exogamy

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After the overwhelming success of the first edition ofRobert Morris College’s literary magazine, egg: gen{o}sis, amultitude of students, faculty and staff were once again eagerto share their talent and ideas with the RMC community. Themost challenging aspect in creating this magazine waschoosing from the vast number of submissions, for each waswonderful in its own right. Our staff sought encouragmentknowing that this is not the last edition of egg. There will bemany more editions in what will become a longstanding tradi-tion, if the response we received on the first two magazines isany guide.

The multicultural atmosphere is one of the mostattractive features of RMC, permeating throughout the halls ofour campuses, making it an ideal place to work and study.Constantly, we learn from the many brilliant people who graceour halls, whether instructors teaching students, or studentseducating their instructors. All of us have unique backgroundsand experiences that mold who we are: individuals as well asrepresentatives of our cultures. The egg is a celebration andmarriage of the creative talent of all cultures represented in ourcommunity, which is why we chose to title this editionexogamy. According to The American College Dictionary,eexxooggaammyy is defined as:

ex.og.a.my - n. 1. The custom of marrying outside a social unit, such as a tribe.

2. Biol. The fusion of two gametes that are not closely related.

The poetry, memoirs, fiction, artwork and photographythat follow are the marriage of our creative multicultural community and a testament to the vision that unites RMC andmakes us such a rich community. We encourage you to enjoy egg: exogamy and share a taste of our culture with your own.

Sláinte!

Mick McMahon

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EEddiittoorr’’ss NNoottee

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EEddiittoorriiaall BBooaarrdd

SSttuuddeennttss

Rodney BroaddusShirley CruzIvan Jackson

FFaaccuullttyy

John BeerPaula BeerGreg HillJulie Jung

Mick McMahonSheila O’DonohueMichael Singletary

Lisa SkolerJenny StelzerJane UngariRyan WilsonGerard Wozek

DDeessiiggnn SSttaaffff

Shirley CruzMichael Jankowski

exogamyRobert Morris College Arts & Literary Magazine

December, 2001

Special thanks to:Mike Viollt, Deb Dahlen & Don Haynes

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JJaammeess BBaallttrruumm68•Coyote Steals & Everything is Told

GGrreegg BBoorrggmmaann7•I Am Only a Number 25•To the Woman I Never Knew

RRooddnneeyy BBrrooaadddduuss 29•Jewish Ghetto

LLoorreennaa MM.. CCaabbrreerraa 12•What About Me?

SSaabbrriinnaa CCaassttrroo24•Confusion

CChhaarrlleess CCoonnddee4•Anger

AAiisshhaa CCoonnnneellll3•Reflection of a Strong Mind

CChhaarrlleess CCoottttllee67•flower

DDeellaarraakk MM.. CCuulllloouugghh 51•Mother of Mine

MMaarriiaa DDaavviillaa 2•Lonely

AAnnggeellaa DDaavviiss 31•A Mother’s Love

AAnnttooiinnee DDeennttoonn 50•1865

MMaarrccuuss EEaattmmoonn 28•Pain

RRhhooddaalliinnee FFaattookkiinn

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TTaabbllee ooff CCoonntteennttss

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34•EternityMMaassssiieell FFiieerrrroo 40•I’m Sorry

UUrrssuullaa FFiittzzppaattrriicckk 42•Disappointment

DDoorrootthhyy FFlloorreess 5•Shattered Dreams

GGaajjjjaarr MMaayyuurr GGaajjjjaarr 47•Fake

FFrreeddeerriicckk EE.. GGeeiiggeerr,, SSrr.. 6•I don’t Want to Die Alone

IIssmmaaeell GGoommeezz58•Alone with You

JJaavviieerr GGoovveeaa 21•Furious Night

AArriijjaannaa HHaajjddaarreevviicc 52•Story From My Childhood

GGoonnzzaalloo HHeerrnnaannddeezz 4•Amazing Love

AAmmiirraallii JJeessssaannii40•I Knew I’d Miss You

KKaarrrriinn JJoohhnnssoonn 30•Sister, Sister

RRhhoonnddaa RR.. MMaayyss 20•A Poem Isn’t Just a Poem

DDeebboorraahh MMccCCuulllloouugghh 66•Only in My Dreams

PPaattssyy CCoolllliinnss MMeeyyeerr 41•Dear Black Mother

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JJuuaann LLuuiiss MMuunnoozz46•Conviction

MMiicchheellee NNeellssoonn 60•Speakable Losses

TTrreessiiaa NNiissbbeetttt37•Where Was I Going?

RRoobbeerrtt NNuunnnn 55•Sorry

EEiilleeeenn OOwwssiiaannyy 27•Butterfly Me45•Is a Rose the Symbol of Love?56•Wasted Childhood

MMiikkee PPaarrssoonnss 38•Where Can it Be?

GGrriisseellddaa QQuueezzaaddaa 11•Reflection of Life

AAnnggeell RRiivveerraa39•The Sky is the Limit

CChhrriissttiinnee SSaannttaannaa 22•The Red Man I Am

RReeggiinnaalldd SSccootttt 74•Artwork14•A Child of the Holocaust

AAnnddrreeaa CC.. SSttoorreeyy 78•What Do you See?10•The Visitor

JJooee SSyynnooggaa 26•Leaving

MMaaddddyy TTaattaarrooffff

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8•Wind ChillDDeenniissee TThhoommppssoonn 48•The Answer

KKaattiiee VVoonnddeerrhheeiiddee 35•She’s the One

JJeennnniiffeerr WWaaggnneerr32•Far Away

SShhiirrlleeyy AA.. WWaallkkeerr--MMoooorree 43•Sugar Mama

DDeellpphhiinnee WWhhiittee 36•Mom

WWiilllliiaamm LL.. WWiillssoonn59•The Killed In Action44•Tears

SSeenneeccaa GG.. WWooooddssoonn33•This I Pray

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graphic designed by Shirley Cruz

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Lonely, I feel as I walk, talk and smileAlways hoping it will only be awhile

I stroll down the lonely laneWhere only I can feel the pain

Tears crawl down my eyesAs I look upon the sky.

Lonely, I walk, talk and smileOh, how I feel so unworthy

I look around me and I wonderHow can I feel that warmth inside me.

I lose my hunger and I feel coldI look around me and I feel lostI need a hug, I need but a wordTo comfort me like a child would.

Stars and rain can heal my painAs my mind wonders and my heart remainsCold and sad, my lonely heart proclaimsWith only the hope that one day it will change.

By: Maria Davila

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LLoonneellyy

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By: Aisha Connell

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RReefflleeccttiioonn ooff aa SSttrroonngg MMiinndd

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A loud tone of voice Fist tightening while you grind your teethHeart beats fasterYou breathe through your noseYou can taste your own blood,When you bite the inside of your cheekYou focus on that one itemFeel their pain when you bite themI’m not like that today.

Amazed, amazed, why so amazed?Easy comes, easy goesAmazed, amazed,One day you are hereThe next day you are goneAmazed, amazed,Enjoy the love.

By: Charles Conde

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AAnnggeerr

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By: Gonzalo Hernandez

AAmmaazziinngg LLoovvee

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She was only eight when her father took her in his

bedroom and made her do what she was told.

God watched and did nothing as her father

did what he pleased.

Her innocence gone forever and the worst was yet to be.

Now she’s twenty-five and has never been truly loved.

Never will she bear a child, the Lord has seen to that.

No child, no man, no family of her own,

a punishment of her past.

Not a day goes by that men don’t flirt,

poor guys don’t know how much she’s hurt.

If they only knew what God has done,

made her an outcast because of her father’s fun.

She has nothing to live for and she’s too afraid to die,

not a day goes by that she doesn’t cry.

A lonely old lady is what she’s afraid to be.

Oh Lord, won’t you please set her free?

By: Dorothy Flores

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SShhaatttteerreedd DDrreeaammss

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I do not want to die alone

I do not want to die aloneI want to be with someoneSomebody

Surround me with the childrenGod's children for nation building

The adults areToo chaotic, too confusing

Trouble they areToo bizarre

The children bring forthLife, a gift of happiness

Alone, I would not beMy soul would feel happinessFreely

Those little smilesMean more to meThan life entirely

By: Frederick E. Geiger, Sr.

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II DDoonn’’tt WWaanntt ttoo DDiiee AAlloonnee

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I am only a numberBrought in as fiveWithout my numbers I would not be alive

I am only a numberMy name doesn’t matterIn a family of eight I am only extra chatter

I am only a number when I drive my carI am only a number when I go in the bar

I am only a number working 9 to 5 everydayI am only a number to receiving my two weeks pay

I am only a number at my bank it’s the sameI am only a number for creditors to blame

I am only a number even at my schoolTo use my name would only be cool

My name is GregoryI would like everyone to use itMy numbers are wornI don’t mind; please abuse it

By: Greg Borgman

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II AAmm OOnnllyy aa NNuummbbeerr

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The clouds looked angry, full of wrathDaring anyone to cross their path

So I go outside, to get to my carThe wind informs me, my trip will be far

I ignore the warning, for I can seeMy car is only a few yards from me

The wind invites his good friend sleetTo join the party, here’s someone to greet

And greet me he does with an icy blastSleet slaps my face like slivers of glass

I defend myself and lower my headI’m closer now and keeping my tread

Near my car door, I step in deep slushIt soaks my worn boot, turning my foot to mush

Opening the door, I retreat insideAnd look out the window with considerable pride

I turn the key quickly to get the heat flowingFor my foot is like ice and the cold is still growing

To my amazement I only hear a clickThe wind is mocking me and I feel sick

The car will not start and I must go backIn here I will freeze with the heat that I lack

By: Maddy Tataroff

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WWiinndd CChhiillll

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The wind has kicked up now. It’s blowing with glee.It’s lifting the snow so I cannot see I leave the car as fast as I canBut soon the wind shows me he has his own plan

He pins me against the car with his icy embraceI free myself to end this gruesome race

My hands are my sight for I cannot see,Snowy bushes, my guide dog, leading me

But even as I hold onto theseThe snow wets my glove, My hand starts to freeze,I continue my quest, fighting fatigue

I get to the porch, my heart filled with dread,The wind grabs my hood, exposing my head

Shivering and shaking, my teeth start to chatterThis is what they mean by wind chill factor

I reach for the doorknob and turn it so quick.The door will not open; again I feel sick.

After this battle, after coming so far,I hear the wind laughing, You locked your keys in your car!

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I am the face that hides behind the door; I amthe man who passes by the window store. I am a leaderwho uses other people’s names, but we are not thesame. I am the winner of this particular game. I have noglory, I have no shame. I am the winner of this particulargame. I am the thought that brings destruction. I amthe weapon that causes unnatural eruptions. I am theconfusion of your reality. I can’t stop my reign of catastro-phe. I am the visitor. I am a warning of things to come; Iam a true believer of repeating what has already beendone. In my time frame, I have witnessed many miraclesand also many pains. I have seen the innocence of lifetaken away from the insanity of their rage, of theirvengeance, and of another's lust. I am the embodimentof their hatred and not to be trusted. I have walked theearth from one end to the other, I am the reason why youdon’t even bother to see what truth lies beneath the lieand who inconceivably led you all to die. You ask, whoam I? I am the visitor. As I watch from a distance, whichis still very near, it’s clear that there is a slight resistancein the stronger ones, but there is evidence of fear. I havea way with words and can make them mean whatever Iwant. I have a way with minds of all different types orkinds. I am not prejudiced by any means. I do not dis-criminate, because that wouldn’t be fair, “but you do!”You failed to impress me with your advanced technolo-gy or your developed intelligence, because you’re dis-tracted by your creations which serve no purpose forthe poor, but only for your ego. You’re blinded by yourhypocrisy. That’s why it has become very easy for yourego. You’re blinded by your hypocrisy. That’s why it hasbecome very easy for me to be allowed inside yourworld, inside your home, inside your mind. That is why Iam the visitor.

By: Andrea C. Storey

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TThhee VViissiittoorr

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By: Griselda Quezada

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RReefflleeccttiioonn ooff LLiiffee

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Always made sure I made the bedHad to make sure the baby was fedTrying to make sure the house stayed cleanAlways trying to be nice, never mean.

I look to you, LordI look up to theeI ask you Lord,What about me?

I always try to be a good friendStand strong, help out until the endI’ll share my clothes, my food, my time,Help out anyone that I see in a bind.

I look to you, LordI look up to theeI ask you, Lord,What about me?

My family will call when they are in needI rush to assist them; they don’t have to pleadI’ll give them my first, middle and my lastI don’t remember them returning favors in the past

I look to you, LordI look up to theeI ask you, Lord,What about me?

I reach out to everyone - the weak and the strongTrying to make sure no one feels alone. Seeing people happy is important to meTheir laughs, their smiles, it makes them seem free, but

By: Lorena M. Cabrera

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WWhhaatt AAbboouutt MMee??

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I look to you, LordI look up to theeI ask you, Lord,What about me?

I give of my time my money, and my heart,Doing what I can to feel like I’m a part.Why is it so hard to feel things in return?Instead, my feelings inside feel hot and burned.

I look to you, LordI look up to theeI ask you, Lord,What about me?

I did it this long I just try and wait my timeIt’s getting real hard I’m losing my mindI’ve done all I can do and there is no more to sayI’ll just stay on my knees and continue to pray.

I look up to you, LordI look up to theeI ask you, Lord,What about me?

WHAT ABOUT ME?!

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Belzec- 600.000 Sobibor- 250.000 Treblink-850.000 These are the names of three of the extermination camp where Jews were killed.

In honor Of the deceased And Living

I would like to dedicate Fifteen second of silence, a prayer, may we bow ourheads.

I am a child of the HolocaustI dwell in the possibility, Trying to understand why Silence has invaded my soul.

Inside their anger I am reminded of the pain That lives in me.

We are the victims !

Destruction Corruption

Have crushed through our homes with a rifle, Shooting and killing My people

Taking all the valuable things we had, Leaving us with nothing But fatal memories.

By: Reginald Scott

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AA CChhiilldd ooff tthhee HHoollooccaauusstt

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We were told to undress And horribly had to beg For food to eat.

At the very last moment, While we were Still alive,

I was exempted From the bazaar. The punishment of death I survived

I didn't know If I was going to live To see tomorrow, And If I did I was going to thank my God.

So much humiliation Dreams taken. Blocked my path once more.

What does it mean? Does it mean that I have to be strong Keep going on?And on...

I know that it can. Because of power!!!!

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Will it ever bring me to a form Of a new horizon?

I know that it can Because of power!!!

I prayed many times forA day like this to come.

Show me a different sight and reveal to me a better light.

My people died with honor.My people died with honor.

Yes, honorably speaking,I am one voice.

It's time to dream of hope It's time to dream of respect it's time to dream of dignity It's time to dream of vitality

The past has opened my eyes

My mother and father separated by love, Decimated by slaughter, Back together in spirit, but I can feel their presence

I remember my mother reaching out For me,Screaming,

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Don't take my baby!!!Don't take my baby!!! Before you knew it I was gone.

But never to forget Oskar Schnidler who protected me- The man, the hero

Right about now I feel a slight change in the way I used to dream. It's not about the blood That flows through my veins

I am no longer afraid!!!

I am not afraid to say that My people die with a loving spirit.

I am not afraid to say that Love was the symbolic pride In which my people died

Honorably speaking

Rebuilt by the power of hope, I know that my children Will carry on the history and memories That I will Instill In them.

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My mother's blood, My father's pain, I am a child of the Holocaust My mother's pain, my father’s name, I am a child of the Holocaust

The dreams I have accepted Will not control me In such negative form Anymore.

When I wake up from this nightmare, Hearing them say:

Women to the left And Men to the right

Those are the words thatNo longer control my destiny.

I saw it all;I heard it all.

Awakened by the noise Of my grown grandchildren Walking down the stairs To listen.

As they sit by my side,

I tell them the story.My life certificate didn't expire.

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I placed my hands on each of their shoulders and leaned back slowly...

I am a child of the Holocaust I survived

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Look gently to your right, and then slowly turn your eyes to the leftSorry that you see different shades of colors, colors that are different from your ownSorry that you see shades of white, shades of black,shades of brownYou might even see shades of yellow and pink too

Sorry that the colors frighten you, you must look around to see

Somehow, under these shades of color, we are all the same.

By: Rhonda R. Mays

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AA PPooeemm IIssnn’’tt JJuusstt aa PPooeemm

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By: Javier Govea

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FFuurriioouuss NNiigghhtt

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This native soil you claimed as your own

Was long ago a field that my soul called home.

You silenced my heart’s bell

And spoiled the fruits of my hands.

I reaped nothing but a “farewell”

And a fistful of sand:

Infertile grains reserved for me,

A secluded home where I dwell alone.

I no longer roam with the pack;

I’m no oak by a stream, or snow on a mountain.

My only companion is the melody

Of my timbre howls echoing back.

My dance pleads in behalf of this waterless fountain.

You stop up your ears and close your eyes

To smooth out the creases of your own mind.

Please…please…tell me why!

Did I look too proud?

By: Christine Santana

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TThhee RReedd MMaann II AAmm

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An hourglass you have made me,

Keeping track of my own existence.

I am merely surviving each cold, lonesome night.

As I catch a glimpse of the spirited eagle,

I solicit the heavens for a remedy and pray

Not to share in his dreadful fate.

Soon I will no longer be part of the free,

No longer part of the brave,

Only a permanent sunset never to rise again.

That is what I am!

Yet, until that final day,

With each fragile breath I have left,

I will remind all who choose to forget,

Who I was and Who I am.

It is I…one of a kind!

The Red Man!

The Red Man I am.

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Confusion does not know which way to turn

To your left is the convenience and security:

What you’ve always wanted, waiting for acceptance.

To your right is the road covered

with pebbles and branches,

You see cobwebs forming, illustrating the lonely path.

Which way to turn?

Your heart is racing like a car on a track.

Your blood pumping like the beat of a man’s heart

filled with anticipation.

But which way to turn?

These are the moments that stand still in time

Wishing you were back in your mother’s arms,

security your baby blanket.

Now, the only way to choose is to close your eyes

And wish you didn’t have to choose at all.

By: Sabrina Castro

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CCoonnffuussiioonn

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The stories echoed halls of your wisdom and your cheer,Showing your love to everyone; they always knew you were sincere.

The stories of your heart so kindBring to me a vision of you so blind.

Not meeting you was a big mistakeI sometimes even lie awakeThinking of what times would have beenI think we would have been close friends.

I miss not having you so closeBut what I miss the very mostWas never knowing you, Grandma.

By: Greg Borgman

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TToo tthhee WWoommaann II NNeevveerr KKnneeww

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When you look backinto my eyes,I thank the heavensI’m alive.

My heart starts racingwith every glare,our eyes connectedin a perfect stare.

I grab your handand pull you to me,give you a hugthat sets us free.

I don’t ever wantto let you go;it truly hurtsmy heart and soul.

Then I realizeI’ll see you soon,but the pain I feelleaves my day-a-gloom.

Until we see each otherall the time,I’ll keep my feelings in these rhymes.

I can’t waitfor that day to come,and I knowyou are the perfect one.

By: Joe Synoga

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LLeeaavviinngg

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SlowslowlyI started to transform,Some that are colorful onesand some dull ones.Mostly...browns, grays, and black.Help me!I am trying my whole life to escape,from myself.Can’t I just fly away,like everyone else?No!I am stuck in this transformation,in a cocoon.I feel like I’ll never escapeand become a beautiful freeme!

By: Eileen Owsiany

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BBuutttteerrffllyy MMee

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Physical or emotional

Had many of both

Which seems to last the longest?I’m not sureThough physical is visible andMay be permanent-As is emotionalDepending on the person andSituations

Pain if you are human,have experienced itMay have even enjoyed it

Pain, what is its purpose?To make us feel humanOr could we do without it?

Pain one of the many emotionsI enjoy them allJust to be alive...

By: Marcus Eatmon

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PPaaiinn

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By: Rodney Broaddus

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JJeewwiisshh GGhheettttoo

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Don’t you know that you are the strongest in the land?Don’t you know that you will raise the black man?Hang-ups, put downs, poisons and pain, it’s been thesame, but who’s to blame?Throughout time, you have been there.Danger and torment everywhere.Facing your pain, you stand tall.Loving you in spite of it all.Don’t stop now sister, sister.The future holds you close in hand.In the 90’s, some of my sisters were weak,with more and more poison on the streets.I see them everywhere, riddled with pain,wanting more of Satan’s game.Sick of doing the damnest things, HO!How serious the shame.Wake-up, sisters, the time is now.Our race is in need of your powerful smile.Our men are in trouble, our children are in pain.To heal the world, we must proclaim.Sister, sister, find your way.Sister, sister, make a better day.

By: Karrin Johnson

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SSiisstteerr,, SSiisstteerr

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Mommy, who am I?You, my Darling,are the apple of my eye.Mommy, who am I?You are the sunThat shines so bright.Mommy, who am I?You are a ballerina inThe dance of life.Mommy, who am I?You, are a princess inThe kingdom of love.Mommy, who am I?You, my Darling,Are a part of meAnd I’m a part of you.

By: Angela Davis

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AA MMootthheerr’’ss LLoovvee

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The cool, soft, summer grass runs through my toesAs I walk barefoot to a placeIn the middle of an open field.The golden sun shows its faceFrom behind the puffy cotton cloudsThat dance against the blue sky.This is where I spread out the blue and white checkeredquilt my grandmother made for meWhen I was just a young child.Avoiding the abundance of dandelion gardensThat sprout in bunches throughout the field.Lying down on my back,Cradling my head in my intertwined fingers,Letting my hair down to get a touch of sun,I gaze up at the sky and drift away.The silence fills my ears and overtakes me.There is an absence of thoughtAway from the bustle of everyday lifeAs I lay and ponder on the simplicity and wonders of the world,The perfect world far away.

By: Jennifer Wagner

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FFaarr AAwwaayy

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Dear Lord,I seek thy guidanceTo love the oneThat loves me,I picture a beingThat is my every likeness

A dove of heavenly wingsTo cherish all the joy it bringsTo grow togetherAnd eliminate bad weather,Sometimes I fightMy jones builds up my confidence in sightMany years of passionTo live happily ever after

The soul I seekI pray that my soul will meetI seek no otherNot even my brotherThis love is genuineI love one with a little bit of time,This prayer’s to youTo compliment all the things we can do Before they bury mePlease, love, will you marry me?

By: Seneca G. Woodson

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TThhiiss II PPrraayy

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I smile whenever I recall the special moments we have had, Walking always hand in hand through the good times and bad.Sometimes I think it is a dream;the love you gave me could not be.But when you are in my arms,there is no mistaking its purity. Whether I am with you or far away,my thoughts are always drawn to you -Like the compass needle pointing Northto a love much more than true.Of all the people on this earth,how lucky can a person be to have found the likes of you, my love, with whom to share eternity.

By: Rhodaline Fatokin

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EEtteerrnniittyy

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She’s the one who will see me through everything,through all the pain and all the bad things.

She’s the one who I talk to until late,the one I try to but never hate.

She’s the one I’m proud to call my big sister,the one who if she was gone for more than a day I’d miss her.

She’s the one I put all my trust inand wouldn’t let her down in a second.

She’s the most strong, independent, and smart woman I know.For her, the longest distances I’d goShe’s the one I just want to know...that I trust in her every way and I love her so.

She’s the one for everything I doEven though we never say it, “I love you!”

You’re the one I’ll love until the endYou may see me as just your sister, but to meyou’re my world, my everything, and my best friend.

By: Katie Vonderheide

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SShhee’’ss tthhee OOnnee

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I wish you were here, but now you’re goneYou left me and my sisters on our ownBut that’s okay you’re in God’s hands.And that is a safe place for you to stand.

We love you with all our heartYou knew this from the startPlease don’t give up on us;In our hearts is your trust.

Don’t worry about us; we are alright.We will have our turn to see you one nightWe will stay strong and keep our heads up to the light.Good night and sleep tight.

By: Delphine White

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MMoomm

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I packed my bags as I went on my way;I was journeying to a land that was so far away...Different food, different dress all that awaited meBut... that wasn’t the purpose for my long journeyEducation was the reason I traveled this far...For my parents, letting me go was somewhat a war.

They always told me EDUCATION is the key to success.It’s the path of the best and sets you apart from the restWindows of opportunities it opens for you;It will help you be triumphant in all that you do.

Yet when I walked through the door, mixed emotions were flying...My father was smiling, my mother was crying,All in all they were proud of the steps I was taking,And for once they both knew all along I was listening...

To the lectures...telling me to be the best that I can...To the sermons...preaching to me that regardless of circumstance that I should be braveBut more so to the prayers that God almighty may guideme and keep me safe.

By: Tresia Nisbett

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WWhheerree WWaass II GGooiinngg??

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A city of knowledge, wealth, and power;people advanced for their time,suddenly gone as fast as a stealth,disappeared with the flip of a dime.

Streets of gold, open and wide;sky so blue and cloudless too.An island of mystery, not denied,whether fact or fiction no one knew.

People wonder but no one can saywhere it disappeared below the sea.Now it’s a mystery, to this dayalways searched for, where can it be?

By: Mike Parsons

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WWhheerree CCaann IItt BBee??

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By: Angel Rivera

39 exogamy

TThhee SSkkyy iiss tthhee LLiimmiitt

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My doghas eatenthe flowers thatyou took so much care forbut you know how crazy hegets with the things you plant

Forgive me for not taking care ofhim and forgive him for beingso in love with your flowersthat the only thing hethought of was toeat them.

By: Massiel Fierro

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II’’mm SSoorrrryy

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When you care about someoneas much as I care about you,being apart is hard to get used to.I thought I’d handle it just fine,and that I’d be happy just to keep you on my mind.But it isn’t always very easy.Sometimes the one thing that would please me the most is simply seeing you.I knew that I’d miss you.I just didn’t know I’d miss you as much as I do.

By: Amirali Jessani

II KKnneeww II’’dd MMiissss YYoouu

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Dear Black Mother,I’m writing you todayTo thank you for your struggles And paving the way.

Dear Black Mother,I can see that life for you was hardYou struggled for generationsTo keep the black family from being torn apart.

Thank you Black Mother,For instilling in meTo never give upFight for the free.

Thank you, Black Mother,Cause now I can see That those songs of freedomWere chanted just for me.

They were songs of hopeThat the black race would live on,Chants of freedomThat they had won.

You told me to educate myselfAnd never sit down,Cause if I didThe black race would drown.

So I marched with Kings, Jacksons,And a host of othersIn Washington, at the White HouseJust for you, Black Mother.

By: Patsy Collins Meyer

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DDeeaarr BBllaacckk MMootthheerr

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My words are lodged in the back of my throat.You promised, promised it wouldn’t happen again.Tears streak my face like tires in an alleyI thought we were back on track.Feeling shattered like a fallen mirror.As I pick up a piece of the glass,I see that I’ve held up my end of the bargain.As a result, I hold my head high...Then I pass the soul searcher to you.What is it that you see?Do you see the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on?Do you see the cycle of promises broken yet again by lies?What have I done to deserve such pain?In the midst of my pain, I heard words...

“Look to me for advice, for your sanity you shall gain no use crying over spilled milk.Look forward to your tomorrow.Weeping may endure for a night, but joy will replace that sorrow.Put your faith in me, my child.The spirit of fear I did not give you.I am the healing from your storm,Your soul I’ll refresh and renew.”

By: Ursula Fitzpatrick

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Even though home may never be what you think, Sugar Mama says,it is exactly what you make it to be.

It may be cold at yours and warm at mine, but never thesame and we make our way to that place everyday.

Sugar Mama makes everything alright morning, noon and night,24/7, cause that’s how she likes it to be.

Then eventually Sugar Dada follows her step and goes there everydaywithout going astray.

By: Shirley A. Walker-Moore

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SSuuggaarr MMaammaa

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The wall cries in the rain, Tears falling, sliding down theFace of every name...Your name...Your face...Awash in a sea of sorrow.This black marble,Impenetrable, deep as death.Yet I see--I reach to touch--You. Here. At the very edgeOf the shore, where I try...Where I try not to cry.While the cold, darkWaves splash over me.

By: William L. Wilson

44 exogamy

TTeeaarrss

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If a rose is love,why is the rose the symbol of lovewhen every time a mangives us one to show his love,it dies?

Then, in all reality,is the love in the rose,truly dead,or does it just wilt away into nothing,like the so-called love the man gives us?

By: Eileen Owsiany

45 exogamy

IIss aa RRoossee tthhee SSyymmbbooll ooff LLoovvee??

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Unlike love, which is sometimes broken, you never denounce it.Unlike trust, which is sometimes doubted, we never betrayed it.Unlike friendship, which is sometimes forgotten, they never cease to watch for one another.Was there ever a word that was made to bekept close to heart?Conviction! Is what my preacher preaches if one wants to make it to heaven?A feeling no longer has beenpersuaded back and forward like the waves of the ocean.Yet condemned for life to never be free,but to be chained like a convict in a jail with no view.It feels firm like a mountain never to be moved,never shaken, always noticed andnever persuaded to change its view.It is always ready to strike and leave its mark like a father’s belt after disobeying an order.It is a feeling, a deep emotion that evenif death was the only option I would neverstep down from my own conviction.Ask the 54th if they had convictions?Oh! What a shame for they cannot possessconviction unless they love. We cannot loveunless we trust. You cannot possess thesequalities unless you have convictions tokeep them close to the heart.

By: Juan Luis Munoz

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Things of destruction are caused by materialistic func-tionsWhich ignite the flames of dynamic proportions.The notions of realistic values support theories of lost valuesBy generation to generationRising to a new point in space,I grace my thoughts like priests give sermons in a holy place,Taste the fruits of sin that date back from Adam and Eveto Clinton and Lewinsky Gate.The knowledge I bring is interlockingLike Lionel tracks being trapped in your brain,Stain your thoughts like materialistic pain,Drain your sorrows. Just win the lotteryMoney takes control of your inner sanctuary-Major psychosis as defined inWebster’s DictionaryTerrifying communities with prolific greenbacks,stacks upon flat surfaces.While white snow falls down as you sip a Bloody Mary,Sorrows drown in ziplock bags filled with anti-depressant vehicles,Engines roaring as flaming nostrils open to exhaust fumes of stress.Guess, not the jeans, but genes of generations ofIdeological values destroying society’s conscientiousnessAs a whole, but not as one

By: Gajjar Mayur Gajjar

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Do you feel like there’s something missing in your life?Are you faced with everyday strife?You think maybe there’s a holeSomewhere down in your soul.Are you constantly saying IF?IF only I can find some happiness withinIF only I can meet somebody who will be a true friendIF only my problems would just endIF only, IF only, I can start all over again!

Do you feel like you’re in this thing: this life all by yourself?Does it seem like you just can’t get any help?Do people keep letting you down,Walking by you; looking up at you with a frown?They tell you, “you ain’t gonna make itNaw, you won’t last,”Making you feel like some kind of outcast.Has somebody been spreading rumors about you,Telling you all the things you can’t do?

Are you on a search for a peace treaty?Do your pockets make you feel like the needy?One more question and that will be all:Do you know the Lord Jesus; Do you know him at all?Well, Do you?

Somebody says, “If you don’t know Jesus ChristThen this thing called lifeyou might as well quit-give up.‘Cause Jesus is the answer; yep, he’s IT!”

Now, just find somebody who’s hooked up with himSo you can get hooked up with them.Then you’ll gain eternal life

By: Denise Thompson

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And have loving Jesus to help get you through yourstrife.Plus, you can start afresh; you know, anew.And there won’t be a thing you can’t do!

Uh huh, Jesus is the ANSWER!

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Hurt and Hungry I haven't eaten in two weeks. Walking close to the win-dow hearing voices outside of my mind,Wiping the window off with our only wash cloth, seeingmy uncle on his knees begging for his life.At the age of eight I heard stories of lynchings. Seeingmy Uncle Will with a thick rope tied around his neck, look-ing directly at me,“Go hide!” Moving his lips slowly with a whisper. Then I glanced tomy left and saw a wooden cross on fire with smoke of my African people’s faces. White gownsand hidden ghost faces. “Po Nigger!Burn in hell!”Flames and burning flesh, screams and melted skin,White Gowns and hidden ghost faces grab a hold of therope. And my uncle was in the air about 5 feet, hands tiedbehind his back. This is the first time in my life -at the age of 8, I saw my uncle, 65, who died right there in front of my face.

By: Antoine Denton

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As far back as I can remember, you were always there,Raising your children, always ready to care.

Even then as you struggled to make ends meet, Somehow you kept going, on tired weary feet.

You always put your children foremost and first;Your heart so heavy, you must have thought it wouldburst.

There must have been time when even you felt lost,Yet willing to go on, no matter what the cost.

Seven children, here on earth you bore,And you carried us all, till you could carry no more.

Then one day, in a moment, you were gone,The one that loved and cared for us so long.

As I go about each day, I can still see your face Etched with suffering, yet filled with grace.

I often look back on your strength and determination,And to this day, you 're still my greatest inspiration.

Even though you are gone, you're never quite far away, For I feel your presence with each passing day.

You have gone on now, somewhere else in time,But I'lI love you forever, dear Mother of Mine.

By: Delarak M. Cullough

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MMootthheerr ooff MMiinnee

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This is a story from my childhood, that went on fora little bit longer, a story that will always bring me backbad memories. I will describe the details.

I was ten years old. My mother, my brother and Iwere packing to go on vacation. We woke up and heardsome loud voices under our balcony. I just heard mymother scream, and remember it as well as if she werescreaming right now. My brother and I went to the window to see the same thing she saw. There were a lotof people standing on the streets, and there was somewood there, so nobody could get through the street.Some loud men were stopping each and every car thatdrove by. My brother and I looked at each other anddidn't understand what was going on. Mother was cry-ing. My brother was eleven years old at that time. I couldhear my mother saying "WHAT NOW, NOW IT'S TOO LATE,WHAT NOW?”

That was the day when we left our apartmentand went to my aunt's, which was close to the city, so itwas safer. That's when I actually heard for the first timethere was a WAR starting. Yes, I heard that but what isit?? Hmm, I thought, a WAR, but who and why? We alllook the same; we all speak the same language. Is thereanother country that wants to have a WAR withYugoslavia? “No,” my mother said, “turn that off.Somebody is going to hear that music.”

And I didn't know what she was talking about.That was the music the whole of Yugoslavia was listeningto and the song was actually about our country, abouthow Yugoslavia is beautiful and nobody can take thataway. But I turned it off anyway.

Then my mother started crying and sat closer tome and said a few things that were so strange. She said,“Listen, Arijana, I know it's hard for you to understand,

By: Arijana Hajarevic

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SSttoorryy FFrroomm MMyy CChhiillddhhoooodd

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but there is a war between Muslims, Serbians, andCatholics." And then she said,"We were Yugoslavians, allof us, but not anymore."

I wasn't sure that I really understood what shesaid, but I wanted to know what we were then. What ismy family? Who am I? That's when I first found out that mymother was a Serbian and my father a Muslim. Okay, so Iwas probably a mix, but I didn’t realize it until the bombsstarted to fly over our buildings and our beautiful city -SARAJEVO, the main city of Bosnia.The horror when wecouldn't sit in our homes anymore and had to go to thebasement to be safer. Sometimes we didn't have enoughair in that basement, so it was hard to breathe. That’swhen my parents started talking about sending my broth-er and me out of there to my uncle in Croatia. But, at thistime, only Serbians and Catholics were allowed to goout, just mothers and children. But my mother wasn'tready to leave my father by himself. So my aunt Dragicahad some friends who made some fake papers for meand my brother so we changed our names to Drazenaand Drazen Avram, our aunt’s last name, which made herlike our mother.

It was July 24, 1992. My aunt, my brother and I leftSarajevo and my parents behind. I will never forget theirfaces and tears, but they were crying because they weretoo happy that we were leaving that horror. It was sohard for me not to call my brother Haris on the bus,because there were no Muslims and I had to call himDrazen. My aunt was scared, because we still were littlekids.

As we arrived to Mali Losinj in Croatia, where myuncle lived and had a big house, restaurant, and a shop,we felt so happy. But the time flew so fast that I really wasalmost sure that I wouldn’t see my parents again.

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Everyday on the news this much and this much dead oralmost dead or in the hospital. And I just couldn't fightanymore. For almost two years, I never heard anythingabout my parents, nor did they hear about us. They did-n't even know if we came out alive or what. These werevery hard times for me. I really needed my parents. Ineeded their support and needed their lessonsbecause I was already starting to grow into a teen. Ihad my uncle for everything, but still it was not what Iwanted. After three years, for the first time, I heard thevoice of my mother and just couldn't believe it; she wasalive and my father as well. That's when everything in mylife changed, and I started to have an imaginationagain like other kids.

When my mother first came to Croatia, she was astranger for me. I know it sounds crazy, but she was. Icouldn't recognize her with her black natural hair, herweight, and the questions she was asking. Sometimes Ithought that she wasn't really alright and lost her nerves.But sometimes I was scared because she was looking somuch at me. Now I think how we have all these years welost over there, but I am proud of myself and of my broth-er. Especially when we were without parents in the mostcraziest years. I say everything is okay, just don't say “go”or something, or “I don't need you” or anything, becausea person knows what they have when they lose. Nowafter seven years, I am ready again to be on my ownand not so close to my parents, but before this, oh nono!

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I did the crimeYou did the timeI felt the pleasureYou felt the painI will be seenYou will never be heardI made the mistakeYou paid the priceI will never forget youYou will never know meI will say, “I’m sorry” a million timesYou will never hear me onceI have hope for a better tomorrowYou never had a chance for a todayI held the faith of your future in my hands and threw it away. Sorry.

By: Robert Nunn

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SSoorrrryy

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Name calling,tears falling,people laughing. Wasted childhood! Parents pointing,never knowing, always fighting,leaving constantly.

Trouble sleeping,no friends around,always by myself.Wasted childhood!

Teenage years go by,same things happening.Never happy,routines passing,years of agony!Wasted childhood!

Boys are mean to me,am I ugly?

Love is never known.Broken hearts always,and forever.Wasted childhood!

Adulthood worsens,years of hatred.Lies in disguise,a mask of humanity.

By: Eileen Owsiany

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WWaasstteedd CChhiillddhhoooodd

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Darkness rears its ugly head,so,why not end it,and be dead?Wasted childhood!

Parents never change,still pointing,always blaming,never showing the lovethat could’ve savedthe wasted childhood years!

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Give me only one kiss so that I can feel your love;Only one moment in your eyes, so that I can see yoursoul.Give me only one kiss, so that I can feel your lips - kissme,So I can feel your love slowly with passion.Give me only one moment alone with you, to embrace youwith my arms and assure you, you are with me. You won’t be left alone.Give me your hands, so I can kiss your beautiful hands,one moment to look at you and kiss you, only one kiss.Give me one moment to caress you with my soul,my kisses, your kisses, our souls. Trust in me.I only want to feel you, your body, my body,and with my kisses, I will show you.

Thinking of you...

Dame solo un beso para yo poder sentir tu amor;Solo un beso para sentir tus labios - besame,para sentir tu amor suavemente con passion.Dame un momento en soledad contigo para abrasarte,con mis manos y asegurarte conmigo, no te quedaras sola.Dame tus manos, para besar las manos tan bellas,un momento para mirarte y besarte, solo un beso.Dame un momento para carisiarte con mi alma,mis besos, tus besos, nuestra alma. Confia en mi.Solo quiero sentirte, tu cuerpo, mi cuerpo,

By: Ismael Gomez

58 exogamy

AAlloonnee wwiitthh YYoouu

By: Ismael Gomez

SSoolleeddaadd CCoonnttiiggoo

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Ominous. Like a long black waveRising against the shore. The wallLooms above the snow, stark,Impossible to ignore. As weApproach the names, panel afterPanel. Line after line. WeStand here reading the list of KIA.In a war that only a War-God couldConceive of, could plot - inspired,Delighted by the young obeying commandsTo fight, to die. In jungles...in mud...inRice paddies...on hills taken, ordered abandoned,Then taken again...by those named here.In this valley...in this peace, at last won,That they share with us. Each time we come,To stand in admiration, in awe profound. More reverent than snow.

By: William L. Wilson

59 exogamy

TThhee KKiilllleedd IInn AAccttiioonn

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At fIrst glance, the word miscarriage doesn'tappear so bad. It sounds less like a physical phenome-non and more like something a frustrated city dwellerwould have complained of back in the 1800s. I often tryto smile at the image of a huffed, well-dressed gentle-man on the street who misses his ride and cries out to afriend, "Damn! I just suffered a miscarriage! Good thinganother comes around in 30 minutes !"

But the reality of miscarriage is much harsher. It'sthe death of someone we've loved and imagined but, inmany cases, never met. It's the shocking revelation thatwe have no control over some of what happens to us. Itwas, to me, a reminder of God's power; as much as Ithink I may be in charge, I'm not. It's also the realizationthat the course of our lives can change greatly in only afew hours.

Worst of all, miscarriage is something that mostwomen don't want to - or just cannot - talk about. In thisworld there is a majority that is masquerading as a minor-ity. The women who have miscarried often don't mention itto anyone. They are afraid of ruining someone's day.Maybe they are afraid others will think they're weird, ananomaly. So, they hurt in silence. Others mention it to onlytheir closest friends and family members. It makes the numberof miscarriages seem smaller than it is. That, in turn,makes those of us who miscarry feel alone, though wemay be surrounded by others who have experienced thesame painful event.

My doctor tells me that each pregnancy has achance of only 50% of lasting through the fIrst twelve weeks.Statistically speaking, a woman may have as many as 30 miscarriages throughout her lifetime. Most of the time she isn'taware she has miscarried; oftentimes miscarriages come just

By: Michele Nelson

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as "late" periods. But many times a woman is indeed awarethat the little life she dreamt of beginning has tragicallyended.

It wasn't until I miscarried that I learned that mygrandmother miscarried, and that both of my husband'sgrandmothers miscarried, along with one of his aunts.Many of my friends tell me about So-and-So who miscar-ried. Oftentimes, So-and-So has been blessed (or bur-dened) with six children despite her miscarriage(s), andsometimes she's not. Still, no matter what has happenedto her since her miscarriage, every other woman whohas miscarried becomes someone to me; she is a sister,an unknown partner in pain.

Even I am reluctant to talk about it. As I sit herecomposing this, a small voice in my head tells me thatit's really not that important. It happened a full threemonths ago. That was February, and there was snow onthe ground. Now it's almost June, and the flowers areblooming. Get over it.

When I was pregnant, one of my students lost herbaby. This was a baby she had delivered, met, named,loved, and buried. It was the second she had lost. Shecame to me, obviously needing to talk. I was ignorant. Ididn't know what to say. Eventually I sputtered somethingabout her youth and her ability to have more children. Iwas wrong in what I said, though. What I did not knowthen was that each baby is unique to its mother. Sure, mystudent is young and she could have more children, butnone could replace this baby. This baby was someone toher. Not knowing any of that, I dismissed her loss andtried to focus on the future. But mothers who have lostchildren can barely focus on the future. I am still embar-rassed for being so unaware of these things.

I never met or felt my baby. I was eleven weeks

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along and getting ready to tell my friends and cowork-ers. It was a missed miscarriage, which meant that thebaby had died within me and it hadn't been expelledyet. I had not known. I still felt pregnant. I went home frommy routine checkup carrying a dead baby in my body. Thefeeling is inexplicable. The next day I went in for a D&C,during which the baby was surgically removed. My bodyrecovered in a matter of weeks. My heart still hasn't recov-ered.

I tell people about my miscarriage not becauseI need to share my sorrow with someone. Instead, I tellothers mainly because I hate the thought of anyone facing this alone. Women who miscarry often feelalone. I don't want anyone to feel alone. Sometimes,women who miscarry have negative thoughts. Theyfeel depressed. They feel like they are not normal. Theyhurt. Sometimes they even contemplate suicide. Noneof these feelings is unusual, and certainly none shouldbe endured alone.

I've gotten the whole gamut of responses to miscarriage, even from people who don't know that Ihave miscarried. I usually don't tell anyone about my experience unless I am asked if I have children or if l amplanning to have any soon. When I mention my miscar-riage, most people don't know how to respond. I don'tblame them; in a society in which miscarriage is oftenan unmentionable in public, it's hard to know whatwords work in this situation. I don't think Hallmark hasan appropriate card. They therefore have no way ofknowing that an "I'm sorry to hear that" is all it takes.

Many people respond in the same way that Idid to my student. One woman told me that she didn'tknow why God did this to me, as though it were a pun-

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ishment, as though there were some who deservebabies and others who don't. One of my sisters-in-Iawin Texas, who is pregnant, has not called or written tome. It's as though I have some kind of disease she'safraid of catching. That hurts.

Other people are kind and supportive. They listen.They tell me that it wasn't my fault and that I'll get preg-nant when my time comes. They tell me that God has aplan for me. They tell me of the women they know whohave miscarried and have delivered other babies successfully.

But in contrast there are the unbelievably unin-formed. About a month ago, another woman at my friend'swedding shower told me that God used miscarriage as away of telling women that their marriages were not sound.

What I was truly not prepared for was this feelingof utter failure, which transfers into every area of life, evenplaces where the pregnancy itself didn't touch. Since I miscarried, I have often felt that I am less of a person. It' snot a constant thought, but it does creep into my mindwithout warning. When I see other people with children ofany age, I feel that there must be something wrong withme. Pregnancy seems to be so easy for many, many peo-ple. Why is it so hard for me?

Then the feelings increase and feed upon oneanother. I begin to feel I am less of a wife, because I couldn't present my husband with the gift of life. I amless of a daughter who couldn't give her parents agrandchild. I am less of a friend because sometimes Ijust can't reach out to others. I am even less of ateacher, because I sometimes get so wrapped up inmy feelings that I neglect my grading or planning. I feelthat I am a terrible failure in every sense. Although myhouse plants burst with life, I still feel that I am a killer.

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No matter how many times I've been told that the mis-carriage was not my fault, I still find a reason to blamemyself.

Nothing compensates for this loss. So I walkaround with a heaviness inside me that sometimesthreatens to stop me from breathing. I sob without eventhinking of the miscarriage. So I search. I buy more plants and I water and fertilizethem Sometimes I just can't seem to surround myself withenough life. I think of getting a dog but know it doesn'tbelong in my town house with no yard. We have fish thatI am afraid of overfeeding. I do more baking and morecooking. I try new recipes. I call my mom and cry. I callmy friends. I go for walks. I clean the house. But nothing fills the empty, black hole inside of me. Many times I havewished that I could be run over by a truck, so that I would-n't have to feel this. But it passes, eventually.

Yet at other times the miscarriage seems far off,like something that never happened. Maybe, just maybe,it was a good thing. Maybe it's a lesson that I have tolearn. Maybe it had to happen to me so that I can relateto others. Maybe it has some bearing on what I am to do inthe future.

When sitting on the train on my way to work, I usually look out the window. Sometimes in the morningsthe sunlight glints off of small ponds or illuminates thetrees. When I see this, I catch my breath and thank Godthat I am alive. This God who made all of this knows whatHe is doing. And it' s at those moments that I feel that lifehas so much more to offer than motherhood. Sometimeswhen I'm out I see children crying and fussing and driv-ing their parents crazy. Would I really be able to handle

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that? Do I really want to? As my mother says, "Money and travel aren't bad."

I think about Rome, the,place where I met my husband,and I hunger to return there. It's possible, I know, in time. Ifwe never have children we can definitely afford to gothere. Maybe we could even go to England or toSwitzerland. Maybe we could go I to China. The worldcould be mine to explore. Motherhood is, indeed, a bless-ing, but sometimes I realize that it's not all a person cando to improve the world.

As the weeks have passed, things have gotten easi-er.The day after I found out that I'd lost the baby, I askedmy mother if I would ever stop crying. I cried nonstop for aweek. The crying jags have subsided. Now, I can some-times go through a whole day without crying. It has gotteneasier to bear. I can now look at a pregnant woman. I tryto think of her as a reason to hope and not as a reminderof what I couldn't do. Maybe she too has had a miscar-riage.

Hope returns. After all, life is good. My husband iskind and loving. I have a warm family and some fantas-tic friends. I even have some good teaching days. Theseeds I planted in April have sprouted and are thriving.I'm not as much a failure as I used to think I was. Maybe,in time, I could get pregnant again. Maybe this nextbaby will decide to keep me.

As I sit here writing this there is a butterfly outsidemy window. Its black wings have a streak of orange andsome specks of white. It has gone away three times andreturned. What is it looking for? I don't know, but I can'thelp but look at it as a sign. Though I am sitting here nolonger pregnant, there is still beauty to be found. Some ofit I can create, but some of it I didn't create, and that isjust fine.

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Only in my dreams is there no sorrow,Nothing but love and peace for tomorrow.

In my dreams the whole world is filled with love, Love that hangs over us like clouds from above.

No wars, hatred, prejudice or strife,But equality and justice in everyone’s life.

In my dreams we all live in harmony,Every skin color united in one family.

When we look upon one another,We’d see our fellowman, sisters and brothers.

We all bleed and we all cry.We all laugh and we all die.

Only in my dreams could be real,Imagine how we all would feel.

We’d feel the pain and joys of each other,without checking first, to see who’s of what color.

Only in my dreams, I would hope not,For in reality we’d gain quite a lot.

By: Deborah McCullough

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By: Charles Cottle

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or A Meditation on Truth-, Lie-, and Story-Telling

“What therefore is truth? In short a sum of human relations which became poetically and rhetorically intensified,metamorphosed, adorned, and after long usage seem to anotion fixed, canonic, and binding; truths are illusions of whichone has forgotten that they are illusions.”

-- Nietzsche

The movie ends with credits scrolling namesacross the Magnavox, bottom to top, that I don’t recog-nize and won’t remember. Sometimes, I forget how tospeak, to talk to people. Movies are wonderful pet crea-tures for such days.

The room is dark, with only the television’s fadinggreen plane to shape our surroundings. There is silence,and no words are used to set boundaries, restrictions, orlimitations; nor are any spoken to break through themeither. The couch is soft and worn and gives gently asshe falls back and fights off sleep, fluttering her eyelidslike camera shutters catching snapshots of nothing butthe settling dust around her.

She asks me to tell her a story. She tells me she’ssleepy and that I’m to produce a bed time story for herto nod to. She lies on the shadowy cushions, her toes curl-ing over the rippled pillows at the end, and I sit on thecarpet leaning against the soft, worn, and giving couch.

I say that telling is an assault in which we forceourselves on each other, civilized rape; that telling is aweapon that I’ve never felt comfortable with. I say I’drather not; I don’t feel like it.

By: James Baltrum

68 exogamy

CCooyyoottee SStteeaallss && EEvveerryytthhiinngg iiss TToolldd

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She says I’m being silly, excessively silly she says,and that I’d better tell her a story or she’ll smack me.

Physical violence, I say while rubbing my eyes,would be better than talking. At least -- it’s honest to Godbrutality, I explain, and not disguised as something else.

Isn’t language honest, she asks?

It’s not honest: paused, I swat at the air as if acartoon bubble were suspended from my lips; in thesense that people aren’t ready for what it brings them.It has baggage.We aren’t honest animals; we aren’treally ready for the truth about language. It’s like giving a kindergarten class a neatly packaged hydrogen bombto play with and sitting back to watch the fireworks, I say.

Sometimes I forget how to talk, I say, and I thankGod for those days. There has always been somethingcloser, more visceral, more truthful about silence than anything else. It leaves you as you really are, I mutteralmost inaudibly.

She rustles briefly with her pillow and pins her hairbehind her ear. Tell me a story, she asks again, ignoringmy protests, and we both know I don’t want to tell anystories. She asks me why I’m being so stupid and won’ttell her a story, a good story. I stare at my fingers playingcircles and figure-eights in the strands of off-white carpet-ing and smile in the dimness of the room. Her toes shad-owbox against the chipped and bubbling shark-skin hueof the wall.

She asks me why I won’t look at her. I raise my

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head, and the scrambled folds of maroon flannel at hershoulder, like generations of fallen earth, make her shirtappear baggier than it is. I scrutinize the toppled rolls offabric, part my lips, but don’t look farther, staring.

Eventually, I can’t think of a story to tell, not agood story, I say.

Why won’t you look at me, she asks again, notpushing but demanding all the same.

I can’t look at you, I tell her, and play again withthe weeds of tattered carpet swimming between my fingers. She turns her head and is close to me, finestrands of blonde topple over the right side of her facecovering her eyes, and asks why.

Because I cannot think of any stories, I cannotthink, I tell her in defense, it’s just the fact that I can’t.

Two of her three roommates are in the next room,and I hear the clicking of a lamp being turned off. Theapartment is dark and filled with the sound of the taperewinding. Story please, she asks in a for-the-last-time tone.

I remember something, an old Indian story, folk-lore that I had been told as a kid, but I say nothing, andmy digits continue to play.

Look at me, I hear, and I give in.

A long time ago lived Old Man Coyote, I say. Thecreaking of the neighbor’s floorboards up above turn herhead away from me and to the cracks along the ceiling.

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I ask her to remind me when her birthday is, although I’mwell aware of it, and say smilingly that mine is in May aswell. Coyote was mischievous and liked playing tricks onothers, at which she smiles, and I think maybe she’sheard or read this story somewhere before. On a warmnight, I explain, a pair of twins had come up on Coyotein the desert, and he told them he could make it sothey could meet the Great Bear in the sky. I tell her itrefers to a constellation, but I feel I’m being redundantwithout meaning to. I say, the twins agreed to meet theGreat Bear, that we are under the impression the twinshave always wanted to do so, and followed Coyote.Coyote shot an arrow into the air and punctured thenight sky. He shot arrow after arrow, which stuck, oneafter another, into the one immediately before it, andbuilt a long string of arrows stretching from the GreatBear to the ground.

And then what, she asks with eyes closed andtoes still wiggling.

And then, I answer without lifting my head, thetwins climbed the arrows, the make-shift bridge of sorts,and met the Great Bear, but Coyote wasn’t done with hislittle prank on them. She smiles again, wider, but doesn’topen her eyes. I pause to think of how to word the end-ing, how to bring things to a close, and say that Coyotepulls all the arrows out of the ends of each one in front ofthe next. Coyote pulled each arrow out of that night sky, Isay, and trapped the unsuspecting twins up in the heav-ens along side of the Great Bear. The twins had nowhereto go and nothing to do and were miserable, but thanksto Coyote we now have the constellation Gemini, Iexplain, feeling somewhat satisfied with myself and a lit-

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tle more at ease. She smiles and turns to me, realizing thestory is over. I say I know another version from some-where, I tell her I don’t know where, that makes the twinsinto the eyes of a bigger constellation, one bigger thanthe Great Bear. I say I don’t like that story as much, andshe nods, still smiling.

There, I told you a story, I tell her. I ask if she’shappy for making me break my beliefs about telling andlaugh to let her know that I’m only joking. I say that it’sno trouble to do these things for her, even though I dobelieve that language is a sort of weapon.

Why, she asks.

I say nothing, but then ask what… why what, aftera while.

Why won’t you look at me, she asks. Her toes stopwiggling, and the carpet stops being amusing. Thatwould involve more telling, I say, and I’d rather not again.She clears her throat, sighs, and is about to say some-thing. What, I ask. She is silent. What do you want to hear,I ask without moving, without looking up at her.

Honesty, she says unsurely.

Do you want to hear that I love you, that I thinkI’m in love with you, that I think we could spend the restof our lives together, I exclaim staring at the unraveledstitching along the side of my shoe. I don’t blink, and mybreathing is louder. I can’t, I say, I want to say thesethings, but they aren’t honest; I feel them and they seem

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to fall somewhere between lies and something else. Theyhurt me to explain, and I fall silent.

There is no sound from the house to fall betweenour positions and the cold surface of the lifeless screen.I fall backwards to my story and say the twins weretricked and realized they didn’t want what they wereoffered after all.

The creaking upstairs and her roommates shiftingin their beds do not turn her away from me or close hereyes. She looks at me with her beauty surrounded by thegraying-twilight darkness of the room and night, and I sitwith nothing to protect me. The bellies of the blindsabove her glow with the filtering moonlight. There are noclouds out, and satellites are crossing each other’spatterns somewhere above us.

Sitting with this silence, I quickly and uncontrol-lably shiver, wanting to wrap something around me, tohave something covering me, something between us. Ican come up with another story, I say and glance downat my motionless fingers stranded on the off-white car-pet of the still room.

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Welcome to my world.

My investigation Has a path that we must follow. Yes!

We will travel, unraveling Those beautiful blends of colors, connecting my Imagination to the center of your canvas,To the surface of your skin.

I need for you to decorate me.Guide me into your work of art.

But don't tell mewhich way you want me to go. As we paint, let us paint.

I feel my mind racing with time. Our bodies will speakin slow motion, dividing multiple colors of love. Splashing paint drops will settle and take their form.

Soft skin touchingthe rough skin of a man who’s in control,

By: Reginald Scott

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AArrttwwoorrkk

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Interlocking the sensation of art.

Hold on, don't let go;

we will be creative. Embraced by images of rainbow colors That sparkle the light of creativity.

Love what you're doing.Keep doing what you're doing.Yes, I feel your style.

Decorate me using your favorite colors. I want you to design my mind, tracing your soft-tip-brush body all over mine.

When colors touch, they will connect.

I need to feel your paintbrush dripping.

Tears of dripping paint flowFrom your eyes, as the sound of birds cryout loud.

Is thatYour voice That I hear?

The colors of life, Joy, and happiness Unfolds. Yes,

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Life in my sight Is full of Darkness.

In my view, I love the art As I create; I use my giftTo allow my mind,Body, And soul

To feel its way directly across the form of your canvas skin.We are both the designer.

My best is brought forward;

Your best is brought forward -Sensually, artistically,

As I give my best, I must show my best to you, for you.I need you.I want you to work with me, To build up a collection of artwork...

Your eyes will shine for me -Your heart will laugh for me

A lifetime. Laughing out the colors of life, Laughing out the colors of joy:

What my mind has articulated

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And what my soul has designed.

You will feel my connection, feel my happiness, feel my spirit.

And forever you will live Designing my world With your passion, With your love.

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What do you see when you look at me? Do yousee a beautiful woman, or a woman with integrity?

As I stand here on this day, I stand here not as awoman, but a woman who is own her way. I am not justa woman, but a symbol of the past; I am a symbol of thehardship of women who took on the daunting task.

I am the embodiment of their strength, theircourage and their goals. It is because of them, women oftoday can take on many roles.

We are doctors; we are lawyers; we are basketballplayers; we are astronauts; we are pilots and engineers.We are also leaders for our peers. Others are teachersand some even preachers, but most importantly we aremothers; we are truly an inspiration to each other.

As I take a step back and give them thanks, I alsotake time out to reevaluate myself and pray, “keep mesafe and humble Lord. Keep my path from stumble, andhelp me to be an example for the women of today.” Helpme continue to build a better pathway.

By: Andrea C. Storey

78 exogamy

WWhhaatt ddoo YYoouu SSeeee??

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