involves ideas and deeds that show the way and influence
the behavior of others, then the producers of Saving
Private Ryan did an exceptional job of leading audiences
back to individual deeds time and time again, whether
in searching for Private James Ryan or showcasing the
September 2012
characters as very real in the course of being led and
influenced by commanders, and by one another.
Doing so enabled audiences to project themselves
into those dire situations and establish report and empathy with the soldiers, accepting them as the imperfect
teachers, rulers and heroes who have led throughout the
ages. Imperfection is an important concept in leadership.
New York Times best selling author Roy H. Williams
remarks, “There are none so loved as the flawed hero”
as the flaws are what we identify with and make us tangible. As with soldiers in the field, or leaders practicing leadership, the imperfections we display define our
humanity. Ultimately, Williams said, they are what make
heroes of us all.
Still, had Saving Private Ryan been a real story, and
had President Franklin Delano Roosevelt been present
in Marshall’s office that warm June day in Washington
1944, he may have sent George to Walter Reed for
evaluation. True the thought of four sons lost in war is
tragic but the whole of the European war effort had just
crashed headlong into concentrated German resistance
in Normandy, establishing only a tenuous foothold in
France. From the commander-in-chief’s perspective this
was not the time to consider war’s disastrous affect on
a single family, no matter how trying the circumstances.
There were many sons on the battlefield that day, and
politicians think in terms macro.
This position is well portrayed in the movie as the
search itself costs the lives of two soldiers (Wade and
Caparzo) and eventually six members of the eight-man
company die in battling the obstacles that Saving Private
Ryan presents. In the bloody calculus of war the gain
is not worth the cost to procure it; the proposition of
sacrificing six men to save one is simply ridiculous. Yet
Americans believe in a dichotomy that points out our
imperfections as much as our humanity, and unlike
politicians, soldiers tend to think in terms micro.
Perspective is everything with commanders and politicians. Where a president may see the mass of theater
Armies, numbered Air Forces, Navy battle fleets and
Marine Corps expeditionary units, commanders and
soldiers focus on those right, left and forward of position, and trust everything to the ones at their back. That
difference in perception between the president and the
soldier, between the macro and micro, allows only the
thinnest opportunity for alignment of purpose.
But if you try sometimes…
As a veteran of war I can tell you that loss is always
present in the mind, but during actual combat it is certainly not the foremost thought. Soldiers (and I use
that term to speak of all servicemen, be they Airmen,
Marines, Sailors or Coastguardsmen) learn quickly
that fulfilling their duties provides the best chance of
survival for all, and offers the best consolation when
friends are killed in battle. Soldiers believe that, if they
have done their duty to the utmost, then they will carry
fewer burdens of those lost after the attack has drawn
down. Those duties, especially for soldiers engaged in
recent urban combat, included killing the people set on
killing them. In Iraq and Afghanistan those people came
in all sizes, sexes, and ages.
As an officer deployed during war it fell to me and
other officers to lead men and women in combat, using
both directive and participative leadership methods.
The challenge was to know which method to use - what
kind of teacher, hero or ruler to be at any one time. The
methods were not foolproof and the best tactics, intents
and situational awareness still left soldiers dead. That
fact does not point to poor commanders or soldiers;
rather, it makes clear the brutal impact of the fog of
war – dealing with the unexpected and the unplanned.
Commanders recognize they cannot keep their
charges from harm with passivity, so they move forward
aggressively and operate with lethality to achieve the
objectives while reducing the potential for friendly loss.
Like in Vietnam simple attrition works best and, also
like in Vietnam, that perspective did not meld well with
American perceptions of her military.
I have often heard “ but our military is the best trained,
best equipped and most technologically savvy in history,
so how is it they are still so vulnerable?” The answers lay
in the fog of war: men dedicated to blowing themselves
up are formidable, and there are precious few defenses
against an enemy determined to die. No one understands that better than today’s combat soldier, and very
few commanders understood that better than General
McChrystal. And so he chose to be an exceptionally
deadly leader.
You get what you need
As chief of the Army’s black operations efforts prior to
being named to his final post in Afghanistan McChrystal
tracked down terrorists in Iraq with aplomb, using a
strategy that would, in his own words, “figure out how
the enemy operates, be faster and more ruthless than
everybody else, then take (them) out.” McChrystal chose
not to allow terrorists to reach the detonation point,
interrupting them before they could achieve a tactical
advantage and, by doing so, reduced American deaths in
the Iraqi provinces. In essence, he chose to be more terrible than the terrorists and beat them to the kill shot.
But that wasn’t the kind of flawed hero soldier
America had fallen in love with. While audiences clung
to Saving Private Ryan and Band of Brothers, the war
films preceding it, such as Apocalypse Now, Full Metal
Jacket, Platoon and The Deer Hunter, were not so easily
embraced. True they won awards for their shocking and
September 2012
realistic portrayal of unconventional war but they were
released in retrospect; Americans did not easily identify
with McChrystal or movies that portrayed his knack
for urban warfare because their messages sat heavy on
the soul. Those films and their brand of soldiers scared
people.
But by 2009 American perceptions of her preferred
soldier had changed. Nearly eight years into the conflict in Afghanistan, and just six years post the launch
of Operation Iraqi Freedom, more than 6,200 coalition
soldiers had died. Of them, more than 60 percent perished due to unconventional warfare that introduced
suicide bombers and improvised explosive devices to
the American psyche. And as more and more of the reality of war rolled into their communities in flag-draped
coffins, and photos of former high school basketball
stars and their cheerleader girlfriends appeared uniformed and posthumous in newspapers, American attitudes began to shift. All at once Oliver Stone, Francis
Ford Coppola, Stanley Kubrick and Michael Cimino's
stark realities of war began to hold sway with audiences.
America was no longer scared; she was mad.
In 2009 The Hurt Locker was nominated in nine categories at the 82nd Academy Awards and won in six:
best picture, best director, best original screenplay, best
sound editing, best sound mixing, and best film editing. The film portrayed war in Iraq and, like in 1944
Normandy, focused on defeating the enemy head on.
Director Kathryn Bigelow shot the picture in Jordan to
enhance realism and concentrated on the filmmaking
aspects that helped reaffirm our deep belief in the value
of the individual. Only this time that belief included the
destruction of IEDs and annihilation of the terrorist that
were killing America's young men and women.
The movie noted a marked departure in attitudes
from only two year previous, when Americans had
September 2012
a harder time embracing what they were seeing from
Middle East. In 2007 the media's daily reports of Iraqi
and Afghani children dead from aerial attack, torture
and sodomy at Abu Ghraib and Camp Nama correctional facilities, and the alarming rate of suicides in the
armed forces, made Americans wary of the conduct of
her sons and daughters in uniform.
Among those reporting then was journalist and
screenwriter Mark Boal, who projected America’s disillusionment in his 2007 screenplay In the Valley of Elah.
Tommy Lee Jones was nominated as best actor portraying the father of a soldier killed by his platoon mates
over a seemingly insignificant quarrel that occurred after
they had returned from Iraq. The soldiers, apparently
suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, stab, dismember and burn Jones’ son and then go for a chicken
dinner afterward, mostly detached from the incident. In
the closing scene Jones hangs an American flag upsidedown at a local school, a sign of national distress. Based
on the reports from Boal and others in Baghdad then,
many Americans probably agreed.
Mark Boal’s concept for Elah came from his time
imbedded with the U.S. Army in Iraq in 2004 and 2005
while working as a freelance journalist for The Village
Voice, Playboy, and like Hastings, Rolling Stone. When
Boal released his next script, just two years later, the
American psyche had grown weary of the roadside
killings and suicide bombers. His journalistic intuition
picked up on those drastically changed sentiments and,
from his same experiences in Iraq that brought Elah,
came an altogether different timbre of screenplay. It’s
title: The Hurt Locker.
It is here that we see the McCrystal Effect: at the precise time America changed her mind about the kind of
combat soldier she needed there he was - a combat leader
knee-deep in the quagmire yet poised, undaunted and
killing terrorists on an unprecedented scale in downtown Iraq. The cause of the serendipity: a leader with
a simple and pragmatic vision of destroying the people
seeking to destroy his troops, sensitivities be damned.
And right then, Americans and allied sensitivities were
at their lowest due to the continued killing of her troops
by terrorists.
wanted but, as Mick Jagger crooned some 40 years
previous, he was what they needed. Unlike the Rolling
Stones however, his kind of leadership in a complex
organization is not built to last.
That vision came with a fair amount of deadly innovation. According to Hastings McChrystal paired Special
Forces commandos with young MIT computer geniuses
with blue hair and nose rings – the kind of cyber freaks
normally shunned by the military. They teamed up and
went after the terror rings with guns blazing and electrons humming. During one particular surge his team
killed and captured thousands of insurgents, including
Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the Al Qaeda leader in Iraq.
Joint Special Operations Forward (JSOF) was a killing
machine under McChrystal because they remained open
to new ideas and methods of targeting, tracking and
eliminating threats.
As mentioned earlier Soldiers and presidents enjoy
only the thinnest opportunity for alignment, as politics and command are diametrically opposed forces.
Consider leadership in the role of commander, and then,
in the role of politician: Hastings wrote that McChrystal
“was in indisputable command of all military aspects of
the war, (but) there is no equivalent position on the diplomatic or political side.” Instead, he said, an assortment
of administration players competed over the Afghan
portfolio: U.S. Ambassador Karl Eikenberry, Special
Representative to Afghanistan Richard Holbrooke,
National Security Advisor Jim Jones and Secretary of
State Hillary Clinton, not to mention 40 or so other
coalition ambassadors and a host of talking heads who
tried to insert themselves into the mess, from John
Kerry to John McCain.
By employing that level of lethality McChrystal and
JSOF gave America what she wanted - fewer soldiers
killed in combat. How many less? In 2007, the year
before he took command coalition deaths in Iraq marked
an all-time high at 961, with 904 Americans killed. It was
the highest number of fatalities ever, surpassing the 906mark set in 2004. One year later McChrystal had helped
reduce coalition deaths to 322, the lowest number of
fatalities since OIF began. In 2009, the number dropped
to 150 and, by the time he was promoted to commander
of all U.S. and NATO forces in Afghanistan in 2010, the
total number of coalition deaths dropped to just 60.
The method he used was simple attrition. "We’ve shot
an amazing number of people," McChrystal said in his
Rolling Stone interview.
The diplomatic incoherence effectively allowed
McChrystal’s team to call the shots and, like a cult will
do, hampered political efforts to build a stable and
credible government in Afghanistan. Where McChrystal could command adherence Obama had to bargain
for it, and that’s tough enough to do without an ultra
popular snake-eating terrorist hunter making Middle
East leaders very uncomfortable. He was not the guy
needed to help build fragile coalitions. As Stephen
Biddle, senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations, said, “the military cannot by itself create governance reform.” When McChrystal began to criticize the
Obama administration, mostly over the slow-rolling
frustration of political process, the president had little
choice but to can him.
McChrystal may not have been the leader Americans
Regardless of the firing and his subsequent deci-
September 2012
sion to retire, Stanley McChrystal remains one of the
most sought-after leaders in America today. His dismissal from command was far from a drumming out;
he retained his four-star rank in retirement, sits on the
board of directors for JetBlue Airways and Navistar, and
teaches a graduate course in modern leadership at Yale
University’s Jackson Institute for Global Affairs – all
aspects an odd and interesting embrace of a most military leader within often closed corporate and educational societies.
Yet McChrystal was never really as hard-over Army as
he was hard-over American, and America loves its flawed
heroes, especially those with talent, courage, vision and
commitment. On saying farewell to McChrystal at his
retirement ceremony in Washington last July, Secretary
of Defense Robert Gate’s voice caught near the end, as
he retired him “with the gratitude of the nation he did
so much to protect, with the reverence of the troops
he led at every level, and with his place secure as one
of America's greatest warriors.” America certainly got
what she wanted with Stanley McChrystal, and in many
ways, got what she needed too.
September 2012
Sources
1. Dodd, Philip and Dora Lowenstein. “According to
the Rolling Stones.” 1st ed. San Francisco: Chronicle Books. Print.
2. Hastings, Michael. “The Runaway General.” Rolling
Stone Magazine, 22 Jun. 2010. Web.
3. Jones, Wilmer L. “Generals in Blue and Gray: Lincoln’s Generals.” 1st ed. Mechanicsburg: Stackpole
Books, 2004. Print.
4. See Richard Corliss’ review of The Hurt Locker
in Time, 4 Sept 2008 (The Hurt Locker: A Near
Perfect War Film.) Corliss summarized, "The Hurt
Locker is a near-perfect movie about men in war,
men at work. Through sturdy imagery and violent
action, it says that even Hell needs heroes.”
Functional
Art
Photo
Dimension: 22"L x 18"W x 28"H, Media: Wood with metal legs
The Hummingbird
by Laurie Kenny, Graduate, AS in nursing ’99, currently BS in nursing student, Connecticut
Female Ruby Throated Hummingbird in my garden at a weigela flower.
Darth
by Theresa Murray, AS in technology student, Maryland
Circa 1970’s vintage side table with storage. A modern abstract hand-painted design yielding a distressed eclectic
look makes this functional art a real conversation piece.
September 2012
September 2012
Poem
Photo
The Narrow Path
by James Caudill, Graduate, AS ’76, North Carolina
The path is narrow, that I take
The choices just, that I must make…
One must live, that noble plan
To ever touch, the Master’s hand…
Each good deed, and word we say
Lights up the path, to show the way…
That others, in the flock,
Who roam, can safely find,
The pathway home…
The way ahead is filled with strife
Not much comes easy,
In this life.
But I’ll not reap,
The Master’s wrath,
I’m sticking to,
The narrow path…
Location: San Francisco, 2011
Detail: Mission District Mural
September 2012
by Donna Aitoro, Staff, New York
September 2012
Short Story
On the Wall
by Brain K. Myhre, BSL Student, Maryland
This story is about a friend who committed suicide after hardships following his deployment to Afghanistan.
He placed one stone on top of the other, a light puff
of dust flaking off of the heavy rock as he set it down.
The wall was progressing, but he still had far to go, and
no help to get it done. For long hours he worked in
the hot, dry air, with the sun beating down on him like
the vengeful eye of a cruel master. His skin was tanned
from work; his hands were chalky white from the dust.
He could not stop working on the wall, for that was his
life, his purpose, to protect the village and his family.
He would pile one stone atop the other, no matter how
heavy, no matter what the cost, until the wall was strong
enough to hold the wolves at bay.
Reaching back for the next stone, he wrapped his
tired fingers around the rough edges and bent his
knees, lifting with the legs, as he had been taught. He
had learned his trade from the best, and was proud to
know that he did his job well. He would continue the
tradition of his fathers and would make them proud of
him. Several more stones went into place as he worked.
He paused only briefly to wipe the sweat from his eyes
before returning to his toil. Then it happened.
Reaching down for the next stone, one so large it
was nearly a boulder, he slipped and cut his palm on the
edge. The wound was not deep, but it bled. He could
not stop his work, though. He must finish the wall. His
wife and daughter counted on him. More stones went
into place, and the wall continued to grow, but each
stone was now marked with his blood. Each time he
lifted the next one, he was a little weaker. Setting it into
place was a little harder.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the villagers going
about their business, ignoring his labors as they ignored
the faint hints of blood on the wall. They did not see the
blood, they did not care that he was tiring. Why should
they care? Each member of the village had their own
task. They were too busy to stop and help. He would finish the wall, and then go get help for his hand.
The next stone was much harder to lift. The stone
after that, harder still. Finally, with the last of his strength
leaving him, he fell to his knees beside the stone and
wept. He could not go on. He did not have the strength
to finish the wall, and he did not have the strength to call
out to the village. They would not answer his call, even
if he could. They had other matters on their mind. They
were too busy. He would lay his head on the stone that
was his undoing and fade away, letting the darkness take
him away from the blazing heat of the sun.
They would find him, eventually, and know that his
work was not done. They would think him a failure, and
a fool. If he was lucky, they would bury him on the other
side of the wall, away from the accusing eyes of his family, away from the pain of his failure.
“Do not look on me with anger,” he whispered to no
one as the edges of his vision grew dark, “but know that I
tried to keep you safe from harm. I love you. Goodbye.”
Just as consciousness started to slip away and the
world dimmed around him, a cool hand touched his
cheek. Another hand took the wrist of his cut hand and
a damp cloth was applied to the wound.
“You could use some help with this, my friend,” said
September 2012
the newcomer. He was young and strong, with the soft
down of a new beard coming in. “Let me get some
help for your wound and then we can build this wall
together.” He called out over his shoulder.
to help me earlier?”
A second set of hands, the small, soft hands of a
woman, took his injured hand and began to dress it with
a clean bandage. The worker was set firmly back to lean
against the wall he had been building. He looked from
the young woman nursing his injury to this new friend,
who was running back to the town, then around him at
the stones. A different man stepped out of the village
and walked towards the wall. Seeing the wall-builder’s
condition, he set his hat back on his head a bit and leaned
down to pick up a stone. Shuffling over to the wall, he
lifted it slowly into place, then paused to wipe his brow,
smiling down at the injured man shyly before reaching
for the next.
“They were there the whole time, waiting to help,” he
said. “They never came, because you never asked. You
worked so long and so hard out here on the wall that you
forgot to look for help when you needed it.”
The new comer placed his hand on the wall-builder’s
shoulder and looked squarely at him.
“And why did you come?” asked the wall builder.
“Because I looked around and saw someone in need,” he
replied. “There was nothing else to do but help.”
A second man came from the village and helped with
the third stone. They moved easier as a team, and the
stone was put into place quickly. More people came
from the village, one by one, to lift stones and help build
the wall. How could this be? Did they not have things to
do? Where were they when he was tiring? There were so
many who had come to help, it must be half the village
at once, all working on that one wall.
The young man who had first reached out his hand
to the wall-builder came out of the village at last. He
walked back to the wall-builder and squatted on his
haunches, smiling.
“Is there anything more I can do for you?” he asked.
“Just one thing,” said the wall-builder. “Tell me.Where
were all of these people before? Why did they not come
September 2012
Art
Photo
Dimension: 6" x 9", Media: ink and acrylic on glass
Location: Paris at l'arche Defense in 2010
Ask Mountain
The Shoot
by Thomas Ask, Graduate, MALS ’02, Pennsylvania
by David Broad, Graduate, BAL ’78, currently MALS Candidate, Georgia
A fashion photo-shoot in session.
September 2012
September 2012
Poem
Art
Ancient One
by Robert Galin, Graduate, BAL ’84, Colorado
Indecent spittle runs down one side,
as he mouths words no longer prescient.
A limp,
more a wobble,
stings the sight of others as he walks.
Gnarled fingers like coastal Cypress,
or knotted pine,
grasp nothing more of life.
Alone.
Dimension: 18" x 24", Media: water color, ink on paper
Galopagoose
By Jennifer DeWald, BS in nursing student, New York
September 2012
September 2012
Short Story
the other kids. She and my sister Becca sat in the sandbox with the smallest children, my four-year old sister
Sadie, and the three-year old Donnelly twins.
Birthday Party
by Marianne Sciucco, Graduate, AA in nursing ’98, New York
“Come on,” I said to her. “We’re having a birthday
party. For you.”
Midway through the hot summer, playing by the creek
and hiding from the sun in our tree house had lost much
of its charm. We needed something else to do.
The six Donnelly kids came over early that morning.
They lived in the house behind ours and came over most
days, shut out of their own home while their mother
slept. They stayed for hours. Mama made peanut butter
and Fluff sandwiches for lunch, and, even though Daddy’s
pay would not come until Friday, let the Donnelly kids
finish our last loaf of bread and polish off our milk. After
lunch, Suzanne Donnelly and I sat on the picnic table
under the shade of the maple tree and watched over the
other kids. The middle ones played by the creek, and the
younger ones in the sandbox. Not a breeze stirred the
humid air.
Suzanne picked at a scab on her right knee and shattered our boredom by announcing it was her birthday.
“I’m thirteen,” she bragged, the oldest of all of us. I
would not turn thirteen until February.
“Are you having a birthday party?” I asked. Mama gave
each of us a birthday party with cake and ice cream, balloons, and soda.
“Nah,” she said, avoiding my eyes. “I ain’t never had
one.” She focused on the ground, watching an ant march
across the lawn. “My ma doesn’t do birthday parties.”
I studied Suzanne in her dirty cutoffs, her legs a map
of bruises and scratches. Her long stringy hair hung
limp and lifeless. She had a bump on the bridge of her
nose. She was too tall for her age and too skinny for
her height.
She met my eyes briefly and blushed as if she had read
my mind. “I don’t need no stinkin’ party,” she said, and
jumped up, running toward the creek where my brother,
Tommy, and her brothers, Roger and Cal, were trying to
catch frogs.
I pondered this for a while before heading inside to find
Mama. She was diapering my baby brother, Joe, safety
pins stuck between her lips. I told her about Suzanne and
her birthday.
“It doesn’t seem right,” I said.
“I agree,” said Mama. She pinned Joe’s diaper, dressed
him in a clean T-shirt, and laid him down for his nap.
“Every child deserves a birthday party.Why don't we give
her one?”
Mama always had great ideas. I helped her mix up a
chocolate cake from scratch, not a box, and went back
outside to help Suzanne watch over the other kids. I kept
my distance from her, not wanting her to guess I was up to
something and then force me to tell her what it was.A little
later Mama called for me from the kitchen window. I went
back inside and saw the finished cake on the table, “Happy
Birthday Suzanne,” written in pink icing over creamy
white frosting. We blew up a few balloons we found from
Joe’s first birthday party and tied them with shiny ribbons.
When we were done I ran outside to tell Suzanne and
September 2012
She looked at me with disbelief. “Don’t you make
fun of me, Daisy Hunter,” she warned, fists clenched.
I flinched; I had been at the receiving end of those fists
before.
“I’m not,” I said. “Mama and me made you a birthday
cake, and we have ice cream, and grape soda, too. We
even have balloons.”
“This better not be a joke,” she cautioned, scrambling
out of the sandbox.The others scrambled out behind her
and followed us, wondering aloud what was going on.
We rounded up the rest of the kids and headed for
the house. Mama met us at the back door, and said, “No
party until you all wash your faces and hands.” We used
the outdoor hose and dried off with a fresh towel hanging from the clothesline.
The picnic table was set with party plates, napkins, and
plastic forks. The ten of us squeezed onto the benches,
the Donnelly kids fidgeting and chattering with excitement.
“You sit there, Suzanne.” Mama pointed to a chair with
a mess of balloons attached to it at the head of the table.
Suzanne took her place in the seat of honor.
“Daisy, I need your help,” Mama said.
I followed her inside and came out carrying a carton
of chocolate ice cream and a bottle of soda. Mama fol-
September 2012
lowed right behind with the cake in her hands, candles
ablaze, singing “Happy Birthday” at the top of her lungs.
We all joined in, except for Suzanne, who sat spellbound
at the head of the table, her eyes aglow, a radiant smile
spread across her face. She blew out the candles with
one breath.
Mama asked, “Did you make a wish?”
Suzanne grinned and nodded.
Mama sliced the cake, scooped the ice cream, and
served the birthday girl. Suzanne took the first bite and
closed her eyes. “Ooh,” she moaned. “That is so good.”
After Mama served everyone, she sat down across
from me and dug into her own cake. Chatter erupted all
around and the mood grew festive.
Nine-year old Becca asked, “Can we play a board
game after this?”
“Sure,” Mama said. “Let Suzanne choose which one.”
Suzanne’s eyes sparkled, and her happiness made me
happy. It seemed like a simple thing – cake and ice cream
– but if you have never had your own birthday party, the
first one must be special.
No one noticed Mrs. Donnelly walking across the
lawn. No one saw her until she stood next to Suzanne,
hands on her hips, a cigarette dangling from her lips.
“What’s all this about?” she asked, her long, stringy hair
pushed to one side as though she had slept on it wrong.
She wore stained shorts and an old T-shirt stretched out
all over. Her feet were bare, the heels rough, her toenails in need of a trim.
“We’re having a birthday party for Suzanne,” I said.
“Is that right?” she asked, her voice hoarse. She stood
to the left of me, stinking like an empty beer can. “Well,
it ain’t Suzanne’s birthday,” she said, and belched. The
smell almost made me puke.
Suzanne’s face flamed. “It is too,” she cried. “August
fifth is my birthday, and today’s August fifth.”
Mrs. Donnelly stared at Suzanne with narrowed eyes.
She turned her piercing gaze on each of us seated around
the table. Prickles of fear raced up and down my spine.
We had all stopped eating, our cake and ice cream forgotten.
Mrs. Donnelly’s face turned hard. The lines around
her mouth deepened. She dropped her cigarette into
Suzanne’s half-empty cup of grape soda. “Well,” she said
through thin, tight lips, “the party’s over.” She grabbed
Suzanne by the wrist and shook her hand, making her
drop her fork.
Mama intervened. “Come on, Sheila.The kids are having a good time. It’s only cake and ice cream. Sit down
and have some yourself.”
“After the party we’re going to play a game,” Becca
said. “It’s Suzanne’s choice, because she’s the birthday
girl.You can play, too.”
Mrs. Donnelly laughed so hard it turned into a cough.
Wracked with spasms, she clutched her chest, regained
her breath, and snarled at my mother, “Who do you
think you are, Meg Hunter? Nobody gives my daughter
a birthday party except for me.” She gripped the edge
of the picnic table with white knuckles. I thought she
might fall over and moved out of the way.
Suzanne leaped from the table. “You forgot it was my
birthday,” she cried. “You always do. You forget everyone’s birthday.”
Mrs. Donnelly’s hand shot out so fast no one saw it
coming. Suzanne took the full force of the slap on her
right cheek, her head jerking to the side. She reached
for her scarlet cheek with the opposite hand and stared
back at her mother.
“Stop, Sheila.” Mama rose from the table. “Obviously,
you’re still a little under the weather. Why don’t you go
home and go back to bed? The kids can stay here until
dinner. It’s no problem."
“They’re coming home now.” Mrs. Donnelly closed
her eyes and hung on to the table.
Mama walked over to her and held her up, one hand
cupped under her elbow. “Why don’t I help you home?
When the kids finish their cake and ice cream I’ll get
them cleaned up and send them back.”
Mrs. Donnelly hiccupped and hung her head. I thought
I heard a sniffle.
“She’s my daughter. It’s my right to give her a party,”
she mumbled.
“I know,” Mama said, “and I'm sorry if I’ve upset you.
You can give her a party next time.” She prodded Mrs.
Donnelly to start walking.
We watched as Mama helped her across the yard and
into her house. The back door slammed shut behind
them.
Suzanne sat motionless at the head of the table, clutching the cheek bearing her mother's handprint.
Our eyes met.
September 2012
“Don’t look at me,” she said.
I turned away and picked up my fork. “Come on,
everybody, eat up.” I served everyone a second slice of
cake and another scoop of ice cream, and emptied the
grape soda bottle. Within moments, the chatter started
again.
Mama came back wearing a worried expression, but
smiled when she saw the party had picked up.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Everything’s fine, Daisy,” she said. “Mrs. Donnelly is
resting. The kids can stay a little longer.”
“You didn’t pick your game,” Becca told Suzanne.
Suzanne glanced at my mother.
Mama smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay, honey. Pick your
game. It’s your birthday.”
We played Monopoly until dinnertime. Suzanne won,
a fitting victory. She and I picked up the game and put
it away. Mama gave each child a balloon, and then we
all walked the Donnelly’s home, the balloons fluttering
behind us in the early evening breeze.
Mrs. Donnelly opened the door, and at first sight of
her I reached for Mama’s hand and held on tight, fearing
the other children’s mother was still in her foul mood.
But the woman who opened the door looked different.
Her eyes were bright, and her hair lay in neat waves all
the way down her back. She wore clean jeans and a fresh
T-shirt. From inside the house came the smell of fried
chicken, and it smelled good.
She smiled at us. “I made supper, Suzanne,” she said,
her voice soft and shy. “Your favorite: fried chicken and
September 2012
mashed potatoes.”
The Donnelly kids all raced inside with excited
whoops, except for Suzanne. She lagged behind, standing next to Mama, avoiding her mother’s eyes.
Mama bent down toward her and whispered, “Go on,
now, your supper’s waiting. Everything’s going to be all
right.” She gave Suzanne a little push forward.
Suzanne took a step and looked up at her mother. Mrs.
Donnelly gave her a crooked smile and opened the door
wider. “Your father will be home any minute,” she said.
“After dinner we’re going to take a ride to the pond,
where you can feed the ducks, and then we’ll stop at the
Dairy Queen, because it’s your birthday.”
Suzanne stared at her with wide eyes. An ear-to-ear
grin slowly spread across her face. She climbed the rest
of the stairs, but before going in looked back at my
mother.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and followed her mother
into the house.
Photo
Poem
Academic Seasons
by Susan E. Mason, Faculty, New York
Revised syllabi, eager faces
One end, another beginning
Commencement excitement, future plans
Research, write, rest
Repeat
Camera: Evolt 500 35mm Digital Camera DSLR, Focal Number: 4.5, Exposure time: 3 seconds, ISO: 100
Hero Comes Home
by Jennifer Dauccio, BA in English/Literature Student, New York
A soldier returning home on a ghostly plane. It’s a fear of all Army spouses that our loved ones will never return
home and this image imitates that fear. My husband is a Specialist in the NYARNG. He was my model.
September 2012
September 2012
Art
Poem
Arkansas Spring
by Kenneth Salzmann, Graduate, BS ’81, New York
This redbud sears and steams,
when ice,
white as an older world,
Slips over the Quapaw Quarter.
In new spring,
It is an ember.
Cupped in the verdant bed of March,
and smoldering,
spattering promises,
while poised to answer,
anticipated needs for heat and light.
At flash point,
a cardinal skims across
these purpled fingers,
sipping vapor.
Medium: Pencil
Tiger
by Scott Grzybowski, Graduate, BS ’97, Florida
September 2012
September 2012
Photo
Location: Alaska
Mt McKinley
by Flora Duke, AS in nursing student, Alaska
Nursing is my first passion and photography is my second.
September 2012
September 2012
Photo
Hudson Whitman publishes high-quality nonfiction books and multi-media
projects that celebrate human endeavors. For more information, go to
www.hudsonwhitman.com
Location: Adirondack State Park 2011, Camera: Canon PowerShot SD750, Focal Number: f/8, Exposure time: 1/125
Avalanche Pass
by Holly Bickel, BS in Nuclear Engineering Technology Student, New York
South end of Avalanche Lake looking north. Only enhancement was a slight decrease in the darkness of the shadows.
As knowledge blossoms, ability flourishes and wisdom thrives.
Expand your writing skills with the Excelsior College Online Writing Lab!
Grammar Essentials
The Essay Zone
The Research Corridor
The Writers Studio
Avoiding Plagiarism Tutorial
Visit us at www.excelsior.edu/owl
September 2012

Issue No. 1 September 2012

Transcription

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